Remembrances of Things to Come

My BlackBerry alarm app rang and I woke and dressed for my temporary job at Lehman brothers.  I was on a two month assignment as a test subject/data entry specialist for Lehman's new financial portal on MySpace.  It was boring, but it paid the bills.  Well sort of anyway.  It was a pay raise over my last temporary job at Dewey & LeBoeuf.

My apartment was freezing with the government rationing imposed by the third term of Gore administration.  So I stumbled to my Solyndra portable heating unit and fumbled with the switch to activate the solar panels for the generator.  Now that I had power, I turned on my Microsoft Zune, and there was a news story on the CBS/Alta Vista news network about Enron's rocket launch to the asteroid belt for raw materials.  "Well I guess everyone needs Palladium for our Palm Pilots,"  I thought.   Speaking of which, I wondered where my Pilot went?  I remembered playing with it at the Michelob Genuine Draft bar last night.  I hope I didn't leave it there. I should have never gone to the bar to watch the World Series anyway.  Sure, there was a lot of excitement ten years ago with the Cubs winning the world series, but after nine straight championships, it gets a little old after awhile.

 On my way to work, I walked by a giant billboard advertising Bagdad, Iraq as "the Paris of the Middle East."  Well I suppose Saddam Hussein is cashing in big time on his decision to set up a Palestinian homeland near the Iraq/Syria border.  Now the entire area is booming.   I guess that is what oil revenues will do for you.  That and the fact that Islam is having a host of new adherents after Pope Francis II declared that he was an atheist.

Morning at work was fairly uneventful.  I decided to go to lunch with my old college roommate Katy Perry.  I've been trying to avoid her lately.  She always is so depressed about her failed singing career, etc. etc. etc.  I wish she would just learn to deal with it instead of posting all her disappointments on Friendster.

We ate lunch at this little Italian place near Central Park.  I had the octopus ink colored gnocchi with partially hydrogenated margarine cream sauce.  Not too bad.  We parted, and I returned to work.   Maybe someday she'll make it, I thought.  She always was kind of a dark horse.