I went to college for 8.5 years. I earned two bachelor's degrees. I'll admit the first one was a total waste, since I practically never use anything I learned in my current job. The second degree came after a very challenging curriculum in which my teachers pushed me to break through my barriers and achieve the full potential of my natural abilities.
So where am I now, after all that? Am I working in some glamorous job in a fabulous office earning $70K a year? Nope. I'm sitting in a cubicle, staring at a 20" LCD monitor, sipping instant coffee in an effort to keep from nodding off, for the same crappy 30 G's I started with nearly 3 years ago. Meanwhile, the Boss is out on yet another week-long vacation, which he seems to take every 2 months or so. I've been working nonstop on one last-minute, can-you-do-this-for-me-real-quick project after another in addition to my regular duties. The company took out a 2-page spread in a publication that goes to press tomorrow, and gave me the work order yesterday. So whatever I produce is going to be a little sub-par because of the rush, and I fear that it will reflect badly on me. Also, today I had to find out what the fuck .emb and .dst files are, which a supplier requested for embroidering our logo onto garments. No, Illustrator can't magically make those, you dumb fuckers. I guess they just assumed every Mac comes bundled with embroidery digitization software. And then there are the fucking idiot clients who submit design requests and don't have their shit together before I start their ads, so after I make a great first draft, they come back with all these changes because they were too fucking stupid to write clearly what they wanted in the first place. It's like ordering a hot dog and once you get it, telling your server you want a hamburger instead.
I'm fucking worn out. I'm not used to working 8 full hours a day. Plus I went to the gym last night and will work out again tonight with my trainer, so I'll basically want to curl up and die come 7:00 tonight. If I didn't need a day job, I could work out in the middle of the afternoon when I have more energy, it's less crowded, and I don't have to drive back home in the dark. Thank god there's actually daylight again when I leave work. Gentle-men such as myself are not meant to rise at 7:30AM like common farmhands. I'm having to take time out to blog about it so that I don't set the god-damned building on fire. I've always bitched about having to sit in a cubicle for 8 hours, but now I yearn for the kind of workdays I had a year ago, when I had another person in my department to help with the workload. Back then I had an average of 4-5 hours a day in which to goof off. Nowadays I'm lucky if I have 1-2 hours, if anything. I ain't paid enough for working a full 40 hours a week.
Well, at least today I received my synthetic paper and thick lamination pouches so I can make my own custom ID cards. I made one today during lunch that proclaims my status as an ordained minister, and another generic "freelance press" card that may somehow come in handy one day. When you think about it, under the First Amendment everyone is a member of the press who wishes to gather news. They're pretty close in look and feel to PVC cards, lending them a feeling of authenticity. Soon I'll order a tool to punch a slot in the ID for a hangy clip. I could make great money selling fake IDs to college kids, but I dare not for fear of pound-me-in-the-ass prison.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Old Man Winter needs a good swift kick in the snowballs
Note: A portion of this post was deleted that I would not want co-workers to read. In the event that a co-worker somehow stumbles across this blog, he or she may be able to deduce the identity of this blog's author by carefully reading old posts. Friends who read this blog and wish to read the deleted portion must request it via e-mail.
Snow is pretty! For about a day. Then it's just a pain in my fat white ass.
We received a good 8 inches of powdery snow last Saturday. Now I love being snowed in as much as the next guy. We had plenty of food, snacks, beer, and DVDs, and had a great time just being lazy the whole weekend, and the neighborhood is always pretty under a pure white blanket. But when it comes time to go back to work Monday, I hate snow.
Saturday's snowfall forced us to cancel our plans to go to Raleigh and meet my wife's dad for dinner. We had also planned to transport a piece of furniture to store in her grandparents' house, and retrieve more stuff from my parents' house. Sunday afternoon we had to scoop and scrape all that snow off our cars in preparation for the next morning's trudge back to the Gulag. Then came the fun of making sure our cars could get out. Mine wasn't much trouble, but we had to push and shove my wife's car to get it moving. We decided it was unsafe to attempt to go anywhere, which meant I was stuck paying an extra buck for each of the 3 Redbox movies we'd rented and already watched.
