Some notes

1. Bill Simmons, quit being a knave and post the "mammoth" (your words) March Madness blog post. It's 1:47pm, and, as far as I'm concerned, anything posted after 3 is in the twilight of the work day and has passed its use as a distraction. Further, I refuse to spend post-work hours perusing an espn sports blog. If nothing happens soon, I'll be forced to postpone my analysis until the 'morrow, and perhaps delay my e-mail feedback until Wednesday. These are the stakes, "Bill." The ball, as they say, is in your court.


2. I was treated to a most ambivalent experience at the grocery store's delicatessen yesterday afternoon. My order was tasteful and simple, comprising only turkey, ham, and swiss cheese. I even confined myself to one measurement and brand (a half pound of each, all Boar's Head). The gentleman behind the counter was a new face, at least as far as my visits have been concerned. Previously, I've been served by a gregarious man with a waterfront home who bragged about the possible selling value at every opportunity. Though I've always fancied myself curious as to the bucks and trends of the real estate market, the fascination of this particular tale wore off quickly, and the lingering residual was a marked torpidity in regards to the slicing of goods. Confronted with his visage, I often slumped into either depression or anger, depending on external factors. The other option, altogether preferable, was a man of laconic disposition and grim expression. He worked quickly and well, perhaps spurred on by a meanness of character which sought only solitude. To this I can relate.

The new fellow, sporting the center-part, bowl coiffure favored by the Hispanic 20-something set, displayed a timid aura, seemingly afraid of mistakes. I instantly despised him, and barked my repeated order in stacatto bursts, conveying, I hope, a sense of urgency. He first began to slice the turkey in abominably thick wedges, an error I chose to ignore in the interest of expedience. His first hopeful placement on the scale revealed a weight of .23 pounds, not even halfway to the desired measure, and his deserved shame registered in a blush. For my part, I snorted in derision.

Nevertheless, he proved to be a game employee, making up in persistence what he lacked in carnivoral flair. When it came time for the cheese, he managed a weight of .58, closer by far than his previous efforts. The lad's arms shot up in a gesture of triumph, and I couldn't help but be slightly affected at his timely resurgence. "Well done," I thought to myself, and applauded in a purely mental manner.

In order not to falsely boost his confidence, however, I immediately chastised him for exceeding the proper weight limit. Feigning anger, I forced him to discard the cheese and begin anew while I stared him down to the point of abashment. It is important that new workers, however favored by chance moments, understand that the road to mastery is long and painful. I think this lesson was well-learned.


3. My Macbook arrived at work this morning. I ordered the machine Thursday, and am happy with the turn-around shipping period. What I'm even happier about is the intelligence of the delivery. Apple products, you see, are manufactured (or at least assembled) in China. Ask any ignoramus, and he might tell you the fastest way to ship to New York is through Europe, or perhaps westerly via Hawaii.

That man is a fool.

Luckily, Apple understands that jets may save hours using the decreased latitudinal circumference at our planet's poles. By heading north, then, in an arced pattern, overall flight time is reduced, and products arrive as much as 24 hours in advance. You can imagine my delight when the UPS tracking website revealed that the midpoint between Shanghai and New York was Anchorage, Alaska. Brilliant.

Thus are tomorrow's dreams made today's pleasures.


4. If I seem to be in a rage today, it is because I spent most of Sunday afternoon excoriating my friend Roberta for her inane artistic taste. My scorn took the form of a letter, which I intended to hand-deliver when finished. Yet unable to focus on practical matters amid the maelstrom of my dismay, I mistakenly closed the Word file instead of printing, ignoring the program's exhortations to save the file. Four hours of work were lost, and the whole ordeal threw me into quite a mood.

Our disagreement began when she insisted that "Letters from Iwo Jima" was the year's best film. I recoiled, labelled it correctly as more hackneyed trash from Eastwood and Haggis, and set her straight with a suggestion of the year's hidden gems she might see. Despite my olive branch, she insisted on her position, and words began to be hurled hither and yon. It reached a fever pitch when she suggested Wes Anderson was a "modern snake-oil salesman, vending his potions of false melancholy in the manner of an unseemly filmic carpetbagger."

At this point I stormed about in silence before demanding an apology. She refused, demonstrating an unforgiveable lack of compunction. I demanded that she leave, and after the door shut, I immediately set to my letter.

I've settled somewhat, but Roberta, if you're reading, I still wish to convey my fury. I am on the verge of swearing you off both as friend and lover, and you would be wise to take steps with an eye to avoiding this eventuality.

Good day to all.