Think my standards are a tad high?

I had originally planned to write this long diatribe about the nature of the business I'm in, but I'll give you the short version instead:

There are a lot of people in the graphic arts field that have absolutely no clue what they're doing. The thing that chaps my ass the most about this is the fact that these people make (not neccessarily EARN) twice as much a year as I do. One could say that this is my fault for not taking the same career path as they do. One would be right to say that. However, if I did follow that path, and the day I became self-aware of my own bullshit and how I've essentially failed upwards all this time, I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

Okay, enough of the working class hero bullshit.

While working late tonight, I had an old Mystery Science Theater episode playing in the background. One line I heard was pure genius:

Guy in the movie: "Only the good die young."

Ton Servo: "The rest of us are morally ambiguous, which explains our random dying patterns."

I got home from work and punched up Countdown with Keith Olbermann on the DVR. Allison Stewart was sitting in for him tonight. I've had a huge crush on her ever since she was at MTV News. She's one of those news personalities that could be warning me that a nuclear warhead is heading straight towards my apartment and I'll still be thinking, "You're pretty."

Flipping through channels after it was over, I found myself stopping on Rachael Ray...yet another of my "the only thing keeping me from licking the screen right now is the realization that you're completely out of my league" TV crushes.

As if that wasn't enough, I watched a DVRed episode of CSI: Miami, and it was a Calleigh Duquesne-heavy episode. Ahhhh...Emily Procter. I would completely honor the restraining order if she'd only read it to me out loud in that beautiful southern accent of hers.

Perhaps the no-dating pledge was a good idea. With a night of TV like tonight, the bar is set pretty high.

I now have all the tools to be a really vindictive bastard

I clocked out today with 18 hours overtime for the week. I'm torn about it. I really need the money, but a lot of what I had to do this past week either shouldn't have taken me that long or I shouldn't have had to do it at all, what with our other artist doing absolutely jack shit while I was on vacation. Oh, well...bills will get paid and the work's that much closer to being done.

Last night at Arnie's was a first for me. The first week of school, plus heavy rain, plus the ReggaeFest going on down the street, plus the band being an hour late equals a long, slow night. So help me, I spent fifteen minutes watching a couple have an arguement about five inches outside the front door.

I also got to talking with this one guy and somehow the topic of conversation got on pranks. I've always been a big fan of pranks, but this guy made me look like a chump in this department. I've always been one to pull the temprary pranks, the ones that require minimal cleaning but still gets the point across...

Like putting marbles behind someone's hub caps so they think their transmission is crapping out on them...

Or like that time that me and my friends coated this one guy's white leather driver's seat with cream cheese frosting and sculpted it so at a casual glance it looks just like the leather...

Or sprinkling laundry detergent on someone's lawn so it foams up next time it rains...

Or putting a thin layer of hand lotion on someone's mouse, keyboard, phone, etc. so everything at their desk is moist and they don't know why...

Or that Mac extension I used to have that disables the vowel keys...

Or the squirt gun full of dandruff shampoo. All your victim knows is they've got blue stinky goo in their hair and they don't know where it came from...

Or by taking apart the receiver to someon'e desk phone and stretching a sheet of wax paper or the earpiece and the mouthpiece so that everything they say and hear sounds like it's coming through a kazoo.


Yet, this guy was a lot more brutal. One time a woman hacked into his credit line and bought a Corvette in his name. He found out about it, tracked down the car, removed the license plate, had the car crushed into a cube, reattached the license plate and left it in her driveway.

A lot of the other pranks he talked about were of a chemical nature. Like swapping out someone's Armor-All with rubbing alcohol, or writing letters in Miracle Grow in someone's lawn. The one that I thought was best was writing a message on a windshield in transmission fluid, because it fuses with the glass molecules, discolors it and NEVER comes out. For a good temporary equivalent, use Rain-X. Then they'll see the message the next time it rains.

It was this part of the conversation that I remembered something from working in my mother's glass studio. Did you ever see that type of glass that has a crystalline texture to it? It's called glue-chip glass. To make it, you take a pane of glass and spread this special glue on it and leave it in the sun to dry. As it dries, the glue bonds with the glass, cracks and pops off. Those fly off into the air like popcorn and the sound it makes resonates through the glass. It's really cool.

