why i now keep my cell phone on 'vibrate' instead of 'ring'

All I’ve really ever wanted out of a cell phone is to be able to make an actual phone call. The camera, game, internet connection, alarm, planner, and GPS indicator functions that are available on some models never held much interest for me. It’s a phone. When I need to talk, I use it. When I’m trying to take a picture, wake-up, or get ‘un-lost’ when I’ve wandered deep into the woods, Blair Witch-esque style, and desperately need to find civilization, I’ll use a product designed for that specific purpose.

And I hold firm to this view of phones…a strict call and talk policy only. Except that they come with all these fancy little buttons anymore. And if there’s one thing that takes precedence over my phone policy, it’s my inability to keep from pressing fancy buttons. I find buttons to be simply irresistible, and if there is a button nearby, you can be assured that my finger was on it, at one time or another, pushing passionately. This is just one of the many reasons that I chose to stay away from a government or military job. Because if given the authority to be in charge of that big red button that releases the entirety of the nation’s nukes onto a multitude of unsuspecting countries, I would be rendered absolutely helpless by some primal button pushing instinct and would effectively end the human race. It’s an addiction, I know, but I simply cannot leave a button unpressed.

This is also why friends often leave me out of excursions to department stores or Wal-Mart. Because this button pushing tendency also carries over to plush animals with a ‘push here’ button hidden in their paw. And when I see a display in the middle of a store somewhere, you can bet that every animal sitting there will soon be mooing, oinking, laughing, or doing whatever else it is that they have been programmed to do when that button is pushed.

So naturally, all these buttons on my phone were just begging to be pushed. And, after only a few were pressed, I found myself looking at a screen which promised multitudes of glorious ring tones. Now, I really could care less about ring tones, but seeing all these wonderful songs that could originate from my phone, I began to realize just how inadequate my phone really was in this area. Obviously, my phone was just not living up to its potential. So after a few more simple button pushes, I found that I had just spent two bucks to buy one of these special rings, a ring that would make getting calls so much more entertaining.

Armed with my one credit, I browsed the fabulous tones that were available to me, and finally decided upon an Ashlee Simpson song…the same one that was keeping me from getting to sleep a few nights ago. But to my dismay, Ashlee is worth much more than one mere credit. No, it seems that Ashlee is much higher up on the ring tone chain. And while I still hold firm that the song is quite catchy, it’s not multiple credit catchy. So I kept searching.

And I soon realized that with only one stinking credit, your ring choices are severely limited.

All of which explains why, instead of ringing, my phone now plays the theme song to Sanford and Son.

the unemployment hat-trick

Yesterday, I scored the unemployment hat-trick. In the land of the un-working, this is the ultimate feat. One that rarely occurs, but marks true excellence and dedication in being unskilled in anything that someone would be willing to pay you for.

It started with a letter in the mail, and while these letters are nothing new to me, little did I know that this particular letter would start my historic day. It was sent by some company, the name of which I can't even remember now but obviously applied to at some point in the past.

They thanked me for my interest in their company, that they received hundreds of thousands of resumes for the one insignificant, low-paying position that they needed to fill, and that while they found my credentials so very, very impressive, they weren't going to hire me...because, quite frankly, my credentials really aren't that impressive. They just didn't want to make me feel bad. And I find it nice that they are so concerned for my mental well being. Especially considering my 'interest' in them, though I don't remember who they are or what the hell I applied for.

My second score of the day was a phone call from Carole. I interviewed with her a couple of weeks ago. Once again, she said that my credentials were 'impressive', but that they decided to hire a candidate who ‘knew the area’…as if knowing the area is the most essential skill an employee can have.

And apparently, those little things called 'maps' just aren't as good as 'knowing' the area. None of which makes sense anyway, being that the job was in ONE building. Therefore, you really only need to know the area well enough to find the ONE building that you work in. Find it, and you're in good shape. Remember where it is every single day so that you never get lost on the other side of town and miss a day, or possibly week if you've not only forgotten where you work but also what state you work in, and you're looking at a potential employee of the month award. In the future, I'll make sure to wander around the city aimlessly in order to fine tune my knowledge of different areas.

