aristophanes

Because people want understanding (or as the kids say, the cheat codes) right? We all get asked for our advice; be it on this, or on that, on user account lists or on knitting hats. And those are the easy ones. Those make sense, right? There are step by step directions, there are manuals, there are "how to" videos up on youtube. Hell, maybe we as friends and acquaintances don't really get the easy ones anymore since there's a particular search engine about that will one day rule the world.

Or I guess one could just ask metafilter, right?

But there are some questions or situations that...well, we'll say they're dicey. They require the human touch. You've stumbled across one when someone asks for your advice and you sit back, pause and come to the slow realization...fuck, I guess I did actually make it through that.

The really good ones are immediately followed by, "Why the *fuck* would someone else want to go through it?"

And that's why there are no guides to these questions, issues...dare I say problems? Because of the insane amount of variables; be they emotions, timing in general, your middle name or your blood type. It's also because well, while everything came out alright in the end...there were places, there were moments whereas you knew you were in the wrong and went ahead anyway. These aren't the proudest of memories that we wish to re-live in the hopes of giving you a glimmer of a glance of what's to come. And besides, some shit you gotta figure out on your own.

Oh yeah, being lucky helps. Being lucky helps a shit-ton.

And it's the hardest part really. Finales usually are. Because you've been able to hold back in Maryland (after Halloween, not that there's much stress there) and you've been able to hold fast on the road (and yeah, kinda a bit of stress there) but now you're home. There's scotch. There's guitars. There's tortured memories of being....tortured? But there are memories of smoking, comforting memories of smoking. Smoking, smoking, smoking...cigarettes you understand, right?

It wasn't so much of a cool factor thing. It was more of a "hey, people who work and smoke get more breaks than non-smokers" type of thing. And that's a noble reason to cut short your life, right? But reasons for starting and reasons for continuing are rarely the same. There is a certain laziness in it, because it's hard work to quit. There's a laissez-faire attitude about it too because fuck, we're all gonna go at some point and you might as well enjoy it while you can, right?

And of course the selfish-emo stand point, if I die early no one will care anyway...whoooooooooops.....inside voice, inside voice!

But things change, and maybe it's time to stop....even though the thought of it is just SO DAMN TEMPTING at this point. But you were raised Catholic. Doing without is second nature.

You are born, you live a little, then you die
You login, shoot out some IMs, then you logout
You cannot pick your parents
Or your place of birth
But you can select your username
And service provider
It's the reality you've been looking for
The one that you deserve
The one that you can control
The one with the reset button
For there is no second guessing here
Few regrets
And little accountability
It's everything you've ever wanted but with none of the effort
It's the reality you deserve

74 percent of people love prefaces. I may have just made that number up, but fuck it.

Let's say you had a week planned. It was suppose to be Washington, DC and Baltimore and that was very fucking awesome for reasons that should be clear. Let's say that shit fall apart *like that* and suddenly you're on a plane to southern California because...well, just because. You do what you do, you write a report that while honest is written in such a way as to calm the regional sales manager the fuck down. And then you open your email the next morning and find something sent to both you and your boss.

To: N-; M-
From: R-

Thanks for the update. These seem to be a lot of issues with two new units. Doesn't it?

What. The. Fuck. It's almost like a fucked up loyalty test. Issues? With the units? NO FUCKING WAY! And you reply toeing the company line...because you're not insane, understand? Because this is ALL IN WRITING, right?

To: R-, M-
From: N-

Parts are going to break, it's just getting the dealers confident enough in their technical staff (and ours) that if a problem comes up it can be resolved so as they feel no hesitation in selling the device.

Loyalty proven, yadda, yadda, yadda, all is right with the world. Right? Wrong.

To N-
From: R-

I agree but for a unit with less than 50,000 copies it seems several parts broke. Quality control?

