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(subtitled:  Stalling for Time)

I was waiting for a flight two nights ago, trapped in the decaying moments between slowed heartbeats. Time tides flowed sideways in irregular surges and only moved forward in regions of eddying currents.

Unexpectedly I got a call from a surprising source – nature.

It was one of those moments we all have had where pre-flight stress and a pepper jack fajita omelette collide with the grace of drunk hippos and your intestinal tract rebels against inaction.

In short, I needed a restroom, and I needed it RFN.

I tried the ages old Man Code usually reserved for selecting the proper urinal in order to locate a toilet stall but apparently multiple guys had also eaten pepper jack fajita omelettes earlier and the only other two empty stalls looked like they were crawling with Hepatitis A and unidentifiable parasites.  So neither Door #1 or Door #5 looked preferable to internal rupture and sepsis.

Thus, flanked by two used stalls I picked Door #3 and stepped inside. Trou droppage and the usual maneuvering went without incident, as one would expect given my lifetime of practice in such things.

As I sat there, wondering why my internal organs were suddenly being coy after such a cry and hue only moments earlier, I noticed in the stall to my left what seemed to be a large-ish deep-voiced gentleman having a conversation on his cellphone.

This struck me as an extremely peculiar place in which to carry on a conversation, even as humorous and good-natured as it seemed from his tone of voice. It also seemed obvious that he had a lot of luggage, judging by the thudding sounds and the shuddering of the stall walls.

He was saying “(indistrict conversation) Huh… ha, ha, ha… Uh huh.”

The pre-flight pharmaceuticals (legally prescribed) that I had ingested on orders of my physician were kicking in so it took a moment for my brain to process amongst more thudding noises the man’s next words “Heh heh uhhhhh… That stuff burns my scrotum… (Long pause)… We gotta do this again some time.”

The cure for intestinal hesitation is not “scary clowns” as you would be led to believe in the movie Zombieland, but rather the knowledge that you need to vacate several places – (intestinal and environmental) immediately unless you want to have a very awkward post flagrante delicto encounter with an amorous couple of guys in the men’s room of the airport in Portlandia.

Most of the experience could be considered horrible enough but such events in Portlandia of all places made the situation nigh on unbearable.

There was a crap-ton of hand soap at the sinks but nothing suitable or powerful enough with which to sanitize my now feverish brain. I quickly opted for a second round of pharmaceuticals after returning to my safe bench seat outside of the flow of time, and I continued to wait for my flight with a sense of newfound graceful patience.

There, McGoo… My story did not actually invoke King’s short story “The Jaunt” but there was an element of irony to be found here… My hair is now whiter.

****
Before I left on vacation I was nervous that I had forgotten something that someone would need for a project’s completion.  So a scientist suggested I put together a box which I named exactly as he said.  In true Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K) fashion I gave it a ridiculous acronym.

Within minutes a note appeared next to it with a tiny box usually used for a 50 count of small fasteners.

humilityIt has been said that I have an ego.

And it was then also said that perhaps the box provided for my ego was actually several sizes too large.

I haven’t laughed tears like that in years.

“Arrogance must be earned.  Tell me what you did to earn yours.”  – House, M.D.

Cruel Wife and the kids dropped me off at PDX three hours early so they could make it to their hotel.

Honestly, I needed the down time. I hate goodbyes with family I see once a year.

Did you know that time stops in airports? Just like hospitals, courtrooms, funeral homes, and shopping malls.

But as I cruise the ‘net, I find interesting things, and this one brought a huge smile to my face. Not for the young victim, because nothing will fix him, and my heart bleeds for him. But the smile came from seeing this sorry sack of shit get what he has coming to him.

Actually he has more that he deserves, but I bet it will come to him soon enough.

The father is a saint, for having the self control to not kick the sick son of a bitch to death.

Yeah, you’ll have to pardon my frame of mind. I will be better in a few days.

an eternity later

Just saw Peter Ustinov. He shambled into the airport men’s room as I left it.

I am not sure which is more disturbing; Seeing Peter Ustinov or the realization of how old I have to be to recognize a long dead actor from so many years ago.

