(In order to make navigating theme weeks a little easier, you can now jump straight to a particular day by clicking one of the links below. There's also a link at the bottom of each update that will take you to the next chronological entry. There are a lot of pictures on this page, so it may take a few extra moments to load.)
This is the scene outside my window today. The setup for the Alameda Wine & Art & Loud, Poorly-Dressed Rabble Faire began at roughly 6:00am Saturday morning. Luckily, I had to get up anyway to go to WORK. Yes, work on a Saturday. I don't really want to talk about it.
When I got home, I walked around the Fair (I refuse to add an 'e' to the end more than once), drank some beer, and entered two drawings for free cars (a VW Jetta and a Ford Explorer).
Some highlights from the Fair:
A lot of teenage girls walking around, a lot of women in their twenties and thirties dressed like teenage girls, and a lot of women in their forties and fifties dressed like women in their twenties and thirties dressed like teenage girls.
A lot of guys, mostly of the angry, tattooed, former-San-Quentin-resident variety, the kind of guys who look at me with a slightly quizzical expression, as if they're asking themselves "Why aren't I kicking this dork's ass right now?".
A lot of exposed flesh, of the non-enticing variety.
A band playing in front of a crowd consisting of one scrawny, dancing woman and twelve sunburned people sitting on a curb eating barbequed corn-on-the-cob.
That one tent run by that guy who sells his own paintings of lighthouses, that no one ever goes into, even by accident.
Forty-five heavily armed and obviously bored policemen, investigating the slight vandalism of a golf-cart.
People who mistakenly thought it was a Renaissance Festival (probably because of that damn extra 'e').
And, of course, there were children.
But, hey. I got to walk around outside with beer. I'll be back tomorrow.
Sorry there was no content yesterday. Wednesday night, when I normally write Thursday's crap, I decided that instead of working at my desk, I would work from my bed, under the covers, with the lights off, and my eyes closed.
Didn't get much accomplished.
But back to politics! Obviously, the Republicans are not in my favor. And the Democrats have had eight years to fix them damn potholes on my street! And have they? No! So, I think it's time for a change. Therefore, I'd like to nominate Fred Rogers, of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, for President of the United States of America.
There are a great many benefits in having Mr. Rogers becoming leader of the free world:
The long pause before the State of the Union Address while he changed his shoes and put that sweater on would give viewers ample time to make popcorn.
Should we ever go to war, it would be fun to watch General Schwartzkopf outline his latest battle tactics on "Picture-Picture".
Mr. McFeely, the postman, would make an excellent Vice-President. He's a goofball, he's not around much, and he seems genuinely afraid of Mr. Rogers.
Mr. Rogers' fleet of Ghost Trolleys would save taxpayers millions in bus-driver salaries.
King Friday: Puppet Dictator.
Separation of church and state? No problem. Despite the fact that he's an ordained minister, you never hear him carrying on about it, preferring instead to show us videotapes of "How People Make Peanut Butter".
Lady Elaine is less creepy than Janet Reno. Slightly.
Ghettos and slums could be leveled and replaced with small, clean, plastic neighborhoods.
Affairs with interns don't count if they are conducted in the "Land of Make-Believe".
Henrietta Pussycat is damn annoying. Okay, that's not a reason for electing Mr. Rogers president, but it had to be said.
Hail to the Chief replaced with, well, you know.
Mr. Rogers believes that Social Security can be put on secure financial footing for at least the next half-century, without risking its benefits, by dedicating the entire Social Security surplus - a total of $2.2 trillion over the next 10 years - to the Social Security Trust Fund.
He makes us feel special.
But most of all:
Next week: Back to temping stuff! The change of pace has been nice, but we here at Not My Desk are bursting with new ideas to help temps pass the time. Starting Monday, we'll answer some e-mail, check out a movie review, learn about a great new game everyone can play, and explore the mystery of forgotten Post-it Notes!
Jesus. I've got to get a life.
Well, great. First thing I find out upon getting to work this morning is that Gerald Ford had not one, but two strokes over the past 24 hours. Meanwhile, here sits my website, mocking the old codger, suggesting that his expressions of distress during the Republican National Convention revolve in some way around the fact that he can't get into Nancy Reagan's pantsuit.
There I was, making my first foray into the arena of political satire, to join the ranks of John Trumbull, Gary Trudeau, Will Durst, and the Capitol Steps, and I was immediately thwarted Gerald Ford's ailing health. According to CNN, Ford is in good shape, but the fun, in my mind anyway, has been dampened.
Anyway, I'm canceling tomorrow's feature, which included more subtle political humor such as pictures of George W. Bush with a word balloon coming out of his mouth saying "I'm a big doody-head!".
Man. That would have been great.
Family values, my ass.
The Republican National Convention is just an excuse for a bunch of old politicians to engage in an unholy orgy of wrinkled flesh and wife-swapping.
Don't believe me?
Just check out the Associated Press photos below.
"Nancy, my wife and I have an understanding..."
"It's true, Nancy dear. We have an understanding."
"Oh, God, I wish Betty and I had an understanding."
"Nancy! I took them all at once! They work faster that way!"
"Oh, Nancy. Sigh. If only Betty and I had an understanding..."
"Nancy, my husband and I have an understanding..."
"Eh. He was so-so."
"NANCY! I WANT YOU!"
"Now, Ger, I know you're disappointed. But I'm just not into that scene, dear."
"Gah! Stop! I can't watch this!"
