Bleh.
You know... I'm bored with this nonsense already.
It's okay to be pissed off because of some offensive cartoons. It isn't okay to go apeshit crazy over it and start blowing shit up and killing people. (Otherwise, the French would have opened up a can of whoopass on the US after the "Freedom Fries" incident.)
Dig?
And now the European community is considering a voluntary press restriction on offensive content? What?
Pussies!!!!!!!
Political cartoons are always offensive. That's the point!!!!!
You know, I don't take it personally when I get called an infidel, or a son of satan, or a white devil, or a western pig. I don't start burning shit down when I'm told that there's a bomb somewhere with my name on it.
Chill the fuck out, my muslim bros and sisses.
Akuna matata. Okay?
Peace & Love
So... Denmark and the cartoons. Give me a fucking break. People are getting killed over this shit. You know, if the Middle East had cable, everyone would be home watching "Skating with the Stars" or some shit and none of this riot madness would be taking place.
They really get worked up over the stupidest shit, don't they?
I mean... look at this fucking guy. He's just blown up the Danish mission in Beirut. Yipeekayaaah!!!!
What's he screaming about anyway?
"FUCK YEAAAAH!!!!!! FUCK YEAHHHHHH!!!! I blew some shit up! YEAAAHHHH!!!!!"
Assmonkey.
Or this dude. WTF?! Lay off the Big Macs, Hassan! Jeesus.
Okay dickheads. Blasphemy isn't terrorism. Terrorism is blowing shit up because you're too fucking pissed and too fucking bored to actually take responibility for your own problems. Buy a dictionary and look up the word, dumbass.
Whatever, dickhead. I think you've just answered your own question.
Yeah, well, at least we wear pants. Note: The ladder isn't actually necessary. Go back to school, dweeb!
Grill & Chill. And Happy Birthday, Salo!
Yeah, you look pissed and offended. Nice try.
Watch out Denmark: We have the fucking stick with us now!!!
"Oh the motherfuckers!!!!! Oh the motherfuckers!!!! They drew CARTOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONS!!!!! Oh the fucking motherFUCKERRRRRRRRRRRS!!!!"
Fuck. Get a fucking job!!!! All of you!!! Shooo!
We're gonna fuck you up with our beards and shit! Rambo forever!!!!
Carrefour = Pussies.
"You fucking viking bitches!!!!! Gimme my tooth back, motherfuckers!!!!"
Yeah. Uhuh. Good plan.
Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with these people? They remind me of the Christian jackasses who firebombed movie theaters back when "The Last Temptation Of Christ" was released.
Grow the fuck up.
Some people just don't get it.
When someone says to me "oh, we picked -
the other guy- because he's a really good storyteller and that's very important in marketing," it's kind of like getting verbally kicked in the balls.
Stabbed through the heart.
Shit.
He's a good storyteller? Um... What am I?
The first question that comes to mind is... "Have you even spent ten seconds going over my work?" But then the question that takes over is this: "What didn't I do to make this person pay attention?"
Where did I fuck up?
How did I fail to make an impression or tell my story?
Or did I?
I've just turned down three jobs. (The pay wasn't going to cut it.) I also got two negatories: One was because the company knew they couldn't afford me, and the other... well... because they can't figure out where I would fit in.
Being
intriguing is cool and all, but it doesn't do anyone a bit of good.
The bottom-line is that in this particular case, the failure is mutual. On my end, I failed to provide my interviewer with the elements that she needed. On her end, she didn't care enough to look into who I am and what I would bring to her team.
"We hired a really good copywriter. He's a very good storyteller, and that's very important in marketing because it is, after all, about telling stories."
So... first, the parents thing last week, with the famous "don't call us until you're back on your feet," and now this.
Broken-hearted doesn't even begin to describe how I feel right now.
It isn't even close.
Not by a longshot.
To hear something like "we'd rather hire a fresh college grad so we can pay him/her $25K/year" would be a whole lot better. "We want someone with A-list account experience," I could stomach.
Someone looking me in the eye and saying "we don't want to take a chance on you" or "I don't think you're good enough" would be bad, but I would be okay with it.
