{Author's note: In a first for HolyJuan.com, I'd like to present, guest writer, Chris.}
In early June, Joe vacationed for a week near Clearwater Florida, which is 45 minutes from where Karen and I live. We scheduled an evening for him to stop by our place for dinner while he was here. A few days before his vacation I received a call from Joe “warning” me that he was traveling with a “female friend” and they were purely friends and he did not want to hear any crap from me or Karen.
I agreed and followed my commitment to Joe during his visit. But now his vacation is over. The following are the top observations of Joe and Suzanne that prove they are more than just friends.
11) Joe pulled me aside and asked to borrow my mix tape; “that really good one from college with ‘Lady in Red’ and ‘Tender Love’”, he said.
10) When I asked Joe if he listened to Fugazi anymore, he had this incredulous look and then stated, “Fugazi?”, as if it was so absurd to suggest he ever listened to them.
9) He and Suzanne kept talking about how the Broadway version of “Mama Mia” was so much better than the movie version.
8) When I saw him drinking Corona, I expressed surprise at that, and he said “You know, I always drank Corona in high school and college.”
7) He kept doing ring-around-the-rosie with my kids, and always was looking at Suzanne out of the corners of his eye to see if she was watching. My kids finally pushed him aside and ran to get away.
6) He and Suzanne began to show my kids how to do “patty cake” with their hands. 5 minutes later, my kids walked away as Joe and Suzanne kept doing patty caking without giving my kids 1 second of their attention.
5) When we started talking about how great “Seinfeld” was, he kept telling us how Elaine was his favorite character.
4) When I asked if his mom did anything dumb lately, he said sternly to me, “No! I love my mother.”
3) When we all went for a walk by the woods by my house, he and Suzanne kept stopping simultaneously to do the Macarena for 10 seconds, and then laughed out loud for 10 more seconds after do it. It wasn’t cute or funny the first time.
2) Joe and Suzanne had a 15 minute conversation regarding how they love oyster crackers in their soup.
1) He kept asking us if we wanted to play board games.
{If you would like to guest write for HolyJuan.com.... forget it.}
{Author's Note: After cutting and pasting this, I went to iTunes and downloaded Chris de Burgh's ‘Lady in Red’ and Force MD's ‘Tender Love’. Really.}
Stinkin' Redhead
I was cleaning off my desktop when I ran across this. Some redhead blogger ran a contest to make up a 300 words or less story about how she broke her ankle. The winner would get a blahblahblah gig iTouch. I entered. I didn't even make it into the top seven that she picked to be voted on. Here is my story:
Redhead knew that handing over her car keys was a mistake, but the guy in the bar with the crappy goatee wouldn’t shut up and he said it was a magic trick that she would never forget. She dug the keyring out of her black purse; the streamlined sexy one that barely held her keys, cash and lipstick.
He stood up on his stool, held the keys up, said, “Ladies and Ladies!” and in a drunken lurch, spun around and bent over. He mostly stood, half bent over for an uncomfortable minute and then stood and spun with a “Ta-Da!”
The keys dangled from his nobody’s business that, half heartedly, poked out from his open zipper. Not just dangled… that son of a bitch had the keyring shoved down his dick.
“Take it off!”
“Come get it!” he shook his feeble groin at her.
In one very coordinated move, Redhead swung her purse forward, up and cockward. Her aim was true. Goatee fell backwards, clutching his keyrung goods, and landed on the bar floor.
“Give them to me!”
“Here…” he croaked.
“Give them.”
“They are stuck! Oh my God… It’s swelling up!”
Everything was… an awful blue.
An hour later, against doctor’s orders, Redhead stood by goatee dude, insisting that she would not leave that scumbag’s side without her keys. Lubricants had failed to release the keys and in the end, pliers were called for and sterilized.
The doctor leveraged and applied force. He snipped. Simultaneously, Goatee let out a desperate howl and a gob of man goo shot out from his pent up loins.
Redhead reached forward and grabbed the lubed up keys with a pre-gloved hand.
“Fuck you.”
She turned to walk out and promptly slipped in his load on the floor, breaking her ankle in three places.
Yeah, it sucks. But it beats out the other drivel. I'd give you her website to compare, but I don't want to give her any traffic. Yeah, I'm a sore loser. Fuck you.
Redhead knew that handing over her car keys was a mistake, but the guy in the bar with the crappy goatee wouldn’t shut up and he said it was a magic trick that she would never forget. She dug the keyring out of her black purse; the streamlined sexy one that barely held her keys, cash and lipstick.
He stood up on his stool, held the keys up, said, “Ladies and Ladies!” and in a drunken lurch, spun around and bent over. He mostly stood, half bent over for an uncomfortable minute and then stood and spun with a “Ta-Da!”
The keys dangled from his nobody’s business that, half heartedly, poked out from his open zipper. Not just dangled… that son of a bitch had the keyring shoved down his dick.
“Take it off!”
“Come get it!” he shook his feeble groin at her.
In one very coordinated move, Redhead swung her purse forward, up and cockward. Her aim was true. Goatee fell backwards, clutching his keyrung goods, and landed on the bar floor.
“Give them to me!”
“Here…” he croaked.
“Give them.”
“They are stuck! Oh my God… It’s swelling up!”
Everything was… an awful blue.
An hour later, against doctor’s orders, Redhead stood by goatee dude, insisting that she would not leave that scumbag’s side without her keys. Lubricants had failed to release the keys and in the end, pliers were called for and sterilized.
The doctor leveraged and applied force. He snipped. Simultaneously, Goatee let out a desperate howl and a gob of man goo shot out from his pent up loins.
Redhead reached forward and grabbed the lubed up keys with a pre-gloved hand.
“Fuck you.”
She turned to walk out and promptly slipped in his load on the floor, breaking her ankle in three places.
Yeah, it sucks. But it beats out the other drivel. I'd give you her website to compare, but I don't want to give her any traffic. Yeah, I'm a sore loser. Fuck you.
Ask HolyJuan: What Shall I Take in My Suitcase?
Dear HolyJuan,
What shall i take in my suitcase? I have been thinking about this for a while and was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject.
Please help.
Thanks.
Warmest Regards,
Larry
Dear Larry,
Who uses a suitcase these days? Are you 100 years old? Is it a steamer or a trunk?
I suggest you throw that suitcase out and use a trash bag. Trash bags are better than suitcases for several reasons.
1. Price = free
They already have trash bags at the airport in the bottoms of the trash cans. This allows you to pack at the airport while waiting for your flight instead of doing it at home. I suggest a double bagging so that people will think that you have money to blow on trash bags.
2. Flexibility
When asked if your bag fits into the bag size detector at the airport, you can cram your trashbag into the device, with clothes and toiletries oozing into ever crack and crevice, ensuring that your beanbag sized bag will make it as carry-on.
3. Speed
When you have a trashbag thrown over your shoulder, the TSA attendants at security assumes you work at the airport and will let you right through to the front of the line. When the metal detector goes off, just say, “Dustpan.”
4. Odor Protection
Stinky clothes or cheese from the Duty Free shop? Buy odor protection bags for your trip back. I suggest the twitsty-tie so that you can get into and out of your bag multiple times when you need a snack or to smell again if your clothes really stink. Man, I love my own stink.
5. Security
If you leave your bag on the floor, no one will pick it up. No one will report it as a bomb. No one will look inside to steal your shit. Even the cleaning people won't touch it because the union forbids them from EVER touching anything outside the trash bins. The only people you need to concern yourself with are the people, like me, who are looking to throw their stuff in a trash bag. When I see you at the airport, I’ll give you a thumbs-up.
So, Larry, toss that suitcase. When you look at a trash bag from now on, I want you to say, “This is My Suitcase.”
Love and respectfully,
HolyJuan
What shall i take in my suitcase? I have been thinking about this for a while and was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject.
Please help.
Thanks.
Warmest Regards,
Larry
Dear Larry,
Who uses a suitcase these days? Are you 100 years old? Is it a steamer or a trunk?
I suggest you throw that suitcase out and use a trash bag. Trash bags are better than suitcases for several reasons.
1. Price = free
They already have trash bags at the airport in the bottoms of the trash cans. This allows you to pack at the airport while waiting for your flight instead of doing it at home. I suggest a double bagging so that people will think that you have money to blow on trash bags.
2. Flexibility
When asked if your bag fits into the bag size detector at the airport, you can cram your trashbag into the device, with clothes and toiletries oozing into ever crack and crevice, ensuring that your beanbag sized bag will make it as carry-on.
3. Speed
When you have a trashbag thrown over your shoulder, the TSA attendants at security assumes you work at the airport and will let you right through to the front of the line. When the metal detector goes off, just say, “Dustpan.”
4. Odor Protection
Stinky clothes or cheese from the Duty Free shop? Buy odor protection bags for your trip back. I suggest the twitsty-tie so that you can get into and out of your bag multiple times when you need a snack or to smell again if your clothes really stink. Man, I love my own stink.
5. Security
If you leave your bag on the floor, no one will pick it up. No one will report it as a bomb. No one will look inside to steal your shit. Even the cleaning people won't touch it because the union forbids them from EVER touching anything outside the trash bins. The only people you need to concern yourself with are the people, like me, who are looking to throw their stuff in a trash bag. When I see you at the airport, I’ll give you a thumbs-up.
So, Larry, toss that suitcase. When you look at a trash bag from now on, I want you to say, “This is My Suitcase.”
Love and respectfully,
HolyJuan
Money Bag
I have a sum of money in this bag. First one to guess how much is in the bag gets the money.
To answer, you need to leave a comment with the guess and an e-mail address/twitter. You can also comment with a username if it is associated with an e-mail address. Any guess not associated with an e-mail address will be deleted.
One guess per person, please.
And no tricks! No mathematics or less than signs or formulas. Just the amount you think in US Dollars.
I’m not sure what the tax laws in your state are, but I am going to sneak around them when I send this to you by mail. Oh yeah, Haskckuhi, US residents only.
