Angry cookies make angry workers.

Even the cookies don't want to be at work.

More beautiful spam

...spered low, "Confess, confess!"  His thin hands quivered with distress.  It is a bitter thing to die.  Just when a blast fell on the town, I felt his lean claws clutch me down.  It seemed as if the hands of death were beating at my breast for breath; His arms were like a twisted rope of rotten strands that tugged at hope. "Listen, my father, listen w....

- The Priest and the Pirate: A Ballad of Theodosia Burr, Hervey Allen

...closets and cabinets unfastened and emptied of all their contents. At this spectacle my heart sunk. My books, doubtless, had shared the common destiny. My blood throbbed with painful vehemence as I approached the study and opened the door. "My hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. I had lighted my candle below, for I desired not to awaken observation and suspicion by unclosing the windows. My eye eagerly sought the spot where I remembered to have left the volume. Its place was empty. The object of all my hopes had eluded my grasp, and disappeared forever. "To paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on the infatuation which had rendered, during so long a time that it was in my possession, this treasure useless to me, and my curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away the prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and my sorrow. You found me in this state, and know what followed." CHAPTER XXII. This narrative threw new light on the character of Welbeck. If accident had given him possession of this treasure, it.was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. The same dependence on the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted the picture of his future life, as had distinguished the past. This money was another's. To retain it for his own use was criminal. Of this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. His own gratification was the supreme law of his actions. To be subjected to the necessity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was willing to escape by the commission of suicide. The volume which he sought was mine. It was my duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promotion of virtue and happiness. To give it to Welbeck was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. My right, legally considered, was as valid as his. But, if I intended not to r....

- Arthur Mervyn: or, Memoirs of the year 1793, Volume 1, Charles Brockden Brown

...pline, if not of British courage.  Two days before Busaco, for example, the light division, the very flower of the English army, was encamped in a pine-wood about which a peasant had warned them that it was "haunted."  During the night, without signal or visible cause, officers and men, as though suddenly smitten with frenzy, started for their sleep and dispersed in all directions.  Nor could the mysterious panic be stayed until some officer, shrewder than the rest, shouted the order, "Prepare to receive cavalry," when the instinct of discipline asserted itself, the men rushed into rallying squares, and, with huge shouts of laughter, recovered themselves from their panic.  But battle is to the British soldier a tonic, and when Wellington drew up....

- Deeds That Won the Empire, William Henry Fitchett

Scwartzberg

Caution: this is the most beautiful spam message I've ever received... for Viagra and Cialis.

... he said kindly but firmly, "listen to what I say.  If you do not tame your proud temper, you will one day bring sorrow upon yourself."  Then he left, wounded and displeased.  The next day he came again.  "I may be going away," he said, "to the other side of the shop, to the opposite counter."  "Do I still look yaller?" Clarbelle asked, tossing her....

Attn: M. Night Shyamalan

Just so you don't steal this idea, because it's mine!  I had it.  The idea is a disaster movie/post 9/11 terrorist thriller.  When buildings start to collapse around the city, panic ensues and the military is called in.  Suddenly, terrorist sleeper cells are exposed and racial profiling takes a hold of the city.  Everyone is blaming their neighbor and saying their goodbyes because they may be next.  Foreign anti-American organizations start to take credit for the destroyed buildings, but when they can't/won't say what the next target will be they are dismissed.  Here's the twist.  Eventually, due to people being in the right place at the right time, and survivor accounts, it is discovered that the buildings are not being bombed.  They are simply old, and have not been taken care of well.  Somewhere in the hustle and bustle of the the highly disposable ethos of the 21st century people forgot that things will not simply take care of themselves.  They must be nurtured and watched over, maintained, and sometimes replaced.  Otherwise, the harsh reality is, everything will fall apart.

job description

A drawback of spending years in school is the assumption that the people in charge are typically going to be smarter in some way than the students.  This assumption sticks with you throughout life.  And I think this is the reason people make fun of their bosses so often.  Recently, the assumption was shattered at my place of employment.  In this case, not only is it that the boss isn't as smart, but he has no respect for his employees.

The Bakehouse has a Food Safety and Sanitation team.  This is a totally separate team dedicated to keeping the entire facility clean and monitoring the employees to see that they are working safely.  Now, we have a moth problem.  Having huge bins of flower attracts these types of problem.  It's a natural thing, and it probably happens to every bread baking facility.  The issue I have is that it doesn't seem that the Food Safety and Sanitation team is doing anything to combat this problem.  Now, the new deal at work is you can get one dollar for every moth you find and collect.  This is disgraceful, and every time I see someone walking around the bakehouse with a cup or plastic container of small moth bodies I am saddened by what we have been reduced to.  It's sad that people will totally demean themselves roaming the corners and dark, hot warehouse space for dead moths.  Not just because they're helping clean up, but for a dollar?  Are you not paid enough that you feel you have to scrounge around for maybe $5?  And what happened to Food Safety and Sanitation?  Is there no way to get rid of moths?  Isn't this why you get paid?  To have other people do your job for you?  Incredible.  I'd like to have been in the meeting where this was decided.  Where the Team Leader for the FS&S team sat across from the Bakehouse Manager and told him, "We just can't handle it.  Between fucking around all day and chatting with Maintenance and listening to music and rinsing things off, we just can't lick this moth problem."  "Oh, that's okay.  We'll just have everyone pitch in.  You'd be amazed what people will sell themselves off for.  A dollar will do it.  Yeah, a dollar a moth!  Genius!"

