I couldn't think of a "snappy" title

Not too long ago I saw two cars with license plates that were a little out of the ordinary. And by out of the ordinary, I obviously mean made of cardboard. Now, I’ve seen this before, but not two cars in the same day. It got me thinking, does this really work? Rather than going to the DMV and waiting in line for 6 weeks to get a replacement tag, can I really just grab a piece of poster board and a sharpie and make a new one? Does anyone actually believe I lost my tag? Do the police really let that slide?

I can see it now:

Officer: Dispatch this is Unit 471 following a vehicle with no license plate.
Dispatch: Roger 471, keep us posted
Officer: We've got 8 juvenile males in the vehicle and what appears to be a US Postal Service blue mailbox with the concrete base still attached hanging out of the trunk.
Dispatch: Roger 471
Officer: Dispatch, I’ll be initiating a traffic stop on a brown, older model, caprice classic with 3-22 inch rims and 1 spare-donut-tire and what looks like a jaguar hood ornament hot-glued to the hood.
Dispatch: Roger 471
Officer: Dispatch, got a little closer and saw they do have a license plate, it’s a hand written job on cardboard and it blended in with the car. Gonna let em’ get along their way.
Dispatch: Roger 471, glad you didn’t waste your time on that one.

So if it does work, I thought that maybe I could save some time with some other things too. Here are some hypothetical examples:

At Moes:

Me: I’ll take the Coctostan Combo (that’s what I always get, with lots of fresh jalapeno)
Cashier: That’ll be $8.62
Me: Here you go.
Cashier: What is that?
Me: It is my frequent diner card, see I’ve got 10 stamps.
Cashier: That’s a drink cup lid.
Me: Yeah, but I punched all my stamps with my hole punch at home and as you can see I’ve got 10.
Cashier: Alright, we’ll take it, but you only needed 9 and then you get the 10th one free, so we’ll go ahead and punch one on a new card for you.
Me: Thanks.

At the Notary:

Notary: …Great, I’ll just need a second form of ID.
Me: Here ya go.
Notary: And what would this be?
Me: My passport.
Notary: Sir, this looks like you cut up a cardboard box into pages and punched holes in them and hooked them together like a book with zip-ties.
Me: Isn’t that what passports look like? A little book with your picture and information? As you can see I pasted my picture in there and I wrote my height and weight on the next page.
Notary: Well, the picture looks like you and all the info is accurate…I’ll take it.

At the airport

Ticket lady: I’ll just need your boarding pass.
Me: Here you go.
Ticket Lady: What is this?
Me: My boarding pass
Ticket Lady: This is a napkin from Cinnabun.
Me: Yeah, it’s OK. I didn’t have time to check in, so I wrote all the flight information and which seat I would like on this napkin.
Ticket Lady: Oh, sure. I’ll just need to see your ID.
Me: Here ya go.
Ticket Lady: This is a business card for a body hair removal service.
Me: Flip it over.
Ticket Lady: Oh. Yep, there you are. Looks just like you; the colored pencil shading was a nice touch. Here you go. Looking at your boarding pass, it looks like you’re in first class.
Me: Hmmm, look at that. First class. Thank you.
Ticket Lady: Enjoy your flight.

The possibilities are endless. Give it a try.

Truck...Truck...Goose!

I have a rhetorical question (That’s just a big word that means I don’t expect an answer). So my question is, “Do professionals in a specific field have a responsibility to set a good example for others aspiring to reach the pinnacle of their field?” For example, should politicians, who make laws, have no major criminal convictions? Or should professional athletes mentor younger players? Should orthodontists’ kids have straight teeth? Should a chef be fat? I tend to lean towards…yes! So, if that is the case, (that professionals have a responsibility to be a model of best practices for amateurs) I want to talk about a group who is not keeping their end of the bargain. Truckers.

While most people probably don’t think of them this way, truckers are, for all intents and purposes, professional drivers. Which is why I don’t have a problem with the “trucker’s crack.” If they were fashion designers or butt models I might have a problem with peeping at a smattering of hairy coin-slot. But they aren’t and I don’t. You know what? I take that back, I do have a problem with it, but it is not because they are style icons, but because nobody needs to see that. Like the ancient Peruvian proverb states, “Plumber’s crack is never attractive.”

If they want to leave their trucks running all night with nothing but those stupid parking lights on, more power to them. Have you ever had the joy of being jarred awake at a truck stop in the middle of the night on a road trip and opening the door only to have your hearing permanently damaged by 6000 decibels of diesel engine? It’s not like they won a Nobel Prize for climate something-or-other and are preaching sermons to me about exhaust emissions. So I’m ok with it.

I don’t even blame them for all the horrible 1970’s billboards for strip clubs with free “Trucker Showers.” After all they are not proselytizers and I don’t expect them to have a sterling moral record.

What I do have a problem with, is truckers talking on a cell phone or texting while driving. And using the left lane for something other than passing. And not having their lights on in the rain. And swerving recklessly across 4 lanes before slamming into a bridge abutment and dumping toxic sewer spooge all over the highway. That I have a problem with. And frankly, I’m seeing too much of it. There are generations of drivers that are looking to truckers to be leaders in the world where rubber meets asphalt. So, if you see a trucker who isn’t living up to his or her high calling as a steward of the motorway, just remind them…we’re looking up to them. (And if they are looking down at you…they’re probably looking down your shirt)

As far as the Yosemite Sam “Back Off!” mud flaps go, we are just going to have to agree to disagree, because with gas at $3 a gallon I’m not backing off, I’m drafting.

Think (before I speak)

Sometimes I have a hard time not saying what I am thinking. And it occasionally makes for some awkward moments. Take this conversation I had yesterday at work for example.

Guy: This is a nice little cup, and it's double walled.

Me: Looks good

Guy: It isn't as expensive as the other double walled mugs

Me: Uh huh (kind of annoyed because I should have been in the back listening to the Gator game on the Internet, but instead I'm watching this guy give a full body exam to every cup we have on his little double-walled-cup safari)

Guy: (obviously delighted with his find) It's cheap and it's pretty cute!

