One step ahead.

It's always sad when I make a joke that is so witty and intelligent that it goes RIGHT over the head of my intended audience. I suppose my humor is too high-brow for the proletariat. Today I went to Nordstrom because I wanted a new pair of khaki pants. My body having the cartoonish proportions that it does, I of course need to have all my pants tailored. The tailor, awkwardly gripping my firm buttocks in her wrinkled hands, shook her head and said "Tsk, tsk."

Connor: What is it?
Fanny McPhee: Is this really the smallest waist size we have?
Connor: Yes. (Tries to swat her hand off my ass... unsuccessfully)
Fanny McPhee: What do you think about them?
Connor: They still look too big on me.
Fanny McPhee: We can take them in a bit, but not too much. Maybe you'll grow into them.
(She looks up at me, eyes narrowing.)
Fanny McPhee: How old are you?
Connor: Twenty-seven.
(This answer seems to satisfy her.)
Fanny McPhee: You still have time to fill out. My son used to be just your size. Not anymore though. They used to call him 'Stick'.
Connor: Now he's more like a 'Branch'?
(Internally, I am quite pleased at my witty wordplay. This was a funny comment! I seek approval from Mrs. Touchy Tailor. She cocks her head at me, confused.)
Fanny McPhee: 'Stick'. (Holds up a vertical finger as if I am a retard. Tries to mime a stick.) You know? Thin like a stick.
(There is an awkward pause consisting of unblinking eye contact.)
Connor: I must not have understood that initially.

Elaborate build-up, followed by disappointment (that's what she said?)

"Oh, why hello there Mr. President. I didn’t see you there in the corner. Yes, I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking. The project? Operation Rainbow is proceeding on schedule. That’s right, I’ve managed to overcome all the substantial technical hurdles. Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am aware of my prodigious intellect but I appreciate the compliment nonetheless.       

What’s that you say? You’re worried about the tree-huggers finding out about Operation Rainbow and raising objections? What could they object to?! All we’ve done is create a hybrid puma/rhinocerous, fed it nothing but human blood, then equip it with a 100kW laser and strap it to a rocket. Why would anyone object if we unleash an Abomination Unto the Lord against our enemies? Oh, poppycock. I think they’ll be proud of the scientific hurdles that we’ve blindly cleared to accomplish this goal.        

Well, I suppose you can always contact me if you have further concerns. But please not on Tuesday evenings. That’s when I karaoke. Hmm? Oh, you need a business card? Why of course. I would be happy to present you with this elegant symbol of my professionalism."

Head Over Hell

I have an important personal issue that I must vent to the internet, where it is sure to attract the attention it deserves. There are some quality radio stations here in Seattle, but only a few have funny morning DJs and play good music. To be honest, there are really only two and one of them is 101.5 KPLZ.

Every morning they have a special "7 at 7" segment where the DJs build a short seven-song playlist that they broadcast at 7am. Typically, I'm already at work by that time, but maybe once a week or so I get it a little later at like 7:15.

Here's the problem: every SINGLE time I've heard this playlist, they will ALWAYS include the Tears for Fears classic hit, "Head Over Heels". This used to be a great song. If I were writing a teenager "coming-of-age" movie about growing up in the early 90s (where John Cusack plays myself), "Head Over Heels" would definitely be on the soundtrack. But it's one of those awesome songs that you can only hear once a year for it to retain that special feeling. And this DJ has ruined it! For whatever reason, he keeps throwing it into his "7 at 7" playlist every week.

I was emotionally unprepared for a previously-loved mid-80s pop song to get overplayed. I'm getting to work now with feelings of unresolved rage and anxiety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMBbJ_l0Tb4

Like a Boss.

Now that I'm working at The Company, I've decided to step up my game a bit in the clothing department. I don't want to brag, but basically I make the cover models on GQ look like dirty hobos. Is this a bus, Jake Gyllenhaal? Because I just took you to school! Yesterday, I wore a nice pair of slacks and a dress shirt that I purchased at Nordstroms. Admiring my reflection in a pool of water, I realized that I required more of these outfits. I was crushed to find that the store had just recently been ravaged by a two week sale, and no longer had a full supply of shirts.

