Just can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read

Excuse me as I gratuitously steal an idea from McSweeney's. The best of which is this one, incidentally.

Open letters to the various irritations in my life...

Dear chipmunk that has taken up living in the ceiling above my basement:
Get the fuck out. For real. Before you make me do something I don't want to do. Namely, kill you before you chew up my house. I thought you'd have learned when one of the cats killed your brother, but apparently not. Learn from his mistakes, and beat it.
Sincerely,
TK


Dear guy in the goofy looking yellow Subaru Baja who keeps cutting in and out of traffic every morning:
Dude. It's rush hour. Accept it and move on. You're doing nothing but aggravating everyone around you. And maybe you haven't noticed, but I stay in the same lane for the whole drive, and I beat you to the I-90 exit every.single.time. Asshole.
Warmest regards,
TK


Dear Hotmail Junk filter:
You suck. Seriously. You're horrible. What do I have to do to get it through your thick e-skull that I don't want free airline tickets, cialis, viagra, or lonely sluts who love to fuck (aka Romanian trannies who will roll you in an alley for the fillings in your teeth). I know their schemes are incredibly complicated, using brilliant tactics like slightly different email addresses and misspelled words, but... stop letting them through, dumbfuck, or I swear I'll switch to Gmail and never look back.
Fuck you,
TK



Dear squirrels that are wrecking my bird feeder:
Knock it off. It's not for you, you greedy bastards. I've got a tree full of acorns, but noooo, you have to be greedy and steal from the birds. Keep it up and I'm releasing the hounds. You've been warned.
All the best,
TK


Dear dinging noise that chimes in my car every time I take a right turn:
Please stop. And please don't be a sign of something broken, or I will be very sad. I'd like to think I've treated you better than this (except for that time when I backed into someone in a parking lot, but that was totally the other guys fault. You know that. Don't hold it against me.)
Pleading hopefully,
TK

Dear Starbucks guy:
Let's not make this hard on each other. I'm only in here because my wife likes your coffee drinks. Me, I'm a Dunkies guy. So 1) Please don't give me that condescending look when I come in looking like a homeless man. I was mowing the lawn. 2) When I ask for a small, please don't correct me and make me use the "proper Starbucks terminology (tm)", or I will straight-up murder your ass.
Yours in Christ,
TK


Dear Audrey the Beagle:
Stop waking up and crying at 5:30 in the morning. Or I will punt you over the fence and someone else can take care of your three-legged ass.
Can't stay mad at you because you're so goddamn cute,
TK

Super Awesome Camping Adventure!

So, as you may recall, we went camping this week.

Well... not exactly. Everything went great. Wednesday morning we got up, packed up the truck, packed up the dog (only one came with. Three-legged beagles? Not so much with the hiking.), and off we went. 150 miles from our house to the White Mountains. After about 50 miles... it started raining. Not hard, mind you, but... raining. But, hardy folk that we are, we soldiered on.

We stopped at a tourist center in NH, and asked the guy at the desk what he knew about the forecast. His response? "60% chance of rain, every day this week."

Not to be deterred, we told nature to go screw, and continued. We made it to the mountains, found a beautiful campsite right on Russell Pond. It was actually great. Barely anyone else around. Started pitching the tent.

And one of the tent poles broke. But, Mrs. TK, being clever and nimble, managed to fix it. However, by now, it was raining a bit more steadily. But we're determined to continue, because Goddammit, we took time off from work for this. So using her knot-tying skills and my tree-climbing skills, we hang a giant tarp between four trees that covers the picnic table, so we can eat in nice, dry comfort. Finally, we break. We have lunch, and go on a short hike. By the time we get back... it's fucking pouring. I mean, really badly. But, we decide to stick it out. I start getting dinner ready. She is going to organize our stuff inside the tent.

I come back from the car with some food supplies, and I hear this from inside the tent.

"Um, dear? I have some exceptionally bad news."
"What?" I ask.
"The tent is leaking pretty badly".

Motherfucker. Motherfucker! Goddamn Motherfucking son.of.a.BITCH!

So, that was when we finally conceded defeat. Nature, that dirty bitch-whore, had won. We packed up our gear, and checked into a lovely inn that allowed dogs. Had dinner in the restaurant, slept in a king-size bed. All the while saying, "well, it beats a leaky tent".

Thursday we got up, had breakfast, checked out, drove back to the site to take the tent and the tarp down. It was only raining gently, so we decided to go for a hike, which actually ended up being fantastic. There is something really wonderful about the woods right after rain - everything seems greener, there are fewer bugs... it was a good time. It was a tough hike, and a lot of uphill (we were in the mountains, after all). But the payoff at the top was worth it (I recommend clicking the pics - the full size is much better):


Sure, it's a little cloudy, but it was beautiful. Trust me. Here's a few more:

Me, standing on a wooden bridge. This isn't a bad picture - the forest canopy was so thick it actually was this dark.

Ceili The Wonder Dog, swimming happily.





A boy and his dog. And the goofy hat that he bought while on a safari in South Africa.

So there you are. Camping was a bust. We still managed to have a lot of fun, but we didn't actually go camping. Which sucks, because this was going to be my wife's very first time sleeping outdoors. We'll get out there someday soon though.

I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Three more hours.

Three more hours and I'm free, and for 8 glorious days we will be on vacation. Sweet, glorious, delicious vacation.

Tomorrow is prep day, and on Wednesday we begin three days of camping in New Hampshire's White Mountains. The rest of the time will be some day trips, some hiking, and a great deal of lounging and relaxing. It's unlikely that there will be any posts, since I'm going to do my damndest to avoid a computer. So have a great week, folks.

If you need me, we'll be here:



Trying to find this:

Let God sort 'em out...

So, I was reading a post over at the newly christened I'm Quietly Judging You, about the author's recent battle with a dead mouse. And for some weird reason, I started thinking about the recent spate of problems we've been having with pests at the ole' Meat Factory. For a while, we had mice that were invading the garage, until Audrey (aka Stumbles the three-legged beagle) managed to take one down, and the rest appeared to have died from the poison I left in the garage. But our not-so-new problem is...

Wasps.

Let me just say, before we go any further: fucking ick. We had a problem with them last year, and while I managed to kill the nests, it creeped me the fuck out. And now I just finished doing some research on wasps, and I'm even more creeped out. The thing is, wasps are actually somewhat helpful. They only eat other bugs, and they rarely cause any damage to your house. Their nests are pretty small - the one on my garage is only a little bigger than a golf ball. However, I also learned that their stingers don't have barbs, meaning they can sting repeatedly. And when they sting, they release a pheromone that drives other wasps insane and causes them to attack in a collective psycho-wasp fury.

My wife is probably hiding under the bed after reading that, because she has a serious issue with paralyzing fear of bees/wasps/any sort of flying stinging thing. Not that I blame her, because frankly, that's enough for me too. Any insect that can do that much damage to me and mine has got. to. go.

I have some simple rules regarding wildlife. For the most part, I'm a live and let live kind of guy. Birds who eat my grass seed? So be it. Squirrels? Fine, whatever. Caterpillars, moths, you're free to be. Spiders are fine as long as they stay out of my house. Garter snakes I usually catch and release into the woods behind the house. But anything with a toxic stinger that can go into a poisonous homicidal rage and bring all it's poisonous homicidal cousins? Adios, motherfuckers.

