I MUST BE FINE BECAUSE MY HEART'S STILL BEATING
I got all of my clearances for the Community Action job. I finally understand why my mom complains about the human resources department: they make everything so damn hard! Not only did I have to make copies of everything that I signed or initialed or wrote, but had to fill out extra forms explaining that I had signed them and submitted them. Also, for undisclosed reasons, they need a copy of my diploma, which means my mom has to get to work early to copy and fax it. If anything would comprise the dark, deathly toll of the desk job, this would be it.
I had to submit the clearances to the office of Representative Bill DeWeese, where I'll be interning in a month. And lucky, lucky, lucky me, I got to meet the gal who will train me. Her name is Angie and she was wearing a skirt that couldn't have been more than a foot long. I swear. (Don't worry, dear reader, I'm refraining from making ANY KIND of inference about Angie based on this first impression. Well, I mean, I'm trying not to.)
After I danced to the death with paperwork I went out to lunch with my mom and her supervisor (not nearly as hoity-toity as it seems because they're close friends), and I went to the library where I renewed Grendel and Rembrandt (but not Lolita) and got a book of short stories by Jorge Borges. Bohemian excitement abounds. (I also stopped by the City Mission, acertained that they didn't have any portable record players or cool shoes/handbags/scarves/prom dresses/typewriters, bought a Herb Alpert/Tijuana Brass record ("Whipped Cream and Other Delights," the famous cover with the lady all covered in whipped cream) and toasted out of there.
Any wrongs that were wronged against me were righted in the end because I finally got my letter from Ram. (!!!) I mean Rivers Cuomo. Well, let's face it, they both have the hots for me. Anyway, I now stand convinced that cartoons are a necessary addition to letters, especially if they're rock music-playing rats ("Draw your own label on the bass drum!" You bet I will.) and pleased punch, Ram, and Plato. Look out, R. Crumb and Daniel Clowes, because I am going to get Medieval on your asses.
(It's just a phrase.)
Also, lately I've been feeling a little more wound up about getting a bass and starting my whole trip to fame/disaster/recovery (for the ease of any future Behind the Music producers). All I know is this: 1)My bass will be white or green. 2)I will not pay retail for my amp. 3)I will probably mess up my amp with knitting needles to make it sound better. 4)There will be a part of my show where we turn all the lights down real soft, start the disco ball, and sing "Lotta Love" by Neil Young in unison.
Also, you will all join me in the photobooth in the basement of the Warhol when school commences.
I got all of my clearances for the Community Action job. I finally understand why my mom complains about the human resources department: they make everything so damn hard! Not only did I have to make copies of everything that I signed or initialed or wrote, but had to fill out extra forms explaining that I had signed them and submitted them. Also, for undisclosed reasons, they need a copy of my diploma, which means my mom has to get to work early to copy and fax it. If anything would comprise the dark, deathly toll of the desk job, this would be it.
I had to submit the clearances to the office of Representative Bill DeWeese, where I'll be interning in a month. And lucky, lucky, lucky me, I got to meet the gal who will train me. Her name is Angie and she was wearing a skirt that couldn't have been more than a foot long. I swear. (Don't worry, dear reader, I'm refraining from making ANY KIND of inference about Angie based on this first impression. Well, I mean, I'm trying not to.)
After I danced to the death with paperwork I went out to lunch with my mom and her supervisor (not nearly as hoity-toity as it seems because they're close friends), and I went to the library where I renewed Grendel and Rembrandt (but not Lolita) and got a book of short stories by Jorge Borges. Bohemian excitement abounds. (I also stopped by the City Mission, acertained that they didn't have any portable record players or cool shoes/handbags/scarves/prom dresses/typewriters, bought a Herb Alpert/Tijuana Brass record ("Whipped Cream and Other Delights," the famous cover with the lady all covered in whipped cream) and toasted out of there.
Any wrongs that were wronged against me were righted in the end because I finally got my letter from Ram. (!!!) I mean Rivers Cuomo. Well, let's face it, they both have the hots for me. Anyway, I now stand convinced that cartoons are a necessary addition to letters, especially if they're rock music-playing rats ("Draw your own label on the bass drum!" You bet I will.) and pleased punch, Ram, and Plato. Look out, R. Crumb and Daniel Clowes, because I am going to get Medieval on your asses.
(It's just a phrase.)
Also, lately I've been feeling a little more wound up about getting a bass and starting my whole trip to fame/disaster/recovery (for the ease of any future Behind the Music producers). All I know is this: 1)My bass will be white or green. 2)I will not pay retail for my amp. 3)I will probably mess up my amp with knitting needles to make it sound better. 4)There will be a part of my show where we turn all the lights down real soft, start the disco ball, and sing "Lotta Love" by Neil Young in unison.
Also, you will all join me in the photobooth in the basement of the Warhol when school commences.
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