Here in Minnesota we do technology right...with lots and lots of butter.

What happens when developers have too much free time and boxes of techies.com bumper stickers.

Webvan is liquidating all its assets, and they have placed a listing of items for sale on their old website. See what gagillions of VC money did buy. http://www.webvan.com/.

A little sampling:

• 543 21" monitors
• 29 Server Sun E4500
• 24 Server Sun E250
• 17 Server Sun E420R
• 14 Server Sun E450
• 4 Server Sun E6500
• 354 Desktop Compaq DeskPro
• 116 Rack Mounted Server Compaq PL1600R
• 47 Stand Alone Server Compaq PL1600
• 18 Rack Mounted Server Compaq DL360
• 24 Rack Mounted Server Compaq DL380R

There's even photos of fitness equipment for sale. How strange and kinda sad.

Job 10: Where are we Headed? To The Top! What Top? The Very Top!

It was November, and somehow I found myself in Minneapolis. I thought for a while that I was going to Indianapolis. I kept thinking about that show "One Day at a Time". Didn't they live in Indianapolis? To me the United States was comprised of New York, to some degree New Jersey, a whole bunch of prairie and mountains and then California. I had no idea where Minneapolis was or Indianapolis for that matter. When I was flying over Lake Michigan I looked out the window and saw a huge expanse of water. I thought it was an ocean somewhere, and I started to panic thinking the plane had been highjacked. Geography was never my strong suit. It took me a few minutes in the cab ride from the airport to make the Mary Tyler Moore connection, and when I did I was able to gain some bearing. I was in MINNEapolis.

I needed to find a job. It may seem surprising, but my vast experience in gas service and lawn maintenance did not help me much in my pursuit of employment. Unfortunately for me, it was early winter, so landscaping was out, and Minneapolis had firmly embraced the self-service revolution, so my expertise as a gas jockey bared little fruit. I found an ad in the local newspaper that seemed promising. It asked, "Are you a motivated hard working self starter?" Oddly enough, I was. I read on. "Are you looking for a challenging opportunity that will help grow your career?" It queried. It must have been a strange coincidence, but I was.

The next day I found myself waiting at a bus stop in Minnesota at 6:00 A.M. in early November. It was colder than I had ever known. Being a punk-ass from New York, I could barely pronounce the phrase, "Winter Coat", none the less wear one. I had the standard punk-ass attire that was comprised of a flimsy jacket and a pair of sneakers with two pairs of socks. I wore no hat, and I never even considered the thought of wearing gloves. That's what pockets were for. After two transfers, one that left me stranded downtown until my toes turned blue, an hour and a half on the bus and a two-block walk, I arrived at Top Temporary. I had never worked at a temp place before. Actually, I had never even heard of one. I was asked to fill out an application, and was told to come back tomorrow morning at 7:00 A.M. It seems I had gotten the job. The woman who took my application was very enthusiastic, and told me to try and be on time.

I woke up bright and early the next morning and made my way out to the bus stop. I figured that the cold from yesterday had to have been some kind of fluke, and it would probably be warmer on this morning. To my utmost surprise and disdain, it had actually gotten colder. "How could it be colder than yesterday?" I thought. "Yesterday was the coldest day I have ever seen, but today it is actually colder." Thus began the months of cold induced psychological breakdowns. I would sit waiting for the bus, my feet frozen solid, and I would will with all my might for the bus to come. Every minute that I waited my frustration would build. I would clench my teeth in anger and tighten my fist until I felt I was going to burst, and then I would release my grip with exhaustion and hover for the next few minutes just above the point of breaking down and crying. I would oscillate between these two emotions until the bus came, and this timeframe would vary between ten minutes and sometimes a half-hour. The buses seemed to like the cold less than I did, and would often breakdown in protest.

I would arrive at Top Temporary a former shell of my once warm self. There would be a few rows of chairs lined up in the front room, and fifteen or twenty so people sitting around talking shit, smoking or eating the stale pastries Top had placed out for us. I didn't realize it at the time, but these were the dregs of Top's workforce, the unskilled labor, the warehouse workers, and I was one of them. I learned a valuable lesson from working at Top. If a fair percentage of your co-workers stink like booze from the night before, and they often use the phrase community service, you are probably in the wrong profession.

