Friday, April 30, 2004

So what is Drone doing this weekend, you ask? Well:

* Going to the gym. Fun fun.

* Watching a Genene Garofalo comedy thing on HBO On-Demand that apparently refers to Starbucks and all its insanity in modern-day America.

* Hopefully folding previously-referred-to mountain of clean clothing from which I have been pulling outfits piecemeal for over a month.

* Hopefully extruding all dust bunnies from my apartment floor.

* Getting drunk tonight, one way or another. (M hm. A gripping life I do lead.)

* Hopefully accepting a job that somebody, ney ANYbody will be offering me. Gooh. Happy weekend, cub scouts.


Starbucks has also forced me to become an annoying multi-hyphenate coffee order person. Back in the day, I thought I was all high and mighty when I'd roll my eyes, hurry to the counter and say, 'Tall coffee, please.' Given some time, I've been fully indoctrinated into the Cult of Starbucksiosa. I now hang my head in shame as I approach the counter, look to my left and right, then whisper to the Consul of my local Chapter (after giving the official handshake), "Tall Sugar-free Vanilla Skim Latte, please." Ugh.


She's ba-ack

I cannot seem to find official scheduling evidence to corroborate my claim, but I am 100% certain of what I saw. I was watching this the other night (laugh if you must, but it's actually kind of funny... and what the hell else am I expected to watch before the horror show that is The Inferno?) when an on-air promo bleeped onto the screen. It was none other than Ms. You-needa House, I mean Yoanna House, saying how, 'My life has changed a lot since America's Next Top Model.'

I sat straight up in my bed (remote firmly planted in right hand), hurriedly increased the volume to 8 out of 10 bars, and listened closely. I'm pretty sure, but not 100% certain about this part, that the update-of-Yoanna's-life-as-ANTM airs May 11th. The overarching point is, I'm sure that there will be a program of this nature in the near future. Ooh the excitement of the B-rate LA fashion shows that she's been in and the spreads of Vogue, whoops I mean Jane, that her visage has graced. Should be A1 entertainment. Anyway, look out for it. Should be good for a few laughs, if nothing else.


I am deeply saddened by the recent burglarizing of Gina's abode. In the event that I find the slime-sucking bottom-feeder who took her stuff... I will force him to endure Chinese water torture followed by seamless and neverending airings of these. Michael Jackson has something for you, too. Life lessons learned? To recap:

(1) Never wear jeans of any kind to any interview (I still hate you, HR lady.);
(2) Close and lock your roof terrace abutting windows or else someone will jack you, and;
(3) Obtain Renter's Insurance (Yeeees, I'll get right on that. Right after I get around to folding that mountain of, now, wrinkly but clean laundry that's been sitting in my chair for about a month).


Thursday, April 29, 2004

* Why on Earth do I drink these for lunch sometimes? I must emphasize that I am NOT on the Atkin's Diet and summarily dismiss its healthfulness, but God help me. I drink these stupid delicious shakes quite often. Ugh. Today, while I was purchasing said vanilla deliciousness, some lone rogue was hooting and hollaring while handing out propoganda for this cause against my lovely lunchtime stop 'n shop. If I actually took the time to process what the anti-hoo-ha literature said, I'd probably agree with it. But you know what? Nyeh. [Insert ambivalent shoulder shrug here] It's close.

* Hooray! Gina and I are walkin' home from the coal mines together to bask in the awesome weather of NYC. Damnit, Gina. Stop flaunting these in front of me. You know I can't resist, but I have to, I tell you. I'm training for a damn Marathon. To my best knowledge, Marathoners do not huff and puff. Watch, I'll be the only 'runner' hacking up a lung... Nyeh.

* OMG. This article ("long story") is funny, if surprising I suppose. An argument between two Houses of Smoke, if you will. Who woulda thunk? Guess I got so hung up on smoking vs. not smoking that I precluded the possibility of infighting. Heh.


Set me free, why don't cha, babe?

Ah, bloody hell. I just got a phone call from our nice, yet pretty annoying, company accountant. As I've mentioned once before, he has a pension for calling everyone 'babe.' He's a guy, and so am I, so it's like a Hollywood talent agent 'Babe.' Hey, Babe. How's it shakin', babe? Gooh. Anyway, he's coming for HOURS today and will have to take over my computer to do his crap. I am going to be his 'babe' captive for that time. Save me. Please save me... babe.


Robo no read his email

Ah, schadenfreude of the best kind. So this morning a client sends me an urgent E-mail:

Dear [Drone],

Kindly inform status of [X, Y, Z]. It was requested on March 26, 2004.

Best Regards,
[Ms. Prettyniceladyconsideringallofmyotherclientsaregenerallyhandjobs]

Hm. Didn't sound familiar to me, and, after checking, I definitely didn't have an E-mail dated March 26, 2004 that had anything to do with X, Y, Z. I could already sniff the blunder at this point.

See, usually I am CC-ed on EVERY blessed E-mail that is sent to Robo. Why? Because even Robo's clients know that he's a lazy absent-minded professor AND they know that I am forced to read everything addressed to him (if they CC me) and that I will DO everything requested of him (again, if CC-ed, because I can only DO what it sent to me). In short, Robo just assumes that I do whatever someone asks of him if I'm CC-ed. And he's right. Ergo, I do every damn thing around here. Heh. But I refuse to wipe Robo's butt... well, aGAIN anyway.

To continue, I went into Robo's office and told him that I had received no such request on March 26, 2004. Had he received the request? 'Doesn't sound familiar to me at all,' says Robo. 'But I'll check.' Hm. Whoops-a-daisy. Look what Robo found in his Inbox on good ole' March 26, 2004:


Dear [Robo]:

Please proceed to [do this crap, right now.]

Please confirm that you will proceed accordingly.

[Ignorant fool]

What misfortune: Drone wasn't CC-ed. Two things, here. Robo probably never read this E-mail in the first place. Second, I wasn't CC-ed. (Damn, it feels good to be right.) So basically, Robo's been caught red-handed for ignoring an E-mail and doing nothing about it for more. than. a. month. Haha. So Robo reponds to the client:

[Ms. Prettyniceladyconsideringallofmyotherclientsaregenerallyhandjobs] , i apologize here. i did receive this request but [Drone] was not copied. i thought he had received the email [Yeah, right. 'Thought' nothing. You thought drooling was more fun than reading your damn E-mails, toolbox. Let's be honest.] and was proceeding with this. in the future please make sure that both [Drone] and i are copied on [X, Y, Z] requests. we will proceed with this on an urgent basis.

Ah, so that's that. My Robo moment of the day. Is it bad that I take such pleasure in his getting busted? Probably, but it makes me happy that I'm leaving soon. Oh yeah, and as for the job search, I'm hot on the trail and never saying die! More to follow, I'm sure.


Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Job Hunt Update (aka, Wearing jeans and getting crapped on...)

Hm, where do I start? How 'bout the beginning? Yesterday, circa 5:15 PM. I waltz into dream job interview numero dos. Feeling strong and confident, unable to contain my glee that they asked me back so quickly. I really blew 'em away the first go 'round, I supposed. Seemingly lovely HR woman (same HR woman from interview numero uno) meets and greets me. We proceed to her office before I meet with the actual person who will be interviewing me to work for him. She sits me down, closes the door, sits down in her chair, pauses, and states, "I'm going to ask you a question."

OK. [insert sincere smile here]

"Why are you wearing jeans to an interview?"