And yes, you are probably going to have to trust me about how much money is in the bag. It's written on the back side.
{Editor's Note - 7/28/09: It's less than $50.01 and more than $.01.}
To answer, you need to leave a comment with the guess and an e-mail address/twitter. You can also comment with a username if it is associated with an e-mail address. Any guess not associated with an e-mail address will be deleted.
One guess per person, please.
And no tricks! No mathematics or less than signs or formulas. Just the amount you think in US Dollars.
I’m not sure what the tax laws in your state are, but I am going to sneak around them when I send this to you by mail. Oh yeah, Haskckuhi, US residents only.
And yes, you are probably going to have to trust me about how much money is in the bag. It's written on the back side.
{Editor's Note - 7/28/09: It's less than $50.01 and more than $.01.}
My Homework
Russ and I have been friends since kindergarten. We rode the bus to school together for 12 years until he bought a car, which reminds me that I still owe him gas money. As kids, we would spend the night at each other’s houses or get dropped off by the bus after school to spend the afternoon together.
The most magical thing about Russ’ house was that his dad had a collection of Playboy magazines. Stacks of them. All kept in a very large bottom drawer of a huge filing cabinet. The drawer would have been big enough to hold the both of us if it wasn’t half full of magazines. If no one was at home, Russ and I would sneak a peek or two at the magazines and quickly hide them away when we heard a car coming up his, just long enough, gravel driveway. Russ was very careful about keeping his father’s secret a secret, so he didn’t like to take chances and we only took calculated looks in the drawer. I liked to take chances and it was a constant battle to keep me out of the garage.
One day after school, I went over to Russ’ house. We were supposed to do our homework, but we were keeping busy with video games. Russ’ mom came in and said that she was running off for a minute and that we should stay out of trouble as father would be home any minute. As soon as she left, I suggested we hit the drawer. Russ balked with the looming arrival of his father. I gave in.
Then I suggested we play hide and go seek.
I think I counted first to throw him off my plan. After finding him, he began to count and I ran off to the garage. I grabbed a flashlight and pulled open the huge drawer of goodness. I crawled in the drawer and with a bit of wiggling, pulled it shut.
Russ couldn’t find me for that twenty minutes of dimly lit heaven.
It was pretty hot in that drawer and I decided I should get out. Quick as can be I forced it open and shut it without a look back. I put the flashlight up and went inside to find Russ. I did not give up my hiding space. An hour later, mom came and picked me up. I couldn’t wait for my next visit.
That night, mom asked me if I had any homework. I remembered the worksheet in my back pocket that I was supposed to have completed at Russ’ house. I went to pull it out and it was gone. I thought I had left it at school. The next day at school the sheet wasn’t there and I got in trouble for not doing my homework.
I quickly forgot about the homework and was only reminded of it when Russ called me to say that the homework had been found by his father in the stash of Playboys. It had fallen out of my back pocket when I was squirming into/out of the drawer. My name was at the top of it. Russ’ dad yelled at Russ. Then in an odd turn of events, Russ’ mom yelled at Russ’ dad because she thought he had thrown all of those magazines out years ago.
Russ shared with me a very sad vision. One of his father out in the garage at night, working under a lamp, throwing out all the magazines from the drawer, stopping every so often to lovingly flip through one of them and then toss it in the bin with the rest.
Russ got in trouble. I got in trouble. Russ’ dad got in trouble. And the whole collection of playboys was thrown out.
But it was worth it. I can’t think of a more vivid memory from my youth. My neck bent up with my chin in my chest. Knees against the top of the drawer above me. Magazines an uneven surface beneath me. The sound of Russ’ feet shuffling through the garage as he hopelessly tried to find me. The very slight smell of paper mold and glue. The heat. And the weak yellow of the flashlight on the pink of the flesh. It’s all still there.
The most magical thing about Russ’ house was that his dad had a collection of Playboy magazines. Stacks of them. All kept in a very large bottom drawer of a huge filing cabinet. The drawer would have been big enough to hold the both of us if it wasn’t half full of magazines. If no one was at home, Russ and I would sneak a peek or two at the magazines and quickly hide them away when we heard a car coming up his, just long enough, gravel driveway. Russ was very careful about keeping his father’s secret a secret, so he didn’t like to take chances and we only took calculated looks in the drawer. I liked to take chances and it was a constant battle to keep me out of the garage.
One day after school, I went over to Russ’ house. We were supposed to do our homework, but we were keeping busy with video games. Russ’ mom came in and said that she was running off for a minute and that we should stay out of trouble as father would be home any minute. As soon as she left, I suggested we hit the drawer. Russ balked with the looming arrival of his father. I gave in.
Then I suggested we play hide and go seek.
I think I counted first to throw him off my plan. After finding him, he began to count and I ran off to the garage. I grabbed a flashlight and pulled open the huge drawer of goodness. I crawled in the drawer and with a bit of wiggling, pulled it shut.
Russ couldn’t find me for that twenty minutes of dimly lit heaven.
It was pretty hot in that drawer and I decided I should get out. Quick as can be I forced it open and shut it without a look back. I put the flashlight up and went inside to find Russ. I did not give up my hiding space. An hour later, mom came and picked me up. I couldn’t wait for my next visit.
That night, mom asked me if I had any homework. I remembered the worksheet in my back pocket that I was supposed to have completed at Russ’ house. I went to pull it out and it was gone. I thought I had left it at school. The next day at school the sheet wasn’t there and I got in trouble for not doing my homework.
I quickly forgot about the homework and was only reminded of it when Russ called me to say that the homework had been found by his father in the stash of Playboys. It had fallen out of my back pocket when I was squirming into/out of the drawer. My name was at the top of it. Russ’ dad yelled at Russ. Then in an odd turn of events, Russ’ mom yelled at Russ’ dad because she thought he had thrown all of those magazines out years ago.
Russ shared with me a very sad vision. One of his father out in the garage at night, working under a lamp, throwing out all the magazines from the drawer, stopping every so often to lovingly flip through one of them and then toss it in the bin with the rest.
Russ got in trouble. I got in trouble. Russ’ dad got in trouble. And the whole collection of playboys was thrown out.
But it was worth it. I can’t think of a more vivid memory from my youth. My neck bent up with my chin in my chest. Knees against the top of the drawer above me. Magazines an uneven surface beneath me. The sound of Russ’ feet shuffling through the garage as he hopelessly tried to find me. The very slight smell of paper mold and glue. The heat. And the weak yellow of the flashlight on the pink of the flesh. It’s all still there.
Win
Author's Note: Was chatting with Dave B last night and this video came up in conversation. I forgot how much I liked it. I might need help.
AmyD and Me
AmyD is awesome.
She and I went to school together for a couple years in Lancaster. She was a goofball and I was a doofus. She was a ball of fire that would someday turn into a wild, yet dedicated mom and I was a dweeb seed that would someday sprout into a jerkwad dad. She moved away and once the internet was invented, I would sometimes Google "girl gets head stuck in chair" hoping to find her.
A mutual friend brought us together and last week we had lunch over at the Surly Girl.
Let me tell you that I am in love with AmyD! Not in the get divorced kind of way. But rather that I really respect this girl because she is open, honest and true. She speaks her mind and she normally has to do so with her foot in her mouth. She's not perfect, but she is a perfectionist. She is cute as much as she is still goofy. Still that 7th grader at heart, right before you didn't have to worry about what people thought of you.
I am trying to convince her to illustrate a book I haven't written yet.
Here's her site: http://www.madebyamyd.com/ Check her out. Buy her stuff. Tell her I said hello.
She and I went to school together for a couple years in Lancaster. She was a goofball and I was a doofus. She was a ball of fire that would someday turn into a wild, yet dedicated mom and I was a dweeb seed that would someday sprout into a jerkwad dad. She moved away and once the internet was invented, I would sometimes Google "girl gets head stuck in chair" hoping to find her.
A mutual friend brought us together and last week we had lunch over at the Surly Girl.
Let me tell you that I am in love with AmyD! Not in the get divorced kind of way. But rather that I really respect this girl because she is open, honest and true. She speaks her mind and she normally has to do so with her foot in her mouth. She's not perfect, but she is a perfectionist. She is cute as much as she is still goofy. Still that 7th grader at heart, right before you didn't have to worry about what people thought of you.
I am trying to convince her to illustrate a book I haven't written yet.
Here's her site: http://www.madebyamyd.com/ Check her out. Buy her stuff. Tell her I said hello.
A belated thank you note from a Bitter White Republican Guy
Dear Holy Juan,
While belated, I wanted to send you a heartfelt thank you note for allowing me the experience of reading your blog. Your documentation of the work along 315 nearly brings me to tears and YOU Holy Juan were the one who broke the story on the sale of President Fords leg. Additionally, I dont mind telling you I would be a lesser person had you not brought the plight of the sugar packet to my attention. I will never use artificial sweetener again!
Holy Juan, you are an American treasure and your name will ring out forever with the likes of John Clancy, Walt Whitman and Perez Hilton. Reading your blog allows me to experience one of the all time greats, it feels just like my first trip to Neverland Ranch each time I log on.
Thank you Holy Juan, thank you for your greatness and sharing it with the world!
Very Respectfully,
Bitter White Republican Guy
p.s. Note that this thank you message is in email form, one of the approved thank you note formats and NOT a DM on Twitter which would violate your instructions.
While belated, I wanted to send you a heartfelt thank you note for allowing me the experience of reading your blog. Your documentation of the work along 315 nearly brings me to tears and YOU Holy Juan were the one who broke the story on the sale of President Fords leg. Additionally, I dont mind telling you I would be a lesser person had you not brought the plight of the sugar packet to my attention. I will never use artificial sweetener again!
Holy Juan, you are an American treasure and your name will ring out forever with the likes of John Clancy, Walt Whitman and Perez Hilton. Reading your blog allows me to experience one of the all time greats, it feels just like my first trip to Neverland Ranch each time I log on.
