:: So long, Stinktown! ::

I know it's not Friday any longer, but I've been meaning to post this since then. Also, I'm on vacation for the next week, so you can multiply the following e-card's sentiments by 7.



Next stop: Vegas.

:: Take notes, slackers ::

One of the things I dislike most about my desk at work is the fact that it's turned away from the front of the building, leaving me with my back turned to the rest of the office and thus susceptible to sneak attacks, or worse – the dreaded sneak "look-over-your-shoulder-while-you're-adjusting-your-fantasy-football-lineup-instead-of-working."

But the one thing that nearly makes up for this poor desk placement is the fact that it's near the back of the office. So on days like today, where I exhausted my work responsibilities by about 11 a.m., I can hear the company CEO's voice when he stops by for a visit.

And unlike the people up front, that leaves me plenty of time to open up five or six work-related programs on my Mac. Sometimes, if I've got enough of a heads-up, I can even type the first few lines of a fake email before he gets to my desk to say hello.

:: Sometimes a bunch of pens is just a bunch of pens ::

To get to the washrooms on my office's floor, one must walk down a long hallway that we share with the other businesses on our floor. As such, you're bound to run into somebody you don't know and don't necessarily want to talk to, but of course, end up saying hello to/making small talk with. 

As you can probably guess, I hate that, because said conversations revolve around two things: 1) How 'bout this crappy weather, eh?!  and 2) This is such a looong hallway. (Seriously, the hallway length comes up more than you'd think.)

Today, as I reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner to where the bathroom door is, I noticed four pens lying on the ground. Four pens, that's it. Of course, some bozo I've never met has to – I mean, just has to – come around the opposite corner at the exact same time, also noticing said pens. 

I saw no reason to comment on the pens. They fell out of somebody's pocket. They're just pens. Big deal. Not so, however, for my new hallway friend. 

"Whoa, whoa whoa what happened here?!" he said in that over-exaggerated tone people use when they want to make a faux-big deal about something in an attempt to be funny. 

Now, I could understand this guy's remark if say, instead of four pens, the items on the floor had been a condom, sharktooth, vial of blood and a pen. But no, it was just four pens. That's it. The only way a stack of pens is remotely interesting is if it's an obscene number of pens; if 20,000 Bics lined the hall, I may have cared. But it was just four. Four pens. No shark's teeth.

I refused to take this fellow's bait. 

"Somebody dropped four pens, that's what happened," I deadpanned, before walking into the washroom to pee.

Mystery solved, douchebag.

:: Something is free in the office today ::

This morning, a large box of free tea samples – various types, brands, etc - showed up in our office. From a customer, or some tea company, or something... it's origins are not really important.

But the way people are crawling all over themselves for individually packaged, 25-cent tea bags, you'd think they were filled with gold. Since 8:15 this morning, people have been talking about tea. Discussing the various types in the box – green tea, vanilla tea, cleansing tea, some Starbucks' brand – asking where it came from, or debating loudly what types are best for what situation.

And just when the fucking conversations stops, some new person – someone blissfully unaware of this free bounty of tea – shows up and asks what the box of tea is all about.

And if that's not happening, the one person whose desk happens to be adjacent to said box – and is therefore is the self-appointed guardian of the tea – is wandering around the office, offering it to the people who were so unmoved by the free stuff to begin with that they never left their cubicles.

Listen, it's fucking tea. It's not new – it's been around since dates ended with 'B.C.' for Chrissakes – and it's not really that interesting, either. Get over it.

:: Somebody got their medical degree from Hollywood Upstairs Medical College ::

New Year's Resolution be damned, I am eating an Egg McMuffin this morning. Why? Because despite my annual pronouncement that "This is the year I'm getting in shape!", there was a 2-for-1 coupon in the paper, and my resolution this year is also to save money.

And hey, a deal's a deal. (And in my defence, I didn't eat both of them. I gave one to my boss.)

So as I'm sitting here at my desk, one of our company's sales reps walks by and says quietly, "You know, that stuff'll kill ya."

Couple things wrong here. First of all – shutup.

Even if I'm shovelling pure lard into my mouth, or shooting heroin into my veins, nobody – least of all, me – asked you for an opinion on my lifestyle or health choices. Nobody.

But while I am willing to concede that a) she was only kidding around and b) simply making conversation (which, by now, you should all know that I hate - see here, here and here if you are not yet entirely convinced) there is a bigger problem with her unsolicited health advice:

The reason she walked by my desk was so she could go grab her jacket off the coat rack.