[insert knot in stomach here]

I explained to lovely HR woman, in not so few words, that it was a conscious decision on my part in order to project an image of creativity. (This job is one within a highly creative field in a creative, if not THE MOST creative, industry in the world.) I couldn't help but now feel utterly self-conscious. I reviewed my appearance in my mind. My hair was neatly groomed. I was clean-shaven. I was wearing a red Lacoste Polo neatly tucked into extremely dark blue jeans with a Ralph Lauren Polo belt, and was wearing a pair of black leather shoes.

OK. So then HR bitch, I mean lovely HR woman, explained to me that she "almost didn't invite [me] back because of what [I was] wearing the first time." (Please note: The first time around I was wearing a long-sleeved, collared dress shirt, tucked into the same pants [jeans] and was wearing the same shoes.) She continued by saying that she was so "blown away" by my "polished responses" to her interview questions, my "impeccable resume," and my interest in the position... but that all of that didn't seem to mesh with my manner of dress. She explained that in spite of my clothing, she wanted to invite me back and see what I would wear the second time around. And again I had worn jeans because, uhm, I had a great interview that led to another interview at the same effin' company. Guess I got kinda convinced that whatever I did the first time around was reasonably OK. But no. HR bitch, again I mean lovely HR woman, let me know that you should always wear business attire to an interview (i.e., business suit with tie). She condescendingly then inquired if my college career office had ever offered any seminars on interviewing and if I had skipped the one on proper dress. Wow. Needless to say, I did not say what I was thinking at this point.

Granted, that's just what I did when I interviewed for my current crap-blah-financial-boring job (i.e., dressed to the nines with nice silk tie and pomade-d hair). I guess I thought that my new attire was apropos for the creative world. Well, folks, I guessed wrong. Never. Never. NEVER. Wear jeans. At an interview. According to HR bitch. OK, fine. Got it.

I was pretty stunned. Basically I was having an out-of-body experience at this point. Why the HELL didn't this bitch inform me AFTER the first time and BEFORE the second that, in her opinion, dressing in jeans and Polo Ralph Lauren clothing is tantamount to bitch slapping your interviewer?! I have come to the conclusion that she was definitely testing me and most likely power-tripping to boot, because I have to believe that a normal person would let you know beforehand in this kind of situation. So anyway, there I was, in her office, feeling like I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. No time to run home and change. Just time enough to be shoved into the interviewing guy's office with all this crap rolling down my face. Oh, and she 'politely' mentioned (before said shoving), "I hope this doesn't leave you all shaken. Bye!" [insert phony ass power trippy smile here]

Needless to say, I felt like shit and didn't really have a stellar interview. The guy who interviewed me was nice enough, but he had his current hire sit in on the interview. I decided to bring up my manner of dress. Explain myself, apologize, make a joke out of it, and move on. Because HR bitch informed me that first interviewer had mentioned my jeans and that second interviewer would most certainly follow suit (no pun intended). So I had to get it out there and beat anyone to the punch, otherwise it would loom heavy and I would be thinking about it.

Interviewing guy pretty much laughed it off and said that some people dress up and some people dress down at the company. No big deal. OK. Right. Well, the threesome interview (interviewing guy, the girl that I would hope to replace, and shottily-dressed homeless chic little ole' Drone) was short and I exited the building feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

You know that feeling, after a reeeally bad first date, that you'll never again in your life see said bad date person again? Even though you say, 'I'll call you," or "We'll be in touch"? Yeah, that's pretty much how I felt. Interviewing guy ended with, "Well, thanks for coming in." Kiss of death, as far as I'm concerned.

But in all honesty, I can't really say he learned enough about me or got enough of a sense of me to in any way warrant offering me a full-time job. Oh well. Chalk one up to a life lesson learned. Lesson learned? No matter how cool, qualified, or articulate you may be, you must at all costs wear a Brooks Brothers suit to your interview in order to be perceived as serious or determined. Hooray!

Oh, and this morning, just when I recalled this movie and decided to adopt the film's never say die mentality, one of these did one of these to my new favorite, BLACK Member's Only Jacket. Eat... well... shit, pigeon. You too, lovely HR woman. Thanks for nothing.

The job hunt continues. Will someone please remind me to go to Brooks Brothers today?


Tuesday, April 27, 2004

And the award goes to... amazingly phat friend who sent me the following E-mail [Would help to mention that she spilled half a 20 oz. bottle of Diet Coke on the ole' work keyboard.]:





Confessions of a Drone's Mind

* So even though I'm a self-proclaimed vegetarian (Though I have to eat fish; sorry, waterbreathers.) health nut, I have been known to gorge on my favorite snack: yogurt and granola. I eat it every day and, when noone is watching to judge me, I eat an entire tub (or maybe even, dare I say it, TWO) of vanilla yogurt with my favorite granola, in one sitting. We're not talking the nice little 6 oz. cups either. Seriously, the 24 or 32 or whatever ginormous ounce portion the tubs are. I've done it in the past, I ate a whole one for breakfast this morning, and I'll definitely do it again. Phew. I feel so much better.

* I let Robo's phone calls go to voicemail when he's not here because I don't feel like taking a message. Nya nya. (I realize this is somewhat of a lame confession, but it's the best I can do right now. I'm sure I'll think of others. Haha. Phone's ringing right now. Voice. mail. Muahaha.)

* Thought of another one. I really don't like getting random Friendster messages from people trying to mack on me or whatever...... OK, I'm lying. I hate it when people I find unattractive send me said messages.


Summer must be nearing...

Not that I'd actually know it from being outside or anything, but the building air conditioning specialist/general fix-it/not-so-bright-but-really-friendly guy came into my office today to let me know he'd be making sure that the AC works for me. Cool. (No pun intended, heh.) But before that, he comes in and tells me that he'd be testing the AC and, I swear, that if I "see water pouring from the ceiling" I should "come running to tell him in the stairwell." Uhm. Water gushing from the ceiling? He said something about the pipes being closed all winter and that there might be a "bursting that can a-happen." Whatever you say. I'll keep an eye out for a waterfall in my office. Gooh. Could this job get any weirder? Oh yeah, and what the bejesus happened to Spring?


Dream Job Go 'Round #2

Oy. Wanted to post this earlier, but dumbass Robo has really been piling on the duties for Drone over here. It's like he's scared shitless that I'm leaving soon and wants to make sure I do as much as possible before I depart on said exodus. (Let my Drone go!) In other words, he wants me to do all the stuff that he doesn't (but unquestionably should) know how to do because he's been happy letting me do everything. And believe me, he should be scared shitless. I've basically been doing just about everything for this walking robot the past year. It's gotten to the point where I lack confidence in his ability to self-sufficiently make a photocopy. Enjoy figuring out the new FedEx software updates, Robo! What? You don't know how to use these? Well, at least you'll be set with how to note our invoices for tracking in case there is confusion. You don't know how to do that either?? For shame. Haha. Man, do I feel sorry for the poor schlub who gets my job. Oh well.

So below-referenced dream job actually did call me last night to say that one of the four job openings has been made available to outside candidates AND that they would like to interview Drone tonight for the post! Woo hoo. Is it possible that I might actually get upgraded from Drone to employee who actually enjoys what he does for a living? Hm. One can dream.