Me: (before I could stop it from coming out and with an appropriate dose of sarcasm) Is that how you like 'em... cheap and cute?


(Cue very, very, long awkward pause)


Guy: Um, I'm married.

Me: (making a half hearted attempt to show him my wedding ring) Me too.

Guy: I think I'm going to go look around a little more.

Me: Right.

I've heard that the first step is admitting I have a problem. I've never doubted there was a problem, I've been getting in trouble for running my mouth since I was in first grade. At least I don't have to stand with my nose in the corner anymore (That's what she said! Whoops, there I go again).

A picture is worth...

I love the creativity of random humanity, but even more than the creativity I love the willingness to deface anything to let that creativity be seen. I took this the other day at the Linville Gorge Wilderness. Note the addition scratched in the bottom of the sign.

Public Service Announcement

I am little concerned about the plight of the American youth. Within my lifetime I have seen a new predator emerge. A threat, which, if left unchecked, will steal the lives of our children. So what is the threat? Drugs? Alcohol? Internet predators? Bocce ball? Try video games. That’s right, I said video games. Now before you throw your wireless Xbox controller at me, let me explain.

Childhood and adolescence are a critical time in a youngster’s life where you learn vital skills like: covertly stealing cookies from the cookie jar, ratting out your siblings, and where to hide that stalagmite of a booger you just pulled from your nose. But, perhaps the most important thing to be learned is how to interact with other people in a social environment. And this is what is at stake. Now don’t get me wrong, I have partaken in a video game session or two. I mean, who can pass up some NCAA Football or some Splinter Cell? And Contra. Remember Contra? Up-up-down-down-left-right-left-right-B-A-start got you 30 lives. Remember that? But the difference is, I can distinguish between real life and virtual life. I know I am not a college football player ((I could have walked on, but I chose to focus on my academics) I hope you read that in a deep “I am a jock” voice with your chest puffed out. If not, read it again). And I know I am not a spy. But that doesn’t preclude me from leaving messages in code for my handler on crumpled crossword puzzles in the predetermined wastepaper receptacle.

Anyway, the point is, I can’t think of any other activity that young people participate in that can alienate them from society like playing too many video games. Think about it, what will too much sports get you? A healthy body, good hand eye coordination, lots of chicks, a scholarship to college despite how poorly academically you have done.

And what about too much studying? Good grades, the admiration of your parents and teachers, a scholarship to an Ivy League school, and the sweet feeling of revenge when you hire your former classmates to work for you at an unimaginably low wage forcing them to downgrade from the double wide to a Coleman pop-up trailer.

But with too many video games what do you get? Childhood obesity, cardiovascular disease, an inability to distinguish reality from make-believe, a pasty-white complexion, and social ineptitude. There is no down-the-road payoff. You don’t go from being a fat, sloppy, person who can’t interact with others to CEO or to MD or to Commercial Recreation Master’s Degree holder. It just doesn’t happen like that.

You might be asking what has inspired me to tackle such a huge social issue on my little blog. Can one person really make a difference? I had an experience yesterday while working which really drove home the severity of the situation we are faced with. At work we sell glow sticks. I am not really sure why we sell them and I never really paid any attention to them until last week when somebody realized that our entire stock (several hundred in a smorgasbord of colors) was expired. Now, everyone knows you can’t sell expired glowsticks, so we have been giving them away. This was, of course, after we each took as many as we would ever think we could possibly need.

So this kid comes in with his mom. She was clearly doing the shopping and he was clearly suffering from separation anxiety from being separated from his video game console for a whole afternoon. How do I know this is what was happening? First of all, he was shaped like a pear. While not a guaranteed indicator, when grouped with his ashen complexion, callused fingertips, and t-shirt with an old-school Nintendo controller and the word “GAMER” on the front, it is a dead giveaway. Not to mention he twice tripped while simultaneously reading and walking. After about an hour of waiting while his mom tried on jackets I decided I would cheer this kid up. So when he walked by the counter I asked him if he wanted some free glowsticks. I was almost knocked over in surprise and disgust when I heard his response. While avoiding eye contact and in the voice of a mouse, he said, “Naw, I don’t really have any need for glowsticks right now.”

It was at this point that I reached across the counter and grabbed him by his collar and smacked him and screamed, “No need? No need? Nobody has a need for glowsticks! They are the only product created that nobody ever really needs! But you take them, especially if they are free!”

Alright, I didn’t really grab him, but I wanted to. Because you don’t turn down free glowsticks, you just don’t.

Compare this with the reactions of my coworkers upon finding out about the free glowsticks. One guy gleefully exclaimed that he had enough glowsticks to light an airfield and land a plane in his front yard. The new girl declared that she was going to cut them open and soak a shirt in them to wear out that night. The entire staff participated in our attempt to break the record for the most glowsticks cracked at once (we’re waiting to hear back from Guinness on that one). And even our home schooled high school kid (home-schoolers aren’t usually the poster children for social integration, ours is an exception (he was on a poster...as a child)) declared that he was going to cut them open and pour them into his toilet to make the water glow.

It pained me to see somebody pulled down so low to where they wouldn’t even accept a free glowstick. What a shame. And the culprit was video games. It hurts just to think about it. So my warning to the world is, “Don’t let the video games steal your childhood.” If you think you might have a problem, go get a glowstick. If it doesn’t inspire you, then seek a licensed professional, preferably one who has a glowstick hanging in their office. They can help. Together we can make a difference.

Please RSVP

I am having a party and you’re invited, maybe. If you are a citizen of the great state of North Carolina you are invited. If you are not a North Carolinian then you’re not invited. It is a theme party of sorts. You see I’m inviting all the North Carolinians to attend my I-don’t-care-if-it-is-the-South-and-you-think-you-live-life-at-a-slower-pace-this-is-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works-and-it’s-time-to-catch-up party. There will be drinks and light refreshments provided. In addition, there will be some skits put on by those who are not inbred or have lived in municipalities where greater than 50% of the population is literate.

The first skit is titled, “Despite what the New Mothers Support Group at the trailer park says, it is not ok to fill your toddler’s bottle with cola.” The idea for this skit came from a trip to the NC State Fair. I understand that junior is going to lose those teeth anyway, and by the looks of it, dental hygiene doesn’t run in the family, but for the love of all that’s holy, give him a chance.