In the end, this new pitch is sort of the equivalent of "Let's play the silent game.  First person to talk loses."  It's a veiled attempt at keeping the masses pacified so we don't rise up and slay our masters for not having the place fumigated long ago.  We are now moth whores, selling our dignity a dollar a moth.  Get that money, folks!

Elusions of Stupidity

Street racing is illegal.  I think we can all agree on that fact.  So, why is it when I see all these souped up cars driving down the road with their half-painted doors and mismatched fender packages do they all have ultra loud exhausts?  Wouldn't you want to make your car as quiet as possible if you're going to elude detection by cops?  Just me thinking on a Friday night.

Your mama jokes:

Before we begin, there is a difference between the following and what you may have heard on a short-lived MTV diss competition show.  Your mama jokes are a very different animal, as is evident below.

- Your mama is so fat that it causes me to worry about her comfort level as she walks around.

- Your mama is so fat I had to make myself stop looking.  I'm so sorry about your mom.

- Your mama is so fat I cried last night before falling asleep.

- Your mama is so fat.  I hope she doesn't develop diabetes.  How's her diet?

- Your mama is so fat that I feel bad even saying anything about it, but I worry.

- Your mama is so fat I saw her kicking cans down the street the other day, and I asked her what she was doing, and she replied, "Moving these cans."  It was good to see your mom out of the house.

- Your mama is so fat that I thought of a very rude joke the other day, and felt bad about myself.  Sorry.  I'm just glad I told you.

- Your mama is so fat she might be more comfortable in a bigger car.  Something with more ground clearance.

Everyone Panic! The iPhone Apocalypse Is Happening Today!

Everyone Panic! The iPhone Apocalypse Is Happening Today!

Shared via AddThis

Prove it.

Geek/Nerd

Being a child of the 1980's I had to work to gain my computer/internet/gaming knowledge. It wasn't just handed to me as status quo. Enjoy this list of all the things my friends and I have worked through to get where we are today. Damn kids with your iPods, and your baggy pants, and your wallet chains, and your GUIs, and your... (rambles off into obscurity).

This, my excavation

This is what I've done most nights since 2008. Mistakes were made, loves lost and found, and some were rebuilt to be gone forever. Confidence captured and shattered, but I still haven't learned every word, and there's something to be said for that. The stained glass windows I've seen while blazing past the slow and taking the road for myself. Those guitars overlapped and pulsing. You can hear the small imperfections of a heart through the strums. Don't be so sure you won't feel something tonight. And it still escapes me, trying to keep this expanse clear and dusted. All that you and I could have felt and fought for, if only you hadn't been so caught up drilling for fame. It comes in heartbreak, so it comes to me. The howls and slow drift of a winter's night spent recalling. Recalling all that hurt, and assuage and reconcile it to nothing that seems too real. Someday, you'll get it all. Every last word you're still trying to send me, and it will sink in. It will sink in and you won't know what to do. Everything you've felt and all the anger will dissipate into a flurry of needing to get up and chop wood and gather moss. You'll find yourself lost in the woods ready to begin again. I will be gone and you will be forgotten. She'll prove who she is and that she's going with me. No strings. Unencumbered. And I start to smile again with the high notes and the peel into the soft night air. Wouldn't need more than this if I tried. It will be the hardest I've ever cried and held you, and the loudest my smile has ever gotten. We'll have all this, and interpret the crows' calls into the winter mornings.

In a summer of the unexpected, this takes it.

Sugar Ray's new album. For real?

Check it out here.

Equality in the workplace

In a blast freezer everyone can see you fart, no matter what your social standing or income.

Little dreams, but still dreams.

I'd really like to have the opportunity to take an open flame to one of those Indiana Jones style spider web walls. I'm so curious.

TGIF

You know what's intense? When Carl Winslow would start up with the platitudes and the strings would strike up. Steve would calm down from his normal jitteriness and the Winslow kids would look deep in their Dad's eyes. There would be so much depth, to the point you would almost think Carl was going to cry. Everyone's eyes would well up, along with my own, and a lesson would be learned. No matter what trouble you got in that week with your parents, or how bad school was, Carl handled everything in a manner that made you happy to be on that couch that night, cradled and comfortable for the weekend.

On the eve of the new Harry Potter

Is it possible to hit a cockroach so hard that it completely disapparates? Tonight's evidence suggests that it is.

As it all ends.