Monday, April 26, 2004

Hey, Duane Reade. If you're going to sell mini cans of tuna fish, you might wanna sell, gee, I dunno, can openers? (Please note: There was not one mini can with a lovely little pull-tab top. Therefore, I was imagining myself hurling a brick or some other blunt object at the tuna can to get it open.) This is a drug store that pretty much functions as a stop 'n shop for the Madison Avenue suits to buy their lunches. Much to my dismay, I am one of said suits. And even more to my dismay, what I really wanted for lunch was tuna fish. Alas, my office does not have a can opener, and the store doesn't sell one either. Therefore, my lunch is comprised of the world's sweetest coffee beverage (aka, aspartame with caffeine) and a protein bar. Mmm. Nothing like a well-balanced meal.


Job Update

Well, folks. My dream job was not to be. At least not this turn around the proverbial block of life. Like I said, I had a great interview with great people but, as I was recently informed, the company decided to hire someone internally. In other words, someone who already had a remarkably similar job within said company but decided to make a lateral move within the company.

I was told the position was down to him (the insider) and me (the outsider). Needless to say, "he" got it. (Bastard.) I was told that these things are pretty common (i.e., bureaucracies blow): The Company is already familiar with an internal employee's track record and knows that he can perform the type of work that needs to be done... Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. Anyway, they said they were "very impressed" with Drone and wanted to consider him for four jobs that also 'might' be available.

Here's what the 'might' means: I have to first hope and pray that the Company will open these positions to outsiders (like me). Then I'd have to interview for said jobs. THEN. I'd have to hope that I actually GET the jobs in question. Gooh. Oh well. Not holding my breath for those. So the search continues... My sole motivation is running away from Robo and his not-so-adorable-anymore "Absent Minded Professor"-like complete and utter stupidity and lack of organizational/managerial skills. Oh yeah, and actually liking what I do for a living.

Mm, food and smoking

More celebrity goodness for your palate. So Saturday night a friend and I went to Indochine for dinner. Damn. Suffice it to say that was the best meal I think I've ever had in my life. There was this dessert of sweetened banana, wrapped in sweet rice with a peanut and tapioca pudding-like sauce that basically made want to orgasm on the spot. Anyway, around the time that I was orgasming to said dessert, I noticed that somebody in a booth (sitting with about 5 or so other people) was blatantly and unabashedly smoking a cigarette. In case you didn't know, that's none to legal these days in NYC. Not that I really care all that much, but I was suprised that nobody was making a stink about it. Time goes by. Seriously. Nobody says a word. Then a female companion among this group starts puffing away too. Hm. Was there a law change of which I was unaware? Then it became all too clear. It was Mr. Sean Penn and Ms. Ellen Barkin blowing smoke amidst their hangers-on. Both were sans significant others and were happily partaking of the food and booze (and ciggies). Ah, to be a celebrity and get away with whatever you wanted. I realized after the fact that the whole scenario is a win-win for the restaurant. Say nothing to hot celebs: they like you for being cool. Get raided by the no-smoking Police and pay a fine: you get lots of publicity for being busted because two hot celebs were choosing your place to break the law (fodder for Page Six and the likes). Great. Now I'm hungry for another fatbomb dessert.

To the quasi-French lady who has the office next door:

Shut up. I dislike you. You bother me. Phew. Glad I got that off my chest. Take off your stupid Chanel wannabe glasses, remove your fire engine red lipstick, cover that nasty bleached blond monstrosity of a poof I'm sure you mistakenly call 'hair,' realize that you're 102 years old and, for Heaven's sake, leave me alone. Stop pulling me aside and asking, 'How are you darlink?' You make me shiver. And what exactly do you do next door in your Moulin Rouge-esque brothel-like freakhouse over there? I am frankly frightened while I am simultaneously amused with your Louis XIV era chairs and mirrors and by the fact that EVERYthing is either pink, red, or gold. When I was running to the corporate bathroom and ingored you (because I hate you, please recall), that is not how I usually act. That's just for you, darlink. I think you stopped me and said, hm, what was it, 'Good mooooornink. Don't you say good mooornink?!' No. To you? No. I don't really believe that you're French. I know that you run a whorehouse next door. So stop coming into our office for no reason, and stop insisting that I interact with you. You're creepy and snoopy and weird. Deal with it.


Friday, April 23, 2004

Revelation of the day...

I just realized that the President of the United States and Robo are strikingly similar in appearance. Weeeird.


* Open memo to Diane Keaton and Joe Pantoliano: Dress. like. you're. highly. paid. CELEBRITIES! Not retardo schlubs who have no friggin' taste. Or at the very least get a new stylist or whomever you have to pay to make you look halfway normal. And Joe, we know you're bald. So lose the hat(s). Oh man, I just had a crazy thought. What if these two started to date? (Looks like Joe just had the same thought.) Pitty the fool.

* It is NOT acceptable for a gi-noromous public city bus to completely, and I mean completely run a red light. I see this time and again and can't help but to laugh every time. We're not talking a blow through the yellow, here. Full on, the other light has turned green, pedestrians start to proceed, then THIS flies through the red light. A messenger on a bike? Sure. A speeding taxi? Maybe. Big-ass bus? Two words: flying (and) pedestrians.

* New trend? No, thanks. This whole Camp Beverly Hills crap is starting up and has all the trappings of Von Dutch. Just warning you to prepare yourself for the next LA-trend-comes-to-New-York storm. Gooh.

* Further to the above (see the link to Camp Beverly Crap): Please stop. Using the word Vintage. Just forever, even if it really is vinatge or whatever. No exceptions. That way we take care of it once and for all.


OO OO, Now me...

From my favorite pet rock... [via Callalillie]:

1. Grab the nearest book to you, turn to page 18, line 7. Read what it says:
"Nothing spells luxury like attention from one of the city's top concierges." [Does Gotham Magazine qualify as a book? It weighs precisely 1 pound 10.4 ounces, according to my Pitney Bowes scale. Yes, it's a book.]

2. Stretch out your left hand as far as you can. What do you touch first?
My little "PAID" stamp that I use to indicate that invoices have been... paid. [How unfortunately ironic that I touch this. I am now sad.]

3. What was the last thing you watched on tv?
The Simpsons.

4. Without looking, guess what time it is:

5. Look at the clock. What time is the actual time?

6. With the exception of the computer, what do you hear?
Street traffic from six floors below.

7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
10:30AM. I was having documents processed at the Brazilian Consulate. Hurray for waiting in line!

8. Before you did this survey, what were you looking at?
A magnificently beautiful seascape beyond an infinity-style swimming pool... please. Wudda you think?

9. What are you wearing?
Black 501 Levi's. Adidas Sambas. Electric Blue Lacoste Polo. Hurray for deconstructing the preconceived work attire decorum!

10. Did you dream last night?

11. When did you last laugh?
A few seconds ago. The impetus? See Question #2. [Still sad.]

12. What are on the walls in the room you are in?
Crappy art that I had nothing to do with choosing and lots of Post-Its and reminder E-mails.

13. See anything weird lately?
I was on the city streets of Manhattan a while ago. You do the math.

14. What do you think of this quiz?
Two thumbs up! Way up!!

15. What was the last film you saw?
Kill Bill, Volume 2.

16. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy first?
An apartment that Sean Combs is currently selling. Just so I can say I bought it from P. Diddy.

17. Tell me something about you that I don't know:
Kate Beckinsale is my half sister. Gotcha. Uhm, I hate people who whistle really "well" and do it in public places [Fifth Item].

18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
Eliminate the effect of calories on body fat. [Gina said this, but I concur.]