The hat-trick came when I called John, who I interviewed with last week. I just wanted to find out where they were in the hiring process and was told that they should be making a decision in the next day or two. I inquired as to whether or not I was still being considered.

"Your credentials were impressive and while you're still being considered, I'm not sure that you're going to make the cut. But your resume will be kept on file for a year."

So basically, the answer is 'no' I will not be getting a job offer from them anytime soon. But I did get a great consolation prize of having my resume kept on file for one whole year. And really, who can ask for more than that?

Now, I realize that this technically does not constitute an official hat-trick, because I wasn't officially rejected by this last company. But like Roger Maris before me, I can live with an asterisk next to my name in the record books. I still think it's a pretty impressive feat...one that will only bolster my already 'impressive' credentials.

where babies come from

My friend Cindy has a daughter that's reached the age where the 'where do babies come from' questions start getting asked. In anticipation of this query, Cindy has been storing a baby-making book deep in the recesses of a closet, waiting for her young one to ask so that it can once again see the light of day and join its follow members of the book population on a shelf somewhere in the house.

So once the question was asked, the book was retrieved, the dust was blown off the cover, and Cindy's daughter was instructed to read the book and that a question and answer session would follow.

Cindy told me that the book, like many others of its kind, described sex in clinical terms and as an act between 'a married man and woman who were in love.' Unlike other books, though, this one contained Ziggy-esque cartoons of the sex participants engaged in the baby making process. Yes, there's nothing like seeing sex for the first time, re-enacted by short, bald, squat little drawings. Ziggy's little penis all primed and pumped up, just ready for insertion. And perhaps, as every family has a black-sheep, Ziggy's brother, lacking the talent to make it into the funny pages, is off doing porn in some children's book.

So they sat at the kitchen table, her daughter reading, Cindy waiting.

Upon finishing, her daughter glanced over at her with a somewhat befuddled look upon her face.

"I already know about all this stuff mom," her daughter told her, "but what is this 'making love' that the book kept on talking about?"

"That's just another word for having sex," Cindy told her.

"Oh, I thought that was called humping."

"Uh, well, that's another word too," Cindy said.

"Alright," her daughter said, "I'm hungry, can I have a Fruit Roll-Up?"

And I think it’s safe to say that the innocence of childhood is pretty much over when you can’t read a Ziggy or Charlie Brown comic without imagining who they’ve been humping just a panel before.

Though I'm still wondering what the deal was with the Fruit Roll-Up request.

insomnia

I stopped for a drink with a classmate last night, and upon arriving home, my alcohol induced sleep worked like a charm. That is, until about 2 am, at which time the caffeine from the coffee that I had before class burned off the alcohol and left me wide awake.

As I lay there, trying to coax myself back to sleep, an Ashlee Simpson song began running through my head. Knowing full well that Ashlee Simpson songs were not going to be very conducive for sleep, I forced it out.

I settled in, ready for sleep to come, when I realized that my nose was disproportionately cold to the rest of my body. Unhappy with the temperature of my nose, I pulled the covers up over my head. But this style of sleeping has never suited me. Covers over my face always leave me thinking that I'm going to suffocate during the night...and as I lay there, I envisioned the oxygen levels slowly decreasing underneath the blankets. Soon after, and feeling much like someone that had a plastic bag wrapped over their head while being trapped inside a refrigerator, I burst out from the covers gasping for air.

Once I was sure that oxygen was again filling my lungs, I started to wonder if I would have a chance with Heather Armstrong, over at dooce.com, if she ever left her husband. I realized, though, how pathetic it was to have an internet crush on someone, so I began considering my chances with Sarah Michelle Gellar instead. Of course, coming off of the success of her movie The Grudge, I knew that I had no chance at all, with her career still being in high swing and all...so I made a mental note to revisit this fantasy if she ever decided to do Scooby Doo 3.

