Go Like Hell Machine

touch and go

2010-03-12T08:43:00.001-08:00

Friday, on the bus back to the hotel at the end of the day, conversation somehow turned to the subject of clearing customs during international travel. Just a few of the many points covered during this scientific discussion were, "those guys totally abuse their power," "especially the women," "there's nothing you can do, though," and "I had lost my passport, but I gave the guy a blowjob and he let through."

All right, all right, I might have made the last one up. But when the details of the conversation turned to the subject of changing lines in customs, and the possibility that changing lines will raise the suspicions of the authorities, one seasoned traveler volunteered this anecdote, which I'm sure will keep you on the edge of your seat:

"I tell you what, I was waiting in line to cross into Canada once, and I'm sitting there and all of a sudden I'm like, 'hey, I think that line is moving faster than this one!' And I was just about to move over to the other line, but then I thought, 'you know what ... I better not.' So I didn't, and I got through, no problem."

Yes, this is just one example of the kind of gripping, action-packed tales of adventure that you hear everyday when you're hanging around with experienced world travelers.

Back in Action

2010-01-24T07:07:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so ... all that happened. And then what ... ? Well, I worked for two more months after I was told I was being laid off. I went in at the same time as before, I left at the same time as before, I put in 40 hours a week and I worked as hard as I did before. I would like to think that it's because I am a man of principle, but I'm afraid it might actually be because I'm an idiot.

I think mostly I was hoping that they would change their mind and keep me on. The funny thing is, in hindsight, I don't think I was ever really that happy there, anyway. There were a lot of factors that went into that, and not all of them were even directly related to the job. I think I tried to make it work and tried to look at the positives of being there, because the alternative would have been the realization that I had picked up and relocated to a job that I didn't like.

It wasn't all bad, anyway. I met some good people there, I definitely enjoyed some aspects of the job ... but ultimately it was not a good fit for me.

Anyway, enough of that. In the end, the realization was forced on me, anyway.

So I did a couple months of that, then I had a couple months to fuck off in Indiana while unemployed. Then my lease ran up, and I retreated to Illinois. After another month of unemployment in Illinois, I was offered a contract position with an engine manufacturer right by where I grew up. I had wanted to work there for a long time, and the alternative was extended unemployment, so it would seem that the offer was a no-brainer. Except that the contract was to work six months in China.

When they first called me about it, I thought, "There's no way I'm going to China. But I will go in there and talk to some people and rock their socks off and maybe they will offer me a different job." Well, that almost happened, but apparently there was at least one guy whose socks proved unrockable, and in the end I was only offered the China job. Several people seemed to think I should go, and the more I thought about it, I realized that I was at the perfect place in my life to do it, so ... off to China I went.

I made a three-month trip at the end of last year, came home for Christmas and New Years, and I just started my second three-month trip last week. And all in all, it's been pretty sweet. I really like my new employer, it is a 1000% more comfortable fit for me, and I am enjoying the type of work that I am doing so far. And they seem to appreciate the work that I am doing. Actually, I've had so many positive comments from bosses and co-workers, it's really disorienting after the Indiana experience.

As for China, it's definitely different. I will write more about China later, I expect. When I told one friend that I was thinking about going, he said something along the lines of, "that sounds life-changing." "Well," in the words of Sam Elliott as The Stranger in the major motion picture The Big Lebowski, "I didn't find it to be that exactly." But it's definitely been a positive experience.

And as for Indiana ... it was definitely life-changing. In a profoundly negative way. I'd say it pretty well fucked up my life, really. I mean no offense to the friends that I made while I was there, because I did meet some good people there, but I feel like the whole experience wasted a year of my life, potentially cost me a relationship with an amazing girl, and generally fucked me in the ass. Metaphorically, that is. And I really blame the horseshit company where I worked for that, more than the state of Indiana, because they are the fucks who are running a billion dollar company but decided it was more important to please their share holders than it was to take care of their own employees who did all the work to make it a billion dollar company, but ... it's just more fun to blame Indiana.

So ... don't ever move to Indiana. Ever. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when Rudyard Kipling wrote his poem, "The Young British Soldier," I'm pretty sure he was just constructing a metaphor for life in Indiana. I think he probably meant to say something more like this:

When the young engineer heads out to the east,
he acts like a babe and he drinks like a beast,
and he wonders if all of his dreams are deceased
or if he's fit to be called as a "Hoosier."

Now all of you friends who read this today,
you just quit your chucklin' and read what I say,
'cuz it could save your life if there should come a day
when you think of becoming a Hoosier.

Hoosiers wake up at four-thirty A-M,
put in their eight, or more likely ten,
then go beat their wives to prove they're real men,
or at least an adult male Hoosier.

They start having kids at the age of sixteen,
when the men are still able, the women still lean,
then divorce to head out for pastures more green,
hopin' the next spouse just isn't a Hoosier.

The Hoosier, he drinks 'til he's ready to drive
and if he should get where he's going alive,
he drinks one more, or maybe has five,
to try and forget he's a Hoosier.

As long as he eats, has a breath in each lung,
there's one thing on which all of his hopes are hung:
thank Gawd for Kentucky, or he'd be bottom rung,
there'd be nothing worse than a Hoosier.

So if you ignore all these words that I write
and you go out in search of a future more bright
don't say no one warned of the horror and plight
of day-to-day life as a Hoosier.

And when someday you're counting your losses and gains,
and you realize you're fucked and that no hope remains,
just drink 'til you've finally drowned your own brains,
and go to your Gawd like a Hoosier.

Ah ... now that's mediocre satire. I hope my few friends in Indiana are still my friends.

Tragedy Strikes The Employee

2009-03-20T17:01:00.001-07:00

Some of you may have seen in the news that The Company has been planning layoffs at a lot of its facilities. On Tuesday, I was told that I would be affected by the "right-sizing" of The Company's workforce. At first I thought, "Perfect! I could stand to lose a few pounds!" Well, to make a long story short, it turns out that "right-sizing" is actually just another term for "shit-canning." I was told that May 29th will be my last day at The Company. The layoff is termed to be "temporary," but is scheduled to last "at least six months," and there is no definite date given for when, or if, it will end.

In conclusion, I've done some research, and it turns out that getting laid off is not nearly as fun as it sounds. In spite of what any reasonable person would naturally assume, it doesn't really have anything at all to do with getting laid, or getting off. In the words of Yakov Smirnoff, "What a crazy country!"

Tragedy Strikes The Company

2009-02-26T17:22:00.001-08:00

Today at work I received this e-mail (name edited out):

Now, first of all, yes, the e-mail really did come with the illustration.

Secondly ... have you ... ever ... seen a piece of correspondence so ... fraught with melancholy? I mean, my goodness ... I almost lost the will to go on after reading it. I almost had to just sit back in my chair and listen to the building crumble around me.

