It is 12:40 am as I write this, on a sunday night that is technically now a monday morning. I have to be at work in seven hours. And I can't get to sleep?
Why, you ask?
Well, let me tell you.
I've just spent the last two hours listening to old school rock and roll tunes, and getting super pumped up. We're talking Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, and Dick Dale and his Del-Tones, here.
But, those weren't the ones that were really pumping me up. Nope, that honour is reserved for a song that, until tonight, I had very little respect for. Even though it's on one of the best-selling albums of all time.
Yes. I've spent the last hour listening to Meat Loaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light".
It never felt so good, it never felt so right.
I think my "music nerd" license is about to be revoked.
Another day at the office...
A big part of my job is dealing with credit counsellors - intermediaries for those who are unable to manage their debts. Some of these guys do this for profit, and are generally well-structured, streamlined, and efficient. These guys are a joy to deal with, and can give you quick and precise information within moments of asking for it. They also help get those people who are so financially disorganized to actually pay their debts. I love the for-profit C/C guys.
But then there are the other guys.
The non-profit C/C companies can be brutal to deal with. The staff is under-trained and underpaid, and often don't understand how the legal system works. I'm amazed some of them are able to use a phone.
As a case in point, I once had to call them to give some info regarding their accounts with my company - I simply wanted to update our file numbers because they were using incorrect account numbers with us. Rather than taking my information (which consists of me saying the client's name, their confirming it's the right name, and then a quick update of information, which can be brutal in and of itself) they decided I had to confirm my identity with each and every client (due to "privacy laws" that they follow more strictly and stupidly than the frigging government of Canada).
In other words, I couldn't just give them their client number, and then give them my client number. Nope. I also had to supply them with the client's name, address, date of birth, SIN #, and favourite type of cheese. And if I missed even one ("he prefers wensleydale over caerphilly!"), they wouldn't let me give them information. And in between each client, I had to confirm who I was, as well - my name, my phone number, extension number, and where I was calling from. Just in case I was secretly a spy or something, and they were trying to catch me in a lie.
In such cases, I usually just say "well, I guess we can't accept your cheque, then. Your client is still in debt to us," and then hang up.
They call back pretty quickly after that. Usually it's a manager, who apologizes for the last call-taker. And then tries to explain privacy laws to me. Which is a pretty big pet peeve, as I've worked for the government and know how privacy laws actually work.
I digress.
Thursday really shed some light on just how clueless some of these places can be. I was called by one, hoping to get some information for one of our files. After she gave me the client's DOB and name (thus satisfying actual "privacy law" ...it took three seconds), she wanted to e-mail me some information.
I spelled out my e-mail address, using the "name game". So I said, basically, "the email address is Dave Steeves, that's Donald, Adam, Victor, Edward, Samuel, Thomas, Edward, Edward, Victor, Edward, Samuel."
Which she wrote down. And then told me that was a long e-mail name, and could I please repeat it.
I had to explain to her that it was actually only eleven characters long, and that I was just trying to be clear. She had never heard of this spelling system, and told me it was very silly. She then proceeded to mispell my name (a lot of people only put one 'e' instead of two, which is why I pronounce it slowly to begin with).
But the best question was when she asked: "and is that all in lower case, or upper case?"
"What? It's an e-mail address."
She sighed. "I know. But is it all upper, or lower case?"
"You don't need to worry about casing in an e-mail address."
She was getting upset. "Yes, yes you do."
"You're thinking passwords."
"No. Is it lower case, or upper case?"
I sighed. "Lower case, I guess."
"Thank you. I'll send that e-mail to you right away."
This was on thursday. I still haven't got it.
But then there are the other guys.
The non-profit C/C companies can be brutal to deal with. The staff is under-trained and underpaid, and often don't understand how the legal system works. I'm amazed some of them are able to use a phone.
As a case in point, I once had to call them to give some info regarding their accounts with my company - I simply wanted to update our file numbers because they were using incorrect account numbers with us. Rather than taking my information (which consists of me saying the client's name, their confirming it's the right name, and then a quick update of information, which can be brutal in and of itself) they decided I had to confirm my identity with each and every client (due to "privacy laws" that they follow more strictly and stupidly than the frigging government of Canada).
In other words, I couldn't just give them their client number, and then give them my client number. Nope. I also had to supply them with the client's name, address, date of birth, SIN #, and favourite type of cheese. And if I missed even one ("he prefers wensleydale over caerphilly!"), they wouldn't let me give them information. And in between each client, I had to confirm who I was, as well - my name, my phone number, extension number, and where I was calling from. Just in case I was secretly a spy or something, and they were trying to catch me in a lie.
In such cases, I usually just say "well, I guess we can't accept your cheque, then. Your client is still in debt to us," and then hang up.
They call back pretty quickly after that. Usually it's a manager, who apologizes for the last call-taker. And then tries to explain privacy laws to me. Which is a pretty big pet peeve, as I've worked for the government and know how privacy laws actually work.
I digress.
Thursday really shed some light on just how clueless some of these places can be. I was called by one, hoping to get some information for one of our files. After she gave me the client's DOB and name (thus satisfying actual "privacy law" ...it took three seconds), she wanted to e-mail me some information.
I spelled out my e-mail address, using the "name game". So I said, basically, "the email address is Dave Steeves, that's Donald, Adam, Victor, Edward, Samuel, Thomas, Edward, Edward, Victor, Edward, Samuel."
Which she wrote down. And then told me that was a long e-mail name, and could I please repeat it.
I had to explain to her that it was actually only eleven characters long, and that I was just trying to be clear. She had never heard of this spelling system, and told me it was very silly. She then proceeded to mispell my name (a lot of people only put one 'e' instead of two, which is why I pronounce it slowly to begin with).
But the best question was when she asked: "and is that all in lower case, or upper case?"
"What? It's an e-mail address."
She sighed. "I know. But is it all upper, or lower case?"
"You don't need to worry about casing in an e-mail address."
She was getting upset. "Yes, yes you do."
"You're thinking passwords."
"No. Is it lower case, or upper case?"
I sighed. "Lower case, I guess."
"Thank you. I'll send that e-mail to you right away."
