Little itty bitties (mostly)

I'm well aware of the style of storytelling songwriting, but does it ever seem incongruous to you when well known, famous musicians/singers/bands/whatever sing about something that totally doesn't apply to them? Like I'm listening to Soak Up The Sun by Sheryl Crow and there's a line about how she's got a crummy job. No you don't, you're Sheryl frickin' Crow! I mean, I realize for the purpose of the song you do, but it never sounds quite right when I hear something like that.
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My company is moving in two years. The 'B has sold the building they're in to a development group that wants to turn this entire stretch of Westwood into malls and hotels. Apparently they got booku bucks for it, too. Anyway, that's weird. If I'm still here in 2 years, it'll be interesting to see where "here" is. I vote for San Diego. Although it'll probably be something like Canton or Dedham instead.
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People that take the train, you ever notice that it seems like there's always one conversation that seems so much louder than the rest of the abckground noise? Like yesterday, on my way home, there were two guys talking about math way beyond my ken. "If y approaches 0 as x approaches whatever the value for x is in this case then....." Stuff like that. At first I felt really smart for hearing it. Then really stupid for not understanding it. Then really sleepy.
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Quickie reviews (upon first listen) on the three new CDs I bought yesterday.

King's X, Ogre Tones - I just don't know yet. I want to like it, so I probably will. But it seems kind of hit and miss.

Sheryl Crow, Wildflower - Didn't even know this was coming out until the day before. Sounds good. Slower, mostly. More melancholy vibe. Better overall than her last effort.

Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Jacksonville City Nights - Head and shoulders above his last release, Cold Roses. I only mention this because there's a big deal about him releasing 3 separate albums this year, and JCN is the 2nd of them. Very country.
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2 quickie movie reviews:

1) Oldboy. Fucking awesome! Korean revenge flick. After being held captive and tortured for 15 years, Dae-su Oh sets to find out why and who did this to him, and take his revenge. I can't really go into more detail without giving away spoilers that are better served found out while watching the film. Let's just say it's pretty twisted, and pretty intense. Definitely worth seeing, but you'll probably want to take a shower afterwards.

On another note, after about 15 minutes, I was thinking, "Hm, this could make an interesting American remake." Despite the fact that remakes usually suck. Because there was an interesting hook. That of being kidnapped and imprisoned for 15 years without knowing why. Then, while watching the last 20 minutes, I was thinking, "Yeah, no way. A remake would suck. Hollywood would totally fuck this up."

Unfortunately, a remake is already in the works.

2) Spirited Away. Also fucking awesome! I reviewed director Hayao Miyazaki's latest effort, Howl's Moving Castle in a previous blog here: http://vman1974.blogspot.com/2005/08/random-thursday-thoughts.html.
(Scroll down). I didn't much like it. But I did love another of his film's, Princess Mononoke. ANd I'd heard Spirited Away was his best, so I'd decided to let that be the tie breaker.

It may very well be the best of his films that I've seen, (although I did really like Princess Mononoke a lot). Spectacular animation. And like all asian cinema, there was plenty that I didn't understand---I may have touched upon the why of this in my HMC review; basically just the difference in storytelling techniques and culture that I'm not entirely used to---but the overall tone was very magical, and it draws you in. It reminded me very much of a well crafted fantasy novel, one where from page 1 you're dropped intoa full-formed world that you don't fully understand, but that feels real, viable, and true.

The story, in brief. Chihiro and her parents are moving to a new town. On the way they get lost and come across what appears to be a deserted amusment park. One of the booths has a full on spread of food, mysteriously enough. Chihiro's parents start to pig out, literally. As they eat, they are transformed into pigs. Chihiro finds herself transported to a sort of spirit world, ruled by a witch who runs a bath house for spirits. It's here that Chihiro must find a way to restore her parents before said witch decides it's time to bring home the bacon.

I'm not particularly doing it justice, but I realized as I was trying to write that paragraph, that it's difficult to describe.

Anyway, good, good stuff.
Good, good stuff.

The tale of the angry stripper.

So, I'm a 30 year old, semi-muscular man...with a stuffed animal dog.