A cry for help?

Tam hit me in the head today with a Hurl-a-Squirrel. She said, "It was an accident," and, "If your head wasn't so damn big, maybe it wouldn't be getting hit with dog toys all the time." They say that battered people blame themselves for the abuse. It's true that my head is rather large, but does that mean It should be barraged with dog toys. I have spent years being on the receiving end of plush toys, fake newspapers, squeaky footballs and floppy frisbees. Maybe if I lost some weight and wore prettier cloths she'd learn to love me...

I have made a bold decision. After years of hard study and practical evaluation, I have decide to make the switch. I have been a devout wearer of a specific style of under pant, and the time has come for a change. Tam stopped by the local Target the other day, and purchased some undergarments. These were an undergarment of a different nature than what I am normally exposed. I put them on with a bit of trepidation, and quite frankly, I did it as a simple experiment knowing I would soon return to my standard fair of under pant. However, the change has been nothing less than a delight, and I fear I have become a convert.

Not wanting to become an outcast in the world of undergarments, I have decided to query the mass of bitter pill devotees to see what the norm for undergarment attire is at currently. It just so happens that the teams of developers here at the "bitter pill" have just recently released a fine survey engine, so why not put its use towards this nobel cause.

Some photos have been doctored to protect the innocent
Boxers	Briefs	Boxer Briefs	Panties

Yet another survey update. As per Ben's and Eric's request, I have added the ability to use your own images, and to change the background color of the question in the style sheet.

I received my vlaminck.com t-shirt in the mail today. If you haven't got one, well, you just ain't with it bro-ham.

Scott's trying to raise a family of twelve on a Dairy Queen managers salary, so let's pitch in and help buy little Scottie Jr. those orthopedic shoes he needs so badly. A little goes a long way, so buy a couple for your friends.

All Alt Text and Bitter Store tees go to support the cause, so shop soon, and shop often.

Disclaimer: No proceeds go anywhere as no profits are made from sale or barter of the aforementioned t-shirts. Scott Vlaminck does not work for, nor has he ever worked for, the Dairy Queen Corp., and and similarities herein are merely coincidence. Any resemblance of Scott Vlaminck to Dennis the Menace is purely coincidence. Any reference to the fictional character little Scottie Jr. is a fabrication of a mythical and nonexistent character, and any resemblance to the aforementioned Scott Vlaminck is also coincidental. You could be, however, held liable if you do not purchase at least one or more of the aforementioned t-shirts as reading this disclaimer is legally and ethically binding. ® vlaminck.com is a registered trademark of the Coca-Cola Corporation.

As promised, more survey banter:

An idea stolen from a kottke.org post a while back. I thought it would be nice to be able to embed a survey and its results into any web page using javascript. This is the result.

There will be more exciting survey news forth coming. Maybe you'll be able to create your own surveys, and embed them in your very own web pages. Can it be true? Stay tuned.

July 4, 1976. It was the bicentennial, and it promised to be the best fourth of July of my young life. I desperately wanted to do the things my older brothers did, but I was always too young to do them. My oldest brother had planned a huge night of fourth of july festivities as he did every year, and he said this was the year I would be allowed to come along. I had heard the exploits of years previous, and I wanted more than anything to go out with them. The fact that he had asked me this year meant he thought I was old enough.

A few bottle rocket and roman candle fights to start the night off right, and then we would wage a small scale attack on the least liked residents in the surrounding area. We had been talking about this night for weeks, and my brother had amassed a small arsenal of fireworks in his bedroom closet in preparation for the event. Our mission would involve a half dozen or so mailbox demolition projects, interspersed with an onslaught of shaving cream and toilet paper attacks. My brother was the king of mischief. He could launch a roll of toilet paper at a tree, so it would arch effortlessly at the perfect angle to expend the desired amount of paper, and leave an almost majestic stream woven through the tree. He knew exactly how long to hold an m-80 before throwing it, allowing the explosion to be heard from at least ten blocks away. He could time the throw of a snowball, so it would loft lazily in the air, and hit a passing car directly on its roof almost every time. We idolized him.

