Don't read this. It's not good.

2011-09-27T08:41:00.001-07:00

Fixing Facebook

Here's how to get your facebook news feed to show up in order of posting, not by importance. As an added bonus you get rid of the crawl.

1) Click on More next to the Lists label on the left rail.

2) Click the Create a list button. Try to resist the urge to subscribe to Jessica Alba.

3) Name your list whatever you like.

4) Once you have created the list click on Manage List and choose Add/Remove Friends.

5) Select all your friends. Or at least all the people you want to see in your feed.

6) Once you're done your list appear on the left rail. (You may need to click More next to Lists again to see it.) Click it to see your feed as it should be.

7) Bookmark the page.

2010-12-10T18:44:00.000-08:00

The Creative Process

Flannery is off to a birthday party and I'm going to stay here babysitting a sleeping Tabitha. But just because I've fortuitously missed out on going to Sushi doesn't mean I didn't contribute to the birthday festivities. Flannery made the birthday card, and I had to come up with something for the inside left page.

The contenders:

The eye-headed, cycloptic, stick-figured, crystal queen wishes you a happy flower pick field day! (She does not understand the concept of birth.)
Adhesive backed crystals arranged in the shape of a cycloptic stick figure queen could never outshine you friendship, but damn if they don't come close.
Queen Eyeballia Shineyton Stickfigurina the Forth would like to offer you a flower on this, the day of your birth. That'z how she do.
What are you looking at? Are you a racist?
Do not have a staring contest with me, you could die. Instead let us just enjoy your birthday fish.
My writers worked tirelessly to come up with a funny, touching appropriate sentiment for the inside of this card. Unfortunately the front makes no fucking sense so they gave up.
In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king - a slightly effeminate king.

2010-09-11T20:39:00.000-07:00

Zombie Baby

This is apparently becoming a video blog for all my baby videos. This one involves a zombie baby.

2010-06-27T16:58:00.000-07:00

What good is it having a daughter if you can't put her in videos on YouTube.

Dancing to ABBA

She's helping pull her weight a little by working as a BART fast-pass.

2010-02-08T21:35:00.001-08:00

Kaiser Hippy

We're taking a class to learn about preparing for birth taught by a woman who seems to know her stuff but reminds me of a vegetarian Yoda. She makes little noises mid-sentence and last week, after introductions, she started the class by saying we should "get to the tofu of it."

One of our homework assignments was to come up with a list of 10 birth affirmations. We had to google birth affirmations to figure out how to write them: Imagine pregnant Stuart Smalley. I had to write more than 10 so we could edit them down a bit.

We will provide a loving home for the baby.
We will have a health and happy baby.
I crave healthful foods.
I want to exercise to help prepare me for birth.
I have an elastic perineum
I will be a good parent.
The baby will have a reasonably sized head
I can deal with very intense "sensation"
Vegans ate my lawn
Babies love islands
I will have a lots of support from my partner
We will remember the vaginal lubricant for baby poop number one.
The baby will be loved.
Babies love cats.
Red houses love babies.

I'm having some trouble connecting with the tofu California nature of the class offerings around these parts. I'm also having trouble deciding if I should write these in first person or not. Honestly, it doesn't really matter how elastic my perineum is, nor do I care to find out.

2010-01-17T23:00:00.000-08:00

Art 2.0

My drawing is not that great. Nor is my painting. Even so, once in a while some inspiration strikes and I'm forced to create. Unfortunately I create the same thing over and over again. First it was in acrylics, and now it's in the form of GIMP on a Linux powered tablet. Behold, the most recently incarnation of ...

The Bear Goes Fishing

2009-12-28T20:19:00.000-08:00

Gross Out

Oh Gross Out (or more accurately Groc Out), your suspect deals continue to entice us. The Kissables I bought are delicious, though slightly dangerous. To create M&Ms in the shape of a Hershey's Kiss is to create a package of overly sharp M&Ms. The Hansens smoothie I got from you was also very tasty, but I'm not sure that a can of smoothie should go phhhhhhhh when I pop the top.

Sure, Gross Out is a great place to find deals on snack foods, possibly-real cheeses and candy that didn't work out on the mass market, but it's not a great place to find anything that's either fresh or healthy.

And Gross Out employees, please don't scowl at us when we bring in our reusable bags. We just don't want your crappy plastic ones. Any bag that isn't structurally sound enough for cat poop isn't going to cut it for our groceries, cheap and weird as they may be.

2009-11-22T14:17:00.001-08:00

Syncing the Droid with iTunes
(nerd post)

I'm a happy Droid owner who has spent a very long time on the iTunes issue. Namely I wanted to sync my phone with iTunes and get:

Music I've picked out to be on the phone.
All podcasts as soon as they are available.
No podcast that I've unchecked.

Here's how I did it so you can do it too:
(The iTunes instructions work for both Mac and Windows, but when it comes to syncing I only go into detail on Windows. I do have a possible software link for you Mac people. If anyone has used it let me know how it goes.)
First: Create the music folder on your Droid.

Hook up the Droid to your computer with the usb cable.
On the Droid you should see an USB notification. Click it and tell it to mount the USB drive.
On your computer go to My Computer and then open the new drive which has appeared - it should be the Droid's SD card.
Create a new folder called Music.

Second: Get iTunes ready

Create a music playlist for your Droid. You can call it whatever you like, mine is called Phone Music.
This playlist is just for the music, so don't put the podcasts in here. We'll take care of that next.

Second.5: Create a Smart Playlist to combine your Phone Music playlist and your podcasts.
This playlist will aggregate all the songs in Phone Music as well as any podcast which has a check mark next to it.

In iTunes go to the File menu and choose New Smart Playlist...
Choose the following criteria for your list:
iTunes is now ready to sync to your Droid.

Third: Download and install iTunes Agent

http://ita.sourceforge.net/download.html (you want the Windows Installer)
Install iTunes agent

If you have a mac you might try Sailing Sync: http://www.salling.com/MediaSync/Mac/
I haven't tried it myself but it looks like it would do the same thing as iTunes Agent.

Fourth: Configure iTunes Agent

Connect your Droid to your computer and mount the SD card. (See Part 1, or if it is still connected you can skip this step.)
Run iTunes Agent. It appears as a small iPod icon next to your clock.
Right-click on iTunes Agent and choose Preferences.
Create a new profile and call it whatever you like. Mine is called Droid.
Tell it to sync with the Music folder on the Droid, the iTunes Smart Playlist, and then save changes.

Fifth Sync your Droid
(Now that everything is set up you'll follow theses steps each time you want to sync your music and podcasts)

Launch iTunes Agent (This launches iTunes too)
Hook up the Droid to the computer and mount the SD card
Once your computer has found the Droid right click on the iTunes Agent icon (next to the clock, lower right) and choose Synchronize Devices.
iTunes Agent will sync your music and podcasts with your Droid. When it's done the progress window will disappear. (The initial sync may take a while.)
Tell windows to remove the Droid, then unplug it from the computer.

2009-11-18T11:55:00.000-08:00

Tuesday: Fine

Wednesday: Two words: anal glands. Damn you cat!

2009-11-16T21:20:00.000-08:00

I've had a rough few days. Let's make a time line:

Wednesday 11/11: Upon leaving the house to run some elands I discovered that my scooter had been stolen. Sure I wasn't using it, but they could have at least stolen it before I put $600 into getting the transmission fixed.

Thursday 11/12: Having to work after a holiday is always a little disappointing.

Friday the 13th!: On my way home from work I get into the left hand turn lane on Brannan street in San Francisco to turn onto 7th. There is a large white truck in front of me waiting for traffic to stop so he can turn left. As he starts to make his turn and drives off to the left I can now see the motorcycle sliding toward my car followed closely by the motorcycle rider. One or both hit my car and then ended up on my left side. Amazingly the motorcycle rider had no broken bones, but my bumper, wheel well, and quarter panel didn't fare so well. It's sitting in a body shop waiting for the insurance people to decide what to do about it. Four days ago I had two vehicles, today I have zero.

Saturday: I get a rental car paid for by the body shop. Yay! But it's HUGE and horrible to drive and if I didn't have a ton of stuff to do I'd take it back. Boo.

Sunday: I get all my errands finished for the weekend and look into returning the rental car. I can't, they're closed.

Today: The insurance company informs me that unless the motorcycle rider actually ran a red light (I'm not sure if he did or not) then the accident wasn't his fault, and wasn't my fault, and we all have to pay for our own cars. In the many years that I've had a $1000 deductible I'm sure I've saved that much in insurance premiums, but it still sucks to hear that I may have to put that toward fixing the car that got squished by somebody else.

Still Today: I come home and do some stuff on the computer and listen to Clayton wandering around the house meowling about how he still realllly wants to go outside. He can't. He's an indoor cat, except when he escapes for who knows how long and spends subsequent weeks complaining about his captivity. All this is to say that Clayton was being annoying enough so that I didn't notice that Midge hadn't come to say hello. Eventually I did notice and went looking for her. I found her crouched by the cat box. She was weaving her head around and putting a paw up like she wanted to jump in, but maybe couldn't quite figure out how to do it. I started to worry she had had a stroke when she put her nose under the lip of the cat box and a GIANT spider jumped out and disappeared around the edge of the box. And I'm not talking kind of big, I'm talking huge. It thumped when it hit the carpet. So I very carefully look under the rest of the lip of the cat box, then stack it on a waste basket, then look underneath. Nothing. I lift up the cat box carpet and look under that. Nothing. The largest spider in all of California can not just vanish. As I put the carpet back down I notice that it's clinging to the wall maybe two feet form the ground. If you drew a circle around its legs the diameter would probably be 2.5 or 3 inches. So I did what anyone would do:
1) Ran to get my camera and took some pictures
2) Ran and got the vacuum and sucked its ass into oblivion.

Despite my careful inspection of the vacuum canister I couldn't find his body, but there was a LOT of cat hair so I suppose it was unlikely I was going to find piece of mind in a lifeless spider body. I also carefully inspected the vacuum hose with a flash light even though I could picture the Hollywood consequences of peering down a spider trap, flash light in hand, eye just an inch from the hole.

And now I've been jumpy. I was inspecting a computer screen full of spider pictures when Midge came up behind me and put her paw on my leg. I very nearly jumped out of my chair, but my desk is heavy and I just ran my thighs into my drawer. It scared the crap out of Midge too, serves her right. And it doesn't help that she keeps slowly patrolling the house, looking under the bed, under the shelves, and in all in nooks and crannies trying to figure out where she saw the other giant spider. I'm convinced it's living in my slipper.

Does anyone want to see the giant spider pictures? I appologize in advance if you do, they lack scale.

Update: Photo

I added the quarter in for scale.

2009-07-13T21:57:00.000-07:00

Doubtful

Somebody said to me today, "Normally this isn't a question I would ask a man, but have you lost weight? Your face looks thinner."

"No," I said, "but thank you."

I may have spoken too soon. I don't know. I haven't weighed myself for two weeks or so, and when I did I was just barely on the wrong side of 200 pounds. I'm a free range, beef fed, meat sack stuffed full of Jello, to misquote the Pegacorn song that recently won me an anthem writing contest.

Since discovering that I was rapidly nearing gravitational significance I've been to the Pork Off where even the dessert had bacon in it, and then to Iowa in search of marriage blessings and additional gut fat. I know I got one, and I have to assume I got the other as well. My meals there included bacon, at least two cokes a day, steak, mashed potatoes, bacon, potato pancakes, french toast, bacon, deep dish pizza, chicken Parmesan, a beef thing which I had ordering thinking it was some sort of fancy hot dog, airport pizza, and finally a Burger King meal. If my face is any thinner it's because it is trying to get stretch itself farther away from my gut for fear of being consumed.

I'll have to weigh my face in the morning after my billowing waves of tummy have a chance to even out in bed.

2009-07-04T22:16:00.001-07:00

Pork Off!

I went. It was good. I feel greasy.

And Rachel Dratch was there!

Photos are here.

2009-07-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

4th!

Tomorrow I'm going to the annual 4th of July Pork-Off tomorrow, so my heart will probably have stopped around 4pm. The pork off includes competition to determine:
- Best main course - pork based
- Best macaroni and cheese
- Best dessert - pork themed (often bacon + something sweet)
- Best haiku

Because Flannery makes the Porku books I got to write the intro haiku. Here were my drafts

Porcine edibles
Delectable poetry
Pork-off of ought nine.

Finely crafted words
Dripping savory visions
Excite the mind’s tongue

Mac and cheese, dessert
The best main course and haiku
All bow to the pig

And the final version:

Finely crafted words
Dripping savory visions
We feast on haiku

2009-05-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

Oak Town

Flannery was cat and apartment building sitting in San Francisco over the three day weekend. I spent Thursday and Saturday nights with her at the apartment building gig and had a decidedly hard time falling asleep. The apartment is right next to a hotel, so there are people smoking and talking late into the night. It's also a half block off Van Ness, so the traffic is incessant, and often turns up the hill that goes by the bedroom window. Some of these cars carry the kind of stereo system often featured in Oakland: One where the system is worth more than the car which has to struggle to maintain structural integrity against an onslaught of bass from the trunk. I realized, as I was lying awake listening to sub woofers trying to escape, that I've moved to the country.

Now, sure, those of you who live in the actual country might take exception. And you'd be right to. Somebody just recently took a giant poo in the relative privacy provided on three sides by my car, my scooter, and our recycling bin. He then left a white piece of paper sticking up from the pile which made it look like an enormous, putrid Hershey's kiss. And I've also noticed a lot of small animal bones scattered around on my way to the BART station in the morning. Either the hobos have figured out a way to smuggle roast chickens out of Safeway or the Canadian geese down by the lake need to hire a security guard. These are not country things.

None the less, as I type this, I can only hear a single helicopter - not bad for Oakland. And even that is off in the distance. From halfway across the room I can clearly hear Clayton purr as he massages my recliner - because I've moved to the country.

2009-05-26T20:41:00.001-07:00

I wonder if you can download me to your Kindle.

