Roem's blog

3D GOOGLES

This just in.... "Now Browse Whole Towns and Cities in 3D with Google Earth"

Creepy? Cool? Give me some 3D goggles and some popcorn and get me to my computer?

What are your thoughts?

Click the link below for more info...

From: http://ping.fm/Kx0TQ

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

Space Loses It's Viginity

Be forewarned, dear readers...

In an effort to sweep the standings for Biggest Douche in the Universe, our good buddy Billionaire and Virgin MegaEverything owner, Richard Branson, has done the seemingly impossible...

He plans to pop Outerspace's Commercial Flight Cherry, with Virgin Galactic.

So there it is folks. Space is no longer that innocent little girl that Madonna sang about... nope, she's all grown up, and ready to get her "Brittney" on.

And although, for the sake of this blog, I will enter said "competition" (read: interplanetary struggle) in order to pass on the Galactic Maiden Voyage into the dark nethers of the abyss to you, dear reader... I'm not happy about it.

Actually, I pretty nervous. I mean, think about it.

Things I'm Nervous About, When Popping The Cosmic Cherry:

1. Dick Branson is crazy. There, I said it. Yes, he's a personal friend of mine, (sends me letters* and such) you can Google his exploits yourself... I don't have the time to rehash them all here. He's just plain nuts, and if there's an inappropriate time for shenanigans (like bungie jumping off Uranus, or mooning the... er... Moon,) well, it's 10,000 miles from the nearest hospital.

2. Protection. It's that simple. I'm not going to Rocket into space without wearing some sort of protection... and this is not what I had in mind:

Richie B. can wear that.

Give me one of these comfy numbers:

I plan on slipping safely into the stratosphere in style, baby. One of these suits... and I'll think about it.

[Ooow... those booties are fab!]

3. And the third thing that makes my Asteroid pucker is the fact that there could be terrorists (amoung other things.) Has no one thought of this? I mean does World Trade Center, ring a bell?! What if Osama set his sights on the MOON?! Or the North Star? Or Richard Branson's gigantic head?!!

What am I trying to say?!

We are flirting with the decenceny of the Universe people. And the Milky Way ain't no way to treat a lady.

But I'll let this blog fade out with a few wise words from a lady that I think knows it best:

"I made it through the wilderness
Somehow I made it through
Didn't know how lost I was
Until I found you
I was beat incomplete
I'd been had,
I was sad and blue
But you made me feel
Yeah, you made me feel
Shiny and new

Like a virgin
Touched for the very first time
Like a virgin
When your heart beats
Next to mine"

Sing it, Space.

Sing it.

One. Last. Time.

Punvert, OUT!

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

Office Snoops

I hate snoops.

Nosey people piss me off.

All my life these people have made me crazy with their endless peering, and their countless questions.

Why don’t they have interests of their own? Why are the lives of normal people being invaded, or suckled, by these life leeches?! Mind yer own damn biz! Argh!

*deep breath*

Now, I’m not saying that I’ve never watched reality television. Because, I have. But don’t get me started on what is “reality” and what is “television.” That’s a whole notha blog.

Back to “Snoops.”

Snoopers, Snoopies, Snoople. I hate them.

Especially the “Office” variety of Snoople. They are always sneakily walking by my desk, behind me, peering onto my computer screen for a second… trying to figure out what I’m doing.
[read: I’m pretending to work.]

“What’s he doing?” they ask. “Is he working?” they inquire. “Why doesn’t he participate in any mindless babble near the coffee machine?” “Who is that picture of, on his desk?” “Is that a work email?” “Why do all these lovely ladies always come by his desk just to compliment his huge guns?” they say.
[Especially the last one.]

And it’s SO obvious.

They walk by all day long, pretending to be busy, snoopaliciously peering… swish-swish go the khaki pants, click-click go the heeled flip flops, “ahem –hem” go the clearing of curious throats… but I catch them. Mid-peer, I catch them.

At the smallest rustled fiber in the high-wear industrial carpet, I look back with the deft of a ninja… I’m like a swivel-necked Jackie Chan… office-style.

Doing nothing to 180 degrees, in 0.2 seconds. [Whapow!]