This was on thursday. I still haven't got it.
And now, for something completely different:
In other news, I'm one of the head first aiders at my job now. I'm kind of debating starting up a first aid blog, which would also sort of chronicle my class studies and entry into the 'exciting' world of being a male nurse.
Going to wait until I have weekends free before I make a final decision, though.
Going to wait until I have weekends free before I make a final decision, though.
"Who's on first?" ...An actual call from work:
"Hi, this is Marjeet from That Credit Counsellor Place"
"Hi, Marjeet, this is Dave from Payday Loan Place, I was hoping toupdate some files with you."
"I'm sorry, who is calling?"
"Dave Steeves from Payday Loan Place."
"Oh, hello Dave. How can I help you today?"
"Um, I would like to update some of our file numbers. The first file Iwould like to update is..."
"Wait, where did you say you were calling from?"
"Um, Payday Loan Place"
"Oh! We've sent you a bunch of files!"
"I know. I'm working on them right now, which is why I'm calling you-"
"We sent them to a Simi. Why has she not replied to us?"
"Um, Simi no longer works here. She left in early april."
"Oh, no. So, who has taken her place?"
"Uh, I have. Which is why I'm calling you-"
"I'm sorry, and your name is?"
"Um. Dave. Dave Steeves."
"Okay. And where are you calling from?"
"Payday Loan Place"
"So, are you doing Simi's files, then, or should I resend them to you?"
"No, don't bother resending them. I'm dealing with Simi's faxes. I'd like to update our file numberswith you, so that-"
"Oh, okay. Let me just take down some notes."
"Great. So, the first is-"
"Go ahead Simi."
"You mean Dave."
"Dave?"
"Yes. Simi no longer works here."
"Oh, right. Go ahead Dave."
"Right, so the first number is-"
",,,Dave?"
"Um. Yeah?"
"Can you spell your name for me?"
*sound of Dave banging his head against the keyboard*
"Hi, Marjeet, this is Dave from Payday Loan Place, I was hoping toupdate some files with you."
"I'm sorry, who is calling?"
"Dave Steeves from Payday Loan Place."
"Oh, hello Dave. How can I help you today?"
"Um, I would like to update some of our file numbers. The first file Iwould like to update is..."
"Wait, where did you say you were calling from?"
"Um, Payday Loan Place"
"Oh! We've sent you a bunch of files!"
"I know. I'm working on them right now, which is why I'm calling you-"
"We sent them to a Simi. Why has she not replied to us?"
"Um, Simi no longer works here. She left in early april."
"Oh, no. So, who has taken her place?"
"Uh, I have. Which is why I'm calling you-"
"I'm sorry, and your name is?"
"Um. Dave. Dave Steeves."
"Okay. And where are you calling from?"
"Payday Loan Place"
"So, are you doing Simi's files, then, or should I resend them to you?"
"No, don't bother resending them. I'm dealing with Simi's faxes. I'd like to update our file numberswith you, so that-"
"Oh, okay. Let me just take down some notes."
"Great. So, the first is-"
"Go ahead Simi."
"You mean Dave."
"Dave?"
"Yes. Simi no longer works here."
"Oh, right. Go ahead Dave."
"Right, so the first number is-"
",,,Dave?"
"Um. Yeah?"
"Can you spell your name for me?"
*sound of Dave banging his head against the keyboard*
I'm almost offended
As a pale ginger kid, people naturally assume I'm a nerd. Of course, they're right - I am quit a big hunk of geek, but in a lovable way. I'm not cripplingly shy around women, I can be pleasant and happy, and I'm well-adjusted. I do not get obsessive over video games (in fact, I don't really like them that much) and my Dungeons and Dragonsing is kept to a respectable level.
I used to be a level 8 geek, but I've been level-drained of some geektitude, and have slipped down to a level 5 geek. Although, my use of term "level" here actually just gave me enough XP to level up 6. So, um, ding?
The moral of the story? I'm a bit of a geek, but there are a lot of people who are a lot worse. And I definitely do not "Dress like a geek" - I'm very much a jeans and a t-shirt sort of guy. Dressed pretty much by old navy, with a healthy dose of plaid throw in for good measure. I don't look at myself and instantly think "geek". People have to talk to me for a few minutes before they realize it.
Or so I thought.
So, last week I'm at the grocery store, picking up my latest dosage of healthier food. I come up to the counter, and it's a cashier I've spoken to before - slightly overweight, a bit nervous around people, with a piercing and tattoo in an effort to look "cool" that has backfired miserably. Actually, he kind of looks like the sidekick to the main character in pretty much any high school drama.
He looks at me, and with barely a pause, says "so, are you looking forward to Starcraft 2?"
(Starcraft 2 is, for those who are cooler than me and don't know, a sequel to a very well-known and popular computer game. I've never played the game, but I know enough that I can say that, apparently, it's super addictive. Some korean kid actually played the original for three days straight, before dying from an aneurysm brought on through chronic sleep deprivation. Crazy koreans.)
I look at the cashier blankly for a second. He never said anything like this to the last person in line (a twenty-something male). And it isn't like we meet outside of the groceries, to talk about video games or anything. I see him maybe twice a month, for however long it takes for him to ring through my groceries. If he remembers me from these meetings, I think it's time for me to shop elsewhere.
Anyway, he looked at me, felt an instant kinship, and started going on about video games. As if I were exuding some sort of "nerd" pheremone (which I'm told smells remarkably like B.O. mixed with cheezies). Even when I told him I'm not much of a video gamer (I'm not), he decided to tell me some of the merits of this new game... and why I need to play it.
Apparently, it's gonna be "wicked awesome".
I smiled, thanked him, and paid for my groceries - all the while searching for an emergency exit. "Make sure you check it out!" he told me as I ran out the store- I think he's a shareholder of the company, or something.
As I left, I turned to look back at him. He was helping the next customer, a guy in his early thirties. Nary a word was said between them - the guy in his thirties, apparently, lacked the pheremone. Either that, or I had fulfilled the cashier's nerd bursting for the hour.
I used to be a level 8 geek, but I've been level-drained of some geektitude, and have slipped down to a level 5 geek. Although, my use of term "level" here actually just gave me enough XP to level up 6. So, um, ding?
