It doesn't take a genius to figure out my political affiliation.

If you can tolerate more than a five-minute conversation with me about almost any topic then you clearly possess an epic level of patience and understanding rarely seen in sentient lifeforms; I mean, I am generally a likable guy (no... really), but when I get going on a topic that I have strong opinions about I swear that I could goad Gandhi into taking a swing at me.  

But, that's not my point.  

My point is that if you have met me face-to-face then I am pretty confident that you can accurately identify which party I side with  And if you read almost anything that I write then you can gain additional help through the trail of (not so) subtle hints that I leave.  Let's tally up some of the hints that you can quickly and easily glean from my writing:

1. I like meat
2. I like the opposite sex
3. I hate almost everyone
   

"If you can afford to live in a neighborhood, then the school there sucks.  The school district next to yours is nice; all the kids in that one will grow up to be CEOs of multi-billion-dollar international companies.  But you would have to sell one of your kids just to be able to rent a room in the servants wing of the smallest mansion in that town."

(you need a big thumb for this rule)

To many of you, that might appear to be the end of it.  I am sure at least some of you are thinking "What the hell is this psycho getting at?  All he does in his blog is bitch about stuff... but if his life rocks, then how could he possibly find some way to be angry about it?"

Well rest assured my friends, I am capable acheiving an impressive level of primal rage over the most trivial of things.  Once, I was trying to connect a computer to a small network in my house and I could not, for the life of me, get the network card (a 3Com card for those that are interested) to work.  When I had finally decided that it was a lost cause, I calmly removed the card from the machine, walked out to my garage, clamped it into a vice and smashed it with a small sledge until it was reduced to sub-atomic particles.  So, trust me folks, this is not even remotely challenging.

But back to the point, which is that I am a big fat liar.

The problem, you see, is that I don't believe in luck. I lie about it because that simple bit of fiction is so much easier to say than the truth, which is that "luck" is just something that morons use to rationalize the losses that are the result of the terrible choices they make in every aspect of their lives, and downplay the gains that are the result of the good choices that others make.  I am getting really tired of hearing people talk about "luck" like it's some mystical force that alters destinies.

Idiot: You sure are a lucky man

Me: No, I am not.

Idiot tilts his head sideways like a confused dog

Me: Luck is just the perceived outcome of applied probability.

Idiot: Wow... those are big words.  You sure are lucky you are so smart.

Me (sighing): Indeed, I am.

I work my ass off to be successful in the things that I set out to do.  I spend a significant portion of my time agonizing over every detail of a situation before finally making a choice about how best to proceed.  This process is not always long, and is seldom visible to the casual observer but, trust me, it's happening.  I don't choose a place to have lunch without investing a great deal of mental energy on it, so you can probably imagine the internal chaos that is caused by managing the more important portions of my life.

Whenever people hear about some "hard luck" case -- someone that has lost their job, spouse, life savings, etc. -- they instinctually feel bad for them, as if life had somehow callously wronged these poor undeserving individuals.  But if you dig into these cases a little you realize that many of these asshats deserved exactly what they got.

For the examples above I am able to provide some easy-to-follow rules that will help prevent you from losing these things ever again:

As you can see, many catastrophic, life-altering losses can really be completely avoided through the simple expedient of not being a complete fucking moron.  I am here to help, no need to thank me (although your lavish compliments and generous cash donations will not be turned away).

So, to sum up, if you have experienced a constant stream of hardships in your life, chances are you are not plagued by "bad luck"; you are probably just an incompetent dipshit which is, unfortunately, a condition that cannot be cured with rabbit's feet or horseshoes.  And when you casually chalk any aspect of my hard-earned life off to "luck" it makes me want to punch you in the larynx until my arm gets tired.

You're lucky I am lazy.

I realized that I don't write about my work much in this blog.  As I always seem to do, I decided to analyze why this is the case.  After giving this some thought, I believe that my reluctance to write about work is partially because I am afraid that I will mercilessly ridicule a coworker who will subsequently read the entry and respond to it by stabbing me in the face with a letter-opener.  And, it's partially because... ok, no... that's really it.

But I have learned something that I feel the need to share with you all.  Something that has long confounded the average person, which isn't really saying much since the average person can entertain themselves for hours using only a laser-pointer.  Something that I am certain can help future generations of corporate drones rise to the absolute pinnacle of mediocre middle-management.  Something that doesn't specifically single out an individual who may feel the need to suddenly and violently retaliate.

I think I have finally begun to decipher the language of business.

Before you scoff at the notion, please understand that gaining even limited comprehension of this language is no small feat.  It is a language of fanciful metaphor, where words frolic playfully with each other in a sprawling field of colorful acronyms.  Taken individually, the words and phrases that make up the language can seem to be fairly understandable and perhaps even a tad mundane but, when spoken by a master of the art, their relentless cadence can be beautiful and hypnotic lulling the listener into a state of drooling catatonia.

Anyway... Why have I chosen now to speak up about this topic?  So glad you asked.

You see.  I have reached the point in my career where I spend more time in meetings, accomplishing absolutely nothing, than I do in front of a computer, doing... you know... work.  Because of a large project that I am currently involved in I have been spending even more time in meetings than usual, and many of these meetings have been with consultants instead of internal employees.  Consultants are masters of this language, but I didn't know that at the time.

