Free Speech for the Dumb

I was in the back of a city car being driven to a drug test. This was my third time getting tested in about a year.

This meant that instead of doing my job, I was being taken to a building to pee in a cup to prove I wasn't smoking the jazz cigarettes, a process that could last up to two hours depending on the backlog.

It was evaluation season, and I was wondering how I was going to get everything finished and approved and signed in the next week or so, but couldn't get too worked up about it, because, honestly, for as much I might grumble about being taken away from my work, not doing evaluations and having an official excuse wasn't that bad.

Plus, the two HR guys driving me were acting as an unintentional comedy team.

"You're driving way too fast."

"I have to - you drive like an old lady."

"Maybe, but I'll get us there in one piece, and without a ticket. Who's gonna pay for that, anyway?"

The driver (who was going sort of fast, honestly. I mean, what's the rush?) was an old Florida cowboy type. I can't remember his name. Like the nerdy guy riding shotgun, they've both long retired. Let's call them Cowboy and the Nerd.

I wasn't paying too much attention, just hanging out in the backseat, looking down the river from the bridge, wondering how long this was going to take, and pondering what I'd get for lunch later when I heard Cowboy give his philosophy on the police.

"You know, they work for you, right? I mean, we're taxpayers," Cowboy said. The cops were also taxpayers and we were working for them also, but I wanted to see where Cowboy went with this.
"So anytime I get pulled over I just tell them whatever I want, like, 'how did you pass the physical to get on the force,' or 'Looks like you've been hitting the donuts too hard lately, buddy.' And they have to take it - they can't do anything to you. It's free speech."

"You really do that?" the Nerd asked.

"Oh yeah, everytime," replied the Cowboy. "Most of the time they're too shocked to do anything and just let me go. If they write me a ticket, I just ball it up in front of them and make fun of them. There's nothing they can do about it. It's in the Constitution."

Cowboy didn't sound like he was lying, and I'm not sure if he was or not. In any case, he believed what he was saying.

The Nerd was quiet after that, possibly trying to think of a rebuttal. I was in the back thinking, "You might be able to pull that off, Cowboy, but I'm gonna stay with my usual acting polite and still usually getting a ticket anyway plan."

And I've stuck with that plan ever since. According to a 20 second internet search, you can't get arrested (legally) for swearing at or flipping off a cop, so I'm assuming going all Don Rickles on an officer is similarly protected by our Founding Fathers. Needless to say, I'm not going to be the one to try it out, but if you do, please let me know your experiences.

Oh - and I totally passed my drug test, by the way.

The Man with X-Ray Eyes

"Looks like we got the Honeymoon Suite," said my co-worker.

"You're crazy," I replied. "It's just a nice hotel."

"Did you see the bathroom? It's see-through."

"First of all, that's a bad photo, and secondly, in what universe is a see-through bathroom sexy? You're insane," I said, resting my case.

My co-worker Matthew and I were rooming together at the American Library Association's annual conference in Washington, D.C. The W hotel was giving cheap rates, but that rate would be even cheaper with two thrifty guys sharing a room.

The week before the conference we'd crack jokes about the see-through bathroom, with me insisting that there was no such thing, and even if there was, no one would want a see-through bathroom anyway.

I arrived in D.C. first. I couldn't check in til afternoon, so I spent the day wandering through the Smithsonian. It was cool visiting alone because I could spend as much time as I wanted checking out certain things while ignoring boring stuff.

"Oh, the history of commercial aircraft? ZZZZZZZZZ. Hey, look! Spaceships and WWII planes!"

People had warned me about D.C.'s heat, but as a native Floridian, I didn't pay too much attention. Hell, I grew up in humidity and heat. Maybe I'd run a marathon up there just to show everyone.

They were right. August in D.C. is no joke. It didn't help that I was carrying around all my clothes in an overstuffed messenger bag like a homeless person.

So I was more than ready to check in to the W. And yeah, it's a super-nice place. Great bar up on the roof with a view of the Capitol Building so you can pretend you are in the beginning of an action movie, lots of amenities and ....holy crap. See-through bathrooms. Yep. There's a toilet, a shower, a sink, all out there in front of God and everyone.

Artist's Rendition.

Shit. Matthew was right.

By the time I was in high school, group showers were a thing of the past, which was just fine by me. In the years since I had seen more male anatomy than I cared to, thanks to tricks like Hanging Brain or the Minnesota Wristwatch . But these were parlor tricks performed by degenerates that an upstanding lady or gentleman could simply ignore. I was going to have to like, shower and use the bathroom in clear view of another human being for a whole three days.

I have a confession to make. While I am a fellow who appreciates occasional off-color or bawdy talk, I'm a total prude when it comes to bathroom matters. I close the bathroom door when I'm at home alone. That scene in Bridesmaids where everybody's all shitting in the street? Gross. The term "Brainfart?" Gross, and probably my most hated phrase.

I had no problem changing in front of another guy, or sleeping in the same bed with him, but having to sit on the toilet while he was a few feet away watching cable? I would rather run a marathon in the D.C. heat, provided I had a private place to shower afterwards.

"Well, I'll be damned.'" I said. "You were right." Looking at Matthew's face, I could tell that he didn't really want to be right.

