A little over a month ago, a student was almost hit while crossing the street by a car that had blown through a stop sign. Unfortuantely, this is not an isolated problem. These people seem to think that after they drive into my campus, all the other laws that they learned at drivers training dont apply. So yesterday, I find out that the chief has decided to assign us all posts around campus in order to control traffic. Given that parking and traffic falls under my unit, I get to be the field supervisor for this pleasant little event. Naturally, I didnt find out about this until I got here this morning, and didnt adequately prepare for being outside in 20 degree weather all day long. So my next story may be "Nick's Magic Trip to the Emergency Room to Have His Frostbit Toes Cut Off". Lets hope its not. If I get a chance to warm up at lunch, I'll check in again.
This is possibly the most foolish thing I've ever read.
First things first- there were no masked DEA agents. Perhaps the author was a "harmlessly smoking some dope" when he saw us walk into the building. Police brutality? Come now. Would you prefer we discreetly make them disappear at night? Ask any Russian citizen over the age of 20 about how pleasant that one is. We live in an open and free society, and for that reason are privy to all that happens. The clueless students have the right to know what their "harmless classmates" are doing. More importantly, the students that are just "doing the college thing" need to know that there will be repercussions for illegal activities.
Secondly, and most important: THEY WERE DRUG DEALERS
Its not like they called out a SWAT team on some frat party and zip-cuffed a bunch of underage drinkers. These weren't simple pot heads. These people were dealing opium and ecstasy. I dont give a rats ass if they were alter-boys on the side, dealing drugs, the last time I checked, was still illegal. That means that when your punk ass gets caught, you get arrested.
And as far as the "month long undercover investigation" goes, trust me- it didnt take Sherlock Holmes and the team from CSI to find these idiots. It took all of three conversations and barely squeezing one kid. The rest of the time is just waiting.
The moral of this story, kiddies, is that in a free society we all have the right to have a voice. But if we were all screaming at once, no one would be heard. So thats where civil society, with all its horribly constrictive rules comes in to play. When you make the decision to break one of those rules, however foolish your rapidly frying brain thinks that rule is, you have to be prepared to deal with the consequences. Democracy's a bitch, huh?
My neatly arranged world view received a sharp, yet not entirely unanticipated wet finger to the ear this weekend.
On Saturday night, I went with a couple buddies of mine to a party. The girl who invited us works with my roomate at USIS, and lives with a passle of women in a house in northwest DC. One of her roomates was turning 25, and they were "pre-partying" at their house before going out to various clubs. The "pre-party" is a concept that seems to be used in the most unusual circumstances. When I was in college, the freshman and sophomore girls that hadnt blossomed into legal alcoholism would "pre-party" before going out. All dolled up in their peel-off black pants and halter tops, these Dolce and Gabbana biker chicks would pound shot after shot of rotgut antiseptic that they called "tenley vodka" before they went out to "just dance with their girls". Of course, these nights always ended in them knocking on my door, tear-smeared mascara and all, wondering why they werent treated like ladies while gyrating at the meat market. Honestly- who thinks to themself "I'm going to a fraternity party with a bunch of drunken idiots peddling "mystery punch"... why dont I get drunk first." Yeah honey, thats the ticket. Just get rid of all those pesky defense mechanisms before you go into harms way. For those of you in the know, the big brother gig can get real old, real fast. There are only so many people you can threaten before you have to kick somebodies ass just out of principle.
Anyhow- the "pre-party" is strangely appropriate for the young college crowd. But why in God's name do mid-twenties psuedo-professional gals feel the same need? It simply boggles my mind. Sure, I can understand all meeting at one place and going from there, but these ladies were intent on being completely housed by the time they left, well, the house. So I decided to try and be sociable, and started chatting with a few of these women. In between grinding eachother to whatever club mix was blaring in the dining room, they would occassionaly go out onto the deck for a cigarette and a sip of their drink. And though each one told me she only smoked when she was drinking, they all seemed to exhale through their nose like a Russian border guard. I guess they must drink a lot. But I couldnt have guessed that from the red wine goblets that they were drinking raspberry stoli and sprite out of. Pleasant chit chat ensued about how billy knows sally and where everybody fits in to the web, followed by "where do you live" and eventually, "what do you do?" So I ask the question first. It went something like this:
Her: "Oh, do you have another one of those? He only has menthols, and you know what they say- good for the lungs, bad for the soul."