Then Monday came. My office has an adverse weather policy, but I knew that the main roads were clear and only my cul-de-sac was problematic, so I didn't really have a good reason to skip work. So I had to get dressed, put on my rubber boots and carry my regular shoes in a bag and go out into the cold, unforgiving world. I had to circle the whole office building until I found a parking spot that had thawed out enough not to be a terrible slip-and-fall hazard.
As if all that shit weren't bad enough, Tuesday bestowed us with freezing rain. My wife was sent home from work over an hour early and complained of slick spots on her drive home. I had to cancel a personal trainer appointment thanks to the foul-ass weather.
Today we were shown some mercy. Temperatures got up into the 40s today, melting snow off pavement and concrete. Our cul-de-sac, however, is so shaded that it will likely take at least a week to get rid of the slush and ice. We'll be pummeled yet again by more winter weather this weekend, too! So of course plans to go to Raleigh must be postponed yet again.
On an unrelated topic, this made my day, as it reflects the kind of thoughts that go through my head every time I look at my dismal paycheck:
While I'm on the topic of salaries, I'd like to take a moment to bitch about how much physicians make. It's absurd. GP's probably take in at least a hundred grand a year, and some specialists can rake in half a mil or more. You can argue all you want about the amount of schooling, testing, and licensing they have to go through, but the shitty service my wife and I have been receiving lately from medical personnel leads me to conclude that doctors are overpaid for what they do.
Last week I went in with a fever, sore throat, congestion, etc. After waiting 45 minutes to be seen, the doctor was in the exam room all of 5 minutes and pronounced that I have a bacterial upper respiratory infection. A week and 30 antibiotic capsules later, I still have a sore throat and yellow mucus. So the guy probably got around $100 just to make a half-assed educated guess and throw some pills at me. Fuckin'-A, I wish I could get a hundred bucks just to glance at someone's head-holes for 5 minutes. But I don't. I work in a job that requires precision and great attention to detail, plus a comprehension of principles of color, value, and space that not everyone has. I can spend hours on a single project, getting it arranged just right. And I get paid probably a fourth of your average general practitioner. So somehow, someone somewhere decided that my time, effort, talent, skills, and education are worth a fourth as much as that of a guy who's in his office maybe 3 days a week and probably misses the mark a good 10% of the time. If I had that kind of failure rate with the stuff I create, I'd be out on my ass.
The longer I work for a shitty salary that doesn't reflect the true value of my abilities, the more of a socialist I become. I find myself lauding budgetary plans that I would have decried a few years ago. Tax the rich bastards and send some of it my way! And give me some free god-damned healthcare while you're at it, paid for by people who earn over 100K a year, because I'm sick of forking over $600 a month for the two of us to get shitty coverage. I'm beginning to understand how democrats get elected.
Snow is pretty! For about a day. Then it's just a pain in my fat white ass.
We received a good 8 inches of powdery snow last Saturday. Now I love being snowed in as much as the next guy. We had plenty of food, snacks, beer, and DVDs, and had a great time just being lazy the whole weekend, and the neighborhood is always pretty under a pure white blanket. But when it comes time to go back to work Monday, I hate snow.
Saturday's snowfall forced us to cancel our plans to go to Raleigh and meet my wife's dad for dinner. We had also planned to transport a piece of furniture to store in her grandparents' house, and retrieve more stuff from my parents' house. Sunday afternoon we had to scoop and scrape all that snow off our cars in preparation for the next morning's trudge back to the Gulag. Then came the fun of making sure our cars could get out. Mine wasn't much trouble, but we had to push and shove my wife's car to get it moving. We decided it was unsafe to attempt to go anywhere, which meant I was stuck paying an extra buck for each of the 3 Redbox movies we'd rented and already watched.
Then Monday came. My office has an adverse weather policy, but I knew that the main roads were clear and only my cul-de-sac was problematic, so I didn't really have a good reason to skip work. So I had to get dressed, put on my rubber boots and carry my regular shoes in a bag and go out into the cold, unforgiving world. I had to circle the whole office building until I found a parking spot that had thawed out enough not to be a terrible slip-and-fall hazard.
