January 2004

I got a lot of little things done so far this weekend. The eBay listings alone were a chore since we only had a small amount of space in which to take photos, but the chores didn’t stop there. Dia and I finally made it back to the gym this morning, we mailed out Cannoli’s entry to the kitten calendar contest just under the deadline, and I had my XM antenna installed in the Element. Also, even though we bought a whole mess of food at Sam’s Club (including a super-cheesy Super Bowl cake for Tom’s party tomorrow), I stuck to my new diet pretty well today.

The only thing that’s not sitting well with me right now are the shades I’m wearing. It had to be done eventually, so I bit the bullet and dropped off my glasses to be fixed. The original plan was to wear an old prescription but I’ve searched everywhere and can’t find one. I thought the next best thing would be to wear my prescription sunglasses but I wasn’t anxious to do that either — perpetual darkness and a Joe Cool image aren’t my thing. After dragging my heels for two weeks, I stumbled upon a solution this morning when I mistakenly put on Dia’s glasses following my shower. They were far from perfect but closer to seeing than not, and since Dia had an old pair handy and not terribly out-of-date, she agreed to lend me the pair I had accidentally put on.

Now I’m juggling between sunglasses that are the right prescription but look silly indoors, a prescription that isn’t mine but good enough for talking with people in short durations, or nothing at all. I spoke with the sales guys at Best Buy without glasses, and even though they couldn’t know I saw only giant blobs I felt really uncomfortable. I wore Dia’s glasses when talking to people after that, but they hurt my eyes when they stayed on too long; they’re good for short conversations only. So, my contingency plan has come full-circle — sunglasses it is. Aside from the creep-factor they work pretty well: movies, television screens, and monitors aren’t noticeably different, and as long as I keep all the lights on in the apartment I can see normally.

I’m not looking forward to wearing them in low lighting situations like night driving and Quizo. Who knows, I might even be wearing them at our non-holiday holiday party next weekend if I’m not lucky. The one place I’m sort of looking forward to sporting my shades is work, where I can preach the evils of our vision plan, VSP (Vision Service Provider — how clever). This whole situation is because they do all frame and lens work; one-hour labs don’t apply unless I want to spend a lot more money. Now I’ll look silly at work, but my hope is that to a few people I will illustrate what a shitty plan we have.

I posted the pictures of last week’s descent from classy wine and cheese sampling to drunken karaoke. I’ll have more pictures as different parties are held during the holiday-less season, especially next weekend’s turkey dinner/game night. The only reason I posted some early was that I was already processing some photos for eBay (I’m finally selling the crate furniture that I’ve used for the past five years) and the picture of Andy made me laugh out loud. I decided to stay up for the dual purpose of listing the auctions and catching the Stupid Bowl on Stern’s E! show; now that those important matters are settled I can hit the sack.

There are a few things that I want done to my car before Spring, when I’ll really be tooling around on different road trips. A few of these things aren’t necessarily legal, though.

First, I want to be able to dim my dashboard lights. The Dodge Neon I drove in 1996 was able to do this and there’s no reason I can think of why all cars don’t have this feature. Any argument against this is pointless since I can focus on the road a lot better if I don’t have the constant glare from these lights on my glasses. I can dim them pretty low, but not low enough — especially if passengers can still see how fast I’m driving.

The next is almost definitely illegal: I want my seatbelt warning light shut off. I know that wearing my seatbelt is mandated by law. I also know when I’m wearing it. Enough with the beeping already.

Lastly, I need a damn external XM antenna. I’m tired of lunging across the dashboard to keep my little antenna from sliding onto the floor, or leaning onto the floor when my lunging isn’t fast enough. The one that came with my unit is magnetic, but the only metal in my car is on the ceiling and an antenna that points down isn’t helpful.

Here I sit, after 5 p.m., processing files that take about an hour; I’m only a little more than halfway done. The lady that gave me these files at 3:30 p.m. — and told me that they have to done before I leave — rushed out of here to pick up her goddamn children at daycare.

