Kaye: Where are you working from today?
Me: A coffee shop in Boulder. I am meeting with a vendor this morning and he chose this joint.
Me: I cannot wait to be an old man at a coffee shop. These codgers are sitting next to me and have been talking about the weather for the past hour.
Kaye: With their newspapers and their sweater vests?
Me: Well it is Boulder, so gray beards, flannel shirts…
Kaye: …and some LL Bean khaki pants?
Me: Right. And instead of a regular newspaper they are reading an alternative paper. Something that bashes Republicans and the “establishment.”
Kaye: God. Old Boulder dudes.
Me: They are not even cool old dudes wearing a Fedora, walking all slow and talking about losing their buddies during the WW-deuce.
Kaye: Ha! They are just old Hippies. The worst kind of Hippy.
Me: Yes. Because they are old enough to know that their peace-loving, cheeba-smoking rhetoric does not work anymore.
Kaye: Totally. You know what looks good on a Hippy?
Kaye: No. Fire.
Me: Even better.
While on a conference call with a client who spent the majority of the time figuring out an easy content management system who dropped the following phrase numerous times, “Okay. Hold on just a second …5 minutes of silence… Ohhhhhhhhhhh. That is easy!” I was left with time to ponder important Art Director decisions. Decisions like who the hottest bitches of 2008 are. According to Maxim, it is Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover model Marissa Miller. Well played, Maxim. I do, however, have to take exception with your placement of Britney at 19. Seriously? 19? FHM gave the hot chick medal of honor to Megan Fox. Even though Jake is gay and has no love for her, she is slutty delicious and I look forward to seeing her rack in more overly-hyped, big budgeted, acting-anemic Michael Bay joints. Then there are the lesbians. Apparently they are all about Tina Fey. Look, I get it. She is smart, cute, has that trashy librarian vibe and is funny on 30 Rock. But number 1? You disappoint me, lesbians. Her face scar alone should drop her out of the top ten (strictly from a comparison standpoint). Lastly, I take extreme exception with Gwen Stefani not being mentioned on any of these lists (and I know from personal experience that the lesbians love Gwen Stefani). Please review this Maxim, FHM and lesbians. That is all.
Web Designer: God. That site looks like clown puke.
Me: Totally. And not the good kind of clown puke.
Web Designer: There is a good kind of clown puke?
Me: Sure. Like when you punch a clown in the stomach so hard that it makes him vomit? That is the good kind. It is even better when you get some blood mixed in there.
Web Designer: I am happy that you are my boss.
Is 32 old? Hardly. But to the whippersnappers I work with who are fresh out of college, I am a year or two away from being put in a home. I find myself having to explain the pop culture references that dot my vernacular in great detail and ramble on about the days before “the MySpace” and “the texting.” Yesterday my web designer (who is well-rounded musically) nearly killed me by asking, “Who is NWA?” This morning, our project manager came strolling in with a new haircut and sporting a Tam O’Shanter so I quipped, “Look at you all on the Mary Tyler Moore tip. Are you going to throw your hat up in the air and twirl around for us?” I had to find The Mary Tyler Moore opening credits on YouTube just to illustrate how clever I was. I am sleepy. It is either time for bed or the early bird at the Sizzler.
I have been hard pressed to find time to post to the MB recently as work has me busier than a Wall Street coke dealer in 1988. While working for a small company is a better place for me to exist professionally, socially and creatively, it also has its drawbacks. Like accountability and less free time to surf the internet for a directory of bare celebrity crotch shots. Last week’s addition of a young, fire-balling web designer to the team should alleviate the current production logjam resulting in me getting home at a reasonable hour to conjure up a semi-witty post.
There is no better way to celebrate my birthday than by reading my favorite type of story; a big fat slob being extricated from his house by way of cutting through the side of it. In just a few short hours my coworkers will be treating me to a sloppy plate of birthday tacos. Later this evening the wife will be making me a birthday dinner of “whatever my little heart desires.” My little heart happens to desire pancakes, pumpkin pie and a glass of scotch. Here is hoping my thirty second year that will bring happiness, prosperity and employment stability. This tax season I am going to have more W-2s than a contract porn actor.
The rain falls softly on the metal roof. OJ is currently in jail for a B and E. I inhaled eight tacos and a bowl of green chili with Team Hofkamp during the Broncos game yesterday. Two homeless guys just walked by our office window with four shopping carts full of cans that were covered with assorted tarps and bungee cords yet neither were wearing a rain slicker or a poncho. I get free Brothers BBQ for lunch today. We just learned that one of our freelance designers is a con-artist and wanted for fraud. Pumpkin pie sounds delicious.
In case you have not noticed by the recent minimal posting, these past few months have been a blur of work and liquor. I have been pulling some long hours in order to catch our production schedule up to an acceptable level as well as drinking at a frat boy pace during an autumn social (a charity golf tournament this past Saturday had me knocking back Bloody Mary’s at seven in the morning). Tonight our office park held an “official” open house rife with free hooch, gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches and pulled pork fajitas. We got the chance to chat up our neighbors who are mostly architects, photographers, creative types, tech junkies and one drug addict painter contracted to complete odd jobs until the end of the year. As I post this I am draining a glass of scotch and researching how to create a typing text effect in Flash. Welcome to my OCPD.