“Don’t come by my cube unless you want the fury I’ve pent up doing movies with Chris Tucker, and his annoying voice! Not to mention his incessant Michael Jackson dancing! Hiii YAH!! I do my own stunts!!” *chop*

Again, I catch them. And they look away in shame because they’ve been caught peering into my cube, curiosity inflamed like the swollen hunger of their non-interestingness. Some are so desperate they just keep looking, until I hit them, jarring their stare, with a:

“Can I help you?” [Whammo!]

“Hiya. What’s up?” [Boof!]

“Do we have a meeting? By the way, you spilled creamer on your blouse.” [Krack – Bam – Splat!]

That’s right. I’ll round-house-office your nosey butt in the face. [This is why I fashioned my own nunchucks out of some paperclips and a couple of giant permanent markers.]

But don’t worry, reader.

I’m not all about violence.

At first.

Instead I did the following. And I suggest you do the same. In fact, if you have any suggestions for "flying below the radar," comment them below.

How To Appear To Work (Snoop Edition)*

1. Customize your XP “active windows” in the appearance settings to the same color as your “inactive windows.” I chose light gray because it had the lowest contrast, making it harder to discern from 3-5 feet away.

2. Re-size your IE window to the same size as your Outlook email preview window. It then appears that you are reading an email, when reading my blog. [Or any other site you wish to read until I have another blog post.]

3. Want to chat with your friends at their jobs? Join Gmail. There is a built in chat client in the program that will work around most IT Admins. And trust me, most people that you work with, already use it. Even the tattle-tales.

4. My most recent genius idea to trump people while using Google chat inside of Gmail, because Snoopers were starting to catch on and look closer, is to change your contacts’ names to things like “Customer Support,” “Network Administrator,” and “Excel Help.” You can also upload native windows icons as their pictures for extra points. That way, it appears that you're chatting with *live* assistance, or doing some other work-related activity. Get creative with the names, even.

*The nature of these manual “enhancements” were made this way because my work computer doesn’t allow you to install/update/add software without Admin. Privileges.

What I would really love, is to be able to customize my outlook and Gmail to match, so I can be on either one, without any casual observer being able to tell. But that might be a pipe dream.

Anyone else have any tricks?

Send em’.

p.s. Don't be surprised when your friends hear about your Ninja-like Office skills that they ask what their "names" are.

p.p.s. And don't mistakenly tell Excel Formulas, "I can't wait to 'see' you tonight. ;)". Microsoft Support gets really mad and will make you sleep on the couch, with no update in sight to your service pack.

Punvert, OUT!

.

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

Dreams are something we share...

Dreams.

I said, Dreams, readers.

That's what I'm blogging about today.

Duh-reams.

Not your stupid, 4 year old, "I want to be a fireman" type dreams, or the ridiculous and lofty, "One day I'll own my very own bacon wrapped hot dog stand" dream [Mmm], or even the dream of being featured in this blog... [read: dream on]

I mean the kind of dream you dream when you sleep. The subconscious vacation from reality, that is equal parts imagination, desire, and double-yew. tee. eff.

Dreams that happen in your sleep aren't necessarily tied to "well-wishing" or unrealistic expectations... but instead offer up a white trash casserole of visceral input from your world... the "throw it in and mix it up" jello pudding orgy of abstract thought. Just like grandma used to make.

We all have them. Some we remember, some we wish to forget.

I have some that I'd like to forget...

Like the "running from the 'Boogie Man' in slow motion" dream.

Like the "falling from great heights" dream.

OR like the time my ex-girlfriend decided to "dream a little dream." A little dream you and I have all had at one time or another... Just not while sharing a bed with someone...

You know what I'm talking about, right?

Nothing.

Nothing, dear reader, can prepare you for the test of your love...

...like waking in your partner's piss.

(Not even if it's warm. [read: it usually is] )

So, you wee see, dear reader, there is no way to explain it, or empathize with the cold-sweating beauty lying next to you who says in a very distinctive tone of voice...

"Uh, honey?... uh, Baaaaby... DON'T. MOVE."

I moved.

Aaaaaaaand; I'm traumatized.

My hand, is traumatized.

My arm, traumatized.

My skin, my sense of feeling, ...wet noise... does not compute..., and then... my nostrils.

TRAUMATIZED.

I look at her in disbelief, "could it be?" Chased with a "how could you?" But I didn't want answers... I wanted a warm towel. And an exit strategy.

