Desk Doz’n

Running out of fuel mid-day is a dilemma I run into at least twice a week. I don’t mean slightly lethargic or dragging a bit, I mean if I could some how figure out a way to lock my legs I could sleep standing up. The desk doze is the worst. Sometimes I don’t know how long I’ve been out for and who’s seen me. (I can only imagine, or in this case dream, of how stupid I look.) I know I only doze-off for a hot second really, but when it’s in those little spurts it’s sometimes hard to determine how much time has passed. I look around spaced out to see if anybody is on to me.

Then I proceed to run through the wake-up routine. In response to my first doze-off I get up and get a glass of water. For the second doze-off I take a walk to the bathroom and splash a little water on my face. For the third doze-off, a cup of coffee. For the fourth a little snack. It is when I reach the fifth doze-off that things start getting weird, and I get into this scolding/pep-talk.

I start chastising myself, saying shit like, “Need I remind you (me) of how lucky you are to have this job and how ridiculous you’d feel if the reason why you were fired was for sleeping at your desk. Why the hell are you staying up for the mid-night run of Sports Center anyway? You watch the same damn episode the very next morning. And while we’re at it, your closet looks like it vomited all over your room. Can you maybe take an evening to take care of some laundry? Maybe then you won’t have to throw dirty clothes in the dryer with five dryer sheets and give them a “pseudo-wash” as you so cleverly named it.

[As you can see things get weird. It goes on for a few more minutes but I won’t bore you or freak you out anymore.]

Ultimately after considering and reconsidering going outside and sleeping on a bench or quitting my job, I perk up a bit. Not enough to accomplish much work mind you, but enough to fake working until I can get to grand central and sleep on the train. Though the thought of working at home sounds nice, I would succumb to afternoon naps way to easily. I can just hear myself now, “Come on, a five minute nap is harmless, and besides afterwards you’ll feel rejuvenated and fresh and ready to work.”

The Least The IT Guy Could Do Is Insult Me In Laymen’s Terms.

Though I usually resolve my computer problems with a swift kick and a flip of the on/off button, most people with half a brain know to use the tried and true trifecta control/alt/delete. I’ve seen people break into cold sweats when the simultaneous pushing of the three aforementioned buttons doesn’t work. I can’t blame them; you never want to make a call to the IT guy if you don’t have to.

One would think that the ‘esc’ button would play an integral part in restarting your computer, yet it doesn’t. When I was younger I was convinced that pressing it would create some serious havoc. Sparks would fly, motherboards would fry, and I would undoubtedly be in some serious trouble. I always knew it as the no-no button. The off-limits button. The not-unless-you-fear-the-school-might-blow-up button. I realize that there is of course the possibility that I’ve wrongfully placed the ‘esc’ button on this weird pedestal of destruction. Yet either way, I still think if someone didn’t know any better and knew nothing about computers and only knew that ‘esc’ was short for escape, I’d imagine they would think that was one of the more important buttons on the keyboard.

While we’re on the subject of obsolete keyboard buttons, how about F1-F12? From what I can decipher through thick sarcasm and geek-talk, the IT Guy said you could program these buttons to do any number of things. He added that his seven-year-old autistic nephew had no problem programming his computer. Under my breath I answered, “The poor kid must be just as cool as you.” And besides aren’t those kids supposed to be freakishly good at weird-ass things?

If You’re Looking For A Ride Go To Hunt’s Point Or Coney Island.

It’s never been my choice to stand stationary on an escalator, though occasionally I’ve been forced to. It would be unfair to say that I don’t respect people who don’t walk up escalators, but I certainly don’t have to sit here and say that I respect their shit decision and general lazy demeanor. Listen here folks, if it don’t take a ticket, it aint a fucking ride. Not to mention this might be the only source of exercise these people get, they should be on the hop. I’d much rather increase my heart rate than stand like a drone with my mouth slightly ajar and eyes glazed over.

My real gripe however is when a lazy drone gets in the way of me proceeding up the steps like the go-getter that I am. It’s only then that their fat decision truly affects me. The CPSC (Consumer Product Safety Commission) estimates that there are 6,000 hospital emergency room-treated injuries associated with escalators each year. Keep in mind this figure does not take into account passengers on the escalator that send other passengers to the emergency room. That’s where I come in.

Nuts for Nuts

Have you ever laid eyes on a dead squirrel that wasn’t flattened by a car, mauled by a cat, or chard from electrocution? I haven’t. Presumably squirrels can die from old age, yet I have never seen a dead one without smoke coming off its carcass or bodily fluids oozing from its wounds? Do they prefer the comfort of a hole in a tree to take their last little breaths? And though I’m sure family and friends will visit to mourn and sit vigil, at some point those who shared the den have to get rid of the rotting corpse.

