How To Keep My Phony-Balony Job (Part 3); plus Sunday's usual provocations

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what is it?
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Yesterday at work I sent up the serenity prayer for the first time ever. I rephrased it of course, hoping God would go "say what?" and let me in front of the line. (I'm sure that prayer is said a million times a day.)

A minute before lunch my absentee boss, Joe, gave me my first annual employee review. And it lasted a minute.

"Wait. No raise?"

"Too many absences. Sign here. Aren't you going to sign?"

"Sure I'm gonna sign."

It was six pages though, with check boxes all saying "middlin'", and then a written sentence that I am "usually positive".

Jayz! That's a bad sign not getting a raise. And there's no mention here that six months ago I was given a new job, new responsibilities that put me under the realm of an auditor , fcsake.

And Joe hasn't been working on my shift for five months, what does he know, to do my employee review?

I went to my spot on the stitcher and started some serious brooding. Take hostages? Fox News Alert, helicopters over head.

"Attica!"
"Attica!"
"Attica!"

Blow up some bridges? I can do that, go to the Boxx and say what are you doing, tasking Joe to do my review when he hasn't been here for months.

And how come when you gave me the Returns job you shook my hand and said "onward and upward!" ? Also I have a witness that you told me I'd have Saturdays off. Since then I've worked six days a week like in the bible! Then I'd work a Sunday too, and think this is the lord's day off, and it'd be 13 days in a row, or 20 sometimes, someone's not observing the sabbath, Boxx, you you you, i otter

A month ago, I went upstairs (late from lunch, ok) and found Joe on the bathroom floor. Like man alive, is he dead?

I am a very calm, retarded man.

There he was , on the cool linoleum, half way out a stall (pants up, decent, not an Elvis indignity) and my first thought was "Joe will be mad at me if I wake him up, he won't like me catching him napping on the men's room floor".

But I yelled, "Joe!" Joe joe joe! and got down and put my hand around his wrist without even thinking of feeling for a pulse. Strange! Just automatic, I guess. And I flipped open my cell phone of course. That seemed right, too, and thank goodness I thought why it was right: to dial 911 of course!

The police station is two blocks away. We're in the largest building downtown, the newspaper plant. They asked for the street address. I didn't know!

"Next to the post office!" I yelled, and then ran out into the hall to try to find some unsuspecting victim of my growing hysteria.

This was upstairs by the lunch room and everyone was gone. My mind split into the three stooges it seemed. I went out , I went back in to Joe, told him everything was fine. Shouted at the 911 operator to get serious. I went out, I went back in.

Joe was snoring heavily, then he'd wake up and say "What happened? I don't get it." and start snoring again.

Finally one of those dolls from the Office Of Legend came around the corner and I was like flibbergibber come into the mens room I mean Joe is I mean call someone, no wait I've got 911 here, WHAT IS OUR STREET ADDRESS! And she ran to get help because she didn't know either. (Never saw her again).

Yes, hoopla finally ensued, but it was just a parade of people going into the men's room to see and I kept yelling what's our gawdam address, stopping people by their shoulders and they'd shake me off in their hurry to get in the way.

The widow passed too, I didn't stop her.

The ambulance came within five minutes, saints be praised. The 911 operator told me to hang up then. I think he told me twice.

Next 30 minutes there were about 50 of us outside smoking cigarettes. "Who found him?" "I don't know!"

It wasn't a stroke. It wasn't anything that was ever explained to me. Joe was out a month, I was told. Still working second shift except on Saturdays when I'd see him.

The following week, both the publisher's daughter and our CEO sought me out to thank me for "thinking quick" or something like that. I joked I'd have done that for just about anybody.

Joe never said anything, but I didn't want him to. Except its occurred to me that maybe he thinks he was found in Elvis position.

Anyway, I've thought to tell him his pants were up. No indignity. But, you know, how?
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Now I was thinking, maybe I should have "joked"... why you f;er I saved your f;in life, come through with twenty five cents, you jerk.

But I love Joe and one reason I love him is that he'd have responded: "you found me at 12:45, you were 15 minutes late from lunch that day, thanks for the reminder. You should be written up for that."

Haha! That would have been funny. And Fox News Alerts are funny too, keep in mind. To me, anyway.
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"Usually Positive", it read. Usually?? I've never worked in a factory in my life, most of my co-workers scare me to death, man, I'm positive 100% of the time. grrr...
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So I said the prayer and thought: six days a week, well actually three of those days are only 2.5 hours. And, eh, I spend 'em standing outside smoking and talking with the hillbillies or the olde press men (who smoke all the time since they're basically retired.) It's a phony-baloney job. (Gentlemen, the central issue is how do we keep our phony baloney jobs, Mel Brooks tells the city counsel in "Blazin' Saddles".)

