We got a package from FedEx! I think. A "Door Tag" was left on our door about a week ago. It had the words "Pick Up noom home" on it in big black sharpie. This confused me. Where is the noom home? And why do I need to go there to get my package?
One of the twins (can't remember which, they all look alike) looked at it and suggested it might say "Pick Up Noone home". That didn't help. We are not home at noon, no matter how you spell it.
"No, dad" said Abby (or Alex - who can tell?), "It probably says 'Pick Up No one Home."
Oh! That makes sense. But now I have to figure out where the heck my package is. And what it is, since no one (or noom) is expecting anything.
So I call FedEx. I clearly say the "Door Tag number" and FedEx Siri repeats it back. Yes, that's it! No, they have no record of this particular door tag. Then it asks for my door tag or tracking number. Besides the door tag number and illegible writing, there is little else on this tiny piece of paper. I have nothing else to offer FedEx Siri.
So I say "help". FedEx Siri then launches into the history of door tag numbers, voice-activated customer service, and talks some smack about the post office. Wrong kinda help. I press "0". FedEx Siri repeats its 5-minute "help". So I did it again. And so did FedEx Siri. The fourth time was a charm. It told me I would be connected with a customer service agent, and said that I could take part in a one question survey about my experience at the end of the call if I wanted to stay on the line. Damn straight I want to participate. And feel free to ask me two or three.
Felix from customer service came on the line. I told him my sad story and he looked up the door tag number.
"We don't have that in our system."
"Yes, that's what FedEx Siri told me, and I just repeated to you."
"Do you have a tracking number?"
"No, just the door tag number."
"It would start with the letters TRK."
"Oh, that helps. No, I don't have a tracking number."
"Are you expecting a package?"
"Apparently. Thus the sticker on my door from Fed Ex."
"Were you sending or receiving?"
"Based on the conversation so far, are you seriously asking me if I was sending a package?"
"We can look it up by your address. What's your address?"
I tell him my address. And spell it.
"Hello? Are you still there?"
"Oh, hell no, Felix. You are NOT playing this game on me."
"Hello sir?"
"Felix! Please just look up the package."
Click.
Well played, Felix. Well played.
Thursday, October 04, 2018
Friday, July 20, 2018
Never Take off Between Jobs
So, a few things have happened since I last posted. I’ll catch you up. Jill went to the City of Austin, doing similar social working stuff but supervising others. Kaileigh is finishing undergrad this December at Texas State, takes cute pictures with baby possums, marmots, squirrels, and dik diks; and plans to go to grad school in either wildlife biology or investment banking.
The twins are about to start their senior year. Alex is in Costa Rica with Amigos de las Americas. Abby is working, driving, ballroom dancing, and sleeping,. A damn fine summer.
I switched jobs - from Executive Director of Austin Child Guidance Center to CEO* of Refugee Services of Texas. I started early July, and took just a few days off in between. During that time I had a very unfortunate encounter on my bike with a Red Honda Fit. I was heading south on Jollyville, Fit was stopped in left turn lane heading north, waiting to turn into Montessori school. Unfortunately, as a middle aged white man, I am practically invisible to society. Even with my flashing lights and bright orange yellow shirt. Just as I started to pass (in the city approved and universally recognized bike lane) she realized she HAD to be in the parking lot that very second. So she whipped in. I realized that I had to strike her broadside, snapping my bike in two, landing on my side and starting what would be come to be known as the great purple tectonic plate bruises of ‘18.
[*Funny story.- seems like I made CEO before my titan-of-industry brother. Maybe I can help him find his next gig.]
Seton Northwest hospital did a quick xRay and absolutely nothing else.
Seton: you are good to go.
Me: the fingers on my left hand still seem to be bleeding profusely. Any way you could, well, intervene in some way?
Nurse: would you like me to dress the wounds for you?
Me: I hate to be any trouble. Since I can’t walk, you could wheel me to the front door and I will crawl over the gravel to buy a package of Wal-Aids to use. Or, conversely, you could just bring me a f@*$#ing bandage.
My bike Red was killed instantly - his kneck was snapped. My hope is he can be a donor: a wheel, a tire, maybe I can salvage the playing cards from the spokes.
I have apprepiacted everyone’s concerns. It has made me feel better how many people have reached out. Surprisingly, Calvin fron Geico (Red Honda Fit’s insurance) has been the most concerned, calling me every few days. After telling me that they take full responsibility, he went into overdrive.
Calvin: we would like to offer you $———- for your out-of pocket expenses, future medical, and any pain and suffering (in addition to replacing the bike). Well, my out of pocket was $3.45, the copay for my codeine prescription. His offer was about 800 times that. Might cover my pain, but my suffering? Don’t think so. I’m going to an orthopedist next week, and hope to get the suffering question answered. Calvin promised to call afterwards, because he just cares about me so much.
I am slowly on the mend, and have now had adequate time to reflect on the accident and its meaning, including the fact that a split second difference and the Honda Fit would have T-boned me, likely altering my ability to blog, as well as my ability to not be dead.
And the important, life-altering take-aways from this whole ordeal?
1) everyone needs a Calvin - someone who cares unconditionally, and whose only agenda is minimizing liability exposure for the company; and
2) never take a f@#!*ing day off between jobs.
The twins are about to start their senior year. Alex is in Costa Rica with Amigos de las Americas. Abby is working, driving, ballroom dancing, and sleeping,. A damn fine summer.
I switched jobs - from Executive Director of Austin Child Guidance Center to CEO* of Refugee Services of Texas. I started early July, and took just a few days off in between. During that time I had a very unfortunate encounter on my bike with a Red Honda Fit. I was heading south on Jollyville, Fit was stopped in left turn lane heading north, waiting to turn into Montessori school. Unfortunately, as a middle aged white man, I am practically invisible to society. Even with my flashing lights and bright orange yellow shirt. Just as I started to pass (in the city approved and universally recognized bike lane) she realized she HAD to be in the parking lot that very second. So she whipped in. I realized that I had to strike her broadside, snapping my bike in two, landing on my side and starting what would be come to be known as the great purple tectonic plate bruises of ‘18.
[*Funny story.- seems like I made CEO before my titan-of-industry brother. Maybe I can help him find his next gig.]
Seton Northwest hospital did a quick xRay and absolutely nothing else.
Seton: you are good to go.
Me: the fingers on my left hand still seem to be bleeding profusely. Any way you could, well, intervene in some way?
Nurse: would you like me to dress the wounds for you?
Me: I hate to be any trouble. Since I can’t walk, you could wheel me to the front door and I will crawl over the gravel to buy a package of Wal-Aids to use. Or, conversely, you could just bring me a f@*$#ing bandage.
My bike Red was killed instantly - his kneck was snapped. My hope is he can be a donor: a wheel, a tire, maybe I can salvage the playing cards from the spokes.
I have apprepiacted everyone’s concerns. It has made me feel better how many people have reached out. Surprisingly, Calvin fron Geico (Red Honda Fit’s insurance) has been the most concerned, calling me every few days. After telling me that they take full responsibility, he went into overdrive.
Calvin: we would like to offer you $———- for your out-of pocket expenses, future medical, and any pain and suffering (in addition to replacing the bike). Well, my out of pocket was $3.45, the copay for my codeine prescription. His offer was about 800 times that. Might cover my pain, but my suffering? Don’t think so. I’m going to an orthopedist next week, and hope to get the suffering question answered. Calvin promised to call afterwards, because he just cares about me so much.
I am slowly on the mend, and have now had adequate time to reflect on the accident and its meaning, including the fact that a split second difference and the Honda Fit would have T-boned me, likely altering my ability to blog, as well as my ability to not be dead.
And the important, life-altering take-aways from this whole ordeal?
1) everyone needs a Calvin - someone who cares unconditionally, and whose only agenda is minimizing liability exposure for the company; and
2) never take a f@#!*ing day off between jobs.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
F You, Einstein
I enjoy a good bagel. I'm not ashamed to admit that.
I especially enjoy a good "everything" bagel. And when I say good, I do have a few criteria.
1) "Everything" doesn't actually mean "everything." It means the right things.
2) Rye is a deal-breaker.
3) Full sunflower or pumpkin seeds, while not deal-breakers, have no business in an "everything" bagel
That's about it. I did find one place that had the "everything" over the entire bagel, which was a bonus, but I will not judge other bagels on that high standard.
Central Market has good "everything" bagels. A long-defunct coffee shop in Houston named Toopee's had the absolute best. I still miss that place.
Einstein's does not have good "everything" bagels. See criteria #2 above. But in the absence of a good everything bagel, a garlic bagel will suffice (an onion bagel in dire emergencies).
Since Einstein's is on my way to work, I have been know to stop there upon occasion (twice, maybe three times. Per week).
Garlic bagel, toasted with butter. $1.95.
Today, I had one of my occasional visits. Handed the cashier my two dollars, and she gave me back a shiny quarter.
I told her that I think she erred, as I normally get back a dull nickel.
"I gave you the senior discount."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The senior discount. 10% off."
"Why in the living hell would you do that? I did not ask for the senior discount. There is no way I even qualify for the senior discount."
"It's for people over 50."
"Oh."
Maybe she came to Einstein's from the circus, where she used to guess people's weight and age. Maybe she thought that she was doing me a favor by saving me a tiny amount of change.
But weighing my self-perception as someone who does not automatically and without question qualify for a senior discount versus the $0.20 savings, self-perception wins hands down. Thinking about it more, the price point where my outrage equals the value is probably closer to $1, or about a 50% discount.
"Ma'am, I did not ask for, not do I require, your 'senior discount'. I wish to pay full-price for my bagels, and have the means to do so. Good day."
I then dumped the quarter into the tip jar. Which, in retrospect, may have been the plan all along.
I especially enjoy a good "everything" bagel. And when I say good, I do have a few criteria.
1) "Everything" doesn't actually mean "everything." It means the right things.
2) Rye is a deal-breaker.
3) Full sunflower or pumpkin seeds, while not deal-breakers, have no business in an "everything" bagel
That's about it. I did find one place that had the "everything" over the entire bagel, which was a bonus, but I will not judge other bagels on that high standard.
Central Market has good "everything" bagels. A long-defunct coffee shop in Houston named Toopee's had the absolute best. I still miss that place.
Einstein's does not have good "everything" bagels. See criteria #2 above. But in the absence of a good everything bagel, a garlic bagel will suffice (an onion bagel in dire emergencies).
