The Life of A Blogging Superstar, and A New Job

This past weekend, there was a three-day stretch during which I did not post a single blog, and for that I apologize. I was suffering from blogxhaustion. Sometimes the pressure of blogging every day gets to me. You just can't understand how difficult and, frankly, draining it can be to sit at a computer and type about the events of the day, current trends in ice cream, bingo, newfound interests in rodeo, etc., etc. I HAVE TO WAKE UP BY TEN IN THE MORNING, PEOPLE. I never even nap for more than two hours during the day.

Sometimes people approach me on the street and say, "Hey, retired blog guy, isn't it awesome riding an Escalade limousine everywhere and getting free Dom P on every corner? Can I have your autograph on my chest?" That's nice, but I feel kind of awkward when guys ask that. I usually say no. I'm very polite about it. No, really, blogging isn't all about what you see on MTV and the E! Channel. It's really about sitting down in front of an old Dell laptop and pouring my heart on the World Wide Web (bless Al Gore's heart for inventing this wonderful technology).

One time a small Canadian child with chicken pox walked up to me and said, "RetiredJK, I want to be just like you when I grow up!" Well you can't. You can't just wake up one day and decide to be a blogger. You have to retire first, and then you have to find a computer. So you already have two strikes against you, kid. Plus, you're Canadian.

Some people tell me not to front, that if I was big time I would have platinum grillz, a cross, and rings with my first and last names in diamonds. But I care not for the usual trappings of blog superstardom; my real interest lies in technology. Take, for instance, my diamond-studded optical mouse:

Or, for example, this platinum-plated keyboard that I utilize when I'm on the road:

This is what ballin' is about; my treasure is on the computer, bro.

Anyway, enough about me; let talk about my new job. First of all, it was quite difficult to obtain. I went to the local saloon/dinner theatre/art gallery/restaurant/package store (to buy some art, of course) and talked with the only other person there, who happened to be the owner/manager/artist/bartender at the time. We struck up a conversation and she commented that her usual bartendress had quit while the owner was on vacation. I asked her if she had filled the position yet, as I have always wanted to be a bartender for the experience of it. The conversation that follows is the harrowing story that followed.

Owner: "Do you have any experience?"

RetiredJK: "I've been in several bars. I once watched a bartender work for an hour. I dated a waitress for a couple weeks."

Owner: "Then what kind of qualifications do you have for the job?"

RetiredJK: "Ummm, I can add things in my head really quickly. And I have a doctorate, so I should be able to learn how to bartend."

Owner: "Well, you're pretty much just serving up people's medications in a bar. "

I had never thought of it that way. She asked for my "information" and walked away. I wondered, does she want high school GPA? References? Green Card? I looked at the chef, who was standing next to me, and asked he thought. "I think she means your name, phone number, and address." Relieved, I crossed out my MCAT score and list of scientific publications and simplified things down to the bare essentials. I had crushed the competition. The job was mine.

Sneak Preview of Next Week: YouTube video of JK wrestling a live pig. (This is totally serious.)