I have apparently hit the big time. Lulu.com sent me an email today informing me that my typo ridden novel is now being sold my Amazon. I assume this is because Lulu has made some sort of deal with Amazon, and not because the $47 in sales I've pulled in warrants an upgrade in shelf-space. (The shelves at Amazon being of a higher class than the shelves at Lulu.)

I immediately cruised over to Amazon to check it out and figured it would just be a matter of typing Kadel into the search box. But alas, no, I don't show up until page 3. It turns out that Finger & Kadel have been making themselves useful remixing things and selling the results in Amazon's mp3 store. My mom is on page 1 too for her illustration of Good Debt, Bad Debt. Also before me are a lot of prolific Germans, an organic gardening book by, among others, John Kadel Boring (which is an oddly rude mash up of my dad's name and and an adjective), and some tracks like Warmlaufen by Tobi Wörner David Kadel, who is either the same Kadel who is in league with Finger, or, just as likely, a bitter rival. There are probably lots of famous Kadel's in the German music scene, but I have to assume that Fingers are in short supply.

Unfortunately Randal, Congratulations on Your Successful Date (Paperback), isn't a very exciting product page because the only picture available was posted by me, and is therefor not available for public consumption on the front page. You actually have to click to look at it. Also, at Amazon it's $11.67 and does NOT qualifiy for free shipping, even if you were to buy three to get up over the $25 mark. Wheras on Lulu.com it's only $8.97 and the page is nicely laid out with the full color cover art featuring a nice couple trying to enjoy a Valentine's Day meal and wondering why I'm taking their picture and what might become of it.

I may eventually have to participate in NANOWRIMO again so I can through another creation out into these writhing intermets of commerce. Maybe this time I can best my Randal record of $12 in royalties, not an insignificant amount of which came from my own purchase of the book.

2009-05-18T21:39:00.000-07:00

The Peculiar To and Fro of Minnesota

I recently flew to Minnesota for a friend's wedding using Delta Airlines. Normally I'd use Southwest. Many people will tell you that Southwest is made of lame, or feels impersonal, or they'll call it Cattle Call Airlines, but I, for one, enjoy Southwest. They usually have prices comparable or cheaper to those of the other airlines (unless you are trying to get to Minneapolis), they have people on board running the safety demonstrations and handing out snacks, the bathrooms are fully functional and Southwest operates the flights on Southwest.

My flights to Minnesota were on regular sized airplanes - three seats per side with regular sized overhead compartments. But on the way back I had progressively smaller planes. Neither one had regular sized overhead bins and the second one didn't even have a first class. In the miniature egalitarian plane only those of us who brought nylon torpedo bags managed to keep our belongings in our possession the whole time. Seasoned travelers with roller bags had to put their luggage on a large metal rolling shelf on the runway on their way to the "Flight Stairs."

And really, do we have to call them Flight Stairs? They're just stairs that happen to fold out of the side of the plane, which means the plane is too small to use a regular gate. Calling them Flight Stairs does not make your airplane any more grand. If stairs folded out of your house that makes your house less luxurious, not more. You guys aren't fooling anyone.

And getting in a plane that small always worries me. Not because it's so small, but because they make you wander around on the runway looking for your aircraft. And inevitably they have to two aircraft parked next to each other and the luggage racks are overstuffed because nobody told us that our planes were going to be too small to fit luggage, so you can't really see past the luggage to know which plane is which. I got on my plane with my squishy bag and watched another man find that his seat was taken. He and the lady in his seat both looked at their tickets and both said 6D. They checked, they double checked, and they looked confused. Then somebody had a bright idea: "Are you going to Oakland?"
"No, I'm going to Austin," replied the man.
"Oh, then you want the plan over there."

The man squeezed through the oncoming hoards and down the Flight Stairs to get on the right plane. Then the pilot came on and announced that anyone who wanted to go to Austin was on the wrong plane. Cracking security you've got there.

I suppose it's safe enough to have people wandering the runways freely as long as we don't have any liquids in bottles larger than 3oz.

All four portions of my trip (Oakland to Salt Lake, Salt Lake to Minneapolis, and then back in reverse) were ticketed though Delta. I checked in on the Delta site on the way there and on the way back. And yet my return flights were operated by Mesaba Airlines, which is a subsidiary of Northwest, which is really confusing. While I was waiting for a friend to arrive in the Mn airport I noticed that while many airlines arrive in Minneapolis/Saint Paul, only Northwest airlines leave. I worry that Northwest is up to something.

This, perhaps, explains what happened to all the flight attendants. Delta/Northwest/Mesaba seem to have automated a lot of the announcements which happen before, during, and after a flight. There's a little movie featuring a redheaded woman with enormousness lips explaining how one might buckle a seat belt, breathe through the mask, inflate your vest either manually or via ripcord, or float around on your seat cushion. On Mesaba airlines they don't have enough room for TV screens so they single flight attendant has to hide next to the Flight Stairs and explain all this over the intercom. After she's done, and tidies some things up, she walks about a third of the way down the airplane, holds up a seat belt, buckles and unbuckles, stretches an oxygen mask over some passengers, and then goes back to her seat near the door. It makes some vague sense to those of us who have been flying for years because we associate the motions with the spiel, but those new to air travel have to wonder what's up with the seat belt mime. And what, pray tell, are the sandwich bags on the surgical tubing that she's threatening those poor people with?

And if Mesaba only has enough money to pay for the single flight attendant, they certainly don't have the money to pay for the fuel it would take to cart a regular (or regular airplane) sized or well stocked bathroom around the country. Part way back to Oakland I had to squeeze my way out from under the miniature overhead bins (hitting my head) to get to the bathroom. When I arrived I discovered that the bathroom was so small I couldn't stand up straight, nor was it deep enough that I could bend my knees much. This forced me to stand up straight and rest one ear on my shoulder and one ear on the ceiling and look what would normally be sideways to aim. This through off my hand-eye coordination a little, but I managed to relieve myself without making a mess. That's good because they don't have water on Mesaba. They have a sink full of individually wrapped sanitary wipes. So for my last hour in the air I got to feel both gigantic and not very clean. (And I hit my head on the way back to my seat too.)

I can't wait until they invent transporters for real.

2009-04-27T17:00:00.000-07:00

From the Archives

I sent this in with the payment for a speeding ticket way back in the year 2000. (Which still sounds like the future.) I just found it while going through my computer looking for something else:

August 6, 2000

Circuit Court
807 Main Street, Room 104
Oregon City, OR 97045

Your Honor,

I was going way too fast,
When the officer I passed.
Flashing lights, I had to stop,
For the speed enforcing cop.

Now the money that I owe,
I send to you so I can show
Up at work and earn some more,
To spend at school (the learning store).

This starving student sure could use
Money for books, tuition, and shoes.
I know the fault’s completely mine,
And so enclosed is One-Oh-Nine.

But if in your heart perchance you see,
A snippet there of leniency,
To reduce the fine I pay,
Would make this one a happy day.

I am sorry for my speed,
Excessive, yes, I see the need,
To keep streets safe from speeds like mine,
Repentant me, pays you the fine.

Sincerely,

Michael Kadel
Summons #37281

2009-04-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

Pests II

I too just had a moth in my house. It was fluttering up against our rear security door because it:
a) Wanted to get outside and
b) Wasn't smart enough to fly out the more than adequate space between the door and the and the top of the door frame.

Midge was very interested, but because she boarders on being morbidly obese, she's not much of a jumper. She'd look up at the moth and half-heartedly knock on the door with her paw, I suppose in hopes that the paw-force of a cat her size would create a vibration adequate to send the moth tumbling to its death in her mouth.

I felt a little sorry for her so I nudged the moth with my finger, but I guess I inadvertently nudged the pixie dust off its wings because it fell off the door and started to walk around on the floor.

Midge has grown accustomed to food being provided for her, so she didn't really know what to do with a moth at mouth level. She'd look at it, then poke it with her paw to make it walk a little, then stare at it again until it quit moving. Then poke. Then stare. She was very gentle.

Midge was entirely satisfied with this arrangement until Clayton came in, spotted the moth, pounced, then ate it. Midge looked a little disappointed as Clayton crunched away at it, like maybe she'd lost a friend.

Since then she's been sleeping a lot. She's either depressed, or she's a cat. I'm thinking it's probably the cat thing.

2009-04-17T22:23:00.000-07:00

Vroom, Vroom!

This evening Flannery and I went to a warehouse in West Oakland where a oddly majestic cardboard track made several loops through the air and passed through a cardboard mountain. Watching over the track was the front of a cardboard ship with a cardboard lady on the front. Those scared of spiders may not have enjoyed the giant cardboard arachnid, but everyone would have like to see the tiny cardboard people living in the intricate cardboard mountainside dwellings.

The point of all this papery goodness was to divide ourselves into teams and drive cardboard covered, radio controlled cars around the track. There were four different paths to take, and you had to follow each path to completion to win. My car, The Olde Broad, only made it around a disappointing three times, two of which were on the same path, and one of which was made possible by the helping hands of the crowd after the motor crapped out. My team (Flannery, Lori (a guy from Scotland), Robin (a girl from Montclair)) and I came in third.

Oakland is strange and entertaining and I have the pictures to prove it.

2009-04-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

We've Arrived?

Had anyone noticed that we are living the future? In the same week I've heard about:
- Hybrid cars being attached to houses to contribute to power production.
- The Astronauts returning from hanging out in the space station.
- A teenager building a fusion reactor in his parent's basement.

And after drilling some holes in a shelf in my living room I had my robot vacuum it up.

Somehow I thought it would be more exciting.

2009-03-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

Did I Come on Too Weird?

Quite a while ago now I met a guy at one of Flannery's art events. It turns out I remembered one of the projects he worked on from the Maker Faire - cool rolling metal orbs that communicate with each other. We got to talking and he said I should borrow an audio book of his and I said he should borrow Neuromancer by William Gibson.

The following Monday he called me at work (I'd given him my card), but as per usual at work I had zero time to talk and told him I would talk to him later. The next day I found that his email to me had gotten stuck in my work spam service, and the day after that I emailed him to see if he wanted to get together to exchange SciFi media.

I didn't hear from him for a little over a month, and then last week I got an email from him saying he's posted the audio book to his website so I could listen to it. In his email he made what I assumed to be a spellchecker joke about whether the book was called Neuromancer or Necromancer, which is what spell check always suggests.

I downloaded the audio book and wrote him back to thank him and offer to get together to lend him the William Gibson book. Curios as to what a Necromancer actually was I did some googling. It was not what I thought it was, and I made the following joke:

And it's [the book] definitely Neuruomancer. While spell check might urge you down the path of Necromancing, don't trust it. On the bright side Necromancer has something to do with summoning demons. The bright side being that I assumed that it has something to do with romantic necropheliacs.

Necropheliac: "She seemed a little cold toward me."
Necromancer: "Well did you bring her flowers?"

I haven't heard anything since. What do you think? Did I come on too weird?

2009-03-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

Mail for Charles?

We get a lot of mail for the people who used to live here, and normally I just recycle it. But I do read the envelopes to see if maybe it's something I should shred. So while I was reading envelopes today my interest was peaked by the a letter from the Trident Society offering me a "Free Pre-Paid Cremation!"

Just the name Trident Society got me wondering what this letter was all about, but the enticing but contradictory Free Pre-Paid Cremation made me open it. (Just as a quick aside, isn't prepaid one word? My spellchecker says it is.)

Turns out they don't just offer a free prepaid cremation to everyone, you have to enter to win it. I suppose everyone needs to be disposed of at some point, but I'm uncomfortable entering to win a free cremation. I want to give somebody money before they cremate me. Otherwise what motivation do they have to wait? Maybe I would view this as a more exciting opportunity if I were older. Right now it's about as enticing as receiving socks and underwear on your birthday, bur morbid.

2009-03-14T16:53:00.001-07:00

Not Funny

This is my least favorite work joke. I've just finished being helpful, or doing something for somebody that they really should have done themselves, and somebody says to me, "I don't care what they say, you're the best."

What am I supposed to say to that?
"Who's they, and what have they been saying?"
"Give me names and we'll go kick some ass."
"Tee hee. You're silly!"
"Luckily it's your opinion that really counts."

And when we're within 30 days of just laying off a bunch of people the joke loses the last semblance of fun it may have had.

2009-03-11T21:52:00.000-07:00

In Explanation

For those who do not know who Midge is, and perhaps did not receive our Christmas card this year, this post is for you. Midge is the tall, fit looking one on the right. Clayton is the short pudgy one on the left. In real life Clayton is athletic and Midge is a bit on the girthy side, but that, of course, is the joke.

From Christmas 2008

Please click for a better look.

2009-02-26T20:23:00.000-08:00

Out Damn Box

Imagine, if you will, a secret wing of your house. Accessible only through an air tight, easily swinging door (say one which could be operated by cats), this wing would be down a long hallway. At the end of the hall would be a single small room with a slightly convex floor with a square plateau in the middle and thin vents flush with the floor that led straight outside. The window of this room overlooks a dumpster with a shoot on top through which bags of cat poop can easily be flung. The convex floor allows any orphaned cat litter to slide outside so it doesn't stick to the carpet outside my shower, or worse, in my shower when Clayton comes in to lick my legs while I'm trying to grab my towel.

Yes, that's right, I would love someplace other than my bathroom to keep the cat box. If I have to visit the bathroom then, by god, so does Midge. And if I have to be in there for more than a few minutes then the fact that Midge pees upward onto the wall of her specially designed (by my sister) cat box, doesn't drink enough water, and makes no effort to cover it up removes any enjoyment I might derive from hanging out on my toilet. Not that there was much to begin with.

But seriously, Midge - nobody can stink up a cat box like you. If you didn't let me rub your cat bag all the time you'd be out.

2009-02-24T21:20:00.000-08:00

Cooking with Michael - Part Ew.

On the menu this evening was a tried and true childhood mainstay: pork chops slow cooked in vegetable soup, with rice and steamed broccoli on the side.

My track record with food is sorry at best (though I did just recently kick the ass of a Valentine's day lasagna), so I thoroughly follow all instructions when I'm aiming at edible. And when a recipe is non-specific or tells me to use a setting I don't have, I ask for help. In all other areas of life I plug things in, turn them on, and try to make them go. It's only cooking that gives me pause and has me calling epicurean tech support.

