Dear BS,
I noticed CC's mail is gone. Did you pick it up, or some local identity thief? I sincerely hope it was you, for CC's sake. Incidentally, did you break the lock when you picked it up, or was that some local wannabe thief? Picking the lock when he picked up the mail. Or she, for that matter. Who knows? Maybe I did it when I was drunk. I haven't been drunk lately, though, so. And besides, I always come in through my door in that situation. Quicker to the bed.
Jeez, Bill, I saw the first girl I ever made out with tonight. We had a brief (thank God) and boring (thank God) conversation. She hasn't grown in an inch in the past 12 years. Can you believe that? I've got a ten year old cousin taller than she is. What a disaster that night was, so long ago. Last spring I made out with the girl I should have made out with that night. Took 12 years to set things "right," but what's right anyway? Timing is more right than right. The 12 years set the right thing all wrong. well, not all wrong. Still, now there's a new right. Anyway, this girl, now she dates my friend's friend. Runs a bar in Fells Point. It was actually really nice, a sort of time gauge, to be able to have this simple conversation with her, very mechanical catching-up, and all the intermediate years stacked up in between, that was me then, this is me now, and all the stuff in between you won't know about me and I won't know about you, and who cares, right? A kind of time miracle. Wounds all heals.
When I picture Death personified, and when I picture it happening, I picture him sitting beside me on my bed, asking, "So what have you been up to since I saw you last?" And usually I tell him everything, all through the years, all the good stuff I can drag up, and I try to be honest about the bad stuff too, cause I figure Death would respect that, and besides, if this is my last testament on earth, I might as well try for the truth. But tonight I picture it going more like my conversation with the first girl I ever made out with, on the bottom bunk at a party 12 years ago. I do this, I do that, I've been doing this, living thus. And the intermediate years? Death won't even ask. We'll just catch up, and then go our separate ways, he to his next chore, me to....
I can hear Mason coughing.
I can hear Zuzu talking. She's saying, "Hello-o-o-o. Go to bed."
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Dear Bill,
Tonight I went to the first meeting of a dumpster diving co-op that I and some of my housemates, your tenants, are joining. It was fun. I learned a lot, and had some laughs too. I'm excited to see how it goes, and also to hang out some with all these new wonderful people, all of whom I have crushes on.
Anyway, afterwards I came home and went on the internet to show Sam some website about dumpsters, but the website wasn't there. And then--you know how it goes--one thing led to another, and we wound up on craigslist, where I saw this:
Tonight I went to the first meeting of a dumpster diving co-op that I and some of my housemates, your tenants, are joining. It was fun. I learned a lot, and had some laughs too. I'm excited to see how it goes, and also to hang out some with all these new wonderful people, all of whom I have crushes on.
Anyway, afterwards I came home and went on the internet to show Sam some website about dumpsters, but the website wasn't there. And then--you know how it goes--one thing led to another, and we wound up on craigslist, where I saw this:
Free White Tower Restaurant Neon sign, circa 1950's 8'x 18' formerly part of the Baltimore City Life Museum.
Now, my dad used to run the City Life Museums, and I remember when they acquired that old hunk of light and metal. Immediately I thought, "I want it." But then I read it again and realized an apostrophe behind a number means feet, not inches. I don't know what I was thinking, cause I've seen the thing before. I know it's huge, but, you know how when you're little, things seem bigger than they are. Maybe I thought it was like that. Anyway, I was disappointed. I mean, I'd drag that thing out of a dumpster any day, if I had the means to do it. But I don't. So.
The thing is, Bill, I want to see it go to a good home. And I was thinking, maybe C.C. wants it. We could hold it for him on our side porch, and he could pick it up whenever he's ready to, no sweat. I think I speak for everyone when I say, "It'd be our pleasure."
Sometimes quotation marks mean inches, but that time it meant that I just said that out loud. That's how serious I am. I'm talking to my computer. Just mention it to him, Bill, all right? It's the least you could do.
I mean, think about that. 8' by 18'. You musta been able to see it from miles away!
Much love to you and your pets,
JD
The thing is, Bill, I want to see it go to a good home. And I was thinking, maybe C.C. wants it. We could hold it for him on our side porch, and he could pick it up whenever he's ready to, no sweat. I think I speak for everyone when I say, "It'd be our pleasure."
Sometimes quotation marks mean inches, but that time it meant that I just said that out loud. That's how serious I am. I'm talking to my computer. Just mention it to him, Bill, all right? It's the least you could do.
I mean, think about that. 8' by 18'. You musta been able to see it from miles away!
Much love to you and your pets,
JD
Your job
Dear Bill,
You ever had to work the front desk at an office? You know, be the receptionist? Recieve people? I don't know if you have or haven't, but let me tell you, it's annoying work. Your phone rings every five minutes, and it has nothing to do with popularity. Everyone you talk to wants to talk to someone else. You're just the first stop, you're like a gas station outside of Pittsburgh, an appetizer on the way to the main course. Get my drift?