I resent the fact people turn to me to work overtime while those with children are exempt from that expectation. Sure, I had time to run these hot jobs, but I also had a meeting and other, equally important duties that shared the same deadline.

Every job around here is a rush. When someone doesn’t acknowledge that a specific task is the highest priority, the requestor goes immediately to her supervisor and complains. In the case of yesterday and today the immediate boss wasn’t around, so the next person in line becomes the head honcho in charge of the entire facility. I can’t picture how these complaints are phrased, but I’m sure they didn’t include statments like “I know Bob seems really busy, but…” or “I’m usually really lazy except in this case.”

These lazy slobs are really lucky to have found a place of employment that caters to working mothers. Some of the shit these ladies get away with is amazing. From running home without solving major issues (or leaving their bosses to handle them instead) to calling out because their child’s causing a disturbance at daycare, these chicks are a real class act. I’m not sure if this sort of thing is especially bad here or if corporate America is soft all over. One thing for certain, though, is that I’m embarassed for parents everywhere after witnessing this bunch.

When I woke up this morning, I looked out the window and saw a smooth blanket of snow over every car in the parking lot except for mine. Dia had thoughtfully taken the time to brush the snow from my windows.

When I hopped in the car to leave for work without having to move even a flake from my car, it got me thinking about what an angel she was. She took 10 minutes out of her morning rush to think of me. I meant to call her from the car once I got on the turnpike, but once I was on my way I thought it best to focus all my attention on driving.

Once I got to the office and took care of a few things, I gave her a call — no answer. For some reason this immediately started me down a path of strange thoughts. What if she had a car accident on the way to the train station and never made it to work? I’ve never thought “so-and-so is such an angel” before, where did I get that expression from? Maybe it means she’s in heaven and really is an angel. That would mean she never made it to the train station, and at one point I was only two blocks away from her crumpled car. She’s probably been lying in a pool of her own blood since this morning and I just drove off to work without so much as a call to make sure she was alright.

As I was leaving this exact message on her voicemail, the other line rang and it was Dia. She made it to work just fine.

First of all, his girlfriend Bridget shares a birthday with my mother. Happy belated birthday to both.

Next, his story about receiving previous residents’ periodicals reminds me that yesterday I got a Selective Service registration card for little Billy Schoel. I’ve simply tossed detention notices to his parents and several requests for report card signatures, but this is a whole new ballgame. It would be so easy to affix the return sticker to the card and mail it back, but I’m not sure if a correct address is a requirement. I don’t give a crap about little Billy, so I’ll probably toss it in the trash; I wonder how long it’ll take for the feds to catch up with him.

Tom’s was a classy affair — at least it started out that way. I felt somewhat uneasy when I arrived and saw everybody milling around fine presentations of cheese and wines I was sure were better than the Pinot Noir that Dia and I brought. It didn’t help that I pushed the cork inside our bottle of wine, either.

I loosened up after a few minutes, naturally, and the rest of the night was a blast. Some people played Apples to Apples even though Mario Kart on Gamecube was clearly more fun. We had a pretty nice rotation going until Andy brought out the carbombs and became the center of attention. Not that I’m complaining — it was a riot to see him eat huge chunks of cheese and scream misogynist death metal versions of normally-benign karaoke songs. (I captured movies of both on my cell phone.) Once the crowd started thinning out and had generally moved to the kitchen I even gave karaoke a shot for the first time. By the time Van Halen’s You Really Got Me was over, I had earned the highest score of the evening and a small round of applause.

The evening was one of only a few where Dia got tipsy and had an utterly fantastic time, and I drove home. Though completely sober, I did a donut in the snow-covered park across the street on our way out. It was also a rare occasion where Tim got drunk, Sean sang songs, and Al didn’t complain at all. It certainly set the bar for parties in the future. And that’s about it: lots of drinking, eating, and fun at Tom’s house.

