Jan 31, 2008

Would You Eat With Them On A Train?

Hwo do you make people (your co-workers f'instance) understand that you do not want now nor will you ever want to eat with them, shy of telling them all the truth which will set you free but which will first give them even more ammunition to fire you with?

I'm peculiar.

I'm peculiar in that I won't sit down to eat with people I don't trust. There's something very personal, very genuine and deep about sharing a meal with someone, and for me to simply _think_ about breaking bread and salt with someone I cannot trust or do not know or like is utterly abhorrent to me. If I eat a meal in a public place with you it means that you're far above the norm in my esteem. If I invite you to eat at my table then rest assured that I trust you deeply, and if I make you something to eat with my own two rather unskilled hands then count yourself amongst a very rare company indeed.

Oh. Before someone points it out, I know full well that I've attended group meals and eaten in nice dining establishments with members of my own extended family whom I don't really like, but there's a difference there. Family is a pretty powerful trump card. No, what I'm talking about here is close proximity dining; sitting around a conference table in the office with the woman who not even a week ago told me "...it's either you or me." Today I was repeatedly plied with offers of Chinese food and the opportunity to sit and dine with the entire office staff, most of whom I simply work with, some of whom I've come to actively dislike and one whom I'd happily see pushed under a speeding beer truck. NOT people I'd ever want to share something as personal as a meal with.

I've spent most of the past two decades turning down offers to eat with fellow employees, and all of my past three years at this office turning down these people or people very much like them. How many ways can one say "No" without leaping up and shouting "Look you stupid motherfuckers, I'd not eat with you if you were serving ambrosia and nectar served on the breasts and bellies of three dozen of the most exquisite and nubile redheads around! I'd not piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire, why would I want to sit and partake of food with you?"

Maybe that's what I need to try next.

Or, I could just go into a long and detailed explanation of my bowel processes when I eat in a stressful, unfriendly, nay, even hostile environment. That ought to put them off their feed.

While we're on the subject of food and the office environment, let me mention that we've got a borrowed office manager in from New Mexico to help catch up some glaring failures that the State might shut the office down over. The other day the talk around the women-folk in the office (read: everyone but me) was concerning diets, specifically the new/old diet which involves drinking a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar three times a day as an appetite suppressant.

I know. I had to ask again just to make sure I heard it right. Apple. Cider. VINEGAR. Drinking the stuff. Diet. Vinegar.

Now the chief complaint from the current Vinegar Diet-ing nurse and the marketer who had apparently used this method before was a "burning sensation in your stomach that lasts a couple of hours." Now, call me foolish but I'd think that a burning sensation in the stomach for two hours after imbibing vinegar would be a pretty strong negative indicator. ("Hey, if it burns for two hours then maybe your body is trying to tell you that you SHOULDN'T BE EATING IT!")

It was right around this point in the conversation that our on-loan office manager (who is a tiny waif of a woman, perhaps all of 80 pounds soaked in vinegar) appeared in the doorway, setting off a cacophany of catcalls and derisive groans concerning her figure. To which said waif mentioned that she was on a special "Christian diet" and that it was really doing well for her.

I had to step away.

A Christan diet. What in the name of Mother Mary's skid-marked panties is a "Christan diet?" Are you only allowed to eat unleavened bread and wild locusts? Can you lose weight on a diet that consists solely of manna? Loaves and fishes, all you can eat?

A Christian diet. So many questions! Is this diet okayed by Papal Decree? Did Jeebus give Moses the Ten Commandments and the Guide To Fast, Easy Weight Loss? What did Martin Luther have to say about the Christian Diet when he nailed his notes to the door, and was he a particularly chubby fellow?

A Christian diet. What, does she eat only Christians? Do you have to baptise your dinner? Did the Roman emperors know something we don't about weight loss, and is that why lions are so svelt? Do certain kinds of Christians taste different from others? Are Episcopals, like the joke goes, simply Catholic Light?

"Hey Jim, you gotta try some of these Episcopals! Same great Catholic taste but half the calories and none of the guilt!"

