dopamine

I love Tabasco. I love how it tastes. I love how it burns. I love that it only has three ingredients.

I put Tabasco on everything. In soup, on rice, on eggs, in pasta, on salad, on french fries, burgers, hot dogs, Chinese, Mexican, Italian. Hell, if I could find the right flavor combination, I'd put it on ice cream. I don't just use a drop here and a drop there, either. I use tons of it. I use it the same way that people who love ketchup (never touch the stuff) use ketchup. I pour a little on my plate and dunk. I douse my food with it. The more of this stuff I can get in my mouth, the better it tastes.

On Saturday, Belinda and I went to brunch with her cousin Connie, Connie's husband Brett and Connie and Brett's baby Ursula. I got an omelet. Tabasco was on the table. Eggs and Tabasco are like peanut butter and chocolate, an inevitability. Needless to say, they made a comment about how much Tabasco I used.

On Friday, I went to lunch with my coworkers. I got a grilled chicken sandwich. Tabasco makes a crappy chicken sandwich worthwhile. Some wiseass coworker makes a comment on how I should take it intravenously. Fuck you!

It seems every time I go out to eat I get asked at least one of these questions, usually more:

Can you even taste your food anymore? Yes, I can taste just fine.
Doesn't it burn? No, it doesn't burn, it fucking tickles.
Are you sweating? Yes, I am sweating.
Can you pass the bottle of Tabasco? No, unless by "passing the bottle", you mean squirt some in your eyes.
I don't have Tabasco, I have some of this Louisiana hot sauce, will that do? No, it will not do. I asked you for FUCKING Tabasco. If I wanted Louisiana hot sauce, I'd have asked for Louisiana hot sauce, you stupid fucker.
The bottle is almost empty, did you use ALL that? YES, I fucking used all of that. It's not my fucking fault they put Tabasco is such stupidly small bottles!
Can I have a bite? Fuck you, no.

How is it that in the 21st century and I am still running across people who are amazed by people who eat spicy food?

I am not a freak.

Hasn't anyone ever heard of Mexico, South America, Africa, or the Indian Subcontinent? Are you all living under some fucking rock somewhere?

quicksilver

I want to be a bicycle messenger.

I see these guys (and almost as many gals) zooming all over the city. On their bikes riding fearlessly between cars, the wrong way down a one-way street, effortlessly blowing red lights while slaloming around 30 mph cross traffic. This has got to be the best job, and the best-kept secret career, ever.

Even better than even my original choice of fallback career, cab driver.

I used to think that being a cab driver would be the best thing for me. You get to meet lots of people. You are your own boss. And, you get paid to drive fast and aggressively. I don't know about you, but I usually drive fast and aggressively for free. I love to drive, but I like to drive fast even more. Sure the money is crap, but who needs to live in a big house with lots of fancy towels? All you need is a small place, a little food and an internet connection (taxi blog?) and you're all set. I am a huge fan of the Night Cabbie. Read up...

Then one day it struck me. I want to be a bicycle messenger. It has all the benefits of being a cab driver. But more. You get to be outdoors all day and you get lots and lots of exercise. The bad thing about being a bicycle messenger is that after about 15 seconds on the job, you smell like a goat. And don't even get me started on the uniform. What's with the studded belt and the lopsided capri pants they're always sporting?

Fashion faux pas aside, I have to admit that the allure of being a bicycle messenger hit me years ago after seeing Quicksilver for the second (OK, twentieth) time. I was in college at the time and I was about to enter the rat race that Kevin Bacon was losing so badly. I was (and still am) wary of joining the rat race to begin with. Maybe it was because I grew up as a latchkey kid, but the whole nine-to-five thing never quite sat right with me, even though that's exactly what I was training to do in college. And then one day, I was lounging with my roommate watching the USA Network or something and there it was, right in front of me, lose the rat race, quit, get a hot girlfriend and ride a 10-speed until your ankles fall off.