Opinions, I can't argue with. Completely missing the point, however, is just tragic.
Everyone who knew I was courting this particular firm gave me the cocked-eyebrow look. "What do you even see in them?"
Maybe I only saw what I wanted to see.
Fuck.
It's such a shame too, because I would have taken these guys to a whole new level of cool.
Oh well. On to the next prospect.
Parenthood 201
These are words that you never expect to hear come out of your parents' mouths:
"Don't bother calling us again until you're back on your feet."
Being a parent myself... and a human being, at that, what I'd expect to hear is... um... "How can we help?"
I've never shut my door to a stranger in need, much less my own flesh and blood, so I guess you could say I'm stoked to have discovered a whole new world of petty vindictiveness I had no idea even existed.
And in my own family, no less.
Some of you probably know that I left my "steady" comfy corporate job four months ago. Since then, I have been freelancing while I interview for the next gig. The two companies I started won't turn a profit for at least another year or two, so to keep things going until I find the right fit, I've taken on a variety of jobs, from freelance photographer, copywriter, and site editor. I'm also spending some time working in retail, which... should my mother ever find out, would probably cause her to die of shame.
My son sells running clothes? He stand behind a cash register? What? Oh the humanity.
Fortunately, she doesn't seem to give enough of a shit to ask, so I guess she may not find out for years, if ever. Even then, the denial would probably be to great for her to accept it anyway. She's probably too embarrassed to have talked to anyone about the fact that I am no longer sitting at my POS desk pretending to be Mr. Important.
Here's the deal: Other than money and time being in short supply right now, I'm happy. I can look at myself in the mirror again. I don't feel miserable driving to a place where mean, stupid people treated me like shit every day, just because they could.
Years ago, I left my parents for the same reason, so when I realized I'd exchanged shitty parents for shitty bosses, I had to bolt.
Just like I bolted from casa de los padres when I was barely seventeen. I was tired of having to thank them for every fucking thing they pushed on me, from food, to talents to the very will to survive. I was tired of being their fucking pet. Their little prodigy. Their little conditional bundle of accomplishment.
"Nothing here belongs to you. Not your toys, not your clothes, nothing. Don't you ever forget that. Everything you have, everything you'll ever have, you owe it all to us."
You know, it takes a lot of work to get a kid to hate money. To shun success. To want to change their name. Their language. Their culture. To try and disappear from the radar screen.
It takes a lot to push a kid... no, all three of your kids, to pack their shit and move to the other side of the planet. My sister lives in Brazil. My brother in Asia. I live in the US. The folks are in Europe. That's no coincidence.
It takes a lot of love and affection to build strong family bonds like ours.
See, when - unlike your brothers and sisters - you never ask for a handout, you never ask for money, you never ask for favors, you never ask for help, you figure that if you ever were to need any of those things, all you would have to do is ask.
Because you never have before.
Because the other two, who ask for all of these things regularly, get exactly what they ask for without having to beg or grovel.
When you're the kind of kid who never asks for anything, who never went to jail, who never dealt drugs, who never skipped school, who never cheated on an exam, who never fucked anyone over, who never threw their money away on dumbass get-rich-quick schemes, but instead always tried to do the right thing, who always stayed true to their ideals and conscience and own free will, you never expect that your parents will pre-emptively tell you to fuck off.
"Everybody goes through a tough patch now and then. I did too. Get out of it, and then if you feel like calling us, try again then."
Wow. That's a new one on me.
I'm a multi-millionaire captain-of-industry guy. I've supported my underachieving wife's kids for decades, no questions asked. But when my own flesh and blood has to work five jobs for a few months to make ends meet until he can get his shit squared away, I'm going to tell him to fuck off.
This isn't to teach anyone a lesson.
This isn't a tough-love tactic.
This is about power. It's about pride. It's about anger. It's about shame.
This is about being too blinded by pride to act like a normal person.
It's also an exercise in selective memory. Let's not forget that when the rough patch hit you, your wife's rich daddy made you a partner in his financial firm.
Let's not throw bullshit at the kid. He's all grown up now. He remembers.
