Work Quip

Against his will, my boss is trying to beat Charles Osborne's record for having hiccups.

 Coworkers have offered various "cures" to rid him of his hiccups.

 One suggested with a strong amount of hope, "Hold your breath."

"I don't want to die," my boss said.

 "I don't want to kill you," I replied.

That's what I call striving for a promotion and a raise.

Help Fight Bibliomnia

Since I have done my part to save the automobile industry by buying an imported car, I am now moving on to save the disintegrating print industry. As a former student of journalism, I have a strong allegiance to the journalists who have made it. After graduation, I gave the job hunt the 'ole college try to find a job in the media, but the editors didn't want any of this. My duties were needed elsewhere.

Nevertheless, I have put my grudges aside and have decided to do my part as a college-educated, literate man to (orchestral fanfare) SAVE THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY.

Last week, the first phase began. A crisp issue of The New Yorker had arrived in the post addressed to me. Previously, I'd been doing the "poor man" subscription. I'd visit the library and check out the previous week's issue or the most current in the bin, or if that wasn't available I'd settle for Newsweek, Atlantic or Economist.

No more wrinkled copies. No more stale current events. It was awkward when I'd bring up topics at work that happened a week or months ago.

"So, you see Obama was elected?" I'd posit.
"Yeah. Two months ago," they'd snidely retort.

Never again.

To round out my Yuppie starter kit, an issue of Atlantic Monthly arrived on Friday. If only I'd bought a Prius, I could be a full member of the Elite literati. Alas, my sedan need not be plugged in or rely on battery juice. Instead I'm just a regular lackluster card-carrying member. The Elites get the fancy laminated card, so I hear. Someday...

These new subscriptions are presenting a problem already. I am subscribed to Wired and Interview, which come monthly. Due to my self-diagnosed disease of Bibliomnia, falling asleep shortly after reading, these magazines challenge me to overcome my illness. This condition haunted my college years, especially with dry history texts, but I'm intent on beating it. Be sure to walk for the cure (mild uppers) this summer. Fight Bibliomnia!

I don't think I've ever successfully completed an issue of The New Yorker, either for lack of interest in some stories or the utter sense of futility to finish a longer article with my "condition." Thank the publishing gods there aren't jumps.

This weekend I put the push on to get through it. "You can do it," I said to myself, another sign of the intelligentsia and schizophrenics--we aren't that different. Breezing through Woody Allen's and David Sedaris' articles I was in good shape. Over lunch I tackled the article on prison reform and thought to myself that I should write my congress person about it. No time though. I have to finish.

When I started to feel my eyelids getting heavy during the article about the Chairlady of China's paper plant, I got up and did some exercise. Strong mind, strong body. Sadly, there were still three more pages. I'll have to finish that one tomorrow. If only I could read while driving.

Atlantic is playing the part of forgotten middle child right now. I looked at the lineup of articles and shortly thereafter closed it. I have a month. It can happen. I can just replace a social life with reading. No big deal.

With the Tribune three days a week and Google Reader news feeds, I'm striving for being the best informed in the office. With "did you see that article in this week's New Yorker" serving as my entre to the Elite, I can assert my literacy among coworkers. I may not have time to work and unemployment would give me adequate time to read, but I will beat this disease and succeed at work.

Does anyone else get the impression that reading the paper or a magazine at your desk is worse than reading news online? I feel this stigma toward reading something other than my 1024 x 780 screen.

If you haven't been inspired already, go subscribe to a magazine or two. Do it for the kids.

Note: For those who wish to look literate without all the fuss, all it takes is an issue here or there on the desk. The key to look like you can read is to crease up the issue. Make some marks in the margin. It can be gibberish. No one will look that closely. Fold over a few pages and you're set.

Flickr Chiditarod Pics

Mine will be up if these batteries ever charge.

A Bloated Wallet in this Economy

It's inevitable. Pretty soon, I'll have to buckle down and get a murse.

No, it isn't that I'm making that much money in my new job. It's the influx of cards I've received because of said métier.

Each week I get a new card in the mail. It started slowly with the ID card for work and the health insurance cards, one for medical the other for dental. Pretty standard. The following week yet another letter came in the post. This time it was a prescription drug card. Clearly not finished commandeering control of my wallet, I received a card for my flex spending account from the greedy-for-wallet-space insurance company.

There are only so many slots in my wallet. Most were already snuggly filled before taking on this job and its accompanying legion of plastic.

You can learn a lot about someone based on what they keep in their wallet. Probably more so based on what someone keeps in their purse, especially so if it's a man with a purse.

My wallet is robustly filled, but not to the point of overflowing or not being able to close. There are the bank cards; four total--2 credit, 2 debit. It's all about balance. Then the requisite driver's license is shrouded behind plastic in a hole barely big enough to hold it or enable me to get it out with any level of ease. My car insurance card, flimsy but it still takes up space.

In the middle I keep some business cards in the event I run into a cute girl who has neither a phone nor a pen to take down my number. (A guy can dream.)

The plastic sleeves intended for pictures house a decade old picture of my sister, a ticket stub from a Cubs/Diamondbacks game I went to several years ago and the third picture slot holds dust. I'd like to think I'm saving this spot for a girlfriend's picture, but based on recent endeavors in online dating, it may continue to be my dust receptacle.

Attention identity thieves and muggers: Since I carry so many insurance cards and outdated crap, I don't have the strength to carry any tangible form of money. You'll be lucky to find more than three dollars in my wallet at a given time. Currently, there is $0 and a receipt from getting my hair cut. So, if you want a dollar off your next trim, by all means take my wallet. Otherwise, you just inherited back problems. Joke's on you sucker.

Haikus for Online Love

Girls of match dot com:
Lascivious pics I sent,
Respond you did not.

I've winked. I've wooed. In the end I boohooed. Thirty emails have been sent, but only one response. The only interpretation is to take this personally. After a less than successful Valentine's night in Wrigleyville--the highlight being a young woman passing out while talking (more like slurring) to me, I swore off the bar scene and decided to try the online harem that is Match.

After being bombarded with emails that my love is waiting for me, I started a three day trial. I returned the favor to the "millions" of users on the site by sending snappy emails. The hours of day two are waning and I have not found my love nor an interested party. Viewing the profile and text boxes as chances to share who I am--I left out the part about living at home and only being on there for the trial--I've gone through three iterations of a bio. All riveting. All unique. None garnering admiration or beatnik snaps.

I've tried minimalism, humor and brutal honesty. Subsequently, I give up. I've always heard you find someone when you stop looking. After covert dating cessations, this break might be real.

Online love I sought
Unanswered prose in outbox
Back to junior high.