Backstory. My parents are selling their house. They're in the process. Got their real estate broker, ad in the paper, open houses and everything. So, as a result, they're alo in the process of packing stuff up, throwing stuff out, moving stuff around, etc. And of course, that includes the attic, probably the biggest repository of crap in anyone's house. And in the cleaning of the attic, which contains a fair amount of my crap, to be fair, they came across my oldest stuffed animal buddy: D.D.

And when I say oldest, it's not even close. I've had D.D. since I was 1 year old. But like friends sometimes do, we drifted apart. Lives change, people (and dogs) change. I've since moved out a couple of times, he's moved to the attic. We'd lost tocuh.

But there he was, as I was at the folks' house yesterday, doing laundry. I was up in the attic, looking over my stuff, and there he was.

So, of course, I decide that well, he's not getting thrown out. No fucking way. He's coming home with me.

Now you may say, "Wow, you're how old? And you have a stuffed animal in you room? No wonder you're single."

But you know what, fuck you.

Because me and D.D., we go way back. He's saved my life more times than I care to remember. You laugh, but it's true. When I was a young boy, especially right at around 6 years old, when my little sister was born, and I moved from the relatively safe room right across from my parents to the unknown territory of the room downstairs, alone. Who do you think it was that fought and protected me from the monster under the bed? And his equally as frightening buddy in the closet? It sure as hell wasn't me. Hell, look at the pictures. D.D. took a lot of scars protecting a scared kid. He was a scrapper. Took on all comers. Kept me safe.

So it's the least I could do to return the favor.
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OK, so before I start feeling any less manly, let's talk about strippers.

So last night was the bachelor party for my buddy Fil. Or the "stag party" as my mom called it. How cute. My mom's stuck in the 70s. So, the night starts off harmlessly enough at Fil's, grillin' and drinking of the beer. Hooray beer!

Then we all pile into the minivan (OK, I actually do feel more unmanly admitting that) and drive on down to the strip club capital of New England: Providence. To Club Fantasies. (Not to be confused with any of the other Club Fantasies in every other state that allows strip clubs.) Pretty typical night. Buy the bachelor lap dances and booze. Sit around. Lap dances. Booze. Laughs. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The funniest part of the night, however, was when one stripper comes over and asks the table if anyone wants a dance. No one did at the time, we all decline. She sticks around for a minute trying to sway some opinions, and she wasn't without her....ummm....charms. But for whatever reason, no one wanted in at the time. And she got offended! Insulted! My buddy Mike tried to give her a few bucks for her time anyway, and she says, "It's not all about the money!"

Can I just say: "???"

You're a stripper!!!

I think you're taking this job a little too seriously. I mean, I understand having pride in your work, but let me reiterate: You're a stripper!!!

It was seriously pretty sureal, and a bit uncomfortable.

But aside from that, the rest of the night went swimmingly.

How many women did I have in my lap, you ask?

Well, none, actually.

But let me explain why. It's a simple matter of economics. Firstly, most of my money went towards keeping the booze flowing. I was trying to save some for maybe an end of the night special 3-4 minutes for myself. Sort of like the climax of the evening, pun intended. However, it just ended up not working out. We hit the end of the evening and my wallet was mysteriously empty.

To further the economics lesson. A lap dance here was $30. No contact (I think), out in the open. Not even totally nude. For $80, you got a lap dance, totally naked, tocuhing included, in a private booth. For $130 (plus tip) you got the same, but for 15 minutes.

Let's take that middle example. $80. 1 song. Totally nude. Touching allowed. $80.

How much does the same cost in Montreal? $10. Canadian.

It just makes me want to say: "Oh, Canada, my home and native land...."

If only it weren't so north and cold in the winters.

Bitches, man. Bitches.

Is it coincidence that the two hurricanes that have/are going to kick our ass are both named for women? Hmmm...? Yes, probably.

Let's see.

First Katrina came in. Destroyed New Orleans. Displaced thousands upon thousands of people. Killed at least 1,000 people, as of this morning. And wreaked havoc on oil and gas prices all around the country. About the worst it got around here, that I personally saw was probably around $3.50. I'm sure it was higher around the area, but that's what I saw driving (or walking) by some gas stations in my area. Some gas stations closed temporarily, because it was cheaper for them to not sell any gas. Fucked up. And it worse in other areas of the country.

