This is the week where I will try to return to the habit of writing in my blog everyday. It's a challenge that I need.
It's hard to call my job, a "challenge" as it's pretty much a joke. Most of the work is done and can be done even better by automated systems, but real live security guards are better for insurance rates and probably cheaper than more computers. Still, there was a time when I fully believed in the full force and neurotic majesty of the acronym soup that the DSM dished up for me, that I could never do anything remotely like hold down a job. So maybe its not peanuts. There is something strengthening of managing a phonecall from some irate building tenant who tried to run the garage gate and got trapped, sorting radio transmissions from the guards at the other two buildings in the "pod" controlled by the central building I work in, dealing out passcards and keys like a blackjack dealer to contractors and vendors, and logging everything but my bowel movements on the computerized logs. The capability to manage under pressure that before would have made me pop like a one-penny fuse in a quarter socket. Mind you, I don't plan to run off and become an airport traffic controller.
Meanwhile... I was reading one of Seattle's alternative weeklies (the better one in fact,) The Stranger and inside was a full-page add saying that the word from "The Messenger" had come to town, and here was this hint at the mighty wisdom if you wanted to learn more. It was this treatise that was that pure American invention of the bastard stepchild of Theosophy and New Age apocalyptic millienialist conspiracy theory. Instead of Satan, it is "The Fear" that will bring about the end of the world as we know it, when the Father of the Fear, George "Poppy" Bush Sr, sacrifices his Shrub to get himself made Dictator of Everything. There will be seven years of the stuff of Revelations, which will end in 2012, which is the marking of the death of time in the Mayan calendar. But, "The Messenger" brings word that we can renew if we overcome "The Fear." Oh and show up at some place in Seattle, which will be.. oh, and I must quote this... "at the Tribal Gathering Place that will soon become the magical chocolate factory at the center of the universe." Hoo boy. And the scary bit? The Willy Wonka of Post-Samsara wondrousness will be appearing on one of my nights off, and I know I gotta hear him or her speak. It's like a chance to see Fringapalooza. Moreso, how can this mysterious stranger afford a slick full page advertisement?
I have little to worry about. If I do succumb to the amazing power of "The Messenger" and join a cult, I have long pre-arranged agreements with certain friends that they will put a bullet into my head or least deprogram me with long hours of cable and the works of Stephen Jay Gould.
Sometimes I think it isn't the end of the world coming, it's the end of ideas. This is the End Times of Pastiche Made Reality.
It's hard to call my job, a "challenge" as it's pretty much a joke. Most of the work is done and can be done even better by automated systems, but real live security guards are better for insurance rates and probably cheaper than more computers. Still, there was a time when I fully believed in the full force and neurotic majesty of the acronym soup that the DSM dished up for me, that I could never do anything remotely like hold down a job. So maybe its not peanuts. There is something strengthening of managing a phonecall from some irate building tenant who tried to run the garage gate and got trapped, sorting radio transmissions from the guards at the other two buildings in the "pod" controlled by the central building I work in, dealing out passcards and keys like a blackjack dealer to contractors and vendors, and logging everything but my bowel movements on the computerized logs. The capability to manage under pressure that before would have made me pop like a one-penny fuse in a quarter socket. Mind you, I don't plan to run off and become an airport traffic controller.
Meanwhile... I was reading one of Seattle's alternative weeklies (the better one in fact,) The Stranger and inside was a full-page add saying that the word from "The Messenger" had come to town, and here was this hint at the mighty wisdom if you wanted to learn more. It was this treatise that was that pure American invention of the bastard stepchild of Theosophy and New Age apocalyptic millienialist conspiracy theory. Instead of Satan, it is "The Fear" that will bring about the end of the world as we know it, when the Father of the Fear, George "Poppy" Bush Sr, sacrifices his Shrub to get himself made Dictator of Everything. There will be seven years of the stuff of Revelations, which will end in 2012, which is the marking of the death of time in the Mayan calendar. But, "The Messenger" brings word that we can renew if we overcome "The Fear." Oh and show up at some place in Seattle, which will be.. oh, and I must quote this... "at the Tribal Gathering Place that will soon become the magical chocolate factory at the center of the universe." Hoo boy. And the scary bit? The Willy Wonka of Post-Samsara wondrousness will be appearing on one of my nights off, and I know I gotta hear him or her speak. It's like a chance to see Fringapalooza. Moreso, how can this mysterious stranger afford a slick full page advertisement?
I have little to worry about. If I do succumb to the amazing power of "The Messenger" and join a cult, I have long pre-arranged agreements with certain friends that they will put a bullet into my head or least deprogram me with long hours of cable and the works of Stephen Jay Gould.
Sometimes I think it isn't the end of the world coming, it's the end of ideas. This is the End Times of Pastiche Made Reality.
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