I found a round pebble on my carpet a few minutes ago and I couldn’t figure out what it was. Some flakes cleaved off when I scraped it with my fingernail, but it was almost perfectly round. Worried that there might be more of these things laying around for the cats to swallow and wanting to determine where it may have come from, I gave it a quick lick. I quickly realized it was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. I’d swear that my entire tongue felt like it dried up that instant. Knowing what it is didn’t help me find any more of the stuff on the carpet, but I’ll be extra sure not to drag that stuff in the house again.

My art is in the conference room here at work. Everyone loves my photos and I’ve been asked to take a bunch more when I get a chance.

I took the photos two weeks ago with Mitch’s SLR camera and scanned them on that Saturday (Marc was kind enough to sit with me for a couple of hours while I used the negative scanner at The Triangle). I took them home, air-brushed them a little and gave two of them black and white backgrounds. The end result was four really great photos that were printed out on our presses and fit to the frames of pictues taken off the walls.

I really liked the shots as I was taking them, was less than thrilled when they were developed, liked them again as I edited them, fell back out of love once they were printed, but now they’re finally growing on me. Having everyone tell me how much they love them helps.

The only close call was then the Vice President who commissioned the prints told me that one of them should hang a certain way. I was debating whether to stick to my guns or capitulate, but fortunately it never came to that and the picture in question is hanging vertically the way it should be.

Sean An anonymous source Sean was asking me about movie ticket prices and parking at the Ritz earlier this afternoon, and eventually I asked him why he was bothering me with all this stuff today. Turns out that there’s a movie outing to which I was not invited. Now I know how Chris and Lisa felt when Tom didn’t invite them to previous parties. The difference is that this time it’s me, and while Tom’s was an oversight maybe Al doesn’t like me. I was included in the original email that was sent out by Ross last week, so I’m thinking that my name was removed intentionally. Now I have to do something tremendously exciting without them to feel better about not being invited, or “bump into” everyone at the theater and stab them.

Update I: I do realize that this invite was probably sent out to an amended list of people who showed interest in seeing 21 grams last week while Tim, Dia, and I were skiing. It just came as a surprise to hear that this week — when I was looking for something to do tonight, actually — everyone but me is going to see a movie. Sure, I hyped it up a little bit for some blog drama, but I needed something with which to bide my time until 5 p.m. I was also having trouble remembering all the stuff I was going to blog about now that I have a few minutes. I’ll probably drop in for the movie minus the stabbing, assuming Al truly doesn’t hate me of course.

Update II: Lest anyone think I was “pulling a Blumenthal” by saying a whole bunch of serious things then trying to laugh it off later, I should mention that I called Al immediately after I found out and jokingly threatened his life — before I had blogged anything. Mary said at the Airing of the Grievances that it’s better to tackle these things head-on and so I did — before creating a little side-drama that is.

I helped myself to my sister’s couch. I’d been eyeing it up for a few weeks now as it was sitting in my dad’s loft since Dana left for school in the fall. Stalled negotiations were reopened when the loft flooded this past week.

Greg, Tim, Dia and I drove down Friday night for a game night with my dad, Pat and Jamie. Early the next morning, we moved some desks and drove up north with the prize couch in a U-Haul. Tim, Dia and I went skiing as soon as we parked the truck at the apartment and Dia helped me carry the sections of the couch upstairs this morning.

It’s oh-so-comfortable but a monstrosity. It dwarfs everything in our apartment, including the old couches. They’re standing on end next to the Arkanoid machine until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do with them. I’d throw them up on eBay in a heartbeat if I had taken pictures before putting them in the corner. At this point I’ll donate them to anyone who wants them if they’d be willing to cart them out of my way for me.

I’m at Dave’s right now watching the first half of the Eagle’s game, missing my couch. The leather one currently caressing my hiney is nice but it’s no seven-seater, that’s for sure.

Sean’s all in a tizzy that I never updated about our placing in a three-way tie for first place last week. So there you have it. Of course, we lost the tie-breaker to give us only third prize and pretty much precluded us from winning best team name for “You can’t annul a honeymoon B.J.” (in reference to Britney Spears’ weekend marriage) — even though the two chicks that did win best team name gave us their winning pitcher anyway. There were three or four specific instances to which we could point that would have given us a clear lead, but each of us was to blame at some point. Not only were we pathetic once again last night, but even our team name, “Who’s your daddy now, Favre?” didn’t win.