One more thing before I move one: You ever have your boss come in the door and, with a smile as wide as your contempt for your job, say, "Good Moooooorning, Bill!"? You ever smile back, not because you're happy but because you're picturing the look he'd have on his face if you jumped across your desk and went for his head? Yeah, me too.
Anyway, it can get frustrating here, down in the trenches of paperclips and online calendars. But somebody's got to do it, right? Who's gonna reserve the small board room, who's gonna direct that call, if not you?
My point is, everyone's got a job to do: receptionists, landlords, go-betweens....
Incidentally, our Mr. C.C. wouldn't happen to be the one that graduated from Kenwood Senior High in Essex, MD, 1976, would he? If so, I've found his myspace page, and frankly I'm disgusted. From the sparkling confedrate flag "About Me" right down to the John Deere confedrate flag background, I found the whole thing in bad taste. Is this what our money's going toward? I gotta say, though, his friend Blair Jr. seems like quite a card, and I mean that in the funnest way possible.
Even Blair Jr. has a job to do. He drives a forklift and he'll work at the Restoration Hardware Distribution Center till he "kick[s] the bucket," or at least that's what his profile says. Now that's commitment. And that's really what I'm driving at here. How many receptionists' hearts are in being a receptionist? 1 in 10, maybe? Less? Do you think Blair Jr.'s heart resides solely in forklift operation? No, it's in his son and his father, his two heroes according to his Interests section. But does that stop him from driving a forklift at the warehouse till the day he dies? No, Bill, it doesn't. Why, Bill? Because doing your job is just what people do. And what's more, a lot of them find a way to do it with pride. And that's the real key there, Bill: pride.
You gotta have pride in your work, the utmost pride you can muster, or else you've got nothing. And the way to muster that pride is to work well. Effeciently, kindly, innovatively, and a thousand other adverbs that too often become meaningless in the bumble of job jargon. Pride in your work means pride in yourself. And pride in yourself means a happier, calmer existence. Trust me on this one, buddy.
But you're in a weird position, I understand. You work for Mr. C.C. and for us. A servant of two masters. Ever read that play? Goldoni, I think. You should, might give you some insight. In it, a servant accepts a second job with the idea that he'll get a second meal out of it everyday. Needless to say, he bites off more than he can chew (haha—get it?), the whole thing runs amok, and just when it couldn't get any worse, the servant reveals his ruse, and everyone decides to get married. Perfect. What's the moral? If you're honest in your role as a go-between, if you facilitate the easy transfer of information, if, in short, you communicate without bullshitting, then everyone gets to get married, which, by today's standards (this is a 250 year old play) means falling in love, or at least getting some. And who doesn't want that?
So, come on, man. Get your shit together. We're all adults here.
You ever had to work the front desk at an office? You know, be the receptionist? Recieve people? I don't know if you have or haven't, but let me tell you, it's annoying work. Your phone rings every five minutes, and it has nothing to do with popularity. Everyone you talk to wants to talk to someone else. You're just the first stop, you're like a gas station outside of Pittsburgh, an appetizer on the way to the main course. Get my drift?
One more thing before I move one: You ever have your boss come in the door and, with a smile as wide as your contempt for your job, say, "Good Moooooorning, Bill!"? You ever smile back, not because you're happy but because you're picturing the look he'd have on his face if you jumped across your desk and went for his head? Yeah, me too.
Anyway, it can get frustrating here, down in the trenches of paperclips and online calendars. But somebody's got to do it, right? Who's gonna reserve the small board room, who's gonna direct that call, if not you?
My point is, everyone's got a job to do: receptionists, landlords, go-betweens....
Incidentally, our Mr. C.C. wouldn't happen to be the one that graduated from Kenwood Senior High in Essex, MD, 1976, would he? If so, I've found his myspace page, and frankly I'm disgusted. From the sparkling confedrate flag "About Me" right down to the John Deere confedrate flag background, I found the whole thing in bad taste. Is this what our money's going toward? I gotta say, though, his friend Blair Jr. seems like quite a card, and I mean that in the funnest way possible.
Even Blair Jr. has a job to do. He drives a forklift and he'll work at the Restoration Hardware Distribution Center till he "kick[s] the bucket," or at least that's what his profile says. Now that's commitment. And that's really what I'm driving at here. How many receptionists' hearts are in being a receptionist? 1 in 10, maybe? Less? Do you think Blair Jr.'s heart resides solely in forklift operation? No, it's in his son and his father, his two heroes according to his Interests section. But does that stop him from driving a forklift at the warehouse till the day he dies? No, Bill, it doesn't. Why, Bill? Because doing your job is just what people do. And what's more, a lot of them find a way to do it with pride. And that's the real key there, Bill: pride.
