Five o'clock finally finds it's way on to my watch
Finally, finally Friday
I zip through traffic, sharing a concrete ocean with perfect strangers
Faster, faster, finding my way to you
I imagine you at home, in the city, in the loft
Beautiful and soft, waiting and smiling, anxious for what the evening will bring
Waiting for me
But the reality is, you're not there, in the loft, in the city
You never were
So, when I get home, I'll head to the bar
Down the steps and across the street
I'll put my foot on the rail and my elbow in the groove
"Whiskey Ginger"
There I'll wait
For you
I'll take solace in the thought that
You're on you way
And you'll get here as fast as you can
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Filler Posts. I Hate Filler Posts.
I've started writing a few things, but can't seem to figure out where I want to go with them. So, you are stuck with this.
Smith Magazine is a storytelling magazine. They launched a project called Six Word Memoirs. Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a short story in six words. Smith Magazine went with it and started a literary craze. The first memoir? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". They've published a few books of collected memoirs. So, to stir up some activity in my brain, I'm going to post a few six word memoirs.
"Everything once wanted, no longer needed"
"Received talent, ignored it. Fuckin' A"
"All the good times involved whiskey"
"If I'm not here, check Sidebar"
"Nineteen ninety eight, that changed everything"
"Doing scary things. Yep, I'm alive!"
"That broken heart saved my life"
Give it a try.
Smith Magazine is a storytelling magazine. They launched a project called Six Word Memoirs. Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a short story in six words. Smith Magazine went with it and started a literary craze. The first memoir? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". They've published a few books of collected memoirs. So, to stir up some activity in my brain, I'm going to post a few six word memoirs.
"Everything once wanted, no longer needed"
"Received talent, ignored it. Fuckin' A"
"All the good times involved whiskey"
"If I'm not here, check Sidebar"
"Nineteen ninety eight, that changed everything"
"Doing scary things. Yep, I'm alive!"
"That broken heart saved my life"
Give it a try.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Cliche Suicide: The Death Of A Wannabe?
I've been wanting to write a short story or a novella for a while now, so I'm thinking posting it on this blog from time to time could help me actually do it. Here's what I have so far. I guess you could call it chapter one. Whenever I don't have anything interesting to write about from real life, I'll add to this. It's kind of long, so get comfortable and grab a drink. I recommend Jameson or Templeton Rye. The picture is of Bryan Roach from Autovein. I highly suggest you go see them and The Pretty Reckless in St. Louis at The Firebird on February 22nd. Shameless plug - over. I thought this was a cool picture to go with the story. It's from one of their chows at Cicero's. Enjoy!
Miles nailed the last note of the set perfectly. His lungs were empty and every emotion in his body had been poured into the microphone and echoed across the venue to hundreds of adoring fans. The lights went out and the crowd continued to roar. The venue smelled like sweat, smoke and stale booze. The front man clipped the mic back to the mic stand and walked back stage, being careful not to trip over cables as he did. He nodded to the venue's staff and fans with backstage tickets as he stepped by. The band has been on tour for 7 months straight. They started by headlining their own tour in support of their latest record at the end of May. They caught Warped Tour for August and September and are now co-headlining another tour. Touring is exhausting. The days blur together and take their toll on every aspect of your life. You don't have a home, relationships are strained, sleep is scarce, time alone is even more scarce. You live and die by per diems, showers when you can get them, and fresh laundry when you're lucky enough to do it. It's not as glamorous as the movies, magazines and MTV make it seem. It's work.
The seasons have changed and the temperature has gone from warm to bone-chattering cold. This show in St. Louis was especially cold. One more show tomorrow night and he could go home for the first time in 7 months. Miles sat down on the grimy couch in the dressing room, warn from years of other wannabe rockstars sitting in it, riding all their hopes and dreams on one show, one stage, and this couch before them both. He leaned over and opened the mini fridge next to it. What he wanted wasn't in the fridge though, he didn't know why he bothered opening it. He looked on the counter in front of the massive, wall sized mirror. There it was. Jameson. He grabbed a plastic cup, dropped a few ice cubes in it, twisted off the cap and poured a drink.