When the end times come leave me be. I'll sit outside a cafe drinking lightly sweetened iced tea and watching the women pass by because a side effect of the end of days is the beautification of females to be exotic, scantily clad warrior princesses. Yes, just leave me be with my journal and Amazonian goddesses.

{f**k}

You know what I'm going to say. Haven't we evolved any? These girls obviously have thumbs.

True Origins

If the original X-Men six-player arcade game had been free, or I possessed a key to open the coin collector and flip the credit switch, there is a definite possibility that I would have grown up as, what most would call, developmentally disabled. Like those kids in adolescent psychology text book studies that are trapped in basements by abusive parents and never see the sun or other people until they're 16. That would be me. Just screaming at passers-by, crying and playing X-Men all day. You can imagine how happy I was to find an emulator to play it on my computer. The five key on the keyboard gives me infinite credits, so I'll talk to you all in the distant future.

peep peep

Can I just pretend I'm tweeting on my Blogger site? Can these sites have more grown-up names?

Need to have it

Biscuit Method

Last week, as I was driving to work, I was halted by a large line of cars blocking traffic. This was a major intersection in Raleigh, so I didn't think much of it. The light was red on my side, so I got a chance to look around. It was Friday, payday, and there was a bank on the corner. This is not what the line was leading to. People weren't lining up to invest their money in interest bearing accounts. They were lined up for the drive through window of Hardee's. From the signs in the window I saw that they were releasing a new breakfast item: Biscuit Holes, ladies and gentlemen. Biscuit Holes, for those who didn't jump onto Hardee's (Carl's Jr., for those of you more Westward thinking) website to investigate, are small, cinnamon/sugar coated balls of dough shaped like doughnut holes. They are served with icing. Thanks Hardee's.

"Holes" has never been the most appropriate word to include in the names of food. But doughnut holes are made from the holes that are cut out of doughnuts. One must question whether those balls of dough should be called doughnuts, and the actual rings the doughnut holes since they do include a hole. But, it's cute and people like it, and they've been buying them for years.

Biscuit holes, though? I don't know how many culinarily inclined people will read this (I talk like thousands of people from all walks of life have this blog saved to their favorite places, when I know that two people that read this do cook and they do it well) but if you've made biscuits, there is no method to creating them that involves hole cutting. Biscuits, news flash, are not rings. They exist as a whole, flaky in texture and buttery, thick and warm. The only hole is the hole in my heart when there aren't any more biscuits. In baking there is a biscuit method, but that is a mixing process and has nothing to do with the biscuit itself. It's basically combining the liquid and dry ingredients separately and cutting fat into the dry. The biscuit method is used for pie crusts as well, and still, no holes.

Really, if you were walking down the street and someone with a scowl (or even a smile, it wouldn't matter) approached you and called you a name that included a noun followed by the word "hole" you wouldn't treat that as a compliment, let alone, breakfast. How easy would it have been to call these Biscuit Bites? It uses alliteration and sounds cute. How did that fail the test groups? How did it not make it out of a board meeting? How is Hardee's selling something that, by all logic and baking wisdom, shouldn't exist? I guess what's important is that they'll sell millions, I'll keep buying cinnamon raisin biscuits, and the rest of America can keep paying for what they don't use. Yes, you can buy my Biscuit Waste.

hobo signs

These old ghosts won't come out in sunshine like this. They hide in the closets and behind taped off doors with old, hard locks and long gone skeleton keys; easy enough to get open, but damn near impossible to pick. It'd take a spear of hard steel and years, which we don't have. The garages smell of old magazines and bygone summer days. The old golf clubs and shovels hang on the walls, and the sun can't stream through these windows. Dust won't live here. How can anything else? The Packard with the white top and chrome side rails still chugs its way along the sand roads. They haven't paved anything within forty miles. Nothing worth seeing anyway. The jail's way over that way, and the doctor's house is on the way. So's his misses. Kindly women with educated husbands will always make an extra space at the table. Especially kindly women who can't bear children of their own. With travel-weary eyes those two shovels that've been painted over on the front fence post a dozen times become stunningly clear. Why, there's only so much day left after the late afternoon train has gone through, so when you say, "Ma'am, I can dig a garden all the day long" you're damn well more likely to succeed when the sun's this far gone. Drifts of fried chicken with gravy and snap peas and smashed apples with cinnamon will almost double you over in that soil. Shouldn't even be called soil. Not like up north where the dirt under your fingernails almost smells as good as anything you're gonna get for puttin' it there. Here, it stains your nails and heats the skin. Only thing it's good for, people tell me, is rich folks layin' on it what need some rest and relaxation from their taxing vocations. In the study are the tin types of their parents up on the mantle. Their parents knew war, and their boys know it, but these kind souls don't know how to fight. They'll hum the songs, but they know none of the words. They found their trade and they worked it. A plow? That's for the negroes what carry their bags, or maybe their grandfolks. You work the folks around you and what doesn't drop off prospers, and these men prospered. Hotels and crystal glasses. They'll never put wood on their own fire. Never feel those splinters trying to get under their skin. Oh, we'll eat, boys. Tonight, we'll eat.

