Saturday, June 28, 2008
Monday, June 25, 2007
...I sacked up and read a couple of original numbers at this week's installment of Drunk Poets' Society, an open mic poetry night held every Monday evening at Winston's in Ocean Beach. It went well and I had a blast performing. Even better, I heard some great poetry, including a banging set by the headliner, Jimmy Jazz, who shared about 10 poems, each delivered with enjoyable mania.
One poem I read was one I wrote back in 1999 or 2000, called Sorry About This Morning. My more substantial poem, which I started last night and finished today, was this one:
My Chicken Tragedy
when I was young my dad would take me to do laundry on
those weekly laundry sessions are some of the first memories I have
one time, when I was six or seven, the year was maybe 1984,
while we waited for our clothes to dry, we walked down to the pet store
I went in while my dad stayed outside to smoke a cigarette
a few minutes later, I came back out - there was something in there I wanted to get
I asked my dad if I could have a buck to buy myself a treat
Dad was kind of busy talking to a friend he’d seen out on the street
he wasn’t really listening and he handed me a dollar
I grabbed it and went back inside, so thrilled I wanted to holler
see, the store was selling baby chickens - 80 cents was the price tag
I picked one out and paid for it - they gave me my chick in a small brown bag
ventually he calmed back down, and we talked about the situation
I made the case for keeping my chicken - I begged and pleaded in desperation
Dad decided we could keep the chick, which was just a little baby,
and when it got older, it could roam our yard, or we’d make a coop for it, maybe
when our cat attacked, she scratched its face, and the cat never bothered her again
the chicken roamed around our yard, and we fed her seeds and bread
I thought she was the perfect pet, but “she shits too much,” my dad said
he said she needed a ranch or farm, where she’d have room to run around
he said chickens were usually happier in the country, not in the town
and I could tell someone was missing when I got home from school one day
the chicken wasn’t in the yard, I realized in a fog of hot dismay
and when I asked my father where my chicken had gone
dad said he gave it to the gardener who mowed our neighbor’s lawn
and of course I kept a lookout for the gardener every time I went outside
and then one day I saw him - he was a Philippino guy
he was raking our neighbor’s leaves when I walked up and, meekly, said hi
his clothes were pretty dirty, and on his belt, a knife was in a sheath
he was the first adult I’d ever met who’d lost his two front teeth
he was actually pretty scary, and my heart began to beat and buzz
I cut right to the chase and asked the gardener how my chicken was
and he spoke in broken English, but believe me, I understood
when he patted on his belly and said “chicken very good!"
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
To: ***, OTL Committee
Re: potential team registration
I’m a jackass who failed to get a job done. After being charged with getting the team registered this year, I completely forgot that registrations were on May 5 – until mid-day on May 6, when the enormity of what I’d done hit like a ton of bricks.
Thanks for your tolerance,
Monday, May 7, 2007
You can always be the driver.
Which, if you have a clean car with a decent stereo system, is fun.
At concerts, you’re able to listen to the music with a clear ear.
As a not-insignificant bonus, you can dance without dancing like a buffoon.
Being able to mingle and hang out without having to get tipsy is a sign of maturity.
Being able to dance without having to get tipsy is a sign of a true dance floor mac.
You’re at much less risk of crashing a car.
You’re at much less risk of getting hit by a car.
You’re at much less risk of not being able to perform in the backseat of a car.
At bars, you save tons of money.
At bars, you only hit on people that you find attractive.
An opportunity to withstand peer pressure is test of character.
You generally manage to avoid urinating in public.
You generally manage to avoid urinating in your bed.
You only puke when you’ve got the flu.
Or when you’ve eaten some bad cream of sum yung gai.
You never waste a day of work because of a hangover.
More importantly, you never waste a day of the rest of your life because of a hangover.
And most importantly:
You can still smoke a little ****.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
...me and two of my younger cousins, in a bar in downtown Madison, at about 1:30am. Mad-town is a big college town, of course, and the bar's patrons were mostly of the undergrad demographic, meaning my 29 years and my early stage male pattern baldness - not to mention my wedding ring - likely identified me as an outsider. But my spirits were boosted by my cousins' company, and by at least a half dozen Lienekugel Reds. So when cousin Jen asked if I wanted to check out the bar's crowded, sweaty dance floor in the basement, I was all for it.
