When your testing goes awry
and the data is a fry
and you don't know what to try
but your project's on the line
don't page me
when your service throws a fit
from the data I transmit
and its all up in a twist
don't be a little bitch
don't page me
and when you look like a fool
because you don't know what to do
and you manager is blue
and he asks for my help too
don't page me
when your services go down
from all the traffic thats in town
and it FATALS all around
because we took you to town
...and made you look like a clown
...and now you have a frown
...don't page me
when you wake up at night
and you're all up in a fright
cause your pager is a light
and you think that I just might--
no don't page me
and when I spent all night tracking down the source of a mysterious surge of traffic that turns out to be the result of an operating system migration which caused a KNOWN bug in some software that we depend on but can't fix to resend a bunch of messages from a year ago to ourselves which trips a whole mess of alarms and makes a bunch of systems choke and my manager says we have to manually clean up the data in the databases right now instead of waiting until morning and YOU for some reason wake up at 5:30 in the fucking morning with a question that doesn't actually need to be answered while I am finally one and a half hours into a fantastic REM sleep where I am a Jedi that can only move paperclips and you want to file a ticket on my team to ask a question...
DON'T
PAGE
ME
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monty Python's Software Development
The Service Oriented Jackass (SOJ) architecture is a new twist on the classic SOA pattern where the services start acting like your drinking buddies. Here is a typical SOJ exchange:
Alice: "please close order 1234"
Bob: "I can't do that; Order 5678 is not a valid order."
Alice: *WTF?!?
*WTF is short for "Exception: received exception: blah blah blah...." At any given time, there is probably a window open on one of my desktops with one of these visible.
Alice: "please close order 1234"
Bob: "I can't do that; Order 5678 is not a valid order."
Alice: *WTF?!?
*WTF is short for "Exception: received exception: blah blah blah...." At any given time, there is probably a window open on one of my desktops with one of these visible.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Plenty of fish in the sea but you're in the desert
Yeah, ok, so I just joined some other dating site. I should be out exploring seattle right now, but I'm tired and I have to get my laundry out, so instead I'm screwing around on the computer. Ce la vie. Anyway this one, like the others, was recommended by a friend. Its called plenty of fish. And...it didn't reject me when I tried to sign up. So far, so good. I can't figure the site out though. It is my understanding that when you start talking to girls on the internet, like on okcupid for example, you can't just say "hi, you're hot, lets hang out" because then they don't talk to you. Instead, you have to find some dumb thing in their profile to talk about and waste a couple of days passing some awkward emails back and forth. Half the time the girl won't respond because, if she's appears to be attractive, she'll be fielding like a hundred messages a day or whatever. This site, though...this is new. So I went back to my direct approach. To my surprise, it actually took like no time at all to find an attractive girl on there. I mean, hot. Like Jessica/Laura/Krystal/Betsy hot. That has a nice ring to it. Anyway, so I tried a more direct approach:
You are the first person I'm messaging on this site, so I apologize if I'm skipping some important messaging bullshit, but you seem pretty cool, and I'd like to meet you in real life. Do you live near Bremerton? There is a diner at the airport there. We could meet up there some weekend and get some food.
She probably won't email me back. Too bad...I think she lives near an airport, meaning I could just fly there and...not drink. Well, whatever. Holy shiznet I just found another attractive girl. Two in a row. And a third. And she wants to teach the best instrument in the world. In all honesty, I should probably stop saying that...but "universe" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Anyway. I don't know why I am writing this. Its kind of pathetic that I'm using these sites at all. I would much rather meet girls in real life; drinking captain at a party is more fun than sitting at home with my computer. But I don't know anyone that has fun parties. No, the only other thing I would be doing now is playing Doom 3.
This is somewhat unrelated, but I wanted to mention it before I forget: at work, there is this super hot interesting girl. She...you know, like, outranks me there. I don't know what the name of her "position" is but I'm pretty sure its above "software developer." Anyway, she, unlike all the other girls, does not go out of her away to avoid eye contact or talking. Problem is, I can't think of anything to say to her. I mean, anything that wouldn't get me fired. "You're hot. Want to come over and play rock band in your underwear?" crossed my mind, but I am very sure that would be a bad idea. When I attempted to read one of the actual published papers in the subject of 3sat, the one where I couldn't even read the first sentence because I and no one I talked to knew what a squigly line in an exponent meant, I asked her what the squiggly line in the exponent meant before tossing the paper somewhere. She didn't. She later asked me if I found out. I hadn't. And that was it. I figured if I was able to prove that P=NP, solving a problem that has confounded by best comptuer scientists for decades, maybe that would be something I could talk about once or twice. But I didn't (still working on it though). Instead, I'm considering creating an R2 robot large enough to fit inside, but with motorized wheels, and realistic sounds. And if I get stuck in a corner, I'll play that sound R2 makes whenever he gets shot in the movies. I haven't worked out the rest of the details though. Like the part where this gives me a reason to talk to her. I guess I could deliberately run into her by accident. I don't know. I want to ride around on the elevators a lot. You know, greet people with a pleasant beep. Maybe roll down to the mail room. Have robot sex with a server and get electrocuted...I mean the possibilities are endless. I don't know why I didn't think of this before.
Well, whatever. I'm going to go play Doom3.
[Edit]
http://www.nwr-scca.org/solo/Start.htm
You are the first person I'm messaging on this site, so I apologize if I'm skipping some important messaging bullshit, but you seem pretty cool, and I'd like to meet you in real life. Do you live near Bremerton? There is a diner at the airport there. We could meet up there some weekend and get some food.
