(more as I leave work/get drunk...)
OK, so I saw The Distillers this past weekend. What souvenir did I pick up? My best guess is either a cracked or bruised rib. Signs pointing to bruised: it didn't really hurt until Monday (read: it only hurt when I took a deep breath). Signs pointing to cracked: from Monday onwards, it feels like Doubting Thomas himself has decided to poke around my chest, eschewing his fingers for a hot poker.
Anyhoo, the show was a blast. Anytime the headlining act clears the floor for an all-female slam-dance affair with the phrase, "Vaginas _Only_" it's worth the price of admission. Especially when the song (punk rock song, mind you) was all about women's suffrage. So their detractors will call them a bunch of Hole wannabes. I've yet to see their detractors stand up to meself or anyone there. Huff huff.
Punk's not dead, and with cool chicks like Brodie, it'll be a long, wonderful, painful death while peeing on the graves of the Backdoor Boys.
OK, so upon reading my last post, it dawned on me that the first line actaully was moderately congruous with the remainder of the message. Hooray for serendipity. In the interests of veracity, here's the real story...
So I was a few sheets to the wind a few nights past when I sent an e-mail out to a former significant other o' mine. 'Twas her birthday and all, and we hadn't spoken in about a year. That was my Caesar-ish Rubicon quip. The fact that it blended in so wonderfully with my present employer's ignorance of my skills just made things a tad more ironic.
One of these days, I'm gonna make a stone cold sober report...
The die is cast...
In Viagra-land news, their choice to name me as the "document coordinator" has't bitten them on the heiny as much as even I thought it would. I guess even the likes of yours truly can clean up his organizational act enough to pick up a paycheck at the end of the week.
'Course it's still all over but the crying once I'm off the clock. (read: somewhere in this mess that I call a home, maybe I can find some clean clothes...)
So this weekend, while supping upon cheap pizza, I was perusing my "old" copies of Stray Bullets (everyone's favorite serialized vision of sex, violence, and uh... violence) when I noticed that there was a letter by _me_ in the back... y'know, where all the geeks write in to seem cool.
OK, so first off, I really f-ed up the number of one of the first books. Yup, go Williams.
Second off, it dawned on me that I'd written that letter several months ago in an attempt to seem cordial while trying to russel up a free bumper sticker. Yeah, no bumper sticker came, so I completely forgot about it. Freaked me out when I finally read it yesterday.
Anyhow, now all you comic book nuts can read and say, "I knew that boy when he thought Knox gelatin was a hair product." Or not. Whatever. Stray Bullets #25... it's not even that good an issue, but still Stray Bullets, so it kicks butt.
Back to the land of dreams...
Well, no ATR today... but then again, I've avoided getting stuck with asinine assignments. 'Course that's mainly due to the fact that I've physically avoided those responsible for assigning said tasks. >sigh< Ain't life grand in the Dilbert world.
So instead, I'm listening to the new album by Common Rider - the band fronted by Jesse of Operation Ivy fame. Zen-Punk, and fun for the whole family. Steal your copy today!
Well, another day has come and gone at the Viagra Factory (or "Pfactory" as the wags down there would put it). I've recently stepped into my new shoes as the "Document Coordinator" for our building. Which, as far as I can tell, makes me the archive bitch. For all of those who knew me in college, I'll admit freely that my organizational abilities have _not_ improved in the time since graduation... as plainly evidenced by the state of my apartment. And now I'm in charge of shipping junk off to be microfilmed, shipping junk off to be filed _somewhere_ in the bowels of Pfizer, and pretty much every other mundane task associated with data storage.
The one saving grace is that I'm in my very own private abode (the archive room) where I can listen to muzak at the volume to which I'm accustomed. So far it's been mainly up to the Rancid and Dropkick Murphys level of mayhem. Today, tho, I had to go over an ass-load of SOPs coming up from NJ... I'm bringing in the ATR tomorrow, in case I get stuck with that crap again.
Yeah, work is work is work... it is, however, an endless supply of kooks, weirdos, and other misfits who wear their social problems on their sleeves. Oh, and there are some _real_ losers, too. It's pretty much an amalgam of "Dilbert" and the place where Dan Akroyd works at the beginning of "Spies Like Us." I think it was about my second day there when I was roped into making a prank phone call to some poor lady at the credit union.
I think in the meantime, we're supposed to be testing pharmaceutical products for impurities and/or degredants... but really, it's like a cGMP deGrassi high.
Now, if only Connecticut sold beer past 8 p.m. ...
Hey, it's October 1st. Thought for the day: Why isn't the person responsible for that "skaterboy" sone strung up by her entrails? Or at least poked repeatedly with hot forks (y'know, for those of you opposed to the whole capital punishment shebang)
yrs truly, the Rev, is horribly drunk right now... Testing to see if I can post this to me diary...