Dealing with the fun & friendly people at Unemployment

Sometimes when someone loses one's job, one calls up the Department of Labor & Industry so as to extend one's hand in a manner equivalent to begging for money. I did this for a while. And now, my claiming period is over so I needed to call to re-open my claim otherwise I shall have no more money dripping into my bank account.

They ask a barrage of questions:

DLI: This is X, thank you for playing the "20,000 Useless Questions So That You Can Claim Your Unemployment" game. How may I help you?

Me: Hello fun & friendly unemployment person. I need to extend my claim which expired a few days ago.

DLI: What was your reason for no longer working at X?

Me: None of your business. Next question please.

DLI: What is the capital of Columbia?

Me: Bogota. I'll take sciences for 100.

DLI: On the Periodic Table, what is the element for mercury?

ME: Hg. I'll take international politics for 400.

DLI: Who is the current president of Iceland?

Me: Olafur Grimsson. Now how long will it take for my claim to be processed and approved?

DLI: What is the gestation period for an elephant?

Me: Silly woman, I hail from deepest, darkest Africa. The gestation period for an elephant is 22 months.

DLI: Try filing online on Sunday. Hopefully your application will be approved by then. Good bye.

Me: WAIT! I have a ... hello?

Umteen amazing reasons why I love the suburbs

Don't get me wrong, I'm a city boy, born and bred. Loud honking tonking noises, gas and fumes, shit and vomit. Nothing beats the city lifestyle. Or so I thought.

More and more, I've been taking strolls around the pretty little neighborhood I live in. And now that it's summer (really??), the trees are in bloom, the grass has come back to life as if by some miracle of God, and things just look great dammit!


People out in the 'burbs tend to want to look after their front lawns. A well-manicured lawn, I guess, is much like a t-shirt. Don't ask me to explain, I'm not in the mood. Either way, nice green lawns, kids screaming, cars driving at the speed limit, little white picket fences.



Sunday mornings, while most of my friends in the city would either still be sleeping or nursing hang overs, the 'burbanites are out in full force with their lawn mowers, neatly trimming the hedges, raking up the grass, sprinkling fertilizer, and giving it all a light sprinkle with the garden hose. And all this before showering up, putting on their Sunday best, piling the rug rats into the car, and heading off to church.

It's like a toy town. And I watch in amazement. Sometimes I even get swept up in the whole 'burban thing and mow the lawn myself.

Try doing that while living in the concrete jungle!

Say "CHEESE"

I like shooting things!

I like shooting things that move, that run, that stand still. It's easier when they stand still though.

Sometimes I won't see anything for hours, then BAM, just like that, I see it. I steady up, take aim, and shoot. Very often you only get one shot, so you've really got to make it count. That's why today I hopped on the interweb and bought myself a Nikon - 6.1MP Digital SLR Camera.

I'm very excited. It should be here in about a week. And then I can start shooting.

Sometimes the monsters are your friend

We all have them, those creepy little beasts who lie under our beds at night, or who hide in our closets waiting for the most inopportune time to emerge with a stupid grin.

But as I've recently learned, they aren't all bad.

One of my monsters reappeared today. He wasn't under my bed. And he didn't emerge from my closet. No sir. This one came in the form of an envelope with "United States Treasury" expertly printed on the cover. You see, a couple months back I submitted my tax return for the year. And I'm not a Math person. I write. And I draw. And I sleep. So when my head started to hurt, I jotted down some numbers, included my W2s, and sent it off.

Today the monster arrived. I opened the envelope thinking I was about to pay away my life with money I do not have only to find the monster was to become my new best friend. A nice check ("cheque" for those of you who speak proper English) from the tax monster" and I'm amazed at just how quickly money really can buy you friends.

Now the fuzzy little monster and I are BFFs. We hang out together, drink Chardonnay together, take walks on the river side together.

Tomorrow I shall fold up my new monster friend and put him into my rapidly depleting bank account. But until then, we will cuddle up and watch TV, I'll feed him copious amounts of ice cream, and we'll joke together about just how disappointing the new Star Trek movie was.

