shorts log day 9

I have had to switch to the longer pant uniform this week because the planet's temperature has been dipping down to where the shorts are just stupid. It's amazing how much I miss the things, even the alcoholic ones that came from the pile in the thrift store.

However, that said, I have something new to occupy my senses, and so my legs have taken a back seat to it: this is the 1st November, the first time ever that I have ever entered the region of space known as nanowrimo.

This is a harsh bit of space, actually part of the space-time continuium, since it lasts for a earth month but stretches on into eternity. There are other freaks (I just admitted to being a freak) on the journey with me, but that in no way makes it easier.

Harder, easier, because as my work grows, I can feel myself getting just a little bit more into it, until I'm afraid that I might lose myself in nanowrimo forever -- or at least until 1 Dec.

shorts log day 8 -- coming to termz with language

star date inherently unknowable:

I've been having a hard time understanding my alien ship mates.

This is understandable because they have been bending our existing language for their needs, often to the point of breaking it, or adding new words to it that fit like a white wedding dress on a pig. Okay, maybe the dress would fit the pig, but would you want to put it on the pig unless you wanted the mud to symbolize your carefree days of hedonism before settling down to a steady stream of the goofy quirks of the same person that were so damn funny at first but now cause your stomach to clench up and those thoughts of murder to move to the front of the queue in your brain that was once organized into a nice, clean queue before the quirks began to torture and tease it into anarchy.

But, I digress.

Here's some translations of some of the alien speak I have heard lately:

• agnostic: now, everyone knows that when you spill egg nog, that it will make things sticky, but that's not what this is about -- unless you are floor-agnostic and just don't care about your new Italian tiles at all. Or, for instance, a program -- a program that doesn't care about the platform it runs on -- then you might be platform agnostic. But, using this word in a society that fears all other religions than their own, and fears those crazy people who believe that God is inherently unknowable due to the nature of subjective experience, is just plain stupid. Steer away from these rumble-causing words.
• organic: take the organs from 2 failed programs, preferably ones from the 90's that were spawned solely by the word synergy but didn't have a prayer(oops) of success, add a big handful of cheese, wrap the whole thing in not one, but two tortilla shells and deep-fry it until it decomposes, and you have a new, organic approach. Be sure to bury the remains...organic stuff spoils.

shorts log day 7 -- I'm missing my picnic, dammit

shorts log entry meh to the meh power

About half way thru my morning, I looked down at my half-covered legs and thought, "Picnic, when the hell is the picnic?" Previously, I could only wear the half-pants on days when free food was offered, and I was experiencing an echo of my old Pavlovian response: associate food and shorts and after a while the dog will start drooling at the sight of Old Navy cutoffs.

It was a letdown to remember that there was, indeed, no free food offered, and that I would have to forage for my own. At least hunting will be easier in the shorts. And, if I'm trapped in the building due to some unforseen glue that falls from the sky and makes all the exits impassible, so that my building mates and I first have our own version of "Lord of the Flies", followed shortly thereafter -- when the vending machines are all smashed and empty and Piggy is starting to look like his namesake -- by "Alive", I will at least be mobile and harder to catch in my short pants. The long leggers will be the tripping, falling, and trapped first victims, albeit they'll be harder to peel.

shorts log day 6

stardate random and unknowing,

Day six of this adventure begins with a choice of uniform: white, tan, or jeans shorts. Mondays are decidedly blue, but the blue ones were tight when I bought them and now, after several washings, are impossible to get into without fasting.

I opt for breakfast and the white ones, but these are a new pair, straight from the thrift store where they were languishing with the other wayward men's clothing. Of course, these have been washed, sterilized and sanctified as clean by the ship's steward, but who knows? The memory, like body memory, still remains in them, I think.

I found myself swerving down the halls this morning, stopping at the men's room to vomit -- twice. And I keep reaching for a flask in my lap drawer that isn't there -- the lap drawer or the flask.

I think back to the thrift store -- what pile did I get these from? And then, I remember, in one of those d'oh moments that are like a kick in the head. Both heads.

I got these shorts from the alcoholic, sold-my-shorts-for-booze pile. How could I forget those stains?

shorts log day 5

Stardate meh * 3, shorts-wearing captain’s log:

Fifth day. Not adjusting to cool legs and freedom of movement well. There is no way for me to separate the work “me” from home “me” now that the clothing cues are gone.

Have started wearing uncomfortable shoes and facial studs (including tongue) to re-enforce the idea that I am at work. Much bleeding, but I am back in my comfort zone.

shorts log day 4

Stardate meh meh, shorts-wearing captain’s log:

Fourth day – temperature on the planet still high. Several dispensable non-shorts-wearing crewmen have not reported back from their sortie for lunch. They were probing for health food – illogical fools.

Communications officer remarked that augmented freedom of movement due to less leg restriction has resulted in more facile exchanges. Kept my doubts to myself on this. Communications officer dangerous when contradicted.

Science officer has always worn shorts. I told him he looks like that guy in the AC/DC video, but he didn’t get my reference. He has warned me that he will get 0% of my cultural or emotional references, and I should not get emotional about it.

Note to self: plan a shuttle mission with crew of only communications officer and science officer.

shorts log day 3

Stardate meh, shorts-wearing captain’s log:

Third day – 90 plus degrees outside. Even with the AC keeping up, still feel more mobile and cooler with bare legs. Wave of pragmatic thought imminent…wait for it…much smaller laundry loads.

Several people have tagged me in the halls. Okay, I’m it, and you better run, because this isn’t a government office. Otherwise the game would be freeze tag.

Sub-log from government office: All frozen around me. A few in analysis paralysis. Many in sloth.