This is where I work (for now).

While we were getting ramped up for a hard core day of brain busting, we had the following conversation (we being me one and one other dude).

We were talking about the Seattle Mayoral race, and he told me that McGinn had lost. I expressed neither regret nor glee, as I had not gotten around to voting anyway, as I am an apathetic loser who cares as much about local politics as he believes he can do anything about it. I know, I am the malaise in the great Tuna Fish Sandwich of American Indifference, which always comes with a Side of You Get What You Deserve fries and a large Evil Politicians soft drink. Refills free.

But nevermind that. This post is not about my terrible attitudes. Its about this conversation. I said that McGinn was a hippie ‘cause he used to ride his bike to all those press conferences when he was trying to get elected the first time. My fellow interlocutor asked why I had a problem with hippies. I said I didn’t, nor hipsters. Then we got onto the topic of what, exactly defines a hipster.

The subject of thrift stores came up.

This fellow told me how you could go to Goodwill Outlet Stores and buy stuff by the pound. 35 cents a pound for stuff that wouldn’t sell in the regular Goodwill stores. So, he said, you could go buy a bunch of shirts, then donate them back to Goodwill and itemize the donation on your taxes for a big write-off.

I said, why go through the hassle. Just give them the money, and let them keep what you would have taken. That’s like donating the shirts right there. Give Goodwill seven dollars for twenty pounds of shirts. If a shirt weighs, maybe, a third of a pound, that’s 60 shirts, itemized to be worth ten dollars each, equals 600 dollars. If ‘re paying 20% in taxes, that’s 120 dollars back in your pocket, and minus the seven that’s 113 dollars.

By the way, instead of driving to Goodwill, getting the shirts, driving home, itemizing them, driving back to donate, then driving home again, which puts wear on the infrastructures our taxes pay for, the above only requires two trips. Or, why not just donate directly to Goodwill online, via PayPal or something? Now the infrastructure receives no wear and tear.

So every American should do this. Goodwill makes 4 billion per year, and if every single one of the 313 million Americans donated seven bucks, that’s 2.2 billion right there. Now Goodwill has six billion, and the IRS owes us 188 billion. Which we then donate back to Goodwill the next year, and the IRS owes us even more.

Soon Goodwill has all the money and the government has nothing. Goodwill runs the country! Then we start donating to the Salvation Army using this same plan! And then they run the country, so we go back to Goodwill! Or Value Village! Or the DAV!

The military is now dressed in flannel and 70’s jeans with flares. The military is totally hipster. Macklemore becomes Ambassador to Everywhere. Those people who stand outside grocery stores ringing bells every Christmas are being talked about in People and Us Weekly. Papparazzi start chasing them. New athletes emerge who are better at handling partially deflated basketballs and splintery baseball bats and dented golf clubs. Schools start teaching only from donated Stephen King novels and John Grisham novels.

Its an utter utopia. Its perfection. Its the kind of thing God can’t stand, so he sends in zombies. The end.

That’s what we talked about at work today.

Smokers Suck

We like to say that smokers have a disgusting habit, but I want to explore what that means. I don’t think my sense of smell is any better or worse than anyone else’s so I don’t think it’s just me assaulted on a daily basis by dozens of people smoking cigarettes between my bus stop and my office door. On a good day this is a five minute walk, and yet it is utterly ruined with the foul stink of people who do not care about the negative effects they’re having on literally hundreds of people.

Without resorting to a dictionary, we say something is disgusting if we don’t like it, don’t have respect for it, if it has the potential to ruin something else. We say we are disgusted when we encounter something that we’ve been forced to internalize and we’d like to have removed. It’s that “gust” sound, like there’s something in our guts and the act of throwing it up is preferable to keeping it in. Disgusting things are poisonous, sickening, and rob other experiences of whatever joy they might bring.

This is true for cigarette smoke and cigarette smokers. The only way to detect cigarette smoke without seeing it is to smell it, and therefor ingest it. Now it’s inside you, and certainly against your will. If it were only one whiff, that would be almost acceptable or at least tolerable, but the first one is just a promise of more. Not only is there something inside you that you want out, but there’s going to be more of it.

