THE JO-TEL …believes some of what Nathaniel and John say, but believes England is still our sovreign

A few weeks ago, I extemporized a post on how vacation is hard work. It’s as true now as it was when I wrote it, lo those many moons ago.

But it turns out - and you’re gonna laugh when you hear this - work is also hard work. To use a skiing analogy [which is appropriate, I think, given that I’ve never skied in my life], vacation is like a high-end blue square: it’s difficult at times, but in general it’s not that hard and only offers the occasional excitement; sort of like Hip E’s sex life. Work, on the other hand, is a Double Black Diamond: it’s really demanding, there are hazards and obstacles on the trail that you have to watch out for, and you really ought not to be out there doing it when you’re wasted.

I commute 63 miles a day to work - each way. That’s right: I drive 126 miles a day to and from work. I only have to do it for the first month or so while I’m getting a feel for the company, my coworkers, and the clients, and then after that it’ll be more like 2 or sometimes 3 times a week, eventually ending up at just once a week for meetings. But still: 126 miles, door to door to door. Shit’s nuts. It’s a damn good thing I’m buying a Prius soon; it’s bad enough that I have to pay $5 a day to cross the Golden Gate bridge, but I could go broke at $3.39 a gallon for the cheap gas.

Wait, hold on… I’m gonna interrupt myself right now for a hot second. I’m listening to “Miles’ Mode” right now, from disc 4 of Coltrane’s The Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings, and this shit is blowing my mind. Everyone always talks about “‘Naima’ this, ‘Naima’ that; ‘A Love Supreme’ this, ‘A Love Supreme’ that.” Y’know what? Fuck those people; they’re retarded. They could play the lead in a late-80s dramedy. [FN1] They wouldn’t know mind-blowing Coltrane if a drunk blogger pointed it out to them and then Coltrane’s ghost came back and yelled at them in some heroin-withdrawal-fueled rage about how retarded they are.

OK, wait… where the fuck was I? Oh yeah: work is hard as hell.

And the hours: wow. I forgot how when you work you actually have to, like… not be at home, and stuff. I work from 9:30-6:30, but I leave my house at 8 or 8:15 to get there in time, and I always stay late [there’s a lot of work to be done; we just added four new clients on top of the almost 20 they had already before I came onboard], so I usually get home between 9 and 10. So pretty much I’m gone anywhere from 12-14 hours a day, and I have little to no time for a social life during the week. Good thing I’m not cool enough to have a social life in the first place [FN2].

I touched on the whole gas buying thing, but honestly: whose idea was it to make cars run on gasoline? Worst. Idea. Ever. That motherfucker deserves a good, swift beat down. I hope he’s happy, whoever he is, because he gets the Deserves to Be Beaten To Death With That Windshield Scrubber Thingamajig They Have At Gas Stations award. Dick.

Lastly: the 101. The 101 is lamer than the last three seasons of The Real World. Put together. Between here and Windsor [the town our office is in], there are three major construction projects being done on the 101. Three. That’s not that bad I suppose, in theory. But when you take into account the fact that all three suffer from Narrow Lane Syndrome and are being done on sections that either bend at 60-75 degrees or are back-and-forth slaloms, it’s a fucking nightmare. Inevitably there’s that Really Old Couple, or the I’ve Never Driven Through A Construction Area Before guy, or as often as not the Huge Pickup Truck Driver Who Thinks His Ford F250 Super Duty Makes Him More Of A Patriot Because These Colors Don’t Run! And This Truck’s Made In Amerrrrrrca But Actually It Guzzles So Much Gas That I’m Pretty Much Funding Saudi-Born Terrorists Single-Handedly guy [HPTDWTHFFSDMHMOAPBTCDR!ATTMIABAIGSMGTIPMFSBTSH], and in the end everybody has to slam on their brakes. I hate it when I’m going 70 or 80 - not that I would ever drive that fast; speeding is illegal - and instead of gently breaking to 45 or 50 I have to stomp on the brakes because HPTDWTHFFSDMHMOAPBTCDR!ATTMIABAIGSMGTIPMFSBTSH didn’t realize earlier that his 7-foot-wide terrorist-ATM doesn’t quite corner like a Ferrari. Hey thanks, man… I really needed that coffee to slosh out onto the floor of the car. Here, to show you how much I appreciate that, let me give you this windshield scrubber thingamajig….

-Thrill

FN1: Too soon?
FN2: Just kidding; I’m totally awesome.