we bought dinner at the liquor store

What say you we fix up some beer-braised brisket, but instead of using that frenchy monk Chimay crap, we git 'r Ameri-dun and slosh it with some Schlitz? Can I get a 'booya'?

And then let's slip into something a little more comfortable as the beast roasts... I know! How about a delectably intoxicating punch recipe created by Alexis Soyer during the Crimean War (c.1854-1856.) According to Florence Nightingale, Soydawg served up eats "of the most nutritious manner for great numbers of men," on the front lines of battle, and they freakin loved him for it.

Anddd apparently they liked to get silly-drunk as well, so he whipped up this ridiculous concoction for the fellers. I'd say after about 10 quarts of this crap (which includes 2 bottles of champy, a pint of henny, and a mess of rum) I'd be ready to take a whole mess of russkies myself--imperial, commie-bastard-- it's all the same with this juice what's now fit for an unfortunate ending to a frat party.

--> Read more...

trailer trash

Well, what better way to celebrate the release of a trailerpark-based canadian movie, than with a so-themed meal?

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, we thank you for the gifts of completely non-nutritious food-type products which you have bestowed upon our barren table. Tater tots so divinely crispylicious, stacked beside mounds of perfectly deep-fried chicken fingers.

Oh lordly Lord. And that pepperoni, spiced to perfection and placed with cheese and pickled jalapenos upon silver dollar-sized hamburglers ("sliders", dear Lord of bounty, as your infinite wisdom would confirm,) your omnipotence in this realm, among others, hits the biblical spot.

What could possibly punctuate such heavenish gastronomy, but a cool can of Old Milwaukee's finest pilsner brew. Thank you dear Lord, and though this feast may or may not cause me to die much sooner than you had intended, I can now surely do so as a happy man.

--> Read more...

everything's better with chocolate, batter, duck fat, nougat, etc.

Recently I pondered with a friend the milestones of aging. Our lives run in cycles, we unclichély decided. Our innocent and beautiful first bikes or kisses, are replaced by the blindingly pathetic first purchase of all black or white generic sneakers, which we then refer to as tennis shoes, and wear on the commute because they are more comfy.

So in futile efforts to retain our youth we engage in self-deceiving throwings of caution to the winds of time.
No need to wait for midlife to meet these crises; just grab a variety of candy bars from the corner store, mix up a floury batter while polishing off that six-pack of happiness, dip the bars, and start deep-fat frying those suckers in the bubbling duck fat that you just used to cook sixteen pounds of french-fried potatoes.

Yes, it may look like a regurgitated beefaroni, but it tastes something like heaven. I recommend a melty plop of snickers with some medium-rare skor bar and charred potato bits on top.

--> Read more...

for your consideration

the new section:
"Pathetic, or Slightly Less Than Pathetic? You Decide! But Really, I Decide."

This Week

Pathetic:
Aqua-Aerobics

Myopia

Newspaper cartoons that are based on TV cartoons

Snickerdoodles
A case of the dropsies

Slightly Less Than Pathetic:

Camping trips when you bring beer

Skunks

Reginald VelJohnson

Anger

Christmas

--> Read more...

beast river!

Yesterday I was at the job that I wish wasn't mine, and if you think I was bored, then you would be right. Well, I brought my newfangled digi-cam (what that I done got from sinter cloose,) so that I might have some photos for my upcoming Times article entitled "Extra! Extra! Why Asians Love to Have Their Wedding Photographs Taken at a Dirty Pier in Brooklyn: An Exposé, Report."


On any given day, Asians (Above, Above-right) can be observed taking weird wedding photographs. [James Irving/The New York Times]

So I'm clickin and clackin, oblivious to the call of my car parkage duties, when what should the karmatic sea gods bestow upon my supple face but a poorly-mixed cocktail of diluted sewage, industrial chemicals, and death. It came at me in a tremendous spray like that from a dying whale's blowhole--the East River, with its infinite power, had displayed for me its infinite grossness.


Actual photograph of actual spray that actually hit me in the face region of my body. [James Irving/Idiots]

Then, of course, I had to park a car, and then some line cook or something was in the crapper for-freakin-ever, so I had to walk around with eau de NYC's toilette all over my face for like 20 minutes.

To relieve the suspense, I finally washed my face and gave it a little spray with the bathroom's lemon-scented Lysol, for good measure. Then I got back to what I really wanted to do, which was take pictures of kitty.

