Sunday 23 May 1999


Pic of the day: A somewhat unshaven Itland contemplates his yoghurt. Not very pentecostal, I guess.

Tonight I dreamt that I had taken over a small pharmaceutical company. I came there and there was sulking and complaining and confusion. The quarters were cramped and much of the office equipment was obsolete. There were computers and software that seemed to have been bought at random times when something else broke, incompatible version of even the most basic office programs. I ordered everything thrown out except the one workplace that was almost new, and asked them to buy new compatible stuff. There was this female accountant who was positively ancient - how she could still not be a pensioneer is beyond me - and I made her cough up a bank account number, then phoned and transferred the necessary money while she was listening. I wanted this all done as soon as possible. And there was this young man who complained about his lousy pay. I checked up on him, then explained: "We're in a knowledge industry. If you want more pay, you must get more knowledge. I'll hire in a temp to do this brainless work for a year while you update your education under full pay. If you do well, we'll make a new position that suits your education, and give you an assistant. If not, you're gone."

I don't have more than the faintest idea how I came to dream this crazy stuff. Perhaps the feeling of suddenly having lots of money. :) Though all the brain shrinkers out there will probably have some theory. (Yes, that includes you, dear brother. Hi there!)

I've noticed that some web journalers actively discourage people who know them from visiting their journals. (Not that I think this has much of an effect, actually.) I am not worried about that. As the youngest in my family, the rest of them already remember mainly stupid childish things I've done. A few more won't change anything. And my pietist friends, may they live forever, probably think that I've gone to the dogs already. They won't be horribly surprised, either. (Those who even dare sniff around on a sinful place like the Net. When I still hung around among them regularly, the learned elders warned against Readers Digest and Donald Duck. I have to agree about Donald Duck, but I suspect this is a very personal fetish of mine.)

And the one person I'd most of all like to share my thoughts with (and dreams, and stuff and stuff) doesn't even have Net access. I'm not sure if that is a bad thing, or good ...

Blasts from my past:
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