As a brief aside, it should be noted that the building is in pretty good shape (as long as you're willing to overlook the small leaks from the roof, which conscientious employees place waste baskets under to catch the water, and which less conscientious employees toss coins into to wish away their worries) and even without maintenance, it would doubtless take decades for that building to literally crumble, but ... I read that e-mail, and suddenly I'm willing to wait.

I mean, you read that e-mail, and you just think ... "what could be the point in participating in the perpetuation of this charade, this cheap parlor trick, this mass self-delusion that we call 'civilization'?"

"A Microsoft wireless laptop mouse has been left behind in conference room A-209," it begins. Notice the wording, "left behind." This mouse has been abandoned. It set out from somebody's desk as part of a team: a person, a laptop, a mouse ... maybe a notebook, I don't know. Then, somewhere along the way, things went wrong. Mistakes were made. A mouse was left behind. A Microsoft wireless laptop mouse.

"The snap in receiver must still be in the laptop," the message continues. Notice, however, that, realistically, there is no way of knowing this. The writer is making an assumption. All we know for sure is that the receiver is no longer with the mouse, nor is the laptop. Is the receiver with the laptop? One might assume ... but can we really know? In any case, the basic point is made: "the snap in receiver isn't fucking here." And that is the true tragedy in all of this.

From the dawn of civilization, mankind's collective endeavour on this rock we call "Earth" has been building to culminate in the production of the wireless mouse. From the stone age to the bronze age. From the bronze age to the iron age. From the iron age to the industrial revolution. Plastics, transistors, transmitters, receivers. Universal serial bus ports. The Microsoft wireless laptop mouse.

And then some fuck leaves it behind. In Conference Room A-209. And, making matters worse, walks off with the snap in receiver! Which, one might assume, must still be in the laptop. An honest mistake to be sure, and a simple one, too, but if that's all it takes to render one of mankind's crowning achievements useless, have we really accomplished as much as we think?

I mean, seriously ... what are you going to do with a Microsoft wireless laptop mouse with no snap in receiver? What, for that matter, are you going to do with a snap in receiver and no Microsoft wireless laptop mouse? Just like that, it's all undone. And you might as well just put your feet up on your desk and listen to the building crumble around you.

Or maybe that's just me.

Answers

2009-02-19T18:37:00.000-08:00

Well, so let's have some answers. In my last post, I challenged the readers with the conundrum, "you are a member of an all-instrumental rock band, and you have just composed a song which perfectly captures the feeling of having been relieved of the distress of feeling that you have not come prepared for an important event. What will you title this piece?"

The correct answer, by the way, was, "Don't Sweat It, I Brought an Extra."

But in the arena of reader participation, there were two responses that stood out. And when I say, "stood out," I mean, "were the only two responses." The Spirit Award went to Jade Holme, for his prompt and enthusiastic submission of, "Glass Museum." And even though his share won't be as equal as the winner's, we should all remember not to double-cross him. Ultimately, though, Jade Holme would be the runner up to Jeff, who offered, "Succor Sucker."

There was, however, one more category of competition, which was the unintentional submission. Due to the low number of responses, I decided to go through my e-mails and cull worthy titles from e-mails received shortly after the post went up. In this category, Jeff took third place with the title, "The Buzz in the Radio." HMcK took second place with, "But I Would Have Loved to Have Had the Day Off." And here Jade Holme came out on top with the excellent unintentional submission of, "A Strange Coincidence and a Perfect Fit." This is really a spectacular submission, and a great ending to this reader participation item. Kudos to Jade Holme.

Moving on to other things, as most of you should know, in my old job I did a lot of traveling. Since this was mainly for the purpose of performing sea trials on new engine installations in boats, I was often going to coastal destinations such as Maine, Florida, North Carolina, or even Antigua. A lot of people, for some reason, would often react with jealousy that I was making all these trips to supposedly exotic vacation spots, but really when you're doing the work that I was doing, it isn't as enjoyable as your typical trip to Florida or Maine. Travel is almost always frustrating when you're trying to keep a schedule, and sea trials are tedious at best and difficult, challenging work at worst. But, since people often asked what it was like, here is a short video that shows how a typical sea trial goes. Sensitive readers should be aware that, I think if you listen really carefully, you might hear one guy cuss once during the video. But it's worth viewing.

And so that's pretty much how it would typically go. A lot of people, after seeing that video, say that it still looks a lot better than their job. And, to be honest, there were a lot of things that I did enjoy about doing sea trials. But, fortunately, and coincidentally, that video is also a pretty accurate portrayal of a typical day in West Central Indiana.

So I'm told, that Chicago's cold ...

2009-01-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

I don't think, in my whole life, that I will ever get tired of being able to see my breath. If I was ever going to start smoking, I think it would only be so I could see my breath through the whole year. Not necessary just now, though, as it is pretty damned cold in West Lafayette, USA. I don't usually use the heater in my car on short trips, and watching the way the moisture from my breath moves against the background of my dashboard is a simple pleasure that never disappoints. This is kind of a fun time of year to have a beard, too, because when you're outside, your breath instantly condenses and freezes on your mustache and beard. I guess it might be viewed as kind of gross, by some people, to be walking around with what is essentially spit frozen into your facial hair, but I think it's kind of fun. It makes me feel like Chewbacca on Hoth. And, really, is there any cooler Chewbacca than Chewbacca on Hoth? Come on.

The thing that really prompted me to write tonight, though, is a new TV show. Holy crap, People, you have to see this. If you like The Office, or The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, or The Footfist Way, or other similar shows and movies, then you absolutely must check out "Saw for Hire" on TLC. This is a really, really real reality show that out-Offices The Office when The Office is most in need of being re-Officed. I mean, The Office is still the only show on TV that I go out of my way for, but ... seriously, I think we all know that The Office isn't what it used to be. And this show is everything The Office used to be, but it's real. It's amazing. Saw for Hire follows an insane local businessman named Paul Nosak from Tulsa, OK, who owns and, to a lesser extent, operates "Nosak Tree Service." This ... show ... is ... hilarious. The guy is so stupidly psychotic, he makes Michael Scott look like a normal person. Coincidentally (or maybe not), it actually seems to air at the same time as The Office, but it re-airs two hours later, so you can still get your Office fix, and then catch Saw for Hire. You really have to check it out.

I received exactly one response to the last reader participation event, but I'm not sure I can recount it in a way that will be meaningful to anyone other than me and the submitter. The correct answer, anyway was that your gang would be called "the Enginerds," they would identify themselves by wearing Sansabelt slacks and short-sleeved button-up shirts with pocket protectors, and they would arm themselves with slide rules, compasses, and maybe staplers. We also would have accepted, though, "the Greasemonkeys," who would identify themselves by wearing coveralls and smearing their faces, hands and forearms with oil and grease. They would arm themselves primarily with big chromed wrenches, but also pry bars, screwdrivers, hammers, etc.

The next reader participation is as follows: you are a member of an all-instrumental rock band, and you have just composed a song which perfectly captures the feeling of having been relieved of the distress of feeling that you have not come prepared for an important event. What will you title this piece?