Me: "Sure thing."
This is one of my favorite moves, so pay attention. Slightly extend the hand holding your Zippo to the subject. When the subject places her hands on yours to cup the flame, use your other hand to hit her over the head with your club. You may now drag her back to your cave and produce more hunters for the tribe.
Me: "So, how do you know whatshername?" A good introductory comment by me. Find a connection. Develop a report.
Her: "Oh, we all work together." She says, attempting to answer the question without answering the question.
Me: "Really? Where at?" I ask, trying my best to look like I care.
Her: "Namedoesntmatter Elementary School, in Annandale. I teach third grade."
Well, paint me green and call me Gumby. Steely Dan wasnt kidding around I guess.
Now, its at this point that I could have kept my mouth shut and if nothing else made a good impression on this girl.
Nah.
Me: "No shit? Wouldnt it be great to see the look on their faces if they saw you right now? You should teach them that little 'jump shake your rump' manuever... that would be classic."
Her: "I bet that would be funny." By now, she's smiling, but shes not happy. "So what do you do?"
Me: "I work for American University."
Her: "Doing what?" Not even looking at me now- I must have hit a nerve...
Me: "Mostly being the bad guy. Parking tickets, collecting money, spying on people, that kind of stuff."
Her: "I bet your real popular."
Me: "More so everyday."
I suppose this is why I dont go to parties very often.
My day has basically been a non-stop barrage against my remaining reserves of energy, so when 2 pm found me between irrate phone calls, the daily grind had taken a noticable toll on my face. Rubbing my tired, red eyes, I looked to the heavens to ask for one last burst of self control. Just enough to get me through until 5, when I could drown my week in beer and floozies. Well, beer anyway. And more lightly coat my week with a film of beer. I drowned last weekend, and dont need a repeat of that wonderful performance. I waited there, my head craned back, glasses in my hand, for the very hand of God to come down and squirt a few drops of holy Visine into my eyes.
Instead, a vision in hip-hugger jeans and a baby-tee shirt came strolling down the walkway into the station. Her shoulder length blonde hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and bobbed playfully as she walked. As she drew closer, I could see the St. James Harp delightfully stretched across her chest. A gorgeous blonde in Guinness gear? By this point, I was nearly certain that the lack of caffeine and nicotene in my system had thrown me into some kind of coma, and though I was seeing this woman walk toward me, in reality I was sprawled out on the office floor twitching and foaming at the mouth. When she finally walked through the door and asked for me by name, I thought I may have crossed the threshold of sanity all together. But then I realized that the phones were still ringing, and the momo's hadn't gone away.
I was alive and fully conscious!
Having established that I was cognizant, the thought raced through my mind that perhaps the 1759 Society had sent me a belated birthday gift in recognition of my loyal patronage. I thought maybe, just maybe, the next words out of her mouth would be "congratulations, you've just won the Guinness Fantasy Girlfriend contest! My name's Kelly... I hope you like blondes..." Visions of she and I frolicking through fields of wildflowers, swimming in the crystal blue Carribean waters of St Vincent, watching the snow fall on the towering pines.... all while drinking. And she was naked in most of those scenes. I prepared myself for her announcement. I didnt want to look too glib in front of my coworkers.
Then the train hit me.
"I'm a reporter for the Eagle, and I'd like to interview you about the horrible condition of the parking and traffic unit here on campus."
I tell you what, some other-worldly being is laughing his or her ass off right now. Is that visine? That smells like piss.... ;)
Without getting too far into the details and thus further angering me, I'll suffice it to say this:
Any man that hits women or children is not a human being and should be eliminated. I dont like being violent, but I would really like to have a word with people like this. And when that person is a college age kid who just beat up his girlfriend, I'd like to have a word with him and then have a little chit-chat with his parents.