Because she was going outside in the rain to have a smoke.

And if you're wondering whether or not I called her on this little bit of hypocrisy, well, you don't know me very well, do ya?

:: Brain freeze ::

Yesterday afternoon, I sat at my desk and ate a big bowl of ice cream. Somebody I work with had bought a big tub of it, put it in the lunch room freezer and told some of us to help ourselves. I went and got some and came back to my desk.

Being that my desk is in a high-traffic area right near the lunchroom door (the office equivalent of getting a table near the washroom), there were no shortage of people – from other departments, and therefore not initially told of the ice-cream bounty – walking by and making comments about my ice cream.

This was incredibly annoying, as you may imagine. Then, it just got plain stupid.

Guy, leaving lunchroom: Hey, I didn't see any ice cream in there!

Me: Well, it's in there.

Guy: Where was it?

Me: It's ice cream, where do you think it was? I've give you a hint – it wasn't the microwave.

Guy: Weird, I never saw it.

Me: Did you look in the freezer?

Guy: Well, no, I didn't.

Me: Can't imagine why you wouldn't have known about it then.

These are the people I work with.

:: She was spouting cliches a mile a minute ::

I just overheard a woman on a phone call. In the span of no more than two minutes – and that's probably being generous – she said the following things about a person who was the subject of the phone conversation.

"She's bigger than life."

"She's got a mega-watt smile."

"She just lights up the room."

"She'd give you the shirt off her back."

So yes, this woman is probably a fantastic person – not to mention potentially topless – but what I am more concerned with is the fact that the person on this end of the line is apparently completely unable to form and express unique thoughts.

I mean, I work in sports, so I hear cliches all the time – about taking it one day at a time, giving it 110%, etc – but that's different. (I don't know why or how it's different, so don't ask, but it just is).

It's probably the same reason I hate – HATE – when I hear or read (lookin' at you, Facebook statuses) people spouting some cliche phrase and pass it off as wit or a deep thought*. It's not. It's lame, and does not make you intelligent. It makes you lame.

*Today's annoying example: Somebody on Twitter posted that lame quote about how "yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery and today is a gift. That's why they call it the present." Good one, jackass – real fucking original. You think that up all by yourself?

:: Delayed response ::

Witnessed a very Seinfeldian moment today at the office. However, unlike Seinfeld, the moment was annoying rather than hilarious.

More than two hours ago, one co-worker made some faux-angry remark about how, if our department kept screwing up – thus directly affecting his department – he was going to send some people after us/get us in trouble, etc.... It was said in jest, we all chuckled, blah blah blah, end of moment.

And then we all moved on with our days.

One guy though – who is something of a socially-awkward rube and has been mentioned here, here and here– just couldn't let the moment die. What he also couldn't do, unfortunately, was come up with an on-the-spot, witty remark. Like I said, he's not that quick.

So, two hours pass, and he wanders back to the guy who made the fake-threats, and said, "Remember earlier when you said ....." and then proceeded with his hilarious comeback that he'd spent two hours crafting in his brain.

Couple problems. The first of course, is that two fucking hours passed. But secondly – perhaps most importantly – is that his finely crafted bit of hilarity was awful. Like, one of the top-5 lamest "jokes" I've ever heard.

Worse than a "dad" joke. Hell, even worse than a bad "dad" joke.

And then upon the joke falling flat, he topped it off with what's sadly become his signature line: "Right? Riiiight???"

At this rate, all I can hope for is that he soon takes a new job at Tyler Chicken.

:: Definition of irony (sort of) ::

While sitting at my desk, which is adjacent to the lunch room, I was just forced to listen to two women, both in their late-40s/early-50s, bitch and moan – quite viciously, I might add – about their respective elderly mothers.

About how they try to run their lives even now; question their parenting skills; how they were terrible parents themselves and that's why all their children escaped and moved far away, and how all they do is complain and blah blah blah. It got so obnoxious and loud, I almost told them to shut up.

But I didn't. Because the thing is, I don't think these two realize that, judging by the way they just spent their lunch hour complaining and whining, in 20-30 years they will probably turn out the exact same way.

Old. Bitter. Angry.

That'll teach 'em for annoying me.

:: Silent Agreement ::

Seth: What are you doing? 

Evan: Drilling holes.... there's two weeks left of school, fuck it.

