and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

In addition to reaching 10,000 hits on this webpage, last Sunday - August 8th - was the third year anniversary of the start of this piece of shit. Happy fucking Birthday. Shall we celebrate with some posts from birthday's past? Yes, yes we shall.

Three years ago on Wednesday, August 8th, 2001:

my day was going alright or at least not horribly, i mean i am at work and all so one must keep this in mind, but then i went home feeling particularly creative and frustrated at my inability to produce anything and what should happen? i suffered an attack, in the form of a phone call, by coporate america. they tried to sell me magazines. when i told them i'd have one they were shocked and chagrined that i didn't want more. i can only read so many magazines and to this they replied with a lengthy discourse on the purpose of magazines. apparently they are for 'picking and choosing' articles that i wish to read. i need not read the entire publication they have informed me. i can waste my money on product i know i will not use ahead of time.. this is apparently quite legal and noone will come bashing my door down, my neighbors will not put their garbage on my lawn, the audience will not throw rotten fruit. well thank you but no thank you. they promptly bent me over and began to pile as much crap into my rear end as they could as if i were a coal furnace ever hungry for the black death. 4 subscriptions and 53 trial offers later I just hung up. I had wasted 20 minutes of my precious hour of lunch and it left me drained. i went promptly to bed where i had a bad dream, or i thought i had a bad dream which could have actually been my real world experience only i couldn't quite remember it and i felt terrible. i have only now been able to overcome my queaziness. they're probably going to charge me anyway.

Two years ago on Tuesday, August 06, 2002:

So. The question of the day is "How many days in a row could you get away with doing nothing but playing nethack at work? 2 days? 3 days? I'm going with 4 myself, but I think the only reason I would have to stop is my own burning guilt. Everything looks *Soooo* boring now.

I mechanically fill the cup o joe,
Trying not to work so slow
Everyday I code some more
Listening to the A/C roar.
But then it hits me, hard and fast:
There is no way I can last
So out the door I kick my butt,
To the bars: I drink, I glut.
And then it hits me, hard and slow:
I belong in cubicle row.
So I sit here broken hearted,
tried to sigh but only farted.
Now the co-workers hate my guts,
"That smelly, dirty, disgusting Putz!"
So I turn to that which baits me,
The only thing that doesn't berate me,
Somewhere in that server rack,
Runs a little process: nethack.

One year ago on Thursday, August 07, 2003:

It's hot and sticky in the port city today and the sun is being her usual unwavering self. After almost a full week of fog and rain and drizzle and fog and drizzle I awoke to blue skies and construction work.

There is something about hearing a little construction work to let you know that it's summer and let you know that the sun is shining and the boys in their hardhats are sweating their balls off but at least it's not raining, otherwise you probably wouldn't hear the construction.

When I video-taped sewers for a living we didn't wear hard hats but we sort of had that construction look to us. We'd drive around in an old beat up city-owned GMC pickup and play tag with Mary-Lou on the one-channel CB radio stuck right where the radio should have been in that damn truck. We'd get on there and say some odd things just to get Mary-Lou down at the town garage to come on the line and talk to us in that weird small-town way. We'd run out of things to say but when in doubt we'd always ask for some more road cones, listening to her voice through the crackle.

*scrackle* Mary-Lou *scrackle* You got any cones down there?

*shhhhnizzzzzack* hey fellas, *shnip* lemme see what I can scrounge up back here *eurrrrap* swing by in a few *scrack*

Wilco
Roger
Over
N
Out.

We'd swing down to the shit disturbers at the sewer plant and up into the sludge building, past the conveyor belt of old lunches and snacks and dinners turned into a brown paste by the wonders of the human bowel system - transported here by the wonders of the town's sewer system - and we'd pop our head into the small room up there and say hi to Phil.

Hey Phil.

Yah buddy he'd respond with a lazy smile.

We'd go down to the main office and hang out in the lab with Gaeten the greek.. or was he french.. and watch his wonky eye make circles at the ceailing while he explained the virtues of self-brewed ice tea in the sun (which explained the random soda bottles in the parking lot that looked like they were filled with tepid water).

By 3 or 4 in the afternoon we'd have worked ourselves out going for road cones and checking in on phil and listening to gaeten and generally avoiding our job like the plague due to the drizzle and the generally lazy atmosphere and we'd be down in the lunch room looking at all the big knobs and dials and crazy meters on the control bank. We'd philosophize on what it would take to bring the whole system down and cause a real shit storm.

Everett would come in and complain about changing the oil in one of the shit disturbing machines - 55 gallons to change one machine! he'd scream, and rub his hands together and slick back his sweaty hair and then he'd tell us a story. Sometimes it was about checking sewer holes in the winter in heavy mid-day traffic with ice all about and the sleet coming down. Sometimes it was about responding to a late night call during a thunder-storm and watching the lightening come down over the hill past the stream but getting closer and closer and he was always scared of that lightening. But always stories.

We knew the day was over and done with when Phil would come rolling down the hill from the sludge building in his red pickup and pull up to a stop outside the main office and come strolling in to say his goodbyes.

Have a good one Phil

Yah buddy, he'd say, Yah buddy

And we'd park the truck inside the big doors next to the jet truck and look around like maybe we should put something away or clean something up but we knew there was still gonna be a world of shit when we came strolling in the next day, so why bother?

We'd climb back into our car, swing out past the gates and past the sign loudly proclaiming "Pollution Control Plant" and down the road to the highway. I'd look at my jeans - the same jeans I'd worn every day to the pollution control plant - and I'd see all the stains and splotches and weird discolorations and wonder where they came from. I'd see a nice dark one and figure that was someone's steak nugget - all dark and rich and staining my jeans. Someone out there sat and shat, and out came this little brown package with a story of pastures and bulls and cows and meat packing plant and freezer grocery aisle and paper bag and onto the grill.. mmm the grill.. and maybe a little BBQ sauce and down the hatch and now, out the back door and into my sewer, and onto my jeans.

Then it would occur to us that we forgot to lock the gates and we'd give the P-D a call and ask them to have a cruiser swing by and snap the paddle-lock closed and they'd say sure thing, and thanks for coming by to clear out that block in our toilet line, and we'd say no problem, 10-4 good buddy.