She probably won't email me back. Too bad...I think she lives near an airport, meaning I could just fly there and...not drink. Well, whatever. Holy shiznet I just found another attractive girl. Two in a row. And a third. And she wants to teach the best instrument in the world. In all honesty, I should probably stop saying that...but "universe" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Anyway. I don't know why I am writing this. Its kind of pathetic that I'm using these sites at all. I would much rather meet girls in real life; drinking captain at a party is more fun than sitting at home with my computer. But I don't know anyone that has fun parties. No, the only other thing I would be doing now is playing Doom 3.
This is somewhat unrelated, but I wanted to mention it before I forget: at work, there is this super hot interesting girl. She...you know, like, outranks me there. I don't know what the name of her "position" is but I'm pretty sure its above "software developer." Anyway, she, unlike all the other girls, does not go out of her away to avoid eye contact or talking. Problem is, I can't think of anything to say to her. I mean, anything that wouldn't get me fired. "You're hot. Want to come over and play rock band in your underwear?" crossed my mind, but I am very sure that would be a bad idea. When I attempted to read one of the actual published papers in the subject of 3sat, the one where I couldn't even read the first sentence because I and no one I talked to knew what a squigly line in an exponent meant, I asked her what the squiggly line in the exponent meant before tossing the paper somewhere. She didn't. She later asked me if I found out. I hadn't. And that was it. I figured if I was able to prove that P=NP, solving a problem that has confounded by best comptuer scientists for decades, maybe that would be something I could talk about once or twice. But I didn't (still working on it though). Instead, I'm considering creating an R2 robot large enough to fit inside, but with motorized wheels, and realistic sounds. And if I get stuck in a corner, I'll play that sound R2 makes whenever he gets shot in the movies. I haven't worked out the rest of the details though. Like the part where this gives me a reason to talk to her. I guess I could deliberately run into her by accident. I don't know. I want to ride around on the elevators a lot. You know, greet people with a pleasant beep. Maybe roll down to the mail room. Have robot sex with a server and get electrocuted...I mean the possibilities are endless. I don't know why I didn't think of this before.
Well, whatever. I'm going to go play Doom3.
[Edit]
http://www.nwr-scca.org/solo/Start.htm
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Romantic Love Noir Tragedy in Legos. It would be like Romeo and Juliet, except it wouldn't suck.
Except, give it a happy ending, so that girls will like me. But then, have some clue on the screen that would indicate something is amiss, but only to people that like things like computer science, motorcycles or video games, and when they click on that, they see the real ending.
Except, give it a happy ending, so that girls will like me. But then, have some clue on the screen that would indicate something is amiss, but only to people that like things like computer science, motorcycles or video games, and when they click on that, they see the real ending.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Six Speed
A group of future motorcycle rider coaches called me Six Speed for a week, because of an embarassing motorcycle story I told them. I later quit the training program, realizing that at the time I had too few social skills to be a successful rider coach. This has almost nothing to do with this post.
Anyway, so apparently you cannot just drive up to a racetrack, and go mess around. They want money. Lots of it. And you have to undertake some "training." The best lead I have so far is a $500 dollar one-day racing course. I am quite hesitant to spend $500 for only one day. Admittedly, that is the same price I ended up paying to spend a couple hours in a Cessna 172 SP, but my solution to that problem was to switch back to the 172 P. So...I'm not sure how to break into the racing world...at least, economically. The whole point of this was the ultimatum I gave myself to start getting some use out of my STI, or sell it, because the giant-ass lease payment I have to make every month is too much for a car that I just commute to work in, especially when every single motorcycle I see fills me with longing for Katie. So I'm not sure what I'm going to do about the car.
I have started to become enamored with the Cannonball Run. To my dismay, the race, and even its successor races, are no longer held, due in large part to police activity and increased traffic. This leads me to wonder if we have the technology to do it again. And I don't just mean radar detection. I mean vehicular caltrops, smokescreens, rear-facing ink (paintball?) guns, etc. Maybe even paint that changes color, or a car that can morph its shape slightly to avoid detection.
In all honesty I think smoke is the best idea--especially if you are prepared for it and they aren't. The the worst case, maybe some kind of unbeatable road block scenario, you could fill the highway with smoke, and have like a motorcycle in the back of the car, which you could escape on. Ah, and a taser proof jacket! Maybe a fake license, too, for racking up the points. In the stories I used to write, the black muscle car The Road Ninja drove was a Boss 429, and while my Subaru looks and drives quite different, it is a black sports car. The only problem is that you can't do certain vehicular acrobatics in a lightweight, probably-fiberglass, all-wheel drive Subaru.
Todays Hero
Yeah, anyway, what I really wanted to write about was todays hero, Casey Jones. I discovered him during the wikipedia binge that started when I read about the cannonball run. Casey's a real stand up guy. What did Casey do that is so heroic? Just go read wikipedia.
While I have no plans to ever be the one to save hundreds of lives by staying and slowing a doomed train engine, reading stories of such real life heroes is strangely fascinating. I would like to find more. Maybe make a list. We'll call Casey here #2. Hero #1 is the likely-coked-up guy that tried to burn down the duck boats' base of operations.
Anyway, so apparently you cannot just drive up to a racetrack, and go mess around. They want money. Lots of it. And you have to undertake some "training." The best lead I have so far is a $500 dollar one-day racing course. I am quite hesitant to spend $500 for only one day. Admittedly, that is the same price I ended up paying to spend a couple hours in a Cessna 172 SP, but my solution to that problem was to switch back to the 172 P. So...I'm not sure how to break into the racing world...at least, economically. The whole point of this was the ultimatum I gave myself to start getting some use out of my STI, or sell it, because the giant-ass lease payment I have to make every month is too much for a car that I just commute to work in, especially when every single motorcycle I see fills me with longing for Katie. So I'm not sure what I'm going to do about the car.
