I just walked in my front door after attending my first ever National Hockey League game tonight. Sadly, the Capitals lost.
I’ve never been a big fan of sports. I played soccer as a kid, and I enjoyed it, but I’ve never been able to follow pro-soccer as an adult. I’ve given considerable thought that I would probably enjoy hockey, because from what little I know if it, soccer and hockey have more than a passing familiarity with each other in terms of how they’re played.
And I know that probably sounds weird, but, well, this is me saying it.
In any case, when the opportunity presented itself, I accepted an invitation to accompany a coworker to tonight’s game, against the Toronto Maple Leafs. The shuttle from work took forever, so we actually got to our seats just after the National Anthem.
Hockey’s a violent sport, I’ve been told, but it seems to me a lot of that just stems from the nature of big guys ice skating at top speed towards each other. They run into each other. They slam each other against the big plastic wall. My coworker, a generally quiet guy, surprised me by cussing: like, quite a bit. I meanwhile, think I surprised him by not cussing: usually I’m all about the “fuck this, fuck that, fuck it all!” at work as I rat-a-tat my keyboard, channeling Al Capone behind a Chicago typewriter.
The game itself was fantastic … I mean, not in the sense of how the Caps played, but my own reaction: I can’t ever recall being so excited at a sports event before. Coworker mumbled about the Caps playing defense, and kept urging what I thought was player number Seven to shoot: turns out he meant Alexander Semin, and I only know because I finally asked him, “Dude, I don’t see anyone with a number 7 on their jersey.”
In any case, I enjoyed myself, and parted ways with my coworker. He’s leaving the country at the end of the summer, and mentioned putting me on to his “dealer”: a friend of his with season tickets who misses several games a season and sells them cheap. It’s a far cheaper option than purchasing my own season tickets, but I think, especially next season, I could find myself actually following the Capitals.
After the game, I opted to skip the crowds at Chinatown — although I did not cuss at all in the Arena, I did nearly scream “WTF IT IS A GODDAMN CROSSWALK YOU GODDAMN NASTY-CURSE WORDS AIMED AT YOUR GENDER!” at a woman who made a right-hand turn into a crosswalk as people were, y’know, crossing at the intersection of 7th & H. I actually wound up walking to Farragut North, where I picked up the L2 to ride it home. However, no sooner did I arrive at Woodley Park, then I remembered the other errand I had to run in Chinatown: picking up a ticket to the 7pm showing of Watchmen. I sighed, disembarked the bus, and promptly descended into the depths of the Metro station.
On the face of it, this is a particularly ridiculous story, and the woman in question deserves much ridicule. That was my thought, anyway, reading a similar headline earlier today.
Giving it some more thought, however, while still I think calling 911 was not the correct course of action, I find fault with the restaurant.(more…)
I did not start at the Bookstore as a bookseller — rather, I started in loss prevention, so for my first month or two of employment, I was the dude in the bright red shirt who would quite enthusiastically greet every single person who walked in the door. I never got to bust a shoplifter, but I did get to throw a few homeless people out.
Never was particularly proud of that. But …
In any case, the woman who trained me has worked as a store detective for the Bookstore for a number of years. She’s a tough chica who I to this day believe capable of kicking my ass (and I’m three times bigger than she is).
Because LP is apparently not considered “essential”, she’s worried her job may be on the chopping block — a lot of LP upper management have been let go (the company’s focus seems to be on preventing unauthorized use of coupons at the register — who cares about shoplifting?) She’s taking everything rather matter of factly, and certainly a lot more calmly than I would, but when I asked if she had a backup plan, she turned to me and said softly, “Who has a backup plan for working retail?”
It’s stuff like that which makes me feel completely powerless.
If I disapprove of the National Endowment for the Arts, it’s for this reason: when you accept money from the government, you place yourself under their authority. In the same sense that when you borrow money from Mom & Dad, your parents suddenly have a say in whether or not you take that exotic vacation: “Hey, uh, look, remember that money you owe us? Yeah, well…”, so too do artists open themselves up to the government saying, “Er, look, the toilet being dumped on Jesus’ head? Not so cool…” Y’know what isn’t cool? (more…)
I love articles like the one I just read on CNN, because when people talk about “green” technologies, I usually tend to think of stuff like more energy efficient electronics, and toilets that don’t use as much water. Green bullets? Never in a million years would I have have thought of it, but it’s a growing thing:
Three years ago, Phillip Loughlin made a choice he knew would brand him as an outsider with many of his fellow hunters: (more…)
I clearly remember being at a Crown Bookstore, somewhere in Laurel, probably, when I was about 12 or so. I may have been younger. I found a few graphic novels: Eastman and Laird’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
I think I was a fan of the cartoon show: of that, I don’t remember much, except that the syndication airing must’ve been messed up: back-to-back episodes featured the Drome on Wheels under the ocean, or under the ground, or in an alternate dimension, but it never mattered: Shredder, Bebop, Rocksteady, none of ‘em could kill the Turtles, even with armies of Foot Soldiers.