As if all that shit weren't bad enough, Tuesday bestowed us with freezing rain. My wife was sent home from work over an hour early and complained of slick spots on her drive home. I had to cancel a personal trainer appointment thanks to the foul-ass weather.
Today we were shown some mercy. Temperatures got up into the 40s today, melting snow off pavement and concrete. Our cul-de-sac, however, is so shaded that it will likely take at least a week to get rid of the slush and ice. We'll be pummeled yet again by more winter weather this weekend, too! So of course plans to go to Raleigh must be postponed yet again.
On an unrelated topic, this made my day, as it reflects the kind of thoughts that go through my head every time I look at my dismal paycheck:
While I'm on the topic of salaries, I'd like to take a moment to bitch about how much physicians make. It's absurd. GP's probably take in at least a hundred grand a year, and some specialists can rake in half a mil or more. You can argue all you want about the amount of schooling, testing, and licensing they have to go through, but the shitty service my wife and I have been receiving lately from medical personnel leads me to conclude that doctors are overpaid for what they do.
Last week I went in with a fever, sore throat, congestion, etc. After waiting 45 minutes to be seen, the doctor was in the exam room all of 5 minutes and pronounced that I have a bacterial upper respiratory infection. A week and 30 antibiotic capsules later, I still have a sore throat and yellow mucus. So the guy probably got around $100 just to make a half-assed educated guess and throw some pills at me. Fuckin'-A, I wish I could get a hundred bucks just to glance at someone's head-holes for 5 minutes. But I don't. I work in a job that requires precision and great attention to detail, plus a comprehension of principles of color, value, and space that not everyone has. I can spend hours on a single project, getting it arranged just right. And I get paid probably a fourth of your average general practitioner. So somehow, someone somewhere decided that my time, effort, talent, skills, and education are worth a fourth as much as that of a guy who's in his office maybe 3 days a week and probably misses the mark a good 10% of the time. If I had that kind of failure rate with the stuff I create, I'd be out on my ass.
The longer I work for a shitty salary that doesn't reflect the true value of my abilities, the more of a socialist I become. I find myself lauding budgetary plans that I would have decried a few years ago. Tax the rich bastards and send some of it my way! And give me some free god-damned healthcare while you're at it, paid for by people who earn over 100K a year, because I'm sick of forking over $600 a month for the two of us to get shitty coverage. I'm beginning to understand how democrats get elected.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Lovin' my Vic again
If you'll recall, a few months ago I was whining about how my Crown Victoria was attracting too much attention, the po-po were after me lucky charms, etc. I've since learned to like it again.
I've restored it to its original appearance. No bumper stickers, no antennas, no aftermarket parts or trim except for updated wheel covers. I think I've hit on the right look for it. The po-po can't stop me just for driving a plain silver Crown Vic, but at the same time it presents the air of authority and importance that I want in a vehicle. From behind, the bare rear deck and naked trunk lid give away its civilian status, but the distinctive grille keeps most motorists from whipping out of parking lots or other lanes and cutting me off. Should the need arise, I can stick a couple of dummy antennas on the trunk and presto, instant authority. I don't really know what kind of situation would warrant that. I constantly battle my urge to outfit it with amber strobes, antennas, and official-looking front license plate. I don't want another unpleasant run-in with a feeble-minded sheriff's deputy, plus it quickly gets tiresome when people won't speed the fuck up in front of me.
The general look I'm going for is government official, not cop. I wouldn't want to be lumped in with those 100-I.Q. mouth-breathers. I feel that my car has the right look for an NSA spook—plain but just classy enough not to look cheap, and to be given the utmost courtesy on the road.
I've restored it to its original appearance. No bumper stickers, no antennas, no aftermarket parts or trim except for updated wheel covers. I think I've hit on the right look for it. The po-po can't stop me just for driving a plain silver Crown Vic, but at the same time it presents the air of authority and importance that I want in a vehicle. From behind, the bare rear deck and naked trunk lid give away its civilian status, but the distinctive grille keeps most motorists from whipping out of parking lots or other lanes and cutting me off. Should the need arise, I can stick a couple of dummy antennas on the trunk and presto, instant authority. I don't really know what kind of situation would warrant that. I constantly battle my urge to outfit it with amber strobes, antennas, and official-looking front license plate. I don't want another unpleasant run-in with a feeble-minded sheriff's deputy, plus it quickly gets tiresome when people won't speed the fuck up in front of me.
