On Friday of last week, I had just finished with a week of work at what is easily The Worst Job Ever (TWJE). I would tell you what it is but the fine folks at TWJE made me sign a non-disclosure agreement—it’s that bad—and having The Worst Job Ever is better than having The Not-Having A Job, Job (TNHAJJ). Of course, TNHAJJ is actually a misnomer, because it isn’t actually a job.
So by Friday evening, I’m a wreck. All is lost. All is the emptiness of being. Etc.
But then, after riding my bike down to the UMS through the foggy haze of ennui, my weekend went: The Centennial, Natural Selection, Dust on The Breakers, Nathan and Stephen, The Rouge, Eolian, The Pirate Signal, Air Dubai–plus maybe 13 of those Heinekens that are as big as a small wombat (right)–and everything was suddenly and irrevocably changed.
It was a lot like having twenty five or thirty of your massively talented friends all get invited to play a music festival put on by the Denver Post on South Broadway. And then just completely owning it. Or like those times when your face starts to hurt because you’ve been laughing and smiling so much.
And then, there was our set. Because I was so excited that so many people showed up, I threw my voice at the beginning of it, and by the last song, it was mostly gone. What is incredible is that it didn’t matter, because there were enough people there who knew the words and sang along. Whatever feeling is the opposite of the one I have while elbow-deep in The Worst Job Ever, that is what I felt at that moment. We can define success purely in terms of that phenomenological state.