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a day, not so good
Mar. 28th, 2003 08:03 pmToday was okay until a second manager was... given the boot. First it was a woman who was probably going to retire this year. Today it was a friend of mine who was the head of the inspection department. It's scary. One more day left before fiscal year end. And there were two more mail boxes with the names peeled off. I'm not sure who they were.
I was looking at this picture, you know the one from the gulf war, of the charred guy in his truck. The one usually accompanied by the quotes, "if I don't photograph this, people like my mom will think the war is what they see on T.V." - Kenneth Jarecke, photojournalist. Or, "In the 1991 Gulf War, American pilots bombed a retreating convoy. Most US media declined to publish this photo." You know, the one that makes you wonder how a corpse can remain upright. He must have ben trying to crawl out through the window. His hands are curled over the sill. Charred muscles are twisted across his shoulders. The side of his head is burned away, exposing the skull, but his face is stil there. Charred nose and eyelids, lips peeled back from blackened teeth. I wonder what they did with such corpses.
The commericals on the radio are making me feel even more uneasy. The jingles are driving me out of my skin. I don't want this. I want music. Even music I don't much like. Jingles are not music. They are propaganda. Ah, there's Dylan, "all along the fault line, we sing that melody..."
I was looking at this picture, you know the one from the gulf war, of the charred guy in his truck. The one usually accompanied by the quotes, "if I don't photograph this, people like my mom will think the war is what they see on T.V." - Kenneth Jarecke, photojournalist. Or, "In the 1991 Gulf War, American pilots bombed a retreating convoy. Most US media declined to publish this photo." You know, the one that makes you wonder how a corpse can remain upright. He must have ben trying to crawl out through the window. His hands are curled over the sill. Charred muscles are twisted across his shoulders. The side of his head is burned away, exposing the skull, but his face is stil there. Charred nose and eyelids, lips peeled back from blackened teeth. I wonder what they did with such corpses.
The commericals on the radio are making me feel even more uneasy. The jingles are driving me out of my skin. I don't want this. I want music. Even music I don't much like. Jingles are not music. They are propaganda. Ah, there's Dylan, "all along the fault line, we sing that melody..."