I'm certainly not losing the rat race now. I am doing just fine. And no self-respecting messenger would be caught dead on a bike with gears. It's fixed gear all the way nowadays. But every now and then I get a twinge of existential angst. Is this all there really is? This can't possibly be what I was meant to do with my life.

And then I see him, the messenger, zooming down the street passed my office, and I catch myself staring, with my mouth ever so slightly agape.

ridin' the curve

Sparkey left me a great comment on Tuesday. She quotes:

"In another experiment, subjects were asked to write an argument supporting a specific proposition. Apparently, grumpy individuals expressed better critical thinking and communication skills."
Looks like you are ahead of the curve.
from boingboing.net

Here is a link to that Boing Boing post Sparkey was talking about.

HA! I fucking love it! Let's see that last line again:

Apparently, grumpy individuals expressed better critical thinking and communication skills.

If that isn't me I don't know what is. What the article doesn't mention is that no one likes to be around grumpy people because their better critical thinking makes them annoying and their heightened communication skills alienate their loved ones.

Fuck it, you can't have everything.

invite

The word on the street, for quite some time has been that gmail will go public by the end of the year. But right now I have one gmail invite to give away.

What should I do?

Should I just lamely give it to the first person who asks? Should I run some sort of contest?

Don't start inundating me with emails requesting it (yet). I'm just looking for ideas on the best and most fun means to give it away.

mr. f

Got this little email gem from Mr. Freelancer yesterday:

(blah blah blah)

Grumpy, just curious what you will be contributing the presentation.

(blah blah blah)

It's amazing how one line out of a very long-winded email can really go up your ass sideways. This single line really put me over the edge yesterday. Luckily Belinda talked me back from the brink before I went off and did something stupid.

You see, the Boss has decided that Mr. Freelancer would make a good project manager even though he has never worked as a consultant in his life. I don't know why anyone would do this, but here we are, and now our three-member project team is working for him.

I will save you from all the gory details, but on Friday, we talked at length, in a subdued but heated tone, about what I and the other two team members would be doing for the presentation. I don't really understand why it was necessary to send me an email on Monday asking me what I would be doing. Perhaps he killed those brain cells over the weekend?

Here is the response that Belinda saved me from sending:

Mr. F,

I was planning on doing EXACTLY what we discussed on Friday for the presentation. Has something changed that I haven't been notified about?

Grumpy

It's a little bitchy. I might describe it as underhanded bitchy. But that pissant bitch deserved it, the fucker. Belinda and I discussed writing a nice professional response to this. She gave me an excellent suggestion on how to craft a response that was short, sweet, not bitchy, and wouldn't get me fired. But I can't remember a single thing she told me to write since I am so blinded with rage whenever I try to start the response to this email. Instead, I have decided to ignore it, and send no response at all. Pretend I never got it.

Our little 3-person team is toiling away nicely here in the office today without Mr. F. I'm sure he will be in tomorrow. Throwing his weight around as if he actually knew what he was doing. I can guarantee that I will be in a sour mood tomorrow afternoon.

glutton

I have complained about my job before on here. Today, I'm going to complain again, and probably not for the last time, so fucking get used to it.

I work in an open studio, no cubicles, just desks. It's supposed to be a good environment for collaboration and sharing of ideas. Unfortunately, when my company moved into this space 3 years ago, they didn't spend a single dime to decorate it or fix it up or anything. What does that mean? It means industrial grade fluorescent lights, stark matte white walls and a matching white cement ceiling with a grey indoor/outdoor rug. Nice collaborative environment, huh?

It seems that they're too fucking cheap to buy a couple of gallons of paint and a couple of nice light fixtures. The reason it's dark in here is because fluorescent lighting sucks. No one will turn the lights on because it glares on the computer screens, and the quality of the lighting is piss poor. Do you have fluorescent lights in your living room? Of course you fucking don't.

The worst part is that I think I may be getting S.A.D.. The thing you have to understand is that we've been in this sterile shithole of a space for 3 years now and not a single iota of effort has been made to make it better. What does that mean? You guessed it! Management couldn't give two shits what the environment we work in is like. And why would they? They have offices with windows and doors!