Luckily, my roommate was as genteel and refined as myself, so throughout the three day conference we made elaborate plans to make sure the other was far away or deep asleep or roofied before showering or using the bathroom. Because we were very cultured, we never actually talked about this, we just sort of worked it out without resorting to anything as crass as communication.

We were able to survive the weekend, but the incident leaves me with questions. First, who thought that was a good idea? How many architects and designers and planners had to OK a clear bathroom? Were we really in the Honeymoon Suite? What new bride or groom wants to see that? Save some mystery, people. And more importantly, I wonder if the statute of limitations has run out on suing for emotional distress and how much can I ask for.

Money Folder

I'm not the greatest mathematician. If you've ever watched me try to calculate a tip or figure out how much longer a movie lasts, you'll soon realize that I'm basically functionally retarded when it comes to numbers.

I've had to do some calculatin' at work recently. In my last bit of mathmagic, I submitted an invoice requesting an order of 200,000 cards at $27.88 per thousand for a total of $5,576. Pay attention, this will be on the test.

As with many things work-related, this required dozens of signatures and different offices and forms and letters and holy crap I just fell asleep reliving all those forms I had to fill out.

About a week after I turned all this in I get a call from someone in City Hall. The numbers weren't right, which wasn't really surprising. She talked me through it and pointed out that the order I submitted actually came to $55,760, a sum that would never, ever, ever get approved.

I hung up and looked at my forms (always keep a copy!). I dunno, it looks like my numbers were right. 200,00 cards, $27.88 per thousand...that should come up to $5,576, right? Then again, just because I came up with the same answer twice doesn't really mean anything, so I asked some smart people and they came up with the same answer. So when City Hall called back this morning, I laid out my case.

It did not go well. Like a beloved comedy routine, we kept getting stuck in a loop, which I'll recreate for your pleasure:

City Hall: "So if you order 200,000, that would be $55,760."
Me:    "Right. But they're $27.88 per thousand. So you would multiply that by 200, right?"
CH:    "OK. $27.88 times 200,000"
Me:     "No. $27.88 will buy me 1000. To get 200,000, I would have to buy that 200 times."
CH:     "So multiply $27.88 by 200,000."
Me:     "No. Say I go into a store. I've got enough money to buy a thousand of these. But I want 200,00. So I'd multiply that by 200, right?"

After about 10 minutes of this, she hung up and said she'd call me back. While I was waiting for her call, I began to question my math. She was probably right. I mean, she works with numbers every day, and if I could do math, I'd probably have a different job. Why am I pestering that poor woman? Then she called back and said, "OK, so my math skills have disappeared." Then we worked through the requisition process like a team, which was nice, since she said I was driving her to drink on our first call.

I don't mean to make fun of City Hall lady, since anyone can have a brain slip-up or get so sure of something that we fail to see the facts. Hell, I do both constantly. But if you're ever in a situation where my math skills are what saves the day, that is a situation you do not want to be in.

Welcome to the Working Week

For a fundamentally lazy person, I've always gotten along fairly well in the working world. My first real job was bagging groceries, and I soon found that not only was it less work than I would be doing at home, but it was actually scheduled and I got paid for it. Granted, in those ancient times minimum wage was a couple of shiny nickles and a handful of hard candy, but that was enough to buy records and keep my car in gas.

For a relatively simple job, there seemed to be about a thousand different things to know. Was it OK to put dishwashing detergent in the same bag as sealed food? How full should I pack the bags? And I only took a few tests after the interview. Was I really qualified to start bagging so soon?

On my first day a woman had some candles that weren't priced. I had to find them and report the price to the cashier. This is called a "pricecheck" in the business. I speedwalked through the crowded store looking for the candle aisle. I never remembered seeing any candles when I went to the store with my parents. Jesus, how may aisles does this store have, anyway? You know, those candles looked like they should be about 3 bucks. Sure, let's say that. I made my way back to my cashier and confidently lied, "Three dollars," hoping she couldn't see that I was sweating.
"Three dollars? Did you find them on aisle three," she asked.
"Oh yeah. Isle three. Yep, that's where they are."
"They're 5 dollars. They're right over there in that bin," she pointed out with all the scorn a cashier can muster to a lowly bagger.
If she knew the answer, why would she let me lie to her like that? I made it a point to find another cashier to work with as soon as possible.

I also made a friend that day. Well, he made me, I guess. He was this little weaselly looking guy who kept talking to me while I was trying to concentrate on bagging and price checks and what the cashiers looked like naked.

Kids - here's a tip on the house. When you're a young adult, the first person you meet at a job, school, church group, or extracurricular activity is generally someone who has burned through everyone else and sees you as a way to start fresh. Try to stay away from them.

Not to say this guy didn't have his good qualities. Cleaning up one night he showed me his favorite trick. He took an apple from a display, took a hefty bite out of it, and returned it to the display, with the bite side on the inside.

"Check it out," he said. "Tomorrow some old lady will be reaching for an apple and she'll pull out this gross looking bit one."

I had to admit that was pretty funny.

Overall it was a pretty good job - old people slipped me tips, and whenever I needed time to myself, I could go out and gather carts, watching the bank clock turn over as I counted down the hours til quitting time. I'd daydream about how in a few short years I could promote to stockboy, then a manager, and then maybe run my own chain of stores. It would probably be a short hop from grocery store magnate to President, I'd imagine.