The moral of the story? I'm a bit of a geek, but there are a lot of people who are a lot worse. And I definitely do not "Dress like a geek" - I'm very much a jeans and a t-shirt sort of guy. Dressed pretty much by old navy, with a healthy dose of plaid throw in for good measure. I don't look at myself and instantly think "geek". People have to talk to me for a few minutes before they realize it.
Or so I thought.
So, last week I'm at the grocery store, picking up my latest dosage of healthier food. I come up to the counter, and it's a cashier I've spoken to before - slightly overweight, a bit nervous around people, with a piercing and tattoo in an effort to look "cool" that has backfired miserably. Actually, he kind of looks like the sidekick to the main character in pretty much any high school drama.
He looks at me, and with barely a pause, says "so, are you looking forward to Starcraft 2?"
(Starcraft 2 is, for those who are cooler than me and don't know, a sequel to a very well-known and popular computer game. I've never played the game, but I know enough that I can say that, apparently, it's super addictive. Some korean kid actually played the original for three days straight, before dying from an aneurysm brought on through chronic sleep deprivation. Crazy koreans.)
I look at the cashier blankly for a second. He never said anything like this to the last person in line (a twenty-something male). And it isn't like we meet outside of the groceries, to talk about video games or anything. I see him maybe twice a month, for however long it takes for him to ring through my groceries. If he remembers me from these meetings, I think it's time for me to shop elsewhere.
Anyway, he looked at me, felt an instant kinship, and started going on about video games. As if I were exuding some sort of "nerd" pheremone (which I'm told smells remarkably like B.O. mixed with cheezies). Even when I told him I'm not much of a video gamer (I'm not), he decided to tell me some of the merits of this new game... and why I need to play it.
Apparently, it's gonna be "wicked awesome".
I smiled, thanked him, and paid for my groceries - all the while searching for an emergency exit. "Make sure you check it out!" he told me as I ran out the store- I think he's a shareholder of the company, or something.
As I left, I turned to look back at him. He was helping the next customer, a guy in his early thirties. Nary a word was said between them - the guy in his thirties, apparently, lacked the pheremone. Either that, or I had fulfilled the cashier's nerd bursting for the hour.
Weekly Haiku #28 - Laundry Night
laundry night, tonight
rolled socks, clean shirts, warm PJs
options, once again
Okay, this may be entirely fictional....
I'm sitting on a bus. Across the way from me is a man in his early thirties, who has obviously seen better days - tattered shirt, tattered pants, and a faded AC/DC T-shirt. He holds his head in his hands, blearily rubbing a prickly face with his palms.
"When did it start going wrong, man?" He asks, to no one in particular.
I am to help. "September 18th, 1997."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"September 18th, 1997," I repeat. "At around 4:43 p.m."
There is a long pause, before he speaks up. "What happened?"
"Hm?"
"On September 18th, 1997?"
"What about it?" I ask, a bit confused.
"Well, what happened."
"When?"
"On September 18th, 1997." He says, a little lost.
"Oh! Right!" I say, nodding my head. "I remember now. The day everything went wrong!"
He nods. "So, what happened?"
"Oh, everything went wrong then."
He is getting a little frustrated. "I know... but how did it all go wrong? Why did it all go wrong?"
I shake my head. "You didn't ask how it all went wrong. Or why it all went wrong. I'm afraid I can't help you."
"What?"
"I specialize only in answering when. I'm kind of a limited prophet."
"A what?"
"Hmm?" Is all I say.
"What's a limited prophet?"
"I don't know," I answer, honestly.
"But you just said you were a limited prophet! How can you not know what that means?"
"Well, I don't answer how...." I begin.
He slams his head into the floor, and then runs off the bus screaming. At exactly 2:33 PM, on June 4th.
Totally knew it was going to happen, too.
Just didn't know what "it" was until it happened.
"When did it start going wrong, man?" He asks, to no one in particular.
I am to help. "September 18th, 1997."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"September 18th, 1997," I repeat. "At around 4:43 p.m."
There is a long pause, before he speaks up. "What happened?"
"Hm?"
"On September 18th, 1997?"
"What about it?" I ask, a bit confused.
"Well, what happened."
"When?"
"On September 18th, 1997." He says, a little lost.
"Oh! Right!" I say, nodding my head. "I remember now. The day everything went wrong!"
He nods. "So, what happened?"
"Oh, everything went wrong then."
He is getting a little frustrated. "I know... but how did it all go wrong? Why did it all go wrong?"
I shake my head. "You didn't ask how it all went wrong. Or why it all went wrong. I'm afraid I can't help you."
"What?"
"I specialize only in answering when. I'm kind of a limited prophet."
"A what?"
"Hmm?" Is all I say.
"What's a limited prophet?"
"I don't know," I answer, honestly.
"But you just said you were a limited prophet! How can you not know what that means?"
"Well, I don't answer how...." I begin.
He slams his head into the floor, and then runs off the bus screaming. At exactly 2:33 PM, on June 4th.
Totally knew it was going to happen, too.
Just didn't know what "it" was until it happened.
Music Mondays: The Poser Trap.
A little while back, I came up with a plan: to create a fake band T-Shirt, and then to wear said T-Shirt to a place where a lot of self-righteous hipsters congregate. The game was simple: to see how many hipsters would, without provocation, start talking to me about the band I was supposedly a fan of... and to see how many hipsters would tell me they'd heard of my band, or actively listened to them.
In short, it was a poser trap.
Well, I'm going into the printing shop tomorrow, to make up just such a shirt. The band name will be called "The Generic Douchebags" (name courtesy of Girl Interrupted), and I'm putting in a list of tour locations on the back. I want it to be a very indie-looking shirt, so we'll see how that goes. Don't worry... there will be picture.
To be honest, I think I have the beginnings of a new hobby. Or maybe even a sport - who can snag the most hipsters in a day? An hour?
Along that note, where is a good place to go "hipster hunting"? Record stores, small venue shows, and vegan eateries are all obvious places. I'm also thinking The Noodle Box would be filled with pretentious hipsters. As for other places, I'm not entirely sure.
