A certain number of years ago, wedged between el Día de los Muertos and Guy Fawkes Day, I came into this world. I had to wait a bit — my father refused to take my mother to the hospital until he'd finished watching Dr. Strangelove. (Coincidentally, a couple of weeks before that, she'd gone into false labor while they were watching Fail-Safe.)

It was a good day. I got a pair of audio monitors from my lovely wife (so now I can finish mixing the new Calais Consort CD with much better results), and I landed a well-paying job too. We celebrated by trying what is apparently the only French restaurant in Tallahassee, Chez Pierre. Which happens to be the name of Springfield's French restaurant on The Simpsons, so we got a kick out of that. Speaking of French, I loved this cartoon, gakked from redredshoes.

So I put in my notice at my temp job, where ironically they had just gotten around to finally giving me a set of logins for the various computer systems. At twelve days, it is officially the shortest time I've ever held a job (with the longest being my previous one, at just over twelve years). It was also the shortest notice I've ever given, as my new employer needs me to start tomorrow so I can learn the job before my co-worker gets married and goes on his honeymoon.

It's the beginning of November, and it's just starting to feel like early fall here. Nice.