You know, there’s a reason when I joke about the gun shop/shooting range in Timonium being located in the same building as the Timonium post office, that I’m really not joking. I do think someone was smoking crack when they thought it’d be a good idea to put those two together.

I have never actually backed over anyone’s mailbox, regardless of tip size.

Besides, there’d be more damage to my car than the mailbox, probably.

For some reason, some individuals enjoy ordering services and then not properly compensating the people providing those services. People go into restaraunts and stiff the waiter, or order a delivery and then stiff the pizza guy.

I don’t know if this happens often in sit-down restaraunts, but about half of the people who stiff me actually feel it neccessary to come up with an excuse. Today — a very very very slow day (eight runs in eleven hours of work) I was stiffed twice. The first kid didn’t feel the need to make an excuse — in return, I didn’t feel the need to lock his backyard gate on the way out, but I’m petty like that (hey, some assholes would’ve backed over his mailbox).

The second kid actually felt the need to make an excuse. “I’d tip you but …”

I understand that some times people are unexpectedly short of change. It’s one thing for a regular or semi-regular customer — okay, decent, or great tippers to be short of cash and not have enough for a tip. I’ve had a few customers who generally tip $5 or better on occasion barely have enough left over for a tip, and I’m not angry — they treat me well, and I’m going to have more patience with them as a result.

But some folks just can never cough up more than a buck for a tip, and some don’t even bother with that. Cheapskate assholes, but I understand, some people are always going to be cheapskates, even if they do have two expensive German cars in the driveway, a crew of Mexicans working on their yard, and a framed in addition on the back of their house.

What I don’t get are the people who feel guilty enough to make excuses for their stiffing, but never seem quite able to get to the point where they could either tip better or just go pick the food up themselves.

Oh, yes, here’s the secret to the fast-food delivery business: if you pick it up, there’s no obligation to tip!

Well, yes, you do have to spend precious minutes driving to the shop, precious gas expended in that trip, sometimes you might have to wait at the counter for a few minutes if the food isn’t ready, plus dealing with all that traffic? What a fucking downer. But, you don’t have to shell out the few singles for which you express your gratitude towards a delivery driver for using his car, his time, and his gasoline to drive through rush-hour traffic and inclement weather to bring a hot pizza to your door, requiring you to: get up, answer door, tip [shit-poor/poor/okay/decent/great/excellent/would you like a blowjob?], eat food.

Back to what I was talking about earlier … people who apologize for not tipping.

Most often, the people who apologize for not tipping also call up and ask as their first question over the phone, “I’ve got fifteen bucks. What can I get?” and proceed to place an order for as much food as fifteen dollars will buy. Well, good and great and all, but you know when you’re taking the order that these people are going to tip shit-poor and insult your intelligence by some lame-ass excuse. “Yeah, I’m a little short on cash…”

One day I’d like to be able to say: “Really? Because you spoke to me on the phone, you knew exactly how much cash you had, and if you’d really wanted to tip, you’d've left off the third order of cheesebread.”

But I can’t, so I just smile, nod, and run over their mailbox on the way out.

Sounds good to me!

(Actually, I’ve enough of the former, but do hope that my current weight loss continues and that I might start enjoying more of the latter).

*UPDATE*

Oh, right …

235 lbs, which, if you’re keeping track, means I gained back a pound.

For this week — more planning on what to eat, more exercise.

(Note: this contains spoilers for every movie mentioned. Be warned).

I saw LORD OF WAR the other week. Nicholas Cage plays a guy who decides he can make a boatload of green by dealing in weapons of death — after all, he reasons, people want to kill people and someone has to supply the pistols, rifles, grenades, and tanks so that they can fulfill their dreams, doesn’t someone?

The film is visually spectacular, sadly, that’s about the limit of what it has going for it. I’m not neccessarily not a fan of narration, but in this case, the film relies too heavily on telling the audience what’s going on as opposed to showing the audience (although showing over telling was a big concept in every writing class I ever took, you’d think movies — a visual medium — would be pretty down pat at it. Guess not).

There’s no moral lesson in the story — even after his brother is killed, his family disown him, and his wife leaves him and takes their kid, what lesson does he learn? Oh, right: gun running is good!

One thing I notice when folks don’t want others to think poorly of their taste in movies is that they’ll defend it as “a great popcorn film.” Michael Bay’s THE ROCK is a great popcorn film. LORD OF WAR is a great “Why’d I waste a rental on this?” film.

**

FOUR BROTHERS was a good popcorn film. It’s heavy on the “shoot the shit out of a lot of people” but at the center it’s a story of four brothers who have to do some wrong to do some good. Do two wrongs make a right? No, but multiple wrongs — most relating to people falling out of windows and firearms in use — do indeed make for a good film. Terrence Howard is an underutilized scene-stealer, although I did have a problem with how his character ended up — why the eff’ didn’t he think to search Josh-y boy for a second weapon?

