So, anyone in the Chicago area want to give me a job? Preferably in the editing/writing arena? Because if I have to come in to this office for another week, I may stab myself in the eye with a rusty screwdriver. Or get fired. Whichever comes first.
Pictures, blurry ones, from this weekend forthcoming...
24 October 2007
18 October 2007
Gawking
Really interesting piece in New York magazine about the Gawker blog and web empire. Definitely worth a read if familiar with the site or many of their sites (their Deadspin sports blog is a daily read for me, a link for which is in my blogroll at the right). It's interesting the way a portrayal is painted of these bloggers as people who yearn for jobs in the industry they despise. Whether or not the portrayal is accurate is anyone's guess, but it certainly does bring up some salient points.
Click here for "Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass."
On a related note is this clip of Jimmy Kimmel hosting the Larry King show from earlier this summer in which he takes Emily Gould, interviewed in the above piece, to task for the Gawker Stalker feature of their website. Pretty great stuff.
Click here for "Gawker and the Rage of the Creative Underclass."
On a related note is this clip of Jimmy Kimmel hosting the Larry King show from earlier this summer in which he takes Emily Gould, interviewed in the above piece, to task for the Gawker Stalker feature of their website. Pretty great stuff.
16 October 2007
Mice, not Mouse
I have taken some flack from several people for my decision to drown Mordachi, as I mentioned in my last post. Some see this as a cruel act, something that makes me seem some kind of killer, an ogre. All I can say is that I actually did the humane thing by drowning Mordachi. I was not going to set him free anywhere close to my house because of the chances of him returning and to simply toss him in the garbage, still alive and stuck to the trap, would have been especially cruel, to allow him to starve to death.
Also, it should be pointed out that this mouse not only got into our food, causing us to throw out a large amount of food now spoiled by Mordachi, but also pooped all over the place. An insane amount, actually, for one goddamn mouse. And that's just not very nice. Now, put yourself in my position: an unwanted guest comes into your house and proceeds to poop all over the counter and in drawers and eat the food in your pantry. You might not drown them (unless you're Maryann and have a blood lust), but you're going to do everything in your power to remove them from your home. That's what I did. Simple as that.
This brings us to yesterday evening, when I discovered the reason one small little mouse was able to produce so much poop: there wasn't just a mouse, there were mice. And one of them was stuck in the other sticky trap. Smaller than Mordachi, I'm not sure how long this one was stuck. Beth swears it wasn't there in the morning. It wasn't moving much, but it was still alive. I had a rather bad afternoon, participating in another shouting match with my boss, so I left it there to die. Which it apparently did. By the time Beth got home and we tossed it (hence forth called "Nabisco" as decreed by Beth), death had made its visit.
So that brings the tally thus far to two dead mice, one alive Marcus. Nabisco and Mordachi are hopefully the only two mice in the house, but there's no telling, really. Beth is going to purchase more sticky traps tonight and we'll see if we net anymore in Operation: Secret of Nimh.
**********************************
I had been working on an entry about this weird issue I was having with leaving my current job and the guilt associated with it. Every time I thought about the resumes I was sending out, or my clandestine phone interview I conducted in the bathroom, I felt guilty, like I was cheating on a girlfriend or a spouse. I can't really explain why. I really dislike this job. I really dislike the boss. I get nothing out of working here. I wake every morning dreading coming into this office. Several times in the past few weeks, I've felt like getting off the train and blowing off work altogether (something I end up not doing because I possess personal responsibility).
So why not get a new job?
Maybe I felt guilty because, in a way, the boss took a chance on hiring a kid who hadn't even moved to the city yet. And I am grateful for having meaningful employment upon my move. Even if the health insurance offered is a joke.
But all that evaporated with the latest blow-up, the details of which I won't go into here. That pretty much caused any guilt I still had to evaporate into a cloud of "Fuck yall, i'm out of here ASAP."
Still, I'm intrigued as to why I would feel guilty in the first place. It's not like these people gave me a lung. Or a blowjob. Not that I would want either from the people around this office (no offense, Pete). I'm just intrigued how I can simultaneously despise this job and yet feel bad about trying to leave it. Maybe a sense of obligation? Growing too comfortable with the evil I know?
Irregardless, I've made my decision, and hopefully, someone realizes that I'd make a great addition to their editorial team.
And that I'm easy on the eyes.