Oh shyst, so much has happened

Yes, my devoted band of followers, I have been absent for a short while. But during that while, much has happened. For example:

- I flew 14 hours to Kuwait (no, really, I did, for a job interview)
- I flew 14 hours back, and still have jet lag
- I was told I didn't get the position with the agency in Philadelphia
- I went out for drinks at a really nice little pretentious Picasso-wannaberestaurant/bar
- I got the job in Kuwait

Will fill in another post with more details soon. Promise. I just need to relax a bit and gather my thoughts, find my brush and maybe take a shower.

If you throw enough s*** at the wall...

The economy blows. I've been applying for jobs left and right.

Finally I found one I thought I would be perfect for: Government Assassin.

I didn't even get a call back. But I know one of the guys who did. He told me that after all the background checks, interviews and testing were done, he was one of 3 finalists; two men and a woman.

He told me that for the final test, the FBI agents took one of the men to a large metal door and handed him a gun.

'We must know that you will follow your instructions no matter what the
circumstances. Inside the room you will find your wife sitting in a chair. Kill
her!!'

The man said, 'You can't be serious. I could never shoot my wife.'

The agent said, 'Then you're not the right man for this job. Take your wife and go home.'

The second man was given the same instructions.

He took the gun and went into the room. All was quiet for about 5 minutes.

The man came out with tears in his eyes, 'I tried, but I can't kill my wife.' The agent said, 'You don't have what it takes. Take your wife and go home.'

Finally, it was the woman's turn. She was given the same instructions, to kill her husband. She took the gun and went into the room. Shots were heard, one after another. BAM BAM BAM.They heard screaming, crashing, banging on the walls. After a few minutes, all was quiet. The door opened slowly and there stood the woman, wiping the sweat from her brow.

'This gun is loaded with blanks' she said. 'I had to beat him to death with the chair.'

Mmmm, maybe I'll apply for that McDonald's cashier job after all.

I'm angry. Angry like a snake.

Sometimes people get mad. Sometimes people get angry. Recently I've been pissed off angry. Let me tell you why.

So I received an email a few days back from an ex work colleague from a salt mine in my past. In this email were all sorts of words that made me angry. Someone was dropping the "f" bomb, refueling the canon with a "co**sucker" bomb. Interestingly, this same person had just given a "Do not hire him" reference to a potential employer who interviewed me last week.

Isn't this kind of behavior illegal? I know it's very childish and immature, but is it illegal? Like defamation or something?

I'm currently trying to find out, because if it is illegal, then God help this SOB because God will be the only one able to help him.

Mow like a pro

That's exactly what I did a couple days ago. I turned the back yard jungle into a tamed golf course. Bit of sweat, lots of muscle cramps, and voila! Neat and tidy.

My dad would be so proud!

Bye bye Cinco de Mayo

Maybe I'm just getting old but I chuckled to myself tonight.

A couple Caucasian douche bags have moved into the house across the road. This afternoon they slapped a huge kick-your-ass-to-Mexico speaker on their porch, donned sombreros and cranked out Mexican music - in celebration of Cinco de Mayo.

Unbeknown to them, their neighbors are also a couple of Caucasian douche bags. On difference being that those douche bags call the cops whenever someone speaks in a decibel above a whisper.

The cops came and shut down their little gathering.

*chuckle chuckle*

Philly for the weekend

I went through 400 years of American history in just a weekend. Yes, it can be done because I did it.

I walked through Independence Hall and saw the very room where the Declaration of Independence was not only written, but also signed. And then a quick skip over to a glass hall that housed the cracked Liberty Bell. Cart wheels across the road and I was standing alongside Benjamin Franklin's grave. A quick bolt up the road (after grabbing a grande breve vanilla latte) I ended up outside the house of one Betsy Ross.

Who's Betsy, you ask? She was a seamstress who sewed up the very first American flag. Now that in itself is a crazy dangerous thing for this young lass to have done. Why? Because British troops were sweeping through through the city like a fine tooth comb through thinning hair and if they had caught Betsy, she would be in very big trouble for cohorting with the 'enemy'.

Then, of course, I had to have a 'scratch my head' moment. A couple who had just got married decided to have photos taken downtown. But not just downtown, they were striking all sorts of poses - on the island in the road!!! Bizarre.

Yes, what a great weekend, in a wonderful city.