19. Do you like to dance?
Not dance, per se, but gyrate rather.

20. George W. Bush:

21. Imagine your first child is a girl. What do you name her?
Colette. Gisele. I dunno. [This is where I'd say the quiz goes a little flat. So maybe two not-so-way-up thumbs(!)]

22. Imagine your first child is a boy. What do you name him?
Boris Huntington III.


Damn you, ethics.

So Roboville often gets mail on behalf of the companies that it manages, and Drone is usually responsible for forwarding the mail to the appropriate recipients. Most of the time, this is boring crap like tax documents, certified letters...[yawn], solicitations... yeah. But yesterday. Yesterday, mail was received on behalf of a cool fashion company. A big box full of brand. spankin'. new. leather Cesare Paciotti Men's shoes. The kicker? They are all my size. What would it hurt if just ooooone pair wasn't forwarded? Who would know? I am leaving this poo-pie soon. Who would care? Then my Jiminy Cricket-like conscience intervenes. Blast it. Damn my parents for forcing me to watch Disney propoganda!


"Blow off the buttheads..."

This is purely blah blah blah and yet I read the whole thing in spite of (or perhaps merely because of) its stupidity. Also, I'm always trying to find out if there's a scientifically-backed, chemically-connected, futuristic Eureka answer to this age-old question. Guess it goes back to them Check Option Two for love folks (see below).


Thursday, April 22, 2004

As I've mentioned before, star sightings are an interesting benefit (depending on your p.o.v) to living in New York. The other day, wandering the streets aimlessly, I happened upon a crowd of hoo-has and flashing camera bulbs outside of a small theatre in Chelsea. A bunch of fawners and hangers-on were drooling all over the fashion designer Narciso Rodriguez and his "date," Brazilian actress Sonia Braga (you know, the lady with whom Samantha from Sex and the City was briefly a lesbian). Anyway, some dude right near me charged the pair with a disposable camera and asked if he could take their picture. They smiled and said sure. So I went right up to 'ole Narciso and said, Hola. Not really. I said 'Hi' (in, you know, English). Said I was a fan (ok, not a Fan, per se, but whatever). He was way cool; very nice. Ms. Braga was kinda biotchy though. Hah. Thought that was funny anyway. Oh yeah, also saw this model girl. Too in awe to say anything to her though. What's the connection with all these folks? Turns out, they're all Latin American and/or Brazilian. Wuddya know? The show was a presentation of Brazilian Dance for charity, called Dance Brazil. Fun distraction at the very least. Wish I'd had my resume with me. Psh.


Anytime I think that New York isn't the best, I take a look at First Coast Fugitives. Jacksonville, Florida is where I spent about seven years of my life (that I can sadly never recoup). Mullets, and Jaguars and Lil' Champs, oh my. That about sums it up. Ah. I heart New York.


Livin' the Dream

Well, I did it. Just had lunch with good 'ole Robo and officially gave him the word: Drone is givin' the over and out to Roboville. Woo hoo! Would like to say I'm scared, but I'm totally not. Drone intends to fully keep you abreast of the saga that is the search for employment. Awww, yeah.


I want it, I want it, I want it!

So yesterday I had an awesome interview for said dream (at least as a starting point) creative-industry jobamajig (thanks for the lingo, midwestgrrl). It's a huge, organized, professional place where the nature of the work would keep me interested and my boss would be effin' cool and fun to be around (let's just say that she and I spent about an hour talking Bush-bash politics; the remaining hour was about my interest in the job, etc. We finished the interview with her walking me out of the building and her smoking a cigarette and talking New York City. Come on. I mean. Yeah.). So what could be better than a boss that would indulge your hatred and smoke a cigarette with you every once in a while? No social anxiety disorder. No blatant stupidity. Ah. Imagine the possibilities.

No, but seriously. I really want this job. It would be like the winged chariot that I've been praying for to save me from Robo and my daily duties as buttwiper extraordinaire. True, I wouldn't be able to take nice long lunch breaks anymore. Sure, I wouldn't have my own office with a view. And no, the pay would not be as good. But I would. like. what. I'm. doing. That's the lesson I've learned: go with what you like, if you have that luxury. And luckily, I do.

Now, the paranoid schizo in me re-emerges thinking that they might call Robo and ask for a reference and that he might indicate that I'm not very passionate about my work (which is dead-on correctamundo). But he can't say I'm not good at it and proficient, damn it. Oh well. Time will tell. Anyway, hurray for a good interview and having restored faith that there actually are cool people hiring. Sigh.


Wednesday, April 21, 2004

F*** F***ity F*** F***

Gisele was nearby. Waaaa. Why can't I be one of the four guys escorting her?!

According to Gawker: "Sitting outside at Pastis [Drone: waaay overpriced bistro in meatpacking district] this evening I saw Giselle [Drone: It's one "L", moron. Get it right, foo'!] walk by accompanied by 4 guys. Surprisingly, another 700 weren't following Pied Piper-like behind."


Interchangeable photobooth person, here.

Sorry if it makes me boring or predictable, but I'd have to say that I'll take the first option mentioned in this delightfully naive reductionist article on love [Via Gina via Lindsayism]. In my experience, if it walks, talks, and does business like a punch in the throat: it's just that. As much as I love to lie on the ground writhing for air and groping for a hold on anything post karate chop to the Adam's Apple, I generally prefer the good movie on the couch or what have you.

My point is, there's a healthy medium. Just because you don't meet somebody that's not the most *contemptible human being* or *instantly wrong for you*, it doesn't mean they can't provide heart-stopping, meaningful, real love. My experience seems to indicate that the punch in the throat is merely indicative of other lovely palate-pleasers. While I love convincing myself that love has to be pain or that I can change or that the punch in the throat can change, it's all kiddy fun until somebody gets the 'ole punch in the gut. Punch in the throat folk, I wish YOU well (trust me, you'll need the well-wishing with all the turmoil you'll put your friends through), but I'll take the photobooth. Just my two cents.

Note: I probably say this because the last so-called punch in the throat was a wonderfully *dangerous*, *intriguing*, and *elusive* drug-user who was both a manic depressive and a pathological liar. At first it was cool. Until it wasn't. Now THAT'S some good lovin.'


Drone's Hunt For Employment: The Saga

I wasn't jonesin', folks. I really am quitting this poo-pie currently known as 'job.' I find myself thoroughly in the throws of searching for the next best thing and am looking forward to embarking on life's new journey. If life's new journey could have earning potential, room for promotion, benefits, half-way intelligent co-workers, or hell even quasi-interesting work, I'll be sittin' pretty. So I've been sending resumes flying out of my trusty 'ole Hotmail account like it's been, well, my job. Heh. I have an interview for what I deem to be the potential 'dream foot-in-the-door' job today after work. Fingers are firmly crossed.

Mm. Butter.

I cannot believe that I have managed to avoid relaying this funny until now. So, the setting: Drone and a damn cool chick in a phat bistro in France.

We order an amzing dinner: three courses with dessert, a bottle of red wine AND a pack of cigarettes (yup, they sold 'em and delivered 'em right to our table) all for practically nothing. But first, we got some lovely looking bread and some, ahem, cheese. Seriously. It was a rather packed plate of assorted cheeses, all cut into identical rhombus-like shapes. Cool chick tries one: 'Yum, good.' Drone put a whole rhombus in his mouth... 'Hm. Interesting flavor,' I said. 'Pretty creamy. Weird.'

