A Song I Enjoy

One of Many

When your stomach starts to ache as you drive to work, aches all day long, and stops aching when you drive off grounds, it's time to find a different job.

So...

I am an uncle:

Her name is Sophie.

The world welcomes her.

This Little Bugger

It's me, writing from work. I don't, however, remember the e-mail address to my blog, so this is going to be (has been?) e-mailed to my regular Gmail and then posted. What a convoluted way to do things.

Anyway, I'm really not a fan of my job.

I was talking to my uncle yesterday, one of the two who work here as officers, and told him that the thing that made working her depressing wasn't the inmates, but the staff that I work with. He told me that as long as he's worked as an officer the joke has always been that it's the staff that's crazy because we choose to come to prison. Doesn't matter that we get to leave after eight, or so, hours and have weekends off. We choose to be here.

Which isn't to say that all the people I work with are horrible, some aren't. At least one is pretty great. Many want too much from me because they don't want to deal with their supervisors, but I keep pointing them in that direction anyway.

The toughest part of my job, so far, is that I have to depend on people to do what they say they're going to do. I call them and set up for them to fill a shift. They tell me yes or no. If it's yes then I put them on the schedule and they are supposed to come in for that shift or call, in a timely manner, and say they can't make it. If they don't show I'm not quite blamed for it, but I hear about it and there are, often, subtle hint in voices that it's partially my fault. As if I should have known whether these people are dependable. I'll be finished with my fourth week on Friday, how can I know if these people are dependable or not?

The most annoying part of my job is the equipment. I have a chair that won't always stay up when I sit on it, but it stays up enough to give me hope so I keep raising it and it keeps sinking. I don't have a stapler or tape dispenser or drawers. The widescreen monitor I've been supplied with takes up nearly half the width of desk space and feels too close to my eyes.

And then there's my boss, which I really shouldn't get into. It makes me upset just dancing around the subject in my brain.

Well, that it from me at 1:30. Maybe more when I get to a computer at my parents' house and finally post the bugger.

A Letter

Dear Ira Glass,

For years, I have heard your voice during pledge breaks asking people like me, people who haven't sent money into their local NPR stations, to please, pleeeeeeease, pick up the phone and offer support. I've heard you call and embarrass people who had listened to NPR for years, but had never pledged. And I've heard you interview people who listened to their NPR stations for years and how they felt when they weren't pledging (like enough people must pledge because the station goes on no matter what) and then how they felt when they finally did pledge (good, like they were part of something important). I've heard all of it and still scoffed and figured that if you were ever unlucky enough to call me I'd tell you the truth: I'm a selfish person. I'd like to see you put that on the radio!

Then came a change to my life. I left my old job that wasn't good but was comfortable for a new job that's in many way's worse than the old one, and I'm getting paid the same. I'm living with my parents, again. It's not horrible and it's temporary, but it's not at all where I want to be. I'm supposed to be an adult, right. Things are just... unsettled. I figured that I deserved to feel good about something... anything.

So, on Friday, after donating some money to NaNoWriMo, I went to my current NPR station's website and pledged some money. (About 12% of my current paycheck. I did it monthly to make it easier on my wallet. That's 1% of my money each month. (For the record, I did that math on the drive back from work this afternoon, during a pledge break.)) I'm not paying rent and I quit buying comics, so I had money to give. I filled out the information they wanted, address and such. I choose not to get any of the gifts; I'm not a fan of jazz. I hit the send button, or whatever they labeled the button, and waited.

I didn't feel any better.

I didn't feel like I was part of something bigger than myself or part of something good.

I just felt like I'd felt before I pledged.

Where was my moment of elation? Where?

Maybe, I thought, the good feelings took a while to settle in. Maybe on Saturday or Sunday.

Nope. Nothing.

I'm not angry or bitter or upset or anything like that. I had a little extra money and I spent it on something good, something very valuable. I'm just disappointed.

Thought you'd like to know, Mr. Glass.

Your pal,

ticknart

NaNoWriMo!

Feel like a tool for not really blogging and never posting comments on other peoples' blogs and then I go and do something like this:

NaNoWriMo starts in about 16 days, depending on where you are in the world. I'm going to attempt it once again!

