Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Robo? Or Modern Day Christopher Columbus? You be the Judge.
This is a belated funny, but I need to relay this anecdote that involves Robo.

So (now) I come into work wearing what others (i.e., outsider corporate types) might deem 'casual' or 'comfortable' clothing. Long gone are the days of my overzealous excitement about having a job with my own office and a view of the busy New York City streets below. Ergo, also gone are the days of my dressing up so as to seemingly project an air of 'professionalism.' Hah. Whatever, biatches.

I have segued from full suits and leather loafers to polo shirts, blue jeans, and New Balance sneakers. (Note that this was a slow and decidedly purposive transition that I made. I graaaaaadually arrived at this point. First there was the clean-shaven, full suited drone. Then no jacket drone. Then no tie and unbuttoned top button drone. Then--now slight scruff on face--polo shirt, slacks, loafers drone. Polo, jeans, loafers drone. Now? Polo, jeans, sneakers. I predict that in a few months, Drone will be wearing a "I went to South of the Border and all I got was this lousy T-shirt" t-shirt, khaki shorts, and Adidas sandals... One can dream.) Aaaanyway. So I wear pretty casual clothes while I slave away for the living robot I call 'boss.'

Well, as I now know, and have for some time firmly believed, that I am overworked, am underpaid, and rather dislike being here, I have consistently perused job websites and submitted my resume to interesting posts. It's a very comfortable method of feeling out the market. No real sense of fear or desparation comes into play, so I can enjoy the luxury of waiting around for employers to contact me. Well, every once in a while I get a bite and consequently go on an interview... during my lunch break (I actually have one tomorrow, heh). Here's where the funny comes in.

I'd say about a month or two ago, Drone had an interview for a PR position with a hospital. So Drone got mondo-dressed-up. We're talkin' crisp blue Brooks Brother shirt, dark blue silk BB tie, nice slacks, shiny black leather shoes... the whole nine. Well, Robo came in and said something to the effect of, 'You look nice.' 'Thanks very much,' I responded as a matter of obligation.
'Where are you going looking so nice?' Robo asked. I had already worked out my explanation (ok, 'LIE' if you really wanna get technical about it), saying that I was meeting two friends (Viagina and Fat Asian Baby--see links) for lunch uptown. 'Phew, just so long as you're not going on a job interview.' [Drone is silent for about 2 seconds] !!!! ... !!!!! ... Wh-wh-whu? Huh? I mean, Robo?! How the f--?

Ladies and gentlemen, this is a man who generally has the perception of Helen Keller at infancy. He will routinely peruse a simple letter for minutes, searching vigorously for the address of the client that is clearly indicated at the top of the letter, you know: where people put. their. addresses. So needless to say I was freaking out inside. Did he know where I was going? How was this possible? No. It couldn't be. My face turned beet red, but I maintained (all while laughing it off) that I was indeed going to a nice restaurant with friends. He bought it. Later, I was consoled by friends who said that he merely stumbled, like the idiot he can be, onto the truth. Like Columbus bumping into "Asia" (i.e., North America), Robo had discovered my secret. Hehe. He was clearly none the wiser, but it just goes to show you how smart the stupid can somtimes be. Maybe that's not the lesson. I don't friggin' know. But it was weird, ok?


Tuesday, March 23, 2004

Being both a cynic and a dreamer
Took one of the plethora of online quizzes (thanks, Via Gina).

So which classic novel DO I belong in? Apparently...

Darling, it seems that you belong in Gone with the Wind; the proper place
for a romantic. You belong in a tumultous world of changes and
opportunities, where your independence paves the road for your survival. It
is trying being both a cynic and a dreamer, no?

Yeah, it's f-ing trying alright. Being a cynic in a dead-end crap job, dreaming of NOT being in a dead-end crap job. Gooh.


Among my many elustrious responsibilities as a drone is that of receiving company mail on behalf of Robo. 'Cause, you know, taking mail that is bundled in a rubber band from the Postman, DIRECTLY, would be far too exhausting and unnecessary an effort for Robo to do himself. But actually, I kind of like it. An outsider enters my office and says, 'Hello.' An outsider who demands nothing of me urgently or REMINDS!!!! me about shit that I'm supposed to have for them yesterday. So, in short, the postman enters the front door through reception and hands me the mail. Kind of reminds me of how mail and friendly interaction must have been exchanged in the fifties, or at least how they were portrayed on shows like Dennis The Menace (because we all know that if you see something on TV, it's got to be accurate). Then I relay the mail to Robo.

