(fig. A: an abandoned shack in the woods subsumed by amateur wiring. Inside, an electrical fire burns unchecked.)
|
From: *erin*
>See here... I wear the rarity of my updates like a badge of honor. It
Hrm, that's true. You are absolutely right. It does say that. However, it ------- The last week and a half, in a nutshell: After looking dead into the eyes of every interviewee for over a year and uttering the phrase, "Of course, we're scheduled to move out of this space into a bigger complex in a month or so," I was finally able to have my fingers surgically uncrossed to unpack some boxes at our new office. When I first got this job, I wore as a badge of honor the fact that I wasn't stuck with some tie-laden, wood-panelled, Dilbert-comic-strips-taped -to-the-cubicle-in -a-feeble-attempt-to -make-light-of-my -daily-soul-crushing-existence punchclock job. And I'm still glad that things are as unconventional at work as they are, but if I'd had to spend another week in that little blue house I'd have burned it to the ground with the smoke coming out of my ears. Because a funny thing happened to our little internet enterprise over the years: rather than going out of business, we actually got bigger. The house, strangely enough, stayed the same size. So, every time one of those job interviews I conducted actually led to us hiring someone new, what should have been a healthy sign of growth more often became this Marx Brothers logistical polka. "Okay, people! As you know, we've got some new people starting tomorrow. This means that, as of tomorrow morning, we will be implementing Operation: Desk Stack like I promised. As you can see from this schematic, I envision a network of folding chairs and card tables forming a rudimentary pyramid in the center of the room. According to my measurments, we should be able to get at least three levels up before we have to start removing ceiling tiles. We should have the ramps up in the parking lot by tomorrow morning as well; those of you with bigger, heavier cars please try to arrive early, as the economy car drivers will be parking on top of you from here on in. Good luck, everybody!" And every time someone new came in, there was a question of how we were gonna hook 'em up to the network and phones. More often than not, that meant one of us would have to punch a hole in at least one wall and run a bunch of ugly gray cable to some random point in the building, stapling it to the wall as we went. It started to look like the walls were trying to slowly sneak up and strangle us (see fig. A). Eventually, there were so many wall holes that a couple of the wires were load-bearing. After a couple months of that, I couldn't get into The Man's office park fast enough. |
|
And the new place has been nothing but great so far. I don't have to draw up an evacuation schedule with the double-parkers every time I want to move my car or get lunch. Even if I did, it wouldn't matter now that we have a cafeteria, which is run by a crazy man who will sell you a whole chicken for $.75 and whose cafe is apparently named, "Money? Who Needs Money?" We abandoned all of our furniture at the old place, which means no longer does anyone sit in an office chair that has its back held on by a jump rope.
(Astonishingly, this did not stop people from complaining. The salespeople, in a fashion so typical that I don't know how I was even capable of being surprised, were in the new worker's paradise for about ten seconds before comng up with a list of things that were wrong. The only thing worse than watching people who just escaped working in Fat Albert's junkyard sit there saying, "This phone sounds weird...! Their chairs have bigger backs than our chairs...! These lights aren't spaced symmetrically...!" is knowing that, even after the whining dies down, I've been wetting my pants with glee for a week and I'll still be the one in the office with a rep for being pessimistic.) Best of all, we have a big pond that is peopled with angry, angry geese. The entertainment value can't be put into words. Geese are great, because like many people they are very pretty while also being pure evil. They perfectly exemplify nature's ability to be breathtaking while also being bite-out-of-you-taking. "Hello!" I say to the geese every morning. "Fuck you. What are you looking at, featherless?" they say back to me, flapping their wings as if they might actually come over and start something. (They're all talk, though. I always win the staredown. "Yeah, that's right. Bring it on, Flappy. I'll kick your ass so hard you'll be a pillow by the time you hit the ground.") After we get settled in, Jerry and I plan to train them to do our bidding, unless winged monkeys become commercially available before then. --- This week was also Independence Day, about which I realized that I know practically nothing. It occurs to me now that all of my history teachers wanted to teach us "something other than the usual old Eurocentric view of the world," and as a result of all this nontradition I have no friggin' clue what happened in this country before I lived in it. I strongly suspect, though, that it wasn't much like The Patriot. A decent movie, although I didn't realize it was three hours long; I looked at my watch at the two-hour mark and thought, "Well, this is an odd stopping point!" And I thought the comic relief was hilarious!... until I found out the treatment of slavery wasn't supposed to be funny. "Slaves? Why, none