Will I finish 50000 words this year? If the growth in word count over the last, uh, four attempts is any sign, then yes!

Even if I don't accomplish it, though, I did send them a donation and would like to solicit any of you, who still pop by once in a while, to send them some bucks.

You can donate money. (Which is what I did and have done for the past three attempts.) Or you can buy stuff.

I'm sure the question is something along the lines of "Why should I pay money to a website that encourages failures who think they can write a novel in a month when they've never done it during the other 335 days in the year?" That's not the reason, though.

The reason to donate is the Young Writers Program. It helps to create a curriculum for teachers to set of a classroom version of NaNoWriMo and I think that's a good goal. Why? Well, here's a bit from the A Letter to Families section:

Some of the skills novel-writing builds:

• Fluency: Writing so much in so little time boosts students’ proficiency in grammar, spelling, and punctuation, and will help them approach future writing assignments with ease and confidence.
• Confidence: When creating so much text in such a short period of time, students realize just how much they can accomplish when they put their minds to it. NaNoWriMo leaves young writers asking themselves, “What’s next?”
• Creativity: Creating characters, situations, dialogue, and even whole planets from scratch helps kids think, but it also teaches them how to apply their fanciful ideas to a full project.
• Time Management: Our curriculum teaches students how to tackle a huge project by breaking it down into manageable bites!

Even though it's not mentioned, I bet that at least a few students out of every class that's part of the Young Writers Program will become readers, too. It seems to me that the USA, and the world, needs more people who read things, other than forums, on a regular basis. I wish the Young Writers Program had been around when I was a kid.

Cheers!

That Lunch

My brother requested knowledge about that last (and technically first) lunch I had with my co-workers in the North Bay. Here goes:

My normal lunch back then was at 11:30, but the ladies didn't think they could get out of the office until noon, so I had to wait and explain to the other employees, without actually explaining anything, why I hadn't left for lunch. Me and three others was all I wanted. When asked, I dodged the issue and vaguely suggested that I had to do something but it couldn't be done before noon. Got some looks, but no one asked me anything else.

Noon finally rolled around and I watched the pair of court reporters head out. I waited a little before getting up myself, didn't want to make it look like I was heading out with them to keep some of the others from joining in on their own. The PJ's secretary, who invited me to the small lunch, joined me and we walked out together. One staff member watched us. I'm pretty sure she knew what was up. I didn't care for her anyway and the other people I was going out with either liked her less than I did or pretty much outright hated her. (At lunch, on in particular seem happy that the not-so-great woman knew she wasn't invited.)

As we stepped out the front door of the office I was informed that three more people had been invited to lunch, the three other clerk guys, and asked if it was okay with me. A large part of me wanted to bolt, but I said it was okay.

At lunch, he guys had some beer and sandwiches. The ladies had wine and two had a salad and one had a sandwich. I had iced tea and a sandwich and these spectacular homemade potato chips the brewery makes, really the only reason to eat there if you're not getting beer. The chat was idle and mostly about work and what a pain in the ass it was. Some bitching was made about the woman no one likes. (I made a comment that got that woman in some trouble the next day, which was my last day there.)

When the check came, I pulled out my wallet just like everyone else and made sure to be told that my lunch was on them. Then I admitted I only pulled my wallet out to make sure that they insisted I didn't have to pay. I didn't want to seem like I just expected a free lunch from them.

Back at work, no one made a comment about lunch and how we all came back in as a group.

In general, the lunch was painless. I didn't say much, mostly listened. The chips were wonderful, the sandwich just okay. The guys liked their beers, where were very pale, and that gals like their wine, whites with a rosy hue.

Questions?

You Are Now Entering Week Two

The sky was beautiful when I got to work this morning. It was a dark, dark blue with huge, dark clouds cutting swaths through it and a sliver of moon barely highlighting a dark hole in the sky. Off to the east, above the first building, the sky lit up as lightening streaked down.

The rest of my day, not so great.

See, I've been at my new job a week, now, but I haven't been trained to do much of anything.