Cool chick interjects just as Drone was swallowing the whole hunk of weirdness, 'Uhm. That was butter.' Those Frenchie bastards had hidden a pad of butter amidst all the cheese. Looked exactly the same as the rest and the rest were pieces. of. cheese. Butter it was, folks. Butter it was. I actually ate an entire rhombus of butter. Mm.


Eating lunch at your desk is such crap...

Damn it. Sometimes I just don't feel like braving the city streets of Manhattan for lunch, so I brown bag my own. Only problem is, as long as I'm at my desk I'm required to do work and am considered fair game for pestering. I can't shut the door to my office for fear Robo might think I'm doing something scandalous (plus, I like to keep my eye on him, else he were to trip and fall or something). If the phone rings, I have to answer it. And Robo, clearly aware that I'm eating a sandwich, hands me papers and asks me to do shit. So basically, my 'lunchtime' is more or less me scarfing down something while I experience the slight yet constant twinge of knowing that at any moment Robo could come in and ask me to do something. Guess I'll have to force myself to leave the office, cluching my brown bag so that I can escape Robo and his idiocy.


Anyone seen a 1996 Fruehauf tanker?

How the hIZell do you lose track of a friggin' tanker?? Way to be stealthy, boys. Ugh.


Tuesday, April 20, 2004

You can give 'em to the birds and bees...

Finally some good news. Sort of. Two days ago, I received a gi-normous refund check from the New York State Department of Taxation and Finance. When I say gi-normous, I mean it could pay most of my rent for a month. Anyway, the paranoid schizo in me recalls an Ellen episode (yooou remember, Ellen DeGeneres's comedic series before she came out and was Ms. Gay of the Millenium)... anyway, an Ellen episode where Ellen received a similar check, asked all her friends what she should do with the check, then donated it to a children's charity. Not done yet. Then the government informed Ellen that they had made a mistake in her favor and that she had to return the money immediately in order to avoid prosecution, additional fines, or even jail. Per the above link:

"Ellen feels like an angel when she donates her tax refund to charity. But she has a devil of a time recouping the cash when Uncle Sam demands it back."

Hah. (For the benefit of those infidels that didn't catch this episode, Ellen tried to get the money back from the Children's Charity [imagine the hilarity that ensued] but ultimately decided she'd pay out of her pocket to reimburse the Government.) Well, this drone can't be paying any mula out of pocket. I'm pretty sure that I did my taxes correctly and all. Just to be safe, I think I'll hold onto the check for a while. If noone comes knocking on my door, THEN I'll cash it and pay for that booze and candy. I mean booze and candy. I mean booze and clothes. I mean, er... give it to charity.



My sincerest apologies for not being very blogger-ific as of late. Days in the life of this drone have been extremely tumultuous. After much headache and contemplation, I have at last decided to quit my current craptastic job. My boss is a blithering moron with whom I am forced to interact and for whom I am required to wipe butt each and every day. Aside from the fact that my pay is seriously and laughably unreasonable with respect to the amount of duties for which I am held accountable, the company that little 'ole drone works for is often likened (by me) to a sinking ship. I'd rather not go down with Leo, if you know what I mean. So I'm on the hunt for a better post. As my friends so kindly remind me, 'most jobs kinda suck.' While that may be true, I'm (at the very least) searching for a job that doesn't totally suck. Hm. Anywho, just more trials and tribulations. Cross your fingers that I get that elusive $70,000 with benefit assistant job for a cool movie producer. Riiight.


Thursday, April 15, 2004

Uggs and Ugh's

*From Via: [Friend of Via and Drone] just saw yoanna house in the conde nast building [ginormous office building in Times Square that houses Vogue, etc.] wearing.....uggs. [Hah. 'Nuff said.]

*Given recent developments at work (see below), I have come to the conclusion that I am in desparate need of a vacacione. I really want to go here. Don't know why, really. Just do. Hm, interesting. Don't know why this is relevant, but ok.

*What's with this trend of girls getting tans so dark they look like they've had war paint applied to their whole bodies? In ads at least, 'cause I definitely haven't seen it in my 'hood. [Note: Please exclude Naomi Campbell from this quandary, as I'm fairly certain that her skin is naturally dark.] Gooh.


Fickle Friend?

After the last post I started perusing Lifetime's website. Was drawn to the ridiculous headline, "Friends 'Till The End Week!" Then proceeded on to the quiz to find out if indeed I am the ultimate gal pal! [Note: I am male.]

Sad to say that I'm a "fickle friend" and that I need to "recharge those buddy batteries." Something to think about. Done.


From Hungary, With Love

Well, folks. Yesterday was a benchmark for little 'ole Drone!

I got my first official bitch-out from a client! Hurraaaay!

So yesterday I picked up my ringing telephone (all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I should add) when a deep comandante-like female voice rattles off some horrific English (big surprise... if you don't know, Drone only seems to handle foreign clients that do not know how to speak the English language yet refuse to converse in any other language). Imagine this were a woman.

All I could make out was my name, Mr. [Drone] and that she was calling from Hungary. (Some delectable Hungarian cuisine to tickle your palate? I'm almost certain that the first set of vittles must be the Hungarian specialty known as the "Double-Quarter-Pounder with cheese turned upside-down in A Bowl of Meat." Mmmm. Yack.) She confirmed that she wanted to speak with Mr. Drone, and I confirmed that she could eat me with a spoon. Now for reality: I confirmed that I was Mr. Drone. But seriously, she sounded like some bad stereotype of a gruff, Eastern European, heavyset woman that a hack Lifetime Television for Women (Celebrating Women. Every day.) actress might portray in a movie of the week. You know, as the mean headmistress of an all-girls orphanage or something. Too cliche to be real. But oh, my friends, it was real. Long story short, Hungarian bizatch proceeds to tell me how she didn't get such and such a document yet and when would it be delievered. I let her know and that just wasn't good enough. So suffice it to say that sista' de-railed.

I was basically holding the phone an inch away from my ear for about five minutes, interjecting with polite, "Ma'am"s and "I'm sorry for the inconvenience"s. No response. Oh she yelled. Oh she screamed. Oh she utilized her profanities (which, considering how horrible her grammar was, her vocabulary is quite impressive...). I laughed, I cried, she hung up on me in order to get the last word. It was a rootin' tootin' all-around good time. Don't have much experience, but I'd have to say that I give this bitch-out two enthusiastic thumbs up. [Children may not be admitted without a parent or guardian.]

After thinking about the whole thing and what I wish I could use as an awesome comeback, the best retort I can conjure up (seriously) is, "Haha, you live in Hungary." What's more poignant than that?

Oddly enough, here's what my favorite movie (poster) looks like in Hungarian.


Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Cool quote, from my favorite movie: "The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long." So true.

Wait. That's either really motivating or really lethargy inspiring. Hm. Think I'll do less work, juuuust to be on the safe side.


War, terror, and freedom... oh my!

Did anyone count exactly how many times that moron uttered each of the above words last night during his Primetime Press Conference? If they didn't, they should have. The whole friggin' so-called conference played out like some gun-totin' high school dropout saying, 'Y'all big press people, with yur fancy words can't pull the 'ole wool over my eyes. I stand fur freedom against the war on terror... I mean, freedom from terror on war... I mean, err, what was I sayin'?'

