tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43188187851085580142024-03-21T07:10:24.482-07:00Smarter, Not HarderMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.comBlogger59125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-24248609531351808682010-06-15T20:25:00.000-07:002010-06-16T21:58:06.281-07:00No Title Can Do This Story JusticeAs most of you are probably aware, I really hate graduations, or indeed similar ceremonies of any type. So it was with some dismay that I found myself, in the middle of a perfectly good Sunday afternoon, sitting at about the thirty-yard line of the football field at my cousin’s high school, waiting for the commencement ceremonies to begin.<br /><br />Allow me to reiterate. I hate graduations. Before this past Sunday, the only graduation I had ever attended was my own, a fact that only occurred because on several occasions I was explicitly told that if I did not attend the ceremony, I would not be eligible to receive my high school diploma. Why that was the case, I do not know, but I do know that the event was excruciating. Pure pain. But I digress.<br /><br />So there I was, just shy of the red zone, with my lawn chair and my sunglasses. The ceremony began at 2pm sharp with the high school band playing about thirty-five minutes of “Pomp and Circumstance,” which, under the best of circumstances, is only a marginally tolerable piece of music. This is to say that perhaps the high school band did not do the song its full justice, what with the flat trumpets and the squeaky French horn, but anyway, after about the sixteenth repeat, all nine thousand graduates had filed in (out?) and the speeches could finally begin.<br /><br />And what speeches they were. Even if you were directly in front of the stage, the public address system left something to be desired, and I was off to the side, so I only heard snatches of the speeches, which was probably for the best, as I might have begun to heckle had I been exposed to them in their full glory. What I do know is that at one point during his speech, the principle donned a snorkel (although I’m not quite sure why) and gave the rest of his speech looking like a total douche.<br /><br />It was at about this point that a line of dark clouds began to gather in the west, and the temperature dropped about ten degrees in as many minutes. The air became very windy and then very calm and then very windy again. This was small town Wisconsin, and the residents are not idiots when it comes to weather. Everyone there knew it was going to storm. A lot.<br /><br />But what was really entertaining to watch was what people did with that information. Sitting where I was, in full view of the main grandstand, there was noticeable discomfort among the patrons of this event. Some shifted nervously in their seats. Some got out their umbrellas. Some, presumably of the mindset that their graduate was not worth getting wet over (really proud of you, son), simply walked toward the exits.<br /><br />About twenty minutes into the proceedings, the principle interrupted to say that because of the impending storm, they were going to cut straight to handing out diplomas. At which point, the sky opened with tremendous force. It rained - as the saying in downeast Maine goes - “like a cow pissing on a flat rock.” It was a true Midwestern summer rain-storm, which is to say that everyone was fully drenched within fifteen seconds. I was able to stave off drowning by putting my folding chair over my head, but pretty soon that became saturated at which point it became about as useful of an umbrella as a tennis racquet would have been.<br /><br />The really entertaining part of this debacle was that the graduates were having a fucking blast. What better of a way to end your high school experience than to see all your administrators fully soaked, and fully embarrassed, have a graduation ceremony the entirety of which took under forty-five minutes, and have what amounted to a big-ass water fight after you got your diplomas. People were literally spraying each other with water bottles (not that it really mattered at that point) as they stood in line to cross the stage. It was fantastic. I could never go to another graduation, satisfied in the knowledge that I have already seen the best there is to see.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-43233582805036406262010-05-08T18:40:00.000-07:002010-05-08T18:41:20.000-07:00Craps, bro.I would just like to say, that when I left my apartment this morning (at 8:45am on a Saturday mind you) there were three grown ass men in various states of reclining on the sidewalk, playing craps. This scene was replete with fists full of cash, hats turned sideways, and indeed, one of the gentlemen was wearing no shoes – only socks. It seemed like they had really made themselves at home, right there on the street in front of my apartment. This was hilarious to me on several levels (really, craps? So passé) but mostly due to the fact that approximately 1:29am that morning (but who’s counting, really?) I was shouted awake by several men arguing over $20 won at craps. Which could possibly mean that I had witnessed at least a 7 hour game of craps, give or take. Weirdly enough, I ran into my roommate at work today, and she said that these same gentlemen were still playing when she left the apartment at 11:30am (that’s 11 hours and counting) and additionally, that they had decided to use her bike, which was locked outside, as a coat rack. I’m super excited to see if they’re still going when I get home tonight. <br /><br />I won’t miss living here.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-56477111992758368592010-04-07T00:47:00.000-07:002010-04-07T00:50:49.390-07:00FuckFuck I'm so sorry I suck real bad at keeping this blog up to date. Though to whom I'm apologizing I'm not even entirely sure. But if anyone actually still reads this given my shitty track record of not being able to update worth a damn, be consoled in the fact that I have, in fact, been writing, and in 5 or 6 weeks when I'm not in tech, I might even get around to editing and posting some of the things I've written. Again, my deepest apologies. Fuck.<br /><br />fin.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-30979532591318295922010-03-07T16:57:00.001-08:002010-03-07T16:58:25.075-08:00This is awkward, one of us is going to have to change...So here’s a funny story: over Christmas, I went to visit my aunt in Orange County, and had the opportunity (misfortune) to drive around in her Prius. I had a whole post written (graphics and all!) about how terribly poorly that car was designed (seriously, everything looks like as though it was an afterthought - how is that even possible?) and then Toyota went and proved it for me. Like, I can’t even be funny anymore, because Toyota one-upped me on their own shitty product. I had all this stuff about how it looks like a shoe, and how the tiny steering wheel makes it seem like you’re driving with a paper plate, and then Toyota was all: “Oh yeah, sometimes the gas pedal gets stuck so you fucking careen out of control while you’re driving.” How am I supposed to make fun of it now? I was going to talk shit about how the joke-ass mini spoiler on the back serves no purpose except to ruin your view out the back window, but that’s not even funny compared to that tricky gas pedal they put in. What a laugh! And then Toyota: “Oh and also, sometimes the brakes fail too, so when that trick gas pedal sticks down and you’re going mad quick, sometimes you can’t stop.” Awesome. Toyota, you sneaky dicks: tricky gas pedal and prank brakes – that’s a riot. Thanks for fucking ruining my jokes. Next they’re going to tell me they did this on a bunch of different models too. Wait, what? Fucking really Toyota!?Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-33490703901262049322010-01-22T13:49:00.000-08:002010-01-22T13:51:03.790-08:00Not Tonight...So now that I’m pretending to be a grownup with a real job, it turns out that it’s much harder to update a blog with any regularity. It’s not really for lack of free time – I just don’t really do interesting stuff anymore. In college I could always fall back on the “I got real drunk and something funny happened” story, but I don’t really do that much crazy shit, and even if I did, I probably wouldn’t write about it in a public forum, because it turns out that employers don’t like that so much. Plus, it’s much easier to motivate yourself to write about something asinine in college because the choice (at least for me) was usually between writing something fun online or writing something boring for class. Round about the fifth or sixth essay about Plato or Lessing or Wordsworth, writing about beer sports or baseball or really anything that’s not literary, seems downright enjoyable. It’s like a warmup for writing something meaningful – twenty minutes to let the martini kick in before starting to write. (That’s the trick to good writing kids – fix a real dry martini before you sit down with your computer and twenty-odd books. It really gets the creative juices flowing. All the great writers did it.) But now it seems like more of a chore than anything. In fact, the only reason I’m even writing now is because I didn’t have anything to do at work between my morning meeting and my afternoon meeting, so I took a two hour lunch break. I’m not even hungry, but I’ll be damned if I’m sitting at my desk for no reason when I don’t get paid hourly. But I digress. What generally happens in my life is this: I go to work, then to the gym, and then I make dinner, and by the time I get to my computer, I look at my blog and it looks at me, and I’m like, “Not tonight, I have a headache.”Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-71316119124473592592009-12-20T23:39:00.000-08:002009-12-24T12:18:05.604-08:00Electrics GlossaryEvery profession has its own lexicon, built on the jargon, jokes, and technical terminology used by its laborers. Theatre – perhaps more so than other trades – has some really quality (and really colorful) vocabulary, the brunt of which originates in the electrics department. For all those of you who are fortunate enough to have a job that isn’t a theatre electrician, allow me to introduce you to some of the more useful and entertaining terms and phrases that exist in my world. In no particular order:<br /><br /><br />Hot Pocket: Hot patch or “courtesy” outlets contained in many touring dimmer racks. They are always on (“hot”) allowing the user to quickly test fixtures, cables, etc. <br /><br />Inhibs: Inhibitive Submasters, which prevent lights from coming on. Opposite of a standard submaster, the higher the level of the sub, the lower the level of the light. Also a verb.<br /><br />Pepsi Challenge: the act of slightly altering a designer’s specifications to be more practical/less neurotic. For example, if a designer specs a trim height of 20’-1” on his or her electrics, you would trim them at 20’ because that is a normal height, and then if, and only if, the designer notices, you change it. Pepsi Challenge can also refer to a scenario in which a designer gives you a note, and you don’t do it, but the next day you tell them you’ve done it and see if simply thinking it’s better alters their perception of what they thought was wrong in the first place.<br /><br />50/50: the standard home position for many moving lights. 50% of tilt faces the light straight down, and 50% of pan gives the light ability to rotate in either direction.<br /><br />Iso-opto: isolated optical splitter. It’s a device that splits a single line of data (usually DMX) into several lines. It serves roughly the same function for lighting data as a switch does for Ethernet. <br /><br />Strippers: wire strippers.<br /><br />Spaghetti: a cable or rope that is hopelessly and irrevocably knotted around itself and other cables or ropes. Also referred to as an “Asshole.”<br /><br />Fucknut: the tiny set-screw on many lighting c-clamps that controls the pan of the unit. So named because it is super easy to over-tighten and shear off, and when you inevitably do it, you say “fuck.” Also known in some circles as the OJN (Oh Jesus nut).<br /><br />Dykes: diagonal cutters.<br /><br />Stinger: can be one of two things. Either a) a hot Edison extension cable or b) a short wire cable used for rigging.<br /><br />Meanie: a rope cleat on the west coast.<br /><br />Uncle Buddy: a rope cleat on the east coast.<br /><br />“Spin a disk:” to save a show on a light board. This phrase has its origins in the fact that all computerized lighting consoles used to have floppy disk drives so you could save a backup copy of your show.<br /><br />Jumper: an extension cable (usually stage pin).<br /><br />“Bang it:” to go directly into a cue, bypassing the computerized fade time. This phrase has stems from the fact that on early model ETC consoles, you would go into a cue by “banging” the playback faders down and up. This phrase has been made largely obsolete by the “go to cue” function.<br /><br />Dimmer Beach: the area in a theatre (or, more commonly, in a touring setup) designated for the lighting dimmers. Supposed origin: Since the dimmers are usually the heaviest things on the electrics truck, they are usually packed near the rear of the truck, over the wheels. As such, they are one of the first things off the truck during load in. Once the dimmers off the truck and set up on the venue, many L1’s like to set up a beach chair near (or sometimes on top of) the dimmers and instruct the crew on where to put the rest of the lighting gear. Hence, dimmer beach.<br /><br />Alligator Pits: This may just be a thing at my theatre, but the open holes in the grid through which the batten lift lines travel are called alligator pits. Presumably because if you fall into one, you die.<br /><br />Yup. See if you can take my job seriously now (as if you ever could)…Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-87091854515847264982009-12-19T12:30:00.000-08:002009-12-20T22:53:45.299-08:00Needless Sexual Innuendo The Week Before ChristmasYesterday afternoon, I decided to log in to my work email before I went home. Awaiting me were several messages, but the one that jumped out at me had a subject line that read, “Have you seen my package?” I was really scared to open it, but it turned out to be a guy looking for a DVD he got in the mail. Fortunately, the next email I read was one about how there was a going to be a free keg at 4:30pm, so I was able to calm my nerves. But, Jesus Christ. Proofread your emails.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-13314062856394239022009-11-30T15:31:00.000-08:002009-11-30T15:33:24.248-08:00The Postal Service is a Sham <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/matthewavery/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>392</o:Words> <o:characters>2235</o:Characters> <o:company>Drake University</o:Company> <o:lines>18</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>4</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>2744</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; 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mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">First, let me make perfectly clear that the organization we are about to be mercilessly deriding is, in fact, the United States Postal Service, not the band “The Postal Service,” because the band is actually pretty decent at what they do, namely making sweet music.