Archive for the ‘personal’ tag

bokeen’s cross country adventure, part II

This is part two of my epic journal from my trip to San Jose.  Click here to read part one.

9:48
Once again, the check in procedure is a quick and painless experience.  While I retrieve my belongings from the conveyor belt, I notice that the person in line behind me is being interrogated by the TSA agent manning the x-ray machine. 

The agent opens the passenger’s bag and retrieves a Ziploc bag full of toiletries.  After sorting through the bag, the agent holds up a bottle of contact lens solution.

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bokeen’s cross country adventure, part I

I find air travel to be a terribly dreadful experience.

I am not bothered by the inevitable delays or security hassles, as they are minor inconveniences.  Likewise, I do not fear flying in an airplane. 

As a devoted cigarette smoker, the notion of being trapped inside a phallic metal tube for hours, completely unable to smoke, is utterly terrifying.  To a heavy smoker, air travel requires the patience of a Buddhist monk. 

While flying, I will inevitability experience extreme symptoms of nicotine withdrawal.  Upon disembarking, I will frantically run through the airport, trembling and sweating, in search of the nearest exit.  I will burst through the doors, luggage in tow and cigarette in mouth, lighting my prized cancer stick as quickly as possible.

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Fuck you, Jupiter Communities, part II

This is part two of my epic bitch-fest about Jupiter Communities, the miserable company that manages the apartment that I live in.  Click here to read part one.

A few weeks after I moved into my building, the pilot light on my oven stopped working.  When I turned on the oven, nothing happened.  While I am an excellent cook, I find it difficult to cook a roast at room temperature.

I complained to the management staff.  For some inexplicable reason, they were interested and engaged.  Three days later, the maintenance staff visited my apartment to correct the issue.

After about 25 minutes of troubleshooting, they determined that my oven contained an electronic pilot.  Since they did not have an electronic pilot on hand, a repair would take “three or four weeks.”  I assumed that the nearest Maytag plant was located on the icy rings of Saturn, thereby necessitating such a lengthy delivery time.   

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Fuck you, Jupiter Communities, part I

While I’ve never been waterboarded, I am certain that it is a slightly more pleasurable experience than moving.

Few things are as torturous as packing up all of your material possessions into assorted cardboard boxes, trudging these boxes and furniture into a pricy rental truck, driving to a new location and unloading.  It is a physically exhausting endeavor that is immediately followed by the mental anguish of spending weeks attempting to reestablish some semblance of organization your life and comfort in your new home. 

For weeks, one inevitably feels like a refugee, sorting through a seemingly endless collection of boxes in search of a mundane item.

“Where did I pack the goddamn fucking forks?” I’ve shouted on several occasions after combing through four indistinguishable cardboard boxes marked “kitchen.” 

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Terrible fucking music from the summer of 2009

It pains me to admit that the summer is officially over.

In many ways, Chicagoans were cheated this year.  June was cool and rainy, so summer weather didn’t begin in earnest until early July.  Due to the fact that Mother Nature is a vicious raving cunt, Chicago residents enjoyed a total of approximately six and a half weeks of summer weather.

Before I finish writing this post, the leaves will have turned to warm colors and the city will begin salting the streets.  Due to the abrupt change in weather, I would like to take this opportunity to reflect on the summer of 2009.

Music plays an important role in defining my memories of past summers.  Each year, certain “summer songs” become definitive reminders of the specific year. 

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I hate the “fat tax” almost as much as I hate fat people

As an avid sinner, I am vehemently opposed to taxation on my treasured vices. 

However, when I first heard the words “fat tax,” my interest was piqued.  I feel that obese people are repulsive sloths that lower my quality of life by cramping subway cars, sweating in or near the vicinity of my personal space and adversely affecting the aesthetic appeal of this glorious country.  Fat people deserve their comeuppance.  In fact, it is long overdue. 

I pondered how such a tax could be levied.  Perhaps there would be a complex calculation on the 1040 form that involved factors including height, weight and body mass index.  Alternately, a surcharge could be added to the cost of airfare and public transportation, depending upon the sheer mass of the commuter.  Another practical solution would call for scales to be installed in all escalators, elevators and public toilets; obese individuals would not be permitted to use the aforementioned devices without swiping their credit cards to pay a nominal fee.  

Much to my chagrin, I discovered that a “fat tax” would penalize average-size people and bloated sloths alike.  The tax would apply to foods and beverages deemed unhealthy, such as candy, salty snacks and soda.

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I’ll pass on “Cash for Clunkers”

For the past few weeks, I have been mourning the death of my truck.

My beloved vehicle was a shrine of masculinity.  Women swooned as I cruised by with the tiny four-cylinder engine humming.  Men were intimated by the dark purple paint job which made it clear that I am a man who means business.  When I close my eyes, I can still hear the dulcet tones that emanated from the leaky exhaust system when I would step on the accelerator.

The only way my 1999 Chevy Tracker could have been more macho is if it were shaped like a gigantic erect penis with throbbing veins. 

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Fucking with Dell technical support

According to an old idiom, the squeaky wheel gets the grease; I am a sarcastic wheel.

I have recently been experiencing problems with my laptop.  The warm weather has a devastating effect on the machine.  After several hours of summertime use, it performs incredibly slowly. 

Each time this has happen, the machine becomes astonishingly hot.  Naturally, I assumed that there was a correlation between the scalding surface of the computer and its poor performance.

The problem was a minor nuisance until earlier this week, when my computer failed miserably in front of a client that I do freelance work for.  I was absolutely outraged.

Prior to contacting Dell’s customer support department about the issue, I consumed a baker’s dozen beer in order to keep the conversation entertaining.

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Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful

As a highly opinionated person and a prolific writer on the Interwebs, I feel that it is my duty to express my disdain when I think something sucks.

Some opinions have become a part of conventional wisdom.  For example, we all can agree that The Jimmy Fallon Show is horrendous.  Likewise, it is not difficult assemble a group of individuals and reach a consensus that The Beatles are one of the greatest rock bands ever.  While these are subjective statements, they have become generally accepted as fact.

There are times when my opinions are at odds with conventional wisdom.  Whether in the realm of music, movies or fashion, there are many things that most people enjoy that I find abhorrent. 

I proudly present a brief list of such items, entitled Things that I hate that everyone else seems to think are so fucking wonderful. 

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Angry Letters follow-up: Funny show, horrifying bill

My angry letters normally don’t get responses.

Two weeks ago, I sent a message to Bert Hass, manager of the chain of Zanies comedy clubs.  I complained about the terrible service and the club’s practice of adding gratuity for parties of five or more. 

Much to my surprise, Hass replied the following day.  As promised, his message is featured here.

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