Under the hypnotic and groovy influence of disco

Labor Day thankfully passed without incident. By 'incident' I mean, no car accidents, 4am hospital visits, dramatics, or expensive pyrotechnic displays. And by 'passed', I mean productivity ran rampant. I had ample chances to sleep in, skate, watch trashy television, ride, and load up on fish sticks, tator tots, and frozen waffles. Perhaps the reason I'm so picky in where I want to work and how I want to work there, is based partially on my distorted view of how 'productivity' is to be defined. I'm not sure how the rest of the world decided what productivity was supposed to mean, but if it has nothing to do with sugary cereal, Guitar Hero benders, or throwing rotten fruit off the overpass, then I'll have nothing to do with it. "Yes, hello Burger King--I understand you're willing to offer me 7.50 an hour? Yes...I have a degree in language...oh, only 7.75? I see...Well without paid weekends and quad stacker bonuses, I'm afraid I'll have to keep looking..."
And so the job search continues. I'm in a bit of a race--that is, a race to find something palatable faster than Dr. K's gleeful decision to tie down the rest of my life as an intercultural 9-5 samurai bitch in some unknown J-company. A slow death if I ever saw one.

Speaking of J trains, they're still here. So here's another random picture of our exploits. Dodgeball night and not a single ass was reamed. We were apparently spared by forces unseen. We went on to their hotel for a movie party where root beer floats, sour patch kids, and car Ramrod reigned supreme.

Under the Influence of Giants are proof that as retarded as disco may have been, it doesn't have to suck ass anymore. Thank you John Travolta--you're officially out of date. Your goofy dance floor antics and butt-chin will no longer be needed.