www.Tony-MacKenzie.com (don’t forget the dash!)

… and it’s where all my updates will be from now on. You can go over there and subscribe to get e-mail alerts every time I make a new post, follow me on Twitter… other things.

Anyway. I’ve just always wanted my own website, and this seems to be it. So check it out, subscribe, and all will be well with the world.

In fact, here’s a post about subscribing!

LINK’D!

See you on the other side.

One of the things every single one of these jobs have in common is that customers are just as likely to treat you like dirt as they are to smile and say thanks. That knowledge, mixed with spending two decades in the car with my dad while going through drive-thrus (the man’s a character, is what I’m saying: he’s gotten McDonald’s ladies giggling over the speaker system) have instilled in me the knowledge that people are people, no matter what you’re buying from them.

Which is why I’m so disgusted with myself that I’ve been going to GreatClips for years and didn’t realize that I’m supposed to tip them.

There’s this barbershop here in Greenville: it’s called the Broadway Barbershop, but their choice in wall-hangings led my little sister to begin calling it “The Dead Bear Place”, a name that stuck in our family. (Though, to be fair, it could have just as easily been called “The Deer Head Place” or “The Fish-on-the-Wall Place”; they liked hunting and taxidermy.)

Not quite THIS into it, but close

We went there for most of my childhood. Mom would go to salons with Abbey, but I guess she figured that boys should get boy-haircuts by boys, which is a logical train of though. What I never noticed her doing was tipping the barber.

That isn’t to say that she didn’t: she might have. I just never paid attention to the money part of the transaction. Then, later on in life, Mom still paid for my haircuts, but the stylist was a friend of the family, and charged us the same amount every time. Even later in life (late High School, early college), a different friend of the family only charged students $10 for a trim to keep us looking like wild animals.

Tony, Nov. 17 2007

My entire life, I’ve either not paid for a haircut, or gotten one by someone I knew. The concept of tipping never entered my mind.

Until a few weeks ago.

Whazzis?

I’ve been going to the local GreatClips: I keep my hair pretty short (compared to college) and a cheap haircut once a month keeps me golden. But in January, paying for my monthly folicular maintenance with my debit card, I finally noticed a “tip” line on the receipt as I’m walking out.

How long has that been there?

So I went to Facebook to find out. And apparently, not only is it common courtesy to tip your hair-cutter (they aren’t barbers, but neither do I pay them to style), it’s expected.

I always figured that hair-cutters was one of those professions that you don’t tip. I don’t tip my mechanic. I don’t tip the Wal-Mart Cashier. I don’t tip the folks at the video store, or at Mickey D’s, or at the bowling alley. I for SURE didn’t get tips when I worked in a deli. I’ve only ever tipped waiters and waitresses and the pizza guy (that I can think of right now), and I thought I was doing pretty good.

Where’s the line? What services do you tip for, and which ones don’t require it?

It’s frustrating, is all. Like… lets say English is your second language. In your first language, it’s customary to end a conversation with “thank you very much” or something similar. When you learn English, you continue to end conversations with that. Nothing wrong with it in theory, but in your first language, “Thank you very much” is pronounced “Drop dead, douchebag”.

“Uh. What?”

Do you see what I’m getting at? I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I didn’t even know that I was being one through inaction, but that’s probably what they think of me.

So, I went back again at the beginning of February, and I made sure to tip this time. I still feel bad though.

“You still looking for a place?” he asked.

“Why, indeed I am, sirrah,” sez I.

“I’mma give this guy your number,” he says by way of response and promptly hung up.*

So, the guy called me, we put together a time when I could show up and see the place, and then I showed up and saw the place.

I pooped.**

This was back in January. There was still a tenant living there, and she was supposed to be out by the end of that month. Apparently, the owner of the truck she was going to use to get her bigger items backed out at the last minute, so she was going to need a few more days before she could get out.

We were then hit with Icepocalypse 2011.