Every month we'd have a night where we had to stay late and clean. We'd take out all the eggs and milk and spray bleach water in the display cases to clean out the grossness, mop up, and prepare the shelves and floors for a crew to come in late at night to scour the place. It was kind of fun, mostly because we weren't dealing with customers, the managers would play classic rock over the PA system, and we could sneak cookies from the bakery. There were rumors that some managers allowed workers to make huge Scooby-Doo sandwiches from the deli, but that never happened while I was around.

Every once in a while, I'll get a whiff of bleach with an undertone of sour milk and be transported back to my high school grocery career. I can hear Bad Company, Foreigner, and the Guess Who and wonder why I gave up on my dreams of becoming a grocery store magnate.

Then I'll remember how bad that sour milk in the display cases actually smelled, and how getting off at 1 a.m. really kinda sucked, and I'm kind of glad I left the world of groceries behind.

Sheer Heart Attack

I was in the back of an ambulance as a Florida State fan/paramedic tried to convince me that Bobby Bowden was the greatest college football coach ever.

My theories, that Bowden was a secret Klan member* and played in a wussy conference went unspoken, mostly because I didn't want the guy to put an air bubble in my IV. This is not how I thought my first official work physical would end up.

Things had started promisingly. I had a brand new library degree, I was freshly married, and I was living in Gainesville applying for jobs all over the country. Applying for real jobs was a new experience. With the exception of my job writing press releases for UF (which was really more of a starter real job), my previous job interviews went like this:
"Can you lift at least 30 pounds?"
"Can you work weekends?"
"Welcome aboard."

These interviews were a bit more intensive (although strangely they still asked those two questions). Most of them never made it past the phone interview, but I had my spiel down by now. This might have helped me land a job in the magical seaport town of Jacksonville.

Sure, I had to pass a physical, but that would be easy. I guess. When I thought about it, I realized I hadn't really had a physical since high school for track, which was pretty lackadaisical. What if they missed something back then? Or what if I had developed some sort of cancer in the years since? Not only will they not hire me, but I'll have to deal with the cancer. And I'm sure all these libraries talk - they'll tell everyone else I'm interviewing with and I'll end up homeless and cancer-ridden.
With these fears running through my head, I got up early and drove the hour or so to Jacksonville to get my health measured.

I had to have a hearing test first. That was pretty easy, mostly because I totally cheated. They lock you in this little closet and you hit a button each time you hear a beep come through a pair of headphones. What they didn't realize, however, was that if a patient were to crane his neck a bit, he could see a light flash each time a beep went off, no matter how faint the beep actually sounded.

After I convinced the doctors that I had super hearing, the real physical began. I had to pee in a cup and give some of my precious blood and was still doing OK. Then I had to take my pants off. The doc gave me that hernia check thing, which I think is probably just made up so they can play around down there and I started feeling funny.

Doc takes my heartbeat a couple of times, looks sort of puzzled and takes my pulse again. It was sort of like in Return of the Living Dead when the paramedics didn't want to tell the workers that they were technically dead.

"Call the ER."

Wait, what?

"Mr. Adams, you have an erratic heartbeat and your pulse is extremely slow. You might be having a heart attack."

"There's no way I'm having a heart attack. My pulse is slow because I'm all lightheaded. I pass out at doctors all the time. Then I wake up and everything's fine.Trust me, I've been through this before."

Doc was having none of it, and the next thing I know, I'm in the back of the ambulance while Cletus yaks about the genius of St. Bobby. I guess I probably could have just walked out of the office, but I was all dizzy and didn't think of that.

So I hang out in the hospital most of the day, even though my chart said "chest pains," which I always thought was like the golden ticket to hospital service. Possibly my chart that said "no insurance" cancelled that out.

It was pointed out that my heart was skipping beats and this could lead to serious problems down the road. This scared me enough that I didn't want to eat the wings that my father-in-law bought when he picked me up from the hospital.

It took a month or so for me to get an appointment with a doctor that insurance would pay for. In that time I quit drinking caffeine, which fixed my heart's beat so that it was as steady as ... I dunno, Buddy Rich. I was still a little nervous about the whole thing, so I asked him, "Hey, is there anything I should do or eat to help my heart?"

"Eh, don't worry about it," he said. "You'll be fine."

Of course, my doctor at the time had the physique of a beach ball, so I didn't really trust his dietary advice, but it made for nice justification when I would eat half a pizza for dinner.

Later I got a bill for $2,000, including $500 for an ambulance ride that I have since determined was about two miles long.

Upon reading the bill, I had a real heart attack and promptly died.




* I have no idea why I used to think that. I didn't really believe it or anything, but I would mutter it occasionally at the TV when I saw his stupid face on the sidelines. I'm sure Mr. Bowden is a wonderful, honorable man, and has friends from a wide variety of races and creeds.

Casual Racism Fridays

A few weeks ago I'm at a training session at work. I'm waiting in line to sign the roster to get the all-important training credit (9 hours more to go!) and I'm talking to a co-worker who is behind me in line. I get distracted, probably looking inside to see if there would be cookies and somehow she snaked my place in line.

