Take THAT!!!!

Yeah, muthafucka, take THAT SHIT!!!! That's what I'm TALKIN' about!!

HAH!!

.....

...

OK, now that I've got THAT off my chest, lemme just say, FINALLY!

So, I've been having a bit of a rough time. Perhaps like Missuzj, I've got a moderate dose of the ol' SAD. I think most of it is just burn-out. For the past two months, I've been dealing with cranky, whiny-assed clients, who are bitching more than ususal; rude(r than ususal) Adversaries; and idiotic (again, more than usual) admin. monkeys. I've been busting my ass hard and heavy for the past couple of months, trying to close the books on as many accounts as possible, while keeping the "humps" as happy as possible. All the while, I'm always looking forward to the Year End and the Manna (read: cash) which the Noel Season always brings here at the Ranch.

In addition to the work grind, I've been dragging my heels quite a bit on getting my applications for acceptance to Seminary submitted. At this point, I'm approximately one-and-a-half months behind my previously set deadline for submission. And while I can complain about a certain setback in gathering some kick ass supplemental materials for my appy, I've truly got nobody but myself and a certain, hulking, oppressive lethargia to blame for my tardiness.

So, suffice to say, I've been in a pretty shitty mood over the past couple of weeks.

But that changed today.

For today, I made my Adversary my Bitch.

Actaully, not just one Adversary, but two Adversaries, and their respective Priorys. Now granted, I had been laying the groundwork for these particular victories for the past 2 to 4 months, but all that time and energy spent becomes insignificant compared to the brief moment of exhilaration when you realize that you've won.

That moment when you've bested your opponenet and succeeded in overcoming their arguments and forced them to act according to your will, your demand. You've overtaken their position with a certain deft and precision which your Opponent is probably not even consciously aware. That near orgasmic moment of bliss and victory truly is the sweetest.

But you've done so in a manner befitting a true Priest of the highest and noblest order. That is, with honor, integrity, and always with the best interest of your client in mind. Never forget that. As my pal would say: Der Kleint, uber alles (where is that damn umlaut???).

And in addition to absolutely bitch-slapping two of my counterparts near the frenzied height of the Christmas SpazFest, I also collected on a couple of pricks who I've been haggling with for the past 6 friggin' months. That's right, friends and negibors, six months of seduction and tyranny in a date-rape dance of negotiations on behalf of my client. In this case, two clients who have been nagging me about some $25 charge they don't under-fucking-stand or some other petty, inconsequential matter and never realize or comprehend the amount of shit I've been slogging through on their behalf. (Ungrateful fucksticks)

But more pleasing than the fact that I had finally collected on these back alley guttersluts was the realization that my efforts would not go unrewarded. Because I received notifcation from the Beancounters that the proceeds collected will go towards that year end tithe I am so looking forward to. Which was quite a pleasant surprise, as tomorrow is my annual review at the Ranch. And everyone knows, it's best to go in for your review with strong production numbers in your back pocket. Well, let's just say Samson ain't got SHIT on my number, boy!

...I'm looking forward to the conference with my Abbott tomorrow.

So, there's your dose of Hubris, with a small side of Hate for today.

PS, for thos of you keeping track, I've worked things out with FC. And while she does have some "issues" that present certian challenges (hell, WHO DOESN'T???), some open and honest communication can do wonders.

Another one bites the dust.

OK, so Female Companion and I were supposed to get together and go out this past Saturday night. No big plans or anything, just an evening out, but for some unknown reason, she decided to cancel on me at (sort of) the last minute. And while I was a little pissed off about such a last minute cancellation, I went pretty easy on her. I mean, I'm as flexible and "spontaneous" as the next guy (girls always seem to want a guy who's "spontaneous"), but calling to cancel plans without reasonable cause is, well, a little unreasonable. Well, since it's still fairly early on in the whole "relationship" thing, and since I'm trying to be a good boy and not "sweat the small stuff", I let it slide without making a big stink. What the hell, this could serve as a "Get Out of Jail Free" card for me sometime in the future, right?

Yeah, right...

So, I want to go out. I had stayed in with FC the previous night and had laid pretty low during the week preceding, so it was time to get a little of the old "groove" on. But my original plans with FC had been tossed by the wayside with a singal phone call. No biggie, I'm "flexible" and "spontaneous", right? Fortunately, my pal, The Enabler called to tell me about not one, but TWO parties transpiring that very evening. The first was being hosted by some associates of ours in the Entertainment industry and would likely be full of such industry types; a few of who I knew I would know. (How do you like that one?) Unfortunately, the host and hostess lived so far north, it may as well have been in the Yukon Territory. And I had just sold my dogsled to my black neighbor downstairs. What she wanted with it, I'll never know. I mean, are there ANY black folk who live north of DETROIT?? I didn't think so.

The invitation to the second fete came from a friend of Enabler's. Well, since I had recently lost some of my hard earned ducats to Enabler's friend, I guess I could call him a friend of mine, as well. Anyway, this guy is also in the Entertainment biz, and so this party would most likely be populated more of the same ilk. This party, however, was located in a much more condusive locale, even if it was nearby the Den of Ill Repute.