It’s XM radio, baby, and it’s scrumptious.

I used to mouth off about how dumb it was to pay for radio especially considering that XM still isn’t commercial-free. Add onto that the costs of additional hardware and installation fees and you’ve got quite an argument for buying an mp3 player or listening to the shit music being shoveled over the airwaves because at least it’s free.

Well, no more. I’ve been converted and I don’t even know how it happened. I never actually listened to Tim’s radio when he had it installed in his car for a short time. No one every really gave me the sales pitch either unless you count the generic “there are a ton of channels” line I heard from various people. Then Dia got me a tuner for my Element and I haven’t looked back. I’m crazy with indecision during my commute to and from work; I can’t decide whether to listen to rock, old-school rap, techno, the comedy channel, or any one of the news channels. Like some kind of lunatic, I end up holding the unit in my hand while I change the channel with my thumb and shift with my pinky.

I often find myself at a loss for words why XM is so great, so I’m going to just rattle stuff off before I forget again. The comedy channel is completely uncensored and plays every comedian imaginable in clips ranging from five to 30 minutes. And despite almost driving off the road on many occasions in fits of laughter, the three techno channels are my favorite. In general, I don’t like this type of music enough to warrant a purchase and don’t even care about the individual songs, but I like hearing 40 minutes straight of noise set to beats while I drive. Jeff dug the old school rap and hip-hop on the trip to Montreal, even though all the best stuff can be found on the ’90s station; speaking of which, there is a channel for every decade starting with the ’40s. Aside from content, it appears people love to dwell on the increased sound quality, but I really don’t care about it that much. What makes me the happiest is the fact that I’ll get the same stations everywhere, whether I’m in the cities I frequent from Maryland to Massachusetts or traveling along the lonely roads between them.

I can hear the counterpoints brewing already. First, from Chris: “A heavy-metal station? Pshaw!” I was listening to the heavy metal channel for a while to see if it was real heavy metal like the stuff Chris would listen to or pansy, pseudo-metal like System of a Down, and while I’m no expert it sounded like the right kind to me; seeing Slayer on the display also helped. “Well, even if it has one channel I like, that’s hardly enough to warrant $10 a month.” Well, sir, you love news and they have plenty of it, and C-Span too. Who loves C-Span?! That’s right, Chris does!

Next, from Rob: “I already have an extensive music collection and a pretty decent mp3 player to take with me, what the hell do I need with the added expense of a luxury radio?” No matter how extensive your music collection, it’s finite. Playlists grow tiresome and become a minor hassle to rotate on a semi-regular basis. XM seems to be a return to old-style radio when DJs chose music that created a good set instead of regurgitating the same old hit tracks or the latest trash being pushed by the record companies. So even if the ’80s station plays nothing but songs you already own, it’s always nice to have a fresh playlist with stuff you already own and a few songs that weren’t necessarily hits thrown in for good measure. Plus, there’s always the chance you’ll want to dabble in quality songs from a host of other genres. Also, did I not mention the comedy channel?

Finally, from Pat: “What about a hard-core sex pervert like myself?” Well, XM programming also includes the premium playboy channel. I haven’t tested this out, but if you love hearing ladies with pretty-sounding voices wax kinky while you’re behind the wheel, I imagine this would the radio station for you.

The only question now is what to do with my iPod. I’ll certainly delete the playlists containing hours of stand-up comedy sets, and I no longer have the itch to download the latest and greatest techno riffs as I hear them in movies or the latest episode of Las Vegas. I won’t delete anything from iTunes just yet, but I certainly expect a certain amount of stagnation in my mp3 collection. The unit itself will likely collect dust until I start jogging again in the spring, since I read while on the bike at the gym and I’ll be taking my XM unit into work once I get the home adapter.