Finally, the shirt will be printed tomorrow (tuesday the 22nd), but if someone wants to link to an appropriate picture beforehand, I'd be more than willing to consider using it. I still haven't found a band image worth using.
In short, it was a poser trap.
Well, I'm going into the printing shop tomorrow, to make up just such a shirt. The band name will be called "The Generic Douchebags" (name courtesy of Girl Interrupted), and I'm putting in a list of tour locations on the back. I want it to be a very indie-looking shirt, so we'll see how that goes. Don't worry... there will be picture.
To be honest, I think I have the beginnings of a new hobby. Or maybe even a sport - who can snag the most hipsters in a day? An hour?
Along that note, where is a good place to go "hipster hunting"? Record stores, small venue shows, and vegan eateries are all obvious places. I'm also thinking The Noodle Box would be filled with pretentious hipsters. As for other places, I'm not entirely sure.
Finally, the shirt will be printed tomorrow (tuesday the 22nd), but if someone wants to link to an appropriate picture beforehand, I'd be more than willing to consider using it. I still haven't found a band image worth using.
Ear Wigs.... Ugh.
Those who know me are aware that I'm phobic of ear wigs.
Seriously. The little fuckers scare the shit out of me. Once, a few years back, my girlfriend at the time saw an earwig in our bed. She told me of this, saying something along the lines of "It was crawling in our sheets, but I couldn't find it. For all I know, it's still in there."
I slept on the couch for a week.
People tease me for all sorts of reasons, and I'm cool with that, but if someone brings up ear wigs, I freeze up and get anxious. They know not to press the subject. In fact, if I see one on the pavement, I'll usually jump back, and cross the street to avoid the thing. It's quite shameful, really.
So, I'm at work today, and I'm perusing old medical blogs - because this is how I pass the time. I'm strange like that. Of course, I read the blogs for self instruction reasons, and not for erotic reasons or anything creepy.
That's what crime scene photos are for.
Anyways, I'm perusing Your Er Doc's blog, and having a pretty enjoyable time as I'm reading his back posts. They're both entertaining and informative.
Then I come across this post. Essentially - an ear wig crawled into a patient's ear. The patient flipped out. When I read it, I didn't know what a "pincer bug" was (we don't use that term in my neck of the woods) but when I used google to look it up...
Let's just say that I still feel sick to the stomach. Totally scared the shit out of me.
Seriously. The little fuckers scare the shit out of me. Once, a few years back, my girlfriend at the time saw an earwig in our bed. She told me of this, saying something along the lines of "It was crawling in our sheets, but I couldn't find it. For all I know, it's still in there."
I slept on the couch for a week.
People tease me for all sorts of reasons, and I'm cool with that, but if someone brings up ear wigs, I freeze up and get anxious. They know not to press the subject. In fact, if I see one on the pavement, I'll usually jump back, and cross the street to avoid the thing. It's quite shameful, really.
So, I'm at work today, and I'm perusing old medical blogs - because this is how I pass the time. I'm strange like that. Of course, I read the blogs for self instruction reasons, and not for erotic reasons or anything creepy.
That's what crime scene photos are for.
Anyways, I'm perusing Your Er Doc's blog, and having a pretty enjoyable time as I'm reading his back posts. They're both entertaining and informative.
Then I come across this post. Essentially - an ear wig crawled into a patient's ear. The patient flipped out. When I read it, I didn't know what a "pincer bug" was (we don't use that term in my neck of the woods) but when I used google to look it up...
Let's just say that I still feel sick to the stomach. Totally scared the shit out of me.
Not a proud moment, but...
I had one of those "holy crap, I'm going to go to Hell" realizations the other day. They happen from time to time, before I'm able to shake off the tingly feeling down my spine by releasing some pent up energy. Usually by kicking a puppy, or laughing at an old person crossing the street or something.
Everyone needs a hobby.
Yesterday, I was walking out of my apartment when I saw a man wearing a Joe Thornton, San Jose Sharks hockey jersey. As I thought I was the only person in Victoria that actually liked the sharks, I got very excited to see this guy. His back was turned to me, and I grinned as he turned. The first thing he saw was yours truly, grinning broadly and waving an iPod proudly displaying the Sharks Logo (yes, I got a Sharks logo put on my iPod. Shut up).
"I love your jersey! Excellent choice! Thornton is awesome!"
He grinned back, and then mumbled really loudly. "Blargh guud mweyll lunngghhh".
Or somethign to that effect. And the first thing I thought was Ah. Crap. He's retarded.
My face fell a little bit, I forced a smile, and kept walking after giving him a bit of a wave. I was a bit embarrassed, and then realized if I mentioned it to somebody, the first thing they'd say would be "Of course he was retarded. You'd have to be, to be a sharks fan!" or something to that effect.
It wasn't until I got about twenty feet away before I turned to look back at him, crossing the street. That's when I realized.... shit, he's not retarded. He's deaf.
I felt bad for the rest of the day.
Everyone needs a hobby.
Yesterday, I was walking out of my apartment when I saw a man wearing a Joe Thornton, San Jose Sharks hockey jersey. As I thought I was the only person in Victoria that actually liked the sharks, I got very excited to see this guy. His back was turned to me, and I grinned as he turned. The first thing he saw was yours truly, grinning broadly and waving an iPod proudly displaying the Sharks Logo (yes, I got a Sharks logo put on my iPod. Shut up).
"I love your jersey! Excellent choice! Thornton is awesome!"
He grinned back, and then mumbled really loudly. "Blargh guud mweyll lunngghhh".
Or somethign to that effect. And the first thing I thought was Ah. Crap. He's retarded.
My face fell a little bit, I forced a smile, and kept walking after giving him a bit of a wave. I was a bit embarrassed, and then realized if I mentioned it to somebody, the first thing they'd say would be "Of course he was retarded. You'd have to be, to be a sharks fan!" or something to that effect.
It wasn't until I got about twenty feet away before I turned to look back at him, crossing the street. That's when I realized.... shit, he's not retarded. He's deaf.
I felt bad for the rest of the day.
I give you... the awesomest action scene ever
Why can't they make movies like this Canada!?