The second skit is called, “The left lane is for passing, the right lane is for driving 12 miles below the speed limit.” In the rest of the world if you are going to drive slower than the rest of the traffic, you get in the right lane. If there are 6 lanes, I really don’t care which lane you lollygag along in, but when there are two lanes, do the right thing and move over.

The third skit is called, “Dogs belong on leashes, and kids…don’t.” This skit was also inspired by the fair. Just like dogs get a trip to puppy obedience school, kids need a little obedience training too. Try this: stop putting soda in their bottles, set some ground rules, if they break the rules, punish them, and leave the leash for the canine (that’s just a fancy word for dog). I don’t care if it looks like a monkey, you’re not tricking anyone, it is still a leash.

The fourth skit is called “It is ok to move over to let someone merge onto the highway.” This one is inspired by my drive to work every morning and is pretty self explanatory.

The fifth skit is called “Most pig race announcers don’t have pressed jeans, color coordinated shirts, and a lisp.” Again, from the fair. You’re not fooling anyone, I saw the way the livestock looked at you.

The last and final skit is called, “Whichever of you voted to ratify property tax on vehicles is a schmuck.” I got a bill in the mail the other day. Property tax on a 1991 Honda with no air conditioning and a dented quarter panel? Really? What’s next, property tax on my iron and coffee table? Need a tax base? Try tourism. Heard of it? Maybe you should check it out.

The Secret

I have a secret. A secret that I have never told anyone. Not my parents or my wife or my siblings. It has haunted me since last week when I remembered it.

As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.

The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?

It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.

But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).

I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.

Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.

At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.

My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.

Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.

Fat-tastic

This may sound odd, but I've been thinking about fat a lot lately. Mostly because I have been watching my love handles aggressively expand into real estate worthy of their own zip codes. As far as I can tell this annexation of my obliques by the lipid monster is due to a combination of forces worthy of perfect storm status. The first force at work is my wife, who is an amazing cook, with a fatal (for me) flaw. She will make 3 dozen cookies (this week it was Boston creme pie cup cakes) with no intention of eating more than 2 over the course of the next week. Now, we all know that there are starving kids in Africa and that chocolate chip cookies go bad after 72 hours. So, I don't know where she expects them to go, but I can't stand to see them go to waste.

The second force at work is my lingering back injury that makes it all too easy to skip my thrice weekly runs. Running for the sake of running is one of my absolute least favorite things to do, but I feel obligated to try to do something to turn the calorie deficit in my favor. Give me something to chase like a ball or a Frisbee and I'm like a greyhound at the track (but slower and hopefully without a muzzle). They say that if you run long enough you'll get "runner's high" and all your pain and problems will disappear. I guess I have never run far enough, because the only high I get is when I take a shot of my asthma inhaler and feel oxygen finally return to my brain. Or maybe runner's high really just makes you feel like your legs are made of jello, your lungs are slowly shrinking, and what vision you have left is doubled. If that is the case, I get runners high going to the mailbox. They say married people want their single friends to get married so they will be as miserable as the married folks. Perhaps runners just want everyone else to be miserable like they are, so they made up runners high and sadistically watch they rest of us stumble down the street towards an imaginary escape.

The last force at work is entirely my fault and I am willing to admit it. I am on a quest to find the best chicken wings in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area. This has obviously required me to ingest an unthinkable amount of saturated and unsaturated fat, but it is clearly for a good cause. While I am grateful to those chickens that gave their lives for the effort, I am afraid it has been in vain thus far. Even as I type I can smell the fragrance of inferior wings wafting off my fingers. This time I am thankful that I didn't find the place with the best wings because I don't know that I have the courage to go there on a regular basis. Deep in downtown Durham, with nothing but a walk up window is a little wing shack that also sells cigarettes and 40's of malt liquor (convenient, I guess, if you live in the neighborhood). This place makes Buffalo Chips look like Chucky Cheese's. Buffalo Chips is my hometown wing dump where I once watched a man get thrown through a glass door and limp away a bloody mess into the darkness. It is also the mark by which all wings are measured. So until I find a wing that makes my lips tingle the way the suicide wings from the old Buffalo Chips, the search goes on.

The other reason I have been thinking about fat is a comment made by my wife after a trip to Walmart. Yes, we shop at Walmart. I know some people are against Walmart because they drive out small businesses and maybe they employ low wage workers in other countries and blah, blah, blah. To that I respond, was Walmart not a small business at one point and maybe they just did it better than everyone else? Are low paying jobs better than no jobs? Is it possible to get a shopping cart at Walmart without a wobbly wheel? The truth of it is, I don't really care about all that stuff because things are cheaper there and they offer unmatched people watching opportunities.

So my wife comes home and says, and I quote, "I hear all this stuff about Americans and obesity and I think that there isn't a lot of fat people running around...and then I go to Walmart." After I stopped laughing I thought about it, and besides being a Mecca for dental work, I'm pretty sure it's a tough place to be a coronary artery.

With all this focus on fat lately I've been wondering what's is the cure? How can we avoid being called, "Fatty" and, "Tubs" and having to pay for two plane tickets when we fly?

Coincidentally, the answer came to me when I was walking into Target. I watched a tone and fit looking chap as he crossed from my right to my left passing 3 sets of perfectly good double doors in order to walk through the automatic doors. He probably walked 20 or 30 feet out of his way in order to avoid having to open the door. My first impression was that he was lazy. In fact, I thought to myself, "Only in America would someone walk out of their way to not have to open a door." Then it occurred to me that maybe this guy had the answer to America's obesity problem, and I bet he didn't even know it. In fact, I was so wrapped up in thought that I read "pull" on the door and ran into it as I proceeded to "push."

If you haven't figured the solution out for yourself yet, I'll spell it out for you. Put the automatic doors on the sides of the Walmart away from the parking lot and bingo! The draw of the automatic doors will be too much to resist and America will walk themselves to a healthier and trimmer future.

