...with the trainer. She says if I'm not hurting, she's not doing her job. Well, kudos to her then!
I've gotta say it's hurting more while I'm there than the next day as most people seem to complain about. (do I get to brag about that? nah, didn't think so) It feels like I hyperventilate while I'm there & I'm not sure how to keep that from happening. Not quick breaths, but just short I guess. Today I couldn't get that last rep in because my fingers were tingling so much. That pisses me off.
I also did my own 40 min with the elliptical on Saturday. The first 15 or so were worse than the last 25, but I managed to lock my knee at one point (added to the list of things I recommend NOT doing) so was sore and limping down stairs on Saturday, and during the oil change I did on the car Sunday morning (speaking of, don't ever EVER buy oil filters from Wal-Mart, okay? The damned things aren't made to fit the same oil filter wrench that every other filter is designed to fit. Just a teeeeeeny bit smaller, making the werench slip off like a socket on a stripped bolt). The knee felt really good today though.
Next day with the trainer is Friday. I can do this, but my lungs really need to get with the program. There's also the diet thing though. Really gotta work on that.
26 May 2008
23 May 2008
Personal Trainer, Session One.
What I recall of it anyway.
Greeting followed by conversation about what I expect & what they can offer. Go change. Intro to the elliptical and five minute 'warm-up'. Rubbery legs at third minute. Minute five comes and I make an attempt to walk to personal trainer where stretching is to begin. I made it there, but it wasn't pretty.
I'm at a computer all day, so the stretches are for those muscles that aren't stretched while sitting in a chair. Bollocks! They're the tenderizers of personal trainers intent on devouring their prey as slowly as possible.
Thirty seconds per muscle group never took so long, and I'm also already sweating enough to drip onto the mat. What the hell?
Next up, the weights. Okay, this I know I can do. Or so I thought. The lifting I had done was rhythmical (if not all that fast), but the technique learned this day was much slower; Four-count to extend, hold for two more, then return.
My mouth is parched and we're at, what, minute 8? I actually PAID for another fifty two minutes of this? I go drink a little water before the lifting & (stupidly?) come back.
First lifts are chest down on an excercise ball, lifting the weights up from the floor. Next lifts are chest up, pressing the weights, being guided on form and count. Follow that with shoulder presses, standing & pushing the weights straight up above my head, with reminders to tighten my core (which I translated to mean, "Suck in that gut boy!") and butt (huh?) to help with balance. She even had me try this one with one foot lifted. My balance ain't that good withOUT weights & a heart rate of 160-ish, so we didn't keep at that one very long. Round it out with squats, and my fingers are now tingling.
Now is when I realize exactly where I am. Not physically (that is painfully obvious, thankyouverymuch), but geographically. The gym has the main level that you walk into & where the trainers' desks are at, but then you go down a flight of stairs to the locker rooms & work-out area.
STAIRS! After squats! So we go. Up. The. Stairs. where her desk is at to go over the nutritional side of it, me trying to not hyperventilate & get rid of the tingling sensation.
I buy some crap I probably don't need, but only because I'm afraid she'll have me get on the elliptical again to "cool down". But wait! I'm still in my workout gear, and the shower is down those same stairs. Dammit! So I go down. The. Fucking. Stairs. looking like a decrepit octogenarian (who likely would have gone down and up those stairs while rightly taunting me), clinging to the rail just at the brink of falling at each step. Get to the bottom without falling and consider this a success (until I realize it took me five minutes). Strip, shower, dress, and back. Up. The. Stairs. Thank the trainer for not killing me yet, and back to work (HA!) I go.
Next session, Monday. If you don't hear from me by Tuesday, tell the police that Kara must have finished me off.
Greeting followed by conversation about what I expect & what they can offer. Go change. Intro to the elliptical and five minute 'warm-up'. Rubbery legs at third minute. Minute five comes and I make an attempt to walk to personal trainer where stretching is to begin. I made it there, but it wasn't pretty.
I'm at a computer all day, so the stretches are for those muscles that aren't stretched while sitting in a chair. Bollocks! They're the tenderizers of personal trainers intent on devouring their prey as slowly as possible.
Thirty seconds per muscle group never took so long, and I'm also already sweating enough to drip onto the mat. What the hell?
