OK, new rule: you must be at least 25 years old in order to publish your biography/autobiography. Make it 30 years old. I mean, really. It was bad enough when what's-his-name, the football player, published "Give Me the Damn Ball" at the tender age of 22. But now, what do I see on the bookstore shelves? A biography of Bristol Palin. Who's only claim to fame is being the pregnant teen daughter of the governor of Alaska, and former Vice-Presidential candidate, Sarah Palin. She's 20. I mean, other than listening to her justify having sex with her boyfriend at the age of 17, without using protection, mind you, what else do we really need to read about her?
Then, there is Justin Bieber who, despite the fact that he looks 12 (my darling wife assures me he's 18), has his own biography on the shelves, "My Story So Far." His story so far? Couldn't that fit into a pamphlet? Granted, he's a big celebrity, but could you really stretch the first 18 years of someone's life into several hundred pages?
And here's the other thing, you know that this won't be the last time these two, and others like them, grace the book shelves. I guarantee Bieber's not done writing his memoirs. And Palin assuredly isn't either. So why should I waste perfectly good money on the first few chapters of a serial? Wouldn't I be better off waiting for the whole story in the second, third or fourth publication of "their story so far?" I think so.
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Just because you don't care what others think about you, that does not make it acceptable to be an asshole.
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Homosexual marriage should be banned. Heterosexual marriage should be banned. Let's just ban all forms of marriage, shall we? That way, we could all live with and love whomever we please without the church, the government, and the "moral majority" sticking their noses in it. For those who wish to hate, don't worry. You will still have that privilege. You just won't have any political leverage to force your opinions on the rest of us.
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Notepad ++ is like Notepad on steroids. Outstanding!
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And then there was the Aggie who thought a football coach had 4 wheels. (I wonder how many wheels it does have)
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
In the Name of Jesus, Where the Fuck are They?
Last night there was a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs outside my apartment. The blood belonged to a young man, no more than half my age, who, due either to a fatal misstep or a glass too much, plunged from the third floor landing to the concrete below.
He was attending a birthday party at the apartment of a young couple that live directly above me. The party was loud and boisterous. And, of course, the drink flowed freely, or so the smell of alcohol on some of the other party-goers would indicate. When he fell and hit the ground it seemed to shake the entire apartment building. There were screams and the sound of hurried footsteps on the staircase.
I was not home at the time. Mrs. B related the story to me later. She went out to see what the commotion was and was staggered by the scene. My glorious wife is made of pretty stern stuff. It takes a lot to rattle her. Believe me, I know. I've tried. But the sight of copious amounts of blood gushing from a young man's skull will shock anyone. As the man's friends ran to his aid, bringing towels and rags to help stop the bleeding, Mrs. B called 911. The operator said they had already received several calls for the incident.
My wife went back out to see if she could help. Of course, there's not much one can do in a situation like that, except pray. And pray she did. She raised her hands to God and asked for help for that poor young man in Jesus' name. Many of the man's friends did the same. Our downstairs neighbor came out and laid hands on the victim, praying to Jesus.
It seemed to take forever for the paramedics to arrive. At one point, one of the young man's friends cried out, "In the name of Jesus, where the fuck are they?" Many people would be shocked and disgusted to here the Lord's name used in such a way. But to me, somehow, considering the dire nature of the situation, it seems appropriate.
I'm not really sure why I felt the need to write about this. Perhaps to show how fine the thread is that holds us in this life. And how, especially at a young age, we tend to take immortality for granted. Let's face it, no one goes to a party thinking, hey, I may not get through this night alive. He was probably just thinking about getting drunk and having a good time. Maybe about the possibility of getting laid later. Or maybe, if he was married or had a girlfriend, ruing the fact that he had to go home with, or to, her later.
Neither my wife nor I know whether this young man lived through the night or went to meet his Creator. He regained conciousness at some point before being taken away in the ambulance but with a traumatic head injury one can never predict the outcome. He left behind nothing to show he was ever there, except for a thick, dark, red pool of blood congealing on the concrete breezeway and a few bloody hand prints made by his friends as they ran up and down the staircase retrieving items to help save him. Mrs. B cleaned the hand prints from the railing after I got home from work that night. Today, when I went to work, the concrete had been washed clean of any indication of how precariously a young life had hung in the balance just a few hours before.
I remember when my wife told me that the gathering upstairs was a birthday party, I thought, I hope it wasn't his birthday. Then I realized that it didn't really matter. Now I keep thinking, I sure hope it wasn't his last.
He was attending a birthday party at the apartment of a young couple that live directly above me. The party was loud and boisterous. And, of course, the drink flowed freely, or so the smell of alcohol on some of the other party-goers would indicate. When he fell and hit the ground it seemed to shake the entire apartment building. There were screams and the sound of hurried footsteps on the staircase.