Me-OW! Kitty looking frisky on the driveway.[James Irving/Cat Fancy]

--> Read more...

remember that time when i hate people?

Someone stole my newspaper.

--> Read more...

ode to neil nice

Once upon a time, there lived across the hall from us a man named Neil. To his friends and DJ-promoters, he was Neil Nice.

Last month he left, and with him went an unpredictable dose of hilarity that our Hopkins Street apartment didn't know that it had until it was gone.

Sure, his six-foot tall stack of DJ magazines is still in the hall, and of course we'll have the memories, which include his biweekly pass-out in bed with his door open to the building's hallway, so all of the upstairs families that walked by had to see his naked backside until his 2pm wake-up; and his arguments concerning the band UB40 being dope beyond the popularity their hit single Red, Red Wine, (during which he would use Red, Red Wine as the example of this dopeness.)

And even after the magazines are drunkenly pushed down the stairs by me (hopefully this weekend,) and we can't quite remember who it was that stumbled into our room at 6AM, wearing only boxer-briefs and a fitted baseball hat, and asking if we've seen his Blackberry; we'll always have this video of him in a typical outfit, trying to kill a bee with a mop:

--> Read more...

joue de jour

When I am bored I play games with myself in my strange, strange mind.

For example, my sister Walker and I were once on a city bus, and a portly gentleman sitting near us was eating a large bag of Funyun-esk chips that are sold on the street in my neighborhood. So I says to me, "Self, I bet you one Chocotaco-brand ice cream treat that this man will finish his bag of ghetto funyuns before we leave this bus." I won't tell you what happened, but let's just say I won the bet.


Anyhows, this is just a preface to my yesterday at work, which was so boring that I was forced to create such gaming to pass the tiempo.


Game #1:

See how long you can go without speaking with, or being spoken to by your co-valet with whom you share a very small vestibule and driveway space. Not to be antisocial or a jerk (and not that I'm not,) but simply for the truly challenging challenge. This involved a lot of walking away from him, and pretending to answer my cellphone when it looked like he was fixin to gab.

And the winner waaas: me, I'd say. The challenge went to the one hour and 45 minute mark, at which point my coworker made some remark about the day being slow, and my expression could not have been more heartbrokenish.



Game #2:

So you pull up a car for some jerk and he gives you four shiny quarters as a tip, and then asks you for directions to Long Island. You give him directions, though not of the most accurate variety. Then! You shuffle over to the group of 15 Scottish touristas milling about the driveway, and drop the quarters in a surreptitiously cacophonous manner. And then you sit back and see what happens.

The results: One lady said something like "Lad, you've dropped your..." which trailed-off as another gentleman in the group quickly knelt down and swooped the quarters into his Scotty pockets, before speeding away to apparently get another look at the other side of the parking lot.



I guess the true result of this nonsense was a less-boring day, which included a variety of other games like "Death Stare Until they Notice!" and "Packed Driveway: See how many cars you can park in the time it takes your slow-ass coworker to park one! (Results: four)."


And this all reminds me of mom's old cheerer-upper that she most likely copped from her mom, "Only boring people get bored, but I ordered a 15-piece brass band that will be here in an hour to entertain you." The moral of the story being that you just have to entertain yourself sometimes, even/especially if you're an idiot.

--> Read more...

bitchin!

Thanksgiving gave me a special break to be reminded of all the things I am blessed with. To list a few things I am lucky to have:

I have $20.

I have to work on Christmas.

I have a bale of debt.

I have to work on New Years, my birthday.

I have two hotdogs.

I have to quit my job.

Honestly, I know I sound pathetic and complainy. I suppose I have little to worry about, and at this age the brokeback bank account is still cute in the eyes of the world. In a few days I won't be so pohh, but for now it's cat food and tap water pour moi.

Alsoly, the job isn't half-shab, but my main hang-up is obviously it's holiday demands. I have the next two days until a two week notice would land me on the street on Christmas, so it's the time for decisions. Now accepting suggestions/other jobs.

--> Read more...

new low faux paux

I got markedly intoxicated over the three day Thanksgiving holiday period. Not for the entire time, but at certain points--and again, markedly. Also embarrassingly.