How do you prepare Christians? Do you oven bake them? That didn't work so well for Shadrack, Meshack and Abendigo. Boiling them in oil seems to work, just ask Torquemada but is deep-fat frying really that healthy? Do grilled Mormons taste better than a shishkabob of Greek Orthodox? Do Italian Christians taste better with olive oil? What sort of wine does one serve with long pork? How heart-healthy is a Franciscan with a side order of Jesuit fries and what sort of Weight Watcher's points is that?

I have a question about your menu, Gawd!
______________________________
post scriptum: Be sure and listen this Sunday to the one, the only, the Sunday Vagapocalypse, hosted this week by none other than our own Vulgar Wizard who, with a nice side of carrots and peas can serve a family of six. Me, I'll be out of the state taste-testing various orthodoxies.

Jan 30, 2008

DONE!

Damnit, the yearly ritual is done!

Taxes are filed.

W-2s are all nestled away, the forms are submitted, the e-file system is winging my numbers straight into Hell. My refund will be here in time to be spent immediately, and the cycle goes 'round.

I'm tired. My bleeding left retina aches, and I had to get stuck in the arm with a hosepipe this morning at the MD's office to prove that I don't have diabeetus*. At least this time there wasn't a lady in the next room demanding that she wasn't having a heart attack even when she was.**

Going to bed now. Blog entries on both blogs forthcoming, I promise.

________________________
* I can't say "diabetes" anymore, all I can do is say it like Wilford Brimley on those damned Liberty Medical Supply commercials. "dia-BEET-us."

** Blog post upcoming on this subject as well as hospital waiting rooms and the inadvisability of matching your eye makeup colour to your scrubs. Honest.

Jan 27, 2008

SFX Malfunction!

Show 5 of the Sunday Vagapocalypse is in the can and down the tubes, ready to lie in state for a fortnight, having already haunted me with a vexing variety of broadcast irregularities (like I've ever been regular) and a host of sound effects blowups.

Oh, the announcement: next Sunday's show is....well, is actually probably going to be postponed. But first, the meat of the pudding!

Stucco Disenchantment was our guest host this morning at the ungodly hour of 10:30 CST and was astoundingly devoid of lung butter! In the post-show wrapup with Nancy Dancehall, Schmoopie and my ever-loyal Co-Host Vulgar Wizard along with Helga I found out that The Sunday Vagapocalypse is the only thing that is able to rouse the slumbering Stucco from his Sunday morning bed, and that includes his wife prancing around nekid and/or a huge platter of Krispie Kremes. Damn, I feel powerful! Almost as powerful as that vibrating traffic warning/marital aid/meat substitute that Stucco and his Missus purchased.

Wow.

So anyway!

The chat room was alive and disorderly with VW ably leading the pack as always, typing skills up to the task even with a life-threatening laceration to one of her fingers. Gordo The Geek pitched us a few floaters to add to the Catch Phrase List down below, and Stucco's guesting duties were admirably assisted by what sounded like seventeen houseguests whose delayed laughter confused the poor boy mightily. Between the BlogTalkRadio lag, the cellular phone lag and the reading speed of his guests Stucco was hearing the response to jokes I made on last week's show I think.

Back to the (blonde) bombshell I dropped earlier--it just occurred to me as I sat to write this, and now that it's too late to announce on the show that I'm likely going to be absent for next week's Vagapocalypse. Consternation! Fie! Other obscure espressions of surprise and shock! I'd managed to forget that we have a dog show to attend in Fort Smith, Arkansas (Land of No Teeth And Winding, Directionless Roads) next Sunday, and barring a massive upset in the ring (I love my dog but I don't see her placing Best against the sort of competition we face there) we probably won't even be leaving Arkansas until noon.

SO!

This is a casting call: I need someone to host the show next Sunday with Vulgar Wizard and Helga. If you feel up to the mightly task of talking on the phone for an hour with VW and a cast of thousands (*ahem*) then by all means let me know in the comments here or via email now, so I can start advertising as such. Baring an Act of Universe I'll be back with you guys for the Sunday after next, by which time I hope to have wrangled up a guest and a raison d' etre.

