Random Squeegee

They Said it Couldn't Be Done

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 23:21:00 +0000

You wouldn't know him, but some completely real non-made up guy bet me eight dollars that I couldn't not post for a whole year. Well, guess who's eight dollars richer this morning?

This is All Steve Jobs' Fault

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 14:40:00 +0000

I'm working on a project for my dad. He has Thursdays off, so I brought my laptop next door to go over it with him. There's a list of names he wants in two columns, but the laptop keyboard doesn't have an "ENTER" key, which differs from the "RETURN" key in that it starts a new page or column rather than just a new paragraph. So I ran back to home get my external keyboard and realized that I have once again locked myself out of my house.

I specifically made sure the door was unlocked before I left by turning the knob both ways, and figured since it's able to turn, it must be unlocked. As you may have guessed, I apparently have no idea how doors and/or locks work. Ah, doors. My mortal enemy.

In high school, I found a locker with a broken door to use because I could never get my lock open. Jose loves to tell the story of how he dropped me off one day, and claims he watched me try to pull the front door of my house, and after several attempts, pushed it open.

That's not what happened, though. One day, my mom decided that she wanted the blue doors on our blue house to be blinding pink, so that they may be seen from space. But I think the new coat of paint made the door stick, or maybe the knob wasn't put back on quite right, but whatever the case, after that you'd have to jimmy the handle back and forth to get it into the groove or it wouldn't open. I wasn't trying to pull the door open, it was jammed, I tell you! Anyway, Einstein couldn't tie his shoes, and he seemed like a smart guy.

But nevermind all that. This particular case is about not being able to open a door because it's locked, and my keys are inside. Fortunately, my parents live next door and have three sets of keys for my place. Unfortunately, they're all inside my house, on top of the refrigerator, from the previous times I've locked myself out. I um...I meant to bring them over when I came here this morning.

This is not my finest hour.

If this stupid laptop had an ENTER key, yes I'd still be locked out of my house, but I wouldn't have realized it until much later. In fact, I might have been working over here until Michele came home anyway, in which case I would have never even known. But that jerk Steve Jobs had to get rid of the ENTER key, forcing me to notice my stupidity almost immediately. Well, that and that I'd be forced to buy an external keyboard in the first place. Or I could just hit the function key in conjunction with RETURN, which is the same as hitting ENTER, but who the hell wants to do that? That's not simpler, it's an extra step. Just like he refuses to put on/off switches on iPods. And made sure those jerks at the Apple store didn't hire me. God, screw that guy. I want to punch him in the neck.

The Day That Wasn't

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 26 Apr 2010 14:00:00 +0000

Yesterday morning I helped a guy named Randy get to class. He goes to a special needs school up the street, so I walked him there. When I got home, it was dark. Michele asked where I'd been all day. I told her I was helping Randy get to school; I couldn't have been gone longer than half an hour.

But it was night. How could that be? It didn't make any sense. Did I go somewhere else and completely forget about it? Had the passage of time gone wonky? I thought about the walk to the school. On the way, I ran into the woman who used to live next door to me. I used to go to school with her daughter. These days she lives in Rockland and I live underneath where she used to live (her mother lived here when I was growing up.) Anyway, she was also walking someone to the school. He was her nephew. He was probably in his mid-twenties, had long hair and was in a wheelchair. His wheelchair had fallen over and we helped him get back into it. We might have talked for a while, but it certainly didn't take all day. Something didn't add up.

Then I started to wonder what my old neighbor was even doing there. If she moved, why would she be taking her nephew to the school right up the street from my house, and why didn't she drive there? And why had I never heard of this nephew until just now? Come to think of it, there's no special school up the street from me. And who the hell is Randy? That's when I knew it. I was dreaming.

Yes, anyone reading this knew it was a dream as soon as Randy showed up, but it all seems perfectly natural when you're actually dreaming them. My parent's dining room is in my old junior high school? Of course it is! People displaying human remains on their lawns? Why not?

It seems like it should happen more often, but realizing you are in a dream is a rare and beautiful thing. Lucid dreaming. My in-dream self thought I had uncovered a massive conspiracy, which may have had something to do with my watching an X-Files marathon on Netflix, but nonetheless I was convinced that the world was trapped in a dream state, and I was the only one conscious of it. I promised myself to write down as much of the dream as I could when I woke up, and in the meantime, just repeat the events that had happened so far over and over in my head.

Later, I was at Nick's house. He had a medieval passageway with a large fireplace as the centerpiece. On the fireplace was a bust of half a face. When you pulled it, another room came out of the wall. Wah Kee was there with us, and he told me something...I can't quite remember. But it was about the room and how something highly unprobable was about to happen. I remember Nick replying "He knows."

When I finally did awake from the dream, I asked Michele what time it was. Two O'clock. Damn. There's no way I was about to scribble all this down at two in the morning, so I just continued to keep as much of it as fresh in my mind as I could until a more reasonable hour. I slept for several hours after the dream, and was awake for several more before I wrote anything down. What was once a rich, vivid world was whittled down to a few vague memories and a game of fill-in-the-blanks.

Ironically, it's the later portion, after I figure out that it's a dream, that is the haziest, perhaps due to my persistence in remembering the earlier details so specifically. The whole part with Nick and Wah Kee is fractured at best, and I can't help but wonder if the parts that I do remember weren't tainted by the several hours of consciousness after the dream ended. I'm certain that Wah Kee was trying to amaze me by showing something that could only happen in a dream. I think it may have been the weird medieval room itself. And Nick's response meant that he knew I was aware of the dream. But that contradicts my earlier assertion that I was alone in the knowledge of the dream; of The Lie. So did my brain create false memories of Nick and Wah Kee being aware of the dream after it had ended, or were they agents of the dream, disguised as people I know for the purpose of containing me and separating me from the rest of the populace, lest I tell them the Truth? I guess it doesn't really matter, but I kind of feel like I let my dream-self down.

Art Attack

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 00:00:00 +0000

When I was younger, I had this book, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. The stories weren't remotely scary, but the pictures, sweet Jesus, the pictures haunt my dreams to this day. If you've ever seen this book, the bride chick with the hollowed-out eye sockets probably came screaming back into your memory just now, so it's perfectly fine if you may have wet your pants a little. If you've never seen it, basically the illustrations made otherwise idiotic stories kind of terrifying. If I remember correctly, one of the first stories was about a kid who found a severed toe sticking out of the ground, and then some giant tracks him down and says "You have my toe, now I'm going to eat you!" or something equally asinine. But then there's this picture of a gross little homunculus thing that looks like Quato from Total Recall in overalls and suddenly you sleep with the lights on for a month. Screw the giant, I was afraid the creepy farmer kid was going to dig up my toe. That's one of the strangest sentences I've ever written.

Anyway, there was a painter, Francis Bacon, who specialized in Scary Stories-style grotesquery. Here is one of his works from 1954,Figure with Meat (Head Surrounded by Sides of Beef), part of his 45-painting series the "Screaming Popes," based on a portrait of Pope Innocent X by Diego Velázquez in 1650.

Good old-fashioned nightmare fuel.

Okay, so that may not be your thing, but he's one of the most sought-after names on the market. In fact, in 2008, one of his paintings sold for $86.3 million, making it one of the most expensive painting ever sold. Even Sotheby's was surprised by the winning bid, as they had feared the recession would hurt the art market. And actually, they were right. The collector who bought the painting initially had his eyes on several other pieces as well, including a Van Gogh and three of a series by Edouard Manet. But even a filthy rich art collector couldn't afford all of that, so he finally decided on the Van Gogh, with Bacon, hold the Manet's.