But as if her only defense, she looks down at her wet lap and shrugs, as if her most trusted organ cried "MUTINY!"

But that's no excuse.

My bed, flooded.

My sleep, flooded.

My trust,... effed.

One can only wish they made mini sand bags for this type of catastrophy. Mini National Guardsmen coming to my rescue and pulling me from the rushing yellow waters with a mini helicopter while wind rushes around me, chopper blades howling, I'm spinning upward and I'm yelling back down to her, "We'll be back for you!" But what I mean is, "You did this! Save yourself, Peebody!"

But there was no Helicopter. No FEMA.

Only FEMAle.

I'm a flood victim.

And still, years later, a victim. I may never recover.

Nowadays, don't "uh, honey" me. Cause then I think I need to grab a towel.

For every, "Baaaby?" A sponge.

"Bambi Eyes" say, "better get a mop." [read: Or a gun]

And you think that's all, dear reader? Do ya? The end of my trauma?

It's not.

Nothing can explain why this would happen to me twice... Yeah. I said it. With 2 different girlfriends! Less than pleased, over here. I'd tell you their names, but I can't afford to lose any more karma. [Obvi.]

I've tried to explain it to myself! Tried desparately to rationalize! Tried to make myself feel "better" with the following "rational explanations":

Rational Explanations:

- "It's because you make people feel so comfortable, self. Even the bladder is at ease."

Fail. Not feeling better about it.

- "Well, she thought she was at the toilet, so it's not like she isn't house-broken."

Fail. Still can't shake the feeling of waking in a wet bed. [chills]

- Would you prefer she wear a diaper?

$#@*&!!, CACK! [read: throwup in mouth]

Critical Fail.

... ok. I'm good.

So who knows? Maybe this is a common dream experience? Anyone? No?

"That will never happen to me, Punvert" you say.

Famous last words.

"Did you piss them off?" you ask.

Huh. Hardly.

"Will I have to experience that? Is there a 'trickle down effect?'"

Very funny, reader. But, don't worry. You're in luck, reader. There is a bright side. Hope cresting over the bright yellow rainbow.

At the very least, you will have one of the best laughs you've ever shared. I mean, laugh-out-loud, "this could break us up" funny. Haha. See, doesn't that feel better? (Albiet, left smelling like a restroom at Applebee's.)

So now, its a fond memory, or so my therapist says.

Geez... all this talk of water has made me...

uh...

damn.

"Uh, honey?"

-Punvert, OUT!

p.s. Somebody grab their Dream Book, and help a brotha out.

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

How Not To Be A Douchebag at Work, Pt. 2

Here I am staring at am email that might prove my own douchebaggery.

Am I angry? Innocently accused of being a careless ass? Outraged at the notion of being lumped in with the cockroaches of humanity?

No.

I'm scared, shitless.

=======================

A little background…

So there's these two cute coworkers of mine, intelligent and fun, but mostly unlucky as they find themselves in my presence on a regular basis. They are mostly responsible for making my intolerable day job a little more… well.. tolerable. [read: that's a tall order]

We have the usual repartee, witty-isms and semi practical jokes… it breaks up the monotony and keeps our sanity. One is a redhead, the other a brunette.

Betty and Veronica. And I heart them.

And they know this.

And they have been known to take a little advantage of my dependence.

So you'll understand why I thought (and still suspect) they may be behind this...

For example, when I admitted to one of them that I thought her boss was attractive, and she took it upon herself to inform the boss of this... not that it would normally bother me, but in this case I was about to interview with said boss for a new job. A job in the same department as my angelic hosts. (Who were singing my praises and damning me, all at the same time.)

Even as I learned that "Boss Hottie" was flattered, I still felt like an unprofessional ass. (+1 Douchebag points)

What am I to do?

Then, the day before my interview, I forgot to get my slacks dry cleaned. I showed up in Jeans. (+1 DB pts.)

Then in the interview, I incorrectly assumed that of the 2 open positions, both of them were in the same dept. (I was ill informed by HR.) And I went on and on in my intro question about how it was such an exciting field to be in, and everyone should recognize this ... (so much so that Boss Hottie let out a "hell yeah!") And as I basked in self-accomplishment, the other interviewer made it clear that was not the only Dept. interviewing... (+1 DB pt.)

