Employee Smoking Area Helps Employees to Quit
I have actually seen the store workers smoking out there.
PalmerFest 2009 "riots?"
Well, sometimes this stuff happens when you mix alcohol and matches. The peaceful PalmerFest of years past got a little out of control last night. Setting fires is one thing, but it is egregious that stupid fucks would throw bottles at the firefighters.
I will suggest that when this kind of shit does happen, it is usually because of people from out of town who don't give a shit. 70% of arrests in Athens during the annual Halloween party are guests of student from out of town. But that is no excuse. I don't know the whole story, but I assume that PalmerFest will look a lot different next year.
Congrats.
Photos from the rough parts of the night by Andrew Spear The aftermath.
Article from The Post.
I will suggest that when this kind of shit does happen, it is usually because of people from out of town who don't give a shit. 70% of arrests in Athens during the annual Halloween party are guests of student from out of town. But that is no excuse. I don't know the whole story, but I assume that PalmerFest will look a lot different next year.
Congrats.
Photos from the rough parts of the night by Andrew Spear The aftermath.
Article from The Post.
PalmerFest 2009
PalmerFest 2009 is this weekend (May 9th, 2009.) I know this because a reporter from The Post, The Ohio University student run newspaper, called to ask me a few questions about the original PalmerFest back in 1990/1991.
She had researched The Post archives and the earliest reference to PalmerFest came from a May 1991 edition. She tracked me down via the people mentioned in the article. Here is that article:
The reporter asked about the details from the first PalmerFest. I spoke about the first PalmerFest actually taking place in the Fall of 1990. 17 Palmer (The Barn) had a lot to do with the planning. The stage for the bands was two 4' x 8' sheets of plywood with 4x4 supports. The backyards of 17 Palmer - 25 Palmer were utilized for the bands, but they have since disappeared when several of the houses were turned into duplexes. I have spoken with a couple of people who think they were the originators of PalmerFest and they didn't go to OU until the late 90's. When I tell people I was one of the originators, they doubt me. I understand.
When I mentioned this interview to Two-Sack, he reminded me of how one PalmerFest, I shot bottle rockets out of my cup of beer and continued to drink the sulfur and ash contaminated beer. A very hot girl who I do not remember called my beer "Firecracker Juice."
Russ tells a great story about how I blinded him in one eye when a thrown key deflected off my hand and popped him in the cornea.
I got laid once at PalmerFest and six of my closest friends watched through a window and Paul even open the window and came in the room to taunt me.
Our hammock was stolen.
In 1992 we turned the water off in the bathroom to keep people from using the toilet and slamming our water bill. As it turns out, turning off the water does not keep people from using the toilet.
The doorbell rang one Monday after a PalmerFest and there stood a girl I went to high school with. She didn't know I lived there and was immediately embarrassed. She had been on the roof and removed her top and bra for a fleeting moment. Her house key was on a necklace that had fallen off during the shirt removal process and she was looking for it. We had found the key and I pulled it off the mantel and gave it back. I have not seen her since.
PalmerFest turns 18.5 this year. Have fun this weekend. I don't think I will be able to make it...
She had researched The Post archives and the earliest reference to PalmerFest came from a May 1991 edition. She tracked me down via the people mentioned in the article. Here is that article:
The reporter asked about the details from the first PalmerFest. I spoke about the first PalmerFest actually taking place in the Fall of 1990. 17 Palmer (The Barn) had a lot to do with the planning. The stage for the bands was two 4' x 8' sheets of plywood with 4x4 supports. The backyards of 17 Palmer - 25 Palmer were utilized for the bands, but they have since disappeared when several of the houses were turned into duplexes. I have spoken with a couple of people who think they were the originators of PalmerFest and they didn't go to OU until the late 90's. When I tell people I was one of the originators, they doubt me. I understand.
When I mentioned this interview to Two-Sack, he reminded me of how one PalmerFest, I shot bottle rockets out of my cup of beer and continued to drink the sulfur and ash contaminated beer. A very hot girl who I do not remember called my beer "Firecracker Juice."
Russ tells a great story about how I blinded him in one eye when a thrown key deflected off my hand and popped him in the cornea.
I got laid once at PalmerFest and six of my closest friends watched through a window and Paul even open the window and came in the room to taunt me.
Our hammock was stolen.
In 1992 we turned the water off in the bathroom to keep people from using the toilet and slamming our water bill. As it turns out, turning off the water does not keep people from using the toilet.
The doorbell rang one Monday after a PalmerFest and there stood a girl I went to high school with. She didn't know I lived there and was immediately embarrassed. She had been on the roof and removed her top and bra for a fleeting moment. Her house key was on a necklace that had fallen off during the shirt removal process and she was looking for it. We had found the key and I pulled it off the mantel and gave it back. I have not seen her since.