Today, funnily enough, the postman waits in my office sort of non-chatting (i.e., wasting time), and I can tell that's what he's doing. In my mind I'm wondering why he is hanging out so long, because we're not really saying anything. He literally just kind of peaks around my office and looks at the artwork. Then he kind of gives me an eye and says, Supervisor's watching me outside, so I'm gunna take about 5 seconds or so more... Uhm, ok. So, talking on the job and taking longer to deliver your mail gets you a better review. Interesting theory. I had two thoughts after he said that. One, I hate supervisors (ahem, Robo). Two, the postman doesn't really love me. He didn't want to chat. He was obliged to chat with Drone. Waa. Whatever.


Robo's Drone: the next Christina Aguilera
OK, so I'm back from my foray into business travel. After being delayed in New York for four hours (!!!!) due to a freak snowstorm, I was able to depart and head for a place where the poor live without electricity and underneath corrugated tin roofs. The businessfolk, on the other hand, live quite well. Much dinero flows through the coinpurses of those that booked my hotel. It was very nice and quite Western--all the creature comforts of home. Since I did way too much boring work that noone cares about, I'll relay the best non-work event of the trip.

One day, Drone's company provided Drone with a happy little tour of all the sights and sounds that aforementioned Central American nation's capital has to offer. So, the big, rich lawfirm provided a driver named Ronaldo and a decked-out SUV in which to take the tour. To Drone's great amusement, Ronaldo's charge was to make sure that Drone was safe and sound and that he arrived safely back at the office for a business meeting later that afternoon.

So, in essence, Ronaldo was my bodyguard. We went to a musuem, where Ronaldo trailed me 100% of the time, asking me if I was alright and if I needed anything. As I was dressed for work, I had a very nice shirt and tie on. So--to re-cap--I was a well-dressed (very obvious) American (hint: I'm way white and very tall) with a burly man named Ronaldo who was clearly trailing me. People began to look and whisper--I assume they were wondering if I was someone important. Believe you me, little 'ole Drone hammed it up good. For about 2 hours I was sooooo Christina Aguilera. Or at least that's how I think she must feel sometimes. Unfortunately noone asked for my autograph. Probably because they knew Ronaldo would initiate a throwdown if they did... If you ever have the pleasure of obtaining a bodyguard, I highly recommend it.


Tuesday, March 16, 2004

From my airline's weather page:

A snowstorm will move through a good chunk of the Northeast. Hardest hit during the day should be western and northern Pennsylvania and southern New York, followed in the evening by central and southern New England. Preliminary assessments suggest snowfall totals on the order of 5 to 10 inches. And there could be a good deal of sleet mainly from southeast Pennsylvania to Long Island. City-by- major-city: Baltimore/Washington probably will see sleet changing to rain; Philadelphia, snow to sleet to rain; Pittsburgh, mostly snow with some sleet mixed in; New York City, snow to sleet; and Boston, snow.

Grrrrrreat. Just f-ing great. It's March 16th, literally the week that Spring is meant to 'spring,' and there are snow flurries the size of Kellogg's Corn Flakes floating around furiously outside. Oh, yeah. Did I mention that today is the day that I'm supposed to fly to a tropical destination for business?

If this unseasonable snowstorm in any way prevents hapless Drone from getting a tan, he will lash out in manners previously unknown. Murphy's Law, why must thee smite little Drone? Need to see what retardos look like!! Must get away from Robo at all costs!!!


Monday, March 15, 2004

Let's All Make Our Own Words ala Robo
Haha. Robo just asked Drone to "put the right mailage" on three letters. I wonder if this is the same thing as postage? Hmmm.


Just read a snip-it on Hotmail (yes, the true leader in fair journalism) about Bennifer entitled: BEN SETS TERMS WITH JEN...

Rhetorical Question (from above-referenced article): "Is it possible that Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez could still be chummy after suffering through the most public breakup in recent history?"

Mandatory Response (from Drone): Is it even re-MOTE-ly possible that the PUBLIC could give a rats ass?

