To the Jerk Who Shooshes Me:

Who does this? Who shooshes their coworker who is CONDUCTING business? Oh, that's right. YOU do. You shoosh any conceivable sound that will get between your barritone voice and the boss's ears who hears you mucking it up with your industry contact. We all know the only reason you were hired is because you're From the Industry. However, WHY you would leave a six-figure job to get back into the trenches with peons like us--of which you so clearly love to nonverbally communicate this with your avoidance of any other aspect of your job aside from "schmoozing" said industry people--is beyond us. However, I suspect it may have something to do with you getting FIRED and omitting that from your interview process. Too bad California doesn't allow former employers to rat on your lying, self-important ass. The mistake you've made is you think we're so dotty we didn't actually come from the industry as well, and oh my, actually made FRIENDS we keep in contact with.

I know my laugh is obnoxious. It is, of course, LEGENDARY, but it's a part of my charm. Trust me, I didn't want you for a cube mate any more than you like to deal with my eco-friendly, tree-hugging, dirt-munching druid-reduced light scheme that hurts your eyes. Your stupid neon OPEN sign is dumb in a CUBICLE and too bright for our tiny office spaces.

Screaming over all of us in the office so our boss five offices away can surely hear you, is sufficient enough, so when you're on your personal cell phone laughing it up with your former coworker (of whom, on your speaker phone, sounds like he is pitying you), there is no need for you to roll out of your cube into the middle of the office and project toward the boss's door.

So when I'm trying to talk over YOU so that my customers can hear me, your stink eye, glaring toad-ass does not need to SHOOSH me. We can all hear you. And? Talking to our customers as though they are snot-nosed kindergartners who can barely wipe their asses will not earn you any respect among your colleagues, of which you are so desperately trying for. And everyone is NOT your "buddy", and no, we don't know what you mean when you every other sentence ends with, "know what I mean, buddy?".

Lighten up and stop taking yourself so seriously. The Fart Machine IS funny, everyone does it and pretending as though you are too classy for a little toilet humor just shows how much of an asshat you really are.

And that death metal I play with the woofer turned all the way up? I don't even particularly like it but, yeah, "buddy", that's for YOU. Shoosh me again. I'll bring in rap.  

 Imagine a pristine lake, so clear you can see the fish swimming lazily through the cool blue depths, brooks cascading over river-tumbled rocks, their brilliant colors set off by the refreshing crystal water. The whisper of the old moss carpeted trees swaying in the crisp mountain breeze and lush trails riddled with boastful flowers. In a glen there's geese with their goslings, gliding across the glass-like surface of the lake areducks, and the chitter of birds offers a relaxing symphony.

 Now, imagine that beautiful place littered with discarded beer cans, forgotten cigarette butts, dirty old socks shoved under a bush, or broken glass bottles where your children would run along the beach. Also imagine it peppered with inappropriately disposed garbage bags ripped open by wildlife and its contents strewn about. Not a welcoming sight, would you agree?

 This is what welcomed us when we went to Sugar Pine Resevoir near Foresthill, California. When Vin & I scouted the place weeks prior we'd taken out what we could (cans--beer AND soda, old rope and general garbage). When we returned with Sleeping CB and his children to fish, we were offered the wonderful site of carelessly left-behind garbage filled with someone Easter picnic that had been torn apart by the furry residence at Sugar Pine. Littering the path were beer cans, broken bottles, crushed soda cans, old food, clothing, discarded camping gear and old, rain-soaked sleeping bags.

 Really, people? Really?! If you want to continue to enjoy a safe, beautiful jewel in the environment, I suggest you pigs clean up after yourselves. We're not talking DEEP into the forest where it's too hard to trek out the garbage YOU BROUGHT IN. This is FEET, YARDS from the trail entrance. And seriously folks, if you're man enough to bring in all your crap, you're man enough to take it out. It takes one extra moment of THINKING ahead to bring a garbage bag. And, if you're like the idiots who DID think of taking a garbage bag...WALK the extra 10 feet to the GARBAGE CAN and THROW IT AWAY. Don't leave it on the trail entrance hoping someone ELSE is going to clean up after you like this is some urban tract-home set up.

