Conversation with calijanessa1@aol.com at 1/9/2012 9:48:47 AM on cbigeagle@gmail.com/ (jabber)

(9:48:47 AM) nadia wray: hi

So, being the social butterfly that I am, I ignore it and close the window.

Soon, however, she's there again, so I finally respond, as this could be someone I know and have just forgotten about.

Conversation with calijanessa1@aol.com at 1/9/2012 10:17:49 AM on cbigeagle@gmail.com/ (jabber)

(10:17:49 AM) nadia wray: hello?
(10:31:59 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: hi there
(10:32:06 AM) nadia wray: hey whats up? 23/F here. youu?
(10:32:59 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: i don't recognize your name, do we know each other?

23/F.
That's all I need to know, because 1) I'm at work and 2) I'm thirty-fucking-three and I'm just not that interested in trying to conjure any sort of game in a chat window. After I ask for a name, I get silence for a bit. A-HA! A stranger, I knew it!

Conversation with calijanessa1@aol.com at 1/9/2012 10:37:58 AM on cbigeagle@gmail.com/ (jabber)

(10:37:58 AM) nadia wray: ashley

Wha? I know a couple ashleys, but none of them 23 and involved in skeezy midday chats. I could spell this out, but my silence will do the work for me!

Conversation with calijanessa1@aol.com at 1/9/2012 10:58:50 AM on cbigeagle@gmail.com/ (jabber)

(10:59:28 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: do we know each other from somewhere?

Fine. Curiosity is creeping up on me. I mean, I've seen plenty of movies, I know about weird stuff like split personalities and Ambien-induced sleep-socializing. Maybe I do know this person. And it's not like my monitor faces my office window or anything, what could possibly go wrong? Nothing!

Conversation with calijanessa1@aol.com at 1/9/2012 10:59:36 AM on cbigeagle@gmail.com/ (jabber)

(10:59:36 AM) nadia wray: hmm. have we chattted before?
(10:59:54 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: i don't think so, you may have the wrong email address.
(11:00:03 AM) nadia wray: oh ok. l wasn't sure. anywayz.... whats up?
(11:01:13 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: well, currently working. don't really have the time to chat.
(11:01:23 AM) nadia wray: im Iikee so boreeddd.... there iss nothinggggg too do
(11:01:39 AM) nadia wray: ohhh waiit! i have a greatt idea. have u eveer watched a sexyy girI Iike me striip Iive on a cam before?
(11:04:09 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: oh, wow, i haven't gotten one of these chat requests in forever. i love what you do, it's great, and god knows cam girls are rad, but i'm not really into that any more. so, i'm going to go ahead and log off, and i wish you a pleasant day filled with many sexy chats and hopefully some valueable American Dollars.
(11:04:20 AM) nadia wray: wellIIl.... u couId watcch me strrip if u wouId Iike?
(11:04:48 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: that was a quick response. is this a bot?
(11:04:56 AM) nadia wray: Im not a freaking bot
(11:05:06 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: lol
(11:05:22 AM) nadia wray: yeah? okk weIl my cam is setuup through this webbsite so that i can't bee recorded so u have too signupp there.
(11:05:31 AM) nadia wray: it onIyy takes a minnute and it is freee. ok?
(11:07:54 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: nope, you're fishin' in an empty pond, but i'm sure there are plenty of other customers out there that don't have a windowed office 20 feet away from their HR director. have a wonderful day, ciao!
(11:08:10 AM) nadia wray: http://twurl.nl/yudz1w goo therre then up at thhe top of the paage cIlick on the goIldish JOIN FREE buttton.
(11:08:15 AM) nadia wray: k?
(11:09:26 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: i haven't turned down internet nudity this hard since that time i was IRCing at church.
(11:09:42 AM) nadia wray: also it doess askk for a creditt card but thats how thhey keep kids outt. it does nott charrge the card. ok?
(11:11:07 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: credit card? who the hell uses a credit card? have you seen the economy? i'm a libertarian, and as such, i believe it's out solemn duty as American citizens to adhere to cash for currency and gold and other precious minerals as investment.
(11:11:24 AM) nadia wray: ok baabe weIl hurrry up and when u gett Iogged in then u can vieew my cam andd we can havve some funnn!
(11:11:39 AM) nadia wray: i aIso have some toyys but u have to tiip me some goId or joiin me in privaate to see thosse.
(11:13:28 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: my Libertarian sensibilities give me plenty of moral leeway to watch girls get naked for cash, however, those same Libertarian sensibilities give me the wherewithall to only pay in cash. ones and twenties.
(11:13:38 AM) nadia wray: hey Iets taIk on there babee. my messengerr is messiing up.
(11:14:21 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: or gold bullion, but only where it's readily available, which is usually at a Dubai ATM.
(11:16:19 AM) cbigeagle@gmail.com/67105D76: i'm saddened by your lack of persistence. you almost had me, but then you gave up. kids today, where is your entrepreneurial spirit?

