The Intelligence Estimate

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A lady called into work the other day and talked to Will. Apparently she fancied herself a comedian. When he asked her if she wanted tickets to Friday or Saturday night she replied, "Yes."

"For Friday or Saturday?

"Yes."

"Is that a 'yes' for Friday or for Saturday?"

"Oh, Saturday of course."

"Of course."

She keeps this up for the whole conversation. One annoying answer after another. She just waits like she's pausing for the laugh track of her life to catch up to the speed of her rapier wit. Just silence from Will.

Eventually the conversation grinds to a halt, tickets are purchased and Will is momentarily freed from the tyranny of her imposed hilarity. Then the woman calls back and, as luck would have it, Will answers the phone.

"I'd like to speak to a manager."

Will, never passing up a chance to play devil's advocate, says, 'Absolutely, may I inquire what this is concerning?"

"Uh...tickets...er...umm...box office. Management please."

Well, we later found out that she called to complain about Will. Not about the service he provided, "He was very professional and courteous and all", but about Will personally.

"I was telling jokes, but he wasn't laughing."


Telling jokes? Oh, I see the problem. Will had confused your "humor" for a malicious waste of his time. Now, I don't want to brag, but I was voted the funniest person in Iowa in 1998 (which is another blog entirely) so I know a little something about humor. First of all, it's bad form to blame the audience for your jokes not going over well. It's a poor carpenter who blames his tool, a poor comedian who blames the audience and a poor patron who blames the ticket seller. Really, don't blame the victim. If you push someone down the stairs, don't blame them for being clumsy.

Secondly, know your audience. You could not have known that Will would not find your foolishness funny, but after the first 17 or 18 times, you should have caught on. Cut your losses and shut up. If you still insist on being a dumbass, try the box office over at "Wicked." I hear they take more kindly to your kind of jack-assery over there.

Addendum

Best time to do a blog entry? Not now.

Off Hours

I love doing things at off hours. Like going to movies or grocery shopping. If you do them at the right times of day you can have them all to yourself. The best time to grocery shop is between 11p.m. and 3 a.m. The only people you have to face then are the people stocking the shelves. Best time to see a movie? Weekday matinees and Super Bowl Sunday. Ghost town!

And Now For Something...Well...Just SOMETHING

Sorry I've been absent for the last week. More e-mail problems with the site. To celebrate my triumphant return I give you this video. It is a music video I made for a friend at work who is leaving to pursue endeavors in Los Angeles. I wish him the best...and hope that if he hits the big time he'll remember who directed his first music video! *AHEM*

Hardwood, Soft Skull

There are two Ikeas in Chicago. For most people that sentence doesn't contain a subject. But for lovers of awkwardly-named furniture solutions Ikea means everything. Well because there are two of them I kinda get the impression that the left hand doesn't know...well, doesn't even know there IS a right hand, let alone know what it's doing.

The other day I heard a commercial for the Ikea store bragging about how great their laminate flooring was. Great value (you can do a 20x20 room for $300!), durable and beautiful. In the next breath they say, "Already got hardwood floors? Cover them up with one of our area rugs."

What? Why can't Ikea get it's stories straight on hardwood flooring? Do they love it and think everyone should have it (WHAT A GREAT VALUE!) or hate it and think everyone should cover it with an area rug? Honestly, I refuse to talk to Ikea again until it decides how it feels toward hardwood flooring. I can't stand the lies.

Jurassic Apartment

I haven't told anyone this. I was keeping it a secret. It was just going to be between me and my wife...and the neighbors. I wasn't lying to anyone. I just wasn't offering up the information of my own free will. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. But that list has so many other entries I figure this one won't exactly tip the scales. But I can't keep this to myself any longer, the world must know my secret: The neighbors have dinosaurs.

Yeah, you read the right. Three dinosaurs. A Triceratops, a T-Rex and Pterodactyl. They probably have names, but I've never asked them because, well, they're dinosaurs. And toy dinosaurs at that. Every day they are in a different pose. Some days they are just hiding in the bushes. Some days they are actively attacking one another. Some days they work together on projects. One day I left the house to find that the Triceratops and T-Rex had caught Felix The Cat in his hot air balloon by snagging him in a tree as the Pterodactyl circled overhead. Everyday is a new diorama ding dong kind of treat over there. The dinosaurs even celebrate holidays. Here's what they did this week for Valentine's Day.

Veep's First War Kill Comes 30 Years Too Late

This story (reprinted in full) is from the BBC. My editorials are in parentheses.

"Cheney shoots man in hunt error

(Hunting ERROR? Not an accident? I guess because he meant to kill SOMETHING it wasn't technically an accident. I guess the error was that the guy lived. If he was a good Democrat he'd roll right over and die in the presence of the Vice President's unbending will, but being a lawyer from Texas he had to go and live. And because he's a Republican he will defend Cheney's right to own a firearm until they pry it from his cold dead hands. Ironic, no?)