 This is what invites the ecological imbalance of human food into the chain where bears, racoons, or whatever look for our easy scraps to scavange endangering their health and ours. This kind of carelessness is what hikes up the cost of environmental clean upsof already endangered park funds. Parks you clearly like to take advantage of, but don't respect enough not to shit in it so it's ruined for your future use and everyone else around you.

 People like you DISGUST us. People like YOU who result in us, spending our get-away-from-the-city time picking up after YOU in the RAIN so no one else would have to deal with YOUR crap!

Have you noticed a little thing over the last three years? The little thing called a drought? And, have you, People Who Gripe About the Weather, forgotten we need this fundamental element called water? It's what we need to live, water our CROPS with. You know what crops are right? It's those things called VEGETABLES. You only eat meat, you say? Well, do you not realize what YOUR food eats? They eat vegetables. They need it to get fat for you to eat.

This little thing called drought keeps your food from plumping up and eating, which means you have to pay higher prices for your food. That fruit you like to eat? Yeah, it needs water too. Don't you drink water? Don't you take a shower? Yeah, that wet liquid is called water. It comes from the sky AND WE NEED THE RAIN TO PROVIDE THESE THINGS.

Those pools you like to languish beside all summer long and get skin cancer? Yeah, you need water for that too. Oh, you like lakes, instead? Have you not noticed the dismally low levels lately? That's because of that THING we were talking about called DROUGHT.

So, after a three spotty years of drought, don't you dare start whining that you hate the cloudy, rainy, depressing weather. It took three years to get here and we'll be damned if you jinx us and it goes away.

While I disagree with bailout plans as I believe survival of the fittest should be the law of any land, financial or natural, I still suffer from a degree of sadness when some of my favorite stores fail. Failure to adapt to our current competitive climate rings a death knell I would have hoped these stores heard loud and clear early enough - but apparently not. One of them was my favorite neighborhood Borders. I loved that store.

I would escape on my lunches to wander the aisles, leisurely read the backs of books, occasionally buy more than I could read in my rare spare time, listen to music and take in the general scholastic vibe. I enjoyed their expansive aisles, tasteful decor and organized shelves. Now, the only bookstore around is Barnes and Nobles. When I go in there I feel like I'm entering a garage sale, or some cluttered basement of someone desperately trying to destash their dust-collecting tomes. The aisles are small and cramped, traffic is impeded by tables heaping ofsale items, staff isn't particularly informative or helpful and it's loud in there. Shelves tower taller than the average person's eye level and creates a claustrophobic atmosphere.

I've resolved to the fact that Amazon is going to be where we purchase books from here on. I don't particularly have a dislike for Amazon, but I enjoy being able to touch, feel and look at the artwork on a book, read the jacket and make decisions that will result in me being able to go home with the book and devour it immediately after purchase. For a literary junkie, waiting from three days up to 3 weeks is torture before being able to crack open a freshly bought book.

The crumbling Borders chain is an indicator to what is going on behind the scenes. I subscribe to several literary blogs (authors, editors and literary agents) and you'd be surprised at how much turmoil the publishing business is in right now. Has the recession affected your book purchasing habits? It hasn't mine. In fact, when entertainment and other luxurious are too expensive, a book isa cheap vacation to a thrilling story or a beautiful far away place and interesting characters. But, apparently the recession has severely affected publishing houses.

While trying to sell my own novels, I've discovered a politer than usual rejection letter - that the current market isn't accepting acquisitions at this time. Further investigation into the blogs of the aforemention industry people offer a dim glimmer into the fading world of book-publishing. Editorial houses are consolidating or merging, which has meant huge layoffs for editors and publishers alike. Additionally, because these houses are freezing acquisitions of new novels and playing it safe with established authors (and insulting our intelligence in the process), literary agents and agencies have clients, but no sales. Agents have been laid off as well in the wake of this trend - which means fewer agents for unpublished authors like me.

