Groggy

If breakfast is "the most important meal of the day," then why is it always the least expensive?

Kanuk Confusion

Finally got over the ill juju techno trips up in heyah and got myself a laptop with minimal problems... excepting that it's from Canada. Toshiba, 2009, and such... but... from Canada. You'd think that would mean perhaps simpler, perhaps similar -- but NO.

The keyboard is set up differently -- I suppose if'n I wanted to type all French-like. But sarcasm, snobbery and superb cooking is as close to French as I get. Yet... this keyboard is somewhat smaller and has keys that I cannot understand nor control. Characters, accents, HTML weirdness. Where the return key should be is something called: \
Now, I can use a forward slash, but there are at least two keys for forward slashes on this board. Additionally, if I slip while clicking along, all of the sudden I'm writing in some kind of hyroglyphics. Bizarre. And then there's the key where the question mark should be. Well, the question mark is there, but this is the "Eh?" key. How am I supposed to end my serious questions about life with this Eh? I'm so grateful to have connectivity again, even if my homepages and searches all start in Canada, but why must the the keyboard be so bloody different Eh? And I've nothing against the Queen's english, but really: Queen of which country Eh?

So, may I ask a favour Eh? Does anyone know about converting a foreign keyboard into something I can utilize for writing in shoddy, urban American "English" Eh?

Aw, forget it, Eh? Take off Eh?

I wanted to write something about U.S.'s outstanding hockey performance in the 2010 Winter Olympics, but pressing F7 on the keyboard doesn't give me a spellcheck -- it's a reality check shortcut. It deletes all I was thinking and interjects objectivity that is truly foreign to me.

\Someone press F7 on my life and eliminate this kanuk confusion Eh?

Clothing Carnage

Well, I got my baby back this week. There's a nice feeling. To see her, not to ride her. Can't ride her yet. Tried to start her the morning after her return: click-click dead. And to the list of 33 repaired items on her, we add "battery." No biggie, considering all she's been through. That'd be like me complaining that bright lights still hurt my eyes, when 11 months ago I didn't have the wherewithall to distinguish the armoir from the bathroom.

Oh, anyone wanna buy a bedroom set?

So, there she sits in the garage. Quiet and cold.

Cold, but purty.

And this morning it occurred to me that I need a bit more than a battery to get back in the wind. Boots: thrashed. Gloves: trashed. Jacket: oh... the jacket. Apparently the kind EMTs that responded to a 911 call of "dead motorcyclist" felt it necessary to cut my jacket off of me. HARSH. (Well... not to complain too much... it may have been necessary. I don't know. I wasn't exactly "present.")

So: I have a shopping trip to look forward to. Umm... after I get a job.

Oh, anyone wanna hire a marketing writer?

Perhaps I can get by with the existing gear: just tear the leather from the steel of the boots, duct tape the cuffs of the gauntlet gloves, staple or sew the jacket back together, and there we have it: Frankenbiker.

On the bright side, I don't need to buy a new helmet...

Effed Beyond Belief

That which is easy to say is so often quite difficult to perform.

I've been gone a long time.

I'm coming back.

I don't know what to say.

I bashed my head in on the asphalt at 45 mph. I'm left here for some reason.

Friends, I'm afraid I lost my sense of humor. This sitch taint funny. I could use some prodding. (Don't go gay with that last comment.)

Share My Pain

With a 72-hour turn on an out of state photography job and a myriad of other assignments to accomplish simultaneously, I decided to outsource the commercial photography to a local contractor. Fortunately, on my last trip to Backwater, KS, I grabbed a phone book -- approximately half the size of a Ludlum novel and twice as interesting. Time ticking deafeningly away, I threw open the yellow pages to find only two commercial photographers in the greater Backwater area: Maynard's Photography and Melvin's Photography. I contacted them alphabetically.

"Hello," came the woman's raspy voice.

"Oh, um... Sorry... I thought I was calling a place of business."

"Who you tryin' to reach?"

"Maynard's Photography?"

"Yep. You found it."

"OK... Well, I need a commercial photograph taken at 1412 Main--"

"Hold on," she sighed, "I'll git him for ya."

Without cupping a hand over the receiver she rattled, "Mayn! Phone!" From rooms away I could hear the echo of the sweet song of lifelong marital bliss, "Well, who is it woman?"

"I don't know. Someone about a photo." He offered muffled retort, then I heard her reply, "Well, what you want me to tell him?" She sighed back into my ear, "Hold on, mister. He's coming."

I kid you not when I tell you I held on for five minutes. Five minutes in which I could have accomplished two other tasks. Five minutes in which I could have responded to critical emails. Five minutes in which I could have used another phone to call the other photographer. Five minutes which swirled to a disturbing end with the sound of a flushing toilet in the receiver. "What can I do you for," was his warm, heartland greeting.

