I can't wait for baseball

It's almost baseball season, baby. Watch this: (language NSFW)

Here there be monsters

I've run out of things to read on the internet.

Now that my lines of communication have been cut, and presented with no medium for real-time give-and-take, I am left to seeking, forced into an observer's role.

Me and my little row boat (online surfboard?), so recently tied to shore with my IM/email tether, have been cast adrift. I can do nothing more than stand up in my boat, pick a direction, and then train my binoculars on the distant shore in front of me. I can see people interacting, I can react to their antics, but I cannot interact.

RSS and Atom are my binoculars, boston.com articles, kottke.org links, google news headlines, blog feeds, these are the things I view.

But I've gotten really good at looking through the binoculars. I've seen all I can see looking in the same old directions, to the same old blogs. I need to know what else is out there, where should I point my looking glass? I need content to at least keep me stimulated while I'm stuck here on my surfboard, before I paddle back in to shore at the end of the day.

Who updates a lot? Who is interesting? Who will keep me entertained?

Somebody throw me a lifeline here.

-t

recommended download:
Bob Schneider, Orlando

Huffing and Puffing

As far as I can tell, everything being done here is being done right. Good people, good support system, good office space, no problems.

I spent the time at my first job bemoaning a major intelligence deficeit, and at the second, an overabundance of insolence and general malaise. Stupid people working vs. smart people being lazy.

I longed for a job without those troubles. A place where smart people worked.

Well, I found it.

And it sucks.


I know, I know, none of you are surprised. "Welcome to the real world, Tom," you say. And "Took you this long to figure it out?"

Excuse me for being optimistic. Hey, I've watched enough television to know how things are supposed to work. People quit jobs they hate, then magically find a job they love.

Rachel hated working for Joanna, and then got a fabulous job at Ralph Lauren. Joey was in terrible play after terrible play, then found fame and fortune on the soap circuit. Monica had to wear fake boobs and roller skates to bus tables, and ended up with her own resturant. Chandler processed numbers for a large, multi-national data firm, quit, and then got hired with no experience for a job supervising at a major New York ad agency.

So come on. It's been two years (it's been two years, right? It feels like so...much...longer) and I've done the fake boobs thing (metaphorically), I've put in my number crunching time, where's my fabulous job?

"Stop griping," you say. "We all hate our jobs. It doesn't get any better than this, ever."

Well, aren'y you little miss happy-face.

I'm reminded of a drew Carey quote:

"Wait, you hate your job? There's a club for people like you! It's called everyone! - and they meet at the bar."

Come on! Somebody out there likes their job...right? If not, then where did this myth of a good job come from? Because that's what you're saying, you're saying it's a myth!

Well, I don't know about you, but myths are based in fact. Little Red Riding Hood did where red, fat though she may have been. Cinderella did, in fact, have a godmother, though "fairy" might be a stretch. Pigs make excellent stone masons.


I am being starved for meaningful human contact. IM was a lifeline, one thin strand connecting me to the outside world, but I've lost even that. Now I'm dependent on a closely-monitored email account, and one-way blog posting. I remember when I had access to gmail. I REMEMBER WHEN I HAD ACCESS TO PEOPLE!!

Now I just have access to numbers. They're not even cool numbers.

-t

recommended downloads:
Fountains of Wayne, Hey, Julie
Oasis, Hey, Hey, My, My (Neil Young cover)

Ships passing in the night elevator lobby

At 12:45 today I decided to get out and get some air. I grabbed my jacket and headed out to the 13th floor elevators. As soon as I hit *G* I realized I'd left my cell phone on my desk. Too late to stop the car, I hit the button for the next floor down, 12.

The car stopped, I got off, hit the up arrow, and waited.

When the light went off I stepped up to the elevator, just as Mary, our 13th floor receptionist, stepped out, lunch in one hand, cell phone against her ear, jacket draped over her arm. Inside the elevator, now, I looked around and 13 was already pressed. I rode back up, got my phone, and rode back down.

When I came back to the floor I stuck my head into Mary's cube "Were you visiting somebody down on 12?" I asked, innocently.

"Oh my God, no!" she replied, "I just got off the elevator and walked over to the door and walked around 12, twice and I was like, 'well, this isn't my floor!' and then I came back up here.

"I do that all the time, but this time it was really confusing, beause I saw you when I got off the elevator."

Of course, I sympathize. The elevators in this building can be awfullying confusing. The elevator lobbies are located in the middle of each floor, with two exits. It's a fifty-fifty chance you turn the correct way getting off, and there are no clues to help, everything's totally symmetrical. None of the lobbies are labeled with clearly visible and easy-to-read floor numbers, so it usually isn't until you've stepped off the elevator, guessed right or left, swiped your security card, gone through into cubeville, then gone at least half a circuit of the office before realizing this isn't where you wanted to go.

