Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Haiti Survivors
So, today is February 10th. In Haiti this morning, a 28-year-old man was pulled from the rubble caused from the 7.0 Earthquake on January 12th. He is not in the best shape, he might lose his feet due to infection and sure he might not survive even with medical attention, but that is absolutely amazing. I am disgusted though as I tried to find out more information, I had to scroll down past 18 stories of Angelina Jolie and the assistance she is providing. Really, I am glad that help is getting there, but c'mon now. One month in rubble is an extraordinary feat. Is should never be shadowed by a such a glory hog. It's just gross.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
This email conversation is one reason why I bang my head into walls everyday
Monday 2/1 at 10:18
"Andrea
I just wanted to follow up with you. I was told to place an ad for your client in the President's Day section. The ad size will be 8x7 with spot color. There is a Monday placement and that ad is also 8x7."
MY RESPONSE 2/1 at 10:30
"Hi there,
8 columns or 8 inches. Please confirm.
Also, what is the date of the Presidents' Day section? Please confirm the 3 dates and provide artwork deadlines for each ad.
Thanks"
HIS RESPONSE minutes later
"Sorry, 8 columns by 7 inches"
MY RESPONSE
"OK. What is you 8column size in inches so I can re-size the ad. Also, what are the run dates and deadlines for the three ads? Please confirm."
Thanks
HIS RESPONSE
"It would be 9.655 inches by 7."
MY RESPONSE (I am pulling my hair out at this point)
"OK. Great. BUT what about the run dates and the artwork deadlines? Could I have these please?"
His Response
"Run dates are 2/12........" He gave me the run dates and deadlines.
I was super happy that I finally received the run dates, but realized I forgot to ask about running that same weekend in his sister publication. After picking my head up off of the desk, I typed in the following question:
"Thank you for these. Finally, if we were to run in your other publication, what would the cost of the 8c x 7 ad in that paper be?"
HIS RESPONSE. Here is where I flipped.......
"Yes."
This is why I hate people.
"Andrea
I just wanted to follow up with you. I was told to place an ad for your client in the President's Day section. The ad size will be 8x7 with spot color. There is a Monday placement and that ad is also 8x7."
MY RESPONSE 2/1 at 10:30
"Hi there,
8 columns or 8 inches. Please confirm.
Also, what is the date of the Presidents' Day section? Please confirm the 3 dates and provide artwork deadlines for each ad.
Thanks"
HIS RESPONSE minutes later
"Sorry, 8 columns by 7 inches"
MY RESPONSE
"OK. What is you 8column size in inches so I can re-size the ad. Also, what are the run dates and deadlines for the three ads? Please confirm."
Thanks
HIS RESPONSE
"It would be 9.655 inches by 7."
MY RESPONSE (I am pulling my hair out at this point)
"OK. Great. BUT what about the run dates and the artwork deadlines? Could I have these please?"
His Response
"Run dates are 2/12........" He gave me the run dates and deadlines.
I was super happy that I finally received the run dates, but realized I forgot to ask about running that same weekend in his sister publication. After picking my head up off of the desk, I typed in the following question:
"Thank you for these. Finally, if we were to run in your other publication, what would the cost of the 8c x 7 ad in that paper be?"
HIS RESPONSE. Here is where I flipped.......
"Yes."
This is why I hate people.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Super 88 is Great
Super 88 is a supermarket geared toward the Asian Persuasian with a food court attached. After circling the stands to see what there was to eat, I was overwhelmed since I couldn't read about the lunch items available and was forced to select my meal based on photos, which can be disceiving. I think I had chicken with broccoli and water chestnuts. It could have been duck, but I told myself chicken.
I purchased a bottled water and while eating panicked. This seemed like the type of establishement that glued the caps back to already-used water bottles. To quench my thirst I attempted a sip from a Lollicup. If you haven't had one yet, you are not missing out. These cups are filled with either tea or slush, topped (or bottomed) off with tapioca or boba pearls. I don't like to chew my beverages but out of desperation I gave it a go. A pearl found its way into one of the two straws provided. Scared that it would fall back in (because I think that would be back wash, no?) I sucked a bit harder. 5 more of these muscus sacks slapped the back of my throat and I thought I was going to spit on the floor. Instead I took it like a champ and chewed the six balls of udder disgust while my so-called friends laughed.
Next came the grocery store. If you are looking to purchase items that still have thier faces attached, well this is the locale for you. Live eels...you got it. Putrid stench, check. Fish skin, sure thing. Hard boiled and salted duck eggs, vacuumed sealed for your convenient snacking pleasures, no doubt about it. Call me an ignorant American and pass me a Big Mac wrap and fries please.
I purchased a bottled water and while eating panicked. This seemed like the type of establishement that glued the caps back to already-used water bottles. To quench my thirst I attempted a sip from a Lollicup. If you haven't had one yet, you are not missing out. These cups are filled with either tea or slush, topped (or bottomed) off with tapioca or boba pearls. I don't like to chew my beverages but out of desperation I gave it a go. A pearl found its way into one of the two straws provided. Scared that it would fall back in (because I think that would be back wash, no?) I sucked a bit harder. 5 more of these muscus sacks slapped the back of my throat and I thought I was going to spit on the floor. Instead I took it like a champ and chewed the six balls of udder disgust while my so-called friends laughed.