Houston, we have a problem. We have a salesperson who has lost faith. They have lost faith because they are finding the product "hard to sell" and they are running that old school program "Cover ass as quickly as possible, blame the product". Uh-oh. There's not much you can do, it's like talking down an addict who just went into rehab. You can try, but ultimately, it's gonna be up to them.

From: N-
To: R-

One part definitely malfunctioned. The sensor issue, again, it didn't break and hasn't happened anywhere else, it was just unfortunate. The lower limit sensor being knocked off caused several issues. How or why that happened, I couldn't say. On the new machine, there's probably is a bad clutch. Thankfully we have an out of box check sheet that the dealer can fill out. They can mark down everything they found during a new install and send it back to us so as Japan can investigate or make changes as they see fit.

And then of course you send a message to your boss.

To: M-
From: N-

We're losing R-, he's off message and questioning the product. He either needs a nap or a slap in the face. The product is like Ukraine, IT IS STRONG!!!11

And it's an odd thing when a salesperson loses faith before you do, because you're in technical. You already know how much better the machine could be if you had 8 million dollars and a couple of months. But it's not up to you, and wishing doesn't make any difference. To paraphrase Godfather II, THIS IS THE PRODUCT WE'VE BEEN GIVEN. Could it be better, fuck yeah! Do we all know this, you bet your sweet ass! Will we ever admit it, hell no!

And for fuck's sake, it's not like I actually wanted to be there. Try being a little grateful, you fuckwad.

10 Rules of Vegas

1: Never empty the bottle.
2: Scam the bottle.
3: You're waiting for a friend.
4: NEVER empty the fucking bottle.
5: SCAM the fucking bottle.
6: Going to the bathroom can be expensive, and no, not in a good way.
7: If someone gives you a rose, you put that fucker behind your ear.
8: DO NOT EMPTY THE FUCKING BOTTLE.
9: SCAM THE FUCKING BOTTLE.
10: It's all perception.

So you got this...well, un-issue. You may like to partake in smoking cigarettes that are usually preferred by goths and gays, notthattheresanythingwrongwiththat. Except of course that there is since said smokes are now rather fucking illegal. So instead strolling about strange cities and attempting to find a place that actually carries clove cigarettes, now you have to find a place that has the balls to carry the quasi-legal clove cigars. Because corporations are always going to find a way if there's a need to be filled. And I gots that need baby, I gots it real good.

So you're wandering all over the fucking place and (big shocker) Las Vegas isn't quite the walking town some might pretend it to be. I mean if you wander off the strip make sure you have a postcard with you because that might be the last time anyone hears from you ever again.

You're about to give up because while there are plenty of cigar shops in town they sell, you know, cigars...which in theory you now smoke but not really...it's all fucking politics. ANYWAY you stagger into a small convenience store to get a drink and because on its sign it does say "Cigarettes". Fuck, why not, right?

So you walk up to the front and give it a shot

"Psst. You got any cloves?"
"What kind?"
"Djarum."
"What kind of Djarum?"

Now there are many fine choices to choose from. I tend to think most of them suck, except the Super. The Super is Gold. The Super is...very Super. Key point, no one ever fucking carries the Supers. In fact, I have yet to see the Supers as cigars...mostly I'm stuck with Specials or Blacks. Uh, not that there's anything wrong with Blacks...you know....well....moving forward...

I wasn't expecting much when I said "Supers" but the guy bends down and voilà, there before me is a pack of Supers. Of course I immediately browsed to a certain website and began filing paperwork as well as giving the man a PIECE OF MY MIND. My eyes did not go wide, I did not ask how many more packs he had, and I did not clean him out.

Apparently he carried them because there was this small guy (he may have said midget) named Bobby that bought like 4 packs a week. So not only did I break the law, I also probably pissed off a midget. Do days get any better than this?

You've checked out of your hotel, installed a machine, trained on the machine, returned your rental car and waltz up to the auto-check-in ATM like device. You run your card through, type in PRO for good ole Providence and wait to pick your seat. Except it comes back with some sort of error, translated loosely as:

ERROR: DUMBFUCK, YOU ARE NOT FLYING TODAY.