The general look I'm going for is government official, not cop. I wouldn't want to be lumped in with those 100-I.Q. mouth-breathers. I feel that my car has the right look for an NSA spook—plain but just classy enough not to look cheap, and to be given the utmost courtesy on the road.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Why renting movies is better than going to the theater
In my previous post, I wrote a bit about the advantages of home viewing over going to theaters. I'll elaborate and expand.
No children
There are so many great movies being churned out time and again aimed at a young audience, but with excellent stories, writing, and characters that enthrall adult audiences as well. My full enjoyment of these films is diminished if I have to share a theater with 30 children scattered about babbling nonsensically, blurting things out, kicking the seats, spilling their M&Ms all over the floor, or whispering stupid questions like "Mommy, who's that?" when a new character has just been fucking introduced and we don't know who the fuck he is yet.
No dumbshits trickling in 10 minutes after the feature has started
OK geniuses, there are these things theaters have had for decades called listings. If you look them up online, in the newspaper, or call the theater, you'll get a list of exactly what time every show will start! No, really, it's true! And you know what else? It's not an approximate time. It's not 2:30-ish. It's exactly when the projector starts rolling and when you should have your fat ass in the fucking seat. I can't stand it when people waddle in, look around with a dumbfounded expression because their desired seats are filled, or give my wife and me dirty looks because we're taking up 4 seats (fuck you, numb-nuts, we got here 30 minutes in advance so we wouldn't have to risk physical contact with or proximity to commoners), then finally plop down someplace and noisily get themselves settled in. Sitter didn't show up on time? Tough shit, wait for the next screening. Although I applaud that you actually got a sitter instead of taking your 1-year-old to an R-rated movie.
Clean, comfortable seating and leg room.
I'm 6'2". I like to stretch out. In my living room, I can lean back, prop my feet up in my cushy recliner, and not worry about whether some kid pissed on it during the previous showing.
Pause button!
I order a large drink for us to share when we go to the movies, which comes with free refills. So of course I often have to take a leak if the movie is more than 90 minutes long and risk missing important dialog or action in the time it takes me to walk the half-mile from the theater to the men's room, pee, and walk back. At home, I can pause the DVD and not miss a minute while I void my bladder in the bathroom 20 feet away.
On my schedule
I don't have to rush to get to the theater 30 minutes before show time to get a good seat, nor must I be a slave to their schedule.
Snacks & drinks are about 6 feet away
At the multiplex, I might as well pack a canteen and a change of clothes for the long trek to the concession stand for free refills. In my own house, the fridge is about 7 feet away from my chair, and within direct view of the TV, so I don't even have to pause the movie to get more snacks.
Come as you are
I can watch movies in my pajamas at home, or even my undies if I feel like it. People tend to give you funny looks if you attempt this in a theater. Plus at home I don't have to wait an eternity for my wife to put on her makeup just to go sit in the dark.
Yummy popcorn
Hot buttered popcorn at the movie theater has the potential for deliciousness, but frequently disappoints. More and more often, it seems, my mouth is assaulted with stale, lukewarm popcorn that's been sitting under a hot lamp since morning. At home, it comes straight out of the microwave, piping hot, and not handled by some minimum-wage flunky.
Booze
At home, I can get shit-faced and enhance my enjoyment of comedies. Bruno was great after a few vodka shots.
Savings!
I know the theater has to cover its expenses and turn a profit, and so do the filmmakers. I just don't feel like dropping $7 on a single ticket just to get raped again at the concession stand, with no guarantee that the movie will be worth it. Concession prices seem to be going up and up. The theater we usually go to even stopped offering its $10 popcorn & drink combo with free refills, the cheap bastards. For a while there, they even stopped having salt for the stale popcorn!