Thank you Holy Juan, thank you for your greatness and sharing it with the world!
Very Respectfully,
Bitter White Republican Guy
p.s. Note that this thank you message is in email form, one of the approved thank you note formats and NOT a DM on Twitter which would violate your instructions.
The Worst F’ing Children's Book In The World
I’m sure Aunt Lara laughed, nay, cackled to herself when she stuck the copy of 
“Splish Splash- A Book of Five Jigsaws” in amongst the other children's books she was giving to Sally and me. She probably pulled it out from the bottom of a well where she threw it years earlier after it was passed on to her by some other parent driven insane by its madness.
It’s a pretty book. And there are jigsaws on the inside! Five of them. It’s like buying one jigsaw and getting four extras with a book thrown in for good measure.
This book is pure evil. Innocent at first, but over time it begins to gnaw at your soul.
First off, once your kid figures out that there is more than one puzzle, they will take out the pieces to multiple puzzles and mix them up. This requires you to sort out the puzzle pieces by color and, well heck, even though the illustrator had at least 1.45 million colors to choose from, they chose to make two of the puzzles blue and two orange, so you have to carefully pick through and guess which puzzle they go to.
Once the pieces are separated, it’s time to build the puzzle. I’m sure your little genius has a photographic memory, but my kids are not that smart and require the puzzle box top to remember what the sleeping lion looked like. This devil’s tome decided to put the photos of the puzzles on the back of the book and for some reason my kids decided that they have to turn the book upside down to see the back which dumps all the pieces back on the floor.
Once we did figure out to just close the book to see the back, there seems to be a bit of a problem with the 16 puzzle pieces in that many of them fit quite nicely together, even though they are not supposed to. For an adult, this isn’t a problem. But it’s as complicated all get out to a kid.
Daddy - “Those pieces don’t belong together, Ann.”
Ann - “But they fit.”
Daddy- “The picture doesn’t match.”
Ann- “But it fits.”
Daddy- “You win. The lion’s ass is in his mouth.”
Sally- “What was that?”
Daddy- “The lion’s laugh comes from his mouth.”
Sally- “You are fired.”
Here is the biggest pain in the ass. Normal puzzles come in a box. You take the pieces out, build the puzzle and then throw them back in the box when it is time to clean up. These book puzzles come already put together, you take them apart, and then build them again to put them away. This is all well in good in a perfect world, but in my world, guests are coming over and we need to clean up the living room. If this book is out, it means that the pieces are all over the place. With a normal puzzle, we’d tear apart the 20% of the puzzle the kid built before he got bored and throw it in the box with the other pieces. With this book, the pieces don’t have a place to hide. The pieces cannot be crammed in between the pages and tucked away. You have to build the puzzles to put the book away. Well, first you have to sort the five different colors, then build them and you are completely screwed if you drop the thing on the ground and watch as five puzzles slide out and intermingle on the floor.
After spending ten minutes working together to sort and build, Sally and I decided to throw the book out. Then at the last second I stopped from pitching it in the bin and said, “Let’s save this and give it to your cousin once she has kids.”
So now the book waits.
“Splish Splash- A Book of Five Jigsaws” in amongst the other children's books she was giving to Sally and me. She probably pulled it out from the bottom of a well where she threw it years earlier after it was passed on to her by some other parent driven insane by its madness.It’s a pretty book. And there are jigsaws on the inside! Five of them. It’s like buying one jigsaw and getting four extras with a book thrown in for good measure.
This book is pure evil. Innocent at first, but over time it begins to gnaw at your soul.
First off, once your kid figures out that there is more than one puzzle, they will take out the pieces to multiple puzzles and mix them up. This requires you to sort out the puzzle pieces by color and, well heck, even though the illustrator had at least 1.45 million colors to choose from, they chose to make two of the puzzles blue and two orange, so you have to carefully pick through and guess which puzzle they go to.
Once the pieces are separated, it’s time to build the puzzle. I’m sure your little genius has a photographic memory, but my kids are not that smart and require the puzzle box top to remember what the sleeping lion looked like. This devil’s tome decided to put the photos of the puzzles on the back of the book and for some reason my kids decided that they have to turn the book upside down to see the back which dumps all the pieces back on the floor.
Once we did figure out to just close the book to see the back, there seems to be a bit of a problem with the 16 puzzle pieces in that many of them fit quite nicely together, even though they are not supposed to. For an adult, this isn’t a problem. But it’s as complicated all get out to a kid.
Daddy - “Those pieces don’t belong together, Ann.”
Ann - “But they fit.”
Daddy- “The picture doesn’t match.”
Ann- “But it fits.”
Daddy- “You win. The lion’s ass is in his mouth.”
Sally- “What was that?”
Daddy- “The lion’s laugh comes from his mouth.”
Sally- “You are fired.”
Here is the biggest pain in the ass. Normal puzzles come in a box. You take the pieces out, build the puzzle and then throw them back in the box when it is time to clean up. These book puzzles come already put together, you take them apart, and then build them again to put them away. This is all well in good in a perfect world, but in my world, guests are coming over and we need to clean up the living room. If this book is out, it means that the pieces are all over the place. With a normal puzzle, we’d tear apart the 20% of the puzzle the kid built before he got bored and throw it in the box with the other pieces. With this book, the pieces don’t have a place to hide. The pieces cannot be crammed in between the pages and tucked away. You have to build the puzzles to put the book away. Well, first you have to sort the five different colors, then build them and you are completely screwed if you drop the thing on the ground and watch as five puzzles slide out and intermingle on the floor.
After spending ten minutes working together to sort and build, Sally and I decided to throw the book out. Then at the last second I stopped from pitching it in the bin and said, “Let’s save this and give it to your cousin once she has kids.”
So now the book waits.
The letter I cannot send
Hello XXX,
I hope this letter finds you well and that you are having a good summer. Have you run any office chairs through parking lots and into walls recently?
All joking aside, I was very disappointed that you didn't drop us a thank you note for your time spent at XXXXXXXX. It is possible that it got lost in the mail. It might have even been filtered out by our SPAM software. If you did send one and we did not get it, I am sorry as I was very interested to see what kind of creative letter you would put together. We thought that, though disjointed and sometimes uncoordinated, we provided you with an great learning experience and that you would have shared your appreciation with us by discussing the migration pattern of the Albanian tuskless walrus.
But if you did not take the time to thank us for the opportunity, allow me to be the one person whom you think of every time you should write a thank you note. There are three types of thank you notes: the kind you send your aunt when she gives you a sweater, the kind where you write about an experience and thank the people involved for their time and then there is the thank you note that you do not send.
The second one discussing your experience would have been great.
We even would have settled for the Aunt Sweater one.
But instead we got the third one. And sadly, the third one is the most memorable.
Next time, drop a note or an e-mail to the people who take time out of their lives to try and help you out. Whether it's a job interview or a gift. Even if it is a teacher or a coach. A thank you note says a lot about the person who is being thanked, but it also says something about the person sending it.
If you did send one, I am truly sorry you had to read this and I am sad that I didn't get to see it.
And if you didn't... obviously I am very disappointed. Don't let it happen again.
Take care and good luck,
Doug
I hope this letter finds you well and that you are having a good summer. Have you run any office chairs through parking lots and into walls recently?
All joking aside, I was very disappointed that you didn't drop us a thank you note for your time spent at XXXXXXXX. It is possible that it got lost in the mail. It might have even been filtered out by our SPAM software. If you did send one and we did not get it, I am sorry as I was very interested to see what kind of creative letter you would put together. We thought that, though disjointed and sometimes uncoordinated, we provided you with an great learning experience and that you would have shared your appreciation with us by discussing the migration pattern of the Albanian tuskless walrus.
But if you did not take the time to thank us for the opportunity, allow me to be the one person whom you think of every time you should write a thank you note. There are three types of thank you notes: the kind you send your aunt when she gives you a sweater, the kind where you write about an experience and thank the people involved for their time and then there is the thank you note that you do not send.
The second one discussing your experience would have been great.
We even would have settled for the Aunt Sweater one.
But instead we got the third one. And sadly, the third one is the most memorable.
Next time, drop a note or an e-mail to the people who take time out of their lives to try and help you out. Whether it's a job interview or a gift. Even if it is a teacher or a coach. A thank you note says a lot about the person who is being thanked, but it also says something about the person sending it.
If you did send one, I am truly sorry you had to read this and I am sad that I didn't get to see it.
And if you didn't... obviously I am very disappointed. Don't let it happen again.
Take care and good luck,
Doug
Ask HolyJuan: Girlfriend annoys boyfriend with word misuse (now with sexist bonus)
Dear Holyjuan,
Throughout the entire course of our relationship together, my girlfriend has been misusing a particular word. At first it was kind of cute and no one seemed to notice, so I let it go. But, recently she has increased her use of the word and its starting to drive me crazy. I want to know how to get the most out of this small, but oh so important shift in the balance of power. Do I spring it on her right before dinner with her parents? Or maybe in front of other people so they think I am more intelligent? This delicate situation where the man is right and the woman is wrong, so rarely happens, I thought you would be the person to best advise me and men everywhere on how to finally "take her down a peg".
Sincerely,
Whipped and Wordy
Dear W & W,
The word is “taint” isn’t it? Every f’ing chick out there uses the word “taint” and they throw it around like they are “taint” experts or taintsperts. The word is CHODE folks. The chode is the area of the male body between the balls and the butthole. I’m not sure why people use the word taint except for the catchy phrase, “’Taint your balls and ‘taint your butt.”
Nevertheless, you are looking for a solution and I have one that I picked up from The Dog Whisperer: a choke collar. The next time you have dinner with her folks, present her with this gift. Call is a stainless steel necklace that represents your love for her. Make sure you mention that you paid extra for the attached leather strapette. Insist she put it on immediately and make sure you have a firm grip on the strap. With a flair, change the topic of conversation from Al Gore to parts of the body that rhyme with “faint.” As soon as she says “taint”, give the leash a jerk and say, “NO!” in a very commanding voice.
