What is IBM Trying to Say Here?
I just saw something quite strange here at IBM, and I'm not sure what to make of it. I had to run over to the Rochester main IBM blue buildings to visit the credit Union. So, I was walking the labyrinth of hallways, making my way to the credit union, when I came upon a most unusual sight. There, bolted up against the wall, was a blue metal box with white lettering that read "Cyanide Antidote." Cyanide Antidote? I can understand the occasional fire extinguisher or first aid kit, but what necessitates a metal box loaded with cyanide antidote?
IBM Worker: Oh, my God! I've just ingested cyanide from an unknown source. Where's the cyanide antidote when I really need it!? Gaaghh! Argh!
Perhaps even more disturbing is the fact that the box was padlocked shut, so even if you were to ingest cyanide and find a box of antidote, you sure as hell better have the right key to open the padlock. I am most perplexed as to why there was a metal box of cyanide antidote bolted to the wall. If anyone reading this knows the answer, I would really like to know.
Some Self-Analysis
Okaaaaayyyy, I'm not sure what black cloud is hanging over Bloggervania today, but all the blogs I've visited seem to have a self-analysis theme where people try to justify why they think they're bad people. Does that make any sense? No? Tough shit.
I don't dabble in self-analysis very often, because it's almost always depressing. "I'm miserable today, and I think it's because my alcoholic fifth cousin, Melvin, whom I've never met, once sent me a bithday card when I was five but it arrived three weeks late. I've never been the same since, and I think that's why I'm single, with a big wart on my nose, and six fingers on both hands. I just can't get close to people, and I push them away, because I don't want them to find out the real me, the real me that sits in cemetaries each night looking for a fresh grave to unearth."
Here's my gripe. People sit and search for reasons why they're the way they are without doing a damn thing to change the things about themselves that irritate them, as if coming up with reasons justifies them being less than stellar human beings and they can go on their happy little way without putting any effort into changing. I could sit and come up with reasons all day long why I haven't reached my ideal employment status, but coming up with reasons really doesn't change anything, does it? Here's a novel thought, why don't I actually update my resume and start job searching rather than filling up my latest blog entry with reasons why I'm miserable? Shazam!
I know, I know, an unexamined life is not worth living, or some such smarmy tripe like that, but the fact is that, despite all the hardships people believe they've endured during their lives, they're ultimately responsible for who they are now. People that simply sit back picking through their childhood looking for reasons why they can't hold a job, or can't focus, or can't maintain a relationship, are just being lazy. Make a mental effort to change rather than throwing up a shield that protects your scared little world.
Easier said than done, I know. But most things worthwhile in life are.
It's Friday, and I'm Sore
Well, I made it to the end of yet another work week. Unfortunately, I feel as though I've been tumbling in a dryer all night. Why? Because I was stupid and decided to stay for two hours in my hapkido class last night. I guess the first hour wasn't too bad, but the second hour was a lot of kicking, 40 minutes of kicking, followed by 20 minutes of grappling. It was the grappling that did me in. I love to grapple, but by the end of 20 minutes, I was shot. Pooped. Exhausted. Almost threw up in the parking lot. Twas brutal. So, I'm pretty much insanely sore today.
I'm throwing out the dress code book here at IBM and I'm taking a risk. I'm wearing a goofy tee shirt that shows the bare torso of a very defined male body, both front and back. It always causes people to do a double-take, and I just felt like attracting attention to myself today. Hey, it's Friday. I need some entertainment.
Still haven't bought anything for Father's Day, and time is running out. Must think fatherly gifts. Any suggestions, world?
Yes, this post sucked and is devoid of humor, but I'm not entirely awake yet. Perhaps I'll post something of a more knee-slapping nature later.
Yet Another Lazy Post
Ryan says: I was just sitting out on the grass, soaking in the sun, writing an article. I'm going to miss this job if I'm laid off.
Mark G. says: blow me
Mark G. says: you have it made
Ryan says: Shlurrrrp.
Mark G. says: this is the first time in 8 months that I am actually behind on my work
Ryan says: I'm always behind on my work.
Mark G. says: I hate this
Mark G. says: you cant stop for a minute
Mark G. says: and I found out that I have to go to PA in a few weeks
Ryan says: What's in Pa?
Mark G. says: East coast
Mark G. says: the State
Ryan says: No shit.
Mark G. says: Pensylvania
Ryan says: I'll rephrase smartass. Why are you going to Pa?
