We Reserve the Right to Limit Quantities
If interviewing for jobs is like taking a shit then I just took a big old constipated dump all over Sunset Ave. I was at meeting with three principals about a full time job teaching physics at a school near the Pacific Ocean. It reminded me of all my previous meetings with principals (mostly in middle school, with Mr.Evans): it went on forever and the longer it did the madder they got.
I'm pretty sure that as far as indicators of success go, increasing hostility of one's interviewer is a bad sign. At the end she reminded me that they are talking to a few other people about the job. Is that a gentle preparation for rejection or a common courtsey? Only Jesus knows. For my part, I feel like I came across as pretty fucking inarticulate and I surely said some pretty stupid shit, though I did accomplish my goal of not bringing up Jesus once.
Ultimately, I should have just gone to work and earned my $50 for the day.
I thought there was a good chance that the Big One might hit San Francisco on Friday night. The mood was perfect: not just rain and lightning coming down in San Francisco City, but hail and snow! How about that?
Luckily, I was shielded from the inclement weather by the nine foot-thick concrete walls of Nowell's SoMa loft--we wouldn't have even felt a 9.0 (though the gas pipes that casually criss cross along his ceiling would have surely killed us within minutes). Carly and I came over to help him and Sadie usher in his 28th year of existence with nothing less than an oyster, Dungeness crab, and micro-martini feast followed by an impromptu rave on the aforementioned concrete slabs. Except instead of E, we took Claritin D. Either way, when in SoMa it's damn hard to avoid high class dining and dance parties.
I'm pretty sure that as far as indicators of success go, increasing hostility of one's interviewer is a bad sign. At the end she reminded me that they are talking to a few other people about the job. Is that a gentle preparation for rejection or a common courtsey? Only Jesus knows. For my part, I feel like I came across as pretty fucking inarticulate and I surely said some pretty stupid shit, though I did accomplish my goal of not bringing up Jesus once.
Ultimately, I should have just gone to work and earned my $50 for the day.
I thought there was a good chance that the Big One might hit San Francisco on Friday night. The mood was perfect: not just rain and lightning coming down in San Francisco City, but hail and snow! How about that?
Luckily, I was shielded from the inclement weather by the nine foot-thick concrete walls of Nowell's SoMa loft--we wouldn't have even felt a 9.0 (though the gas pipes that casually criss cross along his ceiling would have surely killed us within minutes). Carly and I came over to help him and Sadie usher in his 28th year of existence with nothing less than an oyster, Dungeness crab, and micro-martini feast followed by an impromptu rave on the aforementioned concrete slabs. Except instead of E, we took Claritin D. Either way, when in SoMa it's damn hard to avoid high class dining and dance parties.
Feather 2 Pixel Lump Update: In which we track the progress of the lump growing on my upper thigh.
I felt like my lump was really doing well before yesterday. Not necessarily getting smaller, but aching less. But godammit if I didn't bike 6 miles across the city on Monday to see the best picture of the year as deemed by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. And I'm not saying "Crash" was bad per se, but not worth distressing any growth within two inches of your genitals over.
[Cow Eyeball dissection at the museum]
posted by Jon at 5:07 PM
2 Comments:
But you are beginning your 28th year of life, right!? Why do you want to be such an old man?
As for worrying about lumps: I think I read in USA Today that lumps are good for you now. They are the new eggs.
What, we don't even get a photo of the lump?
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