The man actually admitted on national television that he should have been more prepared to answer questions. Has a President EVER said anything like that in history? Moreover, is there anything that inspires less confidence than an utterance like that? Ugh. All I know is, the press and, seemingly, the American people have been duped by this Administration's 'War, terror, freedom' motif. So duped that they turn a blind eye to all the domestic crap that's going on. It's rather brilliant of Bush (read: his string-pulling masters) when you think about it: Get 'em so scared (I think the other buzzword of the night was FEAR) of the war, hell, ANY-thing and they'll forget all about everything else. Seems too idiotic a plan to work, right? Wrong. It seems to be working just dandy fine.

I expected a little more from the Press, though: more than to fall for this gag and ask ONLY questions about Iraq. I love how Dubya kept going back to how he stands for the freedom of every individual. Oh really? Just not if they're gay, right? Interesting that you're the first President in the entire history of the United Stated to attempt to amend the Consistution in such a manner that would be the sole instance in which an amendment would LIMIT freedom (yeah, remember that whole gay marriage issue?). How 'bout our lovely economy in the free 'ole U.S.? So sad the Press didn't call him on either of these issues. Oh well. Just my two pennies. My favorite Bushism from last night's speech was, 'I won't prejudge the conclusion...' M hm. Cool. If you say so.


Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Not that you care, but you might be interested to know:

*I love to eat these. Or these, if "those" aren't available at Duane Reade. PS: Cleverly conspired propoganda against my lovely neighborhood pharmacy/lunch provider.

*I would do anything do be able to have one of these... this one, please.

*So I really think Gisele is hot. The other day I saw this chick walking down the street in Soho. I thought it was Gisele for a second but was sadly mistaken. Damn you, Gisele lookalike.

* If I have to take part in or overhear one more conversation/quasi-intellectual-philosophical debate/critique of The Passions of Christ by Mel 'I hate them gays and Jews' Gibson, I think I'm going to barf. In advance (and once and for all): Shut. UP. All of you. None of you knows what you're talking about, and I'm trying to drink my coffee. Thanks! PS: Nail pendants?? I do believe this is the very defi-NIT-ion of bad taste. Jeezle. (From MSNBC)

* I also saw Rusell Simmons in Soho this past weekend. He was using those earphones that plug into a cell phone while he was walking down the crowded sidewalk. I think he might be "slow"... if you know what I mean. He was practically tripping over himself and he was talking into the phone like some special ed. case. Down's Syndrome? I'm just saying. Incidentally, I also think Kimora Lee Simmons is perhaps the most brilliant gold digger to grace the face of Mother Earth. She's got Anna Nicole Smith beat by miles.

* I get a kick each and every time out of telling Robo, "[Robo], it's your mother on the phone." I do. What can I say?


"[A]s you know, these are open forums, you're able to come and listen to what I have to say."

Read 'em and weep, folks. These bled from the mouth of the President of the United States--bet his puppeteers wished he had stuck to the script in each and every case. I wish I could snicker at the sheer idiocy, but then I recall who (i.e., what authority) uttered these phrases and then all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. Please remember to vote. And if you're even considering voting Republican, please refer to this journal entry. God bless Moby. [Thanks, Via and Sis of Via.]


Oh, Actor's Studio. Oh, James Lipton. Have you no dignity? Is THIS what you call a performing luminary? Guess they're letting anyone in, now. Gooh.


I Don't Wrestle, I Beat Bitches Up!

-- I cannot take being a drone at this company for too much longer. The people (i.e., mainly demanding attorneys and their highly demanded-of, overworked and underpaid assistants) are complete morons. So my search for the perfect (read: next) job is in full force. On an interesting note, Robo has agreed to hire an assistant for my management. I feel like the tormented baby of the family who finally gets a new sibling that HE can pick on. I do however feel horrible for the sad little sucker that gets hired. Mainly because I am looking to abandon this sinking ship as soon as possible. Ergo, I will be abondoning this assistant ASAP and won't invest myself at all in him/her. Poor future drone-ette, little Drone Jr. So, I quite literally just submitted my Resume to Banana Republic. Please trust me when I say that I am overqualified for the applicable position (No. It's not a floor sales position at a store near you... 'Can I help you find something, Ma'am?'); however, something tells me I won't get this job either. However, I am "young and talented and eager to perform." Maybe I have what it takes to be famous!! Or maybe I am cursed to forever be a drone... At any rate, I will continue looking until I don't have any more hair on my head (from pulling it out), at which point I will quit immediately and join the cast of the Blue Man Group.

++ On a positive note, my electric bill last month was the least it's ever been. I guess watching the Inferno in absolute darkness makes a big difference.

++ On another positive note, one of my favorite pasttimes is running. Outside in the Park, indoors on the treadmill, or just reading about it in print. As my mom says, it bleeds off stress. It's true. Running is pretty cathartic and allows me to get rid of lot of junk via physical exertion. So anyway, my mom and I are running a Marathon together in June. It's in San Diego, so that should be fun. A brief escape from the City and Robo (let us pray that Drone will have a new job by then...).


Monday, April 12, 2004

To paraphrase JFK: Ask not what you can do for your Subservient Chicken but what your Subservient Chicken can do for you! Seriously. Ask him. [Thanks, Via.]


So, apparently Nicole Richie (of Simple Life fame) and Justin Guarini (of American Idol fame) are getting married on June 12th of this year. Ah, such a blessed occassion when two reality-TV stars get hitched in the name of media spectacle, er... I mean true love. Right. Send the happy couple an E-mail! Better yet, view their Guest Book... It's rather hilariamous.


Bunnies wearing Gucci hats. Word.
Happy Easter, if you do that shi-ite.

Uhm, no:

Dear [Drone],

Thank you again for your interesting application.

We have carefully* examined your qualifications and have checked the availability
of a suitable possibility for you within our organization. We regret to inform
you that there is no match at [Piece-of-Crap Magazine Publisher] at this time.

We appreciate your interest in our company and wish you success in your future
career endeavors.


Human Resources Department
[Big-Ass Magazine Publishing Hoo-ha]

Two words: eat me. No, three words: eat me raw. I refuse to believe there is not one position that I could fill at your company. Thank you again for your interesting E-mail response, idiots!

*Carefully, huh? Funny. 'Cause I received your response about two minutes after I submitted my Resume via Email. Wonder if you hold your employees to the same standard of excellence when it comes to scrutiny? Hurray for idiots and horribly un-edited work product!


Thursday, April 08, 2004

Yoanna's in the H(iz)ouse
I have to admit that I watched America's Next Top Model every Tuesday night for the sheer car-accident-wonderfulness of it all. I am actually quite dispondent now that the season has concluded. Now I am left to wander the streets aimlessly, muttering only the name Camille. Camille? Camille, where have you and your 'walk that will make you famous' run off to? (Guess her walk walked her right outta the spotlight. D-d-damn.)

Originally I was pulling for Shanthrax, but I soon came to accept Yoanna as the victor (to whom went all the spoils... only apparently the spoils didn't include food). So, according to Gawker, it seems that Ms. House is now in the 'hood. She's taking a big 'ole bite out of the Big Apple (and allegedly spitting said bite into her handbag). Perhaps we should all go on the "cotton ball dipped in orange juice diet." Maybe then I'd FI-nally get that JANE Magazine ('cause we all know JANE is the leader when it comes to high fashion, uhhh riiiight) spread of which I've always dreamed. *Sigh* Burp.