(I particularly like the part where he slides the horse underneath the truck. Also, his mullet = awesome)
(I particularly like the part where he slides the horse underneath the truck. Also, his mullet = awesome)
My dream? to have time to dream....
I finally put in my notice at the ATM job. I may be working here once a week starting July, but for now, let's consider it a full on, "I quit". I started doing some numbers last week, and realized that I was working around sixty hours a week, seven days a week. And had been doing this since mid April.
Seriously. I've had one day off since around April 10th. I had to put in the notice - I've been looking forward to the chance to, you know, sleep.
The best part, though, was when I put in the notice. A day afterwards, I sent an e-mail to a coworker, more or less informing him that I put my notice in, and could he please forward it to some other parties, so I could make sure someone got ahold of it.
He didn't reply with "Sure, Dave, I can do that." He didn't say "Oh, it sucks that you're leaving, we're going to miss you!". He didn't even say "Oh, thank God you're leaving. You're a complete tool."
Nope. He said, more or less, "Yeah, 60 hours a week is a bit excessive. Hey, can you take my shift tomorrow?"
And so, yours truly wound up working almost 70 hours this week. Apparently, I've decided sleep is for suckers.
Seriously. I've had one day off since around April 10th. I had to put in the notice - I've been looking forward to the chance to, you know, sleep.
The best part, though, was when I put in the notice. A day afterwards, I sent an e-mail to a coworker, more or less informing him that I put my notice in, and could he please forward it to some other parties, so I could make sure someone got ahold of it.
He didn't reply with "Sure, Dave, I can do that." He didn't say "Oh, it sucks that you're leaving, we're going to miss you!". He didn't even say "Oh, thank God you're leaving. You're a complete tool."
Nope. He said, more or less, "Yeah, 60 hours a week is a bit excessive. Hey, can you take my shift tomorrow?"
And so, yours truly wound up working almost 70 hours this week. Apparently, I've decided sleep is for suckers.
Film Fridays: Talk to me, Goose!
When I came into work yesterday, I found that my co-worker in the admin department (it's just the two of us, right now) wasn't going to be coming in, as his kid was sick. Since it was only the second time I'd be alone in the admin section, handling everything on my own, this was kind of noteworthy. Naturally, my supervisor (who works in another department) wanted to keep me aware of this, so he sent me an e-mail:
That was it. I had already figured out I was on my lonesome, but I decided to shoot an e-mail back. My supervisor is a "typical guy" in a lot of ways, so I decided to respond in the form of a movie every male of a certain age has seen: Top Gun. My reply went a little bit like this:
Y'see, Top Gun, while one of the dumbest movies ever made, is a movie that pretty much every guy has seen. When I was three or four, my mom had the Top Gun soundtrack, and I'd sing along to "highway to the danger zone". To this day, I still know the guitar licks to that main theme song. It's even been in a commercial or two.
Here's the thing, though. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about. He asked me about it later, and admitted he had never seen Top Gun. While he seems like a normal person, this is obviously a sign that he was raised in some sort of weird cult, with magic jello and matching running shoes.
The thing is, certain movies are part of our popular language. When I say to someone "I'm about to go Office Space on our printer", most people know that I want to beat said printer with a baseball bat. When I tell someone "It was a real Notebook moment, right there", everyone knows I'm saying it was a very sad time. And when I have my fingers in front of someone's face and say "These aren't the droids you're looking for", people know what I'm really saying is: "Holy shit, look at how much of a geek I am!".
You're flying solo today.
That was it. I had already figured out I was on my lonesome, but I decided to shoot an e-mail back. My supervisor is a "typical guy" in a lot of ways, so I decided to respond in the form of a movie every male of a certain age has seen: Top Gun. My reply went a little bit like this:
What? Maverick's flying solo? What happened to Goose!? Talk to me Goose! Talk to me!
Y'see, Top Gun, while one of the dumbest movies ever made, is a movie that pretty much every guy has seen. When I was three or four, my mom had the Top Gun soundtrack, and I'd sing along to "highway to the danger zone". To this day, I still know the guitar licks to that main theme song. It's even been in a commercial or two.
Here's the thing, though. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about. He asked me about it later, and admitted he had never seen Top Gun. While he seems like a normal person, this is obviously a sign that he was raised in some sort of weird cult, with magic jello and matching running shoes.
The thing is, certain movies are part of our popular language. When I say to someone "I'm about to go Office Space on our printer", most people know that I want to beat said printer with a baseball bat. When I tell someone "It was a real Notebook moment, right there", everyone knows I'm saying it was a very sad time. And when I have my fingers in front of someone's face and say "These aren't the droids you're looking for", people know what I'm really saying is: "Holy shit, look at how much of a geek I am!".
Financial Misadvice...
(Sorry about the lack of posts the last few days. Real life got in the way of a blog. Somehow, Jesus is to blame for all of this)
During the week, I work at in a collections centre. It is not a particularly fun job, even though my job consists entirely of doing paperwork. I mostly hear collectors yelling at debtors unwilling to pay the money they owe - it doesn't always present you with a vision of humanity as its finest.
Add to that the fact that I process bankruptcies as one of the key components of my job, and you can see why my opinion of humanity is beginning to sour.
It's not that I'm upset these people can't pay my company the money they owe - it means nothing to me whether they do or don't. What bugs me is that, as part of their bankruptcy process, they have to provide the reason for their financial difficulties.
The people that have reasons like "my husband died and I couldn't pay my bills and funeral costs" get my sympathy, as does the occasional "I have cancer". But, 90% of the reasons are just excuses that blame others for the debtor's problems. And these debtors provide their monthly income and their monthly expenses - most of the bankrupts live better than I do!
"I can't pay my bills because I didn't know lenders charged interest." Well, buddy, read the damned contract before you sign it.
"I am unable to meet my debt because my job won't pay me enough money" (You make more than I do. I am not bankrupt, or in any real financial crisis. You have no kids. So, tighten your belt, buddy.)
"I can't pay my bills because I lost a month of work, and now can't keep ahead" (maybe you should cut back - do you need to spend $200 on your telephone bills? Or $200 a month for tobacco? Or $300 a MONTH on clothing?)
Those are, by the way, actual excuses I've been given (the exact quotes have been changed, of course).