Without that little job, you would be in the shit today. You'd have nothing. So don't preach your lame-ass He-man crap on me. You're not fooling anyone.
But none of this matters. My parents always treated me like an object. They never once asked me about my loves or fears or hopes. They never seemed to give half a shit about anything other than my grades or the size of my paycheck so they could brag about them.
It's okay. I'm not complaining. I came to terms with them years ago.
Yeah, I came to terms with them years ago, when they disowned me for marrying an American. A commoner. For defying them. They wrote me off. Took me off the will. Scratched my name off the books. So I came to the US with the clothes on my back and $1,400 in my wallet.
Threats don't work very well on me.
They only came back into my life because my kids were born. It had nothing to do with me. The kids my mother now complains aren't raised well enough. Manners and all. And why don't they speak French? And why don't you send them to France with us in the summer so we can teach them some manners?
I only wish I were making this up.
It used to kill me to say this, because it's just so sad... But all my parents ever managed to do was make me feel bad about myself. I'll be damned if I'll let them poison my childrens' souls the way they poisoned mine.
I've grown numb to them. There isn't even hatred or resentment anymore. I'm all tapped out. I'm all spent in the angst department. I'm done hating them for being so cold. I'm done wishing for some kind of relationship with them. I'm done trying to make them proud. I might as well try to will myself to fly.
These are people who shut their door in my face just to make a point. These are people who try to make me feel guilty for not being a good enough son.
Well... I'm a parent now, so I know a thing or two about being a father. And I know this: My kids don't have to be "good" for me to love them. They don't have to kiss my ass or act a certain way. I love them because they're my kids. I love them because I can't
not love them. I would never tell them to fuck off. I would never turn my back on them.
Even if we were fighting, I would never leave them out to dry.
Never.
You don't have to leave bruises on your kids' backs to beat the love out of them. I just hope they learn that before it's too late.
If it isn't already.
Parenthood 101
Here's some advice for those of you who plan on having a healthy relationship with your kids once they grow into adults someday:
1) Don't write them shitty letters.
2) Don't wait for them to call you. Call them. They're your kids, not your employees.
3) Don't get pissy when they don't call. Maybe they have a good reason.
4) While they're between jobs, don't ask them to airmail you overseas packages. They might have more important things to spend their money on. And don't bitch them out when they don't mail you your stupid shit as soon as you ask them to.
5) While you're at it, don't ask them to call you weekly if you live on the other side of the planet. Long distance isn't cheap. Get a clue. (See #2.)
6) Don't write them shitty letters. (It's worth repeating.)
7) Listen to your messages, once in a while.
8) Learn to use email. A monkey can do it. It's time you tried.
9) This is just a thought... but... maybe ask them how they're doing from time to time. Not as a rethorical question, but like, for real.
10) Be a parent. Invest yourself into their lives. Don't just stand back and bitch about what they should be doing differently as if it had any bearing on you.
Being a parent is about more than just squeezing out a kid and making sure he gets good grades.
Parents don't stop being parents when their kids don't become rich and famous.
Parenthood isn't conditional.
Chances are, unless your kids are either selling nickel blowjobs off Hollywood Boulevard to buy horse, or comfortable living in your garage, they're probably doing the best they can.
And even then, for crying outloud, be a parent!!!!
Holy shit.
Help them. Especially if they're trying to help themselves and you can help, help them. It doesn't have to be financially. It can just be about letting your kids know that you care. That you're there for them. That they're in your prayers. Whatever. Something. Some kind of gesture.
Don't write them shitty letters pointing out every fucking thing you think they've done wrong. Don't leave angry messages on their voice mail bitching about how urgent it is that they receive their fucking peppermint candy.
I'll tell you what's urgent: Your kid getting to work because he's juggling five jobs and still managing to squeeze in interviews somewhere in between.
Cut your kids some slack.
Act like fucking human beings.
If not, shame on you.
The Cretinist Evilution
My favorite
new blog... for when I take a break from, like... work.
Vive La Suisse
Wafah Dufour, niece of Osama bin Laden, poses in an undated photo taken during
a photo session for the January 2006 issue
of GQ Magazine.
