Dylan Bolin

If you’re anything like me, you never drink out of the bathroom sink immediately after flushing the toilet. You know that your house isn’t plumbed that way, but still, if something went wrong, it would be very, very gross.

But that’s not what this is about.

If you’re anything like me, you have a home office (tax-deductible to the fullest extent of the law). And supplying your home office can be a pricey endeavor. Take ink cartridges:  An ounce of ink can cost $20 or more. That means one gallon of ink would cost roughly $2,560. Try claiming that on your Schedule C, and the I.R.S. will bypass the audit completely, break into your house in the middle of the night and execute you Gangland style in front of your spouse and children.

May I recommend we stop invading countries with oil, and start carpet bombing the ones with large quantities of printer ink.

Anyway, it’s nice to know that you could save a few bucks by refilling the cartridges instead of buying brand new ones; that is, until recently. It seems that the manufacturers of ink cartridges have caught wind of our sordid affair, and have decided to go Fatal Attraction on us.

I learned this after taking a couple cartridges in to get refilled at a local Walgreens. When I returned to pick them up, I had the following conversation with the nice lady at the photo counter:

“They didn’t pass the print test,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the color cartridge only prints yellow and the black just exploded.” She indicated spots of black ink on the counter.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“Some manufacturers like to make their cartridges so they can’t be refilled.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

Then, not even bothering to recycle them, she chucked them in the garbage can.

So, not only are they making their cartridges so they can’t be refilled but, in the case of my black ink cartridge, they’re rigging them to explode. It’s like putting C-4 explosive in the cupboard to discourage midnight snacking.

I just thought you might want to know. I may be putting myself at great risk by revealing this information; these are clearly very powerful people. I also plan on forwarding the link to Hewlett Packard, so if you don’t hear from me in a couple days, it’s because they’ve turned me into a “paper jam,” if you get my drift.

-Dylan

I’ve been in a few plays, but I wouldn’t call myself an actor. I’ve been in a few plays with actual actors, but I wouldn’t call myself a fellow actor.

Actors are kind of like the Freemasons, and, likewise, you would never call yourself a Freemason until an actual Freemason does first.

I admire actors; even the ones that aren’t very good. By virtue of simply calling yourself an actor in normal conversation (“And what do you do?” “Oh, I’m an actor”) you’ve got moxie in my book, friend. Talent aside, you’ve made a choice, and I admire that.

So you may be wondering what it’s like to share the stage with an actual actor.

Well, I guess I can dish without naming names. Top off my Merlot.

It’s true what they say about the good ones:  They exude…something.

I don’t know if it’s pheromones, or “the Force,” or lasers made of bullshit, but it’s real. A good actor is one who has spent a lifetime focusing on presence, and has consequently made theirs perfect. Even when they screw up, it’s like watching the universe give birth to a planet.

I wonder if acting is like hitting a baseball; by which I mean:  Are there basics? “Tuck your chin, explode through the hips, quick bat through the zone.”  This might be a hitter’s mantra. Before their entrance, are actors silently repeating:  “Tempo, pick up the cues, don’t act; react.”

And do they swing the heavy bat before the show? He’s Oscar in Odd Couple, but he’s warming up with a Falstaff soliloquy to get his timing down.

If he acts the hell out of a play in his wheelhouse, does he slowly take a lap around the stage to show up the other actors?

No he doesn’t. But the good ones do.

-Dylan

Delete your Internet history each time before you visit the site (temporary sites and cookies).

If you’ve ever visited an airline or travel site, it was probably to get a price on a particular trip. You get the price and go about your business. Maybe you decide to sleep on it before you pull the trigger.

The next day you return to the site, and, wait a second (3 seconds metric), the price is $50 more since yesterday. What happened?

The website decided to employ a little psychology.

You see, the website knew that you had returned (like walking back into a store at the mall), and it assumed that you were back to make a purchase. Then, it used the sales technique known as “catching a flying knife.”

In the stock market, “catching a falling knife” is the attempt to time a stock hitting bottom in terms of price. It’s so risky and rare that it’s like “catching a falling knife.” In sales, the salesman tries to get you to “catch a flying knife” using price and time.

