Priority mail is like a 7½ hat size

I had noticed him before but then it’s pretty easy to notice some guy walking around with a priority mail envelope as a hat. At first glance it could be confused with a chef’s hat but the printing gives it away. It was raining the first day I had noticed him so I thought he was being creative in keeping the rain off of his head.

We were having coffee in the middle of the rotunda, he was off in a corner. He was eating a slice of watermelon, only it wasn’t a normal slice it was a whole quarter of the melon and he was feasting on it like a hungry lion on a wildebeest.

It was an odd scene which we would comment on in between our other topics of conversation.

I watched as he started on a second slice just as big as the first.

“Granted he’s not doing anything wrong but someone should be watching him.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing that says you can’t bring in your own food.”

“We didn’t get these coffees here.”

“You’re right. But he is wearing an envelope on his head.”

“When you think about it: he’s minding his own business. He’s just doing some things that are just a little bit odd.”

“Did you see that slice of watermelon?”

“Yeah, it is huge but he’s just eating watermelon.”

“Where do you even get a watermelon this time of year?”

We didn’t have an answer as we watched the local security approach the guy. If they were saying anything we couldn’t hear and the guy certainly didn’t miss a beat eating his watermelon. I briefly thought that race might be involved in the security guards interest. The female guard reached over the partition of the table for his bag. He didn’t seem to care. She looked in to find what I guess was watermelon rind because she just threw the bag away.

I told myself that this is what I wanted, someone checking this guy out as I wondered why they were hassling the guy. But I just wanted someone to watch the guy not to hassle him after all he was just being odd, he wasn’t being misbehaved.

The attention he got I guess was more than he cared for because after he finished his second huge slice of melon, he left.

Huh? I forget

I was reading pax in her dear person post

I remember it was cool because it wasn’t cool.

It wasn’t a vapid soul’s conduit for fame.

I remember when comments were not the ‘norm.’

I remember writing into the vacuum.

I remember when writers would just write and readers were not required, they were not even in the equation.

I remember when posts got posted because an empty bottle and an ocean within throwing distance weren’t available.

It was cool because you could see real unadulterated bits of soul sometimes violently scattered about in a style consistent with a murderous explosion or sometimes like a slightly bruised heart which was caused by someone not keeping all their walls up; someone took a chance and posted the failed results.

I see some popular sites like Waiter Rant or stuff white people like with over two hundred comments on a post and I wonder: Who the heck thinks that they have something else to comment on regarding this post? Did you even read all the comments?

The most comments I have ever read on one post topped out at twenty and that was only because a discussion had started up.

I remember (too) when we only commented when we actually had something to say and maybe not even then because we all knew that the author was writing for herself or himself. If you would send it in an email then you might comment.

I remember when emoticons weren’t expected, they were quietly reviled.

I remember when your comment had to be worthy of the interruption.

I remember when a post would not just be forced out just to change what was displayed above the fold. I remember when ‘above the fold’ was just a newspaper term.

I remember when I would write and not just vomit something up.

Outside In

So, I read the bio for my former neighborhood and I think: That was written by no lifer.

I know a homeowner who has owned his home for over thirty years, he’s active in the community and has raised his five children in that community but he is still an outsider.

I’ve read parts of that bio before, part here and part there. I forget where the here and there are but both are not correct.

Greatness lives next door

"You'd do it right? Because you would charge."

"Well, yeah but I don't make pages that you can interact with. I can't do a complete site."

"Like what?"

"Like on your site when you hit the contact page and it opens up that little form window. To do a full site, you don't only need to know HTML, writing the page, but you need someone that knows Java and some who knows some other programming. And very rarely are they all the same guy."

"Yeah, on my site they had a Flash guy, and a programming guy…"

"And probably someone to design the page. If I quit my jobs. I could probably learn enough of each but I, much like today, I wouldn't be great at anything; I wouldn't be very good, I would only be just good at each."

She then said something that let me know that she thinks the things I do are great.

I have thought of doing design work on the side and I've even asked myself about doing it full time but I really don't have a deep passion for it. Not that I have a deep passion for much of anything but I think design and art in general has to come from the heart. Most of my stuff comes from my head.

My design work is an expensive hobby.