So, after rendezvousing with The Enabler and his friend, and our friend's darling girlfriend, we headed over to the party on Q.A. Drinks were slurrped, snacks were gnoshed, chit-chat was converesed, carols were sung and a good time was generally had by all. Even though I was still a bit miffed, distracted and confused by FC's abrupt change in plans, I did my best to quell my concerns and focus on the immediate. I chose not to discuss these troubles with my comrades or other party-goers, because it's none of their business, and I didn't want to impart any negativity upon anybody's festivites. And while I was a bit hesitant about going to either party (for whatever reason) I plunged forward, knowing that "laughter is the best medicine" and all that. And when I beheld all of the glorious and radiant beauties in attendance at this little suarez, I was distracted enough to have a pleasant and enjoyable time for myself. In fact, it took a certain amount of restraint not to busy myself chatting up one or two of these beautiful babies in an attempt to get them alone and seperated from their apparel so as to indulge in a little pleasure that the flesh doth surely hold. No, friends and neighbors, I took the high road, because I didn't want to jeopardize things with FC.

So I mingled, circulated, drank and engaged in meaningless small talk and tried very hard not to spill anything or otherwise make a social pariah out of myself. And after having consumed enough malted and distilled beverages to provide me with a decent enough intoxicant factor, I decided that I had had enough banality. I said my goodbyes and made my way to the door.

Out into the cool, wet darkness of the pre-Midnight evening I ventured. My buggy was parked about a block away, around the corner. And while I made my way to the corner, I can't even recall what I was pondering. But it must have been something good, because I clearly wasn't paying attention to where attention should have been paid. Because at one moment, I was striding effortlessly toward the corner of the block, and the next I was falling gracelessly backward as my left foot jumped out ahead of me, seemingly on its own accord.

And as my two hands involuntarily reached out behind me to catch falling body, I thought to myself "oh, shh......". For that was as far as my addled brain got. Because in the space of one second, I heard the un-opened bottle of beer I had stashed in my coat pocket for the drive home slap the concrete of the sidewalk I was plummeting towards, AND I felt/heard the snap of a tendon in my right ankle, with the immediate clarion call of my nervous system hastily advising me that something was most definitely WRONG with what I had just asked my body to do.

Apparently, my ankle doesn't like to "bend over backwards" for me. And really, I should have known this already. This insubordinate joint structure had previously let me down in a most egregious manner almost 20 years ago when I snuck out of my parents' house to go meet a girl. (Ohh, Angela. The magic we could have made that night had my ankle held up to that 1 1/2 story jump.)

I guess the friction coefficient between my boot and the wet pavement was not sufficient enough to maintain the appropriate amount of "grip", and I went ass-over-teakettle. While the pain in my seditious ankle was significant, I retained enough composure to ascertain the integrity of the bottled beverage in my jacket pocket. I mean, if I'm going to have to crawl back to the party or drive myself either home or to the hospital, I don't want to have a pocket full of shattered glass and beer running down the side of my pants while I do it.

Luckily, the beer bottle was intact. I wish I could have said the same for my lower appendage articulator.

So, I pulled myself back up to my feet and determined quickly that I was still mobile, in a manner of speaking. With the sound of amused laughter sounding a block away (in the opposite direction of the party, so I know they were laughing at me!), I hobbled my way to my auto. Surprisiningly, my injury did not impair my ability to operate the Go Juice pedal, so I started up the jalopy, cracked open the barley pop and nosed my way back home.

I arrived home, safe and sound. Except for the ankle, of course. I lurched my way into the domicile, stripped off the footware, with now exquisite pain, grabbed a bag of frozen vegetables (California Mix, whatever that means) and made my way to the couch. I placed my now throbbing ankle in an evelvated position, gently laid the bag o' veggies on the offending joint, and medicated myself with some of British Columbia's finest export, besides the girls, that is.

The following day I awoke, and noting the continued presence of redness and swelling, I called upon another comrade to deliver me to the nearest emergent care facility in the City. Now I could go on and on about the great fun Fuzzybutt and I had, hanging out with the junkies, drunks and indigent folks at the County ER, I don't have time for that right now. Becuase I work for a living. ($500 phone calls) Suffice to say, my worst fears were assuaged, I did not break my ankle again, and I was discharged without further incident.

Unfortunately, this was not the end of my woes. You see, when I had last spoken with FC, I figured we would be discussing whatever the "issue" was which prompted her to cancel our rendezvous of the previous evening sometime on Sunday. When I returned home after the three-and-a-half hour foray into Insane-Sick Land, nary a meesage was found on either the portable or fixed telecommunication devices. OK, fine, she wants to take this at her own speed, I can relate and groove with that. Remember, I'm not going to sweat the small stuff?

It wasn't until the following day (yesterday) that I did actually speak with FC, who did a failry ham-handed job of avoiding the topic, stating that she didn't want to discuss it over the phone. OK, cool. I don't like discussing important personal stuff by phone either.

- So come on over to my place, I'm handicapped and not going anywhere.
- OK (she says), I'll give you a call later this afternoon, when I'm on my way over.
- Sounds good. See you then.

That was yesterday at 12:40 PM. Haven't heard from her since.

Now I don't want to be Mr. McNegativity because I really like this woman, but it looks like this affair is about to join all of the (too numerous) other failed relationships on the "Scrap Heap of Love..."

Ah well. I'll take consolation in the fact that I really did try with this one.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was great, for a number of reasons, none of which are your business. But it was also a little sad.

This is where your business comes in.

Female Companion (FC) and I went out to dinner for the holiday. I have no family within half a continent, and she's from a different planet where they do things a little differently for the Grand GorgeFest. So we went out for dinner. I should also mention that we decided to get out of the City to one of the resort and recreation zones nearby for a long weekend. But that's not any of your business either.

Suffice to say, we went out for Thanksgiving Dinner.

We arrived at the designated time to the well-appointed and intimate dining area of our tastefully upscale lodge. We were pleasantly greeted by the concierge, who remarked that we both looked "very nice, all dressed up. No one else this evening has really bothered." Dressed up?? I didn't even have a tie on, but OK.