He slouched back on to the couch. He thought about the year so far. It had been rough. He struggled to write the last record, hadn't been home much, and a very dear friend of his had died from cancer. He felt worthless. He had become a professional hazard. He had a voice, a guitar and a half finished college degree. He drank too much. At that thought, he took a swig. He fucked too many girls. Another swig. The whiskey burned his throat. He gritted his teeth and took in a breath and let the whiskey soaked air out. He squandered most of his money on alcohol. He always thought musicians were paid more. Maybe the good ones were. The only time he really felt alive was in front of three hundred fans, hiding behind a mic, screaming out every mistake he made, every insecurity he had, and every memory he wanted to erase.
He kept thinking about how he got here. The things he gave up. What would it be like if he hadn't fucked around so much in college? A desk job? A steady pay check? He always told himself things aren't always greener on the other side. It made him feel better until he thought about it again. He replayed most of his life on that couch, staring into a rapidly emptying Solo cup of Jameson. "God damn, not even glass" he thought as he took another sip. He remembered love, family, music, triumphs, failures and a lot of half completes. He was thankful this was the first show each band member had their own room so he could spend some time alone. Otherwise, the room would currently be filled with several girls looking to party. He would gladly give them what they were looking for. He'd even put on a smile while he did it. It was all hollow. The girls just wanted to be able to say they fucked a rockstar. He'd played that game before. Too many times.
He poured another glass. He was starting to get drunk now. He picked up an acoustic guitar in the dressing room and started playing one of the first songs he ever wrote. He remembered writing it in the basement of his parents' house in Pennsylvania during a break between semesters in college when he was 20. He wrote it about some girl he had fallen fast and hard for. He didn't play the song to remind him of her, although he remembered her vividly. He played it to remind him of simpler times. He played on, going back years and years to familiar places and familiar faces. Each chord melting away a layer of compunction and self-reproach. The only audience in the room were the four pale walls dimly lit from florescent bulbs and various empty beer bottles scattered through out the tiny room. He wasn't singing out loud, but he remembered all the lyrics. The song ended with a line he loved, "Anyone have a spare gun? I've got a bullet." When the song was over, he came spiraling back to his half drunk reality. He set the guitar on the couch cushion next to him.
There was a story behind the line in the song. In one of the first apartments Miles rented in college, while trying to fix a loose plank in the wooden floor in his kitchen, he found a bullet underneath. He kept it, vowing to do something cool with it. It mainly stayed on his kitchen counter when he wasn't showing it off to someone. It was a hit for drunk girls at a party. He wrote the song shortly after he found it. A bullet with no gun, how rock and roll? Weeks later, another floor board became loose. When fixing that one, he uncovered a pistol. A .38 Special from the 1930s. It had a wooden grip, and the gun was black metal. The serial number, 214914, could be seen easily. There was one other unique quality to the gun. On the bottom of the grip someone had carved "The Kiss Off". It still fired, as he discovered a few days later after a professional cleaning and a trip to a gun range. He took it with him on the road. So rock and roll he thought. A mobster's pistol on the road with him. That pistol had inspired quite a few lyrics to Miles. He wouldn't be caught dead writing a song about a revolver called "Russian Roulette," though. Or, even consider using that word in a song that also included the word pistol. It's too cliche.
He stood up from the couch, grabbed the guitar by its neck, and walked to the counter with the Jameson on it. He dropped a few cubes in his cup, twisted the cap and poured another drink. He took a sip, cup in one hand, guitar in the other. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize who he had become in the last five years. There he stood, looking over the rim of the world into the eyes of the blurry, bourbon saturated reality he had crafted for himself. He realized exactly what he was doing. Another whiskey drenched diatribe of self loathing and how depressed he was and how fucked his life is. The truth was, there wasn't a single problem in his life that he hadn't created for himself. He made his life one giant cliche. A depressed wannabe rockstar. He wanted to be something real. To feel something real. Instead, he rocked and fucked his way to his apocolypse. He was Kurt Cobain, but not half as cool.