The moral of the story is, don't feed the trolls. Don't feed the troll that lives within you. A responsible employee would have closed that window and ignored it, not diving headlong into the sales pitch of some camgirl with a shitty auto-chat program. She was obviously controlling it though, and when she came back with "Im not a freaking bot", I have to admit that I put just a little trollface on and started wondering in which direction I could take this. I had a story about Ron Paul's quest to turn America into a bullet-ridden, anarchy-fueled, apocalyptic Randian wasteland, so I already had a bunch of bullshit libertarianism in my head.

I've also unblocked Nadia/Ashley. I can't wait for the next chat, because next time...I'll be chatting on my phone...from a camp...in the Colombian jungle...trying to get a message out to the American embassy. Will Nadia/Ashley save me? Or just steal my credit card number and give me a bad topless webcam dance?

When will I ever learn that Trader Joe's doesn't really work like a grocery store, or traditional retail business of any sort. It's more akin to an indoor farmer's market. Not the shitty little one's that you can also pop in and out of in a few minutes, no, I'm talking about the shitty big one's that are congested with aging hippies and vegans.

My quick trip for lunch took 20 minutes. 5 of which was spent in the most passive stand-off I've ever taken part in.

Upon arriving, I'm greeted with the usual suspects in the parking lot, aka: lots of Subaru Outbacks. And they're being driven as if the atmosphere had been replaced by sticky, viscous, organic clover honey. I have to pick my battles though, and laying on the horn while an aging deadhead gathers the brainpower to back a station wagon out of a parking space is not where I need to start a confrontation.

Finally, I'm parked. I enter the store, I know exactly where I'm going, and I'm still under the delusion that this trip will be different from every other trip to Trader Joe's. I assume nobody would be so absorbed in reading the ingredient list on a box of macaroni, making absolutely sure that this is really organic and not that faux, corporate "organic" that The Man shills at Safeway.

Oh, dear reader, how wrong, so very very wrong, I was.

This woman was there with a cart, buying cheese. A normal person would be sufficiently convinced that a foodstuff wasn't part of an evil Neo-conservative plot simply by dint of being sold at Trader Joe's. This woman, however, had to be sure. She wasn't old, wasn't wearing glasses, and I'm assuming (once again) that she was upwardly mobile and literate, if only because of her Seattlite uniform, making her a moving billboard for Columbia Sportswear and Northface. Regardless, she held that brick of cheese up to her face, almost close enough to take in the nutritional information using osmosis. While she studied the 2x2 inch tome, her cart blocked the sandwich I wanted. I came all the way out here for a Cubano wrap and god damn it, I'm going to get a fucking Cubano wrap.

The Gods ignored my silent pleas and seconds turned into many many seconds, which eventually turned into a minute, and then more than one minute. She has to know I'm here, at this point, I'm stalker-close to this chick and she couldn't give a shit about whatever I wanted, because she needed to check out this motherfucking cheese! I'm nearing the breaking point and I'm about to talk to a stranger. I don't want to talk to a stranger, and I go to great lengths so I don't have to talk to strangers, but here I am, and I'm fucking hungry, and this stranger and her stupid fucking cart are blocking me from my food. And then...