Surprised, Female Companion and I shared a look and followed the concierge to our table. A quick glance around the room confirmed what I had hoped would not be the case as I put my jacket on in the room some 20 minute earlier. Jeans, untucked shirts, sweatsuits for Chrissake!! Oh well...

So FC in her modest earth-tone sweater, black skirt and boots, and I in my jacket and open collared shirt take our seats and after a bit of small talk, begin to peruse the menu of the evening.

Soon thereafter, a sultry woman with brunette curls approaches and politely intrudes into our sphere, obviously our server for the evening. I smile up at her and greet her, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving.

- Oh well, thank you. You're actually the first person to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving tonight, and you're my last table of the evening.

WTF!?!?!?

Now listen, I am no Cheery McFuzzypants. I tend to be sarcastic and cynical by nature. And I definitely do not go Ga-Ga over the holidays, but come on people, give me a fucking BREAK!!

You're going out for Thanksgiving Dinner. You're not cooking it. You're not cleaning up after your done eating it. Chances are, you're not even PAYING for it. You've got someone else schlepping your drinks, butter patties and filthy plates. Someone who is WORKING while you stuff your fat pig face, when they'd rather be home with THEIR family stuffing their fat pig face, or down at the tavern drinking cheap beer and Yukon Jack with the other familial nomads. Whatever, all you have to do is sit, perhaps verbalize a few times and eat what they put in front of you.

What's more, this isn't Denny's!! If you're the one footing the bill, you're paying a nice chunk of change for the four courses with the 2oz wine parings. So would it really fucking kill you to take a shower, clean you ass crack, and put some decent clothes on before heading out to dinner?

And by the way, when you sit your ass down to the feeding trough, take a minute to greet the person who's waiting on you with a kind word or two. Or, heaven forbid, wish them a happy holiday. You know, the whole reason you're out having dinner in the first place?

Grow up, take some responsibility.

'Tis the Season? You bet your ass, it is!

I love this time of year. Really, I do. And not because of all the good cheer, holiday festivities and all that happy horseshit. At least, that's not why I'm writing "I love this time of year."

Because I do. I do love all the holiday festivities, what with the indulgent eating, drinking and shit-eating grinning that goes on, come Winter. But that's not why I'm here right now.

No, I love this time of year because of the easy money.

So I'm back at the Ranch after taking a much needed and well-deserved long weekend off. And one of my top agenda items for the day is to call on one of my Adversaries concerning a particular client's case we had been negotiating on for a short time. Now this is not the first, second, or even third issue I had negotiated with this particular Adversary. We have had more than a few cases together over the past few years. In fact, I had recently pummeled her with a barrage of demands on several, very old cases in the past few months. Now I was once in her shoes, and having been there, I can say that, as a result of these "retro" claims (what really amounts to big fishing expedition),I probably held a position of some distinction and honor on her shit list. But, we're both professionals, so we have continued to maintain a very amicable, even gracious dialogue up to this point.

Now when we had last spoken, just over two weeks ago, she had extended an offer of settlement in the amount of x. At that time I advised her that I would take the offer back to my client, talk it over with him and get back to her. Pretty typical stuff, really.

So, I thought about her offer. In my opinion, her offer of x was really an adequate, if not solid offer to resolve my client's issue at hand. I mean, I had already done extremely well on the first two issues of this client's case. Better, in fact, than I had originally thought when I was given the case to begin with. This was an offer that satisfied all of the goals put in place when the Ranch was hired over a year and a half ago. I had already gone the distance, and then some, for his girlfriend's companion case. A girlfriend, who poetically enough, dumped his sorry ass shortly after I concluded her case, and was a humongous pain in my NUTS!! (Hey, at least she had a great ass!!) So I thought it was a pretty good offer.

So I'm thinking, do I call the client and get him to accept the offer? Because at this point, I've already made this non-English speaking, non-contributing to the economy, cultural-divide punk more money on this case than he ever expected, so he's going to do pretty much whatever I tell him. It's just that by calling him, I'm going to lose at least an hour or two of productivity on clients who are more grateful, and who's cases are worth much more. And I'd rather not waste anymore time than I have to.

So I thought about it for a few days. I turned it over in my head every morning on my way along the Viaduct. Hell, I thought about over dinner one evening with the Female Companion. (Between the steamed mussels in a garlic and tomato sauce and the main course, if you were wondering.) Do I accept the offer as is, perhaps build a little stock and good grace with my counterpart by not being a pain in her ass which could be used in the future? Or do I do what she's expecting me to do and come back with my hand out for more. And while she did not say "this is my best offer, take it or leave it," or anything else like that, she was pretty firm about her offer. I mean, really, I could just take it and be done with this already time consuming case and moderately aggravating and needy citizen, or I could step up, take a shot, go the extra mile and hopefully do some good for our client.

Well, I decided to call my Opponent back, ultimately undecided about my course of action when I picked up the phone to dial (never a good thing to do).

Once the phone has rung the obligatory number of times, her voice mail picks up. Again, pretty typical stuff. Only this time, her message states that she's out of the office until after the GorgeFest of T-giving.

OK, fine, I'm not going to leave her a message that she won't get to for another 10 days and hence never return. I'm going to call her back on upon her return. This will give me a few more days to further ponder my plan of action.