Well, I hope you rubes learned something today. Not just about art, but about how far I'll go for a lame joke. Because as scary as the eye-socket bride chick is, she's nothing compared to the depths I went to just so I could work "hold the Manet's" into a post.

Speaking of art, check out my buddy Neil's blog. He does comic book art. And I designed the layout.

Lady and the Stamp

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 16:00:00 +0000

Here's a quick story from my mom:

Mom: Do you sell stamps?

Cashier: You mean like...food stamps?

Mom: No...postage stamps.

Cashier: I don't know what those are.

Bagger: (laughing)You know...to mail a letter?

Cashier: Oh. I've never done that.

I know people don't mail a whole lot of letters anymore, but she's never heard of postage stamps? Really? Maybe she should have asked ChaCha. Or maybe she did.

Cha Cha Cha Changes

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 22:00:00 +0000

Remember when I was looking for the name of that damn rocket cartoon? Or who's kids Huey, Dewey and Louie are? Whenever I have a question, I can always Google it and find the answer. That's why Google gets to be a verb now.

But some people aren't content with the already convenient method of looking something up online. They want people to look it up for them. That's why there are sites like ChaCha, where you can learn that Jorge Garcia played the affable slacker "Hurley" in the move Armageddon.

And then, there's this:

"Bailiff, whack his pee-pee!" is NOT from Laugh-In! It's Cheech and Chong, specifically "Trippin' in Court," from their self-titled 1971 debut album (Thanks, Google! I still love you.) Rowan and Martins...where are these people getting this blatantly false information?

OH, COME ON!!!

From Russia With Love

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 02:00:00 +0000

And now, a Cold War-era Russian guy that looks like an Animatronic Steve Buscemi hypnotically yodel-singing. This was most likely meant to be used as some kind of doomsday device.

Father of the Year

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 16:00:00 +0000

You might be wondering what Joe's been up to these days. Well fear not, I still get the occasional e-mail from John T, keeping me updated on the latest Joenaningans.

I got this one back in December, when I was in a blog coma:

Joe just asked where Clarendon Street is.

If some of you folks reading at home have never been to our fair city, I wouldn't expect you to know where Clarendon St. is, but to give you an idea, here's a map:

USELESS TRIVIA: Starting at the Public Garden, the north-south cross streets are named alphabetically from A-H (Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Gloucester, and Hereford.) This same set of street names is used on the east-west running streets in Gladstone, Oregon.

But wait. There's more. This one is from January:

Joe had to take a vacation day today with little notice. He cited personal reasons to the boss (and she asked no questions), but when I asked him why, it was because his daughter had been caught driving an unregistered car without a license, and the friendly cop who pulled her over called him and asked that he come down to straighten things out to avoid her getting in deeper trouble. Apparently she was in a real jam and this needed prompt attention.

His daughter just called the office asking for him. I told her that he was supposed to be with her. That was news to her.

What conclusion would you draw?

To the best of my knowledge, personal days can be taken for any reason, so there's zero incentive to lie about it, although I suppose with only two employees, vacation rules might be a bit more strict. Still, it takes a special kind of person to not only lie, but slander their own daughter in the process. So cheers, Joe. I'm kind of torn between relief that I no longer work there, and awestruck bewilderment that you still do.

What the Hell Happened: Game Over, Man. Game Over

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 17:00:00 +0000

As you may know, today is ~~Nick's Anniversary~~ Spleen Day, so I guess now is as good a time as any to talk about what happened last year.

Michele and I realized that what we were paying in rent was the same as some people payed on their mortgage, if not more. That, combined with the eight thousand dollar tax credit for new home buyers, sent us looking at houses rather than another apartment. Getting laid off almost killed that little quest as soon as it started, but with Michele's salary and some government programs, we thought we'd at least be able to buy a small place.

We found one, on a busy street across from my eye doctor, that was in our price range. It only had one bathroom, and it was in the kitchen, yes, in the kitchen. And the upstairs was incredibly small, but the living and dining rooms were huge, with lots of built-in shelves, and there was a cool three-season room in the back that looked out on the huge back yard. If we could negotiate a lower price, we could use some of the loan to fix up the second floor and maybe put in another bathroom, or at least move the existing one. It needed a lot of work, but by God, it had potential.

We put in an offer, lower than the asking price, because of all the work that needed to be done. I was pretty excited, and on the way home I called Nick to tell him about it. He said something along the lines of "That's cool," then casually threw in "It looks like me and Heidi are no more."

What? WHAT?!!

He said she asked for a divorce. Just like that. And in an instant, all the excitement about the house was drowned out by shock and confusion. I was traumatized to the point that I couldn't even sleep that night.

How did this happen? I was at their house on Memorial Day. We threw marshmallows at each other and around midnight a lady from across the street came into the yard, and I thought she was going to ask us to keep it down, but apparently she was drunk and meandered over to ask why she never gets invited to these parties. And she wouldn't leave. It was a great night, and the last time I saw Nick or Heidi before he told me what happened. Neither of them could afford to keep the house, so they were going to both move out and sell it.

None of this made any sense to me. I wanted to go into Marty McFly mode and get them back together. I mean, they're not my parents and I wouldn't disappear if they broke up (um...except for online for several months), but I needed them. Nick and Heidi were my definition of what love is supposed to be since high school. They were Nick and Heidi, or as my dad inexplicably always said, "Heidi and them." You can't have one without the other. They were different people with vastly different personalities, but together they became this whole other thing, like Voltron. Or Captain Planet, I guess. With the rings.

Speaking of rings, as a best man, I've got a vested interest in that marriage. It's like I spent all those hours not writing a speech for nothing. I'm progressive in pretty much all other areas, but I just don't like divorce in general. When you get married, you take a vow before man and God that you will be together in sickness and health, through good and bad, till death. So when you get divorced, that means you were lying to God. And even if you're not religious, you're still lying to all your friends and family. I think we should all get handwritten letters of apology for wasting our day at a meaningless wedding.

Sorry I made you do the Macarena and buy me a punch bowl set that I'll never use.

And the thing is, I actually want to get married. It would be a lot less confusing if Michele, Brianna and I didn't all have different last names. But weddings are expensive, and to spend a bunch of money on a wedding and then just give it all up is like taking a big wad of cash and setting it on fire in front of a homeless person.

Jose and Christy came up in July, and we all went to see The Hurt Locker in Kendall Square. It was only a few weeks after Nick and Heidi split. She came, too. Nick was still living in the house, and she came over in her own car. Then we all piled into the van, and Heidi sat in the front next to Nick. She even sat next to him during the movie. If you didn't know, you'd think they were still together. I may have been watching a future Oscar-winning movie, but the real acting was happening right next to me.

If it seems like I'm placing too much blame on Heidi, good. Obviously Nick has all kinds of faults, and to be honest, if I was a girl I wouldn't even go out with Nick, much less marry him. But she did. And she stayed from high school and they lived in four different places together. Why now? If he hit her or something, at least it would make sense. Why is that when Nick told his friends, they were all shocked, but when she told hers, they all knew it was coming? It feels like a betrayal to not just Nick, but me and Jose and Wah-Kee and all of us who thought we were her friends. I actually de-friended her on Facebook because all of her status updates were like "Heidi is going skydiving" or "Heidi is riding in a go kart" or some fun thing that she's not supposed to be doing because she's too stricken with grief. I just got sick of looking at it.