Though there were other moments of glory, to lazily sum this up in one anecdote: after about ten minutes of talking with a family friend and former babysitter, who I haven't seen since I was ten, I remarked that I recognize her so well, "because of all of the moles on [her] face." She sort of smiled and nodded. I got another drink.



The beauty of this comment was later increased when my sister informed me that the woman has had her major moles removed for cosmetic reasons.



Oh, if only I could liquefy and bottle these completely unnecessary, drunken comments to so-and-so's about their self-conscious such-and-suches; I would save them for a cold winter's night and then bathe in their sweet, self-respect deleting deliciousness.

--> Read more...

jingle jangle jingle

Today I had a sweet, sweet memory cross my mind. It was from a time in the not-so-distant past, though I am a world away from there right now. I'm not sure what made me think of it, but the memory was of me, at my last job, a paralegal at a law firm.

It lasted for about a week and a half. The crazy old clients, who called me incessantly about filling out one simple legal form or another, kept saying that my phone was broken. They would call and call and also call, but would barely ever get through to me. Aside from the complaining--typical of the old ones--the phenomenon also came to my attention because I was receiving an incredibly relaxing dearth of calls during the day.

All around me phones rang and pariahs legaled, but I just kicked it in the cube, filling out crossword puzzles which brought the simultaneous rewards of brain stimulationo, and an exorbitant/fully wasted $19 an hour.

As tech services usually only addresses problems that they are aware of, the phone troubles went unrepaired. My coworkers soon picked up on it, suggested fixing it numerous times, and sent me emails with tone that explained that they were receiving calls from my clients.

But it had allowed me to decend to a new level of slacking, and was truly a glorious gift.

In the end, the receptionist got hip to my flimflamery due to the repeated incidents of her imploring me, via loud-speaker, to pick up calls that she was unsuccessfully attempting to forward me. But you know what? It is better to have loafed and lost, than to never have had your soul dangled in front of your eyes for a fleeting second before it's recrushed by the job that you always dreamed of never having.

--> Read more...

oh how i flatter myself

So last night I was at work right? Yes, right. And among the comers and goers of patronage was a strangely-matched couple of diners. The man: in his late fifties, driving cherry Jaguar, weird. The gal: in her earlier twenties, wearing Sketchers, permed.

We spotted them after they had finished their dinner. They walked out the front door to explain to me and my colleague of carparkology that they were going to go take some pictures in the garden, and would come back to get their car in a few minutes.

At this point, I turned to my homie and said "So, do you think that's his daughter or his girlfriend?" Homie responded, "Jamie, I think that's his prostitute."

This was subtly confirmed by our observation of their photo-sesh in the garden. When most people do this, they have their picture taken standing together by asking the waitstaff or yours truly to photograf. In this case, the man was taking snap shots of the girl all alone. Furthermore, most people don't take pictures of their daughter, or even girlfriend, while she holds plant branches in suggestive positions over her chest, or posed with her backside to the camera while petting the restaurant's cat.

As weird as that was to witness, upon their return the chips of weirdness were really splashed on the pot. The suspected woman of the night came up to me first and said, while staring intently, "So, are you, like, American?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"Huh, that's so uncommon to find here."
"Uh, in America? I guess so."

Then I proceeded to try to get their keys out the key cabinet, asking her politely if she could move so I could do so. She did this weird sort of shifting weight and twisting her hair thing, and barely moved, so I was forced to awkwardly reach around her. Creepy. And lonstorshor, she proceed to try to talk to me before and after I retrieved the Jag, bringing the creep levels to new highs.

Feeling a need to vent about this bizarre incident, I text-messaged Pete: "Just got hit-on by a prostitute, what up wit you?" To which I received no response, until I awoke this morning and read a note he left for me that ended like this:

--> Read more...

holy ham grail

So get this, last night I get home from valeting [not sic] and what do I find in the fridge but a veritable stockpile of Taylor Ham. Pork roll that is...pink gold...jersey jambon...mmmmm.

Yes, it was purchased by Pete. And yes, the great quantity was due to Pete's valid fear that the Food Bazaar (our supermarket) might sell out of it, and fail to restock, as the Bazaar is a never-satisfying mistress.

Pete's excitement upon spotting the pork roll in the market's meat troughs was also pretty legit, as this rare delicacy is typically only found in New Jersey and the dingier regions of Pennsylvania.

