2006-06-13 07:56![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldisciplineMy brain is a weird, weird fucking place sometimes.
The last time I checked, Fatal Attraction featured Michael Douglas as the male lead, not a ninteen-year-old Patrick Stewart, and the denouement didn't include the butcher's knife being wrapped in butcher paper during several "teaser" thrust/caresses along his throat, interrupted by a knock at the door when a pair of the couple's hippie friends show up, and young Mr. Stewart escaping death by sitting in a bathtub in the middle of the living room and scrawling "you have a gay friend" (or something to that effect) in charcoal on the wall and sitting there sheepishly as they cooed over his (faked?) coming out as the tub turned into a couch.
He subsequently went free, and met up with Katie Holmes on a flight to Seattle, but in order to escape something or other, they both strapped themselves to the wheel rims on opposite sides of the 747 and got spun around during takeoff.
Sometime after Dreamland Flight 42 landed in Sea-Tac, the principals saw one another in adjacent taxi cabs passing through a toll booth on an expressway, and then changed to myself and![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thewronghands (which makes slightly more sense, as she actually lives there).
We were both going on job interviews in the same neighborhood (her for something appropriately high-level technogeeky; I was going to become a fitness trainer), and neither of us had good directions, other than a street address in an illogically numbered part of town (which resembles both portions of Seattle, and a recurring portion of Dreamland Denver that I'm uncertain whether or not I may have seen when visitingkaliva & paisli several years ago - does semi-desolate industrial stretch of road alongside/underneath a bridge/railroad ring any bells, Denver peeps? Very Perdido Street Station/Dark City, in any case.
Upon finding the building, the two of us, along with an Asian/Indonesian girl and a burly white guy (not sure who they were), were brought up short by a gruff geek bouncer (who was with Raven's interviewing company out on the front steps grabbing a smoke break). Exeuntthewronghands. I was unable to deliver a clever greeting, got flustered, and hurried inside, mortified that I was running late for my interview.
Nobody I spoke with mentioned it. As a matter of fact, it was the least-interview-ish interview ever. We just kind of stood around as a Pilates-like class took place, and I kind of awkwardly helped distribute equipment, held my backpack in one hand, and, at one point, felt very sheepish for having worked up a sweat despite being clad in only my combat boots and a black utilikilt (I got the impression that some folks were checking out, but not commenting on, my ink).
I finally got up the nerve to ask when the interview was, and the de-facto leader/manager said we'd be adjourning to a nearby bar mid-afternoon to discuss it. "This is Seattle. It's Friday. You have any idea how expensive beer is at seven o'clock? That's why we have our 'Beer one-to-three' policy." I assume the interview went all right, since the staff was all hanging around my parents' living room the following morning, in variations on the company color scheme (a dark teal shirt and khaki bottoms, though one girl who resembled one of K's coworkers from her last job was in a subtly-patterned paisli velvet cocktail dress), and they indicated that I would need to dye my celery-hued Coca-Cola golf shirt to comply with their color scheme.
After that, I headed out to some sort of company family picnic (I think this was a different company - my friend Jess from college was there, and she had a six-year old son, who she said reminded her of me, though he was blond, pale, and snaggle-toothed, though he did have a certain devilish gleam in his eyes, and sang "Mambo Number Five" (Max Raabe's version) beautifully while running around with the other children.
Don't ask me what this all means. I just live here.
The last time I checked, Fatal Attraction featured Michael Douglas as the male lead, not a ninteen-year-old Patrick Stewart, and the denouement didn't include the butcher's knife being wrapped in butcher paper during several "teaser" thrust/caresses along his throat, interrupted by a knock at the door when a pair of the couple's hippie friends show up, and young Mr. Stewart escaping death by sitting in a bathtub in the middle of the living room and scrawling "you have a gay friend" (or something to that effect) in charcoal on the wall and sitting there sheepishly as they cooed over his (faked?) coming out as the tub turned into a couch.
He subsequently went free, and met up with Katie Holmes on a flight to Seattle, but in order to escape something or other, they both strapped themselves to the wheel rims on opposite sides of the 747 and got spun around during takeoff.
Sometime after Dreamland Flight 42 landed in Sea-Tac, the principals saw one another in adjacent taxi cabs passing through a toll booth on an expressway, and then changed to myself and
thewronghands (which makes slightly more sense, as she actually lives there). We were both going on job interviews in the same neighborhood (her for something appropriately high-level technogeeky; I was going to become a fitness trainer), and neither of us had good directions, other than a street address in an illogically numbered part of town (which resembles both portions of Seattle, and a recurring portion of Dreamland Denver that I'm uncertain whether or not I may have seen when visiting
kaliva & paisli several years ago - does semi-desolate industrial stretch of road alongside/underneath a bridge/railroad ring any bells, Denver peeps? Very Perdido Street Station/Dark City, in any case.Upon finding the building, the two of us, along with an Asian/Indonesian girl and a burly white guy (not sure who they were), were brought up short by a gruff geek bouncer (who was with Raven's interviewing company out on the front steps grabbing a smoke break). Exeunt
thewronghands. I was unable to deliver a clever greeting, got flustered, and hurried inside, mortified that I was running late for my interview.Nobody I spoke with mentioned it. As a matter of fact, it was the least-interview-ish interview ever. We just kind of stood around as a Pilates-like class took place, and I kind of awkwardly helped distribute equipment, held my backpack in one hand, and, at one point, felt very sheepish for having worked up a sweat despite being clad in only my combat boots and a black utilikilt (I got the impression that some folks were checking out, but not commenting on, my ink).
I finally got up the nerve to ask when the interview was, and the de-facto leader/manager said we'd be adjourning to a nearby bar mid-afternoon to discuss it. "This is Seattle. It's Friday. You have any idea how expensive beer is at seven o'clock? That's why we have our 'Beer one-to-three' policy." I assume the interview went all right, since the staff was all hanging around my parents' living room the following morning, in variations on the company color scheme (a dark teal shirt and khaki bottoms, though one girl who resembled one of K's coworkers from her last job was in a subtly-patterned paisli velvet cocktail dress), and they indicated that I would need to dye my celery-hued Coca-Cola golf shirt to comply with their color scheme.
After that, I headed out to some sort of company family picnic (I think this was a different company - my friend Jess from college was there, and she had a six-year old son, who she said reminded her of me, though he was blond, pale, and snaggle-toothed, though he did have a certain devilish gleam in his eyes, and sang "Mambo Number Five" (Max Raabe's version) beautifully while running around with the other children.
Don't ask me what this all means. I just live here.
