Bits of Factuality

Oh, where to begin . . .

I don't think I can fit everything into one post, so I think I'll just do a factual recap here and then muse about shit in other posts.

First off, I have heard exactly nothing about the job for which I interviewed two weeks ago today (and for which I sacrificed, oh, $90 of pay). I sent an email that day, saying thanks, and sent another last Friday saying hey, still interested, and I'll be home Monday if you need anything like my references . . . and . . . nothing. I am not encouraged by this, needless to say, but, luckily, I have not permitted myself to think about this job very much. When I do, I want it so badly I can taste it--I begin to dream of a comma in every paycheck, of health care that covers everything and for which I do not have to pay out of pocket, of a job that pays enough such that I don't have to work 70 fucking hours a week. Given the whining that I've done in this space, you can see why I have decided that just not thinking about it, and resigning myself to not getting it, is the best possible strategy. Plus, it encourages me to keep moving toward Plan E, even though I haven't actually DONE anything to implement that plan except recognize that I should, because I've been too busy working and having fun. (That plan, you may remember, involves lining up a few more publishers as copyediting/proofreading clients and just doing that work full time.)

The bakery, well, it's the same. Woody's been the past three days, because we got a new oven on Wednesday and, while helping with it somehow, he apparently injured his wrist. The exact nature of the injury is unclear, along with whether Woody's going to return or, if he is, when. The new oven has been a process rather than an event. First the old oven had to be removed--keep in mind that the oven is about 8 feet high and has a footprint of about 25 square feet, so it's not exactly a small piece of equipment--which was a daylong project Tuesday, and during the end of which Woody got injured. Wednesday the new oven came in, in pieces. It was assembled over Wednesday and Thursday, and today it was in use, but this whole process has meant that Bossman was preoccupied (and doing a lot of the installation work), plus Woody hasn't been seen, so we've been minus two pair of hands. It's been pretty grueling without Lole. Mike helps out with the shaping somewhat--though not today, when I was swamped--and he's been making my dough for me (about which I'm pleased, because that means I don't have to schlep two 50-pound bags of flour at the end of each day), but it's not the same as the excellent arrangement I had with Lole. He and I divvied up the croissant-making tasks each day, sometimes discussing the coming week, and he could do nearly everything that I did. (I did all of the scheduling of production, including figuring out what we'd make on which day, and how much we'd make. He had a vague notion of what I was doing with that, too, and if he hadn't decided to leave, I would have trained him fully on that.) I hate it, though, every fucking day, and I'm trying to reassure myself that I can quit at the end of December. I don't know whether I really can afford to do that--I must implement Plan E and it must actually work for me to do that in a non-foolish manner--but I fear for my mental and physical health if I don't.

The concerts--I have gone to three so far, two Bruce and one Mickey, and they've all been quite spectacular. I have much to say about Bruce, as you might imagine--let me also say that, if you have the opportunity, you should actually go to one of his concerts. Without going into detail about the concerts themselves, I'll tell you a little about my attendance. Sunday night, well, let's just say that I was neither the oldest nor the greyest-haired person in the vicinity, and I'm both oldish and greyish. But the audience rocked as hard as Bruce did--we were standing nearly the whole night. There was a decided lack of the cellphone-mediated experience I noted at the DMB concert at Alpine; an age thing, perhaps? Dunno. My seat had truly excellent sightlines, though I was at the opposite end of the arena; coulda used a new prescription for my glasses, or Friend's binoculars, but made do without either. Getting home was a complete pain in the ass, as the buses don't all run late on Sunday night, but whatever.

Monday Friend was going with me, despite his history of disdain for the Boss (longish not very interesting story there). I had scored two general admission--i.e., floor--tickets, which meant we'd (a) be standing for the whole concert and (b) have an opportunity to stand Really Close to the stage. Bruce does a lottery thing, wherein if you have a GA ticket, you show up day of show with your ticket, get a numbered wristband and a hole punched in your ticket, and come back (if you've left) at 5:00 pm. Around then, the officials in charge draw a number. That number is the wristband number for the first person to be admitted. About the first 500 people get into the "pit," i.e., the front section that's close to the stage. I duly got my wristband, and meanwhile called Friend (who had urged me to try to get into the pit, but who hadn't intended to do so himself, as he was working and we didn't think he could get there in time to get a wristband before they ran out) and said, get your ass over here and get a wristband, because there will be enough for you. He hauled ass in a serious way--walked (or, rather, trotted) a couple of miles, because buses didn't show up--and got his wristband. Twenty minutes later they picked a number. Now, remember that there was a two-hour gap between our wristband-getting endeavors, and, therefore about 150 numbers. Also note that there were about 800 wristbands handed out, but only about 500 people would get into the pit. Short version? Friend ended up dead center, about 6 people back from the stage, and I ended up in the not-in-the-pit part of the general admission roundup.

He kept being semi-apologetic--wanting to somehow transfer his luck/wristbands to me--but I would have none of it. (I think he was kind of excited, too.) The way I figured it, he would be placed such that he could experience the full Power & Glory of Bruce, up close and personal, and I didn't think there was any possible way he could hate it. I've seen Bruce maybe 25+ times at this point, at least twice from very close up (e.g., the third row), and if only one of us could be in the pit, I wanted it to be him. The best would have been if we'd both been that close--and if I'd thought about it at the time, I would have asked the wristband dispensers to cut off my old one and give me a new one closer in number to his, though who knows if they would have done that--but I much preferred that he get the good spot than that I did. I didn't know I'd feel that way, but there you have it.

Anyway, it's late, I'm tired, and I haven't even told you about Mickey yet. Hell, I haven't told you about the Church of Bruce yet, either, or about kstyle's philosophical thoughts, or anything else. But tomorrow I have to shape all the dough I didn't get to shape today, so I must sleep. I'm also having dinner with a pastry school friend, and Sunday I am getting a massage--a long one. Given all of the concert-going and such I probably shouldn't indulge myself, but I'm gonna anyway.