Graves

Over the summer I often attend conventions or inservices that supposedly help me in my day job. Most of the time I find myself drifting to sleep. This last one was actually useful.

It's ironic that people won't throw away a soda can because it won't decompose for 100 years, but they have no problem buying a headstone that lasts just as long.

At just about every one I’ve ever been to, lunchtime is designed as a “get to know each other” exercise. It’s a typical administrative application where they want you to make friends with other employees in order to work harder and longer with no more compensation; for some reason, these conferences employ the same tactics even though I’ll only see these people for the next two days. This past conference was different; we got to leave the premises for an hour. So I went to a graveyard.

This isn’t the first time I ate lunch at a graveyard. In college I used to work at Ghetto Meijer in the photolab (remember when you would take your pictures in to get developed?). Since the only people who worked there were ex-cons, meth-heads, and teenage mothers, I didn’t have a lot of camaraderie when it was time for lunch. So I went to the graveyard across the street.

I felt at Meijer what I felt at the conference: just happy to be outside on a sunny day in a well-landscaped area not dealing with intolerables.

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