Ode to Mark

Mark was my boss some years ago. Yesterday, I talked to a person who was a co-worker of mine from back when we both worked for Mark. I’ll call this former co-worker S-Girl.

S-Girl told me that Mark had called her recently and asked for my phone number. S-Girl gave Mark my old phone number, as she didn’t know that I had changed phone service providers a few months back.

I’m not sure why Mark would ever call me, as he is on a very short list of people that I hate. Okay. I know. Hate is a strong word. I’m not sure if I really hate Mark anymore, but I hated him at one time. I might share a story that will give you an insight into Mark’s management style sometime soon, but not today.

Mark, why did you ask S-Girl for my phone number? Do you think we will reminisce about the old days? That will not happen, kind sir. Do you want me to somehow help you with your career after you trashed mine? There is no chance of that either, old friend.

Mark, whenever I hear Queen’s fun little song Death on Two Legs, I think of you.

If you have forgotten that song, here are the lyrics:

You suck my blood like a leech
You break the law and you breach
Screw my brain till it hurts
You've taken all my money
You still want more

Misguided old mule
With your pigheaded rules
With your narrow-minded cronies
Who are fools of the first division

Death on two legs
You're tearing me apart
Death on two legs
You've never had a heart of your own

Kill joy, bad guy
Big talking, small fry
You're just an old barrow-boy
Have you found a new toy to replace me?
Can you face me?
But now you can kiss my ass goodbye

Feel good, are you satisfied?
Do you feel like suicide? (I think you should)
Is your conscience all right?
Does it plague you at night?
Do you feel good? Feel good!

You talk like a big business tycoon
You're just a hot air balloon
So no one gives you a damn
You're just an overgrown schoolboy
Let me tan your hide

A dog with disease
You're the king of the 'sleaze'
Put your money where your mouth is
Mister know-all
Was the fin on your back part of the deal? (shark)

Death on two legs
You're tearing me apart
Death on two legs
You've never had a heart (you never did) of your own(right from the start)

Insane, you should be put inside
You're a sewer rat decaying in a cesspool of pride
Should be made unemployed
Then make yourself null and void
Make me feel good. I feel good!

So, Mark, if you somehow stumble across my current phone number, please refrain from calling me. I will summarily delete any messages from you. The sound of your voice sickens me. I will never call you back. I will never knowingly help you with anything.

An additional note – No, I’m not secretly hoping that Mark will find this post so that I can gain some tiny bit of closure. This is just my little way of venting away frustration generated by a callous former boss, who had no understanding of how people should interact. Also, yes, I am a bitter little man, and yes, green is my Queen font.

No pie is safe

This past Saturday, while my truck was being ransacked, I decided to buy a pie. Yes, a pie. An entire pie. An apple pie to be precise. I never buy pie, although I do like pie.

Maybe this anomaly in my shopping behavior put the universe a little out of whack, causing the would-be thief to target my crappy truck over the ample nice vehicles in the store parking lot. Yes, I am to blame for my truck being ransacked. I accept it now.

When I got home, I started to watch the OSU / Iowa game. I needed a snack, but I didn't have any snack foods. I noticed the pie in the fridge, and thought, "I'll just have a little of this apple pie."

Twenty-five minutes later, I sat staring at an empty pie tin. Yes, I had eaten the entire pie in one sitting. Diet? Who am I kidding?

Sunday, while at the grocery store, I decided to stock up on snack foods. I don't want to have another apple pie incident like I had the day before. Snacks are for snack food, not for entire pies.

So I bought two large bags of nacho chips, and a container of cheese sauce. I thought I'd be safe for the week.

Well, the first bag of nachos was eaten Sunday night, and the second was easily devoured tonight after work. Yes, the cheese sauce is gone too.

Once again my house is unsafe for pies. I guess I know now why I never buy them.

A feeling I've had before, but don't like.

I did a little shopping this past Saturday. Not for anything special, just some home improvement items.

I drove my rusted-out, clunky truck to a nearby home improvement store, and parked it in the lot. I think I may have had the clunkiest vehicle there. All around me were new, or nearly new, cars, trucks and SUVs.

I remember feeling a brief burst of pride at having the crappiest vehicle there. I thought to myself, "Bought and paid for, bitches! No vehicle payments on this baby in years! Don't like that I parked my rust-bucket next to your new Mercedes?Too effing bad! I'll keep driving this piece of crap 'til the wheels fall off!"

I did my shopping and as I walked back towards my truck, I noticed something odd. My truck's door was ajar. I got to my truck, and looked inside. The contents of the glove compartment were all over the floor. The bench seat had been moved forward, and it was clear someone had dug around in the junk behind the seat.

As far as I could tell, nothing was stolen, but really, there was nothing there to steal in the first place.

