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Where Does the Time Go?

T.G.I.F. I've always wanted to say that. And not just because there was a T.G.I. Friday's near my house growing up but my parents would never take us there because the girl next door swears she found a Band-Aid in her hamburger or something. Or maybe it was the other way around. In fact, the more I think about it, it probably didn't even happen at all. From where I'm standing, the T.G.I. Friday's people seem to run a tight ship and have been serving up delicious and affordable meals for your entire family for basically as long as I can remember, so the odds of them dropping a goddamn Band-Aid into one of their dishes aren't exactly greatthe odds of them dropping a goddamn Band-Aid into one of their dishes aren't exactly great. Then again, I've never been there, so I can't really say for sure. Love the sign, though. Someday, someday.

Getting back to that whole T.G.I.F. thing, however, the reason I bring it up is that for the majority of my adult life, I have avoided working in a 9-5 type situation where Friday comes along and there is a reason to get really excited since you totally don't have to show up at that goddamn office the next day. Don't get me wrong — I am not knocking the 9-5 way of life (though, for the record, I do hate it). It's just that I've generally made my way in this world in other, non-9-5 ways that I can't really go into right now because I worry how it could possibly effect the trial. But now, for the first time in a seriously long time, I am finding myself showing up at an office five days a week to write on this television program that I will totally tell you the title of just as soon as someone tells it to me.

To be fair, I actually work 10-6 p.m. every day and usually show up a little late and leave a little early, so I'd still like to think I'm slightly dodging becoming a part of the American work force. Also, this job ends in about two months, and then I will likely return to my sitting-around-in-my-underwear-until-at-least-4 p.m.-every-day ways. But, for now, I am showing up every morning, every weekday, coffee cup in hand and my hair still dripping from the vigorous lather-rinse-repeat I subject myself to most (okay, a couple) days of the week so I might seem slightly more approachable at work. There is a kitchen in the office, and sometimes I will go in there to get a drink of water or more coffee and I will make light chitchat about everything and nothing at all with whoever happens to be in there at the same time. Today, there was a pizza party (you know, cuz it's Friday), and I totally showed up for that and ate some pizza with the other people who work here in this office.

"Pizza!" I said to anyone willing to make eye contact with me at the pizza party.

"Yes," they'd usually reply. "Pizza is good."

"It's SO good," I'd agree, while also upping the ante on things and subtly suggesting I like pizza perhaps just a little more than whoever just said that to me. "I basically rule at eating pizza!"

My point with all of the above, of course, is that now I know what it's like to be glad it's Friday, the weekend is here, and I can get back to hanging out without pants on for a couple daysI know what it's like to be glad it's Friday, the weekend is here, and I can get back to hanging out without pants on for a couple days before I have to start the whole "grind" (word I learned from other people who work in this office as well as other people I have met who have jobs) again on Monday. When I'm up to my usual, non-9-5 tricks, every day is pretty much the same — I get up in the morning (time flexible depending on pills, etc.), hold down the fort as president of Dave Hill International until about six or seven, and then either go do a show of some sort before starting the hammering process and continuing it until the bartender tells me I should probably go home and take a good look at myself in the mirror. In short, I'm living the same dream/nightmare pretty much every day. The weekend only seems special because it means my 9-5 friends can totally hang out with me and show me their babies and stuff, which is great. Sometimes we even get brunch, something I just can't get enough of. So now — as I sign off after this electric week of blogging like the wind for the incredible people of Powell's — I can say to you with both confidence and firsthand experience, T.G.I.F., for I, too, know what it's like to be happy to totally not have to put pants on and show up somewhere reasonably on time tomorrow. Of course, this is all quite bittersweet as well, because, what with it being Friday and all, this is my last post here on the Powell's site. Unless, of course, they let me do it again all next week too, something I am not at all opposed to and would most likely reduce myself to begging about if I didn't think it was going to affect my word count too much.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I've had a nice time blogging here. And I hope you've had a nice time reading my blogging here. Also, I would like to stay at your house sometime. Oh, and buy my book. They sell it at Powell's, which is basically the greatest bookstore of all time, and you can basically ask anyone. So there.

Love,
Dave Hill (from before)

÷ ÷ ÷

Dave Hill is a comedian, writer, retired pedicab driver, rock star, actor, and man-about-town. He has been on HBO, written for the New York Times, starred in his own TV show, contributed to This American Life, and has been in at least five rock bands. Tasteful Nudes is his first book.


Books mentioned in this post



Dave Hill is the author of Tasteful Nudes: And Other Misguided Attempts at Personal Growth and Validation

2 Responses to "Where Does the Time Go?"

  1.  
    Ms Koali June 13th, 2012 at 1:41 am

    Dave ~ Good stuff Maynard.

  2.  
    Brandy June 22nd, 2012 at 5:15 am

    I like it! You can come to my house of you want.

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