And another thing- college athletes deserve no special treatment. I dont care if your exploits bring millions of dollars to the university, you're a student, plain and simple. What kind of message does it send to other students when these athletes are given special treatment? This is more directed at university administrators that come up with these ridiculous "recruitment packages". I'd like to have a word with them, too.
Now I have to go down to McDonalds and get my fish sandwich lunch meal. And if they give me a big-n-tasty wrapped in blue fish sandwich paper like they did last week, I'm gonna have a word with those muddafundas too.
I picked the wrong fucking week to quit caffeine and nicotene. :)
I did have mountains of paperwork to sort through, this is true. We also had some excitement last night. I'll check in again around lunch- another problem just walked in to my office, and I'm gonna love finding the son of a bitch that did this.
That's the sound of the goon, processing the forms.... yeah.... all day long he's singin'
Ooh, ahh, ooh, ahh
I was asked politely by my boss and the chief to get all the work done that I've been putting off. This loosely translates to me needing to take my job more seriously. For that matter, I probably wont be really active or able to chat until at least monday. That should give me a chance to catch up, and then I'll be back in full force. I'll still be online, so message me if something interesting happens.
I Am A: Chaotic Good Elf Ranger Fighter
Alignment:
Chaotic Good characters are independent types with a strong belief in the value of goodness. They have little use for governments and other forces of order, and will generally do their own things, without heed to such groups.
Race:
Elves are the eldest of all races, although they are generally a bit smaller than humans. They are generally well-cultured, artistic, easy-going, and because of their long lives, unconcerned with day-to-day activities that other races frequently conccern themselves with. Elves are, effectively, immortal, although they can be killed. After a thousand years or so, they simply pass on to the next plane of existance.
Primary Class:
Rangers are the defenders of nature and the elements. They are in tune with the Earth, and work to keep it safe and healthy.
Secondary Class:
Fighters are the warriors. They use weapons to accomplish their goals. This isn't to say that they aren't intelligent, but that they do, in fact, believe that violence is frequently the answer.
Find out What D&D Character Are You?, courtesy of NeppyMan!
I got to work yesterday to find a message on my office voicemail from this girl that I went to high school with. You may recall this girl from earlier posts, as she was the person truly responsible for the demise of the librarian's daughter. When I didnt return her affections, and instead chose the book girl, she became angry and used her girl magic to plant nasty rumors in the mind of her competition. Book girl fell for this trick, flipped out at me, broke things off, and then went stick-over full rudder nose diving into drugs and promiscuous sex. I wouldn't have minded catching a little of the latter, but the former would have been just too much. Apparently this devious little thing ran in to my mom while shopping for Christmas gifts, and was given my phone number at work. "Oh, he's in DC too! You should give him a call!" Thanks mom.
So I returned her call on my lunch break, and left her a message. No sooner had I walked back through the door with my turkey and swiss than my phone was ringing. She starts out with the usual "how have things been since I saw you 6 years ago", and then goes directly for the throat. "Are you married?"
This frightened me.
In high school, she was a cute girl. About 2 and a half inches taller than I was, but cute nonetheless. But since then, I've heard some greatly disheartening updates on her condition. The words "freshman 15 times 4", and the most recent "she's got some big shoulders" are the most striking. All this being said, I recognize how horribly shallow it sounds. So I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. Next week sometime, when she's free, I'll see first hand if these rumors have any validity. Until then, I just have nightmarish visions of walking around the monuments with a linebacker in a dress.
The three weary travellers slowly climbed the rock strewn path that lead from the harbor to the wizard's keep. The journey from the shores of Midgard to the island was arduous, and they all longed for the warmth of hearth and heart that awaited them in the fortifications looming overhead. When they reached the great wooden door, the younger man was waiting for them. His dark blue cloak bore the mark of the Guardians of the Tome, the monastic order that had defended the island and its secrets for centuries. Somehow, he looked out of place in this environment. Like a caged animal, put on display in some king's court for the amusement of his guests, the man seemed made for something more. But today, his normally solemn and vigilant gaze was replaced with an aloof sense of excitement.