(home)

This style of living should suffice for my library, comfort and poetry writing. Should suffice. There might be a grey cat roaming around. And a girl.

Yes please.

Found these gummy candies at the Super Asian Market in Cary. I'm behind the times. I see them all the time, but never buy them. So, I finally broke down and bought some and they are delicious. Word of warning: don't buy the grape flavor unless you like medicine.

The cessation of summer thirst.

So, if you invite me to your house at some point this summer, and you want to offer me a drink, I'll say, "yes" to any of these delicious and refreshing beverages.

America... NO!

Seriously, America. You've been warned. The Europeans seem to get it. Occasionally you'll see one selling one of these damned things to an American and then turning and sniggering into their shirt sleeves. Here are some visual aids to help in the struggle to recognize stupidity. Keep your eyes peeled.

(No. You're not going to a formal event in a tuxedo kilt. The kilt, by itself, is formal enough.)

(You're not fixing much if you're dressing in this. Maybe you're wallpapering.)

(Classic. Cargo pockets. Seriously!)

(Not really jeans. Try going into a bar in Texas looking like this. Please.)

(If I see your junk while I'm working out in the gym you'd better pray the 'roid rage doesn't kick in.)

Thanks Rudy!

I don't know how many times I recited this in my head today, but it made me smile every time I did.

[If]

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,

If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And--which is more-- you'll be a Man, my son!

- Rudyard Kipling

Two weeks notice

Dear gggggg,

Of course, what could have prevented everything, as usual, is if I had just kept my mouth shut. gggggg and gggggg were sitting close and with their backs to you, though I doubt either of them would have recognized you without prodding. Harboring these feelings is so easy until a small surprise sneaks up and suddenly, at least in my mind, everything is forgiven. All the leaving and leading on. And I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Even with cheese and artichoke dip in my mouth, "Guess who I just saw." I had bought gggggg a beer and we were all having a good time. gggggg had even offered to buy the extra ticket I was left with when two people bailed on me for this gggggg show we were at. My anger from the beginning of the night was fading. gggggg was witness to that.

You walked by and I saw you. Normally, I would have brightened up and opened my mouth. I'm nice to a fault. You walked into the next dining room and I left it at that. No mention. Not even a quick succession of blinks. Nothing to give away the anger that was building inside. I kept both of them that night and averted any future love triangles and secrecy. No stormy night conversations in the parking lot about his feelings for you while trying to hide my own. I never missed a text message. I went straight home from work and kept to myself. Things were boring, but uncomplicated. Probably watched a few more movies and applied to some grad schools earlier. Still haven't had an argument about getting back to scholastics with gggggg. It hasn't come up because I didn't have any lag, and I didn't do anything to permanently betray her trust and when I say I'm doing something she believes me.

And instead of leaning over and mentioning how tall that man in drag was, I just thought it to myself and noticed the huge boots. gggggg caught up with you at the restaurant that night, but I just watched the band, pretending not to be able to hear you. I danced with gggggg more. When you asked me where I went I smiled. I paid for these tickets and I wasn't going to have some drawn out conversation about how you fucked me over time and time again. I kept my mouth shut again. I saved myself. I drove you both back to your respective houses and went home, happy to turn in to bed and sleep before moving the next day. I didn't wake up groggy and wobbling. I never called. I treated you like any other person I don't care to keep in touch with and told you I would. You never wore that dress and you never said those lies. You've said them before. No need to rehash the past. It never felt natural. It never felt right. You were never the one because you never were. I lied just like you did. I ate mussels with everyone else and didn't bother taking pictures I thought would make you laugh.

That summer, gggggg and I hung out. I went down to visit gggggg a few times and drove down to visit gggggg in Atlanta with her. She didn't cry at the edge of the bed and I was a better person than I've ever been. A few concerts in the VIP box. A few late night movies with friends. gggggg and I spent a lot of time outside of the Flying Saucer. No one was sad. It was a good summer.

Sincerely,

gggggg

Biggie was right.

I just found this picture of what one trillion dollars looks like. The little red thing is a human being. Very cool stuff. Oh, and each of those pallets is double stacked.

Hope on the horizon

This is the kind of news I like to see. I knew AT&T couldn't hold this down forever. Bring on the anticompetitive suits!

New project!

Listening to This American Life today while I sliced some bread I was inspired to start a new writing project.  It's going to be based around the Drake Equation.  Using the variables from the equation I hope to crank out some poetry and short stories that follow a theme.  I've been into theme lately.  I don't know what it is.  Can't help it.  Just letting you all know my plans so you don't bite my rhymes.

I'm going to bring the pain if you don't take a look at this.

Clicking here will take you to another site.  It won't bring you to another site.