There was a bit of a line to deal with on the way down the stairs, and when I noticed that the young lady in front of me looked like a fresher Lara Flynn Boyle, I tapped her on the shoulder and mentioned the resemblance. "Lara who?" she responded.
"She's a big star," I said. "You know - Twin Peaks? The Practice? Jack Nicholson's one-time girlfriend?" The lady in front of me was either too young to know Lara or too appalled to humor me, and either way I was quickly beginning to feel like an old dirtbag. Luckily, as the line moved forward, she turned away to interface with a bouncer, sparing me further awkwardness - at least for the moment.
Flash forward roughly cinco minutos. My cousins and I were now on the dance floor, and it was a crowded, sweaty, basement number indeed. I felt a little nostalgia as the place reminded me of similar venues I often frequented in my college years, back in the previous century. A pleasantly bouncy hip-hop song was blaring through the speakers, and I amused my cousins by putting a hand in the air and affecting an exaggerated white man's underbite. Just then, the DJ took to the mic to make an important announcement. "Hey party people - last call for the basement bar!"
Apparently my old college drinkin' instincts hadn't completely faded, because almost reflexively I told the cousins that I'd grab us each another beer, and then I turned to the bar and signaled for three plastic bottles of Miller Lite. I'm a Bud Light man through and through, of course, but Wisconsin is Miller territory, and you know what they say about "when in Rome."
Anyway, after paying the barkeep, I grabbed the beers by the necks, two bottles in my left hand and the third bottle in my right. I wheeled back to the dance floor, quickly scanned for my cousins, and saw them on the other side of the room. That same happy hip-hop tune was still bumping away, and I'm not one to let a good beat go to waste, so I decided to spice up the walk over by hoisting the beers up in the air and putting an appropo bounce in my step.
With the plastic beer bottles in my hands and my hands in the air, I took a big first step away from the bar, toward my cousins, and past a girl who was dancing drunkely nearby. Unfortunately for me, the dance floor was a marble one. Marble is slick to begin with - and with a full Friday night's worth of spilled drinks puddled on it, this particular stretch of marble was sporting a coefficient of friction of close to zero.
The next thing I knew, my front foot went out from under me and I executed a textbook faceplant. Both of my hands were raised and occupied with beer bottles, so my left cheek was the first part of me to reach floor level and therefore absorb the brunt of my fall. My left hand was next to touch down, and the impact caused both of its beers to rocket away from me at diagonal angles across the wet ground.
The crash stunned me, and for a few short seconds my actions were guided by another instinct - the one that compels you, after a moment of extreme embarassment, to play things off and hope that nobody had seen. I sprang back up from the ground, and ascertaining that the beer in my right hand was not lost, I took a swig. The bass was still booming, and I did a couple knee bends, feeling for the beat.
For a moment, it was almost as if nothing had happened, but in seconds the shock cleared and I realized that I had just taken a hard fall, on my face, in a dark room, in the company of two cousins and a basement full of dancing drunks. Nearly simultaneously, I became all too aware of sharp stinging pains both under and above my left eye.
As I put my free hand to my eye, I realized that the girl dancing nearby had turned toward me and begun to move in synch with my half-hearted gyrations. Apparently interpreting the whole thing as an elaborate dance move, she mirrored my hand-to-eye movement, put her other fist in the air, and then proceeded to rotate 180 degrees and dance off in the other direction.
My cousins had witnessed everything from their end of the room and quickly rushed to my side. "What the hell was that?" Jen asked with a laugh. "I think I just wiped out," I said. When I took my hand away from my eye, I recognized the dark outline of blood on my palm, and then looked up at Jen and Aaron. I'm not sure if their mouths actually said "Holy shit!" but the looks they were giving me certainly did.
"You're bleeding!" Jen and Aaron yelled. "I know," I answered. "And I dropped both of your beers."
A few minutes later, the three of us were sitting at a table upstairs, waiting for the bar to empty out so we could leave. As I wallowed in pained self-pity and dabbed a wad of napkins to the cuts above and below my left eye, I looked across the room and happened to make brief eye contact with the Lara Flynn Boyle lookalike. She nudged the young lady next to her, pointed at me, and said something they both snickered at before turning around.
"There's probably a lesson here somewhere for me - or for all of us." I said to my cousins, in a meager attempt to find a positive side to the episode.
