I’m at the old job, and I have a tech­ni­cal ques­tion regard­ing the DNS sta­tus of a par­tic­u­lar web­site, not sure if the MX records are con­fig­ured cor­rectly, et cetera, and the nice fel­low Chet puts me on hold, which I’m thank­ful for since I was stam­mer­ing quite a bit. Now the music begins … and I’m afraid to put it on speaker phone because it’ll surely clash with the Stanko­nia we got com­ing out of the office sys­tem right now. You can’t freestyle to this shit (hold music). This music (?) would even embar­rass the mod­ern George Ben­son (yes, there’s a dif­fer­ence, peo­ple). Who comes up with this shit? Is it really processed in a fac­tory just out­side Seat­tle, some­where near the Rainer Brew­ery on I-5? Did Zappa really drop protest­ing leaflets upon said fac­tory from a pur­ple heli­copter? Two musics vying for my ears: Wes Mon­gomery with­out thumbs, using a pic and a lot of cho­rus, backed up by 2 Casios and a midi-sax, com­ing in one ear through the lit­tle speaker of a 3-way phone, and the careen­ing tha-wump of Atlanta hiphop in the other.

Chet came back, but I’m still here because, as I sus­pected, the prob­lem was big­ger than he antic­pated. Something’s cor­rupted over there, I just know it. I’m gonna start taunt­ing him like Mifune razzed the farm­ers in Seven Samu­rai … wild­ing up from tat­tered rags, ham­mer­ing away at the ban­dit alarm.

Any­way, there’s music all over the fuck­ing place. I’ve gotta get home and hash out the “piano” and cello tracks I pro­cured this week­end from some fine musi­cians … Amanda Gustafson and Polly Van­der­put­ten, respec­tively (I say “piano” because, well, because the instru­ment was pur­chased at Radio Shack and you can carry it under one arm).