Pandora's Box...

Getting through the old workday is a tall order. I've got impossible layouts to layout and officemates consisting of two groups of people: bitchy girls my age just starting their editorial careers who think we're living in the movie "The Devil Wears Prada" (I won't divulge exactly which magazine I design for, but here's a clue, it is not Vogue, so drop the attitude ladies and eat something for Christ’s sake). The second groups consists of old crotchety women whose careers are coming to an end (I hope "The Circle of Life" is now stuck in your head).

I can honestly say the biggest thing that gets me through the day is Pandora. For those of you who are not aware of the majesty of Pandora, it’s a website (www.pandora.com) where you can put in a song or band you like, and it will create a streaming radio station based on the characteristics of that song or band.

First I was all about my Thievery Corporation station because it was soothing…but that got old surprisingly quickly. Next I moved onto my Interpol station. This was good, until it started playing horribly inappropriate songs and I wouldn’t realize that the lyrics blasting out of my computer were so inappropriate because I was too deep in design mode. For example, I was sitting there one day at my cubicle, tapping my foot innocently to a song playing, until I realized the lyrics I was tapping my foot to were:

Slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
looks real cute, her lips are sore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
dripping sex from every pore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
looks real cute, her lips are sore/
slackerbitch, faghag, whore/
such a motherfucking bore.

I don’t think the Bible thumping editorial assistant sitting diagonally from me liked that one.

I then switched it up to a pure funk music station. And all was right with the world. The problem here was I literally cannot physically stop my body from getting’ up to the get down. I just can’t listen to “Brickhouse” and not mouth the words/gyrate my pelvis and do a mini version of the Hustle in my office chair. Final diagnosis: radio station terminated due to I look like a giant jackass.

So then for a while I was lost. What was a girl to do? Then yesterday I created the greatest station known to man: Culture Club. Non-stop 80’s dance pop hit after hit after hit. For example, as I type, Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf” just came on. RAD! My only qualm with the Culture Club station is that it plays way too much Genesis than I ever want to listen to. Ever.

In other office news, I also got caught doing absolutely nothing yesterday when there were absolutely a lot of things to be doing. My boss rounded the corner and there I was— slumped all the way down in my chair with my legs completely spread (I’m sorry, it’s extremely comfortable and this isn’t finishing school), chewing absent-mindedly on a coffee stirrer and reading an article online from Vice magazine about the founding member of the Black Panther Party’s new barbeque book, the article entitled “Pit Grille to the People, Motherfucker.” My boss cleared her throat and I was like a deer in headlights. I just froze and then frantically was closing windows to reveal other windows that have no relevance to work, desperately trying to find a spread that I opened in case an emergency just like this was to occur. But then Tiffany’s “I think We’re Alone Now” came on Pandora and my boss was distracted by how she used to love this song and the fact that I treat my cubicle like an extension of my apartment was never mentioned. Thanks Culture Club station!

Sha la la!
Patsy