While making the pork chops I found myself in just such a situation: My extremely brief recipe called for cooking the chops on low for 90 minutes. My little electric skillet goes from off to warm to 200 and then on up from there - low was not an option. So I called my sister who used to whip up this very dish on this very skillet and asked her what low meant. She suggested a little under 200.

With the pork chops bubbling away I started work on the wild rice, then after Flannery got home, on the broccoli. Part way through readying the broccoli to be steamed I heard the rice making popping noises so I took it off the heat to find that it was slightly undercooked on top and burnt on the bottom. Luckily it was not so undercooked as to be inedible, and I didn't want to make the bottom of my pot more permanently scarred with carbon build up than it already was. This a marked improvement, however, over my usual rice: burnt on the bottom, pudding on top. (This is also how one might describe me if I spent too much time outside on a sunny day in shorts and a long sleeve shirt.)

Anyhow, Flannery was home, the rice was finished (if not totally done), and it was time for dinner. I made a big show of dishing up the meal: Packing the rice down in the bowl and comparing it to building a good foundation for one's dinner house. Then I stabbed a pork chop and moved to set the meat walls on the rice foundation, planning later to add the broccoli roof and the vegetable soup chimney. Alas, the slump in the housing market had infiltrated my dinner. The solid caramelized armor off pork and soup juice had joined everything in the skillet into one cohesive unit.

Flannery maintains that it was fine if you ate the top of the meat, but the fact that one has to approach the meat from one direction and stop before getting to the other side is a little disheartening. The cats, however, think caramelized vegetable pork armor is delicious and found it very frustrating that I wouldn't let them put their heads into my bowl.

At least somebody enjoyed it, stupid food.

2009-01-25T18:10:00.000-08:00

The View

On the way to Tilden park on Grizzly Peak Road somebody decided that, in order to really enjoy the view, they should bring some comfortable seating. And they did.

Recliners face San Francisco commiserating in their abandonment.

Urban recycling is one thing. I've been known to pick up recliners left out on the street. But Grizzly Peak is not a place people come looking to trick out their living room. Leaving your heavy upholstered seating on the hill side is just uniquely extravagant, wasteful, and both lazy and a lot of work.

And while I think who ever left their crap out there is a big jerk, reclining back and enjoying the view would have been nice.

Damp upholstery kept me from experiencing what it must have been like for the jerks.

2009-01-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

Graffiti Part II

I took my camera to work for a few days this week to try to snap a picture of the Ira Glass graffiti during my BART commute. Unfortunately taking pictures in the semi-dark morning from a moving vehicle doesn't produce the best image quality:

So today I took my camera with me while I did some errands. Behold, in all its focused glory, pictures of the Ira Glass graffiti.

There was quite the array of Graffiti there. It's part gallery, part get-well card.

2009-01-05T21:02:00.000-08:00

Miscellaneous

Flannery's friend gave us a relationship class on tape. We're listening to it now and the woman on the tape is stuck on a rat-tunnel-cheese metaphor. She's hell-bent on yanking us from our cheeseless tunnel. (Which sounds like a problem for which medication might be prescribed.) And now she's just asked us to change the tape. I believe she means tape metaphorically - some sort of repeating behavior pattern, but because the class is on tape I'm not sure what to think. Yet another reason why nobody uses tapes anymore.
While taking the BART to work I see a lot of graffiti go by. Today I saw a the entire wall of a house next to a vacant lot which in huge spray painted letters said Ira Glass. Apparently the hoodlums of West Oakland listen to NPR.
Clayton's eye is leaking and he's started chewing on his toes. A friend recommended going to the VCA Bay Area Animal hospital, but I can't get through to make an appointment. The first couple times I called it just rang and rang, never to be answered by anyone. When I called again tonight a lady answered and said, "VCA bayarea animalhosip. I'mtonlyoner anjussatech, caniput you on hold?" I said sure and then listened to 5 minutes of hold music and advertisements for pet weight loss food, monthly heart worm medication, and animal acupuncture. I've decided to take my foot fetish feline to Cheshire Cat Clinic instead.
Welcome to 2009: Where everything is the same except I have to cross out the date a lot.

2009-01-01T14:46:00.000-08:00

Join the Police, Park Where you Like

I work right across the street from a Starbucks which is always full of people. Every morning there are double-parkers, people parked in driveways, people waiting in the car while their passengers run in for coffee, and then there are people who work for the city: Garbage trucks, utility vehicles, and police - they park in the bus stops.

That drives me nuts. Nobody else parks in the bus stop because you'll get a ticket faster than you can say grande out of order no whip extra foam luke warm iced water. And it will cost you $250. (The ticket, ice water is free.)

Now, in the mornings I can almost see this making sense. Somebody stopping off real quick to get coffee is going to have a hard time finding someplace to easily and legally stow their garbage truck. And ok, lets just, for argument's sake, say that the cops need to be able to jump in the car and drive away quickly if a call comes in, so easing out of a parallel parking spot is going to be too slow. But when it's shortly after 5pm on New Years Eve and there's free parking allllll they way down the block

there's no need to park in the bus stop. Especially not if you are going to sit down inside and sip your coffees.

Sorry for the blurry shot, but you can clearly see the blurry red curb. Car 2012 was pulling away as I was taking the picture and my phone has a sucky camera, especially when the sun is going down. Also, I didn't want to be super obvious about snapping pictures of cop cars. Next time I'll take pictures of the cop car first, then the available parking.

2008-10-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

Hi, I'm back. And it's just in time for my birthday.

The birthday celebrating has already begun in Napa, where I went for a very nice dinner with the California contingent of my family. They sent me home with a giant balloon which the cats like for the string but hate for the giant balloony scariness, some very nice gift certificates, and half an apple pie. Today I took the pie to work where I had a surprisingly hard time getting rid of it. Doesn't nobody eat apple pie? I, for one, would be more than happy to have some apple pie.

That of course begs the question, "Why did you get rid of the pie, then, dummy?"

I came home tonight, had a cheese and prosciutto sandwich, and finished off the ice cream. I don't need half an apple pie's help to make me look less like Flash Gordon.

Some people at work have decided that I need to be Flash Gordon for the company costume contest. One of them presented me with a head shot of Flash and the explanation that he thought I could make my hair look like his.

I couldn't actually remember if I'd seen the 80s movie version of Flash Gordon that the picture was from so I went home and researched it on YouTube.

As I discovered, Flash Gordon has two outfits. One is a skin tight t-shirt that says flash on it over some extremely tight, white pants. The other is a spandex red and black tank top, a giant, black, WWE-style belt, and some jazz pants. There's no way I'm going to trundle around work in either of those outfits. I have 40 pounds of tub where there should be 50 pounds of muscle.

Also, I think jeans that tight might give me the squirts.

Maybe I could be Compact Flash Gordon. Or Flash Gorton's Fish sticks. Gorton's Flash Sticks?

2008-07-28T19:36:00.000-07:00

Whaaadya think youuuu're lookin at .... burp.

Anytime somebody takes my picture I either make a ridiculous face or I look like I'm heavily medicated. It makes me happy to know that I am not the only one affected by this.

2008-07-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

Ohio is Full of Many Wonders

Among them is Touch Down Jesus:

2008-07-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

Barf Bag Haiku

I was bored on the flight back from Ohio.

Special thanks to Flannery for scanning in the bag and putting it on such a serene background.

2008-07-08T20:35:00.000-07:00

Differences Part II

So now I'm back in beautiful Oakland California. As we arrived last night I noticed a few more differences between Ohio and the bay area.

We have:

Human feces in our BART stations.
And old homeless man with a cane peeing on a wall in the park by my house.
Homeless people sleeping way up in the decorative insets in old buildings.
Lots more sirens.

I also personally have a much nicer bed than I found in Ohio as well as a cat who was somewhat traumatized by our long absence. He spent much of last night singing the blues and walking around on my head.

It's good to be home.

2008-07-07T11:29:00.000-07:00

The Moist and the Dirty

I'm in Ohio, land of moist, hot air, hardly any environmental awareness, no personal safety laws, and my friend's wedding.

Some things here which differ from the Bay Area:

People here don't wear helmets. You are free to smear yourself all over the freeways of Ohio if you fall off your motorcycle.
You are allowed to shoot smoke from your tailpipe onto the helmetless riders behind you. In Ohio there are no environmental roadblocks between you and your car's registration.
There are no rubber skirts on gas pumps to keep gas fumes from floating into the air.
It is very difficult to recycle unless you are at a private home, and even then there are no special bins.
People here are very large. I went to Walmart for some last minute wedding shopping and saw a wide array of rotund shoppers. I tried to fit in by getting a McFlurry at the in-store McDonald's.
The airport wireless internet is free! Score one for Ohio.
Gas is $0.70 cheaper or so. But I'm sure there's some evil reason for it.

But apart from being in Ohio, my trip out here has been really fun. The wedding was amazing, I got to play a lot of Wii Mario Kart, I saw a bunch of my friends that I don't see often, visited Magic Mountain with Flannery's sister's kids, and repeatedly lifted some toddlers over the back of a couch. They thought it was awesome, but the range of motion in my left shoulder seems to be somewhat reduced now.

And now it's time to board the plane and puzzle over the amazing mullets, shiny, new, bellybutton-high, tight, black wranglers, and the wisdom of naming your in store brand Faded Glory.

2008-04-08T21:19:00.000-07:00

Damn, Dirty, Animals.

There is a picture on a bus stop near work of the Nesquik Bunny popping out of a hole in the ground carrying a big cup of chocolate milk. But because he's obviously been burrowing, the picture gives me the impression that he's just dug a hole through the earth and he's offering me a tall, cool glass of dirt milk.

No thanks, Nesquik Bunny. I'm lactose mud intolerant.

2008-03-26T21:04:00.000-07:00

A Disgusting Pet-Based Pet Blog

Clayton is a curious cat. It has yet to kill him, but it certainly makes him gag.

He thoroughly enjoys smelling things. Especially pointy things. If I'm talking on my telemarketer-style hands free set he always wanders up to me, sniffs the microphone, and finding its smell to be delightful, starts to nibble on the end. Pens, chopsticks, forks, or an accusatory finger all warrant the same response: Sniff. Ok? Nibble. Beware a curious cat on your chest. Noses are pointy enough to garner the attention of his nose and teeth.

But sometimes he doesn't like what he smells. Super glue, for instance, is not one of his olfactory favorites. Last time I was using some he sniffed it, got a little on his nose, and spent the next five minutes alternately gaging and licking his face.

I just made an Easter basket for Flannery including a lovely felt Jesus and was in the middle of wrapping the whole thing in cellophane when Clayton came to supervise. He sniffed the tape, sniffed the basket, and finally sniffed the role of cellophane which immediately made him gag. Without a sufficiently appetizing smell he ambled off to sit in my recliner and I cleaned up my mess.

On the table I noticed a small spot of water and went to wipe it up with my hand. Alas, as my palm touched it the "water" moved as a semi-solid mass and slowly pulled itself over the edge of the counter. Apparently the cellophane had inspired Clayton to gag up a cat loogie.

On a mostly unrelated note, has anyone ever used a Furminator? I've been using one on Clayton and have removed a fairly solid jar full of hair which will some day become a sheet of cat felt.

Perhaps with the loss of my every day death bed and medical exposure this will become a disgusting pet-based craft blog.

2008-03-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

Done and Done

I've missed the big Christmas shopping season, but it's out just in time to give that special someone a mediocre book for Easter. Sure, it doesn't have anything to do with rabbits, the second coming of Jesus, or even eggs. But even so, it's my Novel, and I'm' done with it.

It sure did take forever. I wrote it in a month, printed it out, then took it home for Christmas. Several people read those copies and circled a bunch of stuff. I fixed those things then gave it to Flannery to read. She circled a bunch more stuff. When she was done I had to read through it yet again, and to tell you the truth I'm kind of sick of it at this point. None the less, I feel I should have something to show for my lack of blogging, so I finished editing last night.

Behold: You can get a really nice looking paper back version of my novel here: http://stores.lulu.com/kadel

You can also download it for free there, but what's the fun in that?

2008-02-19T22:16:00.001-08:00

The Recliner ...

Begets bad posture. At first it was hard to tell since I had it pre-super-comfortable-seating, but now it's obvious that it's spreading.

2008-02-11T21:26:00.000-08:00

Hi,

Long time no read.

Yeah, I know, I don't have a good excuse to have not written in so long. The time just gets away from me. Here's my update:

Job: Still going well. Computers don't work very well, so my job is safe.

Relationship: Going well as well. Well, all I can say is thing going well is welcome.

Novel: Almost done. It's been read over, things were circled, then it was read by somebody else and they circled things. At that point I was ready to put it on Lulu but then Flannery read it and circled whole pages at a time. Now she's done and I've been reading it, and I've been circling things too. But after I'm done, that's it. It's going to Lulu. I promise. I'm seriously sick of it at this point. When it's there I'll let you know and you can get yourself a copy and circle things too.

Recliner: What? You weren't expecting a chair-related update? I've been on the hunt for a recliner for quite a while, combing the craigslist free section for the recliner of my dreams to replace the giant brown chair I dragged off the street 6 months ago. On Sunday I found it. It was perched under a tree on 26th street between Noe and Sanchez. It's a tad scuzzy, with a few stains on the seat, but it's comfortable and it reclines. So today I was giving it a good vacuum and while I was doing the back I looked in the flap of fabric that covers the bottom foot of chair. Inside the flap was a ton of dust, a pen, and a pack of gum, all of which I scooped out with my hand. When I reached in for the last piece of gum (still in the wrapper, thank goodness) I brought up a small, hard something. Gum and pens are things that might fall out of one's pocket, so I was sure that this small hard thing would be in the same crap genre. Alas, I was wrong: It's a tooth. I don't know what kind of tooth, but as you can see, from tip to root it fits neatly inside this quarter.

