End Party

Friday afternoon, or more than half the company has left for the day. This is not the norm. Staying past 7pm is the norm. No one dares leave before 6pm, but today is different. Today is the day after 6 hours of straight drinking for the majority of people who went out last night for our company off-site.

It started at a $3 Happy Hour. $3 draft beers were passed around like hot potatoes, and many new co-worker bonds were formed, and old ones strengthened. Lifting those heavy pints of beer so many times can get you hungry, and from there we moved on for grub. The company splits up now, each clique seeking their own form of nourishment, with one goal in sight: eat up, then go to the Google party. From here, the night gets interesting. I was not witness to most of the accounts I document here, but these were all whispered in one form or another this morning after.

• Drunkenly tossed pizza crusts at one co-worker caused a bit of friction, and another co-worker had to step in to break up the pizza parlor parley prior to parrying punches.
• A cab ride interrupted three times so my co-worker could leave his alcoholic load on the pavement.
• Someone I don't know, but a friend of one of my-coworkers, pressed tongues with a stranger at the Google party.

I am proud to say I was personally not a part of any of the aforementioned events, and I was so well behaved, no one will be writing about me in their blog. From what I can remember that is.

Industry Standard

An exciting week this week... a series of industry parties as a result of OMMA (Online Marketing Media Association) holding their conference at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. It was good to get back to the old 'hood of 42nd and Broadway.

Industry parties usually consist of open bar, drunk yuppies (is that even a word anymore?), and fabulous giveaways. Yahoo! had theirs yesterday, but we discovered last minute that it was invite only. Then we discovered too late that they weren't checking for invites. Last year, Yahoo! gave us fancy sets of martini glasses, but we were all too drunk to get them home in one piece. I remember holding three stacks of white boxes, four glasses in each, then dropping them all onto the sidewalk. And it wasn't just me - all my co-workers either broke theirs, or left them on the train (*cough*my boss*cough*).

Tomorrow is our company off-site; our first one. We're growing at a temendous rate, and this all day meeting wil be held at a theatre North of Lincoln Center, discussing the status and future of the company. Personally, I'm quite interested to see where we're going considering how rapidly we've grown in the past two-plus years. Even more interesting will be the Google party afterwards. A few co-workers (I got mixed up in this crowd somehow) took vows that we would stay out late and really "Google" it up (wow, that was geeky) at the open bar tomorrow night, to make up for the lack of good parties last night. (Expect some stories as a result of the inevitable drunkeness.)

One more positive: this has been my first lax week in a looong time. Look, I'm writing this during (almost) business hours! Getting out early (6pm early) for more than two days in a week, sleeping in to attend sessions at the Marriott, and killing time in Times Square is another added bonus of a week like this. So if you can't get a hold of me this week, you have some vague idea of where I'll be - out of the office!

I Hate CompUSA

Time and time again, this mis-named ''super store" has found new ways to aggravate yours truly. Why again, you ask? Why do l bother going back? Because no matter how much they peeve me off, I can't resist their rock-bottom discounts and money saving rebates.

Today's quest was simple. Buy a mouse I’ve had my eye on for $10, seen here. I ensure that it's in stock through their real-time online inventory system, and I'm off.

In the store, I find the display sticker, the sale price in bold black ink, and a prominent, gaping hole in an otherwise full shelf of computer mice. Damn real-time online inventory.

This is where my adventure begins. I scan the store for red shirted sales associates and target the one walking away from me the slowest. In a store like this, a need for help is like a shotgun going off in a hunting safari, and all the employees scatter like slow-moving gazelles in red shirts. When I finally corner one, I ask for help in a Turret’s syndrome tone of voice so he can't pretend to not hear me. This responsive first employee in a red shirt says, “I’m security. Ask for help up front.” So I head up front and ask a second red shirted employee. “I can’t help you. I’m security.” I’m in a little bit of disbelief at this point, and ask, “How do I know who isn’t security?” And he points to another employee who is helping another customer. Than I realized people who aren’t security are wearing… uh… red shirts too. Stupid me. I think this attentive Security Guy #2 sensed my frustration and then volunteered to assist. And he does this by calling over the first security guy who couldn’t help me. Security Guy #1 ambles over and he’s now wearing a piece of Scotch tape on his shirt with the word “Security” hand written with ball point pen. Security Guy #1 escorts me over to the hole on the shelf. “It’s not here.” Thanks for telling me that, because I didn’t believe the hole existed in the first place unless I was assured it was there by a qualified employee. I replied, “I know it’s not there. I already told you that. I asked if you could check the stock room for more, because your real-time inventory said there was stock.” He says, “No, it would be on the shelf.” I snap back, “Not in the stock room?” Then we get into a philosophical debate on whether or not a stock room even exists. Suddenly, a revelation: “Let me check the computer,” he says. Keep in mind this was my suggestion in the first place, when we were originally standing by the computer, before he walked me over to the hole on the shelf that I already informed him existed. We walk back to Security Guy #2 and he punches in the SKU. I read the entire contents of the screen – how many were sold today, how many were on hand, how many were back ordered… and Security Guy #1 is tracing the letters with his finger as if they were Braille. “Says we have two.” Then he confers with Security Guy #2, to tell him there was a hole in the shelf, and they both nod and agree, “We have none in stock.”