- Superbad

Today is my last day of work before two weeks of vacation. Tomorrow, I leave for Disneyland. Needless to say, I am not working very hard today. I mean, I don't really have to – I did a bunch of work ahead of time to help out those filling my shoes in my absence, and there is no point in starting anything new because, well, there is less than two hours left in the workday, so what's the point? If I start something new and it doesn't get done by 5 p.m., then what? 

I realize this, and so does, I think, my boss. He often has a bad habit of assigning us tasks – even menial, quick ones - at like 4:52 p.m. I don't even think he does it on purpose, but today, for me, there has been none of these type of assignments since lunch. Instead, other colleagues are getting them put on their desks instead.

Because let's face it, if he gave it to me, it's not going to get done. Nobody even has to say anything.

He knows it. I know it. 

Now, let's just sit silently at our desks until the clock runs out.

:: Best phone call of the day ::

I just got off the phone with an 85-year-old guy named Ken, who was an athlete of some renown in his heyday. Now, in this community, dealing with people in their 80s, 90s or 100s is common, and sometimes, well, it's tough. You can't understand them. They can't hear you. They're confused. You're confused. 

Often, it doesn't end well. So I was worried about this guy, who I'd never spoken with before. 

Turns out, I had nothing to be concerned about. He was awesome. Kinda gruff and crotchety, but generally nice. Then, he says this about the fact that I called his daughter's home line to speak with him, instead of his own (he lives in his daughter's basement suite):

"Yeah, I got my own line about a year ago because I was sick and god-damned tired of taking stupid messages for my grandson. I mean, Jesus, he's 15 years old – what in the hell do 15 year olds have to talk about that much, anyway? I didn't even think they knew how to talk on the phone – don't they just text nowadays anyhow?"

Then he explained why he moved into his daughter's house, from his previous place downtown.

"I decided to move here about five years ago, because I got tired of living by myself. It's boring, being alone all the time, you know? TV's not as good as it used to be – it's all this reality crap or cooking shows – so it gets pretty boring if you're by yourself."

This is exactly how I hope to be when I'm old.

:: All my hard work has finally paid off ::

Today at the office, we had a potluck lunch party for a woman who is retiring. Today is her last day.

Two things have come out of this. One, it has caused one noted office conversationist (guess which one! Hint: read the post previous to this one) to wander around the office, saying to every colleague over the age of 50 "Well, I wonder which one of us is next!?"

And two, it has made me reconsider my career. Not that I want to quit, mind you. But I would like to retire. Early. Like now. I relayed my career plans to Christene, because I thought she should be the first to know. After all, if I'm retiring at 29, somebody's gonna have to pick up a few more shifts at the ol' pancake factory.

Christene: You know, I think it is time for you to retire.

Me: I think you're right. I mean, I've worked my ass off for... 7 years. My time has come. I deserve this.

And with that, I relayed my intentions to my boss.

(To his credit, his only response was "Nobody else can retire on deadline." We spend a good hour-and-a-half of crunch time today eating cake and listening to heartfelt speeches.)

So I am retiring effective the end of today, 5 p.m. Here's how I expect my retirement to go: After spending Canada Day and Friday enjoying the fruits of my years of labour, I will then spend Monday re-evaluating the decision I have made (and the Funtastic beers I have drank!), and on Tuesday, just minutes before the office is set to open at 8:30 a.m., I will announce, Brett Favre-style, my triumphant return.

It is unlikely anyone will host a "Welcome Back" party for me (especially since I didn't get a retirement one), but I'm guessing that, even on Tuesday, there will still be some leftover cake in the fridge from today's lunch.

:: Annoying, obnoxious... take your pick ::

Today at work, in the span of three hours, the same person has inexplicably spoken three times in an exaggerated faux accent – an accent I can only describe as Jamaica/Eastern European – has made four terrible puns that drew absolutely zero response from anybody (because we've learned to ignore him) and then, when he got zero response from said puns, he looked around everyone and said "C'mon! C'mon!" like a bad stand-up comic who wasn't getting the laughs.

(Each pun was set up the following way, as they all are... Somebody mentions something, and he responds with "So what you're saying is..." and that's where the awful play on words happens. It's awful.)

Also, he's burped at his desk about 16 times since 9 a.m., which is both classy and obnoxious, not to mention a little bit gross.

I just thought you should all know these things.