Sales Rep: We sent all our remaining inventory to the Nordstrom Rack.
Me: The what?
Sales Rep: The Nordstrom Rack. It's just around the corner.
Me: What is this "Nordstrom Rack" that you speak of?
Sales Rep: It's our clearance store.
Me: (aghast) Ew.

But desperate to flush out my wardrobe, I went to "the Rack" anyways. Once there, I was shocked to discover that my outfit seemed very similar to the apparel worn by the help. Apparently, other patrons felt the same way. A guy with a gelled fo-hawk and a gold chain asked me, "Hey, do you have any Hugo Boss socks here?" I was confused about why he was talking to me, because I wasn't wearing a gold chain and their kind tend to stick together. "Oh," he said, realization dawning on his face. "Sorry, I thought you worked here."

Two thoughts flashed through my mind in that instant. First, why would someone be looking EXPLICITLY for Hugo Boss socks? That seems weirdly specific. And the second thought was that Hugo Boss socks sounded amazing. What was so special about them?! I needed a pair.

No. I needed EVERY pair.

My eyes narrowed at Gold-Chain Douchebag. "Stay the fuck away from the Hugo Boss socks," I growled in a low voice. Douchbag backed up a step. "You hear me?!" I continued, a crazed look in my wild eyes. "They're mine! You're in MY HOUSE BITCH!"

59%: The Best Get Better

Does life get more exciting than this?! Probably not YOUR life!

Reach for the sky!

Oh sweet zombie Jesus, it's time for Performance Evaluations again! Being a new employee at a company, it's important to set realistic goals that also demonstrate your commitment and dedication to the new position. Here are a few examples from the performance goals I set for myself.

1. Limit wine consumption in office to one glass per day, and at least attempt to disguise it.
2. Develop office nickname. Preferred: ConnMan, C-Dawg, "Big Junk". Acceptable Alternative: Snowflake
3. Read two Lolcats per day, minimum.
4. Email hilarious partially nude photo of self to engineering group to promote interoffice camaraderie.
5. Have at least one person refer to me as a "snappy" dresser.
6. Show that bitch lunch lady in the cafeteria who's REALLY the boss.
7. Figure out if I have developed "Tyler Durden" alter ego. If confirmed, attempt to limit fatalities on company property.
8. Exude confidence and raw masculine sexuality.

Accidental Creepster...

There’s a cute girl who sits in a block of cubicles on the other side of the big engineering bay where I work. Believe me, this is a rarity in The Company (apparently). At the very least, I would be content making a friend and having someone to talk to when work gets slow.

I had the perfect, convenient excuse to introduce myself to her. The employees in my bay are organized into clusters of six cubicles each. I refer to them as “cube farms.” As it happens, I had to ask a work question from one of the people in her farm. So I could pop over there with valid work business, and quickly worm my way into her heart.

We have an IM client at work that displays an employee’s status. That way, people can see if you’re at your desk, or in a meeting, or on travel. So I planned to use that for it’s (kind of) intended function, and just check if she was there before I go ask my question. What I DIDN’T know was that the IM client will notify the person if you add them as a friend on your buddy list. So I threw her name into my list, saw she was there, and started walking over to ask my question.

I’m just around the corner when I hear her ask “Who is this Connor Dolan?!” in a puzzled exclamation to her other cube farmers.

So then I ran away.

Of course, the worst part is that I still have to ask the other person in her cube farm my work question. But I don’t want to introduce myself to him if they think I’m a random creepster! *Sigh.* All I wanted was a friend, and instead I’m going to end up with a restraining order…

Spoilerz Alert

Don't read this post if you don't want to know anything about the Twilight series. I'm serious. Just stop reading my intoxicating words now and come back some other day.

I am not fucking around. This post is going to reveal some heavy plot stuff and you probably don't want to have it spoiled.

I'm trying to create lots of line breaks here to push the main content off the page, but you're running out of time.

Still here? You've made the right choice. Not like those others.

I'm proud of you. You know what my grandfather struggled to whisper to me while he was dying from liver failure and the entire family begged him to give up the bottle?

