Just a "Regular" Guy

We start with a catch-all: the kind of information that tends to slip through the cracks in the normal course of operations. These are things that I have noticed on a daily basis but failed to expand on, or even write down, because my top-of-the-mind awareness overpowered so I could talk about “training.” Well, if you got through that, you should have no problem with this.

Good news: The murderous tire has been placated, at least for the time being. I pulled off at Shell gas station on Friday after work to assess and address the situation, and while I was inside getting quarters somebody swooped in and took the air hose. Instead of engaging him in a heated wrassle-match, I offered him my air-pressure gauge so he could figure his figures. He then offered me the rest of his air. The perilous prance of reciprocal reaping was reaching its crescendo. Turns out my left front tire was toting a hefty 40 lbs./sq. inch, while my right front tire was sporting a paltry 20 lbs./sq. inch. This is equivalent to my stapling Tom Hanks to my left front tire and Colin Hanks to my right front. It is no wonder my car wanted to die and take me with it.

More good news: I may have found two housemates, and my role at work is finally starting to come into focus. Two men from Michigan, one a graduate from my year and the other from one year past, are going to be looking for housing of a more permanent nature toward the end of July. This doesn’t align precisely with my needs, as I have subletted out through mid-August, but subverted subletters can’t be stringent selectors. So, if chances be choices, then I guess I’ve been chosen for a housewife come late July. At least I wasn’t chosen for a mid-wife; the muggy air hangs pregnant with anticipation. As for work, I’ve been told that after a short stint learning the ropes (nooses) at customer support, I will be joining the Escalation team as a young gunslinger in training. Working within the stresses of the system, I will be expected to shoot down crisis targets and accost costs at a blinding speed. I have an intent to carry, but no license; but this is America, where dreams are shot down and blood pressure shoots up.

Neutral news: I saw a lady feeding a goose in the middle of a street. She was a middle aged Asian lady. I thought she was tempting the goose back to her house so that she could boil it in a traditional manner, serving it to her husband with the eyeballs salted. As I got closer, I realized the goose was a small child, but this still didn’t explain why she needed to sprinkle pieces of bread down on him. I felt a bit racist. When it comes down to it, the child was well-fed and my goose was cooked. I had a golden egg for dinner.

Bad news: The first, that when I went to the Durham Bulls game a few weeks back, I had to use a check to pay for my parking garage pass. After waiting in a line with hundreds of cars, I realize only when I am at the front and facing the ticket master that I have no cash. Not only do I have to pull off to the side, up on a curve, to write out a $3.50 check, I have to borrow a pen from the car behind me. It is no wonder that I forgot to write about this. The second piece of trash news is that the day after I bought my new shoes, which took me hours to pick out, I walked into work and the first person I saw was wearing the exact same ones. It just so happens that the person sporting the flashy footwear is my boss. The next day, as I was going to work, I thought it passing that I should put some deodorant on to impress my coworkers. I had some in the car, and tried to put it on. The stuff splashed down the front of my pants and left quarter-sized stains from crotch-town to knee-city. These greasy stains peered out at the world all day, so whenever I needed to leave my desk I would take my lunch pail with me, and swing it in front of my beehive like a baseball cup.

Lastly, and most depressing, I am saddened to report that Chad has put in over 60 hours of World of Warcraft on the computer in the last week. And, for five seperate meals, has consumed an entire package of bacon. Apparently some people define dinner as three cans of coke and twelve bacon strips, with a side of magic mushrooms from the warlock forest.

On to actual events that have taken place over the weekend. At poker on Friday night, I blew through five dollars in fifteen minutes and consequently watched for four hours. I, however, had a wonderful time and got to meet several of the workers hired last year. I also accomplished what I set out to do: convince everyone that I was horrible at poker and thus guarantee myself tons of cash in any subsequent tournaments. I win!?

On Saturday, I jetted over to the bank and pounded on the doors before collapsing in a bawling heap. Turns out that when I saw the 9-6 hours, they applied to Friday, not Saturday. So now my bank account could possibly be closed down, but only if I can't convince them that I belong this Friday (we have the day off.) On Saturday night I sauntered on over to a friend of Summertime Susan's, who was throwing a new apartment/new hire party. Most of the members of my "class" showed up, and some of his friends were also there. We tossed the turtle shell around, marveled at the beauty of the salt water apartment swimming pool, and poked fun at UNC grads. I have come to find that, as most of my coworkers are from NCSU, that hatred of UNC is not a birth right, but a birth tattoo.