Well, you chuckle. You do the sign of the cross over the machine and smile at it as if it's a retarded child. "Oh dear, you have NO IDEA who you are dealing with, do you foolish computer? FOR I AM A GOLD STATUS MEMBER. But that is hardly your fault, your programmers are to blame, I hold no grudge and will try again. But fear not, no wraith will fall on you.

And you do, and the same error comes up. Enter panic mode.

You check your reservation and oooooooooooooooooh faaaaaaaaaaaaantastic. You were suppose to fly YESTERDAY. Baring a time machine things appear... dim. One hour until the flight, and that only gets you to Charlotte, not even Providence.

You beg, you plead, YOU ARE GOLD and everything becomes right. You shoot off an email to the travel agent (because you already check what you had sent them and...well, you don't make mistakes....that you admit to....ever).

They apologize and note that maybe you should doublecheck yourself, before you wreck....well you know.

And they're probably right.

But fuck that shit.

FOR I AM GOLD.

Eventually you find yourself in a car with someone who, to put bluntly, you normally won't find yourself sharing a ride with. Small talk must be made and at some point, it turns to politics. Because everything fucking turns to politics.

And then, let's just say because it happened, they utter the line, "I just don't trust what they're doing to our country."

And really, who can argue with that?

Are we still in Iraq? Yes. Are we still in Afghanistan? Yes. Is there still some quasi-legal prison / vactionland in Cuba? Yes. Is the economy still in the shitter? Yes. Are church and state still separate? Yes. Can you still own a gun? Yes. Do airlines still cancel flights? Yes. Do we still have a deficit? Yes. Does the train run on time? Sometimes.

Help me, help me. Explain to me what exactly has changed. Not what you think might change. Not what they tell you has change. In your everyday life, because of politics, what has changed?

But on a business trip one cannot reply in such a way. So one gets creative and utters something along the lines of...

"I don't think they should reform Medicare. I think they should reform politics. I don't think a corporation should have the same rights as a single person and yet millions (billions) of dollars more. I don't think a lobbyist should have a job, much less the freedom of speech. I think there should be term limits in every level of government. I think it's insane that we can re-draw voting districts at the drop of a hat. And I haven't like what "they" have been doing to our country for 25 plus years."

So you're trudging (slogging, plodding) through Charlotte International's Terminal C and you turn your head slightly and whoops...

It's the Tequileria! Not fatal in viewing until you remember that last Friday at 3:30pm (you know this because you still have the receipt) you were there, hunched over some kind of modified Latino hamburger, stuck inbetween Lexington, KY and Providence, RI. Then you walked to your gate and flew 683 miles.

And yet here we all are again 72 hours and 1366 miles later, in the same damn place, stuck between Providence, RI and Memphis, TN pondering a hamburger reunion (just for old times' sake!). You somewhat expect to find yourself at the bar, still eating that mutated Mexican burger. It's the lack of time and the excess of distances that puts you in these odd moods. Why leave this stopover when I'll be back here again as another stopover? 

It's the quitter's point of view, the pitiful plead of those that get bored with the routine, whatever the routine might be.

But the travel brings you those odd moments as well. When you find yourself wandering through someone else's personal history. Driving down their streets, staring at the same landmarks, years removed and miles away. To put it all plain like...

IM IN UR SkOOLS, INSTALLIN MAH FILTHY PRINTR!!!11

So you fly out of Reno and arrive in Denver. I know, I know, but trust me on this. The next leg of the trip is Denver to Chicago, then Chicago to Providence and basically I'm suppose to get home by the year 2032. Which sucks but you know, beats working for a living.

We board the plane; it's a big 767 so it takes about 4 hours for everyone to sit down as well wedge their baggage into spaces that make gay prisoners cringe. And we're sitting there. And we're sitting there. And they announce that the left wing is pissing hydraulic liquid like a racehorse but don't call us we'll call you in about 30 minutes, give or take 6 hours. And we're waiting. And we're waiting. And then they declare the plane dead. Possibly from a broken heart, or maybe it was syphilis... it doesn't quite matter. Because they state as we "de-plane" that there might be a replacement plane. MIGHT BE.