Winners

2008-12-16T14:57:00.000-08:00

Well, People, we have our first GoLikeHellMachine Reader Participation Winners, in the category of Beard Guide Submission.

Second place goes to a late entry from reader Geoff N., who gives us "The Birdcage":

I'm not really sure where the name of "The Birdcage" comes from. Oh, wait ... oh, OK, I get it.

Skill Level: Advanced
Style Points: Haute
Practicality: Moderate

You can see that this is not a style to be attempted by a novice. For one thing, there are a lot more structural considerations to take into account than the average beard. It should be noted, though, that Geoff N. is not a novice when it comes to beards, nor when it comes to structural considerations. But even beyond that point ... well, suffice it to say that those birds do not catch themselves, and they do not go calmly into that bearded cage. This is also an excellent style for coalminers. Or, for that matter, people who drive rusty old muscle cars and are worried about exhaust leaks.

So, I'm sure you're wondering, "What could top that?"

Well, first place goes to previously unknown reader Tobey Maguire, who seems to not only read the blog, but apparently took an alternate interpretation of the category name "Beard Guide Submission" and chose to actually submit to the undeniable wisdom of the beard guide:

Good for you, Tobey! You've earned it!

Klaatu Barada Nikto

2008-12-11T19:32:00.001-08:00

Well, I received zero submissions for additions to the beard guide. The correct answer, by the way, was "the Scorsese," as seen here:

In other news, a Hollywood remake of the sci-fi classic "The Day the Earth Stood Still" is scheduled to open tomorrow. I just want to urge you, if you're considering seeing this movie, to at least rent the 1951 original in addition to seeing the new Keanu Reeves-laden edition. At most, I would urge you to see the 1951 original instead of the new Keanu Reeves-laden edition. If you have no interest in the Keanu Reeves-laden edition, you should really see the 1951 original, anyway. In the interest of full disclosure, I haven't seen the new movie, and it's been a while since I saw the original, but as I recall, it is really very good. I'm guessing the new one is heavily dependent on so-called "special effects," whereas the original relies on something that used to be referred to in the movie business as a "story." It uses suspense and creativity to entertain, and is rendered in charming black and white. You really should see it.

Speaking of movies, reader participation, and championship soccer teams, here is a link to the Wikipedia entry on the movie "The Warriors." Specifically, a link to the section of the entry that lists many of the other gangs in the movie aside from the Warriors.

Reader participation: if you were the leader of a gang in the movie The Warriors, what would your gang be called? How would your gang dress to identify themselves? What theme-based weapons would your gang use? Support your answers with examples from the text.

Is this it?

2008-11-18T18:40:00.000-08:00

Is this winter? I guess that technically it isn't, but I keep seeing this bank sign on my way to and from work with ridiculous numbers on it. Numbers like 24, for example. And it just doesn't feel that cold out at all. I pretty much never watch the news or look for weather forecasts; I just go outside and see how it feels, and it hasn't felt at all like 24 to me. Maybe like 42. Not sure what this is all about, but I'm not ruling out the possibility that I may have developed a superhuman resistance to cold recently. It might also relate, I suppose, to a beard project that I'm pursuing right now.

Facial hair is kind of a hobby of mine, as many of you should know. I've tried a variety of looks since the summer of 1997, and I've considered others. This experience and contemplation has resulted in a mental "catalog" of facial hair configurations. This catalog is presented here, in writing, for the first time ever. For the purposes of illustration, I have attempted to draw examples of these various facial hair configurations on to the boyish visage of Hollywood heart-throb Tobey Maguire. I think you will find it to be the finest Tobey Maguire-based guide to facial hair on the internet today. I think you will also find that in pretty much every instance, the facial hair is a major improvement. Enjoy:

So here you've got your basic Tobey Maguire. This look is commonly labelled as "clean-cut," although I also like to refer to it as "the go-getter." You could also call it "BOR-ing!"

Well, well, Mr. Maguire, what's this? All right, you've got my attention. This here is commonly labelled a "soul patch," although an overwhelming majority of the people I see it with don't seem to show any other indicators of "soul." And I should know, because I've got soul. And I'm super bad. I've experimented with the soul patch on one or two occasions, but never for very long. I find that it leaves too much of my big, stupid face uncovered.

Now this fellow here is really just a variation on the soul patch, but I like to set it aside as the "Rick Miller." This is in honor of the frontman of Southern Culture on the Skids, the awesome band I was plugging last month. The Rick Miller also serves, in comparison with the soul patch, to illustrate the phenomenon that I call "creep." As anyone who's ever grown so much as a pair of sideburns has probably experienced, facial hair, if not carefully kept in check, has a tendency to creep down the face. What happens is, when shaving, if the shaver shaves from the bottom edge of the visible facial hair, the existing hairs are covering previously shaven follicles which will now be unshaven, sprouting new hairs, which will cover more follicles, and so on. If this process were allowed to play out in the case of a standard soul patch, the result would eventually be a Rick Miller.

Ah, here we go. Here's an old friend. The goatee (no mustache). This was my first foray into the world of facial hair. I think I grew it the summer after my senior year of high school, and I would keep it, or some variation on it, in place for most of the next four years.

Here's another variation. The goatee (yes mustache). This is a very popular look for people who don't want to be as boring as someone with no facial hair, but who do still want to be boring. Also popular among caucasian major league baseball players.

Whoa! What's happened here?! That thing is jumping right off of Tobey Maguire's face, and into my heart! Ladies, gentlemen ... this is an unfortunate phenomenon known as "the Pharaoh" ... admittedly, a much cooler name than it deserves. The only reason I even include this abomination in this guide is because I once grew this. And when I say "once," I mean "twice." I grew one in my freshman year of college, and I thought it was fargin' sweet. Then I shaved it off the summer after freshman year. When I saw photos of it, I thought "wow, that looks horrible." I thought, however, that I had learned from my past mistakes, and sophomore year I endeavoured to correct my earlier missteps with a second Pharaoh. This time, I knew that it was fargin' sweet. Photographic evidence would later prove, however, that I was wrong again.

Nice. Nice, Tobey Maguire. F-ing nice. This is, of course, the mustache, in its simple glory. It's not hurtin' anyone, people, it just wants to live and be awesome. The mustache has gotten a bad rap in recent years, but there's something undeniable about it. I'm a little sad to admit that I've never busted out a mustache like this one. Honestly, so far I haven't had the stones. But someday, I hope ... someday.

Yes. Now we're getting somewhere. This, folks, is the fu manchu. Or, as one of my old work colleagues used to call it every time he saw me with mine, "that ridiculous Hulk Hogan mustache." Yeah, I had one of these babies. I grew it (or rather, shaved a beard off and left it) and I didn't really like it at first. I thought I would force myself to keep it for a week, and then ditch it. Eight months later, I still had it. Actually, mine was in combination with a soul patch, which really sets it off, I think. This is probably my second-favorite form of facial hair other than the full beard (see below).