Thoroughly beaten, and intellectually tapped, I retreat from the safari of CompUSA, awaiting for the next opportunity to challenge my wits and patience with the next unbeatable gadget bargain.

Oops, I Did It Again

I don't know what I was thinking. I said I would give it up... it's in writing down below. But yet, it still happened. Twice. Forgive me!

Thursday night: An hour and a half after we arrive at the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet, 7 bloated, immobile people (#8 was smart enough to NOT order the buffet), and there are 10 pieces of sushi spared on a plastic rectangular plate. What can you do? Split it up, one each. Maybe two for those brave enough, since it didn't divide evenly. And so full afterwards... Bad, bad idea. On a debate whether one piece of a cut roll was equivalent to one piece of sushi, we did conclude that the rice around the cut roll is pretty much equivalent to the amount of rice packed underneath one piece of regular sushi, for anyone keeping score for any all-you-can-eat sushi contests, i.e. peanve.

Side note: The Krispy Kreme down the block, which I was visiting after just to look in the window, is now disappointingly closed on 72nd St.

Friday night: A quiet Friday evening at the laundromat. Wife would like some sushi (she wasn't able to attend the previous evening's gorgefest), and there is oh so conveniently a sushi buffet across the street. Always one to please wifey (she's too modest to admit this to be true if you ask her directly, so please don't), I hesitatingly agree (she'll say I didn't hesitate at all, but it was an act I tell you), and we skip across the street to see what raw fish delicacies abound. As I sit down, the pang of desperate hunger hits. And the all-I-can eat menu is so appropriately in front of me. Now that I was solo on my journey, I can actually recall exactly what I ate:

• 4 pieces salmon
• 2 pieces white tuna
• 2 pieces yellowtail
• 1 Philadelphia roll
• 1 eel avocado roll
• 1 Alaskan roll
  

When I completed this, I still felt room in my belly. So when the waitress came back... "Can I get the same thing, but just with 4 salmon?" (Wise not to over do it.) So I added 22 pieces more to my sushi gut. I have no idea what I was thinking... That's 48 pieces of raw fish in me. That's like a whole pond.

So I'm not adhering to my rules very tightly... I think I need more encouragement and moral support. Maybe we can discuss the next time I skip a run on the West Side Highway, over a high-calorie beer and a sushi buffet.

New Addition

Click through to my newest Blog addition, mooloowong's journal of her adventures in motherhood. Be awed at snapshots of my nephew (in-law). Learn parenting tips and more!

The Official Beer of Canada

This past weekend I took my first genuine road trip with a couple of my buddies. We crossed the Northern border into Canada, at an average speed of 85 MPH. The most amazing thing about this country, is their national beer, Molson. With a mere alcohol percentage of 4.4%, this ordinary little bottled brew, looking light and tasting wheaty, was able to get me heavily buzzed after two bottles, and knocked one of my friends unconscious in our second night after three or four bottles.

I love Canada for this product alone. And after 32 hours there and five hours of sleep over two nights, I actually can't think of anything else to brag about from that country.

Google Blog Search

Google introduced a new Blog Search Engine. I spent an excessive amount of time trying to make my blog show up in the search results. I tried terms like "sexy man" but I still wouldn't show up. "Relevant search results" my arse.

Try it out and find blogs other than mine on alcohol, sushi buffets, and Mountain Dew.

Middle Weight

This Labor Day weekend came as a surprise. I think I didn't realize it was a 3 day weekend until last Wednesday. So I spent much time with the in-laws, the same people who point and laugh at me during most major family functions, asking each other in a language they think I don't understand whether or not I understand them. It was Sunday afternoon that my wife got the news. (I didn't hear of it till Monday.) Wifey says that one of her cousins told her "Your husband got bigger..." (And I thought, "Well, I've been working out and went running three times!") And then she concludes the sentence with "...in the middle!" I believe this was followed up with pointing at my midsection and lots of maniacal laughter, although this is just an assumption since I wasn't actually there.

Now a comment like this, is meant to be a compliment. It means wifey cooks well and I'm fortunate enough to be well-fed, and is an overall sign of prosperity (.i.e. Buddha). Unfortunately, "compliments" like this don't hold over too well in this day and age. (See FUBAR's blog for someone who gets complimented a lot.)

So as I'm getting older and the metabolism is getting slower, I'll make a further attempt at eating healthier and reel in the tummy a bit before my next major family function:
• afternoon banana crumb cake will be replaced with an actual banana or two. (I will miss you, sweet, inch high crumbly crusty...)
• only diet sodas until I win that elusive Xbox 360. Then no more soda at all. (I'm already getting Mountain Dew hangovers.)
• No more buffets, the ultimate stomach-expanding treat.
• Lite beers (I love how "light" food is always spelled ''Lite,'' as if they haven't yet defined ''lite" in the dictionary, but they certainly know it doesn't mean "light.") only. Or low-fat, high alcohol content beverages only, i.e. Scotches and Whiskeys.