The Nature of a Good Compromise…

…is that both side are equally dissatisfied. 

There has long been a joke about Martin Luther King’s eponymous avenues/streets/boulevards, across this great land, often being epicenters of gang violence and other negative social activity. Having driven about the megalopolis that is Los Angeles, I can safely apply this rule to any street named after a famous person. Even Buddy Holly has some nasty swath of asphalt running underneath the 101 at Cohuanga.

 

Last minute deliveries set us in the van at 7 PM last night, just in time to listen to the 21st/22nd/40th Democratic debate on NPR. I appreciate having listened to it on the radio if only because sight may have multiplied the revulsion I feel for both candidates at this point. I am so bored of watching Barack Obama, elite in every sense of the word, try to pretend he is some normal dude. Didn’t we elect a normal dude/idiot? He messed up real good.

 

I don’t see what is so wrong about electing someone who doesn’t bowl, but rather goes to law school. I like Hill drinking whisky, but Crown Royal? What ever happened to Jameson’s? I think Obama should give up on the racist, stupid white folk, move to California, get his Marijuana grower’s license, and win the popular vote on the back of stoner, non-voters. There are more than a few holes in this plan, but in this election, every plan looks like swiss cheese.

 

Thanks to some generous benefactors, I was able to put gas in Scott’s car this morning. It was $3.94/gal. Ouch. 

The Dignity of Labor.

 

In about an hour, I will begin applying my two degrees and considerable brawn to a new job; hopefully there is nothing over eighty pounds to be carried solo. I am starting work at Capitol Audio Rental in Burbank. Jay’s brother (Scott) and I will be delivering fancy new audio equipment to various studios in town. Apparently this is a constant transaction, as it merits two full-time delivery people.

 

After not holding what many may (not) call “actual employment” for some time, I am excited at the prospect of nine hours of the day disappearing. Kudos to Papa, master of the sedentary lifestyle, for not going crazy every single day. I have learned in the last month that I cannot be left alone with my thoughts for longer than twenty minutes.

 

I sat next to a violinist named Chelsea on the plane to LAX yesterday. After some conversation, I ventured to ask whether the strange contortion of the neck (to place chin on violin) required, keeping the instrument in place, ever left her real sore. She took that as “all violinists look stupid while playing.” I spent the next thirty minutes claiming a love for the violin I do not really hold. I don’t think she likes me very much.