misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I know it's been awhile but two disruptive events have broken my traditionally boring and predictable lifestyle:

1) I retired.
2) I went to Jamaica.

Concerning point 1, I've decided to bring a new fad into vogue called "tempidition", which is my word for temporary retirement. It occured to me that working the duration of your life until 65 and then retiring is an outdated model. I've decided to work 8 months a year, and then retire for the remaining four, before returning to the work force and doing it all over again. That allows me four months of retirement a year for the remainder of my life, rather than four hundred months at the end of my life. Part of this decision was due to the fact that two of my friends actually are retired, but being that I lack the skill or talent to join them, yet wanted to partake regardless, I've found this to be an acceptable solution. Not working for weeks on end reminds you that something exists outside of computers, offices, and bars. In any event, this is one reason my blogs have been far and few between. I'm not actually at work trying to waste time. Ironically, the more time you have to waste, the less you actually want to waste it.

2) Concerning Jamaica, since 98% of my readers were actually there with me, it doesn't make sense to post a full recap. For those looking for closure to my lost tuxedo, I found it upon my arrival to JFK in the American Airline lost and found. Apparantly, it had found its way to Finland after JFK, which made me intensely jealous of my tuxedo, as it has now been to a country that I have not. Explanations as to why my tuxedo was sent to Finland, and whether or not it ate beluga eggs, were in short supply. The woman at the AA counter provided the obligatory amount of attitude and bullishness required of employees at airline lost and found counters (i wonder if they test them on this before hiring. like you have to rate your level of cuntness before being hired. if so, I can assure you American Airlines only hires those at a cunt level of 9 and 10) Luckily, I've since returned it, avoiding the pleasure of having to pay $1,000 for a tuxedo I never was able to wear.

Other than that, we were provided the essential tropical requirements of 4 A.M swims in the lazy river, entire days nourished only with pina coladas and jerk chicken, the resort's salute to american independance complete with a jamaican dressed as uncle sam and the statue of liberty, pulling fish and shrimp out of an ice boat and carrying it to a grill five feet away, and, of course, getting my schlong plugged by a big booty jamaican woman on camera for a local jamaican tv show at Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville. But, of course, no memories will trump the horrific shot of 151 rum downed next to the pool that tasted as if satan pissed down my throat and lit it on fire. Thank dragonhair for that enjoyable memory, which be forever seared into my memory, and my esophogus.

And until our next reunion, I'll do my best to ensure this blog is our group's connective tissue. Stay tuned for tomorrow's exciting post, where I'll explain to you why I hate bookstores. It'll electrify you.

This Sunday, Jill required me to join her in a wonderful trip to Bennigan's, or Bennentons, or whatever store she had to return something to. Located in the huge Columbus Circle mall next to Central Park, it took me about five seconds to start developing a severe stress, as malls are among my least favorite places on earth, next to bathrooms Lee has been in, and Guatemalan boats (that's a story for later). Something about all the clothes, and dummies, and dummies in clothes, and gay people, and annoyingly hip mall music, and luxury yogurt shops, and unnaturally polished marble floors make me feel .. female .. and I don't like the feeling.

After a few moments at Bennigans, I had somehow managed to wander into a gigantic Barnes and Noble. This is one of those new city-type Barnes and Nobles that has much more than books ... It has coffee shops, classrooms, great white shark petting zoos, egyptian tombs, and glass windmills. It is fantastical. Which is good for me, because something I've suspected for a long time, and was finally confirmed on Sunday, is that I hate bookstores. I've always known that I get extremely agitated in bookstores, but only Sunday was I able to sharpen my mental knives enough to deduce the cause. And, as you are my captive reader, I will share the insight with you:

1. There are all-together too many books. It totally and completely overwhelms me. I walk into a bookstore and come face to face with the patheticness of my existence. Even if I became a professional book reader and read books 24-hours a day for the remainder of my life, I would probably only consume about .0006 percent of the books that exist. The human brain simply isn't good enough. And that is too mention nothing of the fact that I'd have to pick which books to read, which also would overwhelm me. Bookstores remind me of the infinite subjects and choices in life, and just as that choice often cripples me in real life, so does it cripple me in a bookstore. What direction do I want to go? Towards the Fiction? History? Automtive? Calendars? What do I want to learn? How to milk a snake? Where to find a razor used by Jesus? How many prime numbers can be found using The Sieve of Eratosthenes? Where Waldo is? How to draw Garfield? Why Lord Wellington chose the northern route during the Battle of Waterloo? The mechanics behind a collapsed star? The fundamentals of closed circuitry? The essence of animal auras and how to read paws? Building the ultimate card house? Do-It-Yourself elbow joint construction? Northern Italian low-fat cooking? How Stella Got her Groove Back?