:: Note to self - Pay Attention ::

On weekday mornings, I very rarely leave myself much time to get ready, because I'd much rather sleep for an extra few minutes. I usually shower the night before, too, thus giving me an extra 10 minutes of beautiful, beautiful slumber.

And, in my hurried state, I often leave "making lunch" until the last minute. And considering, in our current living arrangement, that contents of said lunch could be in any one of three fridges (kitchen, extra fridge in utility room, and a wildy-unorganized beer fridge in our basement), making lunch quickly is sometimes a challenge. Add in the fact that I'm a) still dead-tired and b) sometimes it's still pretty dark in the basement, and I'm lucky I eat lunch at all.

Cut to today: my usual five-minutes-to-go-before-I-leave lunch scramble, and I open the bar fridge to grab a Coke Zero. I grab a can, chuck it in my bag, and run out the door. 

At noon, I open up my bag to get my lunch, and there is no Coke Zero to be found. But what is there? Why, there's a Bud Light, of course. 

In my haste to get to work, and in the low-light of the basement, I grabbed a dark-blue can of beer instead of the black can of Coke. Genius.

I relayed this chain of events to Christene, and she said she's come very close to doing the same thing numerous times – and she wakes up at 4 a.m., so here chance of error is even greater, because, with it still dark out and the rest of the house still asleep, she does nearly everything in a dark haze, including trying to sort through a fridge that contains a scattered collection of Coke Zero, four different kinds of beer, Palm Bays, Gatorade, Diet Coke with Lime, Diet Cherry Coke, apples, oranges, and God knows what else.

But she's still never brought a beer to work. She did, however, offer a solution to my workday gaffe:

"You should shotgun it!"

Good idea maybe, but I think that kind of shit is frowned upon in an office setting.

:: Lunch lady ::

Recently, my company reshuffled some of its operations, which meant we got a few employees in our office. 

One of them, a woman in her mid-40s, we all know, as she worked out of our office a few years ago. She's a great person – very bubbly, funny, and we all like her, and are happy to have her here. Trouble is, turns out she's a "lunch talker." And I don't mean that in a "she talks to you when you're both sitting in the lunchroom" kind of way, which of course, is perfectly normal.

No, she is a "lunch talker" because she just simply cannot walk past a person eating something without commenting on it. I guess that actually makes her a "lunch commenter" or a "lunch observer" but whatever. You get the point. 

"Mmmm... that looks good."

"Salad, eh? 

"Is it lunch already?

Aside from answering 'Yes' to all three of those queries, what else can you really say? It's just a case of someone wanting to make conversation for the sake of it, or because they just love the sound of their own voice, or both. 

And it's even more of a pain in the ass for me because at least three out of five weekdays, the desk at which I sit is directly in her path. I could probably avoid it if I chose to go hide in the lunch room, but don't even get me started on the conversations I'd be subjected in there*.

(*How bad is the lunchroom? If I have to do any prep-work or microwaving of my lunch – anything that will keep me in there longer than the two seconds it takes to grab it from the fridge and go – I wait until every last soul is out of there. That's how serious I am about avoiding this inane, uninteresting conversations. And if that means I have to wait until 2:30 to eat my lunch, so be it.)

So yeah, I'm in a bit of a pickle here. I'm gonna have to start eating lunch in my car.

Doors locked.

:: Anger rising ::

I had a meeting set this morning for 9:30 a.m.; the guy I was supposed to meet with was to meet me here in our office. He sent me an email at 8:45 a.m. asking if we could "kindly reschedule to 11" because he had a doctor's appointment. No problem, I said. 

So 11 a.m. rolls by. Then 11:15. Then 11:35. I call, but there's no answer and his voicemail is conveniently full. Now angry, I email him and ask him where the hell he is, and mention that I don't have all day – I have other things to do, and my time and patience was running short.

Ten minutes later, I get an email back saying, "Oh, sorry, I just got home from the doctor's and I'd left my phone and home, and blah blah blah - can we do this by phone?"

Yes, I said, by phone will be fine. I call. No answer. I call again. No answer. 

This guy has absolutely burned my last nerve. 

For starters, he had to meet with someone else from my office yesterday at 3 p.m. He finally arrived for that meeting 10 minutes late, and then said hurriedly, "I just have to pick my daughter up from school I'll be back in 10 minutes!" and then drove off.

He reappeared 35 minutes later. 