...she puts the cheese down and pushes her cart down to the meat section, purchasing nothing. Rage level - 7.2

Sandwich and salad procured. Victory is in sight. All I have to do is go buy my prize and then I'll put my tasty reward in my belly, enabling another few hours of bodily function.

I walk the long way around, avoiding the cluster of shoppers hovering over and inspecting the bread and make a turn at the wine isle. To my astonishment, there are 2 check out lines open. A store full of people and two people working registers. Rage level - 7.9

I get into what looks like the quickest moving line and, wait, what the fuck is that? Is that woman trying to write a check? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Okay, calm down, it might be 2012, but checks are still a viable method of payment, especially in a place like this. That check is a solemn promise between that person, her non-profit credit union, and Trader Joe's. It makes sense, because sometimes you don't have any cash (or canned goods for bartering), and I'd imagine a lot of folks here don't like credit cards. Rage level - 6.5...wait, no, 9.5, because that broad DID pay with a card and now she's meticulously recording her purchase in a ledger...AT THE REGISTER.

Nobody else seems to take issue with this though, and I'm left to be the lone insane guy that throws his shit on the ground and storms out in a flurry of profanity, unless I get my shit together and wait it out like a big boy.

The phone call is thankfully brief, and as far as I know, the email server is down. Not a good thing, but fixable, that's what backups are for. But I also quickly find out that I can't remote in either. The downward spiral steepens.
As I'm getting my things together and walking the dogs, I get another call from the box office, can't get into the ticketing software. Double fuck. It's holiday performance season, and things are busy, this is super not good. The dogs get a speed walk and a loveless goodbye as I race out the door.

Switch #5: 24 Ports of Fail.

I show up and see that the DNS server is kaput. Okay, that's easy, we have a spare. Wait, wut? The spare is disconnected too. Oh no. If I have to rebuild a DNS server, my morning repair gig has transmogriphied into a full day at the office. See ya December football. Major General Kittyman, your thirst for face wounds will have to be slaked at a later date.

Now I'm settling into troubleshooting mode, under the watchful eyes of the box office manager and executive director, so there was no pressure or anything. I'm making phone calls to the CTO, who's a telecommuter and we're trying to track down a network specialist. Finally, some of the testing pans out and I figure out the problem. It's a dead switch in the stack. Thanks, useless status lights, you really helped me out on this one. Also, that's called sarcasm. Fast forward to 6pm, and 9 hours later I'm heading home and the only game I'm going to get to watch is the Cowboys/Giants on Sunday Night Football. It was a decent game, but I can't stand either team. It was like watching a wrestling match between Snookie and Rick Perry. Hoping maybe it'll end in a tie so nobody wins and they'll both get an STD and we can all laugh at their shame.

The only image I could find of the TV. This model has been erased from history like Soviet dissidents.

Monday morning, proper, arrives. I'm naturally tired and skip the gym. I sleep in, but have plenty of time to get up, get the dogs walked, and get to my carpool buddy by 8am. At this point, I must mention the Sony television that is camped in the cargo area of my Xterra. I had picked it up from a friend's place Saturday with the intention of dropping it off at her mom's place the following weekend when I had some time and I was down to visit my father. Up until now, its sturdy plastic base had interacted just as expected with the tacky rubberized floor of the cargo area and everything had been just peachy, aside from a bit of noise as it creaked back and forth. Nothing I couldn't deal with. This morning, however, whatever was holding that TV down, be it gravity, friction, or the prayers of a million children, decided to release it's grasp on it and the damn thing came loose from it's moorings, defied every law of physics I could remember, and bounced around the cargo area and back seat like the damn thing was rolling on greased bearings. It slammed back and forth into the back of the seat, then into the rear hatch. I'm not driving aggressively, but this thing was flying about with the force of Thor's god damned hammer and actually broke the latch on the rear door (a repair bill I'm going to love to see when it gets here). During it's frenzied escape attempt, the plastic shell of the TV began to snap and crack, eventually shattering completely, sending shards of plastic about the entire passenger compartment. The TV continued it's mosh pit to hell as I pulled into a Bartell's parking lot, texted my carpool buddy to go ahead and drive herself in to work, and then got out to assess the damage. I opened the hatch, well, didn't really open as touch the hatch and it swung open on it's own, you know, because it's not really latched to anything anymore. The TV was in pieces, the tube and circuits were on one side of the cargo area, the plastic housing with the speakers and buttons was strewn across to the other side, and everywhere else that I could see was littered with sharp pieces of plastic and over a decade's worth of dust bunnies that had just been violently evicted from their home inside the television's case.