Now, imagine writing a message in someone's windshield in this glue first thing in the morning on a really hot summer day. I'm not sure how well it'll work in one day, but if the guy is leaving town for a couple days and happens to leave his car in the driveway.

All this talk of pranks is really getting me jazzed about the revenge story I'm working on at the moment. This'll be fun.

Thursday night drunken rant

I had one of those nights at Arnie's where no one I know very well bothered to show up. On those nights, I find it best to find a corner to sit in and drink and get lost in my own thoughts. Tonight, I experienced not thoughts, but visions. Visions of the future. Time will only tell if I am right.

I envisioned myself several years form now. I'm in my mid-thirties. I have long since met an amazing woman of unconventional beauty. Her face is the kind you can't help but wonder what combination of origins created it, and whatever you guess, odds are you'd be wrong. Her hair is the kind that changes depanding on the situation and the lighting. That unclassifiable area of blonde, red and brown that seems to confound you when you find yourself having to explain what she lookms like to someone who has never met her. She is natural...not much for make-up (not that she needs it), and what you remember most about her is her way of carrying herself, not what she wears or how she looks.

Years later, a child comes into play. I see myself as a devoted father who would do anything for this child (I see a son), yet exercises enough restraint to not over-protect the child and shelter it from any and all that may come along. This child would view me as his best friend, and would know right from wrong well enough to never have to see me much as a disciplinarian. A well-behaved, well tutored child wise beyond his years.

Years after that, I find myself coming into my own, having found freedom in wealth and creativity that I don't have to do anything, yet can't afford to do nothing. My relationship with this woman I had found escapes this part of the vision for some reason, but my energy is still focused on the child and his development as a human being in this world.

Manty years pass, and I am an old man. I am a creature of habit, but my habits are more good than bad. Sure, I'm not above a drink or two every now and again, but never in enough quantity to worry about. Most of my habits are as they are now...Being there for those that I care for/who care about me, being a good person overall and expanding my knowledge of the world and sharing that knowledge with those around me.

My child has grown, and I am proud of him. The bumps in the road from then to now have been smoothed over by the result of a wise, kind and generous man I see before me, buying his old man a drink at the bar.

But what has happened to this beauty that appeared at the beginning of this vision? Could she have died? Could she still be my wife? Could she and I have drifted apart as lovers yet still remained great friends for the sake of the child that forever binds us? Could she and I, God forbid, be bitter rivals for the attention of our offspring? Who is she? Why haven't I met her yet? Is she the future love of my life, or a fleeting moment? Have I already met her and have been too stupid to realize it? Would I be ready if I met her tomorrow?

Or could it be that this was not a vision, but a simple instance of wishful thinking? Like finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop, the world may never know.

Rage against the software, not the machine

Let me run you through a couple frustrations I ran into at work today...

I got a newsletter file in today from a client of a client, set up in Pagemaker...version 6.5...for Windows. Here are the problems with this:

1. We're Mac based.
2. The newsletter was built in 6 separate files.
3. Files from Pagemaker 6.5 for Windows aren't recognized by Pagemaker 7 for Mac.
4. I had to find the 6.5 install disks for Mac and install it to be able to open the files.
5. One missing font, which I called the client about and he emailed it to me.
6. The font was PC only. I could easily convert it to mac format, but it wouldn't print right.
7. So, I bit the bullet and opened it in InDesign instead and went page by page and fixed everything that shifted in the conversion.

In my opinion, Ragemaker (not a typo) is the IntelliVision of graphic design applications. When it first came out, it was far superior to everything else on the market, but you had to be a rocket scientist to figure out how to use it effectively (anyone who has ever tried to play baseball for IntelliVision knows what I'm talking about).

The big difference between IntelliVision and Pagemaker is, as it's competitors caught up and surpassed them, the makers of IntelliVision had the sense to admit defeat and quit. Not Pagemaker, oh no. For years, they kept making "upgrades" which consisted mainly of the same frustrating shit only in a prettier box. Finally, a few years ago, Adobe finally quit making upgrades and made a new program from the ground up. InDesign...the XBox 360 of layout applications.

The trouble is, people still use Pagemaker! People actually prefer to use it! Windows has updated five times since they quit making it (Mac OS, three). I'm beginning to think the only way I can get rid of it is to collect every install disk ever made, form a fellowship of nine and instruct them to ride east to Mordor and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom from which they were forged.