I really did want to get back to sleep, so I decided to go the whole Zen route and regulate my breathing, while clearing my mind. So there I laid, deeply breathing in that Freon tinged air. Naturally, all this cold air was also quite dry. And in no time, my tongue was the consistency of sandpaper. Knowing, though, that if I got up to get a glass of water, my whole body would be wide awake, what with the flowing of blood and all, so instead I chose to close the mouth and breathe through the nose.

Which was fine, except that the air was still just as dry. And through all of this nose breathing, my mucous soon crystallized. Laying there, I could feel all those snot crystals, much like Folger's Crystals I imagined, hardening in my nose. After a few more seconds of this, my nose itching more and more with each crystal that I imagined was forming like a stalactite in my nostril, I found myself in a flurry of nose scratches.

Once assured that my decrystallization scratching had worked, I got myself comfortable again. And that damn Ashley Simpson song started running through my head again. Now, while I don't condone lip syncing, I have to admit that some of her songs are quite catchy. So I laid there and listened to it for awhile. But by this time, the floodgates were open, and my brain simply couldn't be contained. Did I pay that Verizon bill this month? Thai food might be good for lunch tomorrow. How much longer can I drive on my sixteenth of a tank of gas before I'm going to have to call AAA for a tow?

And I thought that once technology got to the point where they could implant little computer chips into our brains, I was definitely going to order one with an on/off switch. Of course, with a computer chip it will be very easy to download porn off the internet and straight onto my brain, and then I would simply have one more reason to stay awake.

statistically speaking

I love numbers. Not the adding, subtracting, balance my checkbook kind of numbers, no, I mean that it's those worthless, pointless little statistical numbers that interest me so much. Is this obsession with statistics a guy thing, or is everyone just as intrigued by all this data as I am? Whatever the case, these little numbers consume a great deal of my brain space.

The fact that Blondie had four number one hits (which is 17 less than the Beatles, but one more than Milli Vanilli), and that Charles Schultz drew 17,897 Peanuts comics are of little practical value. Yet I find this much more interesting than learning how to rebuild an engine or acquainting myself with the various tax laws...both of which could actually lead to employment somewhere. Oddly enough, many recruiters don't seem very concerned with Debbie Harry's singing accolades.

This obsessive statistic compulsion does have its downside, though. Take monster.com, for example. I realize that posting a resume on the site is a fruitless endeavor. Thousands of resumes are posted, very few are actually read. To date, my resume has garnered exactly 141 views…though keep in mind that this has been over the course of six years. The majority of these views, I highly suspect, have been from insurance companies. And while I should feel honored that Nationwide and New England Financial all want me to sell insurance for them, I really don't find much comfort in it.

Sadly, my numbers are always lacking. Yet, I’m compelled to check all these silly little stats…and let me tell you, the stats just aren’t living up their potential. I’ve tried talking to them, encouraging them to increase, explaining that they are capable of so much more…just add a few zeros to the end, I plead…yet they just don’t want to listen.

And for a brief moment, I consider doing away with all the little counters, and site meters, and inbound link lists, but then realize how silly it would be. Because how am I supposed to gauge my self-worth if I don’t know what all these numbers are?

what's a few more bruises?

This has been just another, typical, Valentine’s weekend for me…and apparently, I have now become the worse half of the blind dating scene. This last one was with a girl named Jessica, who, while not too interesting, was at least somewhat attractive…though she obviously considered me to be hovering much closer to empty on the attractiveness gas gauge. Yes, there is nothing like being rejected by total strangers to really wreak havoc with your ego.

All of this followed right on the heels of heading out to drink after class last week. It was here, that I asked the question which I swore that I would never ask anyone, ever again, under any circumstances…except that when drinking I forget this oath until it’s too late. The lady from class that I went drinking with is unhappily married, thus we started glancing around the bar, staring at the different folks drinking, and commenting on how many drinks it would take before we’d consider having sex with them.

