A Rare Past Vignette
Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, in a city called "Indianapolis", I worked with an ex-college girlfriend. For the most part, there were no issues, though on occasion, we'd get drunk and mess around. There was this other dude at work, older than S and I by a good 15 years or so, who I sometimes went golfing with. One day, he invited me and S to dinner with his wife on a Saturday. Not having much better to do, both of us accepted.
That Saturday, during the course of pleasant dinner conversation, Nrs. Coworker paused for a beat, looking at me, and said, "I can tell; you have an active mind."
"Well, I guess I do." I wasn't really sure what she meant. Now, of course, I know. I take medication for my active mind. And I self-medicate it. Double-whammy.
I left my twitter password at work, now nobody will know when I'm taking a dump! Unless I recover the password. That sounds like a lot of clicks, with not a lot of payback at the tail end of the clickthrough. Just sayin'. INTERACTIVE: DEEZ NUTS.
Hello my name is on my shirt...pocket,
I'd rather not speak right now,
I'm remembering... something.
A Rare Work Vignette
This morning, while getting ready to move a shitload of RAID devices from Donut Wheel HQ to Donut Wheel Outpost, I was sitting on top of this big ass IBM machine in order to pull tons of cables out the top of a rack, and found that the ceiling was a little lower than I had thought it was, upon the occasion of pulling a little too hard, and having my hand hit the ceiling. Or, more precisely, a halon fire thingamabob. It bled for a bit, and is a little swollen now, but for the most part, it was just another in an endless sequence of minor work injuries. Half an hour later, the cables were out, and my work in the data center was done, so I headed to the lab location where our team was waiting to head to the Outpost in the truck. My boss noticed my bloody hand, and asked what had happened to it. I explained the series of events, to which he responded:
"That was not part of the instructions I gave you."
My boss is fucking hilarious.
Most typically my dreams are dreadfully
therefore i go to these places just to
see the girls ...
with hair like hers,
with clothes like she wore,
with smells like hers,
with handwriting like hers .....
A Rare Moment of How I Trained My Mom to be More Awesome
Many, many years ago, I had a couple of gentlemen under the employ of a large governing body come a-knockin' on my parents' door. My Mom, ever the dutiful citizen, provided them with my then-current address. Now, it wasn't so much that I was in trouble, but still, I was a bit appalled that my Mom would give me up so easily. When I talked with her about it, she explained that she didn't figure those two gentlemen meant me any harm (other than, in retrospect, perhaps an intent to destroy my career hopes, and render me "civil servent" until I eventually drank myself to death), and I believe her. That wasn't the point, though. The point was that unless I am in trouble, don't go giving my information out to people you don't know. And even ones that you do know.
Well, it seems that the twenty year high school reunion people have been hitting her up for just that information, and, some 18 years after my talk with my Mom, I am proud to announce that my Mom told them they could send whatever they wanted to send to my parents' address, and that they'd forward it to me. Yay, Mom! I raised her right, it seems.
I didn't go to my ten year reunion. I won't go to the twenty. Why would I? I don't wish any of those people any ill will or harm, but flying to Indiana in the middle of the summer, taking vacation days away from a job I look forward to every morning, and hanging out with a bunch of dudes who I was apparently doing alright not hanging out with for the last twenty years doesn't sound like the most kick-ass of plans, to tell the truth.
You wrote me little letters and,
you brought me lunch that time,
at my work and that poem you left,
on my windshield wrapped in plastic,
to protect it from the rain.
Protected from the rain
A Fierce Conundrum
Double album self-indulgent glory, or hyper-produced 60 minutes of funk? This is the question that haunts my nights. I've basically got 48 songs in a "finished" state, and I'm having a hell of a time whittling the list down to, like, 20. Damn, I can be one productive dude.
On Tuesday Morning,
I launched my Dashboard widget to check what the weather was going to be like later that day, and it said "sunny". In reality, it rained. This morning, I submitted a bug report internally for that obviously broken Dashboard widget. I love this company.
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