DOT COM

I still haven't blogged about the goat sacrifice. I think I've blocked it out.

I was going to, and then the new VP of Marketing, Ryan Aldrich, stuck a gun in my back.

The gun is still in my back. I'm typing this while Ryan holds me hostage.

This may be the last thing I ever write.

See, we're StrangeOffice. The name's outside the building. But Jorgen, who keeps getting promoted, decided that it was vital that we take advantage of the internet boom.

The 2000 internet boom.

Jorgen's a little behind. But he has a theory about it… Actually I think Jorgen may be a victim of inadvertent time travel.

Anyway, the first step was obviously to make our building say "StrangeOffice.COM." Jorgen was insistent about this. Trouble is, the letters are wide enough that they cover the entire facade of the building--from S to E. What to do, what to do.

Clearly, we had to build an unsupported balcony and then paint "DOT COM" on it. Ryan was chosen for this job.

"The HELL?" he asked me. "6 of your last VPs of Marketing have DIED! And now you want me to get OUT on an UNSUPPORTED BALCONY 39 stories above the Manhattan streets? Are you INSANE?!"

"Don't shoot the messenger," I said.

"You know what, man? You know WHAT?! They always say that. But does anyone ever SHOOT THE MESSENGER? No! Well, guess what? I'm shooting the messenger!"

Aldrich had a gun on the premises; he demanded one in his contract--somehow he managed to find out that our six previous VPs of marketing hadn't all taken vacations in Bermuda. Guess we shouldn't have hired a Bermudan for this job.

So now he's holding a paint can in one hand, and a bucket in the other, and he's pointing a gun at me.

"Damn you, Machlin," he says. "Now crawl off this balcony and PAINT!"

I asked if I could make one final post to this blog. He agreed.

He's reading over my shoulder.

"You've finished the post," he says.

He's right.

I really wish I was back at [large bookstore chain deleted].

Why it was a bad idea for us to throw our hats in the air to celebrate New Year's day, pt. 1

A woman named MWT wrote me an e-mail:

"if people throw their hats in the air to celebrate things, do they ever get their hats back at the end? "

Sadly, had I read my Lovecraft, we would not subsequently have conducted an impromptu experiment as the TerrorBall™ dropped to mark the end of 2006. Alas, none of us had read our Lovecraft. And so, an innocent intern (Kaiser Phillips), janitor (Bob Twii), and our vice President of Marketing, Bill Sanderson III, lie dead.

Kaiser was not with us for very long, but he will be missed. Particularly since I, as the new least senior employee will have to get the coffee. Ordinarly, this would be merely annoying, but most members of our staff drink a special kind of Guatemalan coffee made from a bean which is stored only… in… the basement.

Oh God, I don't want to go down there again.

Bill Sanderson III held the VP of Marketing job for the longest anyone's held the post--36 days. We'll miss you, Bill. That job's going to be very tough to fill, especially since 6 VPs of Marketing have died in the past 11 months.

***************************************

From "The Lost Works of H. P. Lovecraft: "The Terrifying Story of the Hats"

"I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless! I *know* what I saw! It was at a holiday sporting-event--the one called 'base-ball,' where the fans were getting ready to salute the Brooklyn Dodger Fred Merkle, for his fine work on the field. As he came out, there was a great cheer, which had started as a dull roar. The ladies applauded, and the gentlemen were quite pleased.

To salute him, they threw their hats in the air…

And then, the screaming, oh, gentlemen, the screaming! For the hats were not just hats, no, now they had *wings* and horrible ropes--nay, tentacles! They swooped down on the defenseless crowd, plucking their heads off like so many snapped toothpicks. Oh, the screaming, oh, the panic!

But those who were snapped were the lucky ones. For in some cases, the hats jammed themselves back onto selected heads, with a strange noise emanating from within--my God! It was SLURPING!

And when their feasting was done--for that's what it was, gentlemen--the hats flew in a great, swooping motion, into a terrible dark hole which opened up in the sky.

This is why I urge you not to wear your hats! Or to throw them!

You tell me it cannot have happened. Then where, I ask you, is Ms. Amelia Munson, and her eight-year-old daughter Sarah? Devoured by the hat-like-things they were! The hats! The hats! Oh, Cthulu! I see them still!"

Frank, Jim, and the goat

Friday has come, and it can't be soon enough for me. Oh God. What have I gotten myself into? But this job… it pays too well… it has great opportunities… and I don't think I can quit.

No, I really can't.

Saturday: Okay, I'm posting this from home. We sacrificed a goat. A live goat. They bought it in Queens--they being Jim & Frank, two strange guys who may previously have worked for the government but now work for this media company. The one I also work for. And I REALLY can't talk about it.
They wear suits. And sunglasses. All the times. They are of equal height.
They had to make special arrangements with the supermarket on 30th Street. Usually the Supermarket only sells goat *meat,* but we needed a live goat, so I guess the supermarket talked to some people, and they had a goat waiting.

Then they took the goat on the subway--the N/W (with that great above-ground view of Queens--gotta love those elevated trains) to 42nd St., and then they transferred--I can't tell you which train they transfer with, because it could potentially reveal my company, which, for reasons which may become clear later, I *really can't do.*

Apparently it's only our division that has to sacrifice goats. Some of the other divisions get to sacrifice chickens and stuff. Not really sure why. (Mental note to self: Look into this.)

Anyway, I'm tired. I don't even know if anyone's reading this, but oy. Oy. That poor goat. And poor Jim & Frank. (Don't worry, Jim & Frank are still alive. But it was messy.)

Next post: the goat sacrifice, and what we had to do with the blood. (Shudder).

in my head

i hear the bleating… i *hear* the bleating…

blood

I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.

I have blood on me.
































It's not human blood.

Welcome to StrangeOffice

I am interviewing with a man named Jorgen. Jorgen has a prosthetic arm. His real arm got bitten off by a shark. I have reason to believe this is true for three reasons:
1) Jorgen himself has told me this, looking very very serious about it in a don't-joke-about-this kind of way.
2) The shark, stuffed, is hung behind Jorgen on his office wall.
3) Sally, the attractive secretary (early 30s, I'd guess) told me this information, and Sally Never Lies. She is too honest. She is from the Midwest. Nobody in the Midwest lies. It's genetic.

I hope to get this job. I would prefer not to work at [large chain bookstore deleted] anymore. I'll be working at a large Manhattan entertainment company. I can't really talk about what I'd be doing. You may not have heard of us, but you've *definitely* heard of some of the things we put out.

If all goes well--and I think it has, Jorgen seemed to like me--I may well get the job.

Jorgen looks at me. He looks deep into my eyes, smilling for the first time in our interview.

"Tomorrow," he says, "We sacrifice the goat."

I think he's kidding.

Oh God, I hope he's kidding.