And finally - I thought this was a very bloggy story - today I rode my scooter to Costco. There really isn't any hilarity here as I was just picking up an alarm clock and some photos. But I thoroughly enjoyed climbing on to my scooter and weaving among the flatbed carts full of stuff on my way out to the street.

2007-12-02T14:17:00.000-08:00

2007-10-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

Clayton: My Mews

Did I get a cat because I wanted some companionship? Because I thought Flannery would enjoy one? Do I just like scooping cat poo and have an unnatural interest in cross species scabies infestation? Or could it be that I needed something to blog about?

As Clayton and I become more acquainted I've come to understand his likes, dislikes, and his outright dreads.

[From Clayton's point of view]

Likes:
- The arm of the couch. It's high enough to sleep comfortably above the fray, but not so high that it's scary to jump off of like that stupid shelf I fell off today.
- Scarves. They have tassels which are both exciting and delicious. And I happen to be slippery enough that when i grab hold of the scarf I'm easily dragged across both carpet and linoleum.
- Microwaved burritos. At least I think I like them. They smell divine. (I got to stick my nose in a wrapper once.)

Dislikes:
- The vacuum. I know, all animals dislike vacuums. I'm not that creative, I'm a cat.
- Skylights. I just don't trust them. They're all bright and shiny and they remind me of when I was taken from a field and probed under my tail. I don't think I can have kids anymore.

Dreads:
- The toilet. It makes me uncomfortable when people sit on them, and despite jumping in numerous times to figure out what they put in there, all I got was wet feet that nobody seemed very interested in touching. I do my best to warn them away, but usually I just get shewed into the kitchen.
- The shower. This one scares the bejesus out of me. It forces people inside and makes them wet. WET! I wail and slash at the shower curtain and sometimes kick the crap out of the shower's minions, the bathmats. Eventually the shower sets them free and I can rest well knowing I've done my bit.

2007-10-04T20:04:00.000-07:00

News for Computer Land

I had decided when I started my new job that I wouldn't write about people from work. It's not nice to write about people if they might read it at some point. But in the tradition of other IT stories ("my cup holder isn't working") this one had to be told.

So I get a call today with the following problem: A user has an issue where he often accidentally hits the ctrl button when he's typing. Occasionally he'll combine that with an A key thereby selecting his entire document. Upon his next key stroke his document is gone. Could I, by any chance, disable the left ctrl key?

Everybody else in my department balked and told me to tell the guy there was nothing I could do, and that I didn't want to encourage him.

Alas, I tried to tell him no, but I'm a push over. So I brought him a keyboard with some keys already missing and popped the right hand ctrl key off. Such a kindly IT guy I am.

In cat news Clayton's ear has started to itch again and his self imposed ear scabs are making a comeback. His scabies medicine isn't due for another week, so I'm taking him to the vet on Saturday so they can figure out if he needs a cream or a cone or something. Sooner or later I'm going to get all his deficiencies worked out.

Well, not all of them. He just accidentally rolled off the couch and tried to catch himself using a single claw and my thigh. I don't think there's a cure for being both clumsy and sharp.

2007-10-01T21:47:00.000-07:00

He's Not Going to Die

Things are looking up for Clayton. His ears have grown a cottony soft layer of fuzz and only a few scabs remain. His diarrhea was but a passing soft spot in what has become a solid groundwork of pooping. And his gas, while not completely gone, can be managed by not squeezing him too hard. All in all he is feeling much better.

Aside from that fact that he doesn't leak from sores and orifices, he lets me know that he's feeling better by making himself at home. For instance, he now feels comfortable enough to sleep on my bed. And while he was at the shelter he showed very little interest in playing, he now eagerly plays his favorite game: be a nut case for 5 minutes.

He's the first cat I've ever seen who enjoys chasing his tail. Dogs chase their tales in two dimensions. Cats can chase their tails off into the third detention which leaves all four legs free to grasp at it while somersaulting over the couch. It does, however, make for some uncomfortable landings from time to time. Especially if one doesn't understand how chasing one's tail through the air more than 2 feet in one direction brings one off the edge of the couch.

He's also recently taken notice of the interesting shapes that live inside my computer screen. He's not so interested in the cursor like Norbert was, he's most intrigued by the edge of the screen, where the pictures stop being so bright. He's just positive he can get in there. Alas, he can not.

Oh dear, now he's figured out that text can be fun to watch. He's learning to read!

I'm going to have to finish this post now before he jal;ksdjf;dlksajfksd.

2007-09-20T19:43:00.000-07:00

Clayton Comes Home

But not just Clayton. The SPCA decided it was ok if he brought his cat scabies too. And we're just tickled pink to have them. (The sarcasm is directed at the scabies. Clayton is ok.)

The test for cat scabies involves doing a skin scraping, where the vet shows off how aptly they name tests by scarping off a layer of skin. In Clayton's case the skin came off his right ear. It doesn't look very nice. I think he's embarrassed, but he doesn't let on.

And the poor guy itches. The combination of the raw ear skin and the scabies that live underneath got him scratching enough last night to make his ear bleed. His walleyed SFSPCA mug shot doesn't really do his coloring justice. (Or maybe it does. It depends on your screen.) Between his face and his tail he's nearly white, so a bloody ear really looks tacky. And being so blessed in the cheek department, he loves to rub his face on things, which yesterday left Flannery's pants covered in cat-ooze. Happily, cat-ooze doesn't seem to stain.

Having a sick cat makes me pause and consider whether or not Clayton and I are a good match. The first night he came home he was on his best behavior. He ate his dinner, didn't scratch himself too much, and pooped in the littler box instead of in my shoes, which was what I was worried he'd do. Last night he continued to use the facilities as he should, but decided to bleed on everything and then spent the night meowing outside my bedroom door.

Normally I would let my cat sleep with me. But as I mentioned previously, he has cat scabies, and I don't really want, nor does the SCPA recommend having cat scabies on your sheets. I don't want to walk around work scratching all the time. People will think I have lice, or fleas, or poison ivy of the lap. I wonder if I can get a polo shirt that say "Don't mind me, I just have mild case of cat scabies."

So he has to yowl in loneliness for another 4 weeks or so until his sustained company doesn't carry the possibility of an itchy couple of days. Or until I decide I value sleep more than I value having an oozing but affectionate cat.

The oozing ear.

Demonstrating how much of a faux pas he is after labor day.

Being ferocious, er, tired.

More cheeks than you can shake a stick at.

2007-09-12T21:53:00.000-07:00

Super Girlfriend [X]
Good Job [X]
Bigger Apartment [X]
Pet ...

After many long, Norbertless months I've decided to re-cat my life. I actually decided to do it almost two weeks ago, but it turns out that it's very difficult to get a cat.

I looked through the SFSPCA's website and found a cute little number named Nelly. Despite my association of the name with people on MTV, I thought I should meet the cat and then rename it if I wanted to opt for adoption. I went by during my lunch break and she looked just as cute as can be. When I came back after work she was as adopted as can be.

A few days went by and I found another nice cat on the interweb. (I do seem to start relationships over the internet. Huh. Maybe I should look into that.) This one's name was Sammy and he was orange and fluffy and soft. I had paid my pet deposit and was just waiting for the cat approval letter so I could go fill out the paperwork to bring him home. In my excitement I sent his SFSPCA link to someone to show him off. She wrote back that he had been adopted.

Damn these cute cats! I needed a cat who wasn't quite so adorable on paper. Perhaps one that didn't look like the bluest crystal in the litter box. I needed Clayton.

Clayton is 3 years old, soft, affectionate, and looks like he should be named Clayton. If he lived someplace other than San Francisco I wouldn't be surprised if he would have been photographed with a piece of hay in his mouth.

Cat-approval letter in hand, I drove down to the SFSPCA to adopt Clayton before anyone else figured out that his eyes point in similar directions in person. I visited with him, we bonded, I filled out the paperwork.

"Do you have any questions before we finish up?" the helpful volunteer asked.

"Just one: He seemed to be scratching a little and had some red spots on his ear. Does he have allergies?" I asked, worrying that I would have to feed him Benadryl during the spring.

"We'll have somebody go take a look at him while you finish up here."

When that somebody came back down they made a squished mouthed, big eyed face and then said, "we think Clayton has ringworm. He's heading to the medical unit now."

So I nearly had a cat a week and a half ago. But now he's sitting in a cage while his ring worm culture incubates. Best case scenario is that he doesn't have ringworm and I can take him home on Monday. Worse case scenario is that he does have ringworm and I can take him home 4 weeks from Monday.

I have very little experience with ringworm, but already I find that I'm not fond of it.

2007-07-16T20:51:00.000-07:00

My Famous Laundromat

My local laundromat sells laundry bags in one of two varieties:

$0.50 - Yellow plastic. When half full it comes up to the knees of a little girl in a Sears photo studio.

$0.75 - Darker plastic. Nearly the same size as a small boy in the back yard.

I guess the gallon metric for plastic bags has fallen out of fashion.

If you are wondering why my laundromat qualifies as famous, go here and watch episode 6. After Demetri rides his bike down the hill (my hill) he helps an old lady (not my old lady) cross the street (my street), and there, in the background, is my famous laundromat (my famous laundromat).

2007-07-10T22:35:00.000-07:00

House in Haiku

My new house is swell
I shall write some featurekus
To explain the swell

Three windows are nice
Were the power to go off
Sunlight helps me see

Bedroom near bathroom
Toilet to 'puter sight-line
Movies while pooping

No ceiling pounding
No snot-rocket sounds next door
Nobody cooks feet

Leave 8:45
Fix computers, take a lunch
Home by 5:15

2007-05-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't posted in quite a while, but I have an excuse, or maybe many excuses.

1) New job: IT for my local public radio affiliate.
2) Maker Faire. You can see my pictures here.
3) Girlfriend. (It's more fun to hang out with her than to type to you. Sorry.)
4) I'm moving! Yes, that's right, I'm going to have 3 windows and 2 skylight things. Woot!

2007-04-22T19:44:00.000-07:00

Trading Spaces

Oh, the joy of apartment hunting in San Francisco. There are a lot of weird ones out there.

I'm looking for a new place, you see, because I now work in the up and coming IT industry. I work 9-5, get a paid lunch, and a company paid-for fancy cell phone which is basically a tiny computer with a phone built in. So with all these other luxuries going to my head I've decided that I'd like to have more than 1 window. And while I'm at it I think not having to drive around drug deals to get to my street would be nice as well.

The most interesting apartment of the weekend was one in the inner Richmond. I walked along the side of the house to find the apartment's front door nearly a foot and a half off the ground. Not a place for a person with bad knees.

Directly through the front door was the, um, living room? Foyer? One way or the other it was a little tiny linoleumed room with a big closet along one wall. Or so it seemed. In reality it was the portal to the water heater and central forced air heat for the rest of the house. I imagine it might get noisy when the other members of the household got chilly. Although, judging by the space heater in the room, I'm not sure any of that heat is shared with the in-law. Also, judging by the smoke detector dangling from the vent by a piece of wire, they might worry about the space heater.

Another highlight of the foyer is the little table they provide. It was placed right by the window for maximum light and matched the floor. Yep, matched. It had linoleum glued the top.

The bedroom was small but otherwise unremarkable. The kitchen, however, was just super. Much larger than my current kitchen and, like the front door, nearly a foot and a half higher than the room that precedes it. The half of the ceiling closest to the foyer slants down to allow the heating ducts to come off the furnace. I have to think that if they didn't raise the level of the kitchen floor so much they would have had plenty of room for the vents. And conveniently, if you cook like I do, you can shower off after making dinner as the bathroom is right off the kitchen.

And, they don't take cats. I'm still on the lookout.

2007-03-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

Cooking With Michael
The Paper Towel Edition

Sometimes I'd like a hardboiled egg. And sometimes, when I want that egg, I don't want to wait 10 minutes for the water to boil. But because we live in modern times we have technology available that lets us cook food faster: The microwave.

I know, if you microwave an egg the pressure will build up inside and it might explode. I thought of that and I poked a hole in the top. Problem solved. Won't some of the egg spill out? No, I put it in a little plastic cup so it might remain upright, pressure reducing steam spouting from its apex.

I closed the door and set the microwave for 1 minute.
1 second.
5 seconds.
10 seconds. A small pop. I check my egg to find a small crack has developed and a tiny bit of egg has seeped out. I guess the hole on top wasn't enough, but a hole and a crack has to be sufficient. Right?
15 seconds.
20 seconds.
30 seconds.
45 seconds: BOOOM! Certainly the loudest indoor explosion I've experienced.

I opened the door to find an even coating of mildly cooked egg on all 6 interior surfaces of the microwave. And as the door hung open its coating of egg started to drip onto my fridge and floor.

Some things you may or may not know about partially cooked eggs:
1) They smell awful. About half way between scrambled eggs and a dead thing.
2) They are runny enough to evenly cover a surface, but firm enough to take several wipings to fully remove.
3) They smell awful. A repeat, I know. But it's true enough to be on the list twice.
4) It takes roughly twice the time to clean a medium sized microwave covered in partially cooked egg than it does to fully cook an egg by the conventional boiling method.

People keep telling me that if I want to learn to cook I have to learn by doing. I'm not sure that's always good advice.

2007-03-06T20:22:00.000-08:00

On to New Things

I may have a new job on the horizon, I'm not sure and I don't want to jinx it. Suffice it to say that if the new job comes to fruition I'll be seeing significantly less of the aged and nude.

Things are looking good, I think. The universe is on my side, or at least its trying to tell me that my current job has run its course.

Last Tuesday I made a delivery up to Clearlake, CA. For those of you who have never been to Clearlake, it's tucked inside a mountain roughly 40 miles from the middle of nowhere. Clearlake needed a bed frame which required stopping in Manteca. Manteca, for those who have never been there, is quite a bit south and east from that same middle of nowhere. My schedule went as follows:

10am Leave San Francisco.
11:30am Arrive in Manteca.
11:55am McDonald's drive through.
12:25pm Regret McDonald's drive through.
4pm Arrive in Clearlake.
4:30pm Leave Clearlake for San Francisco.