It is very important at this time that you do not correct her by saying “chode.” Just correct the bad behavior. She needs to correct herself. In this way, she will see you as the one guiding her and not forcing her.
In about six weeks, you will be able to remove the leash and just leave the collar on her. In this time, she will find herself not using the word “taint” and slowly beginning to freely say, “Chode.” I do not expect relapse, but if she does, reattach the leash and keep a rolled up newspaper around to give her some reinforcement on the nose.
You. Are. Welcome.
HJ
BONUS!
For the easily offended, I rewrote this entry so that the sexes of the two people were switched to cover up for my sexism.
Dear Holyjuan,
Throughout the entire course of our relationship together, my boyfriend has been misusing a particular word. At first it was kind of cute and no one seemed to notice, so I let it go. But, recently he has increased his use of the word and its starting to drive me crazy. I want to know how to get the most out of this small, but oh so important shift in the balance of power. Do I spring it on him right before dinner with his parents? Or maybe in front of other people so they think I am more intelligent? This delicate situation where the woman is right and the man is wrong, so rarely happens, I thought you would be the person to best advise me and women everywhere on how to finally "take him down a peg".
Sincerely,
Whipped and Wordy
Dear W & W,
The word is “taint” isn’t it? Every f’ing dude out there uses the word “taint” and they throw it around like they are “taint” experts or taintsperts. The word is CHODE folks. The chode is the area of the male body between the balls and the butthole. I’m not sure why people use the word taint except for the catchy phrase, “’Taint your balls and ‘taint your butt.”
Nevertheless, you are looking for a solution and I have one that I picked up from The Dog Whisperer: a choke collar. The next time you have dinner with his folks, present him with this gift. Call is a stainless steel necklace that represents your love for him. Make sure you mention that you paid extra for the attached leather strapette. Insist he put it on immediately and make sure you have a firm grip on the strap. With a flair, change the topic of conversation from Al Gore to parts of the body that rhyme with “faint.” As soon as he says “taint”, give the leash a jerk and say, “NO!” in a very commanding voice.
It is very important at this time that you do not correct him by saying “chode.” Just correct the bad behavior. He needs to correct himself. In this way, he will see you as the one guiding him and not forcing him.
In about six weeks, you will be able to remove the leash and just leave the collar on him. In this time, he will find himself not using the word “taint” and slowly beginning to freely say, “Chode.” I do not expect relapse, but if he does, reattach the leash and keep a rolled up newspaper around to give him some reinforcement on the nose.
You. Are. Welcome.
HJ
Throughout the entire course of our relationship together, my girlfriend has been misusing a particular word. At first it was kind of cute and no one seemed to notice, so I let it go. But, recently she has increased her use of the word and its starting to drive me crazy. I want to know how to get the most out of this small, but oh so important shift in the balance of power. Do I spring it on her right before dinner with her parents? Or maybe in front of other people so they think I am more intelligent? This delicate situation where the man is right and the woman is wrong, so rarely happens, I thought you would be the person to best advise me and men everywhere on how to finally "take her down a peg".
Sincerely,
Whipped and Wordy
Dear W & W,
The word is “taint” isn’t it? Every f’ing chick out there uses the word “taint” and they throw it around like they are “taint” experts or taintsperts. The word is CHODE folks. The chode is the area of the male body between the balls and the butthole. I’m not sure why people use the word taint except for the catchy phrase, “’Taint your balls and ‘taint your butt.”
Nevertheless, you are looking for a solution and I have one that I picked up from The Dog Whisperer: a choke collar. The next time you have dinner with her folks, present her with this gift. Call is a stainless steel necklace that represents your love for her. Make sure you mention that you paid extra for the attached leather strapette. Insist she put it on immediately and make sure you have a firm grip on the strap. With a flair, change the topic of conversation from Al Gore to parts of the body that rhyme with “faint.” As soon as she says “taint”, give the leash a jerk and say, “NO!” in a very commanding voice.
It is very important at this time that you do not correct her by saying “chode.” Just correct the bad behavior. She needs to correct herself. In this way, she will see you as the one guiding her and not forcing her.
In about six weeks, you will be able to remove the leash and just leave the collar on her. In this time, she will find herself not using the word “taint” and slowly beginning to freely say, “Chode.” I do not expect relapse, but if she does, reattach the leash and keep a rolled up newspaper around to give her some reinforcement on the nose.
You. Are. Welcome.
HJ
BONUS!
For the easily offended, I rewrote this entry so that the sexes of the two people were switched to cover up for my sexism.
Dear Holyjuan,
Throughout the entire course of our relationship together, my boyfriend has been misusing a particular word. At first it was kind of cute and no one seemed to notice, so I let it go. But, recently he has increased his use of the word and its starting to drive me crazy. I want to know how to get the most out of this small, but oh so important shift in the balance of power. Do I spring it on him right before dinner with his parents? Or maybe in front of other people so they think I am more intelligent? This delicate situation where the woman is right and the man is wrong, so rarely happens, I thought you would be the person to best advise me and women everywhere on how to finally "take him down a peg".
Sincerely,
Whipped and Wordy
Dear W & W,
The word is “taint” isn’t it? Every f’ing dude out there uses the word “taint” and they throw it around like they are “taint” experts or taintsperts. The word is CHODE folks. The chode is the area of the male body between the balls and the butthole. I’m not sure why people use the word taint except for the catchy phrase, “’Taint your balls and ‘taint your butt.”
Nevertheless, you are looking for a solution and I have one that I picked up from The Dog Whisperer: a choke collar. The next time you have dinner with his folks, present him with this gift. Call is a stainless steel necklace that represents your love for him. Make sure you mention that you paid extra for the attached leather strapette. Insist he put it on immediately and make sure you have a firm grip on the strap. With a flair, change the topic of conversation from Al Gore to parts of the body that rhyme with “faint.” As soon as he says “taint”, give the leash a jerk and say, “NO!” in a very commanding voice.
It is very important at this time that you do not correct him by saying “chode.” Just correct the bad behavior. He needs to correct himself. In this way, he will see you as the one guiding him and not forcing him.
In about six weeks, you will be able to remove the leash and just leave the collar on him. In this time, he will find himself not using the word “taint” and slowly beginning to freely say, “Chode.” I do not expect relapse, but if he does, reattach the leash and keep a rolled up newspaper around to give him some reinforcement on the nose.
You. Are. Welcome.
HJ
Greg and the Lorikeet
I love this photo:
I'm not sure if it's because of his tentative, stiff stance. Or that he's getting bigger.
Or it might be because of the pregnant guy with the goatee behind him. YIKES!
I'm not sure if it's because of his tentative, stiff stance. Or that he's getting bigger.
Or it might be because of the pregnant guy with the goatee behind him. YIKES!
Need Reassurance? Call (614) 429-4365
Do you need reassurance? Call (614) 429-4365 and get some.
Things are going to get better.
Things are going to get better.
El MacGyver
My buddy Keegan saw this handy road worker while passing through a road construction site in New Mexico.
I'm sure that if MacGyver were of Hispanic descent and stuck on a road construction site with nothing but a hard hat, a pizza box and a knife (and the obligatory duct tape), he'd do the same thing if the sun was in his eyes.
I'm sure that if MacGyver were of Hispanic descent and stuck on a road construction site with nothing but a hard hat, a pizza box and a knife (and the obligatory duct tape), he'd do the same thing if the sun was in his eyes.
Quart Percentage
I worked at a Baskin-Robbins store in Lancaster back in the late 80’s. The folks at Baskin-Robbins corporate thought that it would be interesting to have a contest to see which store could sell the most pre-pack quarts of ice cream and tied in 
monetary incentive to ensure that everyone was excited to participate. Our store manager Mike took the bait and set up an in-store contest with all the workers to see who could sell the most quarts.
At the time, I was working about 30-40 hours per week at the store. I would open at 9:00am and work until 5:00pm. I sold a shit load of quarts. Mike kept track of quart sales on a grid and updated it every few days. The entire staff went absolutely out of their way to suggest our customers purchase quarts instead of dipping. It was quite obnoxious.
It was easy to see on the chart that I was way in the lead on quart sales, but Mike had a final column which divided the number of quarts sold by the number of hours worked. When that percentage was factored in, I was in third place. I tried to argue that I worked the slow hours and that quantity should reign, but Mike would have none of that. So I redoubled my efforts and tried to outsell my hours.
In the end, I failed. One of the chicks who worked an average of five hours a week won. There was no prize for second place. Mike said to me, “Sorry, Doug. It’s all about percentages.”
But there was a caramel chocolate crunch lining to the cloud. Mike suggested that if our store won in the region, he would share the wealth. As Mike tallied up the numbers, he saw that we were way ahead in the region. Baskin-Robbins corporate was basing the winner on percentage increase in sales from the previous quarter. By Mike's math, our store was in the lead ahead of all the other stores due to the frenzied sales staff. There was no way we could lose.
Except that we did.
One other Baskin-Robbins store in the region had not sold any pre-packed quarts in the previous quarter. When they finally did sell a few quarts, the fine folks at Baskin-Robbins accounting set their calculators on fire trying to divide by zero. So instead they set the store’s previous quart sales at “1” and you can see that even if they only sold one other quart, their sales would have increased 100%. While our store's sales increased 65% over the quarter, the other store’s sales went up some ungodly percentage because they sold more than one quart. That store was awarded the win and our store was in a distant second place, but there was no prize for second place.
Sorry, Mike. It’s all about percentages.
{Author’s note: Damn right I made up most those numbers. I can’t remember those kind of details from that long ago. The numerical intent is solid. We did get fucked and I did have the most quart sales.}
monetary incentive to ensure that everyone was excited to participate. Our store manager Mike took the bait and set up an in-store contest with all the workers to see who could sell the most quarts. At the time, I was working about 30-40 hours per week at the store. I would open at 9:00am and work until 5:00pm. I sold a shit load of quarts. Mike kept track of quart sales on a grid and updated it every few days. The entire staff went absolutely out of their way to suggest our customers purchase quarts instead of dipping. It was quite obnoxious.
