strange van parked in front of your house
That's the title of a spam email I just received. I like it. I mean, if there is a strange van outside my house, I want to know about it, and I want to get the whole story. What makes the van strange? It seems awfully judgemental. Maybe it's just a friendly man's van. Or maybe he's gonna kill me. I need to open this email.
Thursday came along and roughed me up a little bit just as I knew it would. I would say it was comparable to a typical Pork Chop Tuesday* in terms of stress intensity. In the end, though, I survived and Thursday died as scheduled at midnight. I win. No day has whipped me yet. Right now the record reads: Hans 14,443 wins, Calendar 0 wins. My dad finished with a lifetime record of 29,684 and 1. That calendar starts getting mighty ornery once you rack up about 25,000 straight wins against it.
I think Nikki Sixx is like 15,212 and 4.
Anyway, as the day was delivering blow after solid blow to my midsection, with the promise of more tomorrow and next week and at least five days a week for the foreseeable future, I had a little mini-midlife career crisis. I say mini because there was no time for a full crisis, plus in this economy we all need to be legitimately grateful for steady employment. But man, JOB HARD. JOB GENERALLY UNREWARDING. JOB ON OTHER MAN'S TERMS. JOB NOTHING LIKE THIS:
How do I get there? The place where a stray note floats by and disappears into the air in an instant. Where sloppiness is endearing. Where you don't even own an alarm clock; you wake up when your head hurts too much to keep sleeping. Where you release every ounce of your feelings into a creative endeavor you believe in with all your heart. Where brown M & M's don't exist. Where people applaud when you are done.
Damn you, talent gods.
* Pork Chop Tuesday was easily the worst day in our two week menu cycle on the Trayline. It was every other Tuesday and on that day the entree station served pork chops and my starch station had like four kinds of potatoes (regular, fat free, salt free, salt free fat free) and an equal number of stuffings. In addition, each type of potato and stuffing had three gravy options. It was twice as much pressure as any other day, and I dreaded it with all my soul. I wonder how many patients died from getting the wrong kind of mashed potatoes.
Thursday came along and roughed me up a little bit just as I knew it would. I would say it was comparable to a typical Pork Chop Tuesday* in terms of stress intensity. In the end, though, I survived and Thursday died as scheduled at midnight. I win. No day has whipped me yet. Right now the record reads: Hans 14,443 wins, Calendar 0 wins. My dad finished with a lifetime record of 29,684 and 1. That calendar starts getting mighty ornery once you rack up about 25,000 straight wins against it.
I think Nikki Sixx is like 15,212 and 4.
Anyway, as the day was delivering blow after solid blow to my midsection, with the promise of more tomorrow and next week and at least five days a week for the foreseeable future, I had a little mini-midlife career crisis. I say mini because there was no time for a full crisis, plus in this economy we all need to be legitimately grateful for steady employment. But man, JOB HARD. JOB GENERALLY UNREWARDING. JOB ON OTHER MAN'S TERMS. JOB NOTHING LIKE THIS:
How do I get there? The place where a stray note floats by and disappears into the air in an instant. Where sloppiness is endearing. Where you don't even own an alarm clock; you wake up when your head hurts too much to keep sleeping. Where you release every ounce of your feelings into a creative endeavor you believe in with all your heart. Where brown M & M's don't exist. Where people applaud when you are done.
Damn you, talent gods.
* Pork Chop Tuesday was easily the worst day in our two week menu cycle on the Trayline. It was every other Tuesday and on that day the entree station served pork chops and my starch station had like four kinds of potatoes (regular, fat free, salt free, salt free fat free) and an equal number of stuffings. In addition, each type of potato and stuffing had three gravy options. It was twice as much pressure as any other day, and I dreaded it with all my soul. I wonder how many patients died from getting the wrong kind of mashed potatoes.
Labels: pork chop tuesday, trayline, tubesday, vans
posted by hans q. bungle at 01:09
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