47th street jive

I walked by a man on 5th street, and he asked if I could spare 50 cents. What? I don't carry change -- I stack my quarters on my bookshelf, to feed the laundry machines downstairs, and I throw the rest of the cumbersome metal into a bucket on the floor. The times, they're a-changing a little; he should consider changing his business plan, or at least study his market a bit more.

I work in a cubicle, and overhear men talking on the phone all day. They're in meetings, they say; they tell me they're talking to college graduates, professionals, and grown, adult human beings -- I'm not so sure. Everyone enjoys spending their lives in a different way, however, and consenting adults should be allowed to do what they like, as vulgar as it may appear to those listening in.

At work, when there is a perceived problem with the software we're making, people love talking about it. Sometimes they have meetings, they say. I'm glad the software engineers aren't invited -- that might put the other folks out of a job.

At the investors' conference, the angels tell us they are bored. They are lonely, want more friends, and want to be entertained. They say, "Name me someone who's not a parasite, and I'll go out and say a prayer for him." They will give him $300,000 in exchange for his friendship, and do this but five times each year.

The rules of the road have been lodged -- it's only people's games that you've got to dodge. I have my secrets, and I share them with a few, but we can't all escape, and I need to leave soon.