"Eh. Not much better the second time."
"Ah, screw Nancy. Liddy! Hey, Liddy!"
I really have to start carrying my digital camera around with me. At all times.
I saw this guy in the post office today who had tucked his shirt into his underwear. Now, we all learn as children that you should never, ever tuck your shirt into your underwear because it causes your underwear to ride up above the waistband of your pants. We become aware of this when, usually during recess in grade school, someone comes up behind us, takes a handful of underwear, and yanks it up over our heads. It's called a wedgie, it hurts like hell, and, according to some research I did tonight, it's been around for some time.
Wedgies date back as far as the Egyptians, I found, as is evident in cave paintings and hieroglyphics. Word has it, Michelangelo gave Pope Paul III a wedgie, and Henry gave one to Richard III during the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. Upon the arrest of Alvin Karpis in 1936, J. Edgar Hoover hiked Karpis's boxers up to the nape of his neck. Baseball greats Ty Cobb and Pete Rose were also notorious for relocating teammates' underpants a few feet north. So we see what a rich tapestry of pain and humiliation wedgies have had throughout history.
Back to the post office: this guy's underwear was already halfway up his back. I stood behind him for about two minutes before my hand began to shake. I almost had to leave the line. The impulse to give him a power-wedgie was nearly irresistible, and I think the only thing that stopped me was the realization that Charles Darwin was horribly wrong about this so-called "theory of evolution".
According to Darwin's theory, someone like this guy should never have survived this long. Here he was, in his forties, his underwear just begging to be wedgied into next week. And a wedgie is something not soon forgotten, so I am to assume that this guy made it through childhood without ever knowing the searing pain of having his underwear suddenly jerked to his shoulder blades. If Darwin's "natural selection" was true, then the chances of this guy never getting an ass-full of elastic would have to be astronomical.
Speaking of high odds, however, you may think that I should concede a point for Darwin here. After all, the chances of anyone who walks around showing off a yard of underwear ever getting a date are about nil. Therefore, you might say, they will probably never reproduce, which means that the amount of wedgie-prone children will dwindle, and finally, hopefully, disappear.
Wrong, due to the advent of artificial insemination. Undie Man here could walk right into a sperm bank, step right out of those huge, white briefs, and make a donation that the bank would file under Princeton Graduate or Pulitzer Prize Winner. Bingo. The shirt-tucked-into-underwear gene is passed on.
But that's neither here nor there, because I spotted a wedding band on this guy's hand.
In fact, I began to doubt just about everything Darwin came up with as I stood there in the post office. Evolution? What a joke. Darwin said that mankind evolved from "lower" forms of life, such as apes. We know this is not true for two reasons.
First of all, we're still apes. I know this because, now in my late twenties, I am still growing hair, most recently in such places as my left shoulder and on my ears. On my EARS for God's sake. By age fifty I'll be nothing but hair.
The other reason we know that this evolution thing is just silly is that it doesn't make any sense. If we evolved from apes, then we used to be apes, right? And we all know that apes are incredibly strong, agile, potentially ferocious things. What the hell reason is there to evolve? And how did we survive if we did?
Evolving into humans meant giving up important means of defense and survival, such as amazing strength, layers of muscle, thick hair (well, some of it anyway), those huge fangs, and the ability to throw our own feces without becoming incredibly nauseous. And we abandoned all that? What sort of defense did that leave us against the rest of nature? How could we have survived?
There is one theory I can think of: man's natural defense of looking absolutely ridiculous when naked. I figure if a lion or alligator lunged out of the bushes, the sight of a naked man would give it pause in the manner of uncontrollable spasms of laughter. I have experienced this firsthand, though not from, ahem, alligators. At any rate, this one defense mechanism would not allow man to survive for long, and therefore, falls short of a complete theory.
It is still, however, a sore point with me.
Two final notes:
Just to reiterate, this week at Not My Desk will be temp-free. No temping content, nothing about jobs or bosses or agents or co-workers. After all, we're temps. We temp all day, we don't need to come home at night and read (or write) about temping, do we? We don't get paid vacations or even holiday pay, but gosh darn it, we're going to take a well-deserved break anyway.
Besides, I'm completely out of temp stuff.
A couple of months ago, I decided that I needed to start thinking about the fact that I should begin preparations for implementing a plan to start organizing a strategy for getting into shape. Someday.
That day is still far off, thanks to a great deal of procrastination and the good folks at Gamespy, who make it easy for me to find online games where I can run around killing people for hours while only having to worry about wearing out my mouse.
Still, something needs to be done about this shoddy, fragile vessel I call a body. So, one night I decided to go for a jog.
To sum up the experience: Ow.
For some elaboration, click here.
Don't forget to check in on my efforts to win a car. I've entered two more car give-aways, bringing the total up to five. You can check my progress here.
You know, one of the weirdest things about temping is... uh...
So, the other day, there was this guy at work, who... um...
So, the desk you sit at isn't really... it's... it's not...
Is anyone out there really sick of reading about temping?
Because we here at Not My Desk are really sick of writing about it.
This week, no temping stuff. None. Five days of non temp-related content. After all, neglecting duties is half of what being a temp is all about.
This website may appear to be poorly designed when viewed through certain browsers, such as Microsoft Internet Explorer, Netscape Navigator, Mozilla, Lynx, WebExplorer, Spry, Spyglass, Links, w3m, Chimera, Opera, Cyberdog, and Mosaic. To improve the appearance of this site, try covering your eyes.