So, three Douchebag points into this thing, I decide to turn it all around by focusing on the qualifications and experience that makes me qualified to Blahblahblah.

Then I swung and missed at three pitches:

1.What projects have you worked on?
2.What did you do?
3.What departments?

This is kind of interviewy stuff you review before the interrogation, and I’d like to say that I was distracted by the obvious “crush press release”… but I wasn’t.

I was just…

Uninspired? Overwhelmed with the doubled workload of my current position the past few weeks? Tired?

No idea.

So I had a thought.

“I can turn this all around with a professional, respectful card, thanking my interviewers for the interview.”

End thought.

And then the storm came in the middle of the night.

I tossed and turned as firetruck after firetruck ran down my street. A rogue bird decided to sing it’s heart out to the full moon. Drunk twenty-somethings stumbled past my window after a night of mid-week debauchery… and I thought;

“Is someone f*cking with me?” in a drowsy non-slumber.

I crawled into work the next morning to meet enough paper work to keep San Francisco’s homeless population warm for a week… and I thought about it for a second, but instead… hit the ground running.

An unreal workload can do a lot for a person’s attitude if you get some momentum. And I did. A lot.

At the end of the day I met a cold IPA and reviewed the day’s accomplishments… not bad, self. Not bad.
============================

Present day:

And here I am looking at an email…

“’Just wanted to thank you tons for the card… (smiley face)’”

-Boss Hottie”

I’m sorry, whu?

Card?!!

Did I send a card in my caffeine induced paper rampage? In all of my efficiency, I completely forgot to REMEMBER.

And still, to this very moment… I’m wondering if I sent a card… or not. I have no idea. I mean, I thought about it... I kinda remember sending one, but maybe I just visualized sending it. [insert explitive here]

Anyone have an idea for how I should respond?

(My idea is to type: “No need to thank me. (smiley face)”

[read: whether I sent it, or not.]

Help, readers!

-Douchebag, OUT!!

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

The Coffee Cockroach

Hello blogosphere… readers… text-addicts.

I know it’s been a while. I’ve been using that damn Twitter to placate my addiction to blogging and ranting just long enough.

Consider Twitter and the Twitterati, "Methadone for Bloggers." 140 character shots into the veiny elbow pit we call the “internet.” But nothing’s like the practicing unsafe text with everyone looking… (Hello “potential employers,” “Mom,” and pundits galore… You are all invited.)

(Even you, Miley Cyrus… Lord knows you and your people are scouring the internet these days… but I digress.)

Today’s entry:

How to not be a Douchebag in the Office: Part One

(Yes, I’m starting another series. I do this because I’m addicted to the rise and fall of anticipation, quickly followed by disappointment. I like my Text Life to reflect my sss… nevermind.)

There it is… the coffee pot. Manna. It’s the fountain of fecal-colored formula for fertilization of the financial farm. A sole source of sustenance in shallow sips, slowly stimulating sore stems from slumber.

We need it. That jumpin’ jolt, to get the mundane juices flowing.

And who, pray tell, is the criminal, dare I say “Terrorist,” to such a divine drip?

None other than a person I’m calling The Coffee Cockroach. (Ew.)

This slimy individual manages to swoop in on the last cup of coffee… and leave just “enough” in the pot, to not have to make any more, or has the audacity to leave NONE AT ALL (also known as a “hit and run.”) Leaving the next person to swallow the “remains” and/or make another pot.

This makes me LIVID.

This pisses me off more than…

List of things that are pissing me off less, right now:

1. Slow drivers in the fast lane rubbernecking past a car that is pulled over. (Without fatalities, of course. No CARnage, no stoppage. That’s my rule.)

2. “Tourerists” on the Embarcadero… especially riding rented bikes. Look, Bob from North Dakota, if your wife can’t ride her damn Tony Little Gazelle… she shouldn’t be pedaling to Hooters or Joe’s Crap Shack on the thoroughfare, you idiot. Get back in your mobile home and carve a carbon wake the size of your wife’s gel seat back to the Midwest.

3. Losing data coverage for my ridiculously expensive mobile internet plan. How about a discount for days lost, Verizon?!! If I have to go one more minute without using Google maps, stuck in BFE, while the transients on this block do vulture circles around the 3 dimes and 2 nickels I have in my pocket, all the while my Mac Pro sits nervously across my shoulder blades, pixelling it’s pants… (The level I’m prepared to sink in these moments to not get robbed is pretty low. Either I’m going to have to do my “gotta get my fix, scratch myself-jump around, I’m a crazy white guy” act, or urinate on the street. Or both. It shows them I have nothing to lose.)