"Don't drip on your shirt," Jen said.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Monday, March 5, 2007
So Sunday night, I went to bed at 7:30pm and got up again at 10:30pm, puffed a couple ***, and went down to Belo for the Digweed show.
After arriving at about 11:15, to the sight of the tour bus parked right outside the club, I went in and caught the tail end of the warm-up set by MSTRKRFT, a dj duo whose sound kind of reminded of the Chemical Brothers. They don't spin entire songs but do a lot of sampling and swapping of basslines, all with that happier, uptempo spirit of a Darren Emerson-type dj. MSTRKRFT's sound was very bouncy and entertaining, and the crowd, probably about 75% of capacity in Belo's main room, seemed into it.
At about 11:45 Digweed appeared in the booth, and took over the reins from MSTRKRFT at right around midnight. Now, JD's new rock star hair cut makes him look a little different to me...kind of more of a trendy guy than a weirdo who is all about his twisted music. But the set he dropped was purely enjoyable, and because I consumed no *** nor alcoholic beverages, I was able to really pay attention to his technique.
I recognized at least a few tracks from the his latest mix album, Transitions II, including both of my favorite tracks from that mix. For me, those two represented the chief highlights of the set, as they're both pretty intense, and nothing beats when a DJ drops a banging track that you've recently been playing a lot at home. Diggers also kept it interesting at the sets more mellow points. In fact, other than two tracks I would classify as cheesier, Tiesto-type trance anthems, Digweed's tune selection was completely of the sleek, smooth, progressive flavor, with some nice trippy touches and some great peaks. I had at least three or four moments when I was rocking out 100%.
From my sober perspective, I had a much clearer grasp than usual of Digweed's technical style, which generally seemed to be a simple mix-song-A's-outro-phrase-with-song-B's-intro-phrase approach. I ended up hanging until about 2:45, only pausing my dancing during the slower moments, in which I'd relax in the back or grab a cup of water from the bar. In a way, I looked at the night as similar to a workout session at the gym, with special guest trainer John Digweed, and that perspective paid off. My legs were aching like after a stair-running session or something - not that I have never actually done stair-running, mind you.
Anyway, at 2:45 or so, right when I thinking it was probably time for me to head home, the lights came on and it was over...I had made it to the end. For the last half hour or so, the MSTRKRFT guys had returned to the booth and were hanging out in there with their girlfriends, who actually sat down on chairs at times - which was oddly distracting, almost prompting me to suggest that sitting should not be allowed in the dance floor vicinity, and certainly not in the booth.
After the lights came on and the last song stopped, much of the crowd milled around for a few minutes, hoping for an encore. When the music stopped, Digweed had no way of getting out of the booth without walking through the crowd, so he actually crouched down behind the decks, apparently planning on waiting down there until the crowd petered out and it was safe to make an exit.
Outside of a couple bartenders, I had talked to only one person the whole time - some raverish dude who had asked if I had any rolling papers. Despite the relative solitude, it had been quite an enjoyable dance session. I felt like Digweed had come to play on my court, and I had risen to the challenge, giving him my best. To top it off, the streets of downtown were as empty as I'd ever seen them, and my drive home was illumniated by a big full moon.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
...if you don't know about pantheism, learn about it starting here. And you don't have to take my word for it. Here's Henry David Thoreau's:
As I stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest floor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself why it will cherish those humble thoughts, and hide its head from me who might perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some cheering information, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and Intelligence that stands over me the human insect.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
...Perfect for my amigos and amigas! Happy Friday!
Q: What's blue and fucks old people?
Q: What is the definition of "making love"?
A: Something a woman does while a guy is f*cking her.
Q: Why did God create yeast infections?
A: So women would know what it's like to live with an irritating cunt once in a while too.
