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Technologically Inefficient
March 22

In an attempt to make his business more efficient, my boss has obtained Blackberrys for his sales staff...both of us.

I am now able to receive the multitude of pointless emails and directives he sends out at lightning-quick speed at all hours of the day. After work. In the middle of the night. And on weekends.

He sends these with such frequency that I can barely delete them all before another one appears in my inbox. The task is proving to be overwhelming.

Worse is the fact that now, with two cell phones, I find that available body space for storing both my personal and work phone is becoming sparse. True, the Blackberry came with a belt buckle holder, but on principle alone I refuse to wear any phone on my belt.

I have always found this to be incredibly pretentious. No one, in my opinion, is important enough that they need a phone attached to them so that they can be reached at a moments notice. Granted, a few select life-and-death doctors dealing with rare diseases that can kill in mere minutes are an exception...but no one is going to experience a dire sales related situation that will need my immediate attention.

So the Blackberry has been banished to one of my pockets. Though, now that I'm wearing two phones, I often find that buzzing and ringing will suddenly emanate from somewhere on my body, leaving me to feel like a walking call center.

And while the new Blackberry hasn't made my job more efficient, it does have its perks. Because now I can surf the internet from anywhere I want. And when bored with that, a game of Tetris is always right at my fingertips.

This is exactly what I was doing the other day. I had finished a sales call early and, postponing going back into the office, was drinking coffee and playing Tetris at Starbucks. As I was about to clear a row, my boss called.

I paused my game and answered the phone.

“Where are you at?!” he said by way of greeting.

“Just taking care of business,” I told him.
 
 
What Hell Probably Feels Like 
February 29
 
Three.

This is the number of sick/personal days that my boss Vince allows each employee to have for the entire year. Which means, you can get sick once every four months....thus they must be allotted very carefully.

So when I woke up this morning with a sore throat, headache, stuffed nose, and a body that ached everywhere with the exception of my teeth, I considered using one of these golden sick days.

But my sick day philosophy discourages me from using sick days when I'm sick. I'd much rather use them when I'm healthy because then I can actually enjoy them. If I'm going to stay home and be miserable, I figure that I may as well go into work.

Besides, I thought, surely after a hot shower I'll be feeling better.

But I didn't. After the shower, as I wiped a hole of condensation off the mirror, I looked into the reflection of my pale, red-rimmed eyes, and realized that I still felt lousy.

Maybe once I get on the road and get some coffee in me I'll feel better, I thought.

But I didn't. As I sat in traffic, unable to breathe through my nose and suffering from frequent coughing fits that drowned out my radio, I realized that I still felt absolutely terrible.

I got to work and, with the understanding that I wasn't going to be feeling better anytime soon, sat down and tried to work.

But worked proved to be hard...especially considering that my head felt like that bulb at the bottom of a thermometer on a frigid day when all the mercury settles into it. I may very well be near death, I thought. But having dragged myself this far, I refused to give in.

Work came in intermittent spurts. A little bit was done in between bouts of sneezing. A little more was done in between bouts of coughing. And a little bit more was done even though my cement laden head, burning eyes, and sandpaper coated throat were all threatening to turn against me. But I prevailed for what seemed like hours in this condition.

I glanced at the clock through teary eyes to see how much longer I had until lunch.

It was only 8:15.
 
 
The Lint in my Life 
February 22
 
I've always hated doing laundry. I hate washing clothes. I hate drying clothes. I hate ironing clothes. And if it were considered socially acceptable, I would never wash another garment and walk around in filthy, stinking attire for the rest of my clothes wearing days.

Unfortunately, I tend to enjoy human contact. Thus, I force myself to launder.

As a kid, the whole laundry process seemed quite fun...especially the drying portion. My mother would let me throw the sheet of fabric softener into the dryer which, at the time, I considered to be the most important aspect of the whole thing. And then she'd put me in charge of the Removal of the Lint...the thing that made laundry so intriguing.

I'd pull out the lint tray and carefully peel away the fuzzy concoction from the mesh wire. And, unlike belly button lint or toe jam lint, the drying machine lint was perfectly clean...having just gone through the wash.

I'd marvel at the fluffy white mass in my hands, much like a miniature cumulus cloud which, depending on the amount of dark clothes that had been in the wash, had varying shades of gray...as if threatening rain was on the way.

Of course, I was only a kid and my attention span was limited. So the appeal of lint only lasted for a few seconds before I became bored with it, crumbled it into a ball, and tossed it into the trash. But for those few seconds, lint was possibly the coolest thing in the world.

And even now, removing lint is the highlight of my clothes washing chore...the only redeeming quality about the whole process.

Lately, though, I've been quite disappointed, because rather than the fluffy white/gray lint that I remember from my youth, the lint I get from my clothes nowadays is neither fluffy nor white. Rather, it's quite flat and has a purple tint to it. Which is all the more confusing because I don't own any red or purple clothing.