Now, here comes Rita. Heading straight for Texas. Where many of our countries refineries are. You know, where dead dinosaur becomes vroom-vroom make-car-go stuff. Yep, Rita. Currently a category 5 hurricane. (Wasn't Katrina only a category 4 when she hit?). Heading to Texas. Refineries. What am I getting at? Oh, I don't know. Just that article I read yesterday that specualted that because of this, gas prices could jump up to the between $4 and $5 mark next week.

Gas 'em up now, kids. Just in case.

And of course, there's more.

Winter's coming. Heating oil season. Also predicted to go through the roof.

(Maybe those terrorist fucktards were right when they claimed that Katrina was a little gift from Allah to the great Satan. Even money says they claim responsibilty for Rita, as well.)

Of course a lot of this is still just speculation, and of course no news sells as well as bad news. But it's sobering to think about. Well, it would be sobering if I were drunk. Which I'm not. Actually, if I was, I probably wouldn't be able to read these depressing news stories anyway. Hmm? Liquid ignorance is bliss! And eventually piss.

At any rate, it should be an interesting winter.

Which I am not looking forward to, by the way.

All hail illiteracy!

We have two products here at work that require that the user install a digital certificate on their computer to use them. It's a security thing.

So when these people apply for one of these products, we send them out instructions telling them how to enroll and received the certificate.

One quirk about our system, is that everything has to be entered in capital letters. Personally, I think it was some bad programming on our part, but no one asked me. Anyway, if they don't enter everything in capital letters, they get an error.

So we send out instructions to potential users. Step 3 reads: Complete the enrollment form by filling in all required fields. Enter in UPPER CASE only.

Not exactly the best wording, but it's pretty straightfoward.

Why is it, then, that by a large percentage, our most common call goes like this:

Them: Hi, I'm John Blahblahblah from Stupidly Named Insurace company. We'er trying to enroll Carol So-And-So for the digital certificate and got a Passcode Mismatch error.
Me (or other Help Desk Peep): Did you enter everything in every field in capital letters?
Them: No.

Now, granted, I'm not big on reading directions for things either. I get a DVD player, or new software, or a toaster oven, I'm usually pretty confident I can get it set up without much help.

BUT....if there is a problem....if the software doesn't work, or the DVD player doesn't play, or the first time I try to make toast, the bread turns into old tennis shoes.....well, then I bust out the instructions and try to figure out what I missed.

Do people not do this? Can they just not read? I mean it says upper case in UPPER CASE!

I guess I shouldn't complain, because these are the easiest calls of the day. But it does get frustrating to have to deal with it on such a large scale.

People, man. People.

Clean clothes and old yeller....

So, ever since I moved to Medford, I've been fairly consistently visting back to Weymouth every weekend. To see the folks, and, of course, do laundry. Well, now because of the NFL, my available weekend time is one day, since Sunday is now pretty much spoken for, and my ability to go down to Weymouth and do laundry for free is hampered. (Ya like that? Little play on words. Take it home, it's yours.)

See, my apartment doesn't have a washer and dryer. Bummer. And inevitably this was going to lead me back to the land of the laundromat.

Well, being as I got home yesterday and promptly thought to myself, "Why does my room smell like feet?," I decided that maybe it was the week and half's worth of dirty clothes piling up in my closet and maybe I should do something about that.

So I grab some baggies, fill them up with detergent (powder), so that the look like nice little bags of cleansing cocaine, and hop in the car to start checking out the laundromats of the Medford/Sommerville area. I haven't had to use one since I lived in JP a few years back. Not that it's a totally terrible experience, but at the same time, there's a million other things I'd rather be doing.

Being that it's been a couple of years since I've been to one, I have this picture in my head of going to the laundromat and doing my laundry, and getting to look around at all the pretty young ladies doing theirs as well. Watching them fold frilly undergarments, seemingly oblivious to the men checking them out. Striking up conversations over a lack of dryer sheets or fabric softener. Or change for a dollar.