Moving on to the other side of the spectrum...Another client apparently just bought the latest version of Photoshop. He's new, and has gone a tad overboard with it. Now he sends me files with precise details as to what he did to create the files. and if I have to make changes, he lists off exact instructions, worthy of an instruction manual, to tell me what to do. A page and a half's worth of directions to tell me to hit the up arrow five times.

Fuck it, I'm going to Arnie's.

Five out of Se7en

There's still a lot of work left to do, but I'm taking the night off. For no other reason than I was getting to the point where the next person to ask if I'd gotten to their job was getting kicked square in the nuts (or equally sensitive area).

A client got a repreive on his ad deadline, which normally would mean a sigh of relief because instead of cutting it close to the wire we are early, right? Not to this guy. To him, this means a whole new round of intensive Photoshop revisions. I had to keep thinking to myself "He pays his bills on time...He pays his bills on time..."

That covers wrath. The huge pizza dinner I had delivered and ate too much of takes care of gluttony. The fact that I feel good about the amount of work I've done in the past three days...pride. I spent five minutes checking out my receding hairline in the mirror...vanity.

I don't have enough money to be greedy. You need a taste of wealth to crave it. I have no energy to lust, but I envy those that do. So, as far as deadly sins go, I'm five out of seven for the day.

That's enough to make me want to go to bed early.

Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue

And by sniffing glue, I mean take a vacation.

Today was my first day back at work, and my first day on my own in the art department. I had fifteen jobs lined up for me. However I only worked on four...two of which were actually mine to begin with.

Our other artist has now switched to part time, working Fridays and Saturdays. The other two jobs today were jobs she had started before I left on vacation. And from the looks of things, she hardly did a damned thing on either project.

I've spoken about her in the blog before. I've said that she does great work...eventually. In the three years she's worked for us, she just hasn't adopted the same work ethic I have. To her, jobs can always wait until the next day, and any job activity falls under three categories: 1) I don't know, 2) I don't remember, and 3) I don't give a rat's ass.

Sorry, I'm just a bit cranky. Working three hours overtime tonight on jobs that for all intents and purposes should've been finished last week will do that to you.

I got a little further insight into the silent treatment my other co-worker had been pulling with me. Turns out most of it wasn't about that row with her daughter's little on-the-clock vacation. You see, her father has been dying for almost a month.

Upon hearing this news, I really felt like an asshole. But then I thought to myself, like that's a frickin' excuse for what happened. If her daughter had spent that time lamenting about how her grandfather was dying, I might have played that hand a bit differently. But she wasn't. Still, I feel bad for spending that time feeling self-righteous towards this girl's mother instead of offering her a little support for her personal troubles.

Now that I'm back to work, I'm not gonna let it hurt my stride on my new writing project. I'm promising myself to take on at least two chapters each day, either by reading the book, or mapping out one in my own story. If I do more than that, great. However, it won't count as credit for the next day.

A classic crutch

For a few years, I've had this one story idea bouncing around in my head. The trouble I've had with it is the ending. Everything I've come up with has been horribly cliche.

About a year ago, I was telling a friend about the story, and she told me that the basic plotline sounded like The Count of Monte Cristo. After veiwing the film version that was made a couple years ago, it made sense.

So, as my birthday present for myself, I picked up a copy of the book from Barnes & Noble, where it was on sale for three bucks. If you want a cheap book brand new, you gotta love the public domain ones...no inflated price to kick back to the author.

So, I've set my notes and drafts aside for now, and I'm going chapter by chapter from the book and I'm writing a fresh draft based on Dumas' work. When I'm done, I'll compare my first version with this new version and see what works and rewrite it from there.

The trouble I'm having now is I'm about twenty chapters in and the plot is getting a little complicated to translate. Napoleonic politics have a hard time updating to modern day corporate office cattiness. I'm figuring it all out as I go along, and I'm finding myself writing broad notes and falling back on the excuse of "Well, this is just for one draft. I'll flesh it all out later."

Now, before anyone out there starts screaming plaigarism, let me explain. I'm merely using it as a guide; an homage if you will. My goal is to have a finished story to tweak and distort that may only have a few direct similarities to the original text.