It's at this point that I call Mr. Client up and tell him about the x offer, answer his questions, tell him my thoughts and recommend that he accept the offer. Which of course, he does. So cool, I've covered my bases, I can put this back into my subconscious and let it rumble around for a while. Now don't get me wrong, it wasn't all peaches and cream. He did have to call back at least two more times that afternoon to pester me with bullshit questions, but it wasn't too bad. And within a day or two more, I had a basic strategy mentally in place.

So fast forward to the appointed day (today). I call Adversary up and to my surprise, I get a live person!

- Hi Adversary, this is JR calling from the Ranch on Mr. Fussypants. How are you today?

- I'm good, yourself?

- Great, thanks. How was your vacation last week?

- Oh, it was great thanks. Ate too much, of course, but I got to sleep all day yesterday, which was really nice.

- Yeah, I took off out of town for a long weekend myself. Had a great time, got some rest.

- (Laughs) Yeah, sometimes a little break from this work will do wonders for you.

- Indeed. Listen, I wanted to get back to you on Mr. Fussypants. Now when we last spoke your offer was for x, in response to our demand for 4x. I took your offer back to the client and discussed it with him. He's rejected it and given me authority to come down to 2x, but I'm pretty sure I can get this done at 1.5x. And would you look at that, I just bid against myself!! (A big no-no, and probable sign of weakness in my world.)

- Why yes you did. And as a matter of fact, I have authority for 1.5x, so if you can get it done for that, we've got a deal.

- Why don't you go ahead and send the check on over. We'll get this wrapped up right now.


Now you might want to bust my chops for "caving" too easily. I mean, I went from 4x to 1.5x in two quick breaths. But remember, I thought that x was more than the case was actually worth in the first place. So not only did I get another 50% on top of what the client thinks he's getting, but it only took me one phone call.

And here's my point. Because it's the end of the year, folks are getting into that "giving" mood. They're worn out from the year before and getting kind of tired of the fight. There's a sense of closure with the end of the year, and as a result, people want to clear off as much of the crap on their desk as possible. And I'm here, ready to pick up any crumb you may overlook.


More importantly, though, because I've kicked so much ass throughout the past 11 months, that one 5 minute telephone call put another $500.00 directly in my pocket!!! This is over and above my regular salary that I make whether I'm actually closing cases, or banging the cute new receptionist. And we're talking 5 small after the Big Boss at the Ranch has taken his cut.

So let's see, $500 for a 5 minute phone call. What's that break down too? Well, that's $6,000 per hour, $48,000 per day, $336,00 per week or $17,472,000 per year. It's no Ken Griffey Jr. income, but it 'ain't bad for a white boy', as my Pappy used to say. (Pappy was bitter about a lot of things.)

My real point is this: For all you sorry sacks who like to take shots at me and my colleagues in the priesthood for being connivers, cheats, swindlers and sharks, I say:

Go fuck yourself!!

Because believe it or not. I do take the high road. Even for ungrateful ass munches who I wouldn't go out of my way to piss on, if they hadn't signed on the dotted line. Because once you do, I'm your bitch, 'til the very fucking end. But that service doesn't come cheap.


And yes, I sleep just fine at night, thankyouverymuch.

Egotistical?? You bet your ass I am.

And if you think this rant is bad, wait until I'm in a bad mood...

Hey Blue!!! Pick on somebody your own size!!!

On my way into work today, I saw one of those things that was both dumbfounding and frustrating. Granted, I see/hear/experience a lot of shit that I find aggravating and bewildering these days, but this one was... well, at least somewhat noteworthy. And even if it's not, I don't care. I find you aggravating and frustrating as well.

So as I said, I was on my way to the Ranch for my daily dose of Hubris and Hate (I know you were wondering when I was going to bring that in, weren't you?), when I happened upon a curious sight. As I was winding my way through a medium commerical district on the Rock, the neighborhood where I live, on my way towards the freeway which will take me into the City, I noted that traffic was a bit heavier, moving a bit slower than the previous day. This is notable only in that yesterday's traffic had been incredibly light. I mean, I was truly blessed by the Traffic Gods (who must really despise my fair City, based on their usual daily dosage of pain and despair) yesterday. In fact, I enjoyed a generous helping of conveyance karma by hitting a green light on EVERY TRAFFIC SIGNAL between my hacienda and the Ranch. I mean, we're talking easily 12 traffic control lights. And every one of them GREEN!!! Now I realize that this being a holiday week, the normally congested highways and byways of this metropolis, which usually flows like the blood in a 5 cheeseburger-a-day-eatin', no exercising, corpulant couch potato, is actually going to move smoother than a constipated bowel with a double dose of ExLax. But ALL GREENS?!?!?! Well, it was just too good to be true.

And it was. For as I swung through the last intersection seperating the humble residential sector from the low brow, slightly dingy string of fast food resturants, chiropractic offices and dry cleaners, the traffic flow noticably slowed, in comparision to the previous day. Nothing like it normally is when some fuck-tard has decided to smear himself and perhaps one or two other innocent motorists all over the jersey barrier and blacktop of the Bridge, but still slower than Monday. And when you have a day with nothing but green lights, well, you hope for a repeat.

So, as I slowed my buggy to the less than optimal speed of those commuters around me, I could see ahead in the distance, perhaps four or five blocks ahead, the tell-tale flashing lights of our city's finest in law enforcement, swirling with verve and vigor atop the battle cruiser. I could tell that the "police activity" was just this side of the main entrance to the Rock, so I was pleased that I would at least get a look at whatever human passion play was unraveling before hitting the highway. Regardless of my mild aggravation at the slight delay in my journey, I so do love glimpsing into the drama, pain and suffering that flavors the human existence.

