» On 9/01/2020 01:00:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Fond Memories Of The Newsroom From Hell, #4: Doctor's Note. 

One morning, I sent an email to my boss:

"I made a doctor's appointment to have an in-office procedure on Thursday afternoon, and he tells me that I won't be in any shape to work that night. I'm not expecting it to be too serious (fingers crossed), but I just wanted you to know that I won't be at work on the Thursday-into-Friday graveyard shift."

My boss didn't express the slightest bit of concern for my health. In fact, he said it was a horrible night for me to take sick time. I replied that I was simply trying to be thoughtful, by giving him some advance notice. He then threatened me, saying I would have to produce a doctor's note, in order to take sick leave.

I told him he was setting a dangerous precedent, by requiring an excuse for one day's worth of sick time. I also told him I was offended, but I rescheduled the doctor's appointment anyway. The next week, I followed the procedure listed in the Employee Manual, and called in sick at the last minute. The newsroom was even more short-handed, and my boss (who is not a graveyard worker) had to stay up all night to cover for me.

My dad taught me that if you treat people courteously, they will usually respond in kind. But he also said that if they shit on you, all bets are off..

#1: An Imaginary Conversation About A Thieving Soda Machine, #2: Powerless, #3: Spellchecker Fun.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 8/01/2020 12:30:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Fond Memories Of The Newsroom From Hell, #3: Spellchecker Fun. 

To: Tech Support, From: Me
Our spellchecker needs to be purged again. It doesn't stop on "solider" and several other misspellings that editors have been incorrectly adding to the dictionary.

From: Tech Support
Soldier - is a marine, navy, army person.
Solider - is a firm and stable shape.

To: Tech Support
That is certainly true, but the checker used to stop on solider, which several of our dyslexic-ish writers use for soldier, and now it doesn't. Upshot: many items will go out on the news wire with the wrong spelling, and our company's reputation will suffer. As far as I know, solider has never been used (correctly) in a news story written by our staff, while soldier seems to be used all the time. But maybe I'm wrong.

#1: An Imaginary Conversation About A Thieving Soda Machine, #2: Powerless.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 10/18/2019 06:00:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
High School Daze 3: Reunion Nostalgia. 

I've been planning for nearly a year to attend my 50th high school reunions (there were two in Massachusetts this month: details below), but things started going downhill in April. That's when I got laid off, after nine years of writing and editing in a network radio newsroom. Since then, I've been having a tough time getting other work. Employers don't like hiring people my age. Surprise! To make matters worse, the recession of 2008 had pretty well wiped us out, and I was hoping to stay on the job until they carried me away in a pine box.

Then in June, I became really, really sick. Thought I was gonna die. And I'm still recovering from that. Hence, the prospect of back-to-back reunion weekends began fading away. Money became an overriding issue. It ain't cheap to fly in from Arizona. So I wrote this blog posting, to work through the powerful feelings of longing and loss:

My father's career moved us around a lot. By the time we arrived in Westfield (97 miles west of Boston) during the late summer of 1968, I had attended three different school systems in Maine, another one in NYC, and one in eastern Massachusetts (30 miles northwest of Boston). I was none too happy about leaving my Chelmsford friends, but I was particularly grumpy about Westfield's lack of a cross-country team. I spent some time harassing the track coach, the late Robert T. Andersen, in his dark and dank A/V cave, but he eventually got sick of me and passed the buck to his assistant coach. Reign Rix then peppered me with questions about the three years I'd spent on the CHS x-country team, and asked whether I could design effective workouts if we created a new team at WHS. I said yes, and for some reason, he believed me. 😉 So he wangled some crappy old sweatsuits for us, and we were off to the races. Literally.

L-R [click to enlarge]: me, Coach Reign Rix, Jim Gusek, (Bob Grace), Dan Fountain, Bert Cashman, Mike Rood. Later: Zoomiversary.

Later, I found out that WHS had no winter track team, so I cooked up some workouts for them/us, too. We were invited to run at a meet in Boston, and that's when I got busted.

The toughest part of moving away from Chelmsford was leaving Kathy behind. We talked on the phone and wrote letters, but it wasn't the same. So when I qualified for the Boston YMCA indoor track meet, we made plans. Confidential plans. Top-secret plans. Our parents wouldn't know anything. At the meet, a photographer from the Boston Herald Traveler was roaming around, taking lots of photos. When he noticed us smooching, he thought it would make a cute picture. We laughed, knowing that his editor wouldn't pick THAT photo from the hundreds he'd shot.

The next morning, after both sets of parents finished reading the Herald Traveler, we weren't laughing quite so much.