I have started to become enamored with the Cannonball Run. To my dismay, the race, and even its successor races, are no longer held, due in large part to police activity and increased traffic. This leads me to wonder if we have the technology to do it again. And I don't just mean radar detection. I mean vehicular caltrops, smokescreens, rear-facing ink (paintball?) guns, etc. Maybe even paint that changes color, or a car that can morph its shape slightly to avoid detection.
In all honesty I think smoke is the best idea--especially if you are prepared for it and they aren't. The the worst case, maybe some kind of unbeatable road block scenario, you could fill the highway with smoke, and have like a motorcycle in the back of the car, which you could escape on. Ah, and a taser proof jacket! Maybe a fake license, too, for racking up the points. In the stories I used to write, the black muscle car The Road Ninja drove was a Boss 429, and while my Subaru looks and drives quite different, it is a black sports car. The only problem is that you can't do certain vehicular acrobatics in a lightweight, probably-fiberglass, all-wheel drive Subaru.
Todays Hero
Yeah, anyway, what I really wanted to write about was todays hero, Casey Jones. I discovered him during the wikipedia binge that started when I read about the cannonball run. Casey's a real stand up guy. What did Casey do that is so heroic? Just go read wikipedia.
While I have no plans to ever be the one to save hundreds of lives by staying and slowing a doomed train engine, reading stories of such real life heroes is strangely fascinating. I would like to find more. Maybe make a list. We'll call Casey here #2. Hero #1 is the likely-coked-up guy that tried to burn down the duck boats' base of operations.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Housecooling
The most profitable option for tonight (friday) was a housewarming party. At this party were a bunch of people. One of them was this guy whose face, voice, mannerisms, eyes and even facial hair were all strikingly similar to Jordans', but disavowed any knowledge of a relation to him. There weren't many girls at the party, but I was attracted to two of them. One left. The other had already rejected me [and she was sober], so I left.
It felt like I was breaking some kind of rule to leave a party when there is still someone there you want to make out with, but whats the point if you know she's not interested? And yes, I know something about...something. Like...I'm sure there is some other reason that I'm supposed to feel that I should want to stay and hang out and talk to people. Social....something. Whatever. I really don't think I was missed when I left. They smile a lot, but they also walk away. So I walked home in the rain and watched three episodes of Star Trek Deep Space 9. Besides, the girl that rejected me seems to still want to be friends, and every time I glanced her way, like while talking, I saw her cute face and her low cut shirt and my heart sank a little further.
I currently have no plans for the weekend. I am toying with driving up to Vancouver by myself. The only thing stopping me is the possibility that the hotel I stay at will have only valet parking, and I have to let some jackass attendant drive Jessica. She has a quick clutch; the idiot would probably stall her before I could even get out of earshot. Also, I normally don't have fun at bars myself, 19 year olds or no 19 year olds. Maybe Vancouver has like stuff that is fun to look at and not boring like most touristy things. That reminds me, some tourist thing somewhere here in Seattle has a Lego replica of downtown. I can do better.
Anyway, the alternative plan is to find a [car] race track tomorrow. The highlight of my workday is a small bridge that I recently discovered is long enough to really open up Jessica's throttle for a few seconds--if no one is in the right lane the moment this one light goes green, I can get up to sixty before slowing down for a tight turn. The idea that I could drive in such a manner for minutes instead of seconds is rather tantalizing.
It felt like I was breaking some kind of rule to leave a party when there is still someone there you want to make out with, but whats the point if you know she's not interested? And yes, I know something about...something. Like...I'm sure there is some other reason that I'm supposed to feel that I should want to stay and hang out and talk to people. Social....something. Whatever. I really don't think I was missed when I left. They smile a lot, but they also walk away. So I walked home in the rain and watched three episodes of Star Trek Deep Space 9. Besides, the girl that rejected me seems to still want to be friends, and every time I glanced her way, like while talking, I saw her cute face and her low cut shirt and my heart sank a little further.
I currently have no plans for the weekend. I am toying with driving up to Vancouver by myself. The only thing stopping me is the possibility that the hotel I stay at will have only valet parking, and I have to let some jackass attendant drive Jessica. She has a quick clutch; the idiot would probably stall her before I could even get out of earshot. Also, I normally don't have fun at bars myself, 19 year olds or no 19 year olds. Maybe Vancouver has like stuff that is fun to look at and not boring like most touristy things. That reminds me, some tourist thing somewhere here in Seattle has a Lego replica of downtown. I can do better.
Anyway, the alternative plan is to find a [car] race track tomorrow. The highlight of my workday is a small bridge that I recently discovered is long enough to really open up Jessica's throttle for a few seconds--if no one is in the right lane the moment this one light goes green, I can get up to sixty before slowing down for a tight turn. The idea that I could drive in such a manner for minutes instead of seconds is rather tantalizing.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Before I Forget
Salsa with 7 captains and 3 girls. Awesome time. And I talked to that girl Rebecca. And the girl who might be Candy. And the other girls. Sweet. And frowny face girl wasn't even there. I am an awesome dancer when I am drunk. Also, talking to girls is effortless. I can see why people get addicted to this stuff.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Tigers Love Pepper
Shortly after returning home from NC I got sick again. Yeah, weird. Turns out, letting mold (and probably dust mites) grow all over your apartment is really bad for you. I donned a pair of latex gloves and went to war. The bathroom was won in mere hours, and I took the battle to living room. I was circling the troops for our second major offensive when I ran out of time and had to leave for Kev's bachelor party. The Battle for Middle-Fridge would have to wait.