“OH BALLS—”

The landlord has been a peach this whole time. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place: he wants me to get in, but she’s still got her crap in there. He’s not gonna toss her stuff out on the street, but I also gave him the first month’s rent AND the deposit. He wants to clean the place out and fix some things, but he can’t do that when her crap is there. So, basically, her deposit is paying the first half of this months rent, and I get a discount next month. I’m cool with that, and my current landlords*** have agreed to float me for a few days. They’re cool like that.

Here’s the suck: as Icepocalypse 2011 was on its way in, my landlords figured it would be a good idea if I packed up before the electricity went out and the sump pump stopped working and the basement flooded and soaked all my crap. Good advice.

Electricity stayed up >>> the sump pump didn’t go out >>> basement didn’t flood = yaaaay!

Stuff packed up >>> no place to move it to >>> it’s been sitting in the living room for nearly 2 weeks = oh noooooes! (On the plus side, Abbey had no place to watch TV so she did all her homework. I feel less bad.)

But now… now, that girl’s crap is gone. The locks have been changed. The apartment is clean. My bags are packed and I’m ready to go.

I have a Key.

aaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!

From the Green-ville in the Darke County, forged in the fires of Ace Hardware, the Dark Landlord Michael forged, in secret, a master key to control all others. And into this key he poured all his hopes, his good wishes and his will to have a tenant that isn’t a total slacker.

That’s the courthouse on the left, and Ace Hardware
on the right. My place is a little lefter than
the courthouse.

One Key to rule them all, One Key to find them,
One Key to bring them all and in the Darke-ness, open my apartment…
in the Land of Greenville where the Tonys lie.

I can start moving in tonight. I’m friggin’ psyched. There will be pics of the apartment before and after I start moving my crap in.

*This account has been summarized for brevity’s sake.

**Not at that moment, but I was very impressed with the apartment.

***Read: Mom’n’Dad. Love you!

BACKGROUND: For the last… I dunno, forever, the City Council has been considering an ordinance that increases the “buffer zone” around places where kids hang out (schools, playgrounds, libraries, the pool) where sex offenders can’t live. The state mandates that buffer be 1,000 feet: Greenville’s increased it to 1,500 feet, and opened an industrial sized can of worms.

Only more like a barrel

Completely ignoring the facts that 1.) there have been numerous studies in other states showing that this kind of action has absolutely no effect, 2.) that there have been several court cases overturning decisions like this as unconstitutional, and 3.) that this new law only means sex offenders can’t live in that zone, not that they can’t come in and visit to their heart’s content, the council voted unanimously in favor of this ordinance.

Now, they’ve opened themselves up to at least two lawsuits, that will cost the city at least $200,000, whether they win or lose.

The council knew the lawsuits were coming: it hasn’t been a secret. I almost respect them a little for sticking to their guns in the face of that threat (almost), but seeing as all the research I’ve done deems it to be a pointless and ultimately useless change, $200k is a pretty expensive gesture. And that money is coming out of the people’s pockets.

Pictured: a “people”

I am all about standing up for the little guy. Hopeless fights are the best kind. David and Goliath, Remember the Titans, Cinderella Man, all that, rahrahrah go team… but this is dumb.

It’s like… okay, here’s a metaphor. It’s wrapped in a game show, so I hope you like those.

Big-money-no-whammies STOP!

The Greenville City Council is a contestant on a game show: their name has been called, they’ve been told to come on down, Drew Carey is up there ready to give them a hug.

I LOVE YOU DREW!

Now, they’ve just been handed a tricky problem. There are several possible answers to the problem, like on Who Wants to be a Millionaire (what follows is a crazy amalgamations of gameshowiness: please keep your hands inside the car at all times).

Only instead of waiting for the other options, as soon as the first one pops up, the Council’s family starts yelling at them to take it! Take it right now! It’s the first answer we’ve come up with so it must be the right one!

But then… the problem’s lawyer shows up. “If you choose this answer, we’re going to sue,” says the lawyer. Then another lawyer shows up from a third party on behalf of all problems like this in the state, and tosses in another law suit for good measure. So, right now, if the city goes with answer one, they’re going to have to pay at least $200,000 in court fees.

