at this point, my only conclusive career aspiration

Working lunch shifts blow because all of the dudes are not with their wives, but with their co-workers, which apparently entitles the 35-45 age bracket to call me sweetie and chat it up about their cuff links or the Da Vinci Code (WASP conversation). God damn, I never want to reach a point at which "cutting loose" includes sushi and light beer.

Point Being: There is a job called "Duck Master" and it is in Orlando. Rather than having an actual job, I could herd ducks around the Peabody Hotel, as current Duck Master David Robertson does.

Job description

10:30 am (not too early for drinkers): roll out red carpet from designated duck elevator to fountain
11:00 am: get ducks from Duck Palace, herd ducks through hotel with a cane

While I wait for this guy to croak, I can preview the position as the "Honorary Duck Master." Though it's an honor typically given to a child visitor, I doubt there's a kid that can stack up to my impressive resume of totally useless and incoherent experience. Maybe I can tell them that I've always thought of myself as Christ-like, but sheep were too unruly?

everybody is a critic, fortunately i am the best

With the end of the semester comes the luxury of spending the morning hung over, chilling in the shower and reading the news in my underpants, rather than sitting in class and talking about moses and postmodernity. Also, I have the time to read whatever I want.

Like The End of the Affair, by Graham Greene. Twentieth century British fiction newcomers and Ralph Fiennes fans beware, all three of you, spoiler alert. Although it's certainly not earth-shattering, and it didn't reduce me to tears or existential despair, everything was likable enough. Married woman has affair; married woman dies. Oh, sigh. What could've been reduced to the agonizing death-of-the-beautiful-woman cliche is actually somewhat layered and considerate. Sarah, the saucy adulteress, is discussed by the narrator in physical as well as emotional terms. It didn't strike me that she was the cum-dumpster bouncing the plot along her sexuality (my favorite female archetype, of course), but rather her spirituality. Of course, I'm just coming off of my mid-afternoon "baking excursion," so maybe my argument won't hold up well with further consideration. Hmmm.

More important, though, is Leonard Knight, and for those among us not totally in touch with our inner modern American folklorists, here is his masterpiece, Salvation Mountain:



Read his biography. You can't make this shit up.