Yes, so 99.1 is back, sort of.

In fact, the way of their return is why 98-Rock’s new bumper is, “98-Rock now airing on … 98-Rock.”

See, HFS returned to 105.7, the station that once billed itself as Baltimore’s only FM all talk station. Don’t see how they’re going to do that anymore – the weekends are now being given to former HFS personalities to play music and BS and do all the stuff that didn’t get them ratings and got them kicked off the air. They’ve also apparently booted Ron & Fez from the 7-11pm slot for HFS lite.

I spend much of the day in my car. Music CDs are fine and all, but talk radio can be really great. For the lunch shifts, I’d listen to Out to Lunch, then Don & Mike at three, and then Ron & Fez most evenings. Oh yeah – and now Beer Radio isn’t on over the weekends! Double-You-Tee-Eff?!

And to top things off, apparently Miles and Thrill got a job offer in Seattle, so they’re gone too. SON OF A FUCKING BITCH. Why does everything happen at once?

Kahn informs Kirk that he’s going to destroy the Enterprise, leaving the Admiral and his landing party stranded in the center of a hollow moon. Kirk’s face contorts in anger and he screams “KAAAAAAAAHN!”

And then he reveals his masterful backup plan, gets back to his ship, and kicks Kahn’s genetically engineered ass.

But I ramble too much: the Kahn scream is currently on top of the best cinematic one-liners.

Some days I tell myself, “Jeff, you shouldn’t work today – bad things will happen.” Usually I ignore myself, and usually, bad things happen.

Like today. I wanted to call out. Steve pressured me to work – “You’re the closing driver. Do you know what a difficult shift that is to work? Plus, you worked inside Wednesday. You don’t want everyone to think you’re a pussy, do you?”

Personally, I have no problem with people thinking I’m a pussy. If there’s a Golden Rule in the Pizza Delivery business, it’s this: tips are nice n’ all, but not dying is better. Actually, I take that last back: most drivers have the mentality: Delivering + Snow = Big Money. My mentality: Delivering + Lack of Ability to Drive in Snow = Pain, Suffering & Death. So really, it’s my Golden Rule, at least until I become more suicidal than I already am.

Bob told me, “Oh, the roads are all plowed, everything is fine!” when I called in.

Liar.

But because of guilt over not driving Wednesday, I said “fuck it”, stuck a folding metal chair in my spot, and went to work.

I took four deliveries. And that’s when I got my car stuck at the bottom of the hill.

This road is off of Phoenix. If you know the area, you know this road – it’s only got one way in, and the same way out. First you’ve gotta drive up a really steep hill. Then you’ve gotta drive down the equally steep opposite side of the hill. That part I had no problem with. It was trying to get back up the hill that my poor car simply could not do.

See, when the County folks plowed this street, they didn’t do such a great job getting up all the snow and such, particularly at the top of the hill. And all the traffic today and yesterday compacted it. So I got about three quarters of the way up the hill and then my car decided to slide back down.

I made three attempts. And as I kept getting no where (fast), I decided “fuck this”, called Steve, and he sent Ross in his 4×4 to get me. I called Gary, and he’s picking me up bright and early tomorrow morning to take me to my beloved car, stranded in a strange and hostile neighborhood. I should note that the “strange and hostile neighborhood” is filled with upper middle class white yahoos, so when I go back tomorrow the “blue collar watch” will probably alert the police. “There’s a guy in our neighborbood who makes less than half a million a year! Help! Help!”

I did leave a note on the dash – “Got stranded. Can someone competent plow the road this time?”*

I already called out from work tomorrow night. I don’t care what Steve or Greg say – the roads are still shit, and dammit, I’m not going to put myself in a position to pay my insurance deductible unless I absolutely, positively, have to!

*It didn’t actually say that.

Today it might be more appropriate to say, “There Goes Johnnnnny!”

Rest in peace, funny man.

The trick to digging out your car from Mother Nature’s snow is to force Mother Nature to help you.

I parked on the far side of the parking lot, facing the building. During the day, the apartment building shades those cars that park on the close side of the lot – but – you guessed it – shines directly on vehicles on the far side.

At about 11, I dug my car out. I didn’t do a great job clearing the snow from the car – I mean, I knocked as much of it off as I could, but there was still a sheet of snow covering it. The sun has done the detail work – my car is almost entirely clear of snow.

Hurah!

Head over to I-Films and take a look at this clip from FOX News, where the anchorwoman flips out when the President is criticized.

Also: according to the anchorwoman, Bush is congratulating himself on a peaceful transfer of power? To himself from … himself? Eh?

Hattip: Oliver Willis.

Michelle Malkin plays the race card against Sen. Byrd, then bitches about how the mainstream media would’ve played it the exact same way if Rice was a Democrat and Byrd a Republican.

Huh?

It looks like, for now anyway, the snow has stopped. Of course, we’re supposed to get more snow tomorrow – but less than an inch. So, that’s something. Should be back to work Monday, anyway.

