This is gonna make my Mom real happy.
When I first arrived in Rochester and got my first job here, that job gave me what I thought then was a wonderful schedule. I worked Sunday through Thursday, with Friday and Saturday as my weekends.
I mean, what good are Sundays, right? Kind of useless days. I’m not a big church-goer. And Sunday always feels kind of sluggish anyways. One might as well get one’s first work shift over with while everyone else is at home watching 60 Minutes.
But the previous job offered Saturdays and Sundays off, and once I moved out of the shoebox downtown, Sundays became more pleasant. I watch Sunday Morning on CBS because I’m older than 45 and that’s the law. Then I watch Meet the Press, Face the Nation, and This Week. I genuflect for the loss of The McLaughlin Group. I cook eggs and bacon.
Sadly, the new gig put me back on Sunday – Thursday for a while. I could take my morning news shows with me via YouTubeTV, I found, but it just wasn’t the same. I grew to miss my Sundays.
So I was utterly crestfallen when the boss asked me last week if I would mind going back to Monday – Friday.
It was weird being home today as I had actually gotten accustomed to Sundays in that little room. But man, it is nice to have that rather selfish comfy time cursing at my television monging on my eggs.
Happy Oscar night.
- The GOP’s Tax-Cut Narrative Is Already Unraveling (The Atlantic)
I think what I’d like is an addiction that doesn’t affect your state of mind at all but that is instead an addiction that immediately becomes about maintenance. Also, I’d like it to interrupt my workday several times each day, to allow me to believe that it contributes somehow to my own social prowess, and to allow me to justify littering.
Also, can it be lethal and smelly?
That would be great.
I work with nerds. Lots and lots of nerds.
Most of them are superhero nerds. Big-time. I mean from the youngest puppy nerd to the oldest oldie old alta kahker nerd. To a tee, they are always watching The Flash or debating the merits of this superhero movie or that. This is not my cup of meat. I am not a superhero nerd, which is surprising because I spent years being Superman when I was younger. You know. 32.
There are Doctor Who nerds. I think I might one day become a Doctor Who nerd. I think I’ll have to watch more than two episodes in order for that to happen.
There are Star Wars nerds. I can identify an AT-AT on sight and have watched Plinkett’s work obsessively. I am most certainly a Star Wars nerd.
There are Star Trek nerds, who, it seems cannot for some reason also be Star Wars nerds. I do not know why this is so. It’s like Elvis/Beatles.
I have to say, though, and with some dismay, that I have never met a fellow nerd of the Battlestar Galactica (reboot) varietal.
I do not understand why this fine program, which I have probably screened several dozen times, does not inspire more passion in nerds as it ought to. I cannot imagine not bowing in sheer reverence to one of the finest television programs ever to have existed.
Anyways. I’m now recently working on a particular driving skill I’ve lost.
When I owned a Chevy Lumina, I could back up on a dime. On a mime. On a very good time. I’d sling my arm over the passenger seat, perk my head back, lift my butt up a little in the seat, and I could seriously back that sedan into Anna Nicole Smith’s back pocket.
The current vehicle, however, is a 2013 Malibu. And it has a really big ass.
And shortly after I got her (her name is Eli. I have a transgender/fluid-gender car. F the binary.), I had an accident where I backed into a Safelite car.
Safelite repair, Safelite replace.
So, I’ve been a scaredy cat about backing up ever since. I can’t parallel park anymore, I’m ashamed to admit.
I was threatening to get a backing cam, and honestly, this vehicle needs one. But this car has had so many problems (this time last year she was sitting at the local dealer sans engine; I am not making this up) that I hate to put more munny into it.
I should also add for this story that I have always thought of people who back into parking spaces as morons.
I have. I couldn’t help it. It’s like, what are you trying to prove, doc? It’s always irked me in a way. That’s probably my own little illness. But it’s true. Or has been. Until I read a persuasive article on the Internet. It’s much safer to back into a parking space. Why don’t we do it?
This is absolutely sensible. When you back into a parking spot, you are backing into no traffic whatsoever, the only danger is that you might sideswipe a vehicle next to you. Then, when you go to pull out, your line of sight into active traffic is at like 90 percent.
Backing out of the spot into active traffic? Yeah, line of sight is a real problem. Even with a back-cam, you can’t beat the visibility of pulling out forward.