VXY 8582

Hey!  Dumb bitch driving the Mazda Protege, license plate number VXY 8582.  Yeah.  You, driving in the far left lane really slowly.  I know you didn't see me yelling at you or pointing or motioning for you to get over because you were off in your own little world.  The left lane is for adults that want to drive faster.  You weren't passing anyone, and yes, that is why it's called the "Passing Lane."  Maybe they don't teach that at State.

Work makes work go faster.

I've seen it thousands upon thousands of times, walking back and forth to the label machine, on breaks sitting by the boxes of liner bags, or boxing mini-cookies.  The scrolling, simple screen saver of the label maker computer: "Work makes work go faster."  Such a simple axiom, and yet it seems to have escaped several of my current teammates.  Like Clay so many months ago, suddenly there is a rush to get out of work early.  And the same people that want to leave early are the same ones that talk to me about how they're having money problems.  Now, before you assume they're justified in complaining you have to remember that we're paid by the hour.  We are not salaried workers.  It would be awesome if we were, but it would cost the company a lot of money, and our gainshare would turn to nothing.

Bonnie just started school to become an esthetician, but this problem has been continuous since day one.  She leaves at 3.  Granted, she works a 7 - 3 shift every day.  No exceptions.  But, she leaves directly at three.  Those of you that have talked to me about my job know that I never know what time I will be done from day to day.  I could leave at 2:30 or I could work past six.  Them's the brakes.  And yet, every day, she walks away from whatever is going on at 2:55 or sooner.  There was a week recently where she was leaving at 2:45, and even 2:30.  This is ridiculous.  I can speak from experience that I once walked off and left part of a rack of rolls when I first started.  I think I was trying to catch lunch with everyone else.  I was told, in the middle of my lunch, to go back and finish the rack before I continued my lunch.  Now, today, Bonnie can walk off and leave half a rack of demi-baguettes.  Having tits does not mean you get to do whatever you please.  Though, with Craig in charge for the next couple of weeks I wouldn't be too shocked to find she gets away with whatever she wants.  This is the same person that leaves after being at work for a few hours at least once a week.  She can't get in trouble for being sent home, but it is aggravating to be down a person once a week.  No one gets sick that often, and if she does, it's her responsibility to get checked out.  And if she can't get checked out, then dying is always an option.  It's the Darwinian thing to do.  And no, taking care of your husband who is out on disability is not an excuse.  I was out for close to three months, and no one stayed home with me.  By the second month I could even wash myself.  He only has a week left before he comes back, so being disabled is a slim possibility.

Anyway, on to the next idiot.  Nick, our newest hire is that awkward kid who likes anime a little too much, and lives on his computer.  I would be amazed to find out that he spoke face to face with anyone outside of work.  He's a little too loud, and not communicating through an avatar doesn't suit him.  I don't think a day has gone by where he hasn't asked me what time I think we'll finish that particular day.  "I don't know, Nick."  I don't remember a time in recent history when he hasn't tried to leave early.  You know why?  I have never met anyone so petrified by the idea of traffic.  I don't know why this is.  Perhaps he was a fully functioning adult at one point, and a car accident left him an adolescent trapped in a near 30-year-old's body.  In that case, I can understand being scared of a little traffic.  In any case, conversing and interacting with him is like working with Helen Keller.  I feel like a miracle worker if I can get him to understand something I've said.  He doesn't seem to respond to stimulus, such as making a comment about something he has said.  He kind of stares at you blankly and goes on talking about how horrible the situation in Michigan is.  Snow's always higher.  Weather's always colder.  Auto workers always have it worse.  Jesus.

I guess I'm really ticked off because nothing is going to be done about this.

I had to stand and stare at a wall for eight hours today.  It's not pleasant.  Staring at this sign and proof reading it over and over again, thousands of times a day while walking back and forth in a three foot circle while pressing your hands together is a shit time.  It builds character and destroys my right knee.  Some people just have it coming.  I'm going to try and get out before the storm hits.  Just in case idiot is contagious.

Side effects

I know I haven't been keeping at it for long, but I have been making an effort to write more.  Though it has only amounted to three or four posts so far, you'll have to excuse me for not writing the past three days.  I've been laid up, in a sense, with the third cold of the Winter season.  I'm officially done being sick so I'm hitting this with everything I can.  Zicam all the time, Nyquil whenever possible, Zinc cough drops all day at work, and Breathe Right strips for the evening.  Standing up makes breathing tolerable, but sitting and relaxing usually causes one nostril to clog, so enjoying my evenings is tedious and somewhat painful.

Once this goes away, and it is, I will get back to writing.  I've had one idea and I've been thinking through it while I work every day, thinking of things to put down.  It will be ready for print soon, methinks.  In the meantime, check out Andrew Bird's newest album.  Very nice stuff.  Just discovering him, myself.  I'm gonna go watch a Harrison Ford movie.

Ta ta for now,

Your humble narrator

A reminder

I spent yesterday watching the presidential inauguration and then the documentary Gonzo: The Life and Work of Hunter S. Thompson.  It got me to thinking a lot about the world and where we've gotten since yesterday's historic swearing in.