Similarly, whenever we go to Cape Town to visit my folks, they used to have (in their old house) a bit of a scorpion problem. Now, I know that saying "a bit of a scorpion problem" is kind of like saying that the Middle East has "a bit of a philosophical problem" or that in college I had "a bit of a drug & alcohol problem". Because, well... fucking scorpions, right? For a few years, every time we'd go to visit my parents we'd have scorpion encounters. And folks, them fuckers are scary. One time Mrs. TK found one in the shower. In the shower. Where you're basically at your most vulnerable, other than on the toilet. Another time, I was coming out of the shower, walked into the bedroom, and one was in the middle of the floor. It stopped, spun around, and raised it's pincers and tail up and just stood there. It was like a Mexican standoff between a poisonous arachnid and a man in a towel. We caught it in a jar, and just left it there to suffocate to death, then dumped it down the garbage disposal. Because I ain't fucking around with something like that. Especially when it gets into the house. All creatures great and small my ass.

I just realized that Cape Town has some dangerous goddamn wildlife. I've encountered scorpions, venomous snakes, poisonous jellyfish, and baboons. Not to mention that it has one of the most robust populations of Great White Sharks in the world. And to think my parents once tried to persuade me to move back there. I mean, let's compare:

Suburban Massachusetts:




Aaaaand Cape Town:





I can't for the life of me figure out why I haven't moved back.

Anyway. The war on wasps commences this evening. Watch out!

The sound of people chasing money, and money getting away

Well, since the resume posts seem to be quite popular, and since I am nothing but a whore for your attention, I figured we'd move to the next logical phase in the process...

Interviews!

I never really thought I'd get to a point in my life where I'd be conducting interviews, but here I am. My department has had a rash of turnovers recently. In the last 12 months I've easily conducted 75 interviews. It's getting quite out of hand. But the advantage is (similar to when you're the candidate) you learn more and more about the process, and how to do it well, as you do more of them.

And I've had some doozies. I've had brilliant interviews, ones where the guy walked out of the room, and our HR Manager and I looked at each other and said "It's him. Everything else is going to be a formality". I've had ones where within 5 minutes I knew they weren't the one. And, of course, I've had some that after the person left, I regret to say, I was left in hysterical laughter. So here are some basic interview concepts that will keep me from going insane. Note, I'm leaving out the obvious ones, like "don't act crazy" and "don't show up drunk". Those, I assume, are no-brainers. Without further ado, 10 (hopefully) useful interview ideas:

1. Dress neatly. I know, I know. I'm not saying you should be decked out in Kenneth Cole, but you shouldn't look like you slept in your suit and then rolled down a hill, either. And I know it's not fair since I'm usually not wearing a tie, but suck it up. Oh and ease up on the fucking cologne/perfume, ok? God, this shit drives me insane. You're going for a job interview, not trying to get laid. And I need a property manager, not a French hooker. . . And my final gripe on smells - please recognize that on very hot days, it will smell even stronger. Which mean that if you douse yourself in perfume on a 90 degree day, you will have what my friend Shane affectionately calls "that stripper smell. You know that smell - not quite dirty, not quite clean". And he means that in the way that a degenerate alcoholic means it. Which means it's not good. Also - smokers? Mints. Learn to love them. Ladies? Lipstick - take it easy, ok? And I know this is petty, and probably a peeve that only whackos like me have, but make sure it doesn't get on your teeth. Because I have the attention span of a guppy and once I see it, I won't notice anything else.

2. Shut the fuck up. I cannot stress this heavily enough. While I don't necessarily want a 3 word answer to every question, there is nothing I hate more than some goddamn blabbermouth who can't stop talking. And don't get carried away on the intros, either. Let the interviewers ask the questions. Answer them, give a couple of examples when appropriate. Don't segue into other subjects. Interviewers are looking for specific information about you, as well as a glimpse into your attitude and personality. So if you start to run your fucking mouth and hijack the interview, they will do what I do - completely shut down and start looking at my watch, because I already hate you and want to kill your entire family.

3. Don't lie. Seriously. Just don't. Embellish. That's fine. Exaggerate a bit. Hell, I did it to get this job. But outright lying is just dumb, especially since they're going to check your references. Be smart about it.

4. Don't talk about your family. This one is actually very important, for two reasons:

a) I don't fucking care. Really. I don't. I don't care if you're married or single. I don't care if you have no kids or twelve. I don't care if you're gay or straight. I.DON'T.FUCKING.CARE. If we decide to hire you, then maybe I'll start to care. But for interviews, it's irrelevant and can also get you into trouble because...

b) Full disclosure: Interviewers get nervous about people with kids. We're not supposed to. It's technically discrimination. But it happens. If you tell me you're a single parent raising
two kids, it's a flag. Because we immediately start thinking, "what if the kid gets sick? Is (s)he going to end up having to leave early too often?" I can't help it. If you've got a sick aunt who l lives with you, for fuck's sake DON'T mention it. You might as well just come out and say, "I'd love this job, but my life's a fucking wreck and I'm gonna use all my sick time in a hurry because ADD Andy and Sick Aunty Suzy are making my existence hell." So just shut up about it, and let your employer learn after you're hired and Andy and Suzy are eating up health benefits.

5. Along similar lines - don't talk about your pets, your hobbies, your fantasies, unless we ask. Me personally? I'm not gonna ask. I'm not looking for a date.

6. If, near the end of the interview, they ask if you have questions - ASK QUESTIONS. Think of some beforehand, jot them down. But please don't get carried away and ask a dozen questions, and don't constantly refer to notes. And for fuck's sake, ask smart questions. Asking about benefits is fine, and it's not going to annoy me (which is a shock, I'm sure, since as you can probably tell - EVERYTHING annoys me). But ask about the company/organization. Ask if the interviewers like their jobs. Ask how long they've worked there. Because the truth is, people love to talk about themselves. This gives the interviewers a chance to blather on a bit, especially since they've been listening to you mouth off for 40 minutes. It also shows a genuine interest beyond the pay and the bennies. If it's a specific industry, ask a couple of specific questions - my favorite so far was the one who asked how we've been affected by the recent prorations and shortfalls and whether we think the SEVRA bill is a good idea. It might not mean shit to you readers, but believe me, it made me smile. That guy automatically gets put near the top of the pile.

7. Be patient, grasshopper. You're gonna be asked a bunch of really dumb fucking questions. Some interviews are terminally dull. I try to avoid this, but it's hard. The advantage I have now is that me and my partner-in-interviewing have worked out a good rhythm, and we know what the other is interested in. I try to leave out the stupid questions. No "where will you be in 5/10/15 years", no "how are your computer skills?" to anyone under the age of 30. I don't ask about your greatest weakness, because you're gonna fucking lie about it anyway. I've been asked that a dozen times. What am I going to say? "I blog when I'm bored?" "My desk looks like it's been attacked by wild dogs?" "I masturbate furiously in the supply closets?" "I lie constantly and outrageously?" No, you're gonna say some dumb shit, like "I'm a perfectionist". And since I know this in advance, I skip the question all together. But you will get some stupid ones. Try not to show your frustration, smile, and give it your best bullshit answer. Incidentally, "I'm a perfectionist" is a bad idea. You motherfucking suck-up.

