The Circle of Life; The Cycle of Crap

Life is cyclical. For every reaction, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every yin, there is a yang. Often all we do is just shuffle stuff from one spot to another. It’s all some sort of karmic balance. You give to get.

So I come home one day to find a flyer in my mailbox. It seems someone on the street thinks it will be a good idea to have a garage sale. I think this is a horrible idea. It’s an odd phenomenon, garage sales. Who had the audacity to look at all their junk and go, “You know, I betcha my neighbors will pay me for some of this crap.”

This to me just sounds eerie. I mean, if I had to, I would much rather buy stuff from someone I didn’t know. I would feel kinda strange buying something from my neighbor. I don’t know why I get caught up in this sort of stuff. Like I will be suspect when I see what crap my neighbor is hawking. I mean, if it’s not good enough for him, what makes me think its good enough for me? “Geez, if my neighbor Mike is selling this 10 lb. dumbbell, there must be something wrong with it! Maybe it’s only 9.8 lbs.” I don’t know about you, but the thought of buying clothes at garage sales is kind of, well, icky for lack of a better word. What happens if they then get jealous seeing me wear their old clothes around the ‘hood? “Damn, that Kev sure knows how to rock my old velour track suit.” This is too much pressure for me.

Yes, I know this is a great opportunity to get rid of a lot of stuff we don’t use. But is it efficient? I mean so we have to waste a whole night picking out shit we don’t want/need in the hopes one of our neighbors is gullible enough to snap it up? And even if we do sell anything, will the profit of 3.47 justify the time and effort it took? I think not.

This is one example where I blame reality TV. It’s gone through fads; bike building, poker, wedding cakes, little people and now we have something called American Pickers. I haven’t really watched the show too much, but it’s basically about these 2 guys who go and swindle…uh buy old shit from people who don’t know its true value. For example, they see a rusting metal sign and buy it for $20, and it gets appraised for something ridiculous like $500. Now in this economy, I want to meet the tool that has 500 to blow on a shitty sign. Great, so now I have a sign that has some sort of assigned value, WTF am I going to do with it? Hint; you’ll put it in the damn garage with the rest of your stupid shit. So now everyone thinks they will find a diamond in the rough. Everyone thinks they are going to find that long lost Renoir painting in the crazy cat lady’s shed. Get real.

Do people go to these things with lists? Is there something really specific they are looking for? If so, that is a pretty poor way to shop. I really think people go with the mentality of, “lemme see what I can buy that I would never normally buy new.”

Yea, I have a ton of old shit I don’t use in my garage; so does everyone else. That’s what garages are for. I think there is some sort of long standing ordinance in my township that says so. In fact, a quick cursory look around my garage reveals all kinds of candidates. Who needs a 42 quart fryer? Because I at one time apparently did. Boxing gloves, every garage sale always has boxing gloves. And bowling balls. I also have some sort of component to a Sony stereo that I am sure is outdated by now. I see a half inflated palm tree. I have an empty keg.( And yes, it was a killer party.) I think my neighbors will see how little I think of them and their tastes when I try to push all this shit on them. “Hey, Lou, you need a half used can of teal spray paint?”

So I am doing what any self-respecting man would do. I am getting the hell out of Dodge for the day. I’ll stick the wife with the responsibility of hawking my shit that I would be too embarrassed to myself. She can sell my hard hat that holds 2 beer cans. She can sell my wrestling ‘action figures’. I’ll dust off all my old Nerf guns and wipe the rat poop of the electric racing set. Ha, that’ll teach her for wanting to participate.

My street will be littered with picnic tables and card tables, all holding the SWDW (shit we don’t want). CD holders, shoe trees, glasses from Burger King. Out of fashion blouses, worn shoes, dignity, ugly lamps. I hope the Google Map car doesn’t pick tomorrow to drive down my street.

The irony is that soon enough, anything you buy will slowly morph back into ‘junk’. That popcorn popper you bought will reside in the spot where you kept the never used funnel cake kit. Yin and yang. In and out.

We all know how the deal works; most of this shit will either be left out all night, or put out on the next trash day. If you play the waiting game, you will be rewarded.

This was one of those rare, rare occasions where I was pretty wrong about the whole deal. My guess of grossing 3 dollars was way off. Good lord, people will buy anything if it’s cheap enough. That electric race set netted us five big ones. Of all things, it turns out the Nerf guns were most popular. T tells me kids were snapping them up. After realizing we had the hot commodity, we of course jacked the price up. Even as she was wrapping up, a mom and teary eyed son appeared at our door. “I’m sorry to bother you, and I normally don’t do this sort of thing,” she tells T, “but my husband and son were just here and he bought a Nerf gun. Now my youngest one wants one, too. Do you have any left over?” We just so happened to have some left over, and being big hearted and all, T didn’t even jack up the price like I would have done. My biggest fear is that all the neighborhood snots are going to be running around and assaulting me with my own weapons.

My guess is my street will be doing this again next year. My guess is it will be all the same shit that was out before; just on someone else’s table. My guess is I will be spending the week in my garage signing baseballs as Babe Ruth and that player who was on steroids. Not, not that one, the other one. Now if you’ll excuse me, its trash night and I’ve got some work to do.

The Characters You Meet at Indie Rock Shows

Being the grizzled and respected music critic I am, I have been to literally thousands of shows; rock, pop, country, acoustic and Swedish yodeling. As I was at yet another indie rock show last night, something dawned on me. Goddamn, these people all look familiar. As I scanned over all the shows I’ve been to, I’ve realized there are the same people at every show. Not literally the same people, of course, but the same kinds of stereotypes of people at shows. And if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s the stereotypes can unite us all.

With that in mind, I began compiling a list of these characters. And while the title implies indie shows, the fact of the matter is these stereotypes are at every show. Perhaps you’ve seen them, and never realized it. Perhaps you are one of them and didn’t know it. Perhaps I am using the word ‘perhaps’ too much. Perhaps.

What follows is a quick list of such characters. Surely, it’s not complete, but my appointment with the Swedish massage girl awaits, and we al know how that ends.

The Crazy Hat Guy

Telltale Signs: um, the crazy hat.

Behavior: Crazy Hat Guy comes to be seen. The hat is usually some variation of the typical Stetson/10 gallon hat. Maybe it’s because he thinks since the band is from the West, by wearing a cowboy hat, he will somehow establish some sort of quiet camaraderie with the band. Even though the band is from Seattle. Crazy hats can also include the lighter, straw variation; great for outdoor shows. Note; sideways caps and mandanas do NOT count.

CHG will worm his way to the front of the stage in order to get someone in the band to wear his crazy hat. The band will usually oblige. Little does CHG realize that traveling musicians have notoriously bad hygiene. Along with the hat back, he will also get lice and ringworm. He just never learns.

The Coterie

Telltale sign: The coterie is made up of a pack of older women. Most are typically spotted at the shows of bands that had one mainstream hit ten years ago, and have still managed to put out a respectable body of work since then. The number in the coterie varies. They typically ‘dress to impress’, as this is their big night out with ‘the girls from college’. What better way to drink top shelf drinks and reminisce about ‘the old days’? There is usually one large woman (as is the rule in packs such as this), although the rest typically have bingo arms.

