Happy Baseball Season!

Today was opening day, and the Mets won! Not an April Fool's joke, either. 7-2 over the Marlins.

Wouldn't You Do The Same?

I have a philosophy class three times a week. It's a life, death, and dying class.. so it's pretty optimistic. We all received documents to make our own living wills on Friday. It was pleasant. But before that, we were discussing the measures taken in America to prevent death, and how it is dealt with. We touched on the basic subjects of 2008–cloning, stem cells, and why it is always best to have a spare. Then my professor mentioned a family who had a sick daughter in need of a bone marrow transplant. Neither of her parents were a match, so they decided to have another baby. Once the baby was one month old, they took the bone marrow and transplanted it. Apparently people found this wrong. I can't imagine being in that position to begin with, but if I knew of a way to help, I doubt I'd give it a second thought. The older daughter would be able to live, and have a younger sibling she would probably never be compelled to beat up.

And in the event of my passing, I leave everything to my furry son, Bandit.

News Anchors are People Too.

I see a lot of variety working as a cashier. There are the green-friendly folk, who bring canvas bags put all of their items in. I like them, they bag their own things. There are people who are ridiculously cruel to their children. I can't say how many times I've heard a mother tell a small child she is going to give them away/take them back to the hospital and leave them. They make me sick. Some like to tell me the amazing savings they're getting by shopping here, and not their local store. But then tonight, something new! I saw a familiar face. I initially thought it was one of my favorite news anchors(I'm sure everyone has favorite anchors, right?). She bought thongs. I was like wow, here? You? Why? It kind of ruined things for me. Not to mention, it made me feel awkward. Then she signed the receipt, and it ended up being a different anchor who I care significantly less about. Then it all made sense.

Unless she just buys thongs at mass retail stores using the other anchor's name, because that is a possibility. That would be the best kind of identity theft, if there could be such a thing. To be locally famous, and then purchase semi-embarrassing items under another locally-famous name. Yeah..

Intermission

The Receiving End of Sirens, or TREOS for the text message enthusiast, are on "indefinite hiatus," due to Brendan having a son and deciding touring would be too difficult. While I understand, it kind of sucks.

I first saw a show of theirs without any intention. I was there to see Story of the Year, and TREOS just happened to be opening for them. Once they took the stage, I was floored. There are no words for how they sounded to me that night. Their harmony and perfectly written lyrics had me within minutes. Though I will honestly say I could not remember their name, I referred to them as "The Second Band" for about a month or two. I gave their cd to anyone I knew, and probably annoyed a few with it.

I will definitely miss not being able to see another one of their shows, and not being able to look forward to a new record, but I'd definitely be into a reunion show!


There are two more shows for those fortunate enough to be in that area:
May 2nd - Lupos - Providence, RI
May 4th - The Bamboozle - East Rutherford, NJ


http://www.thereceivingendofsirens.com/
http://www.myspace.com/thereceivingendofsirens

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Even libraries have toughened up. But, not having weapons is on the bottom of the list.

Aint No Party Like a Scranton Party

St Patrick's Day is approaching, just 7 more sober days. Cities, restaurants, pubs, and everyone else are planning for the food colored celebrations. Guiness is even trying to make the day a national holiday. (They need 1,000,000 votes by midnight 3-16-08.) One particularly Irish proud area is Scranton, PA. It is widely known due to the recent popularity of The Office, which is set in Scranton. The name might also be recognized as an area with some of the worst potholes in Pennsylvania, or one of the worst cities for asthmatics. Despite all of this, Scranton knows how to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. The annual parade is on the mouths of potential goers from the beginning of March. But this year, an election year, something different will happen. Hillary Rodham Clinton will be attending the celebration, along with her daughter, Chelsea. Hillary Clinton's father was born in Scranton, which may be what helps draw her to the area.

Weather reports for the New England states have not been all that promising, but heres to hoping for a somewhat clear day.

Scary

Today I was looking for a new futon. My mother dragged me to a store I normally hate, but I was a bit desperate. We walk in, and I immediately note the unpleasant smell. Three associates looked at me angrily, but they should do something about it. I was totally adamant that there would be no futon buying at this establishment. Then, I saw it. The mattress is thicker than I am, and quite comfortable. As I'm laying on the dusty disgusting floor model, I tell my mother "I think this could work." Before finishing that statement, something blocks my fluorescent light high. This woman did not look happy. My mother bravely asked her if she thought the amazing futon would fit in our car. She says she will let us look at the boxes, but not before she turned down a poor old woman's request to use the restroom. I felt bad, and stayed a few steps behind.