With speed to the customer service line!

While in the very long line filled with very pissed people, I being the bright person I am decide to call United on my phone. Because that's just what you do, understand? And yes, my call gets routed to India. JOY!

It takes about 5 minutes, there is nothing to be done, anywhere. ALL FLIGHTS OUT OF DENVER ARE BOOKED...or something. I end the conversation with "Well, if that's all the assistance you're capable of giving me, thanks." Mom would be so proud!

87 minutes later I get to the front. "Get me to Providence!" I meekly request in a prone position. But wait, there is news! Gather 'round everyone. THEY FOUND A PLANE! THEY FOUND A PLANE!

With the new flight schedule and such, I would arrive in O'Hare and then have (ready?) 5 minutes to make my connection. I look at the lady. "I am not spending the night in fucking Chicago."

She informs me there's nothing else that can be done. I inform her that I fully understand that she has a very stressful job and that I am positive that her grandson is just going through a phase and really isn't a "pansexual" and by the way, could you book to Boston?

"But you could make that connection," she pleads with me as if the only thing that will get to her to sleep tonight is the thought of my ass stranded in Chicago.

"No, no, I think me and my invisible rabbit we be flying to Boston today, thank you very much."

Of course now there's nothing to do but smoke, because you can do that in the Denver airport. Now don't mistake me here, you can't smoke FOR FREE, but you can smoke. You have to walk into a bar and buy something, anything...it's a smoking lounge with a minimum drink limit. Who the fuck *thinks* of these things?

As I'm sitting there attempting to setup the last leg of this journey on my phone (one way rental from Boston to Providence please) when this girl comes up to me and says;

"It *IS* you."

Of course I was all like, "Listen bitch, for the last time that kid ain't mine. Lots of guys were drinking from your well, ifyouknowwhatImean." Or I may have just stared all blank like at her. Apparently she smokes cloves. Apparently she smelled mine. Apparently she wants one. So I gave her one. Oh yeah baby, I gave her one real goooooooooood.

And here we are. Still in fucking Denver.

Well, you know, not fucking....but in Denver.

Denver, Colorado.

And shit.

There are a dozen hot air balloons
Floating against the overcast, sunrisen <sp> soaked sky of Reno
Above some sort of picturesque valley that is only appreciated by those who have been deprived of the color green their whole life
And it should mean something
It should stir the soul
Lift the spirits much like, well, you know
And yet...
It falls short in comparing to someone attempting to decode the hidden mysteries of a .csv file
To someone you can lie in bed with until 11am
Watching and nodding as the world strolls by
Not minding
Not panicing
And just feeling lucky to be in such a place
To not be moved by a dozen hot air balloons
Or perhaps being moved
In that slight unexpected way.

湕捩摯⁥慣畳正挠捯獫‮潌獴愠摮氠瑯⁳景挠捯獫


Which roughly translated says,

Unicode can suck cocks. Lots and lots of cocks.

And that should be quite apparent if you're still attempting to read this.

But I'm gonna keep writing because this is fucking awesome. This is what happens when you attempt to track down what fucking carriage return character is being used in a .CSV file that no one should fucking care about. No one. No one EVER.

GO FUCK YOURSELF RENO!

