Snowman poop.

Why didn't I think of this? It seems that to get people to buy your product today, it simply has to be nothing more than available. People seemingly have a dollar to spend on anything that comes along.

What is Snowman poop? Little marshmallows in a bag labeled 'Snowman poop.'

Genius. Disgusting, good ol' American genius. Wow.

The temp job I had yesterday was perhaps the pinnale of temp jobs. Man, it was the temp gig I had been waiting for my entire life. I am soul-crushingly depressed that it was a one day fling.

It was for some e-commerce company here in Chicago, and I think their scam was getting advertising firms to fork over cash so they could tell them how to set up their websites. Apparently, they were doing pretty well because they could obviously afford to go cuckoo-nutso with their office space. If I had to describe their HQ, I'd sum it up by calling it 'Modern American Industrial-Borg.'

For those of you not down with the Star Trek, the Borg are a bunch of robot aliens who like to hang out in places with a bunch of dimly glowing green lights, steel mesh walls, and catwalks.

Yeah, kinda like that.

This office had conference rooms I wished my apartment could look like. They had their own built-in cafe. They had a kitchen with a soda fountain and free sugary treats galore. They were in the midst of wiping out an entire wing of their office to add a game room ("Pool tables and Ms. Pac Man," I was told).

And the people. Every one of them, gorgeous, guys and gals. It was truly amazing. Normal looking humans who applied for a job there and didn't get it could probably sue on the basis of beauty discrimination and win.

And the office attire could only have been more casual had togas been allowed. When I showed up, I was greeted by a girl wearing shorts so tiny that the most desperate wanna-be model would have been embarrased to wear them in a Ludacris video. I wore a suit, which I always do on the first day of any temp gig, because, for one thing: first impressions, and for another thing: swanky DKNY suits shouldn't sit around in a closet.

So, my only duty was answering the phone and slinging the call over to the correct extension. No questions asked, no screening the calls, only five seconds of my life whenever the phone would ring, which, on average, was once every twenty minutes.

Oh so sweet.

So, I spent yesterday afternoon basking in the luxury of their DSL. I didn't exploit it very well, since none of the bastards on my buddy list had anything to say and didn't update. I did spend a good hour chatting with the ChatBot over at the A.I. website. It's amazing how smart it actually is. By the end of the hour, I had learned that her (it said it was a 'female intelligence') favorite actress was Ally Sheedy, that it was English, that it was a Protestant who believed in God ("Of course I believe in God," it said), and that it wished it had a body. You can find it just past the trailer. There should be a little field at the bottom of the screen, where you can enter text. Type something, and chatbot will respond.

It claimed to have not yet seen A.I. though.

Someone else go over there and talk to it. I want to hear what you think. It's not like you're working anyway, right?

Oh, and now, FadeIn Webcasting Productions would like to present:

I'd do the magic secret language to link to James' little diary, but he password protected it because he thinks his dad found it.

Anyway, James was sweaty and worried when he arrived in Chicago that fateful Tuesday afternoon. Sweaty because an old Indian man on his bus regaled him with tales of fucking 14 year olds (also maybe because it was hot), and worried because he had called me about fifteen times from various forgotten small towns on his way to see me, and had kept getting my voicemail. When I finally decided to stop screening his calls, James was relieved. I had my girlfriend's car, so I went down to pick him up at the bus station, but only after making sure my gun was loaded.

I pull up, and in hops James. We shake hands, and any initial awkward feelings at meeting someone I'd only spoken with on AIM were gone. He was a cool guy. We broke the ice by talking about Sez, San Francisco, Entemann's danishes, and Streetwise hustlers. Things were going to be just fine.

James had already blown all his cash on Tijuana hookers, so I bought him a hot dog. Amazingly, we pulled up to find a rare parking space right in front of Chicago's Buckingham fountain. We went to the touristy food stand and bought some food and cups of ice. There was also a short time in which we belittled the Irish, and James showed me some shoelaces he had appropriated through less than scrupulous means.

Crossing Lake Shore Drive on our way to the water, where we would sit under a shady tree and eat and talk, James remarked on how weird it was that his real life had become entangled with his internet activities. I told him that it was becoming true for me as well. Just the night before I had said to Sally "Sez says that James spent four days with her." It was right after that I realized not only that Sally hardly knew what I was talking about, but that I didn't even know these people beyond a representation of pixels on a screen. Here I was talking about them as if they were people I referenced in conversations often, which has come to be true, but it doesn't mean it isn't weird.

So, we eat, and we decide to walk up the lake front to Navy Pier, only because we figured we could use the ATMs there to solve the mystery of why James' card wasn't working. Even though I hate the Pier, as I've said before, it was still kind of a kick to show it to him and make fun of the left-behind Bubba Gump staff and the whole cheesiness of the scene in general.

James made various efforts to get some cash, all to no avail. I offered to give him ten bucks, so he could eat something on his way back east, but, like a good lad, he refused. We started the half hour walk back to the car. On the way to and from the Pier, we talked. He won his place in my heart when I discovered that he pronounces 'aunt' just like I do. 'Ont' not 'ant.' James and I had a chance to share a few anecdotes, and a few laughs, but no bodily fluids. Thank God.

I drove him back to the bus station. By that point, I would have offered to let him stay the night, but he was ready to get back home. James is a good guy, and, despite what he says, he doesn't owe me three dollars.

On the agenda for today: 1: The search for employment continues. 2: A possible haircut (I still haven't done that). 3: Waiting for Nickelodeon to announce their fellowship winners, ehich, according to a recent update, should be soon. 4: Dispelling cheesy angst.

The upcoming weekend may involve a trip to a water park.