Once and for all, now: NOBODY. CARES. GET. OVER. YOUR... SELVES! Next breaking article to be published? PUBLIC SETS TERMS WITH BENNIFER: Head for the hills and never come back or we're filing a restraining order. Seriously. Or at the very least, we will boycott you by not patronizing such triumphs as 'Gigli' and 'Daredevil.' Oh wait, err... YEAH, those were retroactive sanctions, biatch (we're just psychic like that)! Be careful, 'Jen.' If you go any further with your stalking of the public, we might just tear out your Louis Vuitton ads and laugh at you for the amount of air-brushing it has taken to make you look like a fashion model. Oh wait, err...


OK, far be it for me to be a critic of fashion or whatever, but why is it that (some) women like to carry around crumpled-up, old shopping bags from designer clothiers as if they were handbags?

Most notably, I've seen an insurmountable number of women toting around Burberry and Harrod's shopping bags, ruffling through them for the requsiste $3.55 latte fee in line at Starbucks. At first glance, I thought so-referenced woman just bought a sweater and happened to throw her wallet into her shopping bag. Nope. What was at first a "Thank you for shopping at Burberry's" bag has magically become a purse.

I'm guessing that this is supposed to work as a status symbol of some sort, you know: 'I shopped at Hoo-ha Bigbucks McGillicutty. Worship me. Envy me.' But in my mind all it really implies is that you went to the store once, bought something that was overpriced, were not able to afford an actual bag that the aformeneioned rip-off artists (i.e., designer clothiers) surely manufacture, and consequently used the shopping bag as a 'creative' substitute. Alright, enough beating around the bush. It makes you look like you's stupid. Like you're too broke to pony up for the real thing, so you're carrying around a glorified trash bag. I'm just sayin'.


Extra! Extra! Drone to meet retardos...
Ah, glorious Monday. How do I despise thee? Let me count the ways. Actually, this Monday hasn't been too bad; I should give credit where credit is due. Subway wasn't crowded at all.

The Higher Power must have decided to spare me the rampant BO, children selling Peanut M&Ms for their basketball team uniforms (uh huh, right), and the regular batch of crazies shouting JESUS! JESUS! So the morning commute (which takes me a delightful 45 minutes to travel about one mile as the crow flies) was unusually refreshing. And, to boot, the weather is rather pleasant today in the Big Apple.

Most imortantly, perhaps, today is the day before Drone goes on an international business trip (think Central/South America) to interact with the retardos that send Drone "REMINDER!!!!!!" E-mails every day and have attrocious grammar. It should prove very interesting, if only from a scientific standpoint, to see what retardos look like in their natural environs. What do they eat, I wonder? Do they walk upright? Oooh, the fun I shall have investigating. It's supposed to be mondo-HOT where Drone is headed. Bermuda shorts, anyone?


Friday, March 12, 2004

Why the hell doesn't Hotmail save your cotton-pickin' SENT MESSAGES?! Sometimes, just for 'fun' I check the Sent Messages box, and SURPRISE! It's empty. However, I always find the same retarded prompt, as if to mock me, saying, 'Messages more than 30 days old will be automatically deleted from this folder.' Yeah, right. Can we start an uprising or something?


I just weighed how much work I did today (on our Pitney Bowes scale). It's a FedEx that weighs 5.8 ounces. Pretty pathetic. I mean, I've sent God knows how many E-mail responses to annoying foreign offices and answered the phone a budgillion times today, but my actual work product (as of 3:14PM) weighs 5.8 ounces. Gooh.


'Stars' in the City
OK, so a product of living and carousing in the Big Apple is seeing celeb's in their natural habitats (i.e., overpriced vintage clothing stores, macrobiotic restaurants and so on and so forth). I'm pretty apt at identifying them when I see them and also have the random fortune of seeing them quite often.

Lately, I've had two pretty humorous sitings. So a few weeks ago I was trying on a suit jacket with a friend when I realized that Claire Danes was in the second of two dressing rooms. She was trying on some funny-as-hell red satin-like pirate dress (imagine billowy legs that were shoved into black boots). It looked SO funnily bad, but the five girls working there kept assuring her that she looked awesome. I wanted to go over and say, 'You look like shit.' But I held my tongue. Was getting too much of a kick out of the idiots fawning all over her. My friend, on the other hand, simply said to Danes, 'Culottes are hard to pull off.' To which Danes laughed and said, 'You're right.' Heh. Not sure if she bought the 'Ay, maytee' outfit; the tweeny minions were still drooling when I left.

