a little more me in my monitor...
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in the "Dan Johnson" journal:[<< Previous 20 entries]
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12:09 pm
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Slow-Motion Walter, Fire Engine Guy
There's a Chinese restaurant in my once and future hometown called Yummy Buffet. I enjoy the name's non-specificity as a hallmark of suburban East Asian dining. That being the case, when my call list showed an establishment called "Sweet Carryout," I naturally assumed it was a restaurant serving some variety of Chinese or Vietnamese food, and was proven correct when I opened the contact.
Nonetheless, it seemed like an unfortunate, if not entirely unexpected name, until I read the name of the proprietor. I'd really like to believe he answers the phone hundreds of times per day, "Tsing Lo, Sweet Carryout."
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09:12 pm
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The first step is admitting that you have a blog.
Stevie turned 23 on Friday. That makes her comically young and makes you extremely old for thinking so. It also makes her the oldest of the three girls with whom I spend most of my free time. Friday, we went to the Wienery, a delightful and renowned establishment heretofore unremarked upon in my admittedly lackadaisical journaling. The Upsetter Polish (with cheese, egg, and bacon) seemed like it might be the greatest value in all of Minneapolis dining, until I flipped the menu over and found the Cadillac Polish, which is the same thing, but with a pancake in place of the bun.
We went to Palmer's after, which is always a good time, but one trip doesn't really differ sufficiently from another for me to do it justice. The rest of the weekend was the sort of early summer beach-party-good-times that can't really be adequately encapsulated without the aid of a hastily edited fast-motion video montage set to the sweet strains of Mungo Jerry.
I just wrote my last rent check for Willy Loman house. (Rest in Peace, we hardly knew ye, etc., etc.) I'm including a brief note stating my reasons for leaving, which while slightly more eloquently stated, boil down to "You're kicking me out for strange and inscrutable reasons having to do with my insistence on walking and talking in my apartment past 8pm, and using the stairs that are the only useable entryway into my apartment." I dialed the sarcasm and bitterness to professional if not necessarily polite levels, and I hope it will be enough to secure me a relatively clean rental reference.
My current job, such as it is, remains seemingly secure. They fired one of my last two remaining co-workers (the one designated Severely Stupid Co-worker, previously mentioned in Facebook for not knowing that songs rhymed.) That leaves a total of two people doing the job once done by five. If I have the top appointment setting record this week, I get a $10 gift card to Little Caesars. I'm down by one at mid-week.
That is to say, I have Friday off of work, presumably to celebrate the anniversary of that great beacon of freedom, Ben Harris.
I've got a whole month to move this time. Who's got boxes?
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01:56 pm
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I've got two tickets to parasites...
About 6:30 last night, I went to lie down in front of the fan in my bedroom, and I ended up falling asleep. I continued to sleep until about 2am, notwithstanding a couple brief and incoherent phone calls. At 2, I figured the evening was a lost cause, so I just slept straight through until work this morning.
That means I haven't really eaten anything since the can of refried beans I ate right after work yesterday. I'm quite hungry.
Luckily for me, there's a half-full container of coleslaw and some baked beans in the break room fridge left over from our office cookout two weeks ago last Friday.
...or else I could just wait until after work and let my parents buy me dinner in honor of Stevie's birthday.
...
The responsible choice has seldom been so easy to make.
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10:40 pm
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This is my résumé. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
At my current job, I make just under $1000 per month. My total bills, exceed that slightly, and with Transplant finally (mercifully, I'll admit) submitted to the publisher, my supplementary income has dried up.
I had a very promising prospect for a temp job with Wells Fargo doing second shift customer service, but, in a refreshing twist, the slight economic recovery hosed me out of the job. Seems the recent interest rate increase caused the customer service positions to evaporate.
Combine these facts with the rambling two-page letter from my downstairs neighbor that my landlady photocopied and included with last month's rent receipt, enumerating my offenses as a tenant (most notable among these, that I walk around my apartment at night and sometimes use the stairs), and the attached note from said landlady saying that if these issues were not resolved, I should consider it my 60-days notice to vacate, and I am, after a record two-year stint, moving back to my parents' basement.
Those of you who recall the epic back-pedal of 2004 will, I trust, keep your fingers crossed for a shorter stay this time. The last time I moved back I was relocated to the sewing room, but this time, it looks like the erstwhile "family room," which, while larger, lacks certain amenities, like a door.
