After some dithering and chivvying, I decided to buzz down to Portland to shop yesterday. Just as I started shopping at the Mario's in Tigard, my phone rang. My boss was frantic that our new messaging system was throwing errors.
Thus, I found myself sitting cross-legged in a pony-hide chair with my Tod's driving shoes tucked underneath me and a data-card bearing laptop propped on my right knee. Occasionally, I would look up to nod my approval of one piece of clothing or another, or I would pull the Mont Blanc pen from behind my ear to jot a few notes in my Moleskine graph book. Less frequently, I would reach over to take a sip from the wine glass of Pellegrino that the assistant manager had graciously brought me.
I had the crisis on an even keel within half an hour. From there, I held a conference call with the VP of engineering, the director of operations, and the senior ops tech. I paraded back and forth from the changing room in my new stripey Paul Smith socks, as I simultaneously strategized with the group on the Jawbone headset and text-messaged with the director of operations over my Blackjack. A very nice, older woman in a hijab marked the pants I liked for hemming, fussing appreciably over getting just the right break over my driving shoes.
After a quick lunch of a Kobe beef burger, I picked up my order and walked to the car. Stowing the laptop and business gear, I sat down in my little Japanese missile, turned the key, and pressed power on the stereo.
Rancid's "I Wanna Riot" blared at high volume.
I laughed long and hard. Some brand dropping, responsible, fashionable tech executive I am.
Five hours later, changed out of my nice clothes, I found myself debating the state of modern literature with a tattooed stripper in one of the most divey strip cubs you'd ever see. She would often punctuated one of her points by tweaking the tip of my nose with a nipple and saying, "You like that?" I'm pretty sure that's not cricket in the world of debate, but what do I know? At the end of the dance, she told me to come see her at Devil's Point in two weeks and to add her on Myspace, giving me her username.
I had a $7 t-bone there before I wandered home to Seattle.
This morning, I got up with a back-catalog of things that needed doing, so I just went after it. After procuring Pocari Sweat at Uwajimaya, I saw a very old, very fat woman collapse in the parking lot. When she went down it was in slow motion. She kind of wobbled, and then she went down rolling slowly sideways until she was all the way on the ground. Her middle-aged, retarded companion then started to shriek at the top of his lungs and do something very reminiscent of the chicken dance. I called 911 and tried to keep him calm until the ambulance came. Explaining it all to the paramedics was...interesting.
After that, I figured I should probably just buy the rest of my groceries, wash the car, and head home as quickly as possible. It seemed like one of those days when things could just go weird.
So now I find myself lying on the couch, watching Japanese romance cartoons and reading GQ.
Thus, I found myself sitting cross-legged in a pony-hide chair with my Tod's driving shoes tucked underneath me and a data-card bearing laptop propped on my right knee. Occasionally, I would look up to nod my approval of one piece of clothing or another, or I would pull the Mont Blanc pen from behind my ear to jot a few notes in my Moleskine graph book. Less frequently, I would reach over to take a sip from the wine glass of Pellegrino that the assistant manager had graciously brought me.
I had the crisis on an even keel within half an hour. From there, I held a conference call with the VP of engineering, the director of operations, and the senior ops tech. I paraded back and forth from the changing room in my new stripey Paul Smith socks, as I simultaneously strategized with the group on the Jawbone headset and text-messaged with the director of operations over my Blackjack. A very nice, older woman in a hijab marked the pants I liked for hemming, fussing appreciably over getting just the right break over my driving shoes.
After a quick lunch of a Kobe beef burger, I picked up my order and walked to the car. Stowing the laptop and business gear, I sat down in my little Japanese missile, turned the key, and pressed power on the stereo.
Rancid's "I Wanna Riot" blared at high volume.
I laughed long and hard. Some brand dropping, responsible, fashionable tech executive I am.
Five hours later, changed out of my nice clothes, I found myself debating the state of modern literature with a tattooed stripper in one of the most divey strip cubs you'd ever see. She would often punctuated one of her points by tweaking the tip of my nose with a nipple and saying, "You like that?" I'm pretty sure that's not cricket in the world of debate, but what do I know? At the end of the dance, she told me to come see her at Devil's Point in two weeks and to add her on Myspace, giving me her username.
I had a $7 t-bone there before I wandered home to Seattle.
This morning, I got up with a back-catalog of things that needed doing, so I just went after it. After procuring Pocari Sweat at Uwajimaya, I saw a very old, very fat woman collapse in the parking lot. When she went down it was in slow motion. She kind of wobbled, and then she went down rolling slowly sideways until she was all the way on the ground. Her middle-aged, retarded companion then started to shriek at the top of his lungs and do something very reminiscent of the chicken dance. I called 911 and tried to keep him calm until the ambulance came. Explaining it all to the paramedics was...interesting.
After that, I figured I should probably just buy the rest of my groceries, wash the car, and head home as quickly as possible. It seemed like one of those days when things could just go weird.
So now I find myself lying on the couch, watching Japanese romance cartoons and reading GQ.
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But yeah, we should chat on teh intarwebs soon. Or something. I miss you, even if you do get all ranty in comic book stores.