(backed up a bit here, time to get out the Ex-Lax...)
7-31-03, 5:42 PM -
It's a cool, breezy 75 degrees on the day before August begins, and I once again give praise to whatever glacial forces/weather systems/faeries/deities have brought about such a mild summer.
The cat appreciates it as well, since I don't like to leave the air conditioner unit running while we're gone. She's a furry little thing, and I'm glad she doesn't have to sweat. Though I don't think cats sweat.
The new shelves (featured above) are a hit, she's climbing up there fairly regularly. Mostly while we sleep, though. I've woken up a few times and seen her perched up there. I think she thinks she's standing guard. Good to know that a burglar might at least get a claw in the eye before stealing our valuables. I'm sure we have something valuable in here. Maybe the George Foreman Grill.
In an effort to protect such things as our kitchenware and general privacy, I opened up a PO Box this morning. Tried to do it at the Radio City Station, but they had a waiting list, as I chronicled last time. But I managed to find a station with a vacancy not too far away & snapped it up.
I feel so grown up, having my own PO Box. It's like getting a lap dance. Very adult.
Still haven't gotten the disc back (it's out now, have a look - ed.). They're running a little behind, my Project Manager tells me. Wow, how adult is that? I have a Project Manager.
Okay, I can sense a stupid-recurring-joke thread warming up here, so I'll cut it at the stem. Which is probably a bad phrase.
There is a rather cool thing that I just started up for all of you high-speed-internet types: Behold...
I love the hell out of mix tapes, and this is essentially an ever-evolving mix tape of stuff I like. It just requires a quick sign-up with my host, Live365.com, & you're off & running (never fear, I've been signed up for a while and they haven't spammed me).
And of course, the playlist features a few tracks from El Guapo himself (guess who). Listen to it at work, at home, tell your friends, pass the word around. It's more fun than an ass full of hamsters. I'm told. (the station's down for the foreseeable future at the moment - ed.)
Speaking of, I saw Antonio Banderas on 49th Street a few weeks ago & forgot to mention it. The only reason it occurs to me now is that I'm reasonably sure I passed Matthew McConaghuey on my way to the subway on 50th Street last night.
It's kind of irritating, because the only celebrities I've managed to run into so far have been ones that are good-looking but not terribly interesting. Whereas Wifely's seen Sam Watterston AND Jerry Orbach. I mean, geez. I'll probably run into Ashton & Demi next. And I'll have to stab them.
8-3-03, 8:20 AM -
The subway's been pretty sparse during the last few rush hours. Maybe everyone's on vacation. The tourists are here in full force, but I see a lot more of them on the N & R trains than on my usual 2 & 3. I didn't really go anywhere last weekend, for two reasons:
1. Rent was due.
2. 18 of the 23 subway lines were having major construction work done.
I don't know what brilliant scholar decided on that piece of inspired scheduling, but I'm certainly glad I'm not a tourist anymore. The lines are hard enough for a newcomer to decipher without bizarre schedule & route changes mucking up everything.
So instead of going out, I stayed home, played guitar, built another shelf (it's like the goddamn Yankee Workshop around here), rented Adaptation (a fine film, welcoming Nick Cage back to the weirdo hut), hung pictures, played with the cat, and saw my first episode of Banzai.
This is a truly awesome show. I haven't generally been known as a Japanophile, but these guys have a hell of a way with game shows. For instance, when you're betting on how long a man in a horse costume can hang from a pair of rings, you can't just bet. You have to do it before the red screen pops up and the big man shouts, "Betting ends!!" I think it's great that they tell you when to stop betting. I don't know why.
In horrid work news...
It's our friend Tarim's last week on the job before heading off to college, and I must say I'm actually gonna miss the bastard. We've figured each other out a bit over the last few weeks. He looks like a dumbass jock, but he's actually just a confused kid who just figured out that the facade that got him through high school won't be of much use out here in the wilderness. Thankfully, I think he's chosen to renovate rather than to patch up the holes in hopes of retaining past glory. Let's hope so.
Technobob thinks I'm his techno-pal because I used to work at a dotcom. Technobob doesn't know I mostly just wrote movie reviews, downloaded porn, & composed surly emails to customers.
Technobob thinks no one realizes how fucked up our processes are. Technobob tells me how we can improve them. I tell Technobob I don't care.
Technobob asks me why this, why that, why everything. I tell Technobob I don't care. Technobob is frustrated.
