Friday, September 19, 2003


I don't work. Not really. I show up to a job. But what I do there just doesn't seem like work. I don't mean that in the sense of I-love-my-job-so-much-that-it-doesn't-seem-like-work-but-a-privelege blah, blah, blah.

I'm the manager of a client services dept. That's right, I'm in middle management. The unknown cogs of thousands of corporations. The glue that holds companies together. The daily drones that are satisfied with a regular paycheck and the respect of their coworkers.

It's not a bad job or a bad company. I enjoy the people I work with and I have a good boss who is a little crazy. But there are days

Friday, September 05, 2003


I've been driving Steve's '64 Falcon the last couple of days since he needs to commute to Claremont using the Jetta. I like driving the beast since I can cruise and look cool doing it. Heads turn to stare. Usually because I'm blocking traffic in my attempt to parallel park the tank. Steve thinks it's hilarious I think of the falcon as a tank since in its day it was a wee little thing, a compact car. I like at least three, preferrably four, feet in front and back when I park so I don't spend seven minutes, of back and forth stop and go with a whole lotta wheel cranking, exiting the spot.

I totally forget about traffic, speed, and all the other annoyances of traffic in the wee thing since I can't go above 60mph on the freeway. If I drive through Griffith park, I'm only going about 35mph, pefect cruising speed. Gives me the chance to take in my surroundings, like the dessicated geezer on a ten speed who looked like he needed an IV connected to him so that every ounce of energy expended in pedaling was immediately restored with life sustaining fluids. If he fell off his bicycle he could easily be mistaken for roadkill since his flesh looked as if maggots had already made inroads and were simply waiting to finish the job. He was really that gross looking. I audibly gasped when I saw him and as shiver ran through me. Ok, so the shiver was an exaggeration, but the gasp of horror was not.

But alas, we're selling the Falcon since it's impractical for city driving, freeway driving, and almost all forms of driving that are not on deserted country lanes. Besides, we're paranoid that another lunatic will hit the poor thing and mangle its rear end sending us into debt simply to make it pretty again. We cannot handle the heartache. She's been a sweet thing to Steve for the last TEN years. He's been with that car longer than with me. But we've only been together for three (maybe four if you count the confusing "what are we?" months) so that doesn't mean much.

The lady has class and style and that's why its hard to sell her. We're downgrading to a peasant in comparison.