"Could you have waited longer to sound your arrival? I could see the sweat on Krulk's head before the horn left your mouth" he said, turning his sword over in his hands and inspecting the edge. The big troll smiled at the mention of his name, and patted the man on the head as he pushed his way through the door. The kobold followed behind him, nodding at the man as he slipped through the door before it closed.
"And were you planning on shooting me with that crossbow, Aidan? You'd have better luck throwing it" she replied, moving toward the door.
"Same old surly Asny. Go inside before your armor shrinks. We can argue about my accuracy over breakfast". With this, he ushered her inside, and taking one last glance into the fog, closed the door behind him.
The room felt empty, like a deep cavern carved into a sandstone cliff by years of thunderous surf. Even the books and furniture that adorned the library seemed more like mist soaked stalagmites than the leather bound fruits of a lifetime of study. The fireplace behind him seemed to crackle with every whispered breath of seaspray from the open window. In a short while, the master would awaken and the conversation that follows would likely last all day. But the younger man didnt mind too much. He busied himself with preparing the morning meal, pulling his cloak around him tightly to keep out the cold. The first sounds of the old man stirring were just reaching him when he heard the distant horn. Any visitors to the island were a surprise, but you never knew what manner of suprise until they were close enough to identify. He strode quickly to the open window, and taking the horn from its hook on the wall, returned the call to the approaching vessel. The fog was so thick, so eerily everpresent, that it was neccessary to navigate by sound or risk missing the island all together. Or worse yet, getting tangled in the jagged reef that surrounded all but one port on the southern coast. From his vantage at the window, the man could visualize the natural fortifications through the blanket of gray. Slowly, the small craft took shape as it rounded the point and made its way into the small harbor.
"Who could it be at this time of year?" the old man said as he shuffled from his room into the library. His small frame was draped in a faded blue robe that swung eraticly as he scuttled about the small kitchen area preparing his tea.
"No sail, sir. Three figures. A dimunutive helmsman, a troll at the oars, and what seems to be a woman standing in the bow." the younger man said, returning the crossbow he had placed on the windowsill to its resting place on the ground at his feet. A smile crossed his face as he turned toward his friend.
"Our friends from midgard. I've been expecting them for some time now."
Her hand is soft and warm, her embrace comfortable and without pretense. Every breath taken is savored like the first or last you would take. As you move together through a mirage of sights and sounds foreign yet somehow very real, the healing you've done in her absence is washed away. The ache returns to your chest, more and more in every smile and affectionate motion. You ask no questions for fear that this fragile perfection will vanish before your eyes. All you can do is hold on, and try as best you can to meld your being with hers before something takes that away from you again.
And she smiles. And you begin to relax. And for a split second you look around at the odd environment that surrounds you both. And in that instant, she fades away. Even though your eyes open to the static reality of waking thought, you can still feel her hand in yours. Where her face will fade before you leave the house, the ache in your heart stays.
Some days I hate dreaming.
I was commenting all day yesterday that I was tired, and had decided that I would go to bed early. But my much needed slumber was interrupted at around 9pm with a phone call telling me I had been put back on 24 hour call, and that I needed to be to work at 0530 this morning. Since then, I've had two cups of coffee, a nutrigrain bar and a bagel, and managed to clean everything in my office. These little menial tasks are what I had to do to avoid locking my office door and going back to sleep. Guess I'll have to look forward to the weekend.