Turns out, all those jokers I laughed at and made little-dick jokes about all those years? Yeah. They were right.
Besides, if I make myself back into parking spots more often, that’s like, you know, how you get to Carnegie Hall, man.
So when you see that white Malibu struggling to back into a parking spot? Go ahead, laugh. But understand, that’s a honkey trying to better himself.
Meanwhile, I’m on #3 of Dr. Who on Amazon Prime. I may become one of those nerds after all.
I sat in the back of the lunch room, gnawing on a par-baked, then microwaved turkey pot pie, and even par-baking the thing cannot improve its condition from a microwave. I was eating it anyway but vowing to never put another frozen pot pie on my grocery list again.
I saw my co-worker enter.
I am certain this man was born crusty, balding, and old, rather than growing into it like the rest of us.
I watched him stare at the television set that is suspended in the ceiling’s corner and that is always on for some reason.
That is one aspect of the culture that is not often observed, the television sets that are always on. At the bar where I lunch, at the restaurant where I dine, at the workplace, at my bank, at my car mechanic, where I pump my gas, there is the TV that is always on. I walked into a favorite restaurant last weekend and noticed somewhat brightly that they did not have a TV that is always on, and it made me appreciate their delicious hummus plate even more.
My co-worker stood underneath the TV that is always on in the lunch break room where I work, one of two TV sets that are always on in that large orange room, and he had one hand on one hip and stared at the TV that is always on, kind of quizzically. We were the only two people in the room, and I don’t think he had even noticed I was present from my little hideout.
I had finished with my pot pie by this time and was just killing time until I got to return to work to MAKE A REAL DIFFERENCE
so I started cheering him on
change the channel
Well. I must be a magical being. Because my colleague took his fist off of his side and drew up a chair, and placed the chair underneath the television, then bravely stood up on the chair. He began to adjust the channels.
I decided to see if I could affect his choice even further with my newly discovered mind power suggestion voodoo.
FOX NEWS. I said. Put it on FOX NEWS.
I begin my Jedi training tomorrow.
The bar stool upon which I sat today at lunch was crooked, and it wobbled. Either that or I kept encountering a divot in the floor. I am not certain which was the case. Regardless, my seat had a wobble.
This is not the kind of thing one experiences at the newest latest pub. I did not have a wobbly bar stool when I had lunch at Bar Louie Saturday because I took my car in because the front tires were regularly losing up to 10PSI, and when the mechanics perched her up on the rack, they discovered my brakes were nearly gone and offered to replace them, so I ended up having a meal at Bar Louie next-door, and I can assure you that my bar stool did not wobble there.
No, that wobbly bar stool is a well-earned scar at a joint called J.B. Quimby’s Public House, which is an old-shitters’ joint and one of the finest pubs in western New York and certainly in all the land. Quimby’s has dings and pock marks, and it has earned them and wears them with swagger. And today I had the pleasure of lunch there with my Dad and my brother, and it was really good. I had the reuben melt, and it was delicious. Dad had the Cuban with these cheesy potatoes that must be experienced because they were delicious. My brother had a quesadilla.
During this excursion, we took in a football game on the television. We watched the Buffalo Bills play the New Orleans Saints right here in Buffalo.
The team from the Big Easy ended up besting the Bills 47-10. As quoted in the Democrat and Chronicle today, linebacker Preston Brown said “We weren’t good.”
Having discussed my really nice Sunday today, I share this. For reasons. From the book Illusions, by Richard Bach:
Once there lived a village of creatures along the bottom of a great crystal river.
The current of the river swept silently over them all—young and old, rich and poor, good and evil, the current going its own way, knowing only its own crystal self.
Each creature in its own manner clung tightly to the twigs and rocks of the river bottom, for clinging was their way of life, and resisting the current what each had learned from birth.
But one creature said at last, “I am tired of clinging. Though I cannot see it with my eyes, I trust that the current knows where it is going. I shall let go, and let it take me where it will. Clinging, I shall die of boredom.”
The other creatures laughed and said, “Fool! Let go, and that current you worship will throw you tumbled and smashed across the rocks, and you will die quicker than boredom!”
But the one heeded them not, and taking a breath did let go, and at once was tumbled and smashed by the current across the rocks.