It was easy to see on the chart that I was way in the lead on quart sales, but Mike had a final column which divided the number of quarts sold by the number of hours worked. When that percentage was factored in, I was in third place. I tried to argue that I worked the slow hours and that quantity should reign, but Mike would have none of that. So I redoubled my efforts and tried to outsell my hours.
In the end, I failed. One of the chicks who worked an average of five hours a week won. There was no prize for second place. Mike said to me, “Sorry, Doug. It’s all about percentages.”
But there was a caramel chocolate crunch lining to the cloud. Mike suggested that if our store won in the region, he would share the wealth. As Mike tallied up the numbers, he saw that we were way ahead in the region. Baskin-Robbins corporate was basing the winner on percentage increase in sales from the previous quarter. By Mike's math, our store was in the lead ahead of all the other stores due to the frenzied sales staff. There was no way we could lose.
Except that we did.
One other Baskin-Robbins store in the region had not sold any pre-packed quarts in the previous quarter. When they finally did sell a few quarts, the fine folks at Baskin-Robbins accounting set their calculators on fire trying to divide by zero. So instead they set the store’s previous quart sales at “1” and you can see that even if they only sold one other quart, their sales would have increased 100%. While our store's sales increased 65% over the quarter, the other store’s sales went up some ungodly percentage because they sold more than one quart. That store was awarded the win and our store was in a distant second place, but there was no prize for second place.
Sorry, Mike. It’s all about percentages.
{Author’s note: Damn right I made up most those numbers. I can’t remember those kind of details from that long ago. The numerical intent is solid. We did get fucked and I did have the most quart sales.}
Franklin County to begin issuing subpoenas via Twitter
COLUMBUS, OH (HJ) – If you have ever had to issue or deliver a subpoena, you know what a hassle and expense it can be. In Columbus, OH, subpoena issuing by the County Sheriff’s department took up as much as 8% of officers’ time. With recent budget crackdowns, the county is looking into new ways to save money. One of those ways is to digitally serve subpoenas via the online social media site, Twitter.
Current county laws do not allow subpoenas to be e-mailed to a private computer. Subpoenas must be issued in a public forum. Because Twitter is a public entity, issuing subpoenas is legal and only takes a few minutes as opposed to days or sometimes weeks.
Franklin County began the process by digitizing the notary service. A digital notary can digitally affix their certificate to attest the execution of the document, as long as the constituent provides an on-line photo and bio to prove who they are. Currently, only Facebook.com and MySpace.com are being accepted as legal forms of on-line identity.
With the notary public’s digital stamp and full documents kept digitally in an online accessible database, the constituent can then have a third party, who has a Twitter account, issue the papers, online, in a public forum. The third party needs to ensure that the person to be subpoenaed has at least one follower. The “tweet” must include some legal jargon, the appearance date, the notary’s digital stamp or Twitter user name, and a link to the on-line documents.
Franklin County expects to save over $45,000 in 2009. The county has not yet created a clever way to put the words subpoena and Twitter together.
Current county laws do not allow subpoenas to be e-mailed to a private computer. Subpoenas must be issued in a public forum. Because Twitter is a public entity, issuing subpoenas is legal and only takes a few minutes as opposed to days or sometimes weeks.
Franklin County began the process by digitizing the notary service. A digital notary can digitally affix their certificate to attest the execution of the document, as long as the constituent provides an on-line photo and bio to prove who they are. Currently, only Facebook.com and MySpace.com are being accepted as legal forms of on-line identity.
With the notary public’s digital stamp and full documents kept digitally in an online accessible database, the constituent can then have a third party, who has a Twitter account, issue the papers, online, in a public forum. The third party needs to ensure that the person to be subpoenaed has at least one follower. The “tweet” must include some legal jargon, the appearance date, the notary’s digital stamp or Twitter user name, and a link to the on-line documents.
Franklin County expects to save over $45,000 in 2009. The county has not yet created a clever way to put the words subpoena and Twitter together.
Ask HolyJuan: How can I get more followers on Twitter?
Dear HolyJuan,
I am on Twitter, but I do not have very many followers. Why is that? Can you help me get more followers?
Yours truly,
@chicoktc
Dear Circle with an A in it chicoktc,
You have several problems, the first one being that you are using Twitter. Obviously you are well aware of that problem and seem to be at terms with it, so we will not discuss that issue.
Let’s look at the most obvious issue: your username. @chickoktc, broken down, obviously means "chic" (French for toast) "OK" (Oklahoma) and "TC" (the helicopter pilot from Magnum PI).
I’m not sure if this is secret code for something very gay or if it is a desperate cry for attention. Either way, people on Twitter don’t like things that are confusing or require a lot of thinking. I would suggest a name change to something that most Twitter people can understand like @selfabsorbedegotist or @lookatmenownownow or @someonefamousjustcommentedonmycomment.
Another issue I see is your profile photo.
By looking at your shirt, I can tell this photo is from the late 80’s, probably at Myrtle Beach. This is not working. Try taking a super close up photo of your eye. Make pouty lips, that one’s popular with the ladies. How about a photo of your cat? The last thing anyone wants to see is you in some normal pose that shows you exactly as you are. Make a statement and make it a false one. Or just post a photo of a hot chick in a bikini.
Here’s a biggie. Sometimes you speak in English, which is a lot more than can be said of many people on Twitter. But many other times, you start typing gibberish which looks to be some beaver language.
Cut that shit out! Twitter is an English word so you should stick with English or one of the many variants.
You also use some very angry language. Take this tweet: RIP MJ
How dare you! Michael Jackson is an icon and there is no need to rip the poor guy. Just let him rest in peace.
Wow. Looking at the people you follow… Abe Lincoln? The number 4? @THE_REAL_SHAQ? Come on, if he were real, why would he have to put “REAL” in front of his name? You’ve got to start following some actual real people like @homestarrunner @BillOReilly @HilaryClintonsSling. Try those for starters and see if maybe people will notice how cool you are and that you might be worth following. I do see you are following @holyjuan which is a start.
Or you could just do what everyone else does, which is to spam a ton of people and hope they follow you back seeing as they are pathetic people who have very few followers as well. Soon you’ll find yourself with 45,000 followers and a much, much better life.
So to sum up: change name, chick in a bikini, Magnum PI movie to be released in 2011, spam, and watch the beaver language.
You are welcome!
I am on Twitter, but I do not have very many followers. Why is that? Can you help me get more followers?
Yours truly,
@chicoktc
Dear Circle with an A in it chicoktc,
You have several problems, the first one being that you are using Twitter. Obviously you are well aware of that problem and seem to be at terms with it, so we will not discuss that issue.
Let’s look at the most obvious issue: your username. @chickoktc, broken down, obviously means "chic" (French for toast) "OK" (Oklahoma) and "TC" (the helicopter pilot from Magnum PI).
I’m not sure if this is secret code for something very gay or if it is a desperate cry for attention. Either way, people on Twitter don’t like things that are confusing or require a lot of thinking. I would suggest a name change to something that most Twitter people can understand like @selfabsorbedegotist or @lookatmenownownow or @someonefamousjustcommentedonmycomment.
Another issue I see is your profile photo.
By looking at your shirt, I can tell this photo is from the late 80’s, probably at Myrtle Beach. This is not working. Try taking a super close up photo of your eye. Make pouty lips, that one’s popular with the ladies. How about a photo of your cat? The last thing anyone wants to see is you in some normal pose that shows you exactly as you are. Make a statement and make it a false one. Or just post a photo of a hot chick in a bikini.
Here’s a biggie. Sometimes you speak in English, which is a lot more than can be said of many people on Twitter. But many other times, you start typing gibberish which looks to be some beaver language.
Cut that shit out! Twitter is an English word so you should stick with English or one of the many variants.
You also use some very angry language. Take this tweet: RIP MJ
How dare you! Michael Jackson is an icon and there is no need to rip the poor guy. Just let him rest in peace.
Wow. Looking at the people you follow… Abe Lincoln? The number 4? @THE_REAL_SHAQ? Come on, if he were real, why would he have to put “REAL” in front of his name? You’ve got to start following some actual real people like @homestarrunner @BillOReilly @HilaryClintonsSling. Try those for starters and see if maybe people will notice how cool you are and that you might be worth following. I do see you are following @holyjuan which is a start.
Or you could just do what everyone else does, which is to spam a ton of people and hope they follow you back seeing as they are pathetic people who have very few followers as well. Soon you’ll find yourself with 45,000 followers and a much, much better life.
So to sum up: change name, chick in a bikini, Magnum PI movie to be released in 2011, spam, and watch the beaver language.
You are welcome!
Rules for HoleyBoard
I learned about HoleyBoard in college from my Canton friends. There is a lot to be said about HoleyBoard, but I don't have time for it now. Let's just say that the best wedding gift that Miss Sally and I received was a set of HoleyBoards.
I did have time to touch up the rules for HoleyBoard. These rules are different from the standard rules that my Cleveland friends play by. We think they are much more competitive.
You can check out the Columbus version 1.4 here: http://docs.google.com/View?id=dc4msf36_3cwwp3qfh
The biggest differences include:
-going over 21 points subtracts total points gained that round from your starting score
-no ties
Greg is already a HoleyBoard champ, beating several of his cousins this weekend.
I did have time to touch up the rules for HoleyBoard. These rules are different from the standard rules that my Cleveland friends play by. We think they are much more competitive.
You can check out the Columbus version 1.4 here: http://docs.google.com/View?id=dc4msf36_3cwwp3qfh
The biggest differences include:
-going over 21 points subtracts total points gained that round from your starting score
-no ties
Greg is already a HoleyBoard champ, beating several of his cousins this weekend.