I know- from the title, this could very well be the longest post in recorded history. So I'll keep it specific to my weekend. Friday night was pretty par for the course. My roomates and I sat around the house being stereotypical single guys (ie- drinking beer, eating pizza, and watching TV). Saturday morning I took my time getting cleaned up. I must have spent a good 30 minutes in the shower, and have reaffirmed that a good hot shower is one of the greatest things imaginable. After that, I looked for some new glasses at the mall (my current pair were chewed on by a demon-spawn jack russell terrier while I was passed out), got a bite to eat, and checked out a couple potential places to live come June. In the midst of all this activity, my mom called me to tell me that my dad had gone to some disc golf tournament with one of his buddies up in the mountains, and it just started snowing really hard and she couldnt get a hold of him. I spent the rest of the day and well into the night trying to get through to his cell phone and keeping my frantic mother from freaking out. When he showed up at home at around 9 pm, she was able to piece together through a fury of "it was so cool, honey- there is this guy that can throw over 200 yards!" that he had forgotten to turn on his cell phone and, because there was little or no snow where he was, he didnt think to call and check in. I used to always get in trouble for not calling and worrying my poor mother to death.... I guess I know where I got that bad habit.
Speaking of bad habits. One of many that I have in my arsenal is that I tend to be overly generous with the check when it comes time to leave. This isnt so bad when its lunch. When your at the bar with 16 other people, it can get a bit pricy. Saturday night I learned that lesson once again. We went to dinner at Clydes in Friendship Heights, MD before heading down to the Malt Shop in Tenleytown. It was my impression that the Malt Shop would be our last stop for the evening, and offered to pick up the $40+ tab. For 6 people, that wasnt too bad, and I thought I was doing well. But then we decide to ride the metro down to capitol hill to meet a friend has his new fiancee at Tavern on the Hill. Fine, we'll go down, have a drink to celebrate, and then go home, right?
Well, we all know where this is going, so I can skip ahead. I woke up sunday morning on the fiancee's couch, feeling like I'd swallowed a towel, and with a $120 worth of credit card receipts in my now empty wallet. As the headache started to set in, I layed there wishing like hell that I couldnt remember the night before. But alas- I remembered everything. Jack and Mary can consider my generosity an engagement present, I guess. I just hope that the next time I decide to lean into the pitch and take one for the team, somebody pushes me out of the way. :)
Jin was asking me why our ticket fines were so high, and I thought that worthy of a response.
It's a combination of simple economics and basic thuggery, really. You know how gas is more expensive in Richtown than it is in Poorville? Well, thats because most silly nobles will pay more for the convenience of having the shop next door. Combined with what I know about the misguided nobility on my campus, I have determined the following truths:
1. A $20 fine for not having a permit will be scoffed at and paid. A $40 fine for the same offense begins to add up quickly.
2. That $40 fine, however hefty, is still small enough in comparison to the cost of a permit to foster the "maybe I can get away with not buying one" mentality.
3. I enjoy squeezing people until they cry, and allowing them to be lured into my trap facilitates this.
4. These kids seem to have been raised in a world where financial concerns outweigh following a simple rule. This is a mentality that must be snuffed. If their parents are too self involved and materialistic to teach them properly, then the least I can do is show them that not every rule can be broken.
Enough for today. Time for beer. See you all online on sunday.
So my assistant and I got bored around 3 pm yesterday and decided to play a little game. We had been going blind doing paperwork all day, and needed some good old fashioned goon fun to break the monotony. The game of choice was "Speed Fishing". Here are the rules:
1. Each person has 15 minutes to go out on campus, find a bootable car (read a car that owes me money in outstanding tickets), install the device, and return to base.