Vegas.
I arrived in Las Vegas in good spirits but my throat felt like it was on fire, the kind where it really hurts to talk. I met up with my compatriots and discovered that the plans for the night involved some strip club. I had made it clear that I would not be attending any strip clubs, because of something about knowing lots of girls that would disown you if you went to one, or something. However it soon became clear to me that if I refused to go, they would all change their plans just for me--there was no way I could get out of it quietly.
So we went to the strip club. Braskey navigated us on a really long walk through at least several streets that most people do not typically walk on. My plan for the strip club was to find the part of the bar away from the dance floor and just kind of baby some liquor. That plan did not work. The ring of chairs they seated us at seemed designed to make it awkward to talk to your mates or just sit back and stare at the stage unobtrusively. They were, in fact, designed to just put you out there so strippers could easily walk up and start talking to you. Which one did.
Had it happened in real life, I would have been ecstatic. But we were in a strip club, and, like a best buy or radio shack salesman, she was only talking to me because she wanted me to give her some money. Every time I spoke it felt like I was grating glass in my throat, but I was pretty much trapped in the chair answering question after useless question. Where you from, what do you do, blah blah blah. The only thing that could be more awkward than our conversation would be me giving her money and watching her dance right in front of me, so I politely declined that offer and said I was sorry. I looked around. The stage was empty. The bar...I wasn't sure about. In short, there was no where I could really go that would still count as being there. So I continued sitting in my chair. Then a second girl came up to me. This one was cuter than the first, but started stroking the back of my head like she felt sorry for me, and was much quicker to arrive on the subject of me paying her to take off her clothes. I declined again, and after a quick trip to the bathroom (in which I met a towel guy who said he was from Lansdale, who knew?) I noticed that half of my boys were gone. Off, somewhere, I supposed, happily looking at something they couldn't touch. With the troops depleted I thought it safe to take my leave, and got the hell out of there. I later told them that I don't like talking to girls that are paid to talk to me, but that explanation backfired. Fortunately, after a night or two my sore throat disappeared and I was able to immerse myself in the fun.
Vegas seems to have two main activities: paying girls to take of their clothes and get you all hot but not have sex with you, and playing games of chance that you are mathematically guaranteed to lose. I have a hard time getting excited about either of those options. Dinners and shows are fun though, as was the heat. After Seattle's damp coolness (except in my airconditioning-less apartment) some bona fide sun and hot air felt amazing.
There are also people who stand around pushing fliers for hookers at you, and the people with these fliers literally come in like all ages: kids, parents, grandparents, men, women...its like advertising girls that you pay to have sex with you is a family business. I don't know how it works but they are the easiest people to ignore; I would rather walk past a hundred hooker-advertisers than one bum. Speaking of bums, there were not many bums, and the ones we saw were all at the one end of the strip, between the Sahara and the Stratosphere, which I'm told is the old part of vegas. In addition to the bums and people with the hooker fliers, there are other people who just walk around pushing the strip clubs. Walk around with 4 other guys and you will get approached every couple minutes by someone trying to get you to go to a certain strip club, offering free limo rides or free covers. The one that we went to my first night offered neither, and I have a feeling it was far better/cleaner/less sleazy than the ones we received personal invitations for.
Days and nights ran together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner began trading places or repeating themselves. At one point we hung out at the pool, which I discovered for everyone else means they are going to sit near the pool and play with their laptops. I was all for going in, but not by myself; I couldn't even swim laps because everyone in the pool had no interest in doing anything other than stand around sipping their beers. I spied two girls to my right. They looked hot. I wanted to talk to them. I couldn't think of a single thing to say to them, however, other than the obvious "you're hot I want to make out with you" which I've come to understand is something most girls hate. I made a deal with myself that if I'm ever in such a situation and I do think of something to say, I should act on it without hesitation. Then I thought of something to say: "I just wanted to let you know I think you're pretty" or something lame like that. Following my new rule, I immediately got up ten minutes later, but chickened out and started to leave. However, after I dropped off my towel the exit was on my left and my feet took me right, towards the girls, seemingly without any input from me. It ended up being the painful and awkward worst case scenario I had anticipated. I said "hey, whats you're name," looking at one of them at random. Audrey. Then I mumbled something about just wanting them to know I thought they were pretty. As I did so contempt washed over their faces, but the job was done and I was out of there. In the elevator back to my room I decided to abandon my rule about acting as soon as I think of something to say.
After that, or maybe before that for all I know, we rode a monorail. Vegas' monorail is both convenient and awesome, and unlike Seattle's, it actually goes somewhere. We rode it to the stratosphere, where Braskey and I each paid $100 to jump off of it. That was fun. The point at which we jumped was only 800 feet above ground level, and we were in a harness and most of the fall was a controlled, unaccelerated descent. It was more relaxing than anything else. I would have loved to take a nap if it had lasted longer. It was scary, but the scariest part was before the fall: they lead me out onto a rustly old blue metal ledge, and I found myself unable to walk on it without clutching the rails. The person facilitating the jump told me exactly where to hold and exactly where to step and then gave me a countdown, leaving no time for second thoughts. Then I stepped off the ledge, and for a brief moment that lasted less than a second, I was in freefall and the dark expanse of the world lay below me. It was incredible. Then the harness did its job and I "fell" at a pleasantly slow pace down to the landing site. I was hoping that jumping off the stratosphere would help me to develop the ability to run and jump off cliffs without hesitation, figuring that would come in handy someday (remember, James Bond is my role model). Honestly I think it just gave me a fear of 800 foot high blue platforms.