Doug Unshaven
I went four days without shaving. I think half a beard makes my head look smaller. Kinda.
Al Franken announced senatorial winner and immediately files for back pay
MINNEAPOLIS (HJ) – Democrat Al Franken was declared the winner of a Senate seat in Minnesota on Tuesday, ending one of the longest Senate races ever. Coleman quickly 
conceded once his five legal arguments were unanimously struck down by the Minnesota Supreme Court.
About six hours following the decision, Senator Franken filed paperwork to collect the nearly six months back pay or about $87,000 for his senatorial position. A U.S. senator makes $174,000 a year with full medical benefits. It is unclear if Senator Franken will attempt to have his medical bill reimbursed for that time period as well. It was widely reported that Senator Franken had scrotoplasty following the last recount.
Senator Franken said that he would donate most of the back salary to pay for his legal bills. When questioned as to whether that was a donation, Franken smiled and said, “It feels like charity to me.”
conceded once his five legal arguments were unanimously struck down by the Minnesota Supreme Court.About six hours following the decision, Senator Franken filed paperwork to collect the nearly six months back pay or about $87,000 for his senatorial position. A U.S. senator makes $174,000 a year with full medical benefits. It is unclear if Senator Franken will attempt to have his medical bill reimbursed for that time period as well. It was widely reported that Senator Franken had scrotoplasty following the last recount.
Senator Franken said that he would donate most of the back salary to pay for his legal bills. When questioned as to whether that was a donation, Franken smiled and said, “It feels like charity to me.”
This is My Suitcase
I've said it before, I'm no music critic. I know what I like and that's about it.
I first saw "This is My Suitcase" at "The Hot Damn" CD release party last year. I wasn't too impressed. I went away thinking they sounded OK and that they were kooky as all get out, but not my style.
Fast forward a year and the Hot Damn has broken up and I'm in queue to see "Margot and the Nuclear So and So's" at Circus in Columbus, OH. This Is My Suitcase was in the lineup for the night. I was all hopped up on Margot so I thought I'd give them a second chance.
They were awesome. They were really on and their set was very tight. They were modest and interesting and fun.
The lead singer of Suitcase was all over the place; instrumentally, vocally and physically. All of it looking and sounding great. The keyboardist was as demure as before and the rest of the band played into the lead singer's energy.
In speaking with the lead singer later that night, he remembered the Hot Damn release and remembered it being a crap show. I forgave him.
Check out this video promoting their May 2009 Tour
This is My Suitcase is playing Friday night at Comfest, 7:00pm at the Bozo (main) stage. You should go check them out.
Some links for you:
WEBSITE: http://thisismysuitcase.com/
TWITTER: http://twitter.com/suitcaseband
LISTEN: http://www.myspace.com/thisismysuitcase
I first saw "This is My Suitcase" at "The Hot Damn" CD release party last year. I wasn't too impressed. I went away thinking they sounded OK and that they were kooky as all get out, but not my style.
Fast forward a year and the Hot Damn has broken up and I'm in queue to see "Margot and the Nuclear So and So's" at Circus in Columbus, OH. This Is My Suitcase was in the lineup for the night. I was all hopped up on Margot so I thought I'd give them a second chance.
They were awesome. They were really on and their set was very tight. They were modest and interesting and fun.
The lead singer of Suitcase was all over the place; instrumentally, vocally and physically. All of it looking and sounding great. The keyboardist was as demure as before and the rest of the band played into the lead singer's energy.
In speaking with the lead singer later that night, he remembered the Hot Damn release and remembered it being a crap show. I forgave him.
Check out this video promoting their May 2009 Tour
This is My Suitcase is playing Friday night at Comfest, 7:00pm at the Bozo (main) stage. You should go check them out.
Some links for you:
WEBSITE: http://thisismysuitcase.com/
TWITTER: http://twitter.com/suitcaseband
LISTEN: http://www.myspace.com/thisismysuitcase
Rules for Blogging
Rule #1 Don't call it blogging
Not sure if you heard yet, but the word blog is pathetic. Stop using it. The thing you are doing is writing, not blogging. The place where you do it is your website, not a blog.
Rule #2 Don't ever talk about your blogging frequency
Why are you still calling it blogging after reading rule one?
Rule #2.1 Don't ever talk about your writing frequency
No one wants to hear you say the following:
"Sorry I haven't posted in a while."
"I promise I will do better."
"It's been x weeks since my last post."
If you have nothing to say, don’t tell us about it.
Rule #3 Delete it
If you have given up on writing, delete your site. Scrub your shame from the internet. The internet needs as much room as possible or the knowledge channel collective get clogged.
Rule #4 Quit your bitching
If you are pissed about a situation, do something about it and then come back and write what happened. No one wants to hear you complain.
Rule #5 On second thought, call your shit a blog
I just realized that if you can’t figure out this shit, I’d rather you did call your site a blog so that I know to avoid it. Please change the title of your site to XXXXXXX’s blog so that we can all figure it out for ourselves.
{Author's note: I just remembered that my site is hosted by Blogger.com. I am lame.}
Not sure if you heard yet, but the word blog is pathetic. Stop using it. The thing you are doing is writing, not blogging. The place where you do it is your website, not a blog.
Rule #2 Don't ever talk about your blogging frequency
Why are you still calling it blogging after reading rule one?
Rule #2.1 Don't ever talk about your writing frequency
No one wants to hear you say the following:
"Sorry I haven't posted in a while."
"I promise I will do better."
"It's been x weeks since my last post."
If you have nothing to say, don’t tell us about it.
Rule #3 Delete it
If you have given up on writing, delete your site. Scrub your shame from the internet. The internet needs as much room as possible or the knowledge channel collective get clogged.
Rule #4 Quit your bitching
If you are pissed about a situation, do something about it and then come back and write what happened. No one wants to hear you complain.
Rule #5 On second thought, call your shit a blog
I just realized that if you can’t figure out this shit, I’d rather you did call your site a blog so that I know to avoid it. Please change the title of your site to XXXXXXX’s blog so that we can all figure it out for ourselves.
{Author's note: I just remembered that my site is hosted by Blogger.com. I am lame.}
Devo Vacation
My co-worker is out of town this week on a "Diva vacation". I'm not sure what a Diva vacation is, but it in now way shape or form is better than a Devo vacation.
Fixed!
Little does she know how much EXTRA fun she's having now. WHIP IT GOOD!
Fixed!
Little does she know how much EXTRA fun she's having now. WHIP IT GOOD!
1,003 posts... I mean 1,004
Somewhere along the way, I've created 1,003 posts with this one being the 1,004th.
I'm not sure how that is possible, so I stayed up all night doing some research.
745 of the posts were re-posts of the same article about me being drunk in Chicago.
20 were Jesus cartoons
15 were pictures Greg drew
12 were Erik Eats
200 were rants about comments in other posts
4 were articles about drinking and Margot and the Nuclear So and So's.
6 were poorly photoshopped jokes
Which leaves 2 posts that were actually real, down to earth articles about life, love, family and happiness.
Except that this is one of those two posts so I assume this one doesn't count.
Oh well, thanks for reading. When people blame me for being an egotistical bastard, I blame you for continuing to return and read my stuff.
Thanks, suckers.
HJ
I'm not sure how that is possible, so I stayed up all night doing some research.
745 of the posts were re-posts of the same article about me being drunk in Chicago.
20 were Jesus cartoons
15 were pictures Greg drew
12 were Erik Eats
200 were rants about comments in other posts
4 were articles about drinking and Margot and the Nuclear So and So's.
6 were poorly photoshopped jokes
Which leaves 2 posts that were actually real, down to earth articles about life, love, family and happiness.
Except that this is one of those two posts so I assume this one doesn't count.
Oh well, thanks for reading. When people blame me for being an egotistical bastard, I blame you for continuing to return and read my stuff.
Thanks, suckers.
HJ
Creation Museum - Dinosaur Extinction
I have to bet that it was the rugged, good looks of that hunter that killed off the dinosaurs. Or his complete gayness.
I assume that it was Photoshop the actually made the dinosaurs disappear.
Northbound 315 on 6/17/09
The crossover has not been completed yet. I'm trying to convince people that 315 is horrific so that I can continue to take the expressway home.
Post Magazine forgets to fix it in post
We get Post Magazine at work. Good articles about video production technology and trends. I was looking at this month's cover at all the paparazzi shooting Hanna Montana.
I couldn't help but notice that amongst the actor photographers (and I mean people acting like photographers, not photographers that shoot actors) was a dude with his blackberry snapping a photo.
He's getting some great shots of his hand, I'm sure. I'm also sure that this isn't Post Magazine's photo, but found it interesting that a industry rag based on digitally fixing problems in post would itself have this on the cover.
I couldn't help but notice that amongst the actor photographers (and I mean people acting like photographers, not photographers that shoot actors) was a dude with his blackberry snapping a photo.
He's getting some great shots of his hand, I'm sure. I'm also sure that this isn't Post Magazine's photo, but found it interesting that a industry rag based on digitally fixing problems in post would itself have this on the cover.
315 SB from 270 to Town Street exit 6-15-09
I hope to document the construction throughout the next twelve four months.
A Horrible Coincidence
This is a true story, with every name, but one, changed to protect those who need such things.
My friend, Mark, works in a very large office environment. While he works with a big team of people, he does not interact with over half of the people on his floor besides the occasional elevator ride or walk-by on the way to/from the copier.
One day, several members of Mark’s team were talking about someone on the other side of their floor. Hearing their hushed conversation, Mark was interested and joined in the small group. They were discussing a girl, who they named as Eileen, who worked on their floor. She was perfectly normal, and very pretty, except for her very pronounced limp. One of her legs was shorter than the other and it was extremely easy to notice her as she traversed their floor. He had seen the girl before, but had never heard her name. Mark thought that her name was a horrible coincidence.
