You know that saying: Don't look a gift horse in the mouth? That's how I've treated my on-again, off-again, quasi-job, which involves, to my chagrin, a headset, Barbara Streisand tickets, and the need to leave one's dignity and grace in the elevator. Sure, I could easily complain about the place (no stimulation, incredibly monotonous, the vague smell of cheese in the ventilation), but they let me come and go as I please and that, at the very least, is a lauditory attribute. Without this place, I'd probably be outside your office with a broken banjo, overalls, and my best busking cup, singing songs like "Phillip the Bucket" and "That Cup Don't Fill Itself."
And, of course, it could always be worse. Elsewhere in my building, there's actually a company that sells cubicles. I talked with a fairly resigned young lady who worked there this morning and, well, I think there's something about selling cubicles while sitting in a cubicle that would make my brain explode.
Like I said: I've tried not to look this horse in the mouth. We're warned against doing this because, even if his teeth are yellowed, browned, or blackened and protude outwards: free horse. It's just that today, sitting here, taking advantage of the situation for two days of quick money before leaving Wednesday, I know deep down that it's probably it. The horse is dead. Times like these, I wish I was French. Then, at least, I'd have an interesting game plan for dinner.
My on-again, off-again, quasi-boss told me before we left for the desert that, sadly, he no longer had control of my fate here. The powers that be became the powers that no longer were and the new powers that be don't seem to look that kindly on someone who shows up when he pleases, makes his rent money, then vanishes for weeks at a time to spend his evenings in dingy pubs. Who could blame them, really? I'd fire me. Not without a sizable severence package, but I'd fire me.
So I'm treating today and tomorrow like they are the end. We're leaving for another national tour on Wednesday and until then (dates to the right), I'm going to squeeze a couple more nickels out of this place. When we get back, well, who knows? I've had about a thousand jobs and as long as I'm not selling cubicles from a cubicle, everything will be a-okay. Hell, once I carted killer whale semen across San Diego to ensure the health of the orca population at Sea World. You know that looks good on a resume.