I can understand. Times are tough. I live in a city where things are getting pretty desperate. The number of people asking me for change on the street is increasing, and they're finding increasingly clever ways to ask, this being a competitive capitalist society and all. When you hear homeless men on the street, complaining about the recession, you know things are bad. Add to that the fact that Victoria has always been an expensive place to live (for a variety of reasons), and, well, yeah.
Which brings us to the excuse given me today, on a bankruptcy form:
I kid you not. And, unfortunately, I kind of see the guy's point.
During the week, I work at in a collections centre. It is not a particularly fun job, even though my job consists entirely of doing paperwork. I mostly hear collectors yelling at debtors unwilling to pay the money they owe - it doesn't always present you with a vision of humanity as its finest.
Add to that the fact that I process bankruptcies as one of the key components of my job, and you can see why my opinion of humanity is beginning to sour.
It's not that I'm upset these people can't pay my company the money they owe - it means nothing to me whether they do or don't. What bugs me is that, as part of their bankruptcy process, they have to provide the reason for their financial difficulties.
The people that have reasons like "my husband died and I couldn't pay my bills and funeral costs" get my sympathy, as does the occasional "I have cancer". But, 90% of the reasons are just excuses that blame others for the debtor's problems. And these debtors provide their monthly income and their monthly expenses - most of the bankrupts live better than I do!
"I can't pay my bills because I didn't know lenders charged interest." Well, buddy, read the damned contract before you sign it.
"I am unable to meet my debt because my job won't pay me enough money" (You make more than I do. I am not bankrupt, or in any real financial crisis. You have no kids. So, tighten your belt, buddy.)
"I can't pay my bills because I lost a month of work, and now can't keep ahead" (maybe you should cut back - do you need to spend $200 on your telephone bills? Or $200 a month for tobacco? Or $300 a MONTH on clothing?)
Those are, by the way, actual excuses I've been given (the exact quotes have been changed, of course).
I can understand. Times are tough. I live in a city where things are getting pretty desperate. The number of people asking me for change on the street is increasing, and they're finding increasingly clever ways to ask, this being a competitive capitalist society and all. When you hear homeless men on the street, complaining about the recession, you know things are bad. Add to that the fact that Victoria has always been an expensive place to live (for a variety of reasons), and, well, yeah.
Which brings us to the excuse given me today, on a bankruptcy form:
REASON FOR ENTERING BANKRUPTCY:
* Moved to Victoria.
I kid you not. And, unfortunately, I kind of see the guy's point.
True Story:
Recently, I've picked up on some old bad habits, and have been burning through diet coke. I'm pretty addicted to the stuff - and it is an addiction. Luckily, it's a habit that doesn't require spoons, or having to find a vein or anything like that.
Still, can't say I'm super pleased about it. I blame the 50 cent pop machines at my work, coupled with the fact that the tea kettle shorts out. And that I suck at mornings, and need caffeine.
Anyways, a few weeks ago, I was at a convenience store, picking up a bottle, when a woman waiting in line just starts informing me about all of the bad things in diet coke.
You ever notice how it's the most uneducated people who tell you all the awful things in aspartame? And just how nasty the stuff is? Literally, this woman had more teeth than brain cells, and she didn't have a full set of those, either. Yet she kept going on about just how "lethal" diet coke is.
This woman was on her health crusade for a good two minutes?
Best part? She was in line to buy smokes.
Still, can't say I'm super pleased about it. I blame the 50 cent pop machines at my work, coupled with the fact that the tea kettle shorts out. And that I suck at mornings, and need caffeine.
Anyways, a few weeks ago, I was at a convenience store, picking up a bottle, when a woman waiting in line just starts informing me about all of the bad things in diet coke.
You ever notice how it's the most uneducated people who tell you all the awful things in aspartame? And just how nasty the stuff is? Literally, this woman had more teeth than brain cells, and she didn't have a full set of those, either. Yet she kept going on about just how "lethal" diet coke is.
This woman was on her health crusade for a good two minutes?
Best part? She was in line to buy smokes.
Film Friday: The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus
A note to anyone that wants to see this movie: be careful.
Yeah, it's Heath Ledger's last movie. But that doesn't necessarily make it good.
Not that I'm saying it's bad, per se. It's just a movie with a lot of ideas, that doesn't take the time to appropriately examine said ideas. While watching it, neither the Special Lady or yours truly was able to figure out whether Heath Ledger was a full on bad guy, or a flawed hero.
The basic premise of the movie (at least how I see it) is this: a man makes a bet with the devil - that mankind, if given the choice, will choose the path of wonder and excitement over pleasure and hedonism, even if the first path takes more work. But it comes off as a "God versus the Devil" sort of bet, that reminds me of the Book of Job.
After watching it, the Special Lady was bugged and annoyed - she kept turning the movie around in her head, trying to find some sort of traction. As she said to me: "I don't like it, because in this movie, God is powerless - the devil is the only one with power".
Which sums it up. It's supposed to be (at least, according the director) a fairly light-hearted movie... instead, it's a dark film with a few moments of Monty Python thrown in for good measure.
Bleh.
Yeah, it's Heath Ledger's last movie. But that doesn't necessarily make it good.
Not that I'm saying it's bad, per se. It's just a movie with a lot of ideas, that doesn't take the time to appropriately examine said ideas. While watching it, neither the Special Lady or yours truly was able to figure out whether Heath Ledger was a full on bad guy, or a flawed hero.
The basic premise of the movie (at least how I see it) is this: a man makes a bet with the devil - that mankind, if given the choice, will choose the path of wonder and excitement over pleasure and hedonism, even if the first path takes more work. But it comes off as a "God versus the Devil" sort of bet, that reminds me of the Book of Job.
After watching it, the Special Lady was bugged and annoyed - she kept turning the movie around in her head, trying to find some sort of traction. As she said to me: "I don't like it, because in this movie, God is powerless - the devil is the only one with power".
Which sums it up. It's supposed to be (at least, according the director) a fairly light-hearted movie... instead, it's a dark film with a few moments of Monty Python thrown in for good measure.
Bleh.
Introducing...
