Enough About Me ...

I can remember a time walking over human feces to get to my desk at a job that paid me six dollars every hour for my work. I can remember days retrieving a parking ticket from underneath my windshield wiper on my eighties Toyota Tercel EZ that cancelled out my days earnings as I frantically drove across town to my next gig eating a day old bagel and some tap water. Meanwhile, my new hunky boyfriend told stories of moral events in go-carts, discounts at Barnes and Noble and REI and free soda for all employees. I dealt with people wanting free tickets to performances that cost nine dollars and teaching students that wore two hundred dollar tap shoes whining, "I think there's something wrong with my shoe; I can't seem to tap dance," while I wore my ten year old shoes I used in high school. He spoke of interesting problems that rarely involved funding issues and rides in his buddy's new Porsche. I love the performing arts, really I do, but there comes a time after twenty years in the biz when it's time to say, "fuck it, I'm getting in bed with the geeks." I love artists, but damn them for continuously reinventing the wheel when they hit topics of press releases, mailing lists, templates and grant deadlines. It was all laid out. All you needed to do was a simple "save as", stick it somewhere that would support an organizational memory, copy / paste, adjust the date and call it done. Too hard? I'm outta here. Other thoughts this evening involve men's drive to make up for lost time with parts barricaded from them as they spent two years or so in diapers. The nutrition bar market, dare I say craze, that boils down to a Snickers bar with a multivitamin strap on. Last thought, cuz everything comes in threes, I think we should simply size hats in pin, normal and pumpkin. That's all I got tonight.