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Wednesday, Sept. 18, 2002 / 11:40 a.m. ~Drivel Re: My Cold Cube, Fatboy and Moby, Sleazy �Real World�, Thunder and Dreams, etc.~ I almost started this off, �Hey��, but why do I feel tempted to do that? Who the hell am I talking to? Hey, know what a good song is? Or, Hey, know what song is really good? Moby�s �Love Song For My Mom�, from �Animal Rights�. It�s lovely. It�s sweet. Very simple, some might say too simple, but it�s just really, really nice. My understanding is his mother died either right before he started the album, or during, I�m not sure. Memory fails me there, but you can read about it in his �Bio� on his web site. I�m listening to it now. For the second time in a row. Nice. Work. Early. The a/c blows on my face, gives me a headache. This is such a problem, but one I can�t see being solved. I�ll deal with it for now, because as I told Listerine yesterday, �Soon it will be too warm in here�. Ah, the life of an office worker, don�t ya just love it? Reminds me, �Waydowntown� was on Sundance again last night, 7:30, so I caught the middle and some of the end. Apparently the movie gods were listening to me as I talked to Mark on the phone and told him I wanted to see it again. Funny, that. I watched the new �Real World� last night too, more out of habit than anything else, and whoo boy, was it sleazy and horrible. Whoo! �Real World� was my first taste of Reality Television, back in �91, I think, right? But now, the cast is so cookie-cutter homogenous, so awfully dull, so awfully hormonally charged. And the black women, �up from the projects�, egad! Oh, it�s going to be so awful I�ll simply have to watch the entire season!!! Guess what I�m going to listen to now? No, guess? Keep in mind it�s not yet 10:00 in the a.m., I�m in my cubicle, my hair is wet from my shower, it�s cold in here, I have a headache brewing� Fatboy Slim. �Right here, right now, right here, right now�� � Why, it�s �You�ve Come a Long Way, Baby�. I used to play this in my car when my tape deck worked, I played it LOUD. It�s not loud now though. Yes, it took me a while, but I just realized I have nothing to say. To write. I�m going to get a different sweater when I go home for lunch, something big I can pull over me. A good Winter sweater in which to bundle myself. It will appear extreme, but it�s ridiculously cold in here, highly unnecessarily cold. Yes, yes, yes, it�s possible my wet hair has just a little something to do with it� I have yet to write about the �new boy�. I think I�ve placed him on probation. It�s a probationary period. We have yet to see if he stays. Listerine and I placed a casual bet on him. Nothing at stake. Very casual. He made it past lunch on the first day, so now it�s how many weeks?, can he make it a month?, will he want to? Oh, here�s big news, I came in this morning to find my computer askew, my monitor cattywhompus (I have no idea how to spell that word), my baubles bumped. Luckily, Penelope found the same thing at her cube. D., the Supervisor, immediately looked to Penelope to find out the details when I spoke up. Why do people do that? Look away from my eyes when I bring something to their attention? They look to the person next to me. Seriously, a waitron at a restaurant, upon hearing me ask, �Excuse me, but what is in the luscious cream sauce?� (or something similar), will turn to the person next to me, �That would be Madeira wine and heavy cream�. NO, I am the one who asked you, not HIM! My father did that to me once, and I will never in my entire life forget it. He was moving in with me, into my house I�d shared with my mother, after she died, and he was looking around with my brother and me. He looked up to the ceiling in the hallway, asked, �What is that, an attic?�, looking at my BROTHER. I lived there! It was MY house. Never forget it. And I spoke up at the time, I was furious. Furious. You are moving in with me, asshole, against my will and better judgment. And you can�t even talk to me. Grrrr� So, D. looks to Penelope, �You have some things moved on your computer too?�. She looks away from me. Refuses to meet my eyes. Am I invisible or scary? Or both? As it turns out, the �cleaning crew� cleaned our cubes. Wow. My layers of dust are gone now. They cleaned the top of my little radio I no longer even listen to. They dusted. Wow. Again, this is major. Of course they used a rag or something on the flat surfaces, and it left streaks, sticky streaks, so I cleaned that first thing. And tried to put my monitor back in its exact position. The exact perfect and correct position. I am only slightly anal retentive/obsessive compulsive, and let�s never forget cynically optimistic. Oh, dear, I�d better quit here while I�m behind. Two pages of drivel no one will ever read� I�m okay with that. No, really. I just cranked it: �Fatboy Slim is Fucking in Heaven!� � I love the Fatboy. Wait just a second, I need to write about a dream I had, and the loudest thunder I think I�ve ever heard. How could I forget?! It must�ve been around 3:30 this morning, LOUD thunder, really LOUD, and I�d heard it rumbling as I fell asleep, unsure of what it was. What IS that? Thunder?? It must�ve taken a long time to get to me, rumbling all the way from Alabama or some such, then 3:30ish, BOOM!, over and over and over, and hard driving rain, lots of it, loads of it, sheets of it, no, buckets of it, no, cats and dogs of rain, cats and dogs carrying buckets of rain, all of it together falling from the sky, along with a major cacophony of loudness, of BOOMing, THUNDERing loudness, cracking, booming, over and over. I�d fall asleep, and be awakened later, I�d look at Gladys, she�d raise a kitty eyebrow, look back at me and say, �It�s nothing, go back to sleep�� So I dreamed I was at the Stones concert, but it wasn�t any stadium, it was some parking lot or something, set up with some chairs. And I got up to sit on stage with Mick. I walked right up and kneeled down next to him, as he was in the midst of some kneeling for dramatic effect moment, between songs. I told him he should get someone to turn the lights up so he could see the audience, see our faces. And I felt sorry that there weren�t more people there, that such a huge, iconic band as the Rolling Fucking Stones were reduced to this. A security person backstage suddenly saw me and was about to run to me to escort me away, but I seized the moment and escorted myself away. No harm done. I found my way back to my seat, but two women there simply moved over instead of moving aside. I was forced to sit in someone else�s seat, had to ask them to move back over so I could sit with my friend. !!! I was with a girlfriend. How odd. Later� more dreaming� I was at the bookstore where I used to work, well, one of three, the important one, the MAIN one, and I was perusing the Gardening section, noticing the books all neatly shelved, the largest on the outside edges, leading the eye in to the faced out books, perfect, my own little technique, and I was admiring such� when I spotted the new manager of the section, a young man, and I told him that was my technique and he was doing a beautiful job following in my footsteps. I was with someone, but I don�t know who it was� and I was going on and on about how good I used to be at displaying the books, at shelving. How good it looks still, all this time later, after I�ve gone from there. That store no longer exists, in reality, it�s been razed, gone, poof! There are apartments there now� Crazy thunder, crazy dreams. Crazy heavy buckets-of-rain-wielding cats and dogs. Cost of the War in Iraq
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