Temporary setbacks. Minor obstacles. Better times ahead. More frequent Live Journal updates, in any case.
Oh, by the way, I rode on a plane. Last weekend, I went to a wedding with Stevie. She had a flight and hotel booked in Chicago with her dad, who was placed on injured reserve at the last moment. Second-stringer Missy was busy with some sort of "gainful employment" so Stevie set to work with a sob-story and sorrowful tones to get the non-transferable ticket transferred.
I have a noted and admittedly irrational fear of mechanical failure. There are a number of things about air travel that are remarkable and almost miraculous, but there are just as many that are unsettling as hell. All in all, I prefer a road-trip, but I guess it's gauche to look a coach seat in the mouth.
The wedding was a delight. Stevie's family are universally pleasant and charming. The bride and her sister, in particular, were "people of our caliber," though the groom's family seemed just slightly too respectable for the kind of wedding that has an open bar at the reception and the rehearsal dinner. If you ever find yourself at the Oak Park Carleton hotel, there's a bartender there who severely knows his trade. I like to think he was bringing his A-game because I was the first in a line of four people who ordered something stronger than a white wine spritzer. Don't think of it as losing a son, think of it as gaining a hangover.
I didn't get out of the hotel much or out of the suburbs at all. Overall, my impression of Chicago is that it's a lot like Minneapolis but bigger. I could be wrong. The cab took Cicero from the airport, and it pretty much looks like East Lake, but it does so for miles instead of blocks.
Keeley visited this weekend from Korea, by way of Oshkosh, WI.
She told me to post this picture to Facebook, but she also said she hates Facebook, and the last photo I posted on Live Journal was evidently unflattering. She seems to be doing well, though she's predictably stricken with preemptive home-sickness last I spoke with her today. Overall, Korea has been kind, and I say that not completely out of my preference for short hair. We went to Palmer's joined by her friend Marianne, Stevie, Matt Lodge and the Nadeaus. If Palmer's were closer and had convenient parking, I'd probably go there a lot. It was a nice night for a patio, in any case.
I spent today in Champlin celebrating all things Dad. My finances didn't allow for gift-giving, so I just cooked him steak and noodle salad. Happy Fathers Day, dude. Thanks for all the money lately. Sorry I have to live in your house again.
I'd probably cut this for length, but as many have pointed out in recent weeks, your Friends Page can probably use the word count these days.
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05:16 pm
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TB party tonight!
There is no receptionist at my job this week. This, much to the consternation of my immediate supervisor (who calls me D-Money and who, for the sake of this narrative, I will call D-Bag.)
Our receptionist called in to work early Tuesday, after the long weekend, saying that her sister had been visiting from California, and that after arriving back home, was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The receptionist, therefore, would be taking the day off work to go take a Mantoux test.
D-Bag suspected this story to be mere subterfuge covering up a desire for an extra day of celebration/recovery from same, and told her that it was no problem, and that it wouldn't adversely affect her performance review, as long as she provided documentation of having taken the test. So, she went in on her hard-schemed day off, and took the screening.
She returned to work the next day to find the owner in the lobby of the office, who told her that, until she received a negative test result, she would not be welcome back at work. The screening for TB takes 48 to 72 hours.
Seriously, if you're going to fake your way into a day off, who picks a disease that kills hundreds of thousands of people a year? That's what "strep" and "I ate some raw chicken at the company barbecue" are for.
D-Bag cannot be trusted to cook chicken.
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11:28 pm
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Lookin good, Big Haircut.
I went to Savers after work today, mostly because I hadn't noticed that it was on my way home from work before, but also because I feel it's important to familiarize myself with the poor-people stores in the area, and also, I need a butter dish.
It turns out that Saver's had only one butter dish, and it did not meet my needs.
I looked through all the bizarre consumer electronics and spent 15 minutes checking the tags on the suit coats, eventually finding one in my size: an off-white polyester abomination for $8. I, of course took it off the rack and carried it with me while I perused the ties.
I was on my way toward the DVDs when a gentleman roughly my size, but maybe four inches shorter approached me. "Is that suit for you?" he asked.
I told him it was and he replied, "They have suits in your size?" He explained that he had a wedding to attend this weekend, and I told him that I had checked all the suits and this was the only one larger than a 50 Regular, which a quick glance assured me would be insufficient for the man's frame.