This was year he had decided that I was old enough to join in the exploits. "This was our country's two hundred year anniversary," he had said, "We're gonna blow shit up." I had my army backpack filled to the brim with all shorts of explosives and miscellany. For some reason we had an abundance of army gear in a chest out in our garage. It wasn't stuff left by my dad. He wasn't even in the army. It was old Swiss and American gear. Someone must have given it to my mom at some point thinking it would be fun for us kids. They turned out to be just the thing for carrying items such as small explosives, eggs, toilet paper and shaving cream. We had all the gear packed, and we were ready to sneak out of the down stairs bathroom window, when my mother called for me from the stairwell, "Mark, why aren't you in bed?" Damn. Just as I was about to slip out the window towards shaving cream induced glory. My brother quickly gave me up in fear of being forced to scrap the entire mission. "He's down here ma", he said, and in that instance he destroyed any chances of my ascent into manhood that evening. "Maybe next year", he said, but there was to be no next year. It was the bicentennial. The one and only. The two hundred and one year celebration would never be able to live up to its predecessor. My brother was getting too old for that kind of crap anyway. That was the year. The one year of glory, and I missed it.

It was the first occasion that I can remember where I truly felt regret. I knew then that it had been an opportunity missed, and on every fourth afterwards I have thought of the bicentennial. My brother grew older, and our relationship changed. He became a teenager, and his time became consumed with girls and acne cream.

After our father died, my brother had tried to give me the attention a father would have. It was always a bit awkward, and most times it made me sad more than anything. It just reminded me that we didn't have a dad, but he tried to be there for me when I was young. He taught me how to throw a football, how to swing a bat, and more important things like how to make your voice sound like that Black Sabbath song when singing through a fan or how to spit through your middle teeth so your spit would stream out like a fountain. He tried to shelter me from the fatherless life that he and our brother had. It didn't really work, but he always tried to make me feel special when he was around. He took the time with me. He took the time that our overworked mom just didn't have. The time that our uncles or neighbor dads would sometimes take, but always felt awkward, and seemed to say to the world, "There's that kid with no father." He was the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle, and he helped me wrap a ball up in my glove and stick it under my mattress so the pocket would break in right. Sure, he gave me my share of charlie horses, indian burns, rat tails with the wet end of a towel and he knocked me silly when he decided I needed to learn how to box, but then these are the duties of an older brother.

To this day the Fourth of July fills me with thoughts of being a kid and my older brother who gave his attention when I needed it most. I still feel a small sting of what if, a little bit of longing and regret. It makes me wish, if only for a moment, I had made it out that window.

This months top eleven search strings for bitterpill.org:

1. some people call me a street cowboy
2. krieger kaiserin ending
3. some people call me the space cowboy
4. when somebody call me i know he call me when is
5. some people call me a space cowboy
6. space cowboy
7. are you talking to me? are you talking to me? t
8. pill presses
9. suvs onvoy
10. am i really stealing company supplies
11. you call me a space cowboy

Jason has got me thinking about journals, and I was pondering an incident with an old girlfriend and a journal I was keeping.

My girlfriend and I had broken up for a while, and during that time I made two very fatal mistakes. The first would be dating another woman while we were broken up, and the second, and more completely fatal, would involve writing about said women in my journal.