Initially, I wasn't phased at all by this incident. I got in the truck, moved the seat back to where it should be, threw the stuff back into the glove compartment, and thought to myself, "Screw you, dumb-ass thieves!"

Yes, the truck was unlocked, but I never lock it. The last time I locked it, maybe fifteen years ago, somebody broke out the window. There was nothing in it to steal that time either.

Back when I lived in a crappy apartment in a really bad part of town, this happened frequently. I got used to having the few, nearly worthless, belongings I kept in the truck being occasionally picked-through by the neighborhood thieves, but that was better than dealing with broken windows.

As the day progressed, this incident bothered me more and more. I wondered why my rusted-out, clunky truck was targeted, when every other vehicle in the lot was newer and probably contained better stuff. Sure, my truck was unlocked, but a quick glance into the cab should've been enough to determine that there was nothing of value inside. This is one of the reasons I still drive this old clunky truck... nobody messes with it. I could park it in the worst part of town unlocked and be reasonably certain that nothing would happen to it.

I haven't lived in that bad of a neighborhood in several years, and I'm not used to having my space violated in this manner. Maybe I need to get used to that feeling again, with the economy as it is. If so, I don't like it....not one little bit.

The Fourth Quarter Slide

My energy levels are down. The amount of exercise I’ve been doing has decreased. My productivity at work is down. The number of postings to this blog are down. I attribute all these issues to the fourth quarter slide. What is the fourth quarter slide? Well, during the last three months of the calendar year, as the warm weather in my region ends and the number of sunlight hours decreases, I tend to be much less productive.

I suppose I’ve noticed this phenomenon for a number of years, but last year it was really pronounced. For example, up through the end of the 3^rd quarter last year, I was jogging regularly and expected to reach 400 jogging miles for calendar 2008. During the last three months of last year, my jogging drastically declined and I fell 50 miles short of my jogging goal for the year.

Also during October through December of last year I decided to stop going out to the bars because I felt too old.

That was last year. This year that cycle seems to be repeating itself.

Last month, I jogged the fewest miles since last December, but I’m still on target to reach 400 miles for calendar 2009 - for now.

Last month I decided to stop going out to the bars because I felt too old.

Then there is this...

On Tuesday of this week there was a department-wide meeting at the end of the day. I came away from that meeting particularly depressed. I’m not sure why. I went home Tuesday evening, turned on the TV, sat in my lazy-boy under a blanket, and stayed there until it was time to go to bed. Yesterday was a holiday, but I spent much of the day spaced-out in front of the TV or napping on the couch, trying to hide from the world.

Maybe this weekend I’ll be able to focus on a project or two, and actually accomplish something. More realistically, I’ll probably look over my project list, get overwhelmed, and decide to just watch TV. Ah, well. Only four and a half months to go until Spring. Woo-Hoo!

Magnum vs. Rockford

Since I’m not going out tonight, I decided that it would be best to concentrate on the most important issues of the day. With that in mind, I thought I’d address one of the most vexing issues that I know. That’s right, I’m wondering which classic private investigator TV show is better; Magnum P.I. or The Rockford Files.

Rockford, Angel, and Rocky.

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Rick, Magnum, TC, and Higgins.

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Let me get this out of the way first; I liked, nay, I loved, both shows. In my opinion these two shows are the best private investigator TV shows ever. Yes, Monk is pretty good. Maybe at some point in the distant future, I may include Monk in a comparison of the best three private investigator TV shows ever, but not yet. Other private investigator shows had some high points certainly, but again, Magnum P.I. and The Rockford Files are still the best. With this fact, there can be no debate.

How can we decide such an important question? I don’t know. In my analysis, I considered the following factors:

Central Character Envy: Jim Rockford vs. Thomas Magnum. Who wouldn’t want to be Magnum? Living in Hawaii, driving a Ferrari, staying rent-free at a posh estate, drinking free beer at the King Kamehameha Club while ogling all the cute bikini-clad ladies. Rockford is a wrongly convicted ex-con, living in a trailer (okay, yes, in Malibu), driving a Firebird. Point to Magnum.

Central Character Acting: Tom Selleck vs. James Garner. While I do enjoy Selleck, Garner is by far the better actor. So much more experience, so much more depth. Heck, Garner was a big-name actor when he started doing The Rockford Files. Selleck was an ex-model doing bit parts on TV shows when he was cast in Magnum P.I. Point to Rockford.

Supporting Cast: Let’s see. Magnum had Higgins, TC, and Rick. Rockford had Angel and Rocky. It must also be mentioned that Selleck, Roger Mosley (TC), and Larry Manetti (Rick) all appeared on The Rockford Files at some point in bit roles prior to their gig on Magnum P.I. I suspect that Selleck got his Magnum P.I. role in part because of his earlier private investigator role on The Rockford Files. I am tempted to give this point to Rockford, but I’ll call this one a draw.