A couple of the family members quiet down. That’s a lot to process. Maybe they should think about this for a while. Other members of the family instead get angry at the problem: “How dare you sue!” they yell. “We’re going to continue to push for this first answer because we want some kind of response right now! Screw your lawsuit! ANGRY NOISES!”

So the council postpones for a couple episodes, goes over the problem with their family, claims to do some research, consults a lawyer, then comes back last night and decides to go with the first answer, law suit and doubts and facts be damned.

That’s how what’s been going on for the last several months has looked in my (decidedly odd) perceptions. The stakes are a little higher, the problem is much more serious, and there’s no Drew…

aww…

… but there you go. The amount of silly in the response is about the same. And as a third party (and here, “third party” means “someone who’s going to have to help pay for those legal fees”), I can’t help but goggle at the level of ridiculousity.

It’s pretty high.

More news as it develops. Tony, out.

Dearest Subconscious;

Yes. After my last letter, I really think you’re starting to get the idea. I haven’t had an “OH CRAP THAT MATH PAPER WAS DUE TODAY!” dream in weeks, and last night was… a little vanilla, but heading in the right direction. Let me tell you about it, so you know I was paying attention, and I’ll drop some notes on you so we can make it better next time.

I have no idea why this woman is taking notes in a wind tunnel,
but the picture is simultaneously pertinent and hilarious,
which means I had no choice but to use it

First, I think I was a ghost or something. Something weird. I’m not sure, but I know you don’t care, cause we both know that the best is yet to come, right buddy?

Yeah, you know.

Out of nowhere, I’m no longer incorporeal and made of ectoplasm: I’m in some kind of coastal nation. Like, not fakey American “This is totally what Guatemala’s like, LOL”, but real, honest-to-goodness Nation-that-isn’t-America-and-on-the-edge-of-some-Ocean-Somewhere Coastal Nation. And there’s a Bazaar going on.

Bazaar. You know, like a market, but with more of an Aladdin/Raiders of the Lost Ark kinda feel.

“PRINCE ALI, ALI IS HE, ALI ABABWAH!”

Then, there’s a bar. Hmm. Okay. I doubt they have Guinness here in NotAmerica, but I’ll go with it. The best part of this place is the architecture: it’s made with logs, multiple stories, and it’s all open so you can look out over the ocean. Oh, yeah, and the view? Stellar.

This, but with more floors, and, you know, wood.

Way to go, guy. If we’re gonna dream, why dream of the inside of a classroom or the office, when we can be in an awesome bar with great music (the music was fantastic as well, BTW) in some foreign country on the coast? Top marks so far.

Then, she walked in.

Whooo-boy, Subconscious. You almost blew it right there: nobody like that has ever walked into any bar I’ve ever been in. What was she? Brazilian? Where did you get that from? Seriously, dude, that was out of left field, but not in a bad way.

Then there was dancing, and that’s where you DID blow it.

*sad trombone*

So here’s me, dancing with a beautiful woman in an exotic locale: right-cross-right, left-cross-left, step back, step forward, spin, repeat. We did that for a bit, and I’m distracted from my lovely dancing partner because… something is wrong. With the dance, I mean. This isn’t like the waltz or tango or something: this is a one person dance, like a line dance or something, and yet it’s working like a two-person dance. What is this? What’s going…

*poof*

I’m up. Balls. I walk, muzzy-headed to the bathroom, dance steps still in my mind. There, in front of the mirror, I’m thinking it over, and decide to try them out: right-cross-right, left-cross-left, step back, step forward, spin, repeat… oh. Oh, no.

The Electric Slide? Seriously? You’ve got me doing the Electric Slide with this hot, maybe-Brazilian?

Guh.

Anyway. It was a good effort. Up until the end there, it was fantastic, and I can tell you’re really working on this. And, even though it WAS the Electric Slide, I’ll tell you this, bud: it looked good on her.