Wafah's dad is Swiss now. Yay.
So um... sorry I haven't posted anything in almost two months. I've been kind of busy and I needed the break. Whew. Okay. But I'm back now. I won't be posting every day, but a few times per week ought to do it.
Speaking of the Swiss... They're fun to date. (I could tell you stories.)
Right. We never saw that one coming!
© DAMIAN DOVARGANES/AP
George Takei
I heard rumors about Liberace too, but I'm still on the fence about that one.
'Star Trek' Actor George Takei Comes OutOct 28, 7:56 AM EST
MSNBC.
George Takei, who as helmsman Sulu steered the Starship Enterprise through three television seasons and six movies, has come out as a homosexual in the current issue of Frontiers, a biweekly Los Angeles magazine covering the gay and lesbian community.
(...)
The current social and political climate motivated Takei's disclosure, he said.
"The world has changed from when I was a young teen feeling ashamed for being gay," he said. "The issue of gay marriage is now a political issue. That would have been unthinkable when I was young."
The 68-year-old actor said he and his partner, Brad Altman, have been together for 18 years.
If you're even remotely interested, read the full story
here.
Truth # 3,972
Fucking Brilliant.
Crush of the week: Tricia Helfer
One of the main reasons to watch Battlestar Galactica: Tricia Helfer (a.k.a. number 6, a.k.a. the hottest toaster in the galaxy.)
You Are Not A Superhero
all rights reserved, oOo 2005I suddenly find myself removed from the tit of industry, and it's a weird experience.
It's been a very long time since I've been without a job... even if it's only really been two days.
Shopping for insurance is a weird little thing. It really is. Going through the motions of starting your own company is even more surreal.
The career model of working for other people, I am finding, is like a warm cocoon of safety. In a very real way, it's like a weird mother complex. (Jung would probably agree, but it's okay if you don't.) Seeing it for what it is now, it kind of creeps me out... but I can't help but crave the security of it.
Work for us and you'll be taken care of.It's an attractive proposition.
I think that I am headed for a hybrid sort of career over the next few years. A merging of oOo, inc. and whomever hires me next. It isn't clear yet, which is a little scary... But I guess I'll find out.
The hardest part right now, is keeping my shit together when those annoying little voices of doubt show up.
What if you can't make this happen?What if you're still in the same place in six months?What if you really fucked yourself over this time?Yeah. Well. Qui ne risque rien n'a rien.
I'd rather take my chances and royally fuck things up than look back forty years from now and wonder "what if?"
What if I'd had the balls to try?
What if I'd had the balls to stop whining and put my money where my mouth is?
What if I had used these god-given talents instead of wasting my time working for assholes who did nothing but hold me back?
And that's when I remember that even if I'm in a bad place six months from now, or a year from now, things will get better. Things will get good.
Life's a marathon, not a 5K. There are bad spots. Get through them, and you come out all the better, stronger and wiser. It's a game of patience, this life. A game of faith. A game of will. You aren't supposed to cruise through it on autopilot.
Losing a job you hated isn't the end of the world. It's not cancer. It's not the love of your life leaving you. It's a temporary hassle. Nothing more.
It's a chance to discover what you're really made of.
It's a chance to test yourself and see if you're ready to be a real man.
No, fuck that. It's a chance to see if you're a superhero.
Yeah.
I'll be okay. I'll figure it out. I'll come out of this rolling in puppies. I know it.
And honestly, I can't wait for all of this paperwork shit to end so I can get started.
Peace out, beyotsches!
Finally. The Torture Is Over.
You know, sometimes, you just hold on to a job for all the wrong reasons.
Just so you know, "job security" isn't just an oxymoron. It's also a nice euphemism for "cowardice".
There comes a point when a paycheck, no matter how comfortable, doesn't justify the sacrifice of selling yourself short for 540 long minutes five days a week, year after year after year.
It doesn't justify being talked down to by people whose egos are inversely proportional to their IQ.
It doesn't justify working your ass off to try and scoop water out of a slowly sinking ship.
For the last 3.5 years, I tried and tried and tried to help a good company become great. The potential was there. IS there, still.