I was not home at the time. Mrs. B related the story to me later. She went out to see what the commotion was and was staggered by the scene. My glorious wife is made of pretty stern stuff. It takes a lot to rattle her. Believe me, I know. I've tried. But the sight of copious amounts of blood gushing from a young man's skull will shock anyone. As the man's friends ran to his aid, bringing towels and rags to help stop the bleeding, Mrs. B called 911. The operator said they had already received several calls for the incident.
My wife went back out to see if she could help. Of course, there's not much one can do in a situation like that, except pray. And pray she did. She raised her hands to God and asked for help for that poor young man in Jesus' name. Many of the man's friends did the same. Our downstairs neighbor came out and laid hands on the victim, praying to Jesus.
It seemed to take forever for the paramedics to arrive. At one point, one of the young man's friends cried out, "In the name of Jesus, where the fuck are they?" Many people would be shocked and disgusted to here the Lord's name used in such a way. But to me, somehow, considering the dire nature of the situation, it seems appropriate.
I'm not really sure why I felt the need to write about this. Perhaps to show how fine the thread is that holds us in this life. And how, especially at a young age, we tend to take immortality for granted. Let's face it, no one goes to a party thinking, hey, I may not get through this night alive. He was probably just thinking about getting drunk and having a good time. Maybe about the possibility of getting laid later. Or maybe, if he was married or had a girlfriend, ruing the fact that he had to go home with, or to, her later.
Neither my wife nor I know whether this young man lived through the night or went to meet his Creator. He regained conciousness at some point before being taken away in the ambulance but with a traumatic head injury one can never predict the outcome. He left behind nothing to show he was ever there, except for a thick, dark, red pool of blood congealing on the concrete breezeway and a few bloody hand prints made by his friends as they ran up and down the staircase retrieving items to help save him. Mrs. B cleaned the hand prints from the railing after I got home from work that night. Today, when I went to work, the concrete had been washed clean of any indication of how precariously a young life had hung in the balance just a few hours before.
I remember when my wife told me that the gathering upstairs was a birthday party, I thought, I hope it wasn't his birthday. Then I realized that it didn't really matter. Now I keep thinking, I sure hope it wasn't his last.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Where Are All The Robots?
The purpose of this post is two-pronged. First, here I am with a blog titled, "Robot Rhetoric" and yet, outside of my profile mentioning that I am a wannabe roboticist, you won't find one mention of robots or robotics anywhere in the entire blog. I plan to remedy that (I can hear the yawns already).
But really, robotics is one of my life long passions. Which is why I chose the name for this blog. However, I have not been very passionate about this particular interest lately. Like a lot of things it had been pushed to the back of a cluttered drawer and gathered dust. After starting this blog, I found that I had nothing to write about robots. I had not been keeping up with any of the innovations or advances in probably the last 15 years. The dust had grown thick. That has begun to change. I have now scoured the internet and found sites that have articles, videos, news and all the fun stuff I had been missing. I have a lot of catching up to do and I plan to share it here with all the fans of this blog (both of you -- thanks Mom and Dad).
The second prong has to do with the lack of robots in general society. I mean, by now, at least according to those "The Future is Bright"-type films and TV shows (in glorious black-and-white) that I saw as a kid, we should have robots to do everything for us -- cook, clean, do the shopping, make repairs, babysit the kids. But, like the flying cars and interplanetary travel, it just never materialized. Sure, you can get a small robot to vacuum your floors (iRobot Roomba) or a larger one to mow the lawn (Lawnbotts, or Robomow). You can buy your kid a RoboRaptor from Lego or a robot puppy dog (Aibo) from Sony (oops, if you want an Aibo, you'll have to buy it used. Sony pulled the plug on it. See what I mean? Out of touch). But that's about it as far as consumer robots go. What about the robot chauffeur? Or Rosie, the robot maid from the Jetson's? Where are all the robots? What happened to the robot revolution?
Well, it's happening. Slowly. Very slowly here in The States. Japan, Korea, and Germany all have a national robotics agenda. America does not. This could put us way behind in the field of technology, a category in which we have always been a leader. What does not having a national agenda really mean? It means a lack of capital investment in robotics research and development, at the government, academic, and industrial level. There are a few signs that this will change. Let's hope it does.
Why hasn't the robot revolution happened already, as all the sci-fi (and SyFy) prophets predicted? Well, people always tend to think that things will happen faster than they do; that technology will jump ahead like a lightning bolt. And that does tend to happen, but, like lightning, it's only in short bursts followed by longer periods of apparent inactivity. Think of it as the occasional lightning bolt without the rolling thunder. Instead of repeatedly asking "Are we there yet?" like a child on a long road trip, we should try considering how far we've already come from where we began. The robots will come. Eventually.
