he only took tips

I'm not sure what to talk about.
How about tipping?
How much are we supposed to tip at cafes? I usually give 10%. I don't think it's as much work as waiter/ess, less walking for one thing. But I don't like to leave nothing. So ~10% for counter work and 15+% for table...
And bartenders. It's a dollar or two per drink. I'm beginning to think that that's bizarre, are they getting more than cocktail waitresses? and if they are, is it the old preference of male over female and mind work (mixing drinks) over schlepping things/physical?
Not that that's all that simple.

Not really a blogging breakthrough, but it may be time to slog out an entry or two to get to something deeper. Practice and all...

Dessert

You can call it irony, you can call it a plot twist, you can call it a just dessert for my wicked ways, but a couple of weeks ago, my boss took me aside and said that the Clear the Clutter people had photographed my cubicle and turned me into the Division Deputy Director as a messy cube.
I had to write a plan to get it done by end of the month.
Can I say that it was sort of like being a child.
But, I decided to do it with the best grace possible.

I only allow myself one extra fedex box. (I use them to put mixed paper in. I have a full box for white, because there's a lot of paper that goes through my hands and into the recycling.) Toss it out at the end of the week.

I'm hauling all sorts of stuff home, as well. Aegean Stables, anyone?

I don't know if I'm allowed to have a whole spindle of used cds, or if I have to take those down for recycling weekly, too.

Today, at the com center, I found two boxes... Three or four feet long, 8 to 10 inches high, about an inch deep.

I brought them home...

Off-Shoot

I am seriously getting ready to do a separate blog focused on my amputations and life in a wheelchair.
I can't think of a good title. "Without Restraint" is going to be the title of my second post. It's about public transit. Not "Hell on Wheels". Not ...
Well, I can't think of many of the rejection titles... I know there was another one with "wheels" in it though.
http://www.sfgate.com/bayarea/place/article/S-F-Target-makes-Metreon-a-better-box-3934217.php#photo-3550879
I work near the Metreon. There's a pretty good food court, and so I like to go there. Problem. If I go to the actual court, as opposed to the restaurants that are directly on the street, I have to take one of those weird cripple elevators that some places use. You may have seen them, they are open, have room for one and are made of steel or something like that. All too often, when I take it, I cannot open the door at the bottom. Sure the guard will open it for me, but fuck that. I feel like a cattle (beeve is probably the correct word) in a chute. Thank you.
I can go around the other side. I doesn't take me long. I can zip around the building.
There's a big bank of doors, 6 or so. The one on the far left as I enter is the one with the button to open it for me to push. All of the rest of the doors open to a ramp. In front of the cripple door there's a three-riser staircase. Are they tone-deaf to the need of the disabled community to feel welcomed and part of the whole? Or are they just following the ADA the same way a 10-year old boy follows the demand that he cleans up his room--dragging his heels, following the letter not the spirit.

*eyeroll*

Plugging Away

My new thought is to rate things on a scale of one to ten and get rid of anything below a seven. Haven't done much with that, but I'm plugging away.

Over-Shopping

The over-shopping this past weekend was entangled with the whole drama with the break up of Terminal City and apparent break up of Apokiliptika... How totally banal of me, using material goods to paper over the cracks in my mind/soul/heart. How, darned, American...

This thing has been a blow to my pride... first off, there's the rejection thing. Then there's my trouble in dealing with it, with re-establishing my equilibrium.

I'll say it here. I loved Smashy and Jet and Raga. I loved Terminal City and I enjoyed hanging out at the  shade structure last year. And confronting that damn art car--um mutant vehicle.

Baggage--child of divorce (blah, blah, blah)

Am I still the Miracle Train Baby?

Dare I use that as an avatar?

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This is a very half formed blog, here for the discipline of blogging, rather than because I have a clear thought to share.

I'll leave it up. It can serve as a benchmark of how low I can go, bloggishly.