No children
There are so many great movies being churned out time and again aimed at a young audience, but with excellent stories, writing, and characters that enthrall adult audiences as well. My full enjoyment of these films is diminished if I have to share a theater with 30 children scattered about babbling nonsensically, blurting things out, kicking the seats, spilling their M&Ms all over the floor, or whispering stupid questions like "Mommy, who's that?" when a new character has just been fucking introduced and we don't know who the fuck he is yet.
No dumbshits trickling in 10 minutes after the feature has started
OK geniuses, there are these things theaters have had for decades called listings. If you look them up online, in the newspaper, or call the theater, you'll get a list of exactly what time every show will start! No, really, it's true! And you know what else? It's not an approximate time. It's not 2:30-ish. It's exactly when the projector starts rolling and when you should have your fat ass in the fucking seat. I can't stand it when people waddle in, look around with a dumbfounded expression because their desired seats are filled, or give my wife and me dirty looks because we're taking up 4 seats (fuck you, numb-nuts, we got here 30 minutes in advance so we wouldn't have to risk physical contact with or proximity to commoners), then finally plop down someplace and noisily get themselves settled in. Sitter didn't show up on time? Tough shit, wait for the next screening. Although I applaud that you actually got a sitter instead of taking your 1-year-old to an R-rated movie.
Clean, comfortable seating and leg room.
I'm 6'2". I like to stretch out. In my living room, I can lean back, prop my feet up in my cushy recliner, and not worry about whether some kid pissed on it during the previous showing.
Pause button!
I order a large drink for us to share when we go to the movies, which comes with free refills. So of course I often have to take a leak if the movie is more than 90 minutes long and risk missing important dialog or action in the time it takes me to walk the half-mile from the theater to the men's room, pee, and walk back. At home, I can pause the DVD and not miss a minute while I void my bladder in the bathroom 20 feet away.
On my schedule
I don't have to rush to get to the theater 30 minutes before show time to get a good seat, nor must I be a slave to their schedule.
Snacks & drinks are about 6 feet away
At the multiplex, I might as well pack a canteen and a change of clothes for the long trek to the concession stand for free refills. In my own house, the fridge is about 7 feet away from my chair, and within direct view of the TV, so I don't even have to pause the movie to get more snacks.
Come as you are
I can watch movies in my pajamas at home, or even my undies if I feel like it. People tend to give you funny looks if you attempt this in a theater. Plus at home I don't have to wait an eternity for my wife to put on her makeup just to go sit in the dark.
Yummy popcorn
Hot buttered popcorn at the movie theater has the potential for deliciousness, but frequently disappoints. More and more often, it seems, my mouth is assaulted with stale, lukewarm popcorn that's been sitting under a hot lamp since morning. At home, it comes straight out of the microwave, piping hot, and not handled by some minimum-wage flunky.
Booze
At home, I can get shit-faced and enhance my enjoyment of comedies. Bruno was great after a few vodka shots.
Savings!
I know the theater has to cover its expenses and turn a profit, and so do the filmmakers. I just don't feel like dropping $7 on a single ticket just to get raped again at the concession stand, with no guarantee that the movie will be worth it. Concession prices seem to be going up and up. The theater we usually go to even stopped offering its $10 popcorn & drink combo with free refills, the cheap bastards. For a while there, they even stopped having salt for the stale popcorn!
Those were the days
History likes to repeat itself, whether we like it or not. 80 years ago, our forebears found their seemingly fail-safe economy ground to a halt. The spendthrift, live-it-up, jazz 'n' liquor days of the 1920s seemed to be gone forever. People squeezed every penny, cut back to bare necessities, and found little escapes from reality in cheap entertainment such as dime novels and nickel cinemas. And after 1933, booze, booze, and more booze eased the pain.
We seem to be in similar times yet again. We enjoyed the no-end-in-sight orgy of consumption in the 1990s. Food prices were at all-time lows, and gasoline cost less than the $4 coffee we didn't think twice about chugging. Those glory days were abruptly cut short when people realized all the tech startups they'd invested in had no idea what the fuck they were doing. By the late 2000s, the easy credit of the previous decade finally caught up with people who bought houses, second homes, cars, boats, etc. with magical future money that wasn't flowing in anymore. The Second Gilded Age was over. While we didn't experience the widespread devastation of the Great Depression, practically everyone's consumer habits were affected somehow. Even if our jobs were spared, we found ourselves eating out less, going to fewer movies, traveling less, doing more repairs ourselves, avoiding unnecessary purchases, and basically hoping for the best while preparing for the worst.
