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12 October 2006 @ 04:12 pm
Why does shit always proceed to happen once I've already gone to the trouble of hand-writing the journal entry for the day?

On my way back to the apartment this morning, I found I had a voicemail message thanks to my ringer being off while inside the library. Apparently, Beatrice Moritz, my Legal Proofreading teacher DID send my name and number to certain Temp Agencies. In fact, it happens to be Wall Street Services, which has one of the longer and therefore more difficult tests of all the other agencies (but ... you said to NOT sign up for those first! You said!). Apparently, my Jedi training has been adequate enough to ramble with the Big Boys. I appear before the board tomorrow at noon. Friday, October 13th, at noon.

OK, seriously, a Friday The 13th IN October? What kind of hoodoo are the gods trying to throw on me?

Anyway, I found out about that, then proceeded to get on the subway to go home. I needed to transfer from the 6-Train to the L-Train at Union Station, so I stood next to the door for the ride Downtown. When I reached my stop, I turned and took a step out of the open door. For some reason, there was an 18-inch gap between traincar and platform at this particular point in the stop. I don't know if it was DESIGNED like that, or over the years, things have shifted due to forces I'm entirely unaware of, but I nearly fell through the fucking gap. Luckily, I caught the shin of my right leg on the edge of the platform as my briefcase and jacket went flying out of my hands (that's gonna leave a mark). The woman following me out of the car was screaming uncontrollably as everyone in front of me crowded around to help me catch my fall. Everyone was REALLY concerned! I managed to pull myself out, as calmly and coolly as I could, and said, "I'm okay, I'm fine," practically under my breath. My white dress pants I purchased at Target before the big August Road Trip came out of that ordeal completely filthy, but apparently unharmed. That is, until the woman who was behind me, along with her husband, said there's a huge rip from asscrack on down nearly to the back of my knee, and that I should wear my jacket around my waist. I got home and, sure enough, huge ass rip from asscrack on down. There's an expense I could've lived without. (My shoulder doesn't hurt very much, but my shin does. Right here. Not here or here so much, but right here).

Now onto the originally scheduled post already in progress ...

... and that's why I think my taint itches so much.

Writing from nine to five, seven days a week. That's the Asimovian Law of Composition and, as applied by its creator, Russian-born Dr. Isaac Asimov, he averaged at least twelve new books a year, publishing well over 200 (while, I might add, having pretty much the coolest fucking mutton chops I've ever seen on a human being).

In lieu of going directly home this morning after meeting with the people at Bond Staffing - where they're hoping to place a savvy recent college graduate such as myself into a permanent position immediately - I ate lunch at what just might become my new favorite New York City Pizza Place:

Pronto Pizza at 135 W 41st in Manhattan, near Bryant Park


That led me to the library - where I had to reserve a copy of "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" - and to the sparsely populated third floor. At the end of the long row of tables, I sat and opened the book I'm in the middle of reading. It was here that I noticed the 800-page tome by Dr. Asimov entitled, "Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare." He took 38 plays and 2 narrative poems and mapped them out, scene-by-scene, enlightening today's reader to the working knowledge of what Shakespeare had in mind while writing all of his plays.

Dude wrote 56 hours a week, every day. Now, that's prolific. Of course, that was his job. He didn't have to worry about paying rent while on that schedule after a while. There's something to that, though, I muss-say. Even though I'm about to re-enter the Working World, putting off my one major distraction until after 5pm would be a good way to go about getting things done. My one major distraction being the Internet. I've found myself in the city every day but yesterday this week. However, on that one day, I was on the Internet from about 10am straight through until about five or six (mostly on YouTube, NOT porn, thank you very much). I finally had to just get the fuck outta there and take a walk in the rain to clear my head of the monotony.

I rented "Thank You For Smoking." Meant to see it in Seattle when it first came out, but I missed my chance. It was pretty good, though it obviously followed a formula. Guy's good at his job, he's on top of the world, he fucks Katie Holmes, she screws him over in an article she wrote, he reclaims his glory in the end. I'd have to say, more than anything else, this movie shines due to the cavalcade of Supporting Actors.

Starting with Adam "Seth from The O.C." Brody. He was Hilarious! as the assistant to the big-shot Hollywood Super-Agent (played by Rob Lowe, also very entertaining). I mentioned Katie Holmes, and while she doesn't get naked in this movie (rent "The Gift" for that), we know what she looks like. As David Koechner's character says, "Amazing tits."

William H. Macy plays the uptight liberal politician to a T and Robert Duvall's a champ as the Tobacco Kingpin. I'll tell ya what, though, the scene with Sam Elliott as the cancer-riddled original Marlboro Man ("I didn't even smoke Marlboros; I smoked Kools," in that desert-dry Southern drawl, elongating the 'oo' in Kools) was one for the books.

So, I did pretty well on the test, only missed five on the proofreading part. However, my spelling-correction on the list of legal words was just plain awful. I'm no good at spelling tests anyway. If I'm writing with context, I can write out, "We'll be able to accommodate you on that buttplug replacement, Mr. George Washington, first president of these United States." But, if I just see the word

accomodate


sitting there in open space, I don't necessarily know if one M or two is required. Alas, dictionaries are NOT allowed on spelling tests.

I wrote out a short story last night. I need to touch it up a bit and type it out before I post it. Not necessarily Asimovian in nature, but it's what I do. I'm a prolific incompletionist writer.

ACTUAL Current Mood: I'm going to impale your mom on a spike and feed her dead body to my dog with syphilis ... it's an inside joke.
 
 
Current Mood: Man, screw these moods, not long enough to put what I want!
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