Whistle While We Work

I have established a new rule for blogging. It's possible that this rule applies only to myself, but I hope (for comforts sake) that others find this to be true. From now on I will never mention in one post what the next post will be about. I made that mistake in the last (actual) post, saying that this would be an entry based on the idea of consumerism/commercialism. At the time I had things to say, passions to exude about what I saw then as the devils of capitalism and the adverse effect it has on poor bastards like myself. I could have ranted (hopefully coherently) for some time and could have made relevant points that would have further cemented my image as a fighter for good. Had I possessed the ability that night, all that would have been said.

To be honest, I'm kind of glad I didn't post then.

You see, at the time I had just come back from this outdoor underground (seems contradictory, I know) hip hop festival. As a totally independent festival, I had high hopes for the community it would build, and for the most part I was a part of what I had expected. Musically the show was real, honest, and interpersonal. It was an experience. My complaint was, since this concert was scheduled to begin at 11 am and last until about 9 pm, food was going to be an issue. They brought in vendors, something I had expected, but I didn't think the prevailing overcharging of edibles would make it into this place. I mean, the concert tickets were kept cheap, the mood was focused on the music and away from financial gain. Sure, artists had merch booths to put a little more bread on their tables, but shirts were kept to a minimal price and free mix cds and demos were handed out to anyone willing and eager enough to catch them. So why was the food so outrageously expensive?

First off, they went the ticket route. Ten tickets cost five dollars. I despise the ticket system, as it always causes you to purchase more tickets than you need for any given product (except a glass of lemonade which, no joking here, cost a full ten tickets or five american dollars). Burgers were going for around eight tickets, as were bottles of water. This leaves each customer with two excess tickets per purchase, also known as a full dollar. Now for the college students like myself (who seemingly made up a very large portion of the crowd), money isn't something we can throw on a couple spare slips of paper. And you all know damn well that nothing in any of the tents was available for the price of two measly tickets.

Honestly, I could go on for days listing why I hate the devils of money, but most of it would be based on the fact that, currently, I have none of these devils to play with. Which is why I got a job.

I had my first solo day of work a few days ago. For six hours I was stranded at a kiddie ride with no one to take the fall for me should one of these children be inexplicably hurled from their car into a plastic tree, or god forbid, the waiting hands of a lurking pedophile. The pressure is now on me.

Shockingly, part of my job requires me to watch the children throughout the entire ride cycle. (I've been told that it's rude to use on the job lingo in conversations with those outside of my field of practice, but I'm certain you can follow me here.) As I stand there, I'm met with something I had to expect. Little kids and parents alike screaming and smiling and enjoying the youth that bright lights and the ever present scent of cotton candy and sounds of shrieking can bring.

When I first applied to work at a theme park, I did a little thinking. Did I really want to work in a place that constructs it's prices by multiplying the highest possible amount of money one could understandably spend on thrill by four, then adding expiration dates? Would I still be okay with myself knowing that I was working for something like that? Usually I would say no, but the job situation in the Twin Cities is less than favorable with the current economy, and I need to fund my collegiate studies. So I swallowed my morals and applied, only to actually be hired about a week later. I was, in every possible way, a sell out.

But I noticed something a couple days ago. These kids are experiencing something important. Joy.

This country's in a scary place right now, you don't need me to tell you that. We are just beginning one hell of a recession, we're smack dab in the middle of multiple wars without any plausible exit strategies, we're growing up in a culture of fear and violence and materialism. The term family values is no almost synonymous with gated community. It's nothing short of terrifying.

But where I work, these kids don't have to deal with that. For a few hours they can let go and run around this pastel colored place, gab tooth grins proudly displayed, and laugh and scream and throw their hands in the air and actually have fun.

It's interesting that the standard verb for fun isn't experience, but have. It's possessive. Children can have fun, can own their own enjoyment, can keep it. It's theirs to take with them.

So while I do wish that the prices for my place of employment would drop to allow those of any social status to experience, I do see something noble in what they offer. The distraction that we need every once and a while.

I can respect that.