Now, without further ado:


The Sunday Vagapocalypse Weekly Catch Phrase List: Volume 1

(as lovingly and painstakingly compiled by Vulgar Wizard)



  • ass gaskets
  • ass chiggers
  • urinal talkers
  • go have a growler
  • Wink Martindale
  • zombie prom
  • triple x box
  • assless chaps
  • ass beret
  • wet naps
  • sex toy cone
  • putting the trunk to good work
  • French tickler
  • giant green dong
  • hard, molded plastic feathering
  • whisker burn


See what you miss when you go to Church on Sunday morning? Join us!

Jan 26, 2008

Best Of Breed!

That's right, boys and girls! Aria Svora "Belle" Cascabel took her first breed win today at the Alexandria, LA AKC show! Purple and gold isn't just for LSU anymore!



She earned her first point today, toward a Championship level of 15. For Championship status she's required to win two majors. Today was her first minor win, and next weekend's show in Arkansas is a major. I can't say we'll win but I'm pretty certain we'll place. Small steps, always small steps.

Belle showed well, her fur is looking better than ever before, and her entire attitude today was one of relaxed, almost bored Hound. She even attended the Group competition, but the judge seemed to like his dogs short and long--first through third were Dachshunds. BUT, we were there. The Group ring. *big grin*



The pre-show groom was, as usual, the same regime of fluff and powder and brushes.





Tomorrow's competition is absent, there's no Borzoi but us entered so we're guaranteed a win, but I think I might take the next step and show her myself. Nothing to lose, and I might as well get my feet wet here at home in front of a nominal audience.

Next week, Arkansas. Small steps.

Jan 23, 2008

Nibblets Addendum

Okay, it's bad enough that attractive young women are calling me "Mister" and "Sir" and "Gramps" but I guess the Universe wanted to remind me that no matter how bad it is, it can always be worse.

This year I decided to re-up my vision insurance plan through work, since everyone in the family wears glasses. It's been a year and a half since my last vision screening, longer for the women-folk in the family, and you're supposed to get that stuff done yearly. Factor into the equation that both my pairs of glasses are abused to the point that I squint through the haze of pits and gouges more with them on than without, so it was high time. I packed up and left work early today, got my white cane and dark glasses, slipped Belle into her service animal harness and went to the new eye doctor.

A tiny detour. The last optometrist I went to was a retired prison warden. Either that or he got his doctorate from a Heidelburg dueling and advanced masochism academy. "Brusk" does not begin to describe the man's attitude, but I'll give him this--he was efficient. Eyes dilated, seven words exchanged, you were in and out in ten minutes or less or your next beating and eye exam were free. New glasses firmly jammed in place you'd be thrust into the street blinking and gasping in the light like a blind cave fish suspended in front of a lighthouse.

So yes, I dropped him like a spoiled bratwurst. Found this new guy, hoped for the best and hit damned close. Very friendly, very social, and even dangerously close to quitting time he was willing to sit and chat and tell me what was going on with my eyeballs. He even had this astounding machine which was in essence an eleven megapixel digital camera for taking photographs of...wait for it...the back of your eyeball.

Insane.

Technology is freaking astounding. A perfect two hundred degree photograph of a part of me that I never thought to look at, a part of me that I figured I'd have to endure the eye-cutting scene from Un Chien Andalou to experience, and honestly I didn't feel the need to see it in the first place but there it was. The inside bits of both of my eyes, instantly displayed for my extended (and scalpel-free) perusal on a twenty inch LCD monitor. Healthy, I was told, except for a tiny portion of one blood vessel that was hemorrhaging in a small spot. I wanted to tell him it was because he'd fired a fifty thousand lumen flash right into my unsuspecting iris, but memories of Herr Doktor Sabre kept me silent.

I can still see the flash. *shiver*

Then he drove the nail into my coffin. Gave me the news that I'd been dreading to hear. Seems the exam-and-cutlass-up-the-joxie optometrist I'd gone to last had made my choice in corrective vision appliances for me without bothering to involve me in the decision making process. He assigned me glasses that gave me moderately good distance vision mixed with moderately good up-close vision and left it at that. Seems I need something different.

Bifocals.