8. It's OK to be funny - within reason. It's OK to be clever and witty. Just don't use the interview as an audience for your burgeoning stand-up career. Don't get carried away. But if you can make them smile and laugh a bit, that is a huge plus. As long is the humor isn't inappropriate... I had a guy who was talking about his staff and said this: "So then I usually have the girl who works for me - ah, you guys aren't gonna accuse me of sexual harassment 'cuz I called her girl, are you?" Jesus. That was pretty much all I needed to hear. Ironically, that guy was referred to us by a City Councillor. We later found out that he'd been fired from his last job for... drum-roll... sexual harassment! Anyway, no off-color jokes, and keep it under control.

9. Don't be an asshole. Sounds simple, no? Well, there's a fine line between sounding confident in your abilities, and sounding like a cocky shithead. And nobody likes a cocky shithead. Don't overwhelm them with tales of battlefield glory. Sound like you've got the tools, and you've got the talent. But NOT like you want to take the place over.

10. Don't panic when I put my hand on your thigh. OK, fine I only have nine tips. Whatever. Bite me.

The truth is, interviewing is like trying to pick up girls (or guys)*. You want to look nice. You're going to exaggerate a little, you want to show off a little, and make them laugh, and you want to impress them. But you don't want to sound like an arrogant asshole, and you don't want to say things that are either obviously untrue, or can easily be proven false. And try not to smell like a whore. And I swear to God, any guy that comes into my office smelling like any kind of body spray gets thrown out the window.

Actually, it can pretty much be summed up here.



Additional tips are found here:




Good luck, everyone. I'm sure everyone is now glad that they don't work with me.

*It should be noted that I couldn't pick up a woman if you pointed a gun at my head. My wife basically had to hit me in the head to get me to pursue her. So while my interview advice is sound, my dating advice is probably shit.

workin' man blues

Resume idiocy of the day:

Personal:

1. Married 22 years. Son in college, daughter - a sophmore (sic) in high school.
2. Enjoy fine dining, city walks, kayaking
3. Tai Chi

Q: Why does this gentleman think I give a shit about his family?
A: Because he is an idiot.

Look, it doesn't necessarily hurt your resume. But it doesn't help, either. So why put it there? So you can make your resume look longer, that's why.
-------------------------------------------------------------------

Then, we have this one. From the cover letter:

"With my construction back round experience"... (I don't even know what the hell that means.)

"With multi-tasking (grrr...) being daily and maintaining staffing I have what it takes with both hands on and the technical knowledge to get the job done along with Good Communication and Good Management Skills."

First off, why does this man hate punctuation so? What did it do to him? Was he mistreated by the comma as a child? Second of all, what's with the excessive capitalization and underlining? And third, do yourself a favor and read this out loud. It barely makes any sense. And finally, what is so hard about the word "background"? "Back round experience" sounds like something you put in a sex ad.

Oh, just fucking shoot me.

Hope everyone had a good holiday. Now BACK TO WORK, you layabouts!

Wastin' Away On The Streets Of Philadelphia

Well, the Philly trip was a success... if by success you mean a drunken mess.

Let's start with a list, shall we?

• Time it took to get to Philly: 6 hours
• Time it took to get back: 5 1/2 hours
• Total number of miles driven: approximately 700
• Number of times I took a wrong turn: two
• Number of songs I listened to: about 150.

Note: I'm an obsessive freak. The night before I left, instead of oh, say, packing, I stayed up until 1AM making a playlist for my iPod. Yes, it took me 3 hours. Yes, it is a playlist with 268 songs on it. But I figured I wanted to choose the best tracks, have it be long enough to get me there and back, and take into account possible traffic delays. So I created a 19 hour long playlist, spanning all genres. I know, I have a problem. It's a good goddamn list though.

• Number of times I stopped: Once, each way (more on this later)
• Number of beers I drank over the weekend: Um... a lot?
• Number of shots: One. My mom may have raised me crazy, but she didn't raise no suicide.
• Number of baseball games I watched: 3 (2 Phillies games, 2 Red Sox games)
  
• Number of games I listened to: 1 (Red Sox)
  
• Of those games, the number of games where the home team won: One. GODDAMNIT!
• Number of cheesesteaks I ate: 2 (oof!)
  

Anyway, that's the boring stuff out of the way.

Let's talk about the break I took. I tried desperately to drive all the way down there without stopping, because I didn't want to get in too late. But since I can't drive anywhere without guzzling iced tea, eventually the pressure in my groinal area became too much. Plus, I was getting hungry. So I'm cruising down 684 in Connecticut, and finally I give in. I see a sign on the side of the highway that says "Burger King, Dunkin' Donuts, exit 4". So I think - sweet! Burger King has a bathroom, and burgers, two things I need right now. Perfect, right?

Right?

Fuck no.

Here's a rule: If you're going to put a sign up by the highway advertising food, or gas, or any type of service... it should be visible right after you exit the highway.

Because I had to go to the bathroom. Real bad. And this Burger King? I drove for TEN MILES without seeing it. There were signs every 3 or 4 miles that said Burger King, straight ahead! And guess what? NO FUCKING BURGER KING. So now I'm driving through some dipshit little town in the middle of the worst state in New England (note: Connecticut sucks. It blows. It sucks and blows. It's nothing but endless highway, white trash, casinos and Yankees fans. It's a fucking nightmare. They should just pave the whole goddamn thing). I am losing my mind. The need to pee, coupled with my fury at this town for falsely advertising a Burger King, and I'm about to park the car in the middle of the road and knock someone out. And then pee on them.

Finally, I find a Dunkin' Donuts. I bolt out of the car, use their bathroom before I reach critical mass. I've now given up on the Burger King, so I figure I'll get a bagel and get out of there. And then this conversation takes place:

Store Employee: Can I help you?
TK: Yes, may I have an onion bagel with cream cheese on it?
SE: Toasted?
TK: No, just plain, with the cream cheese on it.
SE: Do you want the cream cheese on the side?
TK: ... No. I'd like the cream cheese on it.
SE: You want the cream cheese on the bagel?
TK: (urge... to kill... rising) Yes. Please.
SE: Would you like the bagel toasted?

And I turned around and walked out, without another word. It was either that or I'm posting this from prison after getting arrested for beating someone to death with a toaster. Only Connecticut could make me hate the greatest chain restaurant ever. Because while I love me some Dunkies, but this one I wanted to firebomb. So I just got back in the car and tore ass out of that town, while roaring "THIS IS THE WORST TOWN IN AMERICA! I HATE YOU ALL!"

Anyway. We didn't get to go to the Phillies game on Saturday, because it was sold out. I know, I was surprised too. But there it is. A Phillies game sold out. The words looks weird when you put them together, don't they? Instead we went to a bar in Conshohocken (just outside of Philly) and watched them lose to the Mets. And in doing so, I got to reacquaint myself with just how miserable Philly fans are. I forget sometimes. I forget that when my wife gives up on a season after two innings, or when my friend Bret goes on a rampage after six games of a 156 games season, that it's not just them. It's everyone. My God, it's depressing. Philly fans are like abused dogs. They just get kicked around, but they keep coming back for more. I told one guy at the bar that I was from Boston, and his response?