"God hates a quitter."

So read on, my fellow dedicated souls! Drink deeply from the mouth of my 90 Proof blog-a-bottle.


Ok, have you noticed that pretty much NOTHING happens in the entire first half of Breaking Dawn (I'm bored and re-reading it)? All that they do is have weird sex and then get knocked up. All of that takes up as much space as the first Twilight book. I could write most of the plot in just one paragraph:

Bella: Oh you're so impossibly handsome! You have marble skin. I'm going to refer to you as being "marble" a lot.
Edward: You're kind of a dumbass. Like, mentally not that bright.
Jacob: I love youuuu, Bella!
Bella: I love you too!
Jacob: REALLY?!!
Bella: Hahaha dummy! Not really!
Jacob: Wha--Why not? Edward's kind of an asshole. Like seriously, he lies to you all the time and stalks you. How do you not have serious trust issues?
Edward: Don't listen to that wolf dude. Let's have violent sex, where I rough you up a bit. My semen-venom also somehow doesn't hurt you because we both waited until we were married.
Bella: I am rewarded for my sexual inexperience with a creepy, blood-drinking baby now.
Edward: I'm going to try and abort the child without your consent, because I'm such a good male figure.
Jacob: I hate ur baby.
(Bella has baby.)
Jacob: I love ur baby.

Office Antics

So I just ate my lunch and afterward I was feeling kind of cold (I always feel colder after eating, for some reason). Anyways, I was sitting in my chair and I started rubbing my hands together to try and get blood flowing to my fingers. But I accidentally rubbed my palms together too hard and they made a little farting sound. I immediately froze and then carefully looked around. Everyone in my little cube farm had also kind of frozen, but were avoiding looking at me. They totally thought I let one rip.

What's my next move at this point? Declare that I'm not an office farter? Say nothing and let the rumors spread? Maybe blame it on the dude next to me.

Blog entry? Check!

I like to set goals for myself. Not because I’m an over-achiever, but because I like to check items off a “to-do” list and make the little check mark symbol in the air. “Daily bowel movement? Check!” This has not made me popular in the men’s room stalls.

One of my personal goals is to become a regular at the wine bar across the street from my place. To that end, I have been forcing myself to go eat dinner there twice a week. I want the bartenders/hostesses/owners there to know my name and what kind of drink I prefer. I also want them to cheer “Connor!” when I walk through the doors and possibly give me a hug. That’s reasonable.

Sadly, there is a problem with my amazing plan: I don’t know how to say the name of the wine bar, and enough time has gone by that I feel weird asking. The name is “Brix” but is this pronounced like “Bricks” or “Bree”? The only solution I can come up with is to get hammered, pass out and conveniently tumble off my barstool, then “come to” and pretend to be disoriented as I ask “Where am I?” Then wait expectantly for someone to answer my question.

Tactful solution to a trivial problem? Check!

Marina

Dawn of the Browning

Alexis

Momma Bird will miss it, but Baby Bird's gotta fly.

Helping hands

There is a lumbering giant of a man in my building who always walks half a step behind me. I feel his presence constantly looming over my shoulder in hallways. His ragged breath is hot on my neck as I leave a conference room. I cringe when he gets so close that I catch a waft of his distinctive odor (smells like cats)... And he's ALWAYS that close. I feel like Mr. Close Walker wants me to walk faster, and I don't know why he won't just walk around me.

The worst part is when we reach an entrance. Since I'm half a step in front, I will start to open the door. But THEN, Mr. Close Walker will reach forward and grab the door frame... AS I AM IN THE PROCESS OF OPENING IT... and open it as well. So his hand is over my shoulder, and it's almost like he's assisting me in opening the door.

This is one of the worst violations of personal space ever. If it keeps happening, I'm going to go insane and fling myself off the Space Needle.

Trash bash.

I have a major problem with the janitorial staff at The Company. They only empty our bins... ONCE A WEEK! Please take a moment to allow the gravity of this statement to fully mature in your mind. Let it stew for a bit. Then come to the conclusion, as I have, that this is unacceptable!!