But as I drew near, I became a bit confused, bewildered if you will. When I was within a block and a half of the soap opera, I could discern not one, not two, not even three, but FIVE sector cars, all parked at various angles incongruent with the prescribed traffic patterns and geographical features of the block. That's right, FIVE cop cars, all seemingly centered on and oriented around one focal point.

Well, I finally got my chance at the brief glimpse into what was "really going on", and that was the moment that I became.....

Outraged? No, this was not quite egregious.

Incensed? Perhaps, but most likely not for the reasons that you would initially guess.

Overcome with the injustice of it all? Umm, no. I think you have the wrong (underpants).

Frustrated with the obvious absurdity? You bet yer ASS!!!

Because, Friends and Neighbors, what I beheld, as I passed that little After-School-Special dramatization of Real Life on this particular Tuesday, was at least seven (7!!!) uniformed City Police Officers handling a single, unkempt man in his early 40's. A man, who by casual observence from a distance of perhaps 8 meters, was seated on the curb, obviously confused and disoriented, and in need of some proper grooming.

And while I think it very important that every city's transient population maintain a city dignity, there is no excuse for such aggressive enforcement of the "Bum Code of Ethics."

This guy wasn't doing anything wrong that I could see. Sure, he was acting a little manic, but hey, wouldn't you if you were told to sit on the curb of a busy street while a whole battalion of Seattle Super Stazi circled around you like so many sharks in the ocean, just waiting for a chance to go "Rodney King" on your ass? Sure you would.

And it's not like he was COMPLETELY filthy, or anything. He had the requisite amount of dirt and grime buildup, but he seemed like a respectable enough street dude.

The sad truth is, this guy is probably one of those cats that is in dire need of some drug rehab or mental health care and unfortunately, just isn't quite needy or far-gone enough to merit some decent social services from a local, state or federal program. So he's been put out on his own, and with no supportive social network out there to help him along, he's left to his own devices.

Which puts him square in the laps of those folks who are least equipped and least responsible for him. Those underpaid, righteous frontline defenders of post-modern society and civilization as a whole.

The humble stormtrooper.

So I say, leave the trippy cat alone and move along. There's nothing to see here.

Post: The subject in question, was seen the very next day, on the opposite side of the street, ranting and raving about something as the morning commuters whizzed buy in their UAV's (urban assault vehicles), sipping their pre-work dosage of caffien and Rush Limbaugh/Al Franken (depending on who's bumper sticker they've plastered on their vehicle), completely unencumbered with the social constraints of the Metro Polcie Squad.

Post post: Sorry 'bout the delay. I've been having some of that writer's block that Missus J was describing a few days back.

Thanks, Ass Neck

I drink. A lot. Because I can.

So it’s not that unusual for me to hit a bar, tavern, pub, club, what have you, for a drink or 5. And I have had my fair share of interesting, invigorating and insipid experiences. You get to meet a lot of “unique” and “diverse” people when sitting alone at a bar.

But for some reason, last night’s encounter is really starting to piss me off. I just can’t seem to shake it, and that is what really pisses me off.

So I decide to head in to some fancy “lounge” downtown near my office for a cocktail (double Citron, on the rocks, with a lime) after work. You know the type of place I’m talking about: it’s got the minimalist name (which also happens to be their mailing address) and is dimly lit with warm, dark earth-toned interior where the hipsters and young nouveau-riche try so hard to act all grown up, but can barely hide the fact that they faked their way through college and are deathly afraid their facade will be dispelled with the slightest misstep.

Now I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while. I am by no means a “regular”. Or even a “familiar”. So I really don’t expect any kind of special treatment or anything. But a little fucking respect is certainly not beyond reason.

So I wonder in to this joint around 10:30 PM and see that it’s doing a brisk business, most of the table are taken, and the bar is pretty full, except for the far end. So I make my way down to the end of the bar and because I’m not really looking AT the bar as I pull the chair out and begin to shed my jacket, I don’t really notice the three table settings with ice waters set out on the bar. Instead, I’m eyeballing one of the bevy of beauties seated at the table behind where I’m about to sit. After I’ve got a good take on the dear lovely, I turn my attention to the two hep-cat dudes holding court behind the bar. With a warm greeting, I flash them a smile. I always like to set a good tone with an unfamiliar barman, it helps to insure the quality of service I have come to expect from a real professional. And this is the kind of place I expect to have a professional mixologist on staff.

So as my ass is about to settle comfortably on to the bar stool, Ass Neck (honestly, I did not know him to be an ass neck at the time, that would come later), says that he’s doing well, thank you. “But those seats are reserved.”

Ah, the plates, eating utensils, napkins and tall glasses full of water, with ice cubes half-melted. Yes, these seats are indeed “reserved”.

“Oh, so sorry about that. I didn’t notice. I will just sit over here then.” I cheerfully reply. No harm, no foul.

So I move three seats to the left and take my spot next to a young attractive couple. At least I think they’re a couple. But from the few snatches of conversation I overhear, it sounds as if they may have recently met. She seems to be the more confident, aggressor-type in this particular social dynamic. Which is totally cool by me. I pay little attention to them, as I’m thinking about my beverage, which I have been longing for. So I order.

“A Citron on the rocks, with a lime, please.”

The barman turns to begin making my drink and after about 5 seconds he asks:

“Are you sure you don’t want a lemon instead?”

I’m sorry, but take a look at me, punk. Do I look like I don’t know what I want to drink? Is there something in my professional dress, styled hair and calm, confident demeanor that would suggest I don’t know how to order a fucking drink? I didn’t think so. Fix my drink bitch.

