My uncle, with whom I will be spending Thanksgiving and to whom I will be handing his own ass on the ping-pong court, has seen Jethro Tull at least 40 times. He told me this when I was in high school, sometime between turkey and pie, and I was duly impressed. At the time, I really enjoyed Jethro Tull: all that mincing and flute-ing and prog-style-befuddlement---it was the sort of thing that pushed my buttons back in the days of gym class, SAT-prep, and overall dorky squareness. And you know, I still do like "Aqualung" and the good parts of "Thick as a Brick" and that song called...something involving a duck that I can't quite remember and could easily look up online but for some reason, I've decided to ramble incessantly instead---Back to the point: I've probably seen Division Day 40 times myself. I kind of cheated since we've played with them around 30 different evenings, so it's not as amazing as my uncle paying to see the Tull each and every time, but come on, I'm only 25. And, as always, they were wonderful. The tambourine bruises on my hand don't lie. The moral? Division Day is Jethro Tull. Or, maybe not. I might be missing the point altogether.
Anyway, here I am, somehow still on my first week of work, hands and brain in relative agony, bored out of my mind, and it's barely 10 in the morning. Not a good sign. This week has felt like a month, which figures to be especially deflating when I get my paycheck and discover, no, wait, just five days. Looking forward to that. But tomorrow is the weekend and the weekends mean more when you're employed, right? They're basically the lollipop you get after being injected with eighty-five needles at the doctor's: a nice sentiment, just not quite nice enough.
But I'm not complaining. No way, no how. My job allows me blog time, poster-printing privileges, and time to waste pointless retooling a sadly outmatched fantasy basketball team. I've got it good. On the other hand, I was outside yesterday and saw one of those city employees who drives around in a glorified golf cart getting verbally murdered by a yuppie who returned from his lunch to find a $45 ticket on his Audi. And it dawned on me: that's the worst job ever. Seriously. The parking-enforcement guy? Nobody likes you. Your job is to enforce vague signage. It's to ruin people's day. It's so bad that your goal has to be avoiding the people you fine so as not to get accosted for, like most people, just doing your job. Plus: no get-away vehicle. I don't think a three-wheeled, go-cart tricycle can even get to twenty miles per hour. I'm pretty sure I could run it down and push it over and I'm not that fast and definitely not that strong. So, from now on, I'm going to respect the ticket-giving guy, if only because no one else does. Until he gives me a ticket, of course. Then: It's ON.