A few months later, Kathy and I split up. They say long-distance relationships never last. But I still have that bronze YMCA medal. And some wonderful friendships, from both schools, that are well past the 50-year mark.

Plus... the treasured memory of a not-so-secret kiss.

Labels: humblebrag, nfh

 
» On 9/01/2019 12:01:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Fond Memories Of The Newsroom From Hell, #2: Powerless. 

August 7, 2018, 11pm, NBC News Radio: The power shuts down, inside our building. Our announcer gets stuck in the elevator. After awhile, a mucky-muck comes in, walks up the three flights of stairs, and explains that our computers are on an emergency generator, but our A/C and lights are not. He really brings home the company's priorities. Outside temp is hovering near 100 degrees (38°C). Inside temp is shooting up to match. I ask the mucky-muck if he's gonna order some pizza, to show that the company appreciates our willingness to work in these horrifying circumstances. He ignores me. It's dark. Really dark. Part of my job involves reading numbers off a printed page, so I pull up the whitest computer screen I can find, to throw some light on the d*mn paper. We all keep working, while sweating our balls off. After a few minutes, the mucky-muck finally decides he's had enough of these unbearable conditions, so he heads for the exit. I yell after him, "Pepperoni and spicy sausage?" He chuckles and continues out the door, never to be seen again.

Fond Memories Of The Newsroom From Hell, #1: An Imaginary Conversation About A Thieving Soda Machine.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 7/25/2019 07:00:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Lemons = Lemonade. 

My old workplace - a newsroom - offered 10 vacation days per year, but allowed me to schedule only 6 at a time. So in February 2019, my wife and I designed our 6-day May holiday. We paid for the flight, the rental car, and the cottage in the English countryside.

Then, in April, I was fired. After nearly 10 years on the job. No explanation. I was 68 years old. So we said whatthehell, and tacked several days in Wales and London onto the end of our vacation. It was the nicest holiday we've had, in more than 10 years.

When we returned, I got sick and nearly died. I still jokingly tell people that I was probably Patient Zero for the COVID-19 virus. So I cranked out a spec screenplay about my wasted youth, thinking it might be the last thing I ever wrote. The idea had been fermenting in my brain for more than four decades, and I kept putting it off. But it turns out that a brush with death focuses the mind with laser-like clarity and "imminent demise" is a powerful motivation. After the script was converted into a proof-of-concept eBook, it appeared almost immediately on Amazon's Performing Arts Best Sellers list.

So I'm really glad I got fired and nearly died. And I'm especially grateful for that misspent youth. [AIM]

Labels: CdA, cotedaz, nfh

 
» On 2/01/2019 12:30:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Suicide By Taillight. 

Our relatively-new Mazda CX-5 has all sorts of standard-issue bells and whistles, most of which are designed to be VERY high-maintenance. Take the headlights, for example. The adaptive front lighting system (AFS) automatically adjusts the headlight beams to the left or right, depending on which way you turn the steering wheel. This means there are left-right adjusting motors on each headlight, just waiting to burn out. The auto-leveling headlight motors (up-down adjustments) are also secretly waiting to malfunction. You can turn off the AFS with a button, but you have to remember to push the d*mn button every f*cking time you start the car. I don't want twitchy headlights that dart around, left and right, up and down, like some nervous serial killer. I just want a set of basic headlights that make the road a little less dark.

I work at night, and one night, I noticed a motorcyclist following me, just a few feet behind the car. At first, I thought it was a cop, but then he pulled up beside me. My peripheral vision could see a leather-clad dude on a chopper. Three feet away from my driver's-side window. Was it road rage? I studiously avoided making eye contact, and my mind raced, trying to remember if I had cut him off. But then, I could see that he was smiling, and indicating that I should roll down my window. Was it a trick? Against my better judgment (it was 9:54pm, in a sh*tty part of town), I opened the window. A crack. He yelled, "Your taillights are off - you need to change the settings!" So I ruefully thanked him, then pulled into the parking lot at my workplace. Sure enough, he was right. The external lights have three settings, and each setting (even the default position) turns on the headlights when the car is moving. But the default position also leaves the taillights OFF.

WHAT THE F*CK?! What kind of madness is this?!! I had assumed, since the headlights were on, that the taillights were on, too. But noooooooooooooooo! Mazda has thoughtfully provided me with a carefully-designed set of Kamikaze Taillights®.

So this morning, I took a look at the owner's manual. The problem seemed to be connected to the Daylight Running Lights (DRL). In Europe, they require headlights to remain on, all the time. But DRL are optional here in the States, and the manual said that only a dealer could turn them off.

