Dallas Syndrome

It’s my first day back at work, and shit’s weird, yo.

First, I forgot my keyboard at home, so I’m SwiftKeying my hiney off. That’s shop talk, though, and most people don’t want to see the kitchen. They just want their dinner.

Supposedly because of the new customer shops (it’s a secret shopper, y’all, sorry about the corporate lingo), which begin this Friday, we have to have “clean” nametags and lanyards. After eleven years of bling, I’m going blingless. I’m not sure how a few less pins will save the company, which is in rough shape according to the founder and acting CEO (I’m paraphrasing, but you tell me what “We need to find a magic bullet… we can cut costs but we only can only sustain this for two years,” means), but I’m willing to do whatever it takes short of removing my Industrial Workers of the World pin. It’s still on there and no one has said anything, yet.

Flair: 2006 – 2017, never forget

That said, I’m not about to declare war on this dying beast. I’ve set my sights a little higher. Socialist Gun Club has a ring to it, and this town needs an IWW chapter. Maybe we can combine efforts. Do the Wobblies have a militant wing?

On a personal note, I’ve been in the dumps for the past few days. I caught a terrible case of con blues before the con had even ended because the good times came at such an emotional cost. There’s a thing the people of Japan call “Paris Syndrome,” where they finally visit France and find out it’s not a weird quirky romantic wine-and-cheese noir-film heaven like they thought it would be. The first time they step in dog shit and get cursed by a French chainsmoker they have a breakdown and have to be rushed to the hospital. Substitute the Dallas FanExpo in there and you’ve got my general malaise pinned down.

If I can just make it through today without having a stroke (I have a raging headache, something that hasn’t happened since I’ve been off work, so I sense a correlation) or getting my ass chewed out by the boss, I’ll be back on my way to smooth sailing on Lake Lackadaisical.

Just keep swimming.

Gina and I hung our convention photos in our living room and hall yesterday. After two years of travel, the walls are getting full. I have my family, my memories, my trusty sidearm, and a hard-on for Fully Automated Luxury Gay Space Communism. Who could ask for anything more?

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