Hmmm. This was supposed to emulate the 1890's collegiate football player mustache that I referenced in an earlier entry. But, it really comes off more like a "Mexican" extra in an old Western movie (i.e., a fat white guy in make up). "Me llamo Tobi Maguerro."

All right, now this next one is where we come into some controversy. These are the pork chops, a.k.a. mutton chops. I'm going to cut right to the chase and say that, frankly, I think these are over-rated. Granted, they still make Tobey Maguire look a lot better than he normally does, but ... I don't know, people. It's just stupid.

You want facial hair that isn't stupid? Why not try out this little number? I call it the "civil war." The key aspects of the civil war are (1) that the chin be shaved, (2) that a mustache be in place and (3) that the mustache be connected to the sideburns. This can be accomplished in a number of ways, but the example above most closely approximates the exact manner in which I executed this particular configuration. At the end of a semester in my second senior year of college, I shaved a beard into this arrangement in an attempt to gain a psychological advantage over my classmates during final exams. Results were inconclusive, but I did keep the civil war all through winter break, which means that somewhere my mother is hiding photographic evidence of a family Christmas marred by ridiculous(ly awesome) facial hair.

My my, who is this distinguished gentleman? Why, it's not a distinguished gentleman at all! It's major motion picture superstar Tobey Maguire, sporting an Abe Lincoln! The Abe Lincoln is probably the first true "beard" that I ever grew. This was another collegiate endeavour. Previously I had only had the goatee (no mustache), but the Abe Lincoln ran all the way into my sideburns for a true beard. Some people call this the "chin strap," but I prefer the moniker "Abe Lincoln." Prairie State, y'all. Represent.

Sorry I'm late for class, Professor Maguire! A senior cut in front of me in line for the water fountain! Yes, this is the "Professor." A neatly trimmed and restrained beard/mustache combo, it carries a certain classiness that virtually ensures that it will never be seen on my face ... again. Yes, I busted out a Professor in college once, but I didn't keep it long, and I really don't know why I ever did it in the first place. Probably peer pressure. A key aspect of the Professor is that the cheeks are shaved, rather than allowing the beard to soar like the eagle.

I'm not really sure what to call this fellow. Maybe the "Lumberjack"? Or the "Bluto"? Yeah, the Bluto. Look for Tobey Maguire to be cast as the classic villain in the inevitable live-action, feature-length Popeye movie. The Bluto (or the Lumberjack, or the GI Joe, whatever you prefer) is a classic favorite of mine. In this arrangement, the neck is shaved, but the beard is otherwise left to pursue its own interests. I'm currently working on a Bluto that is starting to develop a Pharaoh-like appendage in the front. Photographic evidence will undoubtedly later show that this was a mistake. When will I learn?

Ah, the "U-Boat," a.k.a. "Das Beard." This is what you get with your typical 30-day patrol of the North Atlantic. You know, you've got to conserve water, so why shave at all? Hell, it looks awesome, so the whole water thing is probably just an excuse, anyway. Lookin' good, Tobey!

Well, this concludes the guide. This is not all-inclusive, and there are other configurations out there, including, but not limited to, the "Matt Clement," the "Robby Krieger," and the "ZZ Top." But this brief list includes most of my favorites, as well as all of my personal accomplishments, or at least their components.

In the interest of reader participation, feel free to copy the "BOR-ing" photo of Tobey Maguire and submit your own beards (and of course their names). Noteworthy submissions may be featured in a future post.

new to the neighborhood

2008-11-15T22:07:00.001-08:00

I think I made a new friend tonight. I heard some meowing out front, so I went to the door and there was a cat out there. He's a gray tabby, so I'm afraid I'm probably allergic to him (or her, we didn't really get that friendly), but I squatted down and petted him (or her) for a little while anyway. He (or she) was a little preoccupied and skittish, but we got a little quality time in before he (or she) moved on. Hopefully he (or she) will come back sometime. I like cats. I feel like in the past, I may have downplayed my affection for cats because, in the words of George Costanza, "Guys with cats ... I don't know." But I want to come clean about the fact that I do like cats. I mean, I don't sit around thinking, "Man, I gotta get a cat," or even, "Gee, I'd kind of like a cat." Honestly, I don't think I'd even accept a cat as a gift. But I'd be lying if I said that, when I heard that meowing tonight, I didn't go to the door hoping there would be a cat on the other side looking for some petting.

I had a girlfriend once who was unfortunate enough to be dating me when I became taken with "state jokes." You know, like "What did Tennesse? The same thing Arkansas!" Or, "What did Delaware? A New Jersey!" I'd lay awake in bed at night, reciting these, mixing and matching, trying to create new ones. It would start with, "What did Tennesse? A New Jersey!" Or, "What did Delaware? The same thing Arkansas!" There's not really much you can do with that, though. I might have pulled off something like, "Did Tennessee what Utah?" but that's already a stretch. Inevitably it would end up with me laughing hysterically at my own lines of, "What did New Mexico? The same thing Pennsylvania!" It would be years later, but I can hardly wonder anymore that she eventually left me. You may be wondering, so I will volunteer the information that I was about 22 at the time. I am a mature, sophisticated gentleman.

I was reminded of this tonight when, for some reason, a mention of Iran on television reminded me of the old, nonsensical elementary school rhyme, "Iran to Iraq and then I ran back," which my mind almost involuntarily turned into "Iran to Iraq and then Japan, Papua-New Guinea." Once again, I found this hysterical. Once again, I can't wonder that I'm alone.

Incidentally, I think many of you may find this site to be a useful reference.

I got eight slappin' pistons under my hungry hood.

2008-10-07T18:37:00.000-07:00

People, there is no better time of year than the fall, and there is no better place to be in the fall than round about the 40th northern parallel in the Middle Western United States. So, in celebration of October, Soxtober and Rocktober, I decided to take a drive over to Champaign-Urbana, IL, a.k.a "The Greatland," this past weekend. You know, I've met some people who don't like Champaign-Urbana, and it really honestly upsets me. Because, while everyone is entitled to their opinion, the greatness of Champaign-Urbana is not a matter of opinion. It is a scientific fact. And last weekend Champaign did not disappoint, delivering a great burger at the Esquire, a televised whooping of the Michigan Wolverines by the University of Illinois Fighting Illini, and a live act rock and roll exposition put on by the best got-dang band you could ever want to see in person, Southern Culture on the Skids.

People, do you like to see live music shows? Do you appreciate a band that routinely invites members of the audience up on stage, as long as they are female, and frequently among the largest and/or oldest females in the bar? Do you like songs about cars and fried chicken, frequently with an inexplicable dose of innuendo? Have you ever wondered what kind of music a hillbilly surfer would listen to? Have you got a taste for corn liquor? If you answered an enthusiastic "yes!" to the first question, and "yes," "no," "maybe," "sometimes," or "no, but I am now" to any or all of the others, then you would be a damned fool to miss Southern Culture on the Skids when they come to your town. Their shows are predictable, which might sound bad, but it's only because they are so reliably and repeatably awesome. The good news for those of you in the Chicago metropolitan area is that SCotS will be playing Schuba's, at Belmont and Southport, this Friday night, October the 10th. I don't know what else to say, other than be there, or be absent.