At that point I thought I was going to make it back home early enough to take the object of my coffee affection to Costco to get some pictures printed. But as I was cruising down HWY 29 a guy in an orange vest a blue-tinted Jon Lennon glasses shut me down. Placed sideways on a stand beside him was a sign which said "Chains Required." (I don't think there is any significance to the orientation of the sign, he may have just been dumb.)

"How can I get to San Francisco from here with 29 closed?" I asked.
"I have no freaking idea, dude." He replied. "I'm not from around here. I think you can go up that road there [pointing to my left] and you'll come out in St. Helena."
"Ok, thanks." And I turned down the road.

It was an entrance to a trailer park.

After extricating myself from the trailer park I found a corner store and the helpful man behind the counter told me I could best get to San Francisco via 29. He was even more helpful when confronted with my road closure information and clued me in to Butts Canyon Rd. It meanders through Lake County and finally into Napa County where Howell Mountain Rd heads toward home, where the grapes grow strong, and where the snow ceases to annoy me.

Lo and behold it was snowing on Howell Mountain Rd. In Napa. On the grapes. It shouldn't snow in Napa. The universe was out to get me.

The proof is in the pictures.

The following day I got the call informing me that I probably have the job. I excitedly exited my van, strode into a facility to pick up a mattress, and promptly slipped in a puddle of pee.

To paraphrase Lajos Kossuth: The time draws near when a radical change must take place for the whole world in the management of mattresses by me.

2007-03-04T19:23:00.000-08:00

Long Time No See

Goodness, it has been a while hasn't it. Things have been busy and I've been falling behind on everything from blogging, to sweeping, to putting my old high school German class video onto DVD. (Subtitles are a frustrating and time consuming endeavor.)

Part of the reason I've been away so long is that I'm finally dating somebody. She's exceptionally cool, and I'm therefor doing my best to demonstrate the fact that I'd make a swell boyfriend. Case in point: making the morning coffee.

To many people (mostly coffee drinking people) making a morning cup of coffee is no big deal. But I don't drink coffee and therefor had no idea how to go about making a cup. Luckily I had the following things at my disposal: a coffee maker, a box of filters, and the knowledge that she usually gets her beans from Peet's.

First stop: Peet's coffee to get some freshly ground coffee beans. I entered the coffee shop and walked over to the coffee bean counter where a girl walked over and asked, eyebrows raised, if I wanted coffee beans. I think she thought I was trying to subvert the drink line.

Me: Yes.
Her: Ok. What kind?
Me: Oh, well, this isn't for me. What are your most popular beans?
Her: Most people like the rocaprincesshouseblend.
Me: Right. I'll have that one.
Her: ...
Her: That was two different kinds.
Me: Oh. I'll have the second one.
Her: Ok, the house blend. How much to do you want?
Me: Enough for two cups.
Her: [A long and pained sigh.]
Her: Um, no. I'm going to sell you a quarter pound. It's more than you want, but that's how much I'm going to sell you.
Me: Ok.
Her: Which grind do you want? Oh, right, not for you. [Sigh] I'm going to go with the universal grind.
Me: Ok.
Her: There are instructions on the side of the bag on how to make the perfect cup of coffee.
Me: Oh good. I need that.
Her: [Eye roll] Yeah. Do you want a complimentary cup of coffee or tea? [Obviously really hoping I would say no and leave.]
Me: No thanks.
Her: [Looking relieved] Thanks. Goodbye.

With coffee obtained and Barista torture behind me I was ready to make my first cup of coffee.

When that fateful morning came I quietly sneaked out of bed and readied my implements. I got the coffee maker out of the cupboard, which was unfortunately behind some pots and pans which made its extraction a little less quiet than I was hoping for.

With the coffee maker freed I carried it over the stove to the toaster oven where there was a free plug. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again, not quite as stealthy as I had planned.

Electricity flowing free, I measured out the coffee. According to the side of the bag the perfect cup of coffee requires two tablespoons of coffee per 6 oz of water. Because I don't have anything with oz lines on it, I had to use my 1/4 cup measuring cup. (6oz = 3/4 cup.) I figured 9oz of water would just about do it, so I measured out 3 table spoons of coffee. I realized, at this point, that 12 trips to the sink with my 1/4 cup would probably result in a lot of water on the floor and a skewed measurement, so I unplugged the coffee maker and moved it over to the sink. Unfortunately I didn't have the plug quite contained and it dragged across all my gas burner covers. Clinky, clinky, clinky, clinky. Again.

The final transport of the coffee maker back to the plug was whisper quiet, and the coffee started percolating. I inquired into the use of cream (1% milk) and sugar and mixed in what I hoped were the desired amounts. I presented the cup and a sip was taken. Her eyebrows went up and she said, "Oooh. It's strong."

I now make coffee with 2.5-3 cups of water per 1/4 cup of beans. And I get nearly twice the coffee. I think the "Peet's Perfect Cup of Coffee" recipe allows for each drop of water to have its own coffee ground to seep through. As a result not many drops of water make it down to the coffee pot.

It's a good thing that it's the thought that counts.

2007-01-30T17:13:00.000-08:00

Passing

Today was a little sad. One of our patients died after being on one of our beds for years. She was a little tiny German woman who had been renting from my company for longer than I've been working there.

I deliver a lot of mattresses to hospice patients, and they die all the time - often within a week of the delivery date. (Sometimes before we can even arrive with the mattress.) And over all it doesn't bother me. My friend Kristin maintains that I'm dead inside. In my opinion death is a fact of life, and the fact that I delivered a bed to a person doesn't usually give me enough contact with them to form much of a relationship. Very often the patient in question will be unconscious the whole time I'm in the room.

This was not the case with the lady whose mattress I picked up today. She was a home care patient, which means she was reasonably healthy but couldn't move around much and needed a prescription mattress to keep her skin healthy. Unfortunately she'd grown accustomed to the sole product line we have which is more than 10 years old. And as a result her equipment would break down a lot.

On one such occasion she called us up to say that her mattress was trying to push her out of bed to the left. I was steadfast in my belief that our mattresses don't run around trying to roll little old ladies out of bed and I tried to blame the crooked bed frame. Well, the bed frame company came and fixed their frame, and the mattress persisted in slowly rolling her to the left. After a week or so of back and forth it turned out she was right. She happened to have some oddball one-off prototype mattress which was designed such that if it got a hole it would slope to the left.

I came by her house fairly regularly for a number of reasons: A noisy pump, a sloping mattress, a "boinging" noise, and our monthly status checkup. Each time I stopped by the process was the same:

1) Call to make an appointment. One of her various caregivers would invariably answer the phone and conduct the appointment making process in some indeterminate version of English.

2) I would show up for the appointment. If it was something which involved changing the mattress she'd always still be in bed. She was always hopeful that I could somehow fix a leak or switch out the mattress without her having to get up. As this isn't ever possible, she was often disappointed. She was always apologetic for having a problem in the first place, and also for making me come back later. I'd make a second appointment.

3) On my way out the door she always offered me a piece of hard candy from a solid and sticky mass in a crystal candy dish in the kitchen. I politely took some the first couple times, but it eventually became so hard to pry a piece loose that the caregiver and I would share a knowing glance and I could thank her without actually taking some. This clever rouse only worked because she couldn't see into the kitchen.

As near as I could tell she spent 95% of her time in bed in a little room in the back of her enormous, beautiful house in San Francisco. And while it's sad to see her go, it's nice to think she's finally made it out of that little room. According to her grandson she died the day before her birthday. I'm sure not anyone else thinks so, but to me it's kind of satisfying to die without a decimal point on your age. I didn't know her that well, but I can say that she lived her years to the fullest, at least chronologically speaking.

2007-01-23T19:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Yahoo! Mail

Damn you, Yahoo! mail. Your upbeat, confident help service makes it seem as if you'll be springing into action to help me read my email, but in reality I've been without access for more than 12 hours. I've heard of people dieing in as little as 6.

And now your ad revenue will suffer because of your negligence. I've forwarded my Yahoo! mail to my Gmail account, which has yet to let me down. My emails have begun to arrive in Gmail land, so now you are only hurting yourself!

When you resolve these problems for people in the future, I highly recommend not sending them an email telling them the problem has been fixed when it hasn't. Especially if you send said email to the account in question, THE ONE TO WHICH I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS. Jerks.

I'd also like to point out that I pay for your email service. In fact, I have two accounts. One costs me money, and one is free. Guess which one broke.

Yahoo!, Google is kicking your ass for a reason.

Love,

Mike

2007-01-23T19:21:00.000-08:00

My email access is dead
And it's filling my insides with dread
I'm not sure I can live
Without any missives
I may just go straight off to bed

2007-01-21T18:17:00.000-08:00

Peep

I'm making some hard boiled eggs. When I covered the eggs with water and put them on the stove, some air started to escape from the shells. As the bubbles popped they made little peeping noises. There's nothing like the feeling that you might be boiling tiny chicks alive to make breakfast more appetizing.

2007-01-20T19:18:00.000-08:00

Limericks

Pool of Seats
There were some people at school
Who like to throw chairs in the pool
On the last day of class
They thought of their ass
And asked me to lend them a stool

To Which I replied
I knew some people who came
To ask me for something in shame
They asked "Would you care,
"If we borrowed a chair?"
And I said "hey no way you're too lame."

I don't believe you
A girl with last name Fredoth
Only liked me for my small pet sloth
When I asked if she'd mind
If I grabbed her behind
She said it had just fallen off

Pickle
There once was a pickle from mars,
Who put ugly people in jars.
He'd wait till they'd die,
Then the dead he would fry,
And sell them as snacks in the bars.

Job Market 2002
Nomadic employment ensues
From lame jobs that give me the blues
So I mourn the trees
That died to make these
My huge stack of W2s

2007-01-17T18:13:00.000-08:00

Today

I was worried about today. It started out with our weekly corporate compliance course conference call, which isn't terrible, but I can't say I look forward to it.

After the call I tried to make delivery arrangements. Of the 3 deliveries I got in the morning, 1 had the wrong phone number, 1 had no phone number, and one was missing an area code. A little research cleared those problems right up.

So off I went to delivery number 1, ignoring the phone omens and hoping for the best. However, when I arrived I discovered the patient didn't have a bed frame. I'm not allowed to install stuff on the floor. Oh well, I'll come back later.

Time for delivery #2. I dialed the number:

Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Them: Bueno.
Crap.
Me: [I have a mattress blah blah blah.]
Them: Um.... [Then in perfect, accent-free English,] Sorry, I do not speak any English.
Me: Ok. Well ... Ok.
I called two other numbers for the patient's family and waded through two Spanish language voice mail menus until I got what I hope was the leave a message beep. I left an English message.

Off to delivery #3. When I arrived the patient was out of bed already. Amazing. I took off their old mattress, put mine on, and got my paperwork signed. 'Hot Damn,' I thought. 'This day is looking up.' Then I knelt down to pick up my quick pump and put my knee in a puddle of cat pee.

During lunch my sandwich place had been replaced by a Panda Express, so I went to a Burger King with the dual distinctions of being the slowest location on earth, and one of the few with pay toilets. You gotta love paying 25c to pee someplace where your eyes water from the smell. I guess the quarter helps keep the riffraff out.

To bring my day full circle I went back to delivery #1 at 4 o'clock just as the bed frame guy arrived. I went to the woman's room and set up my mattress while I waited for the frame guy to unload. As I blew up my mattress I heard a running water noise coming through the open door to the bathroom. I was just about to wonder what it was when I heard an accompanying, satisfied "Oh? ... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." After he was finished and put away he wandered out and asked a nurse when breakfast would be ready.

But I did get home early, and in a little while I'm having pie. Today hasn't beaten me yet.

2007-01-15T20:00:00.000-08:00

Figuring Things Out

Two things, in fact.

The first thing, or things in this case, were two separate gas wall heaters. One wasn't working on Saturday, so I did a little trouble shooting, and found a loose connection. The second, on Sunday, needed its pilot light lit, so I figured out how to do that and got it running. How can I fix a gas wall heater? I don't know anything about gas heaters. I think I may be using somebody else's knowledge without their permission. Tomorrow I may uninstall a gps tracking unit from a company van. I don't know how to do that either.

I also don't know how to cut hair. Really. But after looking at my head in the mirror for 15 minutes tonight, I know how to not cut hair.

During my last haircut, before which I specifically asked that she not cut the sides too short, she cut the sides too short. The reason I got a haircut was that I was going to go out on a date, and on New Years Eve no less. And just before said date a friend told me it looked like I was wearing a wig. I decided I needed to make a hair change.

I asked for the top to be left a little long so it might cover my rather spacious forehead. A #3 on the sides and a long top can work, I think, if you know what you're doing. But this lady's blending technique involved making all my hair stick out sideways, then cutting a straight line from my ear on up. This would be fine if my hair stuck out sideways all day, but it doesn't. The top lays down and the sides, which are too short, stick out. The result, I'm happy to report, looks like I'm wearing a toupee*. At least I'm decreasing area of my hair that looks fake.

*Because of my spelling deficiencies I had to Google toupee to find out how it's spelled. If you Google toupee, the second site on the list is www.babytoupee.com, which is awesome.

2007-01-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

Insert Foot A into Mouth B

Most of the time I deliver our hospital beds to old people. They have arthritis, or replacement hips which are going out again, or maybe they've just recently broken a hip, or ankle, or toe. Any way you slice it these people have trouble getting in and out of a regular bed. But depending on the health issue, they may not need it forever.

I delivered one such bed on Friday to Berkeley. The family let me in and showed me where to install the bed. The patient would be arriving later.

As I was putting the bed together the following conversation took place:

Wife: How long will he get the bed?
Me: As long as he needs it.
Mother: So we're buying it?
Me: No, it works like this: If he likes it and continues to need it for 13 months Medicare has paid for it and it becomes his forever. If he gets up and dances around before the 13 months is up, and he'd like to go back to his regular bed, we'll come pick this one up.
Mother: Oh, he ain't never going to get up and dance around.

As I finished building the bed in came the patient - He's a 40ish paraplegic in an electric wheelchair.

In the future I may use the phrase "if his mobility improves" in place of "if he gets up and dances around."

