sic transit gloria.

"is that Latin?"

Friday, February 17, 2006

"what are the units


that make up IP addresses called again?" my dad asks my brother as he layers shredded chicken and guacamole into a flour tortilla.

"an octet. isn't this your area of expertise?"

ignoring the jab, my dad turns to me--the computard, the son who as a kid never gave a crap about how the stupid machine worked save for installing games and typing book reports. "did you know that behind every web address there's really an IP address, which is really a bunch of numbers?"

i ignore the question and instead think about how my dad, a hot-tempered computer programmer for farmers insurance, ended up with my mom, a hypochondriatic beverly hills accountant who does christiane kubrick's taxes, and furthermore, how there are seventeen (i counted) places i'd rather be than having dinner with them at home on their 29th wedding anniversary.

just two days before i listened to richard bausch read his story "letter to the lady of the house" which was made all the more pointed by the gravelly and wistful texture of his voice. the story is about that old married couple we all know or have at least seen on tv, whose relationship has slowly and painfully deteriorated over the decades to a point where every dinnertime conversation becomes an argument that ends with her going to bed early and him drinking. long story short he writes his wife a letter while she's sleeping saying that all the years of misery have all been worth it for those rare moments of happiness. or something like that. i'd like to buy that, i really would, but am not so sure if i do.

i watch my mom and dad eat in silence and imagine all the things that they don't say to each other, my faith in the institution of marriage now as strong as my faith in the war on terror, or intelligent design. or that bitch hottie on flavor of love.

Monday, February 06, 2006

if there's one thing i hate more


than chronic complainers, it's chronic workplace complainers who spend every breath bitching to you (and only you, it seems) about stupidly insignificant aspects of the job and make sure that there's no room in your head for any doubt that they'd rather be elsewhere. at every job i've ever had there's always that one person who takes every opportunity to mention how much more they were paid or how much longer their lunch break was or how much more effective the management was at their old place of employment. WELL IF THIS PLACE IS SO GODAWFUL,...oh nevermind.

exhibit a: "oh my god, it took me almost an hour to get here. why should i spend an hour of every morning in bumper to bumper traffic on the 101 to get here? it's just not fair. and by the time we clock out it takes even longer to get home. no one should ever have to experience that. so what i did was put in my two weeks notice and found a job in sherman oaks. nice knowin ya."

first of all, poor you.

you know why there's so much fucking traffic in the morning? because most people in this city don't work near enough to their homes to walk, bike, or take side streets. urban sprawl at its finest. just as missing persons' dale bozzio so matter of factly puts it, "nobody walks in LA." one hour drives in the morning are not uncommon. like the thousands of others who trek across town daily to make a buck, via any combination of the 405, 110, 5, sepulveda, mullholand, sunset, or whatever, you simply must deal with it.

secondly, why did you just relocate from hollywood to encino, only to complain about the morning drive back to hollywood? i understand the appeal of the oh so tidy suburbs--and that as a child vacationing in europe you've grown accustomed to "the crystal clear waters of the black sea," and that the (brownish) blue pacific will never do--but now you're many traffic-induced headaches away from not only work, but most every other part of town that's worth a damn. i know traffic sucks, but sister, moving to the valley only makes this fact more real and painful.

ugh. wait a minute.


i claim to have a low tolerance for complainers, but look at me whine poetic, and relentless, about whiners. as much as i'm making you out to be a chatterbox with a neverending supply of beef, you're really not. you're more the crazy person against whom i measure how well-adjusted and composed i supposedly am. i'm sure you're a pretty cool person when you're not bellyaching about traffic or how the boss can be a sadistic, micromanaging automaton. believe it or not, you will be missed. i too have my share of gripes, but i've found that sometimes it's best to keep them to yourself. or blog about them, for fucksake.