A little of this, a little of that. Let's see what it makes!
What would you do if you were to happen upon a bin of these posters on sale for 99 cents?
When we snagged one last year ago B autographed it with “Thanks for all the fan mail. XOXO Edward” and planted it in a coworker’s office. And there it remains, leering into the hallway from the office the pranked coworker vacated months ago and left to a new hire who was (un?)fortunate enough to inherit the gem.
Michael Bublé has been creeping up on me for a while now.
At first I didn’t notice when he started appearing in my Jack Johnson Pandora channel. Then he proceeded to carve out a spot next to Maroon 5 and I finally put a name with the voice. My curiosity was piqued when I found him taking up residence alongside Jem, but it wasn’t until he started to also edge in with Amos Lee that I realized something was amiss. While I’d been busy looking the other way, Bublé had infiltrated all of my playlists and taken over.
Suddenly he was everywhere! Any time I returned to my office I’d find him waiting there in the shadows, promising to give more than he got. He crooned on and on about love as I conferenced with coworkers and my boss. On long days when the sun sank low on the horizon as I sat hunched over my computer keyboard, he was there softly willing me to save the last dance for him. Taking advantage of my inattention, Bublé had become ever-present and he had no trouble reminding me how good he felt about it.
Today when I returned to my office I really did find Michael Bublé waiting there, frowning at me from my bookshelf.
The following story took place–and was originally written–in May of 2005. I was enrolled in a summer program at my university, and my only class began at noon. My afternoons, evenings, and late nights were spent painting murals in model homes in an attempt to squirrel away money for my upcoming semester in Europe. I kept late hours and spent all of my daytime hours working, so sleeping late each morning was necessary for me at the time.
8:00 A.M.
My cell phone rings. The landline in my dorm rings, twice. Growling, I answer the call. I expect to hear my mother again, trying to help me to scout for affordable airfare, but I wonder why she chose this morning to break our understood rule about early morning phone calls.
I barely pick up the phone before I hear screaming, or what, according to my early morning perception of the world, sounds like it. It is my mother, and she is apparently in a fit of hysterics that’s not about airfare.
STOCKTOC 