So you see… I get pretty mad. Especially because A) I sit right next to the coffee pot (hence, getting blamed) and B) It’s effing rude/inconsiderate/selfish/retarded.

My observations are as follows:

Ever notice how when a pot of coffee gets ¾ empty and everyone in the office starts taking half cups? It’s a physiological anomaly. Everyone either decides, “Hey, I don’t really need to be cracked out to finish those TPS Reports,” or “I want to make sure everyone gets a sip of this luscious juice.”

Maybe they look at the Coffee Pot as a “gateway drug” to other office addictions like say…
- those Studded Finger Condoms used to flip through unsafe amounts of paper…
- or maybe they feel like by finishing the coffee, they drank the whole pot, making them some sort of Caffeine-Sucking Coffee Chupacabra…

OR… (dun, dun, DUN!)

A far more likely scenario… [cue: clicking of keys, mice, and shuffling of paper, under the quiet cancerous hum of fluorescent ceiling tiles]

CC: [approaching the coffee maker, under his breath] “Sh*t, only 2 cups left… I’m going to really have to time this… [startled by approaching employee] Oh, Andrew! Would you like some coffee?”

Andrew: “Um… sure.”

CC: [pouring Andrew’s cup] “How is your day going? Don’t you love this weather?”

Andrew: “It’s raining? Good… good… whoa… that’s enough.”

CC: [still pouring] “Oh, yeah? And your music?”

Andrew: “It’s fine. I’m good. Stop, stop with the coff…!!”

CC: [filling to the brim, leaving it impossible to not spill] “Good to hear! Careful with that cup, Andy, I’m always cleaning up the ‘coffee area,’ from ‘sloppy people,’ you know what I mean? Ha ha. [throws a “friendly team elbow”]

Andrew: [spilling a little, burning mouth, trying to get to the rim of the cup] “Ow. Hot… Yeah, thanks…” [hatred boiling]

CC: “Well, keep up the good work, Tiger. Hey, let’s not be selfish and leave a little for someone else… shall we?” [CC pours a little into his cup, in clear view, skillfully leaving less than a quarter cup in the pot, at best] “Well, you have a great day now, boss.”

==== Sound familiar to anyone? ====

Well today I caught the Cockroach.

[Cue: Same sounds as before, but with a foreshadowed undertone of the end of a superhero movie… like a John Williams score.]

Me: [Hearing the CC at the coffee pot, catching him mid-pour] “Hey buddy! How’s it going?”
CC: [Startled, and for good reason. He was planning a hit and run] “Oh! Whoa! You! Man, you startled me. [stops pouring, leaving a dire spittle left]
Me: [Looking at the pitiful remains in the pot. Meeting eyes. Back to the pot.] Hey, I was just about to make another pot… you want to finish this?

At this moment the pain in CC’s eyes was so intense, realizing his defeat, and so satisfying to me, as he stared at his half cup, the little bit in the in the coffee pot, the back and forth, then back to my eyes… I inched closer to his cup… he pulled away, slightly.

CC: Naw, man. This is enough… really…
Me: [Trying to mask the “got you sucka” in my voice] It’s ok, man. I’m going to make another pot. A fresh one. For everyone else.
CC: [Is that remorse in his voice?] Oh… you are? Well… no, I can’t…
Me: Sure you can. [Pouring the rest in his cup]
CC: Ok… [Dumbfounded] I… didn’t… know.
Me: Sure, man. Don’t worry about it, Tiger. Have a great day.

As the Cockroach walked away, tail between his legs; I just stood there… then the gentle chorus, the clicking keys, mice, and shuffling papers grew to a loud roar, and there I was… Carnegie Hall, taking the first of many bows… I exited stage left, walked to the water cooler, poured 12 cups worth of water, and back to the stage… and they were still there, standing now, in rapturous ovation… I gently bowed and slipped in the filter, eyeballed just enough grains, and pushed the red launch button… swelling in pride.

You’re welcome, Office.

Yeah, it’s me. Protector of Coffee. Defender against the tyranny of Office Douchebags.