of us are slaves. We all just live on a plantation in South Carolina in 1776 picking cotton because we love this white man so very, very much. I mean, he was People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive!" Funnier still is the sequence where the kid talks to the freed slave in the militia as if he were the inventor of the Magic Eight Ball. "They call this the New World, but for people like you it's really still the old one. But I believe, after this war is over, things are gonna change around here. People will be free, regardless of color! Free to live, and to work, and to collect Pokemon cards as they drive their flying cars to their houses on the moon!..." I also celebrated the big weekend with the typical family barbecue, which I am giddy to report was not notable in any way. If I didn't know any better, I would say the kids are getting old enough to know better. There were ten grade schoolers at the pool party this year and absolutely no fatalities. That's a family record. The highlight of the day was when I ate my dinner at the picnic table with Sean and John-John, ages 3 and 3. Despite the fact that I must see each of them at least once every three weeks, they were both very candid with me about the fact that they had no idea who the hell I was. To gain their confidence, I entertained them by realizing that I hadn't gotten a fork to eat with and then, after a moment's reflection, eating without one. That went over very well with the audience. (See? It's funny, because they'll try it later, and I won't be there to clean it up! Other people's kids are great!) The topic of debate eventually turned to whether or not I was a poop-head. Sean felt very strongly that I was; John-John, on the other hand, countered that perhaps it was Sean who was the poop-head. (I do not know where they heard about such a hot-button political issue at their age; I presume they watched PBS's News Hour after the Teletubbies ended. Jim Lehrer's report last week, "How Big a Poop-Head is Jim?", explored the issue with surprising depth, thanks in part to a guest panel comprised of some of my more recent girlfriends.) After the usual roundtable point-counterpoint, it was suggested by Sean that I was actually a stupid-head, a fish-head or bottle-head. Both sides eventually agreed to disagree, concluding that I was, at the very least, chicken noodle soup. Then we painted melting clocks with fingerpaints. Oh! And my dad is still obsessed with me fixing the computer I sold in order to avoid fixing. My cousin overheard us talking about it and came over to offer some suggestions. DAD: So, what's wrong with the modem? ME: I don't think anything's wrong with the modem. The modem's less than a year old. It just connects to some numbers and not to others. If I were you, I'd have a professional look at it, preferably a priest. DAD: I'm retiring, and I need AOL access. ME: Listen. Here is my solution to the modem problem. Step 1: Reboot the computer. By this, I mean put on a boot and kick it. Step 2: Go upstairs and use Mom's perfectly functional computer. DAD: That's no solution! I want it to work in my office. ME: Dad, you have like four computers. Aren't you the same man who used to yell at me for leaving my bedroom light on while I went to get a soda because of the electricity bill? COUSIN: You need to try re-seating the modem. ME/DAD: re-whatting the what now? COUSIN: Re-seating it. Taking the whole computer apart, pulling the modem out, then just putting it back in again. DAD: Will that work?... Hey, that might work! It might! Yeah! We can do that next time you come over. Just take the whole thing apart for no reason, change nothing, and put it together again! I'm really sold on this idea...! (walks off, grinning broadly) ME (to COUSIN): oh, well thank you very much. Thanks a fuckin' ton. COUSIN: See? It's funny, because he'll try it later, and I won't have to be there to clean it up! Other people's parents are great! ------- Most importantly, Team Hubris went into the gladitorial Trivia Night arena once again last night. How did we do?:
 (fig. B. Pictured: winners and their fat wad of money. The record-breaking four attendance prizes, also pictured, include a bottle of expensive wine, a box of coffee, a silver serving platter for the heads of our enemies, and of course the least random attendance prize ever, a box of calcium supplements.) I choose to record that we were the winners, despite the fact that this was only true for three minutes. A point separated us from second; then our first place victory was challenged by the second placers, and a judging error was discovered that led to our defrocking. (Witnesses might remember their table as the one caught using a cell phone, not that I'm bitter. But seriously; who the frig cheats at a parish Trivia Night? Is your life not sad enough just being there?) Nevertheless, second place was perfectly suitable as a moral victory. We got the thrill of the win, the chance to be gracious in the face of sore losers, and oh yes, a big fat wad of second-place cash. Our secret was to bring in Erin Jones and her sports-knowing ringers. It also didn't hurt to know the twisted mind of Joe Hodes, the emcee who wrote many of the questions. Next time, we go all the way, kids! All the way to the gold! Now, to go spend my winnings (which, after dividing them up and subtracting the entry fee, come to a whopping $4.00. It's a LARGE milkshake tonight, baby! WOOOOO!)