Speaking of Soxtober, baseball is over in Chicago. The Sox exceeded the expectations of all the "experts" and all but the most ridiculously optimistic fans. They then attempted a collapse in late September, but the Minnesota Twins were having none of it, and simply refused to win, so the Sox were forced, unwillingly as far as I could tell, into the postseason. There, they accidentally won a game before finally making it to the golf course. But what I want to talk about is a pair of baseball players who are not exactly household names, but who have earned places in my ... Cavalcade of ... Sports ... Personality ... achievement ... with excellence in ... cavalcade ... uh ... just cavalcade.

Number one is Josh Paul. I first noticed Josh Paul in 2003, I think. Maybe 2002. He was in the White Sox minor league system at the time. Paul had grown up in Evanston and had been a lifelong Sox fan, so he was kind of living the dream, just being in their system. As I recall, the starting catcher at the time was Sandy Alomar, Jr., who suffered a couple of injuries during the season due to the fact that he was what medical professionals term "old." Blurbs on websites at the time said things like, "Josh Paul called up from AAA Charlotte to fill in for Sandy Alomar, Jr. (old)."

Anyway, Paul would come up and bat 1.600 for two weeks, and then Sandy would suddenly start to feel better. "He did what?" Sandy would say, as he sat on the trainer's table. "How do you get four hits in one at bat?" he'd say. "You know, I suddenly feel better," he'd say. Then they would send Paul back to Charlotte. This happened a few times during the season. Then, late in the year the White Sox caved to the Twins for the division title, as was considered fashionable at the time. The crosstown Cubs were looking for an extra catcher for their playoff run, and the Sox dealt Paul to them. Unsubstantiated legend has it that the lifelong Sox fan was so incensed at being dealt to the hated Chubbies that he called a sports talk radio show and went on a rant about how angry he was at the deal. Needless to say, his stock with me continued to rise. But that's not all. After batting .353 for the Sox that year, he batted .000 for the Cubs through the rest of the season. His .450 on-base percentage with the Sox dropped to ... .000 with the Cubs. He didn't offer so much as a sacrifice. Now that ... is a Sox fan, ladies and gentlemen.

But his contributions to the White Sox didn't stop there. His next stop after the Cubs was in Anaheim with the Angels. Here he would make what will probably be the most (in)famous play of his career, rolling a ball back to the mound after it may or may not have hit the dirt, instead of tagging White Sox catcher AJ Pierzynski for the sure out in Game 2 of the 2005 ALCS. Pierzynski went to first, Pablo Ozuna pinch ran for him, stole second, and Joe Crede drove him in to win the game. The White Sox went from an impending 2-0 deficit to a 1-1 tie, swept the rest of the series and went on to be World Champions. Is Josh Paul the greatest Sox fan ever?

Anyway, his most recent major league appearances were with the 2007 Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Sadly, the Rays presciently removed Paul from their organization before he could somehow hand the recent ALDS to the White Sox. Nevertheless, Paul has made at least one more lasting contribution to the worlds of baseball, facial hair and Awesome, in the form of this very My-Name-Is-Earl photograph:

The second player in this cavalcade is Chad Bradford. Chad's is a much shorter story. Chad has earned his way into my cavalcade by way of three key facts: (1) he also started out in the White Sox minor league system, (2) he wears my lucky number, 53, and (3) he is a pitcher with perhaps the most ridiculous sidearm delivery in the history of the game:

He has also added a fourth point, which is a pretty respectable fu manchu. Its early, unfinished form is documented here:

Chad's story is much shorter than Josh Paul's, largely because he is a cold-hearted bastard. I have inducted him into my cavalcade, and he has repaid me by routinely embarrassing White Sox hitters at every chance he gets. Come on Chad!! Why can't you be more like Josh Paul?!

Why can't we all be more like Josh Paul?

September

2008-10-05T20:41:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is, October. I'd like to start by thanking those of you who wrote to me with comments on my 30-part serial novel, which I posted a portion of every day of September. You were all so generous with your comments, and you made it a truly rewarding experience for me. We laughed together, we cried together ... I think we grew together. Thank you for making it an experience that I'll never forget.

No, dear reader, you aren't mistaken; I didn't post a fucking thing in September.

Part of that might be due to the fact that you could argue that the most exciting thing that happened to me in September was that I tried a Mexican restaurant over on US 52. It was OK, but probably the best thing was the chips and salsa. It was exactly the kind of salsa I like. The tacos were good, too. The enchiladas, however, were kind of disappointing. The most noteworthy thing, though, was the music. They had some mariachi music playing, which was cool, because I'm a big fan of mariachi music, especially when it isn't being played by a live band that is so loud you have to wait until between songs to talk to the other people at your table. So I was eating my delicious tacos and not really giving my full attention to the mariachi music, because I don't know (much) Spanish, so I wouldn't know what they were saying, anyway. But, there were two words that did catch my attention as I was eating. There was one line that sounded something like, "ba-da-da, something-something, hamburguesaaaaaaaa," and then later a line that sounded like something to the effect of, "something-something, ba-da-da, basuraaaaaaaa."

Excuse me? What's that? It was at that point that I started to eye the delicious tacos, wondering what was in the hamburger ... . But, the next song that came on sounded a lot like the music that Inez is listening to when Anthony first sees her cleaning rooms in the movie "Bottle Rocket," so at that point all was forgiven and I trusted that this restaurant must be awesome.

Aside from this, much of September was spent assembling furniture, experimenting with wearing hats in the style of SoCal hotrodders, and talking shit about the people of West Central Indiana whenever they weren't around to defend themselves. I am optimistically projecting October to be full of better things. Watch for a post in the near future regarding my last weekend, your next weekend, and some almost totally irrelevant baseball players who I like and the ways in which they have repaid me for this.

Goals and aspirations

2008-08-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

The third and final metaphorical shot in tonight's metaphorical hat trick of posts is a cheap metaphorical wrister off of a metaphorical rebound in front of the metaphorical net. It's mostly an exercise to see if I can figure out how to post a picture, and to share a combination of two of my favorite things: Illinois football, and bitchin' facial hair.

That is a picture of the first-ever University of Illinois football team, from 1890. See that guy in the back row, fourth from the left (third one standing)? D-d-d-DANG, that is a sweet mustache! I want to grow one like that.

You've got to know the territory.

2008-08-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today about my college days, back in good ol' Cham-bana. (Cham-bana, by the way, is a local shorthand for "Champaign-Urbana." That's the way we talked in college; we hadn't, to blatantly steal a joke from Homer Simpson, a moment to spare.) Back to today's trip down memory lane, I was thinking, specifically, of a McDonald's way out on the southwest side of Champaign. I think it was at the intersection of Kirby and Mattis, but I couldn't guarantee that. Anyway, I had been in Champaign-Urbana for five years before I discovered that particular McDonald's, which led me to marvel at how many McDonald's there are in the world, and how long it can take to really learn an area, even as small as Cham-bana. After I found that McDonald's, I think I checked the phone book to see if there were any others hiding out in the cornfields, and I found that I had, in fact, found them all.