Behavior: The coterie is looking to recapture the magic of their college years when the band played their school ‘like every two months’. Sure, while they are hanging with all the girls from Hammond dorms, they try to dress a grade better. And by that I mean ten pounds of monkey crap in five pound bags. These outfits may have looked hot ten years ago, but the only thing screaming more than the singer is their seams. They often take pictures of themselves by the side of the stage as the band is playing. When the band gets to their one hit, they dance like tipsy monkeys. While the Coterie is happy to be at the show, the only ones happier are their husbands getting a fucking quiet night at home.

The Diehard

Telltale signs: The Diehard wears a shirt that says Northwest Tour 2007; thought the band clearly didn’t hit the Northwest till 2009. You can tell he wears the shirt all the time, even though this show is the only “cool” place to wear it. Think about it; do Insane Clown Posse shirts look cool anywhere outside of an ICP show? No, they don’t. It’s not like you need Vanity Fair to tell you that. Chances are his email address and handle on message boards is an obscure song title.

Behavior: Diehards know all the words to ALL the songs, even the obscure ones. The Diehard typically further reveals his devotion in the following exchange. The singer will say something to the effect of, “Well, you guys have been such a great crowd tonight, we’re gonna play a song we never play. In fact, we only played it once; 9 years ago at Artie Feinstein’s bar mitzvah.” The Diehard will raise his hands and yell, “YYEEAHHH!!” And somehow, the Diehard will know all the words and makes sure everyone near him is aware he knows all the words.

The Ben Folds Guy

Telltale signs: He looks like Ben Folds (duh), his head is too big for his hair, and his glasses tightly cling to his face. Usually dresses like Ben. However, during the summer, acceptable clothing is a ringer t and the ugliest plaid cargos you could ever imagine.

Behavior: The BFG is more noteworthy for observational purposes rather than outright behavior. He will typically be off in a dark corner. But he is at EVERY show. Gangster rap, blues, Russian throat singing, karaoke night. I have personally seen this guy at everything from Ozzfest to a blues concert in Borders. Not much is known about the Ben Folds Guy outside of this.

The Broskis

Telltale signs: Much like the coterie, the Broskis travel in packs. They are easily discerned by their caps, collar shirts and obnoxious behavior. Often seen raising shots at random moments.

Behavior: Obnoxious. I often wonder why they go to shows, just to drink overpriced shots and get in people’s way? Like BFG, they seem to be at every damn show; unsubstantiated reports have even placed them at Lilith Fair. Their MO seems to just wander into a club and get trashed. They often demonstrate little to no familiarity with the band playing. Tend to give manhugs and high fives as the evening wears on.

The Old Guy

Telltale signs: Grey hair if any, glasses, cold, wrinkled, expressionless face.

Behavior: Generally harmless, if a bit creepy. He seems to be there for the music, but appears out of place. Maybe he’s just checking in on his daughter. In which case, she said she was 18, OK?

The Handsies

Telltale signs: Their hands are always in the air, responding to the vocals. For example, if the singer is singing “goodbye” the Handsies will wave goodbye. If the singer is singing about the sun, the Handsies will raise their hands up in the air. Their interpretations of other actions are both astounding and worrisome. They will also try to grab any band member if they dare loom too close to the edge of the stage.

Behavior: It’s like a twisted call and response. Their arms will shoot up in the air at the slightest provocation. You don’t want to stand near the Handsies as they will spill your drinks without remorse. While this looks cool from the stage, it’s as annoying as fuck if you’re next to them. Avoid them, as their actions border on attention whoring. Let the Old Guy deal with their shit.

The Yellers

Telltale signs: Um, all their yelling.

Behavior: They have what scientists have recently termed ‘concert Tourettes’. All the yellers do is yell requests. From the first song to the last, there is always another song they want to hear. Yellers can be anywhere; front row to last row on the balcony. Yellers have a bit of the Diehard in them, as they feel the more obscure their requests, the better of a fan they are. Yellers are annoying and often yell for a song the band just played while they were in the bathroom. Yellers are the bane of bands’ existence. Like the Handsies, the Yellers are to be avoided.

The Drunk Girl

Telltale signs: You really need me to spell this out for you?

Behavior: As in life, Drunk Girls come in two varieties; benign and annoying as fuck. Benign Girls are generally well contained, not sloppy and not obnoxious. They are just there for a show, some Miller Lites and to have a good time. AAF Girls, on the other hand, are whole ‘nother ballgame. They get polluted on girly mixed drinks and proceed to make asses of themselves and detract from the show. They stumble. They dance and careen into other people. They sing made up lyrics and yell out during slow songs. Their overloaded purses swing as they text their BFF Ashley what song she just heard. OMFG! AAFGs feel compelled to try and dance on stage. The AAFs will be the ones covered in their own vomit by the time the lights come up. At least I hope that’s their own vomit.

By no means is this list complete. And that is where you come in. Feel free to add your own Characters.

My Buddy

(OK, right at the top; this is a dog post. If you are not a dog owner, feel free to pass on this one. I have a bunch of other entertaining Klogs you might want to read. 2009 was a particularly good year.)

And the good news, the very good news, is that I finally got a job. And that is reason for much celebration, and removal of several things from eBay. While I could go on about the exuberating, the fact of the matter is happy Klogs are rather boring Klogs. I know my audience prefers my usual pissy, bitter, sarcastic, dark, pessimistic stuff. Happiness is boring, so I will spare you that.

Now that unemployment will soon be a thing of the past, it’s time to put the whole experience in some sort of perspective. There are PLENTY of things I will not miss about this unemployed life. I will not miss the unending money woes. I will not miss the stress unemployment puts on just about every aspect of life and relationships. I will not miss the constant mental anguish it causes; the nightmares and pervasive negative thoughts and self image. (Is this Klog dark enough yet?) I will not miss the emails from Monster, CareerBuilder, etc, all pushing the same lousy damn jobs. I will not miss the hours trolling other websites for decent gigs. I will not miss the constant sending out of resumes to jobs I could really care less about.

And to be fair, there are some things I actually will miss. In a bizarre way, I will miss the thrice daily airings of the Maury show. Those rednecks always make me feel better about myself. I will miss that hot chick that used to do afternoons on the now defunct Gems TV. I will miss the free time that I used to write reviews and Klogs. I will miss the dayloads. Boy o boy will I miss that unemployment stereotype. I will miss that feeling I get every afternoon to take a nap, and actually TAKE the damn nap. That might be a hard habit to break. But above all of this, I will miss one thing far more than any of the above.

I will miss my buddy.

Over this three year nightmare, Bauer has been a constant. He’s always been there for me. He was more than happy to get his belly scratched and ears rubbed. I know he enjoys that sort of thing, and in a way non dog owners don’t understand, it was probably better for me. When I wanted to cry or scream, Bauer was always there to give me a chance to calm down.

Whenever it felt like my little world was crashing down; when the four walls were closing in, a bit of time with the dog did me a world of good. While my moods wildly swung from hour to hour, a bit of Bauer time always, always worked to calm me down. Bauer just has a way to chill me out, so I wasn’t a raving fucking lunatic when my wife came home.