Meanwhile, there are tons of resources for the hobbyist interested in building and experimenting with robots. I will be entering this realm in depth as soon as I can scrape together the time to research and figure out what I want to buy first and the money to be able to buy it.
So, where are all the robots? Well, they are around. Mostly in other countries. But soon they will be coming to my house. And possibly yours. In the meantime, I will continue to explore, and hopefully post about, the underground robot revolution.
Power to the Promethians!
But really, robotics is one of my life long passions. Which is why I chose the name for this blog. However, I have not been very passionate about this particular interest lately. Like a lot of things it had been pushed to the back of a cluttered drawer and gathered dust. After starting this blog, I found that I had nothing to write about robots. I had not been keeping up with any of the innovations or advances in probably the last 15 years. The dust had grown thick. That has begun to change. I have now scoured the internet and found sites that have articles, videos, news and all the fun stuff I had been missing. I have a lot of catching up to do and I plan to share it here with all the fans of this blog (both of you -- thanks Mom and Dad).
The second prong has to do with the lack of robots in general society. I mean, by now, at least according to those "The Future is Bright"-type films and TV shows (in glorious black-and-white) that I saw as a kid, we should have robots to do everything for us -- cook, clean, do the shopping, make repairs, babysit the kids. But, like the flying cars and interplanetary travel, it just never materialized. Sure, you can get a small robot to vacuum your floors (iRobot Roomba) or a larger one to mow the lawn (Lawnbotts, or Robomow). You can buy your kid a RoboRaptor from Lego or a robot puppy dog (Aibo) from Sony (oops, if you want an Aibo, you'll have to buy it used. Sony pulled the plug on it. See what I mean? Out of touch). But that's about it as far as consumer robots go. What about the robot chauffeur? Or Rosie, the robot maid from the Jetson's? Where are all the robots? What happened to the robot revolution?
Well, it's happening. Slowly. Very slowly here in The States. Japan, Korea, and Germany all have a national robotics agenda. America does not. This could put us way behind in the field of technology, a category in which we have always been a leader. What does not having a national agenda really mean? It means a lack of capital investment in robotics research and development, at the government, academic, and industrial level. There are a few signs that this will change. Let's hope it does.
Why hasn't the robot revolution happened already, as all the sci-fi (and SyFy) prophets predicted? Well, people always tend to think that things will happen faster than they do; that technology will jump ahead like a lightning bolt. And that does tend to happen, but, like lightning, it's only in short bursts followed by longer periods of apparent inactivity. Think of it as the occasional lightning bolt without the rolling thunder. Instead of repeatedly asking "Are we there yet?" like a child on a long road trip, we should try considering how far we've already come from where we began. The robots will come. Eventually.
Meanwhile, there are tons of resources for the hobbyist interested in building and experimenting with robots. I will be entering this realm in depth as soon as I can scrape together the time to research and figure out what I want to buy first and the money to be able to buy it.
So, where are all the robots? Well, they are around. Mostly in other countries. But soon they will be coming to my house. And possibly yours. In the meantime, I will continue to explore, and hopefully post about, the underground robot revolution.
Power to the Promethians!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Movin' on Up (To the Least Side)
I am moving at the end of November back to the place I once was. I am moving to an apartment with an identical floor-plan to the one that I had previous the place I live now. Same floor-plan but in a different apartment complex.
I absolutely love this floor-plan. The only thing I have against it is that the washer/dryer connections are outside, in the storage room on the patio. But all the other great things about this apartment (I'll try not to bore you with them) easily make up for this minor inconvenience.
So, why did I move out of this best of all possible apartment worlds? Well, let me tell you. The complex that housed the floor-plan I loved, was practically a drug and crime den. There were several clues that should have alerted me to this.
First, when we moved in, the rest of the building was empty. And there were many empty units around the proximity of it.
Second, our apartment backed up to a creek, which was, we thought, a rather nice feature. Unfortunately, on the other side of the creek was another apartment complex. This complex had a mobile police station, a "cop Winnebago" if you will, that would be parked on the property overnight. Why? Because this complex had one of the highest crime and murder rates of all the apartment complexes in Dallas.
And last, but not least, not long after we moved in, we obtained a washer and dryer. While hooking up the vent tubing, we found a used crack pipe in the outlet. Remember, the utility connections were located outside the apartment in the storage facility on the patio.
Now, this may sound funny after reading all this but, this was not really considered a bad neighborhood. For some reason, though, this tiny section of the neighborhood, encompassing these two apartment complexes, acted as some sort of haven for drug addicts and dealers. A sort of town guild for the illicit drug profession.
So, as soon as our 12 month lease was up, we high-tailed it out of there to the peaceful confines of Mckinney, a quiet, but fast growing community just north of Dallas. And we have loved it here for most of the 4 years we've been here. Only recently, about a year or so, have things begun to spiral downward from happiness towards despair.