Story Lines & Continuity: The Rockford Files story lines are mostly believable. The only problem I had with Rockford was with regards to his gold Pontiac Firebird. I believe this car was destroyed at least three times during the course of the series, but it always resurrected itself. One time it flew off a cliff and exploded. Two episodes later Rockford was driving the gold Firebird again. They should have spent an extra moment or two and showed Rockford at a used car lot buying another gold Firebird. Magnum P.I. story lines were sometimes crazily unbelievable. A raid to Vietnam to rescue non-existent POWs? Time travel back to 1920s? Ghosts? A season-ending episode where we aren’t sure if Magnum has died, plus we see his spirit walking away in the clouds? Also, Magnum P.I. ended its run with Magnum re-upping in the Navy. Yes, that is what the Navy is looking for… 45 year old dudes. Point to Rockford.

Reasons that the Series ended: The Rockford Files ended because NBC was screwing over James Garner with a bad contract. The show still had great ratings. Garner walked away when NBC wouldn't give him his due. Magnum P.I.'s ratings at the end sucked. It couldn't contend with NBC's "must see TV" line-up of The Cosby Show, Family Ties, and Cheers. I was one of the few who didn't watch Cheers much during the mid to late 1980s because I was still loyal to Magnum P.I. Plus, much like other CBS shows at the time (Dallas, Knot's Landing, and Falcon Crest), the story lines on the last couple seasons of Magnum P.I. were becoming more and more outrageous. One other thing, I think they were letting Selleck direct some Magnum P.I. episodes towards the end - not cool. Point to Rockford.

The Common Man Syndrome: Rockford was always figuring things out because of uncanny sleuthing skills. He was so good at what he did, it was sometimes irritating. Magnum, on the other hand, usually lucked into the solution, or he listened to his “little voice.” Since Magnum seemingly had no real investigatory skills, it made us regular folks feel like we could be private investigators too. Also, Magnum regularly poked fun at himself, while Rockford took himself a bit too seriously. Point to Magnum.

Okay. Although it was close, using the results from my analysis above, I must pick The Rockford Files over Magnum P.I. In fact, I really do favor Rockford over Magnum. I suspect most folks favor Magnum since his show was more recent, enjoyed broader syndication, and Selleck's mustache was incredible. Any opinions?

Paul or John / Maybe I'm done

Do you prefer Paul McCartney or John Lennon? I must admit that I prefer Paul. I like his upbeat, pop-friendly tunes that, for the most part, don’t generate any deep thoughts. Yes, I am a simpleton. Also, I think John’s stuff was a bit too political at times. Ah, well.

This past Saturday, Halloween, I stayed home and listened to Paul McCartney’s Greatest Hits. This sounds sad, and I guess it was. I considered donning my priest outfit and hitting the bars, but I didn’t feel up to the challenge. In fact, I think I’ve decided to stop going out altogether. I’ve said it before, but this time I think I may mean it. I’ve got nothing to show for all my years of bar-hopping, except a bunch of dead brain cells. We’ll see how I feel about things at around 9pm this next Friday evening. Maybe I'll change my mind.

I've got a gun in my purse!

It was just another Saturday night some years ago. Back then, I frequented a little hip-hop joint. I definitely did not fit into the hip-hop culture. In fact, I fit more into the redneck demographic, but that hip-hop club was the closest bar to where I lived. At that time, bar proximity was a prime consideration for me and my drinking. If I got too drunk to drive, I could still walk home.

On this particular night, I was sitting innocently at the island bar, watching the ice dissolve in my rum & coke. Not much was going on in the place as it was still early, maybe 9:00pm. Across the bar, there were two ladies. They seemed to be celebrating something. They were talking loudly, laughing, and drinking shots.

After 15 minutes of this type of activity, the two ladies noticed me. They gestured for me to join them. Being socially awkward, I ignored them. Then one of the ladies walked around the bar and asked that I join them. I decided to join them for a drink or two.

I talked primarily to Jill. She was a cute blonde with a little extra weight, but I liked the way she looked. Jill’s friend Sharon was a knockout, slim with dark hair, similar to Kristen Davis of Sex and the City fame. I thought Sharon looked familiar, but I couldn’t place when/where I had met her before. Sharon didn’t talk much with me, but I didn’t care. Jill seemed to be interested in me. Things were going well.

The night moved on. The club started to get crowded. Jill, Sharon and I drank and danced. Then we drank and danced some more. I noticed Sharon was being approached by many men, but none of them stuck around for long. I couldn’t hear what Sharon said to them. I didn’t care. I was having fun with Jill.