"Hey, how'd you get in front of me?"

"I'm crafty like that," she replied.

Without missing a beat, or even looking up, the woman manning the roster said, "All Chinese are crafty."

Now, ignoring the fact that the coworker I was talking to is blonde and blue-eyed, sort of the anti-Chinese, what does that even mean? Was she referring to the Coca-Cola thing? Because that has been thoroughly discredited. I mean, I'm sure at one point in history a Chinese person put some "pee-pee" in a Coke for humorous effect, but the vast majority of Chinese people frown on such hijinks and do not find urine in soft drinks to be funny at all.

But I don't think she was referring to that. I don't even know if she was referring to anything in particular. Maybe it's like that word association game, and "Chinese" is paired up with "crafty" in her mind. Or maybe she just has to tell the world her opinion about Chinese people for whatever reason.

I'd say that it bothered me all through the training session, but if I'm being honest, I was really more upset that we didn't get cookies.

Now, of course, I think I'm going to try to test her. Next time she's around, I'll mention specific countries and see if I get a response. I'll be sure to report back.

Person of the Year, 2013

Many were in the running for the Goo Goo Muck's coveted Person of the Year. Perhaps that new Pope? The President or First Lady? A posthumous award for Nelson Mandela? Or any number of scientists, artists, athletes, or businesspeople who inspired, challenged, or led us this past year? The guy who played Billy Jack (R.I.P?)

All worthy choices. But they all share one disqualifying characteristic. They all did something.

This year's hero is John C. Beale, EPA official, and work-avoider extraordinaire.

While you were calling in to work with your "food poisoning" or "stomach bug," Beale convinced his bosses that he was a CIA agent undertaking secret missions and didn't show up for months. During the time Beale wasn't slaving for The Man, he "spent much of the time... at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod."

Beale was pulling in over 200 grand, which would make lesser men give up the grift and focus on doing a good job. Beale, however, realized those people are suckers.

Plus, once you have your supervisors convinced that you work for the CIA, it's kind of hard to dial back.

My previous working hero was Steven Slater, that flight steward who cussed out his plane, took some beers, flipped the double bird, and slid off the plane on the inflatable slide. But while Slater was a hero for expressing our frustration, Beale is a hero for pulling off the most audacious work-related scam ever. Sure, he's going to jail, but anyone who can pull off a scam like that deserves our respect, if only for the pure outrageousness.

How did it start? How did he convince himself that his bosses would buy his CIA story? How did that first meeting go? Was he nervous? Confident? Ready to pull the "Hey, I'm just joking, I'll get back to work now" card?

Hopefully he will stand up at the close of his trial and give us a breakdown of the entire escapade,  inspiring a nation in desperate need of heroes.

He spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod.
Read more at http://wonkette.com/536714/scammy-epa-climate-science-guy-was-basically-george-costanza#tPwZp9DMpb20tZtU.99

He spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod.
Read more at http://wonkette.com/536714/scammy-epa-climate-science-guy-was-basically-george-costanza#tPwZp9DMpb20tZtU.99

He spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod.
Read more at http://wonkette.com/536714/scammy-epa-climate-science-guy-was-basically-george-costanza#tPwZp9DMpb20tZtU.99

He spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod.
Read more at http://wonkette.com/536714/scammy-epa-climate-science-guy-was-basically-george-costanza#tPwZp9DMpb20tZtU.99spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod

He spent much of the time he was purportedly working for the CIA at his Northern Virginia home riding bikes, doing housework and reading books, or at a vacation house on Cape Cod.
Read more at http://wonkette.com/536714/scammy-epa-climate-science-guy-was-basically-george-costanza#tPwZp9DMpb20tZtU.9

Here in My Car

I do a lot of outreach as part of my job. It's actually pretty fun. I go to health fairs and retirement homes and senior centers and tell people about the talking books program and whatever events we're doing that month.

I also do a radio show every Tuesday morning. It's only for blind people who have a special receiver, so it's not like any of my friends can hear me, which sort of sucks, but it does give me a funny little chip on my shoulder I never tire of using.

I'll stop to talk to a co-worker for a while on my way out to the radio station. Then I get to end the conversation by saying something like, "Well, that's nice, but I'm going to go read to blind people. I'm sure what you're doing is important, too."

I don't get invited to many work parties any more.

Even cooler than the fact that I get to read to blind people on the radio, and thus get assured a place in Heaven, I get to use the city car at least once a week.

Walking through the parking garage looking for my assigned car, I feel like James Bond, if James Bond had to drive a Ford Taurus station wagon.

I drive the car so much that it's usually in the same space every time I go to get it; in fact, I get sort of pissed if someone else has used it in between trips and has moved it or adjusted the seat or mirrors. "This is MY assigned secret agent car! Don't be messing with my ejector seats!"

Years ago I had a work-study job where I delivered campus mail in a minivan. It was a three hour job that I had figured out how to do in about 20 minutes. I'd use the remaining time to take the minivan to the record store, help people move, or sometimes just drive home for a much-needed nap.

I don't do that with the city car, because now I am old and responsible and afraid of getting in trouble. They would probably take away my license to kill, and I can't have that at my age.