Punvert, OUT!

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

Not a joking matter...

I write this blog as a bit of a release, and today I need to release something more on the serious side.

As a cyclist who was recently in an accident, and has been unable to ride (or even walk without assistance of a cane) for the last Month, two things have touched me dearly.

1. The death of 2 amazing cyclists in the bay area that were hit by a Sheriff, who is claiming to have "fallen asleep."

Read a story here. There are many more links at SJ Mercury to get more info if you're so inclined... it's quite sad, fair warning.

2. And on a lighter note... please support SWRVE, a cycling clothing company, whom I believe to be good people, as I have personally been affected by the amazing care for their customers.

It has been an emotional day, as the details of the fallen continues to filter in... please keep the families in your thoughts, prayers, or whatever method you choose. I'm sure they're grateful.

Back to the funny on another post... but for now...

Rest In Peace, my fellow cyclists.

Rubber side down, all.

rb

========================= Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

Political Endorsemetabation

Well, reader, it’s Election time again, and I have a few thoughts about what I’ve seen.

We've all seen it, actually.

Not long ago you were doing Pilates/Step Aerobics/[insert New Year's Resolution exersize here], Bose Noise Cancelling headphones ablast’n, and you wondered, "The election is coming… What am I going to do with all this junk? My lovely lady lumps need a good candidate, damn it!"

And then it happened. On the TV, above the bitch with the headphone mic.

Yes We Can - Barack Obama Music Video

“Ah.” You thought. “That’s what I’m going to do with all this junk. My humps are voting for Obama.”

And that’s how it works.

Long, long ago, the Elite Political Strategists atop the foggy Bureaucratic Mountain turned over their Magic Eight Ball of Votation and the answer was clear...

"To win an election, you must be endorsed."

And what are the most efficacious endorsements to the modern day voter?

Musicians/Actors/Celebrities, of course.

I mean, who hasn't watched "The Shining" on the 3" screen of their Zune and wondered, "Jack Nicholson scares the shit out of me," and then, minutes later while cleaning your trousers, "But not as much as Terrorists... I wonder who he's voting for?"

Hillary Clinton Ad Featuring Jack Nicholson

You see, reader, we've been there. We've pumped our iTunes influences into our limbic system, but we don't really know how the other half lives, or more importantly, votes, because they don't include that in the ID3 tag of their latest "iTunes exclusive track."

Influence and in depth political knowledge are the boutique luxuries of the Privileged, dear reader. And the scraps falling from the table of the haute monde, in the form of voting endorsements, should fill into our gratuitous constitutional bellies. Or should they?

Obama, as we have seen, is endorsed by Will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas... but big deal. He hasn't had a hit this year. He's not making the "waves" as they say in the "biz." He isn't the most current, hottest, or the most influential endorsement... there are better. Much better.

Who, you ask?

Well, I'll tell you.

Here's short list of Celebs that somehow slipped through the cracks of "Political Strategy Endorsementabation", but not The Attentive Social Antennae of The Punvert. (thankyouverymuch)

To YOU, oh, Influence Peddlers... it's time to put the "Peddle to the Metal!"

1. Bono - I mean, duh. This man is all over the political planet, rockin his message of... Peace... and... Darfur Awareness Concerts. I mean, what the eff?! Where is his endorsement deal? Who is he voting for? People would love to know that! (And when can we get some damn concerts in Darfur? Those people are starving for good music over there, for effs sake! Jeez.)

2. Feist – Another “One Namer.” I mean, hello? Any marketing monkey will tell you, “One Namers” are totally good for business. You save, like, hella ink in printing materials. And she was just on a zillion TV sets all over the world for the latest iPod Commercials. Yeah, that’s right. ALL OVER THE WORLD. I said it. Voters from other countries would even vote for her candidate. I can see it now… Feist is all dancing in her spandex, looking all Feisty for the camera, singing, “1, 2, 3, 4, who the eff will stop the war? 5, 6, 7, 8, here’s my effin candidate.” I know. I’m a marketing genius.

3. Radiohead – Biggest band in the world, people. Biggest band. OK, Computer? Brilliant. (If you don’t have a copy of that record you’re probably reading this from Darfur. Or, Manteca.) And if Thom “thumbs-up” a candidate, they would win. I would bet my burned copy of In/Rainbows on that.