Get Your Learn On

For the last couple of years I helped mold the minds of America’s future. A scary thought, indeed. As a “Professor” of backpacking and sailing I taught them how to “Climb the mountains of life” and “Navigate the seas of uncertainty” and other similarly cheesy and absurd topics. After reading the following conversations you may be convinced I failed, however, at times, I don’t think I was given a whole lot to work with.

Backpacking class, lecture on food.

Me: Any ideas on foods to bring for dinner?
Girl: (enthusiastically) Easy Mac
Me: Ok, let’s talk about Easy Mac. How do you cook it?
Girl: Microwave
Me: Just so I know we’re on the same page here, we’re talking about backpacking foods, right?
Girl: Uh huh
Me: So you want to cook Easy Mac on your trip?
Girl: Yep
Me: So after we hike 6 miles into the woods you want to cook Easy Mac?
Girl: (Starting to get frustrated and feeling singled out) Yeah, why?
Me: And how are you going to cook it?
Girl: In a microwave
Me: So you’re going to hike 6 miles and then cook Easy Mac in a microwave?
Girl: (Really frustrated and starting to give me the stink eye) YES!
Me: And you don’t see any problems with this?
Girl: What?!?
Me: Nothing, sounds like a great plan. Bring enough for your group.



Same class, different girl


After hiking several miles along a river my backpacking class stopped to take a break at the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and continue down the other side of the river to their campsite for the night. The bridge looked similar to this one; a two lane highway, stripes down the middle and sides, and guardrails. After resting for a few minutes I gathered the troops and we got ready to start hiking again. The conversation went something like this:



Me: You guys ready to get going again?



(undergraduates are like a school of little fish: they cluster together, move around a lot, and nobody wants to stand out so much they get eaten (or called on in class). So consider their comments to be all be simultaneous and mumbled)



Mumblings from class: Alright. Ok. Already? Let's go. Do we have to? Fine.



As we started to hike across the bridge as a class, a girl made a loud announcement to everyone.



Girl: (loudly and as if making a discovery) I think this bridge is man-made!

Me: (under my breath) this oughta be good

Crickets: Chirp, chirp, chirp



The class literally stopped in their tracks to hear what she had to say next. Surely this couldn't be the extent of her announcement. There must be some explanation as to how she came to her earth shattering discovery.



The awkward silence continued on, and the tension building. The school of undergrads started to stir and some mutterings could be heard from the masses.

Mumblings from class: What did she say? Huh? What? She's so pretty! What? What an idiot! I think she's right. Huh?

It soon became clear that there was nothing else coming that would help to explain what she was talking about. That was when one of her classmates swam clear of the school and let his voice be heard.

Guy: (in his best documentary narrators voice and mocking tone) Since the beginning of time this bridge has stood here. Through the first ice age it withstood the elements. In the Jurassic Period dinosaurs used it to cross the river.

The laughter eventually died down, and for the remainder of the trip, anytime there was a culvert, telephone pole, or train tracks, someone would invariably let the class know that they thought it was man made.

If all went as planned, she should be finishing law school shortly. If your lawyer in the future is a UF alumni, your first question should be whether or not she took my backpacking class. If the answer is yes, take my advice, and just get up and walk out.

Game Theory

Back when I was an undergrad in college I used to play a little game to pass the time as I walked to class. I have recently considered resurrecting the game and thought it may be useful to those of you who are looking to spice up your life a little.

First, a little background. At the University of Florida there is something like 45 or 50,000 students. The university decided that in order to better serve the students they would make available parking for those students who would rather not spend 30 minutes sitting on a bus with their face in the armpit of some foreign exchange student who has not made bathing or deodorant a regular part of their daily routine. Being the generous institution that they are, they give a parking space to every student. That is, every student who is willing to pay $300 a semester for some magic colored sticker, who arrives before 7am, and drives an earth-tone-compact-hybrid. So, needless to say, those 12 spots fill up pretty quickly. For the rest of us who still refuse public transportation, the only option is to pick the closest zip code between Jacksonville and Orlando and park there and then walk to campus. I was lucky in that my walking time was only 5-10 minutes longer than it took to drive to campus. I knew a kid who had to camp overnight on his trek from his car to campus. He had to carry a tent and sleeping bag in addition to his books. Alright, that last part was a blatant lie, but tell me that wouldn’t be a good story.

Anyway, let’s focus here. On my daily walk I happened to pass the Delta… Gamma… Slamma… Ramma… something or other... sorority. On a funny side note, later when I was teaching classes one of my students told me it was a “B” grade sorority for fat chicks and those otherwise deemed unworthy of “A” grade sororities. After hearing that, I thought it would be funny if they had a 24-hour buffet inside or Tivo-ed episodes of “The Swan” or “Extreme Makeover” playing on a loop. I was always afraid to look too hard as I think campus security looks down on dudes peering in the windows of a sorority house (even if it is “B” grade). One day I was walking past the bike rack of the sorority house when I noticed that one of the bikes was not locked up. Now, it is not that the owner was too lazy to lock it up. The owner had in fact taken time to carefully wind a lock through the bike rack and around the frame of the bike, but had managed to some how miss going through the frame or anything else that would have permanently anchored the bike to the rack. My initial thought was that it wasn’t just the girls’ looks that were “B” grade. It took me two tries and two years at community college to get into UF and they let in some moron who can’t even lock up her bike. I bet she got a scholarship too.

I don't remember for sure if I was running late, but for the sake of making the story better let's assume I was. So here I was, running late, looking at this bike that wasn't really locked up and the thought occurred to me, "You could just borrow the bike, ride it to class, and bring it back. No one would have to know." It would have cut my commute time in half. Now, I consider myself a fairly honest person... I give back the money when a cashier gives me too much change, I don't claim frivolous items on my taxes, I don't steal babies and sell them on EBay, but I was seriously contemplating "borrowing" that bike. Who wouldn't?

In the end, I didn’t have what the kids these days might call, “The balls” to steal the bike. I would like to think it had something to do with my quality upbringing, but in reality I’ve seen the Shawshank Redemption and I’ve seen what happens to people like me in prison. I don’t feel like at this point in my life I am ready to join a hate group in order to ensure my survival in “The Joint.”