Remembering this, for whatever reason, led me to an idea of how to accelerate my learning of the Lafayette area. I thought that if I reversed the process, and sought out all the local McDonald's, then this would lead me to various corners of Lafayette, and I would see what else was around those corners, too. It's a concept that I've already dubbed "McSploring." There are some people, I assume, who would claim that this is not the "healthiest" way to discover the wonders of Lafayette, nor, perhaps, even an "effective," or "legitimate" way to do so, but I would argue that, if nothing else, it's a good excuse for a drive and some french fries.

Tonight I put this master plan into motion with a visit to the McDonald's on Indiana 43, just north of I-65. It was a beautiful night for a drive, and the roads out to 43 are both winding, and tree-lined, the ideal combination. As a result of the trip, I've already learned that out by 43 and 65 there are also a Wendy's and a Taco Bell. I headed up 43 a little ways past McDonald's, and I learned that there is a place called "Yoder's" that sells sheds. So, you know, this whole scheme is already paying dividends.

Then, over the next 27 miles past Yoder's, I learned that there really aren't very many good places to turn around when you're driving around out in the cornfields of Indiana. (I'm only joking, of course; after eleven miles I just put my hazard lights on, and drove back to McDonald's in reverse.)

Urinal Cakes Revisited

2008-08-27T15:08:00.000-07:00

The other side of the penny table coin, so to speak, are the urinal cakes. If someone were flipping this metaphorical coin to facilitate the making of a decision, you would have to call it either, "Penny Table!" or "Urinal Cakes!" in the air. And much like "tails never fails," I think it safe to say that "urinal cakes never flakes."

What am I trying to say? I wrote very little about the penny table, but I got a lot of responses about it; conversely, I wrote a lot about urinal cakes, but received exactly one response about them. Nevertheless, I think there's more to the urinal cake story, and I'm afraid it's a story that needs to be told.

People, there is definitely something going on here. See, the urinals at work have a little metal, dome-shaped grate that goes over the drain. It looks like there's a screw in the middle of it, but I don't know that it's actually fastened to anything. Anyway, if you go into the men's room over towards conference room 203, and you go to the last urinal on the left--you know the one I'm talking about, right? Well, anyway, if you go to that one, I'd say it's about a 50/50 shot as to whether that grate will be over the drain, or off to the side a little bit. I came to notice this because after abandoning my project of trying to bore a hole through a urinal cake, I noticed that this particular urinal had a loose grate and a mostly dissolved urinal cake, and I decided that a good new project would be to try to coax that little, mostly-dissolved urinal cake over to, and then down, the drain.

Well, so this was going along OK, it was looking like it was only going to take me maybe three or four visits, and I was really building toward a satisfying sense of accomplishment. Then, I walk in there and find that the grate is back over the drain. Well, so it goes, I thought. You can't expect an industry leader like this one to leave their urinal drains ungrated indefinitely. I'd taken too long. I should have drank more water. But, I had missed my chance.

THEN ... maybe a day later, I went back in there, and the grate was back off the drain! Now, people ... if I can be real for a minute--and I mean, like, really, really real--I was never actually 100% sure about the disappearing divots. But I know I didn't imagine this metal, hemispherical grate, approximately two inches in diameter, moving on to and off of the drain in the bottom of this G.D. urinal.

Well, at this point I didn't even care about the urinal cake anymore. People, I was freaked ... out. I mean, do you realize that it is a common spy technique to orchestrate drops at a public location, using some seemingly insignificant physical marker--let's say, for example, a metal grate on a urinal drain--as an indicator for whether or not there is something to be picked up at the drop location? For example, spy one leaves something under the urinal, moves the grate off of the drain, and then leaves. Spy two then collects the material and returns the grate to the drain to indicate that the pickup has been made. And what better indicator than a urinal drain grate? I mean, you know that nobody else is going to reach in there and mess with it, right? One thing I do know is that I do not want to mess with anyone who is willing to reach into a urinal and handle anything sitting in the bottom of it.

Anyway, I'm not saying that there is a tiny canister stuck to the bottom of the urinal with a roll of microfilm full of top secret documents inside of it ... but let's just say that I'm not not un-saying that there isn't a tiny canister stuck to the bottom of the urinal with a roll of microfilm full of top secret documents inside of it, either.

Penny Table Update

2008-08-21T19:29:00.000-07:00

First off, you may remember that my first e-mail about this blog carried the subject line, "the happity-haps." I was a little worried about using that subject line, because I wasn't sure if the Cool Kids still used the term "the happity-haps" or not, but I've learned since then that, in fact, the Cool Kids never used that term. Sorry about that.

OK, so it's been a few days since I posted. Well, to those of you who expressed disappointment in that ... don't expect me to post everyday, is all I can say. I've been pretty busy, and writing does take time. I mean, if you think I can just stumble out of bed and string together a charming series of stories about urinal cakes in ten minutes, well, you've greatly over-estimated me once again. It can take up to twenty minutes, for the record, and I usually don't bother to get out of bed.

So anyway ... the early feedback is in, and one strange and surprising development is an inexplicable popular interest in the penny table. In spite of the fact that the penny table had one of the briefest mentions of any single subject that was covered in the first few posts, it has already had comments and inquiries pouring in by the twos. Twos of twos, in fact. More comments than any other single subject, anyway. And, while I suspect that some of those comments and inquiries were born out of sarcasm ... hey, I'm calling your bluff. So anyway, the penny table is coming along, but not at the same pace that it was originally. Still, we're up to fifty cents so far, and perhaps the most important function of the penny table is that, probably around six to eight times a day, I rearrange the pennies into different formations. It's kind of like a banzai tree of pennies as I continually rearrange them into different formations and tweak and adjust them throughout the day. It's a sort of a fifty-cent feng shui (which I think would be a cool name for an album or a song or a whatever).

Speaking of my desk, it took a while for me to get a nameplate at my desk, and when it finally showed up, I didn't even notice until someone pointed it out to me. It says "FREDRICK FRENCH." There are three guys in my group whose first and last initials are the same (specifically, A.A., J.J., and R.R.) and my penny-table-collaborating co-worker (J.J.) didn't want me to feel left out, so he printed out "FREDRICK FRENCH" on a brown background and taped it to my nameplate. He actually did such a good job of it that I thought it was the real nameplate at first, which I thought was absolutley phenomenal if a guy was so committed to a joke that he was willing to waste company resources on an incorrect nameplate. Anyway, even after I realized that it was taped on, I just left it there. The best part is when people come by and they're talking to one of us and then they see the nameplate and you can see them thinking, "What the ... ? This guy's name is Fredrick? Is that even how you spell Fredrick? I thought his name was Arden. Why did I think his name was Arden? That's not even a real name!" And I just sit there and smile and wait for them to say something. It's great.