Q. What's the difference between acne and a Michael Jackson?
A. Acne usually doesn't come on a kid's face until he's at least 13 years old.
Q. How do you turn a fox into an elephant?
A. Marry it.
Q. What's the height of conceit?
A. Having an orgasm and calling out your own name.
Q. How can you tell if you're at a bulimic bachelor party?
A. The cake jumps out of the girl.
Q. What's the difference between oral sex & anal sex?
A. Oral sex makes your day, anal sex makes your hole weak.
Q. How do you know when it's time to wash dishes and clean the house?
A. Look inside your pants; if you have a penis, it's not time.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
I encourage you to embrace baldness
I am dancing with some serious thinning up top
but I am going with it
like its equally feared cousin, gray hair,
baldness conveys an aura of seniority and experience
(whether deserved or not)
which admittedly sucks in some situations
but is curiously valuable in others
just remember the thin hair paradox:
the shorter you cut it, the fuller it looks
I don't care why that's true, it just is
anyway, with this info
and the right attitude
you'll be hitting more stripes than a cue ball
no pun intended
Monday, April 3, 2006
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
good to hear from you ***...glad to hear you are living the life of the curious monk, wandering the world in search of humanity, philosophical foundation, and what the chinese call "quichi," or in some mandarin dialects, "poontang." your quest is inspiring to me, and at one point - sooner than you think - i will join you for a small portion.
with that happy encounter simmering in your mind's eye, let me ask you a favor: if, in your upcoming travels, you should bump into one Indiana Jones, pass him a message for me. tell him i'll pay double what Monsieur et la Cuunt has offered him if he'll deliver the sankara stones to a negro i employ in Jakarta. if Jones asks for the password, raise one eyebrow and whisper "Dusseldorf wienies."
that's all for now from San Diego, where it has been constantly raining, and where the mud slides down the hills like it did from you when you had that case of Montezuma's revenge in Me-hi-co. ciao for now!
Friday, February 10, 2006
big *, what's up dude! our mutual comrade *** the Vulgar tells me you're in germany, spreading your good cheer and screwing desperate east german chicks in the ruins of the berlin wall. i'd expect nothing less, of course.
anyways, i'm writing because i'm going to be in NYC in March, and i was wondering (though i haven't seen you in years, and had hoped to keep it that way) if i might be able to crash at your pad for a couple of nights? obviously if you are still in germany or have several orgies scheduled at that time, i can find other accomodations. but i thought i'd ask anyway...and if you are in town, at the very least i'd like you to take me out on the town and buy me a drink.
drop me a line if you get a chance, my good man. and not that you need it, but here's a tip on german women...they love it when you say "i'd buy that for a deutschmark!"...for whatever reason, those words are the keys to the volkswagen if you know what i mean. that's a free one from me to you, my man! peace.
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
so my beef with Bush
is the standard
first, I think his war was unnecessary,
was sold to the public dishonestly,
and seems to be counter-productive
in the broader effort to observe
that one commandment about killing
second, his tax cuts and his Social Security plan
both seem to put the short-term interests
of people at the highest end of the wealth spectrum
before the long-term interests
of the entire nation
overall, I do not think Bush is a dumb-dumb
I suspect that much of his image
including the simpleton aspect of it
is carefully designed
to appeal to key audiences
but I would guess that he isn't too interested
in most of the day-to-day stuff
and that he defers most of that stuff
to his advisers
and I don't think it's controversial to say
that we deserve more from a president
note that all of these criticisms
are focused on Bush's policy
and not on judgments regarding his character
so what am I doing with the shirts?
many are on the level
of schoolyard name-calling
not substantive ideological critique
but hey, neither those types of objections
nor the plastic wrapper that encloses Twinkies
ever stopped Karl Rove
by putting the shirts out on the street
I hope to get discussions like this one flowing.
you can either accept Bush-type bullshit without fighting
or you can roll up your sleeves
Monday, July 4, 2005
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
hey there ***,
thank you once again for the update from your adventuring...so this time you're camping in new zealand with latin chicks from beijing. sounds great, but it's not the kind of thing for a homebody like me...the sex-on-the-riviera lifestyle is dashing and all, but i just know i would quickly start to miss my nightly "frasier" re-run on UPN, so i'm going to fasten my couch-buckle.
yes, life is nice in san diego...i recently stumbled across a neat-o panoramic picture of the two of us from one of your visits a few years back, attached for your enjoyment...i've also sent a copy to the good people at National Geographic, suggesting it soon be published, with the caption "THIS IS FOR THE G'S - two pimps at leisure in venice beach, ca." will watch for publication and keep you posted!
so enjoy new zealand, and don't forget to brush your teeth after eating kiwi, if you know what i mean. ciao for now.
