-Good Question-

I sit here alone, among the mostly empty shelves of this academic Law Library, using this free time patrons have opted not to fill with questions, to consider my next professional move. Multi-tasking is so important, is it not? In times of uncertain income, one must fill every moment with maximum productivity, especially those lazy, balmy, boring afternoon-evening-nights when the rest of the staff is gone, and the hours - thanks to final exams - are long.

Since my current mood is tolerant of entreprenurial endeavors like those operated by the good doctor, I believe I can set up my detective agency on the side. I'll multi-task and collect the caselogs in a forthcoming bestseller. While getting to know experienced information professionals in many different fields. While trading a stale social life for the excitement of uncovering the city's secrets, witnessing the parade of robber barons, thugs, witches, bitches and whores.

That is all within the realm of possibility, but in the meantime, someone has to get the rolodex started. A man cannot work with The Investigator's Little Black Book alone. Fortunately, the half-full shelves behind me contain some invaluable treepulp: The Pittsburgh Business Times 2004 Book of Lists. It is clearly intended for the big business gillitterati, those swayed by advertisements for office park landscapers, executive furniture, corporate law firms and elite private academies.

These pages contain contact and backround information on Architectural, Legal, Public Accounting, and Management Consulting firms; ranked by size and prowess. Minority or Woman owned. Highest paid executives. Highest paid public employees. And so on, and so forth.

This is my opportunity to pull a small piece of the establishment into my cell, and make it work for me.

Will it work? Will I? Good Question.

-Harmony in the Lead-

If the kids downstairs are gonna 'throw down' a dance party, there is NO WAY I can maintain an agrarian circadian rhythm, forthcoming sleep deprivation study notwithstanding.

Yes. Yes, el jefe, doctor de la noche, I know this is not advisable. I know this ain't gonna help me none in the long run. If only these young people could appreciate something with a melody, I might be able to nod off on the shag bath mat, which tends to muffle easy listening. Not the case with the pop, the rap, the show tune. These are Gamma rays.

{Refresher for everyone who can't remember physical science, or the last, tragic episode of 'Mr. Wizard'}

Alpha Particles - Can be blocked by paper.

Beta Particles - Can be stopped by Aluminum.

Gamma Rays - Reduced in power by lead and concrete.

And mind you, I live in a paper house with none of those other elements. A paper house with paper windows neighbors peel back once a day from December 1st to December 25th.

Stop looking at me, I shouted. Look over there, at the Inflatable Christian blog!

[My footsteps recede]

-Less Sleep-

A battery of psychological tests isn't enough to keep me from the sleep study, scientific administrators determined. One less barrier to overcome for the sleep deprivation study.

This is structurally important, since the good doctor's assignment is almost due. Before the day is done, I should have accomplished everything else. Or else.

Never mind the threat. Just thought I would see if it were possible for me to think about hurting someone or something for no reason at all. Can't do it.

-Free to do what-

The librarian preceding my shift left open her page of web horoscopes. "Don't dirty your shoes" begins Capricorn. By this time, I already had, thanks to the furlough from the first job. When you emerge from the temp joint with five dollars in your pocket and an army of dealers and whores lining up to take it... Eh, sorry for the exaggeration, but I'm generally pleased with the course the temporary employment took, though I doubt it will match in money what my forthcoming Sleep Deprivation Study will offer in job satisfaction.

Truly, I feel a slight uneasiness as I leave the temporary fold. My relationships with members in every strata of the office structure improved markedly after the initial "unclean" period, but some of the crucial 50 year-old women who managed my everyday workload seemed chilly the entire time. Wonder if they would have been happier, had I been bitterly divorced and nursing an infirmity, as they all were. Or if I were fond of the constant Billy Joel music. I really don't know how the one guy in that room survives.

But so many projects lie ahead, and not only those with sleep deprivation at the core. I've got a few months left to scheme.

-You only quip twice-

Vending machines with high priced items (say, ham sandwich sections for $2.75) take five dollar bills and make that pleasing "slot-payoff" sound in rhythmic quarter dropping.

Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk.

Inevitably, someone nearby will use casino humor.

Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk.
"Sounds like Atlantic City/Las Vegas!"
Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk.
"Big winner!"
Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk.
"Whooo! You own the slots!"

I could grit my teeth, but what good would that do? Far better to respond to the jokes with a tolerant laugh, one divided in half to make certain the joker doesn't get false encouragement. Half a "Ha!" is a "huh."

Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk, Ka-plunk-plunk-plunk.

-Long time, no seer-

Clairvoyance on the way.

-That beautiful day I saw from indoors-

C'mon! One more feedback loop, damn it.

Every so often, I get a glimpse of the first day over 70 degrees in six months. But I came into job1 early so I could leave early and be on time for job2. Can't think of the sun now, I'll think of it when I'm

walking out of job1, walking across grass that wasn't frozen or soaked, carrying a coat, squinting in the sun until I slide on those glasses and remember the sun the sand the sea, the sea birds. I travel directly to job2. Conditioned mind like mine stops yearning the moment I get on the elevator.

The boss from job2 turns over the reference desk - "These extended hours for exams.. They only seem to effect you! Ha-ha."
"Ha-ha." I reply. How bad can two extra hours be? Instead of leaving at 8 PM, I'll leave at 10. It's not a problem. But when a patron wants to know the hours, I begin to doubt my assumption. Did anyone actually tell me we close at 10:00? Why 10:00? I can't remember anyone saying anything about 10:00, and it felt so right a moment ago. No longer.

Turns out I'm working until midnight. What did I miss?

Students sunbathing while candidate Kerry speaks.
Drunk students threading through construction cones and giant holes in the road.
A transvestite parade taking place at the same time as the NRA convention.

Nothing to do but press my palms and nose against the glass and call for one more feedback loop.

-Cube Day-

Today I only ate food in cube form.


Drank that way, too.

-Warehouse Wheels-

If there's one thing that really gets to me, it's a lack of creativity among the bosses.

Granted, it took time for me to understand this illogical, wasteful work culture, but I did, didn't I? I've learned the proper time and place for everything. When the boss asks the group for new ideas in morning meetings, or specifically asks me at any time or place in the building - especially the men's room - I know better than to say what I'm really thinking. He doesn't want to hear about how we could save money by encouraging the scientists to cite articles from the same, inexpensive vendor.

He does not want to hear your philosophy of copyediting.

He wants you to finish the tasks quickly, but he does not want to think about how fast you are. That would be threatening; most bosses are more afraid of employees than employees are afraid of them, and mine is no exception. But since his head injury this weekend, it may be possible, even advisable to inform him of my new plan before I begin without them. The plan is that good.

Nearly every business has old computers and office furniture languishing away on the premises. But we have some items that could fetch a pretty penny on the kitsch market, specifically, Tim and Marie Kitsch's market just off the highway.

My favorite is the ambulance. There's a layer of white paint covering the old markers, and a new seal with name of the company on the side. And yet, once the machine had ceased to be useful in their estimation, they lock it up in the storage bay. Just like that.

Some other curios: and industrial knife sharpener, red-orange typewriters with a rounded base, old fashioned fans with only four wavy bars to keep fingers away from the blades. I haven't had this brand of fun since my visit to the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices.

There's a wonderful old elevator, too. I'm still working out the logistics behind stealing it when I notice a general electric water fountain. I press the button on the front and watch a slim jet of water spiral up, down, and around the drain. Drink with gusto. Spit. There's something to be said for modernity in beverages. I haven't had this bad a reaction to stagnant water since I drank from the pool atop Old Rag Mountain in Virginia, in 2002.

Save the old things, the industrial detritus, and sell them to twenty-somethings in search of irony and oddity.

-You Broke the Pool!-

The other riders in the carpool can't figure out why one office assistant cancelled for good, but I can.