Initially, I felt a kinda lost in these meetings, which I attributed to being a little "out of my league" but realized pretty quickly that it was something else.  It took me a few meetings to pinpoint the exact source of my problem, but I finally figured it out... I had NO idea what the fuck these people were saying.  In person, in email, or on the phone... it didn't matter.  I hadn't the foggiest clue what they meant.  The noises emanating from their mouths sounded vaguely familiar, but it wasn't quite English. 

"Heya Craig, this is Cecil from JCN.  I'm calling to touch base on the BCP project, and wanted to give you an ETA on the RFP.  I'll have it to you by COB.  Maybe we could do lunch and discuss how we can forge a collaborative partnership that engenders synergies and create a cross-functional team to build a straw man and run it up a flagpole.  Call me ASAP, OK?"

I cannot properly translate all of what was said in the message above; to do so would require the Rosetta Stone, the Dead Sea Scrolls, 12 tubes of airplane glue and about 3 weeks of dedicated work.  But I can understand enough of it to explain the "gist" of the message.  In this case, Cecil clearly wants to do something with his flagpole and a straw man... perv.

As a technical person, to complain about the widespread use of acronyms might just be a wee bit hypocritical, so I will forgive them on that count.  But why do they have to use different words than the rest of us?  The other day, one of the consultants said they had an "Ask".  Really?  What happened to the word "Question"?  It's a perfectly good word that everyone understands well.  It really didn't need to be replaced by noun-ifying the word "Ask".  Morons.

To give them the benefit of the doubt, I decided to check the dictionary to see if there was any definition of "ask" that was a noun.  Turns out that there is!  It's a word from Scandinavian Mythology meaning: "The first man, made by the gods from an ash tree.".  So I apologize for calling you a moron in the previous paragraph; clearly you were just trying to let me know that you had a wooden man.  Can't wait to see it.

And what is the deal with all the metaphors? They are worse than the misused words!  Half the time when one is used, someone in the meeting has to ask (properly used!) what it actually means.  Doesn't that completely defeat the purpose of actually using a metaphor?  Aren't we trying to effectively and efficiently communicate here?  Perhaps this simple rule will help:

Rule: Any word or phrase that, when uttered, makes everyone in the meeting think "what the fuck did he just say?" is probably less than ideal for communications purposes.

All of this is bad enough when people do it "properly", but what is worse is when non-consultants attempt to use the same language and completely mess it up.  The average corporate parasite doesn't really try to understand anything that a consultant does before they try to emulate it and the result can be somewhere between annoying and amusing.

Me: I think we should proceed cautiously.

*silent nods from around the room*

Cecil: We can no longer ignore the hippo in the room!

Me: The... what?

Cecil: Let's just throw the monkey on the table here.

Me: Wait... what happened to the hippo?

Cecil: We have to open our kimonos!  You first Craig... go on, open your kimono!

Me: I... um... can we go back to the hippo?

I tried the kimono thing in a meeting once... it didn't end well.

After I heard "Open the kimono" once, I just had to look up it's origins. Turns out, it came from Japanese Folklore:

"The Goblin Fox and Badger and Other Witch Animals of Japan" vol. 18, p. 84: It was believed that the wolf was shameful of sexual things, having no strong sexual instincts. He would never disclose his organ, but hide it behind his hanging tail. Should a person perchance see his sexual act, he or she would have to open the kimono and disclose his or her own organ, so as not to shame the wolf."

So, when I hear "We need to open our kimonos" in a meeting I know that I am supposed to hear "Let's have no secrets" but I am really hearing "Let's all expose our junk to a wolf".

And while many more of these phrases have a similar charm, I have to admit that one of my personal favorites has always been "touch base".  If you close your eyes, you can almost picture the speaker gently brushing their fingertips across the surface of the base as they sprint gracefully past you.  But aside from the powerful imagery, for me this phrase has always had an even deeper purpose because, if you asked me, it is a very effective asshole-detector.

I have frequently used the number of "touch base" references per minute (or tb/m) to gauge the "asshole coefficient" of the speaker, which is typically much higher in salespeople who apparently need to say these words at least once every 10 minutes to avoid being ridiculed at their country club (including the occasional "wedgie" in the locker room after squash games).

At a previous job, one salesperson left me a 30-second voice-mail in which he said "touch base" 3 times, giving him an asshole coefficient of 6 tb/m, which is off the charts!  This breed of super-salesperson can only be killed by dipping a Mont Blanc pen into a Grey Goose Martini and using it to stab him right through his blackened heart.  Only a direct hit will do the job.

There is so much more of this language to cover, but I think I will save them for a future blog entry since this one is getting a bit long.  Until then, keep proactively leveraging cutting-edge best-of-breed turnkey solutions for business-critical systems!

*buzz*
Paco: I installed a new Linux distro
*buzz*
Paco: I hate mornings
*buzz*
Paco: I just installed another Linux distro
*buzz*
Paco: Squirrels are dumb

NOTE: Before you tweetards start frothing at the mouth, yes I know that you can respond to people on Twitter, but in ANY OTHER form of digital communication I do not need to re-address a REPLY, so kindly shut the hell up.  Thank you.