Next up, the weights. Okay, this I know I can do. Or so I thought. The lifting I had done was rhythmical (if not all that fast), but the technique learned this day was much slower; Four-count to extend, hold for two more, then return.
My mouth is parched and we're at, what, minute 8? I actually PAID for another fifty two minutes of this? I go drink a little water before the lifting & (stupidly?) come back.
First lifts are chest down on an excercise ball, lifting the weights up from the floor. Next lifts are chest up, pressing the weights, being guided on form and count. Follow that with shoulder presses, standing & pushing the weights straight up above my head, with reminders to tighten my core (which I translated to mean, "Suck in that gut boy!") and butt (huh?) to help with balance. She even had me try this one with one foot lifted. My balance ain't that good withOUT weights & a heart rate of 160-ish, so we didn't keep at that one very long. Round it out with squats, and my fingers are now tingling.
Now is when I realize exactly where I am. Not physically (that is painfully obvious, thankyouverymuch), but geographically. The gym has the main level that you walk into & where the trainers' desks are at, but then you go down a flight of stairs to the locker rooms & work-out area.
STAIRS! After squats! So we go. Up. The. Stairs. where her desk is at to go over the nutritional side of it, me trying to not hyperventilate & get rid of the tingling sensation.
I buy some crap I probably don't need, but only because I'm afraid she'll have me get on the elliptical again to "cool down". But wait! I'm still in my workout gear, and the shower is down those same stairs. Dammit! So I go down. The. Fucking. Stairs. looking like a decrepit octogenarian (who likely would have gone down and up those stairs while rightly taunting me), clinging to the rail just at the brink of falling at each step. Get to the bottom without falling and consider this a success (until I realize it took me five minutes). Strip, shower, dress, and back. Up. The. Stairs. Thank the trainer for not killing me yet, and back to work (HA!) I go.
Next session, Monday. If you don't hear from me by Tuesday, tell the police that Kara must have finished me off.
11 May 2008
Alright criminals... er, citizens. Listen up!
Cogress moves forward on ensuring you are considered a criminal when you buy a CD.
"Pro-IP Act passes House to the glee of RIAA and MPAA". With a headline like that, you know it can't be good. Yet this is what Congress believes is the right thing to do.
"The biggest area of concern is the fact that the bill creates a new position in the White House called the U.S. Intellectual Property Enforcement Representative. This new position helps to make sure that organizations like RIAA can continue to gain legal ground even after the presidential election changes major players in the government. The main goals of the act are to strengthen copyrights, make it easier to prosecute people who violate copyrights and increase fines associated with copyright infringement."
Good times indeed.
Music: Jane Jensen, More Than I Can (but don't tell the RIAA, okay?)
"Pro-IP Act passes House to the glee of RIAA and MPAA". With a headline like that, you know it can't be good. Yet this is what Congress believes is the right thing to do.
"The biggest area of concern is the fact that the bill creates a new position in the White House called the U.S. Intellectual Property Enforcement Representative. This new position helps to make sure that organizations like RIAA can continue to gain legal ground even after the presidential election changes major players in the government. The main goals of the act are to strengthen copyrights, make it easier to prosecute people who violate copyrights and increase fines associated with copyright infringement."
Good times indeed.
Music: Jane Jensen, More Than I Can (but don't tell the RIAA, okay?)
05 January 2008
Must read.
Just click on it.
I'm dead. That sucks, at least for me and my family and friends. But all the tears in the world aren't going to bring me back, so I would prefer that people remember the good things about me rather than mourning my loss. (If it turns out a specific number of tears will, in fact, bring me back to life, then by all means, break out the onions.)
"Major Andrew Olmsted, who posted a blog since May 2007, was killed in Iraq on Thursday, Jan. 3. Major Olmsted, who had been based at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs, began blogging after his unit was sent to Iraq with the mission of helping to train the Iraqi Army. No official details have been released on his death, but reports say that he and a second member of his unit were killed during an enemy ambush in Diyala province, northeast of Baghdad. Olmsted was determined to make a difference in Iraq. 'The sooner the Iraqi government doesn't need U.S. support to provide security for its people, the sooner we will probably be asked to leave.'"
--Rocky Mountain News
I'm dead. That sucks, at least for me and my family and friends. But all the tears in the world aren't going to bring me back, so I would prefer that people remember the good things about me rather than mourning my loss. (If it turns out a specific number of tears will, in fact, bring me back to life, then by all means, break out the onions.)
