The more he reached me
But I couldn’t let go of LA
City of the fallen angels.
● J. Mitchell
Mondays always present the feeling of giant heft, a massive machine attempting to turn over. They involve an assault of paperwork amassed from the weekend; and, on the twentieth such as today, the ever-distasteful task of filing sales taxes.
Currently enduring the arduous process of acquiring and threading through new box office personnel. Hopefully I won’t unnecessarily assault them during the interview process; I tend to default into cross-examination mode. Also, I resolutely refuse to ask them where they “see themselves” in a decade. A, what a ridiculous question. B, they’re all twentysomethings – the honest among them would reply with, “Alive, God willing; though, considering what I ingested last night...”
Weeding through resumes steadily chisels at my faith in humanity. There’s the one who employed acronyms in her cover letter (“SYL”). The one who used “their” instead of “they’re.” And, my personal favorite, the one who obviously employed a Microsoft Word Template and neglected to completely attend the input fields: the grey text along the bottom reads Insert Address Here. Better leave the “attention to detail” box unchecked for that one.
Someone sent me the most fabulous photo of a sign out in front of a merchant’s cart in the country: Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be lawyers – make them be farmers and such. Heh.