It seems that the world is now giddy and anxious to put down the lofty plans of our new president.  There's not enough time.  There aren't enough resources to execute his goals.

I stand behind the president of the United States, whoever it might be, and I stand behind our current president.  I believe that this is a great country and can become better at any given opportunity, and I believe this is the man that will try to start that journey.  Whether it takes two terms and several other presidents to come, we can make it.

And I look back at the race, the eye gouging and the name calling.  I look back at Joe the Plumber and Palin's clothes.  We are so much more than the sum of our parts.  If anything, this will be a welcome respite from the stuttering soullessness that has been our charge for the last eight years.

Something of a fantastic weekend.

With Mom out of the house, and the cold pressing on the doors and windows, I decided to take it easy this weekend. Quiet and content, I haven't had a weekend alone in a very long time. Most Saturdays of the recent past have been spent sitting on Martha's couch watching movies from my instant queue on Netflix. She'd get home around 7, and then we'd watch more movies, or grab a bite to eat. Those weekends are nice. Great even. It's nice to go down there and chum it up with the locals for a few days and then beat back to Raleigh on Sunday and do laundry and sit on my couch.

But this past weekend was going to be a guy weekend. I was going to go to Lowe's and look at locks for the doors on the house. Maybe even buy some and drag the drill out of its closet. Screw some deadbolts and chains. Maybe even one of those industrial strength hotel door latches. Maybe a couple slide locks for the top and bottom of the door. Dredge some wood out of a wall and bore screws and throw instructions away. And after that, maybe I'd go to Circuit City and threaten to buy a large flatscreen TV and hook it up and watch the Time Warp guys blow stuff up, or watch some football games with the sound way up, or turn it over to Discovery HD and watch a stream run in high definition. Watch some salmon swim upstream. This was to be a guy's weekend. I had three bottles of Orangina (my recent drug of choice), a pint of Ben & Jerry's and some pizzas. I could sit around and scratch myself and make Tim Allen grunting noises.

Instead, Martha came up. She got out of work early on Saturday, and drove up to see me. I had spent the day watching movies and cleaning up the room after a long week at work, coming home and throwing my clothes on the floor before heading to the shower to wash the flour from my face. As soon as she got here we threw our coats on and headed over to Circuit City. If you haven't heard, and are wondering why that's my new favorite place, they're closing. So, everything is being liquidated. And that means sales. And that means cheap flatscreens. Throwing the dreams of going to DC in March to the wind, we walked in and browsed through the options. I have a new credit card, and the limit was well within the range of buying a TV that night. But, as she tends to do, she talked me off the ledge of irresponsibility. I can't imagine how poor I would be if she weren't around. Actually, when she wasn't around I spent some exorbitant amount of money taking some friends to dinner, and regret it to this day. They could have paid. Well, they probably couldn't afford it, but I had fun, and the food was awesome. I digress. Martha looked at laptops because she refuses to buy a Mac for some reason. Haven't quite pegged that down. Can't put a price on quality. So, dipping in and out of the herds of consumers, we ducked out early, and headed to the grocery store. Martha got a bottle of red, and I got a can of white. Cream of mushroom soup, so not so much white as mushroom colored.

I made Swedish meatballs once home, and it went over well. Apparently, when love is in my heart, I can cook. If it was anything in a sauté pan, forget it, but baking meatballs and heating a sauce is well within my culinary range.

We ended the night by watching Sunshine and eating our dinner. We discussed family as I baked off some oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I was running some test batches to find the correct baking temperature and time on a standard oven. I never can seem to get it right. These came out crunchy, so I need to up the temperature, I think.

Oh, and Sunshine; if you haven't seen it please do. It's all I want to talk about these days. I can't

believe it wasn't more popular when it came out. It has an amazing cast and the story is incredible. And the soundtrack is beyond words. Just the right blend of all of those aspects. If you liked Event Horizon, this is the thinking man's Event Horizon, minus black holes and ghosts.

Sunday, we had a plan. We were going to eat well and have cultural experiences. One of those experiences fell through. Durham was the destination, and the Intergalactic (yep) Jewelry and Bead show was in season. But we needed sustenance first. Earlier in the week I had been reading an article in the News & Observer about the hot new restaurants that have made the grade in the Triangle in 2008. Watt's Grocery was at the bottom of the list because of price, but held its own on food quality. Everything is either locally grown, organic or fair trade. So, you don't have to feel guilty eating there, and it probably tastes better than Pizza Hut's new organic, fair trade pepperoni pizza. I had their signature breakfast of two free range eggs, on-site smoked thick cut bacon, a made from scratch biscuit, homemade raspberry jam and hash browns. The portion sizes were responsible for a small restaurant. I didn't want to be too full and have a miserable, gassy day. I was full, but not stuffed when I left. They also had fresh squeezed orange juice which is very good (but how can you screw up orange juice, really?) and their sweet tea is some of the best I've ever tasted. In fact, it's a close second to the Vortex's honey sweetened iced tea. Martha had the bowl of grits, which looked excellent for being grits. It was covered in cheese, an egg and avocado. Some of the other options were bacon crumblings and green onions. I highly recommend checking out Watt's Grocery the next time you're in the Durham area.