Yet in time, as the creature refused to cling again, the current lifted him free from the bottom, and he was bruised and hurt no more.
And the creatures downstream, to whom he was a stranger, cried, “See a miracle! A creature like ourselves, yet he flies! See the Messiah, come to save us all!”
And the one carried in the current said, “I am no more Messiah than you. The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare let go. Our true work is this voyage, this adventure.”
But they cried the more, “Savior!” all the while clinging to the rocks, and when they looked again he was gone, and they were left alone making legends of a Savior.
I am sitting at my front office listening to Chris Matthews on the MSNBC and waiting for electoral results, mostly locally but certainly nationally and especially from my former home state of Virginia. I have direly predicted that Republican Ned Gillespie (yes, I did that on purpose) will be victorious. This is not because of anything I know, except that I know that Democrats are in a bit of a slump. Factoring in to my maudlin prediction was indeed the weird and screechy revelations from the upchucking I mean upcoming book by Donna Brazile, whose name should really be pronounced “BRAH-ZYLE” and who is currently really pissing me off. I would like to have seen her upend the ticket single-handedly based on a stumble caused by heat exhaustion and pneumonia and her own pique at being denied the autonomy at work you believe you are due. Welcome to work, Donna Brah-zyle. Work does not often offer the autonomy we believe we are due. It usually doesn’t. It always doesn’t. What a nice time to regrudgeitate 2016 yet again, you moron. Lookit that. I just made up a word.
My own work life is weirdly uncertain, and I am weirdly okay with that. I am on temp-type job currently that will probably not go on forever. I have turned down two other jobs since the previous job went away, something I have never done before but probably should have. My original plan was to eat the layoff and have a really nice holiday season, and then to do some of that “finding one’s self” stuff that I’m not sure I ever got to do. Instead, I’ll be back in the headset for now. For now. At least this work won’t involve entirely abstract concepts about machines I literally can’t touch.
And we’re down a dog, as you might have noticed. Might be down two shortly, as dog #2 can no longer blink his eyes nor control his mouth nor move his cute floppy ears.
Despite all the weirdness and sick and dying dog-friends, I feel hopeful. It is my favorite time of year. I look forward to holidays and am already brewing up my offerings for Zappadan, which is here in like 26 days.
Gosh I love Zappadan.
- Zappaland the Hard Way (MetaFilter)
- The Adolescent Cult of the AR-15 (The Week)
- The Texas shooting shows why “a good guy with a gun” isn’t enough
- Dear laxative makers: Please hire actor Larry Thomas to reprise his most enduring role and call him the Poop Nazi. Pleaaaaaase?
- Chemistry of Cast Iron Seasoning: A Science-Based How-To
So for awhile I was trying something new. I was trying to move my blog here to a zippier domain name, 8wk.me.
Here’s the whole entire story.
First of all. The name. “Adventures Into the Well-Known.” When I would stay with my Dad as a youngster, we would take trips. I once referred to one of our ventures as an “adventure into the well-known,” and my Dad laughed. It became a running joke because it always made my Dad laugh. So when I was living in Washington, D.C. and was trying to name my blog, I ended up going back to my basic material. Adventures Into the Well-Known it would be.
It was funny to me on another level, too, in that usually when you’re trying to create a web presence, your URL is supposed to be snappy. “adventuresintothewellknown.com” is no such thing. It’s a friggin’ mouthful of buffalo balls in Internet language. This appealed to the mosh-pit mentality in me. It left me tickled because it’s so long and stupid. It was perfect.
Years later, however, I felt stymied by the long, mush-mouthed domain I had chosen. I wished I could find a more succinct domain. How could I do that and yet keep the spirit of the original identity? This combined with my on-again off-again interest in being an Internet broadcaster via platforms such as Live365 radio. Adventures Into The Well Known Radio is kind of a mouthful.
So one night when I was sitting at work and should have been working (sorry), I was pondering a new identity for what has become something I consider to be my personal brand. How can I abbreviate this?
Sometimes, ideas hit you like thunder.
A for Adventures
I for Into
T for The
AIT = 8
W for Well
K for Known
I know to you that to me this was a bolt of lightning is weird. But it was. I can have a less mealy-mouthed domain that still reflects the original idea. It was brilliant. 8WK. It’s still Adventures Into the Well Known. But different. You know. Like KFC.