This might seem like a ridiculous notion, however let me drop this little nutly nugget on you. As a squirrel gathers nuts in preparation for the winter frost and subsequent hibernation, do you think he is aware of the last nut that he gathers for the day? Like, “let me make one more run for some nuts and then head back to grab some shut-eye.” Surely they don’t return to their crib with full intensions of going back out to get more nuts only to collapse and wake up the next morning having no idea how they got there. I wouldn’t say they keep a detailed daily planner, but at some point an instinctual thought process can lead to premeditated behaviors. They may be more like us (humans) than we may like to admit.

The Long Arm Of The Law Of Gravity.

Have you ever been walking and suddenly become conscious of the fact that you have arms? Are they swaying too much? Are they not swaying enough? Is gravity pulling them so far down that you resemble that of our primate counterparts?

Once this thought enters your mind, it’s difficult to free it from this self-conscious dilemma. I start observing other people’s arm movement so that I can maybe gauge what normal arm swing is. To no avail, it seems as though everybody else has it down. It’s at this point that I begin crunching some numbers and figuring out how I might be able to budget a rascal scooter or perhaps one of those new-age Segways.

With money tight right now, I ultimately I have to come to grips with the fact that perhaps I just walk a little funny. So big deal, my arms awkwardly move about when I’m walking, at least I don’t walk duck footed. Unless of course I do walk duck footed. Shit, I’ll have to look into that.

Shank Tank

Are convicts really given mirrors in prison? Movies always have that classic shot of all the inmates using their mirrors to see the newbie or “fresh meat’ as I was referred to during my first stint in jeuvy. I can’t help but wonder though, wouldn’t these dudes promptly sharpen that mirror into a shiv and shank the newbie to show him who runs the cellblock?

While we’re on the subject of prisoners and their crafty tendencies, why not put their walnut sized brains to use for something more worth wild then making license plates? Though traditionally think tanks were reserved for intellects and specialists invested in problem solving, I believe it’s worth harnessing the minds of the 25 to lifers. Here are two main reasons why a prison community would lend itself to a successful think tank. 1) They have nowhere to go and nothing to do. 2) Their crafty problem solving methods for creating weapons, masterminding escapes or just scoring some extra peanut butter on their PBJ sandwiches should not go untapped.

Generally the term “think tank” is just a phrase used to describe a collection of intellects, not an actual room or better yet a tank. However, in the case of the prisoners, they really are in a tank. A beautiful marrying of two very different things.

I’d Curl Up With A Book If It Wasn’t For My Pulpuslacerataphobia. (Fear Of Paper Cuts)

I remember before Blockbuster came along new releases consisted of one shelf. Now they take up the entire perimeter of the store. As far as I’m concerned, new releases should be reserved for films that have been released in the past month. Because of this, classic old movies are relegated to the center shelves where more often than not you can only view the binding of the DVD case. I mean seriously, who are they to decide if ‘Police Academy 7’ is worthy of a full cover display or simply a side display? Because of this my perfect movie selection is put in jeopardy.

After pining over which marginal movie to watch by myself on a Friday night I head towards the register. This proves to be more difficult a task than one might think. The line begins somewhere towards the back of the store, mimicking that of the line for Thunder Mountain at Disney’s Frontier Land. This of course is so that Big Bad Blockbuster can tempt your fat ass with treats that could fatten even the fastest of metabolisms. As if that’s not bad enough, they also offer a large selection of trash celebrity news magazines. Magazines at a fucking movie rental store! Am I the only one that finds this ass backwards? Here I am premeditating a two-hour couch potato session and they have the audacity to offer me even more time wasting vehicles. Sadly as I drag my feet through this gauntlet of gluttony I inevitably grab a box of snowcaps and this month’s edition of CosmoGirl (I can never resist all those great quizzes and helpful tips).

Though the aforementioned gripes would be enough to sour any trip to a local movie rental store, the real tragedy happens at check out. It’s here that your pathetic dignity and movie selection is showcased for all to see. Upon the exchange of your moneys, the dult behind the counter hands you three hundred receipts that you ultimately toss in the parking lot and announces, “Ok Mr. Del fagio of 66 South Rd. ‘Dirty Dancing’ is due back here Sunday at noon.” (Yes that’s right, I find Jennifer Grey and Patrick Swayze’s performance to be magical. Don’t judge me.) Beet red in the face from embarrassment and anger I storm out of the store vowing to never visit Blockbuster again.

Next week I’ll stand on that same line with a box of cookie dough balls, a Teen Vogue, and the epic ‘Titanic’ in my hands.