And, even if its interface made sense, who can tolerate constantly receiving microscopic updates about other peoples lives?  And, more importantly, what kind of sick psychopath can justify sending them?  I would estimate that roughly 60% of Twitter users out there are shallow, narcissistic, attention whores who really believe that every tiny moment of their pathetic self-absorbed lives is a nugget of pure joy to their followers and who only learned about Twitter because they got a glimpse of it while masturbating to Anderson Cooper's 360. 

All of this is also true for the remaining 40% but in addition, they still wet their beds.

It was only through a herculean display of willpower that I did not delete my account within the first 24 hours.  But I found the constant interruptions for useless details more than a little annoying, and so I disabled the SMS feature, which lead me to the same place that I am sure millions of other Twitter users have been; I figured out, to my surprise, that this tool was actually kinda useless for its original intended purpose.  It was akin to getting a new hammer only to find out that it doesn't actually work on nails.  

Not daunted by this, however, the Twitter community has shamelessly whored itself out to every possible purpose they could find (breaking news, politics, self promotion, marketing, etc.) in a desperate effort to find some niche to stick to.  If you asked the average tweetard, they will tell you that it's absolutely perfect for every single one of them.  If you asked me, it has only proven that it is great at pissing me off. 

Let's examine its use as a source of news...

For a moment, lets ignore the fact that there are a wide array of decades-old technologies that can provide you with more than 140 characters of breaking news from legitimate sources whose sole job is to seek out and report on important global events; sources, mind you, that actually perform a monumentally underrated service known as "fact checking".

...ok, we've ignored it for a moment.

Are you people out of your friggin' minds?  Really?  You want to rely on common people to provide you with your news?!  Have you met common people!?!  They're idiots!  The other day, I saw someone back into a parking spot in the middle of a completely empty parking lot!  These people that you are relying on for news? This is their king!

Not convinced?  Ok, how about this? As per a study of Twitter that was done by Pear Analytics, in which they randomly sampled tweets and categorized them, the "News" category only made up roughly 3.6% of all tweets.  Compare that to the 38% that were categorized as "Conversational" and, even better, the 41% that were categorized as "Useless Babble" and you can see where I am going here.   Sure... there may be news in there somewhere, but you have to burrow through a mountain of shit to get to it.

Sample Twitter log:

...
Good morning!
Who's up for lunch?
Megan Fox makes me have impure thoughts
A plane just landed in the Hudson
I'm sleepy
Where the hell are my pants?
Peanut butter is yummy
...

It's like playing "Where's Waldo?" with important information.  No thanks.  I already have plenty of useless, unverified trivia in my life.  I suspect that, even though people say they want all this unwashed information, they will ultimately gravitate towards sources they can trust and ignore the rest.  Who has the time to sift through it all? 

Sadly, however, I am certain that Twitter will survive for a good long time based solely on its media hype and momentum and, one day perhaps, its hardcore zealots will even claw their way to a legitimate non-contrived purpose for it.  If that day comes I will reactivate my account and give it another try. 

Until then, shut your gaping cake-holes, because I am really not interested.

*A security guard walks up just as I am taping the clues behind a sign at a state park*
Security: Hey! What do you think you are doing?
Me: I'm... um...
Security: Out with it!
Me: Ok, ok... I am trying to place these envelopes of clues here so that, later tonight, carloads of teenage kids can trespass on government property and find them.
Security: Are you out of your mind son?  That's a terrible location.  Over here is much better.  Here, give me those envelopes, I will tape them up.  You run along.

"Your blog is so informative ... ..I just bookmarked you....keep up the good work!!!!"
-Terry Brooks

"There is obviously a lot to know about this. I think you made some good points in Features also."
-viagra

"Why hello associated forum people! I well-grounded wanted to introduce myself here as this looks like a dialect right interesting forum! I myself am engrossing in things like writeing and computer revamping so if anyoune needs facilitate reveal me differentiate! I also Suffer from Sciatica so if you aslo fool this infection let me skilled in so we can share some stretches!"
-undulkylype

I have been happy.

I was being facetious in the post back in July when I said that I had run out of things to hate, but to a certain extent that appears to have been true.  I have been walking around blissfully ignoring things that would normally whip me into a frothing rage.

I am not really sure why this was the case, but what I am sure of is that... my happy-go-lucky days are over.  For you see, my friends, I have found my ire again.  Turns out, it was hiding behind a Social Studies teacher.

I'd like to think that I'm generally a "live and let live" kinda guy and that, if you want to make idiotic choices like, for example, buying an Apple product, that is your prerogative and I will not judge you (to your face) for it.

I'd like to think that.

I'd also like to think that I can fly without the aid of wings, and make bacon magically appear with only a thought. But seeing as that is not the case, lets get real... in my blogging role, the world is reduced to black and white, right and wrong, me and everyone else.  Get the picture?

So, yes, I will judge you and I will find you wanting.  You cannot avoid it, so don't try.

OK, enough with the preamble, and onto the topic of the entry...

Social Studies

The problem, in a nutshell, is this... my son has been spending an awful lot of time on homework this year.  That, in and of itself, is not an issue.  What has me in a huff is the fact that most of this homework is for Social Studies.

Lets not beat around the bush here, I'm just going to lay it out for you plain as can be.  Social Studies, in my humble opinion, is about as useless as can possibly be.  Have you ever heard anyone say "That is one of the best schools! Their Social Studies program is top-notch!"?  I sincerely doubt it, and that is because... Social Studies is almost completely worthless.

