The last thing you should do when grappling with your darkest innermost demon, in my case bowling, is to locate the nearest demon table, then promptly bend over it and drop your trousers, all in one smooth motion. This is precisely what happened 42 seconds into my “game” and, although I’ve only anecdotal evidence to back my case currently, I suspect the majority of the marketing department saw me gutterball that cursed orb in the lane to my left just as the CMO arrived, such is my generous nature.
“We all heard that one,” he declared.
I wish I could tell you my game progressed to at least 100, but what began at a valiant 70-something eventually devolved to under 50. This is the threshold in the bowling world that, once crossed, puts you squarely in the special needs section of the alley, a dimly lit corner where your ugly bowling shoes are tied for you while you dribble house pizza on your shirtfront without reprimand. Great is my shame.
Normally the charms of business networking are lost on me, the industrious wiles generating naught but pounding headaches and stacks of disposable business cards. The worthwhile connections are there, I imagine, though they’re quickly eclipsed by other concerns: how I can shout repeatedly without growing hoarse, for instance, or how best to pretend that alcohol is delicious.
It works for some people–indeed, they may even enjoy it–but if you’re wired differently, you may want to give LinkedIn a spin. I’m late to the table, per my usual custom, and now I’m hooked on its clean, fast interface and ease-of-use. This is the current state of affairs, anyhow. Heaven knows what will happen after the sheer force of the Internet erodes its shores in a few years. Look at MySpace, case in point, once model social networking service turned revolving door for angsty teens and the pedos who love them. LinkedIn is insulated from this kind of stuff partly because of its focus on business, I believe, wherein it doesn’t facilitate the local union of angsty teens connecting with, say, a wholesaler of trench coats, who in turn is two degrees separated from, like, Playgr0undHunter242. Its infrastructure guards against it.
Since last we spoke, I’ve got the loan and location pieces of the puzzle down for this real estate thing. The excitement is palpable, let me tell you, especially after some dude tried to sell me Lacoste shirts by the dumpster this weekend.
“I sell Luh-cawst shirts, man,” he said, proceeding to open the trunk of his sports car.
“La-who?”
We didn’t really network.
Look up and to the right and witness, buried in a small drop-down box, a solid 90 minutes of toil sunk into wrangling the Internet. Our archives were a mess, but order has been restored, and what you see before you should’ve taken only 15 minutes, were I versed in basic Web language. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some pride here, only it’s quickly eclipsed by the realization that the stuff being chronicled may not have passed our normally stringent standards of quality. Some may argue the new archive function is not entirely unlike cramming a wad of shit into a Rolodex.
The prospect of investing in property feels like a headfirst lunge into concrete. I understand renting is only marginally better than setting my money on fire, but damn it if there aren’t complexities galore in searching for a little permanence. Location. Pros. Cons. Slab. Crawl space. Acoustic ceilings. Housing associations. PMI. Townhouses. Condos. MLS. Zones. Taxes. Tax breaks. Fixed. Variable. Inspections. Closing costs.
It’s enough to make you consider that maybe, just maybe, living in a tree and showering occasionally at the Y could be a viable alternative to all this roof stuff. The first step, I’m told, is to get pre-qualified for a loan. Naturally there are approximately 53 ways to do this. I suppose I only need to pick the one.