But I couldn't.
My last conversation with my boss essentially came down to the truth. Finally: This company doesn't want to change. End of story.
I've been here before.
Imagine a child grinding down his favorite toy. Imagine telling him "you're going to break it if you keep doing that." Imagine the child telling you he doesn't care. "It's MY toy."
Imagine a daily dose of that for three years.
Imagine tens of millions of dollars in potential sales, lost. Imagine the potential for a majority market share, lost. Imagine an international onslaught, lost. Imagine awards for design, environmental impact, and maybe even a spot in Fast Company's best a few years from now.
Lost.
I could tell you stories about this place. You would shake your head and think I were making it up.
But now it's over, and I am glad.
I cleared my office. Most of my stuff was already packed, so it didn't take long. I said goodbye to those who deserved a handshake or a hug. I drove off without turning around. Without looking in the rear-view mirror. Without even thinking about it.
A mile or two away, I laughed at the thought that I had taken my last shit there.
I drove off without one fucking ounce of regret... except maybe for the fact that I should have quit a year ago, when it first became obvious that I was in the wrong place.
It didn't start as a dead-end, but it turned into one fast.
I could say that I was hired under false pretenses, but that wouldn't be entirely accurate.
As happy as I am that it is over, I can't help but feel a little tense. I have a wife and two kids to think about. I have a mortgage. I have bills. I have a very finite amount of cash. I need to find my next gig kind of fast.
But I'm not
that worried.
I already have an offer that will satisfy my immediate needs, while I transition from T&S to my next gig. I have friends who know people. I have a strong 'maybe' from a company I love. But even if none of that works, I have skills. I have talents. I have wits. I have a camera and a keyboard.
That's all I need.
Other than the temporary uncertainty thing, I'm excited. Every day that goes by, I get more excited about what comes next. About the fact that I'll soon have put T&S behind me. Right now, it's still too new. But in a week or two, I'll be over it completely.
In six months, I'll be kicking myself for not having left sooner.
Just so you know, I had projects to see through.
I had things to work out.
I had old skins to shed.
The wisest words said to me recently were "Everything happens for a reason".
It does.
The overwhelming response to this post's companion on buzznet made me smile a big one. Confidence is great, but encouragement from a lot of friends really helps.
It helps a lot.
Just so you know, I didn't tell anyone off. I didn't speak my mind. I didn't settle scores. No, I surprised myself by being kind and reserved. I thanked my bosses for the three years I spent on their payroll. I wished them the best.
I was every bit the man I never thought I could be.
I had planned for something a little more memorable. More Tyler. But I hadn't expected to feel so sorry for them. That wasn't part of the plan. Sitting there, I realized how monumental a failure this was for them, and it floored me. First Mark. Then Luke. Now me. I felt sorry for them. I felt so sorry for them that all of my animosity towards them just melted away.
I hadn't anticipated that one at all. Pity. Compassion. My gentler side took me by surprise.
Still, I left my wall of spray valve prints for them to take down.
I left a picture of wild flowers I ripped off Matt's buzzbolg, pinned to the partition. Next to it, I left Jack Spade's three laws of business:
1. The bigger you get, the smaller you should act.
2. Never believe anything you have done is successful.
3. Your people are your product.
Adequate.
They'll all still be there six months from now, gathering dust. Like the rest of them.
Me, I finally have my life back, and the timing couldn't be better.
I'm finally sleeping again.
Life is good.
:)
Mea Culpa?
I don't know how to say "flowers" in German.Well, it only took me one week to offend somebody. I'd be pretty proud of myself if it weren't rocko, so I need to clarify a few things:
I meant no offense in my Walmart 'Aisle Rage' post.
No, like, seriously. I was at Walmart and a guy went postal on a storage bin and I happened to be there to witness it. No biggie. It could just as easily have been... um... at... well, somewhere else. I don't know. People lose their shit all the time. Walmart certainly doesn't have the monopoly on wigouts.
As to my comments about the lobsters and the meat department and stuff, well... again, it could be anywhere. It isn't just Walmart. It's more a comment on how we treat each other and our food sources. (Not all that well, in other words.) But that's a topic for another day.