So I drive the speed limit, obey all the traffic laws and use my turn signals (hey, I'm not an animal), and secretly pretend I'm on a mission to track down a turncoat government agent. Sure, it's childish and kinda stupid, but I think I've sort of earned that right.

After all, I read to blind people.

A Horrifying Glimpse Into the Future

Back at the old Main Library we had a number of regular downtown residents we encountered on a regular basis. Some we liked, some we tolerated, and some you went on a break and tricked someone else into covering the desk when you saw them.

Kinks Guy was a little of all three. He was a short, stumpy guy with a sunburned face and a big beard who was obviously homeless, and even more obviously, a little off.

He got his name because he would constantly come up to the desk and ask for printouts of '60s groups. He must have asked for the Kinks a lot for the name to stick.

He would go to each floor on the library getting as many printouts as he could, then end up on our floor, the Arts Department, which became a second home. He always wanted information on '60s musicians, which was easy enough to find for him, even if we had a sneaking suspicion he wasn't really reading all those Allmusic.com pages he would glance at then stick in his Santa Claus-sized trash bag.

He quickly went through the major '60s bands, and would ask for more obscure psychedelic groups, usually muttering snippets of criticism while we searched.

"Rable rable "Forever Changes" was clearly influenced by Spanish music along with the brilliant wordplay of Arthur Lee," he'd mutter, while we gave him his allotted three pages.

"You know you can only get three pages a day, right?"

"Mumble mumble mumble The Who's early stage shows were influenced by auto-destructive art. The Incredible String Band was a major bridge between folk and psychedelia. The Kinks' British whimsey mumble mumble mumble."

Kinks guy scared me.

Not that I thought he was dangerous or anything. He scared me because listening to his spiel reminded me of stuff I had said when drinking with friends or writing record reviews, just from different decades.

Who was this guy? A fellow reviewer who went off the deep end? A rabid music fan who ingested too many chemicals during the music's heyday?

Whoever he was, I saw a potential future in him. Was I doomed to follow in his footsteps? Would I show up at a public library sometime in the late 21st century muttering to the employees about music from my heyday?

"Argle argle The Wedding Present's guitar tone was totally influenced by the Smiths. The Jesus Lizard had an amazing rhythm section that combined with David Yow's stage antics for one of the best live bands ever. Tar had aluminum guitars. The Mummies dressed in mummy costumes. Homina homina."

Kinks Guy eventually got kicked out for some sort of infraction, but the memory of him still haunts me. I figure I have another good 10 years or so before I'm jabbering about Man or Astroman or the Minutemen somewhere before I'm led away to be roommates with Kinks Guy.

I guess that's just the price you pay for promo CDs and getting on the guest list.

Hanging on the Telephone

Part of my job involves talking to old people and service providers on the phone. This might seem funny to those of you who have talked to me on the phone and heard me doze off after about three minutes or have waited on me to return a call, sort of knowing in the back of your head that it ain't never gonna happen.

But I'm professional and courteous, and get called "Hon" a lot.

One morning I helped one of our customers with his account. This happens fairly regularly - people want to change the frequency of the mailings, or change one of their selections, or want to re-listen to something they had years ago.

After the usual small talk, we get into it.

"Well, I'm looking to see which ones of the Jedi series I've read before. I know I'm about halfway through with one series and WOULD YOU KEEP IT DOWN, YOU BITCH? I'M ON THE DAMN PHONE!"

I was pretty sure this previously nice old man wasn't talking to me, but something had obviously tripped this switch over to Hyde mode.

I don't like being around people getting yelled or yelling. It always reminds me of being at a friend's house as a kid while they got in trouble and you just had to sort of sit there and act like you're not hearing anything. On the funny side, when he screamed, he sounded remarkably like the angry dad  in the D.R.I. thrash classic "Mad Man."

"Just a second, please. I TOLD YOU I'M ON THE DAMN PHONE! WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? So, I think I finished all that New Republic stuff, but I can't remember. Could you see what I've read?"

"Uh...yeah...uh..certainly. It looks like you did finish most of  --"

"YOU GOT ENOUGH MANURE IN YOU TO FERTILIZE ALL OF KANSAS! YEAH, YOU KNOW IT ALL, SURE YOU DO! Say, do you have "Dune" on digital yet or is it still only on tape?"

This went on for a few more minutes, him screaming at some unknown person, returning to me as a nice old man, me looking up book series for him, and neither one of us acknowledging the screaming. Should I say something? Should I ask if he needed help? These are were all great options running through my head as I ignored the yelling and finished the call.

I found out later that I did the right thing by ignoring the problem - he's been calling for years and almost always gets into it with whoever he's sharing a house with. As always, my strategy of ignoring problems and having good telephone skills continue to work like a charm.

Mama Said There'd be Days Like These

You know those mornings when you wake up and can already tell that it would be better if you went back to sleep, took a pass on the day and just tried again the next day? I had one of those Thursday.

I don't know what I was doing in my sleep the night before, but I woke up tired, not the best way to start things off. But who cares! I was only working half a day because I was finally getting a doctor to take a look at my ankle. I'd be home in time to take a nap in the afternoon. Yeah, have fun at work, suckers.