<span style=""> </span>But even if their music was totally horrible, they’d still be doing a better job than USPS because, well, at least they’d be doing something.<span style=""> </span>I swear to Christ, if I had a nickel for every time some deadbeat postal worker decided to go on break right when I walk in the post office, I’d be a rich man (well, I’d have at least about seventy five cents, because I try at all costs to avoid the post office like Fox News avoids the issues).<span style=""> </span>Since I have been living in California (about four months) the following have not been delivered to my apartment: two issues of GQ, one issue of the New Yorker, one birthday card containing a check, and one freelance check.<span style=""> </span>The following have been delivered to my apartment: numerous letters and a package for someone with an unpronounceable Asian name, a jury summons for someone named David, an alumni magazine from a college that neither my roommates nor I attended, a metric shitload of direct mail advertising for “current resident” and a letter marked “Urgent: Open Immediately, Time Sensitive Information Enclosed” for someone named Steve.<span style=""> </span>I find it absolutely remarkable that I can get so much mail for people whose names are not Matt Avery, but that mail addressed to me has such a hard time actually getting to me.<span style=""> </span>You’d think that at the very least, since I’m getting everyone else’s mail, the odds would be better for me to get some of my own mail too – it’s just simple odds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Oh, and UPS, you’re on notice too.<span style=""> </span>The next time you pull up next to my apartment with a package and don’t knock or even leave a “delivery attempt” slip, you’re getting a nasty blog post too.<span style=""> </span>And don’t think I forgot about that time you somehow managed to get into our locked parking lot and leave a package outside my back door where I never go without leaving a note that sat out there for god knows how long before I happened to find it while I was taking out the trash.<span style=""> </span>I know I live in South Berkeley and I don’t have a doorbell, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to knock on the goddamn door.<span style=""> </span>At least pretend to make an effort.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">All delivery services outside of FedEx and DHL are duly warned.<span style=""> </span>Everyone else, if you need to send something, send it to my work address.<span style=""> </span>If you don’t know what it is, ask, but then I damn well better see a package within the week.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Punk ass delivery services think they can charge an arm and a leg and a kidney and a pint of virgin blood to not deliver packages…</p> <!--EndFragment--> Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-11126701315697410772009-11-09T23:21:00.000-08:002009-11-09T23:29:48.122-08:00A few items of note: <meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 2008"> <link rel="File-List" href="file://localhost/Users/matthewavery/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal.dotm</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>229</o:Words> <o:characters>1310</o:Characters> <o:company>Drake University</o:Company> <o:lines>10</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>2</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>1608</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>12.0</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves>false</w:TrackMoves> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:drawinggridhorizontalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing> <w:drawinggridverticalspacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:dontautofitconstrainedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> </w:Compatibility> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="276"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><span style="">I bought plane tickets on my cell phone the other day.<span style=""> </span>Apparently, we’ve come to the point in history where anyone can make a major credit card transaction involving interstate travel from a device that fits in your pocket.<span style=""> </span>All while walking down the street.<span style=""> </span>Gotta love technology.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I finally designed a show on an Eos.<span style=""> </span>The show was a playwright’s series, which was only about 90 minutes long, and needed minimal tech support.<span style=""> </span>I was using one of the best consoles on the market, with over 400 lights and about 40 scrollers at my disposal.<span style=""> </span>It was like driving a tank to the supermarket: ultra badass, but super unnecessary.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">The Bay Bridge is a PR nightmare.<span style=""> </span>If it’s not getting <a href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/69/220645446_74e12cd2c3.jpg">destroyed by earthquakes</a> or <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/27/BAO81ABJTF.DTL">falling on cars</a>, cars (or, more specifically, huge semi trucks) <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/11/09/BAAE1AHDO3.DTL">are falling off of it</a>. <span style=""> </span>I go to Treasure Island regularly because one of our rental vendors is located there, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t ever felt safe driving on that bridge.<span style=""> </span>The new bridge being built to replace it is already years behind schedule and millions of dollars over budget, and the new bridge isn’t going to replace or even circumvent the retarded double deck tunnel through Treasure Island/Yerba Buena Island.<span style=""> </span>Also, Treasure Island and YBI are technically only one island because Treasure Island is man-made, but that’s a story for another time.<span style=""> </span>Caltrans and the Highway Patrol might as well give up and cut their losses – it’s only going to get worse from here.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="">I’m flying from the second busiest airport on the west coast to the busiest this weekend.<span style=""> </span>Wish me luck.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-12661126920984961482009-11-01T00:52:00.000-07:002009-11-01T00:53:02.664-07:00Somebody out there has to hate Halloween as much as I doI really fucking hate Halloween. It’s just the truth. I hate costumes and I hate going to parties where everyone is wearing a stupid costume and I hate walking down the street and seeing people in costumes. I hate it when all the bars are really crowded, and I hate it even more when they’re really crowded with costumed drunks. It’s like the one day of the year where everybody gets license to act and look dumber than they already do in their everyday lives. This one holiday basically embodies most of the things that are wrong with America. <br /><br />I also hate children, and as such, I hate trick or treating. It really defies every type of conventional logic and reason. If there’s anything worse than a mob of children walking unattended down the street, it’s a mob of sticky, costumed, sugar-crazed children walking down the street asking you for free shit. Fuck trick or treat. Who thought up that crazy-ass shit? Let’s give all these already hyperactive children a metric f-ton of candy. For free. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Hell.<br /><br />But here’s the thing: everybody else fucking loves Halloween. It’s like these people wait all fucking year to get dressed up and get really drunk and puke on their stupid ass costumes. Nobody’s even clever about it. I don’t how many girls in college told me the were going to their Halloween parties as a sexy (insert noun here): pirate, soldier, fucking bumblebee. Here’s a word to the wise. Bumblebees aren’t sexy. They’re really fucking boring. All they do is make honey and sting the shit out of people. That’s not a good Halloween costume. The only good Halloween costume I’ve seen this year is a girl who went as the Bay Bridge wrapped in caution tape with crushed matchbox cars glued to it. And the guy last night who was dressed like Aristotle Onassis, but that was more just a good fashion choice than a good costume. <br /><br />I can make neither heads nor tails of it. It doesn’t seem to me like you would do more work and spend more money just to go out drinking - which, incidentally, is already really expensive– but I guess that’s just me. Which is why this year, like every other year, I’ll spend Halloween sitting in my apartment with all the lights off and the curtains closed, drinking alone and cursing quietly cursing the trick or treaters.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-82014705054286460392009-10-25T22:05:00.000-07:002009-10-25T22:08:18.847-07:00In Explanation:Yeah. I haven’t posted for a month. Want to fight about it?<br /><br />Here’s what’s been keeping me busy:<br /><br />1. Getting engaged to my girlfriend. More to come.<br />2. Tech week for Tiny Kushner<br />3. Watching both the Dodgers and the Angels lose, shattering my dreams for a freeway series the one year I’m living in California. Was that really too much to ask?<br />4. Reading all the awesome reviews of American Idiot and Tiny Kushner.<br />5. Serving drinks to Lea Michele (of recent fame on the TV show Glee, for those of you who don’t follow Broadway actors).<br />6. Seeing a guy Chinese fire drill the Bart train.<br />7. Getting verbally abused by bums.<br />8. Enjoying the nice weather.<br /><br />But not to worry. I’ll be back with a vengeance in the coming weeks.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-12831459550086011312009-09-27T23:31:00.000-07:002009-09-27T23:34:23.443-07:00National PastimeAhh, baseball. America’s national pastime that hasn’t been taken seriously for at least two decades now. The playoffs haven’t even started yet and I already don’t see any suitable outcomes; as today marked both the Cardinals (whom I abhor) and the Yankees (who use the playoffs like cheap prostitutes just about every season) clinching playoff spots, while the Cubs are 8.5 games back in the NL central, and the Brewers are another 4.5 games behind that. Even the Giants, who I started rooting for because I live in the bay area and certainly can’t root for the A’s, did a great job of blowing a wildcard chance, and now have a great chance of ending their season in predictable, mediocre fashion. Really the only high points for me this season are that the White Sox almost certainly won’t make the playoffs, while the Red Sox almost certainly will (unless they keep playing like they did this weekend). Baseball makes me sad.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-57391027148724180272009-09-24T23:01:00.000-07:002009-09-24T23:04:36.328-07:00Berkeley Is WeirdI would have to take off my shoes to count the number of times in the past few weeks that I have been completely dumbfounded by shit that has happened in this city. I feel like almost once a day I am either stopped dead in my tracks or made to literally laugh out loud by something that I overheard or oversaw completely in passing. The other night, I went to the bodega down the street from my house, and upon entering, found that a borderline drunken woman was cursing out the clerk, saying some shit that would have made Mamet blush. The coup de grace of the tirade was, "You better put a skirt on 'cause you actin' like a bitch. Go put some pumps on, ho, and suck my dick motherfucker." I can’t make this shit up – nobody can really – and that’s the beauty of it. It’s raw, unrestricted human interaction in it’s truest form.<br /><br />The problem is, I don’t even know where to begin in describing some of this stuff – I can only tell the same “I heard/saw a homeless man/woman say/do something really funny/sad” so many times. But that’s only the beginning. A lot of people will tell you that New York City is the place where you can do anything and not stand out, but I’ve been to New York, and that claim is false. There is a lot of crazy shit going on in NYC, and to be fair, their bars are (sadly) open much later than ours, but Berkeley is really the place to come for balls to the walls, unencumbered weirdness.<br /><br />For example, the other night, as I was waiting downtown for the late Fremont train after seeing a movie with a friend, I happened to stumble into a conversation (I use “conversation” in it’s loosest sense) with a few girls from St. Mary’s college. The conversation started by virtue of the fact that they were drunk and had no idea how to get back to their school by train, and then centered on (drunkenly swerved around) how one of the girls was from Chicago and I was from Milwaukee (tri-staters have a bond in California), and we both like the Deftones. As a side note, apparently I don’t look like I just moved here because everyone asks me directions to places. Almost every time I take the train, someone asks me how to get to San Francisco. It’s unreal, because I don’t really live here, but I know the transit system better than people who do.<br /><br />Regardless, midway through this conversation we were approached by a woman who, in addition to having the physical appearance of someone on the tail end of a weeks long meth binge, was clearly either blazed out of her mind or wasted on acid. Now, if you’ve ever been to NYC, you know that getting approached by anyone at a subway station let alone someone looking like the physical embodiment of slow death wearing a bed sheet for a skirt and hand painted sneakers would, at best, be received with a “go fuck yourself” and a halfhearted wave. But no. One of these girls actually summoned her over to ask about her shoes. When I used the words “hand painted,” I of course meant that they were splotched with fabric paint in a drug-addled haze, not actually painted with any semblance of clarity or meaning, but she asked nonetheless. The woman came over and talked for a minute – I don’t really remember what she said; I was too busy being stunned at how high she must have been – and after she left, the girl who started talking to her in the first place simply said, “Damn, she must’ve been smoking those trees. Like four or five of them.” I was laughing for days, and she just shrugged it off like that kind of shit happens every day. Which it basically does.