Established agents assure it's a trend that will pass, like the recession, but other watchdog groups suggest a dark gloam that has yet to settle over publishing. With the average reader accepting media trends like Kindle or online e-books at a cheaper cost for most reading material, it's no wonder why big box stores are struggling. Gone is the day of the author able to live full-time on the proceeds of their advance from their published novel, unless you have a huge marketing budget, loyal fan base,and endorsements like Stephen King, Stephanie Meyer or JK Rowling to name a few. Which is fine, because most authors write to tell a story, not make a dollar. And, if an author is in the business to make money, chances are what they're writing isn't anything worth reading that will make you think, make a difference or serve a purpose.

With every challenge, success lies in the ability to adapt. Where the industry isn't adapting, the author must. On the front page of New York Times last week I saw an article about the plight the publishing industry is facing, and in turn what other aspect was booming - self-publishing. Self publishing offers a forum for authors to edit, proof and printtheir own books with the help of websites like Lulu.com. Reasonably priced and also offering an outlet to sell and market one's own books, Lulu provides an answer to the struggling writer. Skipping the soul-ripping and ego-deflating writer-agent query process and the arduous political game of editor boards -going straight to publishing on demand - if the author can afford it - is a quick fix to getting published. A cult following and elitist self-published author readers help cushion the shock of flat sales. Knowing how to sell your story helps in this process by grabbing cross-genre readers.

However, author beware.If an author takes advantage of such resource, the rights are lost if the author wishes to approach a publishing house to print after-the-fact for reasons such as sales aren't what the author thought it should/would be.Publishing and editorial houses like first crack and, of course, exclusivity to a story. Also, be sure to read ALL the fine print - as some self-publishing sites actually require a writer to sign over the rights of the story and only receive royalties based on sales.

Ultimately, times are changing. The publishing industry is starting to adapt during crisis, the reader is welcoming more technological advanced trends and writers now have options. Will I continue to attempt to sell my stories through the conventional method? Perhaps. Will I try out self publishing? Maybe.

Someone ties a chain around a public telephone, attaches it to their truck and yanks it out of the wall and ground for the change.

Someone tries to ram an ATM in an effort to steal the vestabule for the money.

All of this on the same Friday night.

You are the bane of my existence. I have now been in school almost two years. TWO YEARS of arbitrarily sitting through mundane classes that barely stimulate a brain cell, of which the feeling seems to be mutual of The Establishment's past instructors, who are there to give their personal anecdotes and get you to pass their class at ALL COST.

In these two years I have not sacrificed my quality in school work - in fact, because I actually CARE I try my hardest with EVERY class. So why, Dragon Lady, in your mullet hair, tennis shoes, slacks and too many sweaters, do you HATE me? My skills in assignments are stellar - and have been commented by others of higher grade courses as a pleasure to read - must you pick at every little grammatical issue like a 3rd grade reading teacher? The COMMA is overrated. I don't use them in assignments. Short sentences, while complete, are not inferior because I chose to be succinct - an objective of your curriculum, I BELIEVE.

Because I WORK full time and have a LIFE (unlike you in your atrocious fashion mistakes) I do not paw over with perverted glee at every HR related article to use in my assignments where my past experiences and research suffice.  You asked for references, of which I provided, I did not know a NUMBER of references qualified my research abilities.

My question is HOW in the last two years, has my work, skills and research abilities been SO SUBSTANDARD you feel compelled to FAIL every assignment I turn in? Have your predecessors been complete dolts as to pass our inferior pieces of literary art? Are we so dim we can barely slobber through a sentence and you must point out our shortcomings because of a dangling participle? OF WHICH YOU SPELLED WRONG IN THE CORRECTION?

Honestly, I think your judgmental, haughty and pompous bullhorn lectures and subsequent "feedback" of our assignments is your schaudenfreude absolution to ensure your 'superiority' over anyone you feel is less than you due to a complete lack of interest in something as boring as micro managing the training of others.

