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From answers.yahoo.com:

Do I need to wear the red shirt and navy blue pants to work orientation?

I have a work orientation tomorrow at Chuck E. Cheese. I don't want to show up wearing th wrong thing o_O lol, can yall help please??

Best Answer - Chosen by Voters

Regardless of the function, you are reporting for work. Wearing the prescribed uniform may not be mandatory, but it would not be inappropriate either.

A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Laid out over the bed are two pairs of pants and three shirts. In an hour I have to be somewhere and it is important that I look just right.

After staring long enough I have decided that two of the shirts work with the pants, but the third shirt (now known as the "third shirt") does not.

I look through my closet for a complementary pair. Not sure why I can't wear a dark shirt with a lighter pair of pants -- I just can't.

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In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

A 1987 poem by United States poet Sharon Olds. Near the end of it, the narrator says, "There is/ no way to know how easy this/ white skin makes my life," though she demonstrates this easily enough throughout.

Where is the poem that begins with a consideration of this assertion, as opposed to stating it? Where is the poem that resists the construction of this "boy" and his imprisonment within the rhetoric of this form?

ON THE SUBWAY

The boy and I face each other.
His feet are huge, in black sneakers
laced with white in a complex pattern like a
set of intentional scars. We are stuck on
opposite sides of the car, a couple of
molecules stuck in a rod of light
rapidly moving through darkness. He has the
casual cold look of a mugger,
alert under hooded lids. He is wearing
red, like the inside of the body
exposed. I am wearing dark fur, the
whole skin of an animal taken and
used. I look at his raw face,
he looks at my fur coat, and I don’t
know if I am in his power —
he could take my coat so easily, my
briefcase, my life —
or if he is in my power, the way I am
living off his life, eating the steak
he does not eat, as if I am taking
the food from his mouth. And he is black
and I am white, and without meaning or
trying to I must profit from his darkness,
the way he absorbs the murderous beams of the
nation’s head, as black cotton
absorbs the heat of the sun and holds it. There is
no way to know how easy this
white skin makes my life, this
life he could take so easily and
break across his knee like a stick the way his
own back is being broken, the
rod of his soul that at birth was dark and
fluid, rich as the head of a seedling
ready to thrust up into any available light.

From New York to L.A.

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Although the focus on our hockey riot has shifted to portraiture (via Facebook’s walls of shame), the finger-pointing continues, with CKNW’s junkyard dog Bruce Allen calling out the Premier and, in particular, the Mayor for their hand in Wednesday’s melee.

Allen, who began his career as a night club bouncer before entering band management (Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Bryan Adams, etc.), expanded his hate-on for Vision Mayor Gregor Robertson by adding the hockey riot to the City’s bike lane initiative and residential chicken coops and wheat fields. How odd that someone who grew up on something as alternative as 1950s rock ‘n’ roll should find himself attacking equally alternative forays into transportation and agriculture. (Then again, given what happened to rock ‘n’ roll, I am not surprised.)

As a driver, I admit to the occasional frustration with bike lines. At the same time, I support them, just as I support residential agricultural initiatives geared at a sustainable future.

Betting on the future is a big part of our city’s history – from fur, gold, trees and fish to real estate. Sure, Vision has made mistakes, but I would much rather have a community-oriented police presence than the armed-to-the-teats cops common to U.S. sporting events, like the paramilitaries Allen’s ‘NW colleague Dan Russell saw (and praised) outside New York’s Madison Square Gardens during the Canucks’ last Stanley Cup run in 1994. I mean, who wants to live with that in your face?

Thirty-six hours after Vancouver’s latest hockey riot and the question on everybody’s mind is, How did this happen?

For some, it is as literal as a loss: the local team blew it, and the crowd went nuts. For others, like Mayor Gregor Robertson, it was a specific group, “a bunch of losers” who came downtown with only trouble in mind. Globe and Mail columnist Gary Mason has pointed to “professional anarchists,” like those who smashed windows along Georgia Street during the Olympics, while B.C. Police Commission report co-author Bob Whitelaw blames the VPD for their “complacency, apathy and denial.”

What I find surprising in all this finger waving is the lack of consideration given to the thousands who stood around and watched, a spectatorship so awesome in its physical presence, yet so indifferent to its ability to alter the course of events as to remind me of the Eloi in H.G. Wells novel The Time Machine (1895).

For those unfamiliar with Wells’s story, a man travels to the year 802,701 A.D. where he encounters a pastoral community of childlike people who, periodically, are lured to a cave by a wailing work whistle and enslaved by the troll-like Morlocks. The first time the time-traveller hears this whistle, he is shocked by the Eloi’s somnambulism, just as he was shocked earlier that day when the Eloi stood by and watched as one their own was drowning.

Wells’s story of the Eloi is analogous to those who, at the end of the nineteenth century, did not question the conditions of the capitalist mode and, just as somnambulistically, trudged off to work in the mines. Now, I am not saying that these spectators are on par with the Eloi, but their number did have bearing on what happened, just as a reader has a hand in the production of a text. That this ostensibly benign crowd is not explored further as co-author of our latest riot shows how little those who comment on such things care about our world.

Thirty-six hours after Vancouver’s latest hockey riot and the question on my mind is, Why is the public discussion of what happened the other night so limited?

Last night’s “fan” riot was notable not only for the havoc caused but for the reportage on it. Like the 1972 Olympic hostage taking, where sports reporters and their hard news colleagues reported together, CKNW’s “Sportstalk” was in a similar position. However, rather than come up with something extraordinary, we were treated to their mutual disgust, with phrases like “I don’t get this” ringing out every fifteen seconds. Seems any attempt to explain what was going on was withheld for fear of appearing sympathetic. As for critique, all were hostile towards a local government who had created “live site” watching stations, like those of the 2010 Olympics. Are these not the same sports and hard news journalists who had complained endlessly about Vancouver being a “no fun” city? The difference between this fan riot and the one in 1994, something the police did not anticipate: texting.

Tonight’s seventh and deciding game of the National Hockey League’s Stanley Cup Final will begin between the two biggest spikes in weekly Facebook activity -- 5pm (PDT)/8pm (EDT). As a Vancouverite I will be aware of the game whether I am watching it or not (every time the Canucks score the guy across the street opens his door and screams, “Fuck yah!”). Have I been watching? Only intermittently. Will I be watching tonight? No.

I am not sure at what point I lost interest in this series, but it might have occurred during Game Two when the camera cut away to the upper boxes, where team owners and management sit.

Despite his support of progressive lefties Hilary Clinton, John Edwards, Joe Lieberman and John Kerry, Boston Bruin’s owner Jeremy Jacobs has given a great deal of money to George W. Bush, and that is enough for me. As for Vancouver’s ownership group, the Aquilinis, this is a family who made their dough as slumlords. But that was dad. To their credit, the sons formed the promising Aquilini Renewable Energy – but to their discredit, their diversion of water from the North Alouette River to feed a Pitt Meadows cranberry farm resulted in the deaths of thousands of fish, something they refuse to take responsibility for.

And then there is management. Although Boston’s GM is Peter Chiarelli, it is Boston VP and former Vancouver draft pick Cam Neely who the CBC most often cut to. Neely, who was born in Maple Ridge, BC, remains bitter about his treatment as a Canuck (he was traded to Boston) and, from the look on his face, gives me every indication that a Boston loss would have a far greater impact on his mental health than a Boston win, and that makes me sad.

Vancouver’s GM is Mike Gillis, a former pro turned player agent. Every time I see Gillis his face is redder, puffier, and this also makes me sad, because here is a man who is heavier than he was at the beginning of the season and might well be on the verge of a heart attack or stroke.

So two owners with questionable political and economic investment and two management figures whose mental and physical states are crumbling. Should I care? Are the players not going through something similar – playing for pooled money and risking life and limb? Isn’t that what it’s all about? The thrill of victory -- and the agony of defeat?

My problems with the NHL are endless. For a while I enjoyed these problems, but now they bore me. The season is too long, the rink is too small, the League is out of touch and inconsistent with its rulings and incessant rule changes. One thing I continue to enjoy, though, is the fans.

So instead of watching tonight's game I am going to sit on the west facing hill of Clark Park and listen to the houses around me. I will know when Vancouver scores, and if the groans are loud enough, when Boston does the same. Whoever wins, whatever. The series, from what I have seen, is not one of the greater ones I have watched over the years; neither team has captured my imagination. But the fans, wow. I believe in their belief.

Go, fans, go!

A recent study by the social media management company Virtue has shown that the biggest spikes in Facebook channels maintained by companies and brands occur at 11am, 3pm and 8pm (ET) on weekdays, with the biggest of the three at 3pm (Wednesdays are the busiest days, Sundays the quietest).

Readers of Jean-Paul Sartre might recall what the French writer said of 3pm, how it is the "worst time of day" because it is "too late to start something, too soon to finish."

A few minutes at Paula Cooper Gallery with Christian Marclay's The Clock:

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Also from JAA #6, some examples of Jenny Holzer's Survival Series:

WHEN YOU EXPECT FAIR PLAY YOU CREATE AN INFECTIOUS BUBBLE OF MADNESS AROUND YOU

YOU ARE SO COMPLEX YOU DON'T ALWAYS RESOND TO DANGER

THINGS ARE SO URGENT NOW THAT SUICIDE IS ALMOST OBSOLETE

WITH ALL THE HOLES IN YOU ALREADY THERE'S NO REASON TO DEFINE THE OUTSIDE ENVIRONMENT AS ALIEN

SOME MEN THINK WOMEN ARE EXPENDABLE THEY FUCK THEM KILL THEM AND THROW THEM AWAY LIKE CANDY WRAPPERS

While looking through my shelves for an epigram I came upon a copy of JAA #6 (1983), edited by Barbara Ess and Glenn Branca. Great issue, with texts by Kathy Acker ("My Death"), Eric Bogosian ("Notes for a Play" [The New World]), Jack Goldstein (no title), Dan Graham ("Rock My Religion"), Jenny Holzer ("Survival Series"), Cookie Mueller ("Route 95 South 1969"), Richard Prince ("Erotic Politicians"), Lee Ranaldo ("God is a Man Standing Still"), and more. Forgot I had this. Or maybe someone snuck it in there.

Here are the second and fourth of Goldstein's pensees:

Light is the gesture of progress; a far-off view of a city at night gives a reading of the pulse of man.

An explosion is beauty before its consequence.

Here is a lesson from one of the editors:

Two versions of the Screen Gems logo theme, composed by Lalo Schifrin. The first, at 7 seconds, is from 1965; the second, at a more economical 6 seconds (with missing notes and crickets added), from 1970.

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Among the books I picked up at the now-defunct Ardea Books & Art last April was Cold Sleep Permanent Afternoon by Ray Hsu (Nightwood, 2010), a book of poems divided into two sections ("Plural" and "Singular"), whose titles ("CHORUS," "CITIZEN," "NARRATOR," [OFFSTAGE], "[ONSTAGE]," etc.) suggest a theatrical play.

I have been poking at this book on and off for the past week and am enjoying the passage from scrap to archive; the book's argument over an ordered self versus one resistant to it.

In advance of the book's division, a numbered piece (1-13) called "Ninety-Six Scraps, or,"

Here are numbers "3" and "9":

3. Problem is all this feels outdated. One great big relic. Some we we can't do without. All I see in these material surfaces are anonymous friends. Don't we have data bases for this now? Grids?

9. [Holds poem to the light.] I wrote this one years ago. Literary form. But it got tired. Whatever tied us to the world was the point. Whatever outlined that was a poem.

A poem by Hollywood, California-born poet Jack Spicer (1925-1965).

THING LANGUAGE

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.

A couple days ago I received my contributor’s copies of the Capilano Review’s “George Stanley Issue.” Although I missed the launch, I heard that the length of the evening was in direct proportion to the turn out. Seems George has a lot of fans.

After reading my contribution, I began flipping through the issue to see what others had to say on George. The words “Jack Spicer” showed up a lot, as did “Robin Blaser” and “Robert Duncan,” which should come as no surprise, given that these poets are the Holy Trinity of the late-1950s non-Beat San Francisco poetry scene, of which George was an end-stage member.

A piece that stood out was entitled “’What Marks the Changes?’”: George Stanley at The End/The Beginning” by Reg Johanson, a poet/professor who read a gripping suite of poems at the Heavy Industries launch at Spartacus Books a couple weeks back.

Reg’s essay talks about George’s last three books as a chronicle of a world – and the world within us -- increasingly determined by market forces, aided and abetted by neoliberalism. With this (proposition) in mind, I came upon a curious citation of George’s poetry that included a number of Reg’s square parentheses (I assume they are Reg’s), devices we use to make grammatical sense of what we are citing.

The citation looked like this:

“[The newspapers tell us] / how stupid [we] are not to understand / [our] true nature. ‘Born to compete, boys.’ /(‘Born to lose’ [we say]), ‘It’s not just / the bondholders have you by the shorthairs, / it’s your attitude’” (“Abner” At Andy’s 9).

If proper grammar is in the service of the same ideological forces that are reshaping us, has Reg not done to George’s poem what he praises George for revealing, despite the inclusive “we”?

A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

Someone is moving in next door. Up and down, up and down. A man's grunts.

I am keeping a tally beside me. Sixteen trips so far.

All is quiet. I imagine him sitting on a box, not talking on his phone.