This is what I got for my birthday

Eat your heart out! For my 727th birthday, I got a sensational gift. It washes dishes, carves wood statues, helps planes take off from the runway, changes TV channels, irons my clothes, switches lamps on and off, feeds my cats, scrubs my back in the bath, and lets me make phone calls.

I like my new gizmo. Isn't it shiny and wonderful? Now if only I can find the time to read the bloody manual!

Tomorrow is my birthday

Yes, tomorrow is my birthday, and that means I am a Taurus. Not the Ford kind, but the star sign kind.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I will be 26. Again.

The thing about birthdays is that unlike when we're kids, we don't really seem to like them much as we get a little long in the tooth. The less pomp and ceremony, the better. No party. No cake. Na candles.

Just presents.

I don't care how old I get, I always want presents. They make me feel special. Do you know what I mean? Kinda like Christmas. And I can't say what I was going to say about Santa because maybe a 7-year old is reading this post right now and tonight I might have an irate parent calling me up and spitting fire through the phone about how I spoiled Christmas. In April no less!

But yes, I love gifts. The more the better. No cake. No candles. Maybe a drink or eight, and presents.

I shall fill you in all the wonderful things I got for my birthday in my next post. Until then, stay tuned.

7:30AM. Seriously?

Maybe I shouldn't complain, but I'm gonna!

I have a job interview next week. In this economy, it's almost climactic to get an interview serving behind the counter at McDonald's, so I know I'm lucky. But why, why dear God Almighty is the flight out at 7:30, in the morning? There are flights leaving Pittsburgh Airport every hour to great and wonderful destinations. But I get booked on the one that leaves for Philly at sparrow fart.

This shan't be easy. Especially since I have been a man of leisure for the past two months. I work when I want to. I get up when I want to. And very seldom, if ever, do I do that before 7:30am. In fact, I think the last time I did was about 20 years ago for high school. I'm not in high school anymore.

But yes, sparrow fart, crack of dawn, call it what you will. All I know is that I will require an IV on that flight, and it needs to be filled to overflowing with heavily caffeinated coffee. No sugar. No milk. Just pure OOOMPH!

How else will my mind take off for the interview?

Dear Jane

I think I've mentioned before that I write to prison inmates. Makes me feel saintly. And sometimes, it's rewarding.

If you have a few lazy hours and a connection to the www, sit down a flip through a few of the profiles. Some are sad. Some are just downright scary.

For example, this lovely lass' crime? That 80s hairstyle.


But some are not so lucky. Some write more on their profiles than the very basic, "Hi, i've been incarsirated since I was 12 for crimes ranjing from theft, burglirry, murder, fraud, and arsin. Please write me."

Now I don't know about you, but when I was 12, I was watching MacGyver, riding my go-cart down the street, climbing trees, falling out of trees, making mixed tapes. Arson, theft, burglary, murder, and fraud? Where did she find the time?

Either way, I like to write to them. They open my eyes as to what else is going on in the world.

Take, for example, this fine young lady.


She makes me poo in my pants because she looks so violent. But once you look past her shaved head, I'm sure she is a lovely, upstanding person.

Only one way to find out.

From death by crucifixion, to painted eggs

Odd thing, Easter.

So, story has it that this guy was once born, lived, performed a few cool miracles, and then his Dad told him he was gonna die. Sure, we're all gonna die, but this was just nasty. And cruel. And viscious.

Nailed to two wooden planks. In front of a crowd. That's just voyeurism gone too far. But anyway, nails, planks, and then a bit of a guilt trip.

"Do this to save mankind".

So that's how Easter came to be. This guy did in fact go through with it (depending on who you speak to) so now, we're all in debt to him. Say thank you!

And then over the years, commercialism took hold of this holiday by the neck. The guy on the cross wasn't a huge selling point for chocolate companies and card companies. They found it distasteful and quite depressing. So they created an animal. They always create an animal. They decided on something completely opposite to a crucified man.

A RABBIT! How cool. A soft, cuddly bunny. THE Easter bunny. But that's not enough. No. How about if we have this completely irrelevant animal dishing out eggs? Cool. That is SO cool.

So this year, I partook of this fun activity - painting boiled eggs. Now our eggs did NOT turn out as nice as the perfectly painted eggs above. Maybe because we only had three colors (green, red, blue). Kinda limiting, but sill fun.

