balding angrily

It’s an astoundingly beautiful day in Dallas. The air is crisp, and the sky is blue with wispy clouds. My cat is tenderizing my thigh to tell me that she loves me. The other cat is yawning and stretching her arm as if to say, “Hey, it’s cool. I’m cool. We’re all cool, yeah?” I think this is what heaven will be like, but without the nagging voice at the back of my head telling me that I need to DO something: Write! Get dressed! Brush your teeth! Go to the gym!

Meh. It’s too beautiful out to DO something. Seriously though, I have an article to write, and I’ve been putting it off for too long. It only has to be 2,000 words, and I can crank that out.

Jerry’s been in Uruguay since Sunday, and I’ve missed him terribly. However, it’s been really nice to have the apartment totally to myself. He ought to have taken lots of pretty pictures. If he didn’t, he’s gonna get a stern talkin’ to.

Even though its old news, I have to blah, blah, blah about the economy.  Last Friday, while I was away from the office, we laid off a few people.  I found out when I called in, and the receptionist was crying; she had just been given the bad news.  When I came into the office on Monday, I was told that I should cut my hours.  (If you’ll remember, I work part-time, hourly.)  I also found out who else was let go.  One of the girls is someone that is in the U.S. on a work visa.  If she can’t maintain employment, it’s possible that she would have to move back to her birth country.  This girl’s a friend of mine; she’s bubbly, cute, and bright.  I think Monday was the first time that I didn’t see a smile on her face.

Throughout Monday and yesterday, I kept thinking about her, trying to think of ways I could help her out.  I was able to get the name of an immigration lawyer, but my friend is a junior-level employee.  She can’t afford a high-priced lawyer.  Then I gave her the name of a head-hunter, the only one I knew, but the market in Dallas is WAY down.  All I’m hearing from friends in the profession is, “Yeah, we let some people go.”

At her request, I called a past employer, a three-man operation seemingly immune to past economic downturns, to see if they had any need for a drafter.  The three-man operation had become a two-man operation, in part because of the slow-down.

My hope is that in two years, I’ll be able to look back at this period and say, “Aw, what was I worried about?”  But goddamn.  It’s pretty fucking scary. Immediately after 9/11, when I was witness to layoffs, I always had the sense that there were still jobs out there.  In other words, I wasn’t too worried about getting the shaft; I always felt that I’d be able to find a job.  This time, it doesn’t feel that way.  Now I see my bright, bubbly friend, a person that NEEDS to work at the risk of deportation, a person that is a good, hard worker, and I see that the future ain’t so bright.

I’ve been collecting pictures, little signs that God, the universe, and other strangers have a sense of humor.  I finally got them off my iPhone and into my flickr stream.

For your enjoyment.  Or maybe just for my enjoyment, as I’m sure these are only funny to me.

I like how stick figures can make anything precious: Oh look!  It’s a little baby in his little baby diapers with a plastic bag on his head!  How cute!

Again, it may be because he’s a stick figure, but that fella looks like he’s having a grand time tripping over that perfectly rectangular obstruction. He’s kicking up his heels as if he’s in a revival of The Music Man; it’s a “Shipoopi” kind of heel-kick. What’s missing is a word balloon that says, “I’ve always wanted to break my wrists. Looks like today is my lucky day!”

Can you imagine an upright citizen seeing this poo in the grass, running to his house, writing this note (paying attention to the relative impact of different font sizes for maximum effect), stealing one of those plastic dessert advertisers from a local restaurant, and stuffing this in the ground?  People are frigging awesome.

So I’m digging through history, looking for a story about a local traffic intersection. I think I’ve got what I want to write about, and it connects nicely with what’s happening now at that intersection. And luckily I’m not into the WRITING yet; I’m just researching.

As I dig through The Dallas Morning News archives, I keep coming across these great bits of wordsmithing, bits that make me want go back in time to when a headline like, “Toreadors of Abrams Road Fight Speeding Autos, Not Bulls to Board Streetcars,” didn’t prompt a guffaw. When thieves were referred to as “robbers” and “bandits” that “bedeviled” police. When “juveniles” and “youths” were “hanging around places that would certainly get them into trouble.” When a furniture store opening was announced by a picture of some lawn furniture and this press release:

Umbrella Beauty - Glimpse the inside of this umbrella done in a red rose pattern, the valance attractively edged with six-inch white fringe. There’s a place for the zinc-plated handle in the glass-top table. Chairs of washable vinyl plastic in a palomino color have wrought-iron frames and come in several different colors.

You can almost hear a woman in an ivory pencil skirt with a conservative up-do, saying the above into a fist-sized microphone as the staged lawn furniture spins on a laminated press-board platform. I’m having fun. I wish I could tell my high school history teacher, Mr. Glenn, “See! I DO like history. Just not in the way you teach it.”

What can I say? I’m happy.