When walking away from us, some of the guys that had approached Sharon would say something to me like, “She’s crazy, man!” or “Be careful, dude!” A couple of these guys wanted to pick a fight with me. They would say stuff like, “You should keep your friends in line!”, or “You’ll pay for what your friend said to me!”. I didn’t care. I was having fun with Jill, and I was getting drunk.

Jill went to the ladies room, and I sat next to Sharon. We talked a little, mostly about Jill. A guy approached Sharon. Sharon said, “I’ve got a gun in my purse, and if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll use it.” I realized that this was what Sharon had been saying to all the guys that had approached her earlier. I still didn’t care. I was having fun with Jill, and I was definitely drunk.

Jill came back. We drank some more. We danced some more. More guys approached Sharon, but none of them stuck around.

Around 1am, Jill and Sharon wanted to go to another bar. They said they were too drunk to drive, and asked if I could drive. I knew the bar that they wanted to go to. It was close by. It would be quiet. There would be fewer people there. I could talk to Jill. I said yes.

We arrived at this other bar. Guys approached Sharon. Sharon used the “I’ve got a gun” line. The guys would leave. I didn’t care. I was talking with Jill.

Closing time arrived, and Jill and Sharon asked if I could drive them home. Again, they said they were too drunk to drive. I could spend more time with Jill. Maybe I could get lucky. I said yes.

We jumped into my old car. Jill sat in the passenger seat, and we continued our discussions from the bar. Sharon sat in the back.

After getting in the car, Jill and Sharon told me that they wanted me to drive them to a house in a town 20 miles southeast of where we were. I was a little troubled by this revelation, as I was expecting a quick drive to a nearby house or apartment. But this irritation soon faded away, as it was becoming clear (even to my rum & coke soaked brain) that Jill wanted more from me than just talk. I got on the road and headed towards their house.

Shortly before we got to the town that they told me to drive toward, Jill asked that I turn onto a side road. Their house was on this road, she explained. After we had traveled down this road about five miles, Jill said that I should turn around as I had driven past their house. I thought, “This is strange, don’t they know which house is theirs?”

After driving a couple miles back the other direction, Jill again asked that I turn around as I had driven past their house again. I was puzzled. Then, from the back seat, I heard Sharon open her purse. I recalled her “I’ve got a gun in my purse” statements and I started to sweat bullets. My head cleared from the drunken fog. I thought I was going to die on this backroad 20 miles from my home. Shot in the back of the head by a crazy lady. Body dumped in a cornfield. I thought about my parents, and about what a waste my life had been up to that moment.

Just as I was going to start begging for my life, Jill said, “Here’s our house, turn here!” I turned onto the driveway. Jill and Sharon got out of the car. I was relieved. Just as I was going to turn around and head for home, Jill walked around to the driver’s side window and asked if I wanted to come inside. The clarity that I had just experienced faded away. I could still be with Jill. I could still get lucky. I said yes.

We went inside the house. Sharon immediately went down a hallway and disappeared. Jill and I went to the kitchen and got some beers. We talked. We kissed. Jill told me we should go to a bedroom and that we needed to be quiet. I didn’t ask any questions like – “Who owns this house?” or “Why do we need to be quiet?”

We went to a bedroom. We talked some more. We kissed some more. We started to take off our clothes. Jill told me that I needed to know some things about her before we went any further.

First, she told me that she had two children. After talking with her for most of the evening, I had caught some hints which indicated she was a mom. This was not a surprise, and in my impaired condition, it wasn’t a consideration. I continued to take off my clothes. Then she said, “I’m still married.”

At that very moment, I heard a man’s voice yell out, “Who the hell’s car is in the driveway!”

The clarity that I had experienced earlier came back. I grabbed my shoes and shirt, pulled up my pants, and bolted for the door. I rushed down the hall, and turned a corner into the living room.

Standing there, clad only in boxer briefs, stood a large tattooed man with a shaved head blocking the exit.

I stopped. I didn’t know what to say. I stood there silent for a moment and then said, “Hiya.”

Just as this man was considering what to do about my presence in his home, Sharon appeared out of nowhere and started screaming at the big guy. With the big guy distracted, I slipped past him and out the door. I ran to my car. I got in and started the engine. As I was about to back out of the driveway, Jill ran to my car and said, “Wait. Don’t go. I can explain.”

I didn’t wait for an explanation. I backed out of the driveway, and sped away towards home. Finally, I had made a good decision.

The next day, I examined the back seat of my car. There was a cigarette butt and a small burn mark on the seat. That explained why Sharon had opened her purse during the drive to her house. At some point during the next few weeks, I remembered when/where I had met Sharon. It was during another night of drinking at the hip-hop club a couple years earlier. Maybe I’ll write about that encounter another time.

Remember kids, don’t drink and drive. It is a foolish thing to do. Take it from an old fool.