The strange thing is, as I read on in the book, I now see how many different films have been influenced by The Count of Monte Cristo. V for Vendetta and Shawshank Redemption and Batman Begins are great examples. Lesser examples include The Scret of My Success, Whoppi Goldberg's The Associate and pretty much any of countless movies where the main character assumes a made-up identity to achieve the goals they couldn't on their own.

That's what happens when you read a classic. You see the influences everywhere, no matter how sly the authors and filmmakers try to be. If you've read Moby Dick, Jaws doesn't pack the same wallop. Same with the Odyssey and Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?. Romeo & Juliet and West Side Story. La Boheme and Rent. The Hound of the Baskervilles and Britney Spears' Crossroads...okay, I'm making that last one up.

I'm trying to learn from a master and make it my own. I'm not using the Mona Lisa as a paint by number, but then again I'm not turning Kurisawa into a space opera and calling it an original idea (good job, Mr. Lucas, but the quick and easy path is the way of the Dark Side).

We'll see how it turns out after a few drafts. I have a good feeling so far.

The man can no longer be trusted

Don't trust anyone over 30, as my parent's generation used to say. I, Daniel Joseph Fritschie, can no longer be trusted.

As soon as I got done with my last post, I headed straight to the theater and caught a movie. Looking at the list of movies to choose from, I was faced with three choices: Movies I don't ever want to see, movies I want to see eventually but really weren't happy enough to qualify as a birthday movie, and movies I have already seen. I played it safe and saw Clerks II for the second time. I was the only one in the theater. It was fucking great.

I left the theater feeling really good. I went home to veg out for a while, then went out to dinner with my friends Gene & Heather. Metro Diner, roast beef, mashed potatoes, strawberry shake...all forming a nice base in my stomach for a night of heavy (for me at least) drinking.

Heather was my designated driver for the evening. We showed up at Arnie's and everyone had these little Bacardi light-up necklaces in their right hands waving at me...a nice little Logan's Run reference to start off the night.

I developed a system for keeping track of my alcohol consumption. I would have one necklace for each drink. If I was currently working on one drink, I would have the necklace set to be lit up full, and for each drink I have finished, I'd set it to blink. By the time I left for the night, I was losing track of the lit full/blink system, and as I daisy-chained the neckalces together thoughout the night, it became a bandolier. I found ten necklaces in my pocket this morning. If I'm remembering correctly, it was five shots and five beers over four hours.

I woke up around eight this morning and my headache never allowed me to fall back asleep. I went down to QuikTrip for about a gallon of Gatorade. It's three in the afternoon right now, and I'm feeling almost back to normal. However, for some reason, I'm craving pizza BIG TIME.

All in all, a happy birthday was had. Now, I'm gonna head out to get some pizza, do a little writing, and enjoy my last couple days of vacation.

Am I a deadbeat or a victim...find out next week!

I just talked to the landlord. As it turns out, their office manager has been embezzling from the company for about 3-4 months now. She's been targeting specific accounts, pocketing any cash payments and stealing the money order payments somehow... and guess who was one of the targeted accounts?

So, the landlord is trying to sort everything out while at the same time trying to build up any evidence for the D.A. against this theiving bitch. My June and July payments were not recorded into the books, I had a receipt for June, but july is gonna be trickier. The recipt stub I thought I found was actually for a Consumer Credit payment from last year. In order for me to prove my payment, I need to have QuikTrip check their records, plus I need to get fresh receipts from Home Depot and Lowes for the parts I bought to fix my shower that was taken out of that month's rent.

The landlord told me that they're still trying to backtrack on the books, look through all of the records they have and try to separate the victims of this scam from the people who just didn't pay their rent. I've been told to call back in a week, so I have one week to get my paperwork in order.

This will be the last I speak of this today. I have already wasted half of my birthday worrying about this shit. I am now gonna go out and enjoy the rest of my birthday, and I will not even think about any of this mess until 2:00 tomorrow afternoon...24 hours from the moment I click "Publish Post".

All I want for my birthday is a place to live

I'm back in town as of thirty minutes ago, and right now, I'm too pissed to go to sleep.

Last night, I got a call from Colleen & Britt, who I've had come over and feed Chuckles while I'm away. They assured me that Chuck was doing great, but there was a note attached to my door from my landlord informing me that if they don't receive the last two months rent within five days of the letter's posting (August 12, even though it showed up on my door the evening of the 15th), that I will be evicted.