I was pulled over for speeding last Friday on the way home from my skiing trip to Canada. Sure, I could have driven slower and tacked a few hours onto my trip, but I take an “if it happens, it happens” view on the subject and go my merry way. Though this time there were omens if you believe in that sort of thing.

Jeff and I had two close calls on our way up to Montreal on Wednesday; both times I was travelling upwards of 85 mph. The first ticket I avoided by chance when I pulled into a rest stop; 500 feet down when I pulled back onto the lightly-traveled road there was a car on the shoulder with a patrol car behind it. The second instance was 30 miles along the same road, when Jeff saw brake lights up ahead after we had discussed this as a method of detecting speed traps; I slowed to a respectable 65 mph and cruised by two police cruisers hidden behind a snow drift.

As I already mentioned, the third time wasn’t so lucky. Jeff and I were travelling home on Route 17 south of Albany, when I spotted — too late — a cop on the shoulder of the three-lane highway as it curved to the right. As soon as I saw him shift into drive, I crossed over two lanes and took the next exit (I forget if I even signaled or not).

My plan from the beginning was to act like I was lost since I was still pretty far from home and we had maps already out. It never crossed my mind to try to lose the cop once I was off the highway, and it’s a damn good thing — as I pulled to the shoulder to get what was coming to me, I noticed that another cop had blocked the road two blocks ahead. I don’t know whether the first guy radioed ahead or it was standard procedure for a speed trap so close to an exit, but had I not pulled over immediately after taking the exit I would have looked extremely guilty. I also made sure Jeff kept the map out for good measure.

The car from the highway eventually pulled up behind me and the officer within approached the car to demand my license and registration, at which point I started to chat him up. (This is a crucial step in this type of situation.)

Him: “…”
Me: “Gee officer, how fast was I going?”
Him: “78 in a 55, son.”
Me: “Man, that’s fast. I was trying to get over to the exit. We’re a little lost and trying to get back to I-287 to take the Garden State Parkway home.”
Him: “…”
Me [handing him paperwork]: “Here you go, sir.”
Him: “I’ll be right back.”
(There were a few other lines exchanged, but I can’t remember them. This was the gist of it.)

During this time, the patrol car blocking the road ahead pulled around behind our little roadside party, and five minutes later both officers came alongside the car. Handing my documents back to me, he asked, “So where exactly are you trying to go?” I was so startled that he wasn’t giving me a ticket that I started re-blabbing my original story about I-287.

Finally, he interrupted me to ask where my ultimate destination was. When I told him that I needed to get to exit 8A off the New Jersey turnpike he said, “You’re better off just going the way you were headed then.” Thinking No shit, buddy, I made up something about how I knew the Garden State Parkway intersects the turnpike at exit 12 and figured that would be the fastest way. He assured me it wasn’t then asked if I watched The Sopranos, causing my heart skipped a beat. When I told him no (to keep things simple should he have the urge to ask me trivia or something), he said it was a shame because down the road I’d see a strip club with a giant sign reading, “Home of the Bada Bing.” At that point I should get in the left lane and it would take me right to the turnpike. He told me to do a U-turn right there and get going, but to be sure I kept my speed in check.

A few miles down the road I didn’t see the strip club, but I did catch sight of another cop presumably on the lookout for an orange box doing no more than 55 mph, and I did not disappoint. As soon as I passed that second checkpoint, however, I cranked it back up to 80 and made my way home.

Jeff was dumbfounded that I was able to talk my way out of a ticket and told me that he was dying to take a picture of the cop giving us directions. All I know is that I was lucky to have been looking at the map only moments before, since it gave me some idea of what to say. From now on I know my plan of action when the fuzz gets on my tail. And to think, I almost tried the “This is not the speeder you’re looking for” Jedi mind-trick joke.

Not looking forward to working tomorrow. No doubt I have a mountain of work and problems waiting for me. Shouldn’t take more than a day to get things back in working order though. My heart’s just not in it. I also have a mountain of things to post about, but mountains that pay come first. On that note, I have one more night of relaxation before I start tackling either.