I saw a good looking girl and mentioned how I’d gladly buy her the drinks, being that I surely wouldn’t need one to be convinced of sleeping with this girl.

“Well that’s good,” my tactful classmate said, “because you’d need to.”

And it was at this point that the dreaded question slipped out. “Gee thanks…so what, exactly, is my attractiveness rating?”

Even after a few drinks, I wanted to bash my head against the side of the table. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, was all I could think.

“You?” she said studying me, “you’re just average.”

Average. You know, we couldn’t lie to help a guy out…oh no, we have to choose this moment to play the honesty card. And while ‘average’ is the majority, the fact remains that ‘average’ is dull, frumpy, overweight, balding, and at risk of becoming your parents. And unlike the socioeconomic class system, there is no shifting into a different attractive bracket. You’re stuck. Forever labeled. Doomed to a vanilla ice cream kind of life. With no sprinkles. And only an occasional dab of chocolate syrup.

You know, the fucker could at least have thrown me a bone and given me a ‘slightly above average’ on the attractiveness scale…and worse still, this from a lady who, moments before, told me how she was in love with Greg Allman when she was younger.

So it would only figure, now that my ego is stationed well below sea-level, that I had a job interview today. Needless to say, I don’t think I did much impressing during the question and answer phase of this process. But at least this means that I can continue to sleep until noon, stay in my sweats for days on end, and leave the apartment only when the food inventory reaches critical levels. But can you really expect anything more from an ‘average’ person?

easy money

One of my favorite money making activities is checking the little coin slot of public telephones. This cash cow idea came to me years ago when I was just a little kid, and is still considered by leading economic experts (well, okay, just by me) to be a excellent source of income.

In 32 years, I've earned about $1.45 through my payphone payouts, and while this only averages out to 4.5 cents a year, you need to take into consideration that this is all tax free...and that, due to inflation, those dimes that I found back in the seventies are probably worth about 15 cents today, so my original figure is artificially low.

That little slot is a verifiable treasure chest. And upon feeling a cold, metallic little coin once your finger slips into that slot, the whole day has been made. Much like winning the lottery without the money reducing guilt of actually buying a ticket first. Yes, the invention of the payphone coin slot is the true American dream, that of easy money.

But lately paranoia has been setting in, cramping my free money payout. I'm not sure where this paranoia and uneasiness stemmed from. Blame it on the television show 24 if you want, with their conspiracies to nuke America, assassinate the President and unleash some new, horrific biological warfare all in the same day. Or you can blame it on product tampering... cyanide in your Tylenol gel caps, or arsenic in a tub of Dannon's yogurt. Maybe it's just a germ-phobia thing, which has given us antibacterial wipes, soaps, sprays, and lotions.

Whatever the case, I find that I rarely check coin slots anymore. And while some may think that the reason behind this is that I've 'matured', the truth is that I'm worried that someone may have stuck a rusty hyp0dermic needle in the slot...just waiting for the first finger to slip in there and get pricked, and end up with Aids, or an unwanted heroin addiction, or some other type of excruciating, life ending thing.

Still, though, it's very tempting to check. I mean, we're talking about a whole shiny quarter here.

the cookie knows all

I've noticed an unsettling trend lately in the fortune cookie business. This bothers me for several reasons, the main one being that I depend on the fortune cookie. You see, while I've always considered astrology and horoscopes to be pure hogwash, the fortune cookie has always been my direct line with the cosmos. I could always rely on the fortune cookie to tell me what was ahead, what I had to look forward to in the future, and how I should plan my day accordingly. Yes, the fortune cookie is my mystic guide.