I get annoyed by hipsters and their band fetishes - the more people who know abouta band, the less they like it. I mentioned this on monday - and I've been thinking about it over the past little while. There is definitely a subset of people who love being the only people who know about a band.
Actually, I'm one of those peoples, to a degree. It is kind of cool to know about a band before they get famous - but, at least personally, I like seeing them get famous. I don't really care so much if, after they get famous, a bunch of douchebags I hate become fans. (I do have a problem if the band changes their music to accomodate said douchebags' personal favourites - I'm looking at you, QOTSA!)
But it annoys the piss out of me when I'm buying a band's debut album, and someone nearby says something like: "yeah, they used to be cool... before they sold out."
I mean, it's their first real album! Come on.
Even worse, though, are the people who like to show off their encyclopaedic knowledge of music. No matter the band, these people know of them. And have seen them live at least once. And have all of their CDs - and will totally recommend you listen to "some of their early stuff - it's much more raw".
I want to strangle these people. Because, frankly, they're twats. But strangling is, unfortunately, illegal. So I have a new plan - I will mock them incessantly.
Here's how: I am going to go and make up a fake band, and print off some band T-shirts for this fake band. I will then wear this shirt around town, and see how long it takes before someone (upon finding out that I am wearing a "band" shirt) will tell me they've heard of the band before.
I need a band name, though. I'm thinking "The 151s" but it sounds a bit generic. Someone give me a quick name that sounds real! I plan on using the image at right as my "band logo".
Let's put those wannabes in their places!
Weekly Haiku #27 - I get it, so that's what counts, right?
weekdays: barista
chai tea served from a distance
weekends: talks to cats
Ah, XKCD...
I wish I could put a Day as Night post here. But, those things take a good two hours to do - and I don't have the time to do them on the weekdays. Because, as of late, I've been doing most of my posting on the weekends - prepping for the week, as it were. And I don't want to download a bunch of images onto my work computer. That seems like a very bad idea.
So, in lieu of actually posting a day as night strip for the next little while, I'll just post to an already existing webcomic - to at least keep tuesdays dedicated to webcomics.
And don't worry - there will be new Day as Night strips. I actually have scripts written, and everything.
Until then, hope you enjoy XKCD.
Music Mondays: HMV
About a week ago, maybe a bit more, I was poking around HMV looking for some new music. I was feeling that "itch" for something new, and I was wandering around rather aimlessly. I would stop in Electronica, take a look at a Massive Attack album, and say to myself "am I ready for this yet? Nah."
Because, as you know, people that own Massive Attack records begin to feel smugly superior to people that do not own Massive Attack records. And since I already feel smugly superior to so many people, I don't know if I'm quite ready for that step, as it seems like a lot of work - it's hard work being awesome, y'know.
So I'd keep wandering around looking for records, making an obscure circuit around the floor, connecting invisible dots. Otis Redding made me think of Johnny Otis, so I'd check out his work. While looking there, I'd think of Bo Diddley, and I'd head to the blues. From there, it was obvious I had to check out Johnny Cash. Then the Allman brothers, to Lynyrd Skynyrd, to Led Zeppelin, to Cream, to B.B. King, to Albert King, to Chuck Berry, to...
I think you get it.
I realized that I was just hitting old names - stuff I had already heard of. Which is how HMV works. Albums only a few years old that were on top 100 charts, or older albums that were well known and likely to sell.
...I'm not a huge fan of HMV. But for some reason, Victoria sucks as a place to get music - all of the indie record shops are closing up, unless you want to buy new vinyl records (at Ditch records, preferably) or used albums (and I hate buying used CDs). These days, HMV has the best selection of music... unfortunately.
This, of course, dissuades hipsters from buying albums. And as everyone knows, hipsters fuel the music business (or so they'd have you believe). There are so many new bands being released, and I think it's because of the rule of inverse hipster happiness - the more hipsters that know of a band, the less they like said band. And hipsters hate going to record stores where they know most of the music there - if all of the music in a store is top 100 stuff (like, say, HMV), hipsters don't want to shop there.
Which is why I'm opening a new record store. We will sell only independant music, from small presses. And the rule is simple: if you come in looking for a record, and we have it, then we won't sell it to you, because it is obvious that too many people are hearing about this band.
Also, I'm forming my own band. There are five people in this band, but only three people in the band actually know they're in a band. The other two members think they're in some sort of reality TV show. We have no intention of ever actually letting others listen to our music - we want to keep our music "small scale" and "indie" as much as possible.
Of course, I'll wear a band T-shirt and see how long it takes for a hipster to "recognize" our band name, and tell me "I've been listening to them for years".
Because, as you know, people that own Massive Attack records begin to feel smugly superior to people that do not own Massive Attack records. And since I already feel smugly superior to so many people, I don't know if I'm quite ready for that step, as it seems like a lot of work - it's hard work being awesome, y'know.
So I'd keep wandering around looking for records, making an obscure circuit around the floor, connecting invisible dots. Otis Redding made me think of Johnny Otis, so I'd check out his work. While looking there, I'd think of Bo Diddley, and I'd head to the blues. From there, it was obvious I had to check out Johnny Cash. Then the Allman brothers, to Lynyrd Skynyrd, to Led Zeppelin, to Cream, to B.B. King, to Albert King, to Chuck Berry, to...
I think you get it.
I realized that I was just hitting old names - stuff I had already heard of. Which is how HMV works. Albums only a few years old that were on top 100 charts, or older albums that were well known and likely to sell.
...I'm not a huge fan of HMV. But for some reason, Victoria sucks as a place to get music - all of the indie record shops are closing up, unless you want to buy new vinyl records (at Ditch records, preferably) or used albums (and I hate buying used CDs). These days, HMV has the best selection of music... unfortunately.
This, of course, dissuades hipsters from buying albums. And as everyone knows, hipsters fuel the music business (or so they'd have you believe). There are so many new bands being released, and I think it's because of the rule of inverse hipster happiness - the more hipsters that know of a band, the less they like said band. And hipsters hate going to record stores where they know most of the music there - if all of the music in a store is top 100 stuff (like, say, HMV), hipsters don't want to shop there.
