Apr 27, 2001
Spring must really be here. Today I saw David Bowie ordering take out food in a pink suit. He had a bad dye job. Many people in New York do have bad dye jobs. My theory is that it's an attempt to make ourselves more vivid in all the chaos.
I promised myself not to work in an office again. I don't remember my first day at the Institute of Irish Studies, or Morrison and Foerester, or O'Keefe and Duffy, or Puffy and Stuffy, or Mackie and Wacky, or at Girth, Mirth & Worth, but I do remember my first day at the Fund. Because it was Tuesday, this Tuesday. And because it was sheer horror. Struggling with PCs that seem designed to obfuscate the task at hand; forced to call on the computer guy who looks like every prime suspect in every British murder mystery; bleeding like a stuck pig with cramps that remind me of Paradise Lost (the serpent gnawing on the bowels bit); editing Kafkaesque documents designed to improve health care in the US (did any of these people ever go to an Act Up demonstration, why not just have a revolution?). Something in the structure of this robber baron mansion, where the Fund is housed, makes every sound travel and retains every degree of heat. Hence no opportunity to make a decent personal phone call and rank arm pits by 5pm. Lunch is served in the basement but it's too reminiscent of boarding school so I bolt for the park and an overpriced sandwich. The blossoms are insults; lunch will end. Data imput eroding the nerve myelin and the imagination. I keep wondering about the others. Are they less miserable than I am for the eight hours that must be endured a day or just inured? What presumption on my part. I hope that I can keep on presuming that there is an alternative.
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Spring must really be here. Today I saw David Bowie ordering take out food in a pink suit. He had a bad dye job. Many people in New York do have bad dye jobs. My theory is that it's an attempt to make ourselves more vivid in all the chaos.
I promised myself not to work in an office again. I don't remember my first day at the Institute of Irish Studies, or Morrison and Foerester, or O'Keefe and Duffy, or Puffy and Stuffy, or Mackie and Wacky, or at Girth, Mirth & Worth, but I do remember my first day at the Fund. Because it was Tuesday, this Tuesday. And because it was sheer horror. Struggling with PCs that seem designed to obfuscate the task at hand; forced to call on the computer guy who looks like every prime suspect in every British murder mystery; bleeding like a stuck pig with cramps that remind me of Paradise Lost (the serpent gnawing on the bowels bit); editing Kafkaesque documents designed to improve health care in the US (did any of these people ever go to an Act Up demonstration, why not just have a revolution?). Something in the structure of this robber baron mansion, where the Fund is housed, makes every sound travel and retains every degree of heat. Hence no opportunity to make a decent personal phone call and rank arm pits by 5pm. Lunch is served in the basement but it's too reminiscent of boarding school so I bolt for the park and an overpriced sandwich. The blossoms are insults; lunch will end. Data imput eroding the nerve myelin and the imagination. I keep wondering about the others. Are they less miserable than I am for the eight hours that must be endured a day or just inured? What presumption on my part. I hope that I can keep on presuming that there is an alternative.
- rachael 4-28-2001 1:51 am