Mark G. says: oh
Mark G. says: is that how you spell it?
Mark G. says: I have to go set up some systems
Ryan says: Pennsylvania. You missed an "n."
Mark G. says: ahhhh
Ryan says: So, you're actually bragging to me in the guise of bitching about your job.
Mark G. says: no
Mark G. says: not at all
Mark G. says: the trip should be ok
Mark G. says: today sucks
Ryan says: Man, I hate my job. They're sending me to Hawaii to test surf boards and a new woman attracting pheremone. This just sucks!!!
Mark G. says: LOL
Mark G. says: I will be meeting up with some people from IBM out there
Mark G. says: they will be helping with the setup
Mark G. says: or I will be helping
Mark G. says: however you wish to look at it
Ryan says: You can tell the IBMers right away. They're the ones with the protrudruding craniums and the knuckles dragging on the ground.
Mark G. says: LOL
Mark G. says: and no personality
Ryan says: "Me fix machines. Make them not do bad things."
Mark G. says: they just grunt and click
Ryan says: I did that in the bathroom today.
Mark G. says: your an IBM'r
Mark G. says: thats normal
Ryan says: I'm a VENDOR! Get it right or get the hell out.
Mark G. says: ooops
Mark G. says: sorry man
Mark G. says: didnt mean to hit a nerve
Ryan says: You're such a nerve hitter.
Mark G. says: must go back to work
Mark G. says: must fix computers
Hello, I'm. . .
I meet new people on a daily basis; it's the nature of the journalism profession that you meet new people, whether for interviews, or to verify something, and countless other reasons. I meet people by phone, by e-mail and of course in person. I do it without thinking about it, because it's part of my job, and I get paid for it. However. . .
Meeting people just for my own personal interest is an entirely different experience. I refer, of course, to meeting women who catch my wandering eye. I go through what amounts to a ritual (stopping before I sacrifice a chicken) before I saunter up to a potential female. Yesterday, for example, I decided it was time to introduce myself to the stunning vision I routinely see vivaciously slithering down the IBM hallways. She has one of those walks that has a magnetic effect on my groin. Anyway. . .
I studied up on Ms. X for about a month; finding out which office she's in, whether she's wearing a ring on the taboo finger (no ring), determining whether she's extremely involved or just slightly with a different guy to estimate my odds. Armed with this important information, I dropped by her office unexpectedly.
ME: Um, hi. I've, um, seen you around the building for awhile now and, um, I just thought I should stop by and, um, introduce myself. I'm Ryan. *extend hand*
MS X: *shaking hand* Oh, hi. It's nice to meet you. I'm Melanie.
ME: (Awesome, she has a name! We have something in common!) Hi, Melanie. It's nice to finally put a name with the your face (or stellar butt as the case may be). So, what do you do here at IBM (And how the hell did you get an office with a window while I work in a flourescent cavern?)? (Note to self: no pictures of boyfriend. No pictures of family either, so that's not saying much.)
MELANIE: *Explains what she does at IBM, while I do my best to maintain eye contact*
All told, my initial conversation with Melanie lasted about ten minutes, during which time I dutifully broke every rule of etiquette, including leaning on the door frame and putting my hands in my pockets.
The amazing thing is that I'm still this shaky about introducing myself to women even though I've done it countless times before. My first impression with the ladies must be sub-par at best. But, I can't just sit back and wait for fate to cause a jeep full of bikini clad models to break down outside my house, so I have to continue with this embarrasing introduction dance. It would be so much easier if the female gender simply had a light that flashed from the forehead every time they talk to a guy that interests them. My kingdom for a forehead flashing female!
Now I have to bide my time and get Melanie's phone number and ask her for a date. I hate this game.
Officemate On My Nerves
My officemate read my last post and she sat there and pointed out that I mentioned I was "sweaty" and "without a shirt" and "half naked" numerous times. She's right, of course, I did do that. Yes, I was sweaty. Yes, I was without a shirt. Yes, I was half naked. But, no, it was not my intent, as my officemate implied, that I was somehow augmenting my oft repeated phrase that I'm a "smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness." Rather, I was trying to explain why I didn't want to go ambling off on my own, strolling around Rochester wearing nothing but a ratty pair of denim shorts and sandles. Sheesh.
On a totally unrelated note, I strongly feel that I'm a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness.
