Have at You, "The Man."

So I've got this friend. He's long been a fan of all kinds of music I judged harshly as being the front lines on the wrong side of the musical battle of good vs. evil. For regular readers, I considered all of the bands he liked heavy metal. Well apparently, like he's been saying for some years now, I am totally wrong on this count. Last night I willingly searched for specific songs on YouTube that were stuck in my head by three such bands (read: bastions of wickedness). Not only did I seek these songs out intentionally, but I did so mindfully with intent to enjoy them. Now either I have fallen far, or I have been wrong all these years, and those bands make pretty music. I just don't know what to believe. Friends, right?

I was certain, I tell you certain that I saw the president of my university playing foosball in my apartment complex yesterday in the common area. First of all, a "common" area is neither fit nor becoming for one with so exalted a station as he; secondly, foosball, sir? I do declare. Never liked that game much. Granted, when I say I was certain, I tell you certain, I do so without any of the willingness to defend my position that the word implies. As a matter of fact I am certain it wasn't him. But, you know. Blog fodder. You gotta do what you gotta do.

The other day I fought the system and won. I regularly stay at my friend's apartment and park in the two-hour visitor parking spots. I thought I had a solid strategy to avoid the local parking Gestapo's wrath, with regard to getting tickets or fees or boots: obey all signs. Turns out they're not so big into that, as in the last month or so I have gotten no less than three boots. (I'm not saying I didn't have more, but I didn't have less. No, I didn't have more. Three it was. You guys got me.) I mean, I even set an alarm on my phone a little before two hours are up to go move it to a different spot, which they have told me is allowed. Very kind of them.

Well I got a boot. Normally the guy who comes to take it off says that he doesn't have anything to do with anything but taking it off, so I just started complaining a bit and explaining my situation. He took out his camera they use to take photos every two hours, apparently, and I showed him that I was in two different spots. He politely agreed and just went ahead and took that bad boy right off.

That's called fighting the system, folks. Politely accepting your fate, lightly commiserating with fellow bureaucracy cogs about the status quo, and then watching them reveal more authority than you knew they had in order to reward you for being mildly upset. It's the way of the world. He was a nice guy, and if he hadn't ended up being able to fix it, I would have felt bad later about complaining to somebody who couldn't do anything about it. But, I didn't, and I'm kind of glad about this? Listen. Don't moralize this story. It's kind of not so easy to do.

I notice I've made a habit of hitting about five paragraphs and stopping, so this bonus mini-paragraph is just to reset the status quo. It's the equivalent of a page that reads, "This page intentionally left blank." Move along, move along.