Question: What the HELL is this picture of Yoanna and Tyra Banks all about? Is Tyra nekked?? Weird. Mentor and mentee seem to be a little too close for comfort. Heh.


Too much tax
Yesterday I went to the gym after work. Walking down the street post-workout, I was wavering between eating a Protein Bar and drinking a Starbucks 'Rip-Me-Off' Special. Of course, I opted for the latter.

So I enetered the Holy Shrine to Caffeine and got behind what appeared to be the only lady (read: one person) in line... She orders her drink... Some time goes bye-bye... More time... Mooooore... tiiiiime. I soon realized that both the 'Barista' (please) and the counter person were trainees. Grrreat.

Don't get me wrong. I understand that everyone needs to be trained, but can't they do it before they open, after they close, or just... not do it when I come in? One can dream.

Anyway, finally the lady is satisfied that the trainee knows what she wants and moves about one foot to the right where her drink will be called out. Then, a hunchbacked, heavyset old man wearing Coke-bottle prescription glasses and a tweed 'old man' hat gruffly cuts in front of me and barks in a monotone, 'SMALL...uhmm.... HOTCHOCOLATE.' [eyes staring about 45 degrees south of the horizon].

First of all, Oldie, you cut in front of me. Whatever. I'm in my post-gym zenlike state, so I'll show a modicum of respect for my (extreme) elders. But Oh. Cripes.

It's then that I realize we're dealing with a trainee who is trying to serve an ancient pile of dust. Like the blind leading the blind, folks. Let the hilarity ensue.

"We... don't have 'small', sir."

This takes a while, so I'll spare you the pain. Fast forward. Payment time. Oldie gives trainee a five spot for his drink. His change is going to be $1.90. Therefore, his drink must've cost $3.10. That's when he says, 'No way, missy. That's not right. My drink and tax aren't $3.10. The...drink costs $2.60. There's no way it's that much tax! [50 cents, folks]'

Aaaahhhh. I was about to give up and run out, but I really wanted my coffee. I had committed this much time, so I was in it to win it. Ms. Manager comes over and, sure enough, Oldie was right. The total for his drink and tax was $2.82 ($2.60 for the drink and $.22 in tax. The trainee, big surprise, had mistakenly charged him for a grande.) Twenty-eight cents, ladies and gentlemen. This freak of nature, who cut in front of me and could barely stand up straight had quibbled over $.28. A quarter and three pennies. He had fought the Man and won. After being a little pissed at Oldie for gobbling up about 15 minutes of my time that I could never recoup, I wondered how often this has happened to me without my noticing. How many times had I unjustly been robbed of (gasp) $.28? Heavens. My word. Oh, Dear. How shocking and.... Anyway, now that Oldie McOld was out of the way, I could finally order my Tall Sugar-Free Vanilla Skim Latte. 'Have fun with that, trainee,' I thought. And oh how she did. You would have though I asked her, 'May I feel your special area where the bathing suit covers,' given the look on her face. I couldn't help but laugh it off.

Once the 'Barista' (That must be put in quotes. Sorry, but I refuse to accept it.) was well on her way to figuring out my drink, the TALL HOTCHOCOLATE was called. Oldie, surely within a proverbial inch of pure deafness, just sat at his table, staring off into space. I looked at him and called out, 'Sir?' No response. Whatever. Then I laughed and got my drink. Then the lady who was initially in front of me in line (Rewind about 20 minutes. Yeah, her.) came back and said, 'This isn't the right drink...' Yay for Starbucks! And beware of too much tax!!


Wednesday, April 07, 2004

It's true. They do. While travailing the City streets on a company-related errand, I almost literally ran into a moron on his cell phone (eyes downcast toward the pavement) who was bumbling around in circles while he was babbling to the recipient of said call.

Need I remind you that he was in the dead center of pedestrian traffic on a busy New York City Street sidewalk? [Incidentally, I am guessing this is precisely the idiot who would take offense when I bash into him, trying to do quite the opposite--trying to AVOID him. But because of his erratic walking pattern, I might accidentally hit him.] It's pretty damn hard to predict the movement of these aimless iditos. They remind me of those ants that dutifully follow those winding and erratic single-file lines to the hive. Only they're not ants. And there's no hive. Cell phones don't grant anyone a PASS AWARENESS AND COLLECT $200 card. Jeezle. Wake up, or I'll wake you up FOR you. What what?


Pessimism is really not such a bad thing...

Via and me via email...

Drone: ah, it's so weird. each day i come in with a positive new outlook on this
job. then something happens to crap all over me, and i become crestfallen.

Via: heh, why do you go in with a positive outlook? that's only setting yourself up
for disappointment. pessimism is really not such a bad thing sometimes.

Three cheers for pessimism and negative outlooks! (hip hip) Hurray! (hip hip) Hurray! (hip hip) Hurray! Heh. Burp.


Two things:

1. An update on the online date ads that I despise. Just now saw an ad as such (blinking away inside the good 'ole Hotmail Inbox, of course):

DATE A MODEL! [In huuuuge font].
or [here begins the teeny weeny font that continues throughout]
An Aerobics Instructor
A Bio Chemist
An Ad Executive

Give. me. a break! First of all (sigh, where to begin): the occupational choices of these prospective dates? Uhm, yeah. That's the usual batch we all get to choose from, right? I know I do. I, for one, neeeeever have to choose from those who are employed in the back labyrinths of Human Resources cubicals, the copy editing departments of not-so-hot magazines, or (gasp) food service industry positions. I ONLY choose from a pool of candidates who:

-have ridiculously gorgeous faces (ahem, the model);
-sport awesome bodies (ahem, the aerobics instructor);
-tout kickin' genius minds (ahem, bio chemist what?), or;
-wield high-falootin' power positions (Did somebody say Ad Exec?).

It's like the friggin' Mighty Morphine Power Rangers of love. Tyrannasaurous Rex!! Model!! Morphorize!! So stupid. And as I can firmly attest the 'work' one does in no way implies the wholeness of a person's true self. If that were necessarily the case, I'd friggin' be... well, never you mind. Let's just agree on that.

I wanna date... A McDonald's Fry Cook!

2. These are the kind of E-mail responses I send all the day long:

Dear Madam:

We have proceeded as such and look forward to your further instruction. Thank you very much for your request.


Couple things, here. First, I haven't proceeded as such. Probably won't proceed as such until after I've had another latte and maybe even my lunch, if you're lucky. Uhm, I look forward to your further instruction? Please. We all know that's the biggest lie since Clinton wagged that he 'did not have sexual relations with that woman.' We both know I'd rather take a painful dump than await your further instruction. Finally, there's the thank you part. Thak you, indeed. Thanks for making me do more work! Love ya. Gooh.


I promise I'll let it go after this, but please note the following:


Q1: What do these fourteen gi-normous locales have in common?
A1: They are all cities in which my lovely, internationally-located corporate piece of poo-pie has offices!

Q2: Which of these offices has this Friday AND next Monday OFF? Making for a glorious four-day weekend?? Allowing their respective drones to enjoy a swimming good time whilst going to the gym, sleeping, running errands, farting, scratching themselves, etc.???
A2: ALL OF THEM! Oh wait... no. I'm. wrong. All but one has Monday off. Could it be New York? I said, could. it. be. New. York? Ding ding ding. Tell 'em what they've won, Rod. Grrrr.

That is all. I'm done.