A guy on a wooden cross. A rabbit. Eggs. And that's how we now know Easter.

Does anyone else squint their eyes in this confusion? Or is it just me?

The one in which two close friends fight

It's never easy when friends fight. Tempers flair, things are said, and sometimes feelings get hurt.

But what do you do when the two people fighting are both close friends of yours? Or, if both these friends are married and you live with them?

I try hard to remain neutral - like Canada, or Switzerland - and try to stay out of it. But like in most cases, one gets caught in the middle.

I'm trying very hard to be just an impartial listener, a friend to both. But this is not always easy. Which is why I am hoping that they find a resolve. Soon.

The one in which I contemplate my own mortality

From time to time I like to stroll through cemeteries. Morbid? Yes. But it's also oddly calming - for a while. Then you start noticing names and dates on the tomb stones and you start to realize that one day, you too will be taking a long dirt nap.

We're all going to die. It's that whole cycle-of-life thing. But my strolls through cemeteries bring me a jolt of reality. No matter what your religious beliefs, it's what you do between the time you come into this world and the time you leave it that matters.

Something that struck me was the "titles" that some people had on their tomb stones.

FATHER

WIFE

SON

Surely there is more to us than that? How about DEDICATED PHILANTHROPIST? Or maybe TALENTED TEACHER?

WIFE just seems so ... archaic. Then again, I guess we live in a different time. Maybe more recent tomb stones will read, JOHN SMITH, AVERAGE BANKER & FRUSTRATED ARTIST. Or JOE SOAP, AMATEUR ARSONIST & CARTOONIST.

Either way, cemeteries are very comforting places, as they should be. And maybe that's why I like to take an hour or two to stroll through them, looking at tomb stones and summing up people's lives in one or two very short lines.

When it's my time to go, I want my tomb stone to say, HE CAME. HE SAW. HE ALMOST CONQUERED. INTREPID WORLD TRAVELER, LOVER OF THE SIMPLE LIFE, FRIEND TO ANIMALS, AND CONSTANT EXPLORER OF THE GOOD LIFE. BROTHER, UNCLE, SON, FORNICATOR. And I want the date to read something cool like 1492-???

It would have to be a pretty bloody big tomb stone to fit all that in though.

No-one likes a prick

It's true, no-one likes a pick. Let alone thousands of them. But unfortunately, they're necessary if you're having a tattoo. And that's exactly what I did this past Sunday night.

Thousands of small, sharp needles dipped in black ink shot in and out of my skinny upper arm as I endured the most excruciating pain (slight exaggeration here) to have three little letters etched onto my body for eternity.

But these are the things people do to keep the ones they love close - especially when they live on another continent.

These three letters each represent the first initials of each of my three siblings. So now no matter where in the world I am, they will always be close to my heart.

Major lump-in-the-throat moment here.

Apparently everyone is entitled to a tax break

Yes, even kidnappers. We live in a society where everyone needs to be treated equally and fairly. That includes that strange old creeps who hang around outside elementary school offering your kid sweets and candy.

At first, I thought this was a joke. Then I went onto the IRS website and as true as God made shiny red apples, the IRS is offering tax breaks to people who steal children and then claim them as dependents.

Something is either VERY messed up with our system, or the greedy tax man has just become greedier in the hope that he will get even more tax dollars by turning the other cheek if ol' creepo decides to file taxes this year.

This is definitely one for the 'weird' folder.

Once upon a time

Once upon a time, when things weren't so f***ked up and people didn't get things like herpes from sharing a bottle of Coke, or children were snatched from shopping malls, life was simple. For the most part, life was good.

But then as time creeps up on us and we start getting things like the internet and landfills and holes in the ozone layer, the incidence of cancer also seems to be on the rise. And nowadays, you seem to be able to get cancer from just about anything. Too much sun. Drinking water from plastic bottles. Eating too much fish.

Funny thing, cancer. You look around and see all the people around you and you can't tell who has it, who has survived it, who will get it.

You look around and see you all these people and you think to yourself that all these people are other people's people. Their fathers, their sisters, their brothers. Always other people's people. Never your own people.

I found out two days ago that my mother has breast cancer.

No more news or updates about its level of seriousness. Just the text message from my sister in South Africa.