Bom bom BOMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Bifocals. Invented by Ben Franklin because he was tired of changing his glasses depending on if he was outside overlooking his extensive tobacco plantation or stepping out to the shacks to pick out a slave girl for the night. Bifocals. So named because of that huge, horrid bulging Coke-bottle secondary lens at the bottom of each pane of glass that screams to the world "Look! An OLD guy!"

This new doctor never actually CALLED them bifocals, strangely enough. I guess that word is no longer in vogue amongst spectacle purveyors. Apparently the new terminology is "progressive lenses," so called because the huge gash across the middle of each lens is hidden and the strength increases as you cross the surface of the lens from 'blind' to 'way freaking blind.'

I was still stunned as the perfectly coifed, tanned and crafted salesgirl gave me all the technical warnings about my first time wearing "progressive lenses." Words like "swimming effect" and "severe nausea" and "can't ever go back EVER, Sir" floated through my hearing but all I could hear was "bifocals," which to me sounds an awful lot like "grave."

*sigh* Just call me "Grandpa Irrelephant."

Nibblets

In lieu of a fully-developed post please accept this motley collection of thoughts.

I know I’m getting old: girls are now calling me “Mister” and “Sir.” There’s nothing worse than that for a MAWG. When a pretty young thing prefaces her lilting words to you with a “Mister” you start to feel like your father, and you feel the cliff-edge crumbling under your feet.

What happened to “I have an open-door policy”? I’ve never seen more secrecy, closed doors and whispering behind backs as I have with my new bosses here. The lackluster replacement for VW is a darker, far more perfumed version of the bible-thumping waste of skin that is our new director of nursing, but in every other way she is a boot-licking duplicate. Closed doors are her stock in trade, and it’s more annoying than a sharp stick in the eye, as is aloof, holier-than-thou looks. I’ve rarely disliked people on first impression but this one has my vote for Prime Candidate for Retroactive Abortion.

Distressing. But so is not receiving a single call from some 20 resumes and applications filed. The joy of the internet and of drawing applicants via email or electronic applications is that as distant and aloof boss you can remain behind your closed door and simply hit “delete” without having to face the person. I think that’s called “cowardice” but I’m not sure. Ours does it here, too. I’d rather be told WHY I’m not considered hiring material by a person. At least that way I can work toward fixing the real or imagined lack. It’s hard to improve yourself when there’s no feedback of any sort.

Heath Ledger died yesterday. I had to go on IMDB to see who he was, and his face is still as ambiguous as water to me. I couldn’t pick him out of a crowd if I had to but the news is working its way up to a froth over him because he was a promising young star who died, They think, of a drug overdose. People die every day of drug overdoses and of far worse things but who is going to sing their praises? I’m tired of celebrities. I’m tired of hearing about Brittney and Lindsay and Paris and Rudolph and Hillary and that other guy who reminds me of Nemiah Scudder.*

It’s raining again. Yesterday while driving to the Post Office I kept seeing the white shapes of egrets standing in the brown water of ditches and bayous. Patient, ghostly white shapes in the grey of fog and rain, expanding concentric circles of raindroplets making patterns around their dark legs. This morning I saw a mockingbird sitting on a stop-sign, all fluffed-feathers and head tucked in, looking for all the world like a grey baseball with a pair of frail sticks and a tuft of long feathers stuck in for good measure. I wonder what it must be like to have no recourse to a fireplace or a heater, no dry roof to be under. What must it be like to have to rough it when it gets really and truly cold. What must it be like when the phrase “Root, hog, or die” is literal, and what lesson can I take from that little grey bird?

I’m ready for Spring. I enjoy the coolth of Fall and the end of Winter because there’s no better time to work outside but right now I most need to be able to dig my fingers deep into the brown earth and plant some seed. It’s time to see green sprouts of okra and the lanky, trembling branches of young tomatoes reaching for the pale sun. It’s time to sweat from good, hard exertion, and time to reap the bounty Nature and I have produced.

________________
*See Robert A. Heinlein’s Future History stories, particularly those concerning the rise of an ultra-conservative religious leader who ends up running America. The Crazy Years have been upon us, and Heinlein has never looked more like a true soothsayer.