|
| Today kicked my @$$. 8:05 A.M.: I hop in the shower and begin to wash my hair. A wrong tilt of the head fills my right ear with water that even the most vigorous headbanging cannot remove. I do not have so much as a Q-Tip to assist me with the problem. I now have an earache, some temporary hearing loss, and a headache from thrashing around until I banged my head into the shower wall. At this point, I am approximately five minutes into my day. 8:55 A.M.: I arrive at work to continue dealing with the problem I abandoned the night before. In the world of office computer networks, conventional wisdom among the network administrators holds that only one person should have the keys to the kingdom. Only one person should have the necessary knowledge and passwords to master the computers of everyone in the office. One person should guard the gate between the mortals and internet connectivity, e-mail, the web, the job itself, the very livelihood and productivity of the entire company. Not coincidentally, network administrators believe that the one person with the keys to this kingdom should be the network administrator. Typically, network administrators got their heads flushed down toilets a lot in junior high. There is one problem with this one-person, one-key philosophy: it does not answer the question, "But what if that guy gets hit by a truck or something?" Jerry, our keymaster and gatekeeper, has gone on vacation. He is somewhere in the midwest, not too far behind the Phish tour bus. So, when one of the old broken computers got its shiny new replacement yesterday, there was no one there to make it go. I dutifully plugged everything in, set everything up, turned everything on... and it just kinda sat there, grinning broadly and saying, "duhhhhhhhhhh." Occasionally, it would pick its nose. It wouldn't talk to the other computers in the neighborhood. It wouldn't talk to the internet. It wouldn't talk to parts of itself. It just rested, peacefully humming to no one with its finger up its nostril to the knuckle, quietly mocking me. "Peepul think yoo know stuff about compooters. But yoo dont. Your almost as dum as me! Duhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." I asked around and consulted the other people in the office vaguely familiar with our network, and I re-learned a valuable lesson: unless the problem is with their computers, people just do not give a rat's @$$. My boss was too busy to help; he had a lot to catch up on, since he had decided to go on vacation at the same time as Jerry, meaning all I would have to do this week was administrate the network, manage personnel, answer any technical or sales questions, back up the files of everyone in the office, answer the phones, maintain the elevators and cook the lunches in the cafeteria. I was touched by the level of trust and/or disregard. Luckily, as a token, Jerry left me a piece of paper with three words on it to help me be a Junior Network Ranger. The three words were "Call this number," and they put me in touch with our contact at our ISP, a fellow by the name of Total Bastard. Total Bastard took some time out of his schedule to put the "cuss" in "customer service" for me. ME: Hey, Total. It's Jim. How are ya? TOTAL BASTARD: Yeah, what? ME: ...huh? TB: (prolonged utter silence) ME: um... listen. We just got in this new PC over here, and Jerry's out for the week, and I'm trying to get it running on the network so somebody can do her job. I know I need to install Microsoft Proxy BlahBlah 2003, but how can I drag the program across the network if the computer can't see the network? TB: Don't touch it. You'll only screw it up. ME: I beg your pardon? TB: Frankly, you need to wait until Jerry comes back. This is too complicated for someone like you.