Sure, it wasn’t always easy; there were times when he drove me nuts. He would bark and yip to go outside like someone left him a well done steak on the front yard. So I would go down and put him on the tether. By the time I returned upstairs, and just as my ass was to hit the chair, he would immediately bark and yip to come back in like there was a well done steak on the living room floor. Silly dog, he knows if there is any well done steak around here, it’s mine.

Some days all he does is whine; whine to go out, whine to come in, whine to play. I’ll hear the clicks of his nails on the hardwood floor come up to the steps. He will keep his rear paws on the floor, and stretch up three steps to try to get my attention. I will slide the chair over, and just see the top of his knucklehead over the step.

When I need the break, I will go down and play with Bauer for 10-15 minutes. When I stop and head back to the grind, Bau will follow me to the steps with the toy in his mouth. As I start to go up (Bau knows he is not allowed on the top floor of the house), he will loudly drop the toy. Sometimes it’s a sorrowful sound, as if to say, “Aw, c’mon, man, I still wanna play.” That breaks my heart. Other times it’s an angry “Well, FUCK you then.”

He loves the outside. As I write this, he’s been outside in the front yard for seriously 3-4 hours. He’s a sun pup. On the hottest of days, he is happy to lie on the black top driveway. He does what we call the dead dog. If you passed by, he is literally so relaxed and still, you’d think he was dead. He will often refuse to move when T tries to pull into the driveway. There are times I will let him out front, and sit down on the stoop. Bau will sit, and scoot his hips over till he’s leaning on me. I will put my arm around and pet him as he raises one paw. It’s moments like these that totally chill me out and calm me down. I would totally sell this picture to MasterCard for use in their Priceless promotions. Using a fine Samsung digital camera of course.

He has a sudden tendency to bark at, well, nothing really. Often I will hear him rouse from his sleep, dash up the steps, and run to the bay window barking his head off. And he’s totally failed me when it’s come to holding up his end of the bargain. I have literally hundreds of hours of him on video; none of which can win me $10,000 on America’s Funniest Videos.

He’s always there, wanting to go for a walk and get me away from the PC and these four walls. I’ve done my best to spoil him now that the weather is nice. We’re off in our own little world. We go on long walks that probably chill me out as much as it does him. There’s a simple joy seeing him bop around the neighborhood, just thrilled to be outside. Sometimes it really is that simple. I’ve started taking him to the dog park as well, where there are all kinds of sights and smells to investigate.

He knows what to do to get me to cheer up. Sit next to me, offer up the belly, etc. Hell, one day I went down, and he had a box of donuts. I don’t know where he got them from, but they were all Boston crèmes, and I wasn’t asking any questions.

And I feel bad. I will really miss those times. I wonder if it will really make any impact on him at all. I won’t feel too bad, in a few weeks, T will have off for the summer, and I am sure will spoil him. After she does my laundry and cooks my dinner of course.

But I will miss my buddy.

The Write Stuff

“Do you like mysteries?”

The voice greeting me upon my entrance belongs to a woman more than twice my age. It belongs to an author doing a signing at Barnes and Noble. No one is there for her, and she has to hock her book literally one by one. And this makes me think, “Do I really want to be a writer?”

I just felt so sad for this woman. Here she is, clearly well past retirement age, gallantly pushing her book in some bumblefuck B&N. Good lord, could that ever be me? How would I hock my book? “Hi, do you like short, mildly humorous essays about such various topics as unemployment, Hallowmas and the Maury Povich show? I use the word ‘fuck ‘ a lot. O, I’m sorry, I didn’t see your three year old there.”

I mean, I feel bad for her. I am pretty sure she wasn’t expecting a mad rush of people, but, still. I can kind of sympathize with her; no one’s asked me to sign a single damn copy of my Wildwood story. Heartless motherfuckers. My list of people to piss on when I mysteriously have a ton of money and power grows daily.

It’s an illusion that just because you get a book published, you have it ‘made’. For every Steven King and Janet Evanovich, there are folks like this geriatric slaving away with no money or recognition. I blame people like John Grogan. Grogan wrote Marley & Me. Before he wrote that book, he was a columnist. I read some of his early stuff, and it bounded between the sappy to feebly humorous. Marley is by far his best work, and one of my top 5 books of all time. Maybe when I read a sixth book, that will change. Since then, Marley has turned into a cottage industry for Grogan. There’s a whole line of Marley books out now. I can’t begrudge him. But, all because of just one book, he can live comfortably the rest of his life. And isn’t that what we all want?

But is this really the life I want? I mean, if millions of people want to read about Fred Hadayia and Mandy Moore peeing (by far, the 2 Klogs that drive people here), well then maybe I should expand those topics. Perhaps a Roger and Me like search for the illusive Fred. Maybe tales of chasing down Mandy’s husband, Ryan Adams, outside one of his gigs and cornering him. “C’mon, Ryan, I am sure you’ve seen her shit, too.”

Any bookstore is filled with thousands of books by ‘normal people’, books that never make their money back, books that no one reads. It’s frighteningly like the music biz. It’s not that I want to write a book; I don’t. But I am on the eve of submitting another piece to the same Wildwood paper that might get published. (Yes, this should be another Klog, but there’s only so much multi-tasking I can do, a’ight?) And even if I did write a book, what the hell would it be about?

I can’t imagine writing a book. That’s got to be incredibly tough. And, to be clear, by book, I mean a real deal book. Not some vanity book, written by such literary heavyweights as Jenny McCarthy and Monica Lewinsky. But if I did write a book, what could it possibly be about? Below are the only topics I feel I know enough about to maybe fill a whole book:

Unemployed and not bleeding

How I kept my organs off of eBay

All the people who didn’t hire me are racists

Things you can make with dog hair

The occasional alcoholic

Hockey is for men, baseball is for fairies

Reviews of 500 albums you’ve never heard of

Places I got into because I look like the signer from Nickelback

But who am I to judge? I am a poor reader at best. The older you get, the harder it is to find good books that have lots of pictures. Is it my fault I am a visual guy? I have no appreciation for the literary ‘giants’. Haven’t we given this Shakespeare guy enough play already? Kindles and Nooks and iPads are great and all, but if you’re using those to read Chaucer, clearly, you don’t deserve the technology. I mean, let’s focus on some writers who don’t wear questionable dress. I personally nominate Uncle John from the oft ignored Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader series. That guy makes me laugh. And he doesn’t use the king’s fucking English.

Sneaker Shopping

For reasons I’d rather not get into, I recently spent a night looking at sneakers. Because nothing screams excitement quite like this. On a Friday night. I made a few observations. Are they Klog-worthy? I guess we’ll have to find out. Because no one has ever written anything funny about sneaker shopping. Least of all me.

Coming from a marketing background within an industry built on image and lies (i.e. the music biz) I think my BS meter is strong. Now I’m not gonna go all Old Man Theory here with stories of the ‘old days’. But let’s just say I have an older, far more out of touch brother. And he’s told me stories. I will edit out his continual use of the term “back in my day”. When he was a kid, shopping for sneakers consisted of a trip to Marshalls, Woolworths or some shitty 5 & 10. Sneakers were barely more than a few pieces of canvas super glued to a piece of rubber. There were no different sneakers for running, basketball, hiking, etc. And, according to my brother, everyone was fine. No one bitched. Well, I guess times have changed.