Friday, April 1, 2005
Are You There, ***? It's Me, **.
by Judy Blume
Hi, my name is **, and I thought I'd send you an email. I feel kind of silly writing this to you because I'm not sure if you're real. And if you are real, I'm not sure if they have emails in Fallbrook. But you know what they say: "If you never call an escort service, you'll die without knowing what it's like to pay for it." So here goes.
Things are pretty good down here in ****. I have the same old job, so Monday through Friday I'm a bit of a working stiff. But on the weekends all my friends get together at people's houses and at bars and stuff. Weekends are my favorite.
Actually, weekdays are pretty fun, too. A bunch of us bought 20-game Padres packages, so we go to the new ballpark every other Tuesday. At the ballpark they sell sodas and weiners. Do you like to eat weiners, ***? I bet you do.
Anyways, on Wednesday nights we play softball in a league in UTC. It's really cool, even though our team - the *** - isn't that good. One thing I like to do when we're losing is to make fun of the other team. Like if some guy on the other team drives a Hyundai I'll yell out "Hyundais suck!" right when he's about to swing. It's fun!
So the weekend of July 4th is coming and it's totally going to be the best weekend ever. There are tons of parties on Friday and Saturday, and then of course July 4th is on Sunday. Do you think it might be possible for you to come down and say hello? If not, I understand. I'm sure it must be difficult to get a babysitter with only three weeks notice.
You know, I was just thinking about that Hyundai thing that I said before. I hope you don't think I'm a bad person or anything. I'm actually really pretty nice. For example, if a girl is fat, I won't snicker "roll her in flour and go for the wet spot!" until I'm pretty sure she's out of earshot.
Well, ***, it's past my bedtime, so that's all from me for tonight. I hope this email reaches you. Hey, if it does, maybe you could give me a sign or something. I know! If you're really up there, could you make the rash in my crotch go away? Heck, if you could just reduce the itching a bit, that'd be proof enough for me...I've gone through three tubes of Lotrimin and I'm still scratchin' myself raw. Anyways, bye!
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Stars can twinkle through the night
The moon can shine so very bright
The sun can rise and light the day
The wind can make tree branches sway
Rain can soak you to the bone
Snow can make you feel alone
Grass can grow a healthy green
And smell so good…know what I mean?
When it’s dark, crickets can sing
Piss off a bee and he can sting
Birds can fly and fish can swim
Monkeys can swing from limb to limb
Yes, there’s talent everywhere
But nowadays, I just don’t care
You see, I’ve met this special girl
If the world’s an oyster, she’s a pearl
I used to look around this joint
And I’d wonder “what’s the point?”
But when she looks into my eyes
She answers all my hows and whys
She can twinkle like the stars
She lights up this world of ours
All she has to do is smile
And I’m in heaven for awhile
Yeah, dogs can bark and cats can hiss
But I can think about her kiss
Wednesday, March 2, 2005
i can't see the pix either but i can imagine what they portray...some poor damsel - one probably treated poorly by mother nature already - in the sinister clutches of *** the Vulgar, who is plying her with sweet nothings whispered in her ear, with the intent of plying her in other ways in the wee morning hours of that New Year's Day. i'm reminded of a young lass *** and I came across at a block party during one of his journeys to San Diego...she was of the big-boned variety, with lots of meat on those bones, as well...perhaps as a result, she was hungry for male companionship, and seemed remarkably unfinicky with regard to the male's qualifications. in short time, our *** had exposed her to his charms, which easily hypnotized her...soon, out of the corner of my eye, i saw them lean in toward each other in the initiation of a mouth-to-mouth embrace. but as i turned to take in the situation more fully, i noted that the kiss quickly ended, apparently by her volition. later, when i asked dear *** what had happened, he explained that, at the moment he realized a kiss was imminent, he had been eating some rather tasty barbecue chicken, and given his companion's apparent enthusiasm for well-prepared victuals, saw no need to clear his mouth of said chicken before engaging in the embrace.