To the Holiday Travel Drivers:

You are the reason the Autobahn would never be a success here. This entire concept eludes your incredibly simple, NASCAR thinking. The left lane, aka "fast lane" is there so that SLOWER traffic moves to the right, keeping the flow of traffic free of clogs.  You, doing your best to portray an artery plaque globule have decided to attempt to control the easy flow around you. You, in your infinite wisdom of racing theory have decided to take any attempt to get around your slower moving cesspool of intelligence results in you taking the very notion PERSONAL and play road-rage games to deny any and all others access to the freedom of MOVING WITH THE SPEED OF TRAFFIC.

Don't get emotional. It's just a lane. It does not have your name on it. You do not own it. In your sad attempt to control those around you because you yourself are spineless and this is your passive aggressive outlet at lashing out this is not something you should try to take on in your infantile maturity. This is not the second grade where the bully Gary is trying to cut in front of you in the lunch line taking the last ranch-style french fries. It is just a freeway. And you should read the signs that say. SLOWER TRAFFIC TO THE RIGHT.

Somewhere during the time I started shopping at REAL clothing stores that weren’t USED I developed a penchant for Anne Taylor, Calvin Klein, Express and Bebe etc and stopped decorating all my clothes with safety pins. Oh, and I stopped wearing all black. In short? I grew up and dressed like an adult. Malicat, one of our friends, who always looks SO put together told me, after I enviously asked where she’d gotten a cute denim DKNY dress, said Cross Roads. Huh? They have normal clothes there? Apparently so. And, the cool thing about Cross Roads was that they would buy your clothes too, so you could receive a credit to shop with or cold hard cash for a smaller percentage – but cash nonetheless.

Recently, I was de-stashing and thought, wow – these are some cute clothes I don’t fit into anymore. They’re name brand – Banana Republic, Gap, Anne Taylor, Express but I just don't feel like depressing myself by wistfully peering at them and whimsically trying them on, only to realize half-way through a pretzel position I'm never going to wear them again. Most of the clothes are a year old or less, maybe a little more. But still very fashionable and in style. So, I decided with today’s current economic crisis instead of BUYING clothes, or giving them away and missing out on a tax-deduction since they never give you a reciept ANYWAY, I was going to sell mine to Cross Roads! Ingenius idea. I’m saving money and helping the environment and imparting some of my style to others. I had a huge bag full of clothes and went to sell. As the multiple facial-pierced buyer went about scrutinizing my clothes I went and perused their racks. I found a couple of cute pants that I could use for work but! I was not here to buy. I was here to sell. I made a mental note at just how cheap these pants were from one of my favorite store – Express – before they turned Bebe skanky – the pants were a lot like the ones I was putting up for sale. Now, Cross Roads claims they purchase current season name-brand clothes for resale. But, as I was screeching plastic hanger after plastic hanger across the metal rack I narrowed my eyes at some of the ‘name brands’ they had. George? Do you know who makes George? WALMART. Among other unidentifiable boutique tags I began to doubt the buyer’s abilities or their claim to sell "name brand".  Just how "name brand" are we talking? It has a name on the tag and is now being sold for more than it was originally purchased for?

About a half an hour later the slacker-styled buyercalled me back and informed me that she was going to buy only 3 items. I refrained from rifling through the bag to see just which of my personal selection they decided to keep, flattered that my clothes were worthy of purchasing for sale – but… only 3? I had over 21 articles in there. Curiousity was killing me to see just what they purchased. Then, I was even more crestfallen at the amount they were offering me. $21 for store credit or $14 cash. Now I really wanted to know just what they purchased to know if the value was comparable. Then, you know what the neo-avant garde chick said? “Some of your stuff is last year’s style but the three items we purchased will do”. Rather than looking like a desperate hobo crack head wanting to score crack money I took the cash and left. Last year’s style? Like I’m going to buy NEW clothes to bring in here and sell for a diminished price. OF COURSE it’s last year’s style.