When they spoke of her, Mark’s co-workers would mainly comment on what Eileen was wearing that day. She was a conservative dresser, but every so often would wear something a bit more risqué and their day was spent trying to get a glimpse of her.
Mark got lucky one day and caught an elevator with Eileen. He had never spoken with her before, but Mark decided to be friendly and said, “Hello, Eileen.”
And she said, “My name is not Eileen. It’s Sandra.”
“Really?” said Mark, before he realized that he had really fucked up.
Luckily, the ride ended and they went to their own ends of the floor.
Eileen/Sandra quit about two weeks later. Also a horrible coincidence.
My friend, Mark, works in a very large office environment. While he works with a big team of people, he does not interact with over half of the people on his floor besides the occasional elevator ride or walk-by on the way to/from the copier.
One day, several members of Mark’s team were talking about someone on the other side of their floor. Hearing their hushed conversation, Mark was interested and joined in the small group. They were discussing a girl, who they named as Eileen, who worked on their floor. She was perfectly normal, and very pretty, except for her very pronounced limp. One of her legs was shorter than the other and it was extremely easy to notice her as she traversed their floor. He had seen the girl before, but had never heard her name. Mark thought that her name was a horrible coincidence.
When they spoke of her, Mark’s co-workers would mainly comment on what Eileen was wearing that day. She was a conservative dresser, but every so often would wear something a bit more risqué and their day was spent trying to get a glimpse of her.
Mark got lucky one day and caught an elevator with Eileen. He had never spoken with her before, but Mark decided to be friendly and said, “Hello, Eileen.”
And she said, “My name is not Eileen. It’s Sandra.”
“Really?” said Mark, before he realized that he had really fucked up.
Luckily, the ride ended and they went to their own ends of the floor.
Eileen/Sandra quit about two weeks later. Also a horrible coincidence.
Panic
{Author's Note: This is a repost from several years back, but I thought you might want to read about the fire I was caught in years ago.}
Sleepy Dude One, "You want some bacon?"
Sleepy Dude Two, "Yeah. Bacon. Lots of bacon."
When you are on the road for long periods of time, one of the only good things you have to look forward to is the peace and safety of the place where you sleep. While I was traveling, I had contacts through the museums and I could find a nicer place that normally wouldn’t rent for a short term. For those four months, I had a small, comfy nook to hide.
In Omaha, things were different. The museum I was working with decided to save money by putting me up in an apartment building just down the street. If you are familiar with museums, you might know that they are usually built in the shittiest part of town so that:
a. it’s cheaper rent
b. it’s a cornerstone for other business to build near to revitalize the community
This eleven story monstrosity was the second cousin once removed of the projects. Vagrants were always loitering about the front. Trash everywhere. The fire alarms were always falsely sounding. The walls were paper thin. (I didn’t have any sex, but I listened to the neighbor lady get her socks knocked off.) It smelled like other people's food. The elevators worked as long as you wanted to go down. The only difference from the projects was that the front doors locked. At any time when you unlocked the front doors, some dude would be there, mumbling to you about losing his keys and needing to get inside. You would have to pull the door shut to keep them out. There was a pile of fingers in the foyer where they hadn’t quite pulled their hands out in time. When they did sneak in, they would make a bee-line to the basement and the warmth of the laundry room. At least the bums were Downy Fresh.
I lived on the very top floor of the shit hole.
On December 31st, I woke up to the sound of the fire alarm. It wasn’t the first time. My clock showed 6:00am. At first I was pissed, but then I remembered that I was going to drive down to Joplin, MO after work to party with my buddy Don, who was a reporter at a Joplin television station. I thought I might score some weathergirl action. As I laid there thinking about how I could get out of work early that day, the fire trucks pulled up.
Now, don’t panic. The fire trucks always pull up when the alarm is pulled. Some law, I’m sure, that says no matter what, when an apartment alarm goes off, the trucks have to check it out. They always drive up on my side of the building. A dude jumps off the back and walks into the building. Five of the other guys loiter around the truck until the first guy comes back out and they head back to the fire station. Clockwork.
So, the fire trucks pull up. Everyone jumps out. Dude runs in the building. The loitering guys start to pull hoses off the truck. Ha. Funny. They hook the hoses up to a series of hydrants and start to unwind other hoses from the truck and run them into the building. I started to do the math in my head. I also started to smell smoke.
Panic.
I opened my window and was hit with cold air and again, the smell of smoke. A bit stronger now. I could see other people sticking their heads out their windows. They seemed to be doing the math as well. I decided that I should get the fuck out of the building.
I put on some pants. A shirt. A jacket. I also grabbed a book and my car keys. Shoes on and I was out the door. The fire stairs were to the immediate right of my door and I thought I’d walk down the eleven flights of stairs and hang out in my car. I looked down towards the elevators and saw the most horrific, beautiful sight. Dark smoke was squeezing out of the elevator shaft and coating the ceiling. It rolled over itself like an upside down wave hitting the beach and chased on the ceiling down the hallway. It was building upon itself and thickening, filling the hallway with haze. I began to tell myself not to panic. The fire escape stairwell would be safe. I mean, it had a big red door. That’s safety if I ever saw it.
I pushed through the door. The fire escape was filling with smoke from below. Oh fuck! I went down to the tenth floor and the smoke thickened (duh.) I yelled down, “Is it safe to come down! Where is the fire!” No one answered. I covered my mouth with my shirt and went down to the ninth floor. As I went down one more floor, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was coughing and couldn’t breathe. My eyes welled with tears. I turned around and ran back up the stairs. I was in pure panic mode. I was unable to process the current situation. I was breathing hard from running, but it was really the start of hyperventilation. I reached my floor and fumbled for my keys.
Luckily for me, the chick next door burst out of her apartment and was somehow panicking a lot more than me. She had her kid’s head under her arm and was squeezing the crap out of her. I got to see a dude run out of her apartment and check out the fire stairs filled with smoke and then run down the hallway to the other stairs. In that moment of clarity, I realized that was the dude she was banging all the time.
Whether it was seeing the woman panicking more than me and needing help or thinking about that dude banging her, my head cleared and it all became very, very simple…
I gave her an update: The stairs are blocked. You cannot use the elevators. Go back in your apartment. Stick wet towels under the door. Wait for the firemen to rescue you. Be ready to go. Put on socks (yes, I know) and shoes and your jackets.
Dude came back and said the other stairwells were filled with smoke. I repeated what I said to the woman and he went inside.
I went inside my apartment and did exactly that.
At the windows, everyone from the 5th floor and up was yelling back and forth. Someone was on the phone with 911 and they were sharing information by shouting what they learned from the 911 operator. The fire was on the 4th floor. It was being contained. The firemen would come and get us. Stay where you are.
With nothing better to do, I called my co-workers from the museum and friends at home to tell them I was in a fire. No one is very excited to listen to your fire stories at 6:30am.
There was a knock (er pounding) at the door. A full wall of smoke roiled in as I opened the door. An actual fireman in a mask was standing there with an axe. He said (in that muffled mask voice) to take the stairs. He placed a gloved hand on my shoulder turned me towards the red door. That hand left a soot mark on the shoulder of my jacket that never came out.
The stairs were clear of smoke and I went down eleven flights and into the fresh, smoke filled morning air. They had giant fans in the stairwell to evacuate the smoke.
As it turns out, two drunk dudes with eyebrows made breakfast before passing out. They neglected to stay awake long enough to eat the food or turn off the stove. The fuckers did wake up in time to throw water on a grease fire and it spread though the kitchen. The two, now eyebrowless, dudes ran out of the apartment and didn’t shut the door. The fire took out the apartment and spread to the hallway. The fire doors at the ends of the hallways didn’t seal and smoke filled the emergency stairs in minutes.
The only losses were the apartment, the hallway and two pairs of eyebrows. My invincibility was also a casualty. If I am anywhere and an alarm goes off, I leave. I was humbled by my ineffectiveness. I know I came around in the end, but for those fifteen seconds of running up the stairs, I was completely worthless.
I used the fire as an excuse to leave work early to drive to the party in Joplin. Luckily I did leave early as bad weather rolled in and it took me an additional two hours to get there. On 29S on the way out of Omaha, a truck jackknifed right in front of me, blocking the entire road. Jumping out to see if he was alright, the swearing driver said he was fine and I got back in my car and drove through the snow filled median and around his cab. No other car followed me and I was alone for a long stretch.
I made it to the party with four minutes before the ball dropped. I did not get to bang the weathergirl.
Sleepy Dude One, "You want some bacon?"
Sleepy Dude Two, "Yeah. Bacon. Lots of bacon."
When you are on the road for long periods of time, one of the only good things you have to look forward to is the peace and safety of the place where you sleep. While I was traveling, I had contacts through the museums and I could find a nicer place that normally wouldn’t rent for a short term. For those four months, I had a small, comfy nook to hide.
In Omaha, things were different. The museum I was working with decided to save money by putting me up in an apartment building just down the street. If you are familiar with museums, you might know that they are usually built in the shittiest part of town so that:
a. it’s cheaper rent
b. it’s a cornerstone for other business to build near to revitalize the community
This eleven story monstrosity was the second cousin once removed of the projects. Vagrants were always loitering about the front. Trash everywhere. The fire alarms were always falsely sounding. The walls were paper thin. (I didn’t have any sex, but I listened to the neighbor lady get her socks knocked off.) It smelled like other people's food. The elevators worked as long as you wanted to go down. The only difference from the projects was that the front doors locked. At any time when you unlocked the front doors, some dude would be there, mumbling to you about losing his keys and needing to get inside. You would have to pull the door shut to keep them out. There was a pile of fingers in the foyer where they hadn’t quite pulled their hands out in time. When they did sneak in, they would make a bee-line to the basement and the warmth of the laundry room. At least the bums were Downy Fresh.
I lived on the very top floor of the shit hole.