It simply is too much for me, and I become frozen by the infinite possibilities. Because there are so many worlds to explore, and cannot take a choice. I don't look at it as choosing one world, I look at it as excluding all the others. And that is too high a burden for one man to take.

2. I further become distraught by writer's guilt, which is the feeling held by a writer when surrounded by books and realizing that none of them are yours. Only when in a bookstore does it occur to me that i have neither the talent nor drive required to write a book, though I am cursed with the desire. So I sit in a bookstore thinking to myself, "I should write a book. Why haven't I written a book? Too lazy? You lazy bitch, get out of this bookstore and write a book! But what should I write about? Well, they say write what you know. But what do you know? You know what everybody else knows, like eating, sleeping, and sneezing, so that isn't very interesting. Why don't u go do something interesting, then write about it? Like get attacked by a roving pack of mad fire ants in the Jungle, only to survive and have to find your way out using only your desire to eat Curly Fries again. Yum, Curly Fries. I should go to Johnny Rockets .. I think there is one down on 72nd .." By this time, I've devolved into a thought thicket so deep, the only way to regain myself is to leave the bookstore. But then I feel guilty leaving with out a purchase, which brings me to:

3. Books are too expensive. For all the agony I've just been through trying to decide on one, if I actually do, I simply cannot agree to spending $14.99 for one of them. Chances are if I do buy it, it will simply sit on my windowsill anyway for three years until I get through the other 68 books i've already purchased but never read. My reading list is over a thousand books long, and at my current pace of reading 5 books a year, it'll take me some time to get through that list.

As you might imagine, I dragged myself out of the Barnes and Noble and back to the Bennigans, where Jill was haggling with the gay store manager about how much she could get in store credit for a dress she returned one day after the thirty day limit. But I enjoyed it immensely. Compared to where I just was, I had finally found peace and quiet. Bookstores are for those braver that me.

I'm sticking to Johnny Rockets.

I've had about enough of big corporations fucking the shit out of my bank account so hard they leave semen stains all over my twenties. This past Wednesday, I had one more in a seemingly endless stream of face to face encounters with corporate greed so shameless Enron would be jealous. Sprint Nextel was the name, but you can insert any corporate fuck you want into that space. Your gas is expensive so the four-hundred executives at Chevron can own homes for every season. But even they only tag on a few extra cents to each gallon of gas, which makes them look like virginal girl scouts made of ice cream next to Sprint Nextel.

I'll keep this as brief as possible, as you've all had the same experience.

My two year contract with Sprint expired on July 1st.

I go to the local Sprint store to purchase a new phone and renew my contract. I am hoping to parlay the $150 credit they provide after two years of being a customer into a cheap phone purchase. I pick the phone I want, which is the one with so many features that "making phone calls" is like the 89th listed benefit of the phone. Essentially, with this phone I can talk to Winston Churchill, make turkey meatloaf, and film feature-length movies. At a listed price of $149, I figure I can use my $150 credit, and walk away with a bad-ass phone for the cost of nothing.

Of course, because Sprint is a corporation, and a corporation's entire goal is to rape your financial anus with their fist, I was hardly suprised when the teller rang up a total of $167.45. I calmly inquired into the source of the misunderstanding. The explanation for the added cost? Well, the phone actually is $299. The listed price already includes the $150 dollar credit. I don't really follow, but don't really say much, as I know resistance is futile, because, as we've established, Sprint enjoys tricking the consumer. Essentially, the $150 credit you get every two years as a Sprint customer applies to anyone and everyone on the earth, as long as you sign a new contract. So it is already included in the cost of the phone. So the listed price of $149 is what I owe.

Ok, whatever. Just give me the fucking phone, here is my debit card, slide it through your rape machine, and let me get the hell out of here. I'm in no mood to argue with corporate America at this point. I entered the store expecting a certain amount of shit, and this is it.

But wait, he says.

What, I inquire.

There's also a $35 dollar "re-activation" fee, he informs me.

Well, now we have a problem. I've been a Sprint PCS customer since 1999. So what exactly are you "re-activating"? And, for the record, I write the language in advertisements for a living, so I can 100% confirm the word "re-activation" means absolutely nothing. And costs even less. In advertising, "re-activation" is what I refer to as a "ghost" word. It sounds like it should be something, but when you look, nothing is actually there. It is a word created by marketing people so they can charge $35 dollars to dimwits like myself. Nothing actually occurs for the cost of that $35. But I feel warm inside, because something was "re-activated". And activity is good. So, I decide to allow it. Again, I am well-aware that arguing will simply take my time and not lower the price.

