Actually, just some brief observations. Ho-drum episode, although I think the feelings of some of the “New Capricans”, regarding their situation as opposed to the “Fleeters”, is more than slightly justified. Anyway … here goes:

1. Hybrid-Cylon-Pilot freaks me out. Should s/he be model #13.5?

2. I was right! Apollo is the CAG! Looks like Kat is back to just being a pilot.

3. I was right again! Helo is still the XO. I wonder if Adama yanked Tigh’s post after his outburst at Gaeta in last week’s episode, or if Tigh hadn’t yet been reinstated (and certainly hasn’t yet been)?

4. I guess we know how Baltar got off New Caprica now — he stole a Raptor. I can’t think of any other way that a Cylon basestar would have one available. Actually, scratch that, I can: after they nuked the colonies, they raided Colonial military installations for Raptors, and would use them to infiltrate the RTF — think about it, they’d do a precise FTL jump into the fleet, somewhere so close where Galactica’s dradis wouldn’t realize it had a new contact. The Raptor would have forged credentials and land on Cloud-9 or another non-military ship on the RTF, where Cylon agents could disperse at will. Every Basestar could have several Raptors and sets of military uniforms for such infiltrations.

5. Hot Dog in a Mark VII! First time we’ve seen him out of a Mark II.

6. How long since the last episode? Lee’s dropped all his flab.

7. Love Baltar’s line: “Am I a cylon?” Too easy. No, no he isn’t.

8. I’ve been calling her Boomer Mk. II … courtesy of Hot Dog’s suggestion, her new call sign is “Athena.”

That’s all I’ve got. Two papers due in the next week and a half and registration on Monday. Sorry, I’m barely watching the episode!

Wednesday night, the night of the Blogger Happy Hour just a few streets north, a bar also located in Remington and owned by one Molly Goatwax, was victimized by armed robbers.

Baltimore Sun Police Blotter:

Robbery // Two men, one with a handgun and the other a knife, robbed Molly’s Pub House in the 400 block of W. 23rd St. of an undisclosed sum of money about 10 p.m. Wednesday.

Molly writes on her blog, “No one was hurt, for which we are all very grateful. For the next few days Molly’s will be shuttered as we install security systems and figure out what to do.” However, the bar will be open tonight for the weekly Battlestar Galactica “Frak Gathering tonight should you like to attend. We’ll have a special evening.”

As a show of solidarity — and because, seriously, what is better than beer and Battlestar?* — I’m headed down. Should you be heading out into Baltimore for a beer tonight or this weekend or later in the week, make your destination Molly’s.

(*That’s a rhetorical question, fucktard).

It was back in May when I came home from work and logged into Gmail to find an e-mail from someone named “Danielle”. Turns out she’d found my blog through a link from Mobtown Shank and had apparently been reading me for quite some time, she “realized just how much I’ve soaked up your blog” when, at the grocery store, she saw a box of Lego Eggo Waffles and thought “I bet [you] would like those.”

That, of course, led to this post, led to several Lego Eggo boxes finding their way into my freezer and my stomach, and of course led to Danielle being one of my favorite non-blogger-readers/commenters.

Anyway, after many months of gingerly exploring the blogosphere and reading and commenting, Danielle finally made the jump last Wednesday, first by attending the Octovember Blogger Happy Hour, and then today (after many months of being pestered by me), starting her own.

(This is going to be a whiney post. Please don’t inquire if I’d like cheese with it. I would, but only if its free — because, otherwise I can’t afford it, see?)

Slow.

That’s the only way to describe business at any pizza shop these days.

Dead. Fucking. Slow.

I worked five hours last night. I had six deliveries. Early November, cold night, dark by 5:30? I should’ve had a dozen. I made thirty bucks. I should’ve made sixty.

It’s been like this since mid-September. According to Greg, sales all year have been down — everywhere that he knows about (which is actually extensive since he gets to scope out his fairly extensive in-company and out-of-company sources) — but with a boost in our driving staff at the Franchise (boo), the perspective of the individual drivers is thus: Decreasing Sales + More Drivers = Less hours to take fewer deliveries.

Look, I was expecting my income would take a hit when I returned to school. That is the way it works — when you work fewer hours, you make fewer bucks. But this is more than that — people aren’t ordering pizzas as much as they used to. The business isn’t there (and in my opinion can’t support the current size of our driver staff).

I’m fortunate. I’ve been screwing with my schedule a bit to get more hours at the Indy, which has been having stronger evening shifts, particularly during the weekends (this isn’t to say the Indy is doing well — it isn’t. Awesome day shifts are few and far between!) Extra hours there won’t start taking effect for another week — I’ve been hoping that when we set out clocks back and the weather got colder, business would pick up — it hasn’t. I’ve got a word for my situation: broke.

I’m mailing rent tomorrow. I’m about, oh, six hundred bucks short for it. It’ll be a race to see if this weekend and my start-of-the-week paycheck will be enough to cover it. Also, to see if I can get that money into my checking account before the check posts. Fun shit.

I think I would probably be more depressed and bummed about this, but I’m not. Why not? Because I’m, what, six months away from a college degree? There is a much brighter future in my, uh, future. I can get by on saltines and bottled water for half a year (not to mention free food from work). I can suffer through slow shifts and schedule fuckamaroos. Anyway, I’m going to be spending a lot of late nights at Cook Library in the future — two papers due in the next week and a half.

I can’t wait until I’m done with pizza. There’s a lot of fun to be had doing it, primarily involving driving in your car listening to music. But there is also so much bullshit involved: traffic, co-workers, customers, dogs, police, computer systems, traffic engineers, shitty radio programming, gas prices, car maintenance, fluctuating incomes and hours, etcetra.

I can’t wait to wear a tie. And work in a cubicle. And have a fixed paycheck.

I really can’t wait to never work with [Tard-Fucker]. Every time I think he can’t get any less worthless, I hear a new story, which unfortunatly I can’t relate here. Alas!

Some douchebag (douchebags?) at work took a pizza box, ripped it up, and stuffed it — bit by bit — into my cash-box. Greg wasn’t happy when he saw it — pizza boxes cost money, and he’s not a fan of destruction of store property.

I’m planning my revenge. I have my suspects. I call my dastardly plan “Operation: Hidden Kitty Poo.”