"So, you know, I'd gotten in on the ground floor, hit the button for my floor, I'm the only one on the elevator, the door opens, and I see someone from my floor waiting, shouldn't it be my floor?...but it wasn't. It was really confusing."

At least the fifth and seventh floors make it a little easier. They've each got distinct color schemes, though it actually doesn't help Mary: She's color blind.

-t

recommended download:
The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Dani California
and
NOFX, The Brews

Superfriends

I got a couple emails after the last post asking for some more me-centric details: What did I do at the wedding/reception.

I had a seat at table five. Adina and Mr. Anonymous also had places there. Adina, I saved your name card. I might mail it to you. Also, I ate your dessert. And Mr. Anonymous's.

The rest of the table was made up of...Christina, her boyfriend, Heater, her boyfriend, Joe, and Emily. Christina had moved to New York three months ago and had taken a bus to Boston for the wedding. It was an eight hour trip because of the snowstorm. She also repeatedly said she lived in Boston, not New York, explaining that "being here with all my old school friends, it's like I never left, so I'm sort of slipping back." Which, I know from experience (having never moved away and visited Boston) could happen to anyone.

Emily is from Australia. Naturally by way of introduction I said "So, you're from Australia....do you watch Lost?


Actually, I said "So, you're from Australia...Queensland?" and she was all "DUDE! YES! Why would you say Queensland? That's so killer!"

And I was all, well, it was either that or Sydney...those are the only two place I know. Then I asked if she watched Lost.

I'm not kidding. I spent the first twenty minutes of dinner rehashing season 3 so far, then I ate three desserts, then there was some crazy dancing going on. I requested some Jude - but the DJs didn't have it, so I requested something Irish for St. Patrick's Day, and they were like "...um, Cranberries?" and I was all, "dude, that is so lame" and then they were like, "Pogues?" and I was like, "Now we're talking."

I also requested some Bee Gees. Which, serendipitously, Erin had forgotten to give to the DJs as part of her required playlist, as she and her dad apparently dance to "Stayin' Alive" at every wedding they attend. So, Tom's phenomenal taste in music saves the day! I'm the hero of the wedding!

I then spent about half an hour talking video games with some of JP's high school friends and Emily, the Australian, because, it turns out, they're all we're all huge nerds, and two thirds of them work in the video gaming industry. I told everybody to play Prince of Persia, Emily made sure I'd promise to try Elder Scrolls Oblivion, and there was a general consensus that Burnout Revenge is an awesome game.

Then there was more dancing.

And then I was invited to the after party. Which was a freaking blast. I discussed movies all night with these people who were carting around liters of alcohol (becasue the hotel bar closed at 10 (wtf, RI?) to all floors and lounges of the hotel (eventually settling in the lobby - where they had COMPLIMENTARY COFFEE! which was totally sweet), specificaly Cohen brothers movies, and also did a fair share of debating comic-book-to-movie adaptaions, specifically alan Moore's V for Vendetta and Frank Miller's 300.

I was genuinely impressed by the caliber and quality of Erin's friends. I would not hesitate to place erinire's bunch right up there with our 18aers. I found it very encouraging that there are other awesome people out there, and that folks who aren't me had opportunities to be a part of that. I've got a small notion that maybe we could get everybody together. Erin's friends, my friends, and form the Superfriends! (You know, like Spiderman and his Amazing Friends (Firestar and Iceman) - also, I'd get to be Spiderman.)

They were some great people. Everybody, the whole time. It was wonderful.

-t

And They Danced To Yoshimi...

I count myself fortunate to be one of the few friends intvited to, and, more importantly, able to attend, Erin's wedding. (Though, point of fact, I never actually received an invitation, as it was lost in the mail.)

The ceremony took place on what would undoubtedly have been a beautiful, warm, spring day, if not for the seven inches of snow and biting wind that had arrived the night before courtesy of Old Man Winter - but, as they say: "There's no such thing as bad weather, only different types of good weather." And, while the snowstorm did have the unfortunate effect of preventing eight or nine of the guests from attending, the sqaull certainly did nothing to diminish the joyful spirit of the occaission.

The wedding party looked wonderful; JP, the groom, and his best men dressed in ultra-cool no-button tuxes (though there were rumors some of the wedding party had been lobbying for lime green and ruffles), and the bridesmaids in a wonderful deep green. The ceremony itself was very nice, Erin teared up during the vows and held her composure remarkably well otherwise.

But the real fun, was the reception.

To begin: An open-bar cocktail hour while the wedding party was busy with photographs. This correspondent, who had found himself utterly alone upon entering - as his anticipated companions had been waylaid by the storm - was soon surrounded by one of the more charming groups of people he has had chance to meet. First, I was befriended by Kristin, girlfriend of the best man, and similarly unattached while the wedding party was engaged, and then, soon after, Meagan, who I encouraged to sign the hitherto unsigned guestbook, and lead by example.