F*ck that sh*t. I emailed Mazda USA, and they sent a do-it-yourself Procedure (below) for disabling the DRL. However, trying to read the instructions was, for me, much like attempting to learn the Macarena. I can't dance at all, but I practiced by doing the Hokey Pokey, then patting my head and rubbing my tummy.

OK, deep breath, GO!

Procedure:
1. Apply the parking brake.
2. Set the ignition switch to the ON position (engine off).
3. Press and hold the brake pedal.
 • Continue to press the pedal until the procedure is completed.
 • The entire procedure must be completed within 23 seconds after pressing the brake pedal.
 • Start Step 4 within 2 seconds after pressing the pedal.
4. Turn the headlight switch from OFF to the parking light position 5 times and end with the switch in the OFF position.
 • DO NOT turn the switch all the way to the ON position.
 • Step 4 must be completed within 5 seconds.
 • Start Step 5 within 2 seconds.
5. Press the hazard warning switch 10 times within 5 seconds (on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off-on-off).
 • Start Step 6 within 2 seconds.
6. Turn the headlight switch from OFF to the parking light position 5 times and end with the switch in the OFF position.
 • DO NOT turn the switch all the way to the ON position.
 • Step 6 must be completed within 5 seconds.
7. Confirm DRL setting is changed by releasing the parking brake.
 • If DRL is activated: - PARK BRAKE OFF = DRL ON, - PARK BRAKE ON = DRL OFF.
 Note: The setting will not change if the DRL procedure is not completed within the time limits noted in the above procedure.

So I carefully perform the above Procedure TEN F*CKING TIMES, with and without a stopwatch, but no dice. I then check the owner's manual again, which says I can ask any "Authorized Mazda Dealer" to turn off my daytime running lights. But when I take the car over to CardinaleWay Mazda Mesa, the dealership's service manager tells me it can't be done. I respond: "It says right here..." The manager confides in me that the owner's manual covers a lot of different model types, and that on my model, it simply can't be done. So I write to Mazda USA again, and they say the procedure is a bit difficult, but they'll send instructions to CardinaleWay Mazda Mesa. I think: "Sure, and replacing an oil filter is a bit difficult, if you haven't been f*cking trained on how to do it." Then Mazda USA sends me another email, saying the service manager at CardinaleWay Mazda Mesa refuses to perform the procedure. REFUSES?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!! AND YOU STILL LET HIM CLAIM TO BE AN AUTHORIZED MAZDA DEALER?!!!

Moral: I'm left with a car that lulls me into a feeling of security during my nighttime commutes, when the headlights turn on automatically. But unless I remember, every d*mn time, to also turn on the TAILLIGHTS, someone is very likely to come speeding up behind me and buttf*ck/ram into the a**-end of my non-taillighted car.

Consolation: As I drive down the freeway at night, I notice several other makes and models of new cars, driving without taillights. Are automakers really that stupid? This is a class-action lawsuit, just WAITING to happen. And I want a piece of that action. Remember, you heard it here first.

Update: My apologies. I think some of you may have mistaken this rant for a How-To article. It's not. It's a What-The-F*ck article. ;-)

Labels: nfh

 
» On 3/03/2017 03:10:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Naked Chicken For Orally-Fixated Perverts. 

In the newsroom, we have three monitors at each workstation. Two screens are for computer work, and the third is a TV, so we can keep track of the news channels. The TVs are all muted, to keep us from going crazy with the din. So I've been watching this Taco Bell ad with no sound, from the corner of my eye, ever since the company introduced its "Naked Chicken Chalupa" about five weeks ago. When you can't hear the words, the meaning seems abundantly clear - at least to a pervert like me - supercool Fifties guy is cruising in his convertible with his cute cheerleader girlfriend, when he glances down at his crotch and waggles his eyebrows at his female companion. Then he hands her a piece of food, obviously urging her to "eat it." She's upset for some reason - maybe she's never heard these words from a guy before? But he flashes her a smarmy smile, which induces her to give in, get busy, and do exactly what he wants. At this point, the ad seems to suggest that we've flashed forward twenty years, and the couple has raised another generation of chicken-eating perverts.

I heartily enjoyed this twisted little imaginary scenario, and the incessant barrage of ads finally had its intended effect: I headed over to the nearest Taco Bell today... only to find that THEY HAVE REMOVED THE NAKED CHICKEN CHALUPA FROM THEIR MENU.