After we had patched things up and resumed our slow and methodical mental and emotional abuse towards each other, some call this dating, I had come home to find her crying and distraught on the sofa. Beside her was my journal opened and face down on the floor. I said, "Did you read my journal?", and in my head I screamed, "Holy shit she read my fucking journal." I scanned my memory for incriminating entries. I immediatly came upon the other women. Shit. Sure, I probably should of told her about the other woman, but I felt it was inconsequential, and why should I bring her undo pain and suffering. Also, I was a little afraid of her explosive reaction if she ever found out. In fact, at that point I was feeling quite a bit of fear. I don't really want to go into further discussion regarding my tendancy to be a huge schmuck, or my even greater ability to step into it at any give time that seems somewhat appropriate. I think its fairly clear that I need to remove my head from my ass on at least a few occasions during the day. I would like to delve further into the topic of reading one's private and very personal journal, and how this action is wrong and most violating no matter how tempting or how insane your relationship may be. Sure, the journal owner could be in the process of withholding some valuable information that he is seriously considering divulging to a person, but said person may be paralyzed in fear of the inevitable insane and psychotic outbursts after divulging such information. I think the main point is, if someone violates the sanctity of your very private and personal thoughts and feeling, you should be cleansed of any improprieties or wrong doing you may have inadvertently committed. She did not see the logic in my reasoning.

"Lemme get a...", "Give me one of...", "I'll take...". I have worked as a retail food associate on a few occassions, and to this day it never fails to amaze me just how damn stinking rude people are. Next time you are in line at a deli counter, or at a fast food chain somewhere, listen to people requesting their food. I'd say less than fifteen percent of people say please, or thank you, or request their food item in even a semi polite way. Lemme get a little humanity, please.

Job 9: So tired...must sleep...

I work as a security guard for a few weeks, maybe a month or so. I spent some time at a bread company walking the grounds. There's lots of people out there trying to steal bread. Augie's I think was the name. That's the nice thing about living out east. People carry fresh bread baked daily. Not like the Subway fresh bread that's loaded with preservatives and is soft and flaccid. The bread out east is crusty and fresh, and turns rock hard after a day or so. You can get fresh kaiser rolls for your sandwiches, or fresh Italian or French bread with dinner. For some reason, in the midwest, the bread is loaded with preservatives and is stored in plastic bags until its as soft as dough. Augie's baked fresh bread daily, and I walked around the the large automated bakery preventing the hoards of bread thieves from ravaging the delicious bread. I was a night watchman which meant I worked from 11:00 pm to 7:00 am. There was a fifty fifty chance I'd fall asleep in my folding chair by the side entrance. I think being a security guard was quite possible the most boring job I have ever had. Between the boredom and my ability to sleep basically anywhere when I get tired, I don't think it was the best employment opportunity for me.

I guarded a software company somewhere out east on the Island for a while. I sat in a small booth protecting the entrance of the building. Periodically I would walk around the building checking doors and such. I sometimes would bring a cheap little acoustic guitar with me and eke out bad rock tunes as I sat in the guard booth. If you were lucky, you'd drive past the booth to see an extremely tired guard plucking out bad Deep Purple songs on a nylon string guitar. The pillar of safety and peace keeping.

The third and final assignment I had was working at the US Open. It was at night of course, so I never got to see any matches or tennis stars. I did sneak on to the courts and walk around on a few occassions. I worked with another guard at the open. He was an older guy, and we would sit around in the guard tower all night and talk. He would tell me bizarre and disturbing stories about Vietnam, stories about killing people with knives and other assorted instruments. I'm not too sure if he was shitting me or not, but he always succeeded in making me entirely wigged out. One evening, after a long night of disturbing war stories, I went and fell asleep in my car. I woke up to see my boss banging on my window with his night stick. This, unfortunately, quickly ended my brief career as a security guard.

Why does Hollywood feel the need remake foreign films into sub par mediocre americanized versions?

Three examples of films I enjoyed in their original form, and then despised in their Hollywood versions.

Der Himmel uber Berlin: Probably one of the most beautiful films I have ever seen
City of Angels: I really have no response, except maybe why?

Spoorloos: A fantastic psychological thriller.
The Vanishing: The Hollywood version actually changes the ending. This is an abomination.

La Femme Nikita: Quoted from imdb, "This, the French La Femme Nikita, directed by Luc Besson, is one of the strangest, most bizarre, yet psychologically truest movies ever made".
Point of No Return: Again from imdb, "The French would be embarrassed if they saw this remake. Rent the original, trash this one."