Yes, I've been taught how to sort of fill out one report, but that's it. Still, lots of people seem to think I know how to do the whole job I've been hired to do. Even the two women I share an office with and who both know that they were gone most of the week and didn't do any real training!

*deep breath*

The problem is that people keep asking (actually telling in too many cases) me to do things for them that will be part of my duties when I learn how to do them. This would be okay if it were only two or three people coming to me, but it's more like twelve to fifteen and I have to explain each and every time that I don't know, yet. Who should I ask? they ask. Your supervisor, I say. She's not here, they say. Well too fucking bad you shit, I want to say, but don't.

Word spread fast that the person who was going to be handling the schedule from now on was there. Now they're all trying to convince me to let them get around the "chain of command" in the nursing unit. Fuckers. I didn't get the job because I'm an idiot. Do it the right way, god damnit. And while you're at it leave me alone for at least a week so I can actually learn what I'm going to do.

(Also, lucky me, one of the women who I share my office with likes it to be a "safe" environment. She wants everyone to feel like they can come in and chat (i.e. vent) with her. I think she just likes being in on all the drama. And there's a whole lot of drama goin' on there. All of it bullshit, of course, and I have no choice but to be in the center of it.)

On the plus side, they got me a computer logon. Still no e-mail, though. For some dumb-ass reason they want to import the data from my old e-mail into this new one. I'd rather they killed the old one dead and started me a fresh one. I'll get enough shit clogging it up from this job, why would I want the old stuff, too.

Somewhere near the end of my day I made a comment to my other cell -- You'll have to pardon me, jokes like that aren't supposed to be funny while actually working at a prison. -- mate, the one who doesn't encourage drama, about transferring to a different unit. She said, "Already?" I said, "Well, since there's no room for advancement for me here." She gave me this odd, surprised look and said, "You already figured that out?" "Yeah," I said, thinking that I got the scheduling position because of a glowing letter from my last supervisor saying that I'm a smart guy, of course I figured it out.

Oh, I just remembered something:
I saw the drama queen, who's the "lead" because she's a bump above me although she's not my supervisor, putting together a table in Excel this morning. Across the top she put her name and the names of the eight OTs (that's my classification). On the left, she listed the reports that people turn in, let's say there were fifteen to twenty. She put exes in the boxes of the people who completed the reports. I keep hoping it was my over active imagination, but I'm pretty sure that I had exes in half the boxes under my name. Everyone else seemed to have two or three.

Fucking great.

One more thing before I really get depressed:
My job will have me doing a lot of calling on the phone and waiting for people to call me back. I don't have a phone, though, and it seems unlikely that I'll be getting my own phone.

Smart, right?

Hope the rest of you well.

schtooputidy

So, two days at the new job now. Both days: stupid!

The people who have, in the recent past, done the job that I've been hired to do: out on vacation with the first not returning until next Thursday.

The back-up people who could teach me to do my job: out sick.

The forms to get a user logon and e-mail: unavailable, due to stupidity.

Chits to get a key to unlock my office door: have to wait for those.

Facility: untoured.

I spent yesterday being "orientated" along with a new nurse. Most of the talk was about stuff for the new nurse because for me to really learn anything about how to do my job I need to be able to log on to my computer.

We didn't take a tour because it was hot out. Well, duh! It's central California in September. It's always hot out!

Today I sat with a woman and watched her do her job. Sure, she showed me some places in the building and I saw what it's like to rush to finish your reports, but the odds of me ever doing what she does are pretty much nil. I was bored for probably 7 out of the 8 hours today.

(Oh, a good thing about this job, I don't have to take a lunch and I can come in early. That means I can come in at six, eat at my desk, and leave at two. Awesome.)

Tomorrow's not looking to be any better, either. If I'm lucky one certain person will be here tomorrow and I'll be able to get my security training and my keys and my logon and maybe actually start to learn my job.

Oh, well. At least I'm getting paid.

sdraC

A blue folder is being passed around the office. It has a card in it. I think it's safe, although self-centered, to assume that the card is for me.