Which is why I'm opening a new record store. We will sell only independant music, from small presses. And the rule is simple: if you come in looking for a record, and we have it, then we won't sell it to you, because it is obvious that too many people are hearing about this band.
Also, I'm forming my own band. There are five people in this band, but only three people in the band actually know they're in a band. The other two members think they're in some sort of reality TV show. We have no intention of ever actually letting others listen to our music - we want to keep our music "small scale" and "indie" as much as possible.
Of course, I'll wear a band T-shirt and see how long it takes for a hipster to "recognize" our band name, and tell me "I've been listening to them for years".
Not really a funny post, but I like it...
I've come to the realization that I am not destined for office work. I mean, no one that does office work is ever really much of a fan of it, but some people can deal with it better than others. I've had inklings that maybe office work was not my destined career for a while now - the sense of "who cares?" I feel while everyone else is panicked because you no longer need to dial "8" on the fax machine before sending a fax (seriously - this was a crisis a few weeks ago); the self importance of middle managers who stride around the office as if they were superheroes causing me to chuckle rather than cringe; and so on.
When I see the wry resignation of my co-workers, I fake the emotions back to them, parroting their behaviour like Jane Goodall among the chimps. I draw the line at throwing feces, though. Because, as with most things, there is a time and a place.
But every time one of these notions hit me, I could only shrug. I mean, yeah, sure, I'm not super happy doing what I'm doing, but what else is there? Sure, this sucks, but where do I head to?
I had those inklings of wanting to be in a medical job - paramedic, nurse, whatever - but every time I said "this is what I want to do", a voice inside my head was saying "how do you know that?"
It came to me last week. I was talking to a customer on the phone, about her billing situation. After we had resolved most of the pressing issues (and I helped fix her problem), she apologized for the fact that she wasn't making much sense - she was having a really bad migraine, you see.
And I went into instant "first aid" mode. I walked her through the migraine. I recommended some of the more well-known treatments for long-term migraine care. I told her a few tricks I knew for immediate relief of some migraine symptoms. I got a history on the patient (and yes, I thought of her at that point as a "patient", which is laughable, I know) and I came up with some suggestions for treatment.
I didn't do much - it wasn't like I was giving CPR or anything - but it was enough, for me. Because while I wasn't the biggest help for this person (how can I be, over the phone?) it made me realize - yes, this is what I want to do. Because I felt damned good for the rest of the day.
When I see the wry resignation of my co-workers, I fake the emotions back to them, parroting their behaviour like Jane Goodall among the chimps. I draw the line at throwing feces, though. Because, as with most things, there is a time and a place.
But every time one of these notions hit me, I could only shrug. I mean, yeah, sure, I'm not super happy doing what I'm doing, but what else is there? Sure, this sucks, but where do I head to?
I had those inklings of wanting to be in a medical job - paramedic, nurse, whatever - but every time I said "this is what I want to do", a voice inside my head was saying "how do you know that?"
It came to me last week. I was talking to a customer on the phone, about her billing situation. After we had resolved most of the pressing issues (and I helped fix her problem), she apologized for the fact that she wasn't making much sense - she was having a really bad migraine, you see.
And I went into instant "first aid" mode. I walked her through the migraine. I recommended some of the more well-known treatments for long-term migraine care. I told her a few tricks I knew for immediate relief of some migraine symptoms. I got a history on the patient (and yes, I thought of her at that point as a "patient", which is laughable, I know) and I came up with some suggestions for treatment.
I didn't do much - it wasn't like I was giving CPR or anything - but it was enough, for me. Because while I wasn't the biggest help for this person (how can I be, over the phone?) it made me realize - yes, this is what I want to do. Because I felt damned good for the rest of the day.
That sound you hear is just me banging my head into the desk...
Walk into work today, still bleary eyed from a late night playing super addictive flash puzzle games. I fiddle with my keys, disable the alarm, and plop my butt down in the chair. I'm in a lazy mood, but I know I'll get my work done - there's rarely a lot of work at my weekend job, after all.
Turn on my computer, and... hey, look! New computer! And by "new", I mean "Wow, this tower is actually older than the last one!" It's running (I kid you not) "Windows 2000". This makes me laugh.
Until I realize that my profile has been reset.
All of the shortcuts? Gone. My e-mail? Inaccessible. The main programs I use to actually communicate with our ATMS? You know, the reason I'm here on the weekend? Yeah, those are gone, too.
So I call up a coworker, at 8 am, waking him up. He'd just gone to sleep three hours earlier. Blearily, he tells me that he's been in the warehouse all week, and has no idea about how to set everything up. I use his login info - and he's got nothing installed either.
He then helpfully tells me to call someone else - I can find their number on my email. Of course, he realizes how stupid that sounds a second after saying it.
I call the manager. I call the second in command. Neither are answering their phone. It is, after all, just after 8. And so, here I am, at a job that is usually pretty laid back, with absolutely nothing to do... and hating it.
Turn on my computer, and... hey, look! New computer! And by "new", I mean "Wow, this tower is actually older than the last one!" It's running (I kid you not) "Windows 2000". This makes me laugh.
Until I realize that my profile has been reset.
All of the shortcuts? Gone. My e-mail? Inaccessible. The main programs I use to actually communicate with our ATMS? You know, the reason I'm here on the weekend? Yeah, those are gone, too.
So I call up a coworker, at 8 am, waking him up. He'd just gone to sleep three hours earlier. Blearily, he tells me that he's been in the warehouse all week, and has no idea about how to set everything up. I use his login info - and he's got nothing installed either.
He then helpfully tells me to call someone else - I can find their number on my email. Of course, he realizes how stupid that sounds a second after saying it.
I call the manager. I call the second in command. Neither are answering their phone. It is, after all, just after 8. And so, here I am, at a job that is usually pretty laid back, with absolutely nothing to do... and hating it.
Okay. This is just pure awesome:
I mean it. You have to check this video out. Laughed my BUTT off, while also thinking it was pretty damn awesome of the kid. What's not to love about a korean kid in diapers playing an oversized guitar while singing "hey Jude"?
Weekly Haiku #26 - Actually Overheard today at work:
...you're my "workplace friend"
not my "facebook friend", okay?
facebook trumps real life
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