He picked up a bag from the counter and carried it back to the couch with him. He set the guitar back on the cushion next to him. He took a deep drink and unzipped the bag. Digging around, he found it. He pulled the pistol out of the bag by its grip. It was always heavier than he expected. He pushed in the latch, releasing the cylinder. He gave it a spin. The matte, black metal didn't give off much of a glare. He ran his fingers across the grooves of the serial number. Reaching back in to the bag, he pulled out a single bullet, placed it in the cylinder, gave it another spin, and closed it. He slwoly pulled back the hammer, it cocked with a click. He finished his drink with a long, deep pull followed by silent, airy burp that tasted like Jameson. "Fitting," he thought to himself "I always said I was going to do something cool with this bullet." He placed the barrel of the .38 to his right temple. He clenched his jaw and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. As he squeezed he could faintly hear the crowd, still in the venue.
"Encore, encore, encore!"
He stared at a picture on the counter, next to the bottle of Jameson before gently closing his eyes. He pulled the trigger the rest of the way. The hammer slammed down. The sound was deafening.
How cliche.
Miles nailed the last note of the set perfectly. His lungs were empty and every emotion in his body had been poured into the microphone and echoed across the venue to hundreds of adoring fans. The lights went out and the crowd continued to roar. The venue smelled like sweat, smoke and stale booze. The front man clipped the mic back to the mic stand and walked back stage, being careful not to trip over cables as he did. He nodded to the venue's staff and fans with backstage tickets as he stepped by. The band has been on tour for 7 months straight. They started by headlining their own tour in support of their latest record at the end of May. They caught Warped Tour for August and September and are now co-headlining another tour. Touring is exhausting. The days blur together and take their toll on every aspect of your life. You don't have a home, relationships are strained, sleep is scarce, time alone is even more scarce. You live and die by per diems, showers when you can get them, and fresh laundry when you're lucky enough to do it. It's not as glamorous as the movies, magazines and MTV make it seem. It's work.
The seasons have changed and the temperature has gone from warm to bone-chattering cold. This show in St. Louis was especially cold. One more show tomorrow night and he could go home for the first time in 7 months. Miles sat down on the grimy couch in the dressing room, warn from years of other wannabe rockstars sitting in it, riding all their hopes and dreams on one show, one stage, and this couch before them both. He leaned over and opened the mini fridge next to it. What he wanted wasn't in the fridge though, he didn't know why he bothered opening it. He looked on the counter in front of the massive, wall sized mirror. There it was. Jameson. He grabbed a plastic cup, dropped a few ice cubes in it, twisted off the cap and poured a drink.
He slouched back on to the couch. He thought about the year so far. It had been rough. He struggled to write the last record, hadn't been home much, and a very dear friend of his had died from cancer. He felt worthless. He had become a professional hazard. He had a voice, a guitar and a half finished college degree. He drank too much. At that thought, he took a swig. He fucked too many girls. Another swig. The whiskey burned his throat. He gritted his teeth and took in a breath and let the whiskey soaked air out. He squandered most of his money on alcohol. He always thought musicians were paid more. Maybe the good ones were. The only time he really felt alive was in front of three hundred fans, hiding behind a mic, screaming out every mistake he made, every insecurity he had, and every memory he wanted to erase.
He kept thinking about how he got here. The things he gave up. What would it be like if he hadn't fucked around so much in college? A desk job? A steady pay check? He always told himself things aren't always greener on the other side. It made him feel better until he thought about it again. He replayed most of his life on that couch, staring into a rapidly emptying Solo cup of Jameson. "God damn, not even glass" he thought as he took another sip. He remembered love, family, music, triumphs, failures and a lot of half completes. He was thankful this was the first show each band member had their own room so he could spend some time alone. Otherwise, the room would currently be filled with several girls looking to party. He would gladly give them what they were looking for. He'd even put on a smile while he did it. It was all hollow. The girls just wanted to be able to say they fucked a rockstar. He'd played that game before. Too many times.
He poured another glass. He was starting to get drunk now. He picked up an acoustic guitar in the dressing room and started playing one of the first songs he ever wrote. He remembered writing it in the basement of his parents' house in Pennsylvania during a break between semesters in college when he was 20. He wrote it about some girl he had fallen fast and hard for. He didn't play the song to remind him of her, although he remembered her vividly. He played it to remind him of simpler times. He played on, going back years and years to familiar places and familiar faces. Each chord melting away a layer of compunction and self-reproach. The only audience in the room were the four pale walls dimly lit from florescent bulbs and various empty beer bottles scattered through out the tiny room. He wasn't singing out loud, but he remembered all the lyrics. The song ended with a line he loved, "Anyone have a spare gun? I've got a bullet." When the song was over, he came spiraling back to his half drunk reality. He set the guitar on the couch cushion next to him.