*sigh*

Last week there was a surprise baby-shower thing for an expectant dad. (The due date is this Saturday, so dad-hood can begin any moment.) That was when it occurred to me that there was a heavy possibility that the people I work with would do that sort of thing to me. (To the best of my memory every other time there was a party for a person leaving the person leaving knew all about it.) Later that afternoon I went to one of the ladies who's always involved with the planning of parties, if not the one who starts them, and kindly asked her not to have a party for me.

"I don't want a party like that," I said. "I don't think I could handle it well."

"Well," she said, "we only just started talking about it. I think I'll be able to put a stop to it. Nothing's really been planned."

I took her word for it. "Thanks," I said.

"I know that it can be uncomfortable being put on the spot," she said.

"Yeah."

"It's not really fun." She paused and sort of looked around at nothing. "How about a lunch out with just a few people?"

"That'd be okay."

"Then we can control who comes."

"It's not so much the who," I said, "but the how many." It was the best I could come up with to explain my phobia/anxiety/panic problem without really explaining anything at all.

And that, to the best of my knowledge, was that. Until I saw the blue folder and how it bypassed my desk. My desk happens to be situated pretty much in the rear center of things, so I think I see, and hear, a lot more than most people think I see, and hear. When it was placed on the desk next to mine I could see that the name crossed out on the staff list was three up from the bottom. Enough of these folders have been passed to me that I know where my name on the list is.

Guess where.

Go on, guess.

Yeah. My name's three up from the bottom.

A card. Okay, cool, I can handle a card. I don't really want a card, but I can handle it.

The thing is, when this office give out a card, it's rarely just a card. It's usually some sort of gift, too.

I hope it's not a gift.

I really don't want a gift.

I know that the card and possible gift are ways to thank me and say I'll be missed. I know this. However, the card and possible gift won't make me feel like my day-in day-out work has been appreciated.

You know what has made me feel like that? It was the times after my move was announced that the judges pulled me aside as I was dropping off my mail or heading back from the drinking fountain and telling me that they noticed how hard I worked and that they were glad that they had someone like me around to keep the paper flowing so they could more easily do their jobs.

Imagine that, people telling me something made me feel appreciated and useful. I especially like that it happened on an individual basis because that meant they wanted to say something, not that they felt/what they thought like they had to because others were saying it or that's the sort of thing one says at farewell parties.

Lunch is supposed to happen in ten minutes.

Me and three others.

Here we go.

Saulutations

Greetings internarts and bhlajers from the work e-mail.

This post, which is planned to be brief but may take a turn for the lengthy, is to let all you all, who care, know that most of my shit was moved up to Cowtown by my parents and myself on Saturday. It now resides in a storage unit off the highway near where my parent’s live. At all of this, I am relived, tired, and a bit annoyed.

FYI: If you believe yourself to be a nerd or a geek with nerd tendencies and the opportunity arises, go and see w00tstock. It’s totally worth the money. You will laugh and laugh and then cry because they just won’t stop and you’re getting tired and then you’ll laugh some more because it’s all so very funny.

Some goals in the coming month:

·       Visit a bank or two and see if I can get pre-approved for a home loan and if so for how much and if for that much what kind of impossible, for me, down payment will I need?

·       Scour the internet to price rentals, in case the loan thing really does turn out to be an impossible dream.

·       Check out that mining town because it’s closer-ish to new work, even if it will make being hermit easier.

·       Occasionally pimp my brother’s webcomic. Come on, people, it’s a silent strip about a robot trying to live the American dream. What’s not to like? (Other than the fact that he only updates once a week. Really, it should be two days a week. Amiright?)

·       Get and activate a cell phone so I have fairly permanent phone number.

·       Seriously look into getting a personal domain and move this blurg over.

·       Other stuff that I don’t want to mention here.

Something I realized while packing my shit was that when the end time comes and ekeltristy goes away, most of my shit will be totally useless.

Regularish blurging will hopefully commence next week.

A Post on Nothing and Stuff

For ten glorious minutes the part of the server that controls WebSense was down and I could open up sites that I haven't been able to open for a while, including Blogger.

The question, now, though, is will blogger be able to post this? Will it work after WebSense has come back up? I don't know, but I'm willing to try.