<br /><br />Moral? I don’t really know how to respond to Northern California. People have asked how I like it here and I never quite know how to respond. It can be such an all-encompassing question; I don’t really feel like I can address it in passing. “The weather’s gorgeous all the time, but everybody’s fucking psychotic” is usually what I end up saying, but that’s not necessarily all the way true. The best way of articulating this is that Berkeley – much more so than many other places I’ve lived – is a state of mind, rather than just simply a location. I just haven’t quite got the mindset down all the way yet…Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-19538493363133214012009-09-22T23:05:00.000-07:002009-09-22T23:07:29.309-07:00An Open LetterDear Hipsters who live in my apartment building:<br /><br />Do you think it is cool to throw parties on two consecutive WEEK NIGHTS? Do you think it’s cool to ride your fixie to a party in south Berkeley and then stand around outside on the sidewalk drinking 40s out of paper bags and listening to Massive Attack with the system on blast? It’s not. It makes you look like douche bags. You’re making everything smell like pot and sound like angst. I’m sorry your parents didn’t love you enough, but seriously cut it out. Some people actually have the wherewithal to hold down steady jobs, and those same people have to be at work at nine o’clock in the fucking morning tomorrow. Knock it the fuck off.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Your hate filled, job holding, upstairs neighbor.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />Note 1: Karma, bitch that she is, is apparently paying me back for all the times I partied recklessly on weeknights during college.<br /><br />Note 2: I seriously just looked out my window, and I have a laundry list of stereotypes:<br /><br />3 fixies<br />2 girls wearing flannel shirts, knit hats, and horn rimmed glasses<br />3 guys wearing skinny jeans<br />4 40s of steel reserve<br />1 douchebag moustache<br /><br />I’ve never even met these people, and yet I hate them with the burning fury of a million fiery suns.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-50148096329298682312009-09-15T23:15:00.000-07:002009-09-15T23:16:12.685-07:00Summer '09: What a LetdownDude. What a shitty summer. As far as I can tell, the people who received the most publicity this summer can be grouped into three categories. And those are:<br />1. Saying stupid shit at bad times (See also: Gates, Obama, Williams, Wilson, West). <br />2. Good tennis players sucking at the US Open (See also: Roddick, Murray, Federer, Nadal, Williams). <br />3. Dying: (See also: Jackson, Mays, Kennedy, Fawcett, Swayze).<br /><br />Yup.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-73078590108586748582009-09-05T20:36:00.000-07:002009-09-12T15:53:36.364-07:00Green Day’s American Idiot World Premire: A Comprehensive AnalysisREDACTED.<br /><br />Front office at BRT has specifically asked the entire staff, due to the number of premiers and works in progress, to refrain from disseminating information regarding American Idiot, or any other shows in the upcoming season. This is - to say the least - understandable, and because I like my job, I've decided to comply. Until further notice, all information regarding this and all other shows can be found at <a href="http://www.berkeleyrep.org/">berkeleyrep.org</a>. This original post may be back once American Idiot has opened, but for now, I have never seen the show, nor do I know anything about it.<br /><br />Apologies...<br /><br />-MPAMatthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-77364738395968931802009-08-30T20:30:00.000-07:002009-09-02T23:23:50.701-07:00I Have A Love-Hate Relationship With The Bay Fair TargetToday, I went to the Target in Bay Fair for the first time. Much like the Target off the Stadium Spur in Milwaukee (for those of you who are familiar with my homeland), this Target is bi-lingual due to the high percentage of the population demographic that is Hispanic. I had a blast laughing to myself at the sub-par English-Spanish translations. There’s something about seeing a vernacular phrase you see every day in another language that makes it seem utterly ridiculous. However, this fact also means that many of the employees are not familiar with my mother tongue. Which also happens to be the official language of this country.<br /><br />In any event, I decided to start an herb garden on my fire escape (oregano and basil, not the California herb), so seeing as how this Target had a garden center, I was firmly in business. I first picked up some groceries, and a few things for my apartment (did you know ice cube trays are considered home storage? I didn’t.) and then headed to the garden center. Here’s the funny thing about me: while I’m shopping, I have a tendency to forget that I don’t have a car, a fact that is only remembered once I have passed the checkout. This means that I either have to get home on my bike, or on the train, both of which are almost equally daunting propositions when you are carrying enough groceries and/or housewares to outfit a small Mexican village. This lapse in memory and judgment has lead me to ride my bike home to South Berkeley from the Safeway in Oakland with six full bags of groceries on the handlebars. But I digress.<br /><br />I walked around the store, picked up my plants, then realized that I needed pots for all of them. Then I realized that I needed dirt to fill the pots. Then I realized that I needed a cart because all this stuff sure as shit wasn’t going to fit in the tiny basket I was carrying. But at no point during all of these realizations did I think about having to carry several hundred pounds of garden supplies to the Bay Fair train station, then onto the train, then home from the Ashby station. I did realize this after I left the Target Store and saw the yawning expanse of parking lot that separated me from my train. So, being the resourceful person I am, I figured I could carry all my stuff across the parking lot in my cart, and then ditch the cart once I got to the edge of the lot. What I did not take into account was that the sneaky target bastards had a trap set for people like me. Turns out at this Target, if you take your cart beyond a certain point, the wheels lock up. Irreversibly. And that point happens to be the middle of the main road connecting all the stores in the shopping center. Which is where my cart still is. I figure if they want to put the electric fence there, they can fetch my cart back from the middle of the intersection with no working wheels. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to do them the courtesy. So I loaded all my bags into my arms, hiked to the Bart station, and waited for my train.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /><br /></div>My central concern about this whole endeavor is the seemingly frivolous use of technology. Doesn’t it seem as though all the research that went into developing shopping carts whose wheels lock up could have been used for a better purpose? Like seriously is there a huge black market for stolen shopping carts? Because the last I checked, most people want shopping carts in the store, not outside of it. I would be really fucking pissed off about all this, except for the fact that my grand total for like eight bags worth of stuff was $44. Damn you, Target, and your incredibly inexpensive merchandise, making me forget that I was mad at you in the first place…Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-49850683298315175902009-08-15T18:12:00.000-07:002009-08-15T18:18:33.065-07:00I Saw It On The BartSo the other day when I was waiting (a fucking eternity) at the Ashby bart (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station for the Richmond train, I had an awesome idea. I said to myself, “self, you should make a segment on your blog dedicated to stupid shit that people do on the bart. You could call it ‘I saw it on the bart’ and it would be really funny and people would like you because of it. You could even have other people submit stories and then you could write a book based on stories other people have submitted to your blog just like ‘texts from last night’ and ‘fuck my life.’ Then you could get illegitimately wealthy by taking the work of others and claiming it as your own.” And then I looked at the scrolling marquee, which besides telling me that I still had 13 minutes until my train arrived said “Seen and heard on bart! www.bart.gov.” (People in the bay area have a really annoying habit to which I refuse to succumb, which is dropping the article in front of bart. So instead of saying, “I took the bart,” they just say, “I took bart.” Which, because bart sounds like a proper name, makes it seem like they are discussing an actual person in train form. Which is weird. But I digress.) So anyway, I got really fucking pissed that the bart website had taken my idea and I resolved to put plan “I saw it on the bart” into action anyway. So without further ado, here is the first installment.<br /><br />I saw it on the bart Vol. 1 Ed. 1<br /><br />Guy at the Ashby station full on sprinting down the up escalator with his bike to make the Freemont train. And then getting yelled at by the train driver for trying to take his bike in the front car. Saw that shit on the bart.<br /><br />Guy getting real confused by the fact that you have to scan your ticket on the way out of the station as well as on the way in. OK, that was me. That’s not how trains work on the east coast…<br /><br />Ok, I didn’t really see this on the bart, but outside the downtown Berkeley station some dude was smoking a joint. At 8:30 on a Sunday morning. In public. What was even funnier was the black woman who walked by and said, aloud: “damn somebody be smokin’ them grapes.” Awesome.<br /><br />Two homeless dudes fighting over a boom box at the top of the escalator of the 16th Street Mission station. This was at once hilarious, and terribly sad.<br /><br />Two teenage girls getting stuck between two train cars of a moving train because they let the door close behind them before they opened the one in front of them. It made me chuckle.<br /><br />Hippie man who clearly got dressed in 1969 (sporting flowered shirt, headband, full beard, etc) sitting on a woven blanket playing a sitar. Dude. It’s the year of our lord jesus christ two thousand and nine. This means three things: 1) Playing a sitar hasn’t been cool in approx. 30 years. 2) Lighting a candle and sitting on a blanket outside the Powell bart station has never been cool. 3) You should go to the barber and tell him you’re sick of looking like an asshole. I wanted to hit him upside the head with a fashion magazine. Although it was a pretty interesting dichotomy: him sitting there sporting his 1960s gear with Barney's, Bergdorf Goodman, and Louis Vuitton not half a block away. Funny.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />So here’s the funny thing about “I saw it on the bart”: it looks as though it’s going to end even before it really gets on it’s feet, due to the bart worker’s strike that will be going into effect on Monday. I was mad enough about this strike when it just prevented me from getting to San Francisco in under five hours, now I can also be mad about the fact that it is ruining my ability to find wonderful unintended humor at the expense of others. Hell.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-63931268591842979302009-08-07T19:12:00.001-07:002009-08-07T19:12:16.497-07:00ObservationsSince I’ve now spent a almost five hours in Berkeley, CA, and since that pretty much makes me an expert, I’d like to share some observations that I’ve made during that time.<br /><br />1. Almost everyone in Berkeley is a hippie, with two exceptions: surfers and the homeless. Not that any of these are mutually exclusive, however.<br />2. Shit is fucking expensive here. My six-pack of Newcastle was $8.65, and that was before bottle deposit and the staggering 8.75% sales tax. I’m pretty sure I paid like $4 for a fucking box of mac and cheese.<br />3. People carry marijuana in the open.<br />4. The trains run more frequently, and smell less like pee than those on the east coast.<br />5. The weather is nigh on perfect all the time.<br />6. Cars actually yield right of way to pedestrians.<br />7. People smoke marijuana in the open.<br />8. Fucking everyone rides a bike.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-35105773598646163312009-08-07T09:16:00.000-07:002009-08-07T19:12:30.604-07:00Addendumok i thought i was done making fun of people in the airport, but clearly not. a whole fucking squadron from the army just got off a plane, all wearing fatigues, and one of them actually had a camo-print travel pillow? why the fuck do you need that? so you can fucking hide out while you catch some z's on the plane? i think not...Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-41750290124092141892009-08-07T09:11:00.001-07:002009-08-07T09:15:15.639-07:00Fuck TwitterOk, since Twitter's being a douche, here are some points of note from the Salt Lake City Airport. This is what I would have Twittered if that stupid ass website would let me post shit.<br /><br />1. SLC smells strongly of fart.<br />2. holy shit just saw a kid get landed on his ass because he tried to outrun his kiddie leash on the moving walkway. fucking priceless.<br />3. the guy sitting next to me just rolled up with a full ass bag of groceries. where the fuck did he get that? did he bring it with him? is there a grocery store in the airport?<br />4. shout out to the guy who just walked past sporting a x-large Hawaiian shirt, blue scrubs, and a straw hat with buttons on it.<br />5. old people shouldn't be allowed in airports or on planes.<br /><br />at least my flights are on time so far.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-22959650899581475722009-08-06T21:18:00.000-07:002009-08-06T21:19:36.643-07:00Travel UpdateJust a quick update: I fly to California tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed that this isn’t like any of my recent trips (if you are confused, please scroll down) and I can go back to normal, uneventful travel that happens in only one day. If Twitter starts working again, I will post updates throughout the day, most likely starting at 4am sharp when I wake up for my 6am flight. Yeah. It’s gonna be crappy. But crappy for me generally means funny for you. Remember the formula: tragedy+time=comedy. Especially if the tragedy didn’t happen to you.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-83313948797244070332009-07-30T18:48:00.000-07:002009-09-07T21:53:32.682-07:00My First CarI bought my first car when I was a freshman in college. Although I had always had access to a car during high school, this was my first shot at actually owning a car in my name, and I was excited. I purchased it from a friend and neighbor for five hundred dollars cash, and predictably, it was an absolute piece of garbage. It was a run down hatchback 1988 Chevy Nova whose poop-colored paint job could in most places still be discerned despite the gaping rust holes in the body work. The previous owner, who was a bit of a do-it-yourselfer, had welded together a huge roof rack made out of what I can only assume were construction grade steel girders, and had bolted it to the top of the car by drilling several six-inch bolts through the interior ceiling. While this rack would probably have been great for transporting military equipment or jumbo jets on the top of the car, it was not terribly conducive to good gas mileage, or any kind of aesthetic sensibility. Regardless, it came with a sound bill of health from said previous owner, and additionally, he promised to help me do whatever repair or maintenance was needed on the vehicle.