Phone

I'm in the market for a new cell phone because mine is a serious piece of crap. I'm rocking the Samsung Something-Or-Other. It's the black flippy model, you may have seen it around. It's a terrific alarm clock that sometimes makes phonecalls and takes mediocre photos. Also, it has tetris.

Apparently there is more than one cell phone on the market, which taxes my already horrible decision making skills (please, look at the rest of my life) to the extreme. There are all sorts of brands in all sorts of colors. Some have keyboards. Some look like they're from the future (I'm looking at you iPhone). I will undoubtedly choose the wrong phone. It's like going to a restaurant with too many items on the menu.

The phone that will ultimately suit my needs will be the phone that does its primary task of making telephone calls the best. I want a phone that will make telephone calls from under ground, in the event I'm ever stuck in a cave. I want which ever brand the Mole Men use. Mole Men, as we all know, live their entire lives under ground on ginormous digging machines where they try to destroy mankind. They must have developed some kind of means of underground communication. I want to find out who provides their cell phone service and I want to buy a cell phone from them.

Mole Man phone. Yeah. Get on it.

clever, bastards

When I'm feeling particularly clever I like to refer to Radiohead as "our generation's Pink Floyd". I should point out that I'm usually saying this to my cat who just doesn't get the reference. However, they've done this -

http://www.inrainbows.com/

Pay whatever you feel like. I paid about twelve dollars - yesterday's conversion rate, I don't know what it converts to today - probably thirty dollars or something. I paid the amount that I'd pay at the record store (if record stores still existed) and still be able to sleep at night.

Clever. When bands/record companies are busy taking people to court and firing off strongly worded letters about being "pirates", Radiohead lets you pay what you want - pretty much saying, "Here's our new album, pay us whatever you feel is appropriate. It's up to you. We would rather people listen to it than not. We'd also rather not share the profits with the guys with business degrees and tailored suits. Those guys give us the creeps. Besides, people shouldn't own more than one tie, just saying..." Though they are saying this in weird Radiohead code, but that's the gist of it.

Bravo, sirs.

Once the hubbub about the music delivery system has settled down - they've still put out a good album. Once Radiohead gets into your blood it's impossible to see anything they do as sub par. In Rainbows is good. A nice addition to my Radiohead Master Mix that's on my sweet new iPod. I'd have been upset if the album turned out to be gibberish, but it's not. It's kick ass.

Dos bravos, sirs.

Radiohead, our generation's Pink Floyd.

Tres bravos, sirs, for synergy.

Post It Notes

Sometimes I throw pads of Post Its at my coworkers. And sometimes I throw them with frightening accuracy. I explain this by explaining, in great detail, that I was raised by a family of ninjas.

Wisdom

One must be properly embibed to fully appreciate powertools. Also, said embibed person weilding said powertools is also pretty awesome at building things using the "cut thrice, measure never" method of DIY construction. This is wisdom that you cannot pay for, except with fingers and self esteem.

This. Is. Awkward.

The other day at work I was standing at the fax machine (doing the Ed Lover Dance) and taking an informal poll of who was attending the after work bowling party. The bowling party was scheduled after work hours on a Friday evening. Which meant three things, (1) I wouldn’t get paid for attending, (2) only people who don’t have lives were going and (3) apparently everyone else in the office leads a more exciting life than I do.

The office fax machine is stationed next to one of the manager’s cubicles, namely our New Manager Lady who no one gets along with because she makes people cry. I could hear her making a ruckus in her cubicle doing whatever it is that our managers do (mostly a lot of looking stern and carrying pieces of paper from one end of the office to the other).

I popped my head over the cube wall and said, “Hey, New Manager Lady, are you going to the bowling party? Only like three people are going. I’ll totally be there because I don’t have a life and bowling with my coworkers will probably be the most exciting thing I’ll do this month.”

“No, I’m not going bowling,” she said with a very serious face. I noticed that she was looking tanner than usual; don’t really know what’s up with that.

“Really? That sucks,” the bosses in the office, showing the extreme level of leadership that they were known for, decided that they were too important to mingle with the office peasants.

“I’m not going bowling because I no longer work here,” said New Manager Lady.

This. Is. Awkward.

Apparently the ruckus she was making in her cube was the sounds of all her desk photos going into a box. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Huh?”

“I’ve been fired.”

“That sucks,” I said trying to sound empathetic while working out the best exit strategy for this situation. My brain flooded with information. All the synapses firing at once. Do I stand her and ask her about it? Does she need someone to talk to? How does this affect me and my role in the company? Is she going to come back to the office fully armed? I decided that I couldn't worry about that and that I needed to escape this conversation and pronto. With no other option: I made a run for it.

The rest of the day was spent being uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact and watching her pack out of the corner of my eye. Eventually she trucked all her stuff out of the office and was never seen again.

At the bowling party I bowled a 160. Further evidence to how much I rule.