There are four major disciplines in schools today: Math, Science, English and Social Studies.  Now, let's examine each discipline based upon its value to our children:

Math - This is the foundation for everything in the universe and is, without question, the most important subject in any school.  Anyone that disagrees with this is a moron that probably plays Lotto.

Related jobs: Engineer, Actuary, CFO

Science - A close second to Math.  Learning Science is not about learning the details; it's about learning how to think.  Something that is, sadly, in short supply.

Related jobs: Doctor, Research Scientist, Inventor

English - Spend five minutes speaking with an average child and that will make my argument for me here.  If we let English education lapse any more our children will be communicating purely through clicks and grunts.

Related jobs: Author, Screenwriter, Poet.

And finally...

Social Studies - I don't even know where to begin... We teach "Social Studies" which is, in fact, "History" to our children for far too many years.  At some point, this subject simply becomes "Writing", and any concrete skills that it provides should really be provided in an English class.  Social Studies is basically the long-form regurgitation of useless facts.

Related jobs: Pizza Delivery Agent, French-Fry Chef, Social Studies Teacher.

Naturally, I have made my feelings known to any who would listen (and several who would rather not), and a few of these fine folks pointed out that they actually like Social Studies.  

How lovely. 

I like playing computer games; why isn't that a major subject in school?  Oh, that's right... because nobody gives a shit what you like!  This isn't about what our children like, it's about how to prepare our children for their future.  My child will not get a better job because they did well in Social Studies unless they are destined for a career writing questions for Trivial Pursuit.

Oh, yeah... and let me address the worn-out defense of dusty old Social Studies professors the world around who constantly misquote George Santayana, who said: 

"Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it"

I can understand what George is saying and respectfully disagree.  But the people who quote him use this as a shield to deflect any suggestion that the study of History is not the most important subject in the world.  The problem I have here is that they are assuming that this quote means: 

"Those that remember the past are not condemned to repeat it"

The number of examples that prove this to be a failed premise are so abundant that I don't even need to list them.  Just pick up a paper.  History is repeated in every conflict over a patch of land or a religious view, and there are no shortage of those.  Are you seriously going to argue that all these conflicts could have been avoided if only our world leaders had more education in History?

World Leader: They have oil.  We want it.  Let's invade.

Advisor: Sir?  That's been done before.

World Leader: Really?  Damn... ok, scrap that plan then.  Let's invade Canada instead, just for giggles.

I would like to amend George's quote a bit to update it for the present:

"Those who rely on history to decide their own future instead of thinking for themselves are condemned to be pretentious fact-spouting airbags who everyone hates and who will ultimately die alone unless you consider their cat."

Please go write a book that nobody will read and stop crapping on our children's education.

1. Opening a soup kitchen
2. Spending some quality time with my "little brother"
3. Or even... Working on the cure for stupidity

But, unfortunately, none of these are the case.  No, I don't have a really good excuse for neglecting my blog.  For, you see, the real reason I have done almost nothing of value in my life lately is that I have started playing World of Warcraft (WoW) again, and when WoW beckons me, I am unable to resist its urgent call.

For those of you that have never heard of WoW, I have two reactions:

Pity: The level of ignorance to the world around you that you need to demonstrate to be completely unaware of a videogame played by 9 million people worldwide is... quite frankly... staggering.  I pity you and pray that you have had the good sense not to procreate.

Jealousy: You lead a healthy, albeit ignorant life while I am bound to this game like a thrall to a powerful vampire lord...  I am jealous of your free and uncomplicated life... but I still hope that you choose not to breed.

Let me see if I can briefly summarize the WoW experience for the uninitiated.  Like all games of this type, you start a character and pick the basic traits: Race, Class, Appearance, etc..  Then you head out into the world to seek adventure which usually equates to doing quests that follow the same general pattern:

<insert character name here>!!! I need your help!  My <mother, father, lover, goldfish> is dying, and can only be saved by a <potion, salve, cheeseburger> of great healing power!  I have all the ingredients, except the <bat spleen, boar colon, 1/2 cup sugar>... please go kill <10, 100, 100000> creatures until you find the necessary ingredient!

Rewards: 1 silver and a [Bat Spleen Cheeseburger of Greater Healing]

You repeat quests like this until you go up a level, you get more powerful, and then you do it all again (with bigger bats and boars).  It has a certain mind-numbing comfort to it. 

Now, before you hardcore WoW players out there spill your highly-caffeinated beverages all over your cheetos-crumb-encrusted gaming keyboards in collective apoplexy, yes... I know it's more complicated than that.  But I am not writing a guide on how to play the game, just a blog entry to make fun of it, so sit down before you accidentally do something that resembles exercise.

Where was I?  Mind-numbing... right...

I like the soothing banality of it all.  I spend the whole day thinking about stuff... important stuff... stuff that has an impact on the company I work for and the lives of the consumers around the country.  There's a certain refreshing stupidity to spending four hours with nine other people fighting our way through a dungeon that is crawling with hate-filled flesh-eating demons just so I can get a new pair of pants (they are very nice pants).

And, in case that scenario doesn't sound quite bad enough, I have spent hours -- HOURS I said!! -- doing nothing but... fishing.