Bastards. It's enough to give a guy blueballs.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 7/29/2015 08:50:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
[[this story is about Bill Pullman, not Bill Paxton]] 

In the newsroom, we sometimes insert warnings above the stories we send out on the newswire. Most of them are [[note nature]], which flags sex-related or excessively-gory stories, but we also have two or three other standard warnings. These three or four text flags are used in 999 out of 1,000 cases, but sometimes a story requires a unique warning.

So when I saw the warning above, I was intrigued. Why did the writer feel compelled to emphasize Pullman over Paxton? As I edited the story, I noticed that Pullman's name was mentioned three times, there was no reference to Paxton, and there was the obligatory link to Pullman's role as the President in "Independence Day," so I didn't see how any confusion could result. But I decided to check with my boss on the ol' IM (Instant Messenger), so our conversation wouldn't disturb anybody else in the newsroom. She agreed with my assessment, that the warning wasn't necessary, but then we started writing jokes, and the written conversation quickly spilled over into a verbal exchange.

In the newsroom, that's how we roll. If anybody happens across a funny story or joke, they throw it open to the peanut gallery. Other coworkers jump in with their own contributions, and all of us often end up laughing until the tears roll down our faces. It's fun, and it tickles the comedy-writing areas of our brains. We enjoy trying to verbally one-up each other.

But one of our co-workers (I'll call her Miss X) has recently experienced some severe control issues. Even though Miss X is in a position of authority, my boss and I don't report to her. Miss X affects our work only when there is some style or formatting issue that would affect the whole newsroom. Well, Miss X completely misunderstood our jokes about Pullman/Paxton, and immediately issued a command, in an extremely loud voice, about the formatting of Pullman/Paxton references from this day henceforth, forever and ever, now and at the hour of our death, amen.

There was a looooooooooooong silence. Her edict made no sense to us, and she was obviously confused about the context of our conversation. She hadn't waited long enough to fully comprehend our Pullman/Paxton riff, because lately she feels this odd compulsion to jump into the middle of every conversation. She cannot bear to think that she doesn't COMPLETELY DOMINATE EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENS IN HER NEWSROOM.

After about ten seconds, I wrote an IM to my boss: "Well, that was helpful."

My boss wrote back, "I know, right?!"

And we didn't say anything out loud for the remaining six hours of our shift.

http://www.nola.com/movies/index.ssf/2015/07/bill_pullman_joins_cast_of_pre.html

Labels: nfh

 
» On 8/04/2011 08:00:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
An Imaginary Conversation About A Thieving Soda Machine.

ME: This darn soda machine stole 12 bucks from me. They tell me you give out refunds.
HIM: TWELVE DOLLARS?! But a soda only costs 75 cents!
ME: Yeah, but this machine stole from me 16 times.
HIM: SIXTEEN TIMES?! This week?!
ME: During the last 14 months.
HIM: Why did you keep trying to buy from it?
ME: My co-workers kept showing me new tricks on how to make it operate.
HIM: Did the tricks work?
ME: For a while.
HIM: And then what happened?
ME: It would steal from me again, and I'd walk downstairs, to use the other machine.
HIM: Why did you come back?
ME: Lazy. I buy 10 cans a week. And the other machine is down a hall, down a flight of stairs, down another hall, back through that hall, up the stairs, and back through the first hall.
HIM: So this machine worked most of the time?
ME: Yeah. Then it would steal from me again, and I'd get pissed off.
HIM: And you'd walk downstairs?
ME: Yeah. Until I got lazy again. This machine is only 5 steps away from the newsroom.
HIM: Why didn't you report these incidents to me when they happened?
ME: You normally work on the day shift. I work graveyards.
HIM: But surely you could leave me a note?
ME: 75 cents is not enough to quibble about. And don't call me Shirley.
HIM: So you just thought you'd save up all your refund requests and dump them on me all at once?
ME: Exactly. I felt I was being considerate. Not wasting your time.
HIM: You should have come to me after each incident.
ME: Why?
HIM: The government doesn't let you save up your taxes until you decide to pay them, does it?
ME: I don't know about you, but I pay my taxes once a year. In April.
HIM: So now you're asking me for 12 dollars?
ME: I figured it was about time.
HIM: You did, did you?
ME: Yeah. Um... you make it sound like I'm lying.
HIM: 12 dollars is a lot of money.
ME: This thieving machine stole more than that from me.
HIM: Really?
ME: Yup. I'm actually underestimating.
HIM: You're telling me you lost that much money?
ME: Yeah. I'm stupid. And lazy. Look...
HIM: And you expect me to hand over 12 dollars? Just like that?
ME: Why don't you get the vending company to replace this machine? One phone call, no more hassles.
HIM: It works well enough for most people. Why not for you?
ME: Hey, at least 6 other people have told me this machine stole from them, too. But you're really enjoying this, aren't you?
HIM: Enjoying what?
ME: Watching this machine steal our money and then torturing us, when we come begging for quarters.
HIM: You're pulling my leg, right?
ME: Nope. Look, this refund interrogation is suckin' the life out of me. Keep your precious 12 bucks.
HIM: Don't you walk away from me. Here's the 12 dollars.
ME: I don't want your 12 dollars.
HIM: Take the 12 dollars. But the next time you lose money, come to me right away.
ME: I'm not taking your f*cking 12 dollars. And I won't beg for quarters like some organ-grinder monkey. But why not fix this machine? You know it steals.
HIM [venomously]: This soda machine doesn't STEAL. It MALFUNCTIONS.