Eventually, Heidi un-friended everyone she knew through Nick, Jose, my brothers, even Michele who was kinda hurt by that.

And I blame myself, too. For years I used to tag along with them to the movies, on road trips, or just hanging around the chicken shack sucking at Clue. It was always a weird feeling, because I was having fun, but at the same time I felt like I was missing out on what they had. Those were some of the most memorable years of my life, and I disparately wanted someone to share them with. And when I met Michele, I thought now we'd all be able to do these things together. It didn't quite work out that way, with Brianna being so young, and I went out with them less and less. status updates were like "is going skydiving" or "is riding in a go kart" or some fun thing that she's not supposed to be doing because she's too stricken with grief. I got sick of looking at it. I don't blame Brianna, I love that kid so much, it's just that I had different priorities now. Maybe I should have invited them over to my house more often, so we could hang out and take care of Brianna. As long as I can remember, we've always gone to Nick's house, regardless of where he was living. I felt awkward suggesting my place. Nick said Heidi told him that they never do anything together, and he didn't really have the motivation to do anything. Maybe if there was a certain fun couple to do things with, they wouldn't have fallen into that slump and would still be together. They had another party in June, I was supposed to go, but it was right after I lost my job and I wasn't really feeling it. I wish I'd gone now.

It's more than all that. The group dynamic is changed forever, if there's even still a group at all. Jose moved to South Carolina a couple of years ago. With Heidi gone, there's not a whole lot keeping Nick here. Him saying that he has to move back in with his step mother because "he failed as a husband" doesn't sound very promising. His birth mother lives in Virginia, and he had said that when he can afford it, he's going to move down there. Jose said I should move down there too. First of all, no. Secondly, even if I did, Nick will be in Virginia and he's in South Carolina, so even if I plop down somewhere in the middle they'll still be hundreds of miles away so what difference does it make?

The sad truth is I don't have any friends left. Sure, I have you fine internet people, but you guys are scattered all over the country, if not the world, so it's not like you can pop over here for five dollar movie night. And I hang out with a lot of people, but they're all Nick's friends. They're friends by proxy, and I never made the jump to change that. In fact I don't even know how. Are you supposed to do a certain number of things without the middle person before they are officially your friends? Does "Any friend of so-and-so's is a friend of mine" actually work in practice? I never had to worry about this stuff before. When Nick moves, what am I supposed to do? I've got to find him a local girl, fast. I haven't seen him in months, this probably isn't even a problem.

In the midst of all this, I got a text message from Jose on August 18 that said "Im gettin married." Then I got another one on September 4: "Im married. Yay!" That's how you do it. I hope they stay together, but at least if they don't, they didn't force anyone to go to some sham wedding.

Oh yeah, we didn't end up getting the house. But who even cares about that anymore. Instead, we're renting the house next to my parents' house, which happens to be where Nick and Heidi lived a couple of years ago. Weird.

The Ironing is Delicious

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 21:30:00 +0000

This may look like Lamb Chop, but it's actually a Webkinz llama. Webkinz are stuffed toys that come with a unique code that allows you to interact with a virtual version of the toy online, because kids today have no imagination. The plush animals are manufactured in China. Do you know what this means?

That's right, China is mass-producing dolly llamas.

Brain Nuggets

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 18:30:00 +0000

My brother and I used to have a paper route. There was this old woman that always complained if the paper was ten minutes late. She would leave us a nickel for a tip. She was just a mean old lady. She's dead now.

Isn't it cool how Tylenol knows exactly where to go when you're in pain? If you have a headache, it soothes your head, if you have back problems, it works on your back. I wish all medications did that. Imagine if you took one of those Plan B pills, but you weren't pregnant, so instead it kills all the egg sacks a spider laid in your ear. That would be really useful.

In The Matrix, when Neo downloaded kung-fu into his brain, and he says "I know kung-fu," what if it had instead been "I know Shaq-Fu"? would we have been spared those two terrible sequels? Like his Shaq-fu just finishes off all the bad guys at once?

Last summer I toasted marshmallows over a fire pit. I love to burn them beyond recognition. My marshmallow looked like Mel Gibson in The Man Without a Face. It tasted anti-Semitic.

If I did drugs, I would tell people I'm on a seaweed diet. Then I'd say "I see weed, and I smoke it!" And my friends would all laugh, because they'd probably be high.

Once when I was a kid, I took my brother's pillow because it was fluffier than mine. That night I had a dream that a creepy old woman wanted me to cut her head in half with an axe, but I didn't want to. So she kept showing up everywhere begging me to do it until I finally did. Scared the ever-loving poop out of me. I never used that pillow again.

When someone mentions they have black widows in their basement, I always hope they mean that a couple of African-American women who's husbands died are renting their basement. But that's almost never the case.

I guess it's not right to shoot someone's cat if they come onto your property. That's why I plan on getting a moat. Filled with sharks and broken glass. And lava. And if a cat happens to wander into it, well...

If you say "sex scandal" a bunch of times, it sounds like "sex candle". And you can actually buy penis-shaped candles, but the thought of a burning willy makes me uncomfortable. I think people use them in voodoo rituals to give their enemies Chlamydia.

If I was a scientist who didn't wear pants, would people say "He's smart, so he must be onto something!" and they'd all take their pants off too, or would they say "He's not wearing pants, so he must be one of those mad scientists." and storm my lab with pitchforks and torches?

I think we should all be grateful to our moms for not suing us for domestic violence because we kicked them as a fetus. She could have had all these witnesses come forward and say "It's true. I felt it."

Sometimes, instead of writing a new post, it's easier to just copy and paste a bunch of stuff you wrote elsewhere and call it something trite like "Pieces of Me" or "Brain Nuggets."

Or Else What, Mr. Flapjack Sam?

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 17:00:00 +0000

A few years ago, I lent Mr. Schprock my copy of LOST Season 1. He returned it when he was finished, and I let him borrow Season 2. He was ready for Season 3, but I didn't own it yet. I told him he could borrow it as soon as I get it, but then, well..things took a turn.

With only a few episodes left until the series finale, I'm still banking on some of my crazy theories being true. But it wouldn't be fair to spoil my former co-worker by mentioning them here; it's bad enough he still has to work with Joe. So I can't say anything about Frank, or Miles, or Juliet or even Ben. He wouldn't know who they are. Instead, I will regale you with this epic, spoiler-free review by a guy named funk yant.

LOST SUCKS
by funkyant

IF U LIKE LOST ITS BECUASE YOUR GAY. THIS SHOW IS STUPID HERE'S A TYPICAL LOST EPISODE:

JACK: GIVE ME THE GUN SAWYER
SAWYER: NO, HOWDY-DOODY-TOODY
jACK: YOUR GONNA DO WHAT I SAID OR ELSE
SAWYER: OR ELSE WHAT, MR. FLAPJACK SAM?
JACK: I DON'T KNOW. YOUR JUST GONNA DO WHAT I SAID
LOCKE: HAY GUYS, THE ISLAND HAS TOLD ME TO STICK THIS TRANSMITTER UP MY RECTUM!
JACK: NO IT DIDN'T! I HATE YOU!
LOCKE: YOUR THE ONE WHO HATES YOURSELF.
*JACK PUNCHES LOCKE AND THEN GETS A CONSTIPATED LOOK ON HIS FACE*
*SUDENLY EVERYONE LOOKS UP IN A TREE AND SEES A CHICLET*

*CUE GAY ASS TROMBONE*
*CUT TO COMMERCIAL*

Funkyant may not know much in the way of spelling and punctuation, but he sure knows how to weave a good story. I think it's safe to say that I would absolutely watch that episode. Even Alan Dale would watch that episode. Of course, I'd also watch Cue, the Gay Ass Trombone

Gasification, Baby!