*Craig clicks the "cast" button, and the bobbin sails through the air to land with a satisfying splash in the small pond*

*After a brief wait, the bobbin dips in the water, and Craig clicks on it to retrieve the fish*

[You have caught 1 fish]

[Your fishing skill has gone up by 1 point]

*Craig smiles*

[Your ability to find a mate has gone down by 1 point]

*Craig's smile fades*

This game is pure evil; anyone that tells you otherwise probably works for the company that sells it. Everything in it is designed to enthrall impressionable young kids... and dirty old men like me.  For example, I fired up the character creator with the intention of creating the best looking, and worst looking female character that I could.  Here are my results:

How are simple folk like me expected to resist?

So, for now at least, I play WoW every night.  And this eats into the time I used to use for blogging (and chores, and spending time with the family, and eating, and personal hygiene, and sleeping... etc.).  In fact. the only reason I am blogging right now is because the servers are down for maintenance.

But, I promise that I will devote more time to the important things in my life.  I vow to break the hold that this game has on me, and to return to the life I used to have!  I will not let this game-- Ooh!  Servers are back up!  Gotta go.  Bye.

Unlike sports though, I find this particular knowledge gap to be a bit odd since I consider myself to be fairly skilled when it comes to most things mechanical.  I mean, I am not exactly MacGyver but I can usually take things apart, clean them and put them back together without breaking them (much).

But with cars... this is very, very different.

For the most part, I feel just as retarded around car enthusiasts as I do around rabid sports fans, but in some ways it's even worse; I certainly cannot regurgitate each players name, position, performance statistics, police record, favorite recreational drug, etc., but given a little time watching a game I can get the gist of how it works.

With car enthusiasts though... I really haven't the foggiest clue what the hell they are talking about.  I have been a happy user of a car of some variety since I was 17 years old, and yet if I hadn't stumbled across the handle that opens the hood and actually seen the engine for myself you could probably convince me that my car was powered by Scottish gnomes that work (or don't) for booze...

*Craig steps on the gas pedal...*

Angus: If ya think ay'm gunna push yer feckin' cairt up anither brae ye'kin kiss mah wee little bahookie!

*The car sputters*

Craig: C'mon you stupid hunk of shit... move it!

*Craig steps on the gas harder...*

Angus: Ach! Ya' daft basturd! Git it throo yer thick noggin'!  Isna gunna happen!

*Check engine light goes on*

I wish this were as far-fetched as it seems.

Perhaps some background will help convince you.

My current car is in the ninth year of it's miserable tortured existence with me.  I consider it "tortured" because although it only has 36,000 miles on it, it looks and sounds like it was the loser of several demolition derbys.  I attribute this to the fact that in those nine years I have only rewarded the car with "maintenance" when it has vigorously and loudly complained for long periods of time.

For example, I remember several years ago when it started to make a kind of banging noise; the kind of noise you associate with a stereotypical gas-guzzling jalopy of a car.  Using my intimate knowledge of the workings of an internal combustion engine, I instantly recognized this noise as "bad".

I deduced that the longer I waited, the worse the damage would be, and thus I knew that I hadn't a minute to waste.  So, I brought the car into the repair shop after only 2 months, and subjected myself to a very uncomfortable conversation with the mechanic.  They always assume that since I have a penis, I must know how a car works.  This is basically how that exchange sounds to me:

Me: My car is broken. It's making a banging noise. Please fix it.

Mechanic: When was the last time you rotated the flanges on the carburetor?

Me: I, um...

Mechanic: Are the pistons synchronized with the distributor?

Me: I don't...

Mechanic: C'mon man!  Speak up!  Have you calibrated the gear ratio of the alternator?! 

*I start to cry*

This is why I avoid mechanics.

To make matters worse, when I came to pick up my car, the mechanic informed me that there was no oil in the car -- not a single drop -- and that he had "fixed" my car by simply adding some.  He delivered the news with an expression on his face that I can only describe as a mixture of disgust and horror; the kind of look a good person would give a parent that they just caught beating a crippled child.  In his mind, this kind of negligence was completely unforgivable... a black mark on my manhood record.

I'm sure that immediately after I walked out, he reported the event to the manhood authorities.  Combined with my hatred of sports and distaste for beer, my record probably categorizes me as female; if I am ever apprehended I will probably have to turn in my testicles.

But, despite all this, I still have not made any real effort at all to learn more about how cars work.  Any knowledge about cars that I have gained over the years has been purely accidental.  That is... up until recently when I tried to add oil to my car.

A few weeks ago my car began to make that same banging noise again, and even I put two-and-two together to figure out that it probably needed some oil.  So I drove over to my local auto-parts store to buy some, figuring... how hard could it be?

I entered the store and eventually found the aisle with the oil.  And that was when I encountered problem #1: There are about 7 trillion different types of motor oil.  Silly me, I thought this was going to be the easy part!  Apparently walking into an auto-parts store and asking for "oil" is like walking into a coffee shop and asking for "coffee".  Anyhow, after asking for some help, which took a while because they couldn't believe that a man was born without such knowledge, I bought some "5W30", and a small funnel.

I left the store feeling pretty good; I had the tools I needed to make my car shut it's whiny pie-hole.  I walked confidently up to my car, opened the hood, and... that's where problem #2 came up: Where the hell does the oil go? 