ME: "Someone like...!" TB: If it's actually important, I could come out there and do it for you, but not for free. Otherwise, I'd leave it alone. ME: Well, thanks. TB: CLICK! Too complicated for someone like me?! Well, it's ON now! It's Go Time! I wrestled with that friggin' thing for an hour. At the end of that hour, it said, "DUHHHHHHHHHHH! I wud point and laff at yoo, but my finger is stuk!" So I found an older, less broken computer in the closet. Because it had previously been taught how to talk to the network by Jerry, it would do for now. I put it on Jerry's desk, plugged Jerry's mouse, keyboard, monitor and network cable into it, and said to my coworker, "You're working from Jerry's desk for now." She said, "Good God, you've pulled his whole workspace apart." I said, "Yes. I certainly did." Then I left, turning only once to look at the new PC and say, "This isn't over, you devilbox." I would deal with the problem in the morning. 8:59 A.M.: I enter the office to find that my original PC problem will have to take a number. Kell, one of my other coworkers, has arrived to discover that her computer will only turn on in Safety Mode. Safety Mode is when Windows decides something is horribly, horribly wrong, but not horribly wrong enough for Windows to tell you what that something is. It just comes "on" enough for you to quickly look around, figure it out for yourself, magically fix it by touching all the things they tell you never to touch, and then restart it. I narrow the problem down to either Kell's network card, her screen saver, or Solitaire. I decide to check on her network. Windows tells me I cannot look at her network in Safety Mode. I suddenly find myself thinking of Joseph Heller. Kell goes to the kitchen and begins reading People magazine. 10:03 A.M.:A salesperson comes in and sees me on my hands and knees on the floor. He says, "What you need to do is re-seat the network card. Just take everything apart, unplug the card, and plug it back in again." "You've GOT to be kidding me!" I say. "Twice in one week, I get that lame-@$$ suggestion? What, was that on Dateline last week or something? Amscray! I'm cranky and you're distracting me!" 10:45 A.M.: I re-seat the network card. Amazingly, astonishly, shockingly, taking the computer apart and reassembling it the exact same way does not make it work any differently. So I find an older, less broken computer in the closet. Because it has previously been taught how to talk to the network by Jerry, it will do for now. I put it on her desk, plug her mouse, keyboard, monitor and network cable into it, and say to my coworker, "You're working from this machine for now." She says, "It doesn't have any of my files on it!" I say, "No. It certainly doesn't." I pick up her broken computer, affix a Post-It note that reads, "KABLOOEY!" and set it down on the other side of Jerry's desk. 11:00 A.M.: Before renewing my attack on yesterday's still-waiting PC problem, I decide it might be a good idea to at least pay a visit to my desk once today. As I sit down, a third coworker announces that her PC has suddenly shut off for no reason. 11:01 A.M.: She has kicked the cord out of the wall. I kiss her, since this is the first problem I have solved in 24 hours. 11:30 A.M. - 2:00 P.M.: In an epic duel that would give Melville deja vu, I drag that mother-humping new PC wailing and flailing onto the mother-humping network. I shout, "JERRY, SCHMERRY!" I run to my desk and download R. Kelly's "I Believe I Can Fly." I lift people out of their chairs and force them to sing with me. 2:15 P.M. on: I do something approaching my actual job, although I never quite get anything done. At twenty minute intervals, the new computer does something inexplicable and I must go and stare at it intently. Unbelievably, a second coworker inadvertently "breaks" her computer by unplugging a cord, although this time it is a mouse cord. At 5:00, a coworker announces he is carless, so I leap at the chance to give him a lift and get outta there. The morning has so wiped me that dinner with my parents is a complete blur; I know only that I had a steak and that I completely failed to stop and talk to some people I knew at the restaurant. I am sure this makes me a jerk. part the second, in which our heroes (and the reader) are made to suffer needlessly .
