Primo Imago

I got a keychain camera for my birthday. It's digital but has neither a display nor a usable viewfinder. That's the fun of it. That, and pics like this.

It's like life: You don't really have a good picture of it until you've done it.

Why I'm a Freakin' Genius part 2

Bubble wrap condoms. They either pop or stimulate or both. Everybody's happy.

Cafe Ole

Yesterday I subsisted on coffee and rum. That made for an interesting day today. Staying at my desk - pretty much the only challenging thing about my job - was particularly challenging. Somehow I made it through.

Sunday was the day after the 7.7.7 version of the Independence Day party out at The Compound. I was up at 8:00, a little later than usual, but much before anyone else. I had my morning beer, then moved to coffee thinking we'd be leaving soon. Then there was breakfast and lingering. Oh, well, then I'll have rum. OK, I should probably have coffee since I need to be able to drive because we're leaving soon. Then there was more lingering. OK, then how about some rum. Well, you get the picture.

Coffee and rum continued their battle for my soul throughout the following day. Never choosing to work together and endowing me with an island patois that made me say, "Yeah, mon, I think we should chop more 'cane."

Instead it kept me in a bi-polar tug-of-war. I nodded off in the middle of typing a sentence only to find myself minutes later walking the perimeter of the parking lot wondering why there are pine cones I don't see any pine trees are there pine trees hiding in the wait those look like pine trees maybe I'm wrong how could I have missed or did I maybe have this conversation before with myself and just forgot and what about the wow it's hot why doesn't asphalt sparkle anymore didn't it used too am I remembering that right is that my heart I hear I should get back I'm tired.....

I suppose that's what Monday's are for.

If not Birthdayy, then at least Happyy

Lest you think my day was ruined by my brief audience with the Czar of Assholibar, I assure you he was mentally dispatched before I even finished the post.

It was actually quite a pleasant birthday.

People at work individually wished me happy birthday more than ever before. It was unexpected and a little off-putting. Do they know something? On the one hand, I think they enjoyed doing it because I clearly appreciated hearing it. My general initial reaction to any pleasantry or kindness is surprise, delight, gratitude - and I'm pretty sure all three usually show clearly on my face in that order. Then I began to think, Why are they being pleasant now when typically they are simply accomplices in the misery of my life? Oh, did I mention that I hate my job? No mind. Whatever daggers up whatever sleeves will be blunted by the malleable skin of apathy.

I think Jane, the back office receptionist, thought I was older. The CFO, to whom I report, thought I was younger. Maybe that's predictable. Although I have no authority over Jane (or anyone at all in the company or Life), she may see me as just a little bit of an authority figure, even though she's more than a decade older, simply because she's newer in the office. And the CFO (also a little older, thankfully) sees me as a subordinate, so I must be young.

I have the job of a 20-something. It is beneath my intelligence and ability. This is not a sleight on the job. It is simply that I can do more, so I should do more (and get paid more).

Some grey hair belies some other younger qualities about my persona. Or to put it another way, I haven't aged well. Either way ....

One person I do like at work, Simon (within a year of the same age), and I talked about how we're really both 65. In different ways, though. He brought it up mentioning how he just likes to come home, sit and read, play golf on the weekends, doesn't drink or party (yes, I know, yet still likable). For me it's how I'm ready to quit the 9-5, I irritated at the youth of today (and have been for some 25 years), and hate they're music (again, for some 25 years).

That evening S took me out to The Piedmont. Quite good food and good service. I now want duck rillettes before every meal and as the meal. Oddly, the main course was the most disappointing of all. Still, we'll definitely be back.

And I got gifts! That's fun.

So, Thanks to you and everyone else for getting me another birthday.

Good Morning America

Already not feeling particularly birthdayy, this is how my morning starts.

I was driving into work trying to grab what bit of happiness I could by listening to Christian McBride swing the hell out "Bye Bye Blackbird." I turned onto Weaver Dairy Road when soon I saw my rearview mirror filled with the grill of a large pickup truck. I glanced down at my speedometer wondering if I got a little too lost in the music. No, I was going 40 in a 35 mph zone that's notorious for being a speed trap.