Most of the reason has to do with a major turnover of residents in and around our building. While some of the new neighbors, like the ones right next door to us are very friendly and considerate, a good portion of them are loud, rude, and trashy. While one or two bad apples don't spoil the whole bunch, they can sure make the apple cart smell rancid.
So the great move adventure begins, as they all do, with the worst part of it all -- packing. Man, I really hate packing. Generally, because there is so much of it to do. You see, the glorious Mrs. B is a bit of a hoarder. Everybody has their vice. This is hers. She keeps everything she ever gets under the premise that "she's going to use it someday." Well, as we all know, "someday" rarely ever comes and if it does, the thing we kept is so old and out of style that we don't want to use it anyway.
In her defense though, she has done a valiant job of trying to downsize. It's just that it is not quite enough. It is like the old adage of pissing on a forest fire. But at least she's trying.
Why am I telling you all this, you ask? No reason really. Just my way of procrastinating. Which is my best vice.
Monday, October 18, 2010
They Should at Least Find You Handy
Mark Twain once said, "Do something every day that you don't want to do; this is the golden rule for acquiring the habit of doing your duty without pain." As much as I admire the wit and wisdom of Mr. Twain, I have failed to follow this sage advice for the greater span of my years on this earth. Instead, I follow the tenet of "Life is too short to do anything you can pay someone else to do." When I cannot afford to pay someone to do the painful act, I procrastinate expertly until a date arrives in which I can pay for it.
Today, however, I actually broke this rule by performing a very unpleasurable action. I worked on my car. I didn't overhaul the engine or replace the transmission or anything like that. What I did was really rather simple, but it was still something that I would normally put off until tomorrow.
Ah, tomorrow, the perfect time to start any project. That's the procrastinator's creed. But I digress.
The problem on my car had to do with a protective covering that is on the underside of the front of the car. I am not really sure what it protects. Perhaps it keeps rocks and other debris from flying up into the radiator or some other engine parts. It also keeps you from scraping up the cross member on the car when you pull up too far when parking and scrape the underside of the car on the curb. Which is how my problem came to be. The pins or screws (whatever they are) that hold on the cover can get sheared off by the curb scraping, causing the covering to hang down and possibly drag on the road. This is what happened to me.
This really bugged me, so I decided to do something about it. I had no idea what kind of pins were needed to reattach the cover or how much they might cost. I decided to find a temporary solution. Of course, being a Red Green fan, my first thought was to use the handyman's secret weapon, duct tape, to tape the cover back up. However, the more I thought about it, the less effective it seemed to be.
Then I had a revelation. Tie wraps! I could tie wrap it back into place. This would be simple, cheap, more aesthetic than the duct tape, and the tie wraps would be strong enough to hold it; probably, dare I say it, stronger that the duct tape.
So today, I grabbed my tie wraps and went out to examine the situation. It turned out that I had to link together 3 tie wraps to get it to reach around the cross member that the cover attached to. But I did it. And it worked like a charm. Funny how a little thing like this can really fill one with a sense of accomplishment. I guess it is just one of the many blessings that God gives us in life.
Speaking of Red Green, if you don't know this legendary Canadian comedian, Google him. What? Do I have to do everything for you? Anyway, the title of this post comes from one of his sayings. He says, "If the women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy."
After today, I'd like to think that they would find me both.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Off the Air: Part III: The End is Here
Television. The scourge of modern society. Once having given up this carnival of souls it seems odd that one would reenter the realm of what is affectionately referred to as "the idiot box." But that is exactly what I did.
It was about a year ago now that television once again invaded the sanctity of my castle. Like many of my decisions, including the one that caused me to begin the off the air experiment, this one was partly financial. You see, the NFL football season had started and I gots to watch my Cowboys. Well, with no TV reception, this was a major problem. I did manage to stream one game off the internet, but the rest of them had to be watched "off-campus." Meaning I had to either barge-in at a friend's house and risk severing the tenuous bonds of friendship by making a nuisance of myself or go to a sports bar to watch the game.
I chose the latter because I have so few friends as it is and the sports bar scene held the promise of better atmosphere, not to mention cute young waitresses in tight, sexy outfits. This is where the financial part of the decision came in. Because one has to spend money to hang out at a sports bar for 3+ hours and, because the irresistable Mrs. B tagged along, I found I was spending as much as $30 or more per game. Since the NFL plays once a week, that's about $120 a month just to watch football.
I decided, screw this. I mean, I like football, but come on. I can get a really mamma-jamma cable package for $120 a month, and get to watch more than a football game every Sunday (think Skin-emax). So, not wanting to feel like a complete failure after only 3 months of TV-lessness, and to still save some dough, I went for the cheapest basic cable package available. This consisted of all the locally available channels plus WGN and Bravo. Not much to get excited about, but at $20 a month it was a heck of a lot cheaper than any of the sports bars and still made the NFL and other sports available to me. Of course, I had to give up the slatternly dressed waitresses. But, hey, if I want to look at barely-dressed, hot girls, that's what the internet is for. Right?
