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20 december 00
----- Damn I'm randy as hell today. I wonder if it's just me, or something in the air... Either way, there's something about a too-cute editor in a short denim skirt following a wayward radio-controlled monster truck into my office that, well, um ... ahem. Perhaps it was that bottle of Dave's Insanity Sauce I've been nibbling at all day. Is there a connection between scoville units and testosterone levels? Why are editors so darned cute? There seems to be a weird spring-fever vibe in the office today, five days before christmas as the palm trees sway in sunny and seventy-two. I was the pained recipient of an intense backrub from one of my coworkers who wanted to look over my shoulder as I recoded one of our HTML newsletters from scratch. "There's this huge knot in your shoulder." "Ungf." "There's an even huger knot in your other shoulder." "Unga Bunga. Yeeeow." "You're starting to scare me with those noises." "Sorry, it fucking hurts and feels good at the same time. And you try fixing this shit Dreamweaver generated code for four hours without making primitive sounds. I should have recoded this page from scratch." "Wanna go across the street?" "Um ... OK." At the market across the street, we're talking about the awful smell of one of our coworker's lunches, some kind of Nigerian fish dish that he cooks and eats at the same time every single day. "Y'know what it smells like?" "Pure nastiness," I replied. "Rotten puss-puss," said she. I dropped my basket on the floor, scattering my hummus, pita, and fruit water across the tiles of aisle number 2. "WHAT did you just say?" I'm turning beet red now. "You heard me." And I had, and I think I was most shocked that she might be dead-on with her assessment. Yes, my memory concurred, the Nigerian fish smelled like rotten puss-puss. "You're, uh, right ..." I giggled tentatively. "I know ..." Onto aisle number 3. "... oh, by the way, is it true what they say about pineapple juice and um ... well, yknow ..." "How the hell should I know, I've never tasted the stuff ... "I dunno, the same way I know what rotten puss-puss smells like..." "Can't help ya. Anyways ... I'm more into knowing whether smoking has a nasty effect, and how much better I must taste now..."She blushed. I continued... "... y'know, considering my outright lack of action since I've quit smoking." She turned even redder. "Hah ... Got ya back!" Taking "sexual harassment" to a new level. Just another december day at the office. ~~~ Tonight's a holiday party in Topanga Canyon. Fritz is driving out from the valley to chauffeur me, which will allow me to imbibe more than my usual O'Douls and Kool Aid. I was well behaved at rehearsal last night; as a four piece, we learned "Mary, Did You Know," which we'll be performing at the two Christmas Eve services at Malibu Presbyterian Church. On the bright side, it's a much easier tune than "O Come, O Come Emannuel," although it doesn't lend itself as easily to potentially tasteless lyric parody involving smoking and pineapple juice. And no, I'm not even gonna go there right now. Rehearsal itself was warm and fuzzy. IceDog bought headphones for everyone, so we'll all be able to record together without having headphone-mix problems. Angel gave us all gigbags with little license plate keychains attached. Mine is a New Jersey license plate that says "AMA EBI" on it. I'll try and snap a picture of it for the next entry. The most interesting card came from Selva, our very attractive rhythm guitar player who may or may not like boys: "Dear Chuck, May the holidays bring you a girlfriend or at least a little action! Have fun." Thanks dear, "action" or no "action," I could sure use a little bit of fun. ~~~ My coworker is reheating his Nigerian "lunch"... Shit, she _was_ absofrigginlutely right about that smell... Gag reflex engaged, suddenly I'm not so randy anymore. 21 de cember 1999: lunch break : The last thing I remember was satan approaching from Malibu Canyon in a golf cart. It was at that point that my subconscious must have said "This is way too fucked up, you're going to wake up now."20 december 1998: : didn't write 20 december 1997: 33,000 ft : No signs of life, except for another plane, off in the distance. Or maybe it's just a flying blinking light, with nothing else attached to it. [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