And when I read the first TMNT graphic novel, all of what I knew was blown away. The Turtles weren’t puffy douchebags, they were simultaneously lean and thick, violent: they did not hesitate to kill their foes. Indeed, the comic opens with the Turtles cornered by a street gang. By the third page, most of that gang lies slaughtered.
I found some copies of the graphic novels on eBay a few years back. They’re not quite as gritty as I remember: sure, the Turtles still kill people — the Shredder gets shredded midway through the first book. The drawings are sometimes pedestrian, the stories are as ridiculous as any the cartoon show came up with. Still: they’re the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and no matter how silly, or how stupid, there’s always a part of me that will smile when I think on their ridiculousness.
This afternoon I was going through my reader, and I came across this post by Life of Brian, detailing his extremely neurotic morning routine.
All I can say is “Wow.” Also: who has the damn time to do all of that?
My clock radio is set to begin playing at 5:00 am. I’ve had a symphonic Queen CD in there for the last several months — I usually finally crank my eyes open around “Save Me”, and will often switch to WTOP to find out if there are any early morning problems with the Red Line.
At 5:30, my alarm goes off. I hit snooze. At 5:40, it goes off again and I hit snooze, again. At 5:50, it goes off for a third time, and this time, I crank one open and see that my alarm clock says 5:50, and thus, I’m now running twenty minutes later.
At this point, I do not drag myself out of bed: I leap. The cats, big dark shadows on the couch, bolt for cover under the bed. They will later want to harass me to remind me to feed them before I leave. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower so it can warm up. Mouthwash, brush. I don’t shave: I’ve got a big bushy beard, what would there be to shave? Well, yes: my head. But I shave my head before I go to bed, usually. I try never to skip shaving my head more than one night.
So I brush, and then I jump into the shower. I get soaked, I soap up, I rinse off. I exit the bathtub, deodorize myself, and drip into the closet, where I dress: I work in an Office, and an informal one, but I try to dress nicely — sure, I wear jeans and cargo pants, but I’m not above pairing that with a button-up shirt and a tie. Sometimes, a sweater vest. Don’t worry: the tie is usually crooked.
By this time, I’m about all set. Wallet, iPod, and keys go into my pockets, my SmarTrip card, on a lanyard, goes around my neck. Glasses on my face. I put on my scarf, hat, coat, throw my messenger bag on, and grab my lunch out of the fridge (I brown bag, and I make it the night before). At this time, I’m out the door, with a short walk, a not-so-long Metro ride, and a not-so-long bus ride awaiting me.
You might think doing all this takes quite a bit of time. Honestly, though? If I’m not out my door by 6am, I’m taking way too long. (I mean … I’m not a woman.)
I predict one day, Brian will slaughter all of his enemies, slowly and painfully. I suspect this post will put me on that list. So, when you find my skinned corpse rotting in a dumpster somewhere, make sure to go ask him some questions.
Yesterday, it snowed. In accordance with the Office’s snow day policy — “If you want the day off, use PTO” — the majority of people did not arrive for work. From those who came in, including myself, there was some grumbling about having to work, especially since our lack of internet for most of the day made it almost impossible to actually get anything done.
Two of my coworkers commute down from far-far away. They were in a minor car accident yesterday, and thankfully, neither was injured, although the car was not so lucky, and might need some fairly expensive repairs.
The car’s owner is fairly pissed off, and I suppose she has a right to be — goodness knows, I’ve been plenty of pissed at this company in the not so distant past. But when she told me, “I know I can’t expect anything from this place!” I just sort of had a realization.
Okay, so we don’t get snow days — we all get a base of three weeks’ worth of PTO (Paid Time Off). We’re allowed to go negative on our PTO to the tune of two and a half days.
The Office is flexible about unpaid leave, and working hours: their only restriction is that you be in the Office from 10 am to 3 pm Monday through Friday. How you fit the other fifteen hours per week in is per your discretion — many of my coworkers stay long hours Monday through Thursday and only come in from 10-3 on Friday.
We have health insurance — good health insurance — and dental insurance. There’s a 401K plan that might actually be coming into fruition, although talk about it has died since the economy nose dived. We have catered lunches once a month, and a budget for “fun” out of the office activities which allowed us to go play pool one day after work last week, not only with the Office picking up the tab, but letting us use the time towards our forty. (That was the day I met Mister The Plumber.)
Our building’s parking requires payment: the company picks up the tab for the monthly parking permit. Those of us who don’t drive can have that amount reimbursed towards our commuting expenses.
Our only rule governing personal internet time is that any streaming site (YouTube, Pandora) is off-limits. Other than that, we’re permitted to spend as much time on Facebook, Gmail, or CNN as we wish, with the caveat that our work must be done by the time we leave for the day.