Boy, nothing allows one to fully enjoy the last day of visiting the folks like a little sphincter-pucker like that tidbit of news. Anyway, I'll be dealing with this shit as soon as they open their doors tomorrow. This should be fun.

From what I can gather from the letter, my landlord has:

1) ...completely neglected that clause in my lease that warned me that the rent is officially late on the second of the month and eviction proceedings are started on the third if no rent is received.

2) ...doesn't have a legal leg to stand on because the letter is not signed, is not notorized, did not have any prior warnings (not even a fucking phone call), and claimed to be posted three days before it actually WAS.

3) ...obviously has no idea that I have the receipt stubs from the money orders (no checks allowed) I left them, proving I did pay. Now, seeing as their office hours are 1-5 monday through friday (when, gee, I'm WORKING!), I have no choice but to slide the rent through the little mail slot, which is clearly labeled AFTER HOURS PLEASE SLIDE RENT THROUGH SLOT.

4) Seeing as I can't account for what happens to the rent once it's pushed through the slot, and the fact that they are signed over to them in permanent ink, there's very little chance that any theft of my rent money is involved. And even if someone there might be skimming the till, it's not my fucking problem.

So, between having to fix the damned shower myself and this new little fiasco (sensing a pattern here), odds are I might be moving for the second time in six months. However, if I do get evicted, I'm gonna sue their asses for every dime I paid them, every dime I'm gonna have to pay for my new place, plus an added amount for pain and suffering, and I'm gonna double it for being the cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is.

Hallelujah.

Holy shit.

Where's the Tylenol?

Is my skull horribly misshapen, or is it just me?

No photoshop tricks in this photo, folks. I really did shave my head...to the frickin' scalp this time. The first time I've been completely sans hair since I was born. There are three reasons for this move:

1) Never done it before and it's on my list of things I've never done that I feel I should go ahead and do...along with getting a tattoo, finishing one of my screenplays/novels, sky dive, get started on the Tulsa Music Family Tree Project, etc.

2) I'm gonna go visit my folks for a few days, and anything I can to cause my mom to stare at me and say "Oh, I don't know..." is totally worth it.

3) Thursday is my birthday, and chances are good that I'll be drinking until I pass out. And, whenever someone in my social circle ever passes out drunk, someone else decides to cut their hair. This time, I'm not letting them have the satisfaction. Now, if I can only keep them away from the magic markers.

Even though I'm opening myself up for a ton of Mr. Clean jokes, but all day yesterday, I cleaned every square inch of my apartment. I figured that if I'm gonna have my friends come over while I'm gone and feed Chuckles the cat, it'd be best to have not my instructions include the words "I wouldn't walk around barefoot if I were you.".

A few other little random tidbits here:

The flash bulb on my digital camera has burned out, and since it's one of those built-in flashes, it's time to buy a new camera or take my chances with natural light.

Ever since dinner last night, anything I've had to eat or drink has caused me to hiccup like crazy. I fear something might be wrong with my esophagus. It feels like everything keeps getting stuck on it's way to my stomach...a little like heartburn, only without the burn.

I may be away from the blog for a few days. In the meantime, faithful readers, might I suggest submitting for the caption contest I posted a couple days ago.

It's always with the goddamn fucking chicken

I caught a screening of Little Miss Sunshine tonight, and aside from several critics, let me tell you that this flick is amazing. Well crafted, well scripted and well performed all around.

This is another in a stream of movies that have caught my eye at just the right time in my life. Going into the theater, I was led to believe that at the very least, I'd have fun just seeing a group of characters more fucked up than me, but I was very surprised to find that every character was well rounded in their own level of dysfunction, and that every thing they said and did had a great payoff in the end.

The road trip aspect of the film reminded me a lot of National Lampoon's Vacation, the direction reminded me a lot of the Roysal Tenenbaums, but the general themes each character reminds me of American Beauty. Like American Beuty, we deal with drugs, homosexuality, depression and a desperate need to do something with one's life other than deal with the real problems at hand. Each character embodies one or more of those attributes with wonderful balance.