I frequently buy a lunch from the cafeteria right across the street and will eat it back at my desk. When I first began working here, I would blissfully toss my used plate in the garbage pail when I was done. But after a few days, I noticed the can was becoming full. Bits of food scraps were turning strange colors. A mysterious odor wafted through the air, and my coworkers grew nervous as packs of wild coyotes drew closer to our group with each passing day. I grew panicked and began to wonder if I had done something wrong.

Was it possible that I had to "activate" my garbage pail to have the janitors empty it? Had I offended the cleaning staff with my charm, good looks, and wild success? "Maybe they just missed my pail for the past three days", I reassured myself. "Surely they'll empty it tomorrow!"

Nope! The next day, the garbage was still full! And it wasn't emptied until I came in to work on Monday morning. So what was the real reason behind this travesty? The janitors (if you can believe this) are unionized and not minorities. Up here in Washington, all they have are Asians and white people. And Native Americans that turn into wolves or some bullsh*t like that. So ship them all up here, Arizona! Load up your huddled masses of shivering, unwanted souls on a bus and drop them off at Home Depots conveniently located across the state!

I'm so clever. I should be a politician.

Who's ready for safe fun?!

I came down with a bit of a fever this weekend. Yellow fever! Yes, I spent the entire holiday weekend with some of my new Asian friends. The fun began on Saturday, when I went to a rooftop shrimp fest in downtown Seattle. The weather was perfect, the booze flowed freely, and I got to sample some new cuisine. You see, part of the shrimp fest was to eat Live Shrimp. It's like sushi... but way more hardcore.

You start with regular shrimp. They're alive and overjoyed at getting to travel new places, like the Seattle fish market! Then they're unceremoniously dumped into a bowl of icy seawater, which paralyzes them. Finally the shrimp come face to face with a ravenous Asian (or drunken white boy), and they are devoured. You break off their head and peel off the shell, dip them quickly in a citrus, soy sauce, and wasabi mixture, and down the hatch it goes! Seriously. This is what I did. It's kind of badass.

Of course, I had to prep myself with a little tequila. Then a lot of tequila. The night ended with me passed out face down in a kitchen downtown, with a bathrobe draped over my body.

Then I rallied for the Fourth of July, which took place at an Asian party by a local lake. Let me just say that Asian people have TOTALLY different concepts of personal safety when it comes to children playing with fireworks! Firstly, Washington State has sick fireworks because all the Indian reservations sell the super illegal stuff. So all the Asian parents were handing kids these insane bottle rockets and what looked (and sounded) like tiny grenades, which they would jam into bottles, tiki torches, aluminum cans, or whatever they could find, light it off and just pray it didn't veer back towards the lakehouse or spray shrapnel.

And as my final example of the stringent safety requirements, I seriously witnessed this conversation:

Kid: Mine didn't go off!
Adult: That a dud. It no good.
(Kid starts to toss the dud in a garbage can near the food)
Adult: What you doing?! That not safe!
Kid: Where do I put it?
Adult: Toss it in campfire.

My eyes are up here.

The hallway in my building is freezing. Not just chilly or slightly uncomfortable. It is stupidly frigid! I am thin and have no protective layer of fat, also known as "Man-blubber" or "mlubber". Herein lies my problem.

Every time I wander into the hallway for a bathroom break, refill my water bottle, or just to deal with my emotions, I develop a bit of a "nip problem". Then when I come back into my work bay, I'm very self-conscious. So of course, I have to walk around with my hands over my nipples and staring down anyone who challenges me... Like a silver-back gorilla.

The solution? Discreet and elegant.

Gastro-intestinal vengeance

This weekend, I hung out with a bunch of my new "younger" friends. We pre-gamed at my fantastic apartment and then ventured out to bars. As we stood in the throngs of people at Tiki Bob's, I made a comment about how I thought a lot of the girls in Kirkland were cute.

This one guy, who was already quite inebriated, looked surprised and then surveyed the ladies as if he were just noticing them. After a moment of drunken contemplation, he blurted:

"Yeah, I guess they're alright if you're-- Like, at your stage in life."

It was such a shockingly condescending evaluation that he delivered so deadpan and casually. I wanted to stab him with my tiny tiki drink stirrer.