The basic cable thing lasted until June of this year when, due to the World Cup (soccer) starting in South Africa, I had to get digital cable with DVR to be able to watch all the games. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And so do I.
Anyway, that's where we stand today. I have become a television junkie again. It is so easy to become spoiled by things like pausing and rewinding live television. I mean, isn't that just the coolest?
I know what you are thinking. The experiment was a collossal failure. No, I don't agree. Back in the 80's, there used to be this college professor who hosted a 30-minute show about physics on the local PBS station here in Dallas. His name was Julius-something I think and he had hair like Einstein and was obviously very passionate about his trade. He would perform little experiments and then talk about the results. Whenever he got an unanticipated result to an experiment, he would always caution the student that the experiment did not fail. It was just that the parameters were not sufficient to acheive the desired result. That is how I feel about this. Well, ok, not really. Actually, I got the results I wanted. I lived without television reception for 3 months and got along just fine. There was very little that I missed at all. So, in that sense the desired result was acheived and the experiment a success all around. The only failure was my inability, or rather my unwillingness, to keep the experiment going.
Well, I think I'm starting to ramble a bit, so I guess I should end this post. Besides, TNT is having a Law & Order marathon that I just can't miss.
It was about a year ago now that television once again invaded the sanctity of my castle. Like many of my decisions, including the one that caused me to begin the off the air experiment, this one was partly financial. You see, the NFL football season had started and I gots to watch my Cowboys. Well, with no TV reception, this was a major problem. I did manage to stream one game off the internet, but the rest of them had to be watched "off-campus." Meaning I had to either barge-in at a friend's house and risk severing the tenuous bonds of friendship by making a nuisance of myself or go to a sports bar to watch the game.
I chose the latter because I have so few friends as it is and the sports bar scene held the promise of better atmosphere, not to mention cute young waitresses in tight, sexy outfits. This is where the financial part of the decision came in. Because one has to spend money to hang out at a sports bar for 3+ hours and, because the irresistable Mrs. B tagged along, I found I was spending as much as $30 or more per game. Since the NFL plays once a week, that's about $120 a month just to watch football.
I decided, screw this. I mean, I like football, but come on. I can get a really mamma-jamma cable package for $120 a month, and get to watch more than a football game every Sunday (think Skin-emax). So, not wanting to feel like a complete failure after only 3 months of TV-lessness, and to still save some dough, I went for the cheapest basic cable package available. This consisted of all the locally available channels plus WGN and Bravo. Not much to get excited about, but at $20 a month it was a heck of a lot cheaper than any of the sports bars and still made the NFL and other sports available to me. Of course, I had to give up the slatternly dressed waitresses. But, hey, if I want to look at barely-dressed, hot girls, that's what the internet is for. Right?
The basic cable thing lasted until June of this year when, due to the World Cup (soccer) starting in South Africa, I had to get digital cable with DVR to be able to watch all the games. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And so do I.
Anyway, that's where we stand today. I have become a television junkie again. It is so easy to become spoiled by things like pausing and rewinding live television. I mean, isn't that just the coolest?
I know what you are thinking. The experiment was a collossal failure. No, I don't agree. Back in the 80's, there used to be this college professor who hosted a 30-minute show about physics on the local PBS station here in Dallas. His name was Julius-something I think and he had hair like Einstein and was obviously very passionate about his trade. He would perform little experiments and then talk about the results. Whenever he got an unanticipated result to an experiment, he would always caution the student that the experiment did not fail. It was just that the parameters were not sufficient to acheive the desired result. That is how I feel about this. Well, ok, not really. Actually, I got the results I wanted. I lived without television reception for 3 months and got along just fine. There was very little that I missed at all. So, in that sense the desired result was acheived and the experiment a success all around. The only failure was my inability, or rather my unwillingness, to keep the experiment going.
Well, I think I'm starting to ramble a bit, so I guess I should end this post. Besides, TNT is having a Law & Order marathon that I just can't miss.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Just Call Me Lazarus
I'm back from the dead to report on what a pathetic attempt at a blog this is. Not one post in over a year now. Well, ok, it really doesn't matter, since no one but myself and God read it anyway. But still, as the old Pink Floyd song says, I thought I'd something more to say.
I just don't seem to find time to write anymore. It cuts into my television schedule. Yes, that's right, television and I have rekindled our devilish romance. But I promise to write more about that later. Or I should probably say sooner. Because doing things "later" is what caused the extended period of inactivity on this microscopic slice of the information superhighway.
