duck-shaped pain

They have two bass players � something which comes a little too close to being gimmicky sometimes, but it manages to work out most of the time. They at least figured out the proper role for both basses: the first one does a bass would do in a normal band and the second provides nothing but sheer menace. No wonder I got to work so fast.

The problem with working in such a small office is that my job is rarely confined to my job description (whatever that is � I never received one). When asked what it is that I do at my job, all I can usually think of is "Whatever needs to be done." (During especially depressing/irritating times, this turns into "Whatever they tell me to do.") This still didn't prepare me for what I did at work today:

I hunted woodpeckers.

I didn't hunt hunt them � there was no shooting involved, no bloodlust, no woodpecker corpses, nothing to stuff, nothing to eat.

My employer's house has been inundated by woodpeckers lately (or maybe, since the house is not made out of wood, they could be referred to as stuccopeckers). They bore little holes into his walls, crack the stucco, and make a hellish racket. It's not the first battle between him and the woodpeckers � they first started showing up when the house was being built, and they keep coming back every fall to wreak incessantly pecking havoc on us all.

So, he got out his enormous wood rubber-band gun and sent us all out to watch for woodpeckers. Shifts were taken, but I spent most of my workday standing outside in the dirt, wooden rifle in hand, looking to get mean and nasty with some woodpeckers. At least I'll get paid to do it � which is only slight compensation for the fact that I felt like a big idiot standing out there.

After work, I went to our extremely lame-ass local chain store, the one which has interesting cheap things once in a rare while. I was hoping to get lucky � I was also hoping to find some CDs to buy. I know I haven't listened to the ones I bought last week yet, but that's a not a good enough incentive for me to stop.

When I feel satisfied with life, I buy books � when I get discontented and squirrelly, I buy CDs. That's a vast oversimplification in some ways, but you get the point. I'm not sure if it's because I can't sit still or focus enough on reading when I'm feeling restless, or if I'm subconsciously searching for a soundtrack to go with that enormous sucking feeling.

So, anyway, because I've been needing another copy for a while (part of the Giant CD Catalog Restoration Project of 2000 � I sold or lost my original one [1] ), and also because it was there and seemed appropriate for right now, [2] I bought a new CD of Songs About Fucking. I am happy once again. At least I only got a mild raised eyebrow when I bought it this time. Last time, this is the exchange that occurred:

ME: I'd like to buy this.

OVERLY HIP RECORD STORE CLERK: You're a chick. Chicks want to own this? (puzzled look, obvious mental processing occurs. For her boyfriend? A mistake? Better steer her towards the Tori instead�.)

Hmph.

[1] The latter being more likelier than the former � I can't remember selling it, wanting to sell it, or driving it down to the CD store. Then again, I might have been sort of impaired at the time�.

[2] See comment re: pummeling, first paragraph.

Super-exciting post-footnote bonus: I was going through some stuff last week and found the only decent picture (read: picture I actually like) of me extant. So if you're really, truly, incredibly interested, here it is. It's big, sorry. It's taken in my old Portland apartment. I have brown hair now. I have TWO of those lamps, believe it or not. There is something behind me - my head is not shaped like that, I assure you.

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