<br /><br />I bought the car when I was home on spring break, and took it back to college with me. It made the trip without a hitch and I was immensely happy with my purchase. I thought nothing more of it, until one rainy Sunday afternoon when I decided to make a trip to the public library to do some research for a paper I was writing - ironically enough - on clean fuel options. I walked out to my car, got in, turned the key, and nothing happened. Literally nothing. No sound whatsoever emitted from under the hood. I panicked and called my the guy who sold it to me.<br /> “Eric, my car won't start.”<br /> “Is it raining?”<br /> “Well, yes, but what difference does that make?”<br /> “Well, sometimes it has a little trouble starting in the rain. Give it a little gas when you turn the key.”<br /> “Eric, a little gas is not going to do the trick. There is no hint that the car is even thinking about possibly trying to start. The engine isn't even making the sick car sound.”<br /><br />He told me to give it twenty minutes and try it again. It still didn't start, regardless of how much I cursed at it and called it names and talked about its mother being a dump truck. An hour and a half later, and I was disgruntled, disheartened, and still behind on my research. I halfheartedly called the car a couple more dirty names and went inside.<br /><br />A few days later, on a whim, I decided to see if I could get the car going. It started immediately, with no trace of it's prior angst. I was disgusted but also relieved. Perhaps it was just a fluke – one spot of bad luck for an otherwise good car. But of course that was not true. Over the course of the next few months, without fail, every time it rained, the car would flatly refuse to turn on. It got to the point where if it was raining when I woke up, I would call my work and let them know I was going to be late. And god forbid I were driving the car when it started raining, because it would turn off on the spot. On more than one occasion, the car actually stalled in the middle of an intersection, resulting in me pushing it, by myself, through the rest of the intersection and out of traffic. I'm not exactly sure how many of you have pushed a car by yourself, but it requires pushing from the driver's side with the door open while you simultaneously steer the car. Verdict: it fucking sucks.<br /><br />During the life of the car, I took numerous trips to the auto body store in an effort to remedy this problem. I took the alternator out and had it tested. It worked perfectly. Starter? Check. Fuses? Check. New plugs, cap, and wires? Check on those too. I eventually got tired of wasting money and stopped buying new parts, but after only a few months, there was no fix under $100 that I hadn't tried.<br /><br />This alone would have been bad enough, but the really messed up part was that while all this was happening, other stuff was breaking or going wrong with the car as well. The rear struts were old and crappy, and if I went around a sharp turn, especially during colder weather, they had a habit of getting stuck in the compressed position. They would stay stuck that way for anywhere from a few seconds to about twenty minutes, then hammer back into place with a terrifying suddenness that would almost cause the car to swerve off the road. The felt interior ceiling was falling apart, so I ripped it out and replaced it with a bolt of fabric from a craft store, which I stuck on with an exorbitant amount of carpet glue. Fuses blew regularly; with such a frequency in fact that I kept a stock of spares in my glove box in case one happened to go while I was on the road. For a while, the fuel mix (yes, it had a carburetor) was set too lean, so the idle speed would sometimes drop too low and the car would stall. I took it to a mechanic to have the mix tuned, and it drove the gas mileage through the floor. There was no middle ground; either no acceleration or terrible mileage. One day as I was leaving work, my car started with a horrifying roar, of the sort that might actually wake the dead. This continued all the way home, where – upon further inspection – I found a baseball sized hole in the muffler. Shortly thereafter, my brakes started making a hideous screeching noise (imagine: velociraptor crossed with terrible freight train accident) and when I took it to the mechanic he told me that I had inadvertently worn down my brake rotors to the point where it would be almost impossible to fix them. This shit kept happening and happening, and the expenses kept adding up. Over the course of three months, I put more money into parts and repair for that car than I have put into my current car in three years.<br /><br />As you can probably imagine, I got fed up with this, and pretty quickly decided to sell the car. And by that I mean I got laughed at (literally) when I asked my mechanic how and where he thought I should sell it. His answer: “If you can, drive it to a tow-away zone and leave it there. That way you won't have to pay someone to take it away for you.” I ended up donating it to the “Boys Ranch” so they could scrap it for parts. They towed it away for free, and I got tax credit, and the removal of what had amounted to a huge pain in my ass. I consider that a success.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-46852048723081254732009-07-19T16:48:00.000-07:002009-07-19T16:52:30.871-07:00The Burning Fury of a Thousand Million Suns (aka Odyssey #2)In coming from upstate New York to Des Moines, Iowa, I had literally one of the worst drives of my life. Over the course of about thirty hours, each event compounded upon the one previous to create the worst travel experience since the <a href="http://smarter-not-harder.blogspot.com/2009/03/odyssey_17.html">Florida Odyssey</a>. Here is the course of events:<br /><br />Thursday, July 16, 2009<br /><br />7:15pm: I finally get back to Albany NY, from PRG in New Jersey. I had expected to get there about 5:30. No matter.<br /><br />7:16pm: I get into my car and start driving from Crossgates Mall in Albany. The roads around Crossgates are labyrinthian. <br /><br />7:16:30pm: Immediately upon entering the freeway, I get blocked by a semi, and get shunted onto the northway, instead of the thruway west like I wanted.<br /><br />7:17-7:25pm: Numerous actions taken to remedy situation.<br /><br />7:25pm: Get back on Northway, then thruway, going the right direction.<br /><br />8:30pm: Get on STE, to the sun setting into the Alleghenies. Beautiful.<br /><br />10:00pm: I decide that I will drive 100 more miles, or until midnight, whichever comes first. I am on the interstate, and there seems to be numerous places to stop for the night.<br /><br />10:15pm: All traces of life vanish. There are no more exits, and the road is pitch dark. I find this to be kind of sketchy.<br /><br />10:35pm: Still nothing. No lights, few other cars.<br /><br />11:05pm: My gas needle is on E. I start looking for gas stations. There aren't any.