Jan 20, 2008

The Post-Broadcast

Well well wellie-well!

Show four went off...well, I can't say "without a hitch" because being as hard on myself as I am usually I was afraid for most of the day that it'd been a little shy of the sort of stellar performance that I expect from myself at all times, but I was carried by Vulgar Wizard, my Girl Friday co-host and by the fact that we had a record SEVENTEEN listeners! Woooooot! *G*

I hate to say I ruined Mr. Fabulous' well-prepared and perhaps even well-rehearsed play on the Green Room, which I have to say pains ME a great deal too. You see, one of the reasons I most love radio is the same reason I love writing so much--in skilled hands you can, with a few words or sound effects in the case of radio build an entire world, a secret underground broadcast studio, even people it with strange characters.

Which brings me to wondering--is Germany the next world power (again) or what? The last two guests I've had on, Stucco and Mr. Fab BOTH speak enough German to see through my shadow play with Helga. *sigh*

But then there was the highlight of the show--The Lightning Round. I have to say that Mr. F did a fan-tabulous job at the lightning round, and as soon as the steroid test results come back I'll know for sure if I can award him his points. It's damned sad when doping scandals reach as far as the sacred halls of radio broadcasting.

Next week we'll be making the inestimable Stucco rouse his arse out of bed nice and early to join us for the All Stucco show, as a way to make up for keeping him locked...er... sitting in the Green Room for some twelve minutes this morning. Hey, at least the gnat's egg salad sandwiches in the fridge were fresh, right? Be sure and join us!

Thank you, won't you?

Jan 18, 2008

Poetry Friday: Juice

Today's word compliments of Maggie and her mossy mind.


Jucie

Some people like theirs from the fridge
Held in waxed cardboard, pulpy and awash with California sunshine.

Some people like theirs held
In great green rinds, filled with crisp red flesh and slippery black seeds.

Some people like theirs on the branch
Hanging succulent and pink, covered in downy fur and full of sweetness.

And some like theirs lying on soft cotton sheets
A coral red flower ready to open, the long slick slide making toes curl tight.


I know, I could probably be a little less subtle. Speaking of subtlety and the man in his boat, don't forget to set your reminders for the Sunday Vagapocalypse this Sunday at 10:30 CST, especially you PNW folks! Looking forward to seeing you all there!

Jan 16, 2008

Mea Maxima Culpa

Kids, I'm sorry. I truly am.

I'm tired. So tired. Work has turned into the Mariner's albatross, but I'm still wondering who I shot to deserve this stinking carcass around my neck. My early morning times have for the past two weeks been devoted to counting very small needles in very big boxes, catheters of mind-boggling and urethra-stretching dimensions, and Aquacel Ag, a silver-impregnated anti-bacterial dressing that is grotesquely expensive and seems to be proliferating in my supply closet at work.

Inventory. I finished this morning around 10 after being warned by my Supply Management contact at Corporate that my counts showed that I had almost $550 TOO MUCH. I calmly explained to her via email that the director of nursing for our facility doesn't bother to enforce the rules concerning returning supplies to me that have already been billed to the patients, preferring instead to let the RNs leave said unused supplies lying around wherever. My mind kept shouting "Medicare fraud!" and... no-one seemed too worried. *shrug* I called her directly, got her voicemail. Seems she didn't want to talk. I emailed the AVP. He didn't seem too worried because no-one else seemed worried. Said DON didn't bother to come in today, her excuse as tired as all the others she's always trotting out to cover...whatever. More time spent in her xian church masturbating in time to old-time gospel hymns, I guess.

Me? I cornered the Clinical Manager (the RN's supervisor) and chewed him a new one. I ranted. I raved. I frothed. I chewed my tongue and ran around in circles biting my tail. Still no one seemed to care. Inventory over. I wash my hands of it. If I have anything to say about it the next quarter's inventory will be done by someone else, because I'll be LONG GONE.

This quarter? Instead of worrying that I might fall below the maximum 5% loss indicator I'm shaking my head because I ended up 15% over, wondering when I'm going to hear from the Chief Legal Counsel concerning this massive windfall of Aquacel Ag ($27.50 each, I had at least ten extra. And 150 Telfa island dressings. And.)

