Friday, July 19, 2002
Now I finally have some time and computer access, and Blogger is screwing up. What's going on? Why do the fates want me to stay the hell away from ye olde rabbit blogge?
Today, a friend of mine from New York wrote to me to let me know that he's tired of his job. He has one of the best jobs in the universe. When I tell other people about his job, they say, "Oh my god, that's my dream job." But my friend doesn't like his job, mostly because he doesn't like to work. He doesn't like to have to get up in the morning, and go into an office, and work. Working bugs him. It sticks in his craw, work does. He doesn't like it.
He would prefer not to work. He would prefer to wake up in the morning and decide what he wants to do that day, and then do it. He would prefer to have money already, so that he wouldn't have to work in order to get money deposited into his account.
I remember when he was barely working, though, and he wasn't very happy.
I have another friend who doesn't work at all. He hasn't worked for months. He says, "Why work?" Work, to him, seems like a pain in the ass. He'd prefer not to work, ever. When people ask him what he does, he says, "Not very much." When people say, "Why don't you get a job already?" He says, "Why would I want a job? Then I'll be as pissed off and miserable as you are." His popularity is waning, but my friend is very very happy. He watched the Masters. He watched the Stanley Cup. He watched the NBA Finals. He watched the US Open. He watched Wimbledon. He set his alarm to get up in the middle of the night and watch The World Cup. He's in good shape. He's relaxed. He's probably watching the British Open right now.
His friends say, "Are you worried at all about not having a job?" He says, "Why should I worry? Then I wouldn't enjoy all this free time nearly as much."
Me, I work. I write articles. People email me topics, and I write about them, and email the writing back. It sounds easy, and sometimes it is. But sometimes I'm really not in the mood to write about a particular topic, I mean, I'd rather hang out with the hosts of American Idol than write on that topic, and I hate everything I'm writing, the way that Dunkleman character must hate himself, but I have to write anyway. On those days, it's not an easy job. And it never pays very well. But at least I don't have to overhear lonely people telling each other their life stories whilst sipping on shitty coffee.
Actually, that wouldn't be so bad now and then, for a pure shot of alienation-fueled inspiration. Instead I have to walk around the mall with the freakish teenagers to feel like a dessicated old loser. But goddamn I love that Chick-Fil-A. And the lemonade! My lord, that shit is good.
Thursday, July 18, 2002
Many sincere apologies for my absence. My computer is still relaxing in a soothing seaweed wrap, eating low-fat high-protein meals prepared by a world-renowned chef, and jazzercising. At least I think that's what goes on at the highly expensive, highly prestigious Apple Computer spa. What else could my dear G4 possibly be doing for the past 18 days?
I shudder to think. But the timing of the stubborn little jerk's absence couldn't be much better, since I'm in NC helping out with the preparation for my sister's wedding. No big deal, as it turns out. Somehow she's remaining utterly calm about the whole thing, and seems to need me to run hills with her for her marathon training more than she needs me to help with important decisions or to call people and harass them or to tie little bows on shit.
So instead I'm running more than I can handle, bugging my mom's dog, and reading a few pesky books on assignment. It's amazing that I get assignments, really, given how bad I am at pestering people for work. Here's hoping those editors keep coming to me with big ideas, because my head is pretty damn empty.
Still, I wish it were even emptier.
Anyway, bear with me. There'll be more rambling drivel here soon enough.
Monday, July 08, 2002
SNAKEHEAD IN THE GRASS
As you may know, a most wonderful, icthyological event has occurred of late in Maryland. A pond in the suburbs of DC has been invaded by the snakehead, a fish with a lung as primitive as Kevin Costner's acting ability, an appetite as voracious as Takeru Kobayashi's (and not restricted to Nathan's Famous), and a visage as hideous as Steve Buscemi. It can even "walk" a bit, although it can't stump around like Jack Webb. No one seems to know how it ended up in the pond, nor how many little snakeheadlings it has whelped in the meantime. There is some concern (somewhere below "dirty bombs" and above "dirty sanchez") that the snakehead will get into the Chesapeake Bay and eat all the local fish, who are known for their docility and trusting attitudes towards strangers.
At first, this event was of interest only to Dept of Natural Resources types, the odd fisherman of odd fish, and the intern who collected the incoming press releases off the fax machines at the local TV station. Then, due to the absence of terrorist-related stories pre-July 4, it was aired as a soft fill at the end of a local newscast. And now, Maureen Dowd has written one of her columns about the snakehead.
There's something for everyone to love or hate or both about the snakehead: It's an introduced species, it's an Asian delicacy, it's an environmental disaster in the works, it's ugly, it's wanted by the authorities, Maureen Dowd has written about it...
My wife has grown weary of my admiration of this beast after the holiday weekend. In light of the death of your notebook computer, perhaps the snakehead-as-media-phenom can bring you cheer.
Dear Peter Rabbit,
I have not heard of these snakeheads, but I can identify with any creature that's primitive, hungry, and repugnant. Did some little snot-nosed kid keep an illegal snakehead as a pet, get sick of it, and flush it down the toilet, thereby creating the modern snakehead plague? This would make an excellent story for New York magazine, particularly if the little fuckers migrate to New Jersey via the sewage system and start club-hopping and running over innocent bystanders with their SUVs whilst hopped up on KBM, a new drug that's hot among the ultra hip preteen set, particularly those who are into Duran Duran, a band which has recently made a serious comeback, particularly among the ultra hip preteen set. Perhaps these snakeheads speak in a language all their own, so complex and super duper cool that only Nancy Jo Sales can translate its tainted, amoral code for all of suburbia.
This story is HOT! I gotta go churn out a pitch. Can I borrow a pen? And a stamp or two? You got some envelopes?
Saturday, July 06, 2002
You have failed me for the last time, Admiral G4.
My powerbook, the ultra fabulous titanium G4, has imploded for the second time. The first time it was still under warranty. This second catastrophe has come to pass just 2 months after the warranty expired. "Why didn't you purchase the extended warranty?" you ask. "Because I don't think I should have to pay an additional $400 to ensure that my $3000 computer isn't a complete piece of shit." I answer. But apparently, I need to "Think different."
And this is how it came to pass that my G4 is on an expensive vacation at the Apple Computer Spa. Who pays the price for these flagrant lapses in customer satisfaction? You, the taxpayer. The reader of the rabbit blog.
Rabbit Blog! Now updated every 3 weeks!
My unattractive unwieldy 1400 cs was far sturdier and more reliable than his far more stylish friends the G3 and G4. Like a loyal but moody boyfriend, the G3 was a pain in the ass to be around and let me down repeatedly, but at least he never abandoned me flat out. That G4 thinks he's gonna run off to Miami to become a model. I'll bet he never makes it past Mountain View.
Yooooou left me, just when I need you most.
More soon, even if I have to seduce some lumpy loser with a Gateway.