Work(ing Title)

Someone in the office today showed me a card trick, and I managed to break it on my first attempt! Wasn’t that a great story? I only told it though to tell you this one.

In that same conversation, I made a case a few of you have probably heard if you spend any time around me: Slapping people in the face is ready for a renaissance (not that you’ll believe me, but I spelled that right on my first attempt–this day is going really well). There are plenty of times in a given week when I feel the urge to lightly but firmly connect my open hand with the cheek of whoever is talking at me. A slap is probably the most shocking and effective way to point out to someone that they need to come to their senses and, most likely, shut the fuck up.

Keep in mind the power that comes with slapping someone as you wade into these waters, as it is a skill that can be quite easily abused. The slap can only be leveraged against someone for whom you have displayed a great deal of respect and care. Slapping an acquaintance, or worse yet a total stranger, is like booking an appearance on Monzel and Wyatt’s favorite show.

Last night while I was watching movies and doing laundry and drinking whiskey and cleaning my camera and plotting adventures and surfing Flickr and stealing music and chatting online…I had the strongest urge to smoke.

A cigar, some hookah, a handful of cancer sticks, a finely-tuned hash pipe. Really almost anything would have fit the bill. Perhaps it was a desire to be back in Europe where you can still get away with it (though Asia is clearly the last bastion of the smoker), or maybe just a desire to be outside saying ‘fuck you’ to the cold.

I didn’t fufill my urge, but it certainly has got my mind thinking about the Kasbah again. I let it slide over the holidays, but now I’m determined to have it up and running this quarter (maybe it’ll influence the ReDesign). By the time we’re out of this circus weather and into more consistent northern climes, there will be many nights spent on the balcony smoking and thinking great thoughts. This much I promise you.

I fell victim to that which is the most en vogue Flickr habit, the 365 Project. So far this year I’ve taken at least one photo every day, though I won’t consider myself successfully on-track until I’ve got through all of March.

If you’ve watched my photostream lately, I’m still fighting through the giant piles of holiday photos. By this weekend I’ll have published the last of those, and then I’ll start pushing up my dailies. Also rest assured that these photos integrated into…The Redesign.

Last night I went out to Tap Plastics to pick up some more equipment for the kasbah. While driving out there I passed dealerships for Rolls Royce and Lotus, brands I’ve yet to find with official representation back home in the valley.

As Carolyn was ringing me up for my cheaper plastic, “You may have to replace it around every 3 or 4 years…” I noticed a placard behind the register. On it was a photo and text which read, “David Whitehead, 1961-2000.” This sort of thing wouldn’t mean much, except as I was signing my receipt I noticed the collections of business cards on the counter. There at the top of the display were Mr. Whitehead’s cards.

If for some reason I felt compelled to get in touch the highest ranking person at this Tap Plastics location, I would’ve taken David’s business card and left in a huff, only to call after a man who died six years ago. Am I really to understand that no one has bothered to reorganize the front counter of this store in more than half a decade? Why did I never encounter this sort of amazing nonsense in California?

Driving back towards the gym, I foolishly turned left at a traffic light where the cross street was labeled 124th Ave NE. While turning right here would have had me idling down 124th, turning left put me directly onto the 520 freeway. There was no sign. Nothing to indicate I was turning into the commuting maw without escape. Clearly if I had lived here since Mr. David Whitehead was still the regional director of Tap Plastics I would’ve known where I was going.

I’m over it today, but yesterday the phrase was fuck you Washington.