My evenings have been filled with resumes and applications. SF-10 forms to be precise (state Civil Service application; seventeen pages of Pure Bureaucratic Hell) and desperate searches across both the state and the federal job boards, including but not limited to comparisons of my own abilities against those required for certain jobs and stretching my definition of "personal skill set" to fit those job requirements so I can send out Just One More Application. I could be a surgeon, right? I've a steady hand and can muster a Gawd Complex. My head is swimming with employment dates and my college semester hours and a precise, bureaucratic breakdown of just what I do every minute of every day. No wonder I'm so fakking tired.

What I can't figure is this--I've called a lot of state and federal government offices and talked to a whole lot of people whose skill set seems like it'd be pressed hard to let them function as ditch diggers (that's a OS-5 rating in Federal Civil Service) much less people in charge at places like the VA, the State Department of Taxation or the DMV. My sweet freaking gold-plated Jeebus' testes, how do these people manage to fill out the applications properly, much less pass the PET test? I don't GET IT. Or do those jobs just MAKE you stoopid?

*sigh*

I'm tired, kids. My creativity is at low ebb. I WANT to write. I want to talk to you guys. I want to tell you about my cousin coming in from Floria, the one with whom my brother and I grew up, siblings in all but blood type. I want to write about the rain, about my '66 Mustang convertible that my brother is going to start restoring for me. I want to write long winding sad stories of my childhood, and short, sharp shaggy dog stories that make you groan aloud when you get to the punchline, but when I do sit and type nothing comes out but bile and putresence and anger at a job that seems to have turned it's uncaring back on me. I need to assemble a whole list of fascinating and surreal questions to pepper Mr. Fab with this Sunday for the inauguration of the Lighting Round but I'm doing good right now to work up enough spit to dribble down my chin.

All I want to do is sleep, but I can't do that and expect to wake up with a fresh new job full of bright promise waiting for me, so here I am, slogging.

Anyone out there want a MAWG* with a very wide range of servicable job skills and a burning desire to make a difference? Work ethic beaten and bloody but unbowed, grey hair at no extra charge. Trains not required but a definite plus.

__________________
*Middle Aged White Guy--everyone should have two or three on the payroll.

Jan 13, 2008

Well Damned!

I wrote a nice-sized post about this morning's Sunday Vagapocalypse and how Stucco and VW and I chatted the hour away and went on to chat another hour and a half after the show went off the air, and Blogger seems to have seen fit to make it explode into a million tiny fragments of pixie dust and blow away.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrr.

If you can spare the better part of an hour be sure to listen to this morning's show--we covered a lot of things, from making Stucco get up at an ungodly hour to talk with us to school science fair projects to turtle-neck sweaters with cockring zipper pulls to lung butter, and didn't even scratch the surface. Set your reminders now!

Don't forget, next Sunday we'll be hosting Mr. Fabulous of Pointless Drivel and will be introducing the Lighting Quiz!

Jan 9, 2008

Where Am I?

And why does my arse hurt so much?

I'm tired of my job. That's putting it politely. To put it coarsely I'm sick to fucking death of the place.

A while back I used to gripe fairly freely about work, but honestly I started feeling a little bad about it. Not about dogging the company I work for (there's not a chance of me damaging a Fortune 500 Best Small Company with my few words.) I felt bad because I was raised not to bite the hand that feeds not only me but my family. So, I stopped. Like a good American Male I simply bottled most of it up, letting vent only when the pressure was at eye-ball bursting point.

Consider this a little occular strain reduction.

For those of you who just joined the incredible three-ring party that is Q: What's Large, Grey and Doesn't Matter, the blogger known only as Vulgar Wizard used to be my boss. That's right boys and squirrels, Used To Be. She finally got out, you see. Bravely enough she jumped out of the airplane without a parachute of any metallic hue whatsoever. And yesterday she landed a cherry job. For the State. Yeah girl, you go. State benefits, retirement plan, and it's nearly impossible to get fired. Damn, how could you ask for more?

