White skies all day, no patch of blue on this first Thursday in April 2025. Things are happening all over. Too many things perhaps. Most of them are stressful, and instead of stressing myself out, I’ll try to post about something else. But what?

When gathering steps, I sometimes think of things to write about, and by things, I occasionally mean people in the past. Today, Isaac Roberto popped into my head. I have an uneasy relationship with Isaac Roberto. We first met 23 years ago when I worked for Wanker Banker, formerly known as Putnam Lovell NBF.

I received a job alert from a small staffing firm and followed through. I met Isaac Roberto one rainy Wednesday afternoon. I was a bit damp. Isaac Roberto asked where I saw myself in five years, and I am fairly sure that was the first time that question crossed my path. I mentioned that I hoped to be writing for the New Yorker, which was something Isaac Roberto didn’t expect.

The interview went well and before going fully on board, Issac Roberto sent me a test. I’m pretty sure it was a power move on his part, so small in stature he was. For some godforsaken reason the test had arithmetic on it, which I did OK on, but also included some problems involving fractions. My friend Jane called when I was panicking, and since she knew fractions quite well, I read the questions to her on the phone, and she answered correctly, and I got the job.

Isaac Roberto and I got along OK then. I worked with a young woman, Janelle, who was an actress, singer and was constantly at odds with Isaac Roberto, who called her ‘Miss’ all the time, which she hated. Janelle and I sat down the hall from Isaac Roberto’s orifice, and from a hundred feet away we could see him pick his nose throughout the day.

Isaac Roberto truly wanted to be the doyenne of Human Resources but was constantly thwarted by Maggie Alexandre, who held the title from her perch in San Francisco. Maggie was an attendee from the human be-in in San Francisco way back in the Jurassic era summer of love of 1967, now fully embracing the joy of capitalism.

Isaac Roberto eventually saw the mucous writing on the wall, and left the Wanker Bankers. I have posted about Bobby Rissotto, aka Isaac Roberto in an interesting story in 2008. Isaac Roberto and his fiancée, Greg Wear, attended a party we had at Maxwell’s in 2010, and 3 years later got me a temp position for the Algerian Management Junket, where he was working.

It was a two-month gig that laid the groundwork for a full-time position in 2014. I did interview for the Algerian Management Junket with Lew Ollittu once before when working at the cigar shack that went nowhere. This was a different Isaac Roberto in 2014. Whatever niceness Isaac Roberto might have had in 2004, ten years later was completely gone.

Isaac Roberto was abused daily by his supervisor Al Helibes and since shit rolls downhill, Isaac Roberto would take his frustration out on me. I would set up the storage area in a certain way and then go to lunch, only to find everything I had done was thrown off the shelves and in a pile in the middle of the floor.

Isaac Roberto had had enough after a few years of that, and soon announced he was leaving the Junket. There was a going-away dinner for him, and I steadfastly refused to go. Isaac Roberto pleaded with me to attend his dinner, and I explained that he had been so monstrous to me, why would I go celebrate him?

Isaac Roberto had no answer, and I did not attend though my image was photoshopped in the group photo of the admin staff of the Algerian Management Junket.

Isaac Roberto had an assistant who lived in Hoboken, Samantha Winter, who was a nice, yet deeply closeted woman. That was how I kept tabs on what Isaac Roberto was up to. Isaac Roberto wound up working for Trinity Church but it didn’t last long since the Holy Water vessels kept boiling over whenever Isaac Roberto was in the area.

I heard from Samantha that Isaac Roberto was released from Trinity Church, and I couldn’t hide a smirk on my face, which caught Samantha unawares. I’m sure she told Isaac Roberto my reaction. Isaac Roberto last spoke when discussing Samantha’s passing in 2020.

Isaac Roberto still has an online presence, sort of like digital cholera. I am sure Isaac Roberto has a copy of The Art of the Deal on his bookshelf; he was in such adoration for L’Orange Merde.

Blackout

It’s a Wednesday. Bill is on the road, Mike is on the sidewalk, and I am in front of my desktop computer. Things are happening, and I am reluctant to write about them. This superstitious atheist doesn’t want to tempt fate. It’s good and it’s nerve wracking.

I’ve been out and about today, but not like yesterday. Yesterday I trod all over Hoboken gathering my steps. Bill was home, which was a good reason to go home. He was in a state of haste, trying to find paperwork, which he did.

Today was the same for me. As soon as I got up, after making the bed, I too set about looking for papers which I could not find. It was from an online request that I could not ignore. The papers went unfound. I hang onto so much crap and the important stuff was not to be seen. A lot of dust kicked up.

I barely had enough coffee, I was driven by a focus that only surfaces every couple of years. Credit card offers, and a lot of birthday and holiday cards. I kept some of the cards and threw out others.

Last night when Mike was over, we watched Luke Cage. I watched it when it was first streaming about 7 years ago and forgot a lot. It’s a lot more edgy than I was willing to watch. I was trying to steer the viewing towards lighthearted fare, but figured it would be best to indulge Mike’s request as Bill was doing his prep work for today’s function and going from room to room.

I sat and smoked a cigar, occasionally going to the kitchen to take a hit off a bowl. Mike can’t be around that sort of thing, and I respect his wishes and try not to be obtrusive. With each hit, I spray some room deodoriser. He hasn’t said anything and I hope he doesn’t. Some lines can’t be crossed.

So, he’s on his way here and I just took a hit, lighter in one hand, bowl in the other and room deodoriser at the ready. And another hit on this chilly April 2. Sex & the City is on in the background, just for noise. Nothing about the country on fire and being flushed down the toilet. About that, it seems the Muskovite mosquito poured millions into a judicial election in Wisconsin and failed spectacularly.

That was a modicum of hope. My Senator, Corey Booker, filibustered for over 24 hours yesterday, and Bill and I tuned in intermittently. It was an honorable effort, but I couldn’t tell you what it all meant except for a 24-hour protest about the administration of L’Orange Merde. It’s getting worse and worse each day.

I think it is the Russian Puta’s wishes, destroy whatever trust the people might have in the nation. The junkie from Hyannis POrt is doing his best as well to destroy whatever healthcare we have in this country.

A measles outbreak is occurring, bird flu is out there and the junkie thinks now would be the time to fire the CDC as well as Health & Human services. People, it’s bad.