The day started with mandatory training about employee/management relations. I was daydreaming about going home early when the trainer mentioned that supervisors need to pretend to care about employees, even if they don't, or something like that. I have always ruled my departments with a firm, yet gentle hand, so I felt I didn't need to pay attention at that point, until I noticed she was looking at me.

Crap.

If there's one thing I hate about training, it's group activities or having to talk. Why can't it be like the old days when someone talked and we just took notes or doodled until the class was over?

"What's your name?"

Aw, man.

"Uh...I'm Scott."

"Hello, Scott. And do you have any hobbies?"

What? I thought this was supposed to be about managing. When did this turn into an inquisition? Hobbies? Geez, I don't know. And I don't really want to share anything with my co-workers. I don't know why, but I always feel strange about letting non-friends know about my interests and activities.

"Uh..uh..um, no. No."

"Oh, come on, I'm sure you have something you like doing."

"No. No, not really."

Everyone was laughing. This happens a lot, usually in situations like this when I'm not trying to be funny.

"He rides his bike," said the teen librarian.

This led to more questions about bike riding and if I went out the previous weekend and it was terrible and crappy and it felt like an intervention or something and why can't I just sit here quietly? Funny, I have no problem speaking in front of crowds, which I do at least twice a week, but ask me about my personal life and you're gonna get a whole bunch of this:

After that terribleness, it was doctor time. Insurance switched my doctor to a place closer to my house, which was nice. The day can be salvaged after all. I fill out the paperwork, and notice that the place is pretty swank looking. Then I go in the bathroom and notice this:

I realize this is a crappy photo, but I wanted to prove that I wasn't making this up.

The author asks for $20 for 20 minutes. I thought it was funny that they wrote "asshole" and scratched that out to rewrite the less offensive "butthole." Hey, kids might see it. I felt a little apprehensive that my new doctor's restroom resembled a truck stop, but when I got out some CNN health show was talking about Roky Erickson and mental health, so that took my mind off the fact that my new doctor catered to perverts.

I didn't get a chance to watch too much when I was called back. I got weighed, which proved that, yes, four weeks of almost no exercise and a diet designed by Henry VIII and a kid allowed to buy whatever they want at the store will make you fat.

Then I waited about 3 years for the doctor to show up. 

The doctor was younger than me and sort of brusque, not even commenting on the long, grey beard I had grown while waiting. He asked me about my habits and medical history after I told him about the ankle, but it seemed like he didn't really believe me.

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Do you smoke?"

Hey, John Grisham, I've never smoked. And if I did and was trying to hide it, you think you asking it twice would trip me up? This is when I started to think my new doctor was kind of a dick.

"Well, I'd like to go ahead and give you a full physical today."

When I get terrible or anxiety-triggering news, I have a tendency to lose the ability to speak.

"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. No. I thought we were just looking at my foot?"

"I think we need a full physical first." 

"Whu? Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah dah oh ah ah ah n..n..no. No. No. I just had one. Last year. Everyeveryevery Everything's fine. Just want to get the foot looked at."

You can't just drop that on somebody. I need time to get prepared for a physical. I came in with a hurt foot, I didn't plan on getting naked today. He seemed even more brusque after that, probably because he wanted to see my pee-pee, then sent me to get x-rays and come back to his house of horrors.

He came back after another 7 years and said that it looked like tendon damage and he would refer me to a podiatrist.

"So, is that bad?"

"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."

"Is there anything I should be doing for it?"

"I'm referring you to a podiatrist."

Fine, be a dick, see if I care. I asked him another medical question that I had mentioned to the receptionist when making the appointment.

"I thought we were just looking at your foot."

Jeez, this guy was really upset about not being able to make me pass out. I guess I'd be upset, too, if I had perverts advertising their services on my bathroom walls. Anyway, he gave me a prescription and wanted to do blood work.

"How does blood work have anything to do with my tendon?"

"It can show overall blahblahblah and underlying blahblahblah and I really just want to poke you with needles."

"Yeah, maybe next time. I'll get a physical this year, I promise."

It was too late for a nap when I got out of there. I did get some cool x-rays, though - check 'em out:

There's gotta be something I can do with this for Halloween.

Next time I wake up tired, I'm calling, and getting back under the covers. Nothing good can come of a day like that. I've learned my lesson.

If I Strip For You Will You Strip for Me?

I'm biking to work Tuesday, cruising down the Riverwalk and just digging the water and sky and thinking how much better life is without sitting in a car every day when for some reason the story of the disintegrating shoes sticks in my head.

When I started working at the library I dressed up - tie, nice pants, the whole deal. It was my first real job and it felt like the thing to do; a real coming into adulthood. Sure, I could have dressed more casually, but I liked feeling professional, like I wasn't a college student who could get away with wearing shorts to work anymore.

I wore my one pair of nice black shoes every day. I don't know when I got them, maybe my parents bought them for me, but I know I hadn't worn them in years - once in a while for a wedding or job interview, but they mostly lived in the closet.

One day while helping a patron, I noticed my gait was a little off. I also noticed black chunks of something or other all over the library. Not being that bright, I didn't think much of it. As I walked out to lunch I noticed I was definitely wobbling.

I don't know what material Stacy Adams uses for the bottom of their dress shoes, but the Florida humidity had slowly dissolved it, and after years of fighting against the climate, the soles of my shoes were finally giving up the fight, leaving big chunks everywhere I walked.