Since Einstein's is on my way to work, I have been know to stop there upon occasion (twice, maybe three times. Per week).
Garlic bagel, toasted with butter. $1.95.
Today, I had one of my occasional visits. Handed the cashier my two dollars, and she gave me back a shiny quarter.
I told her that I think she erred, as I normally get back a dull nickel.
"I gave you the senior discount."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The senior discount. 10% off."
"Why in the living hell would you do that? I did not ask for the senior discount. There is no way I even qualify for the senior discount."
"It's for people over 50."
"Oh."
Maybe she came to Einstein's from the circus, where she used to guess people's weight and age. Maybe she thought that she was doing me a favor by saving me a tiny amount of change.
But weighing my self-perception as someone who does not automatically and without question qualify for a senior discount versus the $0.20 savings, self-perception wins hands down. Thinking about it more, the price point where my outrage equals the value is probably closer to $1, or about a 50% discount.
"Ma'am, I did not ask for, not do I require, your 'senior discount'. I wish to pay full-price for my bagels, and have the means to do so. Good day."
I then dumped the quarter into the tip jar. Which, in retrospect, may have been the plan all along.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Honey, Stop the Car!
Real estate signs occasionally stray from "For Sale" to "New Price", "Open House", "I'm Gorgeous Inside", and even to this - "Honey, Stop the Car!" [By the way, I am gorgeous inside. It's the outside I'm working on].
If you zoom in on the picture above, you will see the aforetomentioned "Honey, Stop, the Car!" sign. That only tells part of the story. I will try to help them tell the rest.
"Honey, Stop the Car!"...
...I have to mow that lawn.
...I found our stolen brass headboard from 2007!
...I told you it's OK to park on the lawn. See?
...I think I found a new place to buy meth.
...that squirrel on the roof owes me money.
...you were absolutely right about staining our fence. This one looks like crap.
...seems like the yard is missing a broken appliance or three.
...who needs windows and natural light when you have all that chunky white brick?
...I am feeling nauseous just looking at that ugly-ass house.
There. All the possible reasons to stop the car. Except perhaps...
...the engine is on fire, and we can leave the car in their yard. No one will notice.
Friday, October 13, 2017
Turn-About is Foul Play
The twins are driving! ish. They took driver's ed last year and then were required to do an additional 116.3 hours of "Behind the Wheel Instruction" as required by the state of Texas Department of Transportation, Highways, Long Guns and Animal Husbandry (Texas state government had some consolidation last legislative session - it was overshadowed by the "bathroom bill").
The state provides you with a nifty log for all 116.3 hours, specifying what types of driving must be included. Then, as parent, we had to sign and get notarized every single entry, in 20 minute intervals.
The requirements include things you would expect, like:
Alex took to driving right away, and Jill spearheaded her training. I helped (a little), but most of the 116.3 hours were Jill and Alex driving. I suggested a long road trip to get much it knocked out (you could hit various climates and potentially do some of it in reverse), but Jill pointed out that you could only count one hour per day. I did mention that it could be a long road trip.
So they slogged through the hours, checking off the list bit by bit. We were all a little confounded by the turnabout problem - Austin doesn't have a lot of turning circles - but eventually we found one up in Cedar Park and kept going up there to get our hours during the day, at night, in tropical storm (or above) wind conditions, and the final required 20 minutes quoting Chevy Chase in "European Vacation."
"Look kids. Big Ben. Parliament."
Alex was a trooper. Had no idea what that meant, but did it anyway.
She finished her hours, we notarized the last entries, and Jill submitted the required blood, hair, and DNA samples, and set up the first available driving test for a mere 5 1/2 months later.
The day they were going in for the test, Jill picked up the log and noticed that there were instructions on the back. Apparently, the Texas Department of Transportation, Highways, Long Guns and Animal Husbandry defines a "turnabout" as a two-point turn, three-point turn, or U-turn. Something she might have seen if she (or to be fair, any of us, but mostly Jill) had turned the paper over. Once.
Crap. We had to start the whole process over.
Eleven months later, Alex took her test and got her license (first try! beating her father's record by a full two tries).
Now that Alex is driving, Abby has started to take an interest. Jill pronounces "I did the first kid. This one's yours."
So now Abby and I are starting our 116.3 hour journey. And I have read the instructions.
The cool thing is that we have a true, real-world twin experiment here. When Abby finishes her license journey, we can see who is the better instructor, me or Jill.
We won't have results for a few years, but an early indication: on hour three of our training (20 minutes of driving on a highway with a number higher than 100 before noon), Abby said to a fellow driver:
"Put your phone down and drive! Idiot."
The state provides you with a nifty log for all 116.3 hours, specifying what types of driving must be included. Then, as parent, we had to sign and get notarized every single entry, in 20 minute intervals.
The requirements include things you would expect, like:
- 5 1/2 hours of highway driving
- 4 hours of highway driving at night
- 1 hour of highway driving in the rain
- 30 minutes of highway driving in either: snow, hail, sleet, or something biblical, like frogs or locusts
- 4 hours of neighborhood driving
- 2 hours of running to the store for that last item you forgot
- 8 hours of parking
- 5 minutes of parallel parking
- 2 hours of city driving
- 2 hours of country driving
- 2 hours of suburban driving
- 1 hour circling the bars on 6th street just after closing time
Alex took to driving right away, and Jill spearheaded her training. I helped (a little), but most of the 116.3 hours were Jill and Alex driving. I suggested a long road trip to get much it knocked out (you could hit various climates and potentially do some of it in reverse), but Jill pointed out that you could only count one hour per day. I did mention that it could be a long road trip.
So they slogged through the hours, checking off the list bit by bit. We were all a little confounded by the turnabout problem - Austin doesn't have a lot of turning circles - but eventually we found one up in Cedar Park and kept going up there to get our hours during the day, at night, in tropical storm (or above) wind conditions, and the final required 20 minutes quoting Chevy Chase in "European Vacation."
"Look kids. Big Ben. Parliament."
Alex was a trooper. Had no idea what that meant, but did it anyway.
She finished her hours, we notarized the last entries, and Jill submitted the required blood, hair, and DNA samples, and set up the first available driving test for a mere 5 1/2 months later.
The day they were going in for the test, Jill picked up the log and noticed that there were instructions on the back. Apparently, the Texas Department of Transportation, Highways, Long Guns and Animal Husbandry defines a "turnabout" as a two-point turn, three-point turn, or U-turn. Something she might have seen if she (or to be fair, any of us, but mostly Jill) had turned the paper over. Once.
Crap. We had to start the whole process over.
Eleven months later, Alex took her test and got her license (first try! beating her father's record by a full two tries).
Now that Alex is driving, Abby has started to take an interest. Jill pronounces "I did the first kid. This one's yours."
So now Abby and I are starting our 116.3 hour journey. And I have read the instructions.
The cool thing is that we have a true, real-world twin experiment here. When Abby finishes her license journey, we can see who is the better instructor, me or Jill.
We won't have results for a few years, but an early indication: on hour three of our training (20 minutes of driving on a highway with a number higher than 100 before noon), Abby said to a fellow driver:
"Put your phone down and drive! Idiot."
Thursday, August 17, 2017
What's the Wine Pairing for Cremation?
Two fantastic new signs of aging. Yay.
First, my ankle started clicking. Certainly, assorted body parts have clicked, groaned, growled, and protested over the years, but always on an episodic basis. Yes, I make involuntary noises getting out of chairs, and if I'm honest, recently getting into them as well. I fooled myself that I was simulating old man noises for awhile, until I tried consciously to not make old man noises. That's when I knew it was not a fun, ironic, look-at-me-pretending-to-be-an-old-man thing and was an actual thing.
About a week ago, I realized my ankle was clicking every step I take. It's possible it has been doing this longer, but my hearing isn't quite what it used to be.
I've stretched, cycled, jumped, rested, and rested some more, but the clicking won't go away. I'm like an old guy metronome.
I told Jill about the clicking and she asked one diagnostic question: "Does it hurt?"
"Well, no. But it's clicking."
"Then don't worry about it."
Has she even met me? Of course I am going to worry about it. To the Inter-Web!
I checked various ankle clicking sites. After a few false starts (who knew there was ankle clicking porn?), I found a few reputable looking pages. The first one told me that clicking can happen either after an ankle injury or sometimes without an ankle injury. So basically - if you have ankles, this could happen to you. It said that if it is not accompanied by pain, you shouldn't worry about it. Fake medical news!
The second site was run by a doctor who had years of experience treating ankle, foot, arch, and big toe problems. His page was in the form of a Q&A.
"I sprained my ankle last month, and now it is clicking. What should I do?"
"You should go to a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor and have it x-rayed and examined. It might be nothing, but it's probably a serious, debilitating ankle atrophy."
"My ankle is clicking, but it doesn't hurt. Should I get it checked out?"
"You don't have to, unless you want to keep being able to walk and are fine with being a burden on your family who will have to carry you wherever you need to go because you were too scared to go see a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor."
"Doctor, why do you answer all questions with the need to go see a doctor, especially one with your exact credentials?"
"Great question. Foot, arch, ankle and/or big toe problems are the root cause of 93.2% of all physical problems, and a surprising 68.1% of all mental disorders as well. Simply by asking your question with a very obvious answer, I wonder about your mental state, and would recommend you see a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor immediately. If not sooner."
My second fun aging milestone came in the mail. I am just now realizing that you can mark the phases of your life by the junk mail that finds you.
In my 20's, I would get invitations for free, one-month gym memberships, flyers about 2-for-1 happy hours (it was a different time), and credit card applications. Lots of credit card applications.
In my 30's, my junk mail theme was pre-schools, furniture sales, and eventually realtor listings.
Through my 40's, the junk mail became about travel opportunities and investments, as well as credit counseling and alcohol treatment programs to address the problems accumulated from my 20's junk mail.
But now I'm in my 50's. And this came in the mail:
Funeral planning. Fucking wonderful. And they are offering steak and french fries to speed the process along.
I can't even imagine what to expect in my 60's.
And the ironic thing is that I've already pre-planned. I am putting my funeral on the Discover Card I got in 1992. Think of the cash back!
