buzzkill

self-pity isn't the slightest bit becoming, so constant rehashing of my recent occupational downfall just isn't going to happen.

but, in the interest of alerting others to the slings-and-arrows of bullshit fortune, i posit this warning:

don't ever, ever trust a euphoric moment in your life. i don't mean "sublime". i mean "too good to be true".

beyond here, there be dragons.

just prior to shit-hitting-the-occupational-fan, i was, as the song said, "Grooving Out On LIfe"... but not to that UB40/Dennis Brown tune. strapped in to the first half-decent ride that i've owned since before i got married, i had the stereo at lofty volumes, gliding in traffic on an unusually sunny and clear day, the kind that are few and exceptional in Virginia in April.

the week before, i had the rare opportunity to DJ a rock broadcast at the radio station as part of our Spring fund drive. since i've been locked into my reggae show for so long, most people think that's all i know--or should know--so, i was all antsy to break the mold. if there is any "mold" in which college radio stations can be cast, that is.

but, i immersed myself in T. Rex for two months in anticipation. few born after 1980 would have a clue who that is, until "Jeepster" or "Bang A Gong (Get It On)" came on the radio. suffice to say, when the band first hit the airwaves, it was pretty much unlike anything else. crunchy, infectious, distorted guitars. nasal, spacy, inane vocals. short, to-the-point melodies, unlike the unending-jam-hippie-indulgences of its contemporaries. the stuff your parents despised.

i was all over it...

...and obviously never got over it, since it sounded fresh, inspiring, and just different enough as i set about re-immersing myself into it for the show.

there. a digression. the stuff for which i am famous.

add to my elation was a rare weekend spent with the woman of my desires.

i was in the ether.

it was there that the warning sign should have come into view.

when i walked into the office, it was like a dormant volcano popped its seams.
and my bubble.

well, time heals all wounds, relatively speaking.

well-earned survival skills provide a means of dealing with a bad situation. still, this whole scenario is very reminiscent of slasher films. take your clothes off, and you're going to get dispatched in a most unpleasant manner. or, the more you laugh, the more you will reap in tears.

just keep the eyes in the back of your head wide open if it seems too good to be true.

it probably isn't.