So here I am, in a humongous bookstore chain, sucking down a double mocha because: 1) it's one of a distinct few coffee houses open past 9 in wonderfully somnolent Marin County; and 2) I stayed at home all yesterday and today, telecommuting, and I developed an acute case of cabin fever. So why not set it off at Borders? BOO-YA! How ya like me now?

Thank God I wasn't in the office today, because The Turk paid a visit. The Turk is a euphemism from football and baseball preseason training. The Turk is the one who delivers the bad news to the players who have been cut, and who collects the playbook. In the e-hole world, The Turk is the rent-a-stormtrooper who helps the freshly laid-off out of the building tout suite. Twenty-four folks at my company got to live Fucked Company news today.

This is the third company I've been at that has wielded the ax. It's brutal every time. The first time, February '98, we were called into a movie theatre next door, where we usually had our company-wide meetings. The CEO proceeded to tell us that home base was cutting the year's budget in half, ergo 1 out of every 2 of us wouldn't be back the next day. Then for the rest of the day, everyone shuffled in and out of different offices to receive either a reprieve or a severance package. I had to wait most of the day, then found out I was gone. They were as nice about it as they could be – gave me two weeks' pay, which they didn't need to do, as I was a contractor – but still it was an atmosphere of fear and loathing ending with a figurative kick in the groin.

The second time was last summer. I entered through the back entrance of the building, and I was met by an unsmiling, balding, mustachioed plainclothes Turk with an earpiece and a walkie-talkie. "You can't come in this way, sir," he said. "Why not?" I asked. Reply: steely silence.

So I hiked all the way up and around to the front of the building and made it to my floor, where I saw 3 or 4 more expressionless Turks. I knew one of two things was happening: 1) a pissed-off stockholder called in a death threat on our CEO because our stock was tanking famously; or 2) layoffs galore. As I walked by the kitchen, a coworker walked by me and cheerily (and obliviously) chirped, "They got us Noah's Bagels and cream cheese today!"

I immediately knew it was blood-in-the-cubicles time.

We were on virtual lockdown all morning and most of that afternoon. The jackboots strictly monitored all the doors in the building and hustled the unlucky ones to their cars. If we left the building, we couldn't come back in until 2 PM. They made company #1 look like bleeding hearts. And all for what? Who the hell was going to steal the confidential documents of a company that we all knew would be shitcanned in 8 months' time? Thirty people got the hook that day. The gallows atmosphere lingered like mildew after that. People got liquidated in dribs and drabs. Others saw the writing on the wall and jumped off. I eventually did the same; the week after, they announced they were shutting down operations in the Bay Area. Now they're getting out of e-commerce. It was a very cool company, too. Breaks my heart.

I was spared from The Turk this time, thank goodness. The market out there has gotten increasingly spare. I received a blow-by-blow account from a coworker via IM. One of my cube neighbors – a hilarious, talented, nice fellow – got his walking papers. (He also had a CD burner. Damn!) He was one of the first employees there, too. Major bummer. I don't think the foosball table will be chopped into firewood yet, but I think it puts the company on notice.

Now it's time to go home and stock the new bookcase I assembled today. You don't know how momentous this is to me. I'm incredibly deficient in the handyman gene – it's a wonder I even have opposable thumbs – so putting together a cheapie Home Depot 28-inch bookcase is something almost worthy of lighting a menorah for. If I ever learn how to change the oil on my 1980 Olds Cutlass, the second coming will follow soon after.

So CBS just had some golf tournament highlights – set to The Doors' "Break on Through", with golfers holding up lyrics like some country club, lobotomized version of Don't Look Back. Nothing is sacred – even dead medicore narcissistic drunken "poets."

I entered the office on Wednesday morning for the first time since I got The Haircut™. A great preponderance of coworkers say I look younger. Comments have been largely positive. Best comments: "Do you have a job interview?" and "Do you have a court date?"

Two interesting things happened today.

First thing: I got a haircut. Shortest it's been in probably 7 or 8 years. From shoulder-length to real short. Before and after photos will follow shortly. I hope this will make me look a lot less like Ron Jeremy.

Second thing: I wrote a scathing email in reply to a mail list posting – "So-and-so doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about" – and instead of sending it to an individual friend from the list, I sent it to the whole list. I hit "Send" in Outlook Express, saw the message Contacting groups.yahoo.com at the bottom of the screen, and had one of those slow-motion, realizing-something-went-horribly-wrong, feeling-myself-dropping-through-rings-one-through-eight-of-hell moments.

I promptly unsubscribed myself from the mail list, essentially giving myself a "timeout" and assuring I wouldn't make another stupid-ass mistake like that again. Then I promptly emailed the guy I slammed to say, "I didn't mean to send that to the whole group, but it's no excuse. I'm a huge asshole. I sincerely apologize. Post this to the email list if you'd like." All I'm missing is gasoline and some matches to complete the self-immolation.

Happy Saccharine Consumer-Driven Unrealistic Hopes and Dreams in Denial Feel Useless if You're Not Involved and Inadequate If You Are Day.

I'm a hopeless romantic. Swear to God.

So another dopey VBScript virus is winding its way through the office email system. You figured people with half a memory of the ILOVEYOU or Mother's Day hacks would not open a goddamn file with a .vbs extension.

The script kiddie who sent this virus out, though, had a good sense of geek psychology. Name of the file: AnnaKournikova.jpg.vbs. Thus assuring an almost Pavlovian reaction before common sense would take precedence. Idiot savant genius, I tell you.

Looking out the windows of my office, I see there's been a break in the storm that made my morning drive a slow and heinous one. I hope I can bust out of here after I finish my peppermint tea, so that I may avert the next storm.

Knowing the week I've had, however, I doubt that'll happen. I will most likely stagger out the door in my rhinoviral haze, to the wet strains of the latest arctic storm front, and land smack dab in the middle of the heinous cluster known as Friday night San Francisco traffic. C'est la merde, as Alex Trebek would say.

Today was a day-long bender of hate, frustration, and miscommunication. I have an anger hangover – I need a goddamn Advil.

It was one of those days where I was trying to juggle about 3 or 4 things, and all of them fell out of my grasp multiple times. Astrologically, they say Mercury has gone retrograde – supposedly a harbinger of about three weeks' worth of breakdowns of communication and machinery, a veritable orgy of shit going haywire. I don't know if I completely buy into that. You know, there's a little thing the kids call [making quote marks with fingers ala Dr. Evil] free will. Still, stuff like this has happened too many times for it to be dismissed as only coincidence. Eh. Whathefuckever.

The heinous nature of my Monday could only be mitigated by the fact that I celebrated my birthday all weekend with fine Moroccan and French dinners. Then again, I turned 29. Should I be facing this whole year with the dread fear that I'm anticipating I'll feel? This is my 30th year of current existence.

Thur. Tee. Eth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

G'night.