As soon as the photographer was done with them, the smiling bride and groom made their way out to the bar to greet their guests. JP was shaking hands with everyone with an enormous grin upon his face, and Erin (cocktail in hand) could be seen hopping from group to group laughing and smiling, while simultaneously inquiring about the ceremony, her hair, the dress, and if everything had gone well. In my opinion, and, indeed, that of everyone she asked, everything had gone splendidly.

On, then, to the dinner portion of the evening. The guests were asked to enter the ballroom and take there seats (I found myself at a table with a few of JP's high school friends and their dates), and the wedding party was introduced.

As they took their seats at the main table I was struck, immediately, by Erin - her composure, her poise, the light, the dress, the look of calm and air of comfort and assuredness - she was, it seemed, meant to be a bride.

Those of you who have been keeping up with her rants and ramblings at erinire might be under the impression that Erin is excitable, frenzied, frustrated, or overwhelemed. Please, let me assure you that she was none of those things, and seemed completely immune to anything except happiness and joy.

As the night wore on (and wear on it did - as the reception was breaking up I was invited to the after party and began to beg off, citing the late hour, only to glance down and my watch to find the time was only nine fifteen! Needless to say, with the night so young, I made my way to the party with haste, and was up with some of the newly married couples closest friends through the night), there was much dancing (Erin's sisters the wildest of the bunch) and eating, and dancing, and drinking, but it would not be sufficient to describe it here, with my limited prose.

Instead, I will simply relate that after the wedding party's introduction, Erin and JP were called out for their first dance together as husband and wife. And in a moment that refelcted a perfect uniqueness, whimsy, charm, humor, and grace that I am sure will characterize their life together, they danced to the Flaming Lips, Yoshimi Vs. The Pink Robots.

-t

recommended download:
Yoshimi

Best laid plans... to rant and ramble

I've been invited to a wedding this weekend. (woo!) I've also been invited to a wedding near the end of April. (woo!)

I'd planned to buy a new suit for the occasion(s), something light, and spring-y.

Then I found a suit store on the same block as my new job and it was having a sale!

So...I decided it would be way easier just to wear one of the suits I already have.

Also, it'll save me some money.

Ok, quick updates: I've been singing "More Than A Feeling" in my head for days now. I still don't know any of the lyrics. This has, of course, earned me a few funny looks from my coworkers, but I don't care. I'm pretty sure you're civicly obligated to love Boston if you're from Boston. I'm pretty sure that also goes for Boston Baked Beans, the Boston Red Sox, and the Boston Strangler - I mean the Boston Pops.

For those of you wondering if I'd finished my book, I have. I loved it. I've moved on to Bram Stoker's Dracula. I've also decided to really sit down and update the hell out of my LibraryThing booklist this weekend. Right now the only things I've got on there are some trade paperbacks and sci-fi/detective novels. (Actually, when I'm finished, that's still probably all that will be there, there'll just be a ton more of them).

For those others of you who care nothing for what I do for recreation in my spare time, but instead smugly enjoy the thought of me toiling away for hours, nay, days, upon end here at my new job, slaving over a blurry CRT and tiny-fonted spreadsheets, get over yourselves. "Lo," they say "Tom has work to do now. No longer can he cast his web of laziness and inefficiency outward to his readers and drag them into his loathful existence, he has been smited (smoted?) and we rejoice!" (I imagine that's what they say. My enemies usually appear biblical in my imagination)(or Amish?).

I'd like to address that point by point:
- I have not yet toiled for days. No all-nighters or sleep-overs at the office.
I did come in on a Saturday, which turned out to be a total waste of time, and gave me cause to rededicate myself to never ever ever coming in to work on a weekend ever again. It's not worth it.

- I don't stare at a blurry monitor or tiny spreadsheets. We've all got nice big, giant flat screens - and I know how to change font sizes in Excel.

- I do have work to do now - I'd just like to point out that I used to have work to do then as well. Way back then, when I was still working under hypermanager's tutelage. Loads of work. Which I hated. I've got plenty of work now, and it's a pleasant change from trying to figure out how to kill eight hours of doing nothing at my last job with Insolent Bob staring over my shoulder. And it's not difficult, it's just constant. But, I've resolved to leave every day between five and five-thirty from here on out. Last week I was stuck at work until after six four out of five nights. I'm trying not to let that happen again.

- I have not been smoted (smitten?) and wasn't dragging you readers into my miserable lazy existence in any case. You're here because I write brilliantly and hilariously, and also because you think I'm the coolest thing to hit blogging since sliced bread - until you see this little number.

And I guess that's it. No new suit, I haven't started my taxes, I have started a new book about the most nefarious of evil creatures, and I fully intend to beat Super Mario 64 DS soon. Oh, and try this game, it's a blast.