Also, it should be pointed out that this mouse not only got into our food, causing us to throw out a large amount of food now spoiled by Mordachi, but also pooped all over the place. An insane amount, actually, for one goddamn mouse. And that's just not very nice. Now, put yourself in my position: an unwanted guest comes into your house and proceeds to poop all over the counter and in drawers and eat the food in your pantry. You might not drown them (unless you're Maryann and have a blood lust), but you're going to do everything in your power to remove them from your home. That's what I did. Simple as that.
This brings us to yesterday evening, when I discovered the reason one small little mouse was able to produce so much poop: there wasn't just a mouse, there were mice. And one of them was stuck in the other sticky trap. Smaller than Mordachi, I'm not sure how long this one was stuck. Beth swears it wasn't there in the morning. It wasn't moving much, but it was still alive. I had a rather bad afternoon, participating in another shouting match with my boss, so I left it there to die. Which it apparently did. By the time Beth got home and we tossed it (hence forth called "Nabisco" as decreed by Beth), death had made its visit.
So that brings the tally thus far to two dead mice, one alive Marcus. Nabisco and Mordachi are hopefully the only two mice in the house, but there's no telling, really. Beth is going to purchase more sticky traps tonight and we'll see if we net anymore in Operation: Secret of Nimh.
**********************************
I had been working on an entry about this weird issue I was having with leaving my current job and the guilt associated with it. Every time I thought about the resumes I was sending out, or my clandestine phone interview I conducted in the bathroom, I felt guilty, like I was cheating on a girlfriend or a spouse. I can't really explain why. I really dislike this job. I really dislike the boss. I get nothing out of working here. I wake every morning dreading coming into this office. Several times in the past few weeks, I've felt like getting off the train and blowing off work altogether (something I end up not doing because I possess personal responsibility).
So why not get a new job?
Maybe I felt guilty because, in a way, the boss took a chance on hiring a kid who hadn't even moved to the city yet. And I am grateful for having meaningful employment upon my move. Even if the health insurance offered is a joke.
But all that evaporated with the latest blow-up, the details of which I won't go into here. That pretty much caused any guilt I still had to evaporate into a cloud of "Fuck yall, i'm out of here ASAP."
Still, I'm intrigued as to why I would feel guilty in the first place. It's not like these people gave me a lung. Or a blowjob. Not that I would want either from the people around this office (no offense, Pete). I'm just intrigued how I can simultaneously despise this job and yet feel bad about trying to leave it. Maybe a sense of obligation? Growing too comfortable with the evil I know?
Irregardless, I've made my decision, and hopefully, someone realizes that I'd make a great addition to their editorial team.
And that I'm easy on the eyes.
12 October 2007
Man vs Beast
It all started in Wisconsin. Sometime during my five-day stay at the excellent Life O'Riley Farm, a mouse snuck into my suitcase. I didn't really pay attention to my suitcase and, the morning of my departure, tossed a packet of oatmeal in there. When I returned to my apartment in Chicago, I opened the suitcase and unpacked my laptop so I could track my fantasy football team. Only later did I investigate and discover that the oatmeal packet had been chewed on and, judging by the presence of droppings, the chewer had been in the suitcase for the duration of the trip. I had transported a rodent across state lines.
Over the next two weeks, Beth and I began seeing evidence of our new, unwanted roommate. Things were chewed, poop was prevalent, and we began seeing him make daring runs across the kitchen floor. This pissed me off. How dare it run up on my counter and poop all over it. How dare it poop in MY apartment without my permission. This meant all out war. I was going to destroy this mouse. I was going to sever his head and impale it on a toothpick in the front yard to scare off other potential gate-crashing rodents.
VS 
Seems pretty uneven, know? But the little bastard held his own. We put out sticky traps and he got around them with so much ease I swear I could hear him laughing.
Mordachi: 1, Marcus: 0
We put out poison that seemed to be devoured and scattered about haphazardly, the way a drunk treats the mininbar.
Mordachi: 2, Marcus: 0
I was beginning to think Mordachi (as we named him) was going to be with us forever, continually pooping in the corner behind the microwave.
He was brazen, I'll give him that. Wednesday morning, I came face to face with him. Twice.
Mordachi: 4, Marcus: 0
I caught him in the act of burrowing into some hamburger buns Beth had stored in the pantry. We exchanged that doomed glance, that glance in which we know that, in spite of the respect we hold for each other, it'll only end one way: with one of us dead. I may or may not have squealed like a 3 year old when Mordachi jumped down from the shelf and made for the nearest floorboard crack. A few minutes later, he bolted from the pantry to the stove and was once again gone.