And I'm glad breakfast was good because we were about to have our hearts broken. We drove downtown and parked, paying two dollars for a lot that should have been free over the weekend, but they had a sign saying there was an event going on. Indeed, we thought there was an event going on. The Marriott, as the paper said, was going to host the jewelry and bead show from 10 to 5. Martha was psyched, but as we walked further and further down the halls of the Marriott's conference center we grew disheartened. There was no bead show. There were no people, and when we checked with the quiet front desk attendant she simply said, "No." We walked out, and tried several calls to local events coordinators to no avail. We walked back to the warmth of the Marriott lobby where we were greeted by a doorman. A creepy looking doorman with the skin of a red head and pale blonde hair. His facial hair blended seamlessly with his skin tone, and his voice was that of a young, fresh Tom Waits. He informed us that the newspaper had been wrong and the bead show was the previous weekend.

Close to tears we both went back to the car. Now, Durham, it was war. We drove off, with the hope that somewhere something cool was happening. We had some six hours to kill before the central purpose of the trip, which was a play by the Paperhand Puppet Intervention troop.

Chapel Hill was calling us both. Namely, A Southern Season was beckoning with its warm, soft, thin-veined hand and we answered. Not before checking out Trader Joe's. Martha was not impressed as Oscar Wilde was not impressed with the Atlantic Ocean. I purchased a chocolate shake from Evo's, and enjoyed the hell out of it. It was so rich and pure chocolaty. After leaving Trader Joe's we drove on to A Southern Season and picked out utensils for our future home. Teapots, spatulas, pans, wooden plates, etc. They were having a sale of 15-75% off the entire stock of the store. We didn't buy anything. After Southern Season we walked through the mall and dropped in on Cameron's. They had some cool stuff, but nothing too cool. The coolest thing was probably the skirt with Obama's picture on it. Martha was close to buying it.

Dinner rolled around and we wanted to experience Fishmonger's. I've lived in North Carolina for approximately 13 years now, and I've probably known about Fishmonger's for 12. Never been. Never tasted. Not even at the Taste of Durham festival a few years ago when it was right across the street. Oh well. This weekend was it. We walked in, frozen from the cold, and preceded to stay just as cold inside. It's not very well heated, being a very authentic shoreside seafood restaurant. Martha had the sampler platter of crab legs, clams and peel and eat shrimp in Old Bay seasoning. I had a pound of clams. They were massive. Heavy to pick up, even and I'm a pretty strong guy. We also had fried jalapenos, which ended up being the downfall of the meal. We ate them, and they were fantastic, but our waiter, as well as the rest of the wait staff refused to refill either of our drinks. Martha got a second cup of hot tea, but between us we had one iced tea and one water. I needed more. My mouth was on fire and the ranch dressing wasn't helping. I had to stop eating them and wasted a good portion of the bowl, which I wouldn't have done could I have subdued the pain a bit. Oh well, the food was good, and the atmosphere was

inspiring.

Onto the end of the night, we saw the new Paperhand Puppet Intervention show, The Hungry Ghost. It's the story of what happens to the greedy in the afterlife. This would be Martha's first foray into the PPI experience. Altogether, I would say this isn't the best first show to go to. It was heavily reliant on shadow puppetry, which I enjoy and am impressed by when I see it done well, but it can get laborious sitting in a room staring at three little circular screens for an hour and a half. The scene stealers were two life-sized, greed-seized humans that were full-body controlled. They were contorted and blown out of proportion to symbolize their greed and gluttony. Very well done. I enjoyed the story, but can understand how the first-time viewer might be bored. We'll have to go to their summer show when it's outdoors and more visually capturing.

I had a great weekend with my girl. Guy time is every night these days. I sit in my room and watch Batman cartoons. I get to do what I want to do. When Martha comes around I get a glimpse at what life will be like once I've given up some of that freedom to co-habitate. I like what I see so far.

Target: is there anything they don't sell?

I suppose we all have them.  It would just be nice if there were some way to forget them aside from growing old and adopting a policy of Alzheimer's.  If life were more interesting I probably wouldn't sit around and ruminate on these things, but as it is, I have approximately 8 hours a day to do nothing but stand around and think of these moments.

Martha and I have started playing Monopoly online while we video chat.  It's much nicer than phoning one another and the misunderstandings that tends to bring.  One weekend I drove down to surprise her.  I think I was still off work and living it up for one more week.  I took some extra days off near the end of my convalescence to see her for her birthday.  As per usual, I was at her house on Saturday while she worked at the hospital.  I decided it would be fun to go out and run some errands.  While I was out I picked up Monopoly: Here & Now Edition.  It looked cool.  I wanted to use the Prius piece.  I'm a marketing whore.  Put the word "new" on something in a yellow explosion outline and I'll try it.  Well, Martha got home, and she saw the game and got excited, but not as much as I expected her to.  She wanted to return it for the regular old Monopoly.