There was a story behind the line in the song. In one of the first apartments Miles rented in college, while trying to fix a loose plank in the wooden floor in his kitchen, he found a bullet underneath. He kept it, vowing to do something cool with it. It mainly stayed on his kitchen counter when he wasn't showing it off to someone. It was a hit for drunk girls at a party. He wrote the song shortly after he found it. A bullet with no gun, how rock and roll? Weeks later, another floor board became loose. When fixing that one, he uncovered a pistol. A .38 Special from the 1930s. It had a wooden grip, and the gun was black metal. The serial number, 214914, could be seen easily. There was one other unique quality to the gun. On the bottom of the grip someone had carved "The Kiss Off". It still fired, as he discovered a few days later after a professional cleaning and a trip to a gun range. He took it with him on the road. So rock and roll he thought. A mobster's pistol on the road with him. That pistol had inspired quite a few lyrics to Miles. He wouldn't be caught dead writing a song about a revolver called "Russian Roulette," though. Or, even consider using that word in a song that also included the word pistol. It's too cliche.
He stood up from the couch, grabbed the guitar by its neck, and walked to the counter with the Jameson on it. He dropped a few cubes in his cup, twisted the cap and poured another drink. He took a sip, cup in one hand, guitar in the other. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize who he had become in the last five years. There he stood, looking over the rim of the world into the eyes of the blurry, bourbon saturated reality he had crafted for himself. He realized exactly what he was doing. Another whiskey drenched diatribe of self loathing and how depressed he was and how fucked his life is. The truth was, there wasn't a single problem in his life that he hadn't created for himself. He made his life one giant cliche. A depressed wannabe rockstar. He wanted to be something real. To feel something real. Instead, he rocked and fucked his way to his apocolypse. He was Kurt Cobain, but not half as cool.
He picked up a bag from the counter and carried it back to the couch with him. He set the guitar back on the cushion next to him. He took a deep drink and unzipped the bag. Digging around, he found it. He pulled the pistol out of the bag by its grip. It was always heavier than he expected. He pushed in the latch, releasing the cylinder. He gave it a spin. The matte, black metal didn't give off much of a glare. He ran his fingers across the grooves of the serial number. Reaching back in to the bag, he pulled out a single bullet, placed it in the cylinder, gave it another spin, and closed it. He slwoly pulled back the hammer, it cocked with a click. He finished his drink with a long, deep pull followed by silent, airy burp that tasted like Jameson. "Fitting," he thought to himself "I always said I was going to do something cool with this bullet." He placed the barrel of the .38 to his right temple. He clenched his jaw and slowly began to squeeze the trigger. As he squeezed he could faintly hear the crowd, still in the venue.
"Encore, encore, encore!"
He stared at a picture on the counter, next to the bottle of Jameson before gently closing his eyes. He pulled the trigger the rest of the way. The hammer slammed down. The sound was deafening.
How cliche.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Haiku With Laces
Whenever I don't get my ass kicked in negotiations, have my car broken in to, get nostalgic, or have anything interesting to write about, I'm going to post parts of a story I've been working on. A little prose, if you will. I'm not quite ready to post the first part yet. So, until then, enjoy this haiku about Chuck Taylors:
Stars and Laces
There are lots of shoes
And then there are Chuck Taylors
They rock really, really hard
I know, I know. It's awesome.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Leah Vs. Rob: Social Negotiations
Leah declared happy hour at work today, which consisted of an e-mail to a few friends in order for it to go viral and invite several people. It was decided to be at Market Grill in Soulard. Since I was at lunch when happy hour was declared, I did not immediatelly respond. Leah, being concerned for my general well being since I did not instantly pounce on the notion of happy hour sent me the following in an e-mail:
She pleads:
Knowing what I know about Leah, I choose not to respond to that e-mail. You see, it's a trap. If I respond, she will undoubtedly convince me to not only go to happy hour, but to go out after happy hour and drive her home at 7:00 am to let out her Great Dane, Daphne. Keep in mind, I will have gone to bed around 3:30 am. Additionally, I need to go to the office tomorrow morning to wrap some things up on a project I've been given. Leah knows she could convince me to go out. It's not difficult. At this point, I picture her sitting at her desk, staring at her e-mail with a mischevious smile as she taps her fingertips together in front of her face. After a few moments of thinking, she belts out an evil laugh and leans back in her chair. Inexplicably, a cat that jumps in her lap and she begins petting it. The mischevious smile returns as she plots my drunken demise. She makes the first move. It's a good one:
Booyah!
