It is 9.56 am and I have been awake for 56 minutes now. Willing participant in a life shift that has me seasonally working second-shift at the large gubment agency here in town. I won’t mention its name, but its initials are…wait, I won’t mention them either. Let’s just say I won’t be checking inĀ on personalĀ email or clusterflock from a computer on its premisis. I won’t be checking from my phone either since it gets NO SIGNAL inside the enormous campus. Let’s just say my opinion of it is so far so good.

Just wanted to say how good it is to see activity here. Sheila, MGS, Derek stalwarts all. Congrats Brandon! (You know the leg-bone or thigh-bone I carry in my bag for tornadoes and dreams of tornadoes.) Once I get really settled into my schedule, I hope to sit down and spend some time with y’all.

Carry on.

17 thoughts on “Activity

  1. Sheila Ryan

    If my name comes up, look: I’ll get to it when I get to it. You understand, don’t you, friend?

  2. Sheila Ryan

    And yes, Rick. Clusterflock continues to rise up from the grave. We’ll be around when things settle down for you. I’m confident of it.

  3. Sheila Ryan

    Y’all, I’m hard-pressed to explain. Just: Mr. Ledgerwood, Facebook, definition of terms. Emo.

    Bob was in the zone.

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  5. rick neece

    The unsinkable Molly Blonde. (Just got home from work, enjoying a refreshing beverage before I toddy off to bed. It’s like Christmas eve, I have a three-day weekend, which means I don’t report for my next tour of duty until 4:30 Tuesday afternoon. Second-shift is just fucked up enough to fuck you up.

    I worked second-shift years ago at the picture frame factory (now defunct) in Pokey. Mimimum wage to start, was it $3.25/hr? As I applied there I thought I’ll get this job because it’s the last job I’d want. Some memories of my time there:

    At dinner break (7:30?) I’d sit in my ’68 Bel Air and eat my boloney on white bread, yellow mustard sandwich to the tune of Fly Like An Eagle.

    I had to make games of production for myself to pass the time between breaks. If “production” was 100 somethings per hour, I’d try to do more. If I beat it, I’d try to beat my best. (This practice, along with calling in sick one day every two weeks, kept me somewhat sane.)

    One day, I arrived, crossed the gravel parking lot to find my gang sitting on the benches outside the metal siding, heads hanging, cigs in the corners of lips. What’s up? I said. Elvis died.

    I sort of had a crush on a smallish ginger-guy who worked there. He wudn’t all that cute, but he had adorability, somehow. I don’t remember his name, but once his air filter caught fire at a stop sign when he was giving me a ride home.

    Submitted without edits, FYI.

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