Thirty days in sixty seconds

It seems that there's a recent trend where employers google prospective employees to determine whether they're nuts, which is part of why I don't post anymore. Of course, Google has probably cached my previous entries, so I think I'm screwed forevermore.

My iPod died again, but since I'm still under warranty they replaced it again (new name: Quaternion). The woman at the Genius Bar recommended that I ask to speak to a manager if this one goes down in the next three months; I was worried that I was jostling it too much or something, but she said that since Apple advertises the iPod as an "on the go" device, it's not my fault. I could buy a two-year extention to my service contract, but if this one goes south I'll get a Video.

My Xbox 360 died yesterday—luckily I still have a week on the six-month limited warranty, so they're sending me a box that I can use to ship it in for repairs. My computer doesn't handle the heat very well and is acting really screwy. My dishwasher stopped washing, so my landlord replaced it; in so doing, he disabled the ice maker in my fridge. We won't even talk about my car. Everything is falling apart around me; I stomped and kicked around for a while yesterday until I felt better.

Last week I bought a folding hammock and a Bowflex Sport. The hammock is really nice in my balcony's shade on hot afternoons, especially if it was too hot to sleep the night before—can you say "power nap"? The day I bought the Bowflex I got enough workout from dragging it into the house; the next day the workout came from putting the damn thing together. Yesterday I actually worked out.

Fred and I discovered the Taphouse Grill in Bellevue last week—160 beers on tap! I went twice, and I'm tracking beers on my membership card. We also went to the Seattle International Beerfest that the Taphouse sponsored at Seattle Center over the weekend; it was way more fun than the one in March.

Last week the other contractors and I got moved out of our cushy offices into a large cubicle bay. It's noisy and distracting and impersonal, and the AC is on WAY too high, especially since I've gone shiny-scalp again lately.

Heather was in town a couple of weeks ago and we all went to a ballgame. Fred, his cousin Andy, and I were stuck on the I-90 express lanes for an hour and only got to see about three innings, but it's not like I watch baseball when I go to a game, anyway. That's what we get for trying to get into Seattle when 520 is shut down for repairs and the Fremont Solstice Festival is going on.

OK, that was more than sixty seconds. Back to work.

My hands smell like lobster

...but only because that's the new Keg special. I swear that I'm an educated man, but I like crab better and it's a hell of a lot easier to get to the meat. Plus, I had both eyes and they were looking at me. I had to ask the waitress whether they were a delicacy—thank God she said "no," because I like sushi and shellfish and what have you, but there are limits.

I went to my sister Katie's high school graduation on Tuesday. To be honest, it was a vocational school graduation because she was scheduled to graduate last year. I'm conflicted. It was great that the graduation only had 30-odd members—the shortest graduation I've been to in my whole damn life—but I can't help but think that if we knew each other better there's no way she could have failed math. Some people are better than others, sure, but I am Tutor Extrodinaire—in any case, I could have helped her pass HIGH SCHOOL MATH. We're talking algebra, maybe geometry. I understand that people are different, but if I can help poor 4th-graders do algebra I can damn well help my sister.

It's all really a strange situation to begin with. My sisters are very family oriented, but I'm an only child and although I care at some level I just can't make eighteen years of neglect vanish. I can say and act like I'm ok with it...ok, new subject.

Anyway, Katie graduated and they had an extremely sweet half-cake/half-cherry cheesecake dessert that was somewhat worth the trip. At least it wasn't chocolate. My stepbrother's girlfriend looks amazingly similar to the "attached" waitress I'm lusting over at the Keg. I'm not sure that I've ever really "lusted;" maybe I should compare notes with Larry Flynt. I try to picture lifetimes with someone—ok, other things are involved—but that's always my focus. I'd turn it around if I could, but I'll never be any use at casual dating. Sorry, Cher, this boat has sailed, and that's not really your own hair, anyway.

I'm disturbed that Google's spellcheck didn't recognize "lusted;" who the hell runs the spellchecker in this place? It's like looking for the definition of "apple" on MSN search.

So, yeah

Yesterday was interesting. I saw a rainbow (briefly). A small black bird ran into me twice; I was wearing my black leather jacket—it might have thought that I was its mother. I had to stop my car for two Canadian geese with three goslings that were crossing the road. I finally started producing documentation at work instead of just learning. My first paycheck was direct-deposited into my checking account. I had my first taste of Johnny Walker Blue Label ($22/shot!). I bought seasons 1-6 of The West Wing.

Is this the pinnacle of my life?

I now work for Xbox, even if it's on a contract basis. I have a dev 360 on my desk that I can program against (very cool) and I can tell game companies how to write menu systems for their games, yet I come home to an empty house; I alleviate the loneliness by getting friendly with the Keg waitresses, but it's a poor substitute.

Jesus "Deforestation" Christ!

Can I hear an "Amen"? If you want to save the environment by ensuring that there are enough trees around to replenish the O2 we suck down, stop blaming my uncle and his lumberjack kin; instead, focus on the credit card companies that can't seem to interpret 20,000 rip-rip-recycles (from myself alone)!

I can tolerate the e-spam, mostly because I ignore my addresses that the spammers target. But enough with the "Do Not Dispose" and the half-visible "0% Downs"! Electronic spam just whittles away at my patience, but the credit card offers delivered to my mailbox remind me of the university pamphlets that USPS carted to my door by the wheelbarrow-load in 1994. Save a fucking tree and use some expendable bits; either way, I'm not going to take out more credit.

Fuck the vampires.