Steve Taylor wrote: "Thinking of making a DC trip in the next few weeksany better or worse times for you? I'm trying to remember the details of the nickelball-locked-outside day. I remember you were wearing sandals, but was there snow on the ground?
January is relatively lean pickings for me, so whatever tunes your guitar. I've got jury duty next Wednesday, the 7th, after getting a fine & jail threatening followup to the duty I skipped in December. This city has to bullywhip somebody I suppose. It might as well be the voters and jury duty evaders since they can't seem to stop the host of other criminal activities we of wrinkled doodads boast.
Still sniffling but managed to bail out of the house long enough to retrieve that 1986 Sylvan Theatre rockathon videotape I mentioned a while back that Darrell Willis had in his possession for the past two years or so down in Florida, as well as to stop in on Tim short enough to create merely a mild nuisance of myself. We came bearing gifts of coffee, sausage, feta, sweetbreads, corkscrew and wine. He retaliated with a nifty pipe.
Tried to buy one of the new IOMEGA 2 GB removable media drives, but nobody in the business is expecting any new shipments until March or April. Bummer.
Have thrown back another hundred pages or so of INFINITE JEST to about the halfway mark of the book. Hope to get some reading in tonight. Tired of the Macwhacky webfest for the moment. Marvel a fresh start manana. My old pal formerly of Philly, Kenny Sacks, surprised me on New Year's Eve with an E-mail. He's a recent AOL statistic. We're supposed to romp to a chat room on Sunday for some real chatter. Met Kenny through the Prodigy Baseball Manager game in 1994.
We almost were killed in that weird miraculous still can't believe we survived without a scratch driving event when wheeling back from a Richmond Braves game that September. We've taken in several Phils games at the Vet over several years. But he's been living in Seattle grunge for the past three and blew off our get together this year on his annual return for still undisclosed reasons. He's still in the mental health racket, complete with scant pay, loathsome human interface, hapless hours, and lethal environs. Seems for the past few years he's taken to "near-socialist" leanings in the workplace as shop steward et cetera . . .
You and me, bud, we've got it made. Snow or no snow.
Anecdotes on the grill, hip-hugging and pressure cooked people sprawled about the deck with all sorts of psychoses just a spoon feed away. All told, it seems everyone left with a pleasant evening under their belts after chortling on cheese dip, assorted dishes and the chow din of new acquaintences.
Bob and Peter had never met. Michelle was new goth bird. Allie announced she was moving in with Bob, saving $800 a month, helpful since she too is leaving Columbia Research for greener pastures, that is to say, her hunt for that illusive green card, saying that CR has a long record of hiring aliens but dropping the ball on green card sponsorship.
The gathering began late, which of course threw off my own psychological equilibrium for most of the early part of the day since I had hoped for an early start, early end, but things softened and turned to a generalized sense of fun once Peter and Michelle arrived sometime shortly after 1730hrs.
The afternoon heat chilled rather quickly, finally underpinning the autumnal ambience to the other seasonal changes visible in the sheets of orange-brown leaves blanketing the backyard matched by the brilliant, cascading angles of the fading sun.
Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.
Bob was cheerful all night long. He and Peter gloried in their common interest in comic books and Japanese animation. Allie unloaded her greencard woes in her horrible English tongue which is less a mumble than a slippery slur of half-formed syllables. But she too was cheery, even as the night pushed late into the mind, curled into her chair, snuggled into sweatshirt sleeves intent on listening to the banter of the boys. Michelle didn't talk much, not that she's shy or inarticulate, but with a full deck of notorious chatterers on board, she politely played it safe. She's a psychology major at Purdue, and was markedly endearing as she also curled in her chair, tilting her head in such a way as to communicate an adoration for Peter whenever he took to the common soapbox.
But she's no mere fawn. Peter had burned some bacon earlier that afternoon, and when Sue suggested the microwave was a saner choice for the chore, Peter of course started in with his own variation of Shipwreck rationale.
Michelle surnamed Carnes as in Kim no relation, immediately backed Sue as Peter mumbled off into that land of geez, can't I ever be right about something, even when pushing the I'm wrong about nothing spin cycle. Maybe not. Perhaps I'm being ever slightly unfair for the sake of a short line of bull. Admittedly, I wasn't there in the kitchen, although at one point I nearly bolted from my chair to race upstairs as my complaint-driven pathos peeled back the stench of newly formed carbon gathering in my ever sensitive nostrils, but Sue witnessed to me later, and I have no problem imagining that when she said he started explaining something about hot grease and the natural water in the bacon combining to blacken it, he was pulling a big time, uh, well you know what I mean. This a been a banner weekend. Had a swell time on the bay feasting with the three Spence dolls plus Pitch. I'm sure this topic has come up before but I forget your opinion on crabs. I would imagine Philly to be a great place for the critters, even while somewhat overshadowed by the world famous Philadelphia cheesesteak culture.
Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet...
Shorthand Kenny Sacks, sports fan primo, now in Seattle... I just timed out to ring him, but got the machine, formerly of Philly, still raves about how much he misses the Philly steak of his youth. His mom once had promised to ship him a crate of the whole steak-n-cheese enchilada, bread, meat, cheese from a local distributor just to ease his homesickness and taste bud deprivation after he moved out there a couple, well, maybe three years ago now. Don't know if that panned out, but it was a nice motherly gesture.
His mom is a dear, a small hairspray-blonde Jewish cabana queen who looks and talks like she just stepped out of a Seinfeld episode. She kept trying to feed us sweets from the fridge. One year our colleague in the online fantasy baseball league wimped out in getting our Phillies tickets. She bailed us out with her influence, calling the front office, seating us in the best seats we'd ever had over the four games Sue and I had shared with the Nuthouse Gang, right near home plate just a few rows up and a few seats down the first base line behind the net.
Peter and Michelle are gone for the day. They'll sup at his parent's house tonight, and she'll fly back to Indiana tomorrow afternoon. Peter got a call this morning suggesting he's still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he's interned. That's timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night's gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.
No feelings were unduly trampled, and I feel the exchange was blithely enlightening, as he admitted that he has often been chastised for a lack of speed and creativity in his work, and is hoping to improve on these fronts in time. I'm committed to helping him where and when I can, but he must certainly begin to pull his weight in some area, and for now that appears to be simply paying the agreed upon rent, and then working to improve his skills in areas that we both can exploit so that he indeed can become a healthy factor in the growth potential of Graphic Solutions Ink Systems and CYFII, his own company. In other words, we're each still operating in good faith.
Hey Space, been in a whirl, can't seem to get enough done to satisfy myself, or others who don't seem to know what it is I'm doing, not that I'm too complicated to figure out. Guess I'm gonna have to make a decision here real soon about BBM.
How is it with you, Space? Do you take your work home with you, or are you indeed a clockpuncher with the grand psychological effect that at the end of the shift, you've done all you were supposed to do, no carryover, no related stress. Both Sue and I live lives seasoned by the neverending pile of things to do at the worklevel that relaxation rarely is anything but an already defeated attempt at escape. But it is NOT escape because tomorrow will bring the same piles of unfinished business, and piles more today will plunge through the turnstile. And so the psychological expense of always dragging a larger burden today than yesterday will take its toll. This is my general psychology. It is not Sue's, but the bastardization of standard office practices, some beneficial to her but most of them arbitrary and despotic tugs from boss millionaire unable to stay on budget keep her strings taut with anxiety as financial manager of the hired guns lobby she has been at for nine years.
Anywaze, there just don't seem to be enough hours in the day, and enough of me to go around.
I'm sort of getting in the mood to manage.
"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""