Archive for April, 2007
a day in the life… »
Thursday, April 12th, 2007
It’s four in the afternoon. It’s almost early eve. I’ve been at this desk since roughly eight-fifteen. It’s a slow week. Not because there aren’t things to do, but more because the things that need to be done are presently out of my hands.
I’ll break it down for you. I have some international landing pages to finish up by the twenty-second. I have a new biotech microsite. I have a Nordic Summer promotion that’s due by the fifteenth of May or anytime sooner. It’s three pages. I have general maintenance that tends to come up sporadically. The finalization of a members’ site is trying its damndest to be done soon. A site for the Minneapolis Convention Center is jumping around like it’s about to piss itself waiting to go live. There are also a few other projects looming and it’s a heavy loom on the horizon.
That seems like a lot going on eh? Let me break this down for you and then I’ll follow up with what I actually partook in for this most ominous of Thursdays ’cause it’s the thirteenth tomorrow. If you missed that you’re just not paying attention. Or didn’t have an awkward pause in a meeting after someone brought it up earlier in the week.
All of the above projects are on hold. No translations, copy being inserted by someone else, brochure creating the visual basis is up for review, I was on top of these all week, I have no fucking clue how to finish up the pieces that are tweaked, it’s at the city, and they’re looming so I don’t know much about them yet; respectively.
So I started out the day strong. Company email was thoroughly checked and responses were delivered when necessary. Because it was slow going, it took me almost a full ten minutes. I then checked my own inboxes and this took more time. Not because there was more there, but because I think I may have just trailed off for a while. A sales guy came around and told me of a project he wanted done. I told him as I was directed to fill in a project request form and I’d get on it.
That eased into updating my new Gmail account’s contact list. There I found someone I hadn’t conversated with since she graduated. And that was a semester before I finally wrapped my financially debilitating career at the U. So it’s been a minute. She works about two blocks from me. Who the hell’d’ve thunk? you like that double contraction shit?? Doubt that makes it this side of the Mason Dixon often
After replying to her quick response I moved on to more pressing matters. I filled up my water bottle for the first and apparently only time of the day. After that was done I started coordinating some connections between folk to get things rolling and simultaneously finished up a blog I had started yesterday. It was sort of hectic.
After posting to the new blogspace, I got down to real business. I emailed a guy about a meeting tomorrow. Then I started reading off the Alternet. I got word about a couple projects that needed changing. Before I could get there though it was time for a minimeet with the head of marketing.
That took about an hour.
That gave me the motivation to get to work. I had a quick Gchat with Tinks. Then I reorganized a site map. Then I created an event on the Book for no real good reason at all. Then I started that project from the morning. It took about seven minutes. And while I was doing all that I somehow fit in eating a sandwich. After that craziness I was able to work on tweaking some other projects.
That brought me to about two and into some intense googleversing. I added Google reader to the new account and decided to look back on all the bloggers and bring their feeds to my googleverse so I can more easily read their posts. Ben’s in there, Val’s in there, Anthony’s in there, some other random people with corporate sponsorship are in there too. Pretty sweet. If I do say so myself—and I do.
So that rushed my clock up to almost four where I deleted a link. Now I’m posting here. Not to mention the fact that just now I Book-searched a new intern. She’s not on there. I think she’s a communist.
I even created a pretty badass things-to-do list for tomorrow. Stoked. It’s going to be a mint Friday.
interweb »
Wednesday, April 11th, 2007
The interweb is my playground. I have multiple accounts. They serve little to no purpose. I’m exposed to more media and advertising in a typical day than my father was before he was my age. I get headaches.
In regards to email, I currently have three accounts with Google, one with Hotmail, and one with Yahoo. I have one for both Creatis and [my current employer]. I have one through school. I used to have another Hotmail account and another Google account. I used to have one from the Daily.
I have two AIM names, two MSN names, two accounts with Google chat, and if I were to reinstall Yahoo messenger I’d have a name there. I used to have four other AIM names that I used somewhat regularly and another MSN name. I’ve had a cell phone since I was sixteen.
I have an account with Facebook and one with Myspace. I keep somewhat regular with four blogs and have a fifth I’ve neglected. I have a Flickr account and a Picasa account. I have a couple spreadsheets on Google.
Without omitting the overlapping profiles, names and numbers, I have: a hundred cell numbers, a hundred-thirty spacebook friends, a hundred email addresses, and two hundred “buddies”. I can count the number of people I consistently contact via cell or other interweb connection on less than my fingers. If you add the people I contact more than once a month it jumps to toes.
I watch television constantly and have roughly seventy channels to choose from. It’s on almost the entire time from my arrival home to when I cash out. I put mental effort into seeing four shows in the course of a week: CSI, South Park, Daily Show/Colbert Report, and recently, House.