He looked disappointed, so I told him that he could have it, and that I was only going to buy it because it was funny. He grimaced slightly, obviously having only just looked closely at the suit as I handed it to him.
To be fair, I have to assume that the combination of white and polyester would only lead to unsightly sweat stains for the duration of the summer.
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12:40 am
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Popular Demand.
A number of people, lately, have been mourning what appears to be the slow death of Live Journal. I feel that it behooves me, as one of the earliest entrants into the blagosphere, to do my part to perform what live-saving measures are within my modest power to revive the art form. Let me try to sum up the past few weeks of What's Up.
- My new job, such as it is, is beyond retarded. My co-workers are retarded in a way that lacks any precedent in my years of experience. My immediate supervisor calls me "D-Money" and told me a couple of weeks ago that Phil Collins is the greatest drummer of our generation.
- I should know, within the next week or so, whether I have a new and better job. It pays well, offers full benefits, and the possibility of telecommuting after six months. I'd be working 9:30 to 6pm, until I start working from home, at which point, I'd work 10:30 to 7pm. Sweet.
- I just cashed my last check from Book Boss for my editing of Transplant. If you'd like a copy at any point, feel free to e-mail me. Or buy it when it hits the shelves! The money should keep coming in, because she has another book to write. About a doctor, who's a skeleton. I am not shitting you.
- My parents came to see my house for the first time ever today. I mean for the first time at any of my houses. It went remarkably well, owing largely to the fact that Stevie has ferociously cleaned my house a couple of times in the past few days. I gave my dad back the toolbox from my truck, so that he could put it back in his truck, where it came from. He mentioned, as we were loading it into the bed, that it smelled like beer. Stroh's, I would imagine. Nostalgia for last summer abounds.
- My dad gave me some money to subsidize my shitty job. A gentleman and a scholar that guy. It's really reached the point at which I have no reasonable expectation of being able to thank the guy adequately, so I'm just trying to get my shit in one sock in the hopes that he'll think that's good enough.
- I met Stevie's mom today. It was pretty much the inverse experience to seeing Phantom Menace ten years ago. Nothing could have been as bad/good as I was anticipating. The fact that I wasn't dragged to the bottom of the lake of monsters was really more than I could have hoped for. I helped her set up her new grill. Stevie tells me she'll be leaving town next month, and that we should hang out at her house to grill steaks and watch "Tron" on their new TV.
I say it a lot, but I'm going to make a push to keep you better informed, Internet.
You know it's not like that, baby.
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09:17 pm
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It's like Scooby Doo, but with more Gatorade and partial nudity.
The Tax Return Barbecue has ushered in the Summer yet another year. I still have a crippling amount of meat in my refrigerator, and a daunting pile of dirty dishes in my sink. Few if any pictures this year, unfortunately, but no one ate a ham steak, but these are the sacrifices we make for a barbecue in a recession. Potluck highlights deserving recognition include Ms. Nadeau's Minnesota cookies, Jim's potato salad, and Noah's Swine Flu Burgers.
The social event of the season narrowly avoided a tragically premature death this year, and had to be abruptly moved to Noah and Monique's quaint villa in the wilds of South Minneapolis. Apparently my inscrutable landlady got a phone call from one of my neighbors complaining about the noise. At 5pm on a Saturday. She told me, in response to this, that I am evidently not allowed to "have people in the back yard." Kristina astutely pointed out that we should probably have just celebrated the start of meat season at the erstwhile Boy House. Surveillance of our former home indicates that the people squatting there are an expanded clan of the much maligned tweakers from downstairs, which means they'd be severely unlikely to involve law enforcement, which apparently Mrs. Kafka threatened to do if my crew was not disbanded promptly by 7pm.
I apologize to Noah for whatever mess we left behind, but I have to assume the blow was somewhat softened by the usually sizable amount of food and liquor left behind among that mess. Enjoy, sir.
Incidentally, I'm pretty psyched for Kristina's hot dog birthday party. Stevie is considering dressing for the occasion.
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09:14 pm
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BYOBTRBBQMMIX
Tax Return Barbecue 2009 will be a modest affair. Since my tax return this year was around negative $70, and since I'm only nominally employed for the time being, we're going potluck this year. Those of you who can make things that are delicious, make them. Those of you who can't cook can feel free to give me some cash and tell me what they want me to make.
