Sunday, July 24, 2005


I have joined the work force.

I do not, as of yet, wear slacks two inches too short (see my father), and I don’t match tie/shirt combos that have absolute no aesthetic reason on earth to be in the same vicinity (see my father), but fortunately, I will have all my middle age years for that. For now it is enough to wake up at three thirty in the morning and make a sack lunch five days a week, commuting over the Los Angeles freeway system in my blue ’86 Honda hatchback with the kind of front headlights that flip up from the hood when you turn them on. When I was in seventh grade my “rich” uncle had a car with those kind of headlights and they stamped themselves on my mind as the classy thing to have, atleast temporarily. Somewhere along the growing up curve I guess they lost their glamorous appeal, going the way of so many of my childhood hobbies and interests. It’s funny the sorts of things you can be wild about as a kid and then lose interest in without even realizing your losing that interest. I guess not everything can have the same timeless apeal of velcro shoes.

Anyway, every evening I do the Southern California thing, and commute home in stop and go traffic.

I wish I could say I work sorting mail in a mail room or that I spend all day in a white cubicle entering data into a void empty computer network for some crazy big insurance company, or any number of other ridiculously tedious lay worker jobs out there. There’s somewhat of a demented sense of drama to the sort of inane suffering that comes with entrapment in a ridiculously boring life. And shoot, I already have the beater blue car for it, I wear $9.99 velcro shoes from Walmart, and I’m entering my 23rd year of dedication to virginity, which may very well be worthwhile, but it doesn’t bring a lot of sexy excitement to my general narrative. I’m not really the kind of person you will ever see on T.V. except maybe on one of those MTV shows—no, not “Crazy Hot Music Beach Jams—but the ones like “Road Rules” or any of those reality shows where they’re always looking for a conservative Christian to cast so that the other castees can make fun of him. Let’s face it, I’m the kind of guy who’s boring and people make fun of. If you insult me, I will almost never have a witty come back. So, the line of reason might follow, why not get the job to boot? However I could never quite convince myself that the quiet dramatic flare of that could ever be worth the aforementioned inane suffering, even inane suffering of the most boring sort. So I pursued other roads. And I have actually managed to secure the beginnings of a career that, with some suttle embelishing, could even give my life some interest to the general outside world, as long as I don’t let myself get too preachy at any point.

I work for the Los Angeles Police Department… as a cop… or, atleast I will once I get out of the police academy in several months. So, see, maybe I’ll get on T.V. after all, probably getting the snot kicked out of me by some two strike felon with “FUCK LAPD” tattoed on his knuckles. I only give this particular felon description because a friend of mine who worked in an area state prison was describing just such an inmate to me the other day who he had worked with, and with prison terms being cut short these days the image of just such an episode of LAPD: LIFE ON THE BEAT flashed through the back of my mind.

Oh well. It’s not like I’m using my pretty face to pick up on all sorts of hot chicks anyway. I might as well expend my good looks towards putting a felon back behind bars. And make no mistake. He may beat the snot out of me, and I may end up in the hospital, but not until after I put handcuffs on him and drive us both back to the station where he’ll be staying. Then the hospital can have me for whatever reconstructive surgeries that need to take place.


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