But instead, I played it cool and offered to buy the next round of drinks. I got everyone in the group a Southern Comfort and lime... except for the Condescending Asshole. For him, I decided to order something a little special.

Me: What's the worst shot ever?
Bartender: The worst?
Me: Yes, I want a shot that you get somebody you hate.
Bartender: Get an Abortion.
Me: What is it?
Bartender: Irish Cream, Peach Schnapps, and grenadine. You'll gag on it.
Me: One of those, please.

Then later when Condescending Asshole puked in the bushes outside the bar (seriously happened), I innocently asked "Oh, is he not feeling well?"

In my younger and more vulnerable years...

I have a work notebook where I track all my projects and important items. I'm very proud of it because I keep it well organized and have neat handwriting. I can't wait for the day my child gleefully brings their first report card home from school and asks to hang it on the refrigerator, so I can gently tell them:

"No, that's where Daddy dispays his first Boeing work notebook."

then snatch the report card from their delicate, quivering hands and tear it up in front of them as punishment.

Even though I started at "The Company" in May, I didn't get "The Notebook" and make my first entry until June 7th. I was so eager to once again become a cog in a soulless corporate machine, that I used insane, over-the-top "industry speak" to record simple ideas.

For example, I needed to find out how my manager was going to assign me new tasks and projects.

Simple concept.

But this idea was logged into my notebook as "Touch base w/ Leo to establish procedures for assignments and path forward."

What?! That doesn't even make sense! Haha, oh June 6th Connor. You were so eager to impress. So young and naive. How times have changed! I look back at myself in those days and realize what a cold, bitter man I have become.

58%

This post title references the percentage of awesomeness that I am. A.k.a. my winning record in Microsoft Hearts. I want to get this number up to 66%. You want to talk about dedication? It took me about 2 months to get from 57% to 58%. What comes to mind when you think of the word "accomplishment"? Getting engaged? Slaving endless hours to get that promotion? Starting a homeless shelter?

Pathetic. I've played almost a thousand games of Hearts and won 526 of them. Suck on that, boners.

Psst! Hey kid, wanna buy some paint?

So I've begun the process of painting my new apartment! I selected an awesome color for my hallway and main room (it's Behr's Pyramid Gold, and I would link to it but Behr's website sucks). But of course, nothing is ever easy when it comes to me. I got all self-conscious when the stupid know-it-all guy at the Home Depot paint counter put me on the spot in front of a bunch of other customers:

Jerk: What kind of finish?
Me: Uhhh, I don't know.
Jerk: (disbelieveing snort) You don't know?!
Me: It's for indoors.
Jerk: Fine. Then you want eggshell.
Me: Whatever.
Jerk: How much?
Me: Oh. Uh...
Jerk: Sweet Christ I don't have all day! HOW MANY FUCKING GALLONS?!!
Me: FOUR. Uhh, yeah. I need four.

So now I have four gallons of Pyramid Gold paint, and I barely need one and a half gallons. Wtf am I going to do with all this excess paint? Sell it out of my trenchcoat on a street corner?!

New Template... FOR MY LIFE

Happy Saturday, bitches! I've started this day with a new blog template! I like it for the moment, but we'll see how it fares in the long run. And I'm also getting my new apartment today! So it's a gorgeous day full of new beginnings.

You know what strikes me as weird? The people in Seattle are super laid back, but they also guzzle maybe 4 cups of coffee per day. Seriously, how do they manage that? I've only been here a few weeks and my daily coffee consumption has jumped from one cup per day to two. Late in the afternoon after I've chugged my second giant cup, I start getting a little twitchy and I have to realllly watch the engineering decisions I'm making when my boss is around:

Me: I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY! Brackets look good! Fly them!
Boss: (Raises eyebrow)
Me: Or... Ummm, maybe we should test them first.
Boss: (Nods approvingly)
Me: (menacingly under breath) But they better fucking pass that test or else I'm coming to find you. Hear me?

Twilight

Btw, here are some pictures from Whidbey Island that my whole family compares to Twilight. Which made me wonder why so many my uncles were even reading Twilight in the first place.

