Category Archives: crank

And then it rained frogs…

Oh my God!  Did you hear?!? It snowed today in the North­east!  It’s going to snow more tomor­row!  And maybe even on Sun­day!  We might even get fif­teen inches before the weekend’s over!  Which is just over a foot, by my cal­cu­la­tion, but NO, it’s like a BLIZZARD or some­thing.  (Let’s humor me and stick with the some­thing, mmkay?)

AAAGGGHHHH!  Quick, every­one run to the gro­cery store and hit each other in your over­grown SUVs while you drive in a pan­icked lemming-like frenzy in the park­ing lot, and let’s shut down the state and city offices, and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STAY OFF THE ROADS!  In fact, let’s get the plows out there before it starts snow­ing, so they can prac­tice.  Plus, it’s cool when the metal dri­ves sparks up when the plow scrapes bare road.  Or maybe that’s just me.

AND, let’s all leave work early, and whine at the bosses until they buy us pizza for lunch, too, because while it didn’t start snow­ing until 2, there was a POSSIBILITY that if any­one had to go out­side to get lunch they might get SNOWED ON and then be all “I’m melt­ing! What a world!” (although you would think that would jus­tify the push to go home ear­lier, but appar­ently a free lunch was more impor­tant at that moment) and let’s act HORRIFIED when some of your cowork­ers and/or the attor­neys you work for (who have hours to bill) say they’re not leav­ing ASAP because they live right on the train line with a less than five min­utes’ walk on either end, but then the snow is a far-distant second.

Because, OH MY GOD, YOU TAKE THE TRAIN TO WORK? You are so, so, brave.

It’s Boston, it’s called win­ter, you pussies wimps.  Get over it.  And while you’re at it, get shov­el­ing.  And so help me, if I catch you toss­ing your snow out into the street rather than toss­ing it into your yard, you god­damned lazy ass­holes jerk­faces, well, I might just post your name on my sparsely-read fre­quently New York Times quoted-blog.  So there.  Grrr.

Happy snow days, all.

Update:  I should say this– if you’re not from an area where this is the norm, then yes, it is right to be cau­tious and maybe even a lit­tle freaked out with real snow­fall.  But if you’ve lived some­place where it invari­ably snows more than five times a year each win­ter for your whole life– then, like I said.  OMG.  WTF?

Signs you might be a yuppie jerk, or crazy. Whatever.

1.  You’re cranky when your flan­nel sheets aren’t as plush as they used to be.

2.  You’re torn between the spicy beef yaki soba, the hamachi and spicy tuna roll combo, or the tonkatsu for take­out for dinner.

3.  You find your­self sneer­ing inter­nally at people’s ugly, cheap-looking shoes while you wait in line at the store.  (Oh, no, wait, that means you’re get­ting hypo­manic again.  It’s just the other two things that make you a jerk.)

Sigh.  I’m going to curl up in my un-plush flan­nel sheets with some spicy tuna and wait for my meds to crank down a notch.  Some­one explain to me why I get hypo­manic in win­ter AND sum­mer?   It’s sup­posed to be a cycli­cal dis­ease, fer­chris­sakes.  But no… gotta be excep­tional, I do.  Blargh.  At least my mood-charting seems to be working.

Have a plush flan­nel sheeted, spicy beef yaki soba’d, happy week­end, all.

Liveblogging a deposition– in verse

Sigh.
Out of state depo­si­tion.
Plaintiff’s attor­ney is fol­low­ing a script.
Twenty-five defense attor­neys on lap­tops or black­ber­ries,
pay­ing hardly any atten­tion, except
whoever’s on that hour to object.
We’ve all got our email addresses–
we just take turns email­ing that hour’s notes.
Bad headache–
I’ll need to buy Excedrin
at the Wal-Mart next door dur­ing lunch.
Scratch­ing pens,
weak cof­fee,
open ended plaintiff’s ques­tions
way too much re-direct in store,
not just for me, but for all of us.
I’ll be lucky if I get home before nine.

And only a Taco Bell nearby for lunch.
Sigh.
Thank good­ness for wi-fi.

Wish us luck

We do love us some Bishop Allen chez BLC. But with an 8 o’clock door and two bands play­ing before­hand? Well, I’ll be order­ing cof­fee, not beer, at the bar, espe­cially since I have to be two hours from here in another state by 10 am tomor­row, for a depo­si­tion in an asbestos law­suit. But the BH and I are rar­ing to go, regard­less. I have my loafers, turtle­neck sweater and Vera Bradley wrist­let. The BH has his slip-on Clarks, khakis, and merino wool zip up cardigan.

Yeah. That’s how we afford our Rock n’ Roll Lifestyle, suckas. And, past our bedtime.