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 16:00:00 +0000

It seems eda's been chatting up a whole bunch of people. Spreading her provocative artistry here, here, even here, on this Spanish-language rock & roll blog. But eda's a ghost; wiped from existence again and again. In all instances, only references to her sexy trouser poetry remain. I guess the world isn't ready to jump wireless the egg.

With eda nowhere to be found, I feared that I would never learn the meaning of "gasification baby." Thankfully, I found tootoomart.com, which appears to be China's answer to Amazon.com. Tootoomart doesn't dabble in anything as ribald as sexy T-shaped trousers, but they do sell inflatable Minnie Mouse chairs for children to fart on.

They even have big name sponsors. Check out this banner ad for the movie 2012:

I have to admit, I thought that movie looked pretty stupid, but that tagline really pulled me in. I might have to rent it afterall.

Dig Those T-Shaped Trousers, Jack

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 23:00:00 +0000

We are not alone. It may seem that way, with the absence of Trina and NYPinTA (I think she's still mad that I almost broke her face) but make no mistake, there's a new disciple of the House of Squeeg.

I've recently noticed a couple of older posts had comments by someone I didn't recognize, eda, written in what appears to be Chinese characters. What kind of praise could eda be heaping on me? Or was it scathing MSG-laden criticism? I had to find out, so I cut and paste them into babelfish, which I know is not the most accurate translator, but it's a start. Here's what our new friend eda had to say:

"The appeal, G spot, the sexy T-shaped trousers, the appeal, the roll play clothing, the suspenders sock, the T-shaped trousers, the appeal thing, jumps wireless the egg, the men and women, Massages the stick, massages the stick electrically operated, the airplane cup, the video, consoles oneself the wrap, consoles oneself the wrap, the appeal thing, the appeal underwear, The appeal massage stick, consoles oneself the wrap, the roll play, massages the stick, jumps the egg, the appeal jumps the egg. , lubricant, SM, underwear, sexy underwear, self-consolation, gasification baby, AV,"

And then it just stops, with a comma. An obvious spambot, you say? Quasi-erotic jibberish, you say? Maybe if you live in Squaresville, Clyde. But dig this; imagine some cat hitting the skins over this clambake in a smokey, dimly lit room. I'm hep to eda's scene, and I dig it.

The appeal, G spot, the sexy T-shaped trousers,
the appeal, the roll play clothing, the suspenders sock,
the T-shaped trousers, the appeal thing,
jumps wireless the egg,
the men and women, Massages the stick,
massages the stick electrically operated,
the airplane cup,
the video,
consoles oneself the wrap, consoles oneself the wrap,
the appeal thing,
the appeal underwear,
The appeal massage stick,
consoles oneself the wrap,
the roll play, massages the stick, jumps the egg,
the appeal jumps the egg. ,
lubricant, SM, underwear, sexy underwear,
self-consolation, gasification baby,
AV,

I can almost hear you snapping your fingers in approval. Alas, in my haste, I deleted eda's comments, because at the time, I thought Chinese characters about T-shaped trousers and airplane cups was a bunch of jive. But now I see what I fool I was! I hope I didn't scare you off, eda. I hope you come back and lay some more groovy riffs on us. In fact, I wrote you a little something.
Slap that bass, daddy-o:

eda, sweet eda
so trust-ing
so know-ing
so love-ed?

The Secret of HeteroNYMH

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 25 Mar 2010 17:00:00 +0000

I was just sitting here and the word "predicated" popped into my head. Then I started thinking and realized that I don't remember ever actually saying or writing that word in my entire life. I've obviously heard it before, and probably even thought it a few times, but it's never escaped my head until just now. That's a long time for a word to be trapped in someone's brain. I wonder if his escape was like the Shawshank Redemption.

Stranger still is that while I've never used the word predicate--that's the verb predi-KATE, as in "To carry the connotation of; imply" or "To base or establish"--in school I used predicate--as in predi-KIT, "one of the two main constituents of a sentence or clause, modifying the subject and including the verb, objects, or phrases governed by the verb"--in English class several times.

See, they're heteronyms; words that are spelled the same but have different pronunciations and meanings. Wikipedia decided to give and example using animal porn:

Do you know what a buck does to does?

The verb predicate is a good, solid word. I should start using it. But...I feel like if I start now, it's going to sound forced. That's no good. I've got to let the words flow naturally. In the meantime, take a look at this word:

supermarionation

If you are of a certain age, you'll probably pronounce it as super-marion-ation, the puppetry technique used in the 1960s by British producer Gerry Anderson, and more recently by the South Park guys in Team America: World Police.

They used to air reruns of Supermarionation shows like Stingray, Thunderbirds and Captain Scarlet on the...ugh...SyFy Channel. They also ran another Anderson show from the 80s using Supermacronation called Terrahawks which featured a terrifying witch lady and a puppet that looked like Roy Scheider in SeaQuest.

But there's another, ever-growing segment of the population unaware of creepy old puppets which will read the word as Super Mario Nation, possibly thinking it's the url for a Nintendo fansite. (It's not. I checked. Talk about missed opportunities.)

It's a generational thing. I guess your age predicates how you pronounce supermarionation. Hey, look at that! Did I use it correctly, or should it be the other way around?

The Mystery of the Shamed Businessman

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 15:59:00 +0000

You know those Google Doodles, where they alter the Google logo to commemorate some thing or another? Once in a while I know immediately what they are, but most of the time I have to click on it to figure out what it's suppose to represent.

Last summer I saw one that completely baffled me. It looked like a guy with a box on his head, wearing a dress shirt and tie, bending over with his hands on his knees, the way kids stand when they're in left field waiting for the ball to come their way. Here's an altered version of the picture, to show you how it looked to me:

I thought maybe it was some disgraced CEO or something; maybe it was the anniversary of the Enron scandal. Even when I clicked on the image to find out what it actually was, I still didn't see what I was supposed to see at first. I see it now though, to the point where I don't know how I could mistake it as anything else, but sometimes I still see the guy with box on his head. Maybe not it box; it might be his briefcase.

Now here is the actual image:

Does anyone see the box head guy? Or could you tell what it is right away? It was August 29, which would have been Michael Jackson's 51st birthday. Jackson's socks are the business man's shirt, and the space between them is his tie. Actually, if you look closely, it looks like the box head guy is wearing one of those frilly flamenco dancer shirts. But who wears those with neckties?

So do you see the businessman, Michael Jackson's feet, or both?

Moral Conflict

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 19:40:00 +0000

So, everybody...oh who am I kidding? So, LL, here's your question for the the day.

What if you could go back in time and prevent World War II from ever happening, but here's the catch: the only way to do it is to have sex with Hitler. You can't trick him and say that you'll have sex with him and then kill him or something, you've got to go through with it. But if you do, he won't invade any other countries or kill Jews or anything. Millions of lives will be saved.

Instead of genocide and world domination, Hitler will focus on music. He'll form a folk group called Der Flying Deutschmen. A protegê of Woody Guthrie, Hitler will write songs about peace, magic unicorns and a night of passion with a mysterious stranger whose name he refuses to reveal.