She's frequently late to the morning pick-up point, and one day it cost her. We pulled around the block and spotted her in front of her apartment, "saying goodbye" to her "friend."

We didn't mind, but she did. She's still smarting from her divorce and the trouble it caused within her traditional family. None of us are likely to encounter her relatives, but we were not meant to know what she did after quitting time - the collision of public and private selves is enough to break a pool.

-Information for Life-

Something challenged my "Not Texas" policy for better employment.

The name 'College of the Mainland' sounded so elemental, it just might work. And the corresponding website "www.com.edu" seemed to be a play on web domain names, perhaps even a cunning reference to the commercial and noncommercial dichotomy within educational institutions today.

They want skills I have - no exaggeration required. The money's good.

The penultimate paragraph of the ad is a motto that might have taken a focus group all summer session to produce:
COM Library, information for life...

We're on a roll, nothing can stop us now.
Nothing but the address:

Texas City, Texas.

Twin bolts of disappointment for my rods and cones.

Redundancy isn't the only problem, and my antipathy for the state of Texas doesn't begin and end at the borders solidified in the compromise of 1850. Nay, I have traveled through the Lone Star state and identified a number of unpleasant crass-culture epicenters, clusters of pejorative Texas-ness.

Dallas - Cowboy fans
Houston - Smog, Robber Barons, Codine Abuse
Canyon - Home of Texas A & M

You needn't be the late Alistair Cooke to discover that the image of "American" is synonymous with "Texan" abroad; the very image of excess, taken to excess. Still, I'm willing to cut the rest of the state some slack when they aren't identifying or reveling in pejorative Texas-ness, which I would liken to a sexual dysfunction.

Texas City, Texas. Should I apply? Maybe it would help if I knew exactly where in Texas Texas City is. Some research in the Government Documents and Maps department revealed the ugly truth: 35 miles from H-Town.

Damn.

Thanks to ArcView, ArcGIS and other tools, you can find maps representing the geographical spread of universities, sports teams, air pollution, drug addiction, and many other societal ailments. As of this posting, I did not find a good way to track the spread of Robber Barons. Until something better comes along, I can only recommend checking TV listings.

I will apply. If I get the job, I've got a plan. The Lone Star state could legally be divided into a number of smaller states. I'll work to make that happen on my off-duty hours.

-16-

WQED has been "simulcasting" channels 13 and 16 since 1997, and they've been trying to get rid of channel 16 since 1996. The particulars are in this article.

As you can see, the WQED brass (as in balls) have told this reporter that plan "D" is in effect. I like this line:

"Our goal was clearly not to do anything with a religious broadcaster or another nonprofit," [WQED President George] Miles said. "It's complicated and it's complex and we've still got a number of issues that are open."

Maybe it's the memory of Plan B that chills my blood to this day.
WQED tried to sell public airwaves to a religious broadcaster, and were blocked by local activists and moderate politicians.

Since radicals tend try the same tricks over and over until someone lets it happen out of apathy, my money's on secret plan D working the same way as B. This time our exhausted activists will fold, and Miles will cover himself by selling it to a middleman, who will then effect a switch.

Your nine-volt ham radio for my 661kW tower.

[Watchdog press licks hindquarters]

You know what I like about this article?

The FCC's last "unique and compelling" reason for approving the sale of Channel 16:

"Pittsburgh would benefit from the addition of another commercial station, noting that its seven existing for-profit channels are fewer than can be found in markets of comparable size."

There's nothing chilly about my blood now.

-It could be viral-

Greetings! If you are reading this message now, You are complicit.

I love you! And I love my new job. I am now a copywriter for a non-profit computer virus transmitting company.

[There's a more technical term for the group, but I hesitate to say, what with my non-disclosure agreement.]

Before I came on board, the programmers themselves took turns naming the viruses and writing the body text. They are the first to admit that what they came up with was less than inspired; it was not considered a priority during the IT bubble years, when 'constructive' technologists dominated the industry. Phrases like "Join the Crew," "Family Picture" and "Win a holiday" were about the best they could come up with, although I did kind of like the "Help a poor dog win a holiday" variant.