At any rate, Pork roll, for the lay eater, is a delectable amalgamation of select portions of the lesser-edible scraps found on the floor of a pig butchery. It's a little like a bologna-sized hotdog, but less nutritious. Yea, and if you think about it, Taylor is a pretty progressive company, so they probably aren't all close-minded about which animals make it into the roll, or what the squares call "meat quality standards."

Though some would be put-off by such a description; on Pete's guarantee, one taste will have you hooked and buying such stockpiles for ages to come. Yum.

--> Read more...

valet is french for servant boy!

So my job is a delicate mixture of boredom, con-arts and crafts, and awkward interaction.

Of the first of this dynamic trio; we pretty much sit around the front door of the restaurant engaging in little activities to wile away time, such as, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, making fun of customers, discussing global economic policy, and figuring out new ways to quasi-con/manipulate the emotions of people who somehow can't figure out how to open car doors--all in a superbly self-esteem-depreciating effort to get dem, get dem billz.

Which brings us to the second act, les kick-backs.

Oh, you're a cab driver? Just trying to get some fares so you can feed the kids and get the old lady that new technicolor she's been screaming about? Well, before you can do that, you'll have to pony-up a fiver to one of the white boys with post-collegiate depression, obviously a result of their realization that their choice of college major (french literature, archeaology, political science, etc.) was a poor one, though they still gots them some real egos due to a bowtie-aided sense of entitlement.

Finally, the awkwardness of it all. Why do I deserve any money? Because social precepts dictate that my presence and snappy dress warrant compensation far greater in value than the worth of the actual tasks that I complete could deserve. Anyhoo, here's how it works paaaall: you give me the ticket, I get your keys. I run around the corner, and then out of sight, I walk to your car. I cram myself into your powerwheels-sized automobubbler and drive it at unsafe rates towards your stupid face, which is attached to a greasy hand that typically holds between one and five dollars, but usually two.

Oh, and it's ever so slick the way in which you slip your sweaty cash into my hand with that weird handshake thing. Everyone knows you're tipping me, why not just stick it in waist of my pressed black trousers and insinuate the calling of a spade a spade. And by spade I basically mean hooker.

--> Read more...

i got a job, or at least some things to take a job's place

Yesterday was one of muted glory in the life of jimbo. An internship started the day, and a job offer ended it. Internship was greatgrandwonderful, and how can a day go badly if a large chunk of it includes a model-casting for the mag's upcoming shoot on a sailboat (which I will also be attending.)

The interview for a 'reservationist' position at a restaurant in Brooklyn was next. I don't know what a reservationist is, but I was going to try to. I left the internship at 5:00, and MTA'ed it home to Brooklyn because I came to the realization that one doesn't often wear jeans to a job interview. Oh, the interview was at 6:00, and was a 15-minute drive away from the apt.

So I got to the apt at about 5:45, and reverse-supermanned-it into a suit and tie, jumped into the Wolwo, and off I was to DUMBO, Brooknahn. Shnazzy restaurant below the brook 'n bridge, and all that jazz. I sat down with the manager who looked at my resume and said "Well, you're definitely overqualified for the 'reservationist' position you're applying for, so I'd like to offer you a job parking cars at our valet stand."

After taking a moment to swallow this not-so-sequitur, and to remember the desperation with which I have been searching for any job, any job at all; I saaays, "I'll take it!"

He sweetened the deal by explaining that I'll be driving some "really fancy cars." I hope they are shiny with bright, fun colors, because I didn't work so hard to get my glorious car-parking qualifications for nothin.

--> Read more...

events of yesterday: a short play

Pavel,
I recently lost my license, but I might get a new one soon. Do you still need me to come tomorrow?
~Jamie


Voicemail Lady: "First Message, received Tuesday at 5:45AM-"
"Hey Pavel, it's Jamie. Sorry to call so early, I just wanted to reiterate that I do not have a license, so I cannot drive today. It just occurred to me this morning that maybe that's why you wanted me to come with you to get the trucks at 6:45 in the morning, but I'll be on my way anyway, so call if you don't need me. Thanks"


Doofus film-geek intern: "Yo Pavel, this kid can't drive."
Pavel: "What? Oh yeah, Jamie I got your message. Are you sure about that? Like, you don't think it would be ok?"
Jamie: "I'm sorry, I just don't think it's smart to drive a large moving truck across the George Washington Bridge at rush hour, and just hope I don't get pulled over."
Pavel: "Ok, well you can just drive the driver drop-off car back here, you won't get pulled over."
Jamie the wuss: "I really don't feel comfortable with this, but I guess I'll do it."