Granted, I have one maroon bath towel, but this towel doesn't go through every wash cycle...and could one single towel taint the total lint production? I simply can't imagine that this one towel is solely to blame. So why is my lint lacking?

But each time I peel the lint off my lint tray, I'm left looking at a flat, purpley looking mess. It's not billowous or cottony at all...which I always thought was the natural state of lint.

I've always hated doing laundry. And now it's become even more unbearable, because even the lint isn't as exciting as it used to be.
 
 
The Music is Making Me Fat 
February 15
 
I decided that this whole 'healthy living' thing was long overdue. Lately, it seems that my gelatinous body has been screaming at me in protest each time I attempt to walk up a flight of stairs, so I figured that it was about time to give it something to really complain about.

Some time on the tread mill would, I reasoned, reduce the huffing and puffing that shouldn't occur when one simply walks from the kitchen to the couch. Besides, my rent includes access to a gym...so it wasn't like this desire to improve my health would cost me anything. Because if there's one thing I'm frugal about, it's spending money to improve my health. Money should be spent on more important things like wide-screen televisions and wireless laptop computers.

Having been so long absent from any type of exercise institution, I wasn't sure what the current fashion trends were...so I grabbed what I hoped would pass for appropriate gym attire, a ratty old t-shirt and shorts...and headed off.

I entered the gym and wandered over to the treadmills...ready to get myself into shape. I mentally pumped myself up on the car ride over, just in case my mind revolted and forced me to turn into the nearest fast food restaurant rather than submit itself to actual exercise.

I stepped onto the treadmill and started off at a slow jog, when the sound of the overhead speakers entered into my consciousness. The radio station that was being played throughout the gym happened to be a local soft rock station...not one of my particular favorites, but not anything I had any serious objections to...until the first song came on once the commercial break was over.

Because as I was jogging away, Celine Dion began singing that theme song to the film Titanic. I quickly realized that grand ballads professing endless love were not the best musical selections to listen to when trying to exercise. I felt like I was running in slow motion...my feet wanting to keep pace to the music rather than the pace of the belt moving swiftly beneath me. I fought through the pain however...which is what us true exercise enthusiasts will tell you that must be done in order to be fit.

As Celine finished her song and another slow, saccharine dripping love song began, my brain began to win the 'stop jogging' argument.

'How can you possibly jog to all this soft rock?' it asked me...and I use the third person here because my brain was clearly acting of its own accord. 'It simply doesn't seem like real exercise when you're running with love songs playing in the background.'

My brain had a point. So I stopped jogging. To my benefit, though, I put in a whole .07 miles.

I decided to hit the weights instead, but when an Air Supply song started playing, I found that I just couldn't muster the strength to lift anything. Soft rock and pumping iron are diametrically opposed, I realized. Perhaps, had Einstein lived long enough, he would have come up with a mathematical equation to prove this...but even in the absence of hard evidence, I felt positive that this was one of those universal truths.

I gave up and left. My brain, having won the argument, forced me to turn into a McDonald's restaurant...to the victor goes the spoils.

Oddly enough, the same soft rock station that had been playing in the gym was also playing in McDonald's. And as I sat in front of my Big Mac and fries, I realized that while soft rock isn't conducive to exercise, it goes quite well with eating.
 
 
Miles to Go
February 12

Traffic was at a standstill this afternoon, and I was stuck in the middle of an endless sea of gleaming brake lights. Inwardly groaning, and flipping incessantly from radio station to radio station as if the dial could somehow magically accelerate the cars in front of me, I sadly had to conclude that I wouldn't be plopping myself down on the couch anytime in the near future.

I sat back in the driver's seat, frustrated but resigned to this fact...hoping that there would at least be a payoff several miles up the road. This isn't to say that I'm cold-hearted, however. I care just as much for humanity as the next person, and rarely do I take pleasure in other folk's misfortune...but when stuck in apocalyptic traffic such as this, I want to see that a spectacular wreck was the root cause of it all.

Not necessarily a death and dismemberment type of wreck...but a multiple vehicle, twisted metal one with lots of flashing police and ambulance lights suffices nicely. At least this way, all the waiting can be justified and a quick glance at mayhem that isn't mine, and, for me, this tends to be payment enough for having just been parked on the parkway for hours.

But when traffic is stopped for no apparent reason, this is when I become incensed and outraged...at the public transportation department, the original city planners (who felt that two lanes in each direction would suffice for years to come), and at the road itself (why the hell couldn't it aspire to be just a little bit wider!)

As I sat, I began to wonder when those Jetson-esque flying cars would finally be invented. I've never bought a new car right off the lot, but a Jetson car would surely be worth the price, I figured. With one of those babies, I could simply hover up above the ever-expanding row of traffic and glide myself home in mere minutes!