The Short Bus

I'm really happy with my team that I'm working with. The Lead Engineer is awesome, and he's obviously a smart guy and a great manager. There's the crazy old dude who's worked at Boeing for 25, the stereotypical, soft-spoken "suburban dad", the smart woman with a bit of an edge to her...

There's also Nathan. Nathan is an electrical engineer. He has a little weasel face and a goatee. He's very nice and intelligent, but Nathan feels like I'm the new puppy on the team, so it's his job to train me. Of course, he's not counting the fact that I have a Masters or worked in the aerospace industry for 2 years, so he's treating me like a mental infant. Today he taught me how to (and I'm serious here)...

...Scan a document properly with your eyes.

Nathan: So you have this table here with all the values.

Me: Yup.

Nathan: And we're only interested in the values in this column that have a "Yes" in them.

Me: Sure.

Nathan: So I don't just read every single line. I just hit the "page down" button and let my eyes kind of glaze over this column for when it changes.

Me: Riiiiight... I know how to sc-

Nathan: Like this! I'm not really reading each line, but I'm just looking for differences in this column. See what I'm doing? SEE?!! (presses page down)

Inner voice: Are you fucking serious?

All hail foursquare!

Question: do I use social networking programs to share information about the life I have, or do I only have a life because social networking programs define it?

Yes, this blog has hidden depths that you are only now becoming aware of. But first, let me clarify that it was a rhetorical question, dummy. If you answered in a comment, go stand in a corner. If you answered out loud, go punish yourself by looking in a mirror and saying "This is why nobody loves you".

Just kidding. I love you...  maybe.

There's a reason I was thinking about that question. I use a program called "foursquare" on my iPhone. It's a little application that uses my phone's GPS to figure out where I am, then uses Google to find all the various social venues, restaurants, bars, etc. in the nearby area. You can "check into" a specific location and write tips, see who else is checked in, or (if you check in frequently enough) become the "mayor" of that location.

You can also get little perks. For example, if you check into a certain Starbucks enough to become the mayor on foursquare, you can show that to the barista and get a discount on your drink orders. And you can earn various badges for accomplishing certain tasks. Earning all the badges in foursquare become one of my most precious life goals. At work, I had to fill out a form stating where I see myself in five years. I said that I see myself standing in my 750 square-foot "Room of Achievement", staring proudly at the trophy case where I display my plaque that I had commissioned the day I earned all my foursquare badges.

One of the badges is "I'm On A Boat" which you earn if you check in to a location tagged "boat". Yesterday, I took the ferry over to Whidbey Island. Why? Not because I had a burning desire to see Whidbey Island. It was because I wanted to get the foursquare badge!! But I didn't check into the right place, so I didn't get the flipping badge! So now (because I hate the concept of cheating) I have to drive back down to Mukilteo ferry tomorrow, and check into the ferry terminal just to get this badge.

Stupid foursquare... Making me go outside to new places and crap.

No Dream Finer Than a Dreamliner

Today was a fairly fantastic day at work. I got to walk around in the Boeing factory (the largest building in the world) and inspect all their airplanes production lines up close. The planes are built in an assembly line, with them all lined up nose to tail.

Anyways, Boeing is coming out with this hyper-advanced passenger plane called the 787 Dreamliner. It's quite badass, and not even available for purchase yet. But since I'm kind of a big deal here, I got to walk inside and crawl around the engineering bay of one while it was being built! It was an engineer's hot steamy dream. I even got to peek my head inside the cabin and look out the flight window while making cool airplane sounds. The technicians thought I was a mentally handicapped person on a tour. One told me that this was a special plane that I might get to fly on one day. I gave him a big smile and declared that I was a big boy and allowed to ride on planes all by myself!

I bet you're wondering about some of the more intricate design aspects of the 787 Dreamliner. I'm not supposed to do this, but I got my hands on some very classified engineering documents that I'll upload just for you:

I wish I could explain this schematic to you in more detail, but it really is quite technical and I'm afraid (quite frankly) that it's over your head. Get an engineering degree and then we'll talk.