First, my ankle started clicking. Certainly, assorted body parts have clicked, groaned, growled, and protested over the years, but always on an episodic basis. Yes, I make involuntary noises getting out of chairs, and if I'm honest, recently getting into them as well. I fooled myself that I was simulating old man noises for awhile, until I tried consciously to not make old man noises. That's when I knew it was not a fun, ironic, look-at-me-pretending-to-be-an-old-man thing and was an actual thing.
About a week ago, I realized my ankle was clicking every step I take. It's possible it has been doing this longer, but my hearing isn't quite what it used to be.
I've stretched, cycled, jumped, rested, and rested some more, but the clicking won't go away. I'm like an old guy metronome.
I told Jill about the clicking and she asked one diagnostic question: "Does it hurt?"
"Well, no. But it's clicking."
"Then don't worry about it."
Has she even met me? Of course I am going to worry about it. To the Inter-Web!
I checked various ankle clicking sites. After a few false starts (who knew there was ankle clicking porn?), I found a few reputable looking pages. The first one told me that clicking can happen either after an ankle injury or sometimes without an ankle injury. So basically - if you have ankles, this could happen to you. It said that if it is not accompanied by pain, you shouldn't worry about it. Fake medical news!
The second site was run by a doctor who had years of experience treating ankle, foot, arch, and big toe problems. His page was in the form of a Q&A.
"I sprained my ankle last month, and now it is clicking. What should I do?"
"You should go to a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor and have it x-rayed and examined. It might be nothing, but it's probably a serious, debilitating ankle atrophy."
"My ankle is clicking, but it doesn't hurt. Should I get it checked out?"
"You don't have to, unless you want to keep being able to walk and are fine with being a burden on your family who will have to carry you wherever you need to go because you were too scared to go see a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor."
"Doctor, why do you answer all questions with the need to go see a doctor, especially one with your exact credentials?"
"Great question. Foot, arch, ankle and/or big toe problems are the root cause of 93.2% of all physical problems, and a surprising 68.1% of all mental disorders as well. Simply by asking your question with a very obvious answer, I wonder about your mental state, and would recommend you see a board certified ankle, foot, arch and big toe doctor immediately. If not sooner."
My second fun aging milestone came in the mail. I am just now realizing that you can mark the phases of your life by the junk mail that finds you.
In my 20's, I would get invitations for free, one-month gym memberships, flyers about 2-for-1 happy hours (it was a different time), and credit card applications. Lots of credit card applications.
In my 30's, my junk mail theme was pre-schools, furniture sales, and eventually realtor listings.
Through my 40's, the junk mail became about travel opportunities and investments, as well as credit counseling and alcohol treatment programs to address the problems accumulated from my 20's junk mail.
But now I'm in my 50's. And this came in the mail:
I can't even imagine what to expect in my 60's.
And the ironic thing is that I've already pre-planned. I am putting my funeral on the Discover Card I got in 1992. Think of the cash back!
Friday, July 14, 2017
Cheetopia
Sometimes, it's good to be an American!
No, I am not veering off into Trump territory here. Just stay with me.
I teach each summer at the graduate school of social work at the University of Texas. One class in the evenings.
A little context. Social work, while a wonderful profession, is a bit, shall we say, down-the-list of prestige majors at UT. I'm not making a judgement here (I'm a social worker). UT actually has a web page entitled "Majors at the University, in order of how important they are, how many resources we put into them, and earning potential of graduates who could give back to UT." Don't believe me? Go to: http://utexas.edu/majors-from-best-(business)-to-worst-(social-work)
Most Favorite
Business
Medical School (new in 2016)
Engineering
Law*
Architecture
Pharmacy
Education
Geology
Fine Arts (excluding bagpipe, watercolor, and accordion)
Liberal Arts
Psychology
Conservative Arts
Food Service and Consumer Science
Journalism
Communications
Political Science
Animal Husbandry & Wifery
Philosophy
Fine Arts (bagpipe, watercolor, and accordion)
Social Work
Least Favorite
* while "Law" is a top favorite major of the University, UT acknowledges that most of the actual Law students are, in fact, douchebags.
The school of business is called the McCombs school, after Red McCombs, who I think made Irish hair care products. The School of Social Work is called the School of Social Work. Actually, it shares a building with University Reprographics; the University Daycare Center, the Office of Asbestos Abatement; and the College of Accordion, Watercolor, and Bagpipe).
So, I teach in the least favorite major; in the oldest, most in need of repair building (used to be a middle school in the mid 1800's, and then it was an asylum for those with consumption); at night in the summer.
With this context in mind, the School of Social Work, Asbestos and Bagpipes (SWAB), has one sad vending machine in the sad basement, past the piles of asbestos. By the middle of the summer, the vending machine filler people have long abandoned this one sad machine, and by July there is typically only a smattering of Clark Bars; sugarfree crab-apple flavored Trident; and a can or two of Tab.
But this year, there was a full-on candles-lasted-eight-days miracle! At the break during last night's class, I carefully traversed the broken wooden stairs into the basement. Lo and behold, the machine was full! A cornucopia of Cheetos and Cheeto-related products for all! More types of Cheetos than one would imagine possible, and certainly more than there should be in the world.
I purchased a selection and brought them back to my class. Since eating more than one bag is specifically discouraged on the warning label, I passed most of them out to my class.
[It's possible I need to disclose that to the University - either some potential ethics violation or a potential public health risk].
We all enjoyed our Cheeto-feast until we were covered in orange and feeling like crap.
I guess this was about Trump after all.
No, I am not veering off into Trump territory here. Just stay with me.
I teach each summer at the graduate school of social work at the University of Texas. One class in the evenings.
A little context. Social work, while a wonderful profession, is a bit, shall we say, down-the-list of prestige majors at UT. I'm not making a judgement here (I'm a social worker). UT actually has a web page entitled "Majors at the University, in order of how important they are, how many resources we put into them, and earning potential of graduates who could give back to UT." Don't believe me? Go to: http://utexas.edu/majors-from-best-(business)-to-worst-(social-work)
Most Favorite
Business
Medical School (new in 2016)
Engineering
Law*
Architecture
Pharmacy
Education
Geology
Fine Arts (excluding bagpipe, watercolor, and accordion)
Liberal Arts
Psychology
Conservative Arts
Food Service and Consumer Science
Journalism
Communications
Political Science
Animal Husbandry & Wifery
Philosophy
Fine Arts (bagpipe, watercolor, and accordion)
Social Work
Least Favorite
* while "Law" is a top favorite major of the University, UT acknowledges that most of the actual Law students are, in fact, douchebags.
The school of business is called the McCombs school, after Red McCombs, who I think made Irish hair care products. The School of Social Work is called the School of Social Work. Actually, it shares a building with University Reprographics; the University Daycare Center, the Office of Asbestos Abatement; and the College of Accordion, Watercolor, and Bagpipe).
So, I teach in the least favorite major; in the oldest, most in need of repair building (used to be a middle school in the mid 1800's, and then it was an asylum for those with consumption); at night in the summer.
With this context in mind, the School of Social Work, Asbestos and Bagpipes (SWAB), has one sad vending machine in the sad basement, past the piles of asbestos. By the middle of the summer, the vending machine filler people have long abandoned this one sad machine, and by July there is typically only a smattering of Clark Bars; sugarfree crab-apple flavored Trident; and a can or two of Tab.
But this year, there was a full-on candles-lasted-eight-days miracle! At the break during last night's class, I carefully traversed the broken wooden stairs into the basement. Lo and behold, the machine was full! A cornucopia of Cheetos and Cheeto-related products for all! More types of Cheetos than one would imagine possible, and certainly more than there should be in the world.
I purchased a selection and brought them back to my class. Since eating more than one bag is specifically discouraged on the warning label, I passed most of them out to my class.
[It's possible I need to disclose that to the University - either some potential ethics violation or a potential public health risk].
We all enjoyed our Cheeto-feast until we were covered in orange and feeling like crap.
I guess this was about Trump after all.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Finally Remembered my Password!
So, my last blog entry was November 4, 2016. All six of you may have wondered why it has been so long since my last entry. At least some of these are true:
1) I forgot my password. Blogger kept logging me out after five tries, and made me wait 24 hours to try again. I was way too clever, what with "passwOrd1234". I never could remember which letter was capitalized.
2) Life has been busy. Kids are in high school. I started teaching a new class at the graduate school of social work. My macramé sculpture project of President Warren G. Harding takes up most of my weekends. I've been cycling too damn much.
3) Totally mis-understood the whole Mayan end-of-the-world thing, and kinda expected flaming apocalypse on March 17th. Happy to be wrong about that one!
4) The actual flaming apocalypse that begun on November 8th (four days after my last blog entry) that redefined "funny".
Pre-election funny: "Look at that cat. It's wearing a tiny hat. Cats don't wear tiny hats!"
Post-election funny: "The planet is spiraling toward destruction; a foreign government has infiltrated our government; our "leader" is an egotistical, sexually predatory, incurious, belligerent, narcissistic, idiotic ass clown; all of the hard-fought progressive progress is being quickly stripped away. But look at that cat with a tiny hat being deported. He must have been Siamese."
5) A long, slow cognitive decline of unknown origin. Unknown, that is, until I known. I actually figured this one out. The free AARP membership cards that keep showing up in my mailbox like evil fucking talismans (talismani?) are made entirely out of mercury. Once I stopped burning them, my brain got goodly again.
6) Contractual dispute. Not to bore you, but it had to do with movie rights, payment terms, and the like. Finally got things worked out with Netflix and I'm all good to go.
And there you have it.
1) I forgot my password. Blogger kept logging me out after five tries, and made me wait 24 hours to try again. I was way too clever, what with "passwOrd1234". I never could remember which letter was capitalized.
2) Life has been busy. Kids are in high school. I started teaching a new class at the graduate school of social work. My macramé sculpture project of President Warren G. Harding takes up most of my weekends. I've been cycling too damn much.
3) Totally mis-understood the whole Mayan end-of-the-world thing, and kinda expected flaming apocalypse on March 17th. Happy to be wrong about that one!
4) The actual flaming apocalypse that begun on November 8th (four days after my last blog entry) that redefined "funny".
Pre-election funny: "Look at that cat. It's wearing a tiny hat. Cats don't wear tiny hats!"
Post-election funny: "The planet is spiraling toward destruction; a foreign government has infiltrated our government; our "leader" is an egotistical, sexually predatory, incurious, belligerent, narcissistic, idiotic ass clown; all of the hard-fought progressive progress is being quickly stripped away. But look at that cat with a tiny hat being deported. He must have been Siamese."