Love,

-T

Dear Future-Me;

So, you’re feeling sad, huh, chief? Got a case of the blues? A 24-pack of Sad Cola?

Aww.

Well, nut up, wuss bag.

Cragga-BALL SHOT

You know what just happened, here in the past? Well, of course you do, since you were there, but two very nice women just came in and gave you free tickets to a concert this weekend. Yeah. You remember. You also know whether or not you had a good time, as I’m sitting here in the past refreshing your memory. That doesn’t matter: what matters is that you just got FREE TICKETS to a CONCERT.

You remember the nice lady that brought them in, thanking you for writing such a lovely article about her son? Yeah. That was sincere, buck-o. So sincere, that they apparently came in more than once to try and find your sad kiester to thank you personally. She even wrote “VIP” on them.

STOP. REWIND.

Yeah. Check that out.

And this isn’t even the first time free tickets have happened. They happen all the time. You can look at your schedule, bust out your future calendar, full of holograms and jetpacks and all the other stuff you should have in the future, and look at all the dates in that calendar where you can pretty much count on having tickets to something awesome. AND, in lieu of that, you’ve got a Press Badge, which is just this side of a law-enforcement officer’s badge when it comes to getting in to places for free. Lemme lay some math on ya.

Getting into places free = Press Badge < Police Badge

… BUT!

Party still going on once you enter = Press Badge > Police badge.

It’s all “win” here, son.

Now, hitch up your training bra and stop acting like such a little girl. I can hear your lady-bits flapping in the breeze.

Love,

Past-You
January 27, 2011

Grrr.

And here’s my problem with finding a roommate: I’ve been spoil’t. (I can spell how I want cause this is my blog: grammar nazis begone, I say.) I had some awesome roommates who always paid their rent on time, who took on some part of the responsibility for managing bills, who had awesome furniture and delightful pets and who rarely wanted to shower at the same time I did, and when they decided to do the nasty they did it on a completely different floor from the one I lived on so I wouldn’t be disturbed by their rendition of the horizontal tango.

They’re totally doing it upstairs, and I don’t even care.

I had excellent roommates. But I’ve also had terrible roommates.

The kinds that leave crap in the sink; that leave crap in the toilet; that can’t pay for a laundromat so they wash their undies in the sink and then hang them in the living room and kitchen to drip-dry; that would, on a regular basis, let the litter box sit until its a solid block of cat-piss and then buy a new one rather than clean it out a few times a week; that, in fits of passive-aggressive rage, would lie about why the heat isn’t working so the rest of us can’t hold a pencil because we’re so cold while they laugh, toasty warm, in front of their electric heater.

I’ve had the logical extremes of the roommate experiences. The only way it could have been worse is if they short-sheeted me on a regular basis; the only way it could have been better is if they paid me to live with them.

Or, if they happened to look like this.

So. I’m looking for a roommate. If you suck, please don’t apply. Bonus points if you look like anyone in the picture above.

Pictured: a good time.

Unfortunately, I enjoy it so much, I’m a little bit addicted. Not “cocaine” addicted, not “neglect my bodily functions until I die” addicted, but it’s the only way I can get together with my college friends across the country on a regular basis. I miss my friends. So, we get together on WoW and kill stuff.

Beautiful, beautiful computer murder.

The downside of WoW is, of course, that it’s time consuming. I don’t have a bunch of free time as it is, and there are definitely more constructive uses of the time I do have. So, a few weeks ago, I actually made the decision to quit for a while. This is not a new thing: I quit all the time.

“I CAN STOP WHENEVER I WANT.”

This time, I actually told my friends that I was taking a break because my subscription was up. That means I can’t play unless I decide to pay for the service again. The subscription was up a few weeks ago.

Well, Sunday morning, I get a text from one of those roommates saying, basically, that I was a total liar and that they just saw me come online.

At the time, I had been in church for about an hour. Hmm.

A conundrum, this.

