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22 FEB 99
Cubing It at the Big Udon
The Mainichi Daily News slips in under the door. I scan it and conclude that Y2K is small fry news today. No, it's not diminished by: UFO Conference Blasts Into Turkey
or by: Mystery Witness Offers Diana Crash Info
but by: Fangs the Python Dives in the Doghouse
LONDON (AFP-Jiji) - Fangs the python is in deep trouble Not content with swallowing its owner's puppy in one tasty gulp, it also fractured her jaw, nearly choked her and then tried to tuck into her pet rabbit. But Terri McEntee is fighting for custody of the snake after rueing her snap decision to hand it to her local zoo, the British tabloid News of the World reported on Sunday. McEntee had been keeping the 4.5-meter python at her home in Glasgow when things began to go wrong. She brought an injured pigeon into her house, only for Fangs to dive out and try to bite it. The ensuing tussle with the python to save the pigeon's life left McEntee with a fractured jaw. The zoo wants to keep Fangs for breeding, she added, "but I miss him very much."
I'm betting that Terri's nickname is Monty. And I wonder why the zoo director thinks that attacking is a good survival trait to breed into pet pythons. And if, during the breeding process, one python sidles up to the other, and give it a little squeeze?
With these world whirling issues, I reel off to work. I deal with some paperwork, deal with some e-work, and then deal with some jerk; all while Fergus attends the weekly staff meeting and Greg is out home-hunting. The second floor offices of Area 2 are mostly empty and hard surfaced - with silence reverberating off the vacuums housed by the cubes. The secluded atmosphere is cold but focused and productive. The short streak of productivity is broken when Fergus returns from the staff meeting and downloads.
It is very uplifting.
Lunch sneaks up to me, I sneak down to lunch. I pick out minestrone, salad, an avocado, a croissant, and a ginger ale. The minestrone has little gray bits lurking about in its depths - now hiding beneath the carrot slice, now behind the cabbage. I know they are not mung beans, or any kind of vegetable matter. Then again, the bits are so far removed from any matter at all after processing, that it hardly matters what they really are. Maybe they are little afterthoughts that Fang the python left behind. The salad is mostly shredded Napa cabbage, with a chunk of celery, a section of tomato, and some sliced baby banana with some white creamy stuff that Fang also provided during breeding. The rest of my selection is without surprises, which in itself is surprising.
After lunch I try to puzzle out an approach to resolving some items around the speakers in T2. [Terminator II - 3D, The Ride]
At 2:30, I meet with Fergus and Greg in Conference Room 2 where Fergus downloads again for Greg's benefit, and we discuss strategies for bringing closure to the 100% CD. Fergus and I also discuss the role of FDMs [Facility Design Managers], and try instilling the proper attitude. When crossing the threshold from realism to cynicism, the facts do not change, only one's response to them does. The more seriously a minor aspect of existence is regarded, the more readily humor and absurdity can be found lurking nearby.
So, for example, there is so much paper to go through, and so little time, and so few people, yet everything transmitted must be stamped. So it is more important that FDMs stamp everything, than that they review anything. And then there must be meetings to discuss why there was so little time to review anything. And there must be work sessions to systematize the process so that it can work more efficiently. And then there must be discussion groups to develop forms for entering review data with columns for dates received, dates sent, dates due and dates eaten, and yet other columns for responsible parties, signatories of approval, area, group, number, component, sheet number, temperature and humidity. And then there must be meetings to review the forms, to determine who should be responsible for filling in the forms, and who has the authority to approve the forms. At the end of this, the FDM will have more forms to sign without reviewing.
We've got Greg so hypnotized with his job description, that he asks: "Where do I sign?". No wonder they're called F______ Dumb Mothers. He'll work out just great.
It's 4:00 PM and counting. In between trying to work on T2, I try with civility to fend off welcomers (He-e-y! Good to see ya! Welcome to Osaka.), well-wishers (Everything goin' all right for you here?), enquirers (So, what's happening in California?), and the just plain lost (Does anybody know how I connect to this printer?). One group of people I don't hear from - the producers. You know, the ones that are actually productive, the ones that are too busy creating to demand the attention of others.
It's 5:30 and I have the floor to myself. I elect to pen (digitize, actually) the journal to give structure to the surrounding insanity. Later I accept an invitation to dinner. We leave at seven and board the train bound for a date with destiny. I am about to lose my virginity: for the first time, I will pass through the portals of the Osaka Hard Rock Cafe.
We enter and greet Erik who is already in the bar. Debbie has beef fajitas and a soda and Susan has a salad and chicken wings. I have lightly lumpy lifeless library paste on a limp, light-hued library paste pastry with a layer of library paste cheese. The fries are pretty good, but seem dusted with MSG. Accompanying my "vege{paste}burger" are three raw rings of an onion, a half a slice of tomato, one small leaf of lettuce, and one long thin slice of pickle. The beer manages to dislodge the paste from my mouth, and I survive to tell about it.
Upon leaving, we pass by a table whose occupant is catching the eye of a number of other patrons. Her neckline is being ignored, while the topographical features below her neck (and barely beneath her dress) are bursting for attention. I turn to Debbie and say: "Now there's someone for whom there are low expectations." Actually, I had to shout it, because this place is LOUD.
We stop and say Hi at another table where Greg and the table-hopping Erik are seated with three others. Then on to the gift shop, then out, and back to the hotel. The Hard Rock certainly seems to be a place to be seen - whereas in LA it would be a place not to be seen. In LA, tourists would come in hopes of seeing stars, while locals would steer clear. But here, overseas, it almost seems like the locals come to ogle the tourists.
I regret that I was too busy engaging in dialogue (well, actually monologue with a captive audience) to scope out others’ behavior. From the corners of my eyes, I caught enough tantalizing glimpses of activity that lead me to conclude that here is a gold mine for pop psychologists and would-be behaviorists. Maybe I'll return another time when I get another craving for library paste. Or when I want to feel like one of the Rolling Stones - exhibiting signs of age and weariness.
I get ready for bed while watching a program that has a countdown clock, while they show preparations around five huge, old daikon pickling barrels. They show the lined faces of the elderly whose lives were completely centered upon the products of these barrels. And then, while everybody smiles and waves, the barrels blow up - fragments of history go up in flames.
What fun.
I end the day watching a Japanese hip-hop group. They all have perfectly pressed denim. The three leads have spiky dark hair, the five backups have spiky blond hair. The choreography is militaristically precise. No slouches in this group. But they're trying hard to look and act like street punks. It's tough to do when the music is from Phantom of the Opera.
The show ends. You know how we read from left to right, but our credits scroll down? The Japanese read from top to bottom, but the credits on this show scroll from right to left. I no longer know which way what should be - so I close my eyes and go out.
'Night.
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