Knowing all of this, I sent this email to the boss today:

Boss –

I am seeing that the lighting in the studio is a bit of an issue in the office…

For about $275 and a couple of hours of an electrician’s time, we could install something like this IKEA wire lighting 1 or this IKEA wire lighting 2.

This may be a good solution to get rid of the ugly fluorescents. Each person can aim the light according to their taste, and I think you can have up to 5-7 lights per string. So you could technically have two lights per desk, and one in the center of the studio, plus lights over the printer and the front cabinets, if needed.

This is just a suggestion. There are hundreds of inexpensive lights like this on the market.

- Grumpy

What the fuck am I thinking? I hate my job, I hate the environment here, and then I go on like I fucking give a shit about my coworkers' well being and fucking comfort.

Nothing good can possibly come of this. Either it will be dismissed by management because "electricians are expensive" or because "now isn't a good time financially". You can't spend $275, what the fuck kind of business are you running here??

The other way I can see this going is that it will become my project. "OK Grumpy, you want fancy lights? Then you do all the legwork, you price them and you buy them. And oh, by the way, we can't hire an expensive electrician, so you're going to have come in on the weekend and install them yourself. Hope that's OK."

Either way, I'm a fucking glutton for punishment.

Update: It would seem that prediction #2 is coming true. The lights have become my pet project. Aren't I a lucky fuck? So now, I have to get 'buy in" from the other two employees here, go to IKEA and buy the stupid fucking lights.

When the boss came to my desk to say it was a good idea, I asked, "Oh yeah, what about the electrician?"
"Um, do we really need an electrician?"
"Yeah, wouldn't it be nice if you could turn the lights on and off using the switch on the wall?"
"Oh, right, good point."
At the risk of sounding repetative, he fucking graduated from Stanford!! Twice!!!

So they're going to hire an electrician as soon as I drive my lazy ass to IKEA.

The best was when I talked to our other two employees about it and one of them says to me, "Thanks for stealing our idea. We suggested that three years ago, fucker."

Great, guess I'll be getting that buy in any day now...

license

I moved to the state I live in, here on the west coast, about 11 months ago.

Only this week, have finally decided to change my driver's license over. The only reason I am even bothering is because my old license is about to expire, and I don't think that flying 3200 miles to take a shitty mug shot is a worthwhile way to spend my hard-earned blood money.

Getting a drivers license in my new state brings up all sorts of new issues in my life. New issues such as, how blind have I actually become in the last 4 years? 20/40? 20/200? My state only requires that you have 20/40 vision to drive. (Scary huh?) But honestly, I haven't gone for a vision test since I was 12. In my old state, I would eavesdrop on the guy ahead of me in line while he was taking the vision exam at the DMV. I would memorize the letters and then when it was my turn, I would rattle the letters off more from memory than from actually looking at the eye chart. I have never been to the DMV here, I have no idea what to expect. Will I be able to cheat like I did in the past? Or will I fail my vision test and be summarily deported back to the east coast?

Of course, the other issue is, do I actually remember what all the rules of the road are and what all those confusing signs mean. I mean, when was the last time you actually read your states drivers manual? Do you think you could pass a 36 question written exam? Here is an actual sample question from the written exam:

There is no crosswalk and you see a pedestrian crossing your lane ahead. You should:
a. Make eye contact and then pass him/her.
b. Slow down as you pass him/her.
c. Stop and let him/her finish crossing the street.

Where the fuck is my answer "d. Speed up and head straight for him/her, swerving away at the last minute, just missing him/her and teaching the stupid fuck a valuable lesson"?

Thank god I don't have to take a driving test. I mean, think of all the bad habits I've picked up since I was 18. Like pimpin' or talking on my cell phone, holding a cup of scalding hot coffee, and steering with my left knee all at the same time.

I don't think that will earn you extra skill points on your drivers test.

waste

Ugh. Last night, Belinda fell asleep early, and I stayed up to catch up on my Netflix.