Use the comments section to tell me and the other guests what you'll be bringing so we don't have 100 bacon-wrapped corn dogs.
I'll be bringing $50 worth of meat (probably mostly sausage) from the Osseo Meat Market. Stevie has volunteered to bring coleslaw, cheese, and I think meatballs.
What are you bringing? (I sort of need a barbecue, too.)
When: Saturday, May 9th at 2pm
Where: My back yard.
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08:31 pm
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If I had a sandwich, I'd sandwich in the morning.
As of 9 this morning, I am re-employed at a modest establishment on the cusp of Anoka County call FirstShred. It's a telemarketing position, basically. I'd like to all to take a moment to say "FirstShred" out loud a dozen times or so, and then ask yourself whether I'm still looking for a job.
My co-workers seem dumber than normal, even by call center standards. It's possible that I've just lost my ability to interact with regular folks since Durkin's closed down.
The upside is that I won't be evicted.
Also, I called a scrap salvage company today called "Metal as Faulk."
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09:13 pm
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An open letter to anyone who has money for people who put words on paper:
I wrote the letter below and sent it to every single publication I could think of. Bold moves. If anyone has any ideas on who else I could send this to, let me know.
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A week ago, if someone asked me what I do for a living, I’d take a breath, roll my eyes, and say, “I’m an associate data export analyst for a mid-sized third party benefits administration and human resources management company.” It’s a terrible thing to have to say out loud, but late last week, I was relieved of that periodic weight on my psyche.
I got fired. The alleged specifics of how and why aren’t really important, and would involve a lengthy explanation of the day-to-day of my previous employment, and the best reaction I’ve ever gotten to such a description has been a glazed look punctuated by a series of glazed, half-hearted nods and grunted phonemes like, “uh huh” and “hmm.” The briefest and most attractive story I can tell you is that the firing had a lot more to do with the economic climate than it did with my performance, and that the distinction between those two motivations is destined to be meticulously documented by the good people at the Minnesota Unemployment Insurance Office.
By no means do I mean to say that I was a model employee. I was, in my most recent position, as with nearly every job I’ve held since I was 16, slightly more than adequate, and acutely aware of the standards of behavior necessary to continue to be viewed as slightly more than adequate. In that series of unremarkable office jobs, I’ve reliably been considered noteworthy only by employees who talked to me on my breaks, not by those who reviewed my performance. I’ve reliably been some variation of “office smart guy,” “office weird guy,” or “office cool guy” for the better part of a decade, but I’ve never been promoted to management or awarded more than a median cost of living raise.
And, not coincidentally, I’ve never really cared. It’s only within the past five or six days, as I’ve been furiously sending résumés and writing cover letters enumerating my many desirable professional traits and hard-won skills invaluable to corporate life, that I realized the root of the problem. I am not in the least bit proud of any of these things.
Yeah, I type about 60 words a minute, I know Excel, and I’ve got experience with enough different proprietary database systems that I can learn yours in a third the time as any of the other candidates. All of that’s awesome, but I’d never mention any of those things to anyone if I wasn’t asking them for a job.
On the other hand, I also have a lot of really compelling things to say about just about anything you could think to bring up. I can write a successful Craigslist ad seeking or offering anything from a midcentury nightstand to a date for the weekend. I can list the locations for karaoke on any given night of the week, and I can cross-reference the list by the availability of a given classic rock artist in the song book and the pitcher specials available. I can mix an Old Fashioned that will change your mind about old-man drinks. More importantly, I can tell you what bowling alleys can mix one that won’t change your mind back. I know the top five ways a restaurant can screw up a Reuben sandwich, and I can tell you which restaurants in town are guilty of each of those transgressions.
And to my credit, I had the foresight to plan things around these skills, at least to the extent that I went to school for journalism before settling into a life of data management and customer service jobs. There’ve been at least a couple of BA’s in journalism at my last three jobs. That seems like a more damning anecdote than it probably is in reality, in terms of my employment prospects, since as far as I could tell from e-mail and break room chit-chat, not one of them could actually write. The issue apparently doesn’t come up as part of most journalism curricula.
I’ve crunched the numbers as accurately as my liberal arts education can manage to crunch them, and I’ve got a few weeks. Between my last paycheck, the cash-out of my accrued vacation, a few odd jobs and the small magnanimities of friends and family, I’ve got a little time to look for a job I really want before I’ll have to crawl back through a series of temp agencies looking for a paycheck. In the meantime, I’ll take anything I can find to earn me a few dollars to delay that day. I’d like a job writing, but I’ll take whatever freelance editing gig or similar drudgery anyone offers me to push back my return to the indignities of the cube farm.
