At some point today, a (remarkably detailed) digital wristwatch might read: 12:34:56.7 8/9/10. This might be less exciting for the purist than last year on July 8th, when the same exhaustively informative wristwatch would have read: 12:34:56 7/8/[0]9.
This has nothing to do with anything, but I have observed that the maintenance manager of the building where I work habitually takes and makes important-sounding work calls while seated in the toilet stall of the men’s room. What’s more, he seems to make no secret, for the benefit of those he’s speaking to, of occupying that space. Today he entered the men’s room already in conversation, went into the stall, apparently did not like what he saw, and gave the toilet a preliminary flush, all while keeping up a conversation about whatever thing had to be done to maintain the building.
It reminded me of this interview that the AV Club did with ex-Dead Kennedys singer Jello Biafra, in which it turns out, right at the tail end of the interview, that he’d been speaking from the same general location as the office manager. And, moreover, he was kind of proud of it.
Following, inevitably, off this post and its naive tone of finality, I and every other media outlet was duped by the Brett Favre retirement announcement. It doesn’t take heavy psycho- or media analysis to figure out why: when a good friend says she might leave your party, you inveigle, cajole, persuade her to stay just a little longer; when a jerk says he may leave, you slap your thighs, stand up, and say it was great to see him and here’s his coat. Re: Brett Favre’s retirement, this classic dorm-room poster said it best.
If someone with no interest or background in American sports, and professional football specifically, were to read this, he or she would quite reasonably wonder, whither all the bitterness and schadenfreude? It’s one of those deals where the answer is long and convoluted, if you wanted to really convey the worst of this affair, which—for my money—is the long, drawn-out nature of it; it’s not only lasted through the entire off-season, it’s happened the last three+ seasons.
Now, just in time, there’s an interactive graph that illustrates the absurdity. Via Slate, three years worth of waffling
Not to be confused with Trout Fishing in America. Scandal rocks the bass fishing community.
The new Arcade Fire album, The Suburbs, is really awesome. I would recommend it. Tonight they’re doing some kind of webcast of their concert at Madison Square Garden, directed by Terry Gilliam. If it proves to be anything like an Arcade Fire show it will probably be pretty excellent. (I have seen them four times, a personal record, and for good reason. The first time I saw them, they went on second (in a bill of four bands) and are still the only opening band I’ve seen (or heard of) to have the audience call for an encore. Their Philadelphia legend was made even before Funeral was released.)
Let’s just hope this is the end of it. (Yeah, I know it won’t be.)
More to come later (including an off-color joke about the weather), but for now, a song that has been at once rocking me and convulsing me with laughter.
Today marks one year since I started my job. The time last summer that I spent unemployed recedes further into the past. My memory of that time, accordingly, gets rosier and brighter. Good thing this blog is still out there, reminding me of what a boring time that actually was. (Actually I notice I had a recurring tag, “Boredom,” that appeared in a lot of posts.) I played a lot of Tecmo Super Bowl in those days.
I usually let anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, etc. pass without too much reflection (because I like to do my reflecting when I want to, not when some fat cat tells me to), but on this one I’m struck by how fortunate I am to have a job. Straight up.
Coming upon this post from that other blog, I’m reminded what an odyssey it was to temp and to look for a permanent job (and to try to do things like write and have a post-MFA social life afterwards). Work is not inherently fun, but stability is nice. And this is all without reference to the economic crisis or the current shortage of jobs; considering how many qualified and over-qualified people can’t find work only compounds my sense of being incredibly fortunate. (It might make me double-super lucky that I wasn’t looking too hard for work when I got this job; one of my old co-workers opted to go to law school and my former bosses thought of me.) Anyway, I suppose this note is along the lines of the ads I used to see in the classifieds section of the Philadelphia Inquirer, thanking various saints (I think St. Jude is the default saint, but what do I know) for gifts received.
I resisted, but I’d have to say I’m now a huge fan. (Also: a huge nerd.)
I had not heard about this. But now I have. Excellent article in Esquire about a guy who guessed the Showcase Showdown perfectly on The Price Is Right, and some of the fall-out. Don’t miss the video of Drew Carey giving the guy the good news through clenched teeth.
Adam Reger | Freelance Writer 
