subrosa

When you spend all your workdays doing the exact same thing in the exact same order as you did it the day before, you begin to appreciate the subtle differences all the more.

For example, today I won 25 of 28 games of Free Cell, which upped my overall percentage above my goal of 75%. It was a major accomplishment.
______________________________________________________________________________________
I have to decide when I'm going to ask for a raise. I realize that the above admission about my Free Cell addiction may undercut my "I deserve a raise" argument to a point, but the fact remains that I am wildly underpaid for what I have put into this project. The question is whether and to what extent I am willing to sacrifice my present financial stability for potential stability in the future.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Despite the Court's decision in Bell Atlantic v. Twombly, I still like the idea of being a class action plaintiffs attorney. It suits me well, I think.
______________________________________________________________________________________
Coming out of the subway stop to my office, there is a longish hallway which leads to an escalator. The escalator then leads to the street. In this hallway, there are invariably street performers. In my two months there, the following performers seem to be the regulars:
-Cowboy Hat Ranchero Hombre
-Steel Drum Guy
-Digerido Man
-Bluegrass Duo
-The Violinist
-Fat Punk Rocker

Of the above, I hate Digerido Man the most. In fact, I hate him with a firey passion usually reserved for Evangelical preachers or members of the Los Angeles Dodgers. He's just some annoying white dude with a big fucking horn. Listen, jackass. Just because you are shaking a maraca in 4/4 time does not make your bass-y attempt at cultural inclusion listenable. I know everyone at Burning Man is way into it, but that don't make it fucking music. Get a job, hippie.

My unquestioned favorite is Fat Punk Rocker. Not only because he's often got his Mohawk perfectly styled at 7am (a punctual punk!), but because homey's repertoire (so far as I can tell) consists exclusively of Johnny Cash and Rancid covers. I think the next time I see him I'm going to buy a CD or invite him to a show or something. I feel a kindred spirit. Like we're the only two people in the financial district who own ...And Out Come the Wolves.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
While Fat Punk Rocker and I are destined for a deep camaraderie, I do miss the street performers that I used to pass at the Civic Center station on my way to school. Specifically, I miss Little Jim.

Little Jim was the most genius street performer I'd ever seen. Completely devoid of any skill, talent or self-awareness, Little Jim would set up with an un-tuned violin and play like his life depended on it. The fact that nothing he played remotely approximated a melody is immaterial. And while his passion for playing caterwaulingly awful fiddle was undeniable and infectious, it was the subtle touches that made me love him.

Specifically it was the fact that Little Jim would never play without a music stand set up in front of him. A music stand that, while empty, he stared intently at as if he were second chair in Mozart's Requiem at the New York Philharmonic. I loved that.

I never asked him for his name, I just thought "Little Jim" was fitting for him. I wrote a song about him once, but never finished it. Perhaps I shall dust it off and polish it up a bit sometime soon.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Prom update when I get the pictures. Take care kids.