In 1959, he'll be mourned by the entire world when his plane crashes, killing him, Ritchie Valens and Buddy Holly. In this WWII-free universe, the Big Bopper took a different flight and later opened a chain of successful fried chicken restaurants across America's Southeast.

I actually have a theory that this was Hilter's ultimate goal all along: To do something so despicable that he'll be seen as the most hated man in history, in the hopes that one day hot women from the future would travel through time to have sex with him to prevent it from ever happening. In fact I'm pretty sure Bin Laden heard about Hitler's idea and co-opted it.

Oh, and don't worry, you can't inadvertently erase yourself from existence in my hypothetical time machine. Technically, you aren't re-writing history, you're branching out from the moment you changed to create a new history. The original still exists, because it can never be changed, like a write-only CD. But you've created this new history in a different location, as if you made changes to the CD file and saved it as a new file on the desktop. So even if preventing the war caused you to not be born in the new timeline, you still exist in the original timeline.

Of course that means when you show up in the present of the new timeline, no one will know who you are, because they have no record of you ever being born. In fact, you might be thrown in jail for not having any ID or proof of citizenship and for fabricating stories about beloved folk singer Adolf Hitler. No one would be able to appreciate what you did, because for them, it never happened, and for the original timeline, it will sill always happen no matter what you do. Or you run into the other you, and that presents a whole other set of problems. Man, time travel is hard. Okay, for the sake of this exercise, we'll say you change the original timeline and definitely cannot negate your own birth.

So...would you have sex with Hitler to prevent World War II? I couldn't do it myself. It's not because of the gay sex that would be involved, it's just that we got a lot of good movies out of that war.

On This Day in Squeegee History

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 16:28:00 +0000

DATE: MARCH 22, 1998 (more or less...)
LOCATION: PIZZA HUT. QUINCY, MA

I was sitting in a booth with Nick and Jose. Jose noticed a clown sitting a few booths behind me. I don't mean the "oh boy that guy's such a clown! kind of clown, I mean the rainbow wigged, floppy shoed, balloon-animal-making kind of clown. Jose told me to look over my shoulder because he continues to think that I'm afraid of clowns, when in reality, I merely would just prefer to avoid them whenever possible.

Anyway, forget about the clown. When the waitress brought us our pizza, she asked me "How's your headache?" And I thought "Well that was cryptic. I don't even have a heada----ahhhhh!" To this day I don't understand what happened. I felt fine until she said anything, then all of a sudden I got a sharp pain in my temple. She was some kind of...voodoo waitress.

This has been On this day in Squeegee History. Brought to you by Pringles.

Pringles. Taste the hyperbolic paraboloid.™

Missed Opportunities

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 16:16:00 +0000

Yesterday would have been a good day for a rousing speech. Because it was March 4th, and you could have been like "March fourth...TO VICTORY!" or something. March fourth...TO ZERO DOWN PAYMENT ON A 2010 KIA SORENTO! And it would resonate with people, because it was the date, and it means to move forward. Now we've got to wait a whole year for the opportunity to come around again. It's a shame, really.

Kind of like how I never got around to writing the second part of my friend's wedding story, and now it doesn't matter, because they're friggin' divorced. Oh, did I just casually throw that out there? Yes I did.

A Brief Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 18:47:00 +0000

For Lent, Michele is eating nothing but some kind of seaweed soup thing, so I went to my mom's house for dinner on Friday.

MOM: I think I'm going to go to the gym Saturday morning.

ME: What gym do you go to?

MOM: Planet Fitness.

ME: Oh, you know who lives right next door?

Mom: No, who?

ME: Jim Nabors.

See, it's funny, because...well, I'll let my brother explain.

GLENN: It works on two levels.

BRIANNA: I don't get it.

MOM: They are gym neighbors, like Jim Nabors? You know "Well Gaw-aw-aw-lly!"

GLENN: Wait, what?

MOM: You don't know who Jim Nabors is? Gomer Pyle?

GLENN: Oh.

ME: Hold on, then why were you laughing?

GLENN: I thought you just made up a name for the joke.

The First Rule of Jury Duty is You Do Not Talk About Jury Duty

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 00:20:00 +0000

I'm a jury duty magnet. I've had to report in just about every three years since I turned 18, which is the minimum amount of time they have before they can legally send me another notice. The first few times I didn't have to go to the courthouse; I called the number on the juror card the day before I was to appear and an automated message told me that my group was on standby.

A few years later, I had to go to the Quincy courthouse, which I walked by several times before I realized where to go. I guess I was expecting a big marble building with massive pillars and that lady with the scales and blindfold out front. It was just a plain brick building that looked like an elementary school. Anyway, when I did find it, I proceeded to sit in a room all morning waiting for something to happen. A bailiff came in a few times and told us that our presence in the jury pool was causing cases to plea rather than go to trial, so we were serving an important purpose. Which was fine with me, because I really didn't want to get picked.

I had jury duty again on Monday, this time in Dedham. The court is just a fifteen minute walk from my grandmother's house, so I stayed there Sunday night so I could be there at 8:00 AM Monday morning. The jury pool had previously been held in the basement of the Supreme Court, but was moved across the street to the Registry of Deeds. Still, the room we were in looked like a typical courtroom like the ones on daytime tv. There was over a hundred potential jurors packed into the room and we all watched a VHS tape from the mid to late 1980s about the differences between civil and criminal cases, and stressed that if we are selected to be on a jury, we cannot read or watch anything about the case, we can't tell anyone anything about the case, and we can't talk amongst ourselves about the case. The video was hosted by a judge who, while undoubtedly prominent and well-respected in 1987, had a habit of pronouncing "r"s as "w"s and "jury" as "Julie." Could they not have found someone else? It just seems cruel to make her say Julie 300 times. I wonder if she was deaf maybe? Is it against the law to make fun of a judge? Actually, now that I think about it, she did a great job and was very informative and there was nothing wrong with that video whatsoever, let's move on.

After the video, the called out numbers 1-90 to go across the street to the Supreme Court. I was number 7. Despite my several previous times being called to jury duty, this was the first time I'd ever actually made it this far into the process. We all walked over to the other building and found seats in courtroom 3. A judge introduced a civil case that we could potentially be serving on. She introduced the plaintiffs and the defendant, then the lawyers introduced themselves. The first guy said his name and the name of his law firm, and that he was representing the plaintiffs. The second guy said his name and law firm, which was the same firm as the first guy. And I thought "Gee, that's weird, the same firm is being used for both sides. Can they even do that?" But then he said "...and I will also be representing the plaintiffs." Ah. Right. Idiot. Lastly, an older guy stood up and said he was the lawyer for the defense. From a different firm. With his name in the title, even.

After everyone was introduced and the particulars were laid out, the long and arduous process of jury selection began. There were 14 seats in the juror's box to fill, with 90 people to fill them. Actually, I was already sitting in the juror's box, but only because that was the only place left to sit. The judge asked us a series of a questions, starting with whether anyone knew either the plaintiffs or defendant. (Off to the side, a lady cupped what looked like one of those horse feedbags over her face whenever anyone said anything. I'm guessing it was a recording device.) If the answer to any of the questions was affirmative, we were instructed to hold our jury card in the air until a court officer counts them all and its put on record. I held mine up three or four times, confident that I'd be out of here in no time.