But I watch too many movies.

Man, I forgot how dismal those places are.

The reality is more like it's myself, the old oriental guy, the older Indian lady, Captain Grizzled Headphones, and the jackass that seriously must have been doing six months of washes. I'm sitting there, my three washers going (whites, colors, and towels, because I'm all about the segregation), and wondering about the ever growing leak beneath one of my machines, when I see this guy. He had been moving stuff over from the washing machines to the dryers in one of the laundromat's ghetto-carts. At first I didn't think much of it, but I kept seeing him go back and forth. And then I started counting. Once he got up to the point that he was using a DOZEN!! dryers, I started to panic. This place isn't that big. And there are a few other people in there. I'm worried that Commander Clean here is going to have an ironclad monopoly on all the dryers, and I'm going to be waiting around all night with sodden clothes just to get into one of these things. Seriously, he pulled so many quarters out of his back pocket that I'm surprised his pants weren't around his ankles with just the sheer weight of them. So I go to my machines and thankfully they're done. Because now, in my mind, it's a race to claim some dryers, or spend the rest of my night waiting. Thankfully I got a couple, and at the same time, he did stop claiming dryers like gold stakes shortly thereafter...at a mere 14 dryers.

Seriously.

How many clothes does this guy have?

So, yeah, the dryers. Nothing much about these. It'll take me a trip or two to get a good handle on the best way to use them. How long, what temparature, how hot can I push it without shrinking my clothes to toddler size, because the dryers are 25 cents for 10 measly minutes. If it's a lean weak, it looks like dry clothes are going to be a luxury.

This was my first laundromat experience of the new apartment.

Except....

As I was leaving, I did run into my buddy, Yelling Guy.

Did I tell you about Yelling Guy?

A few weeks ago, I was walking to Davis Square. I'm about halfway there, and I pass a bus stop with a few people sitting at it. This older guy, I don't know maybe 40s or even early 50s, gets up and starts walking towards me. Even though I know better, I take off my iPod headphones, because it's apparent he wants to say something or ask me something.

And he says something, all right. He says, "AHHBUPHLARKCUMANITER, FUTH! MACOLONIFPTHPTHH...HURRRRTEENMOPTHINGFLERG!!!!"

Or something like that. At full volume. 90 or so decibels.

And he follows me for about a block. Yelling, nonstop. The same sort of stuff.

I'm halfway between just being amazed that any set of lungs can hold this much air, and fearing for the inevitable frustrated pummeling that he's going to deliver any moment, because I don't understand him, and maybe he's getting annoyed that I'm trying to speed up and get away.

At any rate, after about a block, he drops off and starts in on someone else.

Point being, is apparently he must either live around there, or it's his hang out, because I've seen him twice since. Once a week or so ago, and the other time last night as I was leaving the laundromat. He appears to remember me, as when I was walking to my car, he gave me a, "RUHFLOPERTHARG!!!"

I gave him a polite head nod back, and went on my way.

(Kibbles and) Bits and Pieces

Two today beacuse I'm bored at work.

Football season starts tonight! Despite all my other faults in being someone you'd want to ever date---the tourettes syndrome, that drooling thing, my desire to say the funny thing rather than the right thing, my 15 inch penis---I would make an especially bad boyfriend between the months of September and January. Because every Sunday would be Chris time. A little day all about me. And the couch. And the TV. And football. And my computer to check fantasy football stats. I'm sure it would be enough to drive even Mother Theresa insane. Not that she's available.

Anyway, I'm excited, even though I have to watch the Patriots tonight, because they're the only game in town. But it's still better than baseball.
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"Heinz Tomato Ketchup". That's what it says on the bottle. Why? Are there other types of ketchup we're missing out on? A nice mango ketchup? Carrot ketchup?
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Celery in tuna fish. Just stop! It's not good. It's disconcerting eating a tuna fish sandwich and occasionally biting into that solid bit of anti-taste. I'd like this idea wiped from the books.
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Speaking of celery. This is supposed to be the food best for you, right? Because it takes more calories to eat it than it actually posesses or something like that, right? Great for losing weight! Eat celery! Too bad that non-taste of it actually tastes like crap.

