July 15, 2004

I have been commanded asked to keep a tally of my job at work.  They (read: People In Suits In Distant Provinces) want to know if they're paying me to paint my nails or worship at the altar of The Company.  So I now have to sit in my pod and keep track of everything I do.  This is harder than it sounds.  Because I'm guessing they're looking for work-related entries here which means my Work Journal has become just like everything else I write - 10% truth, 90% fiction.  If I was strictly honest about my average workday it would read something like this:
Work Journal - Thursday or so (?)  note to self - change date setting on phone
8:17  arrive at office seventeen minutes late
8:20  eat breakfast and check email
8:35  get coffee
8:40  check online weather as pod is a windowless life-draining abyss
8:45  select CD most likely to drive sales rep pod neighbors out of building
8:50  shuffle papers to look as though all hell has broken loose
9:00  realize nailpolish on left index finger is chipped - panic
9:10  check email
9:30  more coffee
9:40  work
9:50  go downstairs out of boredom
9:51  flee back upstairs as sales reps driven from pods have congregated at front counter
9:52  think about Elves
10:00  realize have spent 8 minutes thinking about Elves and shake self
10:05  think about actors who play Elves
10:13  realize have spent 8 minutes thinking about actors who play Elves and shake self
10:15  work
10:30  spin in chair till nausea sets in as a pleasant distraction from monotony
10:35  curse internet for not working
10:47  curse out loud to see who's eavesdropping, write names down
10:50  forage for food in lunchroom fridge
11:00  work
11:10  quote Office Space and laugh to self
11:14  quote Office Space and sob helplessly
11:23  spin in chair counterclockwise to undo nausea which is becoming nagging annoyance
11:30  answer phone
11:32  realize phone is minion of hell
11:40  work
11:57  realize lunch is imminent and suddenly keel over with vicious starvation pangs
12:00  lunch!
12:30  wonder why everyone else gets an hour and feel shafted
12:31  check email
12:50  work
12:57  change CD
12:58  realize eyesight is blurry and panic about carpal tunnel syndrome
12:59  realize carpal tunnel affects joints only and feel stupid
1:00  realize 3 1/2 hours remain in workday and pass out
1:37  regain consciousness
1:39  feel disgruntled that nobody noticed fainting spell and resolve to faint on stairs
1:41  faint on stairs
1:41.1  stop self mid-faint from being total knob
1:43  work
1:56  coffee
2:01  flip through Vogue and realize more stilettos would make life better
2:09  go mad from hum of neighboring pop machine
2:10  contemplate impaling self on letter opener
2:11  phone home
2:12  bother roommate with needless blather
2:17  work
2:49  congratulate self on productive spurt
2:50  think about Trek villains
2:51  realize thinking about Trek villains is hopelessly nerdy and quit
2:52  check email
3:10  work
3:12  realize should be doing Purolator and curse work for distraction
3:25  head downstairs to drop off Purolator
3:32  flee back upstairs as Purolator boy resembles overweight hobbit with mullet
3:33  work
3:48  satancomputer shuts down without warning
3:49  contemplate point of rebooting for last half hour
3:50  reboot for kicks 
4:00  computer reboots  note to self - shake fist in general direction of IT
4:02  pretend to work 
4:12  give up farce 
4:13  count mississippis and realize time has stopped
4:14  curse torrential rain from nowhere and realize have forgotten umbrella
4:25  ready for sprint to staircase with deep knee bends
4:30  flee   

July 13, 2004

The Very Secret Diaries of Troy are a resounding success in their new home at clear/AIR. How do I know they're a resounding success? Two words, my pretty mortals. Fan comments. YOU HEARD ME! We have fans and they're commenting.

nice part played and u acted it very well the part u fell in love with helen after the first meeting was romantic I say a big BRAVO I LOVE YA ACTING

Dear Fan,

Thank you so much for recognizing that it actually is me, Orlando Bloom, posting these parody diaries of my character Prince Paris. You'd be surprised how many people don't get that "gabrielle" is actually a nom de plume. Finally, a fan with a brain. I can't tell you how many girls just write "I love U Orli" on their faces and expect that to cut it for me. Keep reading.