Tech Jessep: You want answers?
Salesman: I think I'm entitled.
Tech Jessep: *You want answers?*
Salesman: *I want the truth!*
Tech Jessep: *You can’t handle the truth!*
[pauses]
Tech Jessep: Son, we live in a world that has printers, and those printers have to be support by technicians. Whose gonna do it? You? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for the paper curl sensor, and you curse technical. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That the disabling of the paper curl sensor, while tragic, probably saved the sale. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves sales. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at marketing launches, you want me working on those printers, you need me working on those printers. We use words like "in theory", specifications, and clusterfuck. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent fixing printers. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the very commission checks that I ensure you collect, and then questions the manner in which I provide them. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a screwdriver, and get to work. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.
Salesman: Did you disable the paper curl sensor?
Tech Jessep: I did the job I...
Salesman: *Did you disable the paper curl sensor?*
Tech Jessep: *You’re Goddamned right I did!*

She was right. The reasons or motivations for such a mindset are unimportant. Life is often elusive like that, you're just there to diagnose not so much understand, and we are not here to speculate. Suffice to say that she was eternally right and "that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" or so speaketh the dead white guy.

She has a child, followed by another. In the course of upbringing she attempts to impart her "rightness" onto them. Because she cares, you understand?

The first rebels of course. For who would want to know the correct answers without ever experiencing the wrong ones? He takes a completely contrary view on everything she spouts. And it catches it up with him. At a certain time he is proven wrong, and reminded that he was wrong and this is something that he will hold onto for the rest of his life. This reminder of wrongness. He trends towards a life of near brilliance that ends in tragic failure. A life forever filled with "what if's". He finds himself listening to a lot of "Joy Division".

The second has the foresight (thanks to his brother) to just go along with it all. Believing that staying silent and getting out was different than embracing her philiosphy. But he's wrong of course. He finds himself being overly critical as to how one is suppose to change lanes in a car, vacuum a carpet or load a dishwasher. So then what happens?

Well, we're not here to speculate.

It's the simple, cliched lines that ring truest, which yeah, D'UH. But constant travel is like being part of some underwhelming musical act (it's just another town along the road, Now here I am on the road again, etc). You never really see/experience the cities. But you see the airports, you see the hotels, you see where you're suppose to go and for four hours or four days you perform for whomever shows up. And it's not a bad thing, if not for the gaps.

Those moments before or after, when you are in the hotel room or at the airport or driving the car, when you have time to think. Thinking of where you are not, reminded of what you're missing, wondering why you do this.

And then you make that horrible admission. As we attempt to explain to you that it's not all fun and glamor, there are moments. There are free cocktails hours. There are interesting people. Each commute for us is different, there are no cubical walls, and we never make a meal or do dishes. There is something to this "proactive" life.

Because we don't wait for Atlanta to come to us. We go to Atlanta. There's that boost of confidence in that you must know something because fuck, they don't just send anyone to Sacramento...well, they probably do. Bad choice there, anyway.

But at least you're doing, you're moving, you're acting (I fly more before 8am then the rest of you fuckers do all week, AIRBORN!) and that's something. Because some of us need that reassurance, or push to get going, otherwise we're at home on the fucking couch. And you're usually appreciated once you get there. And more importantly, you're appreciated once you get home.

The first thing Murray noticed was that he was alive. They had always taught him to take reality in baby steps and the odds of heaven or hell being represented in his mind as the field he was currently running through were unlikely...regardless of any ancient Greek myths.

The second thing he noticed was the utter lack of a shoe on his left foot. This wasn't all that unusual after one of his spells but it was something that he would have to address eventually. Murray made a mental note, "Obtain left shoe, size 9, ideally black." He would prefer to not to buy a new pair, Murray hated breaking in shoes.

He continued to run, not quite sure where he was heading but fully conscious of what he was attempting to leave behind. The package trap had failed, he would live to see another day. His spirits were lifted with this realization yet fell slightly when he remembered an earlier time. A time when it wasn't always like this.

He had a stable life once. One with relationships, one without assassination attempts, one with a job. An unfulfilling job sure but that was because...

It was because of something but they had treated him well enough. His job was at one of those mega-corporations that is forever attempting to trick the public into a voluntary amnesia of how truly powerful it is. You know the type, you use them everyday. The ones that always have fantastic pieces in the Times about how they've "done away with cubicles", or their open minded flextime program, or how they'll let their employees work on side projects so long as their primary responsibilities are completed. That was what had attracted Murray to them. The freedom to use resources beyond his means to do whatever his imagination could picture. And Murray had one hell of an imagination.