PalmerFest turns 18.5 this year. Have fun this weekend. I don't think I will be able to make it...
Performance Plus
Conny was in town this weekend. If we learned one thing, it’s that in Ohio, you cannot buy beer from a store past 1:00am. We tried three places and all of them, even the seedy one, denied us. We felt a little like 18 year old kids on prom night, with girls begging for wine coolers, knowing that they would be running off with the olda boys if we couldn’t provide.
(Into the time machine we go, back to 1997.)
Conny and I worked together at the same museum way back when. In 1997, Conny decided to move on as I decided to stay with the organization. Every year during our annual review process, we would learn about our bonuses. In years past, bonuses were a big deal. The company would talk about the huge pool of money there was to draw from. The monthly meeting before the bonus dispersal was always exciting with people discussing what cut of the pot they thought they would get. The pot announcement was always a big affair. In 1997, as we all anxiously waited for the announcement that never came. Later we learned that resources were being utilized in other areas and that the pot was much smaller. There would be bonuses, just not as big in years past. Everyone was disappointed.
Every year we were told not to consider the bonus part of our salary and that it was in fact, just a bonus. The bonus was divided up and given out in quarterly portions, so people did end up budgeting their lives around the bonus. During my review, I was told what my raise was going to be and my bonus. When added together, I was actually making less than I was the year before. I was in a pretty good position with the company at the time and was able to act disappointed. My VP understood and wished there was more she could do. I then reiterated that I was very disappointed with a head tilt and shrug that suggested that I was going to look for another job. She crossed her arms and put her hand on her chin to suggest that I could go fuck myself for pretending like I was going to quit when she knew I wasn’t. I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head to communicate that not only was I going to quit, but that I might burn down the building and piss on the ashes. With that and a head nod, she said that was all she could do and left.
About ten minutes later, she came back with exciting news. She said that due to an odd coincidence, she was able to pull together an additional $200 to add to my bonus. Not much, but it was a very thoughtful gesture. I thanked her and thoughtlessly spent the money at the nudie bar.
The bonus system got smaller and smaller until it just wasn’t there one year. Everyone saw it coming and they did a good job of weaning us off of it.
Years later at a party, someone brought up the old bonus system. I told the story about how I squeezed an extra $200 from the company. That’s when Conny said, “$200? Back in 1997?”
Yes?
“That was my bonus that they took away from me.”
Conny had been a part timer in 1997 and they got smaller bonuses, but $200 was huge to a guy like Conny. When Conny moved on, he was told that he would still get his bonus. A day later, he was told that because he was leaving the company, he was now ineligible for the bonus. He was alright with that until he found out that other people leaving the company got to keep their bonuses. He got dicked.
Because I bitched, I stole Conny’s bonus.
I have to laugh at that story because Conny now makes a lot more than I do. I think he pays in taxes what I net every year. Conny says he’s over it, but last night, I caught him counting out $200 in quarters from the change jar in the guest room. He said he was just seeing how much change was in the jar, but we all know that he’s still bitter.
(Into the time machine we go, back to 1997.)
Conny and I worked together at the same museum way back when. In 1997, Conny decided to move on as I decided to stay with the organization. Every year during our annual review process, we would learn about our bonuses. In years past, bonuses were a big deal. The company would talk about the huge pool of money there was to draw from. The monthly meeting before the bonus dispersal was always exciting with people discussing what cut of the pot they thought they would get. The pot announcement was always a big affair. In 1997, as we all anxiously waited for the announcement that never came. Later we learned that resources were being utilized in other areas and that the pot was much smaller. There would be bonuses, just not as big in years past. Everyone was disappointed.
Every year we were told not to consider the bonus part of our salary and that it was in fact, just a bonus. The bonus was divided up and given out in quarterly portions, so people did end up budgeting their lives around the bonus. During my review, I was told what my raise was going to be and my bonus. When added together, I was actually making less than I was the year before. I was in a pretty good position with the company at the time and was able to act disappointed. My VP understood and wished there was more she could do. I then reiterated that I was very disappointed with a head tilt and shrug that suggested that I was going to look for another job. She crossed her arms and put her hand on her chin to suggest that I could go fuck myself for pretending like I was going to quit when she knew I wasn’t. I leaned back in my chair and put my hands behind my head to communicate that not only was I going to quit, but that I might burn down the building and piss on the ashes. With that and a head nod, she said that was all she could do and left.
About ten minutes later, she came back with exciting news. She said that due to an odd coincidence, she was able to pull together an additional $200 to add to my bonus. Not much, but it was a very thoughtful gesture. I thanked her and thoughtlessly spent the money at the nudie bar.
The bonus system got smaller and smaller until it just wasn’t there one year. Everyone saw it coming and they did a good job of weaning us off of it.