2. The person with the highest dollar amount at the end of the day wins.
Pretty simple really. But only a game that us parking nazis would find amusing. So we flip a coin, and he goes first. Within 5 minutes, he's located the first "fish". A silver BMW with California diplomatic tags. After doubling of outstanding tickets, the total came to $1400 even. If he had stumbled into an all girls catholic school slumber party just as they started playing truth or dare, he couldn't have been more lucky. Sure of his victory, he strode back to the station head held high, and smuggly passed the baton to me. But I'm not one to fold in the face of a challenge. I trained this person afterall. This was a matter of alpha dominance. So I lifted a boot onto my shoulder and walked out the door. Activating my psychic momo-radar, I was drawn to the Library metered lot, where I found a swarming hive of potential targets. Settling on a VW Golf that owed $800+ when all said and done, I proceeded to install the device. Mid-clamp, the owner of the vehicle returned to his car and demanded an explanation. After a brief and wholely unsuccessful attempt to persuade me to let him go, he begrudgingly lumbered off toward the station to pay, paperwork in hand. I followed behind him, and passing the cheat sheet on to my competitor, made some off-hand comment about results counting more than potential. But like the well-oiled weapon of my wrath that he is, my little goon assistant hooked into yet another "big fish". A black toyota with New Jersey tags. Damn- Jersey tags.... double points. He would be the victor for that battle.
But the war would be mine.
You see- in the end, our effectiveness, and the effectiveness of the entire unit, are combined together. As an unfortunate repercussion of the bureaucratic system in which we thrive, those results, both good and bad, reflect on me. He may have hooked over $2k, but I netted more than $3k that day. But this was only icing on the cake. The real spoils of war came with the payment of his two boots. The first, and the reason for my title on this diatribe, turned out to be a pair of Russian girls. When presented with a $1400 bill, they not so much as blinked. Only calmly made a single call on their cell phone. Through my powers of translation, I determined they were calling someone named Pyotr to bring the money. Or they asked him to dust the fish on Grandma's head... I cant be too sure. It may have been Ukrainian. Nonetheless, in about 10 minutes a Jaguar sedan rolls up, and out steps an extremely well clad Euro-goon. I dont feel ashamed saying that compared to him, my stature in the goon community was comparable to the ill-tempered girl scout that collects overdue cookie money. His shoes cost more than my car. He walked in, handed the ladies an envelope, and walked out. From this envelope, they counted out 14 crisp $100 bills, bade me do sveedanya, and sauntered out. Kinda makes you wonder where that money came from? No- not really.
The other car belonged to the former Miss Teen New Jersey. A well deserved accolade, even with mascara streaked down her face from crying to me over the phone. Still, my confidence was still shaken and diminished from my encounter with russian Pete, and the best I could do was demand $400 cash on the spot from the smudged princess and allow her to bill the remainder to her student account. My job may suck- but there are still times when it gets interesting.
Do zavtra, mui drook- spashai horroshiye. Ras dyen, oo menya tvoy oboova.
Translation: Until tomorrow, my friend- sleep well. One day, I will have your shoes.
1 ABA ZXtreme level IIIA Ballistic Nylon vest w/ trauma plates $1095.95
1 case DTFL Stinger Rubber Ball Grenades w/ micropulverized CS chemical agent $428
1 Bushnell 4.3x Night Vision Scope $359.95
1 Bianchi Endurance THP backpack $79.95
1 Cobra Bianchi Tactical holster $54.95
1 Surefire M2 Centurion light $119.95
1 DPMS ultra-compact 5.56 mm M-15 assault rifle $660
1 Walther P99 (.40) $635
For a mere $3433.75 plus the cost of ammunition, I could be pretty bad ass. Of course, I happily dont need any of this stuff. But should I find myself in the market for raid gear, these would be my selections.
cptgen: the FBI is hiring for counter intelligence and surveillance people
goonbuddy: sweet
cptgen: we could be like those guys in the van
goondbuddy: yeah dude, like enemy of the state
cptgen: yeah
cptgen: that would rock
cptgen: I'm applying online now
goonbuddy: we could get a tv in there
cptgen: and a little fridge
goonbuddy: and some beers
cptgen: and a play station
cptgen: we'd be set
goonbuddy: yeah we could
Best of luck on the job search, Muda. We'll see you on the other side.
I have nothing to say this morning.
I could bitch about work. I could fret about finding a new job and a new place to live. I could laugh at how fucking ridiculous this whole debate about voting rights in a damn weblog ring is. Theres lots that I could talk about. But I'm a firm believer that if I dont have anything productive to say, I should keep my mouth shut.
