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Tuesday February 20, 2001, 00:54

Could this be what "they" mean when "they" say that all those kids who have lost their shirts in the dotcom game should now suck "it" up and cut their hair and throw out their flannel and get a "real" job where they can earn an "honest day's work" (where "they" are those fuddy duddies who wish they could quit their jobs and go join startups but who are contrained by obligations to their families or other such "realities" and "it" is one's pride and the belief that one can change the world)?

I doubt it, though there is no doubt that being up and about for eleven hours climbing ladders and carrying heavy contraptions of metal and glass would constitute an honest day's work. However, when "they" talk about what the folks who have suffered mightily at the hand of the all-bursting bubble should do, they are talking more about having to climb the corporate ladder just like they (that is the naysayers) did, once upon a time, mostly because they don't like the idea of a free ride, which flies in the face of everything they hold true in their cubicle to corner office progressing world.

I skipped that step and hopped right to the land of hourly wage earner with fifteen minute breaks every X hours and an hour off for dinner. The land of workman's comp where health insurance is something you have to scam from someone else, or just go without, rather than having it be part of the "benefits package" recieved with the pile of Post-it (tm) Notes and Bic (tm) pens.

It should be noted that the author is, at times. confused about his place in the world.

The evening ended well enough though, with deadlines not met and a daunting amount of work left for tomorrow (which is now, it should be noted, today). Leaving what can ostensibly be called work behind, the walk home commenced and was originally to be terminated by entry into home (that is, the Sublet) but which rapidly became replaced with visions of warm beverages in soothing atmospheres. "Cafe!" cried the subconscious, which tittered a bit and nudged the conscious until the feet no longer responded to any additional thoughts and proceeded directly past "home" (quotations marks provided to indicate a certain level of discomfort in the description of the Sublet as "home") and to the next intersection. With no hesitation, the feet-driving portion of the brain directed "Left!" until a suitable Cafe was found (one block later, to be precise).

Falling asleep at the cafe would probably have been bad which is why, after I had finished consuming my chai and was drifting in and out of sleep while attempting to finish one of the many books that I had started mere months ago, I dug through my change purse and approached the counter. Brownies were one dollar and seventy-five cents and I proceeded to count out four quarters and an assortment of nickels and dimes (one of which slipped from my fingers and fell into the matting beneath my feet which had holes just large enough for a dime and which I had to stick my fingers into to fetch the dime with which I was to pay for my brownie.

The honest day's work plus a two dollar chai and a dollar seventy-five brownie are coming together in the form of mildly delusional behaviour at a little past one in the morning in a darkened apartment in the East Village of New York City. I retire for the evening and turn my nose to any adversity that may come this way.

My door is chained shut, however, so I sleep in peace, content in the knowledge that anyone who wanted to mess with my shit whould have to be carrying a pair of bolt cutters as well.

Mind me not, it is the brownie talking.

(Out out foul beast!)

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