**

I rented IN COLD BLOOD from Netflix. Based on Truman Capote’s book, the producers actually filmed scenes in the same house the Clutter family was shotgunned to death in. That’s fucking creepy.

**

Speaking of “great popcorn films”, Michael Bay’s last good popcorn film was ARMAGEDDON. That, THE ROCK, and BAD BOYS are great examples of what make good popcorn flicks — action, adventure, great characters, snappy dialogue, beautifully shot with a semi-intelligent script and a great score.

Michael Bay’s been a little off the mark — let’s face it, PEARL HARBOR, BAD BOYS II, and THE ISLAND were all steaming piles of shit, which is dissapointing, because I was really hoping Bay knew that it takes more than flashy action sequences and moving cameras to make a film work. If Michael Bay could go back in time to the edgy dude he was when he filmed the original BAD BOYS (“…and some skittles!”), then maybe his films would be ready to be dubbed “popcorn ready.”

With THE ISLAND, there was a huge stumbling block in the script that I just couldn’t get my brain around. I’d like to say, first off, I think most films require a certain suspension of disbelief, without which the audience would say, “Wait, so, Bruce Willis just jumped off a one-hundred story building, shot his UZI wildly, killed fifty-hundred-billion terrorists — all with head shots — and landed on his feet, all while shouting ‘Yippiee-cayee mother fuckers!’ Wait, what? That could never happen!”

But there’s no suspension of disbelief powerful enough to get around the big one that is the center of THE ISLAND’s premise. So, let me get into that right quick:

In the future, a top-secret and highly illegal cloning facility exists where duplicates of the rich, famous, and important are kept in preparation of their organs being harvested. Some of the clients of this facility choose to use their clones to carry their natural children to term.

Get that? What makes the facility illegal is that the clones have consciousness (they’re supposed to be brain dead) and think they’re in some sort of “post-nuclear-war” contained society, waiting via lottery to be taken to “The Island” where the world is As It Was Before Everything Blew Up. In reality, “The Island” is a scam meant to cover up the dissapearance of clones as they’re taken to have their organs harvested. When new clones are introduced to the facility, quite a big hupla is made about how “new survivors” have been located in the barren wasteland that is, in the self-contained fiction, earth.

Here’s where THE ISLAND fell apart for me. A pregnant clone enters into labor, delivers, and is executed by the attending doctor. What? Okay, so I get they can harvest all her organs so that the “original” can still benefit if her heart or liver fails, but what if the “original” and the original’s husband want to have another kid? The clones in the facility think this woman went to THE ISLAND, how could another be introduced into the population without blowing the whole cover?

I know, right? An absolutely ridiculous thing to ruin my enjoyment of the film, but there you have it. Well, that and the uninspired script — I think they did this story several times in STAR TREK — and over-reliance on special effects, but there you have it.

… has been bad for my diet.

No exercise (well, except for running around Towson trying to find the courthouse), virtually no attempt at keeping to my “points” …

I’ll see how bad tomorrow.

Holy crap, awestastic!

Taxes are done. Refund from the feds, payment to state. I’ll wait on mailing state (I owe $45) until I get my nice refund ($300-some) deposited into my checking account (maybe not so nice). Feels good not to procrastinate this year, too.

There were several lawyers representing folks in front of the judge when I went to traffic court Thursday. Several minutes before court started, a lawyer entered the room, asked for someone, and when he recieved no answer, started to walk out of the courtroom. A woman in the backrow coughed and asked him, “Are you a public defender?”

“Uh, no,” he replied, “There are no public defenders in traffic court.”

I got a kick out of that exchange, but maybe it was one of those “you had to be there” deals.

I’m kind of pressed for time, so I don’t have the opportunity for my usual long winded BSG wrap-up. Quickly now:

Why is it we always get these “48 Hours Previously…” episodes with Lee as the one in the awkward situation?

Dee, you communications slut! Billy’s the man! Stay with Billy! Billy don’t go to no prostitutes.

Second episode this season with no sign of everyone’s favorite pilot, Starbuck. I gather she features rather prominent next episode.

I thought Lee got shot this episode?

Lee’s got some things to come to grip with. I’d imagine that when your society is nuked into oblivion and all you’ve got facing you is running and fighting and running and fighting death tends to look kinda good. Isn’t that what pushed Kat over the edge several episodes ago?

Oh! Zarek! I wasn’t expecting him. Neat-o!

Things with Baltar seem to be coming to a head. “Old suspicions re-emerging.” I wonder how far he’ll be pushed?