The US Vice-President, Dick Cheney, has accidentally shot and injured a man during a quail hunting trip in Texas. The victim, named as Harry Whittington, was on the trip with Mr Cheney at the Armstrong Ranch when the accident happened on Saturday.

(Oh, so NOW it's an accident? Before this is all over the man will have been an Al Queda operative that Cheney dispatched single-handedly and thus another terrorist plot was foiled. And if I may be so bold as to suggest some further spin, perhaps the information that lead to Cheney air conditioning this man's hide was gathered from those "allegedly" illegal wiretaps.)

Ranch owner Katharine Armstrong said Mr Whittington, 78, had been taken to Corpus Christi Memorial Hospital where he was said to be "doing fine".

(Doing fine...for a man who was shot by the Vice President. Whatever you do, don't corner Cheney. He is armed and shows no mercy in the face of attacks from elderly lawyers. Does anyone else remember when politicians were on the RECEIVING end of the gun fire? Apparently the party of Lincoln and Reagan decided that enough's enough and are taking it to the people. I pray for the safety of Seymour Hersh. And if you work for NPR I'd lay low for a few days as well.)

According to a spokeswoman, Mr Cheney spent Sunday afternoon at the hospital. Ms Armstrong said Mr Cheney had turned round to shoot at a bird but sprayed Mr Whittington with shotgun pellets instead. Mr Whittington was hit in the cheek, neck and chest, but is said to be "alert and doing fine" in hospital.

(Alert? Too little too late there isn't it? Could he have been alert when the Veep was aiming a gun at his face? I don't want to blame the victim here, but I'm sure this guy paid a LOT of money to the Republican party to be there. You'd think for that kind of cash he'd remain alert enough to do something as basic as STAY OUT OF A HAIL OF BUCK SHOT!)

A lawyer from Austin, Texas, Mr Whittington was initially treated at the ranch by medical staff who normally travel with the vice-president. The men were part of a quail hunting expedition at the Armstrong Ranch in south Texas. The local sheriff's department is investigating the incident.

(The medical staff that normally travel with Cheney? His common ailments are heart murmurs and chest pain, not buck shot to the head. How useful could they have been? Aren't they just there to feed him painkillers, prop him up at speaking engagements and load the talking points into his cranium? And knowing that a Texas Sheriff's Department is investigating makes me feel so much better about the incident. Yeah, I'm sure that officials in Texas (whose state tree is a bolt action rifle) will get to the bottom of this puzzler. "Well Mrs. Wittington it looks like your husband bears an uncanny resemblance to a quail. If I were you I keep him away from fancy restaurants and the 4-H exotic poultry show.")

A Passive Aggressive Way of Mentioning My Depression



















This picture was taken out the living room window at my grandma's house the last time I was in Iowa. See how bleak it is? We're so poor we can't even afford scenery.

This Blog Entry Brought to you by Heineken

I was riding the train home from a concert tonight and I was reminded of an incident at work the other day.

Let me set the scene. It is in gentle Verona where we lay our scene...and by Verona I mean the Blue Man Group ticket office. I was working will call handing out tickets to patrons. This involves checking a patron's photo ID from our bulletproof cell to make sure that they are who they claim to be. This is usually a non-event. Nothing exciting. "What's your last name? Do you have a photo ID? Sign here. Enjoy the show." DONE.

Occasionally that routine is derailed by a smart ass who wants to impress his "ladyfriend" or the odd drunk. In this case it was both. The guy steps to the window and I can smell him through the bulletproof glass. He's so drunk I'm fairly certain he thought he was at airport. The LONDON airport in 1934. And he was awaiting his autogyro. Anyway I asked him for his photo ID and he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a piece of paper.

"You see when the state of Wisconsin takes away your license for OWI they give you THIS."

It was a photocopy of his license. I gave him his tickets and he started to walk away and then remembered that he was going to ask me something.

"Where's the bar?"

Tonight's train ride home reminded me of that story because two gentlemen were discussing their court dates for various OWI violations. And they were doing it over a shared beer.

I'm from Iowa You See

The following is an actual message from my friend Ryan.

"Ryan Hastings to me

I found this on a news site and by news site i mean, Queerty, the gay news blog:

A "study released by gay rights advocates shows gay and lesbian students in Iowa schools are subjected to taunts and harassment." And in other news, the Earth revolves around the sun."

Thank you very much, he's here all week. Don't forget to tip the waitstaff. Have a good evening and drive carefully! GOOD NIGHT CHICAGO!

Must Have Been Wrong Ring, But It Must Have Been the Right Time

I was asked by a friend what my cell phone ringtone was. And, never being one to pass up an opportunity to be opinionated, I spewed forth the following diatribe. Enjoy.