Of course, this theory only works if I'm the only one that actually owns a Jetson car. And the idea of inventing one crossed my mind, but the fact that I can barely make a grilled cheese sandwich let alone a hovering mass of glass and metal meant that my flying days were far in the future.

Still, the thought that I could escape the boredom of everyday life was intoxicating...to just leave the traffic far below and be free. Nothing would hold me back any longer. Wind whipping past me, I'd be able to leave gravity, bosses, deadlines, and worries behind. And for those few short minutes everything would seem possible...a better life just within my grasp.

But the cars surrounding me remained at a standstill and home was still miles away. And as I sat and stared out the window shield, I knew there was still a long way to go.
 
 
Revived Archives 
February 7
 
Entry: June 14, 1977 from my fictitious diaries

My mom's hair always looks really pretty and it smells good too and I know it's because she uses this goopy looking stuff that's in her bathroom. It comes in all these different colors like yellow and green and she told me that it's called 'gel'. It looks sorta like Jell-O that she makes for snacks sometimes, so I bet that this is what she means.

Grown-ups probably just don't add the 'O' at the end of the 'jell' cause its only how kids say it.

So I was sittin' and watchin' TV later on when our dog Snick comes walkin' into the room. He smelled real stinky and his fur looked kinda like someone tied it all in little knots or somethin'. I figured that he probably wanted to look nicer, and if Jell-O can make my mom's hair look pretty, I figured that it could probably do the same for Snick.

So I take him in the kitchen and open the fridge cause my mom had made some Jell-O and I take out a big scoop with my hand and started rubbing it into Snick's fur just like I seen my mom do in front of the bathroom mirror when she uses it in her hair.

I rubbed and rubbed but Snick's fur didn't look any better even though he did smell a little bit like cherries. I was tryin' to figure out what I was doin' wrong, since my mom's hair always looks so pretty but Snick's wasn't getting' any better, but she walked in and gave a sort of small scream.

She took the Jell-O away from me and asked what I thought I was doin', but she didn't give me a chance to answer and said never to put Jell-O in Snick's fur again and told me to go up to my bedroom. So I guess that Jell-O only works for people hair.

But there's got to be something for pets. So tomorrow I'm gonna try peanut butter instead.
 
 
Unlucky in Laptops 
January 13
 
“Have you heard about this one laptop per child thing?” my mom asked the other day.

“Isn't it something about donating money to get underprivileged kids a computer?”

“No...well maybe...but I think they want you to give them your old laptops,” she said. “It's terrible! Why would they be encouraging something like this?”

“I'm not even sure that they want anybody's old laptop...but even if they do, what's the harm in that?” I asked.

“I know all about these computers,” she explained. “These kids now a days, even if you erase your hard drive, they can go in and bring back everything! All your passwords and bank accounts...they could steal your whole identity! Not to mention all the porn that people download anymore. By giving them old laptops, all we're going to do is create a generation of identity thieves who will all be addicted to pornography!”

“Mom,” I tried to reason, “I'm sure that they would clean out the hard drives so nothing could be found. Why would you even be worried about this? You only use the computer to play solitaire.”

“I heard a report about it on 20/20. And besides, that's not true at all,” she responded. “I google and email all the time! I've gone digital!”

“You've gone digital?”

“Yes,” she said. “I used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle in the newspaper every morning, but now I do it on-line. I'm becoming very technologically savvy with all of these computer do-hickeys.”

My mom shifted gears and began relating a story about a distant cousin, but as I listened I couldn't help but feel sorry for the future kid that may one day inherit my mother's old computer. Because while all of his friends sit around stealing credit card numbers and watching pornography from the recovered hard drives of their donated laptops, the kid that got my mom's would be left trying to find a seven letter word for 'hapless'.
 
 
What Would Have Been 300 
January 11

I hate it when people post about how many postings they've posted. It's a completely self indulgent activity. And can posting a post to say that you've posted another post actually count toward your total post count? I highly doubt that this would even be considered a legitimate post if a council of blog regulations existed.

Theoretically, had the internet been around when I was born, I could have posted something every day stating, 'this is my first post' and 'this is my 134th post' and by now have been up to over 9,000 posts. They'd all amount to nothing more than a bunch of worthless crap, but 9,000 is quite a big number.

And having just written something about the number of posts I've posted, I'm ashamed to even count this as a post at all. At best, it's maybe a tenth of a post...or perhaps a quarter post. But not a full-fledged post.

So here it is, my 299.25th post.

Though I'm not even sure what would constitute a record number of posts. Now in sports, numbers mean something. 700 home runs. 50 touchdown passes. 35 broken bones (Evel Knievel's record). Those are numbers you can pick up women with.

And really, why even bother counting if it can't somehow get you laid?
 