Monday, February 28, 2005
I could be
living on the street
searching for something to eat
someone else's Nikes on my feet
I could be
sitting on a throne
with a kingdom all my own
living with crowns of gold and walls of stone
I could be
working at the plant
feeling like an army ant
"I'd love to quit but I just can't"
I could be
living in the hills
making money just for thrills
never sweating any social ills
I could be
running for my life
or crying for my dying wife
with both eyes on the reaper's knife
I could be
sitting in a class
barely caring if I pass
at night I'm drinking and I'm smoking grass
I could be
heading off to war
never been this scared before
someone tell me what I'm fighting for
I should be
thanking god above
I should be spreading peace and love
there's so much I'm undeserving of
Friday, December 31, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
all right, ese locos, it's almost that time...the matadors have been practicing, the bulls have been grazing, the lobsters have been clicking their claws in anticipation...so here's the 411 on this Sunday's field trip to Mexico:
--meet at ***'s pad at 4833 Coronado in OB
--bus leaves at 10:45am sharp
--try to arrive by 10:30am...enjoy a famous *** bloody mary while you wait!
--$30 for the bus ride+bus booze+bullfight tix
--extra $ for lunch, beverages, souvenirs (and for the federales if you get in trouble)
--a sweatshirt, a jacket, or something else warm (*** fur available as a last resort)
--note: most cell phones don't work south of the border!
--and in case you were wondering: we should be getting back at around 8pm!
LOOK FORWARD TO:
--beautiful scenery along the Mexican coastline!
--exciting bus games with prizes!
--delicious food and tasty drinks!
--amazingly great times with incredibly cool people!
--a f*ckin' bullfight!
AND IN CONCLUSION:
--any questions, call "my" cell at 619-***
--if you have to back out, please let me know so we don't wait around!
--see you on Sunday at 10:30am!
Thursday, April 1, 2004
Good to hear from you, ***. News from the east always brightens my day; in fact, I've grwown increasingly nostalgic as of late. Times are certainly strange here in San Diego. I work five days a week, which as a shock to the system of the highest order. The gist of it is this:
Around 6 AM, I check the clock and I get out of bed and I take a shower and I put on a suit and I drive to an office and I say "good morning," and I have a donut and I turn on my computer and I process paperwork and produce more paperwork, and I process the paperwork I have newly produced. My vocabulary includes investment jargon such as "counter-cyclical" and "vertically integrated" and "dividend yield" and "10-k" and "Bloomberg." Someone mentions that everyone knows what T.G.I.F. stands for, but not everyone knows that S.H.I.T. stands for So Happy It's Thursday. That strikes me as extremely funny.
Around 5 PM, I turn off my computer and I say "see you tomorrow" and I drive to my house and I take off my suit and I take another shower and I ponder my options for the evening and I check the clock and it's 7 PM already. My vocabulary is normal again.
I believe it was the extra-curriculars you inquired about, so I'll go into some detail there, as well:
Around 7 PM, I go run errands I've put off for awhile or I go drink beers at my friend Mike's house or I go eat dinner at my gilrfriend's apartment or I just go for a drive in my car because it all seems fun even if I'm just sitting there listening to my stereo. Around midnight, I crawl into my girlfriend's bed, or I crawl into my own bed, or I look at my watch and think "I should probably be crawling into fucking bed" as I order another scotch and soda at a local bar. My sleep is fitful as I know that I get to wake up at 6 AM the next morning; in fact, I wake up at 4 AM and 5 AM just to practice looking at the clock and saying "aw, shit."
Next email: the weekend. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
From the arrival of a new Director of Marketing to the opening of our Canadian mutual fund business, I’ve been kept quite busy this year, and most of my new ideas have revolved around streamlining my current activities and working more efficiently. I’ve continually sharpened the monthly commentary writing process, for instance, and as a result, commentary drafting is relatively painless – despite its time-sensitivity and its required input from people in Mutual Funds, Portfolio Managment, and Compliance.
Another example relates to the quarterly commentary. As we laid out our plan of attack for the third quarter’s installment, I noted that the “Market Results” section didn’t quite mesh with our bottom-up philosophy – and that the quality of the QC might not suffer if the section were omitted. I suggested that we drop Market Results and lead off with the “Portfolio Notes”sections instead; this new idea was well-received and implemented in that quarter’s commentary.
I’ve also demonstrated initiative in my work for other departments. In the first half of the year, for example, I conducted a detailed review of the calculation method we previously used to obtain D/E values for our benchmark indexes, presented my findings to ***, and gained his approval for a change to a different, more straightforward method. This new method simplified the gathering of monthly fundamentals and, in my opinion, strengthened the accuracy of the D/E numbers we report for our benchmarks.