"Major Andrew Olmsted, who posted a blog since May 2007, was killed in Iraq on Thursday, Jan. 3. Major Olmsted, who had been based at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs, began blogging after his unit was sent to Iraq with the mission of helping to train the Iraqi Army. No official details have been released on his death, but reports say that he and a second member of his unit were killed during an enemy ambush in Diyala province, northeast of Baghdad. Olmsted was determined to make a difference in Iraq. 'The sooner the Iraqi government doesn't need U.S. support to provide security for its people, the sooner we will probably be asked to leave.'"
--Rocky Mountain News
31 December 2007
auf Wiedersehen 2007
Overall, it was actually a pretty decent year; Lotsa travel, lotsa time spent with good friends, no broken bones or burned houses, and the check engine light even went out on Friday. It was also kinda sucky; Single again.
So, what's next? New paths have shown up, and I'm taking one of 'em. No idea where it'll lead, but as the saying goes, "Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." I'm tired of sitting anyway. Wonder if I'll be able to walk without staggering though.
Enjoy. I especially like how the knob there goes all the way to eleven. :D
All the best to you in the new year, may he not be a bastage.
Mono, Silicone
So, what's next? New paths have shown up, and I'm taking one of 'em. No idea where it'll lead, but as the saying goes, "Even if you're on the right track, you'll get run over if you just sit there." I'm tired of sitting anyway. Wonder if I'll be able to walk without staggering though.
Enjoy. I especially like how the knob there goes all the way to eleven. :D
All the best to you in the new year, may he not be a bastage.
Mono, Silicone
27 December 2007
Road trip
Woo-hoo! No speeding ticket from my drive through Wyoming and Montana this year! Of course, much of the highway from Casper to points north were hard packed snow, if not straight ice about a half inch thick. Sadly, no snow fell in Montana on Christmas day. Had a nice visit to see mom. Of course the visit involved a to-do list of things she hasn't been able to square away. Easy stuff; setting up the TV's that were moved around a few months ago, putting a hanging ball to tell her where to stop the car in the carport, resetting the friction belt on the stationary bike. We played some games, enjoyed great food & generally relaxed.
Snow did fall in Colorado while I was gone though. Seven inches on the 25th, then took a break while I drove home on Boxing Day (thankfully) then started up again that night. The snow is still falling now.
So, the stats...
$178.17
Gas money for the round-trip drive. Winner: Exxon. Loser: Airlines that wanted to route me through Phoenix(!) to get me there, at about twice the price.
61.848
Gallons of carbon-based fuel, cleanly and responsibly burned through territory that sees more methane emissions from cattle than my EPA-rated 21/28 mpg Altima could ever hope to fart out. Besides, while Wyoming and Montana beef is very fine grade in my ever so humble opinion, they still cannot trump my Altima's delivery of a mom's favorite, if only, son to her doorstep. Winner: Altima. Loser: At least 12 ounces of Bessie sitting on my plate.
12:15
Hours:Minutes that I spent in each direction of this journey, plus or minus 15 minutes... the log book was doused in water at one point as I made a left turn on to my mom's street, smudging up the pencil'd time entries. Winner: Bic. Loser: My precious mathematical numbers. You know, as opposed to the Alphabetical numbers...
1557
Total miles placed on said Altima, working out to just over 25 mpg (a tic or so better than the 50th percentile of that EPA bit, so there). Winner: ..uh, Department of Transportation I guess, in getting stats bumped up to grub up more Federal Highway dollars. Loser: Mother Earth... You didn't really buy in to that "cleanly and responsibly burned" tripe I typed up there, did you? My friggin "Check Engine" light is on again because it apparently needs a hug or something.
63.55
Average miles per hour including stops for gas and facilities (not bad at all, considering the off-and-on icy roads roughly from Casper to Bozeman, and my now considerably less-than-500-mile bladder... Getting old sucks, I tells ya). Winner: Minimal brake application. Hey, we're talking about getting to Mom's home cooking! Loser: Highway billboards whizzing by. Except those Burma-Shave verses...