Job 8: H & R Block

Landscaping is a seasonal profession, so I needed short term work for the winter. A friend of mine's father worked for H &and R Block, and he needed some help for tax season. With all the tax paying citizens needing help with their W forms, H & R block sets up satellite tax centers all around Long Island. These satellite centers are mainly glass walls which contains desks, chairs, coffee machines, phones, file cabinets, piles and piles of tax forms and other miscellany all stamped the the letters H & R Block. He employed me and a few friends of mine. We had the privilege of setting up and subsequently tearing down these tax centers. We'd rent a big U-Haul truck, stop off at the main warehouse, and load it up with glass walls and chairs and any assorted H & R block satellite center items needed for the day. We'd then drive to some strip mall or Sears somewhere and set up these mini tax centers.

We worked alone, and we spend a lot of the time in the U-Haul smoking dope. A work ethic I learned from moving pianos that I quickly shared with my H & R Block associates. Our drive time recreation created the necessity to find quick and available food sources. While I could care less when it came to which establishment we dinned, one of the guys insited that we eat at Roy Rogers. Roy Rogers was a fast food chain prominent in long Island in the early eighties. It was a kind of bastardized version of Hardy's, Arby's and McDonald's all mixed together. He was convinced that their burgers were the best in the tri-state area, and we spent the next couple of months eating at Roy's at least once a day.

I don't remember much else of my time employed at H & R block. I have some clouded memories of a large glass wall crashing to pieces in a strip mall somewhere, and the cab of a U-Haul truck filled to the windows with Roy Roger's wrappers. I learned nothing of tax preparation, and even less about properly moving furniture. I did learn that eating nothing but Roy Roger's burgers and fries for two months straight is neither good for you or anyone around you.

Tam is scratching my back this morning, and in an attempt to get her to move down a little I say, "Scroll down." She stops. I say, "Why are you stopping?", and she says, "Scroll down? You just said scroll down!" She spent the next few minutes laughing and repeating the words over and over. Maybe I need to spend less time in front of the computer.

I have started shaving every other day, requested by Tamara. Something about how my scraggly beard is scratching the skin off her face like sandpaper. I would normally shave at best twice a week, and most times less than that. Being a programmer, the places I work tend to expect a hygiene of sub par standards. A programer is expected to be a bit stinky with an extreme lack of pigment to the skin, and at least a three day beard. I, not wanting to rock the boat in any way, had opted for the four to six day beard. You really don't want to be around me when I have skipped my daily hygienic routine. However, I have promised Tam to get my shaving on a semi regular schedule, and so I have.

The odd thing about actually shaving fairly regularly is that people seem to notice. They say things like, "Have you lost weight?", or "Your looking pretty good lately." I haven't been pulled over in a long time, and women in public still turn away when I look at them, but in disdain rather than fear nowadays.

Tam and I went out to New York this weekend. We stayed with my sister in Long Island. For those of you that have never been to Long Island, Its one of the first and largest suburbs. I think the population is in upwards of six million people. That's a lot of ranch houses. I like to describe it as hell with window treatments.

My sister had a big party for her daughter's first birthday, and she invited relatives I haven't seen in years. I forget sometimes where I come from and what that means, but this party flooded my memories with thoughts of family. I come from a long line of lunatics and alcoholics. I don't have the kind of family that sits around and recalls fine memories of so and so's graduation, or the time Billy pitched the no hitter. Our conversations tend to run along the line of, "Hey Matt, remember that time uncle Bob crammed that doughnut down your throat, and then threw your sister into the pool?", and "wasn't that the time you smashed the back door open with your hands and the glass slit both your wrists and you almost bled to death?" "Nope, that was the time I knocked John's teeth out with the hockey stick." My aunt Carolyn told us a sweet story about our father. She told us about the time she ratted on my dad and got him in trouble. He snuck into her bedroom in the middle of the night, placed his hands over her mouth and said in a sinister voice, "I'm gonna kill you in your sleep you rat!" Ah the memories.

Stolen directly from Ben: shirts and stuff with crappy branding. This is pretty damn cool. Make your own t-shirts. Only $13.99 plus shipping. Why? Well, why not?