Sunday swept me off to Weaver Street market, which is a bit like a permanent farmer's market, complete with its own set of sleeping hobos in blue jumpsuits and very skinny people shopping with bags they weaved at home out of umbilical cords. On Sunday afternoon, I again played volleyball for 3 hours, earning a new set of blisters. I may have fallen asleep before sunset; if so, I reneg any right to call myself spritely.

Monday at work was a day full of training. At one point I made the comment to a "teacher" that I couldn't believe it was only Tuesday, and he laughed for several minutes because I had lost track of time and it was only Monday afternoon. We had a get together in the afternoon to attend an internet conference on benefits, and we all left feeling more confused than when we went in. I ended up choosing a plan today; one which pays for everything up to $1000 per year, and any of that $1000 that isn't used is pushed into the next year. The plan is considered unfriendly to someone who needs perscriptions or chiropractic work, and friendly to someone who wants to bank up some health money and manage their own health costs. I just get a debit card, and can use it up to $1000. Scoreeee. We new hires popped two bags of popcorn and watched the show. Then I went to the gym to check out the area and mark my territory.

Today, Tuesday, I sat in on the mobile help desk, where they help people who are having problems getting e-mails on their BlackBerries. I learned a bit about this, and a little about that. The guy across the desk from me kept answering his phone and saying "Applebee's would you like to place an order?" He thought this was the funniest thing in the world, and I admit he was so serious about it that he got me to chuckle a few times. I say sorry for not posting over the weekend, and one faithful reader even told me to give my blog Activa, to make it more "regular." To this I say, I prefer moral fiber over any other type, and if I wanted my blog to go more often I would force feed it Wheat Thins and vinegar.

As Greg quipped to me last summer, "If this is torture, chain me to the wall." I think about this whenever I'm having a good day. May you, too, sleep happy.

Double Drivel

The second day of group initiation wasn’t altogether much different than the first, aside from the lunch was catered. Catered straight from my bank account by association with a piece of plastic that spends time in my wallet. I paid for everyone named Wes or Wesley. We newbies decided to herd/head over to a fine dining establishment, the Wild Wings Café. We were treated to light air conditioning and a heavy buffet of chicken meat. All you can eat wings and fries for $8 + tax. The wings were moderately better than average, having probably been harvested off some B+ stock of egg-layers.

After getting back late (we talked too long,) initiation commenced, and during one of the “modules,” my team elected me the leader to answer the questions the presenter gave us. Throughout all four years of post-secondary education, I was able to shun all answering duties; it is a skill I thought I had perfected. I would like to think I am turning over a few leaves down here, perhaps even a whole pile, so I didn’t cluck too loudly when my team forced the speaking feather into my hands. I answered with the fumbling authority I previously assumed only existed among dyslexic traffic cops.

After work is when the fun went down. After the fun went down, the sun went down. After “class,” I rushed over to the workout center to partake in a requirement known as a “fitness assessment.” This involved me sitting in a room with a greasy heart rate monitor tucked up under my lightly developed bosom, doing as many sit ups as I could in a minute, and of course, doing pushups until I passed out. I scored above average for everything except aerobic competence, in which I was placed in the 100^th percentile. They man with the clipboard said this was because my heart rate only went up a few points after ten minutes of passionate cycling. Apparently, I am the heir apparent to Lance Armstrong. Despite the nakedness of this truth, the man with the clipboard refused to give me Lance’s cell phone number.

Just outside the fitness center is a sand volleyball court,

where everyone (yep, everyone) was meeting at 5 to imitate Steve Irwin and bump uglies (catch rays and bump the rag the gym classified as a volleyball.) The games commenced. Competition was fierce, but I held my own; it’s my responsibility as a King of the court. Halfway through the three hour session,

a camel toad announced itself, hopping around in the middle of the court and demanding attention. We escorted him to the sidelines and he kept score. A hop to the left was one for the good guys, and a hop to the right was two for the good guys.


I limped home with the reticence of an abused yeti, because our dominant team lost 2 of our last 3 games, when we were undefeated coming into the last hour of play. I am proud to say that my team was all big-ten; four Michigan squares and one Wisconsin circle jerk (I jest, he’s a good guy.) I deposited sand all over my bed (like an idiot) and then showered. After a few hours of reading, I fell asleep on the beach. Quick note: I bought a liter of Gatorade at Harris Teeter on the way home, please see second post for why this blasphemy cannot be tolerated and must be admonished.

