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.

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.

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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.