Plus the new domain options.
I’ve never been a dot-com. I’m not trying to sell things. Frankly, the larger reason I keep a blog is to learn things. I keep it so I can learn about WordPress and SQL and other fun things. When I got the domain, you had the choices of dot-com, dot-org, or dot-net. Those were your choices. No soup for you.
But I like that we can now choose dot-me domains. Or even dot-blog domains. That you can specify the purpose of your site via your domain is a great advancement for the Web.
So I bought 8wk.me.
And I wanted to try it out. I did in various ways. Mostly I had it re-direct here. Then for a while I decided to have it be the main domain in Spain with the rain.
Anyway so I wanted to try to make 8wk.me my main domain. I don’t think it worked.
My Mom calls it 8-week something something. For example. She doesn’t understand what I’m doing. If my own Mama doesn’t get it, then how is the average surfer going to?
Plus I have all the years of traffic. All two of you.
Screw it. I don’t know what will become of 8wk.me. But I’m staying here.
Some time a long long time ago, I apparently said to my long-time best buddy Geoffrey that I thought “Doolittle” by The Pixies was a good musical effort and he might want to check it out. What he thought I said was that he should become a mouth-foaming Pixies fan and should learn ever word and inflection of every lyric and scream and burping yelp Black Francis ever uttered.
So sometime at the start of this year, I mentioned to my buddy that The Pixies would be playing in Buffalo. Before I knew it, he was gonna fly up here and we were gonna go to the show.
So that was this weekend. What a cool time.
It was in jeopardy as about Tuesday I realized I had contracted the yech. Sore throat, snot, croupy voice, sinus aches. Weirdly, lots of sneezing, which I usually do not encounter with the yech. So there went two additional days of PTO. Glad I took them, though. Two days of mostly sleeping can do a lot, and I did not want to be feeble for said weekend.
Still wasn’t at my best Friday when I went to pick up fellow bandito. And it was raining. After a quick stop at home base, I determined that a run to Quimby’s was in order. Then a run to Record Archive. Followed by beers at Victoire. Despite the rain and my fatigue, I managed to show my good friend some of the best of our fair city. Then there were birthday celebrations at Farm Gonfalon. Etcetera. Blah.
Sunday morning we shuffled on off to Buffalo.
The Wyndham Garden is highly recommended, though for some reason, when you ask the staff “where is a good place to go have lunch and watch football,” the first word out of their mouth is not “Tully’s.” Duh.
That was a nice football day. Charlotte won. Buffalo won. Tully’s fed us and filled us with beer. Thank you, Megan.
After some recuperation time, we headed out for the show. When we arrived, the openers were on. And, frankly, I think Sunflower Bean is quite a discovery.
Is this an ’80s throwback? Sort of. These kids are great live, though. If you get to see Sunflower Bean, do.
And The Pixies? Sublime, of course. By which I mean they were good, not that they played ska-core music.
“Who is this?” asked one altakaka to the other at where everyone knows my name where I had lunch today. “Is this Genesis?”
“No,” said the other altakaka. “It’s Peter Gabriel.”
The song was “Land of Confusion.”
“Oh, wait, I know.” said Altakaka Number One. “It’s Phil Collins.”
“It’s Genesis,” said the barkeep.
I tried not to sound annoyed when I finally cleared it up for everyone. “It’s Genesis. It’s Genesis with Phil Collins.”
“Huh,” said Altakaka Number One. “It’s not Peter Gabriel?”
“No,” I confirmed and returned back to my Kindle and my BLT.
“Now, who is this now?” asked AK#2. The song: “Here Comes the Feeling.”
“It’s Asia,” I answered. Oh! Yes! He exclaimed back. Asia!
Then, “Old Man Down The Road.” “Hey, do you like these guys?” asks AK#1 to AK#2.
“Yeah, but this isn’t that band. It’s that guy by himself.”
Correct. Score one for AK#2. This was a John Fogerty solo effort after he left CCR.
Shortly, “The Weight” played. “Hey, you know who this is, don’t you?” Altakaka Number Two shook his head. “It’s that Bob Dylan with The Band.”
No, I uttered interally. It’s just The Band. That’s Levon Helms singing.
I hadn’t intended to play musical trivia today. But I am glad to report that I cleaned AK#1 and AK#2’s clocks.