I keep my cell phone set to vibrate at all times. The reasons are many...besides the obvious fun of the vibrations themselves. First of all, I have a very old phone and cannot get cool new ringtones at the drop of a hat that are all the rage with the kids these days. Also, I don't want to face the moral dilemma of trying to decide which defines me more as an individual: The Imperial March or The Main Title Theme from Star Wars. (What would C3-PO do?) I also avoid all those annoying reminders at theaters to silence my cellphone. Way ahead of the curve there. And honestly, I'm not so important that I need to get every single call the second it comes in. I'm not a surgeon and I'm not awaiting an organ transplant, so really, what's the point? Do I really need to hear every little detail of my mother's latest church bake sale while the details are still fresh? No. Trust me, those stories will keep. Or, if you're lucky, they will disappear altogether.

Not Exactly a Genius Are you?

I read something today about the Mensa magazine. Apparently in the back of it they have a bunch of personal ads for Mensa social groups. Groups for Mensans who love watersports, Mensans who like rugby, Mensans who like...I don't know...monster truck rallies. Anyway, there's one for Mensans who are incarcerated. Now how smart can they be if they went and got caught? That ought to automatically disqualify them from Mensa. Go to jail lose your voting privileges and your Mensa card.

License And Registration Please

I finally got my Illinois driver's license the other day. On the way to the testing station I got lost, backtracked a mile or two and got passed in a no passing zone (on a bridge no less) by a man in a van who was speeding while using his cell phone. (For those of you not in Chicago, they banned cellphone use in a moving vehicle.) All in all I didn't consider this to be an auspicious way to begin the licensing process. Add to that the fact that I was told by my wife that the people she dealt with at the DMV were very rude. So, yeah, I was really looking forward to the experience.

The Inquisition
When they finally called my number I went to window number 8. Let the ravaging of my carcass begin, I thought.

The man behind the counter looked nice enough. But I convinced myself that that was just a ruse to lure me in. I'm sure behind that grandfatherly veneer he just barely tolerates my existence!

"So...you're from Iowa...Des Moines? Are you originally from Iowa?"

This is a trick, I said. He's trying to get my guard down.

"Yes." No small talk. I won't be trapped by his verbal sparring.

"I have a son who has a business in the Quad Cities and Iowa City, but he's not gotten to Des Moines."

My wife went to school in Iowa City, I offered somewhat reluctantly.

"So what brings you to Chicago: job, school?"

Oh, he's good. I couldn't resist his Norman Rockwell charms. Both I said. My wife is in school at Loyola and I got a job.

"What do you do?"

Oprah's got NOTHING on this guy! I work for The Blue Man Group.

"Ohhhhhhh...You know, I got to give them credit...."

The way he said that I knew that whatever was coming next was going to be the most polite blow to the solar plexus that I or my ego had ever taken.

"I don't know how they stay in business, but they've been around forever. I don't understand the show myself. My daughter went to the show and she loved it, but I don't get it. Do they audition for those parts? What do you need to do, just look good in blue?"

I explained all the technical aspects and acting and drumming prowess that it takes to pull the show off. He remained unimpressed but polite. I can get you an audition if you'd like, I said.

"Oh my daughter would love that. I'm gonna tell her I have an audition for Blue Man."

In the end he seemed more amused by the thought of him being in the show than by the thought of the show ever proceeding without him. I'm not sure how we've survived this long without a geriatric Blue Man either, but if he doesn't show to the auditions I guess we'll just have to muddle through without him.

The Test
I had to take the driver's test too. Now here was the rudeness I was promised. Two women held court over their testing fiefdom, just looking for an excuse to snap at anyone who asked a question or was standing too close to the borders. Fortunately I made it through their line without incident the same way I made it through my adolescence: keeping your mouth shut and your eyes down.

Once I got started on the test I totally psyched myself out. The questions are very easy for someone who has ever driven a vehicle and has a shred of common sense. However, judging by the average test-taker, common sense was not a criteria for driving in the state of Illinois. So I told myself this is written for someone who thinks that brake pads are found in the feminine hygiene aisle of the grocery store. But even with that I couldn't help second guessing all of my answers. I kept reading and rereading them.

"Is that what they meant or did they really mean this? Because if you read it one way it's C, but the other way it's probably A."

I wasn't about to go back to the Sisters Grimm and ask them. So I worried and stewed in my own juices and tentatively marked down what I thought were the right answers. And at some point I just reached a point where I cared more about getting home and having dinner than I did about suffering in that tiny desk for another moment. And that is how I decided that I was done with my test.

I got one question wrong. This elicited the faintest praise from the gargoyle behind the counter, "Good. Go get you picture taken over there."

Denouement
So I guess I really had nothing to worry about the whole time. Which should have been patently obvious from the fact that the state of Illinois granted a license to an idiot with a cell phone stapled to his ear and his foot welded to the floor.

My New Favorite Phrase

I'm not sure how many of you routinely read the blog on its web site, but there are perks. For example there is a link on the site to the Euphemism Generator. The EG site has a bunch of preprogrammed words in it and everytime you refresh the screen it generates a new euphemism, like this one:

"Needless to say, I promptly began
pressure washing the screaming gecko."


Make sure to use it in daily conversation!




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