SO THEN ... A.A. has reddish hair, and J.J. will occasionally refer to him as "Big Red." Not particularly creative, but you make do with what you have. So yesterday we were at lunch, and I was wondering where A.A. was, so I said, "Hey, where's Big Red?" Then, since I'm an idiot, and since I am really entertained by Spanish and my horrible knowledge of it, I followed up with "Donde esta El Rojo Grande?" (I know there's no need for an "el" in there, but I think "el" just makes any bad Spanish a little funnier.) Well, J.J. loved that and later that day A.A. had a new nameplate that said "EL ROJO GRANDE." Eventually, someone pointed it out to him and he got pissed and immediately tore the paper off. What the hell? I thought El Rojo Grande was a pretty rad nickname. But I guess it isn't for everyone. Anyway, today we tried out "LE GRAND ROUGE," but it was received similarly. Which is unfortunate, because I think it might be even cooler than "EL ROJO GRANDE." After he left this evening we put up "IL ROSSO GRANDE." I am predicting that this will be the one that lasts. But, just in case, we are also prepared with "DAS GROSSE ROT," "MARELE ROSU," and we're prepared to do some research after that, if necessary. If all else fails, I might recommend "TESTAROSSA," and if he rejects that one, then maybe "TESTA DI CAZZO," but hopefully it won't come to that. It just seems a shame that these are all such awesome nicknames, and he just won't accept them. But, you just can't help some people, I guess.

In other news, Lafayette is a hard water town. Some people seem to make a big deal out of this, although I actually had to look up "hard water" to find out what it was and what the negative effects of it are supposed to be. Up until now, my primary knowledge of hard water was derived from an old commercial for Zest soap, which has, for some reason, stuck with me vividly for at least fifteen years. It started with an announcer saying, "Hey, Chicago! This is a hard water town!" Then a singer would start in with a song that I still remember--God knows why--absolutely word for word:

It's hard to get clean in hard water!
And this is a hard water town!
But clean with hard water Zest,
and you'll know what we mean
when we say
"You're not fully clean, unless you're ZESTfully clean!"

I'm afraid I will take this song to the grave with me. I could one day be a senile old man, bedeviled by Alzheimers, and I suspect that even if I forgot everything else, I would still be able to sing that damned song. Anyway, it turns out that hard water is just water with a high mineral content, usually calcium and magnesium. There aren't really any ill effects other than that it is supposedly harder to get a good lather with soap and hard water, and when hard water evaporates, it can leave a white film behind. The latter was kind of a relief because I've noticed this in my water cup at work, and I was initially afraid that somebody was trying to spike my water with the 'thrax.

"The 'Thrax," incidentally, would probably also look pretty cool on a fake nameplate.

Well First of All ...

2008-08-12T15:55:00.001-07:00

I think the video at this link might actually be more entertaining if you don't know who John Force is. Sadly, I'll never know ... .

Fast-Tracking

2008-08-12T15:30:00.000-07:00

A lot of people have been asking me what projects I'm working on at my new job. This is strange to me, because ... who cares? Anyway, obviously it's pretty hard to walk into a new job and immediately start contributing, but I am a self-starter, so I have already taken the initiative on a couple of projects. One is actually a joint project that me and the guy I sit next to have started. At the end of the wall that divides our cubicles is a desk that is sort of a shared space, and we are trying to completely cover it with pennies. Clearly, if we achieve this goal, the gains for the corporation will be invaluable. Or, actually, wait ... based on the size of the table, I'd guess that the gains would be valued at roughly twenty dollars. But still, not too shabby.

My other project is a solo venture which I haven't even told anyone about yet. I'm working on boring a hole through a urinal cake. I had been going to the bathroom and making sure to use the same urinal, and trying to always aim for the same spot on the urinal cake. There was a spot that looked like a little divot, so I always aimed there. But then, I was in there a few days ago, and it looked like the cake had been rotated slightly. I was trying not to think about how that might have happened, but then the day after that, the divot was gone. What the crap?! Had the urinal cake been turned over? Had it been swapped out? Still trying not to think about who might do something like that (and whether or not I might have shaken their hand), I started in on a different urinal cake. But, sure enough, the divot eventually disappeared on that one, too. Something's going on here, and I don't know if I'm ready to confront it. I think I'm going to abandon this project.

Aside from these more tangible projects, I've also been struggling with a question which could prove critical to my career at the Company. Specifically, "How soon is too soon to unleash the awesomest mustache in history on a new employer?" I currently have a pretty healthy beard, and the other day when I had just finished working on my solo project I saw myself in the mirror and thought to myself, "You know, I could carve a pretty sweet mustache out of that beard." I feel like this could be a morale booster for certain of my co-workers, and more also for me. But, I also feel that it might not go over well at all with certain other of my co-workers. The Company is a pretty conservative place, it seems, in terms of the average worker there. Everybody seems pretty clean cut, relatively speaking. Any beards are kept neatly trimmed, and while there are some people there with huge mustaches, there seems to be an unwritten rule that they need to have had it since the '80's. Kind of a grandfather clause, I guess. So ... we'll see where this goes, I guess.

Getting Orientated

2008-08-12T15:21:00.000-07:00

Monday was the first day of a two-day "orientation" at the Company. We sat through about six hours of presentations, and let me tell you: they ... were ... awesome. Or, wait ... no, not "awesome" ... what's the word ... ? Oh, right: "brutally dull." However, if I learned anything from the whole deal, it's that this company is awesome (or in the certain cases where it is not quite awesome enough, is at least willing to withdraw from those markets). Also, we learned that the Company will be mankind's best hope for salvation when the dead inevitably rise to walk the Earth in search of sustaining human flesh, but then out of laziness decide to build robots to hunt down human flesh for them, but then the robots decide that they are more fit to govern their fates than the zombies, so they turn against their undead creators, leaving all of mankind trapped in the middle. Trapped in the middle, with no one but the Company to save us.

OK, so I don't respond well to propaganda. Even, apparently, when it's coming from an organization that I am genuinely excited to be involved with. The best advice in this case might be, "Don't sell what's already sold."

But anyway, I think the guy giving the first presenation, if asked how he felt about the presentation itself, would rate it as "better than porn." I'm just guessing, because he seemed pretty excited about it all. He gushed to us about how the Company is the World's Largest Producer of Diesel Engines. I'm not sure what that means, though. My previous employer--we'll call them "F-ing Pitiful Technology"--claimed that they were the World's Number One Producer of Diesel Engines. I'm guessing that the Company's claim is in terms of number of employees, or total profits, or gross income or something like that, whereas FPT's claim was probably based on a novelty coffee mug that they had made at a shopping mall in Milan.