As I write this, Leah is sure to be entering hour three of her happy hour and trying to determine where to go next. Should you be reading this, Leah, might I recommend Sidebar?
Who do you think won?
From: Avila, Leah ATo which I replied:
Sent: Friday, February 04, 2011 12:14 PM
To: Liebherr, Robert
Subject: RE: Wait
It makes me nervous when you’re silent on issues like Happy Hour…
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals
I just got back from lunch, but I’m staying in tonight. For real this time.
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
She pleads:
But. But…Robert…
It’s just happy hour.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals
Knowing what I know about Leah, I choose not to respond to that e-mail. You see, it's a trap. If I respond, she will undoubtedly convince me to not only go to happy hour, but to go out after happy hour and drive her home at 7:00 am to let out her Great Dane, Daphne. Keep in mind, I will have gone to bed around 3:30 am. Additionally, I need to go to the office tomorrow morning to wrap some things up on a project I've been given. Leah knows she could convince me to go out. It's not difficult. At this point, I picture her sitting at her desk, staring at her e-mail with a mischevious smile as she taps her fingertips together in front of her face. After a few moments of thinking, she belts out an evil laugh and leans back in her chair. Inexplicably, a cat that jumps in her lap and she begins petting it. The mischevious smile returns as she plots my drunken demise. She makes the first move. It's a good one:
Okay Robert. You can have this one since I bailed on about 4 months of Fridays. Consider us even.Let me explain this one. Leah is pursuing her MBA, which means she's very, very smart and very talented in the art of negotiating. For several months she had a class on Saturday mornings. That meant, despite my pleading and generous promises of several "best times of her life", she repeatedly declined to go out. Admittedly, responsible on her part. She considers one bailed happy hour the equivalent of 16 Friday night rejections. I think the obviousness of this disproportion requires no further explanation. I should also point out that I declined a Sunday Funday with Leah. For those of you that don't know, Sunday Funday is drinking on a Sunday before a workday on Monday. It's the adult equivalent of going out on a school night. It's risky and dangerous. It's the little things in life, it really is. It's also clever because "Funday" rhymes with "Sunday". Back to the point, she's trying to trick me. I react swiftly:
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals
I’ll allow that to make us half even. It accounts for 2 months of Fridays. Wow, how about that ratio? One Rob HH equals 2 month’s of Leah’s Fridays. That is wildly lopsided. We both do about the same amount of damage on drinking…At this point, we're shuffling for strategic negotiating positions. Like Generals on a battle field commanding troops to various combat positions, we prepare our arguments to achieve our goal: winning this argument.
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
I’ll accept the skipping of this happy hour as two months and the skipping of Sunday funday as the other two. We’re even.Let the negotiations begin. A strong argument. But I've discovered what I determine to be a weakness in Sunday Funday. I attack:
I don’t think it’s whether they’re equivalent…I think it’s the fact that you couldn’t handle 4 months of staying in on Fridays. This is for your benefit. And so we don’t have to spend the next 3 years trying to figure out whether you’ve reached the equivalent.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
You’re good at negotiating, Leah. But I must point out, Sunday Funday was about 3 hours long after you sent me the text message of it’s existence. Also, if we’re attempting to get me out tonight, then I don’t see staying in as a valid…I lost my train of thought right then because your last paragraph makes me head hurt. Where does 3 years come in to play?Admittedly, it was a feable attack. I forgot what I was trying to prove and I ended up embarrassing myself. Leah graciously explains:
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
Sunday funday was only a maximum of an hour in when I texted…it just took you 3 hours to address my text, and Sunday funday continued for hours after while you consciously decided to watch television shows with Ross Wilson.While I maintain I responded to the Sunday Funday text instantly, I can't exactly remember. She's holding firm to her offer. I panic slightly. I feel like I'm negotiating with a robot. No emotions. No fear. Bravely, I respond:
3 years: it would probably take three years for you to accumulate 4 months worth of staying in Fridays. And we would have to keep track. I would say we would lose track after about a year, then it would become an argument. I’m saving us effort in the long term by settling up negotiations now.