And yeah, everyone hits some hard times sooner or later. I wouldn't think less of anyone because they took a job at Walmart. Are you kidding? It takes courage and integrity to swallow your pride and do what needs to be done to put food on the table. If I accidentally implied anything dismissive on this issue, it wasn't at all my intention.
Lastly, while people treating Walmart employees poorly doesn't in any way justify someone losing their shit on the job, those customers should be asked to leave and never come back. That's a management issue that I'd be happy to take to any company's corporate office.
And that's all I have to say about that. :)
So again, if anything about this post rubbed you the wrong way, it wasn't intentional.
(And if any of you beeetsches mess with the rocko, you mess with me.)
Peace out,
oOo
I may or may not be an alien
Guess what this is.I'm on a roll.
Seriously.
For a pathological procrastinator, I am breaking new ground.
Today, I got my oil changed, drove to Atlanta and got my passport, consular ID and national ID taken care of, then I drove back, got a haircut, bought a pocketload of Powerball tickets, went grocery shopping, finally saw the inside of a gym for the first time in weeks, and dropped off a buddy's camera that I "borrowed" over a year ago.
Oh yeah... I put in a new dishwasher yesterday too.
Like I said. New ground.
In related news, the avian flu is apparently going to kill us all.
Aventures Modernes - Loud Cell Phone Talkers
Note to all cell phone users: You don't have to YELL into your phone. Just because your volume is turned down too low doesn't mean you have to SPEAK LIKE THIS.
Especially indoors.
Especially in restaurants.
Especially when you're two feet from me.
Here's a tip: If you're too dumb not to yell into your phone, then take it outside. Okay? Go yell into your POS phone where you won't be busting anyone's balls while they're trying to enjoy their lunch.
YADAYADAYA... YADADAYAAA? YADADADAYADADA!!!!
It was actually more fun to take pictures of him than it would have been to tell him to take his shit outside.
Jackass.
Aventures Modernes - Aisle Rage
All rights reserved 2005 oOoI guess there's something a little freaky about working at a Super Walmart.
Maybe one day, you clock in and you realize that you and the lobsters sitting in their tank have more in common than you'd like to admit.
Maybe you start thinking about the meat section. I mean, really thinking about it, and you get a glimpse of your place in the world.
Maybe one day, that blue vest starts realy starts feeling like a prison uniform.
I guess on a day like that, you're not in the mood to smile.
No, on a day like that, you're in the mood to pick up a plastic storage bin that someone didn't put back on the shelf and hurl it at the ground over and over again, screaming "MOTHERFUCKER!!!! MOTHERFUCKER!!!!"
"MOOOOOTHEEEERFUUUUUCKEEEER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Once this old guy was done going completely postal in the shelving aisle, he cleaned up his mess and walked off as if nothing had happened.
Interesting.
Backwards Day
All rights reserved, 2005, oOoWow. Today was my monthly product development meeting. We only get 12 per year, so they're kind of important. Today is when I tell the Prez and all the VPs what I've been up to this past month, and if things are going well in my little management world or if they're doing shitty.
Usually, it isn't a good meeting. Politics and all. There's always an asshole who throws a grenade into the discussion, usually in the form of a cowardly little "... eh... let me play devil's advocate here for a second" or whatever. Why? because it's easier to shoot shit down than to actually try and make something happen. (That would take work.)
It's hard to sell folks who don't know what an iPod is on cool new products, even if they could make them gazillions of dollars.
Some people look to the future, and some look to the past.
But today wasn't bad. And that's just weird.
My boss - who had been away for about six months - was a bit nervous about it, I think. She came into my office three times in two days to make sure that I had my shit together for this, bringing her visits to a total of five in the year and a half that I've been in the new digs.
"You're ready for Tuesday?"
_ I'm always ready for Tuesday. *smirk*
But today, the engineering secretary printed the wrong notes for the meeting, so when I got there, I had nothing to fall back on. Not cool.
But I'm starting to think that I work better that way. No net. No notes. No bullshit structure. I actually had fun in that meeting today because I completely didn't give a shit and just winged it.