Two weeks later, Technobob is still asking me why this, why that. Then Technobob says, "You know, maybe I should just stop caring." I grin. Technobob is learning. Soon Technobob will turn to the dark side.
But I still hate Technobob.
Technobob has no television. Technobob is very proud of this. Technobob doesn't understand why everyone doesn't live in Queens. I tell Technobob I don't care. Technobob is frustrated.
I can still talk to Sam, though. Despite two months of my tutelage, he still doesn't know data entry from his ass crack. But he is damned funny.
He was telling me about a party he went to where he couldn't find the drinks. Then he noticed that everyone was carrying their own bottle of wine. He said, "Damn, I didn't know it was THAT kind of party." So he went to the fridge and grabbed one of the many bottles of wine.
I think this sort of things may help explain why he can't ever remember anything I tell him about inputting files. It's like Groundhog Day, for fuck's sake.
After a month or two of exile in the 7th floor broom closet, we've all been moved back to the 9th floor, home of Affirmatia, Theatra, & Confrontatia:
Theatra: "It's nice to have you back, Matt-boogie."
Me: "Nice to be back."
Affirmatia: "I heard THAT."
Confrontatia (on the phone): "Well, maybe you just better GET your boss on the phone!"
A: "Tell it."
T: "They put put too much bacon on this Egg McMuffin. I'm on a diet."
A: "Amen to that."
C (still on the phone): "Well, I guess I'm gonna HAVE to call back when he's there, 'cause you obviously don't know ANYTHING."
A: "All right now."
T: "These chairs are so hard. I'm gonna go home and put an ice pack on my back."
A: "Tell it true."
See? Way more fun than Essie the Matchmaker. She's still around, but she tends to get drowned out by all the sass.
8-7-03, 8:08 PM -
Okay, time to offend people. I don't know why. It's an obsession.
After all the energy I've spent bashing Judaism lately, I feel like taking a swing at Christians. The reason I say this is because my radio scanner landed on Star 99 yesterday: "Positive Radio for New York City."
"Infidel-Convertin' Radio", more likely. Don't think for a minute that half of their operating budget doesn't come from the Southern Baptist Convention.
Why in Pete's name doesn't it ever occur to these fuckers that blasting reheated, Air Supply-inspired crappery into the air and shoving cheaply-made pamphlets designed by Secretary Bobbi-Jo into people's faces is not the way to make us think that you may know the secret to eternal happiness?
And for fuck's sake, STOP sending busloads of idiot teenagers in from the Midwest to sing fucking Maranathic Ned Flanders ditties in front of the goddamn drugstore, where I'm not even going to get an abortion, I just want some fucking Tic Tacs.
I mean, at least when these people I work with decide not to eat for two days, stop shaving, and send their kids to stay for the summer in what used to be a Palestinian woman's home, they don't sing Hava Nagila in my face and invite me along, "quick, before you go to Hell!"
And a word of warning to Jews about Christian fundamentalists who support Israel: Do you know why they want you over there near the plain of Megiddo?
They want to bring about the End Times, wherein Operation Get Behind the Chosen People will commence. That's right, they want cannon fodder for the Antichrist.
And since no one's been able to find the friggin' Teacher's Edition of this planetary history book, I'd stay the fuck away. Not that I'm a Revelationist, but prophecies have a way of fulfilling themselves, particularly in the hands of overzealous imbeciles.
There. I feel so much better. (once again, for clarification...)
8-10-03, 9:59 PM -
A nice evening at home. The Wifely's watching 9 to 5, the cat's sleeping on top of the closet, and I've just downed a Michelob Ultra. Damn, that's crappy beer. Keeps the waistline from exploding, though, which is necessary if I'm gonna sell any damn records.
Got the artwork proofs back from the duplicator, marked some font errors on 'em, and sent them back. Should hear something soon.
As I'm hearing Dabney Coleman tell off Dolly Parton in the next room, I just remembered that I caught Cloak & Dagger on cable the other night. And I quite enjoyed it.
I mean, I loved the thing when I was a kid, but so many of the movies that I spent far too many childhood hours obsessing about have ended up a bit shabby in the light of adulthood. And not that C&D has any overlooked Oscar potential or anything, but the fact that it holds up at all is rather shocking to me. It captures the weird father/son conflict thing every bit as well as the Star Wars saga, which is saying something. I mean, it's no Legend, but come on...
However, 9 to 5 has this weird bondage thing going on that kinda creeps me out, though. I keep thinking they're gonna bring out the Gimp.
Right, enough of this idle banter. Must prepare for the working week.
(and what's that about?)