Hats. For bats.

I've come to realize i'm not really an IT worker anymore. I'm more of an exorcist or a medicine man. Because most of the machines within the library system are hitting the ten year mark, and it takes nothing short of miracles and voodoo to keep them running.

You can hear it in their voices when they call the IT office, that request for help hinted with overtones of desperation and a sort of fearful reverence. As if the fear of asking our assistance for something too mundane would see them smote by the IT gods for their temerity. The more humble among the supplicants insist it "isn't anything too important" and we "Put it on the bottom of the list"

Tangent: The List. The users all seem to think that somewhere, in the darkest depths of Mordor the IT Office, beyond the twisted warrens created by the husks of dead client machines, there lay some kind of obsidian monolith, upon which the IT department scribes its goals for the time being.

The truth is, "the list" is little more than haphazardly placed post-its stuck to any surface able to hold place, from walls to monitors to empty Mountain Dew cans.

End tangent.

And when an IT person walks into another building or office, it's like that scene in The Exorcist where Father Merrin arrives. Enter; the IT person, much to the relief of the distraught co-worker who thanks us for taking the time to come. In reply, we ask where the troublesome machine is. I think I should start wearing a fedora to work for improved dramatic effect.

And when all is done, they tend to leave offerings of cookies and Mountain Dew in our office. They know what appeases our gods.

Thank you jobu. Pass the yams.

Tuesday's Grey, and Wednesday Too.

With the annual celebration of Pax Scorpiana nearing, I have a simple decree: Fuck wednesdays.

I really do hate them. They come so late in the week, that any post-weekend optimism you may have had has already long since been bludgeoned out of you, yet they are so near the beginning of the week that glorious Friday Afternoon seems so very far away.

People call Wednesdays "Hump Day". The title is rather misleading. There no humping involved. Instead, there is a metaphorical hump - a mid point of the week - where you're halfway through, and everything is going to be cake from here out, and you'll be farting unicorns and double rainbows for the next two days.

The Hump Day is a lie.

Wednesday is like the rebound girlfriend who is generally indifferent to your troubles, but it's better than being alone. Wednesday is a cock tease, the stripper who doesn't make eye contact during a lap dance. Wednesday is the radio DJ who's inane rambling cuts into the first couple seconds of your favorite song, only to butt in and interrupt during the last few as well.

Fuck you, Wednesday.

Breaking radio silence to bring you this important announcement:

Fuck Michigan.

Yes, it's been two whole months since my last update. For that, I do apologize since there are apparently people who enjoy reading my rambling.

With my recent birthday, it's dawned on me i've been a musician for fifteen years. Half my life, plus one. Granted, the term "musician" is used in only the most academic sense when it comes to me. Musicians generally get paid.

To date, I've made roughly sixty dollars, gotten one free shot of jagermeister, two free beers (both PBR, unfortunately) and two free lapdances. The one lapdance was especially memorable, due to the fact the stripper was a Troma fan and we talked about Toxic Avenger whilst she waved her hoo-hoo in my face. Good times.

But back to the point I was originally aiming for.

When I tell people i've been a musician for so long, they always say something to the effect of "You must have a lot of crazy stories!". Without fail, my mind goes blank when they ask me to tell one.

Good thing I have you all here for those times I do remember.

Like the time we played a show, and afterwards this black guy who looked scared to death walks up to me, shakes my hand and says "I really like you guys."

I ask him if he's okay, because he really does look like he's afraid of something.

"I, uh..I just wanna know something. Your, uh..I wanna shake your bass player's hand, but I gotta know if he's gonna kick my ass because i'm black"

I can see where the dude was coming from. Our bass player was a big guy, both in terms of height and build. He had long hair and wore a black trenchcoat everywhere. However, he was in reality one of the most mellow guys i've ever known.

Random thought

Do suicide prevention hotlines ever put people on hold?

Sometimes, I'm my own worst enemy.

A few Fridays back, I was at the bar doing my usual thing: karaoke and hanging with the guys, when this woman (a non-cougar, for those following at home) approaches me and asks if I want to dance.

Normally, I don't dance. But between the fact I was a little drunk, my friends were egging me on, and omg bewbs, I acquiesced.

We danced to some slow songs, and she kissed me on the cheek. I got her a drink and went back to her table to chat.

For a bright and shining moment, I am not some socially retarded malcontent and chronic fuck up. I'm smooth. I'm flattering and charming. I am Lothario in an Iggy Pop hat. Cyrano has nothing on me, save for a few inches of schnoz.

Did i mention that my romantic life is like a three stooges sketch? Case in point:

"I don't think I caught your name."

She giggles slightly. "My name is Candi. With an "I".

Uh oh.

"Hey..."

Don't say it.

"You know..."

Brain to mouth: abort! Repeat, abort!

"That sounds like a stripper's name!"

Abandon ship! All hands, abandon shi...Foot, what the hell are you doing?!

Foot: HAY GUISE WHUTS GOIN ON N DIS MOUTH???//

Candy left shortly after that.

Brainspew

I really can't stand listening to Yngwie play the blues. Yes, he's talented, but everything he does seems to lack emotion to me.

Hitting the right notes does not good music make.

It's like getting a lapdance from a bored stripper. Sure, she's moving right, but if her attention is elsewhere, I'm just not feeling it.