You gotta have pride in your work, the utmost pride you can muster, or else you've got nothing. And the way to muster that pride is to work well. Effeciently, kindly, innovatively, and a thousand other adverbs that too often become meaningless in the bumble of job jargon. Pride in your work means pride in yourself. And pride in yourself means a happier, calmer existence. Trust me on this one, buddy.
But you're in a weird position, I understand. You work for Mr. C.C. and for us. A servant of two masters. Ever read that play? Goldoni, I think. You should, might give you some insight. In it, a servant accepts a second job with the idea that he'll get a second meal out of it everyday. Needless to say, he bites off more than he can chew (haha—get it?), the whole thing runs amok, and just when it couldn't get any worse, the servant reveals his ruse, and everyone decides to get married. Perfect. What's the moral? If you're honest in your role as a go-between, if you facilitate the easy transfer of information, if, in short, you communicate without bullshitting, then everyone gets to get married, which, by today's standards (this is a 250 year old play) means falling in love, or at least getting some. And who doesn't want that?
So, come on, man. Get your shit together. We're all adults here.
Worthless Piece of Shit
or: Transcript of Text Exchange with B.S.
re: forwarding mail and outstanding maintenance issues
Sam: The mail for Mr. [Landlordguy] is still on the back porch if you want to pick it up. Also, when should we be hearing from the handyman?
BS: I will swing by tomorrow
Mr. [Landlordguy] will be sending a handyman by for those items at the same time he takes care of the windows
Thanks
Sam: Any update on when the windows will happen?
BS: ...
re: forwarding mail and outstanding maintenance issues
Sam: The mail for Mr. [Landlordguy] is still on the back porch if you want to pick it up. Also, when should we be hearing from the handyman?
BS: I will swing by tomorrow
Mr. [Landlordguy] will be sending a handyman by for those items at the same time he takes care of the windows
Thanks
Sam: Any update on when the windows will happen?
BS: ...
Friday, January 18, 2008
this is hard
i can't really figure out how to add to our blog. i keep trying, i got it once and now i dont remember how to do it.
will anyone be home tonight to hang out with me?
will anyone be home tonight to hang out with me?
On your marks, get set...
Hello, roomies.
You are looking at a blog. A blog for people. A blog for people who live in a certain house in Hampden in Baltimore in Maryland in blah blah blog. Namely us.
Ideally, each member of our home will post a post on a semi-regular basis-basis. That post will be posted here, on this blog-blog. OK?
OK.
I don't know, it's just an idea. We can rant and rave about each other, tell Mason to do the dishes, share Zuzu anecdotes, whatever. We can do things like post this stupid poem that I just wrote:
Upon realizing that I’d let me Frequent Flier Miles from a trip to Antarctica expire before taking advantage of them, I felt sad and wrote this poem
Excuse me for a moment
While I mourn the loss of Antarctica
I had 20,000 airplane miles—
More than that—
Stored up for a rainy day
But the airplane people took it away
Or rather I let it slip
Oh
Global warming is happening
Global mourning is happening
I am mourning the loss of Antarctica
All the miles it took to get there
The international dateline
And the eternal sun
I’ve heard it said that planes are a leading cause of global warming
Circling, circling
A plane that never comes down
The midnight sun
I mourn the loss of Antarctica
Those miles, and all they meant to me
I mourn the loss of those miles
And the world they represent
Freedom
Ice
The past—
…
Oh well.
There now. Otherwise that poem would have disappeared, I would have gotten it out of my system and thrown it away. But now it's on the internet. Which means it'll last forever.
Lunchtime! Post!
You are looking at a blog. A blog for people. A blog for people who live in a certain house in Hampden in Baltimore in Maryland in blah blah blog. Namely us.
Ideally, each member of our home will post a post on a semi-regular basis-basis. That post will be posted here, on this blog-blog. OK?
OK.
I don't know, it's just an idea. We can rant and rave about each other, tell Mason to do the dishes, share Zuzu anecdotes, whatever. We can do things like post this stupid poem that I just wrote:
Upon realizing that I’d let me Frequent Flier Miles from a trip to Antarctica expire before taking advantage of them, I felt sad and wrote this poem
Excuse me for a moment
While I mourn the loss of Antarctica
I had 20,000 airplane miles—
More than that—
Stored up for a rainy day
But the airplane people took it away
Or rather I let it slip
Oh
Global warming is happening
Global mourning is happening
I am mourning the loss of Antarctica
All the miles it took to get there
The international dateline
And the eternal sun
I’ve heard it said that planes are a leading cause of global warming
Circling, circling
A plane that never comes down
The midnight sun
I mourn the loss of Antarctica
Those miles, and all they meant to me
I mourn the loss of those miles
And the world they represent
Freedom
Ice
The past—
…
Oh well.
There now. Otherwise that poem would have disappeared, I would have gotten it out of my system and thrown it away. But now it's on the internet. Which means it'll last forever.
Lunchtime! Post!
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