Other highlights of the week included me getting yelled at for not letting certain people "help me" ...with something. I don't remember the specifics, but some people look at my life and see something that needs fixing, and by external parties. This argument reached its climax in the hotel room. Security called the room's phone to tell us to shut up. We weren't even being rowdy. Adam suspects that this old couple nearby called in the noise complaint. Whatever the case, I'm not staying at Harrah's again; thats just unacceptable. And what are old people doing there on the weekends?
Slot machines were everywhere. Slot machines are tacky, gaudy, and irritating, and I am willing to bet that the percentage of fat people that play them, verses the card tables, is higher in a statistically significant way.
If the real life Vegas was more like the one in my head, there would have been far, far far far far far faaaar fewer slot machines, and way more poker, and most of the people at the poker tables would be in super fancy suits, and most of those guys in super fancy suits would be either world-class criminals, or eurospies. There would be club after club full of girls that want to have a good time and there aren't too many guys there and you can talk without shouting just like in the movies.
As it was, though, I can't complain. I saw more attractive girls in four nights in Vegas than I have in a year and a half in Seattle. And when I saw some of them playing blackjack, I finally had a reason to play the game. Nothing is ever a complete waste of time and money if you can meet girls while doing it. Its a pretty boring game, but if I learn it well enough, the average amount of money that I lose while trying to meet girls at the table will be similar to the price you pay in drinks to hang out at some club. And the great thing about blackjack is they don't blast crappy hip-hop music in your eardrums. Plus, if I play long enough I will occasionally hit a local maxima that will lend the appearance that I've "won" some money, which I understand is impressive.
And as far as the strip clubs go, I remember some stuff about how they are supposed to be evil, but honestly, to me they are nothing more than a nude version of Radio Shack. No one seems to be getting hurt in there. The establishments are selling sex, but in pretty much the same way that all of the advertisements on tv and billboards and music videos and movies and even some waitresses do. The strip clubs are simply less deceptive about it: they don't try to sell you the idea that buying an expensive shirt will make you look like a model. They have elected to skip the part where you buy some physical product and ask that you just hand over some money directly. I remember something about these places "objectifying women," but I don't know what that means, and it sounds retarded. I am no longer accepting arguments that sound like something philosophy nerds like to argue about. Also, I can tell you all about objectifying something, and I promise it is no where near as exciting as naked girls are. Is this going to have some other negative effect on my life? I knew what boobs looked like before I went to a strip club, and I still knew what they looked like afterwards. So perhaps not. I don't have any plans to attend more strip clubs in the future, though. Meeting girls there seems even more difficult than meeting them in Starbucks, which is ironic. I'll leave you with some food for thought though. You know that thing about if a tree falls in the forest and no one sees it, did it really fall? Well, if a girl is beautiful, and she's not dating me, is she really beautiful? Could I be any more self centered? Talk amongst yourselves.
Where does this leave me? I have a laundry list of things to do, like start racing cars, and start swimming regularly in the hopes of no longer resembling an xkcd character, and a bunch of other stuff that probably won't get done. I do know I need to plan more vacations. Blackcomb-whistler is high priority for early 2011. I'd like to go to vegas again someday and go to one of those places with fancy pools where girls get in free and guys pay $40. What else? The Battle for Middle-Fridge begins tomorrow. I think I am going to just give up trying to keep a stocked fridge--I am home too infrequently to eat the food before it goes bad. I'm going to like bleach the whole unit, finish throwing all the food away, and then keep nothing in there but some carrots and maybe a bottle of wine. I've been operating on the theory that cooking for yourself must be cheaper than buying all of your food, but that theory probably never took into account how much food I always throw out without eating it, or just how cheap hoagies are at subway.
What else? Its 10:38pm and I am seriously hungry. For which meal I couldn't even tell you.
Vegas.
I arrived in Las Vegas in good spirits but my throat felt like it was on fire, the kind where it really hurts to talk. I met up with my compatriots and discovered that the plans for the night involved some strip club. I had made it clear that I would not be attending any strip clubs, because of something about knowing lots of girls that would disown you if you went to one, or something. However it soon became clear to me that if I refused to go, they would all change their plans just for me--there was no way I could get out of it quietly.
So we went to the strip club. Braskey navigated us on a really long walk through at least several streets that most people do not typically walk on. My plan for the strip club was to find the part of the bar away from the dance floor and just kind of baby some liquor. That plan did not work. The ring of chairs they seated us at seemed designed to make it awkward to talk to your mates or just sit back and stare at the stage unobtrusively. They were, in fact, designed to just put you out there so strippers could easily walk up and start talking to you. Which one did.
Had it happened in real life, I would have been ecstatic. But we were in a strip club, and, like a best buy or radio shack salesman, she was only talking to me because she wanted me to give her some money. Every time I spoke it felt like I was grating glass in my throat, but I was pretty much trapped in the chair answering question after useless question. Where you from, what do you do, blah blah blah. The only thing that could be more awkward than our conversation would be me giving her money and watching her dance right in front of me, so I politely declined that offer and said I was sorry. I looked around. The stage was empty. The bar...I wasn't sure about. In short, there was no where I could really go that would still count as being there. So I continued sitting in my chair. Then a second girl came up to me. This one was cuter than the first, but started stroking the back of my head like she felt sorry for me, and was much quicker to arrive on the subject of me paying her to take off her clothes. I declined again, and after a quick trip to the bathroom (in which I met a towel guy who said he was from Lansdale, who knew?) I noticed that half of my boys were gone. Off, somewhere, I supposed, happily looking at something they couldn't touch. With the troops depleted I thought it safe to take my leave, and got the hell out of there. I later told them that I don't like talking to girls that are paid to talk to me, but that explanation backfired. Fortunately, after a night or two my sore throat disappeared and I was able to immerse myself in the fun.