 
My Punctuational Crush 
January 10
 
I tend to use commas quite often when writing. And, after some reflection and soul searching, I have to admit that I think I might be in love.

Because of all the punctuation out there, none can compare to a comma. Periods signify an end and, for the most part, I don't care much for endings. Endings are always tinged with sadness. A period is sentence death, and even when you didn't particularly like the sentence you just read, death is still pretty much a bummer.

Sure you can reread the sentence, but it's never the same as that first time. You know what to expect. The excitement and thrill is gone. Sure, the familiarity is comforting, but it's been done before.

But with commas, you know that things aren't quite over yet. You and the sentence still have one more moment together. There's still time for you to be surprised or thrilled or intrigued. Things are going to go on...at least for a while. Which is also why I'm quite partial to the three periods in a row...a close cousin to the comma.

Of course, often you'll come to find that by prolonging the sentence your time was simply wasted. Nothing new was learned. It was a stupid sentence anyway, so why bother dragging it out? The relationship was over long before the comma.

But still, I love commas.

Exclamation points don't excite me. Too much emotional outpouring. It's tiring. And I find question marks to be rather whiny.

Colons signify that a list is coming, and I really don't care much for lists. And I just have never gotten the whole semicolon thing.

But with commas, there's still a chance for something to happen. I'm waiting for the day that some author realizes this and writes a whole book with nothing but commas. No periods. Just one long, never-ending whirlwind of a sentence. I would love that...unless the story sucked, that is. Then I'd probably be a little bit pissed.

But that's more the author's fault, so it's really not fair to blame the comma.

I, simply, adore, commas,
 
 
Revived Archives  
January 08
 
Entry: October 8, 1998 from my fictitious diaries

Woke up. Went to work. Came home from work.

Was hungry. Wanted an omelet. Went to the supermarket. Returned home.

Began cooking omelet.

Realized that I forgot to buy eggs. Went back out to the supermarket. Returned home again.

Made omelet.

Realized that I really didn't want an omelet. What I was really hungry for was a hamburger.

Threw the omelet away.

Went out to McDonald's and bought hamburger. Returned home again. Ate hamburger.

Realized that I hadn't wanted the hamburger after all. I had actually wanted an omelet all along. Briefly considered getting omelet out of trash and eating it. Knew that this was a dangerous path to a life of vagrancy and bumdom.

I left it in the garbage can.

So upset at having chosen the wrong dinner that I barely enjoyed this evening's episode of Friends.
 
 
A Change to the Left  
January 07
 
With the start of the new year, I felt the obligatory duty to make some type of attempt at change. I've long ago given up on the whole 'resolution' thing, determining that I simply don't have the willpower to make any significant inroads toward resolving any resolutions. But still, a plan, I reasoned, isn't really a resolution. It's simply a map toward a better life. And my life could clearly use some bettering.

So I began a mental checklist...lose weight, get in shape, pay off old debts, find true love. But after only a few items, I realized that everything listed would take a great deal of time and effort...the exact reason that I don't believe in resolutions in the first place.
 
Things that require time and effort are difficult. And while I would surely welcome change, I'm not looking to increase my daily recommended dose of effort. So I deleted these items from the 'change' category and put them in the 'long term goal' category, which means that they they'll show up again on next year's list.

I need something easy that will produce an automatic change, I thought to myself. And then, as if some higher power was listening, the answer came to me.
 
Underpants!

My current underwear situation is stark. Most every pair I own is in the final stages of complete disintegration...much like sawdust held tenuously together by one or two remaining threads. Now this, I felt, is a change that I could accomplish! And after a quick trip to my local underpants outlet, my new year was off to an excellent beginning.

Shortly after washing and wearing one of my new recruits, however, I started to question the whole notion of change.

Typically, I favor the boxer briefs variety of underwear. Boxer shorts, I have found, don't provide the support that I ask for in a pair of underpants. Rather, it's like a bungee-jumping marathon is taking place in my pants every time I start walking around. The boxer briefs tend to keep things in their respective place without the geek-factor that's associated with the tighty-whiteys.

But as the day wore on in my new underpants, I noticed that things seemed to be off-center. More specifically, things felt quite left of center.

Things never felt off center in my old underpants, but these new ones clearly had a leftist slant to them. And for the whole day, I remained off balance. As I walked, I found myself leaning to the left. As I typed, I found that I was favoring the keys that my left hand could reach. Even my political views started leaning to the left.

True, I had accomplished a change...but this change just didn't feel right. I enjoyed my world view from the vantage point of my old underpants, where things had their place and actually stayed in their place.

So a week into the new year and I've already abandoned any notion of change. Maybe next year will be my year for improvement, but as for the rest of 2008, I'll be returning to the unchanged me.

At least until the final threads of my underwear snap.
 
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