I made it through the rest of day on my wobbly shoes, then finally threw them out when I got home

"That was pretty funny," I was thinking, as I made my way into work. "Luckily those days are behind me and I don't have to deal with those sorts of problems anymore."

About two hours later I'm at the radio station. "This chair feels funny," I think. But I continue with my broadcast because I am a professional. Sort of like Dr. Johnny Fever to the county's blind radio listening residents. Walking to the car later it's almost like I can feel the breeze on the back of my legs. Weird. I guess that's just the feeling of good radio.

Hey, wait a minute.

That's when I discovered a sizeable hole right at ass level. I had noticed a smaller hole in the back pocket from my huge public servant wallet rubbing against it a few months earlier, but didn't do anything about because I'm cheap and lazy and it wasn't too noticeable. But this hole must have just sprung up. Right? I mean, how long could I have had my ass hanging out like this? Did they see at the radio station? At work?

A pin-up nobody wants to see

Luckily, I was able to go home and get another pair of pants before being arrested for public sexiness.

I learned a couple of things from Tuesday's incident. One, as soon as you think you have everything all figured out, that's when you need to watch out. And secondly, if you even think your clothes are getting worn out, donate them immediately.

Old Folks at Home

I have a new job.

Well, not a totally new job; I'm still at the library, but I'm back downtown again, down in the basement, just like the creepy uncle the family doesn't talk about. I work with blind and deaf people, most of whom are old.

Old people seem to like me. Kids, too. I'm not exactly sure why. On one of my site visits last week a woman said, "That was a nice young man" as I left. I am 42.

Substitute Bart with a middle-aged man, and you have a picture of my job.

I do a lot of outreach - going out to senior centers (sort of like day care for old people), retirement homes, and health fairs talking about the services YOU'RE PAYING FOR WITH YOUR TAX DOLLARS.

The senior centers and retirement homes are a mixed lot - sometimes they're sort of depressing, sometimes I can't wait to turn old and get in there. The last senior center I visited had a wide-screen TV and Wii, along with a dog park and vegetable garden. I was ready to sign up. Some are less fancy, but all of them have something interesting; one had a huge bird cage, some have pretty awesome aquariums, and they all have TVs. I don't know how they decide what gets played, but the stereotypes are true - they do watch "Matlock."

But not as much as "The Price is Right," which is almost always on when I show up.

And yes, they really do love their Bingo. I usually go on right after a game, while they're all excited. I was going to try to sneak as many photos of Bingo games or paraphernalia I could get away with and start a Tumblr. Then I thought that would be too much work, so the thought passed.

The stereotypes are true.

I haven't had any bad experiences yet, even if the field of old people isn't as organized as you might think. A couple of months ago I showed up a few minutes early to my appointment and had the following conversation with an activities director:

"Hi, I have an appointment at 11."

"Oh. I didn't think you'd show up today."

"Yeah, well...wait, why not?"

"A lot of people break appointments after they're added on the calendar which upsets the residents, and I assumed you wouldn't show up, so I took them to the gym already."

"But...I'm here...now..."
 
Not only do I get to talk to old people, I have a regular radio show for the blind (unfortunately, you need a special radio to get it, so it's not like my friends can listen to me or anything) and have been thrown uncomfortably on public access television. I am dominating free old people media!

The job has eased my mind a bit about getting old. For years I've been terrified of it, mostly because I've done a terrible job of planning for the future and have no family, so I had visions of being stuck in the cheapie retirement home where disinterested nurses would ignore me. "But...I was on blind people radio and wrote funny stuff on the internet," I'd mumble, as they plugged into their ibrain to sext their significant others.

That still freaks me out but it's not as big a concern. There's a whole network of people and services out there, and there's still a chance that I'll hit the big money jackpot somehow so I can live out my golden years in the style in which I deserve.

I also think occasionally about that clip that made the rounds on Facebook a while back. Old people with dementia were played music from their youth. Once they heard the music, they started talking and responding, even if they had been non-communicative for months.

Of course, that's fairly easy now, today's old people only had one song growing up, Glenn Miller's "In the Mood." Just like how Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth" was the official song of the Vietnam war.

So years from now, some well meaning social worker will queue up "Life is a Highway" or "2 Legit 2 Quit" for me, waiting for my dramatic turnaround, when all I do is retreat deeper into my cranky, uncommunicative shell.

Must...Not...Make...Comment

Co-worker talking about strawberry cake:
"I eat everything but the pink stuff."

The Toughest Butterfly Collector in the World

Even though I spent a good amount of time half-assing and wandering around campus, I loved writing press releases for the University of Florida. I'm naturally curious, and love to hear people's stories, so listening to professors tell me the details of their work was fascinating. Plus, meeting and talking to people so wrapped up in the details of some small area of study could be inspiring. Sure, it might mean nothing to 98 percent of the world, but feeling this person's excitement over whatever crazy research they dedicated their lives to was pretty cool.

Like the butterfly expert. Before retiring he had saved and reintroduced a species of butterfly back into South Florida after Hurricane Andrew, which was pretty impressive. I mean, have you ever saved an entire species of anything? The interview went well, I had more than enough information to write a good two page release that would probably be picked up by the wire services, and he was a likeable guy. Wrapping the interview up, I asked one of those throwaway questions, like "what have you been doing recently."