And those absences. I wanted to argue some of those days were even planned ahead, and what, they were all excused. I've never called in.

But no. I've goldbricked maybe once every two months. Or 1.5 months I bet. (I show up! Never call in. Show up and say my Hashimoto disease is flaring up, haha, wtf is that? Hashimoto, sounds like a James Bond villain. Ok, I've been pulling your leg, you should have known though, who ever heard of Hashimoto's? come on.) I could have got them excused, if they insisted. My doctors understand goldbricking.

So it's like this. I've got to shape up. They've given me a warning sign. No raise is no praise. It's a warning...

I'm so amazed at myself for working at all, I seem to presume every stranger at work is impressed too. Huh.

Ok, enough. Now a few links and a Sunday video obscure. I should have told you to scroll down and start here.
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Sean at R.W.B. is doing a great service for those of us who can't get Dylan's XML radio show. (And those of us who would only want to hear what Dylan had to say this week, regarding anything at all.) Sean narrates the show, practically, giving us the theme and the set list and then any Bob quote he was able to transcribe. Bless ya, Sean.

Anonydoc alerted me to this jackanape at the Forum, attacking Dylan. I guess it takes all kinds, there must be genuine Taliban like "conservatives" out there, (not U.S. conservatives, though) but I suspect the poster was playing the straw man Conservative, a creature easily despised.

It's interesting how everyone jumps to Dylan's defense now. That wasn't true a couple of years ago, Dylan was still considered a "troubadour of the Left" until the autobiography came out (and Sean wrote this excellent article for The Weekly Standard, "What Dylan Is Not".)
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Iowa Hawk has the HOOSEGOW HONEY OF THE WEEK from Des Moines' Polk County Jail, and ---scroll down a bit.

Ga,aah! I say there, really. She looks like she knew she was a winner when the mug shot was taken. (Is it true Kerouac wrote that the prettiest girls were in Des Moines? I've never read him, but always heard that.)

Given the world wide popularity of IowaHawk's blog, I'm afeared we're back in the good old movie days where you can get yourself a Jane Russell standard indentured servant, with enough bail money.

So, you ask, why do I link to this if I find it indecent. Because I'm complex and you don't understand me, that's why. Fark off.
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My friend Mark's entire Saturday scroll. Yes, it is a site for sore eyes. There's even a soviet Norman Rockwell there. Terrific discoveries. I don't know how he does it.

Incidentally, I'm doing a fourth step on Exclamation Mark. He vandalized my mental image of Myrna Loy the other day. It was deliberate, I think even retaliatory for something. Maybe he remembered something I did or said six years ago in programming school. I don't know. He's kinda funny, I mean in both ways, you know... the fascination with B-Grade Sci-Fi and horror movies. And...well, going to school for a programming degree! haha, what a schmuck. And I was right there all the time telling him "this is a mistake". (And, "look, I can't do this Assembler Language, let me see your paper will you?)
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Here is another "hope you didn't miss this at the time" video. I hope you enjoy it without too many forehead smacks.

How To Use The Dial Phone (1927)



This is a silent instructional movie, and in seven minutes couldn't make itself more clear. It uses animation, it emphasizes words in a way that reminds me of a PowerPoint presentation, and imagines every conceivable mistake you could make. (Seriously, watch this and you can relate to the inner rube. Almost.)

All I learned was that you used to be able to get information by dialing "8".

I have questions about the old phones. For instance, my grandparents' number was something like "Blackwell 4288", and I don't understand how the "blackwell" was a useful memory device (mnemonic? shall that be our new word for the day?).

I guess Blackwell was an "exchange" and it would be familiar. But it was still Blackwell after they had a dial, and I think three letters were in bold. But how would you know which three letters? In the phone book, why waste all that type?(If you're not following me, I'm not thinking straight, let it go, let it go , it's me, yes, again.)

Also of course the question nobody has ever answered. When people got cut off why would they rapidly tap on the phone hook and say hello? hello are you there?

I know it would probably get you an operator, but people seemed to think it would re-establish a connection, or raise the dead. Were they making noise to wake someone from a faint, I mean. Tell me. Someone.

Oh my god, everyones dead.

As always, if the film breaks click here for better reception.

Thanks for tuning in. I have a new reader, by the way, so that makes each one of you just a little less special. That is unless you leave a comment, of course.