This was certainly true for me. Just a couple years ago, we went to restaurants or ordered in 2–3 times a week, went to movies and bars nearly every weekend, bought new clothes when we fancied it, and took fabulous vacations. I even bought a car I didn't really need, when it would have been far cheaper to get my wife's old car in good working order. I just wanted it.
Even though we've been spared from layoffs and shrinking budgets, we've nonetheless been traumatized by the deprivation all around us, and being stuck on the same shitty salary while everything seems to be getting more expensive has made me particularly cautious. Nowadays, we eat out on our own dime maybe twice a month, buy food on super sale and freeze it for future meals to be prepared in our own kitchen, and take advantage of every offer for free food from generous relatives. Rather than call a plumber, I am proud to say I installed a new faucet myself and fixed a toilet that wouldn't refill. Rather than buy a car just out of a desire for something different, I stuck with my old reliable Vic and learned to like it, and have ceased buying unnecessary accessories for it. $1 Redbox rentals and microwave popcorn have replaced our weekly trips to the cinema, but honestly, I like home viewing better anyway—no rushing to the theater and no coping with babbling children, stale popcorn, or people straggling in 10 minutes after the feature has started, and we can pause it anytime to go pee. Plus if it's a shitty movie, at least I'll only be out a buck and 90 minutes of my life. Our vacations get more and more frugal each time. Compare the costs of our various trips over the years: March 2008: $5000 trip, versus March 2009: $3000 trip. October 2008: $1200 anniversary weekend; October 2009: $200 charity event and overnight hotel stay. Our recent trip to D.C. cost airfare and meals, with free lodging. Our next week-long vacation will probably be at the beach, where we stay for free, for the cost of gasoline and food, much of which will be prepared in the condo.
There's a part of me that feels that this whole downsizing trend will at least teach me that there's a lot I can survive without, and that it will make me stronger and tougher. Nevertheless, I long for a return to the Gilded Age of the 1990s. I don't know if we'll ever see days like that again.
We seem to be in similar times yet again. We enjoyed the no-end-in-sight orgy of consumption in the 1990s. Food prices were at all-time lows, and gasoline cost less than the $4 coffee we didn't think twice about chugging. Those glory days were abruptly cut short when people realized all the tech startups they'd invested in had no idea what the fuck they were doing. By the late 2000s, the easy credit of the previous decade finally caught up with people who bought houses, second homes, cars, boats, etc. with magical future money that wasn't flowing in anymore. The Second Gilded Age was over. While we didn't experience the widespread devastation of the Great Depression, practically everyone's consumer habits were affected somehow. Even if our jobs were spared, we found ourselves eating out less, going to fewer movies, traveling less, doing more repairs ourselves, avoiding unnecessary purchases, and basically hoping for the best while preparing for the worst.
This was certainly true for me. Just a couple years ago, we went to restaurants or ordered in 2–3 times a week, went to movies and bars nearly every weekend, bought new clothes when we fancied it, and took fabulous vacations. I even bought a car I didn't really need, when it would have been far cheaper to get my wife's old car in good working order. I just wanted it.
Even though we've been spared from layoffs and shrinking budgets, we've nonetheless been traumatized by the deprivation all around us, and being stuck on the same shitty salary while everything seems to be getting more expensive has made me particularly cautious. Nowadays, we eat out on our own dime maybe twice a month, buy food on super sale and freeze it for future meals to be prepared in our own kitchen, and take advantage of every offer for free food from generous relatives. Rather than call a plumber, I am proud to say I installed a new faucet myself and fixed a toilet that wouldn't refill. Rather than buy a car just out of a desire for something different, I stuck with my old reliable Vic and learned to like it, and have ceased buying unnecessary accessories for it. $1 Redbox rentals and microwave popcorn have replaced our weekly trips to the cinema, but honestly, I like home viewing better anyway—no rushing to the theater and no coping with babbling children, stale popcorn, or people straggling in 10 minutes after the feature has started, and we can pause it anytime to go pee. Plus if it's a shitty movie, at least I'll only be out a buck and 90 minutes of my life. Our vacations get more and more frugal each time. Compare the costs of our various trips over the years: March 2008: $5000 trip, versus March 2009: $3000 trip. October 2008: $1200 anniversary weekend; October 2009: $200 charity event and overnight hotel stay. Our recent trip to D.C. cost airfare and meals, with free lodging. Our next week-long vacation will probably be at the beach, where we stay for free, for the cost of gasoline and food, much of which will be prepared in the condo.