For the most part, I spent those ten minutes clearing my e-mail out. Why -- oh why! -- do Amazon and Barnes and Noble insist on sending me notifications on things that are new or that I might enjoy? I always, ALWAYS, try to opt out of getting notifications, and yet there was my e-mail full up with stuff I didn't care about. So much was there that I didn't get to finish reading actual e-mails, there were four or so left to read, let alone reply to any of them.

For the record, from my e-mail:
My brother's webcomic is Made in USA. The first strip is here. As his biggest fan I would be remiss not to point everyone toward it. Also, marvel at the picture he uses to as for donations. HI-larious.
I am very sorry that the international cuisine night didn't work out. In a few week's I'll always be available for such a thing.
I can no longer see the comments people write. The browser just times out like it does when I try to get into the back door at Gmail.
Blogger was visited to check out the new thing and to clear the spam comments out of old(er) posts.
Dark Skies is going to be released on DVD in January. No, please don't fight over who's going to get it for me for my birthday. I'll have bought it long before then. Sorry to disappoint each and every one of you.
There are new lights in the parents' house. The place is starting to look downright fancy.

Just to let you all know, not being able to blog, for me, was like losing one of my baby toes. Sure, it's annoying, but I got used to it soon enough. I mean, it's not like I really use that tiny little bugger for walking.

Not being able to get to my personal e-mail is like losing all ten of my toes. Yeah, I'll learn to walk pretty well, but I'm never going to be comfortable doing it.

(A total aside, but... The world that the Guardians of the Galaxy live on, where the Green Lantern Corps comes from, is called Oa, which is pronounced "oh-ah"; my questions is: since the Guardians are from Oa they are Oan, how is that word pronounced? Are they "oh-ah-en"? "Oh-an"? "Own"? I'm just not sure.)

I've missed blogging, though. It was a way of doing something. I don't know what, exactly, but it was a way. There have been many days where I wanted to post about the bullshit here at work or the impending move or the... other... stuff in my life. And then there are the posts I want to write about the weirdness that is fan fiction; I really want to get into the structures of crossovers, that I see.

Oh, did I mention that furloughs are back? They are. I got one full paycheck, so far this year, for July, then they decided to fire everyone three days a week again. At least this time I knew what to expect and I don't feel like I have to cut anything back since that one month with a full paycheck wasn't enough time to lead me back to my pre-furlough life of luxury and excess. (Plus, Websense blocks Amazon, so I couldn't blow too much money on DVDs and CDs and books and such.) Let me tell you, it's really fun being a scapegoat. I hope the economy of California never quite recovers and I'm a scapegoat for the rest of my life because I like knowing that people don't want to think critically and realize that maybe, just maybe, there are some spending/taxing issues the state's fucked up that has nothing to do with its employees and maybe fixing those would help solve some problems. You know, maybe.

Well, that's it for now. Other than the PS I wrote first, this'll be the last thing you read, if it posts, fingers crossed, knock wood, belch the alphabet.

Be well, peoples.

PS You all went and saw Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, right? If not then you have no right to complain about next summers crappy bunch of movies. You could have and should have supported something wonderful and unique and fun and joyous so that more of its ilk would be made, but you didn't and they won't. For shame.

HOODY FUCKIN' WHO!

I HAVE BEEN OFFERED A JOB IN COWTOWN, AND TO QUOTE THE PERSON I’M IN CONTACT WITH: "Apparently my supervisor came to my office while I was gone and got the information she needed because now I got an email saying your paperwork has been approved!!!!!!"

That means all the bullshit that I had to put up with last week while she was on vacation was a waste of time and effort and energy.

With luck, and a talk to my supervisor, I’ll be living in the downstairs of my parents’ house by the end of next month. Almost exactly five years after I moved out of there last time.

And to repeat myself from a comment to the last post: "wings, if you check this out, call me again. After five. I have your number written somewhere, but I couldn't find it yesterday. I know it's safe and sound in my e-mail because, you know, I didn't think I'd lose my ability to check that."

For those still, occasionally, looking...

I said I wouldn't blag from work, but today I must.