Thanks for reading, and feel free to forward this message to anyone you think might be interested.
Résumé available upon request.
-- Dan Johnson
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11:20 pm
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If I had it to do over, I'd steal more popcorn.
I got fired last Friday.
The actual story of "what I got fired for" is both too vague to be accurately related and not really all that true. I'm pretty sure they were looking to reduce their workforce in my specific position.
I've applied for unemployment, I've still got two full paychecks, including the cash-out of my PTO, plus money coming in from the freelance gig, and I haven't sold the truck yet, so I'm in no immediate danger of being evicted, but I'm letting the landlady know about the situation just to keep things on the level. Believe me, the last thing I want is another retreat to the 'burbs, but the job market's not conducive to blind optimism.
I've gotten a lot of work done on the cookbook in the past few days, so there's a slim possibility that this is just the cleansing fire that precedes fame and fortune.
In the meantime, I'm earning a few bucks interning at my mom's watching-my-niece-for-several-hours-a-day job. The hours are long and the commute's inconvenient, but the work is easy and it drops my grocery bill to approximately $0/week, so it's a bold hash-mark in the upside column.
And, since I don't work there and can't get fired for my interblog anymore, that guy I worked with who's in Tapes 'n Tapes was a total baby about me posting that he was never at work. Your job is in a lot more danger from the stuff people say on the loading dock than from anything I write on Live Journal. And you sweat a lot for a guy who sits down at work.
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01:07 am
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Dymaxion Nap
I've developed the unfortunate habit of falling asleep on the couch for three or four hours after dinner. Again, I guess. I seem to remember doing that for some period of time at the old house as well. Since owning my own couches, I've developed a real appreciation for the importance of padded arms in making a couch both comfortable for sleeping and stupid-looking.
It might seem contrary to my basic way of life to abandon comfort for appearance, but ultimately, anything that discourages me from regaining consciousness to late evening reruns of Two and a Half Men is probably a good thing.
Since completing the primary editing on the book, I've managed to get back to work on my cookbook. I might start posting chapters to a new journal I started two or three book ideas ago. I know three journals should be enough, but I like to keep this one clean and public, and if I'm going to try to publish the book, it seems unwise to post it free on the internet first. I don't actually know much about the publishing industry, but I passed high school economics and it seems like a bad idea.
Has anyone noticed the ugly turn the weather has taken since the first day of spring? It's supposed to snow tomorrow. I'm boycotting nature until it stops this nonsense. I'm going to the suburbs tomorrow to do laundry, and if any trees get in my way, they're in for trouble.
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05:32 pm
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Why don't YOU invent something great, like hammock-pool?
Okay, so get this. It's a kiddie pool, for one person (maybe two, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it), and it's suspended like a hammock so it swings and rocks. Maximum summertime comfort, my friends. I'm going to need investors. The whole rig is going to need to support 1,000 pounds give or take, and kevlar mesh isn't cheap.
I'm going to make a million dollars.
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10:27 pm
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There's a box elder bug drowned in my ice-melt with lemon peel.
We did it again, kids. Winter dies the slowest, most stubborn death of all seasons, but I've heard its death rattle in the gleeful screams of neighborhood children and the quick, crisp hiss of High Life bottle caps in the alley behind Noah's garage. We've choked the fight out of one more winter and our resilience is going to be rewarded handsomely, or so the weekend's fortune cookies and auspicious portents have assured me.
I took Thursday off of work to finish the first draft of editing on the Worst Novel Ever. Around 3pm, when I actually got up the nerve to face down the last couple dozen pages, I was interrupted almost immediately by three clear beeps and the rattling of heavy chains. I clamored downstairs to find that the snowbanks had thawed, widening the streets and leaving my hobbled pickup more than the legal 12 inches from the curb. Apparently the four hours behind ticket and tow had been scheduled to fall while I was at work, but happenstance fell on my side, and a quick sprint to the Handy Stop to withdraw the tow-man's ransom saved me another $150. With the possible exception of bail bondsmen, there are really no karmically dirtier hands working ostensibly for the powers of law and order than those of the lowlife behind the wheel of a tow truck.