Today, Friday, my temporary mentor had the day off, so I spent my time shadowing some gentlemen who specialize in client satisfaction. They answer the phone and resolve thousands of issues using nothing but light-speed internet connections and the knowledge in their neuron nets. I walked over to a different building complex for lunch, of course making it more of an adventure than it needed to be. I took the wrong route and ended up having to walk through a field to get there. While I was looking out for black mommys and black widows, I failed to realize that other, more miniscule entities might have it out for me. When I emerged from the grassy, unmowed knoll, my legs were covered with baby ants. Unfortunately, the baby ants were apparently neglected access to their breakfast nursing session, because they began munching on my skin. The scoundrels were wiped clear, and I then was able to enjoy my home-packed lunch of a wet sandwich and two laffy-taffies.

My afternoon was much the same as the morning, aside from an article I received from one of my more amicable co-workers, Summertime Susan (a nomenclature, but get over it.) Wallaby’s on opiates always brighten my day.

Tonight I am off to join a poker/juice session. The invite states that we can bring “juice” if we are so inclined, to help us better enjoy the evening. Even though this undoubtedly means alcohol, I am planning on showing up with a lively cache of steroids. Shooting up has never been so athletic - it is the blessing of our age. Thus concludes my first week of gainful employment. I’m sure the weekend holds many seductions for me, not the least of which that I must prove to the bank tomorrow that I am not a FULL BLOWN and ABLE-BODIED TERRORIST (aerobic apocalypto) who doesn’t have a permanent address or driver’s license in the state because he is planning on CATEGORICALLY BOMBING every Harris Teeter in the area. J

Training Day

Like a last-second field goal attempt, us younguns have been kicked toward the uprights into the cross breeze. Lifted from the hard ground with such flippant disregard for comfort has never felt so good though. Yesterday, after a morning of application downloads onto the laptop, I returned to my desk to learn about our CEO’s vision of the future. On a top-secret internal company link, I watched in awe as the man at the helm showed me the crack in the glacier that we plan to slip through. And not just him, but we. They might have to stow me away below decks if the storm picks up, but I can at least take notes on how happy we all were when the ship started to sink. All kidding aside, I was convinced, in short order, that I am working for a company that is going to be successful. Just in case, though, I taped a life jacket up under my desk.

This is a picture of my workstation. I am allotted one monitor, which brings my personal monitor count to two. It is a well known fact that the success of a company depends mostly on monitors per capita.

After branding the company logo onto several patches of my skin, I joined a nice young fellow Greg in the corner, to observe him “working the phones.” It was a thing of beauty. As he assured the customer on the phone that he was paying attention with the occasional “yes, that sounds right” and “that’s horrible, I’ll see what I can do about that,” his fingers flew across the keyboard, dragging text this way and that, pulling up windows and filling out a case report all the while. It was quite an impressive display. It looks fairly complicated and will involve an ingenious amount of quick-thinking, but there happens to be a solution to all problems, and my brain is full of logic, if nothing else. Is there anything else I can help you with?

Enough with the rice cakes, let’s get to the pudding. I didn’t feel the quality of mind necessary to complete a posting last night because, for the first time since arrival, I felt a dollop of melancholy. I haven’t been quick to make grace or friends since Kindergarten, and this poses quite a challenge as I have an entire life full of ?????????????? stretched out before me. Stretch marks, if you will. I have always been fiercely loyal to those I care for, but I am no hospice worker, and I can only handle a small case load. Straightly put, I miss my worries. What’s my worry now? Nothing, and it feels like a problem. Tip o’ the hat to giant leaps, wag o’ the finger to human kind.

After a long walk, where I allowed my mind to wander perhaps a little farther off its leash than I usually do, I tore apart my room looking for my social security card or birth certificate. Without one of the two, I was likely to be fired, at least according to a document from the department of Homeland Security. I finally found both in the same place, stuffed in an envelope hiding beneath a picture I made for Greg last summer of a frog playing the banjo and singing about AlGoreRythems. I proved my citizenship with the documents this morning, so now if I get fired, it will be no one’s fault but Janet Reno’s (for those of you who don’t know, my brother was conceived in Waco, Texas, during some kind of hostage tea party.)