I like the black market concept and execution. We’d only seen Fisk a few times, I wonder how corrupt he was before he took over Pegasus. Would Cain have approved? Power corrupts. In any case, Fisk sure moved quickly to take control of the black-market. I wonder where Tigh was getting his alkie from before Pegasus arrived — and the age old question: is still alkie from the hanger deck better than brewed alkie saved from Caprica?

I figured out why I didn’t get the notice from the court on when to appear.

The Trooper who wrote my ticket wrote my address as “1A [Street]“. Whoever entered the information into the computer translated that to “14 [Street]“, which is what is displayed on the receipt I recieved from the court-house.

Ah, the minor bumblings of, y’know, traffic court.

The driver rotation at the Indy goes like this (the best example is Friday night, where almost every driver is scheduled). “Rush” drivers leave in the order they arrive at the store. The exceptions are the “late” and “closing” drivers, who leave at the end of the night when the cleaning chores are completed.

The “day” driver (the unlucky schmoe who arrived at 11) is the first to be cut. Following, that, the rush drivers are cut in the order they arrived at the store. Sometimes exceptions are made if the guy who arrived at 4:59 is on a run and its slow enough to cut him and the guy who arrived at 5:01. The guy who arrived at 5:01 is cut loose, and the guy who arrived at 4:59 but was out on a run gets to leave when he returns.

Well, tonight the orderly cutting routine was upset.

You might remember “Ass Alex.” Do a search (right-hand menu) for posts on this blog about him. He’s a real fuckin’ charmer, from coming back late from vacations to save a few bucks on plane fare to faking epileptic fits to get out of doing dishes, the guy has “LOSER” stamped pretty noticeably on his oversized forehead and the thick mop of greasy hair he refuses to do anything with (not to mention the foodbits stuck in his goatee).

Apparently, working a simple rush shift was too much for Ass Alex Friday night. He was scheduled from five through the end of the rush. As it was not a particularly busy night, that means he would’ve been out by about eight o’clock. Well, apparently expecting this shit-head-worthless fuck to work three measley fucking hours is too much to expect from him.

Here’s some background: the cat has cash. He lives with his grandparents rent free. He doesn’t even collect his paychecks until someone throws them at him. He took three and a half weeks off for vacation. He complained to a customer’s face about the size of a tip he recieved. Long story short: he’s a douche. I don’t know why he hasn’t quit, because I don’t see any fucking reason for this fucker to need to work. Bad enough he comes in and half-asses everything, but he can’t even fulfill the basic requirements of the job.

(Funny side story: he’s apparently in school training to be a nurse. I hope some day he has to go in to clean up a patient who had explosive diahrhea. He’ll claim an epileptic fit and the head nurse — a plump black woman who isn’t going to take no scam from a fat spoiled white boy who has never had to do any work in his life — rapes him up his fat ass with a dildo the size of an oak tree).

So anyways, he comes back to the store after a run and tells Steve his grandfather is dying of lung cancer.

“Um, okay?”

“I need to leave.”

“He’s dying now?”

“I need to go home and call an ambulance.”

“Can’t you call an ambulance?”

“My grandfather is dying suddenly of lung cancer. I need to go home to call an ambulance so he doesn’t die.”

“Can’t you call an ambulance from your cell phone? Why do you have to go home?”

“Please Steve, don’t give me any trouble, I need to leave! I need to save his life!”

So Steve checked him out — seriously, I don’t blame Steve, Alex is one fucking annoying piece of ass-expelled shit — and Alex was on his way. I wasn’t too happy because it had been a slow day shift and I wanted to leave, but I got stuck taking a few more runs to cover for Ass “I can’t work a three hour shift because I’m a lazy worthless bastard” Alex.

Steve and I chatted briefly about Ass Alex’s excuse, and we’re both convinced he’s lying. Here’s why:

5. If your grandfather was dying suddenly of lung cancer, wouldn’t you call for an ambulance from your cell phone as opposed to wasting precious time driving to his home before calling for an ambulance?

4. What skills does Alex posess to save his grandfather’s life? Perhaps he has an Emergency Lung Cancer Patient Saving Machine in the trunk of his car.

3. Perhaps not.

2. Is it possible to die suddenly of lung cancer?

And the number one reason we agreed Ass Alex was lying:

1. Ass Alex is a habitutal liar.

Have I ever mentioned Ass Alex’s attempt at insurance fraud? I’m tempted to get his insurance information out of his folder and rat him out. Naaaah.

Anyway, I work all day Sunday with Greg. Greg is reluctant to fire Alex because of a general shortage we’re experiencing with drivers, but I’m prepared to volunteer to pick up an extra few shifts to cover for his absence, which should mean — hopefully with this last bogus fuckamaroo — that a sufficient case can be made for Alex’s termination. Saddly, termination means “Alex, you’re fired” not *bang* *bang* *bang*. I think I’d rather the second.

