So I'm sitting at my desk, drinking my Big Gulp, and staring at an excavation crew from the USACE filling in a huge hole they dug behind my office yesterday. They've been here for nearly two years now, digging out little nuggets of toxic joy they buried here during dubya dubya two. Everyone has grown rather used to their being here, and hasn't really been alarmed when a convoy of trucks rolls out with escort under the cover of darkness every second tuesday of the month...

Not that I'm taking notice of these things... I'm done with that genre.

But this time was a little different. Generally, they dig and dig and dig, and find nothing. Then fill in the hole, put this funky "fertilizer carpet" over the bald spot, and within a month, all is forgotten. Yesterday, however, they were digging and found something. You should have seen the excited frenzy they all went into. Little red and yellow hardhats dashed hither and yon passing the good word, and Phil, the tape guy, got to set up a perimeter. Mind you, all this is happening right outside my window. And I must admit, I was suddenly struck with the undeniable urge to put on my leather jacket and fedora and go outside. All I wanted to do was pace back and forth while they sang Salla's digging song, I dont think that was too much to ask. But Captain Buzzkill, the site CO, had told Phil that I wasnt allowed in. Phil was understanding, and even hummed a few bars of the digging song while I walked around him, but it just wasnt the same.

Anyway, eventually the giant digging arm clunked into something metallic, and a hush filled the yard. They poked and prodded it for a couple minutes, whispered amongst themselves, and eventually decided to grasp it by the top and yank whatever the hell was down there out. Not the most scientific approach, I thought, but who am I to judge? All I wanted was that damn song. The whole "birthing" process, as I hear is what they refer to that stage as, took about 20 minutes. And when they were done, we had a huge, rusted out oil drum sitting on a tarp in the back yard.

See, this is where I would think they would send in some sort of crew, preferably someone with a couple letters in front of their name, would come in and ET the whole area. Not that such would be necessary, but it would be entertaining for me to watch. Instead, they filled the hole back in, and left the barrel sitting there on the tarp. A break you ask? Oh no, they went home. In fact, its 11 am and they're just now returning. I understand that they probably determined that the drum was long since empty and harmless, but they could have at least covered it with something.

*Sigh*... no song, no pacing, no ET containment unit, and no damn crate to be taken downtown and put in the big storage room. These people have no concept of archeology.

It was a lazy day at parking and traffic, so I decided to take a couple of my workstudies with me on the afternoon neighborhood patrol. We wrote tickets as we walked, and I told them stories about the various neighbors that live in the influential Spring Valley community behind campus. It was a most enjoyable outing.

Until we got to 45th street. The mens soccer team was practicing at the field there, and saw us writing tickets on their cars. Why a well conditioned athlete would whine about having to walk the entire two blocks from legal parking on main campus to get to the field is beyond me, but still they complain. As we were walking away, one of them shouted at us, "What the fuck is this?"

I replied as I always do, "Thats a traffic violation for being parked illegally in the neighborhood."

His educated retort was, "What, we cant park here now?"

I nodded and informed him of the new regulations. This must have displeased him, because as I turned to walk away again, he tore up the ticket and shouted, "Why dont you go eat a sandwich, fat boy."

Fat? Moi? I might be a bit less svelt than I was at his age, but I'm in no way fat. I ignored his pointless meanderings, and simply walked on.

It was then that my workstudies pleasantly surprised me. They were both demure young ladies, one a freshman and the other a sophomore, and though most effective, I never thought of them as truly enthralled by the job. But one turned to the other and said, "You get that plate?"

Her companion nodded, and said to me "We'll have him booted by friday, sir."

I love my little goonlings.

Got to come in late today, woke up without the need for an alarm, feeling rather chipper. Not going to let said mood be destroyed for any reason.

Music for the Commute: Big Bad Voodoo Daddy

Made me think all sorts of happy thoughts that I'll explain at a later date.