Upon walking into Finish Line or Foot Locker or whatever bullshit, I was greeted by dozens and dozens of sneakers. There were scant rubber soles that were all the rage in my brother’s time. Instead, now every shoe seems to have some sort of special bell or whistle that will enable you to be the premier athlete of your chosen sport. Technology over talent.

Chief among these is Reebok’s new, heavily advertised Zigtech. If you haven’t seen this monstrosity, consider yourself lucky. Essentially, it looks like you’re running atop a dissected brain. There’s eye catching signage boasting how the ‘unique’ design distributes energy, makes you run faster, protects your joints and clears up that mysterious rash on your torso. There is a wide selection in plenty of garish colors. I really think there is a secret coterie of sneaker designers that get together, come up with the lamest idea of a new ‘technology’ that will make you run faster than Ben Johnson on steroids.

Another new rage is this line of sneakers that promote posture, leg strength and toning. The only problem is they make you look like you have club feet. And how many people who have a club foot also have a smoking ass? Exactly. Essentially, the sole is rounded, not flat. So I suppose it promotes fitness by the lingering risk of falling on your ass.

It’s apparent now that all the great technological change has been coming from the sole area. In fact, it seems difficult to find a sneaker with an old fashioned rubber sole. Nowadays, it seems every sneak has some sort of pump/spring/cushion configuration. Here the hype is all about the shoe being more ‘responsive’. Huh? When they made sneakers that are responsive enough to get my lazy ass to run a quarter mile, lemme know. The thought here is that these things will cushion, as well as make you jump higher and run farther. Are we really so fat these days, our sneakers need hydraulics? Really, I think it’s to make fitness tools look even dorkier.

I believe there is some sort of federal statute that requires every municipality to have a “running guy”. You know who I’m talking about. It can be 110 degrees, and there’s “running guy” happily huffing down Main Street. When the news does a remote spot from your town during the annual storm of the century coverage, who is that running in just thermals? Yup, “running guy”. Running guy can also be spotted by his ill fitting (and usually neon) running attire.

A lot of these shoes are just plain God ugly. Who the hell puts orange with yellow? Or wears neon green with bright blue?

Honestly, I don’t know that any of these doo dads do what they proclaim. But I am reasonably sure there are millions of idiots who believe the claims. The same idiots who super size their meals, then compensate by getting a large Diet Coke.

All this progress comes with a fairly hefty price. The Zigtechs cost 100 bones, the club footers even more. My brother would regale me with some old jingle about something called Bo-bos. “They cost a buck 49, “he says, “Bo-bos, they make your feet feel fine.” Is it too much to ask to go to a store, not get my feet fondled by some chode in a ref shirt, and get a decent pair of sneaks for like 40 bucks?

I don’t need to look like a baller. It seems every basketball player has some sort of endorsement, and 12 styles of shoes. Does this count as ‘bling’? Will I gain valuable street cred by wearing the shoes of someone I don’t even know? Is the right pair of baller kicks the difference between, say Snooki and J Woww?

None of this is helped by the fact I have big feet. I am really not that far away from just tying a random shoebox around my boats. Maybe some of those wide neon laces from the 80s would help my cause as well. Looks like I will be buying another pair of Chucks.

Spokeo Scam

Have you figured out this whole Spokeo thing is a scam by now? It’s brilliant marketing, for sure. In case you have actual friends that live real lives free of their iPhones and PCs, here’s the deal. Over the last few days, word and outrage arose over the most vaunted and respectable of places; Facebook. Within milliseconds, my FB page was plastered with status updates advising me of the evil that is Spokeo.

Spokeo is a website that contains personal information. Say there’s someone you want to track down; an old college roomie, an ex, that hot movie star who is in love with you and sadly doesn’t even know it yet. You put in their name and location, and eventually pinpoint the exact person down. From there, you are privy to a whole host of personal information; income, spouse, value of house, personal fetishes, etc. Surely, the availability of such info is invasive and shocking. How they get a hold of and release such info is another matter. A matter that will require something called ‘research’, and that is something your dear Klogger is not willing to fucking do on a Saturday afternoon. Let some other hack deal with that whole bee’s nest. However, I will contend of their description of my house as ‘ramshachkle lean-to’, but have no qualm with my job title of ‘unemployed naredewell’.

Spokeo hatched a brilliant marketing plan, and the gullible lunkheads on FB all fell for it. Again, forgoing this ‘research’ thing, here is my take on how this hatched. However Spokeo is created, it’s created. An employee who works for Spokeo puts that infamous status on their page, and, voila, it spreads like Nazi Chicks for Jesse James. Now, let’s be honest here. As soon as you saw that status pop up, what was the first thing you did? Did you rush to said site and get your info off of there? No.

You went to the site and entered all your friends info to get the dirt on them.

Don’t even tell me you didn’t, I know you did. And so Spokeo used FB to generate millions of cheap hits. You all fell for it, hook, line and sinker. Think I’m wrong about their marketing plan? Consider this; before all this hoopla, did you even know of the site? No, no one did. So if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound? If there’s a site and no one knows about it, does anyone really care? No and no. But, now, everyone knows.

Of course I ran my own info through it (don’t tell me you didn’t run yourself either, egomaniac). And here’s the kicker; my info is wrong! Not only is it wrong, but it’s wrong in a good way. Spokeo has my house drastically over valued. It has my Lifestyles and Interests comically wrong. According to them, I read comic books. I also read children’s books. Huh? I enjoy cruises, even though I’ve never been on one. I research stocks, bonds and investments. Quite frankly, I look far more adult and happening on Spokeo than in real life. Hell if I’m gonna take that info off. Let all my legions of ex-girlfriends look me up and see that shit. Now who made the mistake, Pam? Fuck you, I enjoy wine, food and gardening now.

So don’t be so hasty. I am sure the more literate among you can figure out ways to make yourself look better, wealthier and smarter on the site, so have at it. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is Wikipedia is made up.

Irish Proverbs

Since I haven't done any Bullshit Facts lately, I thought on this most holy and sacred day, to put up Bullshit Irish Proverbs. In the interest of scoring cheap Google hits, I didn't put 'bullshit' in the title. But I think they are true, anyway. It's not like I can make this stuff up....

The Irish don’t “black out” we take “wee naps” to recharge

Man I call best friend is the man who pays my tab

The ladies pop their gladdies when the lassies shake their assies

A shot of Jamison adds an inch

A shot of Tullamore adds a cup size

No matter how much we drink, U2 still blows

The only worse offense than drinking green beer is spilling green beer

Alcoholism is a made up disease; like depression and homosexuality

Scottsmen do wear skirts

Get the Mexicans outta here. Their holiday is 2 months away

Cabbage regenerates the liver

May the bottom of your glass come before the empty of your wallet

Guinness is the fuel of the world

You can tell the Irish bar stools by how good they look from underneath

July 4th is just another day

There be three levels of intoxication; drunk, FUBAR and MacGowan

Getting a kiss from a redhead is getting a kiss from God

May the wind rise to keep the vomit out of your hair

May you be a half hour in bed before the bartender realizes you skipped out on your tab

Hangovers are God’s way of letting you know you had a good time

Beer is an ugly man’s best friend

May the road rise to meet you as you fall to the gutter

Put silk on a goat, and it is still a goat. Ditto your wife

Sobriety always thwarts drunkenness

Marry a mountain girl, and you marry the whole mountain. Kinky

A bored man is not a drinking man

Better you plow a field by day than plow into a field at night

May your son marry a beautiful fair skinned redhead; my your daughter marry someone far more manly than that girly lad Michael Flatley

A bar that does not have at least two Irish brews on tap is a bar no one goes to

Are you looking at me? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME?

