Coworker, having returned from lunch: Well you missed out on a lot of good times. And I hope you're happy.
Me: Wow, I think I might cry. Why today of all days, did I stay behind. Why?
Coworker: Because you're selfish. Pretty much that's why.
Me: Oh, that must be it. Glad you clarified.
Coworker: Good, at least we're on the same page.
8.31.2006
explains so much
8.21.2006
here a bag, there a bag, everywhere a tool bag
I'm going to assert my femininity here for a second and use this blog as a platform of sartorial discussion.
Always on the market for a good bag, I discovered a little bit of purse nirvana in the form of canvas and leather. Klein Tools, the go-to place for monkey wrenches, hammers, screwdrivers and the like, also offers totes of all shapes and sizes to carry such manly accessories in.
Too bad the bags are cuter than anything at Target right now. Using a tool bag as a carryall? Sounds like a fine idea to me. Check out www.kleintools.com for a full selection.
Leather Tote Bag
12" Canvas Tool Bag
18" Deluxe Leather Bag
8.17.2006
summer reading list II
last summer I went on a voracious book-reading binge, and posted a list of my summer readings. This summer is no different...here's the list, two asterisks for books I've finished, one for books I've almost finished, and none for books I want to read but haven't yet.
"Errands" Judith Guest**
"Generation X" Douglas Coupland**
"In Our Time" Ernest Hemingway**
"On the Road" Jack Kerouac*
(Those were all from last summer, and I finally finished them this summer. Except for "On the Road," which I'm almost finished with. But not quite.)
"Killing Yourself to Live" Chuck Klosterman**
"America" Jean Baudrillard**
"Fargo Rock City" Chuck Klosterman
"JPod" Douglas Coupland**
"Life After God" Douglas Coupland**
"Polaroids From the Dead" Douglas Coupland** (I read this last summer, but I read it again this summer, so...it counts, right?)
I think I need to expand my authorial repertoire. Does anyone have any suggestions?
at the end of it all
Twenty-seven times I drove past the bridge last summer. Only once did I drive across it.
It always appears out of thin air where the 134 Freeway teeters on the edge of the foothills and flanks the declivitous upturned skirt of the valley. The patchy neighborhoods below disappear and in their place the bridge reveals itself from the murky depths, ever-elusive Nessie arches and plunging slopes. Its architecture stands in marked departure from the area surrounding it--all planes and graphs and computer-generated arteries that bleed messily into other freeways, other cities, other geometric equations.
But this bridge recedes into the smudged bruise-colored landscape, the graceful curve of a woman's collarbone, traced between erect shoulders and choked in a shimmering strand of incandescent bulbs. There are never any cars along its mysterious path, no evidence that human hands ever touched its stone infrastructure. Oftentimes I wondered if it truly existed; a fractal filament, a glitch in the system of time and atrophy.
It was near the end of August, and the day had unfolded with exacting vapidity, sun up to sun down, each passing hour as flat and predictable as the one before it. Traffic was humming along, the expressionless masses hurtling toward a similar conclusion; dinner at eight in the suburbs. The voices of rubber against cement offered little to the conversation but a banal cacophony to augment the collective subconscious. I wanted silence.
Veering sharply to the right, I exited the party with hardly a wave goodbye. Trusting only my instincts (an unpredictable mate, at best), I followed the path of the road through stop lights and intersections and past gas stations and houses until they dissolved with a shush. I was alone on the bridge now, wading through the breathing darkness that surrounded me from all sides. I hurtled through the cosmos, hearing nothing--not even the sound of my tires against the pavement--just the blanketed sigh of early evening. Every fifteen feet a new moon rose and and set, its' light matched only by the glow of instruments on my dashboard. If there really were a glitch in the fabric of time, I had plaited myself into its continuous pull.
Soon the summer would be over. Soon Fall would come and the leaves would turn brown. Soon I would meet the 134 freeway again and conclude the conversation I started on my way home. But for the time being, the waning days of summer would last forever on the worn pavement of that bridge.
Here's a mix for the end of summer, for the Last Days, for the times when the day has played itself out on repeat and you feel yourself on the cusp of change.
It always appears out of thin air where the 134 Freeway teeters on the edge of the foothills and flanks the declivitous upturned skirt of the valley. The patchy neighborhoods below disappear and in their place the bridge reveals itself from the murky depths, ever-elusive Nessie arches and plunging slopes. Its architecture stands in marked departure from the area surrounding it--all planes and graphs and computer-generated arteries that bleed messily into other freeways, other cities, other geometric equations.
But this bridge recedes into the smudged bruise-colored landscape, the graceful curve of a woman's collarbone, traced between erect shoulders and choked in a shimmering strand of incandescent bulbs. There are never any cars along its mysterious path, no evidence that human hands ever touched its stone infrastructure. Oftentimes I wondered if it truly existed; a fractal filament, a glitch in the system of time and atrophy.
It was near the end of August, and the day had unfolded with exacting vapidity, sun up to sun down, each passing hour as flat and predictable as the one before it. Traffic was humming along, the expressionless masses hurtling toward a similar conclusion; dinner at eight in the suburbs. The voices of rubber against cement offered little to the conversation but a banal cacophony to augment the collective subconscious. I wanted silence.
Veering sharply to the right, I exited the party with hardly a wave goodbye. Trusting only my instincts (an unpredictable mate, at best), I followed the path of the road through stop lights and intersections and past gas stations and houses until they dissolved with a shush. I was alone on the bridge now, wading through the breathing darkness that surrounded me from all sides. I hurtled through the cosmos, hearing nothing--not even the sound of my tires against the pavement--just the blanketed sigh of early evening. Every fifteen feet a new moon rose and and set, its' light matched only by the glow of instruments on my dashboard. If there really were a glitch in the fabric of time, I had plaited myself into its continuous pull.
Soon the summer would be over. Soon Fall would come and the leaves would turn brown. Soon I would meet the 134 freeway again and conclude the conversation I started on my way home. But for the time being, the waning days of summer would last forever on the worn pavement of that bridge.
Here's a mix for the end of summer, for the Last Days, for the times when the day has played itself out on repeat and you feel yourself on the cusp of change.
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