Especially considering that these cookies are made in China, and as we all know, there's a whole mystique surrounding the Eastern world. Even those old detergent commercials knew this, when speaking of the 'ancient Chinese secret' in getting your clothes extra clean, a clean unheard of in the Western world. These Chinese people just know things that us Westerners just aren’t privy to. And their knowledge of future events they have decided to generously share with us, presented in a tasty, crunchy package, predicting the future, and satisfying our munchies at the same time.

Yet lately, my fortunes have been lacking. For instance, the last few fortunes I've received have told me, 'A smile can light up the darkest night' and 'Friends are worth their weight in gold' and after cracking open that thin crispy shell, I've been left to wonder what the hell kind of fortune these are supposed to be?

Really, these are more statements than they are fortunes. They don't predict nor foresee anything! And I'm left wondering if perhaps there has been a translation problem here.

I don't speak Chinese, but perhaps the words ‘fortune’ and ‘statement’ very similar in the Chinese language. Maybe the new soothsayer who was hired to write these fortunes is confused as to what, exactly, he should be doing. So that rather than looking into the future, he’s simply jotting down cute little sentences, and this slight translation problem has turned our fortune cookies into 'statement cookies'.

Either way, my destiny has now become cloudy, and I'm floundering here. Answers to all my questions; Will I find true love? Will I a find a job? Will I take a long journey? are going unanswered. And sadly, not knowing where to turn for enlightenment, I will be forced to start digging through the closets in search of my old Magic 8 Ball. Though, can a stupid, little plastic ball predict the future with nearly as much accuracy as an all knowing crunchy, little cookie?

All signs point to 'No'.

rock n' old

The Superbowl festivities seemed to have everyone consumed yesterday, though in my mom's case, this was more because Paul McCartney was doing the half-time show rather than the actual playing of football.

She mentioned, afterward, how 'old' Paul was looking anymore, and how sad this was. Back in his 'mop-top' days mom was still in Junior High, a large Beatles fan, and was known to swoon over Mr. McCartney. I knew exactly what she meant, though. Back when I was in Junior High, I often swooned over the pre-Esther Madonna, and can share that same sort of sorrow that mom must have felt seeing Paul on stage. Because the Madonna of today is not the hot little Material Girl that I so fondly remember from the mid 1980's.

On New Year's Eve, I was watching Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Party, which was being hosted by Regis Philban since Dick was in the hospital, though Regis' name doesn't sell nearly as much advertising as Dick's, hence the omission of good old Regis from the show title, and one of the acts performing that night was Billy Idol.

Once again, Billy was enjoying the highlight of his career during my stint in Junior High...and you couldn't find a cooler rock n' roll guy. His whole image, from the peroxide, spiky hair, to that anti-establishment sneer of his, to the leather jacket that he wore in his videos, he was just the epitome of cool...to a young teenager, anyway. He had the bad boy image down pat, and as a seventh grader, I just knew that if I had that same look, I'd be getting chicks faster than the acne could pop up on my face.

But, in this the modern time, Billy Idol just looked plain old. And it was quite sad. Here was one of the coolest rock stars of 20 some years ago, whose name adorned those black t-shirts that you would proudly wear throughout the halls to signify that you, too, were cool. And now, the shirts have all been long since thrown out, and Billy looked like he belonged in the same dumpster as well...or at least an old age home somewhere in the mid-west, sitting in his rocking chair on the porch, sipping lemonade, and reminiscing about the 'good old days' when Rebel Yell was in the top ten and he was getting drunk and screwing a different woman (all blonde and big breasted, of course) every night of the week. Now, however, Billy just looks like someone's grandpa...albeit, a grandpa that refuses to release the past and still insists on dying his hair that same peroxide blonde, and still wears that leather jacket...both of which just look plain silly on him.

And it's depressing. Granted, time moves on, people age, and that's just life. But it's sad to see those idols of our youth looking so old. This is namely because it reminds us that we're getting older as well. Just like mom's sorrow for Paul, knowing that this old man was once the young hunk that she had a crush on, I feel the same sorrow every time I see Madonna. Because she just looks old anymore, with not a hint of the young, nubile sex pot that I so fondly remember. Even watching her kiss Britney, I felt more 'queasy' than I did 'tingly' because it was sort of like watching your mother tongue some college coed.