Fond Memories Of The Newsroom From Hell, #2: Powerless.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 5/18/2011 12:55:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Red Letter Day.

You know, you buy your Powerball ticket faithfully every week, and you dutifully check the numbers on your ticket, and you know they're not going to match the draw numbers. You just know it. It's not gonna happen. No f*ckin' way.

But you check the numbers, just to make sure. And sure enough, they don't match. And you crumple up the ticket, you throw it away, and you go out and buy another ticket. And you repeat the whole silly routine, week after week. Month after month. Year after year. Decade after decade.

And even though your numbers never come up, you have faith. You have hope. Because what would this world be, if you had no hope? If you couldn't fantasize about walking into your workplace and saying, "Screw this job! I quit!"? If you couldn't dream about flying in your own LearJet to remote destinations, partying with all the Pretty People, leaving your sad, humdrum life behind? If you couldn't imagine living in your Dream House (or HouseS), driving your Dream CarS, hiring your own Sex-&-The-City-2-Bouncy-Chested Nanny, even though you have no children?

And then one day, something's different. You get your ticket, and you open your browser, and you compare the numbers on the screen to the numbers on your ticket. And your eyes widen. And your breath comes in short, sharp gasps. And a guttural scream of inchoate joy involuntarily rips out of your throat. And through your tears of bliss, you look again.

Sure enough, it has finally happened.

Finally. Hallelujah!

You've finally matched one number.

Labels: nfh

 
» On 1/23/2011 06:30:00 AM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Is the head dead yet?

Dirty Laundry
Writers: Don Henley, Danny Kortchmar
Performer: Don Henley [Video] [Wikipedia]

I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something, something I can use
People love it when you lose, they love dirty laundry

Well, I could've been an actor, but I wound up here
I just have to look good, I don't have to be clear
Come and whisper in my ear, give us dirty laundry

Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em all around

We got the bubbleheaded bleach-blonde, comes on at five
She can tell you about the plane crash with a gleam in her eye
It's interesting when people die, give us dirty laundry

Can we film the operation? Is the head dead yet?
You know the boys in the newsroom got a running bet
Get the widow on the set, we need dirty laundry

You don't really need to find out what's going on
You don't really want to know just how far it's gone
Just leave well enough alone, keep your dirty laundry

Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're stiff, kick 'em all around

Dirty little secrets, dirty little lies
We got our dirty little fingers in everybody's pie
Love to cut you down to size, we love dirty laundry

We can do the innuendo, we can dance and sing
When it's said and done, we haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry

Labels: nfh

 
» On 9/01/2010 12:45:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, Alan wrote:
Let's go out to the parking lot and eat from the crème brûlée truck.

I work in a building located right next to the runway at Scottsdale's airport. Many private jets are parked on the tarmac, each poised to meet the whim of some plutocratic a**hole. If the wind is blowing in the right direction, you can almost smell the fœtid stench of abusive power mixed with burning money.

The city of Scottsdale, Arizona is often seen, mainly by those of us who are poor, as snooty and too-rich-for-its-britches. Maybe that's because the mediæval stormtroopers make us show our immigration papers and spread 'em, when we pass the Scottsdale border checkpoint.

Anyhoo. Sometimes food trucks stop in the parking lot at our workplace, so we won't go hungry at lunchtime. And sometimes not. After all, we are simply feudal serfs who work in a right-to-starve state.

But now there's a new food truck in town: a gourmet food truck operated by a Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef who brings freshly-made crème brûlée to the unwashed masses and hand-torches it to order. Yes, this food truck could exist only in the warped reality that is Scottsdale:

-read details in The Arizona Republic [née Republican]
-or follow the truck on Twitter
-or connect to the truck on Facebook

"Let them eat cake crème brûlée!"

Labels: nfh