Well, then, I say. Go ahead and "re-activate" my account. And, while you are at it, turn on my phone, make it work, give it to me, and I'll be on my way.

But wait, he says.

What, I inquire.

Do you want to transfer the address book of your old phone onto your new phone?

Yes, I answer.

Ok, 15 dollars, he says.

Oh, he adds, there is only a 50% chance it will work.

And if it doesn't, I ask. Do I get my 15 dollars back?

No, he replies. We'll print out your address book for you.

So, I counter. 15 dollars for a print out of my address book?

Yes, he replies.

He's good. He's been raping for so long, he actually has convinced himself that he isn't, in fact, raping anyone. He thinks I like it. That I asked for it.

Well, I tell him. Throw the 15 dollars onto the rest of it. Anything else I can pay for, I smile and ask? I don't want to keep Sprint Nextel executives from buying a third summer home.

Well, you'll want a case for your phone, he reminds me. And today, phone peripherals are 20% off.

Sure, why not? Throw it all in there. All of it. In fact, I can only carry so much, so why don't you just charge my card for every dollar in my bank account, and we'll call it a day? Take it all. My gift to you, Sprint. I want to ensure your employees can have the nicest of lives in the gated communites around the country. I want your sons and daughters to go to the best schools. I want you to have turkeys on your tables every night. So, take my money, cut up my debit card, and call it a day.

At least I got a phone that takes pictures.

Suckers.

There's not much as enjoyable as watching someone have to back track after making an unknowingly insulting statement to someone else. For your pleasure, I'd like to record a conversation I overheard between two people walking down the hallway this morning:

Man: "This company has too much turnover. Which sucks, because the people they hire to replace old employees don't know shit. It takes them at least a year to pull their head out of their asses. How long have you been here again?"

Woman: "6 months."

Man: "Yeah, but , uh, I mean, you're different . . I mean you knew what you were doing from the beginning, I could tell ..."

Woman: "Yeah."

Good job, dude.

I can't knock him, however. It was only last year I was at dinner with a friend's parents, and, after a few beers, loudly announced to the table how much I hate Canadiens who put that gay flag on their backpack almost as much as I hate the German language. Of course, the table's resulting silence already told me what was later confirmed by my friend. Her mother was a Canadien German. Awesome.

Anyway, today is hot as shit. Though I can't complain, as it seems the entire nation is equally hot. I can't sleep for shit in the heat, cause you are either burning up for your love like Madonna, or freezing your ass off with the AC. And unfortunately, I think my bed is some sort of heat conductor that holds the heat blazing on it through out the day, only to release it at night. Sort of like a cotton solar panel. But after watching "An Inconvenient Truth" I am trying to keep my AC, and other electronics, off as much as I can. That movie fucked me up. You all know i'm usually not political in nature, but I mean, we are jacked if we don't do something here soon. So I started by turning off my AC, though it looks like I picked the wrong week to start that contribution. Besides, it is a bit of a catch-22, because the more we use our ACs, the hotter the planet will become, but the hotter the planet becomes, the more we'll have to use our ACs. So, as I explained earlier, we are jacked. No chance the ignorants in the middle of the country give up their 2-ton Chevy Trucks anytime soon. And the White House is run by Chevron, literally. So we all better start working on our backstrokes.

In any event. I've always known I was a better thinker than a doer, and some of the people who read this are doers, so I've decided to start contributing some of my world-changing ideas to you, the world. And those of you that aren't lazy bitches like yours truly can maybe make some of these happen. Today's idea struck me this weekend.

Insta-Tap
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After too many run-ins with shitty bartenders, and attempts to wait at a crowded bar for thirty minutes only to have to carry constantly-spilling drinks back through a clump of people to your table, I've realized we need bartender-less bars. Here's the technology:

The bar is filled with tables and booths, just like today. Only each table has its own tap system. Next to the tap is a little screen, complete with every drink you could possibly want, from beer, to mixed drinks, to wine, to shots. You plug in your credit card (which can verify your age), and select the drink you want from the touchscreen. Put your glass under the tap and bam, there's your drink. I'll get a Newcastle, Jill will get her Pinot Grigio, Neal will get his vodka soda, and Slaven will get his water with two limes (he doesn't want to get a hangover, you know) .. all from the same tap.

When you need a refill, just push the button for "instant refill" and there you go. No annoying trips to the bar, no bitchy bartenders, no spilled drinks. As an added bonus, you could enter music through the screen to play at your table. But it only plays at your table, through the creative use of acoustic tiling. Self-service boozing.

Your idea, for free.

More to come tomorrow.