MANY A WOLF
IS NEVER LET IN
BECAUSE OF THE HAIR
ON HIS
CHINNY-CHIN-CHIN
BURMA-SHAVE
LCD Soundsystem, North American Scum
Snow did fall in Colorado while I was gone though. Seven inches on the 25th, then took a break while I drove home on Boxing Day (thankfully) then started up again that night. The snow is still falling now.
So, the stats...
$178.17
Gas money for the round-trip drive. Winner: Exxon. Loser: Airlines that wanted to route me through Phoenix(!) to get me there, at about twice the price.
61.848
Gallons of carbon-based fuel, cleanly and responsibly burned through territory that sees more methane emissions from cattle than my EPA-rated 21/28 mpg Altima could ever hope to fart out. Besides, while Wyoming and Montana beef is very fine grade in my ever so humble opinion, they still cannot trump my Altima's delivery of a mom's favorite, if only, son to her doorstep. Winner: Altima. Loser: At least 12 ounces of Bessie sitting on my plate.
12:15
Hours:Minutes that I spent in each direction of this journey, plus or minus 15 minutes... the log book was doused in water at one point as I made a left turn on to my mom's street, smudging up the pencil'd time entries. Winner: Bic. Loser: My precious mathematical numbers. You know, as opposed to the Alphabetical numbers...
1557
Total miles placed on said Altima, working out to just over 25 mpg (a tic or so better than the 50th percentile of that EPA bit, so there). Winner: ..uh, Department of Transportation I guess, in getting stats bumped up to grub up more Federal Highway dollars. Loser: Mother Earth... You didn't really buy in to that "cleanly and responsibly burned" tripe I typed up there, did you? My friggin "Check Engine" light is on again because it apparently needs a hug or something.
63.55
Average miles per hour including stops for gas and facilities (not bad at all, considering the off-and-on icy roads roughly from Casper to Bozeman, and my now considerably less-than-500-mile bladder... Getting old sucks, I tells ya). Winner: Minimal brake application. Hey, we're talking about getting to Mom's home cooking! Loser: Highway billboards whizzing by. Except those Burma-Shave verses...
MANY A WOLF
IS NEVER LET IN
BECAUSE OF THE HAIR
ON HIS
CHINNY-CHIN-CHIN
BURMA-SHAVE
LCD Soundsystem, North American Scum
21 November 2007
17 November 2007
Addiction
A little over a month ago, my Sirius satellite receiver up & died on me. I called 'em up and went through the obligatory troubleshooting with the heavily accented dude. He ultimately told me to have the shop remove the offending POS from the Nissan while they sent me a replacement.
The first day without it was just wrong. How do the radio stations get away with the, the ... PULP that they pump out every morning? Add to that the flat-out terrible reception that my stereo gets with the in-the-rear-window antenna on the Nissan, keeping me from being able to listen to either of the two stations here that do actually play some music in the mornings, and the drive is more easily made with no tunes at all.
Hours went by, stretching into days. Before I knew it, a week had passed and no new receiver. I called them and they advised that their shipment was stuck in customs.
I can now imagine what some crack head goes through when his pusher says, "Sorry man, ain't got nuffin today on accounta them suits downtown needing my entire stock for their IPO party..."
Suffice it to say, that was not the answer I wanted to hear. I started having tremors when the full meaning of what I was being told sunk in.
"Wait, you're saying they're, like, STUCK? Somewhere? Uh, so could you maybe tell me where that is? ... Oh, no reason. Ju- Just curious. Seattle? Well shit, I can't drive there. I've got work tomorrow. INEEDMYDAMNFIXMAAAAAAAN!!"
Then came the call (yes, they actually called me to let me know); The shipment was expected to be delivered the end of the week... when I would be out of town. Friggin sadists, I tell you! After some more talking (trying to explain why I reallyreallyREALLY needed that delivery before I left because, uh, my neighbors would do something with it if it was just left) they finally saw reason & set my replacement to be sent overnight once they get to their distribution center. They estimate it will arrive on the day I'm getting on a plane.
-twitch-
So the next morning I get an e-mail with the FedEx tracking number (did I TELL you they were sadists?!?) and immediately go to the webbery to see where my precious is right then. Oh good, Cincinnati.
Wait, what?? It was held by customs in Seattle! What the hell, did they throw the damned thing too far?? -twitch-
It says it's scheduled for delivery by 10:30 the next morning. My flight is at three in the afternoon. Okay, that is plenty of time. I mean, right? Wouldn't you think so?