A few things:

For the two in the know, the test went well. Results have been e-mailed and am awaiting a reply so an official announcement can be made. Hopefully on Monday or Tuesday. (SQUEE!)

While I waited for the results of the test, I sat in a fairly comfortable (for a doctors' office) chair and sang to myself. I was nodding my head and tapping my heel. The old lady across from me asked me if I was singing. It caught me off guard and made me smile. It's not often one finds a person who really watches people, let alone asks them about it.

Completely unrelated to the last two paragraphs, I have found a piece of music that sums up the person I've been for the last 20ish years of my life. It's "Per I Morti Reggio Emilia" from Mirah's To All We Stretch the Open Arm. The song is mournfully hopeful. What I mean by that is that the music is sort of sad, but there's a bounce to it. I keep rewinding (or whatever the correct word is now) myPod to listen to the song over and over again the last two days. I really like it.

It's probably on the ünternerts somewhere. Take a listen and understand that even if you don't hear me in it, I hear me in it.

Dunno If This'll Work

Looks like WebSense has now totally blocked Gmail, even my sneaky way in. At least it keeps timing out, rather than hitting the page that tells me the site’s blocked.

So, I can’t read my personal e-mail anymore and I’m not handing out my work e-mail, sorry.

Also, I doubt I’ll be posting on my blog for quite a while. Don’t like posting from my work e-mail, if posting from it works at all.

I’ll keep reading for as long as I can, though.

TTFN

Once Again, A Test

Qs & As

Q: What did people do before people all got the 'nets and hung out at their desks not working?

A: They wandered around spending 25%-75% of their time away from their desk talking to coworkers.

Q: Was WebSense supposed to increase productivity?

A: Dunno, but it makes me have to answer the phone and get up to the front counter a lot more even though I'm supposed to be the last in line for those two jobs. Maybe I should learn to enjoy the company of my coworkers so I'm not at my desk anymore either.

Why in the world...

...does it seem like 99% of all french press coffee makers have glass beaker?

I want a french press. Sure, I don't drink coffee, but it'd be nice to have in a cold morning rare visitor makin' ice cream sort of way.

My problem is that I think I've dropped just about everything I use on a semi-regular basis in the kitchen at least once. If my drinking "glasses" weren't made out of plastic I'd probably be on the third or fourth generation of glasses by now.

I know I'd break a french press beaker. I know because while I worked at 'Bucks, I broke at least two. One I dropped, the other I hit on the corner of a counter. I wasn't allowed to use the french press for a while. So, when I buy a french press, I'd like one made out of stainless steel, or something like that, so it'll only dent and not shatter. I'd like it to hold four cups. Is that too much to ask for?

Also, it's not like I need a french press, it's that I'd like one. At least I'd like to look for them and price them. Can't do that with the WebSense being up. Can't only see the ones that they sell at the coffee shops and super stores around here. So far, they all only sell the ones with glass beakers.

Ah, well.

On Trying to Ignore Spoilers

Y'all remember yesterday when I wrote about the comic shop, where I shop, being sold out of Scott Pilgrim Vol. 6: Scott Pilgrim's Finest Hour, right?

Well, I stopped by Barnes & Noble, as I said I would, and it turned out they hadn't recieved their books from their warehouse, yet. Also, I wasn't the first person to ask about it. The girl I talked to said I was the third to ask her that day(!) and like the tenth to ask her since Saturday. She offered to put a hold on one for me, though.

I thought about it for a couple of seconds, but since I REALLY wanted it yesterday, I figured I'd go to my apartment and call other local(ish) comic shops to see what they had. They had nothin'.

On my break, twenty minutes ago, I went back over to Barnes & Noble and got them to  pull me a copy. Well, they'll "pull the first one not already saved" for me.

The guy didn't know when they'd get them in. Until that time, I have to avoid reading the reviews that are already coming across my feed reader.

It's hard, people.

Yeah, not hard in any real-live-people-starving-or-suffering-from-disease way. It's hard in a more existential full of ennui way. And that's hard.

An Irrational Concern

Sometimes, I worry that there'll be air bubbles in my pee and the usually steady stream will start to sputter causing the urine to have little to no power behind it thereby making it spit and splatter onto my pants.