My Bogus Journey and the Last Crusade

I should really write a book one of these days. I really should. I'd call it "How Apple Stole My Soul or Things I Do Because I Own One of These Stupid Ipods."

And after I write it I should really find a publisher that doesn't have any hang-ups about long book titles.

It's suffice to say that ghosts or gnomes or zombies or hippies steal our supplies from work. Whether they tunnel in from Wal*Mart or smuggle things out through the air conditioning ducts is a mystery to me, all I know is things go missing. They vanish into thin air. Either that or we forgot to order them to begin with. That's probably the right answer. Although I would pay good money to see gnomes running off with a box full of shopping bags.

This week the gnomes or zombie hippies made off with our receipt tape. Not quite the laughing matter you'd think it is. Receipt tape represents the symbolic payoff of capitalism in it's true realistic form. You see it's paper, with numbers on it. Paper numbers that represent real numbers! Numbers that represent that we're stinking rich! We take their money, we hand them back a narrow strip of paper that tells them how much we ripped them off. We as capitalists instruct them to keep it, mostly for records, partially so they can glance at it and gloomily remember how much money corporate America makes off of every person that comes through our doors.

Well without receipt tape the money just stops flowing. We can't have that now can we? The thought that the money will stop coming in and thoughts of ensuing panic terrorize us all. Why it's the same as handcuffing yourself to a bowling ball and then dropping said ball off the ledge of a building. Nice to know you. Like I said, panic ensues.

Management, being of sound mind and judgement turns to the one man capable of handling any job, yours truly.

"What's the problem?" I say. They then explain the above dilemma.

"Is that all?" I ask, snidely.

I understand their situation. I hear the ominous tone of their voices. This is not like any other problem. We're running out of paper. Not just any paper, very special paper!

"What will it take?" I ask, my questions pour like a monsoon. And I had enough questions to fill a desert.

"Approximately 40 miles north, in a bunker you'll find everything you need."

I take off, relentlessly speeding into the afternoon. Speeding as fast as a man in traffic can. I approached speeds of 28, 29 miles per hour. These people ahead of me just did not understand what was at stake. PAPER! I had to get up north, just had to. I swerved into turning lanes, I signaled my way to get ahead as fast as my modest Stratus could take. I sped through the gravel filled roads of construction until I could make my way to the modern motorists paradise, the Interstate Highway.

The Interstate Highway wasn't the paradise that I had once remembered. The dreams of smooth and fast driving I had once recalled were replaced by those of signs signifying "Single Lane Only" and "Reduced Speed Ahead." I wouldn't let these bring me down. There was just too much at stake, too much left to accomplish. With one foot on the gas and one hand at the iPod I was reaching speeds of 80 miles per hour listening to the best cruising music that 30 GB could store.

What laid ahead of me was a vast metropolis with more motorists than I had encountered previously in my travels that day. Obstacles, not much more than that really. My sleek moments of freeway travel came to a close. I now had to navigate the streets in an unfamiliar city. I was only armed with a sparsely detailed list of street names and directions. First light right, next right left. Boring instructions yet my destination lay just beyond these.

Once I arrived at this bunker, I took notice at the somewhat familiar settings. Why it was a different place but in our homogenous culture so many stores look the same. Things were smaller, directions were different. The lighting was the same, the colors were the same. The language, the words, and the literature was all the same. I was soon greeted by a barrage of familiar, yet not quite friendly faces. Why these were castaways, outcasts. I'd seen some of these people before. They used to rally around the aisles of my store much like I do now. Their battles in my town had ended, and they were victorious. They then walked off into the sunset, never to be seen again. Until now. And here they were, several of them. They walked off, past the sunset and into these backwaters. It was quite the humbling sight. For these people, there really was nothing beyond what they do. They just wind up doing the same thing someplace else.

They greeted me after my long journey and presented me with a box of receipt tape. I bought a soda and began the return trip home with my Holy grail in hand.

All of this because I have an iPod and car adapter.

Metaphysical Graffiti

In all twenty four years of my life this has never happened. Until now. I've finally been defaced in public form. Finally being hated. Finally I'm being hated enough for my "hater" to take it out in nearly artistic form. While perusing the supply room the other day at work I stumbled upon a rather unfavorable caricature of me scribbled onto the supply list. It really didn't look like me. It would have looked like me if my head was slightly wider, misshapen and had been through what looked enough physical trauma to bring down a fleet of robots. My hair was too sparse to mention (which is why I think the bald guy did it) and several of my teeth were gone. However the remaining teeth were ideally symmetrical enough to eat solid food. I was amazed at the practicality of the notion that I could eat even with only a third of my teeth. I was just happy enough to be hated. I'm happy that I was able to twist my Mr. Nice Guy persona and lower it to a level where people have to let out their anguish by drawing crude pictures of me. I only hope that next time they use a real wall as paper never lasts forever. My real aspiration is to one day find my name in a bathroom stall. For now I can dream, and maybe every day one more person will start hating me.

The Waiting Game

Once again I'm waiting on too many things. At least now I have some clarity. Last week two friends and I put in an application for an apartment, we were approved but now have to wait until the first of August. Which is good I guess, it gives me time to buy all of the furniture I don't have.

I had a job interview today, hence the tie. Well I did master that tie and got all spiffed up in time to spill water on myself on the way to my interview. Lousy potholes, they're going to send my stratus to an early grave. It must have went well, they offered me a second interview and they gave me a pen and business card. I love pens and business cards, they help soothe the worries I have about potholes killing my car.

Like I said, there be changes afoot.

Peter, Tie Fighter

I'm am as surprised as anyone that I still know how to tie a tie. I've worn one maybe three times since high school. However I was able to master the complexities of the over and under and round and round pulling actions and when I was finished the tie looked even better than just merely recognizable. The tie, to me is like a novelty act that I only break out for weddings and other high class functions. Like a semi-attractive card trick you wear around your neck. There really is no rhyme or reason to them, they're only there to make shirts look less boring. The sort of shirts that require ties are quite boring indeed. I'm almost provoked to get out my Hawaiian shirt with a striped tie. I would promptly be shot but in the confusion of color configuration people would never actually see the blood that I shed. I would be the most colorful corpse on the floor.

I think that the person who invented the "six degrees of Kevin Bacon" had to be Kevin Bacon because honestly who else could care that much about Kevin Bacon?