The next time I get online, I discover that someone with a Chinese I.P address had accessed my Gmail account. Upon doing further research, I find that my WoW account is mysteriously active, even though, as I said, my sub was up.

The first thing I did was change all my passwords. This should keep the fellow out. Next, I log on to WoW and check for damage to my characters.

Well… that’s odd.

No damage. In fact… things are better than when I left. The hacker did a little house cleaning (he deleted one of my older characters, but I never used that guy anyway), and in the meantime he’s been leveling up one of my guys. That character is like 20 levels higher than the last time I checked, all of his equipment is better, and he’s got twice as much in-game money as all of my characters have ever had, combined.

AND THAT’S NOT ALL.

It’s… it’s beautiful.

He’s been all over the WoW Auction House. Lemme ‘splain: when you find stuff in game, like a particular type of ore that’s a little tough to come by. Or, say, not even something difficult to come by, just time consuming to collect. You can take it to the Auction House, slap a ridiculous price tag on it, and people of higher levels who have more money than patience will totally pay for it.

When I logged on, he had over 100 auctions open, each at completely exorbitant prices, and PEOPLE ARE PAYING FOR IT.

Let me sum up:

1. I was hacked.
2. The hacker cleaned my space.
3. The hacker leveled me up.
4. The hacker upgraded my equipment.
5. The hacker started a business.
6. He’s doing very well for himself.
7. Then I come along, take all my stuff back which is now in better condition than when I left it, with more in-game money than I’ve ever seen, I have a free month of playable time, and I lock him out.

I almost feel kind of bad. This guy was working really hard, and he treated my characters better than I have in a couple of years. I can’t understand why he wasn’t, y’know, doing all of this on one of his own characters, cause here I come and steal all of his stuff that is actually my stuff but better.

It’s a tough thing to wrap your head around. If I had any idea who this guy was, I’d probably send him a card or something.

BAM!

It’s called “The Bard”, and it was painted by John Martin in 1817; it was based on a poem by Thomas Gray (you can read that here; it’s a long one, but totally awesome). Whether you actually read it or not, here’s the backstory:

King Edward III killed all the Welsh-Celtic bards back in the day (the 1300’s). Finding a common thread with that idea (“The Man” suppressing “The Arts”), a bunch of Romantic Era painters decided to adopt it as a theme for their work during the age of Napoleon’s conquest of EVERYTHING. (Also, this other painting is amazing for a whole bunch of different reasons.) “The Bard” is one of the results.

And it blows mah mind.

Poom.

So lets examine this piece of mind blowing art:

travel sized for convenience!

There’s an awful lot of background. I think the purpose here was to drill home just how tiny the people are. It really provides a sense of scale, not just in a “man, those are big mountains” kind of way, but in a “man we’re all insignificant” kind of way. Or Martin just liked painting mountains.

Whatevs.

The first thing you see after taking in the mountains is that old dude: he’s separated from an army of soldiers by this roaring river, and it’s entirely possible he’s flipping them off. Upon further zooming, we discover that he is, in fact…

nope.

… NOT flipping the bird. Balls.

Or is he?

What does the middle finger signify? Rebellion. Refusal to accept something, saying, in essence, “I don’t care about you or your rules, I defy you”. And while he’s not saying that with his fingah, he’s sure saying it with his posture.

Rock’n'roll.

There, in a precarious situation, this bard, the very embodiment of artistic expression, is rocking out in a classic air guitar pose made even awesomer by the fact that he actually has an instrument, and that instrument is a frikkin’ harp. How did he get up there with that thing? And only wearing a few bedsheets? And COMPLETELY BAREFOOT?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s there, and right before he disappears completely, he’s letting THE MAN know that HE is defied, and as long as the bard is there to sing, as long as people hear and remember and KNOW the songs he sang, then that defiance will always be there.

This painting is a beautifully crafted “the finger” that was painted 200 years ago, and it shows that musicians knew how to rock out even before the words “rock out” meant anything more than making your shoes more comfortable.

I love this painting. Just thought I’d share.