Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Where the Internet Ends

It is 10:11 am. I have yet to do one single work-related thing at work.

After two weeks of non-stop crap accomplishing for two other editors, I've finally pruned back the piles of stuff on my desk back to the health informatics branches. Of course, now I have nothing to do.

I've read the whole Times. I've read the whole New Yorker. It's only Tuesday, so there won't be a new Onion until tomorrow. The McSweeney's daily piece was short today. I read Pitchfork's 100 greatest albums of this last half-decade. I've read almost every "missed connection" posted on CraigsList today.

It's official. I've finished the Internet.

Yesterday on the 6 on the way back up to Grand Central, I had the pleasure of sitting next to two extremely wealthy women. I could only imagine they were taking the subway because of some romantic idea about gauging the gritty pulse of the city that gave them their social birth. After all, Rhinovirus and a scuffed Manolo are a small price to pay to really look New York in its apathetic, half-asleep face as it hurtles uptown.

They were having the most incredible conversation. One of them was a restaurant owner who believes her staff to be stupid, mostly because they are pretty. The other was, as far as I could figure, a professional encourager. No matter what obviously untrue claim the restauranteur made, the encourager encouraged her heart out.

Restauranteur: I cannot believe that bitch of a hostess I got stuck with.
Encourager: Oh, I know.
R: I don't know what that skinny bitch thinks she's doing in my restaurant, but I looked at her, I told her--
E: You did, you told her--
R: --I told her, look, you either learn how to seat or you get the hell out of my restaurant.
E: You told her. That bitch.
R: I mean, it's not rocket science for Christ's sake. When I was their age, I worked three jobs to support myself.
E: You did. Where did you work back then?
R: You know, there was [some restaurant name].
E: God, you managed to work someplace else when you were working there? They were slave-drivers. You're a saint. And this is the thanks you get...
R: I know, I know, I did, I worked my ass off. Besides that place there was...[long, awkward pause where she tries to make up two more restaurant jobs]...God, you know, I worked so hard...
E: You did, you really did. You worked your ass off.
R: ...there were two other places. I can't remember their names, but I had three jobs.


E: What a dumb, skinny bitch.

Speaking of dumb skinny bitches, all y'all dumb skinny bitches who gave me your address (and a couple who didn't, but I deemed deserving) will be getting your valentines in a couple of days. They went out this morning. They're health informatically heartwarming.

To all of my many potential valentines: I've changed my Valentine's Day plans. Instead of seeing Neko Case [two opening bands + half an hour from Grand Central + doors at nine, not eight + last train at eleven = seeing about fifteen minutes of Neko's set], I'm going to be watching Charade with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant at the snobby arthouse theater in Pleasantville. So, I mean, if you were planning on declaring your love to me at the Bowery Ballroom or having hundreds of roses delivered there or something, there's still time to change the order. Don't be afraid to approach me. I'll be the girl there with her mother.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

A little-known fact is that theonion.com actually posts the new issue on Tuesday afternoons, usually around 3 PM Central time. So if at the end of the workday you're looking for something to do, it's worth checking, because the new issue might be up and running.

1:32 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Clare! It's 4:10! There's NOTHING! What am I gonna do now!? Fuck this bullshit, I'm TOTALLY LEAVING. Because I totally got here at EIGHT TEN. SO THERE.

4:11 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Those fuck knuckles at the Onion are totally slacking. I would write in and complain, if I wasn't so damn lazy.

5:24 PM  

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