Why we fight.

11.1.2k9

Alluded to in a past Venue Announcement was my little family's trip to the Pacific Northwest this past summer. Oh but some fun did we have, driving here, parking there, sleeping, eating, cooking, etc. We had a few mini-trips, a couple birthdays, requisite trips to hotdog stands and searches for fringe and baby beers. God but our dance cards were full.

But somehow amid the whirlwind I was able to attend and matriculate from a fake medical school that exists only in my head. I did it so I could prescribe myself fake Zoloft™ and I needed fake Zoloft™ so I could deal with the increasing dysfunction at the place I work. Suffice it to say that nothing worked quite right and very few things worked at all. Sure, there are great people that I work with, and I'm impressed by and proud of each one of the people in my department. But some other folks don't really cut it. Some of the technology is constantly fucked. The management, let's just say, moves in mysterious ways. A guy needed a fake mood-altering drug to wad it all up and chuck it over his shoulder, bear down and meet his professional responsibilities.

The goddang fake Zoloft™ worked great! Things that would whip me into a frenzy didn't anymore. "Fuck it," became my refrain. It was liberating. It was so effective that I took it for other things: The misery of the Cubs' 2009 season. The constant bad news about the wars and the economy. And even, gasp, my tendency to be a spelling/grammar and punctuation nazi. I still reel when a grown adult misuses they're, their & there, but ... "Fuck it." I choke when people assign an apostrophe to pluralize a word. "Fuck it." Moot. Mute. Fuck. It.

But I have to draw the line. I watch a lot of cooking shows and I've seen pro chef after pro chef say restauranteur. I don't give a shit if some people think it's all right to say it, but it's not a word. Fuck you. The word is restaurateur.

Tonight - Orbit Room.

Moss? Will ya come out?

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!