Today, we took an entire day to learn about proper e-mail etiquette, professional networking, collaboration, our organizational culture, and how to make a mountain out of a molehill. This last is a patented secret, how do you think we make so much scratch. During the networking portion, our speaker asked “How would Wesley feel if he knew that I was just sitting by him at lunch because I was expecting to use him for something down the road?” She looked at me for a response, and I offered up “I would be blessed to be in your presence.” She laughed, along with everyone else, and told me this was a great answer and that I was wearing a very attractive pink shirt… and then she sat by me at lunch. What a tangled web Wes weaves.

I am on the cusp of gaining a few friends, I think. I will keep you updated on that front. I am not yet ready to discuss them yet, because I haven’t assigned them all aliases. In this virtual world, I have to be mindful of corporate espionage. Speaking of stolen commodities, everything on this site is copyrighted and trademarked to the most powerful of chess pieces; me, the Rook-ie.

First Frost

Getting to the Bulls game on Friday night, I did a lazy circle around the city of Durham and arrived at the restaurant at 7 PM, an hour later than everyone else. Luckily, we were seated at 7:05. Perfectly planned, as usual. I paid penance to my new co-workers, and we jostled each other about how nice it is going to be being young and voluptuous and well-paid. They asked me what I had been up to since moving down, and I filled them in on a time when I went into a martini bar when I was walking around downtown, saw all the swanks in clothing fit for a Ramsey, and then turned right out the door; I threw a strike for my first impression.

On that same night that I walked into the martini bar to announce my presence in Chapel Hill to all the ladies with expensive clutches, I was also lured into a bar called the Library. The only reason I ever duck into these places is because they have “no cover” written on signs out front. It’s free to look, as they say. When I was halfway through the building, I got stopped by a bouncer who asked for $3 in coverage fees. I only had $2, but I could sell a facelift to an earthworm, and he took it. I was then swept to a “stage” area by some promotional professionals, having been randomly chosen in a contest to make a cozy (for a beer bottle.) I and five others had two minutes to make a cozy, and whoever’s beer was the coldest after the time in the cozy got a free t-shirt. Mine was by far the warmest, but I got second place because of creative decorum.

Saturday, after a quick walk up and down the street, I was headed back to my car, wanting to go home, when I ran into my housemate Chad. He was with a gaggle of his accounting friends, and he wanted me to join him for awhile. This, of course, was code for him wanting a ride home. So while Chad dropped one of two comments – “You are kind of fat” (to guys) and “I have lain with your mother” (or some variation of the preceding insult; again, to guys) I talked to one of his UNC friends, AJ. We then went downstairs to play darts, and Chad and I won because Chad nailed every damn toss, even after a night full of heavy drinking. I then had to drive Chad around town looking for food, and when we finally got home he just made an entire package of bacon for himself. It wasn’t the most flushed I’ve ever been in my life, but on some level I appreciate the effort of Chad to try to introduce me to friends.

When I was walking home from the library on Sunday I was reading and I had taken off my shoes because of the blister I still carry. Walking down the bike path, I suddenly realized I had just walked over a collection of small pebbles, and I turned to see how cute they were. When I looked down, it was glass. Tiny shards of glass. It was actually glass the whole time, and didn’t just magically turn so when I looked. Needless to say, I didn’t get cut, so what of it? Yeah, take that, fire-walkers.

Now to the good stuff. I was in bed by midnight last night so I could be well rested for work. I finally fell asleep sometime after 2 AM. Awake at 6, shower, high-fiber cereal, green tea, mud facial, and shirt and tie. Overdressed and unashamed. I got there before everyone else so I could meet my temporary mentor Stan. It just so happens that Stan might be one of the nicest guys this side of the Pacific Ocean. He gave me a laptop and a bag in which to house it, a quick tour, and then escorted me to get my badge picture taken. So, by 9 AM, when everyone else arrived, I was about three steps ahead of everyone else. Stan just nodded to me, stepped away, and said “See you for lunch.”

My badge picture looks like the cover of “The Forty Year old Virgin;” me with a clueless and cocked grin. This may be apt, however, for a Tech company. I will put the badge picture up another day. We then loaded knickknacks onto our laptops for a few hours, and then Stan and the Big Boss picked me up for lunch in the latter’s Lexus.

