Aug. 9th, 2014

thene: Frank at the end of TTS, with his facemask open. (frank)
Zombie HQ is being redecorated this weekend. The socialists across the landing finally moved into the wheelchair accessible location of their dreams (which is in the building next door to Zombie HQ, where they will have to buy their own goddamn toilet paper), and we have therefore spilled over into their old office. No more clown car, at least for the next three weeks. Their place is swisher, too, with hardwood floors and a sink. Yesterday morning everyone was lugging their furniture out of the way of the painter and I just grabbed my laptop and curled up on an armchair next to the brickwall with the disused fireplace because oh my fuck I had work to do (am arguing with self about whether to work through the weekend but ugh I hate working and not being paid). The painter is a very gay ex-Calvin Klein underwear model from NYC; I don't know where the fuck does my boss finds all these people. I sat in my armchair and grumbled at him about feminism and tried to help him find a utility sink.

In the afternoon, I was being paid and, mostly, not working; we went out to our boss's lakeside pad while the painters got to work on Zombie HQ. You know how I feel about the twee rural idylls of the elite; that country-seat bullshit was the basis of the most tangible expression of my parents' crazy, but selling up their crazy is the only reason I ever got my head above water, so. We spent almost the whole time outside, on the deck or down by the lake; The Diva spent a while asleep in a hammock. We told a lot of stories, including filling all the n00bs in on how incredibly fucked up everything was until roughly last October. I chilled with The Yogi and The Diva doing some quality Immigrant Wives Club bitching about our dispersed lives, the Department of Homeland Security, and the fact that Americans don't get time off work. The Pugilist explained how our boss found him; he was 15 years old and stumbled into a boxing club when he got lost trying to buy a burrito, at at some point became boss's personal trainer. Hey, I am only here because The Bond Girl was really hung over when we first met.

I don't remember why it came up, but My Friend dropped that Wolfie used to bring guns to work.

I'm not a stranger to workplace guns - I wrote a couple of years ago about D.M. just laying a handgun on her desk, like you do; but that was in fucking Marietta and it's just a little bit odd in Massachusetts and even more odd if you are, well, Wolfie. Most clean cut human being on earth. Not even American. Useless lying flake but way good at passing for sane; and there is My Friend (they were roommates when this began) telling us that Wolfie used to bring a gun to work 'to know what it felt like' ahahahaa oh my god that's hilarious. He used to be custodian of a lot of random office supplies, and sometimes The DJ found guns in his desk drawers when he went rummaging for tacks or post-it notes. Wow.

I rode back that night with My Friend and The DJ, who worked more closely with Wolfie than most of the rest of us; he said that the whole gun thing was really dark and sexual; some secretive phallic powertrip between a completely useless superior and an underrated underling that hung on the fact that virtually no one else knew that there were guns, and he wondered if Wolfie seriously wanted to bone him. (Which I don't believe, for one simple reason; he's American. It is a premise of all nationhood that men of other nationalities cannot really be heterosexual men, and barely even qualify as masculine; masculinity is one of the punchlines to the huge joke that is nationality. Yank speculations about the sexuality of foreigners are always really fucking weird.)


thene: Happy Ponyo looking up from the seabed (Default)

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