<br /><br />11:26pm: There is a sign for a gas station off exit 29. I follow the signs into one of the most depressing small towns I have ever encountered. The gas station is closed. New York has a law that gas pumps must be shut off after the store closes. I curse everything that is good and holy.<br /><br />11:28pm: I get back on the expressway. My gas needle is now below E. I proceed to get nervous.<br /><br />11:46pm: After two fruitless exits, I find a gas station that is open. I fill my 11 gallon gas tank with 10.6 gallons of gas. Close call.<br /><br />11:47pm: I get back on the interstate and begin searching for a hotel in earnest. Predictably, there are none.<br /><br />Friday, July 17, 2009<br /><br />12:13am: I see a sign for a Hampton Inn. There is a god.<br /><br />12:15am: Hampton Inn is full. There is a god and he hates me. The desk clerk at the Hampton tells me that there is one room available at the Country Inn across town. He tells me to go fast because it is the last room available in at least 50 miles.<br /><br />12:16am: I drive to the Country Inn like I'm black and the LAPD is chasing me.<br /><br />12:24am: I get to the Country Inn. The room is still available. I get charged a small mortgage. Like literally, I paid less for a hotel room in Midtown Manhattan than for this Country Inn in bumblefuck NY. Predictably, I am not pleased.<br /><br />12:16am: I shower off a day's worth of New Jersey grime, and then pass out.<br /><br />7:45am: I wake up and raid the continental breakfast. By god I am going to get my money's worth out of this hotel.<br /><br />8:03am: two bagles, a muffin, an apple, a bowl of cereal, and three cups of coffee later, I am ready to hit the road.<br /><br />9:15am: I am already in Pennsylvania. I see a billboard advertising “Fireworks, Karate Supplies, Swords and Knives.” Perhaps my fates have turned.<br /><br />10:23am: I cross the border into Ohio. I am all that is man. I stop at a rest stop for a celebratory Coca Cola and a tank of gas.<br /><br />11:42am: I realize that I don't have my cell phone. I proceed to tear my car apart, almost driving off the road in the process.<br /><br />11:44am: No cell phone. I realize that I left it on top of my car at the rest stop. It is now somewhere in the middle of I-90. About 100 miles behind me. In the pouring rain. God hates me, there is now no doubt.<br /><br />12:10pm: I spend a dollar per minute to call my dad on a pay phone and let him know that my phone is toast. The only people who use payphones are homeless. I feel homeless.<br /><br />12:16pm: I get back on the interstate. Only 500 miles to go.<br /><br />3:24pm: Traffic backs up on the 80/90 in Indiana.<br /><br />3:26pm: This is by far the worst traffic jam I have ever been in. Please note that I cut my teeth driving in Chicago and Orange County, CA.<br /><br />3:28pm: I turn off my car and get out. On the side of the freeway.<br /><br />3:44pm: Traffic starts to move again. I leisurely get back in my car and start driving. For 20 feet. And then stop and turn off my car again.<br /><br />3:46pm: Two state police cars drive past me on the shoulder of the road. I am excited because I think they are going to divert traffic.<br /><br />3:47pm: I notice that the police are not diverting traffic at all, but are instead giving tickets to people who are using the turnarounds to avoid the traffic jam. This is why people hate the police.<br /><br />4:18pm: Traffic finally subsides. I have spent an hour going 2 ¾ miles. The reason for the traffic: one lane closed for 150 feet so construction workers could pick up road cones. <br /><br />4:18:05: I contemplate what I might have done to piss off karma.<br /><br />4:18:07: after some contemplation, I realize that I am probably pretty lucky that karma let me off this easily.<br /><br />4:45pm: Because of the hour spent going nowhere in Indiana, I have hit full on Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic (note the time change from EDT to CDT – I didn't actually make it from eastern Indiana to Chicago in under half an hour).<br /><br />5:35pm: After spending almost an hour fighting assholes on the East-West Tollway, I am out of traffic and almost to Joliet. And I feel strangely at home.<br /><br />6:10pm: Easy sailing through Illinois. Midwest expressways are ugly. I miss the Alleghenies. <br /><br />6:53pm: Almost to Iowa. Score.<br /><br />6:54pm: Construction on I-80. The interstate is down to one lane for 10 miles. So close, and yet, so far.<br /><br />7:13pm: I finally make it into Iowa. 197 miles to Des Moines.<br /><br />9:44pm: Arrive Des Moines. It is dark, cloudy, and cold. <br /><br />10:15pm: I eat Jimmy Johns, and fall into a deep, comatose sleep.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4318818785108558014.post-84271432376491429742009-07-08T17:48:00.000-07:002009-07-09T17:20:40.304-07:00This Is What I Went To College ForDue to a few conversations I've had recently, I think that many people may be under the (false) impression that that backstage elements of a theatrical production are rehearsed to almost an exacting science. I wanted to take the time to correct that terrible misinformation here. As a general rule, we (theatrical technicians) don't really expend any more time or energy at our jobs than most people do, we just happen to be really good at what we do, which makes it easier to slack off, but still look like we're doing a good job. A perfect example: right now, as I'm writing this piece, I'm in the middle of running lights for a dress rehearsal of an opera. I'm listening to my stage manager over the headset in one ear, listening to Amos Lee on headphones in my other ear, and listening to the opera not at all.<br /><br />When I'm running lights, I literally sit in a dark booth and push one button (GO) to make the lights change for three hours. That's it. Predictably, this is boring as fuck, so I generally use shows as my time to get some work done. They could make a Windows Mobile commercial about all the shit I do on my phone during a show; I have literally negotiated a contract with another theatre company via email while running a show for my current company. I check Facebook and Twitter, read the Times or the New Yorker, do the crossword; basically anything that a person with a normal job does in their cubicle when they're not supposed to, I do at the light board. Except here nobody cares.<br /><br />Many people also think there is some sort of protocol for the communication that goes on during a show, which, to an extent is true. There are definitely things you can and cannot say on headset (“go” being a thing not to say, unless you are the stage manager calling a cue), certain times not to talk, and so forth. However, the further you get into the run of a show, the more comfortable everyone gets, and the more relaxed the headset etiquette gets. We have conversations, make plans for where to go drinking after the show, play games, take bets on who will be late to an entrance, &c. During today's matinee of Madama Butterfly, one of the ASMs (that's assistant stage manager, for you laymen) decided that the third act overture was a lot funner if you meowed along with the melody. Which she proceeded to do, as Puccini rolled in his grave. But it was a lot funnier, to her credit.<br /><br />Basically, the upshot of all this is simply, the next time you go to a show, just be aware that it's being run by people who are screwing around at work just as much as you do. We're just better at it than you are.Matthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15331089136689227987noreply@blogger.com1