"What's it like? Winning, I mean. What's it like? Fuck, man, it must be wonderful, huh? God, I wish..."

And he was being completely sincere. I thought he was going to start crying. It was like describing water to a man dying of thirst. I legitimately felt bad for them. I wanted to put him out of his misery. I felt like George at the end of Of Mice and Men, talking to Lenny.

"Tell me 'bout the rabbits, George?"

BLAM!

Anyway, the trip was a good one. I think I successfully cheered my friend up, if only for a few days. I had lunch with the in-laws, which is always fun. I brought home some locally brewed beers, though I did break one bottle. But it's good to be back.

Smithers, release the hounds!

I know, I know. But it's only because someone asked. So screw you, Dustin. That goes for you too, Meg.






I don't know why they look so forlorn in some of these. Maybe it's because we whip them regularly and mercilessly, and lock them in a closet all day.





***Interview update***

Only two today, both actually went quite well. I'll probably call both of them back.

BUT: I swear to fucking God, the next person who tells me "I'm a people person!" or some variation thereof? Gets thrown down a flight of stairs.

Finally - tomorrow's the drive to Philly. I'm planning on leaving work around 4:00, going 90 West to 84 to 684 to 287 to the Tappan Zee, then 87 to the GSP. Unless anyone has a better idea. It's gonna be a parking lot, I know. So I'm open to ideas.

Don't tease me about my hobbies. I don't tease you about being an asshole.

All right, you ravenous beasts. To keep this rowdy lot quiet, I am vowing to post every day this week*. And I vow that every post will be as clever and insightful as is humanly possible**.

But dammit, I'm having too much fun these days, which is not something I get to say often. The weekend was fantastic - Friday night was an impromptu part-ay at a friends awesome pad in East Boston, which has a great view of Boston Harbor. Saturday we had friends over for an excellent bbq dinner, prepared by yours truly. Sunday was working around the house, with a great walk in the woods with Mrs. TK and one of the dogs (three-legged beagles aren't so good with the hiking, so she stayed home). And Monday was some more working on the house, and a beautiful canoe trip on Lake Cochituate (Ahh, Massachusetts - land of fucked up Indian names). Why did I go canoing on Monday, you ask? Because I took the day off - aw yeah... Perfect weather, fun activities, and a little bit of home improvement. Not bad, I say. Not bad at all.

But the week has blogging potential. This weekend I'm driving to Philly to console (read: get drunk with) a friend whose stripper girlfriend recently went psycho on him. A weekend of boozing, a Phillies-Mets game, and horrific traffic.

But best of all, Thursday and Friday are prime blogging material - that's right, kiddies - INTERVIEWS!!! I'm interviewing 7 people over those two days, and hopefully there will be a mix of good candidates (who will make my life easier) and crazy ones (to amuse y'all). Last time I interviewed I had a guy who was fired from his last job for sexual harassment and racial profiling, a woman who literally talked non-stop, to the point that I actually only asked two questions in 45 minutes, and a guy who I'm pretty sure showed up drunk.


So good stories shall abound.

So I promise to provide y'all with more material in the coming days. ***


* Not true
** A bald-faced lie.
*** Not bloody likely.

Everything means nothing to me

So, obviously my blog appears to be in a state of decline. I looked at my number of posts per month and there appears to be a steady decrease since January. What can I say... I'm not that creative. But then again, it's summertime, and as I said, my summers are dedicated to being outside and enjoying myself. And there's little to bitch/blog about, which seems to be my forte. I mean, here are my activities so far this summer:

Drinking
Barbecuing
Napping in the hammock
Mowing the lawn
Taking the dog swimming
Boating
Fishing
Sitting in the sun

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not much to complain about, is there?

So in the interest of feeding you goddamn jackals, I'll take the lazy route and do one of my favorite activities - keyword analysis! I know, fuckin' yee-ha, right?

So here we go... search terms that brought people here:

1. Uncooked Meat - OK, starting out normally enough.
2. Paragraph on my worst job - Obviously refers to this post.
3. Satan - Wow, people, narrow your search terms a little, huh. Otherwise you stumble across things like this.
4. There is no normal life... there is only life - Apparently someone else is a Tombstone fan as well.
5. barbaro crazy nuts - hmmm, what could this be about?
6. mike patton paedophilia - HEY! That's my boy you're talking about. Libelous fuckers.
7. deus ex malcontent - that's just weird. I don't even know what the hell that means. Some lunatic, probably.
8. septic truck massachusetts shit - again with the shitty jobs.
9. video head of a golden retriever - yup, got that.
10. cambridge bbq porch law - no clue.
11. will i get hired if i'm pregnant - not by me, you won't. I'm kidding, of course. Sort of.
12. the feel of uncooked pork - eww...
13. signs of uncooked meat - what the hell? who has so many questions about raw meat? In all honesty, the title of the blog doesn't have anything to do with meat.
14. father trucker spank belt - There it is. There's always one fucking creepy term. Last time it was "wife passed out pics". This time it's... well, it's creepy is what it is. But my guess is they found this post.
------------------------------------

By the way - I'm still looking through resumes. The sentence of the week is: "First, I have four year as a result, oriented, professional, and, team, player in the admin assist environments."

I didn't edit that at all, by the way. OK, so, couple of things:
1. If you write "first", I am expecting there to be a "second". There was not.
2. Don't abbreviate things in your cover letter. Just don't.
3. ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING COMMAS!

Also, please don't EVER use the word "vast". As in, "I have a vast knowledge of the field of..." Because you don't. I've been doing this for eight years and I don't have a vast knowledge. If you've been working at a bookstore, but you live near homeless people, you don't have a "vast knowledge" of the problem of homelessness, ok? But I now have a vast knowledge of what a dumbass you are.

Whew. Good to have that off my chest. Have a great weekend, kids.

Until Morale Improves, The Beatings Will Continue

Here's one of those posts where I make myself sound like a raging asshole.

I'm hiring. Anyone need a job?

So my department has a couple of job openings. Which leads to one of my all-time favorite activities - resume reading! Never before have I participated in an activity which is simultaneously so awful and hilarious. Funny and infuriating. I'm consistently amazed at what people will put in a resume.

Here's the thing. Resumes are important. Particularly if you're looking for a professional job. I mean, if you're looking to get hired at the local Quickie Mart, then no, they don't have to look that good. But if you want a career, particularly one in a field as specific as mine (low-income housing), then you need to put a little effort into it. By the way, it's important to note that these are not entry level positions that we're looking for.

It's not helped by the fact that I'm hyper-critical of resumes. Here are a few things that will, unless there are some really good extenuating circumstances, get your resume automatically stuck at the bottom of the pile:

1. Spelling errors. People. Come on now. You type your resume on a computer. Your computer has a spell checker. USE THE FUCKING THING. This isn't a goddamn aintitcool forum, or your blog (ahem).
2. Type-O's. Nothing displays your inherent laziness more than typographical errors on your resume.
3. Mass-mailed resumes that aren't customized for the position you're applying for. This doesn't mean I don't think you should use the same resume for a variety of fields. But if you are going to do so, and you are applying for a job in, say, property management, you should probably NOT type "looking to find a position in legal advocacy requiring strong research and communication". Because that doesn't make any goddamn sense and you sound like a moron.
4. Excessive corporate jargon. I get it. You're a team player. You work in a fast-paced environment and like to multi-task and are multi-faceted and do a bunch of other multi-related shit. First, shut the fuck up. Second, get a thesaurus and use some original terminology. I swear, there are about 10 "resume terms" out there - multi-faceted, fast-paced environment, multi-tasking, work as part of a team, able to work independently, motivated, strong interpersonal skills, et fucking cetera. And it annoys me to no end when someone uses every. single. one, without actually telling me what they've done, and what they can do. Look, there are millions of people who can multi-task, OK? It's not like being able to fly a fighter jet. It's fine if you want to state that you're multi-taskilicious. But just spend a little bit of ink telling what real, actual skills you have, things you've accomplished.