“Yes, I’m sure, thank you,” I pleasantly respond. Got to be nice to the guy with the booze.

So without further ado, he brings me a short glass of nectar, which I raise to my mouth, only to have my nose come abruptly in contact with a large cube of ice. Ass Neck (he’s starting to earn his title) has filled the glass so full with large ice cubes, that it’s nearly impossible to get any liquid onto my parched tongue without have the ice shower down my pressed shirt.

OK, no problem, so they’re tightwad with the pours at this place. It’s to be expected, I guess. We are in L.Q.A., and some of the places in this neigborhood take themselves a little too seriously. Like this place, for instance.

So I swirl the glass around and let thermodynamics do their thing. It’s not long before I have that sharp, yet tasteless fluid slide down my throat and feel the cooling numbness that is good vodka creep over my skull. All is now right with the world.

It’s not long before the couple seated next to me cash out and journey off in to the night, to what I am quite confident with be an episode of sexual intercourse. For some reason, I am left with the impression that she is likely a pro, and the deal has been sealed. Now they’re off to complete the transaction and exchange of bodily fluids. Don’t ask me why I know this, but I do. I like to think that I’m somewhat empathic and will occasionally pick up impressions off of people I encounter. I also suspect that whatever the nature of their relationship is, tonight’s sexual congress will leave one of them disappointed. And I don’t think it’s going to be him.

“Sorry, babe,” I think to myself. “You were kinda sexy, and I hate to see you waste another night of lust with an unfulfilling partner.”

So I let my mind wander, as it usually does when I’m alone at a bar. I think about work, I think about women (there a few cuties here tonight), I think about school, I think about work again, then school again, then the ladies. It’s all pretty much cyclical at this stage of the evening. And usually, I am fortunate enough to experience an insight or inspiration on some case or client issue I’ve got going on. This sort of free-wheeling problems solving is often beneficial and soothing for me.

So enough time has passed that I’ve finished the few ounces of liquid in my glass and am pondering as to whether or not I’m going to order another, when Ass Neck’s visage comes into view and, looking me straight in the eye (unheard of here in Passive/Aggressive Land), says very pointedly:

“Here, this is for you,” as he slides my tab across the wooden bar.

I am jolted out of my reverie by his tone and almost let speechless. While I recover my footing, I pull out my card and slide it back to him. I fumble for a moment as he turns away from me to run my card though the machine and ask,

“Were you trying to say something, there?”

“Excuse me?” he asks, turning partially around to face me again.

“Was that some sort of message you were giving me?” I inquire again, still maintaining a pleasant tone.

“Yes, a subliminal one,” he says, crossing back to me with the signature slip, which he places on the counter before me and then walks breezily away.

At this point, I am truly taken aback. I have done nothing wrong, I have spoken to nobody, and I haven’t spilled, dropped or broken anything. Now I use to be a professional barman myself, and I know the “warning signs” one must be on the lookout for, lest a problem from an unruly or intoxicated patron arise. And I am without sin this evening.

So, as Mr. Neck is walking past my location, I ask, with all humility,

“If I may inquire, what in particular seems to be the problem?”

He stops abruptly, and turns his goateed face to me, leans in and says:

“Well, it’s when you closed your eyes and about nodded off at the bar. That’s when I decided it was time for you to go,” with just enough insolence and condescension that my hackles start to raise. He holds his position, barely intruding into my personal space comfort zone for a moment and then walks off to finish what he was doing.

“Ah, I see.”

I look down at my bill, tip him 50% (it was only one drink, for fuck’s sake), calmly rise from my seat, lift my coat off the back of the stool and while shrugging into it, I can feel the eyes of the two pricks behind the bar watching me closer than a Marine on the “Wire” at Guantanamo Bay. I make my exit into the cold, windy evening without further incident in search of friendlier grounds.

Now I realize that he was just doing his job, and I won’t take Ass Neck to task for that. But what the fuck?!?! I realize he is no mind reader and could not possibly know that I just got off from a 13 hour day, the third this week. And that when I “closed” my eyes, I was in deep thought about the latest round discussions in a case I’ve been negotiating on for four months. Or perhaps I was pondering my strategy for getting my ass back in to school, which has been an 18 month undertaking so far, or maybe I was remembering a particularly flexible and enthusiastic young woman I knew from a few years back.

Whatever the case, Ass Neck and his employer can count on my never darkening the door of their shitty little lounge again. You see, I vote with my feet and my wallet. And if you think you can pass judgement on me based on an unfounded assumption, you might as well piss in your own Wheaties.

Unfortunately, this little transgression has lingered in my mind, twisting and turning and mutating into a thing so black and evil, Darth Vader would be proud. So I guess now it’s time to go take a big dump on a few of my adversaries. Sorry guys, I know it’s Friday and all, but you see, I got kicked out of a bar by Ass Neck.

A fun new game!

