Christmas In January

So really, who needs a job when I’ve just begun cataloging my Christmas music collection like a raging autodidact; clad in pajama pants and a white terrycloth robe, playing the role of a man who detests the very notion of financial security. Hell, not only am I cataloging, but I’m removing the hiss from older recordings via audio-editing software, locating original 45rpm cover artwork for reasons unknown, and hunting for year of release. In aggregate, this gives me clearance for OCD bragging rights in the most severe support circles. For whatever it’s worth, my wildest act of "Damn The Man" rebellion has been a carefully groomed goatee, cultivated with a Norelco #3 blade setting, precision trimmer, and beard scissor. When coupled with the robe and checked pants, I’m a 'Pulp Fiction'-era Eric Stoltz, minus the crackwhore girlfriend. “Use the opportunity,” people have encouraged me. “Don’t just sit around. Take a vacation. Take a broadcasting class. Start painting.” If not for concerns regarding my mortgage payment and electric bill, perhaps a weekend in Fiji might clear my head, thanks for the suggestion.

Of course, I’m more inclined to begin a strict bottle recycling plan. Growing up, the “can man,” presumably by some divine act of the Lord, put his kid through college by combing the trash bins of Main Street on a quest for aluminum booty. His weekly take, the perfect thumb in the eye for the hacks at the IRS. In retrospect, I suppose that kid of his got a massive financial aid handout, and thirteen years of bottle deposits scored a new toaster. For the record, guess who’s unemployed, who’s got a job, and who’s still busting his ass for nickels. The poor guy'll be dead before he ever gets that espresso machine. But he's banking coin. I'm not. Game over.