That move I think was the straw that broke this irrelephant's back. It gave me the strength of will to get up off my own large grey arse and get moving, get looking seriously. Thus far I've put out about eight applications/resumes and been turned down by the Kansas City Southern railroad company re: my application for a "Foreman General JA10437" which surprisingly doesn't involve a sharp uniform or an aide de camp but does involve driving one of those pickup trucks with the optional steel wheels along miles of railroad track checking for abnormalities, damage or willing vestal virgins.

Hey, hope springs eternal, right?

Tonight at some point I get my hand steady and finish filling out my SF-10 and stick in all the pertinent info like my last seventy jobs and my college hours earned and how many times I've robbed Quick-E-Marts and been caught, then sneak that bad boy into the office and make about a thousand copies to send off for what the State calls Series 7333 jobs--office, clerical, admin. M-F, 8-5.

Oh, and one to the DOT for that Heavy Equipment Operator job they've got open. I could drive a dozer. Yeah boy!

It's time for a change, kids. I thought this new boss was going to be the firm hand on the ship's wheel we needed. What we got instead is a captain who is such a control freak that when she tells you to scrub out the heads she wants to tell you how to hold your mouth while you do it. To add insult to injury she's busy filling the office with her cronies, little sycophants who are perfectly willing to squat under her shadow and be her puppets. Nooooo, not for The Kid, thanks. I'm outta here.

The best part? People asking me "Are you looking for another job?" with that sort of probing, 'is there hope you'll stay and suffer with me' look. I look them straight in the eye and say "Oh no, not me, I'm here for the long haul" with all the sincerity I can muster. See, I know that my absence as a person won't be grieved for long, but I also know that I'm even now in the process of destroying the tons of operational paperwork I've painstakingly gathered to help even a blind chimp to do my job. When I leave it'll be with all of my formidable knowledge of my job in my head and not passed onto another employee and all the carefully gathered paperwork shredded or burnt: let THEM struggle to find it like I had to. One week's notice is going to be plenty for me, you see, if I give them that much, and the only other person in the office who does the 'same' job as I is a lazy slacker who isn't making any effort to learn now, so why should she later?

When VW left the office it crippled our administrative operations for weeks; the boss' fault for not training someone during the three-week notice that VW gave. When I leave I hope to have at least that much impact if not more. I hope the Xian god she so loves to call on helps her out of this one because it's certain that I'm not going to, and I'm going to toss her in the deepest hole I can dig before I walk off with a smile.

Kick even the most loyal dog enough times and it'll draw blood before it leaves your ass.

Jan 6, 2008

Bunch of Circus Freaks

Another show (our landmark SECOND!) is in the can, and boy is it in the can.

Attend me: potty humour, altar boy jokes, and Jean from Pondering... called in to chat. Vulgar Wizard and I quizzed her at length about microscopic welding, mountain ranges in Florida and why she didn't cause the numerous space shuttle delays. We also managed to launch about ten ideas for further side-shows which will never make it since I can't even manage the show I have NOW.

We were joined in the chat room by Nancy Dancehall of Just Another Love Letter and Gordo The Geek from Gordo's Brain! who spent their time productively by singing bits of old 80's hit songs and discussing mountain ranges with the ever-mountainous Vulgar Wizard.

And just to prove that I DO listen to you and read your comments and sometimes even take the extraordinary step of acting on them, the show has been moved ever so slightly: we'll be broadcasting the next show (and hopefully all shows from then forward) this coming Sunday the 13th at 10:30 AM CST instead of 9. I realise that's still 8:30 am on the west coast but hey, I can't spend my entire day worrying about the radio show! *lol* I agree, though: 9am is too early for me to be up and functioning, Stucco, and I hadn't taken into account the sheer masses of unwashed hippie listeners from the Pacific Northwest who might want to get in on the circus train action. But see, you guys can be UP at 8:30 because really all you have to do is log in and listen, while I have to struggle with popups and multitasking and finding a mic/headset that works on my big ole fat head.

Sheesh, the lengths I go through for you guys.

SO! Follow the link up there, set a reminder for yourself on the show page (stapling Post-It Notes to my head seems to work for me,) set your Interocitor on Blue and join us, won't you for The Sunday Vagapocaylpse III! I promise next time it'll be worth getting up for.