10:00 P.M.: I witness a miracle. In his magnum opus, Cool as Ice, Nobel laureate Vanilla Ice says, "If you ain't true to yourself, you ain't true to nobody." I pondered those words tonight, because despite Ice's warning I went against my better judgement to spend some time with my friends after dinner. I also thought of those words tonight because Cool as Ice is no longer the worst movie I've ever seen. When Chris and Joe first called me about seeing Scary Movie, I planned to fake an illness. But I don't see the two of them as often as I like, and if you say no enough times people stop including you entirely, so I figured I'd suck it up. I'm a pretty harsh judge of humor, and "comedies" are almost never my thing ("oh, i get it! he screws a pie! i'm not sure i can fully appreciate all the wit that went into this!") Nevertheless, I sort of enjoyed the Jim Carrey thing we went to last time and I figured Scary Movie couldn't be too much worse. Couldn't be too much worse?! Couldn't be too much worse?! I thought you had my back, Roger Ebert! Where the f*** were you?! Did you accidentally see Chicken Run again, and review that?! I am betrayed! It was amazing. I still can't get my mind around it. I can say with confidence, after having spent countless thousands of dollars seeing movies of every shape and size, that Scary Movie is objectively, empirically, factually the worst movie ever made by anyone, anywhere, EVER. Do you understand me? It is a human achievement on par with anthrax warfare and the hydrogen bomb. It decimates entire audiences but leaves the box office standing. It is unquestionably the most excruciating sensory experience I have ever had, and I used to date a girl whose favorite movie was Booty Call. I once broke a bone so badly that it had to be crunchily yanked back into place by my doctor, and I would pay to relive that before I'd see Scary Movie again for free. Because, when you break a bone or have dental work, that rarely lasts more than like twenty minutes. This movie was a practical demonstration of quantum physics. After three days, only half an hour had passed in the theater. Normally, I might just say, "That was a bad movie," and move on to another topic. But this movie violated my mind so deeply that it fills me with a kind of rage. More than Waterworld. More than Titan A.E. Even more than The Perfect Fucking Storm, which outright cheats the viewer even worse than the end of The Matrix did by saying, "This is based on a true story!... Boy, that thing with the shark was pretty 'out there,' wasn't it? And the part where the guy gets dragged behind the boat on the fishing line, and his lifelong enemy has to set aside his feelings to rescue him? Pretty implausible and ridiculously convenient, if it weren't all based on a true story! And the part where they catch more fish than anyone ever has, and then the ice machine breaks at just the right moment? All true!... well, thanks for your patience. Now that the movie has about five minutes left, this is probably a good time to mention that WE WERE LYING ALL ALONG! NOBODY EVER TOLD THE STORY, SO IT CAN'T POSSIBLY BE TRUE! THE ONLY PART THAT'S BASED ON A TRUE STORY IS WHEN THEY GET ON A BOAT FIFTEEN MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE! YOU SUCKER! YOU BIG DUMB RUBE!! HAHAHAHAHA!!! OH, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU FELL FOR THAT!!! FIVE DOLLARS, PLEASE! BAA-HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!" Yeah. Scary Movie pisses me off even worse than that, because at least The Perfect Storm lied in a misguided attempt to amuse me. Scary Movie says hello, immediately admits that it has completely wasted your money, and then puts its unwashed @$$ on your face for an hour and a half. The movie was crafted solely to test my vow never to walk out of a theater. I never thought I'd leave a movie saying, "And oh my God! That male genitalia!" only to have my friends reply, "Which male genitalia? Which of the four prolonged appearances of male genitalia are you referring to?" (Well, in all honestly, I suspected that conversation might take place someday. But I thought society had another ten or fifteen years.) "And the female pubic hair...!!" "Which of the two separate instances of female pubic hair? The pubic hair with hair extensions, or the pubic hair that's so bushy that the teenager has to prune it before performing cunnilingus onscreen?" Stanley Kubrick makes a three-hour art film for adults wherein Tom Cruise walks past some people who look like they're having sex? Oh, that's too much for the MPAA. Edit that, or it's an NC-17 for you! What's that you say? Keenan Ivory Wayans wants to plunge a dick through somebody's skull and then target the movie at twelve year olds? And later a girl will be propelled into the ceiling by gallons of ejaculate? Yeah, that should be okay. But try to bring a parent or guardian, wink wink! God, I hate this country. The thing is, dicks can probably be funny. Mine certainly is. But this movie doesn't even try. It literally lifts entire script pages from the movies it's "parodying" and changes nothing. It's like that Gus van Sant version of Psycho with every third word in the script crossed out and "FART" written over it in crayon. "Ha ha! Look at that! That guy's gay, and that guy's retarded!" "And what's the punchline...?" "Punchline? No, that's the whole joke. That guy's retarded. Get it?" There is a sequence when a beauty pageant host begins to sing something to the effect of, "There she is/ Miss Teen/ she gives good head/ and is great in bed/ or in a 69...." when I turned to Chris and said, "I didn't even know third graders could get into the Writer's Guild." Chris didn't hear me; he had killed himself by attempting to swallow the armrest. I want to find the eight-year-olds who wrote this movie and tie them to a flagpole in an electrical storm. It is worse than The Star Wars Holiday Special. Yeah, you heard me. Worse. I cannot believe this summer. If X-Men isn't good, I'm climbing a clocktower with a firearm.