I really wish I was kidding here.  I spent no less than 10 minutes looking for a place to pour this oil, and could not for the life of me find it.  I was probably about 30-seconds away from simply pouring it over the engine and calling it a day, but instead I resorted to sitting in my car and doing a Google search on my phone.  I even watched a small video on "How to change your oil" on YouTube.

Using my new-found knowledge, I located the wily little cap (which had a picture of an oil-can in it, by the way) and I poured in the oil that my car so desperately needed.  It took a few miles, but eventually the banging noise stopped, which made be feel like I had actually accomplished something in spite of all my stumbling stupidity.

And so, In the end, it all worked out; I got the right oil, and somehow got it into the right place in the engine.  My car stopped it's percussive complaining, and I don't have to go to the mechanic again.  And lastly, I learned a little something about cars, and thus get to keep my testicles a little while longer. 

It is the one year anniversary of Coffeygrind.com. 

One year ago today I wrote my first blog entry and embarked on a journey of self-discovery.  A journey that has given me a feeling of purpose, filled me with a greater sense of where I fit in the "big picture", and helped me get to the pure distilled essence of who I truly am.  But mostly, it has left me wondering why most people that I meet don't immediately bludgeon me to death with the nearest conveniently located blunt object.

For you see... just about half of the entries that I have written involve me venting about how incredibly idiotic most people are.  Please don't mistake me; this is not an apology... I still think these people are dumber than asphalt.  It's merely an observation. 

I suspect that I am only protected from retribution by the fact that these people can't remember to put their shoes on after their pants, which makes it pretty unlikely that they possess the mental facilities to find my blog nevertheless read it.

My point is that these entries are not exactly complimentary to anyone, myself included. When I think back on them, I realize that I can be a very angry man when I am behind a keyboard.  If I were to send these articles to a psychologist to use as documentation of my mental state, I would not be surprised if they prescribed some sort of sedative or, perhaps, a subtle yet effective poison... and then subsequently decided to commit seppuku with a letter opener.

As an exercise, born purely from the rather promiscuous parents of "boredom" and "work avoidance", I decided to re-read all 30 of the entries that I have written over the last year.  My goal was to identify and summarize any themes that might be hidden within their passages.  Here is what I discovered:

1. I am a nerd
2. I love bacon, Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox.
3. I hate sports, "natural" foods and morons.

Earth-shattering, I know.  This is information that was hard-earned over the last year; each bit taking me many long hours of contemplative meditation to wrest from my subconscious mind.  Information that represents the fruits of many weeks of quiet introspection.  Information that I am confident would take someone who just met me as long as 10 minutes to discover.

Perhaps what is more interesting than the published entries are the entries that I have fully written but have not published.  It wasn't until just now that I realized that they all have a common theme.  They are all about topics that may actually piss off somewhat intelligent people.  The fear that I might actually anger someone that has the capacity to fight back has clearly kept me from posting them.  Fascinating.

So here I am one year, and 30 blog entries later (31 if you include this one). 

What will the next year hold for me?

Not sure.

I think I'm running out of things to hate. 

Naturally, this happens to me most often during my commute.  And, also naturally, most of the angry victims of my throat-clearing assault are people that are trying to sleep.  They'll just be nodding off, and then... *ahem*.  Their eyes snap open, and they glare at me intensely.  It's as if they are trying to silence me purely with the palpable negative power of their seethingly malevolent will.  I can almost feel the concentrated rays of hatred molecules bombarding my head.  They stare at me in this way until... at last... their eyelids begin to droop again, and then... *ahem*.

It can go on like this for an hour, or more.

Sucks to be them.

In my humble opinion, one major problem here is that a flawed assumption is being made by these individuals.  They are assuming that it is their God-given RIGHT to sleep on the train, and that any activity that precludes that should be punishable by any means necessary.

I would like to counter that assumption with the following simple rebuttal: "Go fuck yourself". 

This is perhaps why I am not a lawyer.

But, believe it or not, it's not my congestion that is the topic of this entry.  No... it's my reaction, or lack thereof, to these confrontations that I want to discuss.

For, you see, I have finally come to realize something that I am certain you all already know:  I am a giant pussy.  I say this because I don't react to these situations at all like a man should.  I either completely ignore them or, in an unprecedented display of pussiness, actually say "I'll see what I can do".

In either case, despite my wholehearted belief that these people are complete dickheads, I have to stop myself from trying to "keep it down".  For some ridiculous reason I actually feel compelled to make these mewling fuckwits happy.  In my head, however, I almost immediately concoct an entire fantasy exchange that makes me feel a bit more... manly:

Me: *ahem*

Commuter: Can you keep it down?

Me: Sorry.  It's an allergy.  I get very congested when I am around cats, dogs or assholes.

Commuter: What's that supposed to mean?

Me: See any cats or dogs around here?

Commuter: Are you calling me an asshole?

Me: Me?  No... but apparently my doctor is.

Haha... yeah, that would be great.  Right up to the part where they grind my face into the luggage rack.  But, sadly, those internal dialogs never become reality.  I just sit there and take it.  I hold in my witty retorts and avoid eye contact.  My only defense is to clear my throat more loudly and more often while I blog about it.