Love, Orlando

Little known fact about me. I am, apparently, Orlando Bloom. It would, however, be errant to assume that I answer each and every fan letter and random internet comment personally. I try to, don't get me wrong. I said to Ridley last month that I'd need to have more breaks in filming in order to get online and talk to my fans. Luckily rustyangel took over the Diaries or they'd never have been finished. It's just that since the whole Legolas thing I've had so much more fan mail than is even reasonable to answer. What's a guy to do? I mean, bloody hell... I asked Brad how he handled it. I had no idea David Schwimmer actually answers Brad's fan mail. I guess he's got the time. It won't work for me - I don't have the Friends connection. Brad knows everybody, man. But it did give me an idea. I could have family members answer some of the letters and stuff for me. That way, since it's family, it's still sort of me. I mean it's close, you know? Anyhow, it works like this...

Fanmail from Teen Beat readers will be answered by little sis Kissimmee.

General fanmail will be answered by Tallahassee and Tampa, my twin cousins.

Website questions and comments will be taken care of by Jacksonville. Big brothers are handy like that.

Of course I'll do my utmost to drop in and answer as many myself as I can. But at least this way it's in the family. Some Bloom will get back to you. Oh yeah, and fanmail from guys goes to cousin Miami. Forgot about that.

**The author would like to take this opportunity to disavow all knowledge of the above post and deny any association whatsoever with Orlando Bloom or any of his family members, real or imagined. I've never met the guy. I'd have better things to do with my time than blog if I had. And I swear I'm not him. Don't throw your virtual panties at me.**

July 12, 2004

There is a board across the patio door. The reasons for this are mysterious and possibly varied. Rumor has it that they're replacing our collapsible balcony with one more likely to hold the weight of a human. The board across the door must be related to that. It might be to keep tenants from spying on the workers and their secret balcony-replacement techniques. It might be to keep the workers from spying on pot-hazed tenants without jobs. It might be to keep those inside from falling out. It might decorative. Sort of a Construction-Chic Transitionary Piece, if you will. Of all the potential explanations, I think the most likely is keeping those of us on the inside from falling out. Which, if you think about it, is also the most stupid. If you're stepping out onto your balcony in the dead of night or half-asleep without looking, you need to rethink that strategy. First, there are three doors to get through. That alone should shake you into some semblance of alertness. Second, who steps over a rail and doesn't look to the other side? Third, if you fall you only fall six feet to the balcony below. Not even a Hobbit could commit suicide in six feet.

The board across the patio is very distressing to Poe, however. Her feline pea-brain can't handle this new input. She sits daily at the patio with her paws up on the rail and watches the birds taunt her from beyond the screen. This is how life is. Then today, no birds. No sky. Nothing but board. I realize that as a cat owner I'm supposed to extol the virtues of my cat's superior intelligence but the truth of the matter is that it's not that hard to flummox Poe. She will still sit at the patio, paws on the rail, and watch the board. Her single cylinder brain stubbornly keeps firing the "watch the birds" instruction and without higher reason or at least grey matter the size of a walnut, she's lost. Adrift in an apartment that no longer makes sense. She watches the birds but the birds are now flat, unmoving, and brown.

On the plus side, it's a lot darker in the apartment.

On the downside, after two years of wobbly relations and misplaced trust, I don't think I can ever truly feel comfortable with my balcony again. It hasn't been very faithful. I can't rely on it at all. How do you mend a two-year rift in a single day of hammering? It's not that simple. Trust must be earned. The balcony has a lot to atone for.

July 11, 2004

And the words scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen said...

Warning: Severe thunderstorms can cause tomatoes.