2007-01-12T19:14:00.000-08:00

Eep

For most of the day I view the world as if I'm spectator. I'm watching through movie screen eyes and riding around in my body as it does stuff. This goes for all activities, from writing a post to driving down the freeway.

Once in a while I pop into the foreground. I did so on the way home today while driving along in my gargantuan work van. It occurred to me that I was in charge of piloting 2.5 tones of crap down the road at 60 mph while my customers tootle around in the lanes surrounding me. These are the same people who ask me to come look at a bed because it's unplugged. The people who unscrew the knobs on the side rails that blatantly say pull. When something says "pull," do not unscrew it. Pull it.

Why don't more people die in fiery crashes? I may have to stay indoors tomorrow.

2007-01-12T19:13:00.000-08:00

Multi Cultural Spam

Wow. I got an email that said "仕事場で作る笑顔の裏側には…人には話せないような欲望が眠っているんです."

I think it might be spam.

2007-01-11T20:51:00.000-08:00

Some Day

I'm going to come up with something to write about. But until that happens, here's another mostly pasted post.

I recently got a Flat Stanley in the mail from my friend Jeremy. He got it from our friend Tim's wife, who teaches the 3rd grade in Texas.

For those of you who don't click on the Flat Stanley link and you don't know what a Flat Stanley is, here's a brief primer: A class cuts out a line drawing of Stanley, pastes it to a picture somebody has drawn, sticks it in an envelope with a location log, and send the who business off to somebody reliable enough to keep the process going. After each person receives Stanley in the mail they are supposed to sign the travel log, mail it on to somebody else, and then send the class a postcard to let them know how Stanley has been getting along. Hence the 3rd grades learn about geography for a while, then about how people are flaky and/or distrustful of chain letters.

I happen to be one of those people who are distrustful of chain letters, but I recognized the name of the teacher, so I mailed it on and set out to send back a postcard. Except I didn't have a postcard, I had a box of thank you cards. Had I had a postcard, I would have just written an update, but I thought it would seem strange to receive a thank you card without the words "thank you" included.

And without further ado, here's what the inside of the card said:

January 6, 2007

Dear Ruttan Clan,

Thanks for sending Flat Stanley out to see the country. We’ve had a great time the past few days in San Francisco.

While he was out here Stanley has seen the Golden Gate Bridge, the beginnings of the new Bay Bridge, the Transamerica Building, San Francisco’s China Town, and we even went to a New Years party hosted by somebody who works for Google.* Stanley would love to buy a house out here, but if you don’t work for Google it’s too expensive. Also, he’s not sure how he feels about earthquakes.

On Monday Stanley will head South and East to Albuquerque. He’s hoping that if he goes there to see the sites he’ll come away with a better understanding of how to spell Albuquerque.** I wish him the best of luck.

Sincerely,

Mike

* This sentence is a blatant lie. Stanley saw the inside of an inlaw apartment in the significantly less appealing than it sounds Ocean View neighborhood, then sat on my desk while I saw all those places. Eventually Stanley got off my desk and climbed back in an envelope to go visit Albuquerque, thereby never actually being outdoors in San Francisco.

**Thank god for spell check.

2007-01-10T07:28:00.000-08:00

Blast from the Past Two

Because I continue to not have anything I can write about, here's a poem I wrote to the Circuit Court in hopes they would reduce my speeding ticket. I'd love to be able to tell you whether or not it worked, but I can't remember.

2007-01-10T07:27:00.000-08:00

August 6, 2000

Circuit Court
807 Main Street, Room 104
Oregon City, OR 97045

Your Honor,

I was going way too fast,
When the officer I passed.
Flashing lights, I had to stop,
For the speed enforcing cop.

Now the money that I owe,
I send to you so I can show
Up at work and earn some more,
To spend at school (the learning store).

This starving student sure could use
Money for books, tuition, and shoes.
I know the fault’s completely mine,
And so enclosed is One-Oh-Nine.

But if in your heart perchance you see,
A snippet there of leniency,
To reduce the fine I pay,
Would make this one a happy day.

I am sorry for my speed,
Excessive, yes, I see the need,
To keep streets safe from speeds like mine,
Repentant me, pays you the fine.

Sincerely,

Michael Kadel
Summons #37281

2007-01-06T18:04:00.000-08:00

No Typing

To break the long hard winter of my lack of posting, I'm posting my Teriyaki Girl short story. It's true, in case you were wondering. Sad, but true.

2007-01-06T18:03:00.000-08:00

Teriyaki Girl
by Michael Kadel

It has never been said that I am good at dating. Every time I’ve had a relationship it’s happened after I had been expressly told that the girl wanted to date me. Starting these things without knowing the other person’s thoughts on the subject has never worked out.

Even so, I find myself in the teriyaki place next to work yet again. I’ve had an engineering internship in the building across the street for more than two months now, and ever since about the first week I’ve been eating here almost every day. The girl who works behind the counter is just so cute. Sandy blond, curly hair and blue eyes. Conventional beauty, but striking all the same. I would love to ask her out, and that’s been my goal since first setting foot in the restaurant. I have yet to execute.

Here’s the scenario: I walk in and wait in line to get the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink. As the line creeps forward, I try to figure out if I’ve placed myself right to go to her register. Any little bit of contact helps. It’s not like I ever strike up much of a conversation, but perhaps I can build up a relationship of repetitiveness, recognized by my frequent visits and consistent order.

Today was no different. I have my little bowl of rice and chicken, and my small drink, which I will refill a time or two while I read my book and try to smile her way. It drives me nuts that I can’t scrounge up the courage to even mention the weather, or ask her for her name, but such is my life. I’m cursed by mental paralysis brought on by the attractive and unfamiliar. However, I only have two more weeks before I’m going back to California for school, so if I want to avoid kicking myself all next year for not even trying, I suppose I need to get a move on and say something to her.

* * *

Today I’ve brought my lunch -- an egg salad sandwich, some chips, a few cookies in a baggie, and a can of Coke. Not being a huge fan of coffee, my Coke has filled the role of my morning pick-me-up. I’m going to need something to drink with my lunch.

As I walk across the street and through the parking lot, I steel myself to my upcoming task. I need to have enough time to actually go on a couple dates if this is going to work at all, which means the time is nigh. I need to ask her for her number today, before the weekend.

Inside the store, I take my place in line, much like the line that winds out from heaven’s pearly gates, I’m sure. I’m either going to get her number, let in to experience heavenly bliss, have all my fears put to rest, God loves me, or I shall be denied, cast into the fire and brimstone of rejected suitors everywhere. It may seem melodramatic to you, but I’m not really one to approach anyone for anything.

The few times I’ve asked a girl for her number, it has been the regular guy’s equivalent of asking an entire auditorium full of beautiful women for their numbers while wearing only tightie-whities on a very cold day. Mortifying to say the least.

And now it’s my turn, and it’s her turn to take the next order. Fate smiles. It was meant to be. I approach the register. I arrive and it’s time to speak. “Hi. I’d like a small Coke and your phone number. I’m Mike by the way.” My mouth has engaged before my brain! I’m not smooth. What was I thinking? What will she say?

Then comes her reply, “I’m Christy, and I have a boyfriend.” Simple and to the point. A rejection whose reasons lie outside my realm of control. No consolation to my current state of mortified, incoherent thought, but later I’m sure it will seem better than some alternative rejections.

”Oh, just a small drink then,” comes my retort. And the unaided mouth comes through in the clutch! I pay for my Coke, and leave.

For want of a little sanctuary, I sit outside, and eat my lunch, and drink my small drink, and wait for the blood to drain from my ears, face and neck. It’s over. I did my best, even if my best was a little socially retarded, devoid of the niceties of introductions first, questions later. I guess doing things in order is not my cup of tea.

Never again will I be able to eat teriyaki. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment of the whole experience, or the simple fact that I had the same thing for lunch almost every day for 2-1/2 months. The fact remains, I can only eat a couple of bites before I lose my appetite.

Even so, I do take a little happiness from the thought that I flustered her too, if not as much as she flustered me, still enough to throw her off kilter.

On the way back to work I counted my change from the ten dollar bill I used to buy the small drink. Five fifty was my change -- the same change I would have received had I ordered a the chicken and rice bowl, no vegetables, and a small drink.

2006-12-24T19:44:00.000-08:00

Moo

I'm quite happy with my new cow template, which used to be a lighthouse template until I killed most of the pictures and replaced them with my own. Now the rocks in the far lower right corner might be cow pies. Who can say for sure which they are?

2006-12-22T19:56:00.000-08:00

The Christmas Miracles and the Boring Friday Night

The Christmas miracles of which I speak were thrice:

1) I'd been trying to get a piece of a bed bed frame for a customer for 6 months for a bed they had ordered over a year ago. First they sent the wrong part, then they said they didn't have it. Then they ignored me for 2 months. Then magically the part shows up from England on Wednesday, I bring it to the customer, the bed is finally done. Huzzah!

2) Usually when we try to fixed a purchased product we have to talk to 12 people at corporate and nobody seems to think it's their job to send parts. Nor does anyone know how to not charge the customer for the parts which should be under warranty. But on Thursday a customer asked for 3 parts to a bed frame, and I called one person in corporate who said he'd send the parts out right away. No mus, no fuss. It was worryingly amazing.

3) It's Friday night and I haven't been called to go do something that nobody else knows how to do.

Which has left me time to do this. I've dubbed it the Fire Pipe. Apparently butane is heavier than air. And after you've had it going for a while you can take the lighter off the far end and it burns for an addition couple of minutes, depending on how long your pipe is.

Fire sure is neat.

2006-12-21T21:28:00.000-08:00

Here Comes the Magic Bus

There's an excruciatingly lowered 60's era Volkswagen bus which has just overcome the cold weather and gravity to drive away up my hill.

It has two huge air intake vents on the side, which look rather like Wallace (as in and Grommit)'s ears, and a tailpipe which extends fully 2 feet out the back and which is held aloft by a bungee cord attached to the roof. It takes a good 5 minutes to warm up and sounds like its powered solely by flatulence.

It's just impracticle and retarded enough to be cool.

2006-12-20T19:18:00.000-08:00

Damp

Taking a shower to kill time while my laundry is in the dryer is not a good idea. I only do one load, and my towel is in that load. I don't know why everybody keeps telling me it's a good idea.

I'm not good at shaking dry.

2006-12-19T20:00:00.000-08:00

Three Men Walk Into a Bar. Clang, Clang, Clang.

A man walks into a strip mall wearing a sweater. As a very attractive girl walks past him and into a yoga studio, a sock falls out of his sweater.

Sounds like the beginning of a joke, doesn't it? No such luck, it was a portion of my Saturday.

And there's no punchline. I picked up the sock, said, "that's where this went," and continued on my way to the store I was looking for. The attractive yoga girl paid me no attention.

2006-12-18T20:46:00.000-08:00

Couldn't Think of a Title

Christmas is inadvertently overwhelming me. I've got all my Christmas shopping done, but all the ancillary actives are using up all my time.

- I need to research how I'm going to get to the airport at 7:05am on Christmas Eve.
- My apartment desperately needs cleaning before I go so I don't come back to a fuzz-covered carpet.
- My laundry needs doing, but I can't seem to find a spare evening in which to do it.
- I need to wrap a present for my landlord which requires buying some wrapping paper. (I usually wrap things in stolen pages from the huge stack of Chinese newspapers in the garage, but I don't think she'd feel that was very festive.)
- I've received several Christmas cards in the mail - the kind with pictures and letters summarizing the past year. I kind of feel like I should write one, but I just don't know if I can summon the motivation to do it. Especially when I realize that nobody will get it until New Years.

In other frustrating news, I've just finished a disappointing dinner of milk and truffles. (The chocolates not the pig discovered fungi.) The disappointment by no means stems from the truffles, they were home-made-not-by-me and therefor delicious. No, the disappointment comes from me waiting two hours for the oven to finish a Butter Ball turkey roast, and now I can't figure out how to get the turkey out of its stupid elastic hairnet thing. The little card on the outside of the package said specifically to cook the turkey roast skin-side down inside the netting. I did so and now the netting is a permanent part of the turkey and my left pointer finger and thumb are tender from turkey burns.

I'm going to let the turkey cool, finish the episode of Man Versus Wild I started this morning, and hope that the African savanna into which Bear parachuted while I ate breakfast gives me some insight on freeing turkey bits from a spandex meat net.

2006-12-12T19:57:00.000-08:00

A Very Long Night

Friday sucked.

Sacramento called at 4pm and said they needed a bariatric suite. For those who aren't in the know, a bariatric suite includes a hospital bed, a wheelchair, a commode, and a walker for a VERY large and bed bound patient. (The particular bed the requested can hold a 1000lb person, though this guy wasn't even close to that big.)

Since they called at 4pm on a Friday, normally the guy who's on call would deliver everything Saturday morning. Unfortunately the guy who was on call had never delivered a bariatric bed frame and therefor didn't know how to load it, unload it, set the scale, build the fracture frame, or where the serial numbers were on any of the equipment. (I've worked at my company for a little over 2 years. He's worked there a little over 3.) When I started to explain how everything worked he looked like he was about to wet himself. As pained as his expression was then, I could only imagine how many phone calls I would get as he tried to figure everything out while I was trying to enjoy my Saturday.

Ring, which way does the mattress go? It doesn't matter.
Ring, why doesn't the scale work? Because the bed isn't plugged in.
Ring, I forgot the bucket for the commode.

So I loaded up the wheelchair and walker and set off toward Stockton, where our only available bed frame was living. Let me tell you, 580W at 5pm is an absolute treat. 80 mph, then 5. Then 45, then 0. And for no reason. There were no accidents, it was just that everybody would speed up at the same time then slam on their brakes.

I got to Stockton at 8pm, and had to wedge my van between storage spaces so my headlights pointed into the bed lair. It's a normal storage space during the day, but it just so happens to be in a spot where none of the outside lights shine through the door. It gives the place a kind of spooky den of mattresses feel. Like you might be found in the morning smothered but evenly supported under a pile of foam matts.

Once I arranged all the crap in the storage space in such a way that I could maneuver the bed frame, I had to move the van which was both helpfully lighting the space, but also blocking the door.