The second was this past Saturday night. I was with some new friends, post-bar scene. I was rather boozed up when we all went into a Deli to get cash from an ATM. I realized, as we were leaving, that Julia Stiles was entering said Deli with two female friends. The alcohol coursing through my veins convinced me to tap her on the shoulder and say, 'Hey, Julia. Remember me?' [We had a class together at the same college. Whatever.] She said that she did and asked me coldly if I had graduated. Kindly note that my giddy drunken companions were at least two paces behind me laughing out loud. Gooh. I really think she's kind of cool but, all in all, I'd say I totally humiliated myself and will never be able to face her again. Oh well. She's too busy making movies and being on the cover of BRIDE'S Magazine to think about me. BRIDE'S Magazine, eh? Hm. OK. Sorry, like I said I like her, but this is just funny.


Every time I hear that Jewel song "Intuition", I get really unnerved and angry. I know it's supposed to be motivational and all (from a lyrical standpoint, I mean):

It's not hard to understand,
just follow this simple plan.

Follow your heart.
Your intuition,
'cause it will lead you in the right direction.

Let go [of] your mind.
Your intuition,
Is easy to fiiind.
Just follow your heart, baby.

It's like the musical equivalent of a backhanded slap to my station in life. It's not hard to understand: get out of your dead-end, going-nowhere job (you sad, sad LOSER) and run in the fields while "I'd Like To Buy the World A Coke" plays in the background. Uhm, yeah. I sort of have this whole rent shi-ite to deal with. I kind of like my lights to be on, too. Crap. I'm just thinking that it must be easier to 'follow you heart' when you find yourself vascillating on the topic of which producer you'd like to mix your next craptacular single. Fark. I just remembered that I also like buying groceries. Gooh. Guess I won't be 'letting go of my mind' (i.e., my shitty job) anytime soon. Though I frequently LOSE my mind over the course of a regular day... does this count, Jewel? Hm.

So yeah, when I get pissed at Jewel and her arrogance and naivete, I listen to Kelis. I mean, she friggin' has a song called "Let's Get It On In Public." Now THAT I can shoot for. Occupational bliss, not so much.

Kelis make-a me laugh. She is quoted while defending her "Milkshake" music video. Favorite quote?

"It's a fantasy," says Kelis, referring to the image which sees her sitting atop a giant milkshake in her underwear. "I can't really sit on an enormous milkshake. It's not possible! Music should just be fun!"

Kelis is incapable of sitting atop a huge dessert in her underwear?! And here I thought she was a talented artist. How sad. Heh.


Damn it. About a week ago, I accidentally chomped down on the inside of my cheek/lip with my teeth whilst eating. Really hurt bad. I did one of those, you know, full head involuntary jerks a millisecond after biting. Well ever since then, I've chomped down on the same spot three more friggin' times!! I'm guessing that it got a little inflamed after the first incident, thereby making it far more susceptible to future chomps. Now it seriously hurts and I get totally pissed at myself for doing it again. Waa. When will the madness stop, I ask you?


Two f-ing words I f-ing hate now and neverwanttohearfortherestofmyLIFE because of this job are: REMINDER and URGENT. These are two words that practically flood my Inbox.

Every... single... DAY! I get at least 40 requests to do, confirm, or reply to something. And at least 3 out of 4 times, said requests are deemed as being URGENT. What the f-k? Can everything really be so bloody important? Why do these people need everything right this goddamn second? And if they need it right the hell now, then I wish they'd stop, for the love of God, sending me REMINDER E-mails every 10 minutes. Don't they get it? They're slowing me down. By 'reminding' me to do their grunt work for them and cover their asses, they force me to check my email and respond to them, thereby detracting from my efforts to do what they wanted me to do in the first place. Ugh.

Is there ever anything these people need in a week or a month? Why must they always need it yesterday sent via FedEx Overnight Priority??? Is it becuase, perhaps, they procrastinated to request it of ME, and now they're passing the heat onto little 'ole Robo? Methinks as much. Oh yeah, little note to all the 'this is URGENT'-folk out there (you know who you are): use that red exclamation mark thingy on the message along with the word URGENT and I'll poke your eye out with my staple remover.


