[Author’s note: while this entry is easy to get from context, here’s additional info. Pack was the company boy, the space cadet who knew it all. In 1981, I was one of the few people in the entire corporate world who had ever seen or used a computer. So yeah, by 1984 I aced all the company courses. Why not, they were paid time.
You can see it was still uncommon (and rude) in those days for stores to tell you they had an item in stock just to get you to drive there. This disgusting practice was largely pioneered by Sony corporation who had determined Americans were stupid, and if you got them into the store even by lying, they would buy something just so as to not have wasted the trip.
My friction with Sony goes back a long ways. Most of you are too young to know that a lot of the “customer service” runaround you get today was introduced into North America by Sony in the 1980s. They are the ones largely responsible for the telephone games you get, and they institutionalized the “first offended” act that found its way into the political correctness of the 90s. Always be the one first offended.
I paid Kathy $100 to macramé me an entire window hanging just so my budgie, Memphis, could sit on it. And be reminded in those days, I would often hope a flight to Bangkok several times a year. I was a regular in Phuket. To be exact, my cabana was west of town, on the Indian ocean, at Pat Pong Beach. There were no hotels there at the time.]
Everyone, including both supervisors, were moved to say how peaceful the day was due to Pack’s absence. Pack, incidently (sic), deal his already putrid reputation another blow by changing the SES password without authorization. Probably the most technical, complicated thing he’s done in years. rumor has it he’ll be taking a computer course soon—possibly the one I’ll be taking. I’d pay to see him try something even marginally challenging. (Those “intros” at the training center are cannon fodder*, pure and simple.)
I drove down to the traveling gear store—Taiga—after confirming they had a complete stock on hand. They lied. They were out of the 3 items I wanted. Rip off, I drove a long ways. I wanted a “Jet Pack”, a money belt, and a camera holster. I luckily found the pack about 20 blocks away. Oh, says the Taiga clerk—those are popular items. Kiss my ass.
*explanation: employees were rated by their performance on these courses, and since I was the only programmer in the entire company in 1984, I could ace these courses in my sleep. Hence, for my performance reviews, they were "cannon fodder".
After work, Heather, one of the girls who works upstairs, caught up to me & we walked down Grange. She reminds me of Bonnie. Kathy talked Ruthella into driving us over to get the materials for her to macramé my whatever you call it. Now Ruthella is getting married. I’ve been to 2 or maybe 3 weddings in my life and I still don’t understand what all the fuss is about. I couldn’t care whether I ever got married or not, especially when I’m young enough to enjoy other things. Mind you, I long to again meet a woman honest enough to admit she only likes a good time. With one or two severely resigned relationships, the marriages I’ve seen are not a good time. At all. Heather is separated or divorced or something. As follows with this area, anything but single. I would have to be obsessed with marriage before I could overlooked that I would not have what I do today if I’d gotten married. She reminds me that I get lonesome sometimes—but I’d rather be lonesome for what I never had than over what I lost. IE—I’d rather be pissed off than pissed on.
This travel agent—I’m getting angry. All the past weeks he’s saying my outbound flight is “cleared” all this kind of travel agent jargon. Today, for the first time, 72 hours before departure, I hear the word “standby”. What the hell gives? If I miss my flight it’s gonna be fist city. That clown knows I would never have entered a standby arrangement on something this important. If I do miss it, I expect to be on a #1 slot for every flite in North America going anywhere near Bangkok.