Chick-fil-a, the cuisine of the cattle-rachers and corporate call girls alike, filled me up like a 1970’s gas pump (with no stop, you can't leave the handle squeezed.) Greg, the big boss, loves Duke basketball, and the conversation was served up light on the subject of work, sprinkled with cooking chatter (Greg loves butter,) and heaped with sports; a platter of football finger food dumped into a bucket of basketball. We briefly talked about my expectations, of which I was too timid to elucidate, so they told me that they want me to help with the writing of “escalation announcements,” at least in some capacity. This means writing to the executives of a company which is currently experience a malfunction of our product, either telling them how to work around it or how we are going to fix it. It may be awhile before I am up to that task, but I’m no stranger to hard work, and these fingers drip poison.

The afternoon consisted of me getting access with a password that only works when it wants to. Slow work, but corporate espionage must be thwarted. After work, I briefly considered being lazy, but instead I went out to celebrate. I did this by

1. Buying running socks,
2. Buying wine (no idea why, I will probably never drink it,) and
3. Buying a cute couple of Moroccan children (otherwise known as… shoes.)

These purchases were due in no small part to the long-awaited arrival of my new debit card. Can you believe the card came with the warning that I couldn't make a purchase over $10,000? How will I be able to blow my hundreds of thousands on a houseboat or hot-air balloon, with that limit?

More Frisky than Risqué

What an awkward feeling, being in a novel place without the slightest shadow of a partner-in-crime. This forces me to have conversations in my head (as if I didn’t already,) and appear to be a confused cornflake floating in an ocean of goat milk. And let me tell you, the goat milk down here is thick and humid. In an effort to appear less Joan of Arc and more Joe the Camel, I affect an air of importance and tend to walk quickly with a smirky smile on my face, checking my watch all the while. Unfortunately, part of the illusion is lost because I don’t wear a watch and I’m not smoking a death twig.

Ray-G turned out to go by the handle/moniker of ET, proving once and for all that the government should issue street translators for toothless people that try to sell you things. His full name is extraterrestREAL, and, like I promised, I bought his wares. Most of his songs are actually very good, if you can get past the kitchen-closet production quality and the weird alien voices he sometimes makes. To round out my ragtag street posse, I went cruising around on foot last night. I was approached by a mellow fellow who goes by the name of Polar Bear. He showed me a blood stained bandage on his leg and told me that he had just received stitches from a dog bite (apparently dogs are starting to multi-task, both biting you and stitching you up at the same time.) It was quite the show and tell, and I started to get nervous because I hadn’t brought anything to show the class. He soothed my nerves and changed the ambiance by asking for 85 cents. Knowing full well that all dog bites are more palatable (almost chewy,) after someone gives you 85 cents, I was devastated to find that I had no cash. I told him I’d hit him up with a dollar if I saw him again, and he saw me off with a wave goodbye and a single tear. I’ve now got a friend from the North Pole and one from the North Star (Polaris, phone home.) Man it feels good to be alive. Too bad I don’t have any from North Carolina.

This state is conspiring to spiral me into a Good Depression. Not even Great, mind you, just Good. First, I find out the state sales tax is 1% higher than in Michigan. This shook my faith in no small manner. There goes my youngest child’s college fund. There goes my summer ice cream money. On top of this, $5 footlongs don’t exist down here; I’m not sure if they even show the commercials. ...and there goes my sanity.

By changing my right front tire, my father managed to temporarily shake the homicidal tendencies from the polluted mind of my Dodge Intrepid. Like a discount therapist, though, he only pushed the car’s countenance from the deep end of the pool to the edge of the cliff. Now, instead of trying to dive into oncoming traffic to end my life, it tries to ram me into the welcoming fingers of the roadside underbrush. On top of this, it has requested (in writing) that I start feeding it premium fuel. I’m thinking of having The Beast admitted to the nearest chop shop and buying a scooter in its place. I fear that if the ‘trepid catches word of this betrayal, oncoming traffic might start to look mighty appealing again. Only this time, daddy isn’t here to save me.

Some quick work news: I report Monday at 8 A.M., an hour early, to get outfitted with a laptop. It’s business time, baby. I also got invited to a Durham Bulls game tonight. And the fun begins… now!

P.S. I have a huge blister from my run and, oh my, I think it wants to spend the night. Do you think I should charge it rent?