More Random Thoughts
Okay, odd news simply is not odd enough for me to poke fun at today, and this deeply saddens me. Actually, I'm not saddened, but I am hurting for something to write about. So, if this sucks, I apologize.
So, I mowed the roomie's lawn yesterday after work, and I was quite pleased with the result. The result, of course, was a mowed lawn. At any rate, while I was mowing, my other roomie, Emily, stopped by briefly to change clothes. She came bounding out of the house about 10 minutes later, waved happily at me, and drove off to do whatever it is Emily does. I finished mowing the lawn, put away the mower, pulled some long grass from around trees and walked back to the house.
However, Emily had locked the door. And I didn't have a key. And none of the windows were open. For the second time in the nine months I've lived there, I found myself locked out of the house. So, there I stood, sweaty, without a shirt, no wallet, no keys with which to start my car. Just sweaty me locked out of the house. I made a mental note to give Emily no end of shit when next I saw her. I'm also planning on locking her out of the house when she least expects it, preferably when she's half naked and sweaty.
There was nothing I could do but skulk around outside the house and await the return of either Amy or Emily. I cared not which, so long as I regained entrance. For about an hour, I tried to find activities to keep me busy, such as playing darts in the garage, trying to figure out the Nordic Trak (which is really hard to do, by the way), and sitting on a lawn chair feeling very much like Forrest Gump.
Finally, Amy pulled into the driveway, and I started dancing happily. I have yet to see Emily again, but I have plans to de-short her when I do.
When Cars Become Prisons
I revere my father. Everything I do or accomplish, I put under the microscope of how proud my father is of me. My mother is the doting and caring yin to my father's stoic, silent, larger-than-life yang. And yet, every so often, my father does something that makes me question my unwavering reverence toward him.
After I picked my parents up from the airport on Friday, I drove them home and my father immediately began his annual routine of starting the vehicles that have sat dormant during their nine month absence in Tokyo. He got the truck started without a problem, but the cranky Buick had a dead battery, so I pulled my car up close to jump start his car. The jump went flawlessly, so I went into the house to chat with my mother, leaving my dad to putter around in the garage.
I talked with my mother for about five minutes, at which point I could have sworn I heard someone knock on the garage door, but my mother assured me it was probably just Dad working on the car. I shrugged it off and continued yapping with my mother and helping her unpack. After about 15 to 20 minutes, I poked my head into the garage to see what my father was up to.
What my father was up to, if you can believe it, was yelling and waving frantically from the passenger side of the Buick, sweat streaming down his face in the 90+ degree heat of the car. He was mad. Damned mad. I could tell this because spit was flying from his mouth as he waved me over to the vehicle. I asked him what was wrong, and he yelled, "What do you mean, 'What's wrong?' I'm locked in the car!"
Now, I didn't think such a thing was possible, and I found the situation to be hysterical, so I started laughing at my caged father, which only served to enrage him further.
"Stop laughing and get the extra keys and get me out of here!! It's hot as hell in here!!" he screamed, although it could barely be heard through the excellent Buick window seal.
I could barely walk into the house I was laughing so hard, and I had to call Mom over to see the ridiculous predicament Dad was in. She just stood in the doorway, silent at first, but then she started howling just as loud, if not louder, than me. She told me to get my camera, but by this time Dad was beside himself with anger, so I didn't want to push my luck. I unlocked the driver's side door and Dad came cruising out, gasping for cool air, and swearing more than I've ever heard him swear in his life.
"What kind of fucking design flaw is that?! The battery went dead and the doors just locked up on me. I was sitting there fucking screaming for 20 minutes! Couldn't you hear me?"
By this time, my sides were splitting with laughter. I seriously couldn't take it any more. But the more Dad went on his rant, the more Mom and I felt obligated to laugh at him. Dad's face got even more beet red when I showed him how to manually unlock the Buick doors from the inside. Just like all cars, there's no possible way to get locked inside. Granted, the manual locks were a little hidden, but the fact he thought he could actually get trapped inside a vehicle was absolutely ludicrous, and it just made me laugh at him all the harder. His agitated state was made even more comical by the sweat drenched shirt from his harrowing ordeal.
"This isn't funny," he screamed, although it was obvious he was starting to come to his senses and he saw the humor despite his waning rage. "What if the car had burst into flames? How was I supposed to get out of there?"
So, my father is human after all, and I guess this is good to know. Still, I was going to buy him a DVD player for father's day, but I'm not sure he's ready for such a technological advance. Certainly not if the concept of manual car locks escape him.