But I have a solution. When I was reading Fast Food Nation some months back, there was a chapter about food additives, and how they pervade pretty much everything we eat. Everything. These plants (largely located in NJ---go figure) provide those little extra drops of magic that makes potato chips taste like potato chips, that make Ellios pizza taste like Ellios pizza, that help orange juice taste like orange juice.

Why then can't these people go back to their industrial cauldrons and whip up a batch that makes celery taste like tacos, that makes broccoli taste like pizza, that makes that one dry piece of wheat toast you allow yourself for breakfast taste like a BigMac.

I'm thinking this would be a good way to battle the obesity problem that it's been documented that this country faces. Make the stuff that good for you taste good, and people will want to eat it. That's my thought. I'm a forward thinker. Solving the worlds problems one blog at a time.

And then maybe we can have no more of stories like the woman suing her doctor because he diagnosed her as fat. What the fuck is that about. Tell you what, sweetheart, throw a couple more grand on that lawsuit because you're probably ugly, too. Oh, and might as well give me no possibilty of parole because you're most definitely stupid.

Old Routine, New Routine...

So, price of gas being what it is, I called upon my mathematical genius to deduce that it would be cheaper for me to shell out $118 for a Zone 2 commuter rail T pass for the month of September than to continue to drive to work, filling up the car approximately every 5 days. According to an article read on the internet, my gas tank size is 14.7 gallons. At the time I decided to buy the T pass, gas was at $3.29 a gallon at the closest station to me. So to fill it up would cost approximately $45 a shot. $48.36 if you want to be specific and if you want to coast up to the pump at the exact moment that the last drop of fuel is used, leaving the tank bone dry. But I don't live in Florida, so I don't want to do that.

So, to continue with the equations. To fill up every 5 days, at 30 days in a month, means filling the tank 6 times a month. Yep, kiddies, that's $270.

Now, even allowing for the facts that the 5 day time frame could stretch here or there, depending on where else I drive, or the fact that I don't always wait for the gas light to come on before refilling, and the actual number is probably still less than $270, obviously, the $118 T pass is still the way to go. At least for now.

So, let's examine my old routine for work, and my new one. Let's see how this affect Chris on a daily basis.

Old Routine:

Wake up to the soothing sounds of the alarm at 6:40am. Couple of hits on the snooze bar and roll out of bed around 7am. Few houshold things....feed cats (if necessary), morning bathroom ritual, check email, get CDs and book, and I'm out the door. Oh yeah, I also get dressed before I'm out the door, just in case you were wondering. Usually in my car and going between 7:10 and 7:15. Driving to work at a steady 55 to 60 MPH ( a trick I picked up over the past couple of weeks, as it saves gas to stay at that speed than to drive at the usual faster speeds I like to employ), I arrive at work usually between 7:50 and 8am. Enough time to get a drink from the caf and make it to my desk. I then "work" for 8 hours, which include answering phones, heroically solving problems for the common man, and writing blogs. Leaving work at 4pm, I arrive back at my Medford apartment usually between 4:45 and 5pm, depending on traffic.

In total a work day, including commute, of approxiamtely 9 and 1/2 to 10 hours.

New Routine (for the past 3 days):

Awake to the soothing sounds of the alarm at 6:30am, and hop out of bed by the 6:33 WBZ traffic on the 3s. Hop up, dress, bathroom stuff, feed cats, gather daily things, out the door by 6:40 - 6:45am. Walk one mile to Davis T station, about 15 minutes. Hop on the red line to South Station, approximately 20 minutes. Then the commuter rail for a 17 minute ride to Route 128 station, followed by a 7-8 minute, half mile walk to work. I then "work" for 8 hours. 1/2 mile walk to station. Catch the 4:48pm commuter rail to South Station. Back on the red line (much more crowded now) to Davis. And then the mile walk back to 28 Princeton St., #2 in Medford, Massachussetts, 02155. So far I've been arriving home around 6pm.

In total a work day, including commute, of approximately 11 hours.

How does this affect me?

Well obviously, I'm away from home longer, doing work and work related activities. This is not good for the peace of mind.