-twitch-
"Hey Sara! (she's my manager) I need to take a full day off tomorrow & not just a half, okay? There's, uh, something that came up. I think I chipped another tooth. Okay?" Isn't it amazing what excuses an addict will come up with ON THE SPOT like that? I mean, really, once I get the thing, all I'm going to do is put it in my house and then have it installed when I get home.
The next morning I'm up at the usual time, 4:00am, a time commonly (and rightly) unknown to most people. Unless they're exiting the local pub of course. I can't stand admitting this, but I really did check the front porch for any boxes laying out there before hopping in the shower. FOUR in the morning, people. On a day off. Something is wrong with me. (yay, step one complete) -twitch-
With my shower done, I eat breakfast while watching Early Today (yes, there is an "early" edition of the Today show, the show that is on for two hours longer than it needs to be by itself, in my never so humble opinion, but I digress) at a lower than normal volume in case there's a knock at the door. I play a little with Mario the Wonder Kitty, and even he is looking at me like, "What the fuck are you doing up, huh?" I hop online and look at some of the rest of the news, check the weather at my destination, go through the suitcase to make sure everything I need is there, aaaaaaaaand then I check FedEx. "Arrived at station" it tells me. I hit F5. You know, just in case.
If their web site were a tad smarter, it could have slammed me with, "What? You didn't believe me before asshole? I told you ARRIVED AT STATION. Don't make me add a weather delay in, bub!" So at 4:05 I peek out the front door again...
Okay, yeah. That's blatant exaggeration. Instead, I did go lay down again. I didn't go back to sleep, of course. Oh no. I could FEEL it, a mere ZIP code or three away from me where I lay. Likely tossed carelessly in some corner of the warehouse. Savages. I read the magazines that came in recently to try to take my mind off of that nightmare. I vacuumed. I washed dishes. All that schtuff. Ya know when my precious showed up? 10:23am. Not crushed beyond recognition. Not weeping from its abuse (being inanimate helps, I suppose). I make the drive, still Sirius-less, to the airport. That was a rough drive.
So I get back from a great time in Texas and have the car shop reinstall the box in whatever secret cubby hole in the dash they had the old one, and drive home listening to their generic always-on channel that spews out weather and the 800# to call to have my receiver activated. Yes, I did. It was amazing, and it wasn't even music. IT LIVES!
So I get home after the trip, and gather my various numbers (account number, old radio ID, new radio ID, and that 800#). I call, and they ask me for the phone number that's on my account. This is where having phone number changes over the past year is a bit of a liability. My rush of musical bliss was being delayed because I've had three phone numbers in the past year. Did I give them the land line that I never answered? The old cell number that was changed when the new cell came? Crap! I have all these other numbers, dammit! Happily, I remembered the right one and enter the hell that is Automated Phone Support. Those automated lines with the pleasant lady that recognizes your voice commands so long as you have no accent whatsoever. "Would you like to continue in English? Say yes to proceed." Those kinds. I reply, "Yes" and get the voice saying "I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you say 'mustard'?"
Anyway, I zero out of that and get Frank on the phone. No, his name isn't Frank. You know this. I know this. He knows this. We play his game because I just want my damned Area 33 as soon as possible, okay? -twitch-
"Frank, bud, listen carefully. The receiver is installed, the radio is on and tuned to 148, and I have the radio ID here. You ready for it? Because it's starting now," and I belt that 12-digit bastard out as clearly as I can between the tremors.
"I'm sorree, I didn't get dat. Did jou say 'moostard'?" ...so much for cutting through their scripted replies. We go through the usual. Yes, it's on. Yes I hear the broadcast (can't you? I'm in the car with the weather report being recited right now fer chrisssakes!). Yup, you've got the right ID number for the radio and we just confirmed my street address (thank God I didn't change THAT recently!) and secret handshake. "Hokaee, de tranzmishun iz beink sent now, and shood arrife widin 30 second or fife meenut." I swear, I don't know what country they sent me to this time, but it's apparently a new one. I'm guessing Brazil or Chile.