After I got the bed loaded I set off toward Sacramento through a newly blossoming storm.

Let me take a moment here to talk about Ford headlights. I can't speak for their entire vehicle line, but the 2000 E150 headlights are about as helpful at lighting up the road as I am with providing advice for wooing the ladies. In short, they're abysmal. There's nothing like driving through the wind and pouring rain, semi mist being smudged around by my "windshield wipers", while my headlights do their best impression of 99 cent D-cell flashlights.

As I pulled into the facility's parking lot the loading zone streetlight went out. (Streetlights are always going out on me, and I have no idea why. I think it's a feud at this point. Whenever they go out I flip them the bird, and when ever they see my they go out.) So I unloaded the whole shebang in the rain, through the dark, and into the darkest end of the facility.

It's really creepy putting together a bariatric fracture frame in a dark and silent hallway of a skilled nursing facility. I felt like I should be sneaking into everybody's room and stealing their blood pressure medication.

After I had everything unloaded, set up, and explained, I climbed back into the van to head home. As I started the engine the streetlight came back on. Jerk.

My drive home was full of Arizona Green Tea and an embarrassingly large box of Hot Tamales. When I arrived at my doorstep at midnight after an excruciatingly long 15 hour day caused by somebody else's ignorance, I really needed to brush my teeth.

Luckily Karma's a bitch. On Saturday the afore mentioned ignorant guy got a call to go to Fresno, which is an 8 hour round trip. Half way there his alternator went out and he had to sit around and wait for a tow truck for several hours. He got home at midnight. Ha.

2006-12-11T21:26:00.000-08:00

Electric Plant Waterer Revealed!

Here it is! I couldn't find a good box to mount it in, so it's still only sort of done. When I find a good box I'll put it together for real which will improve things in the following ways:

- I won't need the pot holders to muffle the sound of the compressor.
- I'll put a switch plate on top of the dimmer switch for a more professional look.
- I'll have something to screw the dimmer switch to so it doesn't fall out.
- Tape won't have to be employed to hold the box together.

Without further ado, here it is:

The whole shebang. Isn't she beautiful?

The Kadel Engineering tank. (No relation.)

The box which holds the dimmer switch, air compressor, and the plug.

The sheer power of the electric plant waterer with the compressor turned up (via the dimmer switch) full blast.

The tender watering ability when the dimmer is turned down about half way. Past half way and the compressor just hums and nothing comes out.

Ta da! I'm sure it wasn't worth the wait.

2006-12-09T18:59:00.000-08:00

Delayed

My trip to Home Depot to finish up my electric plant waterer has been delayed by laziness. Laziness and the fact that I didn't get up earlier due to my working 15 hours yesterday. I'll go into all of that tomorrow.

There are two things wrong with this post:
1) It's boring.
2) It assumes that somebody is going to come looking for my electric plant waterer and be disappointed when they aren't here, but read this post and feel better about having to wait another day.

I have a half a mind not to push publish.

2006-12-06T20:44:00.000-08:00

My Oeuvre of Stuff Nobody Needs ...

Will soon be expanding into the (possibly dangerous) realm of electric plant watering devices. A quick trip to Home Depot on Saturday will finish off my supply needs and I'll have pictures available so the world can better imagine what they'll soon be coveting.

Tonight I tested the basic theory and components, and they worked like a charm (before they blew the GFI outlet in my kitchen.) It's going to be awesome!

2006-12-05T19:51:00.000-08:00

Target, The Holiday Cactus, and a Digital-Dual-Heat-Oscillating Apartment Improver

So nobody passes out from suspense, yes, I got a space heater this weekend. Though not from Costco. The jerks sold them all before I got there. No, I had to go to Target on Sunday and buy this little gem:

(My sole source of heat.)

It oscillates. It had a digital thermometer. It has two heat settings, so I can run my microwave and heat up my apartment at the same time. It has a stately white plastic shell which brings to mind Kenny from South Park if he were to put on a fencing mask. It's amazing!

After my failed attempt to buy a space heater at Costco, I went to my friend Karen's house. Her living room is all decked out in Christmas lights and she has a little light and candy cane covered Christmas tree which sits on a book shelf looking festive and smelling delicious.

My apartment, unfortunately, is really too small to hold even a small potted Christmas tree like Karen has. My holiday cactus died back in 2005, and since I sleep next to where any plants have to live, I'm not about to get another one.

(The cactus of Christmas past.)

But Target plans ahead. For those of use with tiny apartments, Target offers the Christmas-tree shaped holiday rosemary bush. It's the perfect shape to cover with Christmas, small enough to not cover my bedroom window, and has enough foliage to hold the tradition aluminum foil holiday plant Star of David. And even though Scarborough Fair seems to be running through my head a lot, I'm pleased with how it turned out.

(Plants huddled up to my window.)

2006-11-30T19:46:00.000-08:00

The Holidays are Here

You know how I can tell? I'm freezing.

When I got home from work today my apartment was 58 degrees. Now, almost 3 hours later, it's 61.

"Turn on the heat!" You say. Well, one of the many illegal aspects of my apartment is that I don't have heat. I do own a space heater, but its job is to blow warm air on me when I'm in the bathroom, possibly while I'm talking on the phone.

I don't want it to multi-task so I'm headed to Costco this weekend to buy one for my living room. I just need to remember not to run it on at the same time as my bathroom heater as half my apartment runs on the same fuse. Last year I had my microwave on a timer delay while I was cooking dinner. I stepped into the bathroom, and so I didn't get toilet-seat frost bite, I turned on my heater. A few minutes into my bathroom visit my microwave kicked on and everything went very dark. (Luckily I usually carry a lighter and happened to have a votive candle in there that day.) I had to ask my landlord where the fuse box was, and she had to ask her uncle Joe, the same genius who installed my shower doors with a hammer. In this instance uncle Joe came through and told us where to click my power back on.

This weekend, if I'm careful, I'll have both light and warmth in my apartment.

2006-11-23T07:18:00.000-08:00

Electricity Poems Apply to Alien Technology as Well

Later today I'm taking my electric skillet to Las Vegas with me to add an extra cooking surface for our late Thanksgiving dinner. I'm still debating whether or not to check the bag it's in as the little plug thing had kind of a spike on the end. And when I woke up just now it occurred to me just how retarded that is.

When dealing with electricity, things that stick out are not live, and recessed connections are. That way people aren't always brushing against live wires and dieing. While I was contemplating this, my brain offered up the following poem:

Electricity lives in gullies and wells.
You can't reach it, so everything's swell.
The tines and the spikes and things that are pokey,
don't carry a charge so they're okey dokey.

In other technology news, I had to deliver a mattress and bed frame to Los Gatos last night. This lady's neighbor (a tiny old lady who sounded a LOT like Kermit the Frog) had to let me in to set everything up. She was also the only one available to sign the paperwork and receive the explanation of how everything works. I spent 10 minutes explaining the controls of her air mattress, the frame controls, how to adjust the rails, and how to move the lifting pole. Just as I finished the telephone rang. The neighbor picked it up, held it like a walkie talky, said hello into the ear piece, waited a second, then hung it back up.

I think I managed the equivalent of landing a UFO in this lady's living room and explaining how to use it in my alien language.

2006-11-21T21:37:00.000-08:00

No Sleep! Bum Bum. 'Til Bedtime!

I've had a terrible time going to sleep for about the past week and a half. Last week was because I was up to my eyeballs in snot and sore throat. But on Sunday my congestion cleared up and my energy level has been running backwards, or if not backwards, at least not in the order it's supposed to.

I get up at 6am and am exhausted. Now, when I should be in bed getting mode, I'm ready to start a project, or write some email, or as I've done tonight, browse through personal ads for an hour.

I'm used to being exhausted at 6am, tired again shortly after lunch, and then semi sleepy again at 9ish. The only thing I can think to blame is my newly increased intake of diet Safeway select caffeine free sodas. Damn you diet cherry!

2006-11-20T20:48:00.000-08:00

The Joys of Craig's List

As I may have mentioned, I've been trying to trade my extra DVD player for a VCR. I have some home videos I'd like to put on DVD and I currently don't own a VCR. Consider my logic: A new DVD player runs in the neighborhood of $35. So I could probably only get $10-15 for my good quality, but used, one. A new VCR would also cost me $35 or so which is more than I want to spend for something I'll hardly ever use. A trade seems like the most logical choice.

So I put up my ad, and going by the unspoken rules of Craig's List, I went with the first guy who responded to my message. I met him at the taqueria, kitty corner to the Balboa Park BART station, and we traded our respective consumer electronics.

When I got home I discovered that he'd given me the world's cheapest VCR. It had a bright orange face, the play, stop, fast forward, and rewind buttons were all bright pink, it was mono (as opposed to stereo), and it had NO CLOCK. The hallmark of any VCR is the blinking clock that nobody knows how to set. I've never not been able to set my VCR clock, so I can't see why having a VCR without one would be a positive. In addition to the VCR's aesthetic drawbacks, I had to turn up the TV to hear the sound over the noise generated by playing a tape.

For two weeks I've been trying to get my DVD player back. At first I thought it was going to be easy. He suggested we meet at 7pm at an IHOP in Redwood City on Tuesday, a day when he goes to visit his mother. How nice. 7pm rolls around at the International House of Pancakes and I walk over to a guy sitting in his car obviously waiting for somebody. "Hi," I say, "weren't you driving a van last time?"

"No," the man replies.

"Well, here's your VCR. Can I have my DVD player?"

"I don't think I'm the person you are meeting," the man says, explaining his lack of DVD player and choice of vehicle.

It was dark at the taqueria, so I was on the apparently overly generic lookout for a portly, bald, bedandruffed man with skimpy mustache.

7:15. Nobody. I leave a message asking where he is.
7:30. Nobody. I leave a message asking where he is and informing him he's got 15 minutes before I go home.
7:45. Nobody. I leave my final message, tell him I'm going home, and letting him know that he can drive himself to San Francisco to give me back my DVD player.

A couple days go by and I send him a couple of emails. He finally writes back saying that he hadn't checked his email after he suggested the IHOP rendezvous, and that his car had broken down on the way to Redwood City, and that he'd forgotten his phone in the car at the shop where the car had ended up. Super.

Relenting somewhat from my demand that he bring the phone to me, I wrote him an email asking when might be a good time to come get my DVD player. A full week goes by before he finally writes back and suggests, again, the Whipple Rd International House of Pancakes tonight at 8pm. He also cheerily suggests that he'll bring a possible substitute VCR for trade, as the DVD player was destined for a single mother that attends his church. I love it when irritating, unreliable, sleezeballs play the guilt card.

I got to IHOP early and passed the time by reading Make Magazine (which is awesome) and listening to the man two tables down ask the waiter how to say various things in Spanish, ignore him, and make up his own Spanish.

"I'll ceiro el shrimpay con excellanto."

His wife ordered a glass of wine. White wine at an IHOP.

Anyhow, when 8pm rolled around Captain Nose Grease showed up and offered me the worlds dirtiest VCR. Non-plussed, I pointed out that I'd like to test things before I trade from now on, not adding that I didn't trust him as far as I could smell him.

At long last my DVD player has made it back home. Next week I'll try again, this time making sure that all trades will be made in the company of an available TV and outlet.

2006-11-18T19:41:00.000-08:00

The Wayward Youth of Nicer Neighborhoods

I was riding the M-Line home from the San Francisco car show with a bunch of skateboard youth, all in the 13-15 year old range. They were trying to look all cool and skatery, but has braces and zits, a both losers in cool points that are hard to overcome.

As they rode the MUNI toward a potential skate location they were comparing various school mates' house sizes to their own, mostly unfavorably. And one girl, who it happens has a helipad on her roof, has a nice house but is always busy with all her after school activities. Said the shortest and most portly wayward youth to his friend, "that's what I love about my life: I'm free. I don't do any after school activities. I don't do any sports related stuff. I don't do homework. I have a ton of free time."

The children are the future.

2006-11-18T19:37:00.000-08:00

Inspiration Strikes

While I move to and fro in my rolly chair, my legs covered in a blanket, I keep getting the wheels stuck in the blanket. And thus is occurred to me: Were I ever to become wheelchair bound, I'd need to cover my legs with a much smaller blanket.

2006-11-15T19:58:00.000-08:00

All Hail the Sheila

After my thrilling evening of waking up with a sheet of plastic on my head and surrounded by plants and dirt, I've decided to go with drapes to keep the neighbors from watching me wander around in my underpants while still letting sunlight into my little room. (How's that for a HUGE sentence slash synopsis of "Last time on Annoying yourself without improving your living space, with Mike?")

I started my Tuesday with one drape which was more than wide enough and about a foot too long for my tiny window. I ended my Tuesday with two nicely sized drapes, half a box of fried rice (also how I started my Wednesday), three carrot cake cookies, and the promise of dirt free sheets.

The drapes were a collaboration with the following contributions:

Me:
- Brought the drape.
- Cut the fabric.
- Ripped stitches.
- Folded up 2 seams.
- Ironed 2 seams.
- Sewed 2 seams.
- Fidgeted while trying to help but actually hindering progress.

Sheila:
- Ironed most of the drape.
- Ironed in the cut lines.
- Showed me where to cut the fabric.
- Showed me which stitches to rip.
- Showed me how to make seams.
- Folded up 1.5 seams.
- Sewed 1 seam.
- Fabricated two small loops from one large loop.
- Fastened the loops on all straight and nice.
- Started and finished sewing all my seams.
- Donated thread, the use of her sewing machine, expertise, 2.5 hours, and 3 cookies.

Without further ado, here is my newly covered window:

*

Sheila rocks!

* It looks like the right drape is longer than the left one but I can assure you that it's not. Something must have been caught on something when I took the picture, because it's as even as a bowl of oatmeal now.

2006-11-13T20:37:00.000-08:00

It's Time for Drape

Saturday night at 3am I was rudely awakened by my translucent window cover leaping off the window and landing on my head. It brought with it my lamp and two potted plants. Having only fallen asleep 45 minutes earlier I was less than enchanted to wake up covered in plastic with two medium sized piles of dirt on my flannel sheets.

