9622.net

though i may be a little off, the url says 1k so i'm sticking to it. (mt says this is #888, which is a cool number too, isn't it?)

And surely, if Helen's face launched one thousand ships, what issue could be blamed on the crimson ass of a mandrill?

On second thought, don't answer that question.

Is it 1000 on the url and 888 on MT because this is on the same MT installation as blogfucker?

Anyhow, 1000 monkeys!

I'll drink to that!

Woo-Hoo!!

Way to avoid productivity, people!

There are 175 posts in blogfucker, so I don't think that's it. When the whole shebang crashed earlier this year, some posts may have been renumbered.

Details, details! I'm on my third drink already!

Actually that comment was just wishful thinking.

I have my "annual performance review" this afternoon at 3:30. It's like a visit to the proctologist without the friendly pre-exam chat.

Just lie back and think of monkeys.

1000! woohoo! sloppy kisses all around!

(Tizzie, I was dreading my performance review yesterday, but it turned out great--I will send you any review mojo I have left.)

Tizzie, our evaluations are early next month, but today I had to fill out my "self-evaluation." Those are so wonderfully nerve-wracking, not to mention revelatory of either egomania or self-loathing.

I toyed with putting in comments like "has difficulty distinguishing elbow from posterior," "compulsion to set dung filled bonfires disrupts workplace," or "osbcenities scrawled on cube wall in blood distract co-workers" but I decided against it.

I don't like the reviews, but I hate, hate, hate the self-evaluation. I get to look forward to that after the New Year.

Oh yeah, and congrats re: #1K.

http://www.9622.net/archives/001000.html#001000

Yay! Look at the pretty numbers! Extra drinks for everybody today, above and beyond the call of beauty!
:)

Self-evaluation time is great.

Is it one "s" or 2 in Messiah?

There are six in "Boss, kiss my ass."

OOOoooooh, bad attitude! Very bad attitude!

I get my review in January. I'm lucky - my boss (who delivers periodic reviews over the year) is of the mind that the only sort of review that is valuable to either party is a frank but civil discussion of job-related shortcomings, followed by potential strategies for eliminating those shortcomings. No bullshit asspats, no effusive praise while he secretly fills a file folder full of ammo to use against me at firing-time, no unbelievably idiotic self-evaluations (that's our services division that does that, and they are as fucked up a department as has ever existed), no screaming matches or team-building workshops or sensitivity training or motivational speakers. Reliable criticism about my doing my job, followed by suggested courses of action to remedy any problems.

Then we do a little frenching.

1000!

True love is the land of a thousand monkeys

9622.net:True love is the land of a thousand monkeys
Now to slap that on a beer bottle: 1,000 cheers.

Paradise is the land of 1000 monkeys.

Especially the daquiri-mixing kind of monkeys. They hold the key.

Ah-ha - daiquiri. That's a stumper.

1,000 monkeys
with 1,000 typewriters
A veritable plethora
Of bottomthreaders and backsliders
A couple of drunks
A handful of thundersluts
We even got crazy
And picked up some Canucks
Performances waning
Much to bosses' chagrin
But we all neede a way
To avoid the looney bin
So here's to the monkeys
And the next thousand threads
With foam on our lips
And poo on our heads.

Happy 1,000.

By the magic of 1000, my review didn't suck! And, most importantly, it is over... no more groveling and degradation until salary review in September.

1000 kisses to all of you for the good mojo.

True love is the land of a thousand monkeys

Where cocktails and fine literary products are plentiful, choice tobacco-related products grow everywhere, smoking jackets are di riguer and the poo flung smells like roses.

The unlimited supply of batteries is a plus too.

Mille bacioni di auguri da Roma

*1000 candles light up*
Can we hit 1,000 comments in this thread?

I'm self-employed so I do my own review and everyear it is the same: I am AWESOME!

Then I give myself a pay cut due to the budget from the Christmas party I threw myself costing way more than forecast. As did the office supplies. Liquid paper dries out when you constantly sniff it.

But I'd be more than happy to give performance reviews for the rest of you. I'm good at it. For example - ufez, your poem is AWESOME!

*doing the dance of 1000 veils*

(or 1000 beers, or threads, or monkeys)

Ah, happiness!

*doing the dance of 1000 veils*

na nana na na nana na na nana nana na....

I am wearing a monkey print pillowcase on my head and mardi gras beads. Because it's thread 1000? Sure.
Also, like my country-salmon, I am self-employed. I failed my performance review this year because I didn't suck up to myself enough. I tried to claim it was because I caught myself slacking off a few too many times, but I never could lie convincingly to myself.

I've been drinking out of my 50% share of the World's monkeymugs tonight. And my boss has bluntly skipped all three of the performance reviews that I was supposed to have since I've been working at my current job. Fine by me.