The Wildwood Story; Sun By the "C"

The time is almost upon me. My first foray into the world of literary…literariness is just about to be unleashed upon the masses. I will spare you the agony of rewriting and reediting the “piece” (as us authors like to call these things. Kind of like how directors call movies “pictures”.) Upon reading it aloud (something that sounds really fey, but actually works) and poring over it for the 50^th fucking time, there is always something that can be done over/better/away with. I can only liken it to the agony of a parent debating what to name their first child. If you fuck it up, you are screwed for life. And who knows if I will ever be ‘published’ again, so this may very well be my only shot, so I better not fuck it up. And this is also why we don’t have kids, because I’d want to name it Supreme Being. Boy or girl.

OK, so I guess I lied about sparing you, my bad.

Anywhoo, I will remind you of the Charlie Brown analogy I used in a previous Wildwood Story post. Now, the ball is teed up and I am approaching. My article will be online the first weekend of March, with the print version following the next week. I start to run to the ball. On Saturday, I check the site, and sure enough, the first paragraph of my story is on the front page. Only 4 stories make the front, and mine is good enough (or least sucky, depending how you look at it). Wow, this is wicked cool. Sure, all of my stuff up to this point has been online, but this is a new and wider audience. I am now full speed, ready to kick the winning field goal at the Super Bowl. Even that skank Lucy has a look of sour acceptance on her face.

I have a superstition. I really don’t want to read it online. For some motarded reason, I think that is bad luck. Yea, I know, don’t ask me why, I just do. But it’s OK to peek. I click to just scan the article. Foot just about to make contact with the footba….

I click my story, only to see another story pop up in its’ place. YOINK! Lucy pulls the ball out at the last possible moment, prompting a cartoon like head over heels swirl as I crash into the ground.

You have got to be kidding me. I get this far, only to have the wrong story pop up? Just my damned luck. “It’s OK, Charlie Brown,” Lucy tells me, “you can try again. I promise I won’t take the ball away this time.” I dust myself off, and wonder how GD loaded I must be to be hallucinating Lucy.

OK, this is a minor, albeit it totally unforeseen, setback. After all this is the internet, and can easily be fixed. I track down my story within the website. I start to approach the ball again. The article opens up. There’s my title! I am gonna kick the ever loving shit out of this ball now. There’s my na…

YOINK! With the accuracy and precision only a spiteful broad can have, Lucy pulls the ball away again.

Kecvin. My GD name is spelled wrong.

Kecvin.

Really? Seriously? Kecvin?

In reality, it’s an easy mistake to make, the c key is right next to the v key. Just one simple slip of the finger and my name is spelled wrong. I am lying on the ground after another cartoon worthy tumble. Lucy comes up to me, laughing with ball in hand. Then she kicks me right in the nuts. I realize now this is an analogy; Lucy is really life kicking me in the nuts.

Did I really just a say a cartoon character is an analogy for life? I don’t know what I’m smoking, but I want some.

My immediate worry now is that my name is misspelled in the print version as well. Again, the Net is an easy fix, print not so much. I am sure there is only one run of the paper, and that’s it, I’m signing autographs as ‘Kecvin’. OK, that’s a lie. I’m signing autographs ‘Supreme Being’.

I reluctantly email the editor of these glaring omissions. When they are fixed, I’ll put the link up so you can baste in all my literary badassedness.

The Wildwood Story; I Oughta Be in Pictures

“I would like to use a picture as well.” A bit surprised, I say, “Uh…I will have to check.” As my story nears daylight, this is the editor talking. “Yes, I always like to use pictures in the stories. Do you have any from when you were here as a kid?” I know I don’t, and I highly doubt any of my sisters have any pictures of me during those fabled Wildwood weekends. Which, I am actually OK with.

As you peruse my FB site, you will, for the most part, notice a lack of pictures. It never fails to astound me that some people have over a thousand fucking pictures on their FB account. I don’t think I’ve even been in a 1000 pictures in the last 10 years. Hell, I’m only in four in my wedding album, and that’s just because I was pulling a ‘that guy’ in the background. The fact of the matter is that this Wildwood story is striking at one of my neurosis.

I don’t like myself. No, not in some haughty taughty, self help section Borders dweller type of way. I am OK with the broken mess I am these days. I am actually very hyper-critical about how I look. Yes, I know, I can hear you saying, “But, Kev, you usually look like shit. Or hungover. In fact, when I think of underemployed loser, the face I see is yours.” Looking back now, maybe that’s why I’ve always favored my ‘caveman’ look. Grow hair from every possible place to cover all the flaws. (These days, apparently I have a lot of flaws in my nose and ears.)

I am not thrilled with this prospect. I have been diligent over the last few months asking my family if they have any pics of me from that era. I guess they all knew I was ugly back then, because no one has any. Truth of the matter is I would actually prefer a picture from that era. At least readers could say, “Geez, I sure hope he got better looking when he grew up.”

The paper will even take a current day picture of me in Wildwood. Problem again here is that I don’t have any. I took a bunch from this trip as well as the first time we took Bauer down there. It’s a shame the paper won’t take a picture of Bau whizzing on the beach, ‘cause I got like ten of those shots.

It appears the only solution is to go down to Wildwood to take a new picture. And while I may groan at the 2+ hour trip down to take just one picture, I am actually excited about having a real reason to see the beach again. As much as I would enjoy it, I am also freaking out. Because I know there is no humanly possible way I could ever be happy with any picture. There’s just so many things I would/could hate.

First of all, I would have to look presentable. And the freaking beach in February doesn’t exactly lend itself to summer attire. And I wouldn’t want to wear something too uptight, nor too casual. Christ, this is way too tough for me. I’m going to have to be Madonna and bring like 10 ‘ensembles’ down just to be happy. Can you say high maintenance?

I would freak about my hair. Not that I have as much as I used (or want) to. But an ill wind can make a barely passable hair day into a birds nest from hell. Unfortunately, until I perfect my wind control machine, I am at the mercy of the mighty blow. I can just feel the wind conspiring against me.

Plus, what look am I supposed to do? I hate my smile. I just feel it’s blatantly fake and obvious. I can’t see how I could smile and not have it say anything but “cheesy”. So then do I try to sport a serious look? Maybe the tortured writer look? Maybe try to sport that small, knowing smirk that seems to be all the rage with action heroes today? Ugh, how do real authors do this kind of thing? I suppose I could try the realistic way I look when I write. But I don’t think they would appreciate the astounding amount of empties that I pile on my desk to write these Klogs to entertain you. Plus, I would totally have to minimize that window with all the naked chicks.

And where would I go to take this snapshot? The beach and Boardwalk seem the appropriate, if not obvious, choices. What do I do? Look at the beach? Yea, maybe the picture will be of me looking away from the camera as opposed to looking into the lens. Maybe a nice shot of me gazing into the ocean? Or a shot of me casually sitting on the rails of the Boardwalk? Maybe even on the steps of the beloved house. That last one might actually constitute trespassing.