I don’t mean to mock my coworkers’ bitching: many have voiced such complaints. But I worked for the better part of a decade at menial hourly wage jobs, where being paid to take the day off was not an option. If it snowed and I couldn’t make it in, or I chose not to endanger myself trying, I did not get paid for the day. I had no health insurance through work, and when I did, it was a crappy, horrible plan that ate too much of my paycheck and fooled my coworkers into thinking a vision plan (free eyeglasses!) was a good benefit: no.
Sometimes I think people should be forced to work blue-collar jobs for a set period of time before moving into the white-collar field. I never particularly liked many of my jobs, only got along with a few of my bosses, but I learned enough in that time to appreciate where I am now (even if I sometimes forget that lesson).
Admittedly, the culture here has changed in the year I’ve been working at the Office (that’s not entirely true: my first day was March 24th, so I’m three weeks shy). We used to get multiple lunches a month, and chartered buses to baseball games. Our budget for fun used to be greater, and no one cared if you worked twelve hours a day Monday through Wednesday and came in from 7 to 11 on Thursday, because, by God!, you had your forty. At the end of the week, individuals used to be recognized for assorted achievements with gift cards: I still have one in my wallet: $50 Cheesecake Factory. (Any takers? Single ladies only need apply).
I attribute the changes to the nations’ financial woes: the big changes to the corporate culture came when the economy tanked, when a hiring freeze went into effect.
And it sucks. Of course it does. But when it comes to “not expecting anything from this place?” I’m still happy to be able to expect a paycheck every two weeks, which was far more than I could from a lot of the other places I’ve worked.
Although I debated staying home today, the prospect of using PTO to get out of the Office seemed silly when I realized I have to work a shift at the Bookstore tonight. So I dragged myself out of bed a bit before six, showered, dressed, made my lunch, and walked out the front door of my building, noting in the snow the bootprints that showed at least one of my neighbors wasn’t taking the day off.
My glasses fogged immediately in the Woodley Park Metro’s elevator, but the trains were running. They were warm, I was sweating. I had to wait about ten minutes for a shuttle to work, and although the big old vehicle moved a lot slower than usual, I got here okay, about half an hour later than I usually do. There was a woman in the bus shelter with me: snowflakes on a woman’s uncovered head are remarkably sexy. On the other hand, people not wearing hats on such a cold day strike me as being somewhat stupid.
But I got here okay. I tapped in my code and entered the office, and noticed the distinctly empty coat rack. The lights all off. I began flipping them on and made my way through this place, checking the kitchens, the offices, but no one was here. I slit open some boxes and found the hot chocolate, made myself a mug, answered my cube neighbor’s phone: it was my cube neighbor, wanting to know if we were open.
I had no idea. Were we supposed to be? I made some calls: people didn’t answer. He decided to spend the day with his kids, but I found out our company’s snow policy: “That’s why we give people PTO,” when my boss returned my call.
I tried to log into the internet: it was down. I called out IT guy: nope, he wasn’t coming in, yes, his boss was coming in, and knew the internet was down.
I sent his boss an e-mail, the old fashioned way: opened a WP document, typed it all up nice, complete with sent: to: and from: lines, a big bold TEH INTERNETZ IS BROKEZ! OMGZ WTF! above that, and a similarly written text for the message itself, printed, posted it to his monitor. “Oh, yeah, brilliant,” he hollared out of his office when he arrived, “I’ve been getting calls about this since THREE AM!”
Kind of hard to work without the internet — had access to our database, but not to the tools of my trade: no Google, no financial websites, no CNN, LinkedIn, Jigsaw. Also: no Gmail, no Facebook, no Reader, no blog, no MMOG. It’s back up now, six hours later.
About a dozen people — out of fifty — made their way in, the bulk of us by nine, a few others making their way in by noon. One coworker, a New Yorker, took a break to walk to the bank: we told him it would be closed, he mocked us, then came back to report it was closed, and he mocked this area for shutting down in the snow. Two coworkers were in a car accident as they tried to come in from Frederick: their car is fucked, but they’re okay. Another coworker wanted to come in from Annapolis, but I convinced him anyway. “But, I spent thirty minutes cleaning off my car!” he protested.
It’s pretty casual in here today: people are walking around, talking, laughing, running through the office firing on each other with Nerf guns. I plugged my iPod into a radio and played Queen and Murray’s Head and other nerd music. “I’m okay with that,” I told a coworker. “It wasn’t a value judgement,” the one who appraised my music as such remarked.
I made some phone calls, read a book, took a nap. Washed my mug. Went to the bathroom. The day is almost over.
I had made plans with some coworkers at both the Office, and the Bookstore, to meet up Saturday to see Fanboys. For various reasons, we planned on meeting up for the 11:50am showing. This marks the last time I try to see if anyone is interested in doing anything after-work, because out of the ten or so people who expressed interest, some of whom said they would without fail be present, yep, you guessed it, I was the only one who went. Fuckers. (Brian? Fahad? Hurley? Jim? Ya’ll are fuckers, fuckers.)
In fact, I was the only person who went to see that movie at that time. Not only was I the only person in the theater, I was hanging around the entrance for ten minutes before they even turned on the house lights in that theater. (more…)