Jan 1, 2008

From The Brim To The Dregs

That's how I'm hoping to drink the new year. Straight down, day 1 to day 365, and I'll stop at the end of it all and say in a loud, clear voice "Where the hell am I, and whose panties are these?"

Will I? Doubtful. *s* I'm not the sort of person who can simply throw themselves into anything, much less a whole bloody year. I mean honestly, that's a lot of days! I think my best practice is going to involve taking each day singly; wake up each morning, look about with bleary eyes and mutter "Go on, Day, do your worst." Then trip over the cat and end up pitching myself through the window and right out into the azalea bush.

I guess having worked only four days in the last, what, two week or so it's easy to look to the new year with renewed vigour and vim. Enthusiasm comes easy when you've been sitting on your bum for the better part of two weeks.

The Sunday Vagapocalypse launched this morning to a serenely quiet audience of one--my cohost of the morning Vulgar Wizard. Here's hoping the next broadcast (this Sunday morning at 9am CST, not 9pm as I stated at the end of the first broadcast) is better, stronger and faster. It'll certainly be longer--I was very surprised to find how FAST fifteen minutes can pass. I chose that short time frame to let me ease into this thing--the whole Internet Radio thing is very new to me, and while I'm not afraid to fail I'd rather fail in a small and somewhat private manner rather than in front of, say, the entire US House of Representatives.

I must say this, however--the interface betwixt my alluring Southern voice, oozing that gracious charm that we Southern men are known for (gods I'm setting myself up for a big slam there, aren't I?) and the cold, cruel world of the internet airwaves was very easy to use, in spite of the fact that my radio host doesn't really give a lot of instruction prior to your first launch. But launch I did, with the steady (*snort*) Vulgar Wizard at the compass and sail we did. Well, maybe not so much sail as sort of motor around the harbor, losing the anchor overboard, messing up the GPS settings and in general bothering the seagulls and the occasional serious boater, but you gotta start somewhere, right?

In spite of a malfunctioning headset we got through it. It's been archived over there on the left if you want to witness a small boating accident with minimal fatalities and no Leon DeCaprio in sight. Plus I want to take this moment to seriously invite you all to the second broadcast this Sunday morning, however, and I want to plant a seed (heh! sexual innuendo!) in the fertile soil of each of you:

How do you feel about being interviewed?

You see, I'm not a big indie music guy nor am I setting this internet radio thing up so I can broadcast my own political or religious views. No, I'm talking. Just talking. As is VW and Helga. With luck I'll be talking to YOU, now or later. I want to know what makes you tick, what makes you write, what makes you read. I want to know what you are reading if you don't write, and what you write if you aren't reading. I want to hear about your most embarrassing moments, or about your finest. The rest of us want to know too, especially Helga*.

So. Comment me, or email me if you're shy or want to keep it a surprise visit at irrelephant dot blog at gmail and let me know you're game. Otherwise I'm gonna have to do like that teacher you always hated in school, the one who after seeing no hands raised would then start calling on people. The one who always called on you when you hadn't a CLUE as to what the question was, much less the answer because you'd been spending the whole class trying to get a glimpse up the skirt of the cute girl who sat one chair over from you and one behind, so that the angle was just enough to...well, you get the picture.

If you're REALLY not one for being on the radio then please be my guest and listen in. Simply click the link to the left there, the "Listen To My Show" thingie and that'll bring you to the site and the reminder link and all that good stuff. You can always call in, too! Dial IR-35347 anytime or (646) 378-1631 while I'm on the air; you can give me a hard time, and trust me, I deserve it.

Thank you, won't you?
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* Helga is my go-fer, my spiritual, mental and physical advisor and my all-around radio flunkie. She keeps the tea hot and babysits the Interocitor, keeps the secret underground broadcast studio swept and dusted and makes sure that the secret broadcast restroom has a full roll of toilet paper, hung correctly. She's currently failing miserably in her attempts to teach me German (she speaks no English) and I'm making excellent progress at teaching her how to make a proper cup of tea. It no longer tastes like armpits, for one.