So I promise (to whom, I have no idea; maybe just to myself) to write more often and let everyone know what the heck is going on with my now defunct "Off the Air Experiment", as well as other areas of my, oh so mundane, existence.
Until then, keep those cards and letters (not) coming.
I just don't seem to find time to write anymore. It cuts into my television schedule. Yes, that's right, television and I have rekindled our devilish romance. But I promise to write more about that later. Or I should probably say sooner. Because doing things "later" is what caused the extended period of inactivity on this microscopic slice of the information superhighway.
So I promise (to whom, I have no idea; maybe just to myself) to write more often and let everyone know what the heck is going on with my now defunct "Off the Air Experiment", as well as other areas of my, oh so mundane, existence.
Until then, keep those cards and letters (not) coming.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Inside Out
File this one under "Boy, Do I Feel Stupid".
I work a part time job at Target as a stocker. I go to work at 3:00am, three days a week to unload freight from a truck then stock the shelves with merchandise. On Friday, I went to work as normal, by putting on my uniform of tan pants and a red shirt, kissed the wife goodbye, and headed off.
I reached work, clocked in, and unloaded the truck. Then, before starting the stocking part of the job, I went to the restroom to wash my hands (unloading is such a dirty business). After the washing of the hands, I happened to glance in the mirror and noticed that my red shirt was inside out.
Now, this sort of thing has happened to me before. I'm not the most observant person in the world. Especially with the "tagless" shirts they have nowadays. But normally, my wife will point out these little fashion errors to me before I become a public laughingstock. However, this time she did not. Also, the people I work with at Target seemed not to notice. Either that, or they are having a fine laugh at my expense, behind my back. Normally though, these are the type of people who enjoy making fun of you to your face. Often. Constantly, even. So I really think no one noticed that I had my shirt inside out for almost two hours.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself. I'm just glad the store doesn't open until 8:00am. Because, boy, then I would REALLY feel stupid.
I work a part time job at Target as a stocker. I go to work at 3:00am, three days a week to unload freight from a truck then stock the shelves with merchandise. On Friday, I went to work as normal, by putting on my uniform of tan pants and a red shirt, kissed the wife goodbye, and headed off.
I reached work, clocked in, and unloaded the truck. Then, before starting the stocking part of the job, I went to the restroom to wash my hands (unloading is such a dirty business). After the washing of the hands, I happened to glance in the mirror and noticed that my red shirt was inside out.
Now, this sort of thing has happened to me before. I'm not the most observant person in the world. Especially with the "tagless" shirts they have nowadays. But normally, my wife will point out these little fashion errors to me before I become a public laughingstock. However, this time she did not. Also, the people I work with at Target seemed not to notice. Either that, or they are having a fine laugh at my expense, behind my back. Normally though, these are the type of people who enjoy making fun of you to your face. Often. Constantly, even. So I really think no one noticed that I had my shirt inside out for almost two hours.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself. I'm just glad the store doesn't open until 8:00am. Because, boy, then I would REALLY feel stupid.
A Timely Response
Prompt customer service is a sticking point with me. I am a good tipper, but the service has to be good. I do not reward bad service either in restaurants or retail establishments. I bring this up only because of a response I received recently to an inquiry into a possible vehicle purchase at Courtesy Nissan in Richardson.
You see, I had an auto accident that totaled my Mazda Protege, so I was in the market for a new vehicle. We had used the internet primarily for our auto search and had sent requests for information to several dealers in our area; Courtesy Nissan being among them. My wife received an email from Courtesy stating that they were ready to deal with us and we should contact them forthwith.
Now this all sounds like a smooth, efficient transition until you add in the time line. We received the email from Courtesy on September 25, 2009. My auto accident occurred in September 2008!!! Our inquiry (in the form of an email) to Courtesy was sent on October 14, 2008! If you do the math, that's 346 days for a response; a mere 19 days short of 1 year!
That's what I call a timely response.
You see, I had an auto accident that totaled my Mazda Protege, so I was in the market for a new vehicle. We had used the internet primarily for our auto search and had sent requests for information to several dealers in our area; Courtesy Nissan being among them. My wife received an email from Courtesy stating that they were ready to deal with us and we should contact them forthwith.
Now this all sounds like a smooth, efficient transition until you add in the time line. We received the email from Courtesy on September 25, 2009. My auto accident occurred in September 2008!!! Our inquiry (in the form of an email) to Courtesy was sent on October 14, 2008! If you do the math, that's 346 days for a response; a mere 19 days short of 1 year!
That's what I call a timely response.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
An Oscar Nomination
We used to have a miniature Dachshund named Oscar. We didn't choose the name -- I'd like to think I could come up with something more original -- it just came with him. We got him when he was 3 years old , so instead of trying to teach him a new name and since he was already accustomed to Oscar, we decided to keep it.