4. Michael Jackson – Sweet Jebus. The King of Pop? Does the sound of “Tee Hee” [insert crotch grab] mean anything to you? Well it does to the voters. Lots of voters! If he endorsed a candidate, forget about it. Election over. No hanging chads to worry about. (Just make sure that if he hangs with Chad, that Chad is over the age of say, 13, and we’re cool.)

I mean, must I go on? You get the point. And these are just a few musicians. Think of the influence of knowing who Gandhi’s gonna vote for? Yeah, I know. HUGE. That’s called thinking outside the box, people.

So there you have it. You want your candidate to win?

Get some eff’n huge endorsements, already.

Punvert, OUT!

Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com

The Little Things...

Earlier this week, I was in a car accident.

Well... more of a "bump," but it was accidental, I'm sure.

I was bumped from behind while sitting at a stoplight.

"$4*7," I thought.

And for a second, I'm not even sure what to do. So I pulled over.

Turns out, the guy behind me didn't know what to do either. So he pulled over.

Or how to speak English. So we spoke Spanglish.

Or how to acquire a driver's license, citizenship, or insurance... well, he did what I would have done and just looked puzzled.

Great. This is one of those moments when you realize something... You've just become a statistic! And a really crappy one. Not like a cool "1 millionth person to eat a giant blueberry pancake" or "fist person to trip on that curb... today," or even a "last person to blog about a car accident."

Not even that.

Nope... I'm just one of the millions of drivers to get in an accident with an "Illegal."

And I kinda felt sorry for the guy.

I know why he's here. The same reason I'm in San Francisco, from my little town. He's here for a better opportunity, a shot at some dreams, maybe even for love... maybe I'm romanticizing this a bit, but it's my blog. Blog off, if you don't like it.

And then it happened.

After the interrogation from the Police, the lack of any vehicular damage, and the need to return the car to it's rightful spot in the company garage... it happened.

A twitch.

A poke.

A shot of pain, ever so prick-like, in my neck. "My imagination," I thought.

"F^@," I thought. Naw, it's nothing.

*prick*

"Holy Ampersand! That's not my imagination."

*Enter music montage*

I'm at the doctor. He apparently doesn't speak English either. But he does speak "neck," thank God.

And now I'm on drugs.

And still in pain.

No, wait. Go back.

*flashback to the doc office, me in my little gown, him in his labcoat and thick accent*

"Will this haunt me forever?" I said.

"Not likely." He garbled.

"Good answer" I thought.

Then he mumbled something about "Whiplash" and how it wasn't a good name for it, as it's neither a "whip" or a "lash."

Oh, health care.

Present day...

Sometimes it's the little things. Those little offenses that change us, affect us, make us susceptible to fear, imagination, and any plethora of senses...

Sometimes it's the little things that make all the difference. Maybe my neck is sore for a month, maybe longer, but after the swelling heals from my "accident" it will "not likely" be anything but a check in a box for rest home that one day accepts my tired bones...

But my little accidental friend, might be in a bus. Dreams shattered, cold and hungry. Plotting his way back. Because little things mean different things to him.

Like the difference between hot water, and a pinched nerve.

Like the word "F%&k" and "Fuck."

The little things.

Google Does It Again

It never ceases to amaze me when google makes a product that is both
handy, free, and just a great mixture of technology and common sense.

http://www.google.com/gmm/mylocation.html?hl=en

My blackberry doesn't have GPS, and if it did my mobile carrier would
charge me to use it.

So now I have GPS enabled maps on my phone, and free of charge.

My initial tests have shown the approximation dot to be a safety net
for the accuracy of the service, but like all things google, it is in
"Beta" phase. But the "point" is to be able to find things near you,
quicker, not necessarily a turn by turn application. For example for finding
restaurants and such.

The technology is quite clever, using a measurement of your strength
of signal in relation to various cell towers to pinpoint your
vicinity. This is the same method used by a new british technology
launched last week.

I'm guessing after the UK launched what I'm calling the "Loo-cator," a
charge service for finding bathrooms in busy cities, Google must have
felt the pressure to release.

Copyright of THE PUNVERT 2007. Any attempt to Copy, Distribute, Claim, or otherwise Publish any part, or all of this blog is prohibited. Intended for entertainment purposes only. www.thepunvert.blogspot.com