I’m writing to you from my new digs in Wilmette, gentle reader, and I can already feel the tides of yuppiedom soaking into my pores. We haven’t talked in a few days, I know, and I’m sure much has changed since last Wednesday. For instance, with the exception of one fellow I spied in the local Panera Bread, it seems I’m the only non-Caucasian in town. That’s fine because my neighbors have yet to ask me about kung fu, fireworks, Pearl Harbor, or any configuration thereof. Of course, I often mistake myself for being white, so I guess I’m in a good place.
One thing’s for sure, though: Mondays blow chunks regardless of where you live. I think part of the problem comes from the endless ritual of two days’ rest and five days’ labor, a cycle that firmly plants Sisyphus in a cubicle with naught but the prospect of Caribbean Shirt Day to lighten his boulder. In my company–the one in my mind–the workweek wouldn’t include five eight-hour days. Instead, you’d work three hours on Monday, five on Tuesday, maybe seven on Wednesday, five on Thursday, and three on Friday. True, the number of hours is damn near halved, but what if productivity damn near doubled? Studies have shown that work habits follow this curve anyway, proof positive that I was right all along.
Are you listening to me, Business Week? Whoever invented the eight-hour workday should be shot, thrown into the street, dragged back inside to change into festive Hawaiian attire, then hauled back outside into rush hour traffic–on a Segway.
As I cleaned out my apartment yesterday, gentle reader, I heard three sharp knocks on my door. I waited a bit, heard three more knocks, and opened the door to two police officers, one of whom offered a piercing question.
“Sir, have you heard any screaming recently?” she asked, motioning to the apartment next door.
I said I’d not heard any screams, that I’d been preoccupied with moving the past few evenings.
“No, I mean recently,” she clarified. “In the last five to ten minutes.”
“Nope,” I answered, “though I was burglarized recently.”
This apparently was funny because she chuckled and left with her partner, leaving me alone in my big, vacant apartment as leaves and trash swirled outside in the cold moonlight. Within moments, all the little creaks and croaks in the studio became creakier and croakier, and more than once I paused in the gathering stillness to listen for more taps on the door.
An hour or so later I left the apartment for good, and so ended by dismal housing experience. Clutching my mop and cleaning supplies, I dashed out the door, and said this tenant of B&A, “Nevermore, nevermore.”
A part of me really wishes to share with you lengthy exposition on today’s hot-button issues, gentle reader, but another part of me–the part that hasn’t hooked up my computer yet–raises its metaphorical fist and shouts, “No! I will not, I cannot teach my gentle readers until my e-lectern is whole again.” In two days’ time, I shall have escaped the throes of relocating to a new apartment, and normalcy will return like the gout.
For now, though, consider this curious musical spectacle: one of my co-workers brought in a guitar to sell, but unfortunately the instrument has languished in the office, receiving short bursts of attention and experimental strumming from time to time. Someone noticed a swishing sound in the guitar today, and one enterprising co-worker peered into the body, pen in hand, and extracted a pair of used black panties. This is utterly fascinating, don’t you think? The musicologist within me stipulates that this is the true joy of music, but don’t take my word for it. Mozart, a musical genius so firmly entrenched in the public mind, had access to a piano. A big one. With lots of room. I’ve given you enough to make your own conclusions.