Plese Hyer mE!

Work

I am wading through resumes for a Jr Web Designer position. Someone I can beat with a stick and make me tea every so often. It’s amazing how many people responded to our ad that specifically asked for an online portfolio and certain skill sets that:

• Didn’t have an online portfolio. A web designer without an online presence is like a TV preacher without a sex scandal.
• Had a portfolio but had dead links in it (guilty!)
• Had no clue how to spell check (guiltyx2)
• Wrote terse, turgid or confusing cover letters. Granted I didn’t look hard at them, just to see if they regurgitated back the requirements listed, but there was one that was three sentences long and a link. Thats all. Nothing like cutting through the treacle.
• Had a portfolio but built the entire thing in Flash. While this wouldn’t be so bad but it hardly showcases your ability to code HTML, xHTML or CSS.
• Didn’t read the ad close enough to realize we were looking for designers with Photoshop, not Developers with C++ language.

After 24 hours of posting the ad to a popular web media job board, we got 15 resumes. 5 of them will be called. I suspect 2 of those 5 are over qualified for what we’re looking for.

Things That Have Enriched my Day, Webbically

Celebs and Media, General, Robots

Land on Titan with Phillip Glass (via BoingBoing). Why it’s Enriching: Eerie yet beautiful video of the Cassini-Huygens landing. How to Ruin the Moment: When it’s fully loaded, drag the slider back and forth… Landing!! Blast Off!! Landing!! Blast Off!! WEEE!!!

Of the US government snooping on it’s own, William Gibson says “What? This surprises you?” Why it’s Enriching: Gibson could spin a massive global computer virus as cool. I’m loving this scandal as much as as the Manwhore in the Press Gallery scandal. You Americans are WACKY! How to Ruin the Moment: Wake up and realize you’re not watching V For Vendetta. Oddly enough it seems Americans don’t mind losing control over this liberty.

Dainty Bastard’s Pic of the Day a few days back Why it’s Enriching: I love the harsh perspective and structure of the shot. How to Ruin the Moment: Have you ever been under that bridge? The aroma coming off the Don and the smell of pee is nearly unbearable.

Speaking of DB, the new Pugly contestants are up!

Pet Shop Boys (yes! they’re still around!) are releasing a new album and you can hear parts of it on their navigationally challenged site. I’ve heard it the entire album and if you’re even 1/10th a “Pet Head”, you’re going to be very very happy. Why its Enriching: I can’t bloody wait to see the video for “The Sodom and Gomarrah Show” How to Ruin the Moment: did I mention their dumb ass website? And no North American tour dates set yet.

Found this site buried in my favorites at work: Robot Gossip! This guy is in tune with mecca! Why it’s Enriching: Best robot feed I’ve found yet. He has some great photos. How to Ruin the Moment: Blogger site.

And finally, a quote from my RSS: A desk is a dangerous place from which to watch the world. John le Carre

On Your Knees, Showerboy!

General

It looked like another low-cal cocktail weenie party in the showers at the Y again this morning. Myself and four other guys were all washing and none of them had the minimum amount of desired body hair for them to blip on my radar. I note that there is a guy in one of the privacy stalls. I start my shower routine.

I turn to rinse my back and notice that the guy in the privacy stall is on all fours, forearms and knees, right on the hard shower floor tiles.

On.

All.

Fours.

Is he praying to Mecca? Is he looking for a contact? Is he ok?

More worrying is the thought: ‘Why aren’t we all reacting to this guy on the floor like that scene in Carrie?’ because no one else seems to be doing anything. Or they’re refusing to see it.

I shoot glances to the other guys. Two are extremely busy voicelessly comparing each other’s dick size that they haven’t noticed Crawly. One is right next to the privacy stall and probably can’t see Crawly from the angle of his eyesight to the bottom of the stall. The last is finishing up quickly so he is avoiding confrontation.

Typical nervous naked guys.

In my head, I am wondering if I should do something. He may very well be praying…

Plup. He goes down to one side and is lying on the tiles.

