Monthly Archives: August 2007

I’m sweaty because I was choking a puppet

The Band: Gogol Bordello

The Venue: Henry Fonda Theater in Hollywood

The Audience: Smelly

Seriously, I haven’t been surrounded by that much bromhidrosis since I stopped attending those Dungeons & Dragons campaigns in 1986. The main floor area contained all the fetid sweat without any of the polyhedral dice.

The concert itself was fantastic. Marukan took me deep into the mosh pit. The band put on an energetic show and came back for two encore sets. I admit that I had to bounce out of the pogo mob at one point in order to stand at the side door for a whiff of blessed fresh air that wafted in whenever some disorderly anarchist was ejected and had to be driven home by his mother in a station wagon. And to think – she’d paid $15 to park. She’s not getting any of that money back.

A man wearing an imperial mustache and a lot of neck tattoos stood next to me. He would wait until young women returned from the bar with beverages, then offer to hold their drinks for them while they danced. The ladies would get swept away with the dancing crowd and never returned after the songs ended. I saw him score five beers in a span of thirty minutes.

I saw Marukan’s hat get thrown on stage. When the show was over, she was milling around, looking for it on the ground. I went over to the security man and asked if they’d found a black hat. He handed it back to me. For a brief moment, I was a hero.

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Do you sell turquoise plastic pith helmets?

The Almighty Cthulhu himself rang me up today to shake me out of my stupor.

TAC: You need to write something! You’re killin’ me!
Me: I got nothin’ to say.
TAC: Then post “Nothing to see here – move along”. ANYTHING!
Me: No one wants to read about my crackpot boss or my shitbag *******.
TAC: Sure, they do! People don’t want the pulp. They want the juice. Give them the juice! Laced with profanities!

~~~~

Speaking of shitbags, I was training a co-worker on the intricacies of cash deposits when he had to take a call from his wife. I amused myself by idly fashioning a shiv out of a ruler, tape and some paperclips. Once he hung up the phone, he said, “My wife said that one of the kids she teaches just left a flaming shitbag on the neighbor’s porch.”

How retro is that?? A flaming shitbag! I didn’t think kids these days even knew how to make them! He said the neighbor claimed the entire house could have been burned to the ground, but I say – that’s why you’re supposed to stomp out the flaming bag, innit?

If I run out of vomit, can I have some of yours?

The office space in which I work is rather small by 2007 standards. The entire area is 64′ x 24′. The four “corner offices” are taken up by Boss1, Boss2, Supervisor1 and the conference room. There’s another office with a door, and two people share that. The only other room with a door is the bathroom/supply room. The rest of the open space is shared by six drones. I’m always backing into the woman who sits behind me.

But enough of that. What I was REALLY wondering today was this: if you worked in such a confined space, would you prefer to share the bathroom and resultant air with –

1) A pregnant woman with morning sickness, so that the office smells of upchuck (“un sac vomitoire, s’il vous plait!”) or;

2) An overweight woman taking Alli, so that the office smells like a crap festival (“Crapstock!”)?

Discuss.

So, the hero of our movie has to hire another hero?

We play the title role in this film!

We shape our hair into waves down here, boy

Workday Haircut Amazement!

J2: Oooh! You look like you’re in a shampoo commercial. Swing your hair around!

W: Your hair looks fantastic! I mean, it looked good before, too….

Boss2: {at quitting time} Did you get your hair cut?

Also, this conversation:

F: I like your hair cut.
Me: Thank you.
F: {touches the hair} It feels nice.
Me: Thank you, F.
F: It makes you look younger.
Me: Now you’re just being ridiculous.

Can I take your helmet? Oh… that’s your hair…

Haircut Day!

Haircut Day!!

It’s the bridge to the Sculpture Garden

After reading all the blogs and various first-hand accounts of the I-35W bridge collapse, I think I have hit upon the reason for the structure’s failure. Apparently, every single person IN Minnesota had just driven over the bridge mere moments before its collapse.

That bridge just wasn’t designed to handle that kind of traffic.

Bravo, Pendragon!

Today at work, I stuck a metal letter opener to an eight-inch magnetic coat hook and practiced my stabbing motions. My workmate, J2, bent a sharply-pointed five-inch aluminum rod into an L-shape and practiced her stabbing motions.

J2 complimented me on my excellent shanking motion. I complimented her on her clever double-eye-poker design.

A woman from the next office came over and said, “This isn’t a shiv-making class. Please stop pretending to shank each other.”

J2 responded, “I take the bus.”