Barack Obama made several memos public recently outlining CIA techniques which could be construed as torture. The detail in the documents is eye-opening, as it performs some impressive legal acrobatics to justify certain methods of interrogation, many of which would get a thumbs up from Pol Pot.
There is a little noticed tactic highlighted in the report which has not received as much press as some of the other more memorable methods. As the report reads:
I'm tellin' ya, I did NOT expect being home all day to be this rough. Any fantasies I had about sitting around, drinking beer and playing video games for a couple weeks were never seriously entertained, but the oppressive boredom and repetitiveness can get to you quickly. After all, Cheeky is at that age where everything is super important and requires my immediate undivided attention, particularly if it involves something an inanimate object is supposedly saying. Oodgie and I are discovering all kinds of new ways to miscommunicate. And the fact that we're sandbagging our money for necessities like groceries and barbiturates limits our options to anything within walking distance and can be foraged.
If I weren't the only person around here who knows how to operate our stereo Oodgie would have stabbed me with a spork by now.
OK, maybe that's a bit extreme (sporks are, after all, a tool of satan), but it ain't easy. I'm probably spending way too much time hunched over our computer, hitting refresh every two minutes in case some recruiter has written back. My internet celebrity career hasn't really taken off, probably because posting Blip.FM Tweets and ranting about COBRA doesn't exactly draw a Kutscheresque following. What can I say? It's a little grim...who wants to hear about that?
I'm keeping my head up, though. Or at least I'm keeping it from dragging on the floor, which, if you try to picture it, would look pretty awkward and uncomfortable. I'm convinced that this glorious opportunity to get to know my apartment is a temporary thing, and that massive success is just around the corner, albeit completely hidden behind a very large middle finger. And I still have the last few unwatched episodes of Freaks & Geeks and Firefly to get through, so it's not like I don't have things to do.
And in the meantime I'm taking on an ongoing quest I've titled the "Tour de Starbucks." (Today's destination: Court St., Cobble Hill) This generally involves carrying my ridiculously heavy laptop from Starbucks to Starbucks, glaring at sweatshirted layabouts napping in the comfy chairs and trying my best not to fit in too much with the bespectacled latte-sippers surfing dating sites working on their novels. Brooklyn is stinky with both, and the way I've been shaving lately it would be easy it would be hard to pick me out of a lineup of them. Worse, I'm becoming uncomfortably familiar with Diana Krall's musical output; I need my headphones and some Silversun Pickups to cleanse the pallet.
Maybe you'll see me in your local Starbucks, too! The first person to find me wins a laser pointer I stole from work and a coupon for a free back rub. Just don't approach to quickly...I'll probably be so hopped up on Pike Place Blend that I might tear a limb off before you can say "getajobyoubum!"