|
| It's all going to be oooooooooo-kay. X-Men was a fine, fine piece of cinema. I was supposed to be one of those comic book geeks that hated it, but I left eager to see it again. Maybe it's because I'm a reformed comic book geek. I've allowed myself to grow up a little--just a little-- rather than tearing up because Wolverine's too tall. Entertainment Weekly gave the movie a C. It gave Scary Movie a B. I'm not renewing my subscription. All of my trusted critics have turned their backs on me. The Farrelly brothers have put a spell on them, and all they want to see are boobies. This entry will be pointless, because nothing happened today, but I wanted to note a quirk of moviegoing that I experienced this morning. I decided that I wanted to get another look at X-Men ASAP, so I planned to see the 11:05 showing of it across town this morning. I woke up at 10:55. Cursing, I threw on a pair of jeans and a ballcap and dashed out to my car. With a minimum of speeding, I made it to the theater fifteen minutes late. When I got in, the previews were still showing. I realized I hadn't gone to the bathroom yet today, so I ducked out. When I came back, the previews were still showing. Having nothing to do but watch previews, my unoccupied mind reminded me I hadn't eaten yet today. I went and got a small popcorn and medium soda. The line was relatively long for 11:30. I got my napkins, my straw, and my "butter." I went back into the theater, and the previews were still showing. While I waited for them to end, I went and saw three other movies. Afterwards, I swept the lobby, broke into the projection room to destroy the print of Scary Movie for the good of humanity, got arrested and sent to prison, got paroled and returned to the theater, only to find I still had two previews to sit through. I don't remember it being like this even five years ago. God knows, if there's one thing I like more than being advertised to, it's paying for the privilege. (Funny thing about that? A year ago, I the Hypocrite bought a movie ticket solely for the purpose of seeing one of the previews. Ah, Star Wars, if only they would release you again this summer.) PS- Dear Hollywood: If I swear to see Coyote Ugly, would you stop showing me that friggin' trailer? I can recite it.
|
| nothing, in any particular order: X-Men opening weekend is the last time I sat down and wrote an entry? Did I go on a bender or something? Where does the time go? That's not to say much has happened since the X-Men hit the screen, unless one counts a few additional screenings of the X-Men. This weekend in particular needed a Do-Over; everyone I have ever met was out of town this weekend. My fun consisted of renting five (5) movies, buying some chicken, walking to the library, and writing my novel. Here's a sample from the first chapter:
All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I think it's coming along pretty well so far. I had never been to my local library before. I had, in fact, not been to a library at all since working at one in high school. They say that once you've worked at a restaurant you'll never eat there again. Turns out that rule holds true even when there's no food involved; even after seven years, I still have to bite down on my hand to keep from compulsively straightening out the shelves as I walk through them. "Hey! This doesn't go here...!" Little known fact about libraries: you know the rule that says you have to be quiet in a library? Well--hang onto something-- that's not actually a rule. Like most people, you've been lied to all your life. The only real rule is "don't irritate the librarian." I remembered that rule this weekend when, as is always, always the case, the loudest motherf###er in the entire place was the little shrew behind the desk. As I sat there trying to read, she squawked every three minutes like clockwork, often to yell at a relatively quiet child about some kind of bad library behavior. And she was pissed, too. You could hear the veins bulging in her temples from across the room as her voice built from a deep, quiet agitation to a crescendo. "I swear, if you damn kids don't fill out the sign-up log, you just aren't going to be allowed to use the computers at all. You hear me?! I'm sick of this! No more! If you can't sign in and sign out, you just can't use the computers! I've HAD IT! BAWK BAAAWK!" And I'm sitting on the other end of the library, losing my place every three seconds, each stressed syllable making the book jerk in my hands as her voice crawls up and down my spinal column, trying desperately not to burst out laughing or crying at the utterly absurd trifle that made her that mad. "I've had it with the way you fill out the sign-in log"?? Jesus please-us, lady! You stay here; I'll run to