Ah, blessed Friday. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

One, it's a nice day outside. Granted I'm not out IN it and am instead tip-tap-typing away on my keyboard, but I'll take what I can get.

Two, Friday's are usually when Robo takes me out for our one-on-one lunch at some schmancy restaurant. This is when I get to see Robo's social anxiety disorder in full bloom--avoiding eye contact with the waitress like it were the Plague, muttering and fumbling when the waitress asks if he'd like some more water (I can already hear the fork CLANGing to the ground as he hurriedly unravels his napkin), panicking when the waitress tells him the Tuna can only be prepared raw (he has a very real fear of fish that is not burnt, so sushi is OUT). These lunches are great because I get a free meal at a pricey, hip restaurant, but they are trying because Drone usually has to pull teeth in order to dig up sparkling conversation. Lulls abound during a gabfest with a socially inept individual, in case you didn't know.

Three, come five o'clock I can run home and not have to listen to foreign clients and read their horribly persistent E-mails for TWO WHOLE DAYS!!! Ah, the exciting life I lead. Oh man, it's only 10 o'clock, and I'm already contemplating leaping out the nearest window. Gooh.


Apparently, I'm not the only one with a random gay male porn star for a Friendster. I feel so... less special. Now go and get yours, too.

Guide to Gay Pornsters
Friendster gets useful at last: now you can find out how many gay porn stars are in your personal network. Let's see the Harvard-heavy college squad compete with that over at The Face Book.


Thursday, March 11, 2004

This is just too cool not to post. So I, like the rest of the world, am on Friendster. I frequently get random messages from people for seemingly no reason whatsoever; but today's contact takes the cake.

Rather than getting any sort of message from this person, I simply received a request to be 'friends.' What's so funny about that? This is a MALE PORN STAR. Hahahah. I'm not kidding. A serious, real-life, gay male porn star. Guy's crazy stacked, too. I'm guessing he's like a lot of people on Friendster who collect as many people for their page as possible (known only as Friendster-whores), so as to seem more popular. Usually, I decline such requests, but I'm sorry. This is a mutually beneficial exchange. He gets another drone to add to his page and I get a freakin' male porn star. Why can't I utter this phrase without bursting out loud? Man, I live for Friendster.


Why do I get so giddy when Robo leaves the office? It's not like I run around naked with a bra on my head or anything when he does. I think it's just that once he leaves, there's not the threat of his coming into my office and asking me to do more assignments... you know, important things like wiping his ass.



OK, so I hear there are people out there who don't despise, ney actually LIKE, their jobs. Can this be true? Things I hate about my job today:

--F-ing solicitors from the American Cancer Blahbeddy Blah Fund or Dow Industrial Investors Hoo-ha that get my direct line and pester me to give them money. Look, folks. I am peon (hear me roar). I am a drone. I am not authorized to give you or ANYone money. And even if I was permitted to dole out cash, don't you think I'd give it to ME?! In case you're not sure how to answer that, the answer is yes. I would. Give the money to me. And not to you. So buzz off.

--Corporate Accountant calling me BABE. Note: I'm a guy, and he's a guy; so it's not a sexual thing. Think Hollywood Executive phony type (E.g., 'Hey, Babe. Got this script for you.... Great, Babe.'). One word: no. Just don't. Buzz off, Babe. Thanks.

--Corporate secretary bizatches, from our office in a foreign country, who request information from me via E-mail. Generally sepaking, these are E-mails that feature horrendous English and are craptastically annoying and persistent. The first E-mail requests something stupid. (Please take this fact for granted.) Within 10 minutes of not having responded, I usually get what I refer to as reminder E-mails. 10 minutes more of ignoring the stupid request? Another reminder. 10 minutes more?? ANOTHER. REMINDER!!! These E-mails simply state, aptly enough: REMINDER!!!!!!! Wonderfully rude and yet laughably hilarious. The only thing that differentiates one reminder E-mail from the next is the escalating sense or urgency (hah!) that is demonstrated with increasing font size (from, say, 8 to 16), colored writing (from ordinary black to fire engine red), and number of exclamation marks (from one to 10--no joke.) I just received this from one of said biatches:


Awaiting for your reply.
MarĂ­a Cecilia

This is the first reminder from lovely Maria Cecilia. Only five exclamation marks? Black type? 10-point font? Come on, MC. You can do better than that, yo. Awaiting my reply, are you? M hm. Have fun with that. I love how she sends her regards. Right. Biatch.