We got in the car and were on our way to return the game.  In the return/exchange line she confided in me that she felt like a pettish child for wanting to return the game and not being satisfied with the gift she was given.  We talked about the movie Babe and the little girl that cries because she doesn't get the dollhouse from the catalog she saw.  Instead she gets a beautiful hand made dollhouse that is one of a kind and made with love.

I told Martha about when I was little and we were close to poor.  I think this was after we had been using food stamps to get by.  Anyway, we weren't well off by any means, but Mom got us through.  We were shopping at Target for something after school and work.  This was back when Mighty Morphin Power Rangers had just come out.  We're talking old school ones.  Before the White Ranger showed up, so super geeks can calculate a range of years by that information.  The toys were the hottest thing.  Those big action figures that didn't fit the scale of any of your other action figures.  As if to say, "I'm the new kid on the block.  Better get all of these or else you'll have a lone giant amongst your puny hero toys."  The red ranger was my favorite, and I had to have it.  I went back to the toy section by myself and found one!  I took the oversized box back to my mom, and asked her if I could get it.  She looked at it, and looked sad.  Now, I think there might have been something else going on that I wasn't aware of, but I have no idea what.  Perhaps money problems or problems with her current boyfriend.  I don't know.  Anyway, she simply said, "I'm too tired to argue with you about it."  So, being a little kid I was like, "Cool!  I win!  Free toy!"

Even now, I feel a tinge of sickness welling up in me, and I just want to cry and tell her I'm sorry about that.  If I could have I would have paid for it myself.  If I had known what was going on I never would have asked.  If I had been a more mature and caring child I wouldn't have this weight on me now when I think back on it.

I try and go out of my way to be nice to people.  I often give up my own desires and happinesses so that others will feel fulfilled.  I can think back on that incident and mull over how horrible I was as a child and feel sick to my stomach and sad.  I do it often.  Too often, perhaps.  Mom got me two things that day: the red Power Ranger, and a crushing sense of humility.  I think I sold one off, or gave it to one of my friends as the years went on.  The other I keep close at all times.  Whenever someone tells me I've done a good job, or when someone compliments my various talents I think back on that red Power Ranger.  I smile, and thank them, but know that like the Power Ranger, that compliment will fade.  I have to be happy with what I already had, and that will last much longer than any instant gratification.

Quote of the day

Mandy: We should do something non-baby related.

Travis: Yeah.  You know what the opposite of babies is?  Guns.

Idiots

I'm minding my own business slicing today, right.  Just like I do once a week, every week at my job.  I'm slicing, ho hum, dum dee dum, do d'lee doo, and then this story comes on This American Life about not immunizing your kids.

Stupid.  What kind of self-absorbed person do you have to be to think that you have some say in whether you immunize your child?  Is there no greater good?  Are you that person that I smile at and you just walk by like I'm transparent?  Did object permanence never really kick in, and you think that when you shut your eyes everyone else goes away?  Well, you can close your eyes all you want, but it will just make it that much easier for me to hit you.

As I listened to the story it became abundantly clear that these people's ideas had no practical basis in a functioning society.  They talked about not feeding their child hormone infused milk and meat.  They talked about organic foods, which can mean several things, and working at Whole Foods I know this.  They even mentioned Whole Foods, and I almost started yelling at the person being interviewed, as if my headphone acted as a microphone as well, and they would hear me.  And then I caught myself and realized that would be about as stupid as these people.

Apparently, a year or so ago, there was an outbreak of measles.  Awesome.  And sure, there are outbreaks of diseases all the time.  It's just that measles kill if left untreated.  The flu doesn't.  A cold doesn't.  Chicken pox doesn't.  And this family got it by taking their kid to Switzerland on a trip.  One of these idiot families that doesn't believe in immunization.  When Andrew Speaker boarded a plane with drug resistant tuberculosis the nation was enraged.  The CDC got reamed for how they handled the situation.  And yet, children can go overseas and pick up diseases and bring them back here, and no one steps up and says boo?  What?  There are people that can't get these immunizations.  Children under 1 year of age, for instance, cannot get the measles immunization.  Their little systems can't handle it.  Like honey.  But, these anti-immunization parents don't really care about your newborn.  They'd just as soon see their child live with a horrible, and easily maintained disease before they see your weak baby live.  This is one of those instances where Darwin was wrong.  The adapted species did not win out.  The stronger did not conquer.

Let's hope when we are able to manage diseases such as AIDS and cancer, these parents step up and say, "No.  We will die happily knowing our bodies are chemical free.  Give us chemotherapy and radiation, but I'll be damned if I'm going to take a shot that will keep me from getting the disease altogether."  Let's join hands and work to decrease the population of idiots.