There's a part of me that feels that this whole downsizing trend will at least teach me that there's a lot I can survive without, and that it will make me stronger and tougher. Nevertheless, I long for a return to the Gilded Age of the 1990s. I don't know if we'll ever see days like that again.
Friday, January 15, 2010
I Miss Ol' Blue
Damn, I miss my Volvo.
Don't get me wrong, I love my Vicky. But there are times when I wish I had my old light blue, 1989 Volvo 740GLE. I had some great times with that car (none of them involving sexy time, I'm afraid).
I got Ol' Blue in late 1996. It was my first car that I drove daily. Before then I'd been borrowing various family cars, mostly my sister's old Ford Tempo. Ol' Blue came with black leather seats, buttwarmers, a factory cassette player, and power sunroof that failed twice. Blue took us on numerous trips to Myrtle Beach and once to Hilton Head. Her main function was getting me to school and carting me and my old school chum around town on our various nerdly adventures to The Reader's Corner, Best Buy, Barnes & Noble, Capital Comics, Foundation's Edge, and our favorite movie theaters. For Christmas in 1997 I got a CD player for Ol' Blue. No more tedious sessions recording mix tapes, it was high-tech CDs for me. I played the first CD I ever burned off Napster on Blue's stereo. I picked up my chum's freaky goth girlfriend in Ol' Blue. I used her trunk as a locker my senior year, and as a hiding place for my chum's frivolous action figure purchases so that his parents wouldn't find out what he'd blown his money on.
Blue met her undignified demise when her timing chain broke. The mechanic said that in addition she was in need of new piston rings, at a cost my parents were unwilling to pay. They opted to get me the 4Runner instead, which was and continues to be a great car. I just wish they had maybe kept Blue in storage somewhere to await a resurrection, but instead they chose to sell it to the mechanic for parts. He probably did the ring job himself and resold it at a nice profit.
Despite my current vehicle's vintage (1998), if I truly wish to re-visit the gilded age of the 1990s, I'd have to have Ol' Blue back. I long to play the hits of the late '90s on her JVC stereo while rocking my old Timberland boots and big plaid shirts. I'd put the South Park bumper sticker back on, and my NCSU stickers. Perhaps a "Clinton Happens" sticker as well?
Future plans for my '90s fantasies include redecorating the guest room in my current house to resemble my bedroom circa 1997. I have an invaluable guide to go by, which is a photo of my bedroom I took in 1997 on the day I got my Kodak Advantix camera (remember those?). It shows the arrangement of decorative objects on my dresser, most of which I still possess. My parents likely still have remnants of the original green wall paint which I can get duplicated, and they still have the old curtains. The old CD player will go in there somewhere, and I'll hang up the 3x5 Union Jack over the bed.
Don't get me wrong, I love my Vicky. But there are times when I wish I had my old light blue, 1989 Volvo 740GLE. I had some great times with that car (none of them involving sexy time, I'm afraid).
I got Ol' Blue in late 1996. It was my first car that I drove daily. Before then I'd been borrowing various family cars, mostly my sister's old Ford Tempo. Ol' Blue came with black leather seats, buttwarmers, a factory cassette player, and power sunroof that failed twice. Blue took us on numerous trips to Myrtle Beach and once to Hilton Head. Her main function was getting me to school and carting me and my old school chum around town on our various nerdly adventures to The Reader's Corner, Best Buy, Barnes & Noble, Capital Comics, Foundation's Edge, and our favorite movie theaters. For Christmas in 1997 I got a CD player for Ol' Blue. No more tedious sessions recording mix tapes, it was high-tech CDs for me. I played the first CD I ever burned off Napster on Blue's stereo. I picked up my chum's freaky goth girlfriend in Ol' Blue. I used her trunk as a locker my senior year, and as a hiding place for my chum's frivolous action figure purchases so that his parents wouldn't find out what he'd blown his money on.
