It’s getting late and I’m on my 5th disc download of RedHat RHEL-5.7 i86_64. Please stop me now if this is not the right version for the MacBook Pro i7 processor because I am running out of blank discs. I didn’t want to go with the beta versions because I have a lot of applications to test and beta would only complicate things.
The screendoor is open. For the first time in more than a month, the air conditioner isn’t droning and drowning out the sound of the world outside. Tonight, I hear the rain tapping low and high notes on my weatherbeaten deck. While I wait for the binaries to download, I’m sipping a bit of white wine and listening to the watery music.
Break open your best boxed Merlot and join me. Tonight, Eva Cassidy sings, life goes on and the loveliest sounds in the world can not be bought for any price.
Did all my unemployed friends and colleagues have any luck today?
I see Lan and Alina, oh and there’s Dominick and Patrick, and David and Tikva. I see Tom waving and there’s Molly, Scott and Yvette!
I’m sitting here at Rico’s new digs. Actually, it’s the same digs that Joe used to own. There’s a long sleek bar of polished wood. Rico keeps it in good shape with plenty of lemon oil when the bar’s not busy.
I’d like to sit here in a dark corner, nursing my Jamiesons, and talk to my friends, the ones I don’t see anymore. We used to occasionally go out to happy hour and shoot the breeze and kamikazes, talk about the stupid management decisions we have to live with. People aren’t really up to partying right now. But we can all relax here in this bar and take a load off.
We’re in for two more hard years. We’ll figure it out. But right now, I’d like some peanuts with my drink. I just want to sit here and listen to the music.
You guys probably have a head start on me. I just got home from work after spending hours on a frakin’ Excel spreadsheet. I HATE Microsoft. Every app is so damn kludgy. I need a drink. Rico! Some tequila please?
In the meantime, let me direct your attention to this excellent smack down of Sally Quinn by Bob Somerby titled The Wages of Quinn. Somerby dissects Quinn’s most recent column where the Queen Bee of DC threatens the Obama’s with her own personal brand of divine retribution for being lousy hosts. “Pretty nice administration you got there. Wouldn’t want anything to *happen* to it.” As Somerby points out, Sally and her droogs don’t pick on Republicans for being celebrity struck social climbers like the Reagans or intellectual and sleepy boors like the second round of Bushes. She saves her attacks, and at this point, they seem awfully close to domestic terrorism, for Democrats. Clinton really frosted her crockies because right after his first election, he called her and the Villagers on their little cliquey games. Quinn holds a grudge and her vengeance knows no boundaries of decorum.
I don’t know why Sally gets away with it except that she’s married to Ben Bradlee. She sounds to me like a frustrated woman who should have been a CEO of something but was born 30 years too soon. So, she is forced to channel her intelligence and thwarted ambition into middle school variety power plays that are approved by her class as being appropriate for her gender and station. Oooo, the shackles of conformity must be rubbing her raw after sooo many years. Nevertheless, she will not be ignored. But someday, probably soon, she will be discarded. Everyone gets old, eventually. She will be replaced by a newer version of herself.
In the meantime, she’ll continue to scheme and stab people in the back and help the Villagers take down another Democrat. Hey, Obama’s a pretty weak president. It’s not going to be hard for Sally and her posse to take him down. I’m just sick of people indulging in ruining other people for sport. Besides, Obama’s doing a pretty good job of ruining himself without Sally’s help.
Someday, I hope Sally gets what’s coming to her. In my fantasy, it goes a little bit like this:
I don’t know about you guys but I’ve had a harrowing day. It’s been very busy at work lately. It’s like they expect me to find the cure for cancer or something. And this week is when the onerous parent teacher conferences start. Let’s just say that as much as I admire teachers’ organizational skills and willingness to spend their lives trapped in a classroom with 20+ tyrants, we differ on matters of pedagogy. My Brook is definitely a rhombus to a round hole. Her sister was sooooo much easier…
So, I am unwinding tonight at Joe’s. He’s the one with the long bar, lovingly polished every night until it gleams. There are dark little niches where you can collect your friends around round tables. The entertainment tonight is eclectic. It’s a little French, a little jazz, a soupçon of classical. The singer’s range isn’t extraordinary but the tune is light and refreshing. I don’t want to go to work. I don’t want to eat. I just want to sit in a dark little corner and melt into my chair.
Don’t forget Conflucians Say at 10PM EST where you can let your hair down and relax with friends. Only on PUMA United Radio, PURrrrr.
Tell me, tell me, tell me do
The Confluence 