Maquinna's Poop du Jour

Badger, 2005

posted by Maquinna @ 4:35 p.m. 0 comments

Ainsley in the Garden, 2005

posted by Maquinna @ 9:37 a.m. 1 comments

Ainsley, 2005

posted by Maquinna @ 8:25 p.m. 0 comments

I Honk for Man Flesh

Was driving to work this morning when I decided to slap a cassette tape in the stereo (no, the '98 Corolla LE did not come with a factory-equipped CD player) because the radio reception sounded like a bowl of corn flakes. Has done all week, I don't know what's up with NPR or my radio or what.

Anyway, I'm scooting down Highland Street past the high school and there's a kickass song on, and I'm in a good mood, when up the street comes some old guy pushing an empty grocery cart. I'm guessing he's one of these folks that roots through peoples' recycle bins for soda cans to return.

The morning was on the warm side, especially for early October, but even so I was still kind of taken aback when said recycle-bin-rooter paused on the sidewalk, stopped his grocery cart, and peeled his shirt off, revealing a leathery chest with ever so slightly sagging man-boobs covered in a thick snowy down of fuzz.

For some reason, I honked. And then I honked some more. The song made me all giddy, and there was a guy (albeit old and wrinkly) getting semi-naked. I made a little honky tune with my horn, giggled like a madwoman, and careened through the intersection.

In the rearview mirror I saw him staring at me like I was on crack.

posted by Maquinna @ 12:11 p.m. 1 comments

Kwamina 2, 2005

posted by Maquinna @ 10:48 a.m. 0 comments

The INS Customer Service Line

For the past twenty minutes I have been treated to the most banal muzak ever engineered, and to make it worse, the same song is on a continuous loop, peppered intermittently with encouraging and straightforward tidbits of INS information delivered by a strong and confident voice. After each little public service announcement, the muzak starts again with a Zamfir-like panflute trilling on a high G, then cascading down, echoed by some Chris Botti saxophone (he plays with Sting, so listen for Sting-sax), and underscored by delicately fingered guitar.

I almost wish the little voice would stop interrupting the muzak, because I know that once he stops speaking, I'm going to have to hear that warbly G note again, and I'm heartily sick of it.

AH! Someone has answered. Given the accent, I would surmise I have been connected to somewhere in Texas. This ought to be interesting, given that my case is being processed in northern Vermont.

"Yes, I'm calling about my I-102 application."

"How can I help you ma'am?" Wow. Her voice is treacle, and immediately my guard is up. I know this voice. This is the 'I'm going to talk to you very sweetly, like a kindergarten teacher talking a bunch of five year olds into taking a nap when they really don't want to' voice.

"Well, the information on your website says my application was received on September 13, 2005, but the delivery confirmation card I have says that it was delivered on September 3, and that your office actually processed the submission on September 6. So why is the date on my application a full week later?"

"Ma'am, I don't have that information, the information on the website is never the same as what they have in the offices. They're probably processing it as September 6."

"Well," I ask, "How am I to know this, and get this corrected? They do them in order and this erroneous information could delay my processing if it's been put behind other cases."

She pauses. I think she's trying to figure out the word 'erroneous'. "Ma'am, we don't have that information here, you have to understand, they are processing it in Vermont."

"I know they're processing it in Vermont. That's where I mailed it. How can I contact Vermont to clarify this?"

"You can't call them in Vermont, Ma'am. We don't have a phone number for them."

"What do you mean, you don't have a phone number for them? They have phones. You're just not publishing the number." I refrain from suggesting that Texas hasn't yet learned how to call anyone outside of their state.

"That's right, Ma'am. They're too busy to answer the phone. Just imagine if everyone who had a question called them."

Just imagine indeed. I might actually get an answer. "So how would you suggest I contact them to get this information corrected?"

"You can write them a letter."

I wonder. Should I say that my experience so far demonstrates that mail to that office gets shoved under a pile until someone digs through it looking for a tuna sandwich? I take a deep breath. "But when I mailed something before, they didn't note it received in a timely fashion. How can I believe that sending them another letter will even get to someone soon enough to answer my question and sort this out in time? I followed all your published procedures. I'd like to know why my application isn't being processed in the way your site says it will."

"Ma'am, if you have a complaint, you can write a letter."

"And to whom should I write this letter?" I'm trying to be courteous here. As much as it is staffed by morons, this *is* the INS, and all it takes is for this prissy little bitch to make one keystroke and my application could be shoved behind a file cabinet for six months.

"To the Vermont Service Center."

"Attention to anyone in particular?"

Her voice is testy, and the saccharine level is rising. "No Ma'am. Just to the Vermont Service Center. Now is there anything else I can do for you?"

I lose it. "Well, we both know you haven't done anything for me so far, but I realize they don't give you a lot of latitude there to make any actual decisions, which is probably a good thing..." I'm about to go on, but she interrupts.

"Ma'am, if there's nothing further, have a very nice day and thank you for calling the INS." Click.

That bitch hung up on me, and I hadn't even finished talking.

Probably just as well. My application's likely already propping up a short table leg in the staff cafeteria in Vermont. I shouldn't make it worse.

posted by Maquinna @ 9:53 a.m. 1 comments

Kwamina 1, 2005

posted by Maquinna @ 1:54 p.m. 1 comments

End of the Smellyzoic Period

Miss Smelly got canned.

Last week I received some information that I knew, if true, would spell the end of her fragrant days here. After a little investigation, and bringing in our HR department to assist us with the legal dotting of i's and crossing of t's, we prepared to give the bad news to her last Friday afternoon. I made plans to take the rest of the afternoon off doing other errands, and we advised the head admin in our office to gather the rest of the admins and take them out when HR arrived.

All plans fizzled when Miss Smelly, in perfectly predictable fashion, went home at lunch time and didn't return. I thought maybe she'd caught wind of what was about to go down; at some point in the afternoon my director received an email from her saying she was not feeling well and was staying home.

Personally, I had a feeling that if I followed my nose to her apartment nearby, I'd find her packing her bags in her newly purchased VW Bug and heading for a weekend back home in New Hampshire. No matter, though. If not Friday afternoon, then first thing Monday morning.

And so it all went down yesterday morning. I cleared out and ran some errands, and came back when it was all done. Gone are the pictures of friends in gothic clothing and Care Bear figurines...gone is the front page of the newspaper showing her as Princess Amadala at the Star Trek III premiere...gone is a certain...aroma.

It's going to suck, in some ways. My director and I both developed a lot more gray hair the last time we were without someone in Miss Smelly's position. It took a long while to get her up to speed. Honestly, though, she was never the ideal candidate and she was never a particularly good representative for us. Perhaps this incident was a blessing in disguise. All puns intended -I hope this is the breath of fresh air we need.

posted by Maquinna @ 10:24 a.m. 0 comments

Bancroft Tower Detail #1

posted by Maquinna @ 4:19 p.m. 0 comments