You don’t know what he’s thinking cuz he always looks surprised

As I sat in the corner office of Steve the Investment Pro, scanning his office for exotic derivatives or at least physical proof of some underlying psychological damage, I considered what to do about the Grocery Problem. Through the window of Steve’s office, I could see women pushing their kids toward the entrance of some hellhole labeled Harris Teeter. I asked Steve if H. Teeter was a grocery store, and he responded without turning his head from the computer screen, “Yes, a very nice one.” I asked him if he meant nice as in expensive, and he assured me that nice just meant high quality. I decided right then that I would go to Walmart instead, because not only did I mistrust Steve and his assessment of high quality, with a copy of The Goonies crouched behind some books on his desk, I remembered that Hannah Teeter, the Olympic class women’s snowboarder, doesn’t support high-quality grocery stores. I once saw a commercial of her advocating nothing but a diet heavy on sleet and chapstick, and light on nutrients. And I trust Hannah more than I do Harris.

At Walmart, a clean-shaven Asian, hands clasped behind his back and weight shifting from foot to foot like a sparrow in heat, asked an employee to direct him to the most powerful paintball gun in the store. At the self-checkout, with me bagging my skim milk and contact eye drops, an older couple came and stood right behind me, watching me swipe my debit card. I could see them in the reflection of the screen… and one of them was Paintball Boy. I accepted nervousness into my heart and power-walked to the exit.

After going for a 5.38 mile run (Why? Richard Bernstein has motivated me) I was invited to

“play” by my housemate Lauren. We started with Uno, moving later to Speed, Crazy 8’s, Rummy, Go Fish, and King’s Corners. During King’s Corners, I voiced my concern about having to play the game from the corners of the room, citing vision concerns, and pointing out that she had an unfair advantage by not having the last name King. Lauren, queen of everything giggle related, enjoyed the joke. She is a recreational therapist and works mostly with burn victims. 40 hours a week, no pay, all summer. She said she was a Tarheels fan (born and raised,) and I said I hated Hansborough. This got no giggles.

I finished book #2, and now have no plans for the rest of the week aside from securing at least one acquaintance other that Ray-G. After unloading my things on the first night, I drove down the UNC campus and walked the main drag for a few hours. Ray-G walked by me, spotted my weakness for remixes, and jogged up beside me. “You ever heard of Rage Against the Machine?” he asked excitedly. Doing some quick calculations, I guessed that he owned between 7 and 10 teeth. I told him I had heard of them, but that I had never heard them. He popped the walkman style headphones off his ear and put them over my head, saying that if I liked what I heard, I could have his CD for $9. I listened, and liked. My first thought was to ask if I could be his manager, but then I realized that Ray-G wouldn’t be manageable. I told him I didn’t have any cash on me (I didn’t) but that if I saw him around again I would definitely make a purchase. He then proceed to ask me if I smoked weed (an obvious follow-up question.) I told him that I grew up in the mountains and that I only smoked pinecones. He laughed, looked at my eyes, commented on their whiteness, and then told me that I “ain’t ever smoked no pinecones.” He said he liked me, and that he’d see me around. Acquaintance count: 1.

Saying goodbye to my hometown homies wasn’t all the fun I heard it would be. Now I know how all the dinosaurs felt when they boarded the spaceships and went in search of a Timid New World. It’s a cruel world, and I can’t imagine space travel with hollow bones and pea-sized brains. Saying goodbye to friends was relatively easy, knowing that young’uns like us are relatively flexible and tenacious enough to live for a few more years. Older family isn’t that bad either, everyone older than you has been in existence your entire life, your world has never existed without them, so it is easy to falsely convince yourself that things will never change and they will always be there. For some reason, and this was completely unexpected, it was the hardest to say goodbye to my siblings. Might be because I am the oldest and feel a bit like I am leaving them at a crucial point in their lives, especially Landon. Vanessa is all set (all spike,) with her reptilian quickness and structured schedule. But tiny Landino, last out of the womb but first to laugh at any joke and first to go to MSU without a volleyball scholarship… what a fox. A clever, well-maintained, and joyful fox.

I stalled while leaving, hoping to see the sleek outline of a Saab roll down Thornapple Lane; but Thornapple was no Sesame Street, and there were more Big Burdens than Berts and Ernies.