Vegas seems to have two main activities: paying girls to take of their clothes and get you all hot but not have sex with you, and playing games of chance that you are mathematically guaranteed to lose. I have a hard time getting excited about either of those options. Dinners and shows are fun though, as was the heat. After Seattle's damp coolness (except in my airconditioning-less apartment) some bona fide sun and hot air felt amazing.
There are also people who stand around pushing fliers for hookers at you, and the people with these fliers literally come in like all ages: kids, parents, grandparents, men, women...its like advertising girls that you pay to have sex with you is a family business. I don't know how it works but they are the easiest people to ignore; I would rather walk past a hundred hooker-advertisers than one bum. Speaking of bums, there were not many bums, and the ones we saw were all at the one end of the strip, between the Sahara and the Stratosphere, which I'm told is the old part of vegas. In addition to the bums and people with the hooker fliers, there are other people who just walk around pushing the strip clubs. Walk around with 4 other guys and you will get approached every couple minutes by someone trying to get you to go to a certain strip club, offering free limo rides or free covers. The one that we went to my first night offered neither, and I have a feeling it was far better/cleaner/less sleazy than the ones we received personal invitations for.
Days and nights ran together. Breakfast, lunch and dinner began trading places or repeating themselves. At one point we hung out at the pool, which I discovered for everyone else means they are going to sit near the pool and play with their laptops. I was all for going in, but not by myself; I couldn't even swim laps because everyone in the pool had no interest in doing anything other than stand around sipping their beers. I spied two girls to my right. They looked hot. I wanted to talk to them. I couldn't think of a single thing to say to them, however, other than the obvious "you're hot I want to make out with you" which I've come to understand is something most girls hate. I made a deal with myself that if I'm ever in such a situation and I do think of something to say, I should act on it without hesitation. Then I thought of something to say: "I just wanted to let you know I think you're pretty" or something lame like that. Following my new rule, I immediately got up ten minutes later, but chickened out and started to leave. However, after I dropped off my towel the exit was on my left and my feet took me right, towards the girls, seemingly without any input from me. It ended up being the painful and awkward worst case scenario I had anticipated. I said "hey, whats you're name," looking at one of them at random. Audrey. Then I mumbled something about just wanting them to know I thought they were pretty. As I did so contempt washed over their faces, but the job was done and I was out of there. In the elevator back to my room I decided to abandon my rule about acting as soon as I think of something to say.
After that, or maybe before that for all I know, we rode a monorail. Vegas' monorail is both convenient and awesome, and unlike Seattle's, it actually goes somewhere. We rode it to the stratosphere, where Braskey and I each paid $100 to jump off of it. That was fun. The point at which we jumped was only 800 feet above ground level, and we were in a harness and most of the fall was a controlled, unaccelerated descent. It was more relaxing than anything else. I would have loved to take a nap if it had lasted longer. It was scary, but the scariest part was before the fall: they lead me out onto a rustly old blue metal ledge, and I found myself unable to walk on it without clutching the rails. The person facilitating the jump told me exactly where to hold and exactly where to step and then gave me a countdown, leaving no time for second thoughts. Then I stepped off the ledge, and for a brief moment that lasted less than a second, I was in freefall and the dark expanse of the world lay below me. It was incredible. Then the harness did its job and I "fell" at a pleasantly slow pace down to the landing site. I was hoping that jumping off the stratosphere would help me to develop the ability to run and jump off cliffs without hesitation, figuring that would come in handy someday (remember, James Bond is my role model). Honestly I think it just gave me a fear of 800 foot high blue platforms.
Other highlights of the week included me getting yelled at for not letting certain people "help me" ...with something. I don't remember the specifics, but some people look at my life and see something that needs fixing, and by external parties. This argument reached its climax in the hotel room. Security called the room's phone to tell us to shut up. We weren't even being rowdy. Adam suspects that this old couple nearby called in the noise complaint. Whatever the case, I'm not staying at Harrah's again; thats just unacceptable. And what are old people doing there on the weekends?
Slot machines were everywhere. Slot machines are tacky, gaudy, and irritating, and I am willing to bet that the percentage of fat people that play them, verses the card tables, is higher in a statistically significant way.
If the real life Vegas was more like the one in my head, there would have been far, far far far far far faaaar fewer slot machines, and way more poker, and most of the people at the poker tables would be in super fancy suits, and most of those guys in super fancy suits would be either world-class criminals, or eurospies. There would be club after club full of girls that want to have a good time and there aren't too many guys there and you can talk without shouting just like in the movies.
As it was, though, I can't complain. I saw more attractive girls in four nights in Vegas than I have in a year and a half in Seattle. And when I saw some of them playing blackjack, I finally had a reason to play the game. Nothing is ever a complete waste of time and money if you can meet girls while doing it. Its a pretty boring game, but if I learn it well enough, the average amount of money that I lose while trying to meet girls at the table will be similar to the price you pay in drinks to hang out at some club. And the great thing about blackjack is they don't blast crappy hip-hop music in your eardrums. Plus, if I play long enough I will occasionally hit a local maxima that will lend the appearance that I've "won" some money, which I understand is impressive.