I know, alright? I know I sound like an asshole. But I can't help myself. My theory is this: You are looking for a job. You want to impress the people who you might potentially work for. This simple sheet of paper is all they have for you to demonstrate why they should invite you in. So shouldn't you do everything within your power to show them, on that piece of paper, that you're smart and capable and have something that separates you from the rest of the pack?

I was looking at resumes and I swear to God there was someone who misspelled "education". I'm not making that up. So fine, it was a minor mistake. But if you're going to misspell something like that, on something as important as your resume, what does that say about how you're going to do going forward? You want to show me your attention to detail? Try spelling "detail" correctly, you fucking ignoramus. And no, I didn't make that one up either.

Oh, here are two more things that bug me:

5. People who try for funny. That may work if you're applying for a job at Second City, or at a record store, but not in an office.
6. Know your limits. If the position asks for 10 years of experience in a specific field, and you've been working at the Gap for the last 18 months and before that you finished your BA in Basket Weaving, maybe you need to look elsewhere. While we're at it, please don't tell me what high school you went to. I don't care. In fact, I barely care where you went to college, as long as you've got the right experience. Assuming you're not looking for a job as a doctor or lawyer or architect, where you went to college and what your GPA was matters for your first couple of jobs, and then? Not so much. I also don't care if you enjoy rock-climbing or origami.

Anyway. Sorry to rant. I know this may hold the record for most boring and non-blogworthy post, but I had to get it off my chest. So to lighten the mood a little more, and sound a little bit more like a raving dickhead, here are some of the funnier things I've found on resumes or cover letters:

• Someone wrote that because they live near Boston, they have a "good sense of the problems of the inner city." Where do they live? Chestnut Hill, one of the wealthiest and whitest areas in Eastern Massachusetts. Look, I don't care if you live in Chestnut Hill or in a van down by the river. Just don't bullshit me.
• "I have extensive supervisory skills. In my last job, I fired six people". Great, just what this agency needs - a trigger-happy shithead who's proud of firing people.
• "I'm an enthusiast person." Riiiight.
• "I'm a quike leaner." Super. I've been looking for a quike leaner.
• "Interests: reading, my cats." Um... the day I put the fact that I have pets on my resume? Kill me.
• Quick advice: If you're going to address the cover letter to a specific person, it behooves you to spell that person's name correctly. Just a thought.
• Another bit of advice - if your email address is sexxxygurrrl6969@aol.com... you may want to use a different email account. Again, not a deal-breaker, but it is a little weird.
  
• "I have excellent oral skills." God, do I wish I was making that up. No, I did not interview her, despite my co-worker's wishes.
  
• "I have applied for a position at your company five times and never been asked for an interview. This saddens me deeply and I feel I deserve a chance." Boo. Fucking. Hoo. There's a hint in there somewhere. Maybe, if you look hard enough, you'll find it.
• "While I have no experience in your particular field, I feel that my experience as a medical assistant gives me the skills I would need." Really? That's weird, because I'm confident that I am in NO WAY qualified to be a medical assistant.

I've got a million more, but I have to get back to the stack of resumes. And yes, I realize the irony inherent in blogging while I'm looking for a good employee. Shut it.


I promise my next post will have less bitchy snarkiness.

There is no normal life. There's just life.

Yeah, so I haven't written anything in a while. I'd love to say it's because I've been monumentally busy*, but that's just not true. The truth is that once the weather breaks, I spend as much time as possible outside - I stop watching TV, stop goofing off on the computer (for the most part), and just bask in sunny goodness as much as I can. Fortunately, I even have a job that demands I spend a fair amount of time outside. But my weekends are now devoted to barbecues, baseball games, and mowing the lawn.

But I've been thinking about something for a while. It struck me a few days ago... I was sitting on my back porch, sipping the first of a few beers, watching the dogs wrestle on the lawn and listening to the Red Sox on the radio, with the sounds of suburbia in the background. It was a picture of tranquility. It was almost heavenly. And something popped into my head...

"How the hell did my life come to this?"

It's really sort of bizarre. I mean, I spent a good deal of my life growing up in a suburb just outside of Boston, wishing to get out of there, wanting desperately to live in the city. I went to college in Madison, Wisconsin. Not a bustling urban mecca exactly, but not a corn field in Iowa either. I lived in Boston, in Cambridge, in Philadelphia. I loved the city. From the age of 15 to 22 my life consisted of school, punk rock shows and extensive and varied drug use. For god's sake I used to have purple hair, four piercings and buy my clothes exclusively at the Army-Navy store. I went to grungy bars and drank myself senseless on a regular basis, while sporting Misfits t-shirts and Minor Threat posters on my walls.


Now? I live on a street so quiet that it's almost eerie. I turn the radio in my car down when I turn onto my street because I don't want to bother the neighbors. I fret over my lawn. I get annoyed at my neighbor when he doesn't do something about his dandelion problem. My idea of a great night is a barbecue with my wife, followed by a quiet drink on the porch while listening to a baseball game. I avoid loud bars like the plague, and I've been to 2 concerts in the last ten years. For fuck's sake, the kids down the street come over routinely so they can play in my back yard with my dogs. What the hell? Ten years ago, I'd have said that letting your kids come to my house was a surefire way to begin their descent into hell. I have a garage full of equipment for maintaining my yard. I chat with the neighbors about schools and property values. I have a career. Jesus, I have employees. Don't these people know that I'm basically a completely irresponsible fuckup masquerading as a grown-up?



I mean seriously... what the fuck?

Because here's the thing. I was sitting there that night, all this stuff clanging around in my head, thinking that I was on the verge of a pre-mid-life crisis, wherein I'd freak out and quit my job and drive across country or end up flying to Singapore and dying in a haze of opium and transvestites (oops... sorry Matt).

I feel like I should have been pacing the cage like a wild animal. But instead, I simply took another sip of my beer, put my feet up, and listened to the final innings with a big grin on my face.


*quick, name the movie!

Good Music is Good For You, Part VI

So I'm in kind of a weird mood today. I've been sick all week, which has been miserable. I missed a day and a half of work, mainly due to the one-two punch of my wife and my boss both berating me into staying home. It's been kind of a crappy week, it's rained a lot. Not much going well except for the Red Sox winning (note: I have been doing everything in my power not to write about the Sox because I know it annoys the hell out of some people, but sometimes shit slips through).

Anyway, that was a pointless introduction, especially since this is a music post. But I just wanted to set the mood a little, since this is one of those music posts where the two artists are radically different from each other.