A small victory with small losses for the good guys. Twenty bucks plus the parking ticket. I've posted a Craigslist ad and have three responses already at an asking price of $500 for the truck. My workplace's only car guy tells me that a Chevy 4.3L V6 is a sought-after engine and I shouldn't have any trouble finding someone willing to deal with the white elephant shell that the engine currently calls home just to get that motor on the cheap.
I accomplished almost none of the things I intended to do this weekend, but Stevie was here to help me not accomplish them, so I enjoyed the process a great deal. In spite of the predicted rain, I imagine tomorrow night is as good a time as any to move my personal effects from the truck to the trunk of the new car. I haven't measured, but I'm optimistic that I'll be able to fit the tool box from the bed in the back seat for transport to Champlin where I'm sure my dad would like to have the box back. It's currently filled with cast iron cookware that I've offered Noah a handsome sum of lager to sandblast clean of rust, though I'm not completely sure what I'm going to to with it after that, since my new kitchen is roughly at capacity already.
How do you feel about May 9th for the Barbecue? Too late? I thought it was nice last year. Any earlier seems like a crapshoot in terms of temperature, and while I know that was sort of the point of the tradition at its inception, since this year is going to be potluck, I thought it best to err on the side of "accommodating."
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10:11 pm
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Ruthless officiancy
Some time last week, in a moment of rare downtime at work, I decided to check the Barter section of Craigslist. I've always found it fascinating, but I don't own anything of value that I don't want, and I don't know how to refinish hardwood floors or perform deep tissue massage, so there's pretty much never a single ad to which I can profitably respond.
On this occasion, literally the first listing said "Marry us for ?"
That, I can do. Hennepin County, to say nothing of Stu and Jill will back me up on this point. I responded immediately, telling the poster that I would happily officiate the proceedings for free, but that if they felt like buying me a bottle of Bourbon for my troubles, they were certainly more than welcome to do so.
I told them I could provide both witnesses and amateur photography if requested, and we arranged Monday at Jimmy's. Jimmy's might seem an odd choice, but as it turned out, I could not have randomly chosen a better dive bar. When I arrived, the happy couple, the Nadeaus, tapped as witnesses for hire, and Harris, camera in hand, were already at the bar. Harris slid me a note from the bartender saying that one of the CDs in the jukebox included wedding music. I excused myself to the restroom, straightened my tie and cued up a couple of lead songs before selecting the bridal chorus from Lohengrin.
This is what it looks like when people get married at Jimmy's.
Not expressly pictured is a lot of nervous laughter from both bride and groom, presumably some combination of the apparent seriousness of the event and the vague absurdity of the specific circumstances.
A nice older gentleman at the other end of the bar sent over a couple single-serve bottles of champagne, served unexpectedly in correct stemware. Well done, Jimmy's; I didn't think you had it in you.
The champagne did its job in quelling the nervous laughter considerably and the newly enjoined and my ad hoc wedding party enjoyed a lengthy evening of drinks and lively banter. I'll be honest: I've been to better wedding receptions than that one, but I've also definitely been to worse. Noah, while invited, mostly for his reliable tendency to wear a tie to such events, begged off on the grounds that his job requires him to go to bed at 6:30pm and that there was no cake. Both valid concerns, I suppose.
Swell kids, the new Mr. and Mrs., incidentally. New Facebook and Live Journal friends at minimum. I'll be seeing them relatively soon, at least, since I evidently left my hat at their apartment after the bride invited us to the after-reception. I probably should have gotten more sleep on a work night, but what kind of heel refuses a bride's invitation on her wedding day?
Seriously, though. Persons of quality; you should meet them. I'll invite them to The Barbecue (more on that soon, incidentally.)
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11:40 pm
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New Shoes
A lot has changed since my last update. I bought new shoes. They're the first pair of shoes I've owned since 6th grade that are neither work boots nor Chucks. Stevie asked me "what kind of shoes" they are, and I can only describe them as "regular shoes."