5) A long, slow cognitive decline of unknown origin. Unknown, that is, until I known. I actually figured this one out. The free AARP membership cards that keep showing up in my mailbox like evil fucking talismans (talismani?) are made entirely out of mercury. Once I stopped burning them, my brain got goodly again.
6) Contractual dispute. Not to bore you, but it had to do with movie rights, payment terms, and the like. Finally got things worked out with Netflix and I'm all good to go.
And there you have it.
Friday, November 04, 2016
Oh, Fork You!
I do understand it's been a long long time since I've posted. The world is both completely absurd and not funny, all at the same time. After next Tuesday, it will all be better again, or it will all be much, much worse. I'm pulling for all better again.
In the meantime, I have been dealing with a crisis at work. One that has occupied much of my energies since this summer.
I have been dealing with the Great Fork Famine of '16.
You see, our work forks keep disappearing. Not forks we use for work. We are a children's mental health agency. We don't use forks for work.
No, it's the forks we use for recreation.
Wait, that sounds really wrong.
No, it's the forks we have available so that employees can utilize them to eat their microwaved Lean Cuisines and other assorted lunch foods.
Every few weeks, an e-mail goes out asking people to please return the communal forks. Few, if any, ever return. Spoons don't seem to be a problem. No one steals them. And last year, someone had the bright idea that we should keep the drawer with the knives locked, in case a client wandered into the break room. No one wants to be responsible for the vaguely anxious teenager getting hold of a butter knife.
The problem is (OK, the other problem is) - no one remembers where we put the key. So we can be reasonably assured that all knives are accounted for! Probably.
Our presenting problem is fork leakage. Metaphorically. I realize that a fork would leak, what with the tines and the slots and all.
Our office manager went out and bought more forks. That lasted a few weeks. She bought more, and put one in each staff person's box. Still didn't increase the overall supply of forks. We have about 40 people (staff, volunteers, contractors, etc.) that flow through the break room on any given week. By my count, we have lost 4,918 forks since June 1st.
Our office manager declared an amnesty this week:
Good Afternoon To All,
Just wanted to check with everyone and see if there is a possibility that some of ya’ll have any forks that can be brought to the kitchen sink. You don’t have to tell me who you are!!!! Just go and drop it in the sink and “I” will even wash them for you!!! LOL
To which I replied to the staff:
In the meantime, I have been dealing with a crisis at work. One that has occupied much of my energies since this summer.
I have been dealing with the Great Fork Famine of '16.
You see, our work forks keep disappearing. Not forks we use for work. We are a children's mental health agency. We don't use forks for work.
No, it's the forks we use for recreation.
Wait, that sounds really wrong.
No, it's the forks we have available so that employees can utilize them to eat their microwaved Lean Cuisines and other assorted lunch foods.
Every few weeks, an e-mail goes out asking people to please return the communal forks. Few, if any, ever return. Spoons don't seem to be a problem. No one steals them. And last year, someone had the bright idea that we should keep the drawer with the knives locked, in case a client wandered into the break room. No one wants to be responsible for the vaguely anxious teenager getting hold of a butter knife.
The problem is (OK, the other problem is) - no one remembers where we put the key. So we can be reasonably assured that all knives are accounted for! Probably.
Our presenting problem is fork leakage. Metaphorically. I realize that a fork would leak, what with the tines and the slots and all.
Our office manager went out and bought more forks. That lasted a few weeks. She bought more, and put one in each staff person's box. Still didn't increase the overall supply of forks. We have about 40 people (staff, volunteers, contractors, etc.) that flow through the break room on any given week. By my count, we have lost 4,918 forks since June 1st.
Our office manager declared an amnesty this week:
Good Afternoon To All,
Just wanted to check with everyone and see if there is a possibility that some of ya’ll have any forks that can be brought to the kitchen sink. You don’t have to tell me who you are!!!! Just go and drop it in the sink and “I” will even wash them for you!!! LOL
To which I replied to the staff:
I haven’t seen the missing forks. On a completely
unrelated topic, I am selling some of my art work for the holidays. Let
me know if you want to see more of my portfolio:
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
What About Your Hippopotamus Oath?
My doctor quit me. He didn't even have the decency to break up with me on his own.
I turned 50 some months ago. I have been putting off going and getting a physical, because I know what starts happening right about the age of 50 when you go to the doctor. Not to get too graphic, but it involves a finger. And my butt.
Yes, "they" suggest you go get a physical when you are 50. I have 12 whole months! But realizing it's now closer to four months, I called my doctor (Dr. James Hahn - name certainly not changed to protect anyone) to make an appointment.
His automated system answered. I pressed "2" for English. I pressed "2" to confirm I pressed "2." I spoke "appointment." I pressed "3" for Dr. Hahn. I pressed "2" for "no". I pressed "3" for "occasionally." I pressed "1" to confirm I pressed "3." I pressed "8" for teal (though it's closer to royal blue, which wasn't an option). I pressed "6" for appointments. Finally, I get to the appointment desk.
"Yes, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Hahn."
"Your name?" I gave her my name.
"Date of birth?" I told her my date of birth.
"You picked teal?"
"Royal blue wasn't an option."
"What can I do for you?"
"I want to make an appointment for a physical with Dr. Hahn."
"Are you one of his premium concierge members?"
"I'm, uh...concierge?...I don't...um...I'm sorry, the whats-it what member?
"A premium concierge member."
"I...uh...he's my...um...I. Sorry, again, what??"
"Last year, Dr. Hahn changed to a concierge model, where patients are charged a premium annual fee to remain as patients. We sent out letters."
"I don't remember getting a letter."
"Lots of people told us that the letters looked like junk mail. We also made phone calls."
"I don't remember getting a phone call."
"It came from an 800 number. Lots of people told us they thought it was a solicitation."
"Um, ok. So I need to pay some fee?"
"Oh no. We aren't taking any new patients."
"I have been seeing Dr. Hahn for over 10 years. Obviously, it's been sporadic, but I would not consider myself a new patient. You are telling me that because I threw away the letter that looked like junk mail and didn't answer the call that looked like spam, I no longer have a doctor?
"Yes, exactly."
The ironic thing is that just a year ago (ish) I was thinking of finding a new doctor. I have always been iffy about him, but habit and inertia (and a general aversion to avoidable change) kept me from finding another doctor. Should I have received the letter or the call center call, I likely would have made the pro-active decision to tell him where to stick his finger. And it certainly would not be in me. But I didn't get to quit him! I feel cheated of the opportunity, even though I was too lazy to actually do anything.
You are quitting me? I don't think so, doctor. I am quitting you!
That's what I should have said to Dr. Hahn, or at least to the concierge receptionist who discarded me into the world without a primary care physician. But what I actually said was something like:
"oh."
Of course, perhaps the junk mail or call from India would have illuminated me on the benefits of having a "concierge doctor." Could he get me reservations at a new, trendy restaurant? Or, more relevant for the Smith Family, can he get me higher on the list at Chuy's on a Friday night? What about tickets to Hamilton? I'd be for a concierge doctor who could do that.
I am also completely re-thinking my life's philosophy of messing with telemarketers, ripping up junk mail, and shooing away people from the front door. What else might I have lost or had cancelled unbeknownst to me? My life insurance? My driver's license? My subscription to Columbia House for cassette tapes?
So, set adrift without healthcare, I wallowed in my grief. For about six minutes. Then I found another doctor. But it was a profoundly sad six minutes.
As I reflect back on this tragic story, one thing rises up pretty clearly as a cause. Obamacare.
"If you like your doctor, you get to keep him."
Nobody ever quotes the line that follows that one:
"Unless your mediocre doctor adds a premium service fee as a condition of you continuing to have the pleasure of paying him to provide you with medical care, and calls it 'concierge' even though that connotes a high level of service when clearly his communication plan to let his patients know about the change is not quite 'concierge' but is much closer to hiring a meth-head to spin a fucking sign."
I turned 50 some months ago. I have been putting off going and getting a physical, because I know what starts happening right about the age of 50 when you go to the doctor. Not to get too graphic, but it involves a finger. And my butt.
Yes, "they" suggest you go get a physical when you are 50. I have 12 whole months! But realizing it's now closer to four months, I called my doctor (Dr. James Hahn - name certainly not changed to protect anyone) to make an appointment.
His automated system answered. I pressed "2" for English. I pressed "2" to confirm I pressed "2." I spoke "appointment." I pressed "3" for Dr. Hahn. I pressed "2" for "no". I pressed "3" for "occasionally." I pressed "1" to confirm I pressed "3." I pressed "8" for teal (though it's closer to royal blue, which wasn't an option). I pressed "6" for appointments. Finally, I get to the appointment desk.
"Yes, I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Hahn."
"Your name?" I gave her my name.
"Date of birth?" I told her my date of birth.
"You picked teal?"
"Royal blue wasn't an option."
"What can I do for you?"
"I want to make an appointment for a physical with Dr. Hahn."
"Are you one of his premium concierge members?"
"I'm, uh...concierge?...I don't...um...I'm sorry, the whats-it what member?
"A premium concierge member."
"I...uh...he's my...um...I. Sorry, again, what??"
"Last year, Dr. Hahn changed to a concierge model, where patients are charged a premium annual fee to remain as patients. We sent out letters."
"I don't remember getting a letter."
"Lots of people told us that the letters looked like junk mail. We also made phone calls."
"I don't remember getting a phone call."
"It came from an 800 number. Lots of people told us they thought it was a solicitation."
"Um, ok. So I need to pay some fee?"
"Oh no. We aren't taking any new patients."
"I have been seeing Dr. Hahn for over 10 years. Obviously, it's been sporadic, but I would not consider myself a new patient. You are telling me that because I threw away the letter that looked like junk mail and didn't answer the call that looked like spam, I no longer have a doctor?
"Yes, exactly."
You are quitting me? I don't think so, doctor. I am quitting you!
That's what I should have said to Dr. Hahn, or at least to the concierge receptionist who discarded me into the world without a primary care physician. But what I actually said was something like:
"oh."
Of course, perhaps the junk mail or call from India would have illuminated me on the benefits of having a "concierge doctor." Could he get me reservations at a new, trendy restaurant? Or, more relevant for the Smith Family, can he get me higher on the list at Chuy's on a Friday night? What about tickets to Hamilton? I'd be for a concierge doctor who could do that.