After much debate, we decided to give it a shot. We walked over to the furniture specific register where the happy associate could ring us up. After another bathroom request denied, and some yelling at of other customers, I whispered "she is satan" to my mother. Actually, I more so mouthed it, but the lights still dimmed a bit. Satan told us to bring our car to the front of the store, so the futon could be squeezed into the car. I was happy to exit the building.

After pulling the car up front, I see the doors slide open and Satan pushing a cart. Of course. She must have channeled her other souls, as she lifted the entire box in one movement. She angled it into the trunk, and I got to pull the car seats up as far as possible. I helped. Once that was in and the trunk was shut, it was mattress time. She opened the car door, pushed it in the back seat and was done in seconds. I did supervise a bit.

A little bit of a crammed drive home, but we made it. I also purchased a red futon cover, to commemorate the process. I don't plan on returning to the store anytime soon.

The Big Q

Thursday night at approximately 8:33pm, i received a phone call from a Wal-Mart supercenter. The woman on the other end asked if I would like to come the following morning for an interview at 10:30am. No, I wouldn't really. Even less after not having enough time to get a haircut. I said "yes" anyway, and began stressing. By morning, the interview process was already ruined. I looked like a member of the Beatles, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

I was told to go to the fitting room and explain I was there for an interview. The woman there was very nice, which is probably why they want her to be the first person you meet. She directed me towards the back of the store under the "site to store" sign, and told me to sit on the bench. This is probably where my troubles began. The designated bench was occupied, so I sat elsewhere thinking this would be the demise of my interview. The exasperated shoppers finally left, and I ran to the coveted seat. I heard the fitting room associate make several announcements to personnel about coming to interview me. They did not work. About 10 minutes after my scheduled interview time, a man walks towards my special bench with a clipboard. He looked a little casual, but he had a clipboard and a pen. So obviously, in my mind, he was interviewing me. No. He sat down next to me and began playing on his imitation Blackberry. I was glad I only partially smiled.

When they tell you to sit under the "site to store" bench, they do not mention it is located right next to the busiest restrooms in the world. I believe more associates went in and out of these restrooms than were actually working, most of them to the women's room. Each woman acted as if they were shocked to run into a fellow co-worker, and greeted one another with an excited "Hello!, How are you?" No arguments about wearing the same outfits. One lady left with a cup. I almost wanted to peak in and see what was going on. The men's room had slightly less traffic, but more frequent visitors. I saw at least 3 men leave and return several times. Perhaps they had a party, too.

The non-interviewer sitting 8 inches to the right of me is still thoroughly enjoying his Palm-Casiberry. It started to play a ringtone, and he began to dance. I expected him to turn off the ringtone, which was infact polyphonic, but he instead just scrolled through some more. Each tone had it's own bench dance style, this was not his first time. I kept both hands in my pockets pinching myself, but I still could not help but smile. Both hands in my pockets, smiling uncontrollably, and someone comes out to ask me if I am there for the interview. Great. I should have said no. He tells me someone will be with me shortly, and then disappears. I don't blame him.

I assume I will be free of the bench bathroom area soon, and the wait seems a little less painful, but my nerves were kicking in at this point. I started to hear this rythmic thumping. It couldn't be my heart, I'm not in a movie. I was looking for anything around me to blame this noise on. Nothing. I finally start to think my chest is about to explode, when an older man riding a Wal-Mart issued scooter with a rollback tag stuck to a wheel glides towards the mens' room door. Oh. At least it wasn't me.

Finally, interview time. I go through one, and feel it went okay. He tells me that he will recommend me for my second interview, and I hit the bench for some more waiting. Apparently around noon the custodians take over. A kind gentleman wheeled his over-sized plastic wheel barrow of garbage right in front of me. My cologne meant nothing at this point. He walks over to the womens' room and peaks his head in, asking if anyone was in there. Well of course there was. At least 6 ladies said "YES!", as if the thought if this man entering scared them greatly. So, he took his garbage cart and exited through the gray dungeon door area.
My second interviewer arrived, and we went into a small room around the car fixing area. We left the door open. He asked me a few questions, and seemed genuinely interested in my answers. Upon realizing this, I tried to elaborate as much as I could, making things up along the way. I'm sure it spiced things up for the both of us. He finishes, and we both go to the personnel room so my "test can be graded." Oh dear.

He sat on a computer entering some things, and had me sit at an adjacent table. In front of me was a book full of associates names, hours, and a lot of other things I probably shouldn't have been looking at. So I pretended I wasn't. He finally finishes, and tells me someone else will be in to do something else. Okay. Then he realized he lost his pen, and went back to the tire office to find it. It was actually in the personnel room, he just couldn't see it. He got his pen, and I got the job. Drug test pending.

Quaker

posting some posterior posts posthumously.