You have the heroin-addicted grandfather, the suicidal uncle, the depressed brother, the overbearing dad, the mother struggling to keep everything together...and then there's the titular little miss sunshine, the daughter; the last bastian of purity this family has left, and whose goals of winning a beauty contest sets the film and the road trip in motion.

What surprised me was what kept the family together through all of this. In a traditional Hollywood movie, the conflicts would have just kept adding up, but in this film, the filmmakers took the time to allow the characters to bond through their common miseries without letting the underlying tensions tear them apart. While at the same time, they've avoided the pitfalls of a family movie where in the end all that matters is that they're family. No, in Little Miss Sunshine (my vote for best title of the year, by the way), they all accept the fact that escape is not an option when it comes to your family, and that you must perservere despite that drawback.

One by one, we see hopes get shattered, we see their worst fears realized, and their the lives they carved out for themselves crumble at their feet, and what I found great about the film is that, much like real life, it's not the end of the world. So what if things don't end up exactly as you planned it. So what if everything you set out to do blows up in your face. So what if you don't entirely enjoy the ride or the people you're riding along with. You gotta stick with them or else you're never gonna get back home.

It was perfect that I saw this film with friends. In the discussions I had with my friend Mary at the bar afterwards, the perspective I gained from the film helped me better articulate the anxieties I have with my own life.

I turn thirty one week from today, the age where my parents' generation determined you were no longer able to be trusted. Looking around to my friends' lives, with their marriages and their children, I feel like I'm still a child. Of my circle friends back in Arkansas, I was the one of the first of them to get engaged, yet it seems like I may be the last of them to finally get married. Of my friends here, I'm well trusted and well loved...if only I could see myself the way they do though their eyes.

I feel I'm getting better and better at getting my mind straight every day. It really helps when I don't think about it so much. I'll know I'f ready for whatever's next when I don't automatically balance out a positive with a negative. When the scale tips more towards the good side, I'll be to my goal. As for right now, I'm gonna sit back and enjoy the ride.

The "because I'm bored" caption contest

Time to light up the comments with captions, folks! Here are mine:

1. Having fallen on hard times, Wilt Chamberlain is reduced to reduce, reuse, recycle.

2. How original! Most people just put up mini-blinds.

3. Gee, Steve, I like how you cleaned up the place for your big date, but don't you think this is a bit much? Maybe you should just light some candles instead.

The winner of the last caption contest, seeing as he was the only real entry, was Gene, with the caption: Jackie Chan's School of "Getting kicked in the balls for Film" is now open for summer enrollment.

Political cures that may be worse than the disease Vol.2: Military Funeral Protests

Well, it looks like the Westboro Baptists are at it again.

I read this latest article today, and an idea hit me. Here's the great way to really screw with these protesters:

Go up to them and pretend to join their protest. Whatever they shout, you repeat with great enthusiasm. Get more and more riled up and make yourself look like a really passionate person who wholeheartedly believes in their cause.

When you get to a fever pitch, Move to the front of the group. Pull out a gas can full of water and pour it all over your body. It might help to put just a tiny bit of gas in the can to get the smell in the air, but not enough to risk catching fire. Now that you've gotten their attention, pretend to be having a lot of trouble getting a match lit. When they try and stop you, start shouting crazy shit like, "C'mon! We're not getting their attention. It's time to show them some smoke to match the fire in our bellies!"

My guess is one of two things will occur, either A) you'll disrupt their protest enough to make it too unnerving to continue, or B) some of them will take your advice and set themselves on fire. It's a win-win either way.

File under venting

A woman at work was severely pissed at me today...which thankfully manifested itself as the silent treatment with the occasional passive aggressive eye roll. It all has to do with what went down on Friday.

Friday, she brought her daughter along to help us out with the massive amount of bindery work we've got going on in the back of the shop. It was an all-hands-on-deck situation, so early in the day, when I noticed her daughter was on the clock and playing around in my office, I went and ratted her out.

Later in the day, I went back to help out on the work, and that girl was nowhere in sight the whole time I was back there. Towards the end of the day, I found the girl had been hanging out in the front office almost all afternoon. It was apparent that by this time, word had gotten around that I was being a big tattletale, so asking the question "How long has she been up here?" was answered by "None of your damned business."

While I was clocking out, I took a peek at the girl's time card. Yep, she was still on the clock, and she hadn't done a damned thing all afternoon.