These days, you need content to be taken seriously.

As I understand it, I'm actually their second choice. Before I came on the scene they had tried a Chicago-based Graffiti artist known as Baime (two syllables, accent on the 'e'). Moody little thing had trouble with deadlines and the limitation of a form that didn't allow for greater artistic control, especially with the color scheme.

The techs like me, but the knowledge gap makes me an easy target for their pranks. One of their favorite tricks is engaging in programmer-talk until my eyes glaze over, than feed one of their viruses into my unprotected desktop. The next page of copy might dance about the screen, or change every verb to "farts" or some such nonsense. But coworkers Shakylegs, Creamhuff and Auntie-G never prank me on deadline. 'Huff even backed me when I fought against the naming of our prize worm. Head designer Jeff-O wanted to call it "At the end of the day.." because of the program's delightful habit of wrecking havoc around quitting time, when most executives are putting on their coats.

I told him the plain English council has voted this the most annoying of overused phrases. At first, Jeff-O believed this only supported his position, and the others nodded with disinterest. It was near quitting time for us, too, and it would have been easy for me to fix my eyes on the last donut at the conference table until everyone had exhausted their concerns.

But this was an opportunity to contribute and prove my usefulness. I'm not sure what I said, but I suppose I explained the philosophy that made them who they are. Even on Friday, it's possible to galvanize people who believe in what they do. I'm very proud of the newly christened "remember to clean the break room fridge" worm and my small part in it.

Thanks to the work ethic and entrepreneurial enthusiasm of every person here, I'm sure you'll be reading my work soon.

Greetings! If you are reading this message now, You are complicit. Complicit in what? Election fraud, Bawdy babies; Low Talking, Stalking celebrities; Double-dipping, Tipping pennies; Bake-sale squabbles, Hovel planning; And more.

-chickens. eggs. advertising.-

The 'Intuition' razor campaign:
Which came first, the song or the product?

-The Agency in the House of Hemp-

English language detective novels have come a long way since the likes of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, Dashiell Hammit and Mickey Spillane. Without blowing my patrons' collective privacy with specifics, the genre is still very popular today - as if you couldn't have guessed from the inundation of crime lab television, where every other corpse had a career in modeling. Were I not respectful of the viewers' collective privacy, I'd say you could use the nielsens to spot a definite necrophilic vibe.

What products do advertisers market to that niche?

Apart from the auto-erotic autopsy fanopolis, the genre maintains the tried and true (if slightly less lucrative) protagonist-centered storyline - "detective with skeletons in his closet, ghosts in his head, and fire in his loincloth." It's a cult of personality, and I did not use the male pronoun lightly - these sleuths are overwhelmingly male street brawlers and gunslingers whose plotlines have all been trod before. What varies most these days is the handicap. We've seen barely functional alcoholics too many times to count. We've seen Widowers. Indigestion. Ex-military trauma.

They've had to get more creative lately.

I have heard tell of a show on the telly starring Tony Shalhoub titled "Monk," a show about a neurotic detective. Mental illness is almost as popular as "special victims." Adrian Monk must be designed to appeal to those red-blooded Americans who require frequent coagulants. Still, it's a good handicap. Nothing bores me more than watching a B-movie actor drink yellow water straight out of the bottle.

Which leads me a mite closer to my idea for the next great detective. The only available office space in town is shared by a Hemptorium filled with colorful extras. The detective starts the day with a clear, precise mind. But as the mystery progresses, the neighboring fumes begin to confuse the issue. By the end, the detective is comparing two sheets of paper faxed from the phone company, eyes unblinking for many minutes. The audience is screaming: "The same phone numbers are on both - during the day, when Mark was at the mill! Trixie knew her husband was having an affair, but communicated with Bella all the time. They must have set him up!"

{Blink.}

"FOCUS, DETECTIVE POTHEAD, FOCUS!"

Has anyone done that yet?