Then, incredibly, the guy honks his horn and does a "moving along" waving motion with his hand, flicking the back of his hand up in my direction. It wasn't one of those leaning on the horn, desperate beeps. There was no frantic waving of the arms. Just to be sure, I looked again to make sure he wasn't doing the "this is an emergency" flashing headlight thing. No. He was just being an asshole.

And I know this is just me, but assholes in oversized pickup trucks are like double-assholes. They're not only assholes for whatever asshole thing they just did to earn that designation, they're assholes for purchasing that monstrosity which wasting critical fading resources and hurts everyone's personal economy, especially the poor, by driving up fuel prices, and contributes to the evil Big Oil companies that lead to disastrous wars in the Middle East which take the lives of hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians. So, now not only are you an asshole, but you're an asshole on a global level.

I considered slowing down to say 30, maybe 25, but, "No," I thought, "it's my birthday, I'm just going to chill, drive 35 (no tickets on my birthday, please), and let him deal with having to live with law abiding citizens not interested in catering to his inability to plan a damn morning commute."

I told myself, "I will not give him the finger," and began to feel better already. Dude, I'm like fucking Ghandi. I figured he'd accept that for a half mile - all that's left to go on Weaver Dairy at this point - he'll have to drive the posted speed limit, and ease back to a safer distance. Again, no. He stayed right on my tail and continued exaggerated pantomimes of exasperation.

I told myself, "I will not get out of my car and beat his ass," and breathe and feel better. Zen-fucking-master.

Unable to get me to recognize he's godallfuckingmighty (as evidenced by his godallfuckingmightymobile), he got fed up and passed me - on a two lane road with double lines and oncoming traffic and about 500 feet from a traffic light (yeah, you just risked lives to save yourself two seconds. nice). He just narrowly made it back in front of me (and behind another car going about 37) without hitting the smaller car coming the other way. Now, I did speed up a little when I saw him trying to pass because I'm a bitter vindictive jerk, but that's not the point.

So now he's thrice an asshole: once for the condescending horn-blowing, hurry-up for no reason thing; twice for the whole killing innocent civilians thing; and three times for making me wish him serious bodily injury when he fucking crashes in one of his stress-filled king-o-the-road stunts. I don't like wishing ill on a fellow human being, but he left me no choice.

Asshole.

Nope, nothing

I'm not feeling very birthdayy.

Kindergarten Cop

If you, as I did, loved The Landlord, you'll be pleasantly entertained by Good Cop, Baby Cop.

Like most sequels, it's not as good, but definitely worth watching before Dreamworks options it and makes it into a feature length film starring Elle Fanning as the profanity-spewing, apartment complex owner rogue detective with an attitude. And an ethnic minority sidekick. I'm sure George Lopez would make a great "good cop," and I hear he's available.

I'll Drink (but maybe not so much to that)

Today I got a shot-glass-sized stein from Kehlsteinhaus, or Eagle's Nest. It was from Jane, the back office receptionist who had just returned from her two week vacation in Germany.

At first I wasn't sure what to think of it. Hey, here's some memorabilia from Hitler's old haunt - Mmmm, good times, Drink Up! Certainly not what she meant by it. Then I thought, at least the place is being put to good use. It's being run by a charitable organization. There wasn't money and resources wasted on tearing it down for some symbolic purpose. And as long as you're not a member of what it deems a weirdo religion, Germany is downright accepting. Homogeny is, after all, a pillar of efficiency.

Then she mentioned that she'd gotten something for Bernie and his wife from the same place. They are both Jewish. She said it didn't occur to her until later how inappropriated that would be (later, but fortunately before she bestowed the gifts).

Then I was just confused. Is the repurposing of Kehlsteinhaus a victory or not? Are you not aware the Nazis weren't very fond of blacks either? Even if you weren't, if the Jew is offended, should the friend of the Jew not be also?

And I don't mean this as a "men get raped, too" type of statement. I'm just saying, Nazism pretty much sucks all around.

And, yes, I'm keeping the stein. Irony rocks.