As I continued on my trek to class (minus one perfectly good bike) I got to thinking… I hope I get credit, somehow, in the overall scheme of things for not stealing that bike. Then I thought, “Why wait?”

And I gave myself one point.

And thus the game began. You assign yourself points for NOT doing things. For example, throughout the next few weeks I racked up a record number of points (of course it was a record, I just made it up… so no one else had ever scored any points) for things like: Not pretending to not see the skateboarder and running him into the grass (3 points), not bumping into the girl with an armful of books and hot coffee causing her irreparable burn damage to her face and hands, thus forcing her to join the “B” grade sorority (5 points), not parking over the line making the spot next to me unusable by anything other than a motorcycle (1 point), and not pretending to not see and hear the person yelling, “Hold the elevator!” (2 points). If you’ll notice, the items that could potentially cause bodily or emotional harm receive a higher point value than the relatively innocuous items.

So, if you’re a little bored in the office, try instituting your own version of the game. For example, not leaving an empty roll of toilet paper in the company bathroom after your bad Chinese food episode could get you 2 points, not ignoring emails from “the annoying guy” might net you 1 point, and not pouring minute amounts of antifreeze into your evil bosses coffee everyday, causing a slow but violent and nearly untraceable death (I watched “Cold Case Files” last night) could land you a whopping 8 points… that’s a pretty big one.

Anyway, it is the perfect game. It’s easy to play, entertaining, and it folds up into a convenient travel sized case. Enjoy.

The South Will Rise Again

I wanted to share a couple of conversations I had in the last week.

Me: How are you doing today? Can I help you find something?
Guy: What uhh... What uhh... What's the name of your store?
Me: The Great Outdoor Provision Company
Guy: Yeah, uhh... pro..provis... (long pause) so ya'll provide stuff?
Me: Sure, I guess you could say that
Guy: Well, do ya'll provide shotguns?
me: Shotguns? No sir, we don't carry shotguns, or any guns for that matter.
Guy: Well, crap.
me: Ok?
Guy: (frustrated) Man, I been everywhere and ain't no one got no shotguns.
me: You really need a shotgun, huh?
Guy: Sure do. The wife says to just get me a hand gun, but ain't no way I'd hit 'em with a hand gun.
me: If you don't mind me asking, who are you shooting at?
Guy: Them robbers, out where we is, they just kick down the door, they don't care if you there or not. Like 40 houses been robbed.
me: Robbers. Of course.
Guy: That's why I want a shotgun, just one of them sawed off numbers with a pistol grip.
Me: Pistol grip? And you can't find one of those?
Guy: Nope, been to the Walmart and to the Dick's. They got anything you want to stab somebody, or beat somebody, but no sawed off shotguns. (This is my favorite part) I guess I'm gonna have to go see them gangbangers.
Me: Gangbangers? (making his way to the door)
Guy: Yeah, gangbangers can get anything.
Me: I bet they can. Thanks for coming in. Good luck.

New Story

Me: Can I help you find something?
Dude: Yeah, you got one of these? (turns around and points to the back of his shirt which has a mostly naked girl steering a ship and says "3rd annual east coast island cruise"
Me: One of...what?
Dude: These! (Points again to the picture on the back of his shirt)
me: Right... a mostly naked chick?
Dude: No man...that glasses thang. (upon further inspection the girl is holding an easily missed pirates spyglass, definitely not the most prominate feature in the picture)
me: A spyglass?
dude: Yep, you got one of them?
me: We have binoculars
dude: Anyone's got binoculars. You got one of them thangs?
me: Nope, I think we sold the last one in 1650.
dude: Oh, you gonna get more?
me: Pretty sure we aren't
dude: You know where I can get one?
me: Sure don't.
dude:I bet the Internet has one (by the way he said it, I guarantee he thinks the Internet is a place). The Walmart has them, but only at Christmas.
me: Why would they have spyglasses at Christmas?
dude: Huh?
me: Nothing
dude: Well, you got any captains hats
me: Are you a captain?
dude: Naw
me: What type of captains hat are you looking for?
dude: (spins and points to the half naked chick whose also happens to be wearing a hat)
me: Of course.
dude: You got them?
me: Nope, fresh out.
dude: Oh, guess I have to go to the Internet.
me: Probably your best bet.

The moral? North Florida is the minor leagues compared to NC when it comes to "laid back country folk" and them good old boys. Sometimes you have to move 500 miles north to get to the South.

Mother Goose

The other day on the way to work I passed a bus that caught my attention. This was clearly an old school bus that had been repainted by someone who does not repaint buses for a living. It was reminiscent of the buses that I used to see in South Florida taking migrant workers to the tomato fields. But it wasn't so much the bus, as the writing on the side of the bus, that really got me thinking. It said, "Humpty Dumpty's Day Care." Now, I couldn't remember exactly what old Humpty was famous for. All I could remember was "The Humpty Dance," but I think that might be a different guy. Either way I didn't think it was related to child care. After having my wife explain Mr. Dumpty's story, I was all the more confused. Basically this guy sat on a wall, fell off, and broke into pieces. That must have been one heck of a fall. The only people I know that sit on and fall off of walls on a regular basis are drunk and/ or homeless people. And it is usually on walls specifically marked, "No sitting." I don't really think either are qualified to watch children. I really am perplexed. Had it said, "Peter Pan's Pilot Service," I would understand. Peter Pan obviously has some flight time under his belt. Rapunzel's salon? Sure, it just makes sense. Someone with a weave that doubles as a rappelling rope probably knows a thing or two about hair. Need to climb a mountain? I'd probably give Jack or Jill a call. Need to come down from a mountain? They may not be the best people to take the lead on that one. Anyway, my point is if you are going to name a business after someone famous, for the sake of people like me, make it applicable. I just spent a day and a half trying to link Humpty Dumpty to child care and I really just don't think this Mr. Dumpty, with his propensity for laziness and instability, is the best role model for your little ones. I think "Mother Goose's Child Care," might be the better choice. Just a thought.