Drone Likes to Drive the Ladies Wild

Ah, yes. Another lovely day in the land of Droneville. Yesterday, I had a rather trying day at the office. It was SO trying that the second Robo left the office, I found myself contemplating life's meaning, blah blah blah. Then I just got pissed. I blared the hardest music I could find on my iPod and walked down the street with my don't-piss-me-off face and my 'Get in my way, and I'll knock you flat on your ASS, granny!' walk. I notice that my pace quickens and my willingness to forgive lessens whilst I'm pissed and travailing the sidewalks of New York.

Anyway, I proceeded to rush home via the Subway. However, en route I decided to pick up some vittles at the Food Emporium. All I needed was some yogurt to go with the granola that awaited me at my studio apartment. Ah, but Robo's Drone. What were you thinking? Nothing is easy when you are pissed. (Kindly refer to my admission that my willingness to forgive lessens... immensely.)

So I notice upon check-out time that out of 8 check-out lines, none are open. That's right--none. No cashiers in sight. Then all of a sudden, a cashier opens her lane (it turns out to be my favorite cashier, by the by--you know, the one who always recognizes me after I hit the grocery store post-gym; the one who always smiles and says, 'Went to the gym today?' She's great. This beef ain't for the cashiers at Food Emporium, it's for the biatch who cut in front of me.)

So an arthrtitic old bag (this isn't said biatch--wait for it) empties her overloaded grocery cart in front of me, and I'm trying my darndest not to explode with illogical rage because of my bad day at work. I do just fine; but I'm getting impatient, so I crane my neck to see if any other cashiers have followed suit. They have not. So when I return my head to its original forward-facing position, I see there is a woman who has mysteriously appeared out of nowhere and plopped her things on the conveyer belt in front me. Huh. What?! I mean... wait a minute. Where the hell did YOU come from??

So, with my iPod still running and earphones still blaring, I muttered passively 'Guess you didn't see me waiting in line... in front of you... that wasn't rude...' The (rather smelly) woman looked back at me, but I didn't make eye contact as I placed my yogurt on the belt. I kind of wanted her to think she was hearing things... at first. 'Moron,' I muttered (eyes cast only at the conveyer belt) as if to say, 'You sneaky biatch.' Now she totally looked back, but again I just continued bee-bopping along with my music. When she turned away I retorted, 'Yeah, I'm talking to you.' Note that I said this only loudly enough so that SHE could hear me. Then I could tell (through my iPod haze) that was she starting to go off... but not at me, hahaha.

When the biatch got to the cashier (my favorite cashier) she starts blabbering like a crazy lady, 'Noone better f--k with me, you know... I pay taxes! I got rights in this City.' Blah. Blah. BLAH! But she never points to me, never even looks at me, and never says anything ABOUT me. Hahah. I said nothing and pretended I had no idea what was going on. Finally the woman left. My favorite cashier said to me, 'We get that all day.' I fibbed and said I had no idea what was going on and asked, 'Crazy?' Both my favorite cashier and the person behind me in line said, 'Oh yeah. Totally crazy.'

I silently congratulated myself for having successfully tailored a 'crazy person' episode in front of an unsuspecting audience. Noone had heard what I said to the sneaky line-cutter. I totally made her look crazy and, you know what, it made me feel a whole lot better. Bad for my karma? Perhaps. But she cut in line... and on a bad day. Ahhh.


Wednesday, March 10, 2004

Would you like another introduction to Robo? Check out picture #40. Were you to ask me if I drew said picture, I might respond as such: "Maybe I did, and maybe I did!"


'Who is Robo?', you may ask. Robo sent me this today:

'[drone] please to me email the pending invoice on this - thanks'

Kindly note that there was nothing written in the E-mail's subject line. What is "this"? "Please to me"? I mean... whu... who...BUT--dunno, folks. Who speaks like that? Robo does. Robo = my robot-like superior (hah!). Consider this your introduction to Robo. I will say that I 'work' for Robo and that Robo indirectly affords me the opportunity to pay my rent. For lack of a better term, Robo is my manager. For all the drones out there, Robo lives.