Figuring that he was loving the pantry more than we had thought, we moved sticky traps to the bottom level of the pantry, just inside the door so he wouldn't realize what he was in until it was too late.
It took two more days, but this afternoon, I came home to find him stuck and struggling in one of the sticky traps. He had pulled a Fievel from Wisconsin, had negotiated the labyrinth of our kitchen, feasted on our hamburger buns and poison, refusing to give in. He defied logic and science. He seemed more machine than mouse.
So I let him sit in the trap for a few hours to live with what he had done, the way he had interrupted our lives and thrown them into a disheveled mess. He haunted our pantry and our dreams. I wanted him to reflect on that for a while. After watching the Red Sox game, I filled a garbage bag with water, wished Mordachi well, and told him I was sorry. He squeaked frantically and still tried to pry himself loose from the glue.
I'm sure there's a deeper meaning here, a life lesson to be learned. Something about the balance of progress versus nature. Maybe something about the environment, about man's affect on nature and nature being forced to do what it can to survive. One could learn a lot about symbiosis from this experience. After all, Mordachi wasn't bothering us THAT much was he? We could have set our food apart enough that we would have been fine, couldn't we? He didn't do anything directly to hurt us or impede our daily lives did he? We could have lived in harmony and fostered a connection between ourselves and the more primitive nature that we ignore and sometimes fear.
On the other hand, mice are fucking disgusting and carry the plague, so I drowned him and tossed the bag in the alley.
Mordachi: Dead, Marcus: Alive
Over the next two weeks, Beth and I began seeing evidence of our new, unwanted roommate. Things were chewed, poop was prevalent, and we began seeing him make daring runs across the kitchen floor. This pissed me off. How dare it run up on my counter and poop all over it. How dare it poop in MY apartment without my permission. This meant all out war. I was going to destroy this mouse. I was going to sever his head and impale it on a toothpick in the front yard to scare off other potential gate-crashing rodents.
Tale of the Tape
VS 
Height: 6'1" vs 0'3"
Weight: 208 lbs vs 4 oz
Reach: 38 inches vs 1.5 inches
Seems pretty uneven, know? But the little bastard held his own. We put out sticky traps and he got around them with so much ease I swear I could hear him laughing.
Mordachi: 1, Marcus: 0
We put out poison that seemed to be devoured and scattered about haphazardly, the way a drunk treats the mininbar.
Mordachi: 2, Marcus: 0
I was beginning to think Mordachi (as we named him) was going to be with us forever, continually pooping in the corner behind the microwave.
He was brazen, I'll give him that. Wednesday morning, I came face to face with him. Twice.
Mordachi: 4, Marcus: 0
I caught him in the act of burrowing into some hamburger buns Beth had stored in the pantry. We exchanged that doomed glance, that glance in which we know that, in spite of the respect we hold for each other, it'll only end one way: with one of us dead. I may or may not have squealed like a 3 year old when Mordachi jumped down from the shelf and made for the nearest floorboard crack. A few minutes later, he bolted from the pantry to the stove and was once again gone.
Figuring that he was loving the pantry more than we had thought, we moved sticky traps to the bottom level of the pantry, just inside the door so he wouldn't realize what he was in until it was too late.
It took two more days, but this afternoon, I came home to find him stuck and struggling in one of the sticky traps. He had pulled a Fievel from Wisconsin, had negotiated the labyrinth of our kitchen, feasted on our hamburger buns and poison, refusing to give in. He defied logic and science. He seemed more machine than mouse.
So I let him sit in the trap for a few hours to live with what he had done, the way he had interrupted our lives and thrown them into a disheveled mess. He haunted our pantry and our dreams. I wanted him to reflect on that for a while. After watching the Red Sox game, I filled a garbage bag with water, wished Mordachi well, and told him I was sorry. He squeaked frantically and still tried to pry himself loose from the glue.
I'm sure there's a deeper meaning here, a life lesson to be learned. Something about the balance of progress versus nature. Maybe something about the environment, about man's affect on nature and nature being forced to do what it can to survive. One could learn a lot about symbiosis from this experience. After all, Mordachi wasn't bothering us THAT much was he? We could have set our food apart enough that we would have been fine, couldn't we? He didn't do anything directly to hurt us or impede our daily lives did he? We could have lived in harmony and fostered a connection between ourselves and the more primitive nature that we ignore and sometimes fear.
On the other hand, mice are fucking disgusting and carry the plague, so I drowned him and tossed the bag in the alley.
Mordachi: Dead, Marcus: Alive
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