Cop walking beat on West 30th Street: "Sir! Yeah, you! Pull over right here!"
Jamie: "Oh crap."
Cop: "Sir, we observed you here in traffic on your cell phone. Give me you license and registration."
Jamie, breathing heavily, sweating: "Ok, I don't have those."
Cop: "What do you mean you don't have them? You don't have a license?"
Jamie, tears brimming: "No, I lost it. I didn't even want to drive, but these people I am interning for made me, and I was just talking to him on the phone about the parking spot he has for me on the next block. I'm really sorry."

Cop, angrier: "When was this you lost it? Why didn't you get a new one?"
Jamie, losing feeling in limbs: "Well I lost it, uh like two months ago, but then I thought my brother found it, but then [trails off in mumbles.]"
Cop, gettin' sassy: "So this is your passport? You just carry this around?"
Jamie, resigned to fate of paddy wagon: "Yea, I guess so."
Cop, trying to sound pissed-off and cover up his being Jesus reincarnate: "Listen, go to the DMV, it will take you five minutes. Get a temporary ID card. Now pullback and get the hell out of here."
Jamie, blown away: "Thank you..sir, uh offisker."


Pavel: "Yo! Where were you?"
Jamie: "I got pulled over."
Pavel: "Oh shit duuude. Why?"
Jamie: "Because I was talking to you on the phone. I should have been arrested."
Pavel: "Oh man....Ok well go get some quarters for the meter, then make copies of these keys and contracts, then have an awkward interaction in the elevator because one of the film's actors thinks you were checking out his girlfriend, and then put up no parking fliers for tomorrow's shoot, and then never come back to this unpaid internship again because the first day was horrible and all the people in the company are jerks to you."

--> Read more...

depression session

Astounded by the day's event. Let me indulge yas.

You see, I thought I was simply going to an interview for a job that I didn't think I would want, but sweet lord and taylor, was I in for a surprise. After this afternoon, I would rather shoot myself in the face than have that job, but let's just say it's not exactly an offer on the table.

Said table was a "round" one at which the interview, attended by seven applicants and one satan, would take place. The latter of these attendees was conducting the "interview" in the dining room of her 5th Ave apt.--situated on the eastern side of Central Park. Yea, puttin' on the ritz, but her apartment looked like it was decorated by a blind used-car salesman who buys his decor at rural canadian dentist's offices.

To make a traumatic and long story short, the thing lasted over three hours, and consisted mostly of the she-beast talking about her "amazing" life, handing out morsels of philosophy cleverly buried in poker metaphors, and providing me with a platform to humiliate myself.

To elaborate on that final point, early in the meetin' she insinuated that I was "bluffing"--something "not allowed at [her] table"--because I couldn't tell her exactly where a certain function of Microsoft Word was located on the program's toolbar, after telling her that I knew what the function was.

Variating on this theme of embarrassment, the glorious coda of the afternoon came in the final ten minutes when she asked if anyone spoke other languages. The guy to my right says, "I speak French fluently."

"Oh, great! Anyone else? Anyone? Really? No one?" quoth the devil.

I finally spoke up saying that I took French classes throughout most of my education, and have a good understanding of the langue, though I'm not conversationally fluent.

"Ok-" pointing at the two of us "-you two have a conversation in French."

Everyone there stared at me, and no matter what I said, she was set on us having a conversation. And after a feeble attempt at the challenge I said, "I'm really sorry, [laughing] I said I couldn't speak French like this." (then one of the more awkward silences of my life)

after which le lucifer a dit: "mmmhmm. I learned French before English, so I'm pretty hard to fool."

Of course I felt great about myself and my ability to get a job after being brought to this new lowly low by a woman with millions of dollars, but no sense of tact or taste. Oh, and did I mentions this whole thing lasted more than three hours?

Expect some more stories about drunken, poor decision making from this guy.

