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GLINT


Time marches on: 5.20.05

So there’s an old joke that you become professionally well-versed in what you can’t do in real life. Accountants can’t balance a checkbook, psychiatrists are all crazy, and social scientists are notorious for a complete inability to interact successfully among groups of people. But what about the parking ticket guys? There they all are, prowling around to capitalize on your absentmindedness, your slight miscalculation of timing…What about them? Do they ever let their meters expire? It’s like doctors, I think. Doctors are the other exception. They never get sick.

Perhaps the most frustrating thing ever is the parking ticket given as you breathlessly arrive, key in hand, to move your car. The sense of futility in this is overwhelming. After all, the ticket is being issued because you are in violation of posted parking codes---if you are present to MOVE the vehicle, how does this violation still apply? How??? And that old line about, “Well, once I start writing the ticket, ma’am, I have to issue it,” should go down as the most backassward statement ever. Didja HAVE to start writing it as you looked up and saw me careening down the sidewalk, waving my arms and screaming, “Wait!” How can parking ticket people sleep at night? Really.

And speaking of that ill-fated run. Owee. Pain, I like to say, is a table for one. Meaning that there is no way around the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s you and you alone left with it. Sure, you can complain about it. Sure, you can rack up the sympathy coos. But it doesn’t make it go away. It really doesn’t even make you feel all that hot, because now you just feel complainy and in pain, or pathetic and in pain. No, pain is a solo affair. Sadly, limping happens to be publicly noticeable. I haven’t done a number like this since last summer. Woe.

And it was all for nothing! $35 dollars worth of nothing! I think graffiti would be a nice payback to the great city of Bethesda for this travesty of justice. Ideally, I’d incite a riot and encourage looting, but that’s a lot of work.

And what about this? Maybe feeling “adult” is when you start to hold yourself to the same standards to which you hold your parents. Or could that be vice versa? It is a little on the brutal side, either way.


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