Monday, April 1, 2002
Sunday, April 1, 2001
As usual, I'm feeling confident and ready to flirt with any female swimmers that happen to wade into my general vicinity. On this particular day, it's a thirtyish woman in a one-piece whose slightly-chubby-but-well-tanned body catches my eye. My passing interest begins to turn to full-fledged desire as I realize she's checking me out almost as blatantly as I'm ogling her. After raising a quick fist skyward in a tribute to the mighty Ra, I make my move.
"The water's great, isn't it?" I ask, letting my arms open to indicate I'm talking about the ocean around us - and to send a subconscious signal of availability. "It's wonderful," she replies, intrigued by my daring, and saying as much with solid eye contact and a warm smile.
"It's wonderful," she replies, intrigued by my daring, and saying as much with solid eye contact and a warm smile.
"It's as much fun as you can have with your clothes on," I say with a grin, throwing caution into the wind.
"Hee hee hee!" she giggles - and the game is afoot.
After ten or twenty minutes of conversation out in the water, I've got all her general info - new in town from the Chicago area, working 9-to-5 as a secretary, just realizing how pleasant this Ocean Beach she's moved to really is. To those confessions I add my own appraisal: she's lonely, sex-starved, and already moistening at the thought of taking on a young, sexy, stylishly-tattooed beach bum like myself as a lover for the summer.
Looking towards the beach, I begin the hardest part of any pick-up: the segue from initial flirtation to a course of action. "I think I'm headed in. Where are you sitting?"
She hesitates briefly in the face of my boldness, but quickly regains her composure. "Over there by that lifeguard tower," she says, standing on her tiptoes to point.
"Can I grab my stuff and join you?" I ask.
"Sure," she replies, and we part for the moment.
As I make my way back to my towel, I can't help but smile at what I've been up to for the last several minutes. While I've come a long way with my technique in recent years, I've never gone for it like this - at least, not without trusty alcohol at my side. "It's on," I think to myself, "it's so on," and I don't even reprimand myself for the cliched Swingers reference.
Anyhow, back to the beach. I'm making my way over to where she's at, and I'm as happy as a clam, ready to drink deeply from the well of feminine goodness.
I see her and spread my towel a few feet away. Our conversation picks up right where it left off, she playing the part of the new person in town, me the native who knows a few of the town's best-kept secrets. It's going great - we chat comfortably, with a few laughs from her here and there at my cute little jokes. "All right," I begin to think to myself. "Where do you go from here, champ?" A good conversation on the beach is nice and all, but I'm just about ready for something more along the lines of a sex marathon back at her place.
At this point, however, fate intervenes - in the form of a fat, shirtless 8-year-old kid in swimming trunks. The kid seemingly materializes from nowhere, waddling through the sand to position himself so he's standing at the foot of our towels. His gut hangs over the waist of his trunks. He's got a half-eaten blue raspberry snow cone in his hand. The kid stands there, looking at me and the woman who I'm hoping to hump all night long. The moment is so surreal that time seems to slow down. A bright blue drop of melted snow cone takes an eternity to drip off of his chin and splash on his fat belly. For what seems like forever, no one says a word.
The kid stands there, looking at me and the woman who I'm hoping to hump all night long. The moment is so surreal that time seems to slow down. A bright blue drop of melted snow cone takes an eternity to drip off of his chin and splash on his fat belly. For what seems like forever, no one says a word.
The kid snaps everyone back to reality. He takes a big slurp on the snow cone and chews on it for a second. Then he points at me and says, "Who's THIS guy, mom?”
Saturday, April 1, 2000
Thursday, April 1, 1999
Brother ***, Athletic Chair, said he pissed off the intramural department, so this year, we won't be having a softball team. Apparently *** mistook their bag of softballs for giant marshmallows and ate half of them.
Brother ******, Pledge Chair, said that the pledges who walked out of the University's "Greek 101" seminar would be going to Ronald McDonald house to do community service. Their first task is to fix the chair that Brother ****** sat in when he was over there.
Brother ****** wondered how brothers could sleep at night after signing the anti-hazing agreement and then considering hazing. Others wondered how ****** could sleep at night with Brother ****'s half-naked, Jello-riffic fatbody snoring hardly four feet away.
Brother ********* promised to "restrain his animal feelings" in the aftermath of his behavior at the previous night's mixer with Chi Omega.
Decrying the injustice of having to view pasty chicken legs, Brother ** introduced a motion denying Brother **** the right to ever wear shorts again.