I am also completely re-thinking my life's philosophy of messing with telemarketers, ripping up junk mail, and shooing away people from the front door. What else might I have lost or had cancelled unbeknownst to me? My life insurance? My driver's license? My subscription to Columbia House for cassette tapes?
So, set adrift without healthcare, I wallowed in my grief. For about six minutes. Then I found another doctor. But it was a profoundly sad six minutes.
As I reflect back on this tragic story, one thing rises up pretty clearly as a cause. Obamacare.
"If you like your doctor, you get to keep him."
Nobody ever quotes the line that follows that one:
"Unless your mediocre doctor adds a premium service fee as a condition of you continuing to have the pleasure of paying him to provide you with medical care, and calls it 'concierge' even though that connotes a high level of service when clearly his communication plan to let his patients know about the change is not quite 'concierge' but is much closer to hiring a meth-head to spin a fucking sign."
Thursday, June 16, 2016
Demented and Sad, But Selfie
I realized today that I take pictures on my iPhone and generally don't do anything with them. Occasionally I will send something to be posted on Bookface, or send a picture to Jill with the subject line "hashtag", but not often. I'd buy a Selfie Stick, but (meaning no offense to people who have one) - people who use them are insipid narcissists who have a 3.7 X greater chance of accidently stumbling to their death by wandering into traffic, off of heights, or into dens of wolves or bears. Again, no offense meant.
As I was scrolling through my portfolio, I realized that I have an...eclectic...assortment of photos. As evidenced by:
This is an office of one of my staff members. She made the mistake of going on vacation. She returned to an office full of balloons. I was curious about how many balloons it would take to fill an office. This is 400. Based on this, I'd say it would take 1,803 balloons. No need to ask Mr. Owl.
This is Lester's Dental Lab. I blame Obamacare.
I have had it with these motherfucking snakes on our motherfucking porch. Sure, the rain is good for the community. But this is a terrifyingly large snake on our porch. The interweb tells me it's a cobra.
Saturday night at the Smith house.
I saw this in the middle of a sidewalk on the way to teach my class at UT last week. I turned around and went home instead. Bad mojo to pass plastic baby on bed of colored cotton.
And in case you were thinking that I only take pictures of strange things, there's this:
Leo was SO hung-over that day.
As I was scrolling through my portfolio, I realized that I have an...eclectic...assortment of photos. As evidenced by:
This is an office of one of my staff members. She made the mistake of going on vacation. She returned to an office full of balloons. I was curious about how many balloons it would take to fill an office. This is 400. Based on this, I'd say it would take 1,803 balloons. No need to ask Mr. Owl.
This is Lester's Dental Lab. I blame Obamacare.
Saturday night at the Smith house.
I saw this in the middle of a sidewalk on the way to teach my class at UT last week. I turned around and went home instead. Bad mojo to pass plastic baby on bed of colored cotton.
And in case you were thinking that I only take pictures of strange things, there's this:
Leo was SO hung-over that day.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Cammy Doesn't Need a Spoiler
My twelve-year-old Camry keeps plugging along. Cammy (yes, I understand that's not a very original name, but she picked it herself) is getting old, but she keeps on going.
She is almost at 138,000 miles, which to me is remarkable. My first car caught fire on MoPac a month or so after I bought it. I was 15, I didn't understand the concept of oil, engine fire ensued. The longest I had a car was my Toyota Starlet (I loved that car), which I think I got to just over 100,000 miles.
I've stopped relating my mileage milestones to Jill, since she seems to have a different perspective.
"Cammy just passed 110,000 miles!"
"That's no big deal for a car."
"Cammy just passed 120,000 miles!"
"It's a Toyota. That's nothing."
"Cammy just passed 130,00 miles!"
"If you took better care of your cars, you would know that they can last well past 500,000 miles."
I have stopped sharing Cammy's exciting milestones with Jill, as she clearly has a less abrupt-ending-before-their-time history with her cars.
Cammy is dying a slower death. The death of a thousand annoying things. Her back speakers crumbled 4-5 years ago. Her automatic door unlocking system works only in very specific conditions, which change every once in awhile. Sometimes it'll work only when it's cold (in Austin that means 65 degrees or lower). Sometimes it will work on the first unlocking of the day. Mostly, it doesn't work. Her back seats don't fold down anymore. Lately, she thinks there is always someone sitting in the passenger seat, and beeps accordingly. She'll change her mind, then re-change her mind, and beep accordingly.
We all make accommodations for the ones we love. I listen to the front speakers. I manually unlock the doors. I now have the ghost passenger buckled in at all times.
Something that happened early on was the "folding of the corners." All four corners of my car have dents in them. I have noticed this phenomenon with other gold Camrys. Next time you are driving, look for this. Not Camrys in general, just gold ones. And not just gold cars, gold Camrys. Something to do with the magnetic properties of the gold paint coupled with the soda-can metal of the paneling.
I got the first two 5-6 years ago (left front and right front). Left rear was a side-swipe two years ago. Right rear dimpled in at some point because it didn't want to be left out. It's a matching set of four. Likely changes my wind-resistance by 0.3 - 1.4 %. I don't really notice it, because if I ever get Cammy over 60 mph, she shakes like she's in detox. I don't need speed.
Over the years, every once in awhile I would have someone see me get out of the car and tell me they could fix my dents. I would politely decline.
This practice, however, is getting more frequent and more aggressive.
A couple of weeks ago, my home doorbell rang (not that I have doorbells in places other than my home).
"I was just driving by, and I saw your car. I can fix those dents."
"No thank you."
"I also am going to be installing new windows for some of your neighbors, and can get you a good deal."
"Which neighbors?"
"The ones who ordered new windows. Do you care about clean water? I have this petition you can sign and am accepting donations."
I politely declined, but did pick up a new subscription to Wired magazine.
Then, three days ago, I am leaving Walgreens and getting into my car when I see this car race across the parking lot toward me. I shut my car door and look in the rearview mirror (still works). The car has a business sticker on the side: "We fix dents, while you wait! Roadside assistance, while you wait! Teeth whitening, while you wait!"
I turn on my car and put it into reverse. The car is right behind me, blocking me in. I honk. The driver leans out of his window and waves his arms at me. I honk again. He waves more emphatically. We go through this cycle three more times.
I relent and roll down my window.
"I can fix those dents."
"Dude, this is a 12 year old car with almost 138,000 miles on it. The locks don't work, the speakers don't work, it beeps sporadically and lights up random new warning lights every month or so. I truly, sincerely, do not give a shit about the dented corners of my car. You are blocking me in, and I can reasonably fear that I am being assaulted or kidnapped. Since this is Texas, I now legally have the right to shoot you. I don't have a gun or a license, but again, since this is Texas, I am guessing I could make that happen pretty quickly. So, respectfully, get the fuck out of my way."
"I teach concealed handgun courses and could get you a license while you wait."
She is almost at 138,000 miles, which to me is remarkable. My first car caught fire on MoPac a month or so after I bought it. I was 15, I didn't understand the concept of oil, engine fire ensued. The longest I had a car was my Toyota Starlet (I loved that car), which I think I got to just over 100,000 miles.
I've stopped relating my mileage milestones to Jill, since she seems to have a different perspective.
"Cammy just passed 110,000 miles!"
"That's no big deal for a car."
"Cammy just passed 120,000 miles!"
"It's a Toyota. That's nothing."
"Cammy just passed 130,00 miles!"
"If you took better care of your cars, you would know that they can last well past 500,000 miles."
I have stopped sharing Cammy's exciting milestones with Jill, as she clearly has a less abrupt-ending-before-their-time history with her cars.
Cammy is dying a slower death. The death of a thousand annoying things. Her back speakers crumbled 4-5 years ago. Her automatic door unlocking system works only in very specific conditions, which change every once in awhile. Sometimes it'll work only when it's cold (in Austin that means 65 degrees or lower). Sometimes it will work on the first unlocking of the day. Mostly, it doesn't work. Her back seats don't fold down anymore. Lately, she thinks there is always someone sitting in the passenger seat, and beeps accordingly. She'll change her mind, then re-change her mind, and beep accordingly.
We all make accommodations for the ones we love. I listen to the front speakers. I manually unlock the doors. I now have the ghost passenger buckled in at all times.
Something that happened early on was the "folding of the corners." All four corners of my car have dents in them. I have noticed this phenomenon with other gold Camrys. Next time you are driving, look for this. Not Camrys in general, just gold ones. And not just gold cars, gold Camrys. Something to do with the magnetic properties of the gold paint coupled with the soda-can metal of the paneling.
I got the first two 5-6 years ago (left front and right front). Left rear was a side-swipe two years ago. Right rear dimpled in at some point because it didn't want to be left out. It's a matching set of four. Likely changes my wind-resistance by 0.3 - 1.4 %. I don't really notice it, because if I ever get Cammy over 60 mph, she shakes like she's in detox. I don't need speed.
Over the years, every once in awhile I would have someone see me get out of the car and tell me they could fix my dents. I would politely decline.
This practice, however, is getting more frequent and more aggressive.
A couple of weeks ago, my home doorbell rang (not that I have doorbells in places other than my home).
"I was just driving by, and I saw your car. I can fix those dents."
"No thank you."
"I also am going to be installing new windows for some of your neighbors, and can get you a good deal."
"Which neighbors?"
"The ones who ordered new windows. Do you care about clean water? I have this petition you can sign and am accepting donations."
I politely declined, but did pick up a new subscription to Wired magazine.
Then, three days ago, I am leaving Walgreens and getting into my car when I see this car race across the parking lot toward me. I shut my car door and look in the rearview mirror (still works). The car has a business sticker on the side: "We fix dents, while you wait! Roadside assistance, while you wait! Teeth whitening, while you wait!"
I turn on my car and put it into reverse. The car is right behind me, blocking me in. I honk. The driver leans out of his window and waves his arms at me. I honk again. He waves more emphatically. We go through this cycle three more times.
I relent and roll down my window.
"I can fix those dents."
"Dude, this is a 12 year old car with almost 138,000 miles on it. The locks don't work, the speakers don't work, it beeps sporadically and lights up random new warning lights every month or so. I truly, sincerely, do not give a shit about the dented corners of my car. You are blocking me in, and I can reasonably fear that I am being assaulted or kidnapped. Since this is Texas, I now legally have the right to shoot you. I don't have a gun or a license, but again, since this is Texas, I am guessing I could make that happen pretty quickly. So, respectfully, get the fuck out of my way."
