Working at home

Working at home is like drinking coffee with a fork, as Willie Stargell said of hitting against Sandy Koufax. At the moment, I should be renooberating this here Dutch Famine data, a stopgap research task to fill the time & mitigate my debt before moving to Baltimore (!) in five days. But there's something endlessly distracting about one's apartment & its environs.

Lacking a boss to breathe down my neck, I can give my left hand a break from its typically furious alt-tabbing, and browse Christina Rossetti fan fiction in delightful languor. Perhaps I'll scrub the bathtub. Perhaps I'll make a pomander ball. Perhaps I'll cram fistfuls of tuna into inappropriate containers. Perhaps I'll just drool on myself until rivulets of saliva reach the floor. Who can stop me?

Oooh, or I could go outside. Perhaps I'll step outside & join the army of Iggy Pop clones zombie-stepping around Tompkins Square Park, and assist them in their ancient war against the dog-walking yuppies. Or perhaps I'll stop for an espresso at alt.coffee & enjoy the momentary frisson of attention & disappointment as twelve white 28-year-old men glance up from their laptops, hoping that some hot hipster chick will notice their brilliant CAD work. Yes. That is what I will do.