Backwards through the megaphone

Yeah. It's been a while. I know.

But what's ever there to say when someone else has said it better already?

My life has belonged to Six Flags for what must be the past four weeks by now. I don't even mean that figuratively. This week, Tuesday through Sunday, I'm working open to close. That's somewhere between 10 and 13 hours every day. But I'll tell you what. I love just about every second of it. From tying in Sly's belly hoop to learning to worship the Character Clubhouse whiteboard to dancing the Cotton-Eye Joe for the second time in 45 minutes to napping on the breakroom floor to drinking contraband Rockstar to being a nonsmoker on cigarette breaks to gradually learning and accepting that everyone in the department is at least a little bit bisexual to gossiping to Block Party. To the windows-down car ride home. And all those other little things between. To writing prematurely nostalgic run-on sentences about how much I actually enjoy my job.

It's been a long time, I've realized, since I've actually given my all into something. Since I've really dedicated myself to doing the best that I can do. And even longer since I've felt that glowing feeling you get when your efforts are recognized. Four weeks ago I was making a huge fucking mess out of escorting Porky to and from the Big Wheel. Three weeks ago I was imagining the embarrassment of dying dressed as K-9. Two weeks ago one of my most respected co-workers said I was a great escort, among the best he'd had. And sometime last week I walk in and see my name next to "Main Gate: Sylvester." There I stayed for three days. Possibly 36 of the best hours I've ever had. I don't care if this sounds stupid. I can't expect the vast majority of those reading this to understand. But when I'm on the street, when I'm Sly or whoever else, it's not about watching the clock and counting down the hours. It's not about the paycheck or weekend plans. It's about rocking the fuck out to "Mmm Bop" and "Mambo Number Five." And rock the fuck out I do.

My second day as Main Gate Sly I was escorted by the guy who usually fills that role. After the morning's first, or maybe second, Cotton-Eye Joe he said to me: "You killed it, Sly. Amazing job." And it made my fucking day.

Sure, there are times when I want to drown myself in the fountain. A good number of the high school kids are, objectively, whiny little bitches with attitude problems. Honestly, I've never heard so many absurd complains and makeshift maladies. Nor have I ever met anyone quite so eager to make insulting assertions about myself. Whatever. I'm sure it's to compensate for his own overwhelming inadequacies or some other jargon like that. And I'm feeling just good enough not to punch him in the throat.

I have off tomorrow but go back Tuesday. I can't wait.

Now the usual fractures of thought:

My dog, Cassie, passed away last week after being transported to the Garden State Veterinary Clinic. They attempted CPR and it wasn't successful. We think it was spleen cancer. I went to the Relay for Life Cancer Walk last night with my family and we lit a luminary-thing for her. It was nice. I thank whom ever is up there for letting me spend her last day with her. I miss the tinkle of her collar and the way she would wag her tail. Even up to those last hours, too weak to walk.

My lodge adviser in the Order of the Arrow died also. I helped conduct the Broken Arrow Ceremony at Conclave. I was proud to have been a part of it and to have served as one of his Chiefs.

They say death comes in threes. We'll leave this one open ended...

There are a ton of friends I haven't yet seen this summer.

And not even a prospect of a summer romance. Seems this won't likely be one for the record books.

Sex, as an event and not an act, confuses me.

And that's about it. If you're reading this, I probably miss you.


Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike