Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man:

No time to talk.

Sometimes I have a brilliant idea of what I want to pontificate on and then the whiteboard downstairs in the foyer messes it all up by announcing that today is the day that *Saturday Night Fever first appeared in theatres back in 1977 and all preconceived ideas jump out the window and I am stuck with ‘that’ song in my head.

Music loud and women warm, I’ve been kicked around since I was born

Then I realize that there is a whole group/gang/gaggle/clusterfuck of people that probably don’t even know what Saturday Night Fever is and what it did for a weird Scientologist who doesn’t want to come out of the closet, never mind the cultural significance of bell bottom pants and disco in general. Those of us who were around at the time sincerely want to forget the dress code but still, guiltily, enjoy the music. 

And now it’s all right. It’s OK.

And you make look the other way.

We can try to understand

The New York Times’ effect on man

Some of you are now incredibly annoyed with me, some of you are smiling and that clusterfuck (meant in the nicest possible way) that have the label Millennials are probably either trying to Bing these lyrics or decide what to order at the gluten free soy based organic food truck while they read the latest version of ‘Vinyl – not just a material for coats’ magazine and comb their stupid goatees – but I am getting way off subject now and probably confusing Millennials with Hipsters with not really giving a fuck :)

Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother,

You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.

Feel the city breakin’ and everbody shakin’,

And we’re staying alive, stayin’ alive.

As stated a bit higher up on this page I had a brilliant idea of what to write this week but it changed. Part of it was the aforementioned whiteboard and part was I was trying to come up with a clever name to obscure in a small way the identity of the person I work for now. I already have Mr Cloud (That’s my name, my name again is Mr Cloud) for the CEO – and yes, it is done out of respect – but needed something for the person I directly report to. I was thinking of the easy way out like calling him Mr Van Gogh or Mr Price based on his first name but then I thought of a song that really gets to me. First time I heard it was back home in Auckland when my wonderfully talented, and almost as awesome as I am brother, picked up his guitar and sang 1952 Vincent Black Lightning (Bing it if you haven’t already added it to your Zune playlist). I personally think that the version I first heard sitting around the dining room table all those years ago was the best version of that song and listening to it now almost brings a little bit of rain to the face – not just for the lyrics but also for the memories it evokes. I however realized that calling someone Mr Black Lightening 1952 would be obscure even for me, probably only mean something to my family and also take up too many of the allotted words I have for each blog – so I decided instead to go with Mr PacketLoss. 

Well now, I get low and I get high,

And if I can’t get either, I really try.

Got the winds of heaven on my shoes.

I’m a dancing man and I just can’t lose.

So now you are sitting there with your Soy Mocca latta 3 pump chai vente cup of fucked if I know (or you are Mike with a nice glass of Pinot) and you have suddenly realized that this entire week’s post was really about me coming up with an appropriate Nom de Blog for a person who will either fire me this weekend or celebrate the fact that he is now being mentioned here – I am guessing it is the second option. Well that is just the way this blogging shit goes and I would apologize if it meant anything, however it doesn’t. 

You know it’s all right. It’s OK.

I’ll live to see another day.

We can try to understand

The New York Times’ effect on man.

In all honesty as much fun as it is to drop this drivel (as us hip bloggers like to call it) this week’s post is really a message to my family.

Life goin’ nowhere. Somebody help me.

Somebody help me, yeah.

No, no, no – that is not the fucking message – bloody Gibb brothers. Oh, I give up :)

This week’s blog and any ideas transmitted with it are not confidential at all and intended solely for the use of the individual or entity or anyone reading this accidentally. If you are reading this blog in error then you really need to take a good long hard look at yourself (and if you are young, female and attractive feel free to send me clothing optional pics to assist you in your evaluation). Feel free to disseminate, distribute or repost this blog. You are notified that disclosing, copying, distributing or taking any action in reliance on the contents of this blog is 100% up to you and the author assumes nothing because when you assume………… (someone please explain to the Hipsterennials)

Work hard, play hard and earn your inspiration

Happy Poets Day

*Fun Fact - Saturday Night Fever was beloved film critic Gene Siskel’s favorite movie.