So I dont have anything to say this morning. ;)
I find it odd that I am most dedicated to my goals, and most energetic about completing them just before I drift off to sleep. I think I do this to trick my brain into believing "its ok that you didnt do anything productive today, you have the best intentions to do so tomorrow". This lets me sleep more easily I guess. I just wish there was some way to harness that energy so that I could use it during the day.
I've decided I need a new hobby, and I'm considering a number of options. Dayna seemed convinced that I should get into the fast paced world of selling stolen goods. I suppose theres a desired computer upgrade somewhere in that suggestion. But fencing, the one with swords, could be lots of fun. I'll have to look into that.
Back to the mines.
Bear with me, this could be a little dry and boring. A while back, I told everyone about a problem we were having between the students that dont want to buy permits, and the neighbors, upon whos streets they park. The students and staff are instructed that it is illegal to park there, and encouraged to purchase parking on campus. However, the areas in question are currently 3 hour parking zones under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police Department. So, using any logic, the neighbors should complain to Metro to change the signs and increase enforcement.
Enter politics.
The university has sunk nearly 50 million into our new arts center, which was supposed to break ground in October of last year. Because of the neighbors, we arent allowed to build any new buildings, only refurbish what we have. So the plans called for the tearing down of an older building, and the construction of the arts center in its place. The architects came in, drew up the designs, and we presented it to the zoning board (of which the majority of members are neighbors). Deliberations take more than two months from July to September, and end with them refusing to approve the plan. They say they dont want to look out their windows at this beautiful new building. Apparently they enjoy the run down, evacuated piece of shit that stands there now. So they go back to the tables, and find out that the neighbors wont approve the plan until something is done about the parking overflow into their neighborhoods. So, without any real hesitation, they agree that we will do something about it. This translates to Nick will do something about it.
So I draw up a plan to create a new subzone (3B), requiring all residents in the surrounding areas to purchase a new parking permit. The proposal also called for the elimination of the 3 hour parking and increased enforcement of the area. Had this plan gone forward, it would have designated the cars that should be there, and made for more severe penalties for cars parked illegaly. Metro wouldnt have patrolled more, this I never doubted. But the designation of the "good" cars would have made finding the "bad" cars easier. Either way, it was the correct step to take.
This morning, I was informed that there will be no subzone.
Instead, there will be a contractual agreement between my office and the students/staff with cars. This will basically say, if you park in the neighborhood, you are subject to some sort of punishment to be determined at a later date. The short version result of this whole shit sandwich is that I'm gonna have to do a whole hell of a lot more work in the not too distant future. I suspect now that this is why my boss was talking about hiring on a person to work the desk, so that I could focus more of my energies on "enforcement". He was blowing sunshine up my ass- saying that I was more effective in an enforcement role, and that he was trying to use my talents in a productive way and keep me from tasks I didnt enjoy. What a crock.
Maybe they'll at least change the signs. It would be nice, if nothing else, to be righteous when I'm enforcing something outside my jurisdiction. If they decide they want to give my office jurisdiction outside of campus, you best damn believe I'll be asking for more money. And a badge. And a vehicle. And some mirrored sunglasses. And a pepsi.
I like to think of myself as a modern kind of guy- raised with a strong understanding of the sciences, and free of any dark-ages mumbo jumbo. But more and more I find myself slipping. I could blame it on my family- that long line of wood-knockers and salt-throwers. Or on a lingering belief that science cant explain it all. But in the end, its just a strange desire to see if it really works. Recently, I stumbled across an old link to biorythms. If it sparks your curiosity, enter your birthday and compare it to your mood over the last couple days. I found mine surprisingly accurate.
Anyway, back to January.
In my family, January is always a difficult month. Ive done extensive family research going back several hundred years, and found that more than 80% of the people on my dad's side of the family die in January. This year, we lost three on dad's side and two on mom's. It makes me wonder if I should contemplate hibernation from new years until valentines day. But February is always a good month, so with luck everything will cheer up.