A week ago, I was driving home from work, when I noticed that, while the tachometer in my truck was reading five to six thousand RPMs, I seemed to be coasting to a stop on southbound 169. I pulled off and diagnosed the problem as the complete absence of 3rd gear in my truck. It would seem that Detroit can not manage to build a transmission that will last a full 300,000 miles. My expectations might have been too high. I managed to limp the truck home, and then to work the following day, after consulting with my dad about the viability of doing so. On my drive home Wednesday, however, a red light and a five degree incline at the intersection of Plymouth Avenue and West River Road North did away with the remaining working components of the noble vehicle. I was waiting for a tow, waving cars past the crippled machine when one of the cars approaching from the west stopped. It was my co-worker Tanya, who offered me a ride to work the following day and a Kool filter king for the long wait until the tow truck arrived. While my plan to quit smoking is going quite well, in general, I have to confess that I accepted both offers.
A park police officer stopped some time between Tanya and the pleasant young man from Bryn Mawr Towing, and checked my license, reminding me that my license still shows the incorrect address. I lied when he asked me if my address was correct (lesson learned from a long-ago documented ordeal), so it turned out to be nothing more than a noteworthy aside to the story.
I won't delve too deeply into the specifics of my current financial state, but I will say that my dad might be the greatest human being that has ever walked the earth, and by Saturday morning (after a wisely chosen chunk of paid time off on Friday), I had the title for a formidable new set of wheels.
I didn't know GM even made a car with a split bench in 1995. The car has just 54k on it. It will be nice to not be in a constant state of suppressed panic every time I get behind the wheel. I brought the car to Champlin to let my dad give it an erstwhile car-guy's once-over. Aside from the dubious after-market sunroof, he seemed to find nothing wrong with the machine, so overall, I'm pretty pumped to have a genuine passenger car, to say nothing of a V8, at my disposal again. There was a St. Christopher medallion in the ashtray when I bought it, so I have to assume that, like the dear departed Our Lady of Blessed Acceleration (requiescat in pacem), the new car is Catholic. You can call her Ginger.
It's not too terribly important that you understand why, but the recently passed economic stimulus bill has meant a great deal more work for my company. Changes to the regulations regarding the consolidated omnibus budget reallocation act, and all that. Point is, they're finally making their money on promoting me to a salaried position. It's a rough time at the data mines lately, but it feels like job security.
I had kind of a rough day at work today, so I stopped at So-Low Foods on the way home from work and bought a pair of 18 oz. ribeye steaks for a grand total of $5.50. Stevie and I ate them while watching shows about fat people.
Times are tough, but I'm living for the little things.
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03:16 pm
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Maybe they'll name it after me.
The Johnson Street Fairview Express Clinic is really convenient. It's also a nice reminder that the worst student in every graduating class at medical school still becomes a doctor. I think she's only a physician's assistant, but the paperwork on my prescription still says Dr.
For those of you keeping track, this is my third bout of strep since Thanksgiving, after not having had it in about 15 years. Her response was to switch my prescription from penicillin to azithromycin. It seems like a good idea unless you do three minutes of research and find out that there are no penicillin resistant strains of strep, but there are strains resistant to azithromycin. She also carries a Palm PDA and sent the pharmacy a prescription for five pills when a full course is six. None of this inspires trust.
I guess I'll buy a new toothbrush and quit licking bus benches. We'll see how that works.
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07:33 pm
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More iron means more romance.
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08:50 am
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I don't feel the need to explain my art to you, Warren.
Well, I officially need more hobbies. As of Wednesday's trip to The Schooner, I have been recognized from karaoke at 4-Square and recognized from 4-Square at karaoke. I'll be honest, hearing a man yell "4-Square" at you and then stumble across the bar at you is sort of a disconcerting experience.
Warren, who I'm sure a couple of you remember as the gentleman who severely overstayed his welcome one day last summer after we offered him a gin and lemonade as an alternative to biking to Rainbow for 3.2, seems to have changed very little since that day. He spent a lot of the evening standing by the side of our table saying things like, "Do you have any marajuana? I was going to go home and get high and listen to Bow Wow Wow."
Periodically, the humorless lesbian who was apparently his babysitter for the evening would shepherd him back to his own table. She introduced herself, and I pointed out that we've met a number of times. Conversely, the bouncer, who I didn't recognize at all, waved off my license saying he knew me.
I'm told that if I want Stevie to start singing karaoke, I'm going to have to learn some Cash/Carter duets. I guess I didn't really have anything else to do.
I slept about 3 hours on Wednesday night and about 10 hours last night. Overall, I think I'm more tired now than I was 24 hours ago. On the other hand, by afternoon, I was falling asleep in my cube, so I'm sure today will go much better in the long haul.
Remember, only two days till you can buy fancy chocolates on the cheap.
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