At one point he paused for effect (there was a lot of that) after telling us that the entire plant here in Lafayette is air conditioned. Now, don't get me wrong, that is definitely an impressive fact. I can't even imagine what it must cost to cool a building that size, with that many people and that much running machinery in it, and it's definitely a testament to how much the Company values their employees that they would go to those lengths to keep them comfortable. But, it was strange to me how he kept going on about how Lafayette is the only manufacturing plant within the Company that is air conditioned, and that the reason for this is because management knows that no matter what goals they set or what they ask Lafayette to do, Lafayette is going to get it done. So ... what, the Company gives the plant workers air conditioning, and then rubs their nose in it all the time, like, "Hey, how do you like that air conditioning we gave you? Gee, we'd sure feel guilty if we were you, using all this air conditioning and not setting any production records this month. But, hey, whatever, do what you want ... ."

Anyway, the whole thing kind of reminds me a Greyhound bus trip I took from Champaign, IL to St. Louis, MO back in my freshman year of college. I sat next to a guy who was on day two of a four-day trip from Wisconsin to Arkansas. He was a little older with gray hair and a matching mustache, and he was telling me all about how he was going to a state park in Arkansas where they let you look for valuable gemstones, and whatever you found you could keep. He had been studying up on how to identify them, what to look for and where to look for it. It was clearly inevitable--to his mind, at least--that he was going to strike it rich on this trip, and it was somewhat depressing to me that--to my mind, at least--he would inevitably be disappointed. Anyway, the thing that the air conditioning propaganda reminded me of was his story of a job he had at a manufacturing plant somewhere that made the circuit boards that go into electronic parking meters. He told me about how they had signs on the walls that gave the "records" for the number of parts produced in one day. He decided that he was going to get his name on one of those boards, so he worked harder and harder every day until one day he finally broke the record for the component he made, and then he quit. He received nothing for this accomplishment, other than his name on a sign on the wall. I suppose you could argue that there is a certain beauty to this story, based on a man who will work so hard at something so meaningless only for his own personal satisfaction, but somehow all I could see was a man who had been manipulated by a cheap motivational ploy. Somehow, the image of him walking out the factory door and into the sunset, his name high on the wall with a number next to it, did not quite invoke the image of Alexander reaching the end of the world and weeping because there was nothing left to conquer. But then, Alexander, I suppose, didn't have state parks in Arkansas, swollen with valuable gemstones, to cheer him up.

An orientation footnote: I sat next to a guy who looked exactly like Larry the Cable Guy, by which I mean that he was round, had a goatee and wore a baseball cap pushed back on his head. He didn't act much like Larry the Cable Guy, but he was a nice guy, and the longest we ever talked was when I asked him where he got his wedding ring. It was a cool-looking ring, I thought, pretty plain but a cool black-ish-silvery-color. I thought maybe it was something cool, like titanium or polished stainless steel or something, but he just said it was sterling silver. Then he elaborated and beamed about how it was a "Wal-Mart Special! If I ever lose it, I can just go buy another." I thought that was really awesome.

The Actual Move

2008-08-12T15:16:00.000-07:00

Moving was pretty easy, all-in-all, because the Company provided a pretty comprehensive relocation package. Basically, two guys showed up, packed all my stuff for me, put it on a truck, drove it down to my new place, and then unloaded the boxes. At one point they were unwrapping a piece of furniture, and one guy took out a knife to cut the tape with. The other guy started talking to him in Spanish, and they were laughing. Then the one guy says to me, "Hey, that guy's Jose Padilla, so watch out!" I laughed, and then the guy says, "No, seriously!" Then he says to the other guy, "What's your name?" and the guy grins real big and says, "Jose Padilla!" and the first guy says, "Yeah! So when he takes out a knife, you watch out! Don't turn your back!" I laughed, but I wasn't sure what the joke was. I knew Jose Padilla was a baseball player, but I was trying to remember if he had been arrested for stabbing someone or something ... ? Well, to make a long story short, Jose Padilla is not a baseball player. Vincente Padilla is a baseball player. Jose Padilla was arrested and convicted on charges of terrorism. The other great thing about this story is that so far everyone I've told this story to has either not known who Jose Padilla is, or else they also thought he was a baseball player. So, apparently, there are two Hispanic moving men out there who know more about current events in the States than the average American does. Surprise, surprise.

The only real downside of their moving service is that now I have about sixteen hundred thousand pounds of packing paper to dispose of. These guys wrapped absolutely everything. At one point I reached into a box and pulled out a wad of packing paper about the size of a basketball. I unwrapped it and found a box of Kleenex. They wrapped everything.

In a State of Flux ... and Also the State of Indiana

2008-08-12T15:07:00.000-07:00

As you probably know if you're reading this, I recently took a new job with a prestigious company in the diesel industry (known as "the Company" from here on, to protect the innocent and make them sound more ominous when I talk shit about them), and relocated from the Chicago suburbs to Indiana. Some of you may remember that I was born in Indiana, so even though I've lived in Illinois for as long as I can remember, this is, in a way, a return to my Hoosier roots. In addition to the benefits of leaving an awful company for (hopefully) a much better one, this change offers a lot of other advantages. One of these, which I didn't even know when I took the job, is that apparently there is someone at the Company who can tell me where I can see combine demolition derbies, a phenomenon which I've only heard about but never witnessed. So that should be awesome.

I thought a blog would be a good way to kind of make it easier to keep in touch with people who want to keep in touch. I had considered re-activating the old MySpace page, but I wanted to do something that people would be able to read without having to create a MySpace account. I've been writing a few entries, but I'm just finally getting around to actually posting them, so there will be a bunch of posts for "today."

Another plus of the new job is that it should require a lot less travel. It should be cool to know where I'm going to be on most days, and it should allow me to do some things I've been wanting to do, like join a softball team, or take a drawing class, or ... stay home and play video games, or whatever. On the downside, a lot of my most entertaining stories from the past three years probably came from traveling. Fortunately, here's one more that I forgot to put into a multi-page entry on the old MySpace blog: I had just flown into Raleigh, NC ... I think it was my second trip there, which I didn't realize, for some reason. I was thinking it was going to be my first time there, and when I eventually recognized the airport and remembered the first trip, it was a little disappointing to find that it was not going to be a new experience after all. I think in the blog entry at the time I jokingly compared it to the story of Alexander reaching the "end of the world" and weeping, because there was nothing left to conquer. Anyway, I made my way down to baggage claim and I was standing around with a bunch of other people near the baggage carousel, waiting for our bags. Nearby were two women in their thirties with a woman in her fifties, who I assume was their mother. They were all a little ... uh, let's say "rough," in a North Carolina, hillbilly kind of way. Eventually the bags came and the buzzer went off to warn people that the carousel was about to start. The woman in her fifties just about jumped right out of her shoes and her eyes bugged out for a second before she realized what the buzzer was for. Then she exclaimed to her daughters, "Got-DANG! I'm still on probation, girls! I's about to sprint for the door!" I wonder if there were any hillbilly Chinamen at the end of the world to cheer up Alexander.