Blue met her undignified demise when her timing chain broke. The mechanic said that in addition she was in need of new piston rings, at a cost my parents were unwilling to pay. They opted to get me the 4Runner instead, which was and continues to be a great car. I just wish they had maybe kept Blue in storage somewhere to await a resurrection, but instead they chose to sell it to the mechanic for parts. He probably did the ring job himself and resold it at a nice profit.
Despite my current vehicle's vintage (1998), if I truly wish to re-visit the gilded age of the 1990s, I'd have to have Ol' Blue back. I long to play the hits of the late '90s on her JVC stereo while rocking my old Timberland boots and big plaid shirts. I'd put the South Park bumper sticker back on, and my NCSU stickers. Perhaps a "Clinton Happens" sticker as well?
Future plans for my '90s fantasies include redecorating the guest room in my current house to resemble my bedroom circa 1997. I have an invaluable guide to go by, which is a photo of my bedroom I took in 1997 on the day I got my Kodak Advantix camera (remember those?). It shows the arrangement of decorative objects on my dresser, most of which I still possess. My parents likely still have remnants of the original green wall paint which I can get duplicated, and they still have the old curtains. The old CD player will go in there somewhere, and I'll hang up the 3x5 Union Jack over the bed.
Bow down and kiss my ring! Just not in North Carolina.
I am an ordained minister.
Yes, I finally decided to get myself ordained online with the ULC. I actually agree with their beliefs and like the idea of being considered a minister without having to go through all that study and coursework. So now I can perform marriages, baptisms, exorcisms, etc. Except in North Carolina.
Yes, my ever-so-tolerant home state can't pull its head out of its ass long enough to recognize ULC ministers as qualified to officiate marriages. Even though the statutes state that a minister of any religious denomination can officiate, NC case law has found that a mail-order ordination somehow doesn't count. Well excuse me, bitches. Maybe not all of us care to subscribe to a religion that doesn't allow all of its members to be ministers without a grueling course of study. I love how this state allows a Cherokee shaman to whoop and holler and sing and chant and solemnize a marriage, but thinks a guy like me who believes that all religions are the same path to God is some sort of charlatan.
For that matter, why is it that states don't allow everybody to officiate marriages? What is it about a minister or magistrate that magically makes him more qualified to read some shit aloud and pronounce a couple married? At the very least, public notaries should be permitted to officiate. Anyway, realistically, anyone can file the marriage license and claim to be a minister. It's not like there's a central database of ordained ministers.
Well, at least now I have an excuse to wear a white clerical collar. Perhaps a pointy bishop hat?
Yes, I finally decided to get myself ordained online with the ULC. I actually agree with their beliefs and like the idea of being considered a minister without having to go through all that study and coursework. So now I can perform marriages, baptisms, exorcisms, etc. Except in North Carolina.
Yes, my ever-so-tolerant home state can't pull its head out of its ass long enough to recognize ULC ministers as qualified to officiate marriages. Even though the statutes state that a minister of any religious denomination can officiate, NC case law has found that a mail-order ordination somehow doesn't count. Well excuse me, bitches. Maybe not all of us care to subscribe to a religion that doesn't allow all of its members to be ministers without a grueling course of study. I love how this state allows a Cherokee shaman to whoop and holler and sing and chant and solemnize a marriage, but thinks a guy like me who believes that all religions are the same path to God is some sort of charlatan.
For that matter, why is it that states don't allow everybody to officiate marriages? What is it about a minister or magistrate that magically makes him more qualified to read some shit aloud and pronounce a couple married? At the very least, public notaries should be permitted to officiate. Anyway, realistically, anyone can file the marriage license and claim to be a minister. It's not like there's a central database of ordained ministers.
Well, at least now I have an excuse to wear a white clerical collar. Perhaps a pointy bishop hat?
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