Either way, there really needs to be an age limit on rock and roll. Once you hit 40, you enter the world of Adult Contemporary music, no questions asked. Leather jackets, short skirts, and every hint of youthful exuberance must be left at the door. Rock and roll is truly for the young...because for the old, well, it's just plain creepy.

an allergic reaction

I went out for a drink last night with Jill and Gwen, deciding that a little celebration was in order now that I won't be completely broke. Jill picked us up, and being the fashion conscious girl that she is, asked Gwen to defuzz her black little jacket/sweater thing. Gwen agreed, and was handed Jill's sweater and a disposable razor. Gwen, being unfamiliar with this defuzzation process, was instructed in the finer points of sweater shaving.

So as we sped down the road to the bar, Gwen sat in the backseat shaving Jill's sweater, little black fuzzies flying throughout the car interior.Once we arrived, and Gwen shook off all of the fuzzies that had been shaved off of Jill's sweater and were now attached to her, we grabbed a table near the bar. As our drinks arrived, Jill told us how she had just recently discovered yet another reason why she is genetically malfunctioned... for it seems, she said, that she has now developed an allergy to latex. This was discovered when, after being in close proximity to certain types of kitchen gloves, balloons, and other latexy items, she would swell up, her face resembling something close to a tomato.

After the fifth time that this occurred, she realized that perhaps a trip to the doctor's office was in order. Naturally, it took five times of this excessive swelling to convince her that the doctor may be her best choice of options because of her distaste for all things doctoresque after an especially bad experience with a podiatrist that chipped off one of her toenails...and this just a day after a pedicure.

"So this doctor guy tells me that I'm allergic to latex," she said, "and all I can think about is how lucky I am that I have a rigorous screening process about who I let sleep with me" (Jill, being disease-phobic rarely lets anyone stick anything inside any part of her body. As she will gladly point out, she won't even drink after someone else, and that's only secondary contact.)

"Really now," she continued, "if I had sex with someone, and they had on a latex condom, my cootch would probably swell up! And with my luck, he probably get stuck and wouldn't be able to pull out. The firemen would have to be called, and then they'd need to use that jaws of life thingy to separate us."

"But can you imagine the headlines?" I told her. "Man trapped in freak pussy plumping incident!"

"Cock crushing girl on the loose," Gwen added, "Men are advised to keep their pants zipped at all times!"

Jill just rolled her eyes at us. "Yeah, my mother would be so proud."

If nothing else, though, I'm sure that this would make for a fascinating story at the next family reunion.

my bad choices are finally paying off

At last, my past two crappy jobs are beginning to pull their own weight.

My unemployment compensation issues have been cleared up, and it would seem that I am now eligible to collect. My employment in Virginia was holding up the proceedings, and the lazy-ass state finally got their act together and sent in my salary info. Once in, I went from Santa's 'bad' list to his 'good' list, and my present is a paycheck once every two weeks with the only catch being that I call in every other week to stake my claim.

I hated the job in Virginia, this being mainly due to the group of asshole teachers and administrators that worked at the school. So I left, moved back to Pittsburgh, and ended up securing yet another sucky job at Justifacts doing background checks. The hag that ran the place was evil, the job was tedious, the pay stunk, and even the name of the company sounded quite inane.

The beauty of my current situation, though, is that my highest earning quarter that the state of Pennsylvania is basing my unemployment compensation on was earned at Virginia. This being said, my unemployment checks that I'll be getting will be slightly more than the money I was actually earning while working for the evil hag. So I'll be getting my full paycheck for sitting at home catching up on some long missed daytime television and sleeping in late...all because of the bad choices I made last year.

And while it's been gone for a over a month, 2004 is finally starting to shape up to be a pretty good year.