Tuesday, April 06, 2004

"I follow the markets."
Within a very short span of time after beginning my crap job, I soon realized that Robo has no concept of PUBLIC HOLIDAYS. I would ask about a few days ahead of time (because: 1. Robo would give me no warning and; 2. fellow corporate slaves would let me know of approaching national holdiays), 'Do we have Labor Day off?' And he would brilliantly respond with a look of confusion and bewliderment. I was lucky if I got a maybe. As far as Robo is concerned, I'm coming in every single day that doesn't fall on a Saturday or Sunday. My ass I will.

Frustrated and confounded, I resolved to search Google for a calendar of holidays that Robo could peruse and use to decide which days I'd have off. I'm sorry, but I must pause at this juncture just to note how stupid and ridiculous it is that I have to do this. This man is the CEO of the company. Shouldn't he have to do this shit on his own? If there isn't a law mandating his obligation, there should be.

Anyway, Robo looked it over and, after much prodding and reminding from ME, he returned the calendar with about 10 days circled. One of which, praise Jesus, is this Friday (Good Friday). However, today, I happened to notice that all of our other offices across the Globe are closed on Monday, too (for "Easter Holidays"). So I asked Robo if we'd have off, too. He said, 'Not to my knowledge."

Not to your knowledge? Not to your KNOW-ledge?! It's YOUR goddamn 'knowledge' from which an ultimate decision is made. You're. the. C. E. O. At least that's what I hear. (You idiot.) He then responded (at which I can barely contain my laughter), 'I follow the markets.'

So, from what I gather, if the (financial) markets are closed, we're closed. Let me tell you folks, Robo follows the markets like I follow professional surfing. Suffice it to say that I didn't even know there was an organzied league of professional surfers until about a year ago. Okay then. So I aksed him if the markets were closed on Monday (that would settle that). He said he did not know. (Imagine me in my office trying to contain my boiling rage.)

Hm. For someone who 'follows the markets,' you sure don't seem to be on top of them and their intricate inner workings, such as, gee, I dunno: whether they're OPEN or not! Jeezle. So he asked me to check the markets. After outsourcing this query to Via, who then asked Perplexa, it is confirmed that the big bad markets are open on Monday. Therefore, Drone will be in at 9AM. Hurray! I follow the markets, my ass. Ugh.


It's about 11:30 in the AM, and I'm just now having my first bit of food. I'm drinking a Starbucks Tall Sugar-free Vanilla Skim Latte (Oh, jebus. I've slowly but surely become one of those neurotic people who feel defined by their out-of-control Starbucks orders. Gooh.) and a MET-Rx ProteinPlus Protein Bar. Did I mention that I added a Sweet-n-Low to my coffee? My body is now so inundated by artificial and synthetic ingredients that I'm almost certain I will get cancer. Whatever. I also smoke on occassion and live in New York City. What harm can a few sugarless sugar packets do that pounds of soot from the subway system can't? Everything's carcinogenic. Especially my job.


I cut the outside of my lip shaving yesterday, and the cut wouldn't stop bleeding. So I licked it and put toilet paper on it and pushed a towel up against it and licked it again and tried the towel again, but it just. kept. BLEEDING! Eventually it stopped, but now I have a blasted scar. Sure it's little, but come on: a scar?! Just for shaving?!! That's totally unfair. I'm never shaving again. I'm growing a long, gross beard in protest. Just call me Jesus. Oh, hey. That works out, this Friday being Good Friday and all. Maybe I'll 'resurrect' myself from bed that day to go to the gym... you know, in honor of our Lord and Savior. Uh, yeah. Here's to four-day weekends.


Monday, April 05, 2004

Why on Earth is my job so mind-numbingly unfulfilling? I was meant for more than this, damn it. Meant for grandiose, world-serving work like being Missy Elliott's personal assistant!! PS: I would walk right out the office door with a polite, 'See YA!' and a salute farewell to Robo if Missy would only ask me to be her servant. Ah, to drive around LA buying her things at Fred Segal and getting her coffee at the Coffee Bean. Maybe I should just move out to LA and hold up a sign on the street reading, 'Missy, I'm here.' I'm sure that I'd fit right in with all the crazies. So, yeah. My job sucks. I get worked as if I were four people (I quite literally do the jobs of four individuals. I'm not just bitching; I really DO have four jobs, here.) and yet get paid for only one person. How fair is that, I ask you? Not fair at all.

Oh yeah, and this neverending cold weather can kiss my ass. I'm OVER YOU, cold weather! Ya here that? Over. you. I have a new lover named warm weather. But I never see this elusive lover. Oh well. I'm more than content to be single for now. Just leave ME alone. Thanks.


Friday, April 02, 2004

Robo has taken a brief leave from the office, so I feel it necessary to use this alone time to spout off. Three things that bother me:

1. Those STUPID dating service ads (E.g., Lava Life, et al) that you usually see when you're opening your Hotmail account and subsequent E-mails. You know what I'm talking about: "I just joined this site. Looks cool. Wanna chat? =)" Above this caption is always an incredibly flirtatious-looking, bikini-clad, cleavage-showing young thing [read: MODEL!!, not REAL PERSON, e-SPE-cially not a real person who wants to date YOU, you moron]. Who are these ads fooling? Does anyone really believe that this person in the ad is real AND wants to [tee hee] 'chat with you'? Jeezle. I hate these ads. AND the people to whom these ads give hope even more.

2. Those stupid pop-up ads that feature three absurdly familiar objects (E.g., the numerals 1, 2, and 3), and ask you 'Which one is the number three?? Choose correctly and win a budgillion dollars!!'

So today: there's Paris Hilton, Tara Reid, and Hillary Duff. It asks, 'Which is Paris Hilton?!' Gee, I dunno!!! You mean I only get one shot at a budgillion dollars? Really?? Oh, my. The pressure of it all... Give me a fuckin' break. I was so fed up with these lame pieces of advertising that I chose Tara Reid. All that happened was a prompt came up saying, 'This is Tara Reid!' Gee thanks, asswipe. Gooh. Again, who are the people that actually beLIEVE these ads? To whom do these ads give the hope of becoming rich? Ay.

3. This idiot girl on MTV's Voting-Initiative programming who asked John Kerry, "Have you ever Googled yourself [tee hee]?' I know that she was sort of trying to see if JK was savvy to the ways of the modern world or not, but come on. You had access to a Presidential candidate and you want to know if he's familiar with a search engine (or on the flip side, see if he's ignorant as to what Google is and falls for your stupid trap, naively [yet cleverly and hilariously... NOT] thinking you might be implying masturbating with the verb, 'googling')? Maybe I should be mad at MTV for thinking this was cute and allowing it to air. Ugh. So many things to be annoyed with... and just not. enough. damn. time. All I know is, it's 5 of the clock on a Friday afternoon. Peace out, cub scouts.


Get your 'Draw's, here...
It's admittedly been a long time since my last post, but Drone's got drone-like things to do, ya know? On to the funny.

In the heat of my drone-ish duties, I was at the County Clerk's office yesterday. Imagine, if you will, a stereotypically inefficient and crumbling bureaucratic state office. Very old and all of the emloyees are, well... hm. Not the smartest? That's putting it ridiculously kindly. Anywho, as I was waiting in line to be 'served' I took note of these old, rust-laden, beat-up filing cabinets of which someone had labeled the contents with flourescent Post-Its. The Post-Its simply said "Draw 1: Files", "Draw 2: More Files." I'm not kidding. How sad is that?... On like at least 3 levels? Sigh.