Tales of Generation X
On a recent in-office workday my colleague received a panicked phone call from his wife: their newborn had somehow fallen off the bed. His wife was very upset, but it seemed like everything would be fine.
"I'm just glad that I'm not responsible!" he said, and we all laughed.
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He hurried off home, and we were all sharing childhood injury stories around the bullpen. I recounted one of my earliest (potentially false) memories: my mother holding me in a rocking chair in Houston, and then throwing me into the air and screaming when a cockroach ran up her leg. Ed. note: No disrespect to the fine people/roaches of Houston is intended by this publication.
Another gen-x colleague responded with what he called his earliest memory: he reached between two sofa cushions and pulled out a revolver that his father had left there. Other than the gun's weight it resembled one of his toy guys, like a cowboy's six-shooter, with an ivory handle.
He assumed that it was a toy, put it in his pocket, and then went to show his mother, who, he said, responded by beating the living hell out of him.
"That's... not fair," I said.
"That's what I said!" he replied.
When you are mean to us, this is who you are being mean to.
A handy barometer for cultural irrelevance
One so inclined could cut me open and count my rings by seeing how far the annual Celebrate Brooklyn lineup has devolved (for me, personally) into a letter-salad eye chart. This year's lineup looks like around 98% AI-generated nonsense.
There is not really a person called Bolis Pupul, come on you guys. Do not humiliate us both by making me Google this.
Also... see you all at Fishbone.
And finally
The good people at Microsoft seem to have removed paste without formatting from the right click menu in Outlook.
My boss told me to try Shift Control R, which clearly identified him as a co-conspirator in this attempted gaslighting. I can’t decide whether to quit or set myself on fire first.
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