Dear Madam or Sir Tire King

August 9, 2007

Tire King
PO Box 1928
Durham, NC 27702


Dear Madam or Sir Tire King,

After spending a couple of hours in your Durham location on South Miami Blvd I thought I would write you a letter and let you know a little about your customers. The first thing you must know is that your customer is not generally going to be happy to begin with. Let’s face it, you're not running an amusement park. Nothing good can come from a visit to your shop. The very fact that I am in your shop means that my life has already been inconvenienced. No one wants to pay $400 for a part they can’t see and have no idea what it does. In my case, the state of North Carolina decided that I need to pay you $30 to tell me that my windshield wipers and turn signals work. Now, I’m sure there is more to it than that, but as a customer I skim the list of requirements and because I think the whole thing is stupid to begin with, I focus on the most ridiculous thing and that’s what I cling to. So in my mind I am paying you $30 to flip the turn signals on, which is dumb, because I rarely use them anyway.

The next thing you should know is that if I am waiting for my car, I don’t want to see your employees standing or, in my case, sitting around. You know that huge picture window you provided in the customer waiting room that overlooks the work area? It works. You can see through it. Think of it like being at the zoo and your employees are the animals. Instead of hearing, “Mommy, Mommy, the monkey is eating its poop!” you hear, “Mommy, Mommy, that mechanic hasn’t moved in half an hour, I think he’s dead.” At my trip to the Mechanic Zoo I got to see lots of action. I wasn’t really paying attention until I realized that there were two mechanics (in the customer’s eyes anyone in that area with a little grease on them or the mandatory two-toned button-down shirt is a mechanic) that hadn’t moved from their little rolling chairs in over half an hour. From that point on, mechanic watching became a spectator sport. In the next hour and a half I witnessed three trips to the vending machine, four cigarettes, one forward kick and two roundhouse kicks to the car lift, an impressive show of text-messaging while rolling around the room, what appeared to be reading of the side of several aerosol cans, mock swinging from the air hoses suspended from the ceiling, and a world-record-pace sprint across the entire floor to answer a cell phone. What I didn’t witness was any mechanic-ing. No tire pressure checked, no fan belts changed, not even the floor swept, and what I am really concerned with, no turn signal inspecting. All of this brings me to my last glimpse into the black hole that is the customer’s psyche.

When you are in the wrong (perhaps when a customer points out that two of your employees have been sitting around for two hours) and it is obvious by the look on your face that you know you are in the wrong, just admit it. The customer isn’t interested in your excuses because, unlike your employees, I am not getting paid for sitting around. I don’t care if you are “short-handed.” Of course you’re “short-handed,” because two of your employees aren’t doing anything. I also don’t care that neither of those guys could have done my inspection because they aren’t licensed by the state. In my mind, there are lots of things they could have been doing. Perhaps they could help the one guy that is licensed to do inspections finish whatever he is doing so he could do my inspection. Or even studying for the state inspection exam might be a good use of their time. That way maybe next time you won’t be “short-handed.”

As a customer, I am sophisticated. I know that it is six to ten times more expensive to get a new customer than it is to retain an existing one. I also know that a satisfied customer usually tells three people about their experience, whereas an unsatisfied customer will tell nine people about their experience. In this case, I hope both of these are true. I hope you have to work hard and pay a lot to replace me. As for that second fact, I know it will be true, as I posted this on the internet prior to sending it to you.

This letter was just meant to give you a peek of what I experienced in my one (and only) visit to your facility. Take it for what its worth. Hang it up, throw it away, or laugh at it- I don’t care. My work here is done.

The Texas Rangers

The other day I was at work and this guy that I work with (who wears way too short of shorts and knows (and talks) way too much about Indian folklore, and boy scouts, and the "old ways", etc...) brought his 6 year old kid in to the shop. This is not unusual as the mom usually comes at the same time and they do a hand off.

Well, this day there was a big accident and the mom was stuck in traffic so I had the privilege of spending almost an hour with the little tike (tyke, tyche, teyeche, tiche?). I guess maybe I should start with some background. Every time I have seen the kid he has been carrying a rifle. Now, it does have an orange cap on the end and a yarn strap to sling it over his shoulder (I assume for those long marches between battles) so it is fairly obvious that it is not a real rifle, but it is a rifle none the less.

After working with this kid's dad for a couple of minutes, it was obvious that the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Why do I say that? Mainly because anytime there are no customers he takes his file and continues work on the bow (as in bow and arrow) he is whittling out of a tree he "felled" himself and then allowed to cure for a year prior to beginning the carving process.

So I am somehow left alone with the kid for like 30 minutes while his dad skins a deer or something out back. Anyway I'm doing the obligatory kid small talk, "how old are you...what's your favorite color...does your rifle shoot in the rain?" when it hits me. I know this kid from somewhere. I can't figure it out, but the more he talks the more I am convinced I have met this kid before. I kept trying to figure out how I would know a little pale faced, red-headed, kid with a heavy country accent. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. TEXAS RANGER!! This kid is an identical twin to the kid off Talladega nights.

So as soon as I realized who I was dealing with I knew my next task was to get him to say some of the lines. All I wanted was to hear one, "Your house smells like cat urine" or maybe a, "One of you terds is about to get smacked in the mouth if you don't keep it down!" But how could I teach a 6 year old to say, "Chip, I'm gonna scissor kick you in the back of the head!" It just didn't seem right. Partly because I could hear his dad finishing up the authentic tee pee he was building in the back room, but mostly because I was afraid Chris Hansen would come out of behind the sleeping bags and say that they were doing a Dateline special on predators who tried to make young children say things like, "Chip, I'm gonna come at you like a spider monkey!"

I am not one to back away from a challenge, but I don't think that teaching this kid new vocab words would be the best way to bond with my new coworker. Not to mention I'm pretty sure he could make short work of me and make sure no one found my body. So, after all that I never did get him to say anything but, "I love knives" and that was just because he was trying to convince me to open the knife case and let him play with one.

But there is still time and I won't be happy until there is a little redheaded country 6 year-old with, "Let's burn the joint down" in his vocabulary.