I did make an effort to call work — but no one answered, and the big boss man isn’t answering his cell OR home phone. I’m going to assume we’re closed. Even if we aren’t – hell, look at that photo. The parking lot isn’t plowed and I drive a Celica. I’m not going anywhere.

Well, its snowing.

It’s been snowing since I first looked out the window at 9ish. It’s one now – where did the day go? I went to sleep at midnight, drug myself out of bed at nine, and now four hours have gone by? Goodness!

I sent an e-mail to Crablogs asking to be added to the list, been geeking out on the Lego starship I haven’t been working on for three months, and watching Lost in Translation. I took the above photo around 10:30. It’s snowing much harder in the last hour.

Before I got showered I spent some quality time with Guy. He was sleeping on an afghan on the loveseat. I just sat next to him and petted him for fifteen minutes or so. All of a sudden his face had this “my ass is falling” expression – the afghan had been draped over one of the armrests, and Guy had curled up so that the upper half of his body was on the chair proper, but his butt was actually hanging off the chair, supported only by the afghan. The afghan eventually gave way, and he just dissapeared through the gap, his attempts to break his fall by digging his claws into the cushions nonwithstanding.

I don’t think I’ll be working tonight.

I think my AIM is somehow tied to Bill Shatner dispensing the following advice: “Stop and think about it” when someone IMs me. It’s very annyoing. SHUT THE HELL UP KIRK.

Andrew Sullivan discusses Bush’s inaguaration speech and quotes some sections. This bit caught my eye:

“Americans, at our best, value the life we see in one another, and must always remember that even the unwanted have worth. And our country must abandon all the habits of racism, because we cannot carry the message of freedom and the baggage of bigotry at the same time.”

Of course, everyone who has barely been following American politics in the last year knows that gay rights legislation was a big issue. And that our president and his supporters and his party was in favor of what can only be called bigotry towards homosexuals.

And now he says this. Seriously, Mr. Bush? Actions speak louder than words.

I had requested today off because Dad & I were going to drive down to the Shore. Snowstorm scratched those plans, so I figured I might as well go into work and help with the lunch rush.

Good thing I did, because Noah wasn’t paying attention when he was working the slicer and his finger wound up with the celery he’d been cutting.

It still doesn’t beat the time Rich sliced up his hand, then went to the counter, answered the phone, waited a moment, and delivered this gem: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, you’re going to have to call back … I’m bleeding profusely and cannot take your order at this time!”

I don’t think she called back.

Really, the thing that irks me most about people trying to pay for food with bad or forged checks is that they usually won’t think to bribe the driver with a big tip.

The driver always gets revenge.

So endeth the lesson.

Can you cut their heads off? That’s all I want to know.

Well, I wound up getting into work. Yay. Refused to drive — for which several of the other drivers started harassing me. That’s fine – part of the job – and I smirked at them when they came back from their runs complaining about how many times they’d spun out.

Actually, working inside was good for a few reasons. First, given the snow, we were very slow – which was a little surprising. Second, tips sucked. I don’t understand why people will order a pizza, commiserate with the driver “Wow, roads suck, you’re so brave to come out on a night like this!”, and then tip a dollar. All I’ll say is, it’s probably a good thing that Maryland has a very strict prohibition about carrying concealed weapons, because that’s enough to push someone to the brink of moider.

As the rush drivers and insiders got clocked out, Greg went on the road as the late driver, leaving just me and good ole’ Ogre inside. Ogre has been training to be a shift manager for the last two months. Let me tell you something: if you have half a brain cell, you can be trained for that position in a a week, but I guess no one has bothered to explain to Ogre that he’s just not cut out for the job. Whatever. Anyway, as Greg is on his way out the door, he tells us both that I’m in charge. This pisses Ogre off to no end – I’m just a worthless driver, after all, he’s the MIT-in-training.

MIT-in-training is his own phrase. MIT is how the company refers to all managers who are not general managers. You’ve probably figured out by now that it stands for ‘manager in training.’ So he’s a ‘manager-in-training-in-training.’

“Why are you in charge, Bomber?” Ogre asks.

Ogre thinks my nickname is Bomber. Actually, Greg’s nickname for me is Dahmer, because he thinks that one day I’m going to snap and walk into the store with a high powered rifle and shoot everyone. I know, it’s not quite how the real Dahmer did it, but serial killers are serial killers. It’s actually a subject of amusement between us – one night we were talking about creative ways I could kill people. “I should drown someone in the sauce bucket,” I said.

Anyway, after asking me why I’m in charge, I then tell him the usual story: was a manager at a Papa John’s in Hampden for eight months, and while there aquired a great many pizza-wonderous skills, including the ability to tell a customer to ‘go fuck yourself’ without either using the word ‘fuck’ or offending them. He sort of nodded to himself, as if to say, ‘Yes, that makes sense’ and then lumbered off.

And then, on my way out the door at the end of the shift, Greg handed me twenty bucks. So not only did I make as much money as most of the drivers did, I also made more than the insiders. Sweeeet.