"I would call but I am at home with a very sick baby. Mom has cancer. They're starting with chemo asap."

BAM! Like a brick to the side of the head, let me tell you.

My sister told me that she'd had a lump biopsied and that they were sending it to be tested. And so now, all I can do is hope and pray that they have detected it early enough. All I can do is be there to support my mother who I am sure is scared shitless by what lies ahead.

They say the chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer some time during her life is about 1 in 8. The chance of dying from breast cancer is about 1 in 35. Dear God, please let my mother be one of the 34 who makes it through this. Please let her be one of the survivors, because as much as her and I have had our differences and difficulties, she is my mother and I love her and I am not yet quite ready to say goodbye.

I have already said goodbye to an uncle, an aunt and a grandmother to cancer. Please, please, not my mother too.

Dear God, please.

Oh flip, it's Phipps

Okay so that was terrible. But it's late and I'm writing this post, and yes, I'm a little tired. But it must be done.

On Saturday, D and C and myself trotted off to the Phipps Conservatory here in Pittsburgh. And since spring has sprung, Phipps was like a peacock flashing all its bright colors in pomp and ceremony.

I even came a across a few plants from my home country.

If you get a chance, go out, see the plants, learn something new, rekindle your love affair with life and all things new. Sometimes a cold, grey day needs a little brightness and color. Sometimes the best remedy is to take a deep breath and just smile.



(this is where chocolate comes from)

(woohoo, a South African plant in Pittsburgh)

(this is where coffee comes from - we like coffee)

Today is the first day of ...

Hark! Rejoice! For yes, you're smart as a whip and that's how you figured out that today really is the first day of spring.

It may not feel like it, but it is. Trust me.

So, what is there to do in spring? Well, this Saturday I'm off to the Phipp's Conservatory - of flowers and plants and stuff, not music.

What else is there to do? Put away your winter coats, hats and scarves. And then go skydiving.

PDX, OR

The hippies don't only live in Vermont.

There are many here in beautiful Portland, Oregon, up in the northwest region of the U.S. They wear woolen hats and ugly shoes and hug trees. And if you've been to Portland, you'd know why.

It's beautiful here.

I'm judging yet another another advertising awards show. One long flight from the east coast to the west, but here I am. And tonight we were treated to an amazing dinner at Marrakesh, a Moroccan restaurant in the northwest area of the city.

We were plonked on the floor on soft cushions and watched a belly dancer shake her booty - literally! Great job gal.

I would like to live here. It has the ocean, it has forests, and it has Starbucks. So I would be happy. But we shall see what the economy has in store for me. Until then, I shall gladly take my unemployment checks.

On Tuesday, I'll hop on a plane and head back east. Back to the cold, back to the steel.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

Sometimes we are made to wonder if some people are born with one of these bendy thingys. Fortunately, I was born with one, and today the Chiropractor dude went CRACK CRACK CRACK to mine.

But we need to ask why I decided to see the Back Cracker in the first place.

My friend D told me he saw this very same Back Cracker and felt marvelous afterwards. I too wanted to feel this marvel. So I went to see this marvel maker. He took x-rays of my curvy back bone, took a nutrition test, and all sorts of wonderful things. But no readjustment (as they call the back cracking procedure).

Today I went in and saw the x-rays. Yowza. Apparently I am developing "horns" on three vertabrae in my neck and there's a pinched nerve in my lower back.

"You'll need to come in about three times a week for the first 12 weeks," said Back Cracker.

Mmmmmm, three back crackings a week? But why? Because apparently if I don't have these sessions, I could develop arthritis as an old man. And this is something, along with incontinence and erectile dysfunction, that I do not want.

So off I go to the Back Cracker three times a week. It's going to cost the same as the annual GDP of a small South American country. And I no longer have health insurance because I got the axe from my previous saltmine.

Oh well, I guess it must be done.

The one in which I get the axe.

So I wrote in a previous post that I had earth-shattering news. Well, this is it.

As the global economy spirals ever deeper into a precipitous recession, I received my "thank you" note and a little severance package.

Am I angry like the imp? No. A little annoyed, yes, but angry, not so much. For now I must verily hit the streets with my napkin-tied-up-on-the-end-of-a-stick and my portfolio and beg for work.