First is a recent discovery, William Elliott Whitmore. Part blues, part country, this guy has a remarkable voice and some serious guitar and banjo skills. The banjo is an instrument I never really appreciated until a guitar playing friend of mine explained just how damn hard it is to play. He's an Iowa boy who's got the kind of whiskey-and-cigarettes voice that, when used properly, can really move you (very reminiscent of Tom Waits). What's perhaps the most surprising is that he's pretty young - I couldn't track down a birth date, but he's definitely still in his 20's, I'd guess. This is a live track (he doesn't have any videos), and it's sometimes dark and hard to make out... but hopefully you'll get the point. The song is called "Lift My Jug (Song for Hub Cale)", from his album Ashes to Dust.





Next is Lovage. Now, I've already spoken about my man-crush on Mike Patton, possibly one of the weirdest, and most talented, musicians alive today. Lovage is one in a long line of projects he's worked with, including but not limited to Faith No More, Tomahawk, Mr. Bungle, and The Dillinger Escape Plan.

Lovage is a trio of talents made up of Patton, singer Jennifer Charles, and Japanese-American hip-hop producer/DJ Dan the Automator. It is a singularly bizarre combination of talents, and what comes out is fascinating stuff - a weird, noir-ish mix of sultry vocals and scratchy, yet smooth beats and music. This is "Book of the Month", off the brilliantly titled album, Music To Make Love To Your Old Lady By.

Still crazy after all these years...

Since I seem to be unable to write unless I'm stealing other people's ideas recently, let's continue the trend. Meg, over at Hobocamp, recently wrote about how she recently had her bag searched on the NYC subway. Fortunately, she had no contraband on her person, so she ended up fine (sigh of relief). But continuing in that vein, I figured I'd talk about one of the two times I was almost arrested by Homeland Security. Note: this story is going to seem pretty crazy, but I swear every word is true.

The time: December, 2001, 3 scant months after 9/11.
The place: LaGuardia International Airport, New York, New York.

Three months after September 11th, my sister and I were flying to Cape Town to visit our parents. It was, as you can somewhat expect, a pretty tense scene. In addition to the fact that the entire country was still pretty shaken up after the terrorist attacks on the WTC, airports were just a complete nightmare.

Now, I've talked before about how, due to the number of random ethnicities running around in my family, it's hard to pin down what ethnic group I belong to if you don't know me. Let's just say that being a somewhat dark-skinned person walking through LaGuardia three months after 9/11 was something of an adventure. I knew it was going to happen, and decided in advance that I was just gonna suck it up and accept that I was going to get searched. I made my peace with it, and began my journey.

When our taxi pulled up the airport, I was searched before I even got into the terminal. Then I was searched in the ticket line. Still, I was pleasant, non-confrontational and simply kept my mouth shut and took my medicine. I was searched when I went through the security line. Finally, bags checked, ticket in hand, we were in the terminal. My sister was a little shocked at both the level of security and the number of times I got searched. Of those three times, one of them was just a bag search, and two of them were a bag search coupled with a pat-down. Between leaving the security lines and getting to our gate, I was searched two more times - one pat-down, one bag search.

OK. So, yes, it was getting a little old. I felt that I had pretty much fulfilled my civic duty about two searches ago. But still, I answered the questions, succumbed to the searches, and was pleasant, patient and cooperative. Finally, we're at the gate. We're getting a little antsy because a) we're about to embark on a 22 hour plane ride, b) we're excited to see our parents, and c) I'd just finished being searched FIVE TIMES in two hours. But we're ok. A little goofy, but OK.

Let's interrupt for a second and briefly discuss my sister and I. I'm a little weird, perhaps a little crazy. My sister, being a theater major and now an actor and director in NYC theater, is verrry dramatic, and probably crazier than I am. When we're together (which is not very often)... we get a little nutty. OK, fine, a LOT nutty. We goof off a lot, we get kind of hysterical. We've been holding it in, reining in our inner whacko for a good few hours now. We're reaching critical mass. Imagine a six-foot-two, 200 pound dork and his six-foot, slightly smaller lunatic sister doing everything they can not to burst at the seams in craziness. If we don't get to act silly soon, someone's gonna get hurt. But for now, we're keeping it together.

Finally, they announce that our plane is boarding. We're getting antsier. We're in the little tunnel leading to the plane door. And... I get stopped again. For the sixth time. I take a deep breath, and hand over my carry-on bag. And we go through the drill with the little security man:
Security Man: Excuse me, may I see your bag?
TK's Sister: Oh, Jesus.
TK: It's fine. Certainly, sir.
He begins rummaging through it, asking questions.
SM: Do you have any knives?
TK: No, sir.
SM: Any nail clippers?
TK: No, sir.
SM: Any corkscrews?
TK: No.
SM: Any nail files?
TK: NO.
SM: Any batteries?
TK: N0... wait, what?
SM: Any batteries?
TK: Oh. Um... yes.
SM (getting serious): I see. Will you show them to me?
TK: Really? OK. They're in the front pocket.
Note - this was before Ipods, so I had only my crappy discman, which used two AA batteries in about 3 hours. Bear in mind, this is, counting flight time, layovers, etc., a roughly 30 hour trip. I had a shit-ton of batteries.
SM finds the batteries, looks at them intently.
SM: I'm going to have to confiscate them.
TK: What?
TKS: Why?
SM: For security reasons.

And here is where the dam starts to break...

TKS: That doesn't make any sense.
SM: Ma'am...
TK: Yeah, why can't I have batteries?
SM: Sir...
TKS: They're for his discman - what's he supposed to do without them?
SM: Ma'am...

Now we start crossing the street to Crazytown...

TK: Yeah, what am I supposed to do? How are they a security risk? What am I gonna do, THROW THEM AT THE PILOT?
TKS: This is ridiculous! NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT BATTERIES! HE'S BEEN SEARCHED FIVE TIMES AND NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT BATTERIES!
TK: WHY CAN'T I HAVE MY BATTERIES! I NEED A REASON, DAMMIT!!!!


At this time, all the people streaming past us are starting to notice. We're officially making a scene.

SM: Sir! Ma'am! Um...
TKS: See all these people walking by? See that guy? And that guy? And that woman right there? ALL OF THEM HAVE BATTERIES! WHY ARE YOU TAKING OURS?! WHAT IS THIS BULLSHIT!

We're now the mayors of Crazytown. We're closing in on this little security man, who is easily 7 inches shorter than us, and realizing he has a couple of mentals on his hands.

SM: OK! OK! Fine! You can keep them! Please, just keep them and go!
TK: FINE! THANK YOU!
TKS: *panting, gasping*

So there you go. Somehow, despite throwing a complete crazy-fit in front of a security person, three months after 9/11, we avoided sharing a cell in Gitmo.

But wait! The story ain't over. So we get to the plane, and we are still living in Crazytown. I, in particular, am freaking out. I'm shaking after the encounter in the tunnel. We sit down, and I'm trying to get my shit together. And failing. My sister is starting to come down, so she tries to get me to calm down.
TK: Christ, I'm wigging out here.
TKS: Honey, just relax. Here, I brought these pills, they're supposed to help you calm down.
She shakes one out, gives it to me, shakes one out for herself.
TK: What?! JUST ONE?! Fuck, look at me!
I take the pill, glug down some water, pass her the water.
TK: I'm fucked up here, sis. I'm seriously losing my shit. Look, I'm shaking, I'm fucking sweating. I'M - I'M HAVING NIGHT TERRORS!!!!!!