He is going to be a letter of rec for me for grad school though, so that's cool.

And 1,000 comments, TCS? We're going to need more booze.

I have an itch in a...delicate spot, but I love you all enough to share that information with you.

My review sucked. It was earlier this month.

Aside from that, it's been a good run. Yay, 1K.

Happy Holidays, all.

Performance reviews? what're those?

I worked for the company that I got laid off from last year for four years. There was no formal review process; we occasionally were given across-the-board raises thatdidn't keep up with inflation (I was making more when I started - and I was living in my parents' basement - than when I got axed). A couple times I demanded a performance review just to get a feel for what my weaknesses are/were, but they were ineffectual, as my boss, who'd been there 35 years, had forgotten how to give effective reviews.

Ahh, corporate America.

A propos nothing, if any of you's monkeys are anywhere near St. Screwy (as ufez calls it) on a thursday night, the open mic at my favorite hangout is a, well, hoot. The host was running out of well-practiced songs, so I was conscripted to play a couple to entice people to sign up to sing and shut me up. ;)_____

*raises 9622 mug to notsnot and Fes and St. Screwy in general*

*goes to bed...before midnight*

so sad.

Got to got to get funky
Like a spider monkey
Shake your hips way down low
Like a bonobo-o
It's a rhythm thrill-a
Like a big gorilla

I said na na-na-na-na na-na-na-na na-na-na-na-na-naaaa
Na-na-na-na!

(to the tune of 'Land of 1000 Dances', natch.)

Job reviews? Yeah, I had one of those once. The management tends to avoid those sorts of things like the plague. One of the few advantages of the restaurant biz...

Performance reviews are useless. Particularly when, for example, your bosses announce that no one is getting a raise this year. No one. Not even the President. God knows how he manages to squeak by on 750K a year. Well, we all have to tighten our belts, I suppose.

Happy 1000, though! I abstained from alcohol yesterday (aside from some compulsory hair of the dog) but tonight I shall raise a glass to you-uns.

Wow, c_s's president makes roughly 28.85 times what I make. I can't imagine having that much cash at my disposal, although even if I did, I imagine I'd still probably have money problems.

Here in this office, there are several people who I'm fairly sure are taking home six-figure salaries (my personal borderline for wealth)and prolly have spouses/SO's who do the same, and although, we sit in the same cubes and drink the same lousy airpot coffee, they probably live in an entirely different universe after 5pm.

So will I once that nice Nigerian fella cashes my check.
Au revoir, suckers! From now on, it's nothing for johnny dong resin but whores with teeth.

Vagina Dongtata?

Hey, wherever.
I'm gonna be rich, okay, not high falutin'.

Just think "root canal".

Careful of those teeth, now.

My mother told me it was every bit as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is to fall in love with a poor man.

I'm not sure exactly why she thought that, but I think it was a big fat lie. Poor guys are sooooo sexy.

Your mom was Patsy Cline?

Poor guys are sooooo sexy.

Really, now?

*poses in nothing but empty wallet*

It's terrible having to apologize for my shiny ducats. How many women have left me bereft when I innocently offered to purchase the Hope Diamond for them?

Damn you, DeBeers!

"Gosh Jenny, I've never loved a girl enough to give her a cursed object before."

Is there a curse on the Hope Diamond?

bang goes the wife's present then.

Maybe I'll stick with my original plan and get that nice Monkey's Paw.

What, no millenial madness for the 1000th thread? For instance, where are all the messianic figures that should be running around about now? And why isn't anyone talking about the signs of Armageddon in this thread? Where's our Megiddo?

I demand more messianic figures. All we have is people talking about performance reviews and booze! At least put on sack cloth.

Sack cloths are pretty sharp. The best you can hope for is to pun lightly to a sack cloth, you'll never put one on.

Please, tip your waitstaff.

I thought dong_resin was our messianic figure?

The Book of Cardoso, Chapter 7, verses 1-7.