"I teach concealed handgun courses and could get you a license while you wait."
 |
| Not Cammy. Google "Dented Gold Camry", and you will get 2.3 million hits. It's a thing. |
Sunday, April 10, 2016
I'm Going to Need You to Meet Me Half Way
I'm trying. I really am. I realize that I could be on the verge of being a grumpy old dude who doesn't want to interact with anyone. Not a good trajectory, especially since I 1) run a non-profit with 30-35 people (who has time to count these days?) and 2) teach at the graduate school. I kinda need to interact pleasantly with people.
So, I have been trying. Just the other day, I actually interacted with the H-E-B cashier.
Cashier (upon seeing something I was buying that she did not recognize): "What's this?"
Old me (what I might have said if I wasn't trying): "My groceries. Put them in the fucking bag."
New (trying very hard to be nice) me: "Oh, that's _____."
Cashier "I've never seen that. What is it for?"
New me: "Mainly itching, but also some flaking and burning."
Or take this exchange when person with clipboard rang doorbell at 8:39 pm.
Old me: "Not interested!" (through closed door).
New me: [turned light on, opened door] "Can I help you?"
Dude with clipboard: "Yes sir, we were just in the neighborhood replacing your neighbor's windows and had some extra ones after the job was completed. Instead of taking them all the way back to the warehouse in Idaho, I wanted to see if you might be interested in them. At a deep discount, of course."
Old me: [well, old me wouldn't have opened the door, but if I had, I'd be looking for some source of water to spray at this idiot.]
New me: "No thank you."
Idiot at the door: "Then would you be willing to sign our petition to support clean water and transportation network systems?"
New me: "No thank you." [polite door shutting. I even wait till dude leaves property before turning off light].
I wonder if the "new, friendlier me" has opened up some sort of portal, inviting the annoying people of the world into my space. Seriously, I'm not just getting some pleasant small talk and banter with people with whom I share a line. I dropped my angry shield and the barbarians have swarmed the wall.
Yesterday I was cycling north of town. There is this great stretch of road that goes through Cedar Park, Leander and points north. I was about 30 miles into my ride when I got to this part I call "two mile hill" - a stretch of about two miles that goes steeply down and then back up. I flew down to the bottom and was slowly working back up the other side when a rider pulls up on my left. Generally, I either pass or am passed when riding alone. No one pulls next to me. But this guy did. There was still a lot of hill to climb, and though I was slowly making progress, it was clear this guy slowed down to talk to me.
Random cyclist: "Nice day!"
New me: "It is a nice day. Though I saw some lightning off to the west."
Random cyclist: "I was going in that direction and turned around."
[we are still climbing slowly up a big-ass hill. Dude obviously could cruise past me but doesn't.]
New me (after realizing random cyclist was still hanging out): "How far are you going?"
Random cyclist: "I was heading toward the rain and I asked the Lord if I should be going in that direction. I turned around."
New me: "Huh."
Random cyclist: "Can I ask you a question?"
Old me: "No!"
New me: "Um..."
Random cyclist: "Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"
New me: "Can't say that I do."
Random cyclist: "Why not?"
New me: "Um..."
Random cyclist: "Can I tell you about him?"
At this point, Old Me is about to blow an artery: "Tell him to go fuck himself"
New me: "He is just being friendly."
Old me: "No, he is proselytizing to you and you can't get away from it because you are slowly climbing a big ass hill. What, did you wear your 'Jewish cyclist' jersey again? I told you to get rid of that."
New me: "I like the colors."
Old me: "Idiot."
Old me: "Oh - and you should tell him that this hill is not big enough for you to find Jesus. He should catch back up to you on a harder hill, where you might need some additional help."
New me: "Idiot."
New me (to random cyclist): "No thank you. But thanks for stopping by."
Work with me people. I'm happy to talk about the weather, the Longhorns, your cute baby, shared incredulity about Donald Trump...things like that. I don't want your windows, your Jesus, or likely anything else you are selling. But you have to meet me half way here, or I really could become the old guy yelling at kids to stay off his lawn.
So, I have been trying. Just the other day, I actually interacted with the H-E-B cashier.
Cashier (upon seeing something I was buying that she did not recognize): "What's this?"
Old me (what I might have said if I wasn't trying): "My groceries. Put them in the fucking bag."
New (trying very hard to be nice) me: "Oh, that's _____."
Cashier "I've never seen that. What is it for?"
New me: "Mainly itching, but also some flaking and burning."
Or take this exchange when person with clipboard rang doorbell at 8:39 pm.
Old me: "Not interested!" (through closed door).
New me: [turned light on, opened door] "Can I help you?"
Dude with clipboard: "Yes sir, we were just in the neighborhood replacing your neighbor's windows and had some extra ones after the job was completed. Instead of taking them all the way back to the warehouse in Idaho, I wanted to see if you might be interested in them. At a deep discount, of course."
Old me: [well, old me wouldn't have opened the door, but if I had, I'd be looking for some source of water to spray at this idiot.]
New me: "No thank you."
Idiot at the door: "Then would you be willing to sign our petition to support clean water and transportation network systems?"
New me: "No thank you." [polite door shutting. I even wait till dude leaves property before turning off light].
I wonder if the "new, friendlier me" has opened up some sort of portal, inviting the annoying people of the world into my space. Seriously, I'm not just getting some pleasant small talk and banter with people with whom I share a line. I dropped my angry shield and the barbarians have swarmed the wall.
Yesterday I was cycling north of town. There is this great stretch of road that goes through Cedar Park, Leander and points north. I was about 30 miles into my ride when I got to this part I call "two mile hill" - a stretch of about two miles that goes steeply down and then back up. I flew down to the bottom and was slowly working back up the other side when a rider pulls up on my left. Generally, I either pass or am passed when riding alone. No one pulls next to me. But this guy did. There was still a lot of hill to climb, and though I was slowly making progress, it was clear this guy slowed down to talk to me.
Random cyclist: "Nice day!"
New me: "It is a nice day. Though I saw some lightning off to the west."
Random cyclist: "I was going in that direction and turned around."
[we are still climbing slowly up a big-ass hill. Dude obviously could cruise past me but doesn't.]
New me (after realizing random cyclist was still hanging out): "How far are you going?"
Random cyclist: "I was heading toward the rain and I asked the Lord if I should be going in that direction. I turned around."
New me: "Huh."
Random cyclist: "Can I ask you a question?"
Old me: "No!"
New me: "Um..."
Random cyclist: "Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"
New me: "Can't say that I do."
Random cyclist: "Why not?"
New me: "Um..."
Random cyclist: "Can I tell you about him?"
At this point, Old Me is about to blow an artery: "Tell him to go fuck himself"
New me: "He is just being friendly."
Old me: "No, he is proselytizing to you and you can't get away from it because you are slowly climbing a big ass hill. What, did you wear your 'Jewish cyclist' jersey again? I told you to get rid of that."
New me: "I like the colors."
Old me: "Idiot."
Old me: "Oh - and you should tell him that this hill is not big enough for you to find Jesus. He should catch back up to you on a harder hill, where you might need some additional help."
New me: "Idiot."
New me (to random cyclist): "No thank you. But thanks for stopping by."
Work with me people. I'm happy to talk about the weather, the Longhorns, your cute baby, shared incredulity about Donald Trump...things like that. I don't want your windows, your Jesus, or likely anything else you are selling. But you have to meet me half way here, or I really could become the old guy yelling at kids to stay off his lawn.
Friday, March 25, 2016
That Will Go on Your Permanent Record
To my friends and family who are starting to possibly maybe kinda sorta think about voting for Donald Trump. Don't. I say this as a friend. Or as a relative. And it's not for my sake, it's for yours.
See, I will never know if you do. Unless you start posting your Trump love all over Facebook. But then, I would have un-friended you long ago. Or un-related you.
No - this is a plea to those who don't particularly like Donald Trump, but who really hate Hillary. Who have a visceral reaction to just hearing someone say "Hillary." Who can't even watch documentaries about Sir Edmund Hillary without getting enraged.
I am not going to try to convince you not to hate the "H" (though yoga and meditation would help).
I am here with a recommendation, for your sake.
Don't vote. Do not go on the record as voting for the narcissistic, fascist, racist opportunist. There is no amount of self-talk that you can give yourself that will justify voting for him. You will always know that your reasons are full of shit.
"But Russell," you say. "I REALLY hate she-who-shall-not-be-named."
"Fair enough," I reply. "Don't vote for her. Don't vote for President."
"This is just some clever ploy to help Democrats win the White House."
"Interesting theory. However: a) I am not that clever; 2) I don't believe influencing my tens of readers will make any difference; and iii) there is no chance that my candidate will win here in Texas, even if I could convince thousands of people to stay home."
"I'm still not convinced. Did I mention I REALLY DESPISE her?"
Let me put it this way. Say it's primary season for the 2020 election. Imagine that the Democrats nominate....say....Michael Moore. Or Sean Penn. Same logic applies. I would not vote for President that year. Even against the Cruz / Carson ticket (though it might look diverse - they both come from the batshit crazy wing of the party). And I REALLY dislike both of them (hate is a strong word). I would not vote for candidate Penn because it would make me feel dirty. And stupid.
[Note: this doesn't apply to a John Stewart / Al Franken ticket - I'd totally vote for them.]
My response to "anybody is better than H" is "No. Not President Trump."
And you know this.
See, I will never know if you do. Unless you start posting your Trump love all over Facebook. But then, I would have un-friended you long ago. Or un-related you.
No - this is a plea to those who don't particularly like Donald Trump, but who really hate Hillary. Who have a visceral reaction to just hearing someone say "Hillary." Who can't even watch documentaries about Sir Edmund Hillary without getting enraged.
I am not going to try to convince you not to hate the "H" (though yoga and meditation would help).
I am here with a recommendation, for your sake.
Don't vote. Do not go on the record as voting for the narcissistic, fascist, racist opportunist. There is no amount of self-talk that you can give yourself that will justify voting for him. You will always know that your reasons are full of shit.
"But Russell," you say. "I REALLY hate she-who-shall-not-be-named."
"Fair enough," I reply. "Don't vote for her. Don't vote for President."
"This is just some clever ploy to help Democrats win the White House."