And here's the thing: being late is one thing, but what pisses me off the most is that his two reasons for it – picking up his daughter and a doctor's appointment – are not things that just come up out of the blue. He knows when his daughter gets out of school, and presumably knows if/when he has to pick her up.

And have you tried getting a doctor or dentist appointment in the last 10 years? You have to book that shit months in advance. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning, and I've known since 2007. So why the hell would he schedule things he knew he'd be late for? 

Because he has no concept of time, or regard for other people's time, that's why. And being a person who is almost always punctual, this pisses me off some.

Eventually I did get in touch with him – 2 hours and 15 minutes after our rescheduled 11 a.m. and nearly four hours after we were first supposed to get together – and basically told him to stuff it. Told him I wasn't interested in meeting with him anymore (at least not today), and if he wanted to call me back sometime next week, that'd be fine, but I was done chasing him. 

He said he'd call by Monday afternoon.

Somehow, I doubt it.

:: Minor annoyance of the day/week/month ::

In my line of work, we have two deadlines per week, Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons. The exact same times every week.

One of my colleagues here has worked here for 23 years. Almost every Thursday for the past month or so, he asks me the same question:

"So... when's deadline today?"

Part of his asking is simply because he can't get enough of talking to people – he's the same guy who tries to rope people into conversations as they're about to leave for the day – but another part of it is that he simply doesn't know.

If, after more than 20 years in the exact same job at the exact same place, I am unable to remember on a week-to-week basis one of the primary tenants of my profession, it's probably time to look for a new job in a new line of work.

I mean, 20 god damn years.

:: A week off ::

I think that I've mentioned this before, but in the past – especially when I was in college – I would get sick at the end of nearly every semester or long period of stress/work, etc.

In school, I used to spend the first 3-4 days of my Christmas break, and usually the first couple days of the summer, lying in bed not because I was lazy (although I was) but because I felt awful and worn down. Basically, my body and my brain were exhausted.

I've had a few similar episodes since I graduated – usually after a rough week or two stretch at work, but by and large, it hasn't been that bad. I don't tend to get too stressed out these days, even if I do still have a recurring dream where I wake up (in my dream, not in real life) only to realize I have a semester's worth of projects/essays/final exams to do that day, and haven't prepared for any of them.

That dream stems from the time that really did happen to me –my final semester before graduation. But that's another story for another day. The point is, for the last few years, I've been pretty stress-free, never feeling too worn down.

But right now, I feel, not worn down or stressed per se, but just... off.

At work, for example, I haven't been able to focus as much as usual, and while I don't think my work has really suffered, I just haven't felt too good. The creativity/writing ability needed to do my job just isn't here right now, and I don't know where it's gone.

And the thing is, I'm not particularly stressed with regard to work, nor am I getting sick like I used to in college, nor am I overly tired or worn down physically, but I think the fact that work has been a little tougher than usual (including working a few weekends) plus the fact that all the house-selling/buying/packing/moving drama is over with, has really absolutely drained me.

I'm having a tough time putting it into words (which is obvious, if you've read this far), but I just feel like my brain needs a break. A serious, more-than-a-long-weekend break where I don't think about work at all.

Of course, we have Easter Weekend coming up (even if I only get three days off, not four), and then it's my birthday, and then I have a week off for Vegas, so that break is coming soon.

But really, it can't come soon enough.

And even though I know that going to Vegas with about 20 people – or whatever the number is at now – isn't exactly a recipe for relaxation, it at least will get my mind a chance to be addled with booze, instead of work-related thoughts.

God knows I need it.

:: The Process ::

You hear versions of it all the time, how it's not about winning, but how you play the game. And coaches, with increasingly regularity (especially in the NHL), like to talk about "the process" - that most elusive of concepts. Then, conversely, there's those from the Al Davis "Just Win, Baby" camp. For the record, this is usually the camp I've fallen into. What can I say? I'm a competitive person.

But last night I changed my mind.

I was working, covering the B.C. senior boys basketball provincials downtown at the Agrodome. Saturday night was the final. The game was actually a terribly sloppy one - neither team shot anywhere close to even 30% from the field - and the team I was there to cover ended up blowing a lead and losing in the last three minutes. So it was not necessarily a fun night for me (It's awfully tough to talk to kids who just lost the last high school basketball game they'll ever play, and lost it in front of 4,500 people, no less).