I just sat quiet. It was that or argue with her that my stuff isn't great. She sees only the stuff that I know. I see all the stuff that I don't.

It was nothing or I at least I think it was nothing; I forget

Some people like them. I'm not some people. I don't mind them too much but I just don't care for pressing the flesh.

The invite was extended to me with the caveat that Annette might like to go. I replied: "I'll ask her," which came after a slight delay because I then knew I was going. Annette called me the following morning and I let her know that we were invited to the fundraiser and before I could finish my sentence she was saying that she wanted to go.

She couldn't get out of work early so we showed up almost an hour after it started which I didn't mind because that meant one less hour of talking to folks that I would most likely not want to talk to.

I'm used to being behind the curtain. I'm part of the machine that makes certain things are in place. I normally don't mingle but technically Annette was my quest so she needed my elbow and so far in my life wherever my elbow ends up the rest of me usually isn't too far off.

She's a people person. Her social skills are impressive. I usually stand near and just watch. She had me take a few photos of her with a few important people, every time she would ask if I wanted to be in them even though every time I had said no.

She would look around as she sipped her Chardonnay and ask who was who and what was what. We caused a little bit of a buzz, partly because I usually don't go to events, partly because I usually don't wear proper business type clothes and partly because she was the only one there of something other than European descent.

I caught Maryann pointing at me while telling something to an attractive blonde, I was motioned to come over. I missed who she was during the introduction.

"The invitations looked great," the blonde said.

"Thanks."

"Maryann's always saying how you do all these great things."

"Some of them might even be true," I said as I turned to Maryann.

"They're all true."

"I hope you know how much she appreciates you."

I thought about mentioning that sometimes I don't know the level of appreciation, that if I were truly appreciated that I would get paid more frequently or not be forced to work through as many nights as I have in the past but instead I just lowered my gaze. I couldn't think of an appropriate and truthful reply.

"Well, she does."

I was thinking that it would be great if she actually told me that when the subject gratefully changed as someone else joined the conversation.

I met a few old friends who would start telling stories to others around about being in the midst of chaos and then I would show up and ask a few questions and then solve all the problems. The stories where less than accurate but my friends always seem to enjoy telling them and I'm not one to ruin a good story. I would lean over once and a while and whisper "It wasn't that hard," or "It wasn't that easy," into Annette's ear whenever it wasn't rude to do so.

Often people will ask if I remember how I saved their day. I'll often respond that I don't.

It was just a day in my life, not unlike most other days. Most of my days are forgettable to me anyway. I did what I could and then did the next forgotten thing.

But, hey I'm glad I could help.

untitled

I was lying on my bed waiting for six o'clock to roll on by so I could leave my house to complete some deed I promised to do two days before when the phone rang. It was Annette; I guessed that she was checking my status. I guessed right but she also had another request: to move her daughter's stuff out of the apartment she had just moved into three weeks prior.

Her daughter and her son thought it was be a grand idea to move out of their mother's house and shack up with her boyfriend and his girlfriend. Their mother said that it was a mistake but they are both chronologically adults and are legally allowed to make questionable decisions.

I didn't ask any questions as I walked group after group of white trash bags down four flights of stairs to my truck. The bags would be driven across town and carried back up three flights of stairs.

I wanted to complain about all the stairs but I couldn't find a pair of ears that didn't have greater troubles than mine own so I just kept quiet.

I didn't ask any questions, she seemed physically and mentally okay and I knew her mother would have all sorts of things to ask and say. She spent the quiet time of the drive texting.

Once everything was upstairs, Annette asked if I was going to reschedule the installation of the wallpaper border. I told her "Yeah, I think so."

It's only freaking Wednesday

Dude. It would be fantastic if you would at least listen to half of the things people tell you.

His wife must have told him that he has a small pecker because he's walking around the office letting everyone know that he's in charge.

I'm tired of explaining the difference between a screen saver and wallpaper.

The guy's a regular but not a favorite regular. He's the type of guy that requests the coldest glass in the cooler for his dollar fifty draft. Today he asked if the salmon dish on the specials menu was farm raised or wild.