And here, ladies and gentlemen, is where the wheels really come off. My sister is halfway into swallowing her water, and after hearing me screech about "night terrors" (night terrors?), she cracks up, and promptly sprays water out of her mouth, and right. onto. the. bald. head. of. the. man. in. front. of. her. Which blasts off his head, and showers the people next to, and in front of, him. I swear I am not making this up.

Bedlam. Absolute fucking bedlam on the plane. People start yelling, the guy in front of us is in a rage, and my sister and I are now on our knees in front of our seats, clutching our stomachs, crying, because we are laughing so hard, it's physically painful. We have lost all capacity for rational thought. All the craziness that's been bubbling up inside of us for the last four hours just exploded out of her mouth, and we are off the goddamn chains. We're dying. And we somehow think that ducking behind the seats will save us. We cannot. stop. laughing. And crying.

The plane starts to move. People settle down. We slowly get our shit back together. And for the entire 22 hour flight, no one speaks to us. No one looks at us. We're like two lepers on the flight. It's brutal.

Believe it or not, there is more to this story. 10 days later, we're at a shopping mall with my parents (in Cape Town). My sister and I are goofing off, wandering through the halls, when my sister freezes. Paralyzed. I stop, ask her what's wrong... and look in the direction she is staring.

It's the bald guy. From the plane. The guy she spat water on. He turns, sees us, does a double take, and then points at us and roars: "YOU WERE ON THE PLANE!!!!"

My sister? She just turns and fucking bolts. She runs faster than I've ever seen her run. As for me? What choice do I have? I turn and just hightail it after her, and don't slow down until we're outside.

Yeah. Like I said, my sister and I don't see each other very often. Perhaps now you can understand why.

No thanks to the treadmill, no thanks to the grindstone

First of all, run over and read this. Then, we'll talk.

Litelysalted inspired me - let's talk about all the shit jobs we've worked. No one out there has made it through their lives without working a couple of absolutely awful jobs. So I'm issuing a challenge. Write a post about your worst jobs, and link it in either of our comments sections for all to see. And we can see who's had it the worst (though LS will be tough to beat - cleaning gas station bathrooms using toilet water? Using rotten chicken for chicken salad? I mean... seriously?).

So here we go:

1. When I was 16 I worked at a coffee shop. A really ritzy, fancy coffee shop in a really ritzy, fancy shopping mall. It was the ideal job for a bitter, constantly-high kid with purple hair and a disaffected attitude who wanted nothing more than to just go home, eat a pile of mescalin and listen to The Clash's Combat Rock on repeat. Constant abuse from the snobby rich, as well as constant criticism about my appearance from my boss. The highlight was this exchange with a customer.
TK: Welcome to Beans. Can I help you?
Dickhead: COD?
TK:? What?
DH: C - O - D! (in a "god, you're stupid" voice)
TK: Cod? Fish? What?
DH: C.O.D.!! Coffee Of the Day! You do work here, don't you? Guess you don't need to be smart, huh?
(Let's pause for a moment. If there was ever a way to guarantee that the staff will spit in your coffee, this is absolutely it. Just a word of advice.)
TK: Sorry, sir.
**makes coffee, spits in it**
TK: Have a nice day.

Yeah, I got fired eventually.

2. In college, I worked at a small machine parts assembly line. Basically, imagine a small piece of metal with a tiny hole in it. And imagine there is a tiny wooden peg, that kind of fits in that hole. Now imagine 200,000 pieces of metal, and 200,000 wooden pegs. Imagine sitting in a poorly lit room with a DEAFENINGLY LOUD air conditioner that neither cooled, nor conditioned, the air. And putting the peg in the hole. TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND FUCKING TIMES. I lasted five weeks, and I'm positive it did more damage to my brain than all the alcohol, marijuana and hallucinogens I've ever done, combined.

3. Ah, the oft-mentioned college construction job. Every summer during college I worked for the Department of Public Works. This should actually be it's own post some day, because there are waaaaaay too many stories. This is also where the bulk of my scary work stories come from. But here are the highlights:

*I worked on a garbage truck. You wanna talk about smelly? Well, that's not the worst one.

*Because I also spent two weeks working on the sewer truck, aka "the shit truck". This is the truck that drives around fixing busted septic tanks and sewer pipes. It's... well, it's hell. It's a true, unblemished hell. My first day, we're driving around, we get a call. Mikey, the driver, looks at George, the other guy and says:
We got a call. Get the kid the glove.

The glove? Well, I already have gloves.

No. Not "a glove". "THE glove".

"The glove" is a thick rubber glove that goes up to your shoulder. In the interest of not driving you away screaming, I'll spare you further details. But I spent an afternoon in hip-waders and "the glove", swallowing my vomit back repeatedly. Use your imagination for the rest. And trust me when I tell you, whatever you're imagining? It was far, far worse than that.

*I also worked an asphalt paving crew. Because nothing is more fun that shoveling burning hot asphalt on a 90 degree day when you're hungover (what? I was 19. I was always hungover). Nothing beats blowing your nose and having it come out black. Nothing beats not caring about what you eat for lunch, because it all tastes like blacktop anyway.

*Oh, and - jackhammering? It's exactly as fun as it looks. Which is to say, you feel like a badass for the first 30 minutes. Then you feel like you're having a seizure. Then you feel numb. And deaf. And angry at your father.

4. And, of course, there was one professional job that sucked. It was a few years ago, when I lived in Philly. It had it's ups and downs. More downs, though. A few highlights:
*Arriving on my first day, asking for Miranda, my supervisor, and having the gum-cracking attitude beotch at the desk simply say: "she quit". Yes, my boss quit the week before. I asked what should I do? The answer? "I dunno. How should I know", and then she want back to reading the paper. Great way to start your first day in a new city.
*After being transferred to a new office in a less... desirable... part of town, I showed up for work one day to see a van come screeching to the curb and a full-blown S.W.A.T. team explode out the back door, spread out, and storm the house across the street. I mean, flak jackets, MP-5's, goggles, the whole bit.
*Finding yourself saying, on more than one occasion in the same week: "man, these motherfucking crackheads are really starting to piss me off", and having every. single. word be true.
*Having a supervisor who can't talk coherently or spell. Seriously. One time she sent me an email. It was one paragraph. I read it, then re-read it slowly. Then I printed it out and re-read it again. I had no idea what she was trying to say. I can't even tell you if she was asking me a question, or giving me a directive. It could have been a recipe for barbecued platypus, I have no idea.

I still think Litelysalted wins. But I've got some choice ones. So bring 'em out, kids. And Matt, despite it being a shit job, you're not allowed to list "attorney". Too obvious.

Mining is the most dangerous work
In our land today
Plenty of dirty, slaving work
For very little pay
Coalminers, won't you wake up,
And open your eyes and see
What this dirty capitalist system
Has done to you and me

From "Coalminers", by Uncle Tupelo, written by Sarah Ogan Gunning


UPDATE: Here are the other tales of woe in response to the Shitty Job Challenge:
Litelysalted
Hispanic! At The Disco
Slouchmonkey
Ranylt
My Taste in Wine Leans Towards Vodka
Girl With Curious Hair
Que Barbara Sera

Taste the pain

All I wanted was a sandwich.