I watched Big Fish. So many people I know have told me how great that movie was, and how much they liked it. I thought it was a piece of shit.

First of all, no movie should feature so many people from Alabama. Alabamans are annoying. It's their accent, their love of murdering defenseless animals, and their love of living in mosquito-infested swamps that I have so little patience for. So as far as I am concerned no movie should feature a person who likes these things, unless it makes sense to do so. Like if the movie was about incest and moonshine, then it should definitely have some Alabamans in it. I find Californians pretending to be from Alabama even more annoying.

Second, the movie is about a self-absorbed old fart (played by Albert Finney, who used to be talented) that is about to croak. Oh yeah, and he's a pathological liar. All that this fucker spouts is lies and fabrications. In fact he tells so many lies, fabrications and tall tales, that no one in his family, or even the old fart knows what's true anymore. In fact the whole movie is not about the plot (father and son coming to terms after years of estrangement) but rather the whole movie is just the impossibly tall tales being acted out. The movie tries very hard to capture some of that Forrest Gump sort of feel, but falls way, way short.

By the end of the movie, the old fart has 1-1/2 feet in the grave, and we're supposed to think, "Gee, maybe it wasn't all lies, maybe all of these stories are true! Maybe he's not such a bad guy after all." Fucking bullshit.

What a waste of two hours.

mom

In 1997 I bought my mother her first computer.

I lived a few states away at the time. The internet was starting to become huge. I had tons of extra cash at the time. I thought it'd be a good idea. She'd learn something new. I'd be able to communicate with her. She'd use it to type a well formatted letter. Or, maybe she'd even feel inspired to start her own home business with it.

The road to ruin is paved with the best of intentions.

It's 2004, she still has the computer, though it's gone through an upgrade or two since the dark ages of 1997. She never did start her own business. She didn't learn a whole lot about computers in the last 7 years either. Sure, she knows some. But every time I visit my mom, I have to clear out 345 spyware programs and 15 viruses. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she only learned two things from that fucking computer:

1. How to send her coworkers, my sister, Belinda and me an endless river of forwarded email.
2. That certain web sites like zone.com and gamehouse.com let you play free games until you're sleep deprived.

Since she discovered email, she must forward on about 4 emails to me every single day. The content is ridiculous. They say things like: Have a nice day, and I'm glad we are friends!!! or LAND OF THE FREE ---------- BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE or THIS IS A HAND OF FRIENDSHIP YOU MUST PASS IT TO AT LEAST 4 FRIENDS!! (What that fuck is a hand of friendship? AND, WHY ARE YOU FUCKING SCREAMING?)

You would think that with all the time she spends reading this emails she'd actually respond to one that Belinda and I send to her occaisionally. But no, whenever I or Belinda send her a friendly "Hi what's up?!" email, we get no response. I can only imagine what happened to those emails. Perhaps she just blindly forwards them on to some unsuspecting soul who is like "What the Fuck"?

The only solace I get is talking to friends and acquaintances about this, and 9 times out of 10 they have a close relative who's the same way. "Oh yeah, my Aunt Bessie, she sends me 8 chain emails a day." So I know it's not just my mom.

What may be just my mom, however, is her zone.com addiction. In case you actually have a life and don't know what zone.com is, it's Microsoft's free game portal. You go there, click on a game it pops up in a little window. Go ahead try it. The games are "free" because they include an advertisement between levels or in the game window itself, or both. Also, the free versions are simplified versions of the "Deluxe" version of the game that they're trying to squeeze $20 out of you to buy.

Every time I talk to her she tells me about her latest addiction. It started with Bejeweled, then TextTwist, LetterLinker, Hexic, and then god knows what else... The latest is Zuma. My mom will ask me out of the blue, "What level are you up to in Zuma?"
"Um, mom, what's a Zuma?"
"On MSN!", she says to me incredulously. As if I were trying to cover up the truth about my own addiction.
"Oh, it's a game, no I haven't played it, mom."
"Oh, you have to! I'm up to level 3,020,641. Can you find me a crack to the deluxe version?" (Hmmm, I guess that makes three things she's learned).