I began giving him specifics of the job, until he interrupted, "Hold on there, young fella. Let's back up a bit. Where-all you want?"

"Where what?"

"Where-all you want to shoot?"

"Oh. Backwater."

"Backwater?! Why, that's a good 50 miles from here. I'm in Hutchins."

"You're in their phone book."

"Hm. Not sure how that happened."

"Can you make the trip," I asked.

"Well... I s'pose so. What for?"

"What-- for the job. The job, man. Do you want the job?"

"I dunno. What for?"

I was lost. Fast money seemed enough of a motivator to me. "What do you mean what for?"

"What thing you wantin' me to go to Backwater for?"

"A high school. I need a photo of Backwater High School."

"For what?"

I was beginning to lose my patience. This was a competitive bid job for a rather large high school renovation, and I didn't want Maynard privy to too much information. "That's not important."

"Well, maybe if you'd tell me more about it I'd have a better understanding of what-all you need."

"I need you to shoot primarily the front of the school, but catch it at an angle from southwest to northeast at about 4 p.m. to provide the right shadows and--"

"Wait. What's this for?"

Oh Jayzus, "Fine. It's for a proposal."

"Ohhhhhh..." I could hear the scratch of his whiskers and the creak of his neck as he nodded his head, now fully endowed with higher understanding. "OK then. A pra-posuhl."

I gave him the rest of the specifics and reiterated that I needed a fast turn time: back in my hands within 72 hours. "Well," he sighed, "I'm still workin' with 35," he said.

"35? 35mm? Process film?"

"Yeah -- just don't really want to give up control over the image, you know?"

"No."

"I've been thinkin' 'bout switchin', though. Del over there in Hutchins, he switched."

"Really. Listen, Maynard: I need the shots taken, proofs sent, any touchup work done and the finals in my hands in 72 hours."

"Ohh..." His neck creaked in a side to side motion now, "Well, I don't work with the labs I used to, back in the day. Don't rightly know if they're still in business. You know, ol' Ed, he mighta made the switch. In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. 'Course, he only ever did this stuff part time. He lives there in Crooked Knee. I could give you his number..." oh my God oh my God oh my God, "But Burt -- yeah, Burt made the switch a few years back.. right there in Backwater, too."

"OK. Excellent. Give me Burt's number."

"Don't know as that'd help you much."

"Why not?"

"Burt's dead."

"I--- forget it. Look, can you do the job or not, Maynard?"

"How you going to get the photos in your hands in three days, young man?"

"You're going to send them to me."

"Even with overnight mail," (you get overnight service there?) "It'll still take a day to shoot it, and two days to process it."

"Email me digital proofs."

"Ohhh...." I could hear him nodding again, "You probably need this sent to you on that innernet thing, huh? Well, I s'pose I could go to the Kinkos over in Hogwash an' maybe they can--"

"Hey Maynard?"

"Yes?"

"I'll call back if I still need you."

Fifteen minutes lost, I hurriedly called the remaining photographer, located somewhere in Hiccup, Kansas. "Hello?" C'mon... who answers business phones like this?

"Sorry... I thought I was calling Melvin's Photography."

"Yup."

"Oh. Okay... Umm... is Melvin there?"

"Nope."

"Is Melvin coming back anytime soon?"

"Yup."

"Can you have him call me, please?"

A sigh. "Awright."

I imparted my name, number, location of the job and mentioned that I needed this within 3 days. She moaned, "Oh. Oh no."

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Can he do it?"

"Dunno. I'll have him call you."

This was yesterday.

...

They Grow 'Em Like This in NY

I cannot seem to manage to step into the 21st century and post a link to someone's web page. So, if you're reading this, please stop reading and go to:
http://www.timmollen.com/humor_column/humor_column.html
...then read that for awhile. He is funny. He will make you laugh... or he will make you a sandwich. You have nothing to lose.

Then, come back here. I've decided to start writing again.


Or, forward the sandwich. I'm hungry.

AC/DC

I have a friend, who shall remain nameless, that asserts she does not like fish. HOWEVER, I have it on good authority that she is spending the weekend with a seafood loving friend she met over the Innanet, together, in a hotel room, after many martinis and an evening trolling for the catch of the day at the Hagens Fish Market. Chances are, beef is NOT what was for dinner last night.

Not that there's anything wrong with... fish. It's just that she's so adamant about how much she prefers meat -- to the point of ricockulousness, really. I'm like, "Whatever, friend. So, have the kielbasa and leave the fish tacos for someone else. Why are we even talking about this?"

I'm not saying she's all of the sudden a fish lover. I'm merely saying that she may be in a dark hotel room, confused and fumbling around for her misplaced steak knife. I mean, whatever. Next she'll be calling me saying, "The fish looked pretty good," then, "I think I might like fish after all," then, "Hey Brian: I've sworn off of beef."

Again, not that there's anything wrong with... fish... but, really dear: lesbehonest about it.