I stand by my previous offer.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
I agree that it would take 3 years for me to accumulate 16 Friday’s without going out. However, what we need to determine is how many hours of a Sunday Funday equate to 2 months of staying in on a Friday. As we have previously discussed, half of tonight will count for 2 months of staying in, or 8 Fridays. So, in order for this to be fair, we need to account for the remaining 8 Fridays. Since I’m always down for a good time, and Sunday Funday is one of the rare occasions (excluding tonight) that I have declined to join you in making bad decisions, this is the only commodity (which now Fridays and Sunday Fundays have just become) we have to bargain over, what do you think it’s worth?Flaw #1: Agreeing with Leah. I mean, she did have a very good point. It would easily take me three years to accumulate sixteen Fridays in which I don't go out. Still, I should not have agreed. The bar has been set. I've given up eight Fridays. Luckily, what I do know of negotiations I employ here. Never say the first price. Leah reacts:
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
And Wednesday night…Hmm…Robert. Three times in one week of rejecting fun?I immediatelly pee my pants out of shear terror. She's standing firm! I've now changed pants three times in this negotiation and my coworkers are beginning to wonder where I keep all my pants stashed in the office. I'll never tell. Wednesday night was a happy hour put on by our mutual friend, Julie. This is a glaring weakness in her argument. Like David slinging a rock at Goliath, I take aim:
Stand by my offer.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
Wednesday night was not rejecting you, since you did not send the original invite and does not apply here.
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
Booyah!
Fine. Even though I sent additional requests for your presence, I will make that concession.Victory! Albeit small, but like I said earlier, it's the little things in life. I'm gaining confidence now:
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
I’m awaiting your offer.Short. Succinct. Some might say emotionless. Game recognizes game. We continue the dance:
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
Tonight = 8 FridaysShe set the first price. This is a terrible deal for me. I have never gone home early. When I commit to something, I commit. My rebuttal:
Sunday Funday = 6 Fridays
Final 2 Fridays can be utilized for a go home early.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
Tonight = 8 FridaysA fair deal. However, Leah's not looking for fair. She's looking for compromise. A compromise leaning her way. She throws on the gloves and dances out of her corner:
Sunday Funday = 2 Fridays
Final 6 Fridays can be utilized for two declined weeknights, one weekend night, or three go home earlies.
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
Sunday Funday = 4 FridaysBAFO. Not BAFO. Best and final offer. I read the deal. I reread the deal. I rereread the deal.
Final 4 Fridays can be utilized for one declined weeknight, one Sunday funday, or two go home earlies.
BAFO
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals|
You have a deal, Ms. Avila.I like it. I started with no opt-outs at the beginning of this negotiation. It's a perfect compromise really.
Robert M. Liebherr
Work Flow Coordinator
Nice doing business with you, Mr. Liebherr.
Leah A Avila| The Boeing Company |Contracts & Pricing | F/A-18 Major Proposals
As I write this, Leah is sure to be entering hour three of her happy hour and trying to determine where to go next. Should you be reading this, Leah, might I recommend Sidebar?