So, today, this girl's mother was pissed at me. She didn't say a damned word about it until five minutes before quitting time, when my boss' son was in my office and I was playing around with him. The words she said were, "Well, isn't this ironic."

As if distracting the boss' kid from repeatedly hitting the button on that Goddamned Napoleon Dynamite figurine on our other artist's desk for five minutes at the end of the day, with nothing else to do, is anywhere CLOSE to her kid wasting close to FOUR hours on the clock not doing jack shit when there's plenty she should be doing.

Here are four reasons why this is not only my business, but why I'm justified in having it irk the living shit out of me:

1. If I were to bring in someone I know to help out with this kind of work, and that person spent most of his time doing absolutely nothing, everyone else might get more than a little pissed about it. Plus, I'd be on their shit list by mere association.

2. If there's work to be done, babysitting shouldn't be a part of ANYONE'S job description...particularly if the person needing to be babysitting is supposed to be working in the first place

3. I haven't been able to get a raise for a long time because, as I've been told, the company just can't afford it. Yet, certain people are allowed to draw a wage by sitting around and doing absolutely nothing. I work my ass off every day, and I'm still well below the average pay for my job title and level of experience. However, pickings are really slim in this town and if a job ever opens up, there's a usually good reason why no one's doing it.

4. Apparently, no one notices the first three reasons, and so the unwritten rule is there's no such thing as a double standard if your not being screwed by it. Another rule is that the squeaky wheel just needs to shut the hell up and mind his own business.

Just a few suggestions

Here are a few things that popped in my head that might just help out our troubled world.

1. Ticket discounts for people who sign a contract vowing to shut the hell up while in the movie theater. Violators will be charged double.

2. If our government really wants to revamp our disaster preparedness plans, they should start by hiring Samuel L. Jackson to make the emergency broadcast system announcements. They should also fill him full of coffee and slap him a few times before he makes the announcement. If the voice on the TV tells you to "GET YOUR DAMNED ASS INTO THE MOTHERFUCKING SHELTER, BITCH!"...you'd get your damned ass into the motherfucking shelter tootsweet.

3. Appoint a Secretary of Public Forums, whose job it is to find the appropriate time and place for each specific public debate. Wanna have a debate on immigration reform? There's always the annual tribal meeting of any of our many Native American organizations. I'm sure they can spare a few minutes to the subject. Against gay marriage and you want to hold a rally? Your choice: New York's Greenwich Village, Key West or San Fransisco's Castro District. Flag Burning? I'm sure the Korean factory that makes the flags has a meeting room available. Intelligent design? Museum of Natural History. Tax cuts for the wealthy? Homeless shelter. The point is, if you truly believe that your cause is for the good of all people, you shouldn't be afraid of a tough crowd.

4. Make the FCC complaint hotline a 900 number that costs $5 per call, and add a $5 processing charge for each letter sent in. Overly sensitive people might have to ask themselves if it's really worth getting that bent out of shape if the choices are paying five bucks to complain or just changing the damned channel.

Working for the weekend

I really needed a night like tonight. Tonight, Larkin was playing and I was working the door. Given the frustrations I experienced the last time I worked the door for them, I was expecting complete chaos yet again. However, the whole night was rather uneventful as far as frustrations go. I only had to tell one bum to fuck off, nobody tried to sneak out of the bar with a beer, and I only had to deal with three irate customers (and that was over in less than a minute), and everybody else was on their best behavior.

The only thing is, I wasn't watching the clock and switched to cokes a little late...so it's two o'clock and I'm completely wired.

Last night, I had to work the door as well, and although I had to deal with fewer people the hits just kept on coming. The three people I caught sneaking drinks out of the bar each gave me the same excuse: that they were from out of town, and where they're from, they can take drinks outside. Well, it that's true, why did they feel the need to hide the beers from me as they walked out?

Closing time was another matter. Nobody wanted to leave, even though the lights were turned on full blast, barstools were being put up on the tables, and "Hit the Road, Jack", "Closing Time" and "Danke Shoen" were playing in the speakers. Most of those people were friends of the bartenders, which I didn't mind, but that was no reason for them to smart off to me as I was reminding them that the bar was closing, and that they needed to tab out, drink up and go the fuck home. Apparently, I need to work on my "angry face" because no one was taking me seriously.