When all of the questions were finished, the judge, flanked by lawyers for both sides, called each potential juror up to the bench one at a time for follow up questions. Since I was number 7, I didn't have to wait very long for my turn. The first five people--for some reason there was no juror 1--went up to the bench individually, quietly spoke with the judge, and were then either told to take a seat in the jury box or were escorted out of the courtroom. Four of the 14 seats had been filled by the time my number was called. I approached the bench, and the judge asked if I knew anyone who was born at South Shore Hospital. I said "Yeah. Me." And my brothers, my mom, cousins' kids...need I go on? The next follow up question was if anyone in my family is a physician or works in the medical field. "My girlfriend works at Harvard Medical School, my cousin and aunt are both nurses, my brother works with Medicare...something." I was sure that was enough, but she asked if any of them worked in pediatrics.

No, I said. Well, I don't know. I couldn't remember what field my cousin is in. I know she works at Brigham and Women's in Boston. Then she asked if any of this will sway my judgment in any way. Say yes say yes say yes....

"I don't think so."

Damn it!

I bounced back, telling her that I live in Weymouth, down the street from South Shore Hospital (ooh, good one!) and I didn't have any means of transportation to get to Dedham every day. The judge looked at the lawyers and asked if there was a train or bus that went from Weymouth to Dedham. No one came up with anything. Looks like I had just punched my ticket out of there.

"Well, my grandmother lives five minutes away. That's how I got here this morning. I guess I could stay there."

DAMN IT!!!!

Ironically, the only unsolicited information I didn't give her was that I can't keep a secret. Why didn't I mention that? There's no way I'd be able to not talk about this case for 8 days. I read all the Harry Potter spoilers when each book came out, and I've never even read a damn Harry Potter book! It's compulsive. I can't help it. And I can't lie. It's not that I don't lie, I'm just terrible at it.

Before I realized what had happened, my name was called to sit in seat number five in the jury box. Well that's just ducky. I took my seat and watched the proceedings from my new home for the next eight days, which was almost exactly where I was sitting before I had been called up. When juror 18's number was called, the officer accidentally said juror 20's name. "I've been called a lot of things, but never (John Smith, or whatever #20's name was)" the guy bellowed. When he was selected to sit in the jury, I was pretty sure he was going to maneuver himself into being the foreman. He seemed like the abrasive type that wants to be in charge of everything.

The first 12 seats were filled pretty quickly. It wasn't until the final two that the lawyers decided to start scrutinizing, at which point a steady stream of people approached the bench, said their piece, and were on their way. What were they saying? What was their secret? I should have said I hated doctors. Or I loved doctors. Either one would work, really. I guess by this time you've figured out that this case involved doctors. A young couple were suing their doctor because their son has cerebral palsy, a condition that can be caused by complications at birth. Don't tell anybody, okay?

Even after all 14 had been selected, the lawyers were given the opportunity to contest anyone they wanted. I might have made it through the first round, but with all the people left in the pool with no connections to the hospital or physician relatives, surly one of them would be a better fit for this case. The take-charge guy was the first to go. I didn't see that coming. Every time someone was removed from the jury box, they had to get someone else to fill their place. Sometimes, someone would be picked and then immediately excused. Eventually, after going through around 63, 64 jurors the 14 were finalized, myself included. We were dismissed for the day, but had to be in at ten minutes to night the next morning when the trial began. The judge anticipated it to be 8 days, which would run from 9 AM to 1PM, we'd have the weekend off, as well as the following Wednesday, and the deliberations were expected to start next Thursday.

As I walked back to Nana's house I called Michele, then my mom, and told them they wouldn't be seeing me for a while. I went home and grabbed my toothbrush and a bunch of clothes, said goodbye, and got ready for my first time on an actual Julie.

Tuesday morning I left the house at 8 and started a leisurely walk to the courthouse. It was cold out, but I had a scarf wrapped around my face. I stopped at a bagel place on the corner and got a bagel and some coffee, and continued on into the building. There were already a couple of people in the jury room getting acquainted with each other. Actually, two of them knew each other previously because they coached a team together. Another younger woman was on one of those teams. I guess knowing other jurors doesn't get you out of jury duty either. As it got closer to 9, more people trickled in, and I started to get into the whole being on a jury thing. My grandmother loved having my around, and the other jurors seemed pretty cool, and since we weren't allowed to talk about the trial with each other, maybe I could subtly mention that I do freelance graphic design. And I passed a panini place on the over that I could try for lunch. Plus I told the judge I was unemployed, and she said I could fill out some paperwork and get $50 a day for this. Yeah, come to think of it, this is a blessing in disguise.

The bailiff did a head count to see if we were all in yet, and joked that this was the hardest part of his morning. Still missing one more. After a few minutes, the last guy showed up and we got ready to head into the courtroom. The judge came in right behind him, and told us that she had some sad news.

We all know that last minute deals were made all the time before cases go to trial, so I think we were all expecting her to say that there was a settlement and we can all go home. Instead, she solemnly told us that the boy's father went into a diabetic coma the night before, and that he had passed away early that morning. He was 34. I noticed that he left about midway through the jury selection, but I thought maybe he was bored out of him mind like we were. The judge said the case will continue, but obviously it will be on hold indefinitely to deal with funeral arrangements and to take care of her son, since she had previously worked while her husband was the child's primary caregiver. And because trials can take months to schedule, when it does start up again, they will need to select a whole new jury and start over.

Yes, we all wanted to get out of jury duty, but not this way. And I was actually starting to look forward to the rest of the trial. Everyone just sat there in complete and utter shock, unable to believe what just happened. Everyone except the guy who came in late, who said "Are you guys just going to sit around here?" and immediately went home.

Breaking the Silence

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 15:24:00 +0000

Alright, I guess this has gone on long enough. Time to fess up. I guess I'm just going to have to accept that after all this time, I was wrong. For years I've wondered what "take out TCP" means in the song Respect. I thought maybe TCP was some kind of drug. I sure as hell didn't know what "rese" was. But it turns out the correct lyric is "Take care, TCB." TCB stands for "take[ing] care of business"

That somehow makes even less sense than taking out TCP. First, why say take care, followed by TCB, when the "TC" part means "take care"? That's redundant. And why throw in an acronym when you just finished spelling a word? It just seems like that would invite confusion. What's even more confusing is according to Wikipedia, the lines:

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Find out what it means to me
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Take care ... TCB

are not even present in Otis Reading's original version of the song. He did add it later, and apparently there's some debate over who actually used the line first, but my question now is, if it wasn't even in his version of the song, what did he have in it's place?

Did anyone know the actual lyric prior to reading this? Are you not shocked? The only reason I know is that I looked up what "take out TCP means" one day after wondering my entire life. Even Tiny Toons thought it was take out T-C-P.

I guess if I'm completely honest, that's not the only thing that's been bothering me. See, I have Yahoo set as my homepage, but they completely rearranged the site a few months ago and I absolutely hate it. I'll see a story that looks interesting, but when I move the mouse, it turns into something else, because the cursor barely touched the sidebar and opened up "View Yahoo Sites" or "Autos" or some damn fool thing. It's annoying and I wish they'd change it back to normal. But I guess things will never go back to normal, no matter how much I want them to.

One of the staples of Yahoo is the "featured" comic strips. I clicked on today's, but Yahoo doesn't tell you the name of the strip, so unless you already know it or the artist writes it in the first block (which takes up valuable space) you're on your own. Here is what they have today:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! See, it's funny, because...um...wait....what the hell is this supposed to be? I guess it looks a bit like that movie The Last Starfighter, but that can't be the joke, right? I mean, the thing is FIVE PANELS LONG! Does it really take five panels to say "Hey look, 80s movie reference lol". And in three of them are just of someone walking. I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to be looking at.

