La Belle Me
Sometimes I think we are given days off to remind us how simple and boring our lives would be if we didn’t have jobs to hate. Oh, wait: I don’t think that at all. My free time is freaking glorious. When else would I have an hour to make the above graphic, which is a rip off of Grand Marnier’s saucy new print campaign? I’d have to do such work after the business-day, probably sacrificing my much valued head-against-pillow time.
Anyhoo, I’m in the mood for a cocktail, preferably one made with Grand Marnier. I’ve been staring at the ad for the last hour or so and I think it’s really started working. Even those legs are begining to look delicious. Never has such a sharply angled ankle intrigued me before, but maybe that’s the power of the drank. Sauce–oh, the sauce!–it is too powerful a liquid, and these wintry breaks bring out the booze-hound in every one I know.
In other booze news, Thanksgiving was cheery enough. And, on a separate yet subconsciously related note, I finally find Michael Chabon’s writing interesting. “A Model World” has me putting check marks and smiley faces by scores of his lines, which is odd, because I’ve never had the attention span for him before. Not that he’s boring, but he writes as though he expects to be read solely by upper-middle class Chardonnay-sippers who hold Master’s degrees in library science. Chabon makes the reader giggle not with exacting wit, but typically through description that runs the course of a boomerang:
He wore a fancy, European-cut worsted suit, a purple and sky blue paisley necktie, a blazing white-on-white shirt, and tiny sparkler in the lobe of his left ear. His nose was large, bigger even than Ira’s and of a complex shape, like the blade of some highly specialized tool; it dominated his face in a way that made the man himself seem dominating.
I’d better get back to making check-marks. Only an hour or so until we have to catch the bus, the transportation that allows us to responsibly behave immature all evening.
Decorative Blue Alien
I once edited someone’s fiction manuscript about aliens that were also rapists. My main comment was “Maybe less graphic alien rape here?” And that was one of the better manuscripts. I also edited a children’s book that aimed at making kids tell mommy and daddy their feelings. The chapters would end and there would be a list of questions for the adult reader to ask the child. The first question was always something like, “And how did You feel when Timmy the Puppy couldn’t Lick his Best Friend Michelle because She was Kenneled?” My most repetitive comment on that manuscript was “Why are certain words in the middle of the sentence capitalized? Consider only capitalizing the first word of each sentence, and proper nouns.” And I wasn’t copy editing. That job was fun for like five pages.
Only The Best Bones
I’ve had many careers in my nearly twenty-three years. That statement is not true, but it certainly does rhyme. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life slinging luke warm cups of coffee to pale-faced office workers confined by the humdrum of cubicle life. I can’t tell you how many times people told me that they wanted to swap places, “if only for today!” Oh, people. It’s true, most don’t know the glamor of coffee life. There’s nothing like waking up at 4 a.m. to make $7.40 an hour while having the same exact conversations with the same exact customers: How’s this morning?!–Pushing through it.–Awesome! I won’t tell you which part of that dialogue is mine.
Without a doubt, my favorite part of the coffee life was the espresso machine, specifically the steaming wand. This is an ever-powerful tool and potential weapon that allows one to not only steam liquid, but to threaten smarmy co-workers. Occasionally I assaulted myself with the steaming wand, though rarely on purpose, and I have at least one scar about the size of a bitten off finger nail on my useless wedding ring finger.
Something about the plastic knob that controlled the boiling device drew me to it. With just a turn the machine would begin to hiss and sputter as though it were a poisoned Warner Bros cartoon character gasping for bluish animated air. I often used the wand to clean espresso grounds from the grates, and at least once to shoot at my manager. But the angle was off, and I merely sprinkled the floor with a lick of water.
This reminds me: coffee shops are dangerous workplaces. On another occasion, perhaps while steaming a sorry excuse for chai, I fiercely turned into my petitte manager. My elbow landed bluntly against her face which caused her glasses to crack at the bridge and fall to the ground. I felt awful, but didn’t offer to pay for the specs. I was sixteen, and she was already in-debt something like a half million dollars, the result of an emergency kidney surgery performed without health insurance. I figured she could charge a new pair or something, and then the purchase might be erased when she declared bankruptcy. I sort of wish I was still sixteen. My thoughts were special then.
Circles And Banners
Today was about circles and banners. I sorta ripped the picture offa FB. Sorry Josh! Anyway, now that I know how to make banners, shit’s gonna get labeled all the time.
Washingtree In Winter, After The Fall Sales
Oh, isn’t Martha beautiful, the way her branches are unmoving in winter? She is frozen until spring, her heavy wood still, dormant, near death. Only the season’s stiletto gives her life. What am I saying? Basically I just made a stiletto backdrop, and then decided that Martha Washingtree needed a little sprucing up. I figure that this is how most modern art is created.
George + Martha = Dramarama
Riddle me this, Internet. Why do I always have the urge to be so darn goofy at 7 a.m.? I mean, I only feel silly after I’ve had my coffee. Before that I usually feel like murdering. I just answered my own question. Have a good day, Interwebz.
Not Asking, But Getting Results Anyway
I was recently not asked to do a re-branding of the IDS Tower. But I did it anyway. (Look out, Foshay.)
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