“Thirty five minutes” until my flight begins boarding. Might as well be like the Stephen King short story “The Jaunt”.

I am near to going home after a week with family. It has been fun but I am ready to go home. Sleep in my own bed, sit in my own chair, and kick my own cat.

Let us be clear… I love seeing my family but I hate coming back to where I grew up. Too many memories.

In a handful of hours I will be back in my own home, and thrilled to be there.

But I enjoy seeing my dad. He and I got on the topic of adults that we ran across in our young lives that took an interest in us but we never understood why until years later, or may not have ever done so.

He mentioned one teacher who wrote in his book “‘Can’t’ never did anything.”

It is an unusual thing to say in a kid’s autograph book and surely had a reason.

I told him that I had a teacher give me “The Count of Monte Cristo”. He remembered her well.

Out of all the kids she had in her classes she wasn’t known for handing out books not on the reading list and saying things such as “I think you will really identify with the main character.”

And I still wonder what made her do that. I can make all sorts of guesses but what did she know or think she knew about me and my life?

If you have had that happen, I would love to hear about it, and why you think it happened.

Getting a grip.

Oh for f*ck’s sake.  Will you people please get a grip?  Put your hands on your shoulders, take a deep breath, and pull your heads out of your ass.

brazil-womanI mean, geez, have a little pride, why don’t you?

If the harshest thing in your life is the loss of a soccer match, then you aren’t dead but you surely aren’t living.

That’s it for now.  Busy enough at work that I have little good to say so I’ll keep it short.

Stress Felines.

Several of us at work have been lobbying for a company feline.

A cat who wanders around and provides fuzz therapy to stressed out engineers. How could that go wrong? Relaxed laser engineers are engineers who do not read Braille.

I had thought a name that played on our company name would be good, as a mascot. After reconsideration, I believe I have a better name.

Karoshi

What better choice? It works on many levels. A hidden joke, a statement about the work environment, and a dig at cats, who generally are not known for being work beasts. Generally.

When the boss asks about the origin of the name I would just say “it is a Super Mario Kart character name.”

****

I hink I stole this from AG over at H&B.

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****
Spent the last week earning my arrogance – it requires yearly upkeep to keep your certs current. In a few more days… Vacation. A much needed vacation. Badly so.

My first sight when I got home.

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Heaping teaspoon of saccharine, anyone?

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****
Lemurita and I have started watching Fringe. A week or so ago we watched Blade Runner (sorry, Mitchell).

Co-worker Prime Number and I are in a race to the bottom with our same-age daughters, where we both let them watch fairly intense stuff with the shared understanding that it allows us to discuss real-world heavy shit with them before the real world gets its claws into them and fills their heads with nonsense.

He watches stuff with his daughters that I would not and vice-versa, but it sort of evens out. He selected Jaws last weekend.

I cannot get Lemurita to watch the Weeping Angels.
****
I would say something political but I am disgusted by the leftist NPR and conservative bitch-radio both. Conservative outfits can only bitch, not offer solutions. Liberal outfits can only deny reality.

Neither is blowing up my skirt.

****
Today, my liberal coworker, MaoMao (who carries a photo of Mao in his wallet) darkened my doorway, needing input for the packaging and shipping end of [The_Presure_Cooker_Project].

Being emphatic about the importance of my input, he says “I need attention.”

“Super-strong feminine side, eh, MaoMao?”

“No, just liberal.”

“Is there a difference?”

We’ll start with ugly. This what I think Hell must sound like. Real crazy people shrieking and destroying an abandoned factory as therapy.

Ugly but funny is this item sent to me by Laconic Pup…

 

darkHaving a creeper not too long ago sneak into my house through an open door and blow up the center of my room – and every chest, furnace, and workbench – this one kind of hits home.  Damn creepers.

Now, simply the bad. Portsmouth Sinfonia.

What is interesting is not the music, although it made me laugh like a loon. What is interesting is the brain can tell you every single wrong note, which argues for even music being stored as a series of metaphors.

The good. Hmmm.

I am really not sure what this thing is but it makes me smile and makes me uneasy at the same time.

20140623-010723-4043984.jpg

Well go read some Real Science. Ought to cheer you up.

Or this.

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