"Well, there was the time I fought an alligator," he said, totally deadpan.

"Well, yeah, of course you're gonna - Wait! What?"

"I was in a swamp gathering specimens when this alligator came and grabbed me between the legs," he said, in a tone that you or I would use for relating how we went to the store earlier or raked the yard or something. "I knew that I was a goner if he dragged me down, so I started punching him in the nose, and eventually he lost his grip and swam away."

I must have sat there for a couple seconds with my mouth open. Butterfly guy totally punched an alligator in the face!

"So what are you doing now," I asked, after gaining my composure.

"Oh, just waiting around for death," Butterfly guy replied.

I'm sure he kicked Death's ass also.

Reading Is FUNdamental

Sure, I could try to dredge up some story from my past in the hopes of either getting some laffs or connecting emotionally with you. Possibly you've been through the same experiences, felt the same emotions and we can relate on a deeper level. That would be magical.

But it's a lot easier to show some pictures of other people's work and make fun of them. These are all real books I've come across the last week or so at work. Stop by and check them out!




It's what Dom would have wanted.



This book is over 200 pages long. I think I could cover the topic in less than half that.


Who knew Grady from "Sandford and Son" had a starring role in such a sexy book? Good for him! *



I jokingly call several of my close female friends crazy cat ladies. After seeing this book, I no longer feel they qualify.


* Actually, this whole story was an excuse to run more photos of "Sanford and Son" cast members, since "Aunt Esther Sanford and Son" remains the site's highest search term. So here's a picture of Grady.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn

Sometimes my timing can be excellent. Last month I booked a trip to New York, sort of on the spur of the moment. I was lonely and bored in Jacksonville, and figured I knew a lot of people up there, so why not.

If you've followed my foolishness at all, you'll be familiar with my theory of how a weekend of hanging with friends and eating and drinking like a Roman emperor will jolt me out of whatever crappiness happens to be dragging me down at the moment.

For the most part, I’ve been doing OK recently. Sure, I have my problems, but nothing I’m really losing sleep over. This last week has been pretty stressful, though. It climaxed with the news yesterday that I will soon be taking a pretty substantial pay cut and having to repay some back pay, through no mistake of my own.

While it is novel to actually have a problem that can’t be directly linked back to some stupid action or character flaw of mine, that doesn’t isn’t really helping me feel any less poor and stressed.

But you know what? Screw it. I’ve got a credit card and a ticket to New York City. Sure, I’ll be coming home to minimum wage, but getting this news right before I leave will only make this visit that much more epic, even if nothing at all happens.

My vacation history is littered with pain, destruction and chaos. Will I injure any elderly French pedestrians this time? Get in a riot? Who knows? Thanks to work, I'm up for anything this weekend.

More Celebrity Sightings

Security Guard: "I've been thinking all night about who you look like."

Me: "Aw, crap."

Security Guard: "No, no, you look like that dude in The Hangover."

Not sure which one he's talking about, but I guess it's better than Nathan Lane.

Even Jack Chick is Feeling the Recsssion

Because of the rain, I've had to drive to work the past two Saturdays. This always sort of throws me off my game, as my daily bike ride to work depletes my dangerously full reserves of crazy.

On both of these Saturdays I get out of work, ready for some maxin' and relaxin.' As I'm walking to my car I notice something tucked under my windshield wiper.

"Sonofabitch! There's no way I can get a ticket! Weekends are free downtown! That's the one perk city employees still get!"

Oh wait. They weren't tickets after all. Looks like some sort of note. Crap. I'll bet someone hit my car and drove off. Then again, what if somehow Lynda Carter and Debbie Harry left a note telling me how sexy I was and how they were waiting for me at my house? This would require them having access to a time machine, as I'm strictly thinking of both of them circa 1977 or so. I'm not sure where they would get a time machine, but you know, they're famous and everything, and they seem nice enough that they'd want to use this new technology to help out a creepy middle-aged man explore his pre-pubescent fantasies.

Wait, what were we talking about?



Praying always in your Most Holy Faith




Then you open it up and there's a little picture of an American flag/Bible, while explosions light up the words. Not bad. I'm thinking this was inspired by the local 4th of July festivities.




The next week's was on cardboard, and simply has the American flag/Bible with "The Lord" in big ol' script.

While this anonymous artist has a bright, airy style, I feel they still need a little work. I suggest a study of mid-period Jack Chick.

I Have a Signature Sound

The boss was talking to someone close to my little cubicle.

Boss: "Scotty's around,* right?"

Me: "Yeah, why, were you guys gonna talk about some lady stuff again?"

Boss: "No, I just knew you were there because I could hear your sound."

Me: "My sound?"

Boss: "Yeah, you have this weird sound you make. Sort of a combination between a sigh and a sniff."

Me: "Really? I never noticed."

Boss: "Yeah, you might want to see an allergist about that."

So now I'm the guy who creeps around work sniffing and sighing. I think I'm only days away from being the dude in Office Space who is obsessed with his stapler.




*Again, I have no idea how I got the nickname Scotty at work.