Seven 9s and 10s

Showing 130 posts tagged work

High-res GPOYW

Technical glitches all over the goddamn place at tonight’s Board of Education meeting. So frustrating. It’s all shit I’ve been trying to get fixed and/or replaced for years but, like so many things in public ed, it gets pushed aside and so I’ve had to apply cheap, untested, and fragile band-aids just to sustain the illusion that everything is A-OK.

GPOYW

Technical glitches all over the goddamn place at tonight’s Board of Education meeting. So frustrating. It’s all shit I’ve been trying to get fixed and/or replaced for years but, like so many things in public ed, it gets pushed aside and so I’ve had to apply cheap, untested, and fragile band-aids just to sustain the illusion that everything is A-OK.

Did you ever watch golf on TV? It’s like watching flies fuck.

-George Carlin

Watching the PGA Championship live from Oak Hill (5 minutes from home) is bringing back a flood of memories from my 11 years working at a local golf course. There were a lot of shitty days, and many more shitty people, but overall it was a pretty great job.

What I miss the most are the evenings - the hours after I’d closed the tee and locked the Pro Shop and had time to kill while waiting for the last golfers to finish their rounds. I’d hop on a cart and just drive around the course keeping tabs on people and making sure no one was goofing off. Some days I’d grab my clubs and play a few holes or practice my chipping and putting. It was almost always peaceful and quiet, particularly on damp summer days like today (and the entire month of October). There were plenty of high stress moments through the years, and at the time they outweighed the good moments, but in hindsight I don’t think I’ll ever have another job as good as that one. I got paid like shit, sometimes treated like shit, and I was working 50+ hours a week, but it was a golf course and I had the run of the place for the last few years. I certainly wouldn’t mind getting paid to play a few quiet holes these days.

Superpower

Heather:
I was outside laying in the grass.

Heather:
Anyway, I'm not feeling this place today whatsoever. I'm trying not to be cranky about it but.

Heather:
I couldn't just lay there without overhearing a terribly idiotic conversation happening behind me.

Heather:
Once they said this gem I got up and came inside: "College is so much harder than the real world because you're going out and getting drunk with so many people and that just complicates everything"

Me:
It's times like that when I wish I had a superpower with which I could summon a giant butt that would descend from the sky, fart loudly, and deposit a fantastically enormous and stinky turd right on top of them.

Hypochondriac’s Of The World: Unite!

I walked into the K-2 computer lab, ready to service one of the desktops.

Roughly twenty 1st graders sat clicking away - their darling young faces illuminated by bright LCD screens; their heads gently cradled by giant plastic headphones - as Reading Blaster assaulted their senses.

In the back of the room sat the teacher and her assistant - the latter wearing large sunglasses despite the fact that it’s currently February 13th in Rochester, NY and we haven’t seen the sun in approximately 5 months.

"Oh good, are you here for my desktop?"

"I am! Which one is it?"

"It’s #20, on the end of the row there."

That’s when I first hear the sound. It echoed forth from the back row like a shotgun blast in an empty cave. I held my breath, made my way down the row, and took my seat at the computer. A few seconds passed before another shot rang out, this time closer. Too close, in fact. Right behind me.

"You’re going to want to get out of here as soon as you can! This whole building is sick!”

As I turn to acknowledge the teacher’s warning, I’m assaulted by a third explosion. The attack had officially begun. I looked directly behind me and saw an adorable little girl wiping her nose onto the pink sleeve of her Dora sweatshirt. Before I could turn back towards my computer, another shot was heard from across the lab. Then another, from the same area, but definitely a different weapon. Within moments, the lab was filled with a deafening chorus of filth.

"She’s got pink eye!"

She. With the sunglasses. Of course.

Quickly, I repaired the computer and stood to make my escape. The air in the lab had become thick with invisible bacteria and viruses - unseeable by the eye, yet unavoidable by the immune system - like the countless billions of galaxies that mankind has yet to discover across the vast, cold, and dark expanse of the universe.

My eyes plotted the quickest path to the exit before my brain remembered that I had just been touching keyboards and mice that live in the warzone - each of them hundreds of times more infectious than any of the 3-month old magazines that rest on the table at your doctor’s office. Without breaking stride, my brain took command and rerouted me to the nearest Purell dispenser. Calmly walking past it, I silently pumped three squirts into each palm, exited the lab, and began my defense.

David Bazan Band - Live on KEXP

Hi, internet. I kind of a had a miserable day.

The morning sucked for a variety of reasons. Just a bunch of general emotional weight on my shoulders.

The afternoon was spent in a high school auditorium full of crying students and staff as I supported a video stream of the funeral of a student who recently lost his battle with cancer. So that was… not fun.

Then I came straight home and received a phone call from my dad (who is on his yearly migration to Florida, until March) and he wanted to know how I was feeling and we talked about the hockey season that is about to begin and then I hung up and burst into tears because goddamn, even though he is 76 and strong like bull… he’s 76. I kind of hate that he spends over two months of every year away from home, but I very much hate that I don’t spend enough time with him when he IS home, and that’s entirely my own fault. I’m just a tiny bit afraid of dying, but I’m very afraid of losing the people I love.

Then I watched this Bazan video and cried some more because those songs mean way too much to me and speak to me far too deeply for a narrative that is purely fictional. Also, I can’t help but feel bubbles of depression rise up through me when I see musicians making a living from doing what the love - what I love. Where did I go wrong that I didn’t end up there too? Yeah, “it’s never too late” blah blah blah, right; I know. I get it. Shit. I think I’d be happy doing pretty much any job that went into the making of that video - from being the musician or recording the audio/video or asking the questions.

Now it’s only 7:21pm on Thursday and I’m not tired enough to sleep but I certainly don’t feel like being awake. I’ll just do what I always do and pick up my guitar and see what happens. Lately, more often than not, it’s not much.