Trend-setter

You know how I'm super handsome and typically have excellent taste in clothing? You know how it seems like my fashion sense is always one step ahead of yours (*cough* Shoa *cough*)? You might assume that I just read GQ and rip off their ideas, but I'm all original you smug jerk.

Guess what you're wearing right now? Sweat pants and a torn t-shirt. I bet it's not even your t-shirt. It's probably your boyfriend's disgusting gym shirt that he threw in the hamper, but you desperately dug it out and wore it because you haven't done laundry in 3 weeks.

You know what I'm wearing? Mother. Fucking. Cuff links.

That's right. I'll give you a moment to absorb that tasty fashion nugget. Dress shirt from the Donald Trump collection with silver cufflinks. I won't even bother describing the rest of my outfit, because your tears might stain your boyfriends rank t-shirt.

I'm perched in a little indie coffee shop in Mukilteo, gazing down over a clouded Puget Sound, sipping my Americano from an oversized red mug, and rocking a professional outfit that makes all the little high shcool ladies stare (can they even spell "statutory"?). Here's a picture that I took while eye-flirting with your mom from across the café:

In fact, I've just been inspired with an amazing new idea for a coffee shop here in Seattle: "The Fashionista Barista"! All my baristas will wear insane couture while I sit in a raised booth with a monocle and judge my customers.

Age before beauty

Several of my new friends at Boeing are a bit younger than me. To be perfectly honest, the majority of them are summer interns and barely 21. Whereas I am turning the corner to 27 this upcoming July. Apparently I don't look my age, because I've gotten a lot of questions from people asking me one of the following three questions:

1. Am I still in college?
2. Is this my first job?
3. Have I hit puberty yet?

Of course, the answer to all of these questions is a resounding "NO!"

So this past weekend, I was hanging out with Sean and Sammy when we got word of a house party in downtown Seattle. Feeling that the night was young, we sprang into action and drove over there. Once inside, it became apparent that I was the oldest person in the room.

A really drunk, petite asian girl (let's assign her a fake Americanized name like "Susan") stumbled up to me.

Susan: Wait. Who are you?
Me: I'm Connor.

Susan: Are you an intern?

Me: No, I was recently hired as a full-time employee.

Susan: Seriously? How old are you? You're lying to me.

Me: I thought your kind was known for respecting their elders?

I'm so good at saying the right thing.

Polite conversation

I had my Boeing "new hire" orientation today. Being a social butterfly, I immediately got acquainted with the young people at my table. There's me, Sean, a girl named Sammy, and another girl named Meghan (who will work in the same group as me). I was excited, because I'm trying very hard to establish a new set of friends that you might find on a sitcom. Classic shows like Seinfeld or Friends always have a balance of men and women.

Sean: Hey, we should all meet up tonight and get drinks.
Sammy: Yeah, that sounds like fun!
Me: Count me in.

(Sammy stands up and leans forward to collect her papers. I accidentally do a quick boob stare, which I typically try very hard to avoid. I look down abruptly as Sammy catches my gaze at the last second.)

Internal Monologue: Oh shit! She just saw you staring at her chest. Wait... calm down. Maybe she didn't. Is she glaring?

(Quick glance upwards. Sammy is glaring. Glance away again.)

Internal Monologue: She DID see me! I gotta salvage this or else I'm going to lose my new friends. Say something to break the tension!! QUICKLY!!!
Connor: Nice set of cannons, Sammy.
(Collective gasps at the table.)
Internal Monologue: Nice recovery.

Missed Connections

I have a theory about people that I play phone tag with. You know what I mean: you call someone but they don't pick up, then they call back but your phone was on silent, and then you call them a second time but they were in the bathroom, and then they call you back yet again except you're disposing of the drifter's corpse in the river. It's just those little incidents that get in the way of you two actually making a connection.

My theory is this: these are people who are just like you, except slightly out of sync. Don't give up on the game of phone tag, because you could be missing out on your soul mate or a new best friend! An ignorant person (probably named something ridiculous like Zeke) might say "you two just aren't on the same wavelength". This is wrong, and you should not talk to Zeke ever again, because I hate him. You are on the SAME wavelength, you're just off-shifted from each other by 5 minutes. Get yourself in sync, and you are guaranteed a new friend who can replace that idiot Zeke.