So a dear colleague of mine at the Ranch come up with a great new game to play. He suggested it as a great way to kill time at those pesky monthly staff meetings we have here. And I have to agree with him, it sounds like great fun. Here's how it works:

Think Bingo. You know, that great game enjoyed by geriatrics, shut-ins and backwoods religious zealots throughout this fair land. You've got your score card with the letter-number combos laid out in a neat and tidy grid pattern, an absolute testament to the beauty of organization and order. You've got your score markers, whether they are plastic, wood or metal; round or square, it doesn't matter. Just so long as you have a sufficient supply to play however many score cards you happen to be playing without having to get up mid-game to collect more in order to keep playing. A bingo novice makes the mistake of not gathering enough score markers once, and once only. And finally, you've got your MC, or barker, whatever you want to call him. He's (I'm using this pronoun in a gender-neutral, non-judgmental sort of way, ladies) the guy (c.f. prev. note) who stands on the stage in front of the assembled Depends-wearing, White trash/Christ loving, welfare/SSI drawing throng, calling out "B-10", "G-32", "N-5" and the like off the dirty, finger grease smeared ping-pong balls which he pulls out of the... what the hell do they call that machine that bounces those balls around like a carnival ride for tiny plastic planets? Anyway, he's up there for hours on end, usually drinking a bottomless cup of coffee and smoking and endless supply of shitty, second rate smokes while the wheezing, burping and bawling crowd happily while away their Thursday nights trying to win back their "pin money" so they can buy more formula for the latest baby, beer for the husband, or prescription drugs which aren't covered by Medicare.

You get the picture. Bingo.

Now that you've got that image firmly implanted in your mental picture show, shift gears to the board room with its shiny glass topped soccer field of a conference table, the comfy leather upholstered ergonomically correct chairs and replete with bookshelves full of important looking tomes, 3-D anatomical models of organs, bones and joints and the sleek computer terminal in the corner. Seated around this table are important looking men and not-so important looking women (sorry gals, in cyberspace, I'm an even bigger dick than I am in real life, but that's another story...), all with important looking papers and various office-type supplies and tools close at hand.

Now for those of you who have actually worked a real job (one job that requires you bathe BEFORE arriving to the "job site", a job whose dress code requires a pressed collar and pants in good condition) for longer than the two days it took to steal all the pens and legal pad you could pilfer from the supply room in your shitty little backpack, then you will be intimately familiar with the pithy words, slogans and catch phrases that dominate the corporate workplace. You know the one's:

- Thinking outside of the box
- Win/Win solution
- paradigm change
- begin with the end in mind
- Awareness wheel

Anyway, you get the idea.

So here's how the game works:

The next time you're stuck in a boring staff meeting, listening to your peers and superiors drone on and on about things the sound important, but really aren't. You're sitting there either thinking about what a waste of time this whole exercise is, and how much REAL work you could be doing if you weren't stuck in this meeting. Or thinking about the dynamic sex you had with that cute (and drunk) blonde the previous night (how DID she get her legs to do that?!?!). Or more likely, you're struggling through the third hangover of the week, and it's only Monday. Whatever the case, take out a piece of paper and, acting like you're taking notes about the important new "process improvement" that is being discussed in detail, draw out your very own Bingo score card. Instead of filling in the squares with "B-13", or "O-7", you complete the card with all of those new age-y corporate slogans designed to get you motivated and jazzed about your crappy job.

Now once you've got your score card, you can't ask the two clowns sitting next to you for their paper clips and sticky notes without raising suspicion, so what do you do about the score counters? Well, since you're playing by yourself, you can simply cross out the appropriate box whenever a given term or phrase is uttered aloud. So whenever that incompetent monkey across the table from you whose mastery of the English language would make Thai whore blush from embarrassment, says something along the lines of "I think we need to rethink our 'action plan' and revise our whole 'customer service paradigm',"; well that's when you cross off the appropriate box.

Now hear comes the really fun part. When you've finally got complete line on your score card crossed out, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, whatever. Well once you've drawn a line through that last box, and you've taken a moment to double check you card to be sure you've got that "bingo", you jump to your feet, draw in a full breathe of air, and shout at the top of your lungs:

"BULLSHIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!"


And before anyone can actually recover from your unexpected intrusion into the stuporous banality of the proceedings, you decisively turn on your heel, and quickly exit the room.

While you're up, you may as well go clean out your desk, because you're going to be out on the streets looking for a job quicker than Courtney Love will have her next fix when she leaves rehab (again).

I'm sure Parker Bros. will want a piece of this action.

This is going to be one for the record books...

So it's 9:30 on a Saturday morning, and I can already tell that this is going to be one of those truly memorable and most likley, miserable days.

First off, it's 9:30 and I'm not only awake, but out of bed and posting an entry on my blog, which I ultimately think is not the best use of my time or energy. I'm a bit of a "numbers guy" (like my boss), and while I am known for over-indulgence and suprefluous action, I like to rationalize my wasteful activities by fooling myself that there is some redemptive aspect which will validate my poor choices. But so be it. I'm going to give this thing a fair shake and see what comes of it.

So yeah, I'm up early on a day off. After what proved to be a rather wierd, awkward, and slightly uncomfortable evening with this woman I've recently started seeing (dare we use the word "dating"?), I had to get up bright and early to take my car in to the shop for service. And it's not just your typical oil change and tire rotation we're talking here. No sir. No, we're taking my less than impressive, typically utilitarian and innocuous compact car (read: Honda) back into the neighborhood grease monkeys yet again. For an issue that has been plaguing me for over a year now.

So I'm pissed off because I know this is going to cost me some real coin, but mostly I'm pissed because, in my opinion, after three visits for the same problem in about a year, I think this issue should be resolved. I mean, this IS THEIR FUCKING JOB, right? In my line of work, you do NOT get three chances to NOT solve a problem for a client. You get one, maybe two, if the oversight isn't too friggin' egregious. Then it's a toss-up between losing the client and getting a serious browbeating from the managing partner, or better yet, a malpractic claim and possible termination of employment. Immediate, and without a severance package. Luckily, I've got one of those bosses that doesn't hastily jump to conclusions or act out of emotion. But I can't say that for the rest of my colleagues. So, I have very little tolerance for ineptitude. Willful ignorance, incompetence and apathy are three of the most disgusting and rancorous attributes in my fellow human kind, and I've got to tell you, friends and neighbors. I am fucking surrounded by it, and I can't stand it.