[1]"And there came to pass a place wherein thy apes and simians and creatures of the field collecteth, numbering two score and ten times, multiplied a score over. [2] Peaceful and free was this abode beforehand, and the monkeys gave thanks unto the distillers in thy mash, the growers in thy fields, and for the poop which, in they wisdom and mercy, thou hast laid upon the firmament for thine haried chimps the flingeth with abandon. [3] But upon the 1000th fling, a great wind entered thy fertile valley, where the monkeys had lain in safety. [4] This wind brought from the heavens a terrible noise, unto which none could stand! Thy apes cowereth with poop abut their ankles, chittering in fear! [5] And with that, a Great Burning was beheld in the east, the stench of which causeth all to turn away! And a voice from a distant land beseeched them, saying 'Thou children! Cast from thee thy poop with vigorous tosses! Take up thy rods, gorillae, and beat! Drink thee the chill'd cup, that thou might see the madness of the satyr1 [6] AND THOU SHALT COME UNTO ME AS A FELL ARMY, SCREECHING AND CHITTERING AND WITH NOISOME FETIDITY! 'LO, WILL I THEN CALL BLACK LIGHTNING FROM UPON OLYMPUS, WHICH SHALL SCATTER OUR ENEMIES AS WHEAT BEFORE THE REAP! [7] FLING, MY APE-CHILDREN, THAT THE WORLD SHALL BECOME AS OUR OWN TREES, AND IT'S INHABITANTS, SMALL AND GREAT, SHALL BEAR WITNESS TO A NEW DAWN!"

*cowers*
*lays prostrate*
*scratches prostate...of another monkey*

That's some fine messianic scribblin's you got there, Brother Festicus. Now where's that supper? I gotta kiss to deliver!

Silence, Whippersnapper! The Great Oz has spoken!

What?

Poor guys are sooooo sexy.
Yes, no bulging pockets...err maybe not.

no, the bulging pockets are from the loose change that is their(ok, my) life savings.

thank you, little sister.

*smooths hair, straightens tie, passes offering plate*

Tizzes quote reminds me of my last date; The poor date: First, my date had been at a christmas party - the wine fest chatty patty types. Then on the way to a restaraunt her alcohol kicks in with a rant about her "dating rules", never ever buys. When I went to pay our check relize I have not a cent. Remembering her rule handed her the check which she then handed me her purse. Now having money, her purse, it did make me sexier;P

I miss Walrus.

Jeez, you go on a two day Christmas party/drinking jag and you miss a lot, don't ya?

(Bravo Fes! I was going to attempt Monkey Messiah myself, but have neither the skills nor the sobriety necessary.)

9622.net: Neither the skills nor the sobriety [are] necessary.

Better with the 'are'? Or without? You decide...

Kaf's famous! He's on the Internet!

Ladies and gents, I give you Johnny Cash, but with Monkeys.

Not just Johnny Cash, and not just with monkeys, but with monkeys playing poker.

It's frightening just how close that came to some kind of golden-triangle cosmic perfection.

Except for the whole "but it's an Eagles song" thing.

You want a golden triangle. I've got it for you:

My parents
Their Bible Study people
Me with Vodka.

Make it a rectangle with a menagerie of stuffed animals and holy shit. This is why I left Tulsa.

Ah, life.

Fes: no joking now. Do you know you could earn as much as you do now just by publishing what you write? This sounds like one of those writing school advertisements but, like Kafkaesque and stavros, you're already all schooled up.

No shit, you can stay at home and go where you like. In exchange, just be a slave to the keyboard and see all the fun sucked out of tapping on it. It's almost worth it, believe me.

I'll translate you if you translate me. I'll send you my approximate, excessively Anglo- English and you put it into the pithy, no-frills, no-flowers, funny and to-the-point Menckenian language. In return, I'll make you a master of Portuguese prose. Hey, don't belittle it until you've tried it!

And thus ends the sincere talent-scouting. You're wasted on the Intarweb. Well, I'm generally wasted too when I'm on; but you know what I mean.

Cheers!

Thank you for the tangential praise, Migs. If I could figure out how to make money from hammering out the words, by god, I would.

And I hasten to concur about Fes and Kaf, and not a few other monkeyfriends as well. Talented gang of goofy fuckers we got here.

Which makes the smell all the more tragic.

/me drubk

hah. g'niight all. Esp;ecially allthe women fok..

i hope that was at least slightly endearing. if not, I still love you all.

uh oh, ufez is doing his tj impression

The unpleasant odor, the loose talk, and the almost perpetual drunkenness.

It really is Christmas.

I forgot dong resin, who is an undeniably genius writer - but it's is own fault for checking in so irregularly. But, yes, the man is a master. Not only in the way he expresses (perfect, imo) but also in what he expresses. I feel awful now. Ban my ass and I'll understand. ;)

his own fault, I mean.

9622: The unpleasant odor, the loose talk, and the almost perpetual drunkenness.

9622: dong_resin doesn't need your pitty, you portuguese bastard, you.

9622: he could, however, benefit from a spellchecker.

:: gets ready to take up arms to protect his lord from evil Portuguese heretics ::

Ah, Miguel, you are too kind by far. I tried that - spent several years of my life running down stories and putting 'em down on paper all day, scribbling snippets of poesy and ideas for novels at night in front of the TV. Even published the odd bit of verse here, the third-draft-of-what-should-have-been-five short story there, taking solace in the maybe-fact that Vonnegut didn't publish Cat's Cradle until he was 40, and there was still time...