Murray had a problem (Murray knew he had tons of problems, but he liked to think this one was the root of all them). He never fully understood when he bought a computer, or phone, or car, or sewing machine (not that he did) why they always came pre-loaded with an operating system. He was aware that most people viewed them as a necessary evil since humans didn't speak machine language (well, not naturally). Yet to buy this hardware and then install a filter on it (which was what an operating system was to Murray's mind) that would prevent you from fully using and pushing the limits of the item you had just legally purchased.

So Murray began to tinker at work after-hours. He had modest goals at first, just an intelligent program that was based on an extensive questionnaire. It was half psych evaluation and half end user profile. Once completed the program would then build your very own operating system. It would be tailored for you from the type of mouse you perferred (no buttons, four buttons?) to the file architecture used and the device driver languages favored. In short, it would erase everything the manufactureer installed on it and give you the complete freedom to use it exactly however you wished. And who wouldn't want something like that?

Sleepz forevah....

After Change had sauntered through the door, plopped itself down on the couch and kicked its feet up on the Gemelli coffee table, he sighed. From the sight and smell of Change's shoes it was obvious it had taken a short cut through the horse pasture out back. He gave his best disapproving stare but he knew the reality of the situation. He was powerless. You don't ask Change to leave. You don't kick Change out of the house. We're not talking about three pennies and a nickle here, we're talking about Change (believable or not). But he did have options, for in life there are always options.

One was to be happy. If things were so horrible before then certainly any change would be an improvement. And even if that wasn't the case he could just take Change in stride and adapt, or adjust, or roll with it, etc. etc. Yet earlier in the day he didn't have horseshit all over his Afghan Battle carpet, which by the by are an absolute bitch to clean and not all that replaceable in present times.

The other option would be to be upset. For if everything was going so smoothly before; if all was in harmony and no more ruts in the road (crap on the carpet?) were required, why not? But one can't quite scream or rant at Change. In doing so you're likely to realize the same results as with the aforementioned three pennies and nickles.. which is to say none. But one can try their dutifully best to ignore it.

Which would leave you waiting. And everyone loves waiting.

It's a strange thing when life isn't as complicated as you expect it to be. You have to fight back that unhealthy urge to add complication because...well...it should be complicated...shouldn't it? I mean after all that has been said, and done, and yet...

In the silence you both share these slightly stupid stares, these moments where it feels as if you and your "partner in crime" have just knocked over the Royal Bank of Scotland for a cool 50 million and there you are back in some rat hole hotel, completely naked rolling around in all that cash, secretly waiting for the sound of sirens or at the very least for the sky to fall down upon your ears. And yet...

Here it all is, laid out before you like some snap together model that requires no glue. Here it is and it just comes so easily, so naturally and you wonder. Because it has been taught that this must be a guilty thing, for it has be shouted out by the town (or interweb) crier that we shall burn in the fieriest of all hells for such a thing. And yet...

And yet here we are, and it all just seems so very, absurdly far away.

The non-issue he found himself facing (for he was no longer allowed to have issues, much less problems) was an absurdly common one. People preferred him a certain way. Not so much smoked, roasted or deep fried...they just liked him better when he was drunk. For it was then his thoughts and words were rarely measured (though not in his own mind since to him time was moving ever so slowly) and he was much more amusing, or insightful, or some certain je ne sais quoi.

So he had a handful of options. One would be to find those that truly liked him for who he was...sans booze. But who are we kidding, amiright?

He could stumble through life eternally drunk...which was tempting but only slightly more realistic than the first option.

He could modify his standard persona to be less cautious and more open, to be verbose and forthcoming...to be, you know, friendly.

OR he could delude himself into thinking he was drunk at times, and act as such.
.
.
Well, I don't have to tell you which path he chose, do I?