Circus Peanuts

Here is a recap of an actual conversation I had today with "something-quita" (No joke, that was really her name. I know that's sometimes used as the generic black person name, but it really was her name, I just missed the first half of it). She was calling on behalf of the Shriner's. Those are the guys with the funny hats that ride the mini-bikes in parades. Apparently they also have a circus as I found out from "misses -quita."

-quita: Hi my name is something-quita and I am calling on behalf of the Shriner's. Our annual circus is in town and we would like to send some underprivileged kids in Durham to go see it.

me: OK, sounds like a worthy cause. (I think I would have started with buying school supplies or after-school programs, but I guess a trip to the circus oughta help them kick the poverty cycle)

-quita: We would like to send you a form to make a donation so we can send these kids to see the circus. We just need your address to send you the form AND your four free tickets to the circus.

me: Wait a sec. You are going to send me four free tickets to the circus?

-quita: Yes sir, we sure are.

me: Is this the same circus you want to send the underprivileged kids to?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: Now this might be a dumb question, but why don't you just give those four tickets that you were going to send me to four of the kids and save yourself the postage?

-quita: Well sir if you wanted to help "doubly as much" (that's a direct quote) you could sign the back of the tickets and send them back to us and that would help more kids go.

me: I guess I don't understand. Couldn't you just keep the tickets and give them directly to the kids?

-quita: Well sir, we print the tickets here and send them out, so it wouldn't be a problem to send them to you.

me: I'm sorry about this, but you print the tickets to the circus there?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: So you can print as many tickets as you need?

-quita: Yes sir.

me: So you could potentially print enough tickets to send all the kids in Durham to the circus?

-quita: Well, no.

me: No?

-quita: They need snacks.

me: Snacks?

-quita: Yes sir. Snacks.

me: So the donation form is really for snacks for underprivileged kids in Durham, not to send them to the circus because you print the tickets to your own circus that the kids would be attending.

-quita: Well, I guess so.

me: Will they be healthy snacks?

-quita: Huh?

me: Nothing, please send me the donation form.

In 5 to 7 days I can look forward to an opportunity to help buy Durham's underprivileged children snacks for their trip to the Shriner's circus. I hope they buy circus peanuts.

Doing Donuts

I left the gym this morning at around 6:27am, which gave me approximately 33 minutes to get to work. It’s a good thing that the trip lasts 4 minutes. As I approached a traffic light there was a truck directly behind me, along with two other unidentifiable vehicles behind it, (unidentifiable due to the foggy rear window (and I wasn’t wearing contacts (because they are too expensive (and “Instantly Improve Vision” isn’t on my “to-do” list)))).

Shortly before stopping, I noticed that the driver in the only vehicle that I could recognize made a swift lane change and was now sitting immediately to my right. I knew that there was a school zone slightly more than ¼ mile away from said light and a “Merge Left” sign within the range of my contactless vision. As I processed all of this information, I couldn’t come to a logical conclusion as to why this driver decided to make the lane change.

The only reason one would take this particular route is because their destination must be within 2 minutes (driving time) away. Nobody would be headed through this intersection otherwise. There are no short-cuts, warp zones, or hot dog vendors.

So why did this gentleman get next to me? Did he have intentions of “lightin’ ‘em up” (as the kids say)? Was he trying to impress those around him with his superior driving skills? Did he have some sort of phobia about being stopped behind a Chevrolet? Did he have a date? Who would schedule a date at 6:30 in the morning in a mostly industrial part of town? Moreover, who would want to date a guy who was hell-bent on being the first off the line at a seemingly unimportant traffic light? Why didn’t he leave his house 5 seconds earlier, thus giving him ample time to get in front of me before the light? Did he opt to toast his Pop-Tart, instead of eating it cold? Did he eat a Toaster Strudel, (which requires more time then a Pop-Tart because it’s frozen and you have to apply the frosting yourself (at which point you need to squeeze all of the frosting from the plastic packet, (then lick it for good measure)))? Did he skip breakfast altogether, knowing that Simone was supposed to bring donuts today and Frank always gets there earlier the he which causes Speedracer to lose his chance at the “Pick of the Dozen”?

I think I just answered my question.

Kudos crazy driver, kudos!

Southern Comfort

A friend just emailed me this, I think the end says just as much about Canadians as the story does about the South.

It's a classic southern moment between father and son:

So I walked into the men's room at the Pilot truck stop off I-75 in Ocala. As I was washing my hands a father and son (both with flowing mullets) walked out of stalls and prepared to leave. The son said (make sure you imagine both voices in extreme southern/red-neck accents) "Dad, wait, I want to wash my hands first" to which the father replied "Son, we don't have time for that." The son persisted and said "But Dad, I want to." His father was quick to shut him down and said "Well son, you're not allowed." and quickly ushered him out the door. I imagine that the father had one of two phrases on his mind at the time. "Real men don't wash their hands." or "May the Mullet protect us." Either way, it was a classic snapshot of life in the south.

Jesson and I just got back from Canada. They put on a fireworks show where the last 15 minutes consisted of only red and white fireworks lit to the song "Canada" in which that single word was the only lyric. Classic. I love Canadians. Talk to you later.

Who forbids their kid from washing his hands?

An open apology

I must take a minute to openly apologize to those in the general vicinity of Section 130, Row B, Seats 15 and 16, at the Durham Bulls minor league baseball game on Saturday night. Especially to the guy in the "Quite-a-bit-too-short-shorts" immediately next to me who switched places with his buddy after you went to get beers (yeah, I noticed), but not the lady immediately behind me who kept screaming in my ear every time your kid blatantly stepped on your hand after you repeatedly told her not to. In my opinion, you need to step up and start disciplining your kids. Kids these days need you to be a parent, not a friend. Frankly, I wouldn't let my friend step on my hand either, but that is neither here nor there.

You guys probably came for a couple hours of America's past time and the free fireworks after the game, but ended up getting way more than you bargained for, or ever deserved. I would like to be able to say that it wasn't my fault, but the truth of it is, my gastro-intestinal issues are well documented. I live my life like a big game of tag. Those places with reasonably sanitary restroom facilities are "base" and I am safe there. Everywhere else I am in danger of getting "tagged."