In analyzing this, I have realized that there are two dimensions at work here: "Level of wit", and "Desire for confrontation".  At the right levels, the effect can be pretty compelling.  At the wrong levels, the effect can be devastating.  The mixture of these two dimensions at varying concentrations can significantly affect your social acceptance as demonstrated by the following chart:

I don't think it's overweening of me to suggest that I am somewhat witty.  And, short of a massive cranial injury, I don't see my wit-level decreasing anytime soon, even if it never appreciably increases.  Also... although I am becoming a much grumpier person as I age, I am fairly confident that I will never be truly combative without the assistance of copious quantities of alcohol (which I don't typically consume); I really just don't have it in me to openly oppose someone that I disagree with... at least not face-to-face...

Still... as time goes on, I am discovering more creative outlets for this ire (such as this blog).  For instance... although I am not the kind of parent that will go into my child's school in-person to complain to their teacher about something, I will write a long, detailed note that will most-likely anger them much more than any direct confrontation ever would...

Ms. Harmony,

  I wanted to bring something to your attention about the last test that Sean took. There was a question on the test that bothered him because it had incorrectly identified prehistoric sea creatures as dinosaurs, which he pointed out to you in class.  When he did so, however, he was told, by you, that he was incorrect.  His respect for your authority prevented him from arguing the issue further, but he was clearly troubled enough by the exchange to bring it to my attention. 

  I have attached several articles on the subject matter, including the standard Webster's Dictionary definition of the word "dinosaur" all of which clearly support his observation.  I recommend reviewing this material as thoroughly as possible if you ever hope to avoid being embarrassed by 8-year-old children in the future.  I also recommend that you give my son the benefit of the doubt when he questions something like this since it is clear that he has forgotten more about dinosaurs than you will ever know.  Bitch.

Sincerely,

Craig Coffey 

The actual note may have been a tad less aggressive, but the intent was the same.  To ensure that she knew that in a battle of wits with an 8-year-old child, she had actually lost.  And, with any luck, to make her question the value of her miserable life to the point that she considers early retirement... from her career, or just from life in general. (In case it isn't clear here, I hate this bitch.)

So... to get back to my point here... To put it gently, I am not a physically impressive person, nor do I realistically believe I will ever be.  And so my brain, such as it is, is the only thing that gives me the upper-hand in any situation.  Thus, I think it is very likely that I will forever be an introverted geek, happily hiding behind sarcastic emails and snarky blog entries in lieu of open hostility.

It's not exactly the makings of a bold and honorable life, but it beats the heck out of getting my ass kicked every time I open my mouth.

Not your "smash and grab" variety, mind you.  No, I mean your truly talented burglars.  People who can stake out a potential site, stealthily bypass any security measures, deftly pilfer the goods, and then fade like smoke into the night.

In another life I could envision myself as a rogue of some variety.  Having the skill to pick locks, hide in the shadows and move silently really appeals to me, and the idea of obtaining other people's property without their permission doesn't bother me nearly as much as it probably should.  But, in this life I have a less-than-lithe physique and thus I am ill-equipped for the job; I couldn't walk silently on a bed of moss, and there'd need to be an awful lot of shadows to hide this body. 

Still, that doesn't mean that I am incapable of obtaining some of the less physically demanding skills.

When I was a young nerdling, just getting started in my career, I met a man named Steve.  We'll just stick with his first name here because a) he seems like the kind of man who would desire a measure of anonymity, and b) I cannot remember his last name. 

Steve worked for a large consulting company and helped us set up our physical and network security.  Aside from being a talented security professional, Steve was also an obnoxiously interesting person to talk to.  He was in the Marines where he engaged in all types of daring and dangerous activities. And he worked with the Secret Service where, in addition to protecting the President of the United States, he actually got the chance to guard Mikhail Gorbachev.

He has shed skin cells that are more impressive than me.

Now, because of his background, one of my favorite things to do at that time was to introduce Steve in a meeting:

"Everyone, this is Steve.  He knows six different ways to kill you with this"

Then I would hold up just about any seemingly harmless object (a sugar packet, a napkin, a marshmallow, etc.), and everyone in the room would laugh... except for Steve.  The others, I am sure, believed this was because he didn't appreciate my sense of humor, but I personally believe that it was because he was calmly thinking "Actually, I know seven".

Anyhow, I mention Steve -- if that was his real name -- because he is the man that taught me how to pick a lock.

To start off, I learned how to unlock a file drawer using a paperclip and a small screwdriver.  It was not terribly challenging and yet it was, oddly, very satisfying.  It was like the feeling you get when you successfully shoot your "mark" through the eye with an ice bullet from 400 yards in high winds.

NOTE: It occurs to me that some people may, perhaps , define "satisfying" differently than I do. Perhaps.

In any case, as simple as this was, I was hooked.  I needed to pick more locks.  Every morning, for weeks after that, I am sure all the people in the neighboring cubicles would come in and think: "Hmmm... I was SURE I locked this.".  No file drawer was safe from my prying tools!

But it still wasn't enough.  I mean, sure, a paperclip and screwdriver was nice and all, but not exactly in line with my ideal vision of a rogue.  So, naturally, I bought my own set of legitimate lock picks from a website that I found that sells all manner of devious items: www.southord.com. This site is basically porno for people like me.  I found a nice, simple set of starter picks and placed my order.

For the week following that, I was like a kid that ordered a decoder ring from a cereal box.  I would come home every day and rush happily to the mailbox, only to walk despondently away moments later when I saw that they had not come yet. 