Watching it thrash around in the rear-view mirror was like being in the deer scene from Tommy Boy.

After looking at the carnage, I roll the TV screen-side down and check the voracity of the grip given by the rubberized flooring. Satisfied that the destruction will be limited, I get back behind the wheel, and scream obscenities at my windshield for 30 seconds. I have now vented enough rage to safely drive back to my apartment. I speak to the remains of the television, "This has gone too far. I'm going to end you." I pull into the complex and back up to the dumpsters. I get out, prop up the broken hatch, and get the a pair of dakine snowboarding gloves from one of the side pockets. They're not ideal protection, but it's better than bare skin. I take the time to vent some additional anger by pulling wires, breaking plastic, and snapping a circuit board in half before chucking them into the dumpster. It's not exactly eco-friendly, but at this point, it was the TV or my sanity. I approach the rear of the SUV, preparing myself for the largest piece, the picture tube. I bend at the knee, get a grip, and try to hoist the thing to a carry-able position. Impossible. I've reached an impass and come to a realization. The key to a Sony trinitron's excellent picture the fact that the CRT technology is powered by a piece of a neutron star. The tube of the 37" television is glued to the earth, or rather, the floor of the Xterra. My futile human muscles are no match for whatever alien technology lives within the tube. It moves on whim alone, and cares not for the wants and needs of man. I steel myself, get a solid grip, and call forth the strength of my ancestors, lifting the mass, and feeling as if I'm tearing spacetime in my attempt. The tube is free, dangling from my arms, and I can feel it pulling viciously at my very fucking skeleton as it tries to make its way to the ground. Rage is the only thing keeping it aloft as I take a few careful steps to the dumpster, boosted the thing with my knee and push it over the lip and into someone else's list of problems.
I have won the day, but at a cost. I clean out the back of the the SUV, sweeping plastic and dust into my hands and then into the dumpster. My adrenalin is subsiding and I'm beginning to hurt. My legs, arms, back, and hand are all on fire. It was too much for one man to do alone, and I'm sure I'll be paying this bill for weeks to come.

If I actually had a power ring, I would have flung the TV into the sun.

I'm removing my gloves, getting ready to put this chapter of my life behind me and something is caught on my right hand, and it stings like a viper. The gloves comes off and what's there, one final insult, one final injury from my foe. A 3/4" shard of plastic is wedged into the side of my knuckle, and blood is streaming from my hand. I wipe it up as best as I can and head into the house. I have issues with needles, and that mild phobia has carried over to this jagged shard of plastic. I look wistfully at the bottle of scotch on the refrigerator, envisioning a civil war-era soldier numbing himself before an amputation, but I gave up the drink, so this is going to be a very sobering experience in more ways than one. I get out my leatherman and grasp the visible end of the plastic, and slowly, pull it from my skin. I can see a little lump move under my knuckle skin as I pull it out, and I begin to feel a bit faint. An image of myself from a 3rd person perspective appears and I imagine fainting, and then waking up hours later in a pool of my own blood as my dogs both stare at me, wondering what new game this is supposed to be. I shake it off, yank out the plastic, and then find out yet another surprise...I'm out of bandaids.
So, tape and a paper towel is it, and I'm make my way into the office.

No 24 hour span has been as physically and emotionally draining as this past day. The only thing I have to look forward to is the gym tonight, where I plan on lifting weights until I stop hating an inanimate object. But that's a few hours off, and right now, I'm filled with terrible glee knowing that my nemesis is a the bottom of a steel box, waiting to be crushed, buried, and forgotten.

Fuck you, TV.