I wish I could blame it on the chicken wings I ate immediately before the game, but honestly the fireworks were going off well before the hot sauce started flowing. In fact, I was hoping the hot wings would calm the raging beast. That should tell you the condition I was in, both mentally and physically. When has a semi-toxic blend of vinegar and chilies ever calmed anything? Not to mention the blue cheese. For a lactose intolerant, fermenting cheese probably doesn't make it more easily digested. So instead of gently rocking my digestive system into a semi-comatose state of bliss, the wings and blue cheese combined forces with whatever set me off to begin with and created what can only be described as a weapon of mass destruction.

At first it was a relief. If you have never experienced the joy of finding out that all the pressure and impending doom brewing in you is in fact neither a solid nor a liquid, but can be discreetly released into the atmosphere without climbing over everyone down the row and without wondering what microscopic bugs are crawling on the seat you are about to place your bare butt on, then you don't know happiness. Seconds later, however, the tables were turned. With the shock and awe of a conquering military force my (and I can only assume those around me had a similar experience) nasal passages were bombarded with eye watering, eyebrow singeing, gag inducing, funk. I've seen people shed less tears after being pepper-sprayed. And that was just the beginning. Over the next two and a half hours kids in the area were repeatedly checked for dirty diapers or soiled britches. Bottoms of shoes were checked to see what had been stepped in. By the eighth inning spirits were low. The home team was down by double digits and people just couldn't handle much more of the cloud of stench that was hovering over the area like a blimp at the Superbowl. Luckily, by this time my body was starting to shut down for the night and the assault withdrew allowing us watch the Bulls get hammered without nausea. We finished the night with a brilliant display of fireworks, but for those in section 130, the display of bright explosions and burning gasses had been going all night.

And for that, I apologize.

Fun with Photoshop

This is what you can do with too much time on your hands and Adobe photoshop.

Safety Warning

This came printed on a bag I got recently and I am a little confused as to it's meaning. Who writes these things and who decides "Yep, they'll understand that." I mean, the guy on the left is clearly choking himself. That's not good whether you have a bag over your head or not.

Toll letter

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVEN'T HEARD THIS TALE....

TRAVIS WAS GOING THROUGH A TOLL PLAZA IN ORLANDO ON HIS MORNING COMMUTE. FOR REASONS UNKNOWN HE DIDN'T HAVE HIS SUN PASS AND THE ONLY CASH HE HAD IN HIS POCKET WAS A FIFTY DOLLAR BILL. THEY WERE UNABLE TO BREAK IT AND ISSUED HIM AN INSUFFICIENT FUNDS NOTICE. ATTACHED IS THE RESULTING LETTER . ENJOY!

October 3, 2005

Orlando-Orange County Expressway Authority
P.O. Box 568611
Orlando, FL 32856-8611

To Whom It May Concern:
I am slightly disappointed that the toll operator who had generated the enclosed form on September 20, 2005 incorrectly described the reason for my lack of payment. It was not because of insufficient funds, rather an abundance of funds. At the time the only available monetary instrument to suffice the obligation of the toll was a fifty-dollar bill. Evidently the policies of Orlando-Orange County, among others who include but are not limited to, all State toll-collecting authorities, are unable to change such an outrageous dollar amount. I am sympathetic to the potential dangers that come with handling the exorbitant sum of currency necessary to process such a request; however, I also feel that this policy lacks customer service. Instead of taking steps forward by adding new security measures for the safety of your employees and cash handling methods, you have chosen to stay the course with an utter disregard for those who would greatly benefit from such ground breaking policy changes. As though my morning commute doesn't suck enough, the aforementioned disregard for customer service caused me to endure more stress and royally pissed me off! My heightened stress level precipitated me to move with great haste, thus endangering the lives of not only myself, but other morning commuters who were undoubtedly on their way to work as well. And yes, I do understand that with the technological changes that are taking place it is more expensive to have available change and pay employees to control such large amounts of money. That is simply the cost of doing business, but as businesses we need to evolve to handle these changes in effort to provide the best customer service and satisfaction. If considerable attention is not paid to my concerns, I will be forced to take my business elsewhere. Although my attempt to provide a forward thinking rationale to the situation will likely end up in a trash receptacle or passed around the office as a humoring diversion of the realization of working for local government, I appreciate your time, whomever you are. Enclosed is the Toll Violation Insufficient Funds Notice, or what I like to call TVIFN, along with fifty cents that I adhered to said TVIFN, with scotch tape. My only request is that I receive a receipt. Please place it in the enclosed self-addressed stamped envelope.

God Bless, Travis Lehman

P.S. Is it possible to obtain an Orlando-Orange County Expressway Authority T-Shirt?

I won the lottery

Ok, not the real lottery, but the Walmart lottery. That is when you pick a cart that doesn't have a wobbly wheel. Statistically, the odds of winning the real lottery are only slightly less than getting a cart that doesn't vibrate like the "magic fingers" bed in a cheap hotel. The reason behind that is the carts are custom made for Walmart to include a wobbly wheel. This is for two reasons: the first is it really annoys people and encourages them to complete their shopping quicker, thus allowing Walmart to circulate more customers in a day than their competitors. The other reason is it is a psychological trigger to make you think that you are getting a better deal than you really are. By having a cart with a shaking, spinning wheel you generally say something like, "Man, this place is ghetto." In reality your subconscious is saying "if they won't spend money on fixing the carts they must be passing along the savings to me, that is obviously why I can buy 22 pounds of apples for a buck-fifty" They use a similar tactic with the handicapped or geriatric greeter. Your mouth says, "I bet he/she smells pretty funky," but your subconscious says, "By using those who cannot command a higher wage elsewhere to put stickers on the merchandise to be returned and paying them such a ridiculously low wage that an anorexic could not pay her (not being sexist- statistically about 80% of those with eating disorders are women) food bill, they are saving money and thus can pass those savings on to me." So the moral of the story is when your number is called and your cart rides smooth as silk, just be thankful and shop slow, because, my friend, you've won. You've beat the system. Plus, it gives you time to watch everyone else curse as their carts gyrate like a semi-truck with a blow-out. After re-reading this it occurred to me, again, that I really need to get a job.