Showing posts from June, 2018

The #OccupyStarbucks movement

I received an email regarding Starbucks' recent store shutdown in order to learn about racial bias. I forwarded it to a friend for a comment, because this friend always has a witty one.

His response?

"Does it make you want to organize some loitering parties?  #occupystarbucks"


If people can occupy Wall Street, if they can occupy Army Corps land for almost a year here in North Dakota with zero repercussions, if they can occupy freeways, and lay down in grocery stores because of the NRA and whatever else they do, surely we can now #occupystarbucks.

New policy says we can, without needing to purchase anything.

Granted, the music they play is enough to keep me away for good.

I don't know if there is an #OccupyStarbucks movement, but I'm putting it into my Google alerts with great hope.

Ye olde car in general.

Just weeks after a car repair, I found myself praying I'd make it to the shop before my car died.

Whether it was battery or alternator, I did not know, but a friend had to jump my car, tow trucks were involved, a prayer-laced drive across town in rush hour traffic, a few roll-and-gos because too much stopping made the car sputter, and finally sliding into a parking spot at the garage where my electric window wouldn't roll up.

I described the incident to my friend. "I thought you just got the car fixed?"

"Oh, you know how it is with Chrysler owners," I said. "You practically have to check underneath the car every morning to see what else has fallen off."

My failed campaign to run for sheriff.

Holy cats, guys.

The county elections were on Tuesday, and I totally missed the boat. I did zero serious campaigning in my run for the Nazi party as county sheriff!

Those were the halcyon days of yesteryear, back in 2015 and 2016, when lots of losers often named Patrick Millette were fixated on a pipeline protest and endeavored to create a false Facebook profile of me to spam various North Dakota sheriff offices, and participated in various other forms of super-unique Hitler-themed harassment directed at me, often during the day when he was at work and on the company clock.

Good times, good times.

Internet and content marketing cold emails still keep a comin'.

In 2014 I left a job in the content marketing/internet marketing realm (BSRS). For a year I continued writing marketing blog posts to earn a living, but gradually phased out of that for many reasons.

I still, however, get cold emails because of the posts out there that have my name on them. (Thankfully, hundreds more posts were ghostwritten and I am not associated with them.) If the posts get high traffic for a given search term, marketing blogs email to try to get me, the writer of the post, to insert links back to their blog.

I get two to three of these emails a week. Still. After all this time. I save them all because someday I would like to write a book about internet marketing and illustrate how false the content you read online really is.

But here is a recent one to show you how annoyingly persistent these marketing folks can be.

Clearly I should have just used the suggested response, but I tend to ignore these emails with zero response so that maybe they'll think their cont…

Pilot, it could happen to you.

I was at a monthly meeting of an aviation organization I'm a part of. The Safety Officer was giving the usual safety brief. The focus was on an incident, detailed in a monthly safety bulletin, that had happened elsewhere in which a pilot apparently ran the aircraft off of the runway. The title of the article outlining the incident was "It Could Happen To You."

"Don't go around thinking this couldn't happen to you," the Safety Officer said.

I elbowed my friend, and sighed. "I actually fully expect something like that to happen to me."

I don't know if I'm the only one, but I don't actually think "that won't happen to me" as I go through life. Rather, I wait for the shoe to drop.

If you've ever sat with a bunch of pilots, you'll hear their horror stories. I'm pretty low hour, but I've got a couple of oh-my-goshes (Dickinson and Carrington), two mechanical issues, and an oops under the belt already. Maybe …

The wolves are breeding the sheep.

Be sure you're answering the same question.

Several years ago, I read a short newspaper article that depicted the struggle western ranchers (particularly those with sheep) were having with the reintroduction of wolves.

At a townhall-type meeting, several government wildlife officials were presenting their plan to solve the problem of wolf attacks on livestock to a packed house of ranchers. They outlined how they were tagging wolves, and then selectively sterilizing them to reduce the population.

At the end of the presentation, the officials opened the floor to questions, and an elderly rancher stood up in the back. The wildlife official at the podium motioned for him to speak.

The rancher paused for a moment in the silent room, and then said, with a hint of confusion in his voice, “Son, you don’t understand. The wolves ain’t breedin’ the sheep. They’re eating ‘em.”

I was reminded of this during a recent heated discussion at work regarding a particular feature of a new app we are …

Ye olde transmission.

In about ten years, I can probably put North Dakota Pioneer plates on my vehicle. It is not a spring chicken.

The transmission has been leaking bit by bit for about six months. I tried to pretend it wasn't the transmission, because of my personally low GDP. Two years ago I tried to pretend it wasn't the brakes, but in the end I had to offer hundreds of dollars to the automotive gods. Last year, I drove through a summer that ended up being hotter than Hades without a working air conditioner. I finally had the cash money to get that fixed just in time for winter.

I set up an appointment at the service station where I get my car fixed. I am going to a conference in Medora this summer and that's a long, hot drive to make in a sketchy car that's leaking transmission fluid.

I drove my car to the shop the evening before, and my friend followed and took me home. Back in the garage, I looked at the concrete floor where my car had been parked. While I was accustomed to the slig…