The picture will be in black and white. 90% of my wardrobe is black, so I should actually wear a different color. Nor should I wear my ‘liquor in the front, poker in the rear’ shirt. I yi yi, this is not very enjoyable now. I would much rather the story runs with no visual. I know I would totally drive T nuts with my wild and unpredictable mood swings. Which is funny, because it’s usually the other way around. (ZING! I can say this because I know she doesn’t read this. So no one go ratting me out, eh?)

As it stands now, nature and life might prohibit this from even happening. Wildwood got walloped with snow. And I don’t think a picture of me sitting on a pile of yellowed snow as high as the boardwalk would serve the purpose. It’s almost like the cosmic balance of nature has stepped in to save me.

The saying goes we all suffer for art. While it’s debatable if this article is “art”, I can tell you I got the suffering thing down pat.

Epilogue: A few days ago, I email the editor that I just can’t produce a picture. She tells me she’s running it without a picture. D’oh!

New Kevolution Theory Word; Snoading

Snoading (sno-ding) v the practice of tying a load on when it's snowing; the intersection of snowing and drinking

Ex; "It's supposed to snow again? Fuck shoveling, I'm gonna be snoading."

Snoader (sno-derr) n someone who actively snoads

Ex; The package store is full of pathetic snoaders today."

Now go forth and spread the word.

The Wildwood Story; Title Hopes

I think you know me to be an honest kinda fella. But, truth is, I’ve been hiding something from you. I have my reasons. I will call your attention to an analogy that has seemed to be running through my pathetic existence the last few years; life is like Charlie Brown trying to kick that damn football. And for the last 8 months, I have seen that ball teed up right in front of me. Not taunting me or mocking me; just there. Enough distance that it wouldn’t be tantalizingly close to me. But has time has gone on, it has come closer. I mean, this is very good news for me and all. But it is just my pessimistic nature to not jinx it or call attention to it. The last thing I want to do is make a big deal, only for that bitch Lucy to come along and swipe the ball just as I kick. But now I have reason to believe that it will happen.

Something I wrote is going to be published. Like, semi-real deal, ink and paper published. Using my real name, and will be read by thousands of people published. Retelling a tale that was vital in my youth. About a topic that is near and dear to my cold, black heart. Surprisingly, this has nothing to do with fart jokes.

I wrote a ‘piece’ as real deal writers like to call these things. I submitted it to a paper, and they are going to run it. And this is no Penny Saver BS. The fine institution that will give the rest of the ignorant world my brilliance publishes five issues a year, and my article will be featured for the spring edition. Sure, it’s no NY Times, but who writes for that rag these days anyway? This is quite the thrill for your esteemed Klogger. On top of that, the topic is about something I love; the beach.

So now as this all gears up, it seems tailor made to Klog about. Writing about writing. I am sure you can throw in some BS Seinfeld reference, but I never watched that show. So how this all came to be follows. Last April, my wife and I had the opportunity to go to Wildwood, NJ for a few days. This was a big deal to me, as my obsession with all things beach started with my one weekend all summer I got to spend in Wildwood. (You can search out those Klogs with the summer tag) I had been away from Wildwood for about 20 years, so I was really looking forward to returning. It’s funny how many of those memories are so vivid.

We went down and had a blast. Part of the trip was to revisit the house my sisters and their friends rented for a few summers. When I was a kid, my entire year was based around the one lone weekend I would get to go to Wildwood. Those brief trips actually taught me a lot. It taught me how to save, as I would squirrel away my paper route money for months in advance. It taught me the value of having good times with good friends. The place we stayed in –basically a converted garage-taught me that I don’t need the finest things in life to have a good life. Er, wait a minute, being an unemployed loser taught me that. I learned that the beach is where I want to live one day. At the rate I’m going, I might be homeless under the boards, but that still counts.

So when I came back from this trip, I had a ton of material floating around in my head. So I do what I always do, huffed some gold spray paint and got to writing it out. I liked the resulting Klog, if not my keyboard being colored in gold. While we were down there, I brought back every paper they had. I felt like I was bringing a little piece back with me. One of the papers I brought back was mostly about people reminiscing about their favorite Wildwood memories. A light went off. Damn faulty switch.

I revisited the resulting Klog. I tore it apart (removed all the zombie references, didn’t think that would fly), drastically shortened and re-edited it and added some new material. Voila, I have a story. Feeling all WTF, I sent if off to this fine publication. Lo and behold, they will run it, but not till next spring, as it is spring themed. OK, a tease, but something to keep my eye on down the road.

Cripes, this Klog is going on too long already.

I made a rookie mistake. I never actually titled the story. The Klog name wasn’t going to work. So I had one weekend to come up with a title. In essence, it seems so easy, right? Just a few words, and you’re good to go.

Well, if it was that easy, would I be Klogging about it? Turns out it’s pretty damn difficult. Title is all important. If you have a good, appealing, original title, more people are apt to read it. Have a bland, boring, mundane title, and most people think it reads like a WEA new release book (ZING! But only my old work friends would get that one.) Cripes, this is tough. It seems far too easy to use some pap like “Summers of my Youth” or some such. I wanted to somehow work Wildwood in there as well. Because, surely, no one uses that in a Wildwood paper.

I feel the same torment parents must feel when naming their kids. This is my first published piece, is there some sort of bad karma if I give it a dud title? Will I forever rue the day I named it “Kev’s Totally Awesome Scenes of Neon Summers”? Maybe I shouldn’t stay away from the Summer Teeth pun? Man, all the hard work is done, I just gotta slap a title on the thing. I even try to do the cool singer/songwriter move. I go over the piece again, just looking for any random string of words that just might be a good title. No such luck, and who the hell wrote this drivel?

I spend many hours staring at the PC and the ceiling, trying to come up with that magic collection of words that will pop. I didn’t want anything too cutesy. I am always against alliteration. (Please tell me you got that joke.) No sense in rhyming anything. A witty turn of phrase would be nice, but I can’t come up with any to fit the bill. I know the clock is ticking.

Not that I fancy myself a word nerd or anything. But I do have certain words I like. One of those words suddenly pops up; no it’s not “motard”. That’s it! That will work! I think the word really pops. My only fear is that people don’t readily know what it means. I don’t want to be getting “writerly” all over their ass. It works and is original and I think at the very least will draw people in just to see WTF it means. I am happy, and really that’s all that matters. I wonder if every great writer or artist goes through this process every time. Not that much of my stuff will be published (outside of the music reviews), but I just don’t see an audience for a Klog like “Mandy Moore Watches Me Pee”. And that is really a travesty.

By now you are surely screaming, “What’s the damn title?” I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you because it gives me all the power. That’s just how insecure I am. No, really, I am afraid some bad karma will strike, or the very least someone could Google it, and end up here. Yea, I don’t think most of these Klogs would fit well with that crowd. I am just that damn good of a writer, I can write for many audiences. And I know that audience probably wouldn’t enjoy a Klog like “F the PH”. Call me Kreskin.