It was awesome.
No grenades. No devil's advocates. Not a single frown. Everyone listened. Everyone nodded. Everyone approved. Jokes were cracked. People got excited. My boss even winked her approval at me.
WTF?!
This isn't right. I'm supposed to be the asshole. I'm not supposed to be the shizzle.
It's freaking me out.
Crush of the Week
I know. Not very original. Not very demanding on my part either. But you know, there's just something about a girl who could kick your ass and drink you under the table that's kind of refreshing every once in a while.
While I can't agree with
Esquire on this one, (
Jessica is by no stretch of the imagination the sexiest woman alive - Hell, I don't even find her sexy) she's still pretty hot in her own way: She wears her jeans very well, especially with a ratty cowboy hat. She's the only reason I actually paid money to sit through
Stealth. (Yeah, the bathing suit thing.) There's something to be said for that.
She's kind of toothy, she isn't a good actress, and I doubt that she could pull off high heels and an evening dress, but when it comes to someone to spend the summer hanging out with on a ranch... Playing strip poker, getting into bar fights, branding cows, sleeping "a la belle etoile"... Hmmm... I could think of worse.
Okay, fine. You got me. It's totally about her body.
(And I've added links now.)
Monday.
(Liar)Part I:
He's back.
Suna. My office-mate. I used to call him "dumbass" but Suna is a lot more fun.
He was gone most of last week, so I had some peace and quiet. I could hear myself think. I wasn't interrupted every ten minutes with a whiny story about bullshit nobody cares about.
Suna isn't really his name.
Suna is "anus" spelled backwards.
Technically, he's Suna B, because Suna A was this football player in college who roomed with one of my friends and had the same brain-mouth rot disease.
Imagine a guy with the ego and social skills of a ten-year-old, and put them in a grown man.
There are millions of Sunas around the world, but that's really nothing compared to the 6+ billion people walking around the place. It's less than one percent. Still, I've lucked out because I have one sitting right here in this room as I write this.
Suna B is back.
Suna B is back with manly tales of his weekend marathon training.
Before I get into this, here are some basic facts about Suna that you should know:
1. Suna speaks through his teeth. Kind of like 50-Cents, but about ten times worse. he just grins and kind of moves his lips a little, but his big ass teeth never part. It's annoying as shit.
2. Suna has two engineering degrees and an MBA. Don't worry if you forget it, because he'll be sure to remind you every chance he gets.
3. Suna may have gotten laid once.
4. Suna used to be a Marine. Big bad Marine. Badass motherfucker.
5. Suna is training for his first marathon. It's in three weeks, but his longest run so far has been 14 miles.
The first thing you should know about marathons is that they are always 26.2 miles long.
The second thing you should know about marathons is that the only way to train for one is to teach your body to run longer and longer distances until you reach 20+ miles. This takes time. To be safe, it takes a few years of running to build up the right tissues, and then months and months and months of preparation to get your body acclimated to the distance.
Training for a marathon is as much about mileage as it is about nutrition, hydration, discipline, and mental toughness.
It isn't something you can just pull out of your ass at the last minute.
But Suna, the badass marine, the engineering juggernaut, the smart-as-shit MBA, my office-mate, he's going to prove us all wrong.
After five months of training, his longest run until this weekend was 14 miles. His marathon is in 3 weeks.
And this morning, he decided to tell me all about his manly adventures this weekend.
Like I give a shit.
As always, he announces the start of the tale with his patented hyena-like giggle. Three huhs. Huh huh huh. Then a stammer. Then an "um". Then a stupid question.
"You know I'm like... training for a marathon later this month, right?"
It's a rhetorical question. He's already out of his chair, walking around the partition to come into my little world. I say yes.
"Dude," he says. He stops. Rests his hands on his hips. Stares down at his feet and shakes his head. "I'm hurting."
Tell me about it.
"I ran twenty miles this weekend. It was horrible. Did it rain here? Mindy said it rained all weekend."
_ Just Saturday.
