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Wednesday, July 23, 2003
Who Stole My Fuckin’ Knickerbockers? I’m trying to tie up some loose ends here at work before I head out of town for our big sh-- . . . our 30 minutes of what passes for fame. So, if you happen to find yourself in the less-than-savory part of Atlanta that surrounds this club at around 10:30 tomorrow night, stop in and be dazz-- . . . half-awake. Given that I’m a bit busy, you get one of these fragmented posts you’ve come to know and love. --------------- Several years ago, when Latrell Spreewell choked coach P.J. while he was at Golden State, I thought, “Man, what a fuckin’ thug this guy is.” But then he was traded to the Knicks, and my early uneasiness was replaced by the thought that he was just misunderstood. And then I came to really like him and the rest of that misfit, underachieving basketball team. So now I’m reading that the Knicks are gonna trade him. I realize that he’s the only player with any value to other teams, but the guy’s the heart and soul of the Knicks. I mean, for fuck’s sake, the people of New York are going to wake up in a week and realize they’re buying tickets to see the Clippers! Has Spike Lee signed off on this deal? What the fuck? --------------- They fired someone in our office yesterday. Unlike my friend, who was “laid off” last November, this guy didn’t get any notice or severance. Uh-oh. --------------- We had a birthday lunch for someone today. In the large conference room, where yours truly likes to make socially inappropriate comments. Today, it was a bunch of the “admin” people . . . with the Regional V.P. Observe: (When discussing the benefits of having siestas at work, as they do in Spain): “Yeah, we could have them right after one of our staff meetings.” (When discussing birthday plans at The Melting Pot): “That’s where Michelle and I go to dinner when I get my bonus.” (When discussing a pair of G-Lo jeans from Beall’s, a gag gift for the birthday girl . . . in my best intercom/commercial voice): “Cut . . . for your ghetto booty.” I’m so getting fired now. And then I’m going to Hell. --------------- I got a my “Dirty Feet” mix CD in the mail a couple days ago from Jules. Looks like a pretty good mix. I haven’t finished my assessment of it. (Michelle came in as The Doors were on and asked, “What are you listening to?” I think she would’ve been more pleased if she had come in one song earlier and heard “Son of a Preacher Man.”) My July mix has been slow in coming together, as I was waiting to get back one of my CDs. I mean, I could’ve been naughty and downloaded the song, but I figured I’d be respectful of the band whose promo CD I bought used. Ehem. Anyway, I think I have the kinks worked out, so I’ll be gothin’ it up this weekend burning a handful of these muthas. They’re not going to be very popular with anyone who never had an affinity for lots of black clothing, hard/dark music, and/or strong vodka-based drinks (i.e., vodka with a splash of fruit juice). I’ll e-mail a few of you to offer options for mix CD exchanges. For anyone else who really wants one, there’s always the infamous quiz . . . coming next week. |