Years later at a party, someone brought up the old bonus system. I told the story about how I squeezed an extra $200 from the company. That’s when Conny said, “$200? Back in 1997?”
Yes?
“That was my bonus that they took away from me.”
Conny had been a part timer in 1997 and they got smaller bonuses, but $200 was huge to a guy like Conny. When Conny moved on, he was told that he would still get his bonus. A day later, he was told that because he was leaving the company, he was now ineligible for the bonus. He was alright with that until he found out that other people leaving the company got to keep their bonuses. He got dicked.
Because I bitched, I stole Conny’s bonus.
I have to laugh at that story because Conny now makes a lot more than I do. I think he pays in taxes what I net every year. Conny says he’s over it, but last night, I caught him counting out $200 in quarters from the change jar in the guest room. He said he was just seeing how much change was in the jar, but we all know that he’s still bitter.
Creepy Hannibal Lecter Thumb Sucking Device
Scan from Parenting Magazine
I think it's really the look on the kid's face that creeps me out. He seems half sad and half kill-you-while-you-sleep-for-taking-away-the-only-joy-I-had-in-life.
Who is Miss Sally?
Miss Sally is my wife. But you already knew that. What many of you have asked me is why I call Miss Sally, "Miss Sally." To make this easier, I’ll call Miss Sally, Sally.
Years and years ago, Sally and I lived together in Columbus. I was working for a local shipyard as a merchant marine and Sally was working at a pre-school as a teacher. Sally was the lead teacher in a room full of four year olds. At the pre-school, all the children called their teachers by their first name, but with a Miss in front of it. Miss Carrie. Miss Vickie. Miss Sally. But that wasn’t enough for me to start calling her that name. I never got to hear her called Miss Sally, so I really didn’t even know about it.
One day, Sally came home with a funny story about how a little boy came up to her in the middle of the day and blurted out, “Miss Sally! I pooped my pants!” The way she said it was hilarious. I immediately repeated it back to her and we laughed and laughed.
This story would be very boring if you could not hear the inflection of the words. Luckily, we have the internet and youtube so that you can hear how I heard it and how I repeated it back to her:
We spent the evening yelling back and forth from different rooms of the apartment, something like this:
Me- “Miss Sally!”
Sally – “Yes?”
Me- “I pooped my pants!”
The next day we were doing laundry and we said:
Me- “Miss Sally!”
Sally- “Yes?”
Me- “Is this dry clean only?”
Sally-“No.”
Me- “I pooped my pants!”
This continued on ad nauseam in several various and sundry iterations. The only thing that remained constant was that I would call Sally, “Miss Sally.”
At some point, it stuck. I can’t put my finger on the time or date, but I remember Loy making fun of me for it one day and then referring to her as Miss Sally the next without missing a beat. Friends and family sometimes slip and say "Miss Sally" and don’t bat an eye.
I hope that helps with all your questions.
“Miss Sally! I pooped my pants!”
That never gets old. But the boy did. He would be about seventeen years old now and will never know that he lives in infamy.
Years and years ago, Sally and I lived together in Columbus. I was working for a local shipyard as a merchant marine and Sally was working at a pre-school as a teacher. Sally was the lead teacher in a room full of four year olds. At the pre-school, all the children called their teachers by their first name, but with a Miss in front of it. Miss Carrie. Miss Vickie. Miss Sally. But that wasn’t enough for me to start calling her that name. I never got to hear her called Miss Sally, so I really didn’t even know about it.
One day, Sally came home with a funny story about how a little boy came up to her in the middle of the day and blurted out, “Miss Sally! I pooped my pants!” The way she said it was hilarious. I immediately repeated it back to her and we laughed and laughed.
This story would be very boring if you could not hear the inflection of the words. Luckily, we have the internet and youtube so that you can hear how I heard it and how I repeated it back to her:
We spent the evening yelling back and forth from different rooms of the apartment, something like this:
Me- “Miss Sally!”
Sally – “Yes?”
Me- “I pooped my pants!”
The next day we were doing laundry and we said:
Me- “Miss Sally!”
Sally- “Yes?”
Me- “Is this dry clean only?”
Sally-“No.”
Me- “I pooped my pants!”
This continued on ad nauseam in several various and sundry iterations. The only thing that remained constant was that I would call Sally, “Miss Sally.”
At some point, it stuck. I can’t put my finger on the time or date, but I remember Loy making fun of me for it one day and then referring to her as Miss Sally the next without missing a beat. Friends and family sometimes slip and say "Miss Sally" and don’t bat an eye.
I hope that helps with all your questions.
“Miss Sally! I pooped my pants!”
That never gets old. But the boy did. He would be about seventeen years old now and will never know that he lives in infamy.
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