And I suppose there may be some smokers who sneak away to an isolated place, smoke their cigarettes and then field-strip the butts and deposit the ash and leavings in their proper place. I’m not talking about those smokers, I’m talking about the ones standing on the street, flicking ashes, then dropping the burning butts on the ground. And then if we, the non smokers enduring this repugnant display, are lucky, they’ll then grind the butt into the concrete with their shoe. 

So, while that first stinky sniff only promises more misery, the sight of a smoker is just a reminder that here is a human being who does not care about anyone, or probably anything, except getting his drug fix. Right there, out in the open. Have you ever watched someone shoot up heroin? Have you ever watched someone gleefully view pornography? No, because junkies and perverts have enough self-respect to hide their addictions from the rest of society.

But not smokers. And the irony is, watching someone shoot heroin does not put heroin in your own veins. If you see someone watching porn, you can look away. But once you’re within a 100 foot radius of a smoker, you’re forced to take in that disgusting air until you, not he, move on.

Smokers never moves on. Until they die of cancer. I don’t want to see that, either.

To The Disgusting Individual Who Was Eating Raw Hot Pockets at the Bus Stop

I never even saw you. I only saw evidence of your existence. But somehow, that makes it worse. If I saw you, I could have rationalized your activities. Student on the go, homeless person struggling to survive, performance artist channeling an ambivalence for Jim Gaffigan.

All I saw was the leavings of your nasty feast. The hot pocket sleeve four feet from the bus stop trash can. The empty hot pocket box on the lawn three feet from the trash can. The empty trash can, by the way. Don't give me any of this "it was the wind," crap. This is Seattle. We don't have wind.

And I don't want to hear excuses about raccoon. These were hot pocket wrappers, not food wrappers.

What kind of person would do that? Eat what you want, but the trash can was right there. Do you know how long it took me to bend over, pick up the hot pocket sleeve, and throw it away? Less time than it took me to write the words "do you know how long it took me." And that's with bending over! You could have thrown your trash away in literally half that time.

You are a bad person. You don't deserve to walk these streets. You know what? Maybe I could forgive you. Maybe I could let it go this one time. We've all had bad days. Maybe you were distracted by thoughts of, I don't know, Miley Cyrus or something.

But you were eating Lean Pockets. That's where I draw the line. Please, go back to what ever hell hole you were spawned in. Lean Pockets? What is even the point?

To the Semi-Cute Barista Who Took My Drink Order Today

Let's establish a few things. This is an apology, and nothing more. I am referring to you as only "semi-cute" because if I call you full-on cute I will come across as a total creep. But I want to acknowledge your cuteness, because I'm pretty sure it's a requirement for your job, and in case corporate reads this, you are doing an excellent job.

"Why mention cuteness at all," the feminists cry. "Why not just say "barista?" Well, feminists, I am a creep, and like I said, I'm trying to establish a few things here.

You see, I had my headphones in when you took my order, the grande soy chai-tea latte. And then you asked me for my name while I was trying to pay with my Android phone app. That app's pretty cool though, isn't it? My wife can go online and, in a glance, see how much money I'm wasting on coffee drinks. She can also see that I ordered soy and not regular milk because she thinks I need to be more healthy. I'm a creep, not an idiot.

You asked me for my name and I thought you said something else and I added, maybe, three seconds to the line before I pulled one bud from my ear. You were very nice about it. Didn't even make a face. Kept things semi-cute the whole time.

But what I want to explain to you is, it was a really good song I was listening too. It was totally calming me down from a harrowing bus ride. Wanna know why it was harrowing? It was a bus ride. I was in the zone with that song, which is why I even managed to get my Android app out and ready in the first place.

Normally you baristas have to tell me how much I owe you and then I fumble for my wallet and then remember my phone and then fumble for that and search for the app and then fumble for the right button to push [insert joke about some famously bad football team here].

So in reality, that song saved us, like a minute. Still, I want to apologize, or more to the point, thank you for letting me have my music and my grande soy chai tea latte too.

Tomorrow my wife's giving me a ride to work, so no bus, no harrowing, and I promise, no music. Unless my wife decides we need to talk about my coffee drink spending. Then I may need you to learn sign language.

The Key Is To Not Think About It

I worked from home for 12 years, and then one day out of the blue, I got laid off. I got a new job a few weeks later. Temporary, less pay, and get this: I have to work in an office, with people.

It's actually not so bad. It's in downtown Seattle, in the 4th and Pike Building. A little company called Joggle. We make a brain-training game. There are only six of us!

