1998 & Blanket Statements

A friend of mine, let's call him Will Beckley, was going about his life this weekend when he found his car looking like this:


That, in a word, fucking sucks.

As far I know, he has no idea why, who, what, or when. Where, I'm guessing, is pretty clear. What kind of shit is life pulling when all of a sudden your nice little foreign import is now a charred corn husk?

I'm guess I'm posting this because I feel terrible for Will. And I can relate. Because that's exactly how I felt at my job this morning. [Whether or not my job can actually be as bad as a irreparably vandalized car is a question for the history books, but I would never actually relate this comparison to Will, as he would have every right to want to kick my ass, but still.] I have another friend, Andrew, who reviews wine on a blog with a single photo. No words. Just a picture. A picture says a thousand words, yadda yadda yadda, and this communicates my feelings better than any verbal clauses I could throw together.

My job started as something easy and casual that I could use to pay the rent, and yet still sneak in a lot of time to write while still on the clock. As the job evolved and I failed to find my ticket out of it, things changed, but I still managed to do my own work and fit the job to my needs.

But recently that's gone out of my control. Due to the needs of the people on top, and due to the fact that many of the people I work with have safely distanced themselves from any serious responsibility via some pretty astounding ineptitude, I have found myself ideally suited for a position I in no way want. And I wasn't really able to refuse it, without basically telling them I had no interest in working there. I sometimes wonder if there was a way to say, "A better job? Nah, I'll just stay down here with this shitty one," without blowing my cover.

So now I'm left with a job that's like Sherman's March, weaving a path of exhaustion and misery though my day and leaving me with much less energy and enthusiasm to take on my 2nd shift at the writing desk.

And that's no good. I'm not exactly sure how I've lasted this long at this day job. Or why I haven't gotten a job in the industry yet. Well, I'm partly sure -- but I'm not interested in beating myself up right now.

2008. I'm really hoping this year will be a turning point. Ten years ago. 1998 was ten years ago. Good grief.

My friend P is fond of saying that 1998 was the best year of our lives. I don't think he has much of a point really, he just likes to say it. And, frankly, it's a fun line. But when I think about it, ten years ago I was just starting undergrad, I had been offered a pretty good internship in LA that I wasn't yet aware I wouldn't be able to afford to take, I was in a production of Six Characters in Search of an Author and loving the creative process, and everything was pure potential.


So it's 10 years later. It's another year ending in an eight. Why can't this year be another best year of our lives? A transition out of this shitty decade? A step forward? A year to be bandied about in ridiculous blanket statements.

I love blanket statements. They under-appreciated and under-valued. And I sling 'em all day long.

2008. The Year That We Burst Out of the Ashes.

ps. That's it. We need a Blanket Statement Contest.

2008 will be the turning point of our lives.

2008's the year the double nought's cherry gets busted.

2008. Everybody. Gets. Laid.

2008, the year we let the evil monkeys out.

2008, the turducken of the double noughts.

2008: 1998 Harder (Is the Die Hard 2 reference clear?...)

Floor's open, people.

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