"Interesting theory. However: a) I am not that clever; 2) I don't believe influencing my tens of readers will make any difference; and iii) there is no chance that my candidate will win here in Texas, even if I could convince thousands of people to stay home."
"I'm still not convinced. Did I mention I REALLY DESPISE her?"
[Note: this doesn't apply to a John Stewart / Al Franken ticket - I'd totally vote for them.]
My response to "anybody is better than H" is "No. Not President Trump."
And you know this.
Wednesday, December 09, 2015
What to Shoot When You are Expecting
So, I'm shopping at my local H-E-B in Austin, Texas. I walk down the aisle with school supplies, charcoal and magazines. I just happen to glance at the magazine rack. There are a bazillion gun magazines. What the ever-loving hell?
You've got Guns.
Then of course Handguns.
And Guns and Weapons.
The Handgun Buying Guide.
Gunslinger.
Handgun (not to be confused with Handguns).
Gun World.
World of Firepower.
Hunting.
Shooting.
Shooting Illustrated.
AR-15 (for those who like just one terrible type of gun).
Gun Gear.
Guns & Ammo.
Survival Guide.
Predator Nation.
Combat Tactics.
Tactical World.
Special Weapons.
Black Guns.
Guns IS (maybe for people joining ISIS?)
Garden and Gun (grow vegetables, then kill them)
If you have read my blog, you know that I am prone to a bit of exaggeration. That's why I took pictures of the H-E-B racks for your PolitiFact check. Every one of those magazines exist. Which means that every one has a circulation large enough to justify printing a magazine entitled "Black Guns."
If this is the gun magazine collection at my H-E-B, I can't even imagine the selection at the Wal-Mart in Jackson, Mississippi. I can imagine it, but I don't want to.
The other truly depressing thing is that my H-E-B has filled its "Men's General" section with gun magazines. I am a general man, and that doesn't interest me. They have also filled their "Home Décor" section with gun magazines. For the homeowner who decorates with guns. And their "Hobbies / Manias" section with gun magazines. (the Manias part I understand). And of course, their "Pregnancy" section with gun magazines.
This goes well beyond "sigh." What the living fuck is up with people and guns? Why are we acting like terrorists are everywhere and will kill everyone, when the actual danger is idiots (good, solid American idiots) with guns? This country has, on average, one mass shooting per day. Per day. Every single day, someone commits an act of violence with a gun against four or more people. Every. Single. Day.
http://www.shootingtracker.com/wiki/Mass_Shootings_in_2015
It is so commonplace that, as I was looking through the list for this year, I found myself. June 21, 2015 - Russell Smith of Roy, Utah killed three members of his family and himself. Mass shooting number 158 of the year. Currently, we are on #353 for the year (which is in fact the San Bernardino shootings).
This does not include the non-mass shootings, the toddler shootings (see earlier blog), or the scores of suicides by guns.
I am getting closer to the point where I will feel compelled to take your guns. Possibly by going door to door and collecting them. Admittedly, not a well-thought-through plan.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
And Then There Were None
Son of a fish!!!
The murderous stripey fish is no longer in the tank. There are only three possible explanations:
1) this was his plan all along. He had his escape planned from the beginning. He knew the fin would be pointed at him once all of the other fish were dead and eaten. There was a little water on the floor, but I still doubt he could make it to the door. In this scenario, he is a fish criminal mastermind, so perhaps we will find some aquatic tunnel below the rocks.
2) one of the plastic seaweed thingies is actually a fish-eating sea creature. Or maybe one of the larger rocks.
3) he killed and ate himself, possibly because of the crushing guilt.
There are no other plausible explanations.
The murderous stripey fish is no longer in the tank. There are only three possible explanations:
1) this was his plan all along. He had his escape planned from the beginning. He knew the fin would be pointed at him once all of the other fish were dead and eaten. There was a little water on the floor, but I still doubt he could make it to the door. In this scenario, he is a fish criminal mastermind, so perhaps we will find some aquatic tunnel below the rocks.
2) one of the plastic seaweed thingies is actually a fish-eating sea creature. Or maybe one of the larger rocks.
3) he killed and ate himself, possibly because of the crushing guilt.
There are no other plausible explanations.
Monday, November 16, 2015
My Lovely Wife
Jill pulled off the perfect surprise party for my 50th birthday this past Saturday. I was blown away! Both by the scope of her plans and the scale of the party. People came from near and far.
I have no sarcastic, dismissive comments here. They will return.
I was (and continue to be) truly touched by the gathering.
I will add in here an ad. Twenty-two years ago I placed a personal ad in the Houston Press that Jill answered. As part of her massive clandestine "Operation Surprise 50th," she hunted down a copy of said ad. This was much harder than one would imagine, since not only is there no such thing as printed personal ads anymore, the Houston Press people didn't even remember that they use to have them! She was sent to their archivist, who was able to find an old dusty copy and sent her this:
[It's the "Clever Headline" one, not the "Cowboys Fan?", BTW]
Jill rocks.
Note: neither one of us kept a copy of the actual paper. I don't think I ever read the ad titled "New and Improved." I hope he found someone. That guy was either a drug salesman or had a good sense of humor.
I have no sarcastic, dismissive comments here. They will return.
I was (and continue to be) truly touched by the gathering.
I will add in here an ad. Twenty-two years ago I placed a personal ad in the Houston Press that Jill answered. As part of her massive clandestine "Operation Surprise 50th," she hunted down a copy of said ad. This was much harder than one would imagine, since not only is there no such thing as printed personal ads anymore, the Houston Press people didn't even remember that they use to have them! She was sent to their archivist, who was able to find an old dusty copy and sent her this:
[It's the "Clever Headline" one, not the "Cowboys Fan?", BTW]
Jill rocks.
Note: neither one of us kept a copy of the actual paper. I don't think I ever read the ad titled "New and Improved." I hope he found someone. That guy was either a drug salesman or had a good sense of humor.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Psycho-Fish
All wrong. We were all deceived by one evil mother-bleepin'-striped fish. He was apparently lying low until Veteran's Day. [Give me enough time and I will have a theory on that].
There is currently only one fish in the fish tank. Psycho-Stripy took out everyone else. I think he meant for it to be a murder suicide - he has been swimming in circles like he is trying to bite himself.
It was him all along. He killed Goldy, framed Goldy #2, somehow got to the fish tank guy (or maybe he disabled the pump just before the fish tank guy came), waited patiently, then killed EVERY OTHER FISH in the tank.
Only three problems with this master-fish-criminal's plan. First - when you kill everyone else, everybody knows you are the killer. Even if you haven't read an Agatha Christie book - it would make sense to leave one other fish alive. Plausible deniability.
Second - perhaps killing helped alleviate the crushing boredom of living in a fish tank. Only now will Psycho-Stripy fully understand that fish companionship is the only thing that would have alleviated his ennui.
Third - because of the earlier carnage, we installed a nanny cam that filmed the fish tank 24/7.
Dude's been eating a bunch of sushi.
The good news for him is that his punishment is life without parole. No one wants to try to remove him from the tank. Crazy bleepin' fish.
Monday, November 09, 2015
Toddlers and Tek9's
As you can imagine, when this was reported just a few weeks ago, the response was swift and decisive:
The NRA quickly put out a statement: "The only thing that counteracts a toddler with a gun is more toddlers with guns. We need to arm the preschools."
Fox News added: "This is a direct result of the black lives matter movement. Liberals are politicizing toddler shootings to push an anti-gun, anti-Christian agenda."
The moderate Republican presidential candidates (one and a half people) declared: "we need to enforce existing toddler gun laws, and look into more mental health screening for two- and three-year-olds."
The wacko Republican presidential candidates (around 19 at last count) countered: "It's not about the guns. If we took guns away from toddlers, they would kill each other with sippy cups. We need to eliminate all taxes and regulations. Oh, and get rid of the Mexicans."
The Republicans in Congress added: "Bengazi! Bengazi! BENNNNN GAAAAAAAAAAZZZZII!!!"
It is getting so bad that I am pondering whether I should run for office so that I can take everyone's guns away. I'm thinking that I could run for Municipal Utility District, or for Hide Inspector.
My slogan? "If elected, I will take your guns. I will send President Obama to your door to personally collect your guns. And force you to have an abortion (if applicable)." That might not fit easily on a sign.
Sigh.
Wednesday, November 04, 2015
I Thought You Were the One
The one thing I did embrace was LinkedIn. I put up my profile, added contacts, answered questions, joined affinity groups, gave and received endorsements, and damn near everything else one does on LinkedIn. My profile is "100% complete"! I like that it's low-key and that I can build a professional network.
And since I bore (beared?) my soul to LinkedIn, I assumed its algorithms would know me, at least a little bit. No, not really.
One feature of LinkedIn is the "you may also like..." feature. You pull up someone's profile, and LinkedIn gives you four or more "People who are similar to ______." Kinda like the Amazon feature of recommending books that I may like based on my reading history. But more disturbing.
Should you not be able to connect with Mary, you might be interested in John, who is interchangeable with Mary. Wanda is also enormously close to being exactly the same as both Mary and John (but a little closer to being exactly like Mary), so Wanda could be an option for you as well. People who connected with Wanda also liked Francisco.
I always wondered who LinkedIn thought was a Russell-substitute. You can't access this on your own profile. There is no "People who are interchangeable with you" button to click. One has to finesse this by getting a staff member to LinkedIn with you (I have no idea if that is the correct plu-perfect subjunctive form of "to LinkIn"). THEN, you have said staff member pull up your profile and see who LinkedIn says could be you. The results included 5 middle-aged white Jewish guys. And while I can see how LinkedIn may have picked them, it seems a bit reductive. Plus, I personally don't think I have that much in common with Rabbi Fineman or Dr. Ira Goldfarb, DDS.
And then I got an email from LinkedIn today. With the subject line "Russell, Austin Diaper Bank is looking for candidates like you."
Intrigued, I clicked the link. Intrigued both because there is something called a "Diaper Bank" and because LinkedIn thought I might be a good fit for their job opening. Which turned out to be an intern position.
I put into LinkedIn my transcripts, blood type, ranked order of favorite Harry Potter books, bank account information, and details of every job going back to Baskin Robbins when I was 15, and you think I might be a good candidate to be an intern at the Austin Diaper Bank?
And furthermore - what the fuck is a Diaper Bank? I can maybe see the need for some place that gives out diapers, but no way in hell should one collect people's diapers, loan them out to others, and provide diaper interest. That is a terrible idea.