Unnoticed

Where I work there is a notice just above the toaster oven that reads

Please Do Not put
Paper or Plastic items
near the Toaster Oven.
It is a Fire Hazard.

(emphasis in the original)

This notice is printed on paper. Enveloped in plastic.

Lend Me Your Ears

Yesterday after work I went to see the Carolina Chocolate Drops play on the lawn at Weaver Street Market. I hadn't been to one of their After Hours events in years, so I don't know if this were unusual, but there was no sound equipment. I suppose they expect the bands to provide their own. CCD having arrived a little from just getting off their flight had none. It was just the three of them, their accoustic instruments and throngs of people on the lawn.

After the first song, someone from the crowd brings up a simple amp/speaker combo and mic and sets that up in front of the band. Later he places the speaker on a stand above the heads of the audience. It's a big improvement. The people in back certainly couldn't hear, but at least the first 20 or so rows could now. A couple songs later someone else donates a mic and stand. Now we have one for the instruments and one for vocal. Through the small speaker they sound appropriately like they were coming through an old tube radio. Then ...

and here's the thing: People don't respect sound. I mean sound generally and the job of the Sound Guy itself. They think, 'You just put a mic in front of someone and hook it up to the amp and that's it. What's the big deal?' You're an idiot. That's the big deal. Running sound is a complicated task the has to consider the band, the instrument, the arena, the type of mic, the type of music, the audience, the acoustics, environment, etc. Unfortunately, there are a lot of sound guys who don't realise this either. Putting the speaker on the stand was smart because then the sound isn't simply absorbed into the bodies on the first row. It lessens the chance of feedback. That was probably somebody who knew at least a little what he was doing. On the other hand there's

... another guy brings up a guitar amp. Hmm, I think, I don't know about this. He takes the instrument mic cord from the speaker on the stand and plugs it into the amp which he has placed beside the band. My fingers are already going for my ears. Of course, there is feedback. He is quick with the volume knob, though. He at least knew enough to move the amp forward. But he leaves it on the ground where aforementioned front row bodies immediately begin absorbing the sound. OK, at least he left the vocal mic in the good *bzzzpt* He unplugs the vocal mic. Dude, you so don't mess with another guys setup. A guitar amp is not the same as a vocal PA. I don't care if it does go all the way up to 11, it's not going to be right for the job. So now all the sound is going through the guitar amp, and Carolina Chocolate Drops sound more like T Rex.

Idiot.

At least the band was good as usual. The hectic schedule and poor sound had little effect on their performance. They still talk too much. Well, Rhiannon talks too much. I mean, I get that it's historically significant music and all, the tradition shouldn't die away, pass it on, blah blah blah. Sometimes I just want to listen to some music. Dom sometimes reels her in. There's an interesting respectful tension between those two that I can't tell if it fuels creative energy or threatens the band's existence. He is a showman. He understands the importance of putting on a show. A "songster" is what he calls himself.

Un Jeu de Mots

I missed the beginning, but apparently there was a discussion going on outside my office about how to make a mango-strawberry margarita. They decide to ask Bernie, the CCO. Coming out into the hall, he jokes, "Exactly which part has anything to do with compliance, the mango or the margarita?"

Joining in the fun, I call out from my office, "The margarita: definitely a matter for compliance."

No one says anything.

He thinks, pauses, and says, "Well, I guess if you want compliance, margaritas are the way to go."

They laugh. The receptionist says, "Oh, that's clever, Bernie." And they riff a couple lines on the compliance/margarita meme.

Wait. That's clever? He took the joke that I just made and dumbed it down. That's the opposite of clever. Sure, maybe his line was the one that got the laughs. That just makes him funny, not clever.

Note for next time: a little less Leconte, a little more Mencia.

Dude...

Today I hand the CFO a document to sign and date. He scribbles his signature, pauses for a moment trying to remember the date. Then remembering, he says aloud, "Four, twenty ...." Before I can stop myself I snicker.

So, yeah, apparently I'm a 14-year-old. Who knew?

Sans Jaya

The Ashley Ferl suicide watch begins ... now.