Next came the grocery store. If you are looking to purchase items that still have thier faces attached, well this is the locale for you. Live eels...you got it. Putrid stench, check. Fish skin, sure thing. Hard boiled and salted duck eggs, vacuumed sealed for your convenient snacking pleasures, no doubt about it. Call me an ignorant American and pass me a Big Mac wrap and fries please.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Paul Keeps Me Going
I arrived to Davis this morning, opening the first glass door to look up and see a sign that read, "NO HEAT Mon 12/21. Cutler has been notified." This fact, combined with a crack windshield caused when my defrosters blasted on to a high temperature against the cold glass after using my automatic car starter (why the fuck do I have this thing if I can't set the temp above the blue line on a freezing cold morning), froze me in my tracks as I looked to the ceiling with expectations of further let downs. The biting wind woke me, blowing me from the mental breakdown lane I was in, and pushed me inside.
In the break room, I found a bunt cake set upon a plate from my tableware from home, but I let that annoying fact go long enough to grab a slice of extremely moist, what-I-thought-was-coffee cake. My moment of happiness was quickly ripped away and was replaced by one of the worst tastes my buds have faced in a long time. I have heard of rum cake before, but never one like this. Lighting a flame near this confectionery experiment would have set the building ablaze, yes remedying the cold factor, but probably eliminating the stable paycheck I foresee in my future. Now, I am no baker by any means, but whoever created the cake must have forgotten to wring out the dough before sticking it in the oven. It was similar to eating a piece of rum-soaked cotton ball, which I never wanted to do in the first place.
Jennie tried a piece even after I warned her. She, too, was not impressed.
About 10 minutes later Paul is heard yelling, demanding to find out who cooked the cake. His voice grew louder as he came down our way when I hear him ask Barbie, "Did you make the cake in the kitchen." Her answer was quiet, but obviously yet because he followed with, "I should have known it was you. Stephen Albano is drunk!"
And that is when I realized that my day could be worse and laughed out loud, literally.
In the break room, I found a bunt cake set upon a plate from my tableware from home, but I let that annoying fact go long enough to grab a slice of extremely moist, what-I-thought-was-coffee cake. My moment of happiness was quickly ripped away and was replaced by one of the worst tastes my buds have faced in a long time. I have heard of rum cake before, but never one like this. Lighting a flame near this confectionery experiment would have set the building ablaze, yes remedying the cold factor, but probably eliminating the stable paycheck I foresee in my future. Now, I am no baker by any means, but whoever created the cake must have forgotten to wring out the dough before sticking it in the oven. It was similar to eating a piece of rum-soaked cotton ball, which I never wanted to do in the first place.
Jennie tried a piece even after I warned her. She, too, was not impressed.
About 10 minutes later Paul is heard yelling, demanding to find out who cooked the cake. His voice grew louder as he came down our way when I hear him ask Barbie, "Did you make the cake in the kitchen." Her answer was quiet, but obviously yet because he followed with, "I should have known it was you. Stephen Albano is drunk!"
And that is when I realized that my day could be worse and laughed out loud, literally.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Dead Birds
After my co-worker was shat upon by a bird, he must have carried on with his day with no other thoughts in mind. Days later (maybe weeks), he dressed himself with the same shirt without washing it. Dried cuh-cah was on his shoulder and I noticed it in the lunch room. Discussing poo was entertaining enough and then another co-worker walked in. He did not take part in the conversation taking place, but listened for a bit and intruded wit the most welcomed story ever imagined.
"They say shit is luck. I wasn't that lucky. Walking on the streets of Chicago a few years ago, I was hit hard by an object falling from the sky. Not certain what the object was, yet sure of the pain, I looked around the ground to find a dead pigeon next to me."
For those slow on the uptake, the man was hit with a dead fucking bird. This co-worker was many a thing, and a liar was one of them, but I believe this story to be true. His experience was honest.
But what about the bird? I wonder how it happened. We will never know but can hope that he/she caught the first worm of the day and spent life's last hours chewing and regurgitating said worm for its young who then flew the coop.
If we can't hope, what can we do?
"They say shit is luck. I wasn't that lucky. Walking on the streets of Chicago a few years ago, I was hit hard by an object falling from the sky. Not certain what the object was, yet sure of the pain, I looked around the ground to find a dead pigeon next to me."
For those slow on the uptake, the man was hit with a dead fucking bird. This co-worker was many a thing, and a liar was one of them, but I believe this story to be true. His experience was honest.
But what about the bird? I wonder how it happened. We will never know but can hope that he/she caught the first worm of the day and spent life's last hours chewing and regurgitating said worm for its young who then flew the coop.
If we can't hope, what can we do?
Friday, October 16, 2009
Senses
I saw a blind man and it made me wonder. Are deaf people allowed to have service dogs travel with them? The site re-raised the, "would I rather be blind or deaf," question and I realized that being blind with my bitch by my side 24/7 wouldn't be so bad. I love dogs and a trained companion is loyal and undying. So, if given the option to become either blind or deaf, as long as I have a dog, it doesn't really matter.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Light Reading
I learned of a competition that Writer's Digest has each month. A prompt is provided and authors write an essay. This month's prompt reads, "A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar."
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
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