Forty-one hours and forty-five minutes, before Saturday

I showed up at work....and there's nobody here! Granted, they all said they planned to start at 9:30 this morning, and I didn't roll in until 12:30, so they might be out getting lunch...but it's still pretty disconcerting.

I'm all alone up here. I'm starting to suspect that maybe there isn't that much work to do...maybe they came in, saw twelve trades instead of twenty-four hundred trades, and said "great, screw it, let's go home."

If that is what happened, I really would have appreciated a phone call or email or something telling me that, so when i did drag myself in here and log on at least I'd know not to expect them, and that I have my Saturday back and maybe I could go catch a movie or something.

But I think they're nice guys, and if they decided to quit early they would have emailed me. And since they didn't, then they're probably eating and will be back shortly. In the meantime, I'm going to sit here and do nothing - heaven forbid I start to do some work on my own and screw something up - I'd be here all night fixing it and that is the last thing I want.

Also, this is the last time I'm every coming in to work on a weekend. It's just not worth it.

I could be asleep right now.

-t

recommended download:
The Dropkick Murphys, The Fields of Athenry
Bob Schneider, Lonelyland

Drinking the Kool-Aid

I was going to write a post called "Drinking the Kool-Aid" early this week. I was going to go on and on about how much the new company seems "nice," and "happy," and "good." As opposed to all the previous companies I've worked for that are "bad," and "evil," and, (worst of all) "stupid."

But I didn't post about how great my job is. The two facts are related.

My "great" job has kept me at work until 6:15 three of four nights this week. Getting home a frustrating two hours later than usual is not conducive to flippant blog postings.

I have also been asked to come in Saturday to get an early jump on the mid-month trading deluge, which, I am told, can exceed 2,500 trades per section, per day. That is significantly more than the normal amount. About twelve times as much.

So, rather than spend twelve times as much time at work on Monday, I have elected, with three other members of our four member group, to come in on the weekend. Something I had sworn never to do.

Nine to six aren't the hours I signed on for. I agreed to work thirty-five hours a week, not forty-five plus.

Which is a shame, because for that week or so I enjoyed my job, I really thought it was possible to enjoy your job.

-t

The Hot Gates

A couple of my favorite excerpts from the first few paragraphs from this Seattle Times review of "300":

"It's one of history's great last stands — like 'The Alamo' and 'Zulu,' except with hyper-macho, near-naked muscular guys who seem like something from one of John Milius' childhood fantasies."

"When the hot, naked oracle of a group of deformed priests tells Leonidas not to go war, he instead goes for a 'walk' with 300 armed "bodyguards'"

and

"...as the action alternates between slow-motion and fast to emphasize every decapi-tastic detail."



Decapi-tastic. Sweet.

-t

Though maybe the Persians weren't that bad, and the Spartans did lose...

Rocks, Salt, and a heavy dose of Pre-Season Baseball

Step One: turn on NESN to watch some pre-season Red Sox baseball
Step Two: stare blankly at your computer screen trying desperately to think of something to blog about. The preceding week-long drought doesn't help matters.
Step Three: reach down without looking for your glass of coffee, bring it slowly to your mouth while watching Ortiz take ball three, and take a sip.

Step Four: Spit contents of the mug all over your computer, shirt, coffee table, when you realize the funny taste is half a cup of salt dumped surrepticiously into your coffee by your stupid younger brother.



We get geared up for April Fool's day pretty early around here.

We'll see who's laughing when he wakes up this weekend to find I've buried every piece of clothing he owns under two inches of river rocks.


Step Five: Star worrying that the salt all over your computer is going to eat into the screen and keyboard and damage it irreprably.

Step Six: Post.

-t

Devil

I had a devil of a time getting a T pass this morning. I was going to rant and rave about it, but I've done enough of that to the MBTA director via email, and I'm all ranted out. Quickly:
Tried to buy my pass with a credit card after waiting in line at a cash only machine;
Switched lines to wait for a credit/debit card machine
Credit/debit machine wouldn't take credit/debit cards
Received no aid at all from the so-called MBTA ambassador
Switched back to another line and dug through my backpack to find change for a one-way fare
Took the train in to work
At lunch I tried State Street station, Downtown Crossing, and Chinatown fare vending machines
None of them took credit cards either
Finally when I left work they'd been fixed and I got my monthly pass.

Stupid T.


In other news the book I'm reading right now, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell is freakin' awesome. It's about magicians - but not your regular storybook magicians where magic is good or evil (Harry Potter, Voldemort, Merlin, Sabriel, any of Neil Gaiman's books...) in this book magic is... it's less fantastic, less unbelievable, and less understood. It's also sinister. Totally, totally sinister.

And awesome.

I'm going to go read some more.

-t