And as far as the strip clubs go, I remember some stuff about how they are supposed to be evil, but honestly, to me they are nothing more than a nude version of Radio Shack. No one seems to be getting hurt in there. The establishments are selling sex, but in pretty much the same way that all of the advertisements on tv and billboards and music videos and movies and even some waitresses do. The strip clubs are simply less deceptive about it: they don't try to sell you the idea that buying an expensive shirt will make you look like a model. They have elected to skip the part where you buy some physical product and ask that you just hand over some money directly. I remember something about these places "objectifying women," but I don't know what that means, and it sounds retarded. I am no longer accepting arguments that sound like something philosophy nerds like to argue about. Also, I can tell you all about objectifying something, and I promise it is no where near as exciting as naked girls are. Is this going to have some other negative effect on my life? I knew what boobs looked like before I went to a strip club, and I still knew what they looked like afterwards. So perhaps not. I don't have any plans to attend more strip clubs in the future, though. Meeting girls there seems even more difficult than meeting them in Starbucks, which is ironic. I'll leave you with some food for thought though. You know that thing about if a tree falls in the forest and no one sees it, did it really fall? Well, if a girl is beautiful, and she's not dating me, is she really beautiful? Could I be any more self centered? Talk amongst yourselves.
Where does this leave me? I have a laundry list of things to do, like start racing cars, and start swimming regularly in the hopes of no longer resembling an xkcd character, and a bunch of other stuff that probably won't get done. I do know I need to plan more vacations. Blackcomb-whistler is high priority for early 2011. I'd like to go to vegas again someday and go to one of those places with fancy pools where girls get in free and guys pay $40. What else? The Battle for Middle-Fridge begins tomorrow. I think I am going to just give up trying to keep a stocked fridge--I am home too infrequently to eat the food before it goes bad. I'm going to like bleach the whole unit, finish throwing all the food away, and then keep nothing in there but some carrots and maybe a bottle of wine. I've been operating on the theory that cooking for yourself must be cheaper than buying all of your food, but that theory probably never took into account how much food I always throw out without eating it, or just how cheap hoagies are at subway.
What else? Its 10:38pm and I am seriously hungry. For which meal I couldn't even tell you.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Evanescence
My post vacation mind is sharper today than it has been in weeks. I am planning to work out more. Also, I started noticing things here at work. Most are the result of my entire team being crammed into this tiny corner of the mental hospital. The incessant talking, even--or especially--the work related talking, interrupts my concentration. This one guy, he's pretty cool but he has a desk in close proximity, and at a right angle to, my own. People have a habit of leaning over his desk to look at his monitor or whatever, which puts their ass right in my face. There is absolutely no one on my team whose ass I want near my face.
I think all of this didn't bother me before, because I was so incredibly bored I spent most days with my mind elsewhere, leaving only a couple brain cells to focus on whatever was going on around me, half the time dozing off, trying to keep typing or reading with half-open eyes. Its like I was slowly fading away. Now, though, the distractions are nearly painful. To make matters worse, I've just learned that I will need to continue this boring-ass project past October. The annoying girl on my team spent the entire day about three feet from me, helping someone else out, piercing my contentration with her annoying shriek laughter. Its 5:55 now. My willpower broken, I sit here running down the clock, earphones on, trying to drown out the others with Silence. My newfound clarity has already begun to slip away, inch by inch.
I think all of this didn't bother me before, because I was so incredibly bored I spent most days with my mind elsewhere, leaving only a couple brain cells to focus on whatever was going on around me, half the time dozing off, trying to keep typing or reading with half-open eyes. Its like I was slowly fading away. Now, though, the distractions are nearly painful. To make matters worse, I've just learned that I will need to continue this boring-ass project past October. The annoying girl on my team spent the entire day about three feet from me, helping someone else out, piercing my contentration with her annoying shriek laughter. Its 5:55 now. My willpower broken, I sit here running down the clock, earphones on, trying to drown out the others with Silence. My newfound clarity has already begun to slip away, inch by inch.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The South
I know a guy that has paced his life into rut after rut of worry. For any fun thing he has a hundred excuses not to do it, and, sadly, a lot of them are valid. He worries about everything, doesn't have many people to hang out with, and suffers from loneliness within the walls of an apartment that are beginning to resemble some kind of mental-puzzle-jail. That guy got left in Seattle this weekend.
I had been dreading Kristy's wedding, for reasons that included my hatred of flying commercially and the fact that I was getting distracted by a ton of other things and hand not quite conquered the hassle of travel. It started with me missing a rent payment, because I ran out of checks, because the check-reordering part of my banks website sucks, and the check-sending feature of my other bank was designed to prevent you from knowing if your check arrived by any means other than finding a 10-day eviction notice on your door, and I've been relying on money orders from the Post Office for the past few months, but since the post office is only open during--I could go on, but I think you got the point. Anyway, I arrived in Wilmington, NC unable to remember which hotel I was staying at, without a clue on how to get there, unaware that it was labor day weekend, and unconcerned about the fact that if I didn't get back to Seattle in time, my apartment complex in this here "renter friendly" state would probably evict me and sell all my stuff. I'm sharing all this becuase everyone I talked to thought it was ridiculous and incredible.
There is something about vacations that just makes me a different person--often, the person I want to be. Here, I define vacations as pretty much any travel unrelated to school or work and undominated by close family. All of those trips up to North Jersey during my last job, or that family trip to london--they were not vacations. Pretty much all weddings, though, are. Anything I can let my guard down and say whatever the hell I want, like "thats really gay" or "thats a nice shirt, does it come in men's?" to someone like Adam, without worrying about losing my job or a [Seattle] half-friend or getting a lecture from someone I can't ignore. Room keys, luggage, cheap hotel sheets, old friends, and credible possibilities of making out with someone attractive. Thats a vacation.
