who dat? contest.
(yo stee. i know
actor paul mccrane.
first correct answer:
left column go shop at candy store with shiny penny find on ground. "you leave," say bad man with hat. "no penny candy here." oh, left column so so sad no candy girl. bad bad hat man. bad.
This place. Ah... this place in which I work. This little cube on the fifth floor of an attractive valley building, tucked back by the LAN room and possessing 3 full walls, a half wall, 3 desk tops, and a rolly-chair pad thingie under which I've put a bad movie poster for a bad movie my bad company did badly. This little space designated to me consciously by someone I have never met, someone who I probably never want to meet, is where I spend about 30 percent of my life. That's a significant amount of time. And what does it do to someone to be holed away for that much of their life - someone who by nature is already prone to nesting? Well, one thing is clear... the Internet is the window I do not have (as I'm a relative peon). I am connected, and that means something. If I had no computer here, I think I would go nuts. This is from someone who doesn't like computers, by nature. Who never desired a computer beyond the 1990 Mac Classic he used until a year ago. And I think theoretically I would much rather have a window than a computer. But that's the theoretical stee talking. Talking stee-oretically. (Have you ever gotten deja vu while writing? Funny thing is, it's probably not deja vu... I have probably written this exact thing before.) Why am I babbling about this shit? Because my view of this place has shifted dramatically in the past month.
For two years I worked here (well, a different building until 3 months ago) and kept to myself. I wrote an entry about how much I like my co-workers a ways back, and I meant it. My little group was very cool. Five of us against the world. I talked to very few people in the office other than them (note: I was the least social even within that little group) for two years. Hence, I was widely considered a huge fucking snob. Seriously. People tried to talk to me, but I wasn't there. It was easier that way. I did my work and went on my smoke breaks alone (reading, instead of socializing) and made phone calls and took care of business. I did a lot of shit from my desk. I was powerful. I listened to music sent out scripts and did my coverage for my other job and started this journal and fought with my girlfriend and did pre and post production on my short film and did pre-production on the play I was directing and learned lines and made email friends and cried when my puppy died and watched music videos and kept track of baseball games in progress during the day... but I generally kept my head down and my eye on my work and my "work". Why couldn't I socialize outside of my little group? Because if I did, it would mean that I was actually here. That I was part of this. Not a good philosophy, I know, but necessary to my sanity at the time. I had just spent a year working at home and became addicted to it, and then took it as a huge defeat to have to go back to the office - something on my last day a year previous I'd swore to the heavens I would never do. I haven't been depressed for the past two years, (au contraire), I've just not been here.
About a month or so ago, my group (which had lost a couple key members and was down to 3 for all intents and purposes), started hanging out with someone else. Mary. We also started going out a lot, this group. It started with goodbye drinks for my former boss and then came a party and then happy hour drinks on a friday... and we never looked back. I began hanging out more with these people. Going out to lunch everyday. Joking around. Talking. Gossiping. Etc. That it coincided with my break-up is not totally incidental, but partially. And Mary and I began hanging out a lot during the day. Stopping by each other's cube. Going on errands. Getting lunch. Sneaking away for a movie. And then going out for drinks at night. Dinner. Etc. We became good friends. (She talked often about how back at the old building she would always say hi to me, and I would just mumble "hey" and keep walking. What a dick, I was. I seriously can't even remember her as existing back then.) I started staying here later, so she and I, and all of us in fact, could hang out more. And I didn't hate being here as much. People are good people... what a fucking concept.
Well, Mary's last day was Friday. She's gone. Granted, I co-opted her printer which is a good thing, but the world of work which, just because of one fun, smiling face had become briefly more than tolerable, has suddenly gone back to being bleak. Just like that. And I don't know if I'll see her again. I guess we'll all get the band back together for dinner someday, but work friendships are slippery, and I could see it come to pass that we just filled a need in each other to have someone fun to hang out with during the day - and frankly that's OK, we're not lovers or anything - but it makes what was once light-filled, seem again dark.
And I was going to talk about my cube, what surrounds me during the day, but the above seemed more important. Actually, that brief period of work socialization still seems more important than my Dinosaur Jr. CD's, my flippy monkey, my stuffed frog, my JFK-shooting View Master, my yo-yo, my electric stapler and new printer, my Lesbian Love Calendar, my Brittney Spears pre-implant photo, my plastic sword, my Hot Wheels, or my Onion clippings...
Hmmmm... maybe I'll go see if Robert wants to get some lunch.
...Jackie sent me this scary piece of news:
Updated 8:46 PM ET May 22, 2000
LOS ANGELES, (Reuters) - The wife of CNN talk show host Larry King gave birth to the couple's second child on Monday, a boy weighing just over seven pounds and named Cannon Edward King, a spokeswoman said. The spokeswoman says Cannon joins a brother, Chance Armstrong King, who was born on March 9, 1999. "Everybody is doing fine," the spokeswoman said.
King, 66, and Shawn Southwick, 40, were married in 1997 just a day before the popular interviewer underwent open heart surgery.
It was the seventh marriage for King and the third for Southwick, who with Priscilla Presley, ex-wife of Elvis Presley, invented "Luxurious Hair" clip-on extensions.
Dude. I found the solution to not working anymore. I just got this email:
Private Offshore Wealth Building Club!! (When I see the word "offshore", I think legitimacy.)
A.. Your own Offshore Private Bank Account: Includes a Visa debit card with no daily limit (this is awesome).
B.. Your own Private Banking Software: Allows you to manage your offshore account from anywhere in the world.
C.. Members only - private access "via the web" to the latest international investment opportunities: Members get instant access to incredible offshore investment opportunities which are proven and working. This is truly a "first" in home based business.
(You know, any serious investment offer that editorializes its own ad with "this is awesome" has my money right away!)
Tomorrow we go to a screening of Dinosaur. Oh, I wonder if I'll be able to sleep tonight from all the excitement!!!
You make me come. You make me complete. You make me completely miserable. Stuck to a chair watching this story about me, everything goes by so fast making my head spin. Used up all of my friends but who needs them? When you mean everything to me. All of the things that we should fear. I'm not afraid of being here. So much to say, it makes me helpless. Nothing to share. Why should I care if you're near me? Give up all of my plans but who needs them? When you mean everything to me. All of the things that we should fear. But I'm not afraid of being here. So much to say, it makes me helpless. You make me come. You make me complete. You make me completely miserable. You make me come. You make me complete. You make me completely miserable. You make me come. You make me complete. You make me come. You make me complete. You make me completely miserable... speaking of which. Stuck to a chair, watching the kids from Hanson try to answer questions from my borderline retarded callers while right now at the Twenty-One Club, Sam Waterston romances Starr Jones out from under my drippy nose. These kids are idiots. Blah blah blah, caller from Buttfuck, Wisconsin wants to know if Zack has a girlfriend. Why do they never want to know if Larry has a girlfriend, huh? Where are my fans? Where are my callers? Where are my groupies? In the old days, I used to come off a smoking interview with the Six-Thousand Dollar Man or whoever that guy was, and find two or three interns waiting for me in my dressing room with a bottle of Chivas, some edible panties, a baggie of amyl nitrate, and a full case of Baby Gold Bond Medicated Powder. But not today. Nope. No little fillies waiting for Larry. Just the wife, my 19th kid, and the lousy Mets on the TV, while that rat fink bastard Waterston gets his drunken mitts on my Starr Jones. Damn this sagging, scaly flesh, my fear of being alone, and these hyper-potent sperm in my one remaining testicle. Stop swimming, I say. Just stop! One last question for the band? Oh, christ. Hanson, you make me completely miserable.
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