If you see the price rising and hesitate making the purchase, you risk paying more. And the time of a sale also has a habit of “running out.” Creating manufactured scarcity is designed to force your hand, hopefully into making the purchase. 

But how did the website know it was you? Because when you visited the first time, it gave you “cookie.” While this may sound like a reward to you for visiting the site, in this case, it’s actually a reward for them.

Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with Internet cookies. They’re nothing more than little computer name tags that allow the site you’re visiting to treat you like a welcomed guest, which is nice.

But they do say to a travel website:  “Psst. This person was here yesterday.” Or a week ago, or a month ago. And the sales persons use that information to their advantage.

Hey, if you’re willing to pay $1500 dollars, maybe you’re also willing to pay $1595.

So deleting your Internet “cache” is like slipping the website a Cyber-Roofie.

With Internet Explorer, find “Tools” and then “Internet Options,” and you can delete from there.

I know that there are many other browsers out there, and if you have one of those, chances are you know this stuff already.

And if you own a Mac, you apparently don’t have to worry about “cookies” because, based on what I hear from friends who own a Mac, it’s too busy doing perfect and magical things like spitting out money covered in actual unicorn glitter so all the presidents look like David Bowie, and printing documents with “full release.” Honestly.

So to the rest of you…

Happy booking!

-Dylan

December 23rd, 2012 (Apocalypse+2)

They did it; the bastards they finally did it. First, they crippled the internet with multiple DoS attacks. The electrical grid soon followed. Then, they jammed the satellites with sonar. They divided us, and then they conquered. I don’t know how many are left. The Dolphins were merciless. God only knows how long they’d been planning their take-over.

I’m in my Safe Room. I have adequate provisions, and my chest of gold that I purchased from goldline.com. God help those who didn’t buy gold. From goldline.com.

December 25th, 2012 (Apocalypse+4)

Merry Christmas! I know I am at great risk for mentioning Christmas, having been outlawed by the Liberals (who were surely propped up by our new Dolphin Overlords), but if I don’t say “Merry Christmas,” then the Liberals and Dolphins have won.

I’m very hungry. You’d be surprised how quickly one can go through a case of Pepperoni Combos. Thank God for the foresight to purchase several gold coins from goldline.com; I am the richest man in the land. I will now venture forth from my Safe Room and purchase all that I desire.

December 26th, 2012 (Apocalypse+5)

W.T.F.!? Came across a farm with several chickens and offered to purchase the farm. The farmer was incredulous.

“What the hell do I want with a bunch of gold coins?” he said.

“From goldline.com.”

“I don’t care where they’re from. What am I supposed to do with them?”

“But…they’re coins. Gold. From goldline.com,” I said. “They’re worth so much. You have to take them.”

“What are they worth? Can’t eat ‘em. Can’t kill Dolphins with ‘em. Well, I suppose I could plug their blowholes with ‘em, but I’d be dead before I got close enough, so… I said NO! Now get off my property before I shoot you.”  

 What do I do now?

December 27th, 2012 (Apocalypse+6)

Dolphins have entered my home. I’m watching them on the closed circuit television in my Safe Room. They’re riding Segways, and have attached prosthetic hands to their flippers. I’m going to try to bribe them. If they’re as intelligent as everybody says, they won’t be able to resist gold from goldline.com.

Dolphins! I surrender! I’m unarmed! But look; I have a chest full of gold coins from goldline.com. What do you mean “Eh-eh?” It’s gold for Christ’s Sake! Hold on a second. Hey, I’m sorry. Please don’t. Why won’t I stop writing and try to escape. Nooooo!

-Dylan

If you live anywhere near a road in South-Eastern Wisconsin, you know that it’s been a rough construction season. In the past, when someone said:  “Wisconsin has two seasons:  Winter and Road Repair,” you probably chuckled and said:  “I hear that.” This year however, when someone says:  “Wisconsin has two seasons:  Winter and Road Repair,” you chuckle to hide your facial tic and “1000-yard Stare.”

