I offer my deepest apologies, gentle reader, for leaving you in a silent lurch the past few days. Some of my silence is due to an Internet-free studio, which leaves me with only office hours to browse the ‘Net. And that, as you can probably guess, is not what I’m paid to do. Actually, that’s a blatant lie–you see, I am paid to surf the web. Not only that, I’m paid to make pop-up ads appear. Now read that last sentence again and promise not to lynch me with piano wire.
At this point, I’d like to reminisce about things that never actually happened, and the reminiscing will be fresh and wholesome, I promise. When I was a wee lad, I looked up into the stars one night and wished I were a fireman. I squeezed my eyes together really, really tightly and whispered a whisper for the ages. A crock full of shit that accomplished, obviously. I also may have wished to set things ON fire, I’m not sure. It’s all so fuzzy now, you know. Like a hamster in a cat in a dryer full of fuzzy sweaters.
An afternoon or two ago, gentle reader, I turned to knowledgeable co-worker Dave and asked him about outdoor jobs. What jobs would allow me to run free on God’s green Earth, spreading sunshine and goodwill everywhere? He suggested a few viable options–I seem to recall occupations such as Park Ranger, Deer Hunter, and Swimming Pool Checker–and National Walking Champion sounded the most workable. National Walking Champeen! Me!
I reclaimed a fun slice of them college days, gentle reader, after spending a neat evening at Border’s with ex-Time Machiner Linda. Border’s, blessed be its capitalistically monolithic book-selling soul, ardently encourages reading and books. And so it was that Linda studied for the boards and I began reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s enjoyable magnum opus.
What was also enjoyable was the conversation itself, conversation as scattered as it was interesting: what’s good to read, the relative merits of Catholic school, the alma mater, Lucy Liu’s endlessly debatable beauty, our culture’s quasi-lesbian worship of actresses, The Learning Channel’s sadistic programming, odds and ends. The talk ebbed and flowed, pages turned, drink drained, and night arrived, bringing with it a return to the 9 to 5.