But, reality, she calls the tune. I pored over those dribs and drabs, hand-written pages of Great American Novel, replete with scratch outs and every cliche in the book, and the days jangled up into months like spare change unspent, months drew together like waterdrops into years, years piled upon each other like bricks into houses of time. Came a day I had to admit, to myself at last, that my meeting in the publishers office, where they cut me that fat advance and tell me that I'm the new David Foster Wallace only with talent this time? just wasn't going to happen. My dreams and my reality diverged, and finally I happened to notice.

Can the sobbing, it is not without some recompense :) No garrett for me, good sized ranch with some woods out back instead. A warm hearted woman, a son who laughs loud and eats Jello, and another on the way. Dry gin on my shelf, fresh limes in the fridge, the esteem of my colleagues, good friends of several generations, and a gang of monkeys online that indulge me my vices. There just came a day - as it comes for most of us - where the pragmatic inside me took the hot honey-dreams of youth, folded them into an origami crystal, and placed them on the Big Shelf. I can see that crystal from where I'm sitting, now - it gleams sharp and bright as a new sword, same as when I put it there - and I take a little warmth from it, now and again, on days when the clouds are low and the sun seems sick and far away.

But I don't unfold it, now or ever. There's small people with bright eyes and good futures in this world who depend on me. And there's reward in that, a lot of it, more than I could reasonably ask for. So I show up at my office at 8:30, leave at 5, see to my people, and take what pleasures this life throws my way as they come. Not much more a man can ask for in this world, and far as I can tell there ain't no such thing as the next.

And I write the occasional filthy haiku :) I'm in you all's debt for that. Thank you, again.

OK, OK - how do I get in?

Wow. All that, and crystal meth too!

Hey, you writerly monkeys who are into music - I have a contact at a new magazine "for older music listeners." I feel like I'm missing a big opportunity because I have nothing to submit, but it's just not my topic. If any of you want to give it a try, let me know. You probably don't have to be really old to write for them, heh.

2 questions, tiz.

1)Do they mean "older" as in "recorded a long time ago" or older as in the age of the listeners?

2) What genres of music are they specifically interested in?

jon, I don't want to seem like I'm "viral marketing" here so I'm going to e-mail you. Seriously, though, I think you and some other monkeys could make some bucks on this.

Rock n' Roll is just a fad.

Don't be square, daddy-o.

9622.net:"for older music listeners." Don't be square, daddy-o.

Fes, I hope that among your many titles -Father, Husband, Monkey, etc.- you still list Writer. Few of us can make a living out of our creative endeavors (as I can painfully attest) but don't throw the baby out with the bath water. I say this because of my father. He was a leader in the Sixties Cultural Revolution, an actor, director and author of some dozen plays -some of which enjoy fairly regular productions in theaters around the world. He hasn't become the household name he always hoped to be and it's been a few years since he's had anything new produced, but he's my hero and my inspiration. Now he has gotten himself a government job to support his love for fine food and good wine, which is great as far as I'm concerned. However, he recently met the Prince of Wales and introduced himself as an Arts Administrator. He laughed about it, but clearly feels he is no longer entitled to call himself a writer. And it breaks my heart. It's important that we teach our children to believe in dreams, even when they no longer seem possible, because life is so much smaller without them.
End of rant.

Good rant, towerbrave - good advice.

Hubby and are still dreamers, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Though we have "real" jobs that pay the bills, we both keep on with our "other" writing, the kind that may or may not pay off financially at some point, but is a lot more creative than my 8 - 5 at the corporate death star.

I couldn't live on what I earn from reviewing - far from it! But it gives me great joy to see people read my stuff and crack up laughing. Of course I never ask if they are laughing with me or laughing at me, but either way I hardly mind.

I have/had writerly aspirations, which after publishing one story in my school literary magazine and workshopping a few more in college, faded away when my dumb ass flunked out of school. Then the long succession of joe jobs came and the energy just faded away, which probably proved to me that I don't really have the over whelming drive to create that it takes. Or maybe I just don't have much to say. Honestly, how much can be said about junk food and music anyway.

The missus is another story. She teaches school in the Bronx, attends City College and still finds time to crank out the occasional poem. A few of hers have been published (including one about me that Vidiot's read. I don't come out of it looking good). She's at least arm wrestling with the muse, but mine seems to have been clobbered simply by the blog and online quipsterism, which ain't the same thing as genuine talent.

I only write so I have an excuse for my drinking.

I don't have arms. I type this crap with my feet.

Explains a lot, huh.

I (barely) lurk and skip out on cd swaps! I feel that this qualifies me to celebrate 9622's new Millennium! Hup!

type this crap with my feet.
Crap is usually found closer to your feet.

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