Once home, however I scavenged through the bag and discovered they took 2 pairs of pants, one from Bebe that was over 5 years old and terribly pilled but I threw in the bag anyway, a pair of cute Banana Republic pants I hated parting with but I am not going to fit into a size 2 anytime soon and a crisp white collared shirt from Express. Also several years old. My fall stuff I had bought last season from Ann Taylor? STILL IN THERE. Brown embroidered skirts, orange and pumpkin colored sweaters, sharp pants that I just can’t and don’t want to squeeze into – WHY? I know style recycles every 5 – 7 years, but I most of my clothes I purchase are timeless which begs me to wonder when their sign on the door stated they were looking for fall items, light sweaters, etc WHY they didn’t buy EXACTLY that?

There is another Cross Roads in another part of town and I thought I’d try my luck again with THEM. This time? I threw in my lesser brand clothes including 3 George shirts from WALMART, since that was incredibly popular at the other store and walked in with TWO bags, confident they’d find SOMETHING to buy. When I walked in I was met with the quintessential token gay guy as a buyer who was really nice and professional and some girl with a terrible eighties Madonna-esque satorical decision who I wondered if was old enough to drive. I was not impressed with this store as it looked like I just walked into a Ross in Beirut. Clothes in NO particular ordered hung askew and it was packed with mouth-breathing teenagers favoring the “I-just-rolled-out-of-bed” look (at 6pm at night). This particular store had no regard for any particular theme of clothes – anything went but was mostly influenced by the trendy 80’s look. And it wasn’t like the NEW stuff to look like you came from the 80's but clothes actually FROM the 80's that were pilled, torn, faded and stretched out. It smelled like my high school gym locker room.

I perused the racks while they looked through my impressive two bags of clothes and really found NOTHING that sparked my fancy. However, still over-confident that they’d find SOMETHING, I spied a cute light Mohair sweater that could be dressed up for work or dressed down for casual. I plucked it up thinking I’d have enough store credit to buy it and ask for cash back. After 45 minutes, they still hadn’t called me up, but were calling folks who came in after me. I know I have poor hearing but the place was as big as our walk-in closet – I would have heard. So finally, I wandered up to see when my stuff would be looked at. The tiny elf of a cashier blankly looked at me, blinked and vapidly said, “we decided not to buy anything”.

What? Together those two bags of clothes probably cost about $600 and are cut to be timeless with no garish prints, no trendy styles, are taken care of to not be faded, frayed and if any hemming or alterations were done – they were done so they could be undone easily. So, I guess looking like you crawled out of a bad 80’s album cover is more important to these twits who wouldn’t know classic style if it took a vinyl album and smashed it over their insipid heads is preferable to people who can actually afford this crap. But, I still had that stupid sweater in my hand and no credit. Not wanting to look like a complete ass by dumping the sweater because they didn’t buy my clothes I bought it.

It has mohair in it. Do you know what mohair is? It’s goat. Well, a blend actually of shed animal fur. Do you know what happened to the last sweaters I owned that were mohair and angora? Ferris ate huge holes in them and then humped them. In defeat I went home with this stupid sweater and reported to Vin that I went in the hole on the trip and sulked. I had hung the sweater on our entry hall hanger and no sooner was I home for twenty minute did I hear a crash in the hallway. Ferris? Was dragging the sweater into his room to hump it.

Really? Were you looking for us? Or, were you truly looking for nicknames that are skinny? Like as in short? Skinny as in "the deal" like, what's the skinny? Or is that some new slang like phat. Instead of phat, it's skinny? Or, are you overweight trying to look for a name that will make your online persona skinny? You know, nicknames just aren't cool unless someone ELSE gives them to you. It's like George Costanza on Seinfield. You can't give yourself a nickname like T-bone and expect a) people to respect and b) use it without laughing AT you. So, good luck in your search for 'skinny nicknames'.

And, for the person who found us by searching for "round table pizza discounts"... HUH? I'm sorry that in your search for saving money on the crappiest and most expensive pizza in the world landed you here. We make our own, or patron a small neihborhood joint aptly named Papa's Pizza. Not to be confused with Papa Murphy's (See grease pie, but damn good), or Papa John's (another rip off). Oh, no Papa's stands out on its own! There is no comparison to Papa's Pizza, the original pizza parlor! With specialty pizza's like taco or the yummiest chicken garlic EVER. So, good luck in your search for discounts on the crappiest pizza EVER.