‘Cause this year, we’ve seen some s#@t, man. It’s everywhere.

You have to wonder if it’s a joke. Like somewhere in an office downtown, a disgruntled civil engineer is drinking tequila and prank calling the D.O.T.

Just the other day, due to a closure, I took a detour that funneled traffic onto a street THAT WAS REDUCED TO ONE LANE BECAUSE OF CONSTRUCTION! At the very least, I expect a detour to be an improvement over a closure. I was there so long that I literally started to panic.

Nobody was moving. The earth movers sat empty in mockery; their day’s occupants were already with their families. Meanwhile, I wondered if I was going to have to abandon the car and walk home.

D.O.T., if your detour leads into a Kafkaesque parking lot of futility and spite, please let me take a chance on the closure. I promise to take full responsibility for my Dukes of Hazard driving maneuvers.

My point is that we all have to deal with it, and we have to deal with it together. Therefore, I’d like to share a traffic technique with you that is used in other metropolitan areas to great results. It’s called the Shuffle Merge.

The concept is simple:  Let one car merge in front of you. It’s that easy.

But it’s only effective if everybody agrees to participate; every car merging and every car in traffic. Failure by just one car (generally a blue Chevy Corsica with lots of beads hanging from the rearview mirror and the license plate “TEXTGRL”) to comply, and the system breaks down into Lord of the Flies anarchy.

If a car in bumper to bumper traffic refuses to let another car merge, they’re just screwing the people behind them. Plus the car that they didn’t let in front of them will be right behind them for a very tense 30 minutes.

If, as a merging car, you wait until the last minute, you turn a crawl into a dead stop. And every orderly Shuffle Merger that you passed on the right, butting to the front of the line, wants to see you dead.

You’ve seen semis edge into a lane that’s closing, keeping the cars behind him from speeding ahead. In doing so, they’re setting up the Shuffle Merge, which, when executed properly, is as potent as the Packer Sweep.

Remember:  L.O.C.M.I.F.O.Y. Let One Car Merge In Front Of You. And trust that the driver behind you will do the same. Pay it forward.

We can do this. We just need to make it to winter.

-Dylan

I never noticed this before, but whenever I buy a new shirt, like I did today from Goodwill, I go through this strange ritual. First, I gently remove the tags like vestigial umbilical cords, then I wash the shirt with my detergent and fabric softener so it has my scent, and finally, I put it on a new plastic hanger. Then, and only then, is it introduced to the other shirts in my closet.

I don’t know why I do this. Perhaps I’m trying to assimilate it into my wardrobe as opposed to just throwing it into the mix. I know how difficult it is to be the new guy on the team, and maybe it’s just my way of cushioning the transition.

It’s quite possible that I’m sensitive to a fault.

-Dylan

Let’s say, for a moment, that I’m rich. What does that mean? Maybe it means I enjoy flakes of real gold on top of my custard made from dolphin milk. Maybe I pay hobos to fight to the death in my 11,000sf rumpus room. Maybe my real name is Richard. The word “rich” is a very subjective one.

Let’s just agree that if one is “rich,” one probably has pretty much everything one could want. Otherwise, what’s the point, right?

And now let’s return to reality:  I’m not rich, and chances are, neither are you. If $250,000 means “rich,” then 95% of you don’t qualify. And if you are a small business, that number jumps to 98%.

Some exist in an economy that is life and death, where the money that a millionaire finds in his sofa cushions could mean keeping a job or losing a job, keeping a home or losing a home, getting medical care or not.

And, in this economy, we don’t buy a lot. I don’t; do you? You’re probably so busy sustaining that you forgot to buy impulsively, which is the engine of the U.S. economy. Surely, this economy could use a little stimulus.

Now different actions have different stimulative effects. For instance food stamps have a $1.73-stimulative affect for every $1.00 spent. That’s because food stamps help you eat; an important expense. By that measure, infrastructure spending is good, too. About $1.60 for every $1.00 spent. Goes right back into the economy.

But to pay for that, we’re going to need to raise taxes on the “rich,” where “rich” means over $250,000. (You may be one of those who think that $250,000 isn’t rich. Bravo.)