But LinkedIn was not finished. It had a full list of jobs it thought I would be perfect for:
Volunteer English teacher in Brazil
Trauma Sales Rep for Stryker
Producer, Time Warner Cable News
R&D Software Engineer Summer Intern, Teradata
Marketing Strategy Director, Dell
Non-Profit Package Underwriter, USLI
Co-Manager, Hobby Lobby
You see what all of these jobs have in common? Nothing. That's not true. They all have absolutely nothing to do with my education, job experience, or interests. So they have that in common. One of them has the word "non-profit" in it, but I am unclear what a non-profit "package" is, or how one underwrites it. Sounds like ill-advised porn.
Side note - in case you were wondering (and I was), the other co-manager at Hobby Lobby is in fact Jesus.
If we are to give up our privacy so that social media can mine our personal information to taylor marketing to our interests, they shouldn't suck at it.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
CSI - Fishtank
The carnage is over. There have been no additional fish homicides in the last month. The tank is safe again.
[Video - four fish swimming around a large fish tank, happily frolicking amongst the fake plants and tiny castle].
Two Months Earlier...
Receptionist: "Russell, all of the fish are eating one of the goldfish!"
Me: "All of them? Including the goldfish in question?"
"All of the fish except the goldfish are eating one of the goldfish."
"And I should...?"
"Intervene."
"I have no specific skills or training in fish violence intervention. I can build them a budget, write a grant for a new program to help them to learn other, more productive ways to interact..."
Other staff person "The goldfish is dead."
"And I should...?"
"Remove him."
"It's a him? And why me?"
"Because you are the Executive Director."
"OK. If you had said because I am the guy, I would have said no."
So I removed dead Goldfish (aka Goldie, aka Goldfish #1). My Director of Finance and Operations buried him in our garden. Because, well, I'm not sure why she buried him. Or that it was a him.
Then the speculation began. Who killed Goldie? Was he dead before the fish starting eating him, or did the eating kill him? [there was a pretty large chunk missing by the time I "fished" him out].
As Executive Director, my job is fairly comprehensive. The "other duties as assigned" covers a wide swath of responsibilities. I oversee the mission, plan the services, write and monitor the budgets, raise the funds, lead the staff, remove the dead goldfish, update the website, fix small things that are broken, work with the board, make the beeping from the Solidyne Micromizer III stop, collaborate with other agencies, and many other things.
Part of my job (as I see it), is to help people enjoy being at work. So, while I did not have the background or authority to engage in an actual investigation of Goldie's death, I certainly had the skillset (and apparently the time), to develop an elaborate conspiracy theory around Goldie's death.
First, an anonymous, poorly spelled note found it's way to the front desk, telling us that we should take a long, hard look at Goldfish #2. And check her (I think it's a her) google searches.
Next, a print-out of the google searches from the fishtank was found (someone must have printed it and left it at the front). Searches for things like "how to kill a goldfish," "do fish taste like fish," "how to get faster Wi-Fi in a fish tank," and "what is a Kardasian."
A few days later, this arrived at the office:
Me: "And I should...?"
"Remove him."
"How do you know the gender of the fish? And why me?"
"Because you removed the last one. You are the only one here with experience removing dead fish."
Fair enough. So I removed the dead sucker fish. And realized that this went way beyond a funny, made-up fish conspiracy. We had a real fish murderer!!
Fearing for the safety of the other fish, we brought in help. This showed up on the staff bulletin board:
We also called our fish people. Named that way because they are the contractors who take care of our fish, not because they are actually fish people. They came out to do their own investigation.
Apparently, the air pump was broken. The fish were slowly suffocating, and were eating each other because... I never did get the why lack of oxygen made them eat each other, but suffice it to say this revelation changed our views of intent and culpability.
So, the investigation, and the fake conspiracy were finished. All that was left was to ensure the public knew the threat had passed. This short article appeared in the Statesman:
[Video - four fish swimming around a large fish tank, happily frolicking amongst the fake plants and tiny castle].
Two Months Earlier...
Receptionist: "Russell, all of the fish are eating one of the goldfish!"
Me: "All of them? Including the goldfish in question?"
"All of the fish except the goldfish are eating one of the goldfish."
"And I should...?"
"Intervene."
"I have no specific skills or training in fish violence intervention. I can build them a budget, write a grant for a new program to help them to learn other, more productive ways to interact..."
Other staff person "The goldfish is dead."
"And I should...?"
"Remove him."
"It's a him? And why me?"
"Because you are the Executive Director."
"OK. If you had said because I am the guy, I would have said no."
So I removed dead Goldfish (aka Goldie, aka Goldfish #1). My Director of Finance and Operations buried him in our garden. Because, well, I'm not sure why she buried him. Or that it was a him.
Then the speculation began. Who killed Goldie? Was he dead before the fish starting eating him, or did the eating kill him? [there was a pretty large chunk missing by the time I "fished" him out].
As Executive Director, my job is fairly comprehensive. The "other duties as assigned" covers a wide swath of responsibilities. I oversee the mission, plan the services, write and monitor the budgets, raise the funds, lead the staff, remove the dead goldfish, update the website, fix small things that are broken, work with the board, make the beeping from the Solidyne Micromizer III stop, collaborate with other agencies, and many other things.
Part of my job (as I see it), is to help people enjoy being at work. So, while I did not have the background or authority to engage in an actual investigation of Goldie's death, I certainly had the skillset (and apparently the time), to develop an elaborate conspiracy theory around Goldie's death.
First, an anonymous, poorly spelled note found it's way to the front desk, telling us that we should take a long, hard look at Goldfish #2. And check her (I think it's a her) google searches.
Next, a print-out of the google searches from the fishtank was found (someone must have printed it and left it at the front). Searches for things like "how to kill a goldfish," "do fish taste like fish," "how to get faster Wi-Fi in a fish tank," and "what is a Kardasian."
A few days later, this arrived at the office:
Last
Gill and Testament
I, Goldfish #1 (aka Goldie), being of sound fin
and tiny mind, do hereby attest this as my last Gill and Testament.
In the case of my demise, all of my waterly
possessions should go to Goldfish #2.
She (or he – never was sure about that), gets my:
1.
Timeshare stake in the castle
2.
Four hundred and seventy-six
pebbles from the bottom of the tank that are mine (engraved with a tiny
“Goldie")
3.
The white rock with a hole in it
(the sucker fish may claim that, but it’s mine.
I have a receipt somewhere).
4.
My thirty-five gold bricks, in safe
deposit box #8819 at Aquatic International Credit Union on Duval, most recently
appraised at $524,926.06.
Should Goldfish #2 pre-decease me, all of my
possessions should be sold and the proceeds given to the Benevolent Society for
the Protection of Fishtank Occupants (BSPFO), chapter #44 (central and
southeast Texas).
None of my estate should be utilized to benefit
in any way that parasitic sucker fish, who wishes ill of me. In fact, should I meet an untimely demise,
please investigate the sucker fish, as I am sure you will find the culprit.
Signed and attested to this 4th day
of June, 2015.
A second suspect had emerged. The original fish family had two goldfish, two striped fish, and two sucker fish. With one dead goldfish, there really are only five clear suspects.
Six Weeks Ago...
The suspect list dropped to four.
Receptionist: "One of the sucker fish is dead."Me: "And I should...?"
"Remove him."
"How do you know the gender of the fish? And why me?"
"Because you removed the last one. You are the only one here with experience removing dead fish."
Fair enough. So I removed the dead sucker fish. And realized that this went way beyond a funny, made-up fish conspiracy. We had a real fish murderer!!
Fearing for the safety of the other fish, we brought in help. This showed up on the staff bulletin board:
Goldfish
Helpline
If you or a loved one, or a loved fish, is experiencing
abuse, know that you are not alone. Nor
is your loved one. Nor your loved
fish. There is help. Call and talk to our experienced fish
counselors before it’s too late.
When you no longer believe “I’ve just been out swimming,”
or “I’m nibbling at you because I love you,” call our hotline and get the help
you need.
Call us now. Our
fish counselors will lend a gill.
1-800
– GOLDFISH
We also called our fish people. Named that way because they are the contractors who take care of our fish, not because they are actually fish people. They came out to do their own investigation.
Apparently, the air pump was broken. The fish were slowly suffocating, and were eating each other because... I never did get the why lack of oxygen made them eat each other, but suffice it to say this revelation changed our views of intent and culpability.
So, the investigation, and the fake conspiracy were finished. All that was left was to ensure the public knew the threat had passed. This short article appeared in the Statesman:
September 30, 2015
Austin, Texas
The Austin Police Department, Division
of Aquatic Domestic Crimes and Yard Art Larceny, announced today that it was suspending
the investigation into the death of “Goldie” the Goldfish and subsequent death
of Sucker Fish #2 at the Austin Children’s Guidance Center.
In August, “Goldie” was found dead and
half-eaten in his domicile. Sergeant
Gorton of Aquatic Domestic Crimes stated at the time: “it looks, well, it looks
fishy. No way around that.” Evidence at the time was collected by the
staff of the Children’s Center, and included anonymous tips, suspicious google
searches, and a “if you are reading this, I am already sleeping with the
fishes” note, purportedly from Goldy.
Affy Falky, of the Guiding Center, was
quoted as saying “it was one of the zebra fish.
The one with the suspicious eyes.
I know he killed Goldy!” A week later, Sucker Fish #2 was found dead
and half eaten. “See!!!! I told you!!!!”
remarked Falky.
Police detained and interrogated
“Goldfish #2” and “Zebra
Fish #1.” “Zebra Fish #2” had an alibi, and Sucker Fish #1 was
ruled out as a suspect, because he sucks.
Hours before a press conference was to
be held, answering questions about the two murders, the fish tank guy inspected
ACGC’s fish tank and saw that the pump was not working. “The fish aren’t getting any oxygen, which
will make them kill and eat each other,” commented the fish tank guy.
At the press conference, Sgt. Gorton
announced the suspension of the investigation.
“Still looks, well, fishy to me.
I must find a different expression.
But we would have trouble with any prosecution. A good lawyer could get the fish off on ‘not
guilty by reason of can’t breathe’.”
Falky, of the Children’s Museum, stated
“I’m keeping my eye on that Zebra Fish.
He is trouble.”
Now that the crisis has passed, I can get back to the mission, budget, board, and fixing small things parts of my job.
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