Update: OK, we’re old. We get to the door, and the sign says the band we want to see won’t even go ON until 11:30. WTF? I mean, yes, I’m a hope­ful assh*le who should know bet­ter, but still. They could post the time on the band or the venue web­site, right? I mean, don’t they fig­ure out line­ups in advance? Crank, crank, crank.

Thank good­ness I have a yup­pie organic choco­late bar and some yup­pie alco­holic grape juice to con­sole myself. I may not have a rock band fix, but boy, have I got antiox­i­dants out the wazoo. Grr.

The Union Label

I work in one of the parts of town that’s still tran­si­tion­ing from grotty to more mixed-use. All over town, condo-business-retails spaces are going up, and there is finally some move­ment over at North Sta­tion. So there are lots of con­struc­tion work­ers stand­ing around. One site is clearly union, and there are always four or five white guys smok­ing, drink­ing their cof­fees, and block­ing the side­walk. Seems like two of them are always the same guy, no mat­ter what time I get off the train. Maybe they’re “super­vi­sors.” Nonethe­less, the build­ing does seem to be going up, prob­a­bly due to the efforts of the younger guys with less senior­ity that I see at the dough­nut shop, order sev­en­teen cof­fees and jug­gling them back to the site.

Fur­ther down the street, one of the older brick build­ings, with store­fronts on the bot­tom and business/office space on the top is being ren­o­vated. It’s on a street with the first lux­ury hotel to be built over here, and the whole block seems to be under ren­o­va­tion. This par­tic­u­lar build­ing is on the cor­ner, with lovely long win­dows and old, black-painted wood­work on the ground floor. The ground floor’s not yet under con­struc­tion, but there’s scaf­fold­ing and sounds of indus­try above. I never see any work­ers com­ing in and out– but I do always see rem­nants falling into dump­sters, sounds of ham­mers and saws, clouds of saw­dust poof­ing out of screened windows.

What I do see is a bunch of union pick­eters down­stairs. The major­ity are older guys, prob­a­bly retirees. But there’s always a dozen or so in total, includ­ing a bunch of over­weight, slovenly, chain-smoking middle-aged men block­ing the side­walk, lit­ter­ing, swear­ing, throw­ing their butts any old place. Maybe they’re out on worker’s comp. Maybe the work is slow, but judg­ing by the num­ber of tow­ers going up all over, I’m more inclined to say the union is over­sub­scribed. “Are there ille­gals here?” their hand-scrawled signs read. “Unfair work prac­tices” read other, more clearly stan­dard signs. But there’s never any orga­ni­za­tion. No chant­ing. No hand­ing out infor­ma­tive leaflets. Just uncouth milling-around. In the sun­shine. Because, I should men­tion– there are never any pick­eters when it’s rain­ing, though the sounds of work con­tinue up above. And on Fri­days, there are no more than a half-a-dozen pick­eters. I sup­pose they’ve all gone up to their lake houses in tax-free New Hamp­shire, which, I notice, is where many of their over­sized pickup trucks seem­ingly hail from, though it’s most likely these fel­lows “live” locally– Boston ordi­nances require a cer­tain num­ber of city res­i­dents on the job.

The thought that these guys are being paid by the union to stand around and make the union look bad? Makes me sick. The pen­sion­ers are more orderly, leaner, keep to them­selves. I would hate to think they’re being paid to picket on top of their already com­par­a­tively gen­er­ous pen­sions (I mean, who gets pen­sions any more?). But the “youth­ful” work­ers? They do not make me believe in the con­tin­ued legit­i­macy of unions. These guys think they are enti­tled to jobs, beer guts, obnox­ious behav­ior notwith­stand­ing. Mean­while, the guys upstairs are work­ing away, unseen, but heard and felt in the thump of debris into dumpsters.

Are there ille­gals here?” Prob­a­bly. Are they being under­paid? Prob­a­bly. Is the over­see­ing con­trac­tor the one ulti­mately respon­si­ble for fair work­ing con­di­tions and safe con­struc­tion? Absolutely. But are those union guys out­side con­vinc­ing me that the work itself would be per­formed any more quickly or safely if they were on the job? Not a chance.

Com­menter “g” made a good point about strike v. infor­ma­tional pick­et­ing, and I rec­om­mend you look at her com­ment (#5).  One thing I could have made clear is that gen­er­ally, my pinko com­mie heart (thanks, Mag­pie, for the reminder) wants to like unions.  I think that some of them do impor­tant work, espe­cially in immigrant-heavy ser­vice indus­tries where few work­ers at all have been union­ized before.  But there are valid crit­i­cisms against larger unions, despite the good work that they too, can still do, and what I observed and set out above was my spin on one of them.  I would like to be an unre­pen­tant defender– but the symp­toms I saw of a larger dis­ease make that impossible.