So, I drag my ass (and my pesky car) to the shop at the appointed early morning hour, and I engage in yet another customer service encounter that further degrades my trust in this particular service facility. I walk in and there's a new "counter person", who happens to be a very sexy young woman of Asian/Pacific Islander decent. Now I'm always up for hot chicks, but I'm not real impressed with this young thing's ability to listen and respond appropriately. You see, I've been going to the same place for car service for well over 6 years. I always call to make an appointment and discuss the issue at hand. I always arrive on time. I am diligent taking my car in for regular maintenance. These people have a file with my history. So why is it that when I go in today, I have to explain, once again, the recurrent issue that I am in for. And when she has to ask me a question, which I have ALREADY ANSWERED NOT 20 SECONDS PRIOR, I come very close to losing my cool. However, realizing that this will not a) solve the car problem, b) she's probably fairly new to the job/industry, and c) my patience is already running out, I chose to refrain from unloading a modest dose of vitriol and attitude, and make haste my departure. You see, I know I'm going to have to deal with someone who has more authority and discretion when they make the "good news/bad news" call. I think I'll just save that pent up aggression for a more appropriate time.

Upon returning to domicile, I begin the work for the day which I have laid out for myself. Namely laundry and a stack of shit I brought home from The Ranch. Alright, I've sorted out the clothes into appropriate categories and have those machines a-humming, when I log on to the Ranch's network. Lo, and behold, but what should I find sitting in my inbox, but a notice from a national testing agency with the results of a VERY IMPROTANT EXAMINATION that I took a few weeks ago. Now mind you, this is the second time I have taken this exam, and obviously the results were not sufficient for my needs a year ago. So therefore, I subjected myself to its rigors once again. Well, well, well. Surprise, surprise! I did not expect to have the scores back quite so soon. They weren't due until the 25th, and here it is, the 22nd.

A little backstory: This exam, this significant bane to my current personal and professional exisitence, this monkey on my back that has more power than the finest China White in all the shooting galleries of Seattle, New York and San Fransisco combined, has me wrapped up like a pretzel worse than TomKat. To me, it's the gateway to a bigger and better life. And a daunting hurdle that must be overcome before I can continue my persoanl evolution into that which I desire for myself.

In other words, it's kind of important to me.

I realize that this is mostly a matter of my own personal hang ups and I shouldn't invest so much, emotionally, into a standardized test. A test, which once taken (and adequate results acheived, of course), has little to no meaning for the rest of eternity. It's simply a gateway. A test for test's sake. And that, friends and neighbors, burns my ass to no end.

So, with some trepidation, I move the mouse and place my cursor over the emblazoned email title which informs me that my "Result Are In". Upon clicking, I look upon the information ensconced within the electronic missive with the eager anticipation of a 14 year old who gets his first real live look at a woman's Most Holy of Holies; and the dread of Galileo brought before the Spanish Inquisition. And what do I see?

152.

152? Wha- (the fuck?)

152!! Christ on a cross.

You mean, I waited a full year, subjected myself to a "prep" class taught by some twit who is 7 years younger than I, who doesn't seem able to respond to even the most direct questioning reagrding the material that she is supposed to be teaching. At a modest $700 price tag. Not to mention the hefty speeding ticket I got on the way to the airport to get back to Seattle to take the damn test. Or the fact that, be it right or wrong, in my mind's eye, this test will set the tone for the next 3-5 years of my petty, insignificant existence.

And for what? 1 point. 1 measly fucking point increase from last year's score. In other words, kids, all that effort, time, energy, worry and money. All for ONE FUCKING POINT!!!!

Fuck.

Or as my buddy Rob likes to mock: "god DAMmit!"

So yeah, it's going to be one of those days.... And I won't even get into the "good news/bad news" call I got from the head grease monkey while typing this rant. Suffice to say, the gentleman had NO IDEA what he was walking into when he picked up that phone.

So, with that. Let the drinking begin. And by the way, where DID I put my shotgun...?

Don't look a gift horse in the ass

So I get this email from my boss today advising the staff of the central office that he's spring for pizza for everyone for lunch. Which is nice. Now my boss is a pretty cool cat, and I dig working for him. And he's pretty generous, when he wants to be. Which isn't often when it comes to money or expenses. This is not to say that he's any miserly Scrooge, or tightfisted bastard, even though he IS an attorney. Au contrare, he'll spend the dough when it's merited. But he's a bit of a numbers guy, and he does expect some form of return on his investment, (Remember, he's an attorney).

But you see, the thing is, he's not even in the office today. He's SUPPOSED to be in another town across the state visiting his youngest (hot) duaghter with his wife and eldest (SUPER HOT, HOT, HOT) daughter. He's supposed to be enjoying some time away from the office and the stacks of work that he has, and bonding with his daughters who are in their 1st and 2nd year of colllege (dDid I mention how gorgeous these little birds are?). He is NOT supposed to be in front of a computer, sending out emails to his hard working staff about friggin' pizza lunches.

Now this man can literally move mountains. I've seen him do it myself. And he's certainly dedicated to his work, but come on dude, take a break. Enjoy the sunshine, and forget about us drones for a day or two.

Yep, I've succumbed

That's right, bitches. I've finally given up all resistance and decided to join the club and start posting my own rants, raves, observations and errata in the Ether.

And just so there's no misunderstandings, I titled my very onw blog with the two aspects which denote my persona the best.

This is going to be the best writing exercise and waste of time I have ever been involved in.