I caught up with Greg, my roommate at Chrysler last summer, near Columbus, Ohio on the way down. I got to know his dog Sharky/Squeaker. The bed was comfortable, the company was amicable, and the cops weren’t all that cranky. (I got pulled over for going too slow while looking for Greg's domicile.)

Thank you to every kind entity, earthbound or otherwise, that ushered me to this point in my life. Now, I must go check out some more books and see if I can’t find Ray-G.

A Quick Yelp

I will start this off with a "Hi," followed with a more cordial "How're y'all doin?"

I have accumulated a wealth of adventure snippets over the past few days of moving and I feel confident tomorrow's post will be of value to those who know this simple truth: the world revolves around me. I'm resolved to convince you of the gravity my world, and I will do so. Just move back (9.8 meters)^2, and give me a second.

Today, I will leave you with an exchange I had with a good friend, via e-mail, back in October. I haven't heard back from Mimi... but these things take time.

Mimi Tahsin & Co. Address: Unit 23-7, Block B The Boulevard, Mid Valley City Lingkaran Syed Putra, Ku ala Lumpur, Malaysia. Dear Wesley King, Bearing in mind the nature of the content of this letter coming from a person without any referral, I apologize for any inconvenience, but please read and objectively consider if we can work together. I am Mrs. Mimi Tahsin, a legal practitioner with Mimi Tahsin & Co. This involves a foreign client of mine Late Mr. Adams King; who died as the result of a heart-related condition in April 11th 2005, His heart condition was due to the death of all the members of his family in the tsunami disaster on the 26th December 2004 in Malaysia which took the lives of thousands of every Nationalities, as being documented first page on: http://news.adventist.org/ data/2004/11/1104252432/index. html.en I am contacting you because you have the same surname as my deceased client and I felt that you could help me in the distribution of funding that were left in my deceased client's bank account. This funding is closed to be declared un-serviceable by the bank as there were no indicated next of kin or next of beneficiary of the funding in the bank account. My client had an investment on fixed deposit of value $12.5USD (Twelve Million Five Hundred Thousand (United States Dollars) deposited in a private bank here with no nominated successor in title over this investment. This bank has issued me a notice to contact the next of Kin, or the account will be confiscated and I want you to assist in distributing the money left behind, otherwise it will be sent to the treasury by the bank. I have already developed a full proof, legal and totally risk free means through which the fund can be released to you within a very short time after due documentation and authentication process. The strategy is to use my position and influence as the lawyer of the deceased to present you as the next of Kin and beneficiary of the deposit so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you. I want to assure you that I have concluded all local modalities for the successful completion of this within 10 banking days of your agreement to proceed with me as the required assistance are perfected to be safe and without any breach of law. Please contact me at once to indicate your interest. I will like you to acknowledge the receipt of this e-mail as soon as possible via my private EMAIL: (mimitahsinesq3@gmail.com) and treat with absolute confidentiality and sincerity. I look forward to your quick reply. Best regards, Barrister Mimi Tahsin Esq. The information transmitted is a confidential and/or privileged material intended only for the person or entity to which it is addressed, if you received this in error, please contact the sender immediately and delete the material from your computer.

Wesley King to mimitahsinesq3

show details 10/26/08

Reply

Mimi,

Most of my current next of kin are of the deep-pocket persuasion. As it were, I prefer to only deal with transactions upward of $15.1 million US dollars Only. If you can scrape together Only $2.6 million US dollars more, then I would feel safe moving forward with this transaction.

Since you have extended upon to me an arm of good fortune and risk-free wealth, I propose toward you a 2 million US dollar Only maintenance fee. This fee will be yours to keep and do with as you wish. I would donate it to a Tsunami release fund. These funds aid the release of giant Tsunamis. As witnessed through the following link: www.TsunamiForMyMommy.com/index.html

Also, though my business name is Wesley King, among my friends I am known as Wet Wes, and I consider you one of my friends, so from this point in Time moving forward please refer to me either as "Mr. Wet" or The Powers that Be.

I hope this correspondence finds you both in good health and in the vicious vice of capitalism,

Mr. Wet

P.S. Please find attached a picture of a colorful Nudibranch. It was found in an inlet on a Malaysian beach three days after the Christmas tsunamis of '05. Since that time the Nudibranch has been diagnosed with mental starvation and a minor dose of constant inebriation. His last name is Tahsin. Might you and he be distant relatives? I do dearly hope so. Contact me for his e-mail...