So look for this to be a series of posts, as I have plenty more neuroses to cover about my future award winning article.

iSland

I know we live in a modern age. It seems everyone just can’t survive without some technological doo dad that supposedly makes life easier and far more worth living. Kind of ironic that I get to this Klog days after the announcement of the iPad. We live in the age of i-everything; iPods, iPhones, iPads, etc. Recently, I have discovered a new i to add to the list. I proudly announce to you the Kevolution Theory iSland.

For the last 9 days, we have been disconnected. Seems this here PC caught a virus that surprisingly wasn’t from any number of questionable sites I frequent. I discovered this last Monday morning, and spent most of the day trying to track down the offending virus. This also entailed running a scan that goes on for hours. Being a guy and all, I seem to think this is something I should easily be able to fix. Turns out I was wrong. I thought the scan caught and corrected the offending bug, but I was wrong. I apparently did the cyber equivalent of poking it with a stick and insulting its parentage. Because after yet another reboot, there was even more shit missing. Damn. I try to fix it but clearly, I am beat.

Fortunately, I know a ‘computer guy’ who can unfuck our PC, it will just take him a week or so to do it. That’s a fair trade over those jackals at Geek Squad. Although I can’t decide if I feel better or worse actually knowing the person who will be nosing around my PC. I drop the PC off, and, we are thrust onto the iSland. We will have no real connection to the outside world for days. Someone really should invent some device you can just talk to somebody on. That would come in handy.

I can hear the nerds of you out there asking, “Well, why can’t you just go online from your phone? And why am I talking to myself?” The answer is that I am in the minority that doesn’t own an iPhone. I have learned that simply rubber banding my phone to my iPod does not grant it iPod like powers.

The first few days are actually not bad, kind of enjoyable. Sure, there are key times when we miss the easy access to info that we need; what the weather is going to be like, how do I get this poison out of my system, etc. Actually, we do other things. Things like talking. I know, I know, a man and his wife talking, sounds funny, right? And we eat together, too. We actually cook the meals. Fuck, it’s like we’re the Waltons.

I actually did something I’ve never, ever done. I read an entire book-a real book, too, not one with pictures, mazes or the usual Choose Your Own Adventure books that always finds me slayed at the hands of the dragon-200 or so pages in less than a day. OK, so insomnia was a big part of that, but it still counts. I highly recommend From Baghdad With Love.

Of course, I come up with a hundred good ideas for Klogs that will surely lead me to fame and fortune. Alas, most of those have been lost to the sands of time and massive amounts of cheap hooch. I learn that all the usual sites I go to for a laugh will still be there. Yes, people will still dress strangely at Walmart, and there will be another dozen funny dog videos, but ya know what? They’ll all still be there.

I go for a few days before feeling the need to check my email. I finally go to my parents to check. As I try to open attachments, I realize I can’t because my parents are still running Windows 63. So now I will have to go across town to my sister’s to look at attachments. OK, now this is getting to be a hassle. I manage to resist opening “those” emails from a few guys who always send me stuff that makes me smile.

You know what else I discover? I have a fucking life outside of Facebook. OK, barely a life outside of FB, but I really don’t miss it. I don’t miss the typical “nothing is new” or “what I did today” updates. Really, unless you figured out how to slay that dragon, no one fucking cares. I don’t miss the near constant updates asking ME to change MY status; even for just an hour. How about……no. Maybe it’s fun to be in some coterie (look it up) that loves posting cryptic updates. I think we were all enthralled with the girls posting their underwear color. Or how they are wearing their hair. Really fascinating stuff. I don’t miss the requests to change my status to have friends post shit about me. You know the ones; where you met me, how would you describe me, blah blah blah. One thing I have learned is that apparently no one cares about me to ask why I haven’t updated in 10 damn days. And I refuse to change my status to highlight some cause, ‘even if just for an hour’. News flash; nothing ever changes. You might as well be signing your name to any number of petition emails going around. “What’s that? 4000 nerds all signed an email about ? Well, shit, boys, let’s get on this.”

On a somewhat related note, I also don’t miss the alarmist and often untrue emails I get from certain people. You know the emails about Target hating the Veterans, etc. I mean, check Snopes before sending untrue shit out. I used to send them the link in private, but if they insist in continually sending those damn emails, I am going to CC everyone on the email. And, GD if Fred Hadayia didn’t email me again.

I got used to living Amish. I really didn’t miss the Net as much as I thought I would. It gave me more time to read, hang out with the dog, etc. Now that I have it back, it’s a rush to catch up and do a few more things to clean it and improve the speed. And catching up on Walmart pictures and dogs doing cute stuff.

I rather enjoyed my time on the iSland. You should go sometime.

Leave Me Alone, Fred Hadayia

I really shouldn’t be in the position to turn people away. I need all the connections I can, so as I might actually find a job that offers real human dignity and a wage slightly above paperboy. It’s hard to feel wanted, desired when I send out so many Goddamn resumes to jobs I am sure I am more than qualified to do. I’ve gotten into the practice of changing my resume every other month or so. I am on so many job sites anymore, I have honestly lost track. Plus, it’s an easy way to feel wanted.

On most sites, if you change your resume in the slightest (I’m talking like insert a comma of change one word) a rush of job offers will flood your inbox. I know I’ve written of this before, but it bears repeating. I don’t know how they do it, but there must be some bot or software on most major job sites that cause this. Without fail, whenever I change my resume, I get all kinds of offers for interviews.

They almost all seem to be for the same general line of work; for some form of insurance company. I have learned through trial and error that I should avoid these types of jobs. I have wasted my time in 2 ‘interviews’ for such outfits. Here’s a job hunting tip; if at an interview, they ask you next to nothing about your previous job history, head for ze hills. I admit to having no real software knowledge, but I imagine these programs some how monitor new resume postings. I am sure they look for keywords. And since every unemployed yahoo generally uses the same ‘power’ words, nearly every resume gets noticed by this insidious software. An email will automatically be triggered to your account. The deal with most of these jobs is they are almost always 100% commission based, something I am uncomfortable with. And a lot of them involve cold calling accounts. Seriously, would you buy insurance for your company from some stranger who just showed up at your door? Very rarely are you offered any kind of salary. Big corps love doing this because it’s less paperwork, and less money for them to spend on such frivolous things as ‘salary’ and ‘benefits’.

Sure, the first few times I changed my resume, I though I was all hot shit because I got a rash of new emails. It wasn’t too soon after that I saw these as spam. And it is here I met Fred.

Now I don’t know Fred, I mean, he might be a helluva guy and all. I do know two things about him. 1) He sure is persistent. Every GD time I change my resume, ol’ Fred sends me another form email. And 2) he must not be organized, because every time I change my GD resume, I get an email from him.

Fred strikes me as that nerdy little kid in school that keeps talking, but no one has a clue what the hell he’s babbling about. Speaking as a perspective employee, I sure can’t be impressed with Fred’s organization. I mean, what does it say when I always get an email from him? It says he’s not very organized. It says he can’t take a fucking clue, because not once have I ever replied to him. Being out of work for so long, I have developed a new talent to read between the lines. So if I have been getting the same from email from good old Fred, what does it say about the job? It says the job must suck. He’s apparently never been able to fill it, and if he did, the new guy must not have stuck around long enough.

Patrol the job ads on the internet enough, and you can develop a sense when a job is bad. I have literally seen the same job advertised by the same company for over 2 years now. That says a lot. It says either the job or the company must suck; maybe both. Using CAPS or 5 exclamation points is a red flag. I have developed a Spidey like sixth sense about such jobs. After I fell for one or two.