We received him from a friend of Mrs. B's mother who had to get rid of the dog. It was a bit of a hard sell for me in the beginning. Not that I don't like dogs, I love 'em. It was just that we lived in an apartment and didn't have a lot of room for a dog. Plus, the inevitable house-training and all. I also didn't want to take the dog, fall in love with having him, then have the previous owner turn around and want him back. After assurances from the owner that he would not, as well as could not, change his mind and cajoling from the wife on how small and easy to take care of he was, I relented.
He was a wonderful dog, as sweet as could be, and great fun to have around. Not to mention, a chick magnet. But, me being married, that was more of a curse than a blessing. We had him from 1992 until the day he died which, unfortunately was a few years ago due to liver failure. I still think about him quite a bit. I have never been more upset over the loss of an animal than I was over Oscar. But I thank God for every day that we had him. He gifted us with an enormous amount of love and left us with many wonderful memories.
One of my favorite Oscar stories involves a routine trip to pick up some take out food. We often allowed Oscar to ride with us whenever it was reasonable and the weather wasn't too extreme. He loved riding in the car and being able to "snorfle". For those uninitiated, "snorfling" is when a dog sticks his head out the window of a moving car to allow the wind to blow his floppy ears back and start his nose to running like Niagara Falls (at least, that's how it worked with Oscar). It's a technical term, look it up. I just don't make these things up, you know.
Anyway, in this particular instance, Oscar and I went to Blimpies to pick up a couple of sandwiches. They were nicely wrapped in paper, placed inside a clear plastic sleeve, which was then placed inside another paper bag holding both sandwiches. On the way home, Oscar, as usual, was sitting in the passenger seat while the bag of sandwiches were leaning upright against a corner where the center console met the front of the passenger seat. This was standard operating procedure (SOP). We stopped a small convenience store, known to us simply as "the little store", approximately a mile from home to get a couple of Cokes. This also was SOP. We had done this dozens of times without incident.
So I go into the store while Oscar stands watch over the vehicles and the sandwiches. I can't be in the store for more than 3 minutes, tops. This is not a unfamiliar store. I know exactly where the Cokes are in the cooler and there is never a line at the one register in the place.
As I say, I'm in and out in a matter of 2 or 3 minutes. Oscar, as always, is sitting up watching for me and happy as pie when he sees me (SOP). Anytime we would leave him alone, be it in the car or the apartment, he seemed to think we were never coming back. His previous owner caused him to have great separation anxiety. Anyway, I jump into the car, head home, and Oscar and I grab the food sack, jump out of the car and head inside.
Once inside, I head to the kitchen and start unloading the sack (again, SOP). Now all this time, I never notice anything amiss. The sack shows no sign of being disturbed. Oscar has no remnants of any food on or around him. Nothing on the seats or in the floorboard. And did I mention, Oscar is NOT a tidy eater. In fact, one might call him slovenly. Especially with things that he is not supposed to be eating and have lots of condiments added. Yet, not a shred of lettuce, a crumb of bread, nor a fragment of paper was found in the vicinity of the bag. I, of course, was not suspicious at all because, say it with me, this was all Standard Operating Procedure (SOP, to those in the know).
Then it slowly begins to dawn on me that something is wrong. At first, it just looked like the sandwich maker was a little (not a lot) messy with the sandwich when putting the lettuce on or when wrapping the sandwich up. But as I pull the sandwich out of the plastic sleeve and unwrap it, I notice that the sandwich (mine, of course) seems to be a bit thin in the meat department. I'm thinking maybe the guy shorted me on some of the meat. But no, I stood there and watched him make the sandwich. There was plenty of meat on it. Then I open the sandwich and realize that the meat is gone. No sign that it ever existed.
What the hell happened?! I know there was meat on there when I left the sandwich shop. Then it hits me. Oscar. I look down and there he is, staring up at me with that sardonic look on his face that he always has when I have food and he wants some. Sure, I say, you couldn't have eaten HER sandwich, referring to my wife. His only reply is the perking up of his ears and the incessant wagging of his tail.
But how? How did he do it? It's like he sucked all the meat out of sandwich without even touching the rest of it. He barely even disturbed the lettuce, tomato and other veggies, not to mention the wrapping. And he did it all in under 3 minutes. I just don't believe it. He had to open the outside sack, get into the plastic sleeve, then through the wrapping paper and pull the meat out without noticeably messing anything up or getting any food outside the bag. And be finished and up in his usual spot watching for me, looking totally innocent, before I exited the store.
It is still hard for me to imagine that it was possible. He was a remarkable dog, but come on. I doubt a master thief could have pulled this job. He's just a sweet little 12 pound dog with short legs and a long, barrel shaped, body. It still makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
As you can probably guess, I ate rather light that evening.