This will cause the tax rate on the “rich” to skyrocket from 33% and 35% (as it is right now) to 36% and 39.6% respectively. Now, that’s real money. If you make a Million dollars this year, $350,000 is going to the government.

If the tax cuts expire, then it’s $400, 000.

That’s 5%.

My property taxes in the City of Milwaukee went up 7%.

Brother Millionaire, can you spare a dime?

When we fight over the expiration of certain tax cuts, that’s what we’re fighting about. Now, I’m not suggesting that we stop fighting; yell, spit and snarl! Just know that this is what we’re yelling, spitting and snarling about…that and Socialism or something.

-Dylan

I’m so very tired of trying to sell myself. It’s the path I’ve chosen, and it’s part of the game, but it’s tiring in a deep way.

I’ll never spend a day digging holes or shingling roofs, but I’m constantly trying to sell myself to those who do. They’re the ones who ultimately decide who wins. So while I’ll never know their agony, so they will never know mine.

Everyone is creative; there are roofers who can tell a great story, there are guys who push an asphalt rake all day who sing like angels in their church choirs, there are masons (yes, they still exist) who are poets. “Poet Masons.” Also the name of Arcade Fire*’s next album.

But say to them:  “You should do something with that [talent]…” and they’ll aw shucks and write it off. And then I cluck my tongue and mentally quote A Bronx Tale:  “The saddest thing in life is wasted talent,” feel superior, and go about the business of proving to someone with money that I’m more special than that first guy they saw and that next guy they’ll see. We’re like a throng of peasants from some self-indulgent, third-world country surrounding an Aid Truck full of attention.

On the other hand, the roofer will never mistake his creativity for commerce. He will never put his self-esteem in the hands of the highest bidder. He’ll come home, take a shower, drink a six-pack and hope to fall asleep by 11:00 because tomorrow is 88 degrees at noon. He’ll sacrifice his body, but some things are not for sale.

In admiring that, I feel pretentious. And yet…

And so I write this, on my computer, to no one in particular, on a domain bearing my name. Then, for traffic purposes, I’ll re-post it on Facebook or Twitter, and try to sell you on it.

Sometimes it’s deeply tiring and, pardon my French, sometimes it’s a “Balls-Deep Bummer,” Arcade Fire*’s next album after next.

-Dylan

*Surveys show that the indie octet, Arcade Fire, is very popular, and therefore a “high-traffic” tag.

I know that good people get swindled by emails like this all the time, and for that, I’m sorry. But, that being said, I love ‘em. What follows is the exact email, word for misused word, that I just received from “eBay.” For the record, I’m fairly certain that eBay had nothing to do with it. The bold italics are my responses.

Dear Member,

We are sorry to announce you (I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when you “announce” me.) that your acocunt (My WHAT?) has been randomly selected for verification. (Why are you sorry? Is it the “acocunt” thing?) We have sent you an attachment which contains all the necessary steps in order to restore your account access. Download and open it in your browser. (Yeah, I’ll get right on that.) After we have gathered the necessary information, you will regain full access to your account. We are sorry (Again with the sorry. How about being sorry for trying to rip me off?) for any inconvinience (You put the ”I” in “inconvenience”) this may have cause you. (It “may have cause” me great “inconvinience” if I have fell it for.) 

Sincerely,

eBay Customer Service (Spell Check free since 1995)

-Dylan

So, like most of you, in these troubling economic times, I’ve been looking for ways to augment my income, so I decided to take up kidnapping. Granted, it’s a high risk endeavor, but with it comes the promise of high reward.

I found a guy in a suit and wrestled him into the trunk of my car, a 2004 Ford Focus. I had no idea if he was rich or not, but I had planned on finding out after driving him to a secure location.

Imagine my surprise when I got out of the car and discovered this:

Empty!

“How the hell did that happen?” I wondered. And then I noticed the little yellow thing dangling at the top. Upon closer inspection, it illustrated the mystery perfectly.

You win this time, Ford Focus.

-Dylan