Why he was standing there with that... fucking stupid face, that big blouse-like billowing pillowcase shirt-thing... why? Of it all, the first thing I saw were the sandals, obviously, because they were at eye-level on the ground. The poor little plastic Y-band doing the double duty of segregating the largest, grimiest toe from the other little piggies while at the same time clapping a firm grip over the bulk of those feet, was an undistinguished green with it's coating of tarsal mucilage.
The bends and curls of the hair cascading down his leg and ankle naturally drew my eyes up the meaty calf, like the frothing churn of a waterfall. Up and up, until, "Jesus!" Even in the deep shade below the frock, the distinct pock and inclusions of a weathered scrotum were a startling sight so soon after regaining consciousness.
"Excuse me?" The man grinned ridiculous. A dark moon pie face bent down, extending a hand, the angle of his waist blissfully indenting his loose garb. Behind him the sky churned and, in some atmospheric coincidence, as I met his outstretched grasp the thunderheads rent themselves and a brilliant luminance blinded me. "Jesus!"
"Yes?" the man drew me to my feet effortlessly. "Yes?"
"Jesus," I asked, "why do I suck at writing?"
"Well," he responded with a slightly furrowed brow, concerned not confused, "you do well enough while you're drinking. And when you're distracted... So, it's probably a matter of focus."
"Jesus," I muttered. "You might have something there."
Monday, May 24, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Notes from the gullet
Long hiatus from writing. I have been overwhelmed by my underwhelming job, or at least by the amount of time it consumes. Apologies.
Anyway, after some recent revelations and observations I have decided to resume my notes from the gullet of the 9th largest corporation in America. Somewhere between 32nd and 36th worldwide, depending on how you compile your data into rankings.
First, an observation: If you never show up to meetings, people simply assume that you are very busy. Granted, this has to applied in a metered approach, because complete lack of attendance might be viewed borderline insubordination. Therefore, I always attend any meeting that a) serves food, or b) is conducted over the phone/internet. I dial in, state my name, and affix my handset to my head with a large rubber-band to free up my hands for typing, snacking, etc.
Second, a grievance: Automatic toilets are wicked and ruthless and need redesigning. Why do the little sensors that are supposed to detect when it is appropriate to flush seem so wildly inaccurate? My first problem with them arose when every time I laid the paper protective shield over the seat and stood to unbuckle my belt, the mechanism would flush, sucking my carefully placed tissue-donut down into the sewer and forcing me to repeat the process. For a time, I took to approaching the toilet slowly from the side, deliberately holding the protective shield out like a timid toreador trying not to spook the bull. This worked about half the time.
So, in the spirit of the R&D department, I began experimenting with ways to trump the system. Tape, rubber-bands, little paper hats... these are all tools that were deployed in my quest for a less frustrating bathroom experience. Finally, I discovered what seemed to be the simple solution: a Post-it note, placed over the sensor.
This worked well for weeks, until earlier today. Maybe the adhesive was not applied correctly, or maybe my placement was askew, but for whatever reason today's Post-it slipped off while I was still sitting there. And the toilet went crazy. Flushing over and over and over, and these are high power industrial strength flushers, built for the rigors of life in the 9th largest corporation in the US. The trauma has left me with no choice but to return to the quest for a new solution, for I will not suffer another slipped Post-it.
Side note: A coworker entering the bathroom while you are hollering profanities from inside a toilet stall... yes, it evokes that scene from Austin Powers 2, where Tom Arnold thinks Austin's stall fight with a strangler are actually struggles with constipation, but it is still fairly embarrassing.
Anyway, after some recent revelations and observations I have decided to resume my notes from the gullet of the 9th largest corporation in America. Somewhere between 32nd and 36th worldwide, depending on how you compile your data into rankings.
First, an observation: If you never show up to meetings, people simply assume that you are very busy. Granted, this has to applied in a metered approach, because complete lack of attendance might be viewed borderline insubordination. Therefore, I always attend any meeting that a) serves food, or b) is conducted over the phone/internet. I dial in, state my name, and affix my handset to my head with a large rubber-band to free up my hands for typing, snacking, etc.
Second, a grievance: Automatic toilets are wicked and ruthless and need redesigning. Why do the little sensors that are supposed to detect when it is appropriate to flush seem so wildly inaccurate? My first problem with them arose when every time I laid the paper protective shield over the seat and stood to unbuckle my belt, the mechanism would flush, sucking my carefully placed tissue-donut down into the sewer and forcing me to repeat the process. For a time, I took to approaching the toilet slowly from the side, deliberately holding the protective shield out like a timid toreador trying not to spook the bull. This worked about half the time.
So, in the spirit of the R&D department, I began experimenting with ways to trump the system. Tape, rubber-bands, little paper hats... these are all tools that were deployed in my quest for a less frustrating bathroom experience. Finally, I discovered what seemed to be the simple solution: a Post-it note, placed over the sensor.
This worked well for weeks, until earlier today. Maybe the adhesive was not applied correctly, or maybe my placement was askew, but for whatever reason today's Post-it slipped off while I was still sitting there. And the toilet went crazy. Flushing over and over and over, and these are high power industrial strength flushers, built for the rigors of life in the 9th largest corporation in the US. The trauma has left me with no choice but to return to the quest for a new solution, for I will not suffer another slipped Post-it.
Side note: A coworker entering the bathroom while you are hollering profanities from inside a toilet stall... yes, it evokes that scene from Austin Powers 2, where Tom Arnold thinks Austin's stall fight with a strangler are actually struggles with constipation, but it is still fairly embarrassing.
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