Journal

"How's it Goin', Then, Eh?" Good. Damn Good.

Q: How's it goin', eh?
A: Good. Very, very good.

As I hinted at somewhat abstrusely in my last post, I've taken on a new job -- Which just happens to begin at approximately 9am and finish usually around 5pm. But that's actually the good news. I'm working for a profitable tech company in The Valley. And at a new-ish tech company, you may be aware that having the ability to go home most days at 5pm is practically a luxury. And, lest I idealize my new working environs, I dare say it's been a blast for the first two weeks.

office space 1


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Caution: Possible TPS Reports Ahead

men at work sign
Going down,
Going down,
Down where my breath is the only sound
Don’t look for me now--I’m not around
All day long, I’m underground...


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Me & Monty: Thirty-Three and a Third

They call it Labor Day, but you're supposed to slack off. Well, done and done. Actually, today's post will be replete with new material. Mostly pics of Monty, since I've been doting on him and managing to take some kewl pictures as well. Monty is adapting excitedly to his new home, and generating no shortage of content, as we used to say in 'the business'.

Skyline Drive: Skirting the Santa Cruz MountainsSkirting the Santa Cruz Mountains, Headlong Into Holiday

"Thirty-Three... and a Third"

I suppose you have to remember a time before Compact Discs to get the joke. But here it is anyway: On the same day I celebrated turning thirty-three, Monty celebrated his one-THIRD birthday -- four months on the planet. And celebrate we did. Although the human festivities burnt brightly and made for what good celebrations with good friends are made of, they were just a little too evanescent to capture too many pictures. Plus, the Superphone (which is also my current camera) mysteriously lost its battery charge overnight after a long -- and successful -- venture up into the Santa Cruz Mountains to connect with 'old friends in a new habitat'. I guess the task of navigating me to my remote and very secluded mountain destination pooped out Teléfono-Supremo. And by the time old friends were growing older together, doing what old friends do over stories and drinks and exuberant labyrinthine conversations, the mirth was flowing freely and cameras were the last things on our minds.

So, to represent a mere part of the Festival Grande surrounding my 33rd (and his 1/3rd), Here's Monty!

Jeremy Isaac


Click on each image for a full-sized version.




Monterey



Monterey


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See You In September

Calendar Pages
Holy Crikey, it's September already. But I'm just getting started, heh heh heh....

This is my first post in about 10 days -- As is often the case with online journaling, when there's a gap in reporting, it's usually because the writer is too busy to report. (And doing things that are usually very much worth reporting!) So much has indeed been happening. And some of it is sure to get some exposure here on the main brain frame...

Much more to come!

Jeremy Isaac

Meet Monterey!



mon'-tuhr-rey ]



Click here to read a short
Biography of Monterey, the California Cat


Click on each image for a full-sized version.




03 - Portrait of a MontereyPortrait of a Monterey


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Chat With Miss D.

This is a letter I wrote to a friend, shortly after we each experienced the deaths of someone extremely close to us.


From: Jeremy Isaac
Date: Thu, 03 May 2007 18:17:00 -0700
To: Donna Christina di Matteo [donnachrismisschemistry@aol.com]
Subject: Re: Kent's Ashes

Hey D,


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Nostalgic For the Future I Once Had

Nostalgic For the Future I Once Had



The Thrill of Self-Discovery
In San Francisco, Some Time in 1997


Me: Not an "early adopter" in a certain sense of that tech-related term. But to leave it at that would give you the wrong impression of me. A distinction needs to be made, and in the following few words, I'll try to make it.

ANALOG KID

The expression early adopter leaves a (mixed but mostly) bad taste in my mouth, evoking a negative connotation -- born from numerous wealthy, spendthrift fathers of friends of mine, who clearly had more money than time to spend with their children. I would never see the father, but the son or daughter -- my friend -- in a number of strikingly similar cases, would invariably invite me 'round the house. Vast open interiors, devoid of actual human presence but teeming with expensive items that were clearly present for a whim's sake. I would, again, invariably be brought to the office-room full of gadgets. The expensive items, each touting a hopeful future if only their technological ideas would be permanently adopted, shouted out to me in a silent voice that I can only now really interpret: These fathers had no time for their children, only their jobs. And the multi-thousand-dollar trinkets (which is all they really were under the gloss and the hype) were, each, more of a child to this breadwinning-yet-still-absent father -- much more than his actual children. My friends didn't realize it at the time, but to their parents, it was they themselves -- the poor rich kids -- they had become obsolete.


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