One particular guy was being a total dick about it. As I made my announcement to everyone on the patio, he sat back down and told me he'd get right on that. I knew he was one of the bartender's friends, so I let it go...but not without calling him on how much of a prick he was being. Ten minutes later, I had this exchange with the guy:

PRICK: "Hey, man. I'm sorry about all that back there..." (I love it when these assholes try to get back on my good side) "...I want you to know I meant no disrespect."

ME: "Well, that WAS very disrespectful. Not for nothing, dude, but there are still a lot of people who aren't cool with the bartenders that I'm trying to get the fuck out of here so all of us can go home. They see you sitting there and think that they don't have to leave either."

PRICK: "I'm just trying to say I'm sorry, man."

ME: "And I appreciate that. I'd appreciate it even more if you actually meant it, instead of just trying to smooth it over with the guy who was ready to throw your ass out on the sidewalk for being a dick."

PRICK: "Do you know how much money I spent at this bar every week?"

ME: "What, like we have some sort of frequent shopper bonus program here?"

PRICK: "I spend more money in this bar than practically anyone else. What do you say to that?"

ME: "That you might need some counseling for alcoholism?"

PRICK: "Look, I know [the owners], and if they were here, they'd be throwing YOUR ass out right now."

ME: "I work here. The owners trust me to do my job. You only drink here, and judging from that Miller Lite in your hand, you're not exactly shilling out for the good stuff, are you now? Look, It's not like I give a rat's ass who you know or how much you spend here, just don't be such a dick about it when I'm just trying to get everybody else out of here, got it?"

PRICK: "Whatever."

Tonight, he was back at the bar and he apologized yet again when he left. I later found out that he does spend a considerable amount of money at the bar...when he actually remembers to PAY his tab. I told one of the owners about the incident and she just rolled her eyes about the whole thing. Claiming to be the most frequent customer at any bar is like boasting the world's record for eating the most raw chicken. Sure, people will remember you for it, but mostly because they wonder why the hell you would brag about it.

I tried to sleep in a bit, but I had to go do laundry and go do some work at the office for a couple hours. I thought I could grab a short nap before I had to meet my friends for dinner, but instead got a call from my buddy Scott and the chances for a little bit of rest greatly diminished with each minute of talking to him. I kinda got into my diatribe about the no dating/sex vow, and I kept having to explain myself over and over again. I finally got the point through to him, and I managed to put it in simple terms for anyone who might ask about it in the future:

Everything I need to make myself a complete person again is right here in front of me. The only problem is that it's all in one giant pile. I can't tell what is what until I go through it all. I need to sort it all out and find a place for all of this shit before I can go outside and play.

40 Days and 40 Nights, the home game

There are very few subjects that I consider off-limits here on the blog. Unfortunately, many of the events of the past few days have fallen under just such categories. Much of what I'm about to write here is gonna be left up to the reader's imagination because I'm gonna just gonna jump to the moral of the story.

I'm amending my earlier vow to not date for a while to also swear off sex for the same duration. Yes, I note the irony of a guy like me taking a vow of celibacy; a guy who, for many years, seemed like he couldn't get laid if his dick was made of $100 bills and sunshine.

The fact of the matter is, wardrobe choices notwithstanding, I've never been built for anything casual. Some part of me has always wants to put more meaning into everything than I generally should. However, lately my libido has been writing checks my better judgement shouldn't have cashed, and for once, my choice in women is not to blame...it's the situations surrounding these encounters that have freaked my shit out.

The reason I took the no dating vow in the first place was to get used to the idea of being on my own again, but somehow, that pledge has opened the door for many supposed no-stings-attached encounters that I'm now positive aren't helping me in that quest. Sure, I will concede that sex is healthy fun and an incredible form of stress release...but so is bowling, and you never leave a bowling alley feeling like your life is dramatically different as a result.

The things I've been doing so far to make myself feel more comfortable in my own skin have obviously not been working. It's apparent to me that before I can see myself being ready for any type of relationship, I must first find a more life-affirming existence. That being said, the first person to tell me I just need to get laid is getting a cigarette put out in their eyeball...and the first person who suggests finding Jesus is getting set on fire...and the first person to mention that I need to not focus on the negative so much will be told "Yeah, you're probably right."