I have no doubt that there is a flavor difference between the two types of salmon and the bar serves quality food but it's quality bar food; the bartender however kindly asked the cook which type of salmon it was and the answer was farmed raised. The kicker is that if the salmon was from the wild, he would have ordered the teriyaki salmon dish that was on the specials menu. I just think if you get a chance at wild salmon, you don't want to go an muck it up with teriyaki sauce.

I believe the guy is a jackass. I haven't a clue on how he tips but I think he's more trouble than he's worth.

eh

I just thought these links were mildly interesting even though I didn't really look at them.

http://www.disclosurepolicy.org/

http://payperpost.com/bloggers/get-paid-to-blog.html/

I think I need for winter to be over.

I don't have any desire to do anything and it seems like my days are just too short to get anything done. And not only my days but my weeks are too short.

Tell it to yourself

He goes on and on with his stories explaining everything in too many over simplified details.

Dude, you're the only one that didn't understand. You're the only one that had questions. You are telling me things that I already knew yesterday and you would have known too if you had just chosen to think one little bit.

...

Sometimes I know what to do and sometimes I don't care to do it

I actually opened the 'create a new posting' window

Now let's see what comes out.

I gave Annette the link to where I had the photos to Iceland and a day later she told me to learn how to spell 'scene.'

I couldn't remember where I would have used that word but my heart sank a little bit; I had thought I proofed everything at least a little bit.

My fingers type like they are closed captioning my thoughts; there is no hardwire from my brain to my fingers. I 'tell' them what I want and then it's up to them on whether or not they do it. They have a big aversion to typing the word 'not' and I don't know why but leaving out that one little word really changes up a story.

Instead of spelling 'scene' I typed 'seen.'

And I know better than that.

...

This post is to mostly just let you know that I'm still lame.

...

Things seem to be starting to look up but I don't trust it.

...

"Hello."

"Tim, it's Dick. Do you have the keys to your car with you."

"Yup. I forgot to hang them back up."

"Oh, 'cause I have a meeting--"

"There's a spare key in my overhead."

"Your what?"

"My overhead."

"What's that?" He asked even though his cube is identical to mine.

"The cabinet over my desk."

"I see small keys, and an envelope that says... I've got it."

The envelope said "Spare key to Tim's car."

Stubborn and arrogant is a foolish man's invincible

My body always has a hard time keeping up with my mind.

My body pretends it can hang like my mind.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak but the flesh is also stubborn and arrogant so it doesn't quit when it should.

I never used to get colds like this, maybe something for a two or three day period, once every third year. This is the second in twenty five days, the first lasting two weeks.

I must be getting old. I think it's a lack of quality sleep.

...

I got in Tuesday night and Wednesday evening I was printing four hundred and fifty custom invites with reply cards and I only had store bought stock for three hundred and fifty sets, so that left a hundred to do from scratch. The owner was talking to me on the phone, asking when I thought I would be done. I knew she needed them by the next day. I told her I didn't know and couldn't guess because sometimes the printers don't like just any odd paper size traveling through it's guts. She then mentioned that it was getting late and that I should not stay too long, that I could stop and finish tomorrow, but I wanted to be done with it and tomorrow was too late.

"It's just that stopping has never been an option in the past," I said.

"Well maybe I know a little more of what's involved. I'm sorry I never gave you that option."

(We've been doing these types of things for over twenty years.)


I'm still owed a boat load of money but she did give me a fifteen hundred dollar bonus before I left for Iceland.

i forget yesterdays

Waiting for my computer to login, I looked to my right for just another place to rest my eyes. My pencil cup, calculator, tape dispenser and my three staplers mostly all sat in their proper places. I asked myself if I had actually left.

I had twenty six email messages waiting for my action, all but two were erased without even opening them. Someone should really take a better look at the spam filter.

Before I had left, I had most of a special project finished. I had done all that I could do until someone else made up their mind. I had all the paperwork ready, all that was needed was for someone to write either a '21' or a '23' in the blank spaces.

I guess that was too tricky, because I had the paperwork sitting on my desk when I returned. I was told it was a rush job but I guess not that much of a rush. Thanks guys, but at least I didn't have anyone screw it up on me.

Iceland then and now

Here's what it looks like on the postcard...

and here's the photo I took...