Oh ok. This isn’t good. Fast Finisher is out the door. The other three still aren’t moving. I’m about to walk over when he rights himself back up into the doggie position and slowly rises up. He draws the curtain back and I can see he’s a toned, healthy (?) guy. He gets shower bench and goes back into the stall.

He seems ok (as well as could be, I guess) and as I’m leaving I pass Fast Finisher informing the locker room attendant about crawly. He’s joking that the guy might be very hung over.

I think he was just having a bad moment with his meds.

Once, a while back, I nearly fainted on the subway. Between Dundas and Queen, the medications I was on decided that it was time to rob my brain of yummy blood. The car was full enough that there wasn’t any seats so I staggered over to a doorway to steady myself. I went pale. I knew I looked like a vampire. I couldn’t keep my eyes open and all I could think was:

“No. Not here. I can’t bear the embarrassment!”

It passed and I was able to get a seat and made it to the office, without further incident.

I felt for that guy on the floor. In one small way I bet he was glad I didn’t come forward with my goolies hanging out, trying to help.

Mystery Pee

Toronto

I am home from my trek to Carbon Gambinos on Queen East and I am still smelling pee from the guy that sat near me on the Eastbound streetcar. That was 35 minutes ago.

I think his peesmell transfered to me somehow.

Sugar And Spice

Personal Bits

I’m noticing that my Doc and I use the same wireless mouse. Nice. He squints at the flatscreen as he calls up my blood test.

My last Doc took off in November to Africa to heal sick Africans, the bastard (*), and my new Doc, a thin wisp of a man, pushes himself back from his desk with downturned eyes and a sigh. The kind of sigh that rips through your memory and lands on the moment when one of your parents decided that it was time to tell you about the birds and the bees, or why your pet goldfish is swimming upside down. Yeah. One of those sighs.

“The numbers suggest that you are diabetic,” he says looking to me and back to the monitor. He flips the page up and down, reciting numbers and blood acronyms that don’t register with me. I’m in “aaaw goddamn it” shock. “There’s no real border line here, really, it’s just that your blood sugars have topped and stayed over the limit where we consider someone diabetic.”

I’m thinking back to the time when I was a manager of a traveller’s hostel in Ottawa and had keys to the pop vending machine. With reckless abandon, I would open the damn thing and suck back 3, 4, 5 cans a day. I also had keys to the chocolate bar display. Long nights behind the counter were ticked off with Kit Kats, on the hour. Successful calls to the difficult Executive Director was rewarded with a Mr Big.

“There is a great program at the Women’s College for nutrition and diabetes. I’m going to fax them right now and get you signed up,” his fingers fly over his keyboard.

I’m remembering bartending and how I would mainline syrupy Coke and Ginger Ale from the pop taps to keep my energy up and be nice to the customers after midnight, my usual bed time. I think about the little extra snacks I would have before bed at 3am, after a rough night at the bar.

“The waiting list for this program can be a bit long,” he makes an apologetic ‘woopsie!’ face.

I am thinking about that ice cream maker my brother gave me last year for my 40th birthday. I used it once! I swear!

“…but it’s the best around. Worth the wait.”

I’m thinking about pasta.

“Two months, I should think.”

I think about my foot falling off. I think about going blind. I think about my heart stopping. I stop tinking about that.

“Can I get your blood pressure? I haven’t done that in a while.”

So now I’ve become a statistic and a further burden on Canada’s envious health system. I think about how in the last 5 years I have used food as an emotional crutch. Eating has become my drug, evident in the wild fluxuation of my weight. And now I’m in a K(raft Dinner)-hole of sorts with the time come for me to pay the pusher.

This evening, find me googling Type 2 Diabetes and defiantly swilling red wine. Expect a maudlin post not much longer after that.

(*) okay I don’t begrudge my old Doc for leaving. It was just “good” between us, you know? I could make him laugh at inappropriate things like the growth on my toenails. This new one reminds me of a bank loan manager and the few times I’ve tried, I get panicked looks shot back at me