She tells me that there are times when she's playing one of these games and she looks out the window and realizes the sun is about to come up. At which point she runs upstairs and tries to catch 30 minutes of sleep before she heads out to work. Can you imagine? Sitting in front of a computer screen all night, bleary eyed, and realizing that you haven't slept and you now have to go to work?

Oh god, what have I done?

fat

According to the National Institute of Health's BMI calculator I am obese.

Funny, I don't feel obese. Both my apartment and my job are on the 3rd floor and neither have an elevator. I make it up the stairs with only the slightest quickening of breath. I walk everywhere. Believe me, I do not think of myself as fit and trim. Not by a long shot. I love burritos and pasta way too much to ever be fit and trim. But obese?

Up until now, I haven't considered myself obese. I would consider myself obese if I could say, "That's me!" to any of the items below:

• Obese people can't have their shoes tied because their ankles are too big. I tie my shoes just fine.
• Obese people don't (can't) leave their homes to work or buy food, their loved ones having to help them survive. I do all my own shopping (Belinda helps) and I take my fat ass to work every day.
• Obese people can't go see the doctor unless a crane comes and takes them out through the window. I have never gone out of any building via the window.
• Obese people live off of cheesy poofs, chocolate doughnuts, fried chicken and Pepsi. I haven't eaten a single cheesy poof in like 11 years.
• Obese people make appearances on Dr. Phil, where Dr. Phil tells them that if they just purchased and read his book, they wouldn't be so damned fat. I have never been on Dr. Phil. Not once.
• Obese people are buried in piano boxes when they die. I'm pretty sure I will fit in a normal size coffin when the time comes. But then again, I haven't gone for a fitting.

Yet there it is, my BMI in the "obese" range. The NIH says its so, so it must be. How did this happen? According to their numbers, if I would have to be 6'4" tall to be simply overweight, not obese. I'd have to grow another 7 inches to 6'11" to be "Normal weight". I look at my life (pretty normal) and I look at their numbers (pretty fat) and they don't quite jive to me.

Well, regardless, Belinda and I have started Weight Watchers this week, just in case they are right.

bored

Bored to tears today.

The project from hell is still going on, even though the boss instructed me to pack everything up. The good thing is that it's not taking up all of my time. The bad news is that it's not taking up all of my time. I have very little to do, but I still have to sit here and pretend like I'm busy.

Belinda has been planning the wedding like a madwoman. It feels like a whirlwind of activity around me. We've been engaged a total of 3 weeks now and we already have a reception site (and thus, a date), we've already figured out who's going to be in the wedding party, and we're going to register this weekend. We're 90% sure where the ceremony is going to be and who the caterer is. She is amazing. Truly amazing. The wedding is like 15 months away.

She should really do this wedding planning stuff for a living. Does that pay well?

Believe me, I am not complaining. If it were up to me, I'd do it like I do everything else, at the last minute.

The only hard part is going to be paying for it all. Because Belinda is moving so fast, we haven't had a chance to save any money or plan financially. A little side note for any readers out there who may be single/never married. WEDDINGS ARE FUCKING EXPENSIVE. Belinda and I are trying to do the cheapest possible wedding without making it obvious that we're white trash. So it's still expensive, but Elvis won't be making an appearance.

In any case, it's been a challenge to scrape up the money and still manage to pay the cable company. But it's worth it, we will save money after. In no time, we'll be all done with the planning, then we kick back for 9 months, get hitched, and get loads of cheesy cut crystal vases.

nipples

I am not a metrosexual, I am not a snappy dresser, I am no fashionista. But there is one rule all men should follow. Listen up boys:

When you wear a white button down shirt, wear a t-shirt underneath. Seriously.