Who do you think won?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
This Actually Happened
I came home from work on Tuesday and did my usual. Turned on the TV, checked my e-mail and then chekced facebook. I had a message in my facebook inbox that was, without a doubt, the strangest question I have ever received. At first, I dismissed it as a joke or a hacked account. I immediatelly called Leah to get her opinion. We both agreed it was legitimate Here's the question, copied from facebook (I've changed names to protect the people asking the absurd question):
I waited a few days to respond. Here it is:
I waited a few days to respond. Here it is:
I don't know how, but stuff like this happens to me on an almost weekly basis. I hope you enjoyed it.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sunday Morning With A Dollar Sign
The bed shakes. My eyes snap open. I don't move my head. Instead, I stare deeply at my alarm clock. It's 6 hours and 12 minutes slow. I close my eyes again and drift back to sleep. I wake up in what seems like seconds to the sound of something being dragged across my floor, zipped up, and lifted. I peel open my eyes and try to see what it is. It's my friend, Leah. She's getting her things and rolling her bag out of my loft. The bed shakes again, more violently this time. My eyes open once more. I watch a red head uncover, rub her eyes and walk out of my room. I sit up, confused. I could only see her from behind, but I have no idea who that was. At that moment, the headache sinks in. It feels like some one is trying to flush my brain down my spinal cord. When I try to swallow, my throat feels like I had been drinking sand for several hours. I reach for a cup on my nightstand and put it to my lips to hydrate. Empty. Damn. I can smell the whiskey on my breath as it circulates in the cup. Slowly, I sit up. I pivot on the mattress and place my feet on the cold cement floor. I grab the cup and walk out of my room to the main room in my loft.
I examine the scene. Bottles of all types are every where. Wine bottles, beer bottles and liquor bottles, not to mention the dozens of glasses laying on window sills, the kitchen table, end tables and the coffee table. The stench of stale beer fills the entire room, it creeps into every corner and settles inside every cupboard. I inadvertantly breathe it in, it reminds me of the night before. What I can remember anyway. I head to the sink, turn on the water and fill up my cup. While I ravenously pour the water down my throat, I examine my place a little closer. There's a pair of boxers near my television, playing cards on the kitchen table and a pair of boxer briefs close to my mini fridge (the beer fridge). Yes, the mini fridge is in addition to the standard fridge. I stop drinking so I can take a breath. The sand washes away from my throat. I fill the cup again.
I stumble to my couch. There, I find the red head. My friend, Molly. She looks just as hungover as I am. I throw myself on the chase half of my sectional, turn on the TV and hope it's on a channel with something interesting showing. There will be no channel surfing with this hangover. Before I can determine what's on, I already start drifting back to sleep. My eye lids get heavy. Sleeping is the only rescue from the horrid hangover. It's Sunday morning, my alarm clock showed 2:13 PM, so it's really 8:01 in the morning. I went to bed about 4 hours ago. Just before I slip back to sleep, I reach into the pockets of the pants I wore last night. I'm still wearing them. As usual, my tab is in my back pocket. Scared of what I'm about to see, I unfold the receipt. It's about as bad as I thought. The hangover suddenly feels warranted. Guess I'll sleep this one off. As usual.
I'm almost 26. It's normal to do this still, right?
I examine the scene. Bottles of all types are every where. Wine bottles, beer bottles and liquor bottles, not to mention the dozens of glasses laying on window sills, the kitchen table, end tables and the coffee table. The stench of stale beer fills the entire room, it creeps into every corner and settles inside every cupboard. I inadvertantly breathe it in, it reminds me of the night before. What I can remember anyway. I head to the sink, turn on the water and fill up my cup. While I ravenously pour the water down my throat, I examine my place a little closer. There's a pair of boxers near my television, playing cards on the kitchen table and a pair of boxer briefs close to my mini fridge (the beer fridge). Yes, the mini fridge is in addition to the standard fridge. I stop drinking so I can take a breath. The sand washes away from my throat. I fill the cup again.
I stumble to my couch. There, I find the red head. My friend, Molly. She looks just as hungover as I am. I throw myself on the chase half of my sectional, turn on the TV and hope it's on a channel with something interesting showing. There will be no channel surfing with this hangover. Before I can determine what's on, I already start drifting back to sleep. My eye lids get heavy. Sleeping is the only rescue from the horrid hangover. It's Sunday morning, my alarm clock showed 2:13 PM, so it's really 8:01 in the morning. I went to bed about 4 hours ago. Just before I slip back to sleep, I reach into the pockets of the pants I wore last night. I'm still wearing them. As usual, my tab is in my back pocket. Scared of what I'm about to see, I unfold the receipt. It's about as bad as I thought. The hangover suddenly feels warranted. Guess I'll sleep this one off. As usual.
I'm almost 26. It's normal to do this still, right?
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