The big one year mark
One year ago today I pushed open the oversized, wooden double doors to Quiksilver HQ, walked inside the spacious lobby and marveled at the fish tank, the constellation of surfboards, and th--
Then I got run over by some barefoot punk on a skateboard. He claims he was director of marketing or something. Whatever, man. Go back to college. Oh, I'm sorry, you're actually the director of marketing? Wow, uh, ok. And you were born in 1987. Faa-scinating. Stay cool, bro. Don't do drugs.
Ok, that didn't really happen, but one year ago today I did start my job here at Quik. There have been up times (our in-studio picnic stands out as one) and down times (eh, I'm not one to kiss and tell to The Internet, y'know what I mean?), and puh-lenty of guys on skateboards. I try not to air any laundry, whether dirty or clean, about my job on this blog so I'll stay pretty mum about the details of working here. I suppose if you're really dying to know, you can always come visit me for lunch. I will say this much: The chicken tortilla soup they sell here is ah-mazing.
Seriously. I could dedicate an entire blog just to the soup. And also the type of ice they put in the Diet Coke. Oh, wonderful ice. You have seen me through one cracked tooth and an entire Winter of shivering through the cold, cold afternoons while shoveling piles of You into mah mouf. Oh, ice. Oh, soup.
I suppose in the interest of partial disclosure, I'll reveal a few items about my year in retrospect at Quik.
1. The soap in the bathrooms smells like coconut. When they say they're all about the surf and beach lifestyle, they mean it.2. My cubicle really is the best place in the building. No, really.
3. The second-best place in the building is the Photo Studio because that's where Michelle and I hang out all day and shoot things like this:
4. Speaking of Michelle, she's THE BEST. No really. I dare you to scrounge up a better boss. Kyle isn't so bad, either.
So there's the short list. It's been a great year, and I look forward to another great year in 2008-2009.
Last year on the 4th of July I posted about a time when I was wading through a hippie-dippy pool of my own insoluble self-pity (you can see the melodramatics here), and I remember taking a dazed walk through my old neighborhood. I overheard someone playing the piano from within their house, and I stopped there on the sidewalk and listened like it was the last thing I might do on earth. At the time, it only reminded me of how things felt unsettled and of how much I hated that feeling.
Last night, Jeff and I went to Sushi of Naples for some dinner (the usual: Waikiki Roll for him, Sweet Sixteen roll for me, and a pitcher of beer) and afterwards decided to take a walk around Naples to enjoy the summertime evening and also so that he could encourage his wholly deplorable non-addiction to self-rolled cigarettes. We came up on a house and through the slanted blinds I could see an older man hunched over a piano, playing. And playing beautifully, I might add. I stopped again, a year later, and listened. This time, the only thought in my head was this:
This is what contentment feels like.