Also, now, first thing in the morning, before anything else---eating, having a glass of water, whatever---I now exercise. I walk a mile and a half. (Granted, split up by about 45 minutes of sitting, but a mile and a half anyway.) Now the pros of this is of course the exercise. 3 miles of walking a day ain't half bad. The cons? Well, when your body's not used to doing this sort of exercise it takes some getting used to. I'd guess maybe a week or so. But for now, my legs (hip especially), back and shoulders (from carrying my bag), and head (from coordinating all this) are all like, "Dude, what the fuck?!?"

Another pro, lot's of pretty girls on the train, and on the walk. Another con, I'm still ugly.

Another pro, I get more reading done. Another con, it's that quality type of reading (especially in the morning) when you have to tackle every sentence twice because your eyes were closing halfway through the first time.

So, so far, after only 3 days (not the best sample size, I know) it's been a mixed bag. After only three days, I'm partly alraedy sick of it, but I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I'm not used to it yet. I just have to keep telling myself, "I'm saving money. I'm saving money. I'm saving money."

Long weekend.

Always love a long weekend. Those spectaclura days off from work. Doing a lot of work around the bed when you'd usually be sitting in traffic. All good.

The weekend started a bit early, as I took half a day Friday so that I could move my HD-a-riffic monstrosity of a TV from Weymouth to Medford. Right in time for football season. Of course the best laid plans, yadda yadda. Brian was supposed to be my hired muscle fot the day, but ended up not being able to make it for personal reasons. So that left me with a half day with nothing to do, which I found better spent doing exactly that: nothing.

Friday night: drinks abound at the Pourhouse.

Saturday: Cookout prep day. Down to the folks house to buy much more stuff than I'll actually need, as per usual. Just for the record: BJs on a Saturday afternoon? New Orleans probably has more order going on than that. Jesus Fucking Madhouse! But much meat and and chips and other things were purchased. Followed by the supermarket for those things I didn't need in bulk. Limes for the Coronas are necessary; 2 dozen limes, not so much.

Saturday night: drinks abound at Kellys Landing. Paul's going away evening. He's back to the benthic. Back to the high seas. Later, Fish. Do NOT rock out with your cock out. Doesn't seem like the best idea on a ship full of men.

Sunday: Big day. Cookout time. More prep. Hours of making food. Slaving over a hot stove. And grill. And yum, food. Beer. Etc. Allison walked in, saw all the chairs I had set up and asked me if it was a joke. Didn't mean it to be, but the turn out was pretty small based on how many I invited. But a good time was had. By all, I hope. Drinking also abounded.

Sunday night: Post cookout, I ended up back at the Pourhouse with, you guessed it, drinks. Not safe to drive, so I let Dave have the wheel. And the brake and gas pedal. And the not killing us on the ride home, which is something I could not have promised, had I driven.

Funny story. Later on, I wake up and think, "Damn, I fell asleep with my sneakers on. Start to flip them off, finally open my eyes, and think, "Why am I at Matt and Dave's apartment?" I remember the ride there, but not passing out on their couch. But I really did drink a lot. More than usual. Mother of all hangovers today, and mom was feeling bitchy, let me tell you.

Which of course made today the ideal day to.....move my TV! Nothing is better for a hangover then lifting a 170 pound TV and carrying it. And then re-attaching a gazillion wires and cables for DVD, VCR, XBox, PS2, receiver, speakers CD player, tape player, and cable box. Despite my loathing for emoticaons, if I could interject a sarcasticon here, I would. As there are many thing better for a hangover, chiefly remaining in bed. But no, TV moving needed to occur, since there's only a few more days until football starts. Matt helped out, and thank god. Because did I mention, that TV is heavy! Anyway, we got everything in. Nothing and no one broken. All set up. Looks awesome. It was also the catalyst for Sara to clean up our porch a little. The porch looks badass now. Very sexy little room that porch. I'd make sweet sweet love to it.

Anyway, bed soon. Sleep coming. Must not fight. Must surrender to sleep.

Next 10 days? Got the apartment to myself. Awesome! What will abound? No, not drinking, you lushes. Roman orgies!