Case in point: my new boss. His name is Eli Fluke. First off, let's just reflect on how that's kind of an awesome name. If he were a character in a movie, he would be the lead male role (or perhaps a very strong secondary character that has lots of screen time).

Eli sent an email asking me to give him a call. I called him today at 2:18, but he wasn't in the office so I left a voicemail. Then he called me at 2:33, but I was getting a haircut and put my phone on silent. I called Eli back at 2:58, but had to leave another message. Then he called me at 3:02, but I didn't hear it because my phone was still on silent. I got his voicemail once again at 3:06. Finally I called him again at 3:38 and we had a conversation.

I am excited to meet Eli Fluke, because I feel like we finally got on the same page and now we can become best friends. I'm going to give him a hug when I meet him tomorrow, because first impressions are important.

A Crisis of Faith

I've just realized that I may have awful music taste. I can't be sure; I'm wracked with doubt and paralyzed with indecision. A while back, Amazon had a promotion where they offered a few mp3s as free downloads. One of them was Mike Snow's "Animal" which I downloaded, listened to, and then decided to delete because I didn't much care for it.

Fast forward a month to last night (shit just got real, blogger buddies). I was getting caught up on "Cougar Town" which is a cinematic masterpiece, crafted by the greatest American minds in the industry. Anyways, during the episode "Turn This Car Around" there was a song playing in the background that I found alluring. I hunted the interwebs for the song lyrics so I could download it.

Lo and behold, it was that same Mike Snow song. So basically, depending on the context when I hear the song, I may love or hate the EXACT same song! This is forcing me to re-evaluate my entire music selection. I mean, what if all those Paris Hilton songs AREN'T good? What if I only THINK they're good because I was having fun when I heard them the first time?

Wait, no. I need to snap out of this. If I start doubting Paris Hilton, "America's Sweetheart", then what is there left to depend on in this crazy, mixed-up world? I'm sorry Paris. It was a moment of weakness. Please forgive me.

Attitude (and icon) changes

A new chapter of my life is about to begin. I was a caterpillar, and soon I will be a butterfly! Actually, I'm terrified of butterflies (seriously), so maybe I'm a moth. Not a gross moth that eats your sweaters. A beautiful and mysterious one that soars courageously into the dark night like... Like Batman.

I feel like we're getting too hung up on this "caterpillar" metaphor.

Basically, I need something to symbolize my rebirth. And what's more perfect than a new blog icon?! (That's a rhetorical question, btw, so please don't leave comments informing me what's actually better.) Before I was an evil red robot:

But now I'm a friendly red robot! Well, I guess his expression is more "apathetic". Perhaps he's pensive? It's kind of tough to read robot emotions. That's why they tend to just scream out exactly how they're feeling, e.g. "MASTER, I HAVE GAINED THE ABILITY TO LOVE."

Happy Birthday, coherent light

Today is the 50th anniversary of the patent of the laser. They've given us so much, that I think we need to take the time to reflect on all that lasers have accomplished. What have you accomplished in your life? Probably not as much as lasers. Lasers aren't even sentient. I mean, they're just light amplification through the stimulated emission of radiation. I hope this list motivates you, blog reader, to get your flippin' life in order. I want to write a blog post on your 50th birthday and actually have some accomplishments to describe other than "Farted alphabet."

1. Laser hair removal. How else do you think I got rid of my masculine uni-brow and unsightly nipple hair?
2. CD players. Nothing says "commitment" or celebrates an anniversary with your lady like a mix CD. You're welcome, female gender.
3. Laser blasters. Pew, pew!
4. Laser pointers. Back in the stone age, people would have to point to things on chalkboards with long wooden sticks. They were called "analog laser pointers" strangely enough.
5. Laser cats, which were bred to fight back the inevitable Chinese invasion forces. Look at this classified U.S. military photo of Unit 34 ("Prototype Feline Laser, American Shorthair") during target calibration with Unit 35 ("Snowflake").

By the way, you might be expecting an explanation for the three month hiatus.

I bet you are.

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