I wipe my brow as I stare at the radio and it's taunting "12:14" time display. Frank is breathing heavy in the phone while we wait. This is not helpful, but I don't dare hang up with a truncated "kthanxbye" because then the tranzmishun wouldn't arrive. The display changes to "updating channels" as a chorus of angels sings out. My eyes tear up and I tell Frank that all is well with the world, no there's nothing else I need right now, yes I'll go online if I need any account information... Frank, I'd just like to be alone with my radio for a while, ya mind?
AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH that's better.
The first day without it was just wrong. How do the radio stations get away with the, the ... PULP that they pump out every morning? Add to that the flat-out terrible reception that my stereo gets with the in-the-rear-window antenna on the Nissan, keeping me from being able to listen to either of the two stations here that do actually play some music in the mornings, and the drive is more easily made with no tunes at all.
Hours went by, stretching into days. Before I knew it, a week had passed and no new receiver. I called them and they advised that their shipment was stuck in customs.
I can now imagine what some crack head goes through when his pusher says, "Sorry man, ain't got nuffin today on accounta them suits downtown needing my entire stock for their IPO party..."
Suffice it to say, that was not the answer I wanted to hear. I started having tremors when the full meaning of what I was being told sunk in.
"Wait, you're saying they're, like, STUCK? Somewhere? Uh, so could you maybe tell me where that is? ... Oh, no reason. Ju- Just curious. Seattle? Well shit, I can't drive there. I've got work tomorrow. INEEDMYDAMNFIXMAAAAAAAN!!"
Then came the call (yes, they actually called me to let me know); The shipment was expected to be delivered the end of the week... when I would be out of town. Friggin sadists, I tell you! After some more talking (trying to explain why I reallyreallyREALLY needed that delivery before I left because, uh, my neighbors would do something with it if it was just left) they finally saw reason & set my replacement to be sent overnight once they get to their distribution center. They estimate it will arrive on the day I'm getting on a plane.
-twitch-
So the next morning I get an e-mail with the FedEx tracking number (did I TELL you they were sadists?!?) and immediately go to the webbery to see where my precious is right then. Oh good, Cincinnati.
Wait, what?? It was held by customs in Seattle! What the hell, did they throw the damned thing too far?? -twitch-
It says it's scheduled for delivery by 10:30 the next morning. My flight is at three in the afternoon. Okay, that is plenty of time. I mean, right? Wouldn't you think so?
-twitch-
"Hey Sara! (she's my manager) I need to take a full day off tomorrow & not just a half, okay? There's, uh, something that came up. I think I chipped another tooth. Okay?" Isn't it amazing what excuses an addict will come up with ON THE SPOT like that? I mean, really, once I get the thing, all I'm going to do is put it in my house and then have it installed when I get home.
The next morning I'm up at the usual time, 4:00am, a time commonly (and rightly) unknown to most people. Unless they're exiting the local pub of course. I can't stand admitting this, but I really did check the front porch for any boxes laying out there before hopping in the shower. FOUR in the morning, people. On a day off. Something is wrong with me. (yay, step one complete) -twitch-
With my shower done, I eat breakfast while watching Early Today (yes, there is an "early" edition of the Today show, the show that is on for two hours longer than it needs to be by itself, in my never so humble opinion, but I digress) at a lower than normal volume in case there's a knock at the door. I play a little with Mario the Wonder Kitty, and even he is looking at me like, "What the fuck are you doing up, huh?" I hop online and look at some of the rest of the news, check the weather at my destination, go through the suitcase to make sure everything I need is there, aaaaaaaaand then I check FedEx. "Arrived at station" it tells me. I hit F5. You know, just in case.
If their web site were a tad smarter, it could have slammed me with, "What? You didn't believe me before asshole? I told you ARRIVED AT STATION. Don't make me add a weather delay in, bub!" So at 4:05 I peek out the front door again...
Okay, yeah. That's blatant exaggeration. Instead, I did go lay down again. I didn't go back to sleep, of course. Oh no. I could FEEL it, a mere ZIP code or three away from me where I lay. Likely tossed carelessly in some corner of the warehouse. Savages. I read the magazines that came in recently to try to take my mind off of that nightmare. I vacuumed. I washed dishes. All that schtuff. Ya know when my precious showed up? 10:23am. Not crushed beyond recognition. Not weeping from its abuse (being inanimate helps, I suppose). I make the drive, still Sirius-less, to the airport. That was a rough drive.
