Yaar. Yaar! And huzzah! It’s another day in paradise.
In the absence of something more witty, I suppose I ought to at least plug in a little about my life, as of late.
First: being 21 rocks. It’s not even the ability to buy alcohol, to go to bars, whatever. It’s just the simple fact of being 21. It’s a comforting feeling. Maybe it’s just the lack of restriction, suddenly. The absence of “no”– from restaurants that could serve me beer; from cops that tell me what I can and can not do; the bringing to light something that’s been long repressed. Yeah. That’s probably it. The sudden withdrawal of authority (authority being something that I really enjoy). No more fear. No more hiding. No more “you can get me in trouble”. Huzzah!
(There was an interesting in the paper this morning (that I read while eating tasty bagels with Sagar and Carter on their way out of town) about people injuring themselves jumping off cliffs. Cliffs like this one:
But, actually, not “like” that one. That one. The one that Sagar, Carter and I jumped off a couple days ago. Never-mind this incomplete thought…)
Pizza escort service no more. THAT is exciting. I really fouled up this summer, in terms of employment. Working at Papa Johns this summer was profoundly awful. The only point that mitigates the awfulness of working with a bunch of dead-beats and underachiviers was the exiting realization of “never again…”. Never again will I have to work a dead-end job. A spikey, thorny, ow! dead-end, at that.
While working my dead-end job, though, I’ve been enjoying teaching myself some low value skills. Like how to to use a torque wrench. Or how to use a breaker bar. Or repair lawn mowers. Things that, in a few short years, the opportunity-cost of my time will be sufficiently high that it’ll never make sense for me to apply those skills. But somehow it’s good. In a if-I-ever-get-stranded-on-a-desert-island sort of way.
On a more melancholy note, Ingmar Bergman–one of the best, and most important, directors in the history of cinema–died yesterday. It’s melancholy, except for the fact that his output as a film-maker basically ended in the eighties. And I get the sense that he ended his life with as much dignity as he ended his career. n