Home Depot and get some lumber so we can finally crucify the six-year-olds for not signing their names right! I mean, I admit I'm kind of in awe of the reckless abandon with which you screech at other people's children, but they're even misbehaving quietly, fer Chrissakes! You, on the other hand, have me reading the same paragraph for the tenth time. After being there for about an hour, I saw her kick out some kids for loitering. As if the library is for something else. (I suspect they actually got thrown out for having too much melanin, but you didn't hear that from me.) At that point, I thought I'd take my chances at Blockbuster. I've been trying not to be so meek with strangers in public (a symptom of my crowd-hatred that I rarely discuss here), and at that point I was sorely tempted to see what would happen if I just shouted from the back of the stacks, "Would you SHUT THE F*** UP?" She was gradually throwing out everyone in the library anyway, and if I was gonna go I wanted to make it count. Then I realized I might want to come back some day. Still, it was as if we were invading her territory, which we paid for and which existed solely for our benefit. All the copies of Harry Frickin' Potter on earth could not save the love of reading from one encounter with the wrong librarian. ----- I never would have guessed my life would be like this just a few years ago. No amount of training could prepare me for the conversations I have now. "I'm sorry, sir. Unless you can prove that this web site talks about cabbage soup on at least one page, I can't in good conscience use the phrase 'cabbage soup' in any of our work." Didn't see that one comin' in college! No, sir!
Speaking of seeing things comin': Even though they drive down that highway every single day. Even though the lane is closed every single day, and has been since I started taking this route to work. It's brief--things only back up for about a minute while everybody straightens things out--but it never fails. I hit the brakes, I sit there, and I say to the world, "Where were you yesterday? Did you take a helicopter to work? It's always closed!" This too happens every day. The fact that I never get an answer doesn't stop me from asking every day, which is kind of ironic. Or maybe not. I don't even know anymore. Thanks a lot, Alanis. ----- My mom is ecstatic about O.J. today. O.J. Simpson was supposed to be on "The View" Wednesday. His appearance was cancelled due to viewer outcry. One of the strongly worded letters responsible came from the frenzied typing fingers of my mother. My mother is terribly proud of having struck a blow for justice. She reported her victory to me today beaming, as if she had just experienced participatory democracy for the first time. O.J. did not belong on TV, so he had been vanquished. She was taking care of it. Having watched a movie last night, my father removed Mom's "View"-taping tape and deactivated the "View"-taping timer. As a result, we will never know if my mother's letter was able to scold Barbara Walters on the air. We can only imagine it doing so, and Barbara being chastened and saying she was sorry. I picture her turning O.J. away at the gates of the city, my mother's e-mail on a printout in her hand as the other hand pointed to the horizon. Boot! See you in hell, O.J.! This one's for Mom! When I was in college, my mom used to put cases of soda in the trunk of my car. No real reason why. She'd buy some soda, maybe some chips, light snacky groceries of one kind or another, and she'd just drive over to the university and pull into the parking lot and leave them in my car. Then she would just take off, like a burglar with a really poor grasp of the fundamentals. She didn't tell me she was coming. Didn't want to bother me. The thinking was, I was a busy college man leading an exciting college life. Had this actually been true, the car wouldn't have been in the parking lot. It was like the tooth fairy in a lot of ways; I'd be leaving for the store and POOF! suddenly, there was no need to go to the store anymore. Like Zorro with caffeine. Mom Was Here. Just slipping in under cover of darkness like some kind of superhero, leaving little treats and keeping the world safe from O.J. She's constantly doing that sort of thing. I appreciate her a lot more than I let on. She knows I love her, but sometimes I get the feeling that doesn't come across when I'm talking to other people. Especially stupid people. I have been reading Flannery O'Connor, and I think it has affected me as I sit here. She is a very good writer, but I can't quite discern what she's getting at. I can see it creeping into the words even now. From the looks of this entry, crack rock is also seeping into the words. No more late nights for me.
|