But, me being me, nothing is quite so simple. I won't bore you with a recap of my weekend, suffice it to say that I did a lot of barbecuing. As a result, I have a pile of leftover barbeque in the fridge, which thrills me to no end. So tonight, home alone as Mrs. TK is working late, I decide "hey, let's have a sandwich using some of the wonderful pork loin". Mmm, sandwiches.

So I get some bread, some mayo, some cheese, and while innocently slicing the pork (and simultaneously completely spacing out), I basically saw off the tip of my left thumb. Yeah. Blood everywhere.

So now, since I'm a little bored, I figured I'd talk about something I've alluded to in the past. Namely, the fact that I am incredibly clumsy. I know, you're thinking, "oh TK, you exaggerate", because you're like my mother and begin all your sentences with "oh!". But believe me when I tell you that I am absolutely not exaggerating. I'm not clumsy because I severed off the tip of my thumb.

I'm clumsy because this is the third time I've done this. In the last five years.

So join me, friends, for a little journey down TK's Memory Lane of Pain. Here are some of the amazing feats of awkwardness and ineptitude that I have achieved in my 32 years:

• When I was five, I was spinning around in circles to make myself dizzy. As a result, I hit my head on a table, resulting in a gash above my eyebrow, stitches, and a scar that I bear to this day.
• When I was 10, I got so angry at my Nintendo that I slammed my fist into it, breaking the cover and tearing up my knuckles. Resulting in stitches.
• When I was 13, I was riding my bike to school. While going downhill, I hit the brakes too hard, went flying over the handlebars, slammed into a stop sign (and I mean the actual sign part), and broke my left wrist.
• 9 months later, I was running out of history class. I lost my balance, put my hand down to steady myself, but since my thumb was sticking out, I snapped my thumb. It was bent literally at a 90 degree angle. Yes, I broke my thumb in history class.
• When I was 14, three days before high school started, I was riding my bike to a friends house. My front breaks were a little too tight. So I, being the fucking Rhodes Scholar that I am, tried to kick the brake pads to loosen them. Instead, I got my foot stuck in the spokes and went flying over the handlebars (again). This time, I broke both the bones in my left forearm, broke my right shoulder blade, shredded the skin off both elbows and knees, and lost two teeth. Let's just say the first day of 9th grade was a little awkward.
• When I was 15, I tore up my knee taking out the trash. Apparently, there was some sort of sharp thing in the bag, it brushed up against my knee and next thing you know I'm in the hospital getting stitches.
• Again at 15 - one of my best friends had a fairly low ceiling in their stairwell. Not incredibly low - in fact, they've told me that no one else has ever hit their head on it. Not only did I once hit my head so hard that I almost blacked out, but they eventually had to re-plaster that section of ceiling because it was so badly damaged. From my forehead.
• Another time in high school, I was tapping on a window to shoo off a bug. I ended up putting my hand through the glass. Yep, more stitches.
• When I was a senior in high school, I went camping with some friends. Since all of them knew my reputation for damaging my own person, they gave me all the easy jobs, like gathering firewood. Right. While stomping on a branch to try to break it, it shot up and went right in my ear. Again, blood everywhere.
• During my college years, I worked construction over the summers. One such summer I was using a hammer and chisel, apparently a bit too vigorously. A piece of the hammer cracked off and shot into my arm, resulting in a tiny little hole and a stunning amount of blood. Again with the stitches.
• Before we moved to this house, I was in the basement of our apartment, doing the laundry. I hit my head on a pipe so hard that I just... landed on my ass. And briefly blacked out. It's hard to describe... imagine seeing someone just... violently sit down, then pass out. Oh, and it's because they hit their head so hard that they bit their tongue hard enough to draw blood.
• Last winter, I tried snowboarding. Without taking lessons. Result? Completely lose control (on the little kiddie hill), go flying ass over teakettle, and in an effort to break the fall, I put my hands out in front of me. I know, your thinking another broken arm, right? WRONG. Instead, I landed on my fists and cracked a rib. That's right, I broke my rib with my own fist. Which resulted in this conversation with my with my wife:

Me: Oh... God... it... hurts...
Her: laughing, she's having a great time
Me: Stop... laughing... not... kidding...
Her: laughter dying down... are you ok? Does it hurt?
Me: Only... when I... laugh... or talk... or... breathe...

• Last summer, while digging up the flagstones in my yard, I dropped one on my toe. Thankfully, no hospital trip was necessary.
• Also last summer, I slammed my car door on my own thumb. No reason. No distractions around. Just slammed the door shut, without thinking "hm, maybe I should move that big damn monkey-thumb out of the way". Tore the nail right the fuck off.

So there you go. Sadly, that's not even the complete list, but I figured I'd try to make you all feel better by showing you this little piece of my story. I hope you've enjoyed it. And sorry ladies, but I am off the market. You'll have to find the clumsy baboon of your dreams elsewhere. Sadly, I've now reached the point where unless I am in danger of actually dying, I skip going to the hospital. I'm just tired of going, you know?

Also, for those of you keeping score, yes. Yes, between the ages of 13 and 15, I broke five bones, lost two teeth and needed stitches twice. I used to think I was clumsy because I grew so quickly (in those same two years I went from 5'0" to 5'11"). But sadly, the future would prove this to be untrue. Basically, I think I should just wear a helmet and body armor full-time. Or wear one of these:


Yeah. Enjoy your day. And be careful out there.

Are you crazy? Is that your problem?

Martita Goshen, Interpretive Dancer - on Barbaro*:

"Barbaro was in many dimensions," she says. "He looked at the whole picture. That's why he had that stumble at the Derby. He was ahead of the moment. The Zen of that. That's dancing. For the rest of my life, I'll be working to move with that innocence." Many years ago on a voyage off the coast of San Diego, she came face to face with the eye of a whale. She saw all of humanity in that eye, the rise and fall of civilizations, love, hate, power, glory, ugliness, beauty, lies, truth. This realization has taken her all over the planet, trying to help save the creatures she holds dear by raising environmental awareness. ... "[Barbaro] a great messenger," she said. "He's the greatest dancer I've seen since Baryshnikov or Nureyev."

"I was just as terrified when I met Barbaro as when I met the Dalai Lama," she says.

I hope I speak for us all when I say:

IT'S. A. FUCKING. HORSE.

Sweet merciful crap, these people really need some goddamn perspective. Don't get me wrong - I love animals. I truly do. God knows I have enough of them wandering around the ole' Meat Factory (that may have come out wrong). But the level of anthropomorphism that has come about regarding Barbaro is absolutely insane. Much as Ms. Goshen is completely off her nut. Thousands starve and suffer and die across the globe, and you're comparing a horse to the Dalai Lama. I'm not saying that people need to dedicate their lives to helping the world, but there are certainly better fucking ways to spend your time than deifying a goddamn horse. For more Barbaro related lunacy, check out this video. I'm not embedding it because... well, because it's a Michael Bolton song and just saying his name makes me nauseous. But do me a favor and just read the comments on it. It's a terrifying glimpse into the minds of the seriously creepy.

*courtesy of ESPN, via Deadspin


That's more like it.