for the first day in six, the rains subsided. the sun and brilliant blue sky reappeared.
naturally, it was a workday.
un-kinking my back from another night on the dirty couch (cocooned and hermetically sealed in my sleeping bag), i was sipping my customary Cafe Bustelo, black, and huffing my first cigarette of the day, overlooking the pond at Yuppie Stepford.
the birds were all happy... like the cormorant that was diving for sushi, and the single blue heron that flapped in slow motion over my head. it kind of made me feel that way, too.
faintly, i noticed the thrum of more than one prop plane. this close to Dulles, that's not the usual sound effect. as the volume increased, it was pretty obvious that is was more than just two planes. i craned my neck, expecting to see troop transport like one of those humongous guppy-like C-130s.
but, no... in the gap between the townhouses, seven front-engine something-or-others appeared... suddenly gouting smoke, intermittently.
i thought, "SHIT! Nerve gas! Pussy Galore's Flying Circus! and i'm not anywhere near Fort Knox, nor close enough to see their form-fitting jumpsuits!" i may not be so young, but my imagination isn't lacking.
then, words appeared in the smoke. SKYWRITERS!
i'll bet i looked just like Ralphie in A Christmas Story: pink tongue stuck out, brow furrowed, slowly spelling out each and every letter into coherent words, surely of weighty import and significance.
"G-R-E-A-T... R-A-T-E-S... C-H-O-O-S-E...
G-E-I-C-O!?!?!?!?
i was no less disappointed than if they'd spelled out "DRINK MORE OVALTINE".
but, it was still unexpected...
...and i'm not really "Goldfinger", either.
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.
now, i don't love Hillary, and FOX is only good for racing, The Simpsons, and King Of The Hill, but i have to ask...
...so, um, excuse me? who are the "elitists" again?
considering the fact that i've been sitting at this monitor for several years, now, and no words have come out on this page (or any other blog-like substance)... i suppose it's ironic that now, here they come.
it's like the song, "You Never Miss Your Water 'Til Your Well Goes Dry".
this particular location, upholstered in dark green fabric (and encrusted inmemorabilia, personal and otherwise) is about to go dusty.
well, dusty-er, anyway.
oh, wait. i can think of a much crappier musical paraphrase: "Don't It Make My White Collar Blue".
the fact that i'm typing this online, yet, attests that traditional printing is gasping for its last gulps of air. since i got out of school, print media has kept me fed, sheltered, reasonably clothed, married and not, hopeful and despairing. movin' on up.
how interesting when the roller coaster slows to a stop.
two weeks ago, my supervisor, who punctuates her sentences with :o) told me via e-mail to drop by her office before work. all bubbly and sorority-esque, worded in ramshackle grammar, and totally opaque in intention.
when i saw the clueless HR guy sitting in there, the floor pitched sickeningly underfoot.. much like my empty stomach. obviously, this was not going to be good.
after they'd read the required company litany from clipboards, without eye contact, i'd learned that my position had been terminated. not just mine, but several others, as well. "For your remaining time here, poor work performance and disruption to your colleague's work flow will not be tolerated".
the well done gone dry.
as options, i could reapply for a job in "manufacturing" (meaning, back to locker rooms and concrete floors), or unemployment.
gutted, i returned to my veal-fatting pen, where my paycheck awaited on the desk... the company newsletter, too, that trumpeted my "Great Catch Award" for the month.
classic irony. also, the fact that though i managed to keep busy and focused, i leave behind, still employed, the guy who leaves his TV under his workstation to play Guitar Hero, and another who watches anime all night long, is... how do they say... poignant?
Jackass still in the White House. feudalism on the return. gas at four bucks. people losing their homes.
worst case scenario.
two weeks of the blackest outlook known to man.
but, faced with churning guts and overturning my house for anything of value to sell... if i have to choose going back to being barked at by fascists and jumping through hoops, or losing everything... i'll deal with it, for a while.
oblivion, the alternative, is unacceptable.
oh, look! like the threat of having to flex my muscles may have jogged the mental ones.
that's not ironic. that's a start.