For me, the switch occured during a stopover in Atlanta when I ....blah blah blah, smaller jet, PRC 200, went outside and up a starcase, super exciting, Kristy's wedding was awesome, she was beaming with joy, I have cool friends, the thing about introverts get drained by social contact and extroverts get recharged and I experience both depending on who I'm with, and hiding from the lame 80s/90s/pop/hiphop wedding music dancing so I wouldn't get falsly accused of scowling, spending the night hanging out with Stephen King instead of this one cute blonde, spending $800 to change flights and give me one more day with old friends (I had originally planned to fly back sunday because I didn't know about labor day), Kristy's friends thinking I'm a player because one of them decided my shoulder had makeup on it, a few things I can't mention in writing, the awesome rooms at the riverview hotel, the rooftop sunset race, go karts, Braskey's pro-party attitude, trying to ask two girls if they wanted to join us for dinner (and the resulting argument with Adam, and a comparison to the girl I met on the balcony at the salsa club) and rehashing old, unimportant dramas and unfounded generalizations over italian food. Ah, and tentative plans for a sweet vancouver/blackcomb vacation in January/February. I told them pretty much everyone is invited, excepting Betsy's new boyfriend. And I'm sure that if I attempted to invite her in such a way that made that clear, I'd never hear the end of that either.
Yeah, I could have written like pages on all that, but if the mere act of writing it bored me, I'm sure in couldn't be that interesting to read.
I have little time to rest; this Las Vegas thing for Kev's bachelor party starts in a few days. I haven't yet taken off work, or scheduled plane tickets or a hotel room, or figured out ground transportation, and I need to figure out some way to like magically transfer money from my bank account to this stupid apartment complex before I get evicted. Oh, and my suit really, really needs to get drycleaned, or something. Maybe I'll just buy another one in Vegas.
Oh, and I love girls with southern accents.
[Edit]
Note to self: invite Kip. And Laura. Like, possibly Kristal...maybe not.
I had been dreading Kristy's wedding, for reasons that included my hatred of flying commercially and the fact that I was getting distracted by a ton of other things and hand not quite conquered the hassle of travel. It started with me missing a rent payment, because I ran out of checks, because the check-reordering part of my banks website sucks, and the check-sending feature of my other bank was designed to prevent you from knowing if your check arrived by any means other than finding a 10-day eviction notice on your door, and I've been relying on money orders from the Post Office for the past few months, but since the post office is only open during--I could go on, but I think you got the point. Anyway, I arrived in Wilmington, NC unable to remember which hotel I was staying at, without a clue on how to get there, unaware that it was labor day weekend, and unconcerned about the fact that if I didn't get back to Seattle in time, my apartment complex in this here "renter friendly" state would probably evict me and sell all my stuff. I'm sharing all this becuase everyone I talked to thought it was ridiculous and incredible.
There is something about vacations that just makes me a different person--often, the person I want to be. Here, I define vacations as pretty much any travel unrelated to school or work and undominated by close family. All of those trips up to North Jersey during my last job, or that family trip to london--they were not vacations. Pretty much all weddings, though, are. Anything I can let my guard down and say whatever the hell I want, like "thats really gay" or "thats a nice shirt, does it come in men's?" to someone like Adam, without worrying about losing my job or a [Seattle] half-friend or getting a lecture from someone I can't ignore. Room keys, luggage, cheap hotel sheets, old friends, and credible possibilities of making out with someone attractive. Thats a vacation.
For me, the switch occured during a stopover in Atlanta when I ....blah blah blah, smaller jet, PRC 200, went outside and up a starcase, super exciting, Kristy's wedding was awesome, she was beaming with joy, I have cool friends, the thing about introverts get drained by social contact and extroverts get recharged and I experience both depending on who I'm with, and hiding from the lame 80s/90s/pop/hiphop wedding music dancing so I wouldn't get falsly accused of scowling, spending the night hanging out with Stephen King instead of this one cute blonde, spending $800 to change flights and give me one more day with old friends (I had originally planned to fly back sunday because I didn't know about labor day), Kristy's friends thinking I'm a player because one of them decided my shoulder had makeup on it, a few things I can't mention in writing, the awesome rooms at the riverview hotel, the rooftop sunset race, go karts, Braskey's pro-party attitude, trying to ask two girls if they wanted to join us for dinner (and the resulting argument with Adam, and a comparison to the girl I met on the balcony at the salsa club) and rehashing old, unimportant dramas and unfounded generalizations over italian food. Ah, and tentative plans for a sweet vancouver/blackcomb vacation in January/February. I told them pretty much everyone is invited, excepting Betsy's new boyfriend. And I'm sure that if I attempted to invite her in such a way that made that clear, I'd never hear the end of that either.
Yeah, I could have written like pages on all that, but if the mere act of writing it bored me, I'm sure in couldn't be that interesting to read.
I have little time to rest; this Las Vegas thing for Kev's bachelor party starts in a few days. I haven't yet taken off work, or scheduled plane tickets or a hotel room, or figured out ground transportation, and I need to figure out some way to like magically transfer money from my bank account to this stupid apartment complex before I get evicted. Oh, and my suit really, really needs to get drycleaned, or something. Maybe I'll just buy another one in Vegas.
Oh, and I love girls with southern accents.
[Edit]
Note to self: invite Kip. And Laura. Like, possibly Kristal...maybe not.
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