So I get back from a great time in Texas and have the car shop reinstall the box in whatever secret cubby hole in the dash they had the old one, and drive home listening to their generic always-on channel that spews out weather and the 800# to call to have my receiver activated. Yes, I did. It was amazing, and it wasn't even music. IT LIVES!
So I get home after the trip, and gather my various numbers (account number, old radio ID, new radio ID, and that 800#). I call, and they ask me for the phone number that's on my account. This is where having phone number changes over the past year is a bit of a liability. My rush of musical bliss was being delayed because I've had three phone numbers in the past year. Did I give them the land line that I never answered? The old cell number that was changed when the new cell came? Crap! I have all these other numbers, dammit! Happily, I remembered the right one and enter the hell that is Automated Phone Support. Those automated lines with the pleasant lady that recognizes your voice commands so long as you have no accent whatsoever. "Would you like to continue in English? Say yes to proceed." Those kinds. I reply, "Yes" and get the voice saying "I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Did you say 'mustard'?"
Anyway, I zero out of that and get Frank on the phone. No, his name isn't Frank. You know this. I know this. He knows this. We play his game because I just want my damned Area 33 as soon as possible, okay? -twitch-
"Frank, bud, listen carefully. The receiver is installed, the radio is on and tuned to 148, and I have the radio ID here. You ready for it? Because it's starting now," and I belt that 12-digit bastard out as clearly as I can between the tremors.
"I'm sorree, I didn't get dat. Did jou say 'moostard'?" ...so much for cutting through their scripted replies. We go through the usual. Yes, it's on. Yes I hear the broadcast (can't you? I'm in the car with the weather report being recited right now fer chrisssakes!). Yup, you've got the right ID number for the radio and we just confirmed my street address (thank God I didn't change THAT recently!) and secret handshake. "Hokaee, de tranzmishun iz beink sent now, and shood arrife widin 30 second or fife meenut." I swear, I don't know what country they sent me to this time, but it's apparently a new one. I'm guessing Brazil or Chile.
I wipe my brow as I stare at the radio and it's taunting "12:14" time display. Frank is breathing heavy in the phone while we wait. This is not helpful, but I don't dare hang up with a truncated "kthanxbye" because then the tranzmishun wouldn't arrive. The display changes to "updating channels" as a chorus of angels sings out. My eyes tear up and I tell Frank that all is well with the world, no there's nothing else I need right now, yes I'll go online if I need any account information... Frank, I'd just like to be alone with my radio for a while, ya mind?
AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH that's better.
24 October 2007
My Superpower
Some people laugh at my humor. Or they laugh at me, I don't bother to make the distinction any more... Some idle chat that made a friend laugh follows here. Caution: It's booger-type humor, so click back now if you ... eh, better click back anyway, just to be safe.
...
A brief discussion comparing current ailments. Of course when you're close friends, you arent' required to reply with the word "fine" to the question, "How're you doing there?"
me: I've only got some rubbery crap in my nose at the moment. It ought to clear up in a couple weeks.
Megadeth, Foreclosure Of a Dream
...
A brief discussion comparing current ailments. Of course when you're close friends, you arent' required to reply with the word "fine" to the question, "How're you doing there?"
me: I've only got some rubbery crap in my nose at the moment. It ought to clear up in a couple weeks.
they: you have rubber in your nose?
me: the snot up there doesn't want to budge. It was concrete in the morning & loosened up a little bit now. If I blow, I feel it move, but then it rebounds right back to where it started.
they: wow. that sounds like some kind of super hero power before you learn how to harness it
they: lol
me: hehehe... Stand back! I'll whip the vile villian with my SNOT!
me: --SNERK-kaPOW!-- "Ouch! Okay I give up!"
Megadeth, Foreclosure Of a Dream
15 October 2007
Oh good lord, he's back.
"The bum takes a fiscal quarter off & thinks he can just jump right back in, does he?"
Yup indeed. Ya know why? Because today is Blog Action Day, a day for bloggers to raise awareness of environmental issues. To find out more, visit the Blog Action Day website.
Ya know what I'm doing? Affixing this to my car. You're welcome.
Yup indeed. Ya know why? Because today is Blog Action Day, a day for bloggers to raise awareness of environmental issues. To find out more, visit the Blog Action Day website.
Ya know what I'm doing? Affixing this to my car. You're welcome.
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