The ladies (and me) do not want to see your nipples. This should be obvious to you all, but for some reason, I see it all the time. The latest was yesterday. I was in a meeting and I look over at my boss who's writing something on the white board and I could see his chest hair through his shirt. I wasn't looking for it, but there it was, that unmistakable dull greyishness across his chest, like a chest hair Indiglo. I really could have gotten along just swimmingly in life without having seen this. The thing is, he's 40 years old. I would think by now he'd have figured this out by now. But no.

Oh, I hear all you guys out there saying, "Hey, wait a minute! It's summer, we shouldn't have to wear two shirts! It's hot out!" OK, I hear you. Listen up fuckers, it's fucking called air conditioning. Use it and wear the fucking t-shirt.

Have you ever overheard this conversation between two women:

"Whoa, did you see that guy?!"
"Which one?"
"That one over there, you can see his nipples right through his shirt, wow! Nice!"

No, you have never heard this conversation. Do you know why? That's right. Because it's never fucking happened.

Seriously, catching a glimpse of your nipples through your shirt just isn't sexy. Unless you have nipples like Lindsay Lohan.

But then, you have bigger fish to fry.

out of the weeds

After three weeks of sheer mayhem, I think I've made it through.

I delivered my files to the client about an hour ago, and so far, I have not received a single frantic phone call, not one irritated voice mail, not a single congratulatory email, nothing. Not even a thank you.

As much as it doesn't sound like it, that's usually a good sign. Clients never thank you. Especially not when you put in Herculean effort to get their project done in time, even though they screwed it up in the first place and they seem to be doing everything humanly possible to prevent you from actually finishing it, while complaining the entire time that you're not going fast enough.

Sometimes no communication from the client is a bad sign. Like the calm before the storm. Right now, they're all huddled around a computer screen, awash in its glow, scrutinizing, meeting, making lists, poking over each and every feature, looking for the one mistake or oversight that I made. Even though, it's not possible to not make a single error in the timeframe that you asked for. Something has to give, and it's usually exactitude.

I had this great boss once who actually understood this. He loved to tell people about it too. Over and over again, he would, with a big flourish, take out his yellow legal pad and flip it to a clean page, "Every client wants it all", he would say as he drew an big equilateral triangle on the page with his impossibly twisted and chewed pen. Then he would say, "they want it cheap", and he writes CHEAP at one of the triangle points. "They want it right", and he writes RIGHT at another point, "and they want it fast", FAST goes down at the last point. "But I tell them, here you go", he pushes the pad towards me as if I were the client, "choose any two, you can't have all three", as he circles, CHEAP and FAST, as if circling it was somehow really driving the point home.

I have no idea what his diagram meant, but he is totally correct. Fast, cheap, or right, you can have two, but you will never achieve the third. Never. On all the projects I have ever worked on, never once has this been disproved.

I have many theories as to why clients try so hard to find the mistakes their consultants make. One theory is that clients think consultants are lazy slugs who couldn't make it in their world, so we skulked away in disgrace to become consultants. These guys are dangerous, they are the ones who prevent you from getting repeat business.

Another theory is that the client has never seen anything happen so fast in their careers, and they think I must have cut some corner or other somewhere to get it done. Usually, we accomplish in weeks what the client will take months or even years to accomplish. I do this on a daily basis. I am not super-human. I can do this because I do not have 3 meetings a day, I do not have to write memo after memo, I do not have to succumb to design reviews, endless sales calls from vendors, company meetings, training and benefits, mass emails from the CEO, annoying coworkers who hold you hostage in your cubicle telling you about their theory on lawn care, and on and on. I can accomplish more in a week than any of my corporate peers because I am not inundated with endless distraction. These clients don't really get this, and just assume you have somehow cheated.

Either way, I am done, I am tired and I need some fucking sleep.

Update: I hadn't heard from my client at all. So today (Monday) I called my main contact over there just to see how things went. Seems like everything went perfectly. There were no problems, and everything is proceeding smoothly. In fact, he said he was very impressed with my work, and we will definitely be getting work in the future. Wow. After that, I feel like maybe I should take back some of the stuff I said earlier, but, hey, I was grouchy...