Something In The Way She Moves

It happened – I gave my boss my notice. And as guilt-inducing as that was (see here for another example of how bad I am at telling people I Quit), I survived crying in a bathroom stall and emerged on the other side, a human being about to be unemployed and on the road, sans health insurance and care. Once again I’m filled with the complete Don’t Give A Fuckitude of purest freedom. Word has got around the office.

Me everyday at work, until February 27th

The inevitable reaction by every coworker of mine to the announcement that I’m moving to Austin next month is as follows:

Response One: “Wow! So do you have a job lined up?”

Answer: Nope! Pre-move job searches are for pussies, sir.

Here we have encountered a problematic mid-American assumption. Everyone in this neck of the woods worships at the altar of Stability. Stability is not a virtue, it’s a condition and a contagion. It’s the state of having your balls removed. Symptoms include total paralysis..

Read this book and tell me you aren’t terrified of suburban malaise too

I know how much work change is, how it requires constantly deluding yourself about grass being greener and adopting an optimism you don’t normally possess. Why do I need a job before I go to that place I want to go to? I don’t! Will a gap in my resume render me unemployable, dooming me to a life of cheap prostitution and eventual death by sex crime? Sure won’t! Will moving to Austin put me closer to the music, beer, art and people I want to surround myself with? It will! Will that content me? I’m willing to roll the dice. The lure of Stability is strong, and I can’t lie and say that I never worry about careers or retirement plans or owning a pair of jeans that cost more than $20. Choosing not to do something that might, MIGHT make you happy because you don’t want to try? That’s some bullshit laziness, that is.

Response Two: Coworker looks wistfully to the sky and sighs, “Ah, well you can do that. You’re young!”

Why so many wists? For what are you wisting? You’re 35, Tim! You aren’t old, and I’m not young, and you’re not a tree, move where you want to, son! Take advantage of those god-given appendages and follow the warm gulf stream winds of your desire that whisper, “…southbysouthwest…..southbysouthwest….” in time with your heartbeat.

This whole Do Things While Your Young initiative is ridiculous, and also goes back to the stability issue. It implies that you’re making a mistake you’ll need years to financially and professionally recover from. It forgives you your ignorance, while ringing with longing. The speaker of this sentiment once came upon the same roads diverging in a yellow wood that I’m pondering now, and they, sorry they could not travel both, settled for the one that was not Interstate 35, South. No shame in that, though this route just happens to lead to beardy men, food trucks, patio day drinking and rocknroll music. Or, heaven.

Is this the last stop the Erin train will ever make? Unlikely. But it’s a new one, and that’s all I’m looking for. Quit your jobs and join me. Margaritas for everyone.

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Great American BeerFuck

“So it’s a beer festival and there are rows and rows and miles and miles of tables flowing golden delicious beer. All the breweries just line up to supply you with all the sweet nectar you desire. We wandered down the first row and got a taste from every last table. And the people, they walk around with hats overflowing with snacks and the finest necklaces made of crunchy pretzel to keep from getting too drunk. And by the end of just the first row, we were so wonderfully inebriated we had to stop for the night and go get a coffee to sober up to get home!”

That’s what my friend Tim told me about the Great American Beer Festival that I had just missed when I arrived back in the States last year (slightly embellished).

Hundreds of breweries. Thousands of beers. Endless tastes. Food accessories. All right here in Denver! If only I didn’t have to wait 11.5 months…

Fast-forward 9 months, and Erin and I did exactly what you would expect us to do: Circled October 13th on our calendars and planned a beautiful beer-soaked rendezvous.

Erin bought her flight here in July and August 2nd we hunkered down at our computers to buy $65 tickets the day they went on sale. WOOOOOO! BEEEEEERFESSSST!!!!!!! PARTAAAYYYY!!!!!! YEEEEEEEEEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And then this happened:

10:07 am

Megan: so what is going on?! did you get tix? i’m seeing tweets about it selling out. wtf is going on dude

Erin: oh shit!

Megan: gahhhhhhhh the site is being so slow!!! maybe it’s the members only part that’s selling out. okay. okay. it’s okay.

Erin: aw shit, i can’t seem to get any tix for saturday

Megan: DUDE. dude dude dude.

Erin: is it sold out? i can’t get ANYTHING. let’s try friday.  i can change my flight

Megan: beer fest sells out in 25 minutes all weekend? yeah right. i am not buying any of this

Erin: bluuuuuuuuuuuurgh. booooooooooo

Megan: i am convinced this is a ticketmaster error or something, i feel like i would’ve heard a lot more about this festival if it was going to sell out in 20 minutes

Erin: i’m so sad right now

Erin: so stub hub has some for a billion dollars

Megan: $145?!?!

Erin: and upwards. who could have foreseen that these were going to sell out like that???

Megan: no one!!!!! last year it took 10 TEN days. fuck stab

Surprise. Confusion. Disbelief. Horror. Disappointment. Rage. Emotions ran the gamut that day. There was much speculation regarding exactly how and why the tickets sold out so fast. Personally, I blame the evil, wicked institution that is StubHub. Currently, there are over 200 tickets still on sale for three times their value. I won’t get into my conspiracy theory regarding modern ticketing practices and the role of StubHub in them because just thinking about it makes me want to throw an epic temper tantrum, complete with fist-shaking, foot-stomping and insufferable shrieking.

And now the Great American Beer Festival weekend is upon us. Erin is still coming to Denver. But instead of enjoying dozens of delicious, hoppy concoctions with like-minded beer friends, we will sit sadly alone at my house. Without rows of new brews. Without pretzel jewelry. Without hope.

Pity us.