"It rained up there. I was at my sister's, you know? It rained the whole time. But I ran twenty miles Saturday, and it was horrible. My brother-in-law was the driving force behind the whole thing. He's doing the same marathon I am, so we went for a run. Puddles up over our ankles. It was a bike trail, you know? The puddles were like, THIS high! Huhuhuhuh. And I think I strained my calf muscle Friday at the track, doing speedwork. It was tough, man. TOUGH. I had to walk some. It took me like, four hours. I'm all sore. It's terrible. But I finally ran twenty, so I'm kind of mentally prepared now. I think I'm good. I can do this. I'm ready."
Pause. Repeat. Stretch to twenty minutes.
Sure you are, you twat.
A guy I work with who's also doing this marathon begged me Friday to convince Suna to defer to next year. He can do that. They'll save him a spot if he does it now.
He begged me to convince Suna to forego this year's race so he won't get injured.
For a second there, maybe two, I actually considered it. But you know what? He's an adult. He's 33 years old. He has two engineering degrees and an MBA. He's a badass marine. He's the shit. He can make his own damn judgement calls.
And I don't give a fuck.
The last thing I'm going to do is get in his business. he might get the wrong idea and start thinking I'm his friend. He might start asking me even more advice about this stuff.
I just laughed. I don't give a shit if he gets injured. He's an adult. If he doesn't have enough sense to defer on his own, that's his problem.
I'm sure I'll be hearing all about it. We all will. The entire office.
Just like we'll hear about his stocks and his house search and his latest dating fiasco. The three other topics of conversation he can handle without embarrassing himself beyond normal Sunaness.
This is a guy who asks me if the French know what a hamburger is.
Coca Cola.
Will he have to eat snails when he goes there?
Three degrees, and he has no idea who Hiro Hito was. Mussolini. Stalin.
He thinks Winston Churchill is the Budweiser dog.
This is the guy who walks into my office first thing Monday morning to tell me about the twenty-miles he endured this weekend, because he thinks it makes him cool.
Hell of a way to start the week. Man, I lurve this place.
Part II:
Cool. Just got a call from Frank. a.k.a. Partyboy.
Frank and I had a falling out exactly a year ago. Kind of stupid, really. Anyway, we've been polite since then, but no more. No training, no beers, no nada. I'd kind of gotten used to it, but occasionally, yeah, I still thought to myself that it kind of sucked that a four-year friendship would end on such a silly note.
But French to the end, I figured screw it. If he isn't man enough to swallow his pride and call, then I can be a bratty little kid too. We're stubborn that way.
So anyway, he called this morning, and he admitted that this shit had gone on long enough.
We're having lunch next week. Eh. Cool.
And he wants me to shoot some stuff for his website, so that's cool. Ever the trader, he'll probably want to pay me in trade... which... doesn't fly for me. But whatever. We'll work something out.
It doesn't seem like a big deal, but it kind of is. I'm glad he called. :)
Part III:
So... next door, Suna is explaing to our best quality engineer the difference between force calculated in inches/pounds vs. ft-lbs. Because, like, you know, he's wicked cool that way.
I'm finally done with the wedding photos. I'll be posting them tonight on the photo blog (finally!!!!!). I'm giving Roberto the DVDs after work with the proof sheets and the jacket cover. Good stuff.
I've looked at those photos so much already that I don't see how cool they are anymore, but I'm pretty happy about the way they turned out. Some of them are really, really good. (At least I think so.)
Mission accomplished.
Tomorrow is my big monthly meeting. This is usually where I get kicked in the balls by one of the honchos who's trying to impress the bib boss. It never works, but it's always unpleasant. Eh. It's only an hour. I think I'm ready. I'll put something together at the last minute and wing it, as always.
Half of that shit is just presenting stuff with confidence, and projecting enthusiastic honesty. (No, really, think about what that actually looks and sounds like.)
Okay. Time to make the ass-kissing rounds before I blow this joint for the day and head out to have a quick coffee with Robby.
Incidentally (no relation to the rest of this post), is there a reason why nobody ever approached me about being the third wheel in a threesome back when I was single, but now that I'm married it happens on a regular basis? (And the couples are always surprisingly hot too.)
Is this a cruel fucking joke someone's playing on me?
*sigh*