One coach, I know very well. Fantastic guy. Likes to talk about "the process" a lot, and borders on being hokey when he starts talking about worrying more about turning his boys into well-adjusted men, than top basketball players. From almost anybody else, I'd call bullshit, but he's genuine, he really is. Talk to him for 5 minutes, and you know that he really cares about his players.

His team lost, but it still took him 20 minutes to leave the floor, because everyone - fellow coaches, parents, players, younger students - wanted to talk to him, give him a high-five or a hug. It takes a special coach, a special person, to have that kind of effect on people.

But last night, my courtside seat along media row happened to be behind the other team's bench, where I watch closely a coach I knew nothing about.

I was not impressed - right from the first impression.

For starters, as far as high school sports are concerned, this tournament is pretty much the Stanley Cup. So the coaches look presentable - suits, ties, jackets.. nice shoes, that kind of thing.

This coach, however, chose to wear ill-fitting black pants - which could've been track pants, for all I know - and a stretched out, awful sweater that was about two sizes to big. He was balding, and his hair on the sides of his head stuck straight out, mad-scientist style.

And oh, did he yell.

At the referees, sure - not that uncommon - but mostly at his own kids. And not that "constructive criticism" kind of yelling, not the motivation kind. It was the screaming kind. And loud, with arms flailing, hands grabbing the collars of his player's jersey. It was ridiculous. With his bright red face, I would not have be surprised if he'd dropped dead right there from a stroke. There were times where he reminded me of comedian Lewis Black, with his over-the-top, scream until your voice goes raspy deliver.

At one point, he pulled a player - who'd just made a mistake - off the court, sat him down on the bench and got right down in his face.

"You can't do this to me!" the coach yelled.

Funny, I always thought it was about the kids.

His team won, of course, thus validating his approach, which actually bugged me more than having to interview teary-eyed kids. But had his team lost, I would've known why. Teams, you see, often take on the personality of the guy in charge. And this guy's team, which trailed until its late-game comeback, was rattled right from the start. The players yelled at the refs, they pushed and shoved the other team, they screamed back at their coach. There's a fine line, obviously, between intensity and out of control, but I'd suggest the team was the latter.

The other bench? Calm and cool.

But like I said, the crazy coach won. After the game, talking to the coach I know, I mentioned my observations to him. Not wanting to rag on another coach or his style - like I said, he's a good guy - he just kind of shrugged.

"Regardless, it's a championship style tonight," he said.

He's right, of course. All the yelling, the screaming, the grabbing kids' collars, it worked. His team won.

Still, there's something to be said for the process.

:: Full Moon Friday ::

Strange day here at the office. 

For starters, for whatever reason, not many people are here today, so it's eerily quiet. The crazy kooks are also out in full force, too. We get a lot of strange, non-sensical emails – often letters – from older folks who are off their meds (seriously) or just plain crazy, and today is no exception... there've been two garden-variety nutso submissions so far, and also one phone call I just overheard. I know the phone call was from a crazy person because my colleague spent the whole conversation politely saying, "uh huh... uh huh... uh huh," followed by "OK, I'm hanging up now... thank you for calling... I'm hanging up... I'm hanging up–" Then click.

All things considered though, this letter from a local high school student was the weirdest thing we came across today. I'm paraphrasing, but here was the gist of it: 

"I have done the physically impossible, and thought you would be interested. I am not double-jointed nor do I have a separated shoulder, but I am able to lick the centre of my own elbow (The outside of it)."

"This is something that cannot be done by anyone, and thought you would like to know."

The letter-writer is right, of course. It is all but impossible to lick the outside of your elbow. Go ahead, try it. (We all did). Impossible.

Just to see what would happen, we emailed back and, in a serious tone, said, "We will need photographic proof of this feat before we consider it newsworthy."

Sure enough, not 10 minutes later we received a camera-phone photo of a teenage high-school girl doing exactly what she said she could do. Of course, this is about the least-newsworthy thing imaginable, so we won't be following up. But the question remains: What in the hell possessed this girl to think this qualified as "news"?

"Must be a full moon tonight," I suggested. "You know, when all the weirdos go crazy."

"Either that," someone else countered. "Or kids have really run out of things to do on Spring Break."

See what happens, school districts? You extend Spring Break by an extra week, and this is what your gifted children spend their time doing. When I was a kid, we had one week off in March and one week only, and never once that I can remember did we ever play the "Let's see what part of my body can touch another part."

Just sayin', is all.