coworker

One of my coworkers---a woman I like very much, though I don't know her as well as I'd like to---is very ill. We're waiting on word from tests and such. The up-in-the-air feeling about it around here is tainting everything.

coworker

One of my coworkers---a woman I like very much, though I don't know her as well as I'd like to---is very ill. We're waiting on word from tests and such. The up-in-the-air feeling about it around here is tainting everything.

nerd cat

You scored as Nerd Cat. Holy crap, poindexter. Try buying some new specs instead of taping them together. Yeah, Bill Gates made a lot of money, but he's also the devil. You've got a long way to go. </td> Nerd Cat 83% Derranged Cat 50% Couch Potato Cat 50% Drunk Cat 50% Pissed at the World Cat 33% Love Machine Cat 17% Ninja Cat 0% Which Absurd Cat are you? created with QuizFarm.com

I got this result largely cuz I host LAN parties. No denying that!

Thanks wednes.

nerd cat

You scored as Nerd Cat. Holy crap, poindexter. Try buying some new specs instead of taping them together. Yeah, Bill Gates made a lot of money, but he's also the devil. You've got a long way to go. </td> Nerd Cat 83% Derranged Cat 50% Couch Potato Cat 50% Drunk Cat 50% Pissed at the World Cat 33% Love Machine Cat 17% Ninja Cat 0% Which Absurd Cat are you? created with QuizFarm.com

I got this result largely cuz I host LAN parties. No denying that!

Thanks wednes.

sad. death.

Paula, my coworker, and not yet as much of a friend as I wish I'd made her, died last night. Her husband, gentle John, walked over to tell us the news.

We're all rather in shock.

I am thinking of how much regret I have that I didn't pursue her friendship more. And I'm thinking of what fun she could be, and how smart and savvy and verbal and witty she was. Irreverent, but not unserious. She had a gravitas that made her light and lightening moments seem all the more to be celebrated. It's only in the context of a sense of familiarity with angst that delight rings so deeply, with such profundity. And she did delight in much---it doesn't take having been her best pal to know that.

Goodbye, PAS. You know you've left a big ghost among us.

sad. death.

Paula, my coworker, and not yet as much of a friend as I wish I'd made her, died last night. Her husband, gentle John, walked over to tell us the news.

We're all rather in shock.

I am thinking of how much regret I have that I didn't pursue her friendship more. And I'm thinking of what fun she could be, and how smart and savvy and verbal and witty she was. Irreverent, but not unserious. She had a gravitas that made her light and lightening moments seem all the more to be celebrated. It's only in the context of a sense of familiarity with angst that delight rings so deeply, with such profundity. And she did delight in much---it doesn't take having been her best pal to know that.

Goodbye, PAS. You know you've left a big ghost among us.

life.

At the risk of prompting choruses of that "Circle of Life" song, I give you new pix of my great step nephew Sam, just sent by his daddy Jay:



According to my brother, "He [Sam] is quite the ham and a vivacious partygoer."

( more pix behind here )

I'm thinking I must make a point to go visit those folks, and my buddies back east, too.

You only get so many chances.

And, as Rob points out, I have yet to make the acquaintance of what he calls "our fifty one pound fur covered muscle of canine idiocy." (Robbie, you should get yerself an lj account, I sweartogod.)


{For earlier shots of the baby, see this entry from September.}

life.

At the risk of prompting choruses of that "Circle of Life" song, I give you new pix of my great step nephew Sam, just sent by his daddy Jay:



According to my brother, "He [Sam] is quite the ham and a vivacious partygoer."

( more pix behind here )

I'm thinking I must make a point to go visit those folks, and my buddies back east, too.

You only get so many chances.

And, as Rob points out, I have yet to make the acquaintance of what he calls "our fifty one pound fur covered muscle of canine idiocy." (Robbie, you should get yerself an lj account, I sweartogod.)


{For earlier shots of the baby, see this entry from September.}

she liked this one; asked me to give it a title, so i did

Her nickname, Pazuzu, came from La démon de la Tour Eiffel, a graphic novel by Jacques Tardi.

           Pazuzu's Poets

           "I thought the headline today was
           `Poet union offers to return to
           work.' Too bad it wasn't."
                    --PAS, .plan of 10/09/02


   Paula, i do like the idea of the poets' union
   flexing its muscles, bringing society to a halt
   by refusing to spin verse until conditions improve

   there'd be scansion havoc & a gridlock of enjamb
   ments & zeugma might even defect from syllepsis

   next thing you know all onomatopoeia could
   disappear below the surface of a sea of prosaicness

   clunky thick theorists, hooked on the constant echo
   of their poststructuralist pontifications, would
   wantonly cross the poets' delicate lines without
   so much as a caesura of chagrin, wanking on
   as usual of signifiers and the signified, ontology
   and contextualism and semiotic ya-ya, their metaphors
   all clogged up together in puffy somnolent sentences,
   their souls indifferent to the rapid drying up of imagery,
   the flat-lining of sprung rhythm, the death of deliberate
   idiosyncratic diction and joyful juxtaposition


   i'm telling you, it would be ugly

   we really ought just capitulate & give the poets
   whatever they so eloquently may demand

she liked this one; asked me to give it a title, so i did

Her nickname, Pazuzu, came from La démon de la Tour Eiffel, a graphic novel by Jacques Tardi.

           Pazuzu's Poets

           "I thought the headline today was
           `Poet union offers to return to
           work.' Too bad it wasn't."
                    --PAS, .plan of 10/09/02


   Paula, i do like the idea of the poets' union
   flexing its muscles, bringing society to a halt
   by refusing to spin verse until conditions improve

   there'd be scansion havoc & a gridlock of enjamb
   ments & zeugma might even defect from syllepsis

   next thing you know all onomatopoeia could
   disappear below the surface of a sea of prosaicness

   clunky thick theorists, hooked on the constant echo
   of their poststructuralist pontifications, would
   wantonly cross the poets' delicate lines without
   so much as a caesura of chagrin, wanking on
   as usual of signifiers and the signified, ontology
   and contextualism and semiotic ya-ya, their metaphors
   all clogged up together in puffy somnolent sentences,
   their souls indifferent to the rapid drying up of imagery,
   the flat-lining of sprung rhythm, the death of deliberate
   idiosyncratic diction and joyful juxtaposition


   i'm telling you, it would be ugly

   we really ought just capitulate & give the poets
   whatever they so eloquently may demand