We received him from a friend of Mrs. B's mother who had to get rid of the dog. It was a bit of a hard sell for me in the beginning. Not that I don't like dogs, I love 'em. It was just that we lived in an apartment and didn't have a lot of room for a dog. Plus, the inevitable house-training and all. I also didn't want to take the dog, fall in love with having him, then have the previous owner turn around and want him back. After assurances from the owner that he would not, as well as could not, change his mind and cajoling from the wife on how small and easy to take care of he was, I relented.
He was a wonderful dog, as sweet as could be, and great fun to have around. Not to mention, a chick magnet. But, me being married, that was more of a curse than a blessing. We had him from 1992 until the day he died which, unfortunately was a few years ago due to liver failure. I still think about him quite a bit. I have never been more upset over the loss of an animal than I was over Oscar. But I thank God for every day that we had him. He gifted us with an enormous amount of love and left us with many wonderful memories.
One of my favorite Oscar stories involves a routine trip to pick up some take out food. We often allowed Oscar to ride with us whenever it was reasonable and the weather wasn't too extreme. He loved riding in the car and being able to "snorfle". For those uninitiated, "snorfling" is when a dog sticks his head out the window of a moving car to allow the wind to blow his floppy ears back and start his nose to running like Niagara Falls (at least, that's how it worked with Oscar). It's a technical term, look it up. I just don't make these things up, you know.
Anyway, in this particular instance, Oscar and I went to Blimpies to pick up a couple of sandwiches. They were nicely wrapped in paper, placed inside a clear plastic sleeve, which was then placed inside another paper bag holding both sandwiches. On the way home, Oscar, as usual, was sitting in the passenger seat while the bag of sandwiches were leaning upright against a corner where the center console met the front of the passenger seat. This was standard operating procedure (SOP). We stopped a small convenience store, known to us simply as "the little store", approximately a mile from home to get a couple of Cokes. This also was SOP. We had done this dozens of times without incident.
So I go into the store while Oscar stands watch over the vehicles and the sandwiches. I can't be in the store for more than 3 minutes, tops. This is not a unfamiliar store. I know exactly where the Cokes are in the cooler and there is never a line at the one register in the place.
As I say, I'm in and out in a matter of 2 or 3 minutes. Oscar, as always, is sitting up watching for me and happy as pie when he sees me (SOP). Anytime we would leave him alone, be it in the car or the apartment, he seemed to think we were never coming back. His previous owner caused him to have great separation anxiety. Anyway, I jump into the car, head home, and Oscar and I grab the food sack, jump out of the car and head inside.
Once inside, I head to the kitchen and start unloading the sack (again, SOP). Now all this time, I never notice anything amiss. The sack shows no sign of being disturbed. Oscar has no remnants of any food on or around him. Nothing on the seats or in the floorboard. And did I mention, Oscar is NOT a tidy eater. In fact, one might call him slovenly. Especially with things that he is not supposed to be eating and have lots of condiments added. Yet, not a shred of lettuce, a crumb of bread, nor a fragment of paper was found in the vicinity of the bag. I, of course, was not suspicious at all because, say it with me, this was all Standard Operating Procedure (SOP, to those in the know).
Then it slowly begins to dawn on me that something is wrong. At first, it just looked like the sandwich maker was a little (not a lot) messy with the sandwich when putting the lettuce on or when wrapping the sandwich up. But as I pull the sandwich out of the plastic sleeve and unwrap it, I notice that the sandwich (mine, of course) seems to be a bit thin in the meat department. I'm thinking maybe the guy shorted me on some of the meat. But no, I stood there and watched him make the sandwich. There was plenty of meat on it. Then I open the sandwich and realize that the meat is gone. No sign that it ever existed.
What the hell happened?! I know there was meat on there when I left the sandwich shop. Then it hits me. Oscar. I look down and there he is, staring up at me with that sardonic look on his face that he always has when I have food and he wants some. Sure, I say, you couldn't have eaten HER sandwich, referring to my wife. His only reply is the perking up of his ears and the incessant wagging of his tail.
But how? How did he do it? It's like he sucked all the meat out of sandwich without even touching the rest of it. He barely even disturbed the lettuce, tomato and other veggies, not to mention the wrapping. And he did it all in under 3 minutes. I just don't believe it. He had to open the outside sack, get into the plastic sleeve, then through the wrapping paper and pull the meat out without noticeably messing anything up or getting any food outside the bag. And be finished and up in his usual spot watching for me, looking totally innocent, before I exited the store.
It is still hard for me to imagine that it was possible. He was a remarkable dog, but come on. I doubt a master thief could have pulled this job. He's just a sweet little 12 pound dog with short legs and a long, barrel shaped, body. It still makes me chuckle every time I think about it.
As you can probably guess, I ate rather light that evening.
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