When they finally arrived my obsession took a steep jump up; I quickly picked every lock in the house.  I followed that up, soon thereafter, by picking every lock at work that I could without getting fired which didn't quite fall short of my bosses office door (sorry Lisa).

I was having a ball.

I want to be honest here; Although I would love for it to be otherwise, I am not particularly good at it.  Don't get me wrong, I can open most locks, but it usually takes me several minutes to do so.  It's not quite like the movies where they barely do anything and *click*, the lock is open!  No, at least for me, it's a much more complex and time-consuming process.

Before I learned what was involved, I fantasized about never using a key again; I would just pick my front door lock every night.  But since it takes me so long to do, and I need to kneel down to be at eye-level with the lock, it's very obvious and more than a little awkward to explain. "No, really, officer... this is MY house."

My greatest lockpicking moment, so far, happened several years ago when I was living in a townhouse community.  My neighbor Harry got locked out of his house and came over to ask me for help.  I am sure he had something else in mind; he probably pictured me giving him a boost into an open window or some such inelegant method of entry but I was having none of that!  When we walked up to his door and he saw me take out a set of picks his eyes went a little wide.

To make matters worse, I got really lucky and I picked the lock in less time than it would have taken me to open it with the key.  On the inside I was bursting with joy but outwardly, of course, I brushed this off as normal and calmly put my picks away as he nervously thanked me and quickly entered his house shutting and locking the door behind him.  I think they moved soon after that. 

My wedding comes in as a close second for the happiest moment of my life.

(I am so going to get my ass kicked for that line)

Eventually, my passion for lockpicking faded a bit, and I stopped picking every lock in sight.  But even now, many years later, I still carry my picks with my every day, just in case an opportunity to use them comes along.  And I still get a bit giddy when one does.

So, if you suspect that I have been fiddling around with the lock on your door, please forgive me; it's an addiction that is difficult to kick.  I promise that I am just doing it to keep my fingers nimble and that I will leave all your belongings intact.

Unless there's something really cool. 

You know who you are.

In the years that I have come to know you I have gained nothing but the deepest respect for you.  Your dedication to your work, your family and your friends is amazing.  And the pride you have for your culture is inspiring.

Ok, now that we got that out of the way, let me make fun of you.

It all started with a Potluck dinner party at my house.

I had invited a bunch of people that I work with, including my Dominican friends, and I had asked them to bring dishes that represented their nationality.  In the weeks leading up to the event, there were numerous energetic discussions about what to bring, some of which were conducted, at least partly, in Spanish.

While they were bickering back and forth, I would just sit on the sidelines and listen in mute uni-lingual confusion.  I made some cursory attempts to translate a bit of what they were saying into English, but ran into two major problems:

1. They talk way too fast. I am convinced that a Spanish-speaking person can actually convey an entire days-worth of information in about 60 seconds.  I think the reason they roll their R's is so that they can slow their tongue down to keep it from breaking the sound barrier and creating a sonic boom that tears their lips off.  That's just a theory.
2. I don't know any Spanish other than "Por favor", "Gracias", "Uno", "Hola" and "Agua".  So I would really only know what they were saying if one of them said "Hello, one water please. Thank you."

Anyway... these conversations inspired me to do some research into the particular dialect of the Spanish language spoken in the Dominican Republic.  For this I, naturally, consulted the All-Knowing Google Oracle which provided me with several helpful sites on "Dominicanese".

Each of these sites had an alphabetical list of words, and their English translations.  I started at "A" on each site, and began reading my way through them, looking for anything that might be blog-worthy.

Almost immediately, I found something interesting (to me, at least).  I found two references to "Bacan" (or "Bacano") which was defined as "one cool dude".  Any language that has a word that looks like the word "Bacon" but means that you are cool, is an awesome language in my book.

I was only in the B's and already things were looking up... but, then I found the word "Bomba".

Someone will have to explain this one to me, because, according to this site, it means "Gas Station".  But, according to the same site, if you add exclamation points (i.e. ¡Bomba!), then it becomes "Wow!".  This can make for some interesting sentences..."¡Bomba! Están jugando 'La Bamba' en la bomba!" (Wow!  They're playing 'La bamba' at the gas station!)

I probably got distracted by something shiny at that point, because I didn't make it past the B's.  And, all I really gained was:

1. My new business card title: "Mucho Grande Bacano Extraordinario!"
2. A fun new exclamation: "Gas station! That's a large spleen!" 

So, in the end I was still able to understand very little of what they were saying.  Although, every once in a while, I was able to determine, via context, that a certain word or phrase was referring to a particular Dominican dish, and I have to admit... they didn't sound very tasty.  The Spanish names for these recipes sounded, to me, like either a sexually transmitted disease, or some of the less glamorous body parts on mammals, neither of which I was looking forward to eating...

Friend1: My Mofongo flared up again.

Friend2: On your Tostones?

Of course, in the end I had nothing to fear.  What they brought was much more appetizing than it sounded and by the end of the party I had a belly-full of awesome food.

In closing, I would like to cover one last thing...  If "Mano" means hand, and "Mano a mano" means "Hand to hand", and "Mono" means monkey, then "Mano a mono" means "Hand to monkey"?

I have no real point here... I just find that funny.