--> Read more...

nummers

I think today I'll share a couple of delicious recipes that Pete and I recently made in our kitchen, which also happens to be bitchin. It all started with an ingenious combo of two of america'smost favorite comestibles: beer and chicken. I know what you're thinking, and unfortunately, no, they haven't come up with some magical chicken-flavored beer yet; the technology just isn't there. But a close substitute while the scientists get their act together is what we made. Please see figure 1
fig. 1

Actually it's really easy: open beer. Shove beer up appropriate hole in chicken. Cook at tree-fity for a buck and a quarter, and then eat dat bird. Honestly the most succulent chicken I have ever tasted. That's right, succulent.
Inspired by this gastronomic ghetto-blaster, Pete remembered another obscure receipe, and quickly found the full details on a Coca-Cola website. He then proceeded to bake an entire ham in a giant pan of Coke, pineapple juice, cherry pie filling, and love. One might say, "Hell, that mixture sounds friggin awesome, even without the ham. Get me some fritos and let's go to town!" But no, when a ham is baked in this swirling pool of the dreams of small children, it turns into the most amazing thing you've tasted since your own tears of joy after watching oksana's long program routine in lillehammer.

--> Read more...

crate & boredom

This entry is written by Andy Chen, a 105-pound, 37 year-old Chinese man. He is also the person who has been my boss and coworker for the past two days at a Crate & Barrel warehouse in central New Jersey. Enjoy. ~Jamie

Heya, Andy here. I thought I'd give a little wrap-up of the work we have been doing the past two days. Basically, we were repairing about 170 large, circular mirrors that weigh about 40lbs a pop. This job consists of unwrapping, repairing, and then re-wrapping the mirrors. The same five-minute process, 170 times.

I am somewhat lacking in knowledge of the English language--and on the job I like to keep things simple-- so if I need Jamie to do something I usually just point and grunt. If he doesn't immediately understand that for example, the point n' grunt means I want him to go get the box-cutter, open a box, get more tape and screws, and then do a little tap dance; then I just grunt louder and point in a more forceful manner.

When it is absolutely necessary that I use words, I will do so, but in a special way. Like if I want Jamie to put three pieces of tape on the box labels, I will yell "two!" at his confused face, and when he doesn't realize that any numeral value between the numbers one and ten are referred to as "two!" then I will do something nasty like grab the tape gun out of his hand, put three pieces of tape on the labels, and yell "two!".

And even when Jamie makes mistakes that he somehow doesn't think I'll notice, (like driving a screw so hard into the mirror frame that it splits the wood irreparably,) I will make damn sure he knows that I noticed by making a very loud grunt and saying "big crack!"

Anyway, though he is a pretty lousy worker, his upbeat attitude toward the Sisyphean task of completing so many mirrors was impressive, and that's why I offered him a job as my assistant in a furniture warehouse in the middle of nowhere California. There he could do this kind of work everyday for the rest of his life for some paltry sum of dollaz per hour. Probly two.

All my love,

Andy

--> Read more...

are you saying "boo" or "Boo-ush?"

Well skip to my lou, this morning brought me another job interview, though I guess it wasn't really to get a job as much as it was to talk about the idea of what getting a job would be like. really productive stuff. Anyway, so I was en route to the rendezvous pointe, when whose intended path should I cross but that of good ol' git-r-dun Bush.

I know, totally. Here I was jaunting along like a yankee goddamn doodle dandy who has 20 minutes to walk all of two blocks, when slam went the police gates, and I was completely stuck staring at this jerk's shmancy hotel and his milliards of sunglassed security peeps.

So the buzzcut boys then told us it will only be a couple of minutes. Fine, I told myself, I have time to spare, and I guess I have never had the opportunity to personally make obscene gestures at the guy, though yelling at the teevee screen has been pretty fun in the past. Right, so thirty agonizing minutes later, and dumb ass Dubs still hadn't left the hotel, and they still wouldn't let us move. I was not pleased, and even less not sweaty.

And somehow I was only sort of amused by the assertion made by the crazy old homeless man standing behind me that Bush was "probly up there in his goddamn room watchin' goddamn reruns of classic episodes of Sportscenter." Of course, to this the faux-lice repeated the 'couple more minutes' line, which only made crazy old homeless man scream louder about the "really important delivery" he had to make on the next block.

I finally left and found that they started letting people cross the street on the next block, so I made it to my "interview" with negative 35 minutes to spare. It's entirely possible that there are more deserving fish to fry with this guy, but I am really considering writing him a letter about this inconsiderate behavior.
(His probable expression directed towards me from his prez suite windows. What a jerk.)

--> Read more...