I found out from reading the url that the comic is called Jane's World and from the comics' site that it's about a lesbian. So maybe there's some contextual thing I'm not getting. Is sector three some kind of secret lesbian code? Do they like to buy ice? Since I'm not familiar with the strip, I could be looking at this the wrong way. Maybe it's one of those Mary Worth-type comics that has boring ongoing dramatic storylines instead of lame throwaway gags. Even if that were the case, what is going on here? Entertain me, damn it! I'm so confused. Anyone want to give it a shot?

That Whole Kerfluffle

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 20:00:00 +0000

Okay, people. I wasn't here when Kanye acted like a giant douche and said Beyonce's video was one of the best of all time. OF ALL TIME!!! Then she actually won video of the year, which made him look like an even bigger, impatient douche.

But I'm not here to talk about that giant impatient douche. In the interest of remaining somewhat relevant, I've seen the Single Ladies video and I don't get why a black and white video of three chicks dancing would even be in the running for video of the year, let alone "all time." Unless you're using it for, ahem, spank material, it's boring as hell. Where's the story? The character development? It looked like a cosmetics commercial. In fact, wasn't it?

There were no Vincent Price raps, no claymation, no dancing skinned chickens...no Fonzie, not even a mop-wielding janitor. What the hell? It's not even the first video to be filmed in black and white with no background.

Even the choreography, which is apparently what's supposed to be so great since there's nothing else to the damn thing, is lifted from somewhere else. But the comments on the Youtube video go on and on about how amazing it is? Observe:

Considering the number of parodies and imitations of this video, I would argue that it's the most important music video since Thriller. I think Beyoncé did something really big here.

thts true, i think beyonces wuz better 2. I honestly dnt think what kanye said wuz tht bad cuzz he wuz very ploite about it

I do like this inexplicable exchange:

Ok awesome songs whatever, but why do music videos get more attention than community ones. Its not fair, or nice

what are you on about u stupid bastard, music is the future, GET USED TO IT

If you like the song, fine, whatever. That's a different topic entirely. But the awards (the video was nominated for 9 VMAs and won 3) are for the VIDEO. There's a whole other award show for songs. And the video isn't all that special. Not bad or anything, just...average. Forgettable even. You know it could have used? Captain Lou Albano (RIP). That would have kicked ass.

I wonder if it's like a Three Wolf Moon ironic kind of praise, or am I the only one who doesn't get it?

What the Hell Happened: Joe's Revenge

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Continued from yesterday

So who, against all odds, managed to avoid the chopping block?

Joe! Freaking Joe! Suddenly, I didn't feel all warm and fuzzy. Why did I get laid off and this guy's still there?

When we switched from Quark to InDesign a few years back, I was admittedly the last one to embrace it. But once I learned it, I found I really liked it and just kept learning new tricks and shortcuts. Whenever we had a little downtime, I'd explore some of the features and find something new. And if there was something I couldn't figure out, I'd keep trying different things, or look up the problem online until I found a solution. That's what I do. It's like when I couldn't remember the name of that cartoon with the talking fireworks. I FOUND IT! It took forever, but by God, I found it.

On the other hand, you have Joe. Who you may recall from his early work in Highlights for Children as Goofus. Goofus only learned enough to barely get by. Why bother retaining knowledge when you can just yell a question down the hall?

"MR. H., YOU GOT A MINUTE? I FORGET HOW YOU DO TABS!"

"MR. H., YOU GOT A MINUTE? I DON'T UNDERSTAND TABLES!"

"MR. H., YOU GOT A MINUTE? HOW DO YOU GET SMART QUOTES IN ILLUSTRATOR?"

I don't know if the bosses knew any of this or took it into consideration, and even though I'm eternally happy that I don't have to listen to "Remember that show Mr. Nice?" or "Are You my special friend?" anymore, he's there and I'm not, which in a way means he won, which makes my mouth taste like horse crap.

The truth is, the idea that someone might get axed was on all our minds for months, and the first choice, Mr. bathroom hog, was pretty easy, but if there was going to be two layoffs, and I don't think anyone ever though there would be, but to me, the second choice is Joe without question. And apparently Joe's obvious second choice was me. We never expressed this opinions to each other, of course; they were filtered through John T, but when I heard that I just though, "Well that guy's gonna be in for a real shock." And then of course the day came and somehow, against all reason, I'm the one that was laid off. Joe won. Sonofabitch.

I can't prove this, but the reason, I think, that I was let go rather than Joe is as follows:

A couple of months before all this, Joe was getting ready to welcome his wife back home after she'd been stationed in Afghanistan for six months. He had a framed picture of the two of them that he hung in the front hallway, and probably some other asinine gifts, and his 18-year-old son from his previous marriage was there with him, standing in the hall. She walked in, Joe moved in to give her a hug, but she side-stepped him, brushed him off and said, "I don't love you anymore. I met someone else. I want a divorce."

Now, Joe annoyed the hell out of me over the years, and I can't even begin to imagine LIVING with him, but damn, that's cold. That's really cold. She didn't even take him to the side and do it quietly; his son was standing right there. And despite her contempt for Joe, the kid had known her for like ten years. He grew up knowing her. She was supposed to go to his graduation a few days later, and he asked if she was still going, and she just said, "No."

Apparently, she met someone in her unit over there and they hooked up or something. I don't know what the Air Force policies are for that, but whatever. The important thing is she should have told him months ago. Because when you have someone you care about over there in harm's way, you worry about their safety the time. At least if she broke his heart earlier he wouldn't have to spend every night worrying that she might be ripped apart by an IED or something. He wouldn't care, and he'd be able to sleep a lot better. It's common courtesy, really.

And of course he should have seen this coming. While she was overseas, she and everyone else there had to ration their time to make calls and send emails back home, and she told Joe that she spend so little time talking to him because she gave up most of her allotted minutes to a homesick young airman. Right.

Look, I understand the thought of spending your whole life with Joe is like staring into the mouth of Hell, but she was just brutal to the poor guy the way she went about doing this. No tact at all. I mean, for all him many, many faults, that guy really loved her and the way it ended pretty much crushed him.

Anyway, all of a sudden, Joe is in the middle of this big, messy divorce. Again. And maybe the bosses were thinking they can't very well throw him out on the street now on top of all he's going through. I don't know what they were thinking, I know that they don't particularly like Joe, especially after the wake incident. And I know because of his tendency to rape the truth, he got yelled at a lot, sometimes justly, sometimes unjustly. But, for whatever reason, they kept Joe. Remember that.

Because I left on good terms, I still had my keys; one for the front door of the building and one for the elevator. I was allowed to come in any time to work on my stuff. It was a generous offer, but I didn't take advantage of it, because it just seemed like it would be terribly awkward. And I wasn't about to risk hearing that insipid country station ever again. But I did have the keys if I needed them.

One day, John T. called ad asked if I could turn them in. The reason being that the other guy who was let go had asked the boss if he could keep his laptop, and she said no, it belongs to the company, and I guess he was a little mad about that. She got a little freaked out when she found out that he had come in over the weekend to clear out his stuff without supervision, so she asked us to return the keys. We could still come in if we wanted, but there'd have to be someone around. No problem.

So...a week later, John T. called again. This time he asked if the police had called me. I said, "No." He said, "Well, they might."