So it’s time to call Fred out. I usually try not to use last names here, but since this specific subject is easily searched, let’s just call him out. Yea, I’m talking to you Fred Hadayia, and he works for something called American Income Life (how ironic the acronym is, since he has been ailing me for two plus years now) You keep pestering me, and I don’t appreciate it. There is nothing in my bio that says I would have any proclivity to your job. Maybe my years of ignoring you haven’t proven the point to you yet. In case you don’t semi regularly get Fred’s email, it generally goes a little something like this:

My name is Fred Hadayia; I'm the State Director with American Income in Harrisburg, PA. Our Human Resource Department has viewed your resume on the Internet and I wanted to contact you to let you know we are looking for qualified candidates to help our rapid expansion. We had sent you an earlier email letting you know I would like to set up an interview with you. We are looking for Managers and Sales Associates to help us manage our expansion in central Pennsylvania. This position is for management and outside sales. THERE WILL NEVER BE ANY COLD CALLING OR PROSPECTING, EVER!!!

Please note the CAPS and exclamation points I alluded to earlier. Is Fred secretly an 11 year old girl?

(Anyone that gets the joke with the picture will earn my eternal repsect. That's a .37 value! Post your answer in the comment section below.)

Seriously, Fred Hadayia? You have a human resource department that poured over my resume, and decided I am not only a candidate, but a real deal “qualified” candidate? Well, shiver my timbers and other such antiquated euphemisms! I would hate to see the motards AIL actually rejects. I appreciate that you make some meager acknowledgement of your previous email that I immediately deleted. Maybe that wasn’t a clue, Fred Hadayia? I’m guessing you’re the type that didn’t get a lot of dates in school, am I right? I mean, that’s OK, I didn’t either, but I imagine you as actually worse off than me.

Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I should also mention, in the interest of fairness, that the company you represent, American Income Life, has been the subject of some ethical debate. By way of reference, Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I point you and my three other readers to this debate from some five years ago on Rip Off Report. Looks like you’ve got some ‘xplainin’ to do.

Fred Hadayia of American Income Life, I ask you publicly to please stop pestering me. I am not interested in your job, and we are both better served by ending this silly thing now. Best regards to you, Fred Hadayia of American Income Life.

DVD Bonus Material

No lie, as I was writing this and editing this (OK, that's a lie, clearly I don't edit my brilliance) I got yet another email from good ol' Fred. Generally, I am wary of using last names on here (don't tell me you never Googled yourself). I can only hope somehow, Fred stumbles upon this. I really hope unemployed people who get his bullshit will search this out and see what's going on. Consider this my service to the internet.

Alternate Title

I Don't Want You to Want Me, Fred Hadayia

Control Issues

It was time for a change. We had gone on too long this way. It’s kind of a shame. We had been together for so long; we had grown so comfortable together after all this time. Together, we had witnessed some of the best and worst things in life. However, change was in the air. Parting is never easy, especially during the holidays. Over the years, I had known just what buttons to push, and now it was no longer working. I hate to put myself in the callous joke of “trading in for a younger model”, but that is in fact what I did. It still pains me to think of it though….

I got a new remote control for the TV. What were you thinking I was talking about?

The time had come. After countless hours in front of the boob tube searching for the thinnest excuses for entertainment, the ol’ remote was breaking down. Much like my romantic life, my ability to turn the TV on was less and less consistent. The channel up key had stopped working all together. So no more scrolling up to scan channels, I could only scan down. And that’s just the TV remote. I have another one that works the sound system/DVD player. That one doesn’t turn the damn thing off anymore. Somewhere along the line, the battery cover has gotten lost. The one spring that holds the battery in is all beat to hell and only serves to randomly shoot the battery out of the back. I am surprised it still works, and hasn’t caught fire yet. It’s a hassle to work the TV with one remote, and the audio/DVD with another. Sure, the TV remote claimed to have the capability to control the sound system, but that is a lie. A dirty lie.

After a fair amount of research, I finally came across the fabled remote that should control everything. For Hallowmas, I splurged and bought this magical instrument that would only add to my laziness. Aw, the lazy days of controlling my TV, DVD and audio with the flick of a button on one remote. Surely, these will be the days I tell to somebody else’s grandkids.

While I could regale you with the more than 2 freaking hours it took me to program the damn thing, that is not the point of this Klog. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t quite as easy as I thought, though not impossible. Deep down, every guy wants to think he is a whiz when it comes to remote controls; like it’s in our chromosomes. That’s why we always must hold the remote, because we have the penis. We know how to use it better and more efficiently than womenfolk. (I am referring to both the remote and the penis.)

I won’t tell you how the damn thing still won’t turn on my sound/DVD player. After going through all three recommended practices, and the bugger still won’t turn on. The new remote is so advanced, that you can aim the old remote into it, press the function, and the new remote will pick up the signal and make it happen with the new one now. Surely, this is why universities exist. Now get to work on X-ray specs and jetpacks.

The new remote has a pretty cool feature; the ability to program four channels as favorites. So instead of wasting precious milliseconds on pressing 2 buttons, I hit one of these four keys and –BAM-my favorite channel comes up. Wow, science is cool. Now this left me with a dilemma; just what are my favorite 4 channels? How can I narrow channels down to just 4? I did not expect such a dilemma to arise over the holidays.

I have a lot of channels that I would consider ‘good’, it’s just that I don’t watch them all the time. Now this is getting like Facebook; do I like/watch Spike enough to make it one of my favorites? Will ESPN get all pissy? I at least catch a break, since I have like 4 religious channels and 3 that are in Spanish. Ningunos canales religiosos del bullshit para mí

The first thing I do is make USA the ‘A’ favorite. So you’re thinking I must watch a lot of USA, which would be wrong. In fact, I don’t think I watch it much at all. However, USA is also known as NCIS Central. Every time I do turn on USA, it’s freaking NCIS. 2 in the afternoon, 4 in the morning. They should just change their name to UNCISA. NCIS happens to be my wife’s favorite TV show, and when ever I turn on any damn TV in the house, it’s always on USA. Hey man, I know which side my bread is buttered on.

That leaves me with 3 open slots. I pick Discovery because I to tend to watch that a lot. I also pick TLC. I think that in the unlikely event a snooty friend decides to root through my remote, I would at least appear semi-intelligent. (This is the exact reason I don’t have any Britney Spears in my iPod.) Now I’m down to one. I secretly wonder if all the other channels knew of this, and would send me presents to sway my favor.

Do I watch Comedy Central enough? What about MTV and VH1? ESPN 2? Tru TV? Man o man, talk about Sophie’s Choice. No really talk about it, because I never saw the movie.

For the sake of closure-and I know you all must be deathly curious-I decide on Animal Planet. It seems the logical choice. And I’m sure the dog appreciates me keeping his tastes in mind.

That will be the hardest thing to do with programming the new remote. Sure, the sound still doesn’t turn on and off. Don’t even ask me about the damn DVR player. And for some reason, the garage door opens every time I hit the mute button, but I am sure that is just a temporary thing. I feel like I have conquered my kingdom a little more. I am in a bit more control than I was yesterday.