Quickly deciding between the fastest way to return to sleep and not making a mess, I chose sleep and put the plastic next to my bed and brushed the dirt between my mattress and the wall. I tried to vacuum back there tonight, but I fear it will remain dirty until I move out.

To let light but not sight through my window I've changed my tactics to using drapes, or in my case, drape. I went to Target last night and bought two of the smallest drapes I could find. But since my window is so small I'm going to have to take the single drape I found and cut it in half, then take off the bottom 10 inches. And of course take the other drape back to the store.

I should have my own HGTV show. It could be called "Annoying yourself without improving your living space, with Mike."

2006-11-08T20:27:00.000-08:00

It's Back!

For months now not a soul has looked at my Onion Personal profile. At first I thought maybe the collective preference of the eligible ladies of San Francisco had swung to the opposite of me*. But soon after my people stopped visiting my profile some of my pictures disappeared, my blurbs went missing, and I stopped coming up on a search of 28 year old males in San Francisco.

Last week I finally figured out that they had turned my profile off. It's odd that it got turned off, and especially odd that I couldn't tell that my profile was turned off until I searched for myself by name. So I turned my profile back on only to discover that I still wasn't getting any traffic. I finally emailed customer service and they told me that people are much less likely to look at my profile if I don't pick a gender.

Seriously? You can't sign up for on an online dating sight without a gender. It won't let you. And on the Onion once you pick a gender you have to email customer service if you want to change it. And still it doesn't occur to them that this might be THEIR fault that I'm a genderless, dateless, person. Jerks. On the bright side I fixed it last night at I've already had two ladies look at my profile.

In other productive news I've just successfully installed a phone in my medicine cabinet. I tried a portable phone, but each room of my apartment is a Faraday cage and the phone would buzz when out of sight of its base. Not to be defeated by this minor setback, I ran a wire behind my couch, behind my fridge, over my kitchen cabinets, down a space between two of them, through the kitchen wall and into the back of my medicine cabinet. It's perfect.

Why would anyone need a phone in the bathroom? I need one there to counter-act everybody's uncanny ability to call me as soon as I sit down on the toilet. Although, now that I have a phone within easy reach of the porcelain department I haven't received a single phone call at home. Coincidence? I think not.**

*A taller than average female with light hair, dark skin, large feet, and an extra testicle.

**I've tested the phones and they still work, so it's not that.

2006-11-03T08:06:00.000-08:00

Dark Haha

I went to New York last weekend to visit a friend, and as we were riding the subway to go see Spamalot (which was excellent) a homeless man wandered down the middle of the subway car. "Does anyone have any sodas or snacks? Chips? Burgers? Anyone have anything to drink?"

"He's a like a flight attendant in reverse," I pointed out.
"You are going straight to hell," my friend assured.

I do worry about my sense of humor. As I was driving down from Napa this week I saw a rabbit which had been run over in the middle of the road. It's body was flat, it's face was flat, it's tail was flat. It was as if somebody had neatly drawn a lifelike rabbit on the pavement. It was entirely two dimensional except for its perfectly intact, upright, rabbit ears, as if it were part of Nature's pop-up book. When I saw it I simultaneously laughed out loud and said "gross." The laughing out loud is the bit that worries me. I hardly ever laugh out loud.

2006-10-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

Colusa, CA - Land of the Large

Today I visited beautiful, historic, downtown Colusa to clear up a small traffic matter. While I was driving down from Portland last month the CHP decided I was going a little too fast and gave me a $405 ticket. I went up to request traffic-school which, bless the judge's heart, I was granted.

Before court I went to the bank to withdrawal my rent. The guy in front of me line was probably 5'5", and must have weighed 220 pounds. He was not the biggest guy I'd ever seen, but he was certainly showing off his curves via his outfit selection. He had on some very tight work pants which stuck close to his stick legs and followed his contours up to an abdomen that made sure the sun never hit his bright red and white basketball shoes. The rest of him was covered in a yellow, white, red, and neon blue, spandex sport shirt. It sort of said NASCAR to me, but I think that's because the busyness of the shirt reminded me of all those stickers they put on the cars. The man looked, and was shaped like a heavily sponsored candied apple.

In the court room one of the other traffic defendants came dressed for the judge in stretch pants and a stretch shirt which was 3 inches shy of covering her disturbingly hairy belly. My theory was that she planned to frighten the judge into dismissing her case.

In pot calling kettle news I've been keeping track of my weight for 2 months now, and at last check I'm exactly the same weight as when I started. On Friday morning I decided to get serious and really eat right and on Friday evening a package was waiting for me from the KQED membership department. It contained 4 gigantic Ghirardelli dark chocolate bars. Then last night I went to Napa for a nice family birthday dinner. On my way out the door I was loaded up* with an extra serving of mashed potatoes, steak, sautéed mushrooms, and 3/4 of a Boston cream pie.**

It looks like I'll be restricted to my fat jeans for a while.

* I made my own plate of leftovers, so I can't very well blame anyone on that point.

** I currently have 1/2 a Boston cream pie. We'll see if the pie can hold steady through breakfast.

2006-10-18T20:26:00.000-07:00

The Incurable Fixit

Today I was driving back from Union City where I had been to fix* a bed frame. Before I set off into 3:30pm traffic on 880, I went in search of a bathroom at Petco. In the bathroom, on the counter next to the empty paper towel dispenser, was a nearly full roll of paper towels.

I can see three explanations for this:
1) They lost the key to the dispenser.
2) The key is available, but they can't figure out how to install the roll.
3) The guy who is in charge of cleaning the brown ring out of the urinal is also in charge of the paper towel supply. I.E. Laziness.

Being the person I am, I flipped out my Leatherman Micra and popped the lock on the towel dispenser, perused the handy instructions printed on the inside, and loaded the paper towels.

I was a little unhappy that I'd taken the time to upgrade Petco's bathroom facilities because in the process of closing the dispenser lid I got whatever goo was on top all over my hands. And apparently the squirt of soap I had used before spotting the paper towel tragedy was the last squirt available, so I had to make do with rinsing my hands and wiping them with a freshly loaded paper towel. Thank goodness for my endless supply of hand sanitizer.

* I didn't actually fix the frame. It frame was not broken. Our homecare bed frames get crooked after a while if you don't either bring them up to their full height or lower them to the ground. Many adjustments around the middle of their height range make one end of the bed significantly higher than the other. But it's easy to fix: Bring the bed all the way up or all the way down. I tried to establish whether or not this was the problem before I drove the 40 miles to Union City, and I was assured that a) the bed was put together backwards, and b) only half the bed would move. I think there was some sort of language/IQ barrier between the person on the phone and I because both a) and b) were totally false. Jerks.

2006-10-16T23:48:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday

To me. Woot!

2006-10-14T21:19:00.000-07:00

And it Ended Well

Today I was having a fairly boring day. My many boring activities included:
-Eating cold pizza.
-Watching TV.
-Getting a haircut.
-Buying a UPS from the liquidating CompUSA.
-Eating warm pizza.

Then, while I was driving around, a very attractive girl with two lip rings driving a VW Bug smiled at me. And just like that, I had a good Saturday.

It doesn't take much to make me happy.

2006-10-09T19:32:00.000-07:00

Mid-60's Retro Gothic Dirt and the Brown Phlegm Kazoo

Today I delivered a bed frame to one of those houses that is probably worth a million or two, but would be worth quite a bit more if it wasn't decorated in mid-60's retro gothic dirt and didn't smell like pee.

And why is it that people who need hospital beds, usually because of a lack of mobility, never live on the ground floor? I had to lug 325 pounds of stuff down a long flight of stairs to the front door, then up a long flight of stairs to get to the bedroom. There really should have been a catwalk from the street to the bedroom window.

As I constructed the bed I had to deal with 3 things:
1) The pee smell. It's hard to put something together while I'm wishing I had a urinal cake to help clear the air.
2) A barrage of questions from the creepy brothers, sons of the patient.
3) Some serious B.O. coming off creepy brother #1. Every time he moved his arm I felt like switching careers to become a urinal cake.

After I had the bed put together, I explained to the creepy brothers how everything worked. They seemed so eager to know all the ins and outs of the bed frame while I was building it, but after I was done explaining it to them they chided me for not explaining it to the patient, who was sitting outside on the deck, and was apparently not planning on coming back in for the lesson.

So I moved my explanation out to the deck, which was difficult in that I was explaining the operation of the hospital bed which I generally do while standing next to the bed. I basically had to explain everything in theory with no visual aids or demonstrations. And to make matters worse I was trying to understand the questions the patient was asking while the creepy brothers were having an argument on the other side of the open glass door. This might not have been a big deal if the guy didn't talk using a throat kazoo. Throat kazoos are not made for loud speech.

When I had everything set up and all the pertinent questions answered, and some odd non-pertinent questions from creepy brother #1 answered, the patient started coughing up big gobs of brown phlegm through his kazoo and wiping them up with an ever more saturated piece of toilet paper. The phlegm is neither here nor there. I see gross stuff all the time. But as I was leaving the guy started to put out his hand for a farewell handshake. I didn't want to be rude, but I was not about to get brown kazoo phlegm on my ungloved hand.

As I made my out of the house creepy brother #1 decided he would walk me to my van. He asked several more questions which were only vaguely related to the delivery, explained how to get back to the main road (go down the hill and take the left fork, not hard) and then offered to ride with me until we got back to town. I gave my most hearty no thanks and drove away hoping against hope that I never have to go back on a service call.

2006-10-04T20:08:00.000-07:00

My Day in Reverse

My last delivery of the day was fairly straight forward, but was overarchingly irritating. I'd been trying to deliver this guy's mattress since Friday, but he wouldn't let me because he "has no where to put it and he can't get the patient out of bed." I checked again on Monday and he angrily told me he'd call me back when he figured out how to use the Hoyer lift. So today he called and said he was ready, so I scheduled a 4:30pm appointment and he told me that I "shouldn't come early. Be here at 4:30pm exactly." I rang the doorbell at 4:30 and 15 seconds and he invited me into his GIGANTIC house and asked me to "just set the mattress down in the hall here. I'll put it on later." It seems like an awful lot of hassle for something I could have done on Friday.

My second to last delivery was to a facility which caters almost exclusively to the aged Chinese. There's a common area where all the residents sit in their wheelchairs, eat, nap, stare off into space, and/or watch TV. Today most everybody was staring off into space or napping. I guess they weren't interested in the sexually lurid anime that was blasting out of the TV.

I had lunch at a surprisingly festive Taco Bell today. There were two-flower vases on every table sitting on black and white thin plastic table"cloths". The ceiling behind the counter was covered with mylar balloons and every once in a while an employee would come by and offer everybody some free birthday cake. People kept inquiring about the occasion, but the employees either didn't know or didn't have the English acumen to get the message across.

Us: What's the occasion?
Them: It's a party.

Us: What's the cake for?
Them: For the customer.

Us: What's with all the decorations?
Them: It's a birthday party.
Us: Whose birthday?
Them: Taco Bell.

So I guess Taco Bell had a birthday today? Did anyone else see anything like this? Or maybe just this location?

But 3 taco supremes, 1 slice of Taco Bell birthday cake, and a guy who decided the far left FasTrak lane was not for him and that he should park perpendicularly across my FasTrak lane did not do my heart any good. Tomorrow I'm back on a diet of better food and driving.

2006-10-03T20:42:00.000-07:00

Boo!

Does anyone here listen to This American Life? I really like that show and they are having people call in with scary stories that they'll play on the air for their Halloween show. I just called in and told the story of on of my coworkers talking to a dead guy and apologizing for having to disturb him. It's not very scary, but I have this ill-conceived hope that Ira Glass will want to talk to somebody who has a job as weird as mine is.

As unlikely as it may be on the face of it, it's even more unlikely I'll be on the radio due to my extreme nervousness. I had to record my story twice on the voicemail thingy, and who knows how many details I screwed up. My brain tends to shut down in situations like these. I may have related an age old family recipe for banana bread for all I know.

2006-10-02T20:45:00.000-07:00

Misc.

I've discovered that the optimal way of motating around a large warehouse is in a rolly computer chair. It's exciting to propel myself backwards at great speeds, and I can take corners by grabbing onto the shelving. It's great fun now, but I'm worried that someday I'll hit a floor-crack just right and end up under a bariatric commode.

My through-the-wall neighbors are cooking something that actually smells delicious. They must have broken out their new Orifices Are Not Ingredients cookbook by Rachael Ray.

Over the last week and a half I've had 3 over night visitors. (Not romantically, they all slept on an inflatable bed in my livitchen.) And I've noticed that I get a little antsy when I can't come home and strip down to my boxer shorts. I may not be able to ever have a roommate again. And soon I may not be able to stand having friends over. Perhaps I'd better befriend a group of semi-nudists. Then again, I'm not sure I'd want to sit around with other people and have underwear leisure time.

2006-09-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

I Weird Myself Out

I was trying to figure out how to spell blogosphere (I originally had it as bloggosphier), so I typed it into my Google bar. Lo and behold, as I typed it in my fingers came up with the correct spelling. I should learn sign language so I can better listen to my hands.

And last night I had a frustrating dream where I was trying to kiss my girlfriend. (It was a dream, I don't really have a girlfriend.) The kissing was hindered by the fact that her orthodontia* included a metal model of the solar system with all the planets orbiting around her head. Jupiter kept defending its sun against the onslaught of my lips. What an irritating gas-ball.

*She was of appropriate age. 23 to be exact, as she seems to be somebody from Yahoo Personals whom I've never met.

2006-09-27T20:07:00.000-07:00

Medium Rare

I think I may have sun burnt my face. I'm not sure when I managed to do it, as I've hardly spent any time outside. I did drive to and from Portland over the weekend, so maybe I was beset by the suns rays while I was cruising down I-5.

On the bright, but somewhat premature side, the holiday season is coming up and I'm hoping it'll bleed over and improve my dating possibilities. My red face in combination with my green eyes is kind of festive. I'm hoping there's a lovely lady out there who's in the market for her own, personal, affectionate Christmas ornament.