The night before, someone broke into the office and stole five laptops. Now, I'm not suggesting that it's at all connected to the other guy being angry about not being able to keep his laptop. It is awfully coincidental, especially when you consider that only laptops were stolen; nothing else. No cords, no external keyboards, not even a mouse. (See what I did there?) And there was a CPU in the office that didn't work, but you wouldn't know that unless you turned it on. That curiously wasn't taken, either. You could argue that only laptops were taken because they are small and easy to carry. After all, it's hard to look inconspicuous wheeling a giant color printer down the street.

The truth is, ANYONE could have stolen the laptops, because...you're gonna love this...footprint evidence shows the burglar came through Joe's OPEN, UNLOCKED WINDOW. The studio is on the seventh floor, and on three sides it's a straight drop down to the pavement, but outside of Joe's window is the roof of the parking garage next door. There's not even a gap between the buildings; it's literally right outside his window. There's always cars parked out there. So anyone who was up there could look right through Joe's wide open shades, through his unlocked and open windows, right onto his desk where his laptop is still on, staring back at them. Tempting them. Daring anyone and everyone to just walk right in and take it and whatever else the feel like. Earlier this year, the boss freaked out over an exceptionally high energy bill. Worried that it might have been my from my heater, (because that place was always so frickin' cold) I started to bring in blankets, changed all the lightbulbs in my office to CFLs, and turned off the power strip for the laptop every night. But since it wasn't Joe's electric bill, he apparently felt it was perfectly acceptable to continue leaving his computer and his radio-his radio! on all night, every night. I guess that doesn't really have anything to do with the laptops being stolen, but that still steams my brocolli. Anyway, they kept Joe, he left his damn fool window open, and the place got robbed. That's all I'm saying.

In a way, I'm lucky to have been let go, because when I left, I copied all of my personal files from the laptop onto my external hard drive. But if I had still been there, I wouldn't have had a reason to copy my files and when the place was robbed, I would have lost EVERYTHING; drawings, photos, stories...all kinds of stuff. So if there's a "glass half full" way of looking at this, that would be it.

By the way, the police never did call me, and I'm a little offened by that. I mean, I didn't do it, and I wouldn't have had a way of getting into Boston, and I have an alibi with witnesses, but the cops could have at least entertained the idea. Way to be thourough, guys.

well, T. said all their stuff was insured, so they were able to get all new computers and up-to-date software. So that's good. And I guess they'll be putting bars on the winows, so that's good too, although a good first step might be closing and locking the windows before going home. Maybe even drawing the shades too, if you want. Go crazy.

So, that's what happened. Since I had ben at my job since 2001, I had some money in a profit-sharing account. It took a while to actually get a hold of it, but when I did, I took some of it out to buy a brand new laptop and a ton of programs, and I put the rest in an IRA. So I've been looking for another "office" type job, but so many applications call for prerequisite web-design knowledge, and I'm primarily a print guy. But since I now own them, I'm slowly learning Flash and Dreamweaver, and while I know a little already, I'm nowhere near the point where I can say "Yeah I can whip up a website with CSS and dynamic, uh, whatsits for you no problem." Actually I can say that, but I can't say something that would make any sense.

What I'm hoping for, and I know it's going to be hard, but I'm hoping to go out on my own and do some freelancing. I've got over ten years experience, I own Adobe CS4 Master Collection so I have every program Adobe makes at my disposal. I write, I draw, I take pictures. Not professionally, but I guess if you paid me that would make it professional, right? I don't know if there's a certificate or something you're supposed to ave. I can do brochures, postcards, brand-identity stuff like logos and stationery, business cards...if you've got a band, I play bass. No, I don't actually know how to do that, but I could design t-shirts or posters or those flier things for you. Can't do whole lot of Flash, so lay off that for a while, but I'm learning, and maybe I'll post my progress for you guys, you know, when I make some progress.

So...this degenerated into a commercial pretty quickly. Or desperate plea for help, whatever works. If you guys every do need anything, or know anyone who needs some kind of design work done, email me at jhammel@crea9.com.

I wish that was the end of this summer craptacular, but it was only the beginning, Check back tomorrow to find out what happened next. And you don't have to worry about it not being there because I already wrote it. I'm just trimming this beast into bite-sized pieces so you don't choke on all the depression.

What the Hell Happened: Tell me about the rabbits, George

noreply@blogger.com (John) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 01:43:00 +0000

So...how was your summer? Mine was crap. I tried to write this several times over the past few months, before deciding that the best way to express my thoughts would be in my first ever video blog. But once I started recording, I drew a blank, so I had to write it all down anyway. And then there's the issue of where to look. I tried looking directly at the camera, but the constant stare came out looking insane and a little creepy. So I tried it again, looking slightly off camera, but without any eye contact, it looked like I was trying to hide something. So I ultimately decided to just go back to writing the whole damn massive thing out in sections like I was going to do in the first place, except now I have this needless explanatory paragraph to start out with.

Anyway, it all started on Free Donut Day. If you ordered a coffee at Dunkin Donuts, they'd give a donut for free. Who the hell doesn't like free donuts? So I went there first thing in the morning, got my coffee and my free donut, and thought "This is a pretty good day!"

And damn it, for a few hours, it was. My boss was in early that morning. To give you a little background, the company is run by two siblings; the sister is the art director and the brother takes care of the sales and business end, as well as lending his name to the company. A few years ago, when the lease was almost up on our current office, they spent months looking for a new place. Our old office on Appleton Street was too big, and this one was just a little too small. And only had one bathroom, which was frequently monopolized by this guy, sometimes for an hour at a time. They weren't able to find a new office before the lease was up, so in the end we all stayed put. Except the boss, who decided the best way to give us more room (and, more importantly, himself his own bathroom) was to get a small office a few blocks away and work off-site from there. He still came in almost every day, but for the most part was either on the road or in his new office, and in his absence, his sister moved into his old office, Amy moved into the sister's old office, and after she "left," I moved into that office.

But back to free donut day. The boss was in the office that day, and although it was a bit unusual for him to be in so early, I just figured there was a new project to go over. He called me into his sister's office, and I started to get an uneasy feeling, but still I assumed we were going over a new project. So I went into her office and sat down, and the two of them sat opposite me. He started, "As you know, things have been really slow around here lately." She looked like she was about to cry. Aw, crap.

"We have to let you go." I forget which one actually said it. They're not twin or anything, I just don't remember. You'd think I would, but, I just don't. And I have to tell you, I did NOT see that coming. I knew the economy overall was down, and my timesheets had less and less billable time, and I knew that there might be some layoffs here, but...I don't know, I guess I thought since I was the only one that knew even a little about web design, that it was sort of guaranteed job security. Nope.

I don't know if I was still in shock, but all I said was "Okay." He explained that client billing was off 40%, and that it had nothing to do with job performance, and they really like me, and they wished that they didn't have to do this. In all of their years in business, they'd never had to lay anyone off before. They both said that I could come in anytime and use the computers and printers to work on my portfolio and resume, and they would help any way they could.

And they said, "Just so you know, you're not the only one."

Throughout the whole thing, I just kept saying "Okay". And really, at the time, I was. For awhile, I started to feel like I was going to work a that place forever, spending my whole life there and never advancing. This was my chance for a new beginning. It was exciting, really. But Michele didn't find it as exciting as I did. And with good reason. We were already barely getting by as it was, and with our rental agreement up at the end of August, we were thinking of getting a house. So then I started getting nervous about what we were going to do next, but I still saw getting laid off as an opportunity.

But...

Then I started thinking. There were only four employees there. Four. And they downsized by half to two. Guess who's sill there? Go on...

Find out in the next thrilling installment of the end-of Summer Craptacular "What the Hell Happened"