But the thing is, not only do I have to wear pants, and wear them every day, I have to share stuff now, Like a kitchen and an internet connection and a restroom. Not only that, but the restroom isn't even in the office-- I have to take a key and go out to the men's room at the end of the hall.

And the key sticks. No one told me. You know how it is on your first day. You're nervous. So you wait until the very last minute. And you look all over the office for the restroom. Finally nature puts nurture in a headlock and you ask someone. And are told where the key is. But not that the lock sticks!

So there's me struggling, sweating, standing there with my legs crossed while people walk by. Finally I went back and asked if I had the wrong key. Then they told me about the sticky lock. So I went back.

I'll save you the anguish I suffered: I got the door open. (Eventually. It was touch and go there for a while). I left the key in the men's room when I left, but that's another story.

That was two weeks ago. Now I can get through the door with nary a pause. Muscle memory is an incredible thing (my job is to research brain articles, so this is one I looked up today).

I hear we're going to hire a new guy soon. I can't wait. I can't wait to tell him nuthin'.

An Open Apology to the Ladies and Men Asking Me to Sign Things on Pike between 1st and 2nd

I lied. I was not in a hurry. Not really. I mean, I didn’t have time to talk to all six of you, but I guess I could have talked to one of you. But I didn’t want to. I need to get to Pike Place Market to buy some post cards and a copy of Games magazine. Then I need to grab lunch and head back to the office. I suppose I could have listened to one of you tell me why I should sign your petition… I just wasn’t in the mood.

But you were all so very nice. Each of you smiled. Three of you shook my hand. You listened to my lame excuse “In a hurry, sorry!” and your smiles never wavered, not a bit.

In general, I don’t like to sign petitions, that’s my excuse. I mean, I would have been wasting your time more than you would have been wasting mine. I wouldn’t have signed, even if it’s a cause I believe in. I know, I’m lame! Or, if you were one of the very pretty ones, and I was trying to impress you, I would have used a fake name.

I mean, come on, wasting your time when you could be spending it going after someone else? Signing a fake name and potentially rendering the petition invalid? Get creeped on by a guy who’s married anyway and even if he wasn’t is too old for you and even if you’re into older married guys there’s no way you’re into older married guys who write zombie stories and slam poetry? I did us both a favor.

But still, I think I should apologize anyway. Because you were all very friendly about it. It makes it harder for me to be an asshole when you don’t asshole me back. So, sorry about that.

By the way, could you let me know when you’re going to be gone? I need to buy my wife some flowers at the Market after she reads this.

I Promise to Write More. (That's Not a Threat!)

Since I started The Great Brain Robbery (topics in brain research, a testing platform for my new job) and Zombies for Life (a blog to promote my short story collection, available for your Kindle from Amazon, buy it today) people have been also coming across THIS "blog." I started it years ago and never did anything with it because mostly I was writing for Bukkhead.com

Bukkhead lately has just been book reviews (also posted on Goodreads) and the occasional short story. And then there was Wiffli, a blog I started as an "e-Zine" and a companion to a real paper zine that only saw one issue.

In other words, I'm all over the damn map.

But I do like to write. Well, sort of. I mean of course I do. But those of you who write a lot know what I mean when I say: usually, writing just happens.

Not all the time, of course. Not when you want it to. Not the way you want it to. At best, you sit down with a desire to write something and then you write it. At most, you stop doing something else for a while so you can stab fingers at a keyboard in a wild fury.

Blogging, for me, for now, could be a catch-all. I could start a dozen blogs. One for book reviews, one for short stories, one for each published book, one for what its like to blog all the #$%^& time.

I probably shouldn't, though. Like I said, I'm all over the map, and that includes my brain. I got on the bus this morning and was going to read, but first I did a "brain dump" of things to do, using Google Keep. Took up the whole 30-minute bus ride. Was still dumping when I got to Starbucks for some morning sunshine.

It's tough to stay organized. I think I'll use this blog, "...Other," to just do more brain dumping until I get some of my act together. But I WILL be updating The Great Brain Robbery and Zombies for Life at least daily until I read on some blog somewhere that daily is bad.

(I was doing twice-daily until I reads that twice-daily is bad. It was a relief and a curse. I left me time for more blogging!)

Addicted,
Jason.