The headaches flare quickly, like a vice between my eyes being tightened. They’ve been known to last a few days at a time. I get headaches from lack of sleep and can’t sleep because of headaches. Their frequency has slowly increased since freshman year of high school. I created my first email and AIM accounts that same year.
freeway »
Tuesday, April 10th, 2007
Their internal monologues are almost loud enough to hear. There’s an entire queue of them. “Where did this asshole learn to drive?;” “Why the hell is that dick in this lane?;” “Get the fuck out of my way, douchebag!“
I sit behind the wheel and feel their rage like a warm blanket. I drive through it as I would a tuft of their cigarette smoke. My mood shifts to irate before I can adjust. I’m on the ass of the car immediately in front of me. I know he has nowhere to go. I know he’s just doing the same to the bumper immediately in front of him. I can’t help myself.
I start picturing the asshole in the first position of this single-file line of anger. I picture him or her oblivious to the frustration caused in their car’s wake. He or she is calmly adjusting the temperature. He or she is shifting slightly in the seat to a more comfortable position. He or she is tuning the dial slowly to find some road-friendly talk radio.
I picture a poisoned-tipped dart rocketing into his or her jugular. I visualize the pull of the wheel, the shift of weight, the tipping of the axles, the car upending as it enters the ditch. I see the muffler, then the mangled trunk, then the muffler again as the car flips twice and lands shakily on the driver’s side.
I imagine the lane clearing; everyone’s face brightens, I go on my way unobstructed. Then I look to my right and see a red sedan making the move to try and cut two or three cars ahead in our rage-line. I don’t know him, I’ve never met him, and I will never meet him. He’s an asshole. I turn my anger to the car in front of me for not reacting fast enough to deter his advancement.
I remember you’re supposed to follow the car ahead of you by three seconds. I’m curious. I count in my head, wha—. Oh well, good enough.
We eventually pass the offending car. Going the speed limit as posted should have jail time associated with it. The lead car directs focus away from the Elton John on his stereo enough to merge back to the right lane. The second car steps the right peddle to the floor. The rest of the line follows.
They work their way into the right lane immediately ahead of the car they were just following. I ride the bumper of the car in front of me until he mercifully pulls to the right. Then I’m free of their madness. I realize I’m going fifteen over the posted limit. Fuck it. I’m not risking ending up back in that group.
I turn the stereo up two notches, shift back in my seat, and the tension dissipates from me like sweating on a hot day. I look ahead and see a line of dozen cars in the left slowly inching past a Buick in the right.
cats »
Tuesday, April 10th, 2007
Her hand grasped lightly at the ceiling. Or more specifically, the grid of light boards that made up the suspended ceiling. The grid concealed a network of cables, pipes and other utility devices, but whether the slivers could support weight was in question. Especially unstable, intoxicated mass set in motion by gyrating hips. Her mouth was agape and the uncertainty was evident across her brow. But as her second foot arrived sturdy on the table the sober-like expression faded in favor of the previous expression of dim-witted happiness.
The room had a light drunk odor. A crude mixture of cigarette, cologne, perfume, and sweat. It was crowded. It was small. I was within twenty feet of the door and I was half to the back wall. There were no vacant seats and the remaining drinkers were vying for real estate to stand.
While the amount of time that passed is lost in drink, it wasn’t much later when she walked past, and i got a closer look. About as tall as I, she was sporting a black top with jeans. Because of the meandering path to the bar, there’s no way to tell if she would be walking straight if able. My instincts say no.
Her hair is dark and pulled back. As she waits for a friend to buy her some more fuel for her neuron-killing spree, she begins to converse with a fellow patron. He’s a bit taller than she, but nowhere near as influenced. The conversation directly surrounding me and the tunes in the background provide too much aural distraction to hear what’s being said. Drink-buying friend turns slightly with money in her right hand and speaks—quite loudly because I can hear her—of Dark-hair being married in the immediate future. Patron gives a half-hearted laugh in apparent embarrassment of what sparked the mention of the hitching.
The Cheese. I’m suddenly curious. Black briefs with white seams over jeans is an odd statement. But a phrase as peculiar as “The Cheese” emblazoned on the back brings more unfortunate attention. Friend and Dark-hair move closer to the open floor where groups are dancing. Another patron leans and says something inaudible. In response she turns quickly and thrust her pelvis forward. From appearances the move was a bit more sudden than she intended, but reveals the “I [heart graphic]” at the front of her briefs. I [heart] the cheese. Stunning.
Where is the groom to be? Is this an isolated incident or will he be plagued by girls’ night outs for the duration of wedded bliss? Is he just as inebriated and flirtatious? Is she trying desperately to fulfill her desire to experience other things? Have they been together for years of mutual convenience? Is it a marriage brought about by social pressures? Is the stress relief of finally securing a position as housewife what drives her thirst? Or is it the mild depression brought about by the same realization?
But really the most pressing issue is a much simpler one; who will be assigned the duty of holding that dark hair back as her night comes back one wretch at a time?