Also a plus towards moving in this direction, Steve and Greg decided to fire a worthless insider named J. J was great when he first started last fall, showed up on time, worked hard, was dedicated, even employee of the month. Then he started calling out all the time, bitching about how he’d requested a day off but was scheduled (he’d wait until the schedule was up before making his request) and various other acts to which his mother calling out for him today (and blatantly lying to cover for him — he’d called earlier from a friend’s house) was the final straw and J. was terminated. Again, in a “you’re fired” way and not a *bang* *bang* way, which I guess is good because: murder = bad.

Cull the assholes. Fire Alex. That’s my new chant.

Last night I finally had the pleasure of reading C.S. Forester’s “The Last Nine Days of the Bismarck” which details the efforts by the British Navy in mid-1941 to locate and destroy Nazi Germany’s most powerful battleship, a ship that literally had the power to break Britain’s naval superiority and give Germany the edge needed to win the war.

I’d been trying (half-heartedly) to track down a copy of the book for some time. It’s been out of print for years, so no bookstores in the area, or Amazon, had copies. I enjoyed Forester’s Hornblower books, and imagined I’d enjoy the book. I finally located it on eBay and it arrived a few days ago.

The story of the Bismarck — the actual story, the one the book is based on — well, it’s an incredible story of luck and crazy odds in a storm tossed ocean. The British Navy was spread across the Atlantic, blockading German warships in port, safeguarding convoys from u-boats, and then what few ships were left struggling to locate the Bismarck after the ship was spotted off the Swedish coast, with her escort Prinz Eugen. The British Cruiser Suffolk then located Bismark in the Denmark Straights and shadowed the massive ship, radioing their position to the British Admirality, which dispatched HMS Hood and HMS Prince of Whales to confront, engage, and sink the Bismark.

Prince of Whales was a brand new battleship and right out of the shipyard — an untrained crew, and not entirely reliable equipment. In fact, workers from the dock yard were still aboard making sure everything worked right. On the other hand, battlecruiser Hood had been built during the first world war — in the intervening years, she’d been Britain’s “goodwill ambassador” to almost every nation on the planet. When people spoke of the Hood, they spoke of Britain’s naval strength.

Early dawn, Hood and Prince of Whales closed and began to fire on the Bismark and Prinz Eugen. Bismarck returned fire. Within minutes, the Hood was scattered in thousands of millions of pieces across the North Atlantic, and the Prince of Whales was heavily damaged and retreating under cover of smoke.

The death of the Hood was a heavy blow to Britain, and Prime Minister Winston Churchill instructed the Admirality, “The whole world is watching. Sink the Bismarck.”

I don’t want to give too much of the events away, but following the destruction of the Hood, battleships, aircraft carriers, and a squadron of destroyers based in Gibraltar sailed to fight the Bismarck. One could argue that it was the hunt for the Bismarck which proved the battleship-class obsolete for modern naval warfare, where power is projected not through multiple, high-chambered cannons mounted aboard a ship, but rather through the ability to strike from the air — indeed, it was British fighters flying from Victorious and Ark Royal which delivered the death blows to Bismarck. Not in the literal sense, no plane sunk that ship, but their torpedo attacks ruptured a fuel tank and left a trail of oil (in the case of Victorious’ attack) and damaged her rudder and propeller (in the case of Ark Royal‘s).

(PS – I’m going through most of this on memory, I’ve got some facts wrong, I’m sure).

The History Channel did an awesome documentary several years back, which is how I was introduced to the tale. Forrester’s telling of the story is exciting and decent, but lacks character involvement, which I found dissapointing. Anyway, it’s probably one of the most exciting tales of World War II — if you’re into that kind of thing — and well worth looking into.

“Sink the Bismarck!”

(No, I haven’t seen the movie. Yes, it’s on my queue on Netflix).

Construction lasted from July 20th(ish), 2005 to January 26th, 2006 (that’s about half a year).

The castle is constructed on a 64×64 peg baseplate.

The castle is 200 Lego Bricks tall.

The castle weighs [a lot of] lbs. (I think the table it’s on is about to break).

I would not even want to guesstimate how many Lego bricks the castle is made of, except that the number is somewhere in the thousands.

You can view more photos in my Brickshelf Gallery. New sections will be added as time allows.

EDITED 12/12/2007 to fix broken image links.

After traffic court yesterday, I drove over to the Indy to do two things: show my coworkers, yes, I can dress up, and second to work out a scheduling problem with Gary. I walked in to the middle of an arguement between Gary and Sketchy over smoking being banned statewide. It wasn’t odd what they were discussing, indeed, Sketchy and Gary like getting in political debates, no, what was odd was that Sketchy — the dyed in the wool lefty — was arguing against bannings smoking; and Gary — the dyed in the wool red-blooded American righty — was arguing for it.

People.