Or I could sit at home for a few months and claim unemployment because I haven't taken a vacation in four bloody years!

yes, I think I'll do that. The latter. I can sleep in late. Watch TV with my feet up while eating bags of ships and jelly beans. I can sit out on the porch and mock people as they climb into their cars and head off for work. I can spend time online looking at useless websites and reading everyone else's postings on blogspot.

This is going to be splendid.

And then I heard Frank

No diligent blog postings for a while because I have been a busy little bee. I've been a busy little bee trying to drum up some work for the home hive. And I've been doing this is the greatest city in the world.

Frank once told us to start spreading the news. And spread the news we did. Hardly a front page ad on the New York Times because that would take muchas mulla that I don't have, but I went to New York with D&C. Fun times.

Four job interviews in three days. And a bit of sightseeing in between.

And some crazy woman wearing a bikini in Times Square in weather cold enough to make a squirrel's nuts shrivel.

More Spokane. Seriously.

Not many people get to make a trip out to places like Spokane, Washington.

Paris, yes. New York, almost always. London, if you're feeling rich. But Spokane? Not so much. So here are few more pics I took while I was there this past weekend.

And check in tomorrow for a very interesting post. Major life changes happening right here.

Spokane? Seriously?

Yes, seriously. Here I am in Spokane, Washington. I arrived on Friday to judge their local ADDY Awards.

Three connecting flights later, and here I am.

It's small. Definitely smaller than what I am used to, but wow is it beautiful out here in the Pacific northwest! Fir trees, snow, clean air. Oh, the ads that needed to be judged were also pretty good.

Funny story: I thought my flight back was at 10am so I booked a ride to the airport early, only to realize my flight actually leaves just after noon. Which gives me more time to run around like a silly tourist and take photos of this quaint little city by the river.

And just for clarification, it's pronounced SPO-KAN. Yup, Spokane. Near nature, near perfect.

Maybe it's time to just disappear

You know, like disappear. Be a recluse. Vanish from civilization where no one can bother me. Where the economy wouldn't reach me because I could grow my own fruits and vegetables and raise a few chickens for my Sunday roast.

Wouldn't that be nice? My own haven. Away from everyone, and everything. Where I would have no one to answer to. No responsibilities, no worries about looming unemployment, no phone bills, no emails to reply to, and no stress of modern day life. Wouldn't that be nice?

I could eat peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, and drink Coke right before bed. I could stay up all night just listening to the sounds around me, or keeping up to date with the eternal chaos of the outside world by reading the occasional newspaper.

I could wake up late. Every day. Go swimming right after lunch. And then take a nap. I want to live like this, without a care in the world. Even if just for a while.

I wonder if my doctor could give me a seclusion prescription.

"Six more weeks of winter," says the Rodent

Back in the day, people would be burned alive (or drowned, whichever seemed more convenient) for acts of witchcraft. But here in Pennsylvania, we have a large rodent that predicts the weather. Yes, you heard me right.

The legend of Punxsutawney Phil goes back 123 years. Each year, on the 2nd of February, this large brown rat-like beast emerges from the earth (or is pulled out of a box) on Gobbler's Knob and if he can see his shadow, then that means we're in for six more weeks of winter.

According to the Groundhog Club (please, don't even ask!!), the celebration of Groundhog Day began with Pennsylvania's earliest settlers. They brought with them the legend of Candlemas Day, which states, "For as the sun shines on Candlemas Day, so far will the snow swirl in May...".

And it's said that this furry little beast was named after King Phillip. Prior to being called Phil, he was called Br'er Groundhog. Now there's a mouthful.

So don't pack away your winter coats just yet. The earth rat has, er, spoken.

And here I thought I was having a bad week!

Life sucks, I know that. But when you genuinely believe that the world revolves around you and that your soul is the epicenter of the universe, it's difficult to comprehend that other people also have it bad from time to time.

Take for example the always-glamorous Amy Winehouse. My week may have sucked. But it looks like her YEAR is in a dizzying downward spiral. Even with a $15 million fortune behind her, this poor thing has skipped from super star success, to gutter-scraping trash. Shame.

When feeling all forlorn, stop and remember that your life does not suck as much as some other peoples' lives do.

Thank God for that!