On December 31st, I woke up to the sound of the fire alarm. It wasn’t the first time. My clock showed 6:00am. At first I was pissed, but then I remembered that I was going to drive down to Joplin, MO after work to party with my buddy Don, who was a reporter at a Joplin television station. I thought I might score some weathergirl action. As I laid there thinking about how I could get out of work early that day, the fire trucks pulled up.
Now, don’t panic. The fire trucks always pull up when the alarm is pulled. Some law, I’m sure, that says no matter what, when an apartment alarm goes off, the trucks have to check it out. They always drive up on my side of the building. A dude jumps off the back and walks into the building. Five of the other guys loiter around the truck until the first guy comes back out and they head back to the fire station. Clockwork.
So, the fire trucks pull up. Everyone jumps out. Dude runs in the building. The loitering guys start to pull hoses off the truck. Ha. Funny. They hook the hoses up to a series of hydrants and start to unwind other hoses from the truck and run them into the building. I started to do the math in my head. I also started to smell smoke.
Panic.
I opened my window and was hit with cold air and again, the smell of smoke. A bit stronger now. I could see other people sticking their heads out their windows. They seemed to be doing the math as well. I decided that I should get the fuck out of the building.
I put on some pants. A shirt. A jacket. I also grabbed a book and my car keys. Shoes on and I was out the door. The fire stairs were to the immediate right of my door and I thought I’d walk down the eleven flights of stairs and hang out in my car. I looked down towards the elevators and saw the most horrific, beautiful sight. Dark smoke was squeezing out of the elevator shaft and coating the ceiling. It rolled over itself like an upside down wave hitting the beach and chased on the ceiling down the hallway. It was building upon itself and thickening, filling the hallway with haze. I began to tell myself not to panic. The fire escape stairwell would be safe. I mean, it had a big red door. That’s safety if I ever saw it.
I pushed through the door. The fire escape was filling with smoke from below. Oh fuck! I went down to the tenth floor and the smoke thickened (duh.) I yelled down, “Is it safe to come down! Where is the fire!” No one answered. I covered my mouth with my shirt and went down to the ninth floor. As I went down one more floor, I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was coughing and couldn’t breathe. My eyes welled with tears. I turned around and ran back up the stairs. I was in pure panic mode. I was unable to process the current situation. I was breathing hard from running, but it was really the start of hyperventilation. I reached my floor and fumbled for my keys.
Luckily for me, the chick next door burst out of her apartment and was somehow panicking a lot more than me. She had her kid’s head under her arm and was squeezing the crap out of her. I got to see a dude run out of her apartment and check out the fire stairs filled with smoke and then run down the hallway to the other stairs. In that moment of clarity, I realized that was the dude she was banging all the time.
Whether it was seeing the woman panicking more than me and needing help or thinking about that dude banging her, my head cleared and it all became very, very simple…
I gave her an update: The stairs are blocked. You cannot use the elevators. Go back in your apartment. Stick wet towels under the door. Wait for the firemen to rescue you. Be ready to go. Put on socks (yes, I know) and shoes and your jackets.
Dude came back and said the other stairwells were filled with smoke. I repeated what I said to the woman and he went inside.
I went inside my apartment and did exactly that.
At the windows, everyone from the 5th floor and up was yelling back and forth. Someone was on the phone with 911 and they were sharing information by shouting what they learned from the 911 operator. The fire was on the 4th floor. It was being contained. The firemen would come and get us. Stay where you are.
With nothing better to do, I called my co-workers from the museum and friends at home to tell them I was in a fire. No one is very excited to listen to your fire stories at 6:30am.
There was a knock (er pounding) at the door. A full wall of smoke roiled in as I opened the door. An actual fireman in a mask was standing there with an axe. He said (in that muffled mask voice) to take the stairs. He placed a gloved hand on my shoulder turned me towards the red door. That hand left a soot mark on the shoulder of my jacket that never came out.
The stairs were clear of smoke and I went down eleven flights and into the fresh, smoke filled morning air. They had giant fans in the stairwell to evacuate the smoke.
As it turns out, two drunk dudes with eyebrows made breakfast before passing out. They neglected to stay awake long enough to eat the food or turn off the stove. The fuckers did wake up in time to throw water on a grease fire and it spread though the kitchen. The two, now eyebrowless, dudes ran out of the apartment and didn’t shut the door. The fire took out the apartment and spread to the hallway. The fire doors at the ends of the hallways didn’t seal and smoke filled the emergency stairs in minutes.
The only losses were the apartment, the hallway and two pairs of eyebrows. My invincibility was also a casualty. If I am anywhere and an alarm goes off, I leave. I was humbled by my ineffectiveness. I know I came around in the end, but for those fifteen seconds of running up the stairs, I was completely worthless.
I used the fire as an excuse to leave work early to drive to the party in Joplin. Luckily I did leave early as bad weather rolled in and it took me an additional two hours to get there. On 29S on the way out of Omaha, a truck jackknifed right in front of me, blocking the entire road. Jumping out to see if he was alright, the swearing driver said he was fine and I got back in my car and drove through the snow filled median and around his cab. No other car followed me and I was alone for a long stretch.
I made it to the party with four minutes before the ball dropped. I did not get to bang the weathergirl.
Group hands out cell phones to homeless crazy people so they do not look silly when they talk to themselves
COLUMBUS OH (HJ) – How many times have you seen a homeless person on the street talking to themselves and thought, “That person is crazy!” The founders of the non-profit group EMIT or Equality for the Mentally Inept Transients want to rid the homeless of that stigma.
Bruce Shaw, founder of EMIT, purchases new or collects used cell phones for the homeless in Columbus so that they will not seem so out of place. Bruce explains, “When you see someone talking on a cell phone you assume that they are conducting business or chatting with a friend. If you see someone talking with no cell phone, you think they are insane. By giving the homeless cellphones, we not only give them an outlet for the voices in their head, we give them dignity.”
EMIT volunteers began collecting cellphones in late last year. The phones are cleaned, charged, loaded with 200 minutes and handed out at shelters and underpasses. Janice Truly, an EMIT volunteer, has handed out over 35 cellphones just this month. “The look on the face of the crazy person is priceless. You’ve got to show them how to use the phone. It’s helpful if there are numbers all ready stored in the memory.”
When asked about the homeless calling random people, Mr. Shaw laughed, “At first we erased the memory of the phone and only added the numbers of the other homeless. When none of the homeless could get a word in edgewise with each other, we just decided to leave the numbers on the used phones or program in local radio talk show phone numbers.”
When asked about how they hand out the phones, Mr. Shaw shared, “We’ve actually tried giving cell phones to some people talking to themselves only to realize the “crazy person” was wearing a Bluetooth ear piece.”
EMIT will re-charge and supply more minutes for any phone for free, but so far they have not had to. “Once the phones go dead, they just keep talking into them. They still seem happy.”
Bruce Shaw, founder of EMIT, purchases new or collects used cell phones for the homeless in Columbus so that they will not seem so out of place. Bruce explains, “When you see someone talking on a cell phone you assume that they are conducting business or chatting with a friend. If you see someone talking with no cell phone, you think they are insane. By giving the homeless cellphones, we not only give them an outlet for the voices in their head, we give them dignity.”
EMIT volunteers began collecting cellphones in late last year. The phones are cleaned, charged, loaded with 200 minutes and handed out at shelters and underpasses. Janice Truly, an EMIT volunteer, has handed out over 35 cellphones just this month. “The look on the face of the crazy person is priceless. You’ve got to show them how to use the phone. It’s helpful if there are numbers all ready stored in the memory.”
When asked about the homeless calling random people, Mr. Shaw laughed, “At first we erased the memory of the phone and only added the numbers of the other homeless. When none of the homeless could get a word in edgewise with each other, we just decided to leave the numbers on the used phones or program in local radio talk show phone numbers.”
When asked about how they hand out the phones, Mr. Shaw shared, “We’ve actually tried giving cell phones to some people talking to themselves only to realize the “crazy person” was wearing a Bluetooth ear piece.”
EMIT will re-charge and supply more minutes for any phone for free, but so far they have not had to. “Once the phones go dead, they just keep talking into them. They still seem happy.”
The Chop-Pick
I assume that your office is somewhat similar to mine at lunch time: if you need some accoutrement, like a packet of mustard or a spoon, you can never find what you need, but there are 7,000 other things like knives or packets of Taco Bell sauce.
In my office, it's forks. We have spoons and straws and mustard and toothpicks and small paper plates and soy sauce... but no forks. I tried using straws as chop sticks, but they are weak and slippery. I would sometimes use a toothpick to stab my lunch, but that doesn't work for noodles and I get food all over my fingers.
So the other day, I developed the Chop-Pick. Here's what you'll need:
Two straws and a toothpick with a square center
Squeeze down one end of the straw
Insert the squished end of the straw into the second straw and tamp it down until it is completley in the second straw
Poke the toothpick into the straw at a slight angle... I'm guessing this is about 15 degrees off plumb.
Shove it through 33% of the length
It's great for picking up both small and large chunks of food. The double straw gives amazing strength to the handle.
I assume it is good with noodles as you can twirl the straw and wrap them around the two tines.
And after you are done, it's great for picking the food out of those hard to reach places in your mouth!
In my office, it's forks. We have spoons and straws and mustard and toothpicks and small paper plates and soy sauce... but no forks. I tried using straws as chop sticks, but they are weak and slippery. I would sometimes use a toothpick to stab my lunch, but that doesn't work for noodles and I get food all over my fingers.
So the other day, I developed the Chop-Pick. Here's what you'll need:
Two straws and a toothpick with a square center
Squeeze down one end of the straw
Insert the squished end of the straw into the second straw and tamp it down until it is completley in the second straw
Poke the toothpick into the straw at a slight angle... I'm guessing this is about 15 degrees off plumb.
Shove it through 33% of the length
It's great for picking up both small and large chunks of food. The double straw gives amazing strength to the handle.
I assume it is good with noodles as you can twirl the straw and wrap them around the two tines.
And after you are done, it's great for picking the food out of those hard to reach places in your mouth!
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