Since I'm now working two full-time jobs, there's little time for the fun things in life. Like Diversity Weekends in Eureka Springs. (Poor Yip. Poor, poor Yip.)

Oh, I still have fun in my own way. I just don't get to travel for fun. I'm either at my printing company, or doing shift work at my other job, which sucks. Big time. But I try to have a little fun with it. If I couldn't turn it into some kind of game, I'd end up glassy-eyed and drooling for the entire shift. I daydream a lot too.

For example, my kind of fun at the job involves re-naming all the equipment I work with. I'm responsible for running seven different machines. These machines are referred to by the manufacturer-assigned serial numbers. One machine is number 2936. Another is 2479.

I've renamed them Shirley and Mayetta.

There's also Molly, Helen, Carlotta, Mavis and Evelyn.

I'm not a numbers kind of guy. I much prefer names. Names have a lot more class than numbers. I happen to live on 47th Street, just off of Vermont Avenue. I would MUCH rather live on Vermont Avenue than Street Number 47. 47 has no class. It's just a number. Vermont Avenue has a certain……..je ne sais pas.

So, machine number 2936 is REALLY Shirley. At least as far as I'm concerned.

The maintenance guys, who are responsible for keeping the machines running properly, refer to them by the last two digits of the serial number. Like it's a nickname, or something.
«The argon gas isn't firing properly on '36'!» or, '28' has a broken wafer in station 3!»

What I do with these machines is load them up with what are known as «wafers», but I call them «crackers». Crackers (wafers) are little discs that look sort of like CDs. The wafers run through the machine and get metal applied to them. Sometimes it's titanium, sometimes gold, sometimes aluminum. There are about 8 or 9 different metals and dozens of combinations. After the metal of choice is applied, they come back out of the machine and I send them on to another department in the company. God only knows what happens to them after that. As far as I'm concerned, God can keep that knowledge to Himself. I don't really give a shit what happens to them. I just put in my time and try to maintain some sort of sanity while the machines are doing their metal thing.

The place where the wafers are inserted in the machine is called Station One. I call it The Mouth. You know, crackers…..mouth…..it makes perfect sense to me. The maintenance guys disagree.

«They're WAFERS, Yip, not CRACKERS! This is STATION ONE, not THE MOUTH!»

Last Saturday, 12:00 noon. I'm feeding crackers to Mavis.

A flash of light blinds me temporarily, then I'm standing in Basin Park. The park is jam-packed with people. MY people! Some I recognize from previous visits, most I don't know yet…..and that's okay because they're all friendly and accepting. They don't care what I look like, how I'm dressed, what I do for a living. They're just happy to have me there, being myself. And I'm happy to be there. Everyone is smiling, hugging, kissing. There's a lot of laughter.

Sparky is bouncing, handing out pink cowboy hats. Roger is there – handsome, strapping and healthy. Kim, Dunes and Jan are locked in a witty conversation, using words as only THEY are able to do. 'Reka is pouring frothy drinks for everyone from a gigantic five-story blender. Ma Moon is looking quite fetching in her rainbow boa. Cyber and Ms. Choppe are recording the festivities on film and pictures for posterity. The Bavarian Maiden is slowly gliding through the crowd, smiling, looking beautiful. EVERYONE is looking beautiful. The day is beautiful. The people are happy. Life is good. A strikingly handsome young man approaches me and asks, «Can I kiss you during the PDA?» (I know, I know. But this is MY daydream, damn it!)

Over in one corner of the park is a small group of people who don't look very excited to be there. They're threatened by the happiness around them. They frown a lot. They call themselves Christians, but they're far from Christ-like. They try to use their Bibles as weapons, but it doesn't work. They rant, they rave, they scream and yell their twisted version of Scripture. They're really more to be pitied than blamed. But I DO blame them. They are the cause of a lot of sadness. They are misguided, ignorant fools, and I have no time for them or their screeching. They're best ignored and left to share their own brand of stupidity amongst themselves. The day is too beautiful – the people in the park are too beautiful – to be bothered by these gnats.

Everyone poses for THE PICTURE.

Kisses all around. Hugs everywhere. The park is overflowing with pink hats and rainbow colors.

A 6'4» drag queen named Char D'Onnay walks over to the JEEzuz Bikers and tosses powder in the air over their heads. There's a puff of green smoke and the smell of sulfur fills the air briefly. The bikers melt into the cracks of the sidewalk. («Oh, what a world! What a world!»)

«Wow, Char! Way to go, girl!» I say to her.

«Just goes to show them the power of a drag queen.» she says, dusting off her gloved hands and walking back to the crowd.

People are making plans for the afternoon and evening. There are so many options! Where to have dinner. Where to meet for drinks. Here? There? EVERYWHERE!!

Another flash of light blinds me for a split second. I'm back at my job. My supervisor is shouting, «Yip! Pay attention! '36' has a wafer stuck in station one!»

Shit. Shirley is choking on a cracker.

Oh well. It was a nice daydream. Just too short.

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