Man, I bet he wishes the Delorean hadn’t been hit by a train at the end of the third movie.

Throughout life, we all go through various stages. Be they natural human progressions like learning to walk or professional progressions like landing that big job with the fancy corner office, these stages are extremely relevant to one simple thing – parking. And while the type of parking varies as life plunges on, the issue always remains the same. Each one of us yearns for that parking space we don’t have currently.

I realize that this idea is just a matter of the grass being greener on the other side, but it’s quite telling to see how this simple science of temporary spatial occupation evolves as we grow.

When you’re little, you can’t walk. For whatever reason, the good Lord didn’t bless us with thunder thighs out of the womb, so we must acquiesce to the whims of our parents and park ourselves wherever they see fit. This is all well and good until you figure out that there is more to this world than the juvenile jail of your crib. You want a new parking space – a better space to your liking, perhaps with a view of WGN and Bozo the Clown and 24 hour security in the form of your favorite blanket.

Then, you grow to be a child of school going age. You’re driven to school every day until you see the sweet parking space the fifth graders have for their bikes. You want that freedom. And wouldn’t you know it, you are given the chance at a new parking space when your folks deem you old enough. Sure, it’s a bit cramped, but when you can ride your bicycle to school yourself, who cares? You have your own parking space which says that you are older and more mature.

However, these faux parking spaces, as necessary and wonderful as they may be can never compare to the thrill of having an actual parking space for, you know, an automobile. And to consolidate the boundless task of describing the individual steps that lead to the pinnacle of parking satisfaction, I will summarize every man’s professional goal in life: Like The Jeffersons, move on up.

You spend your entire working life climbing the ladder, jumping through the hoops, and moving ever-so-closer to the prized parking space right in front of the building. It goes like this until, through your immeasurable hard work and dedication, you can finally pull into that space in the morning without fear of crossing an executive type or incurring a fine from the Parking Gods whose power is matched only by the mighty Zeus or Athena.

But what then?

You get tired; you slow down.

You slow down all the way to the point where you look back on your lifelong journey from parking garage to parking garage, from meter to meter, and you suddenly ask yourself why you did it.

Was it for the fame? Was it for the glory? Was it for the money? No, it was only for that one parking space.

Maybe I should start riding the bus.

Who wants to see Jimmy Buffett dancing in a tutu? I think everyone does.

Well, apparently the battle continues, though the chairs are gaining a stiff edge on me in my old age. Yesterday, as the FSPA Director was talking to me in the office, I only managed to simultaneously rip off two pieces of plastic from our newest computer chair. And, you know, since the chair belongs to work I’m kind of obligated to fix it.

You may have won the battle, chair, but not the war.

I’d like to tell a little story of a fun excursion I had just the other day. As you know from the Great Dress Fiasco of 2007, my pastor is a woman. As such, she sometimes has to solicit the assistance of other folks as she goes about her papal business. Last Friday was one of these days.

I was so looking forward to shipping the little troublemakers out with their parents at 3:00, but I had no idea about the fun I was about to have. At about 2:45, I was approached by this woman of God. She asked if I would accompany her on a Godly mission to pick up a man and take him to the doctor. Naturally, I said yes because in this day and age it’s never a good idea to send a woman out in a cruel world of vicious predators.

The guy we had to pick up was located at the local Motel 6. He said he had come from LA and called our church because he belongs to Hollywood Christian, a church of the same denomination as mine. He traveled down by train to visit his family in Palm Beach, and hitchhiked to Clearwater from there. He needed a prescription from the doctor to keep him alive on the trek back. Oh, did I mention that he was gay and had AIDS? Yeah, that was sort of awkward.

We went downtown to the only doctor that would see him. The office was a little mobile home shack in the middle of the ghetto, filled with gangstas and whatnot. Anyhow, long story short, our AIDS-ridden friend was addicted to narcotics and wanted some drugs. I guess this makes me an accessory?

However, last Tuesday, I woke up feeling absolutely drained. I was fatigued and sort of nauseous, but I went along with my day and these symptoms wore off. I figured that I had dodged the bullet, but I was wrong. The next three days were a living hell.

It literally hurt to move any muscle on my body. It’s like I was laid out on one of those medieval torture tables and stretched until the muscles on my appendages were just lifeless masses of jelly. I had a fever and, much to my chagrin, there wasn’t one aspirin in the house.

Now, some might say that I have the flu. My theory is way more fun.

I’ve been watching the History and Discovery Channels lately, and they tell me that people who are possessed by demons have a history of waking up completely worn out and bruised, as if they were literally fighting with their demons while they slumber. Is it any coincidence that for the past week, I have been having non stop dreams about my new arch nemesis, soda pop? I’m not saying that I am possessed by the ghost of John Pemberton or anything, but it certainly would explain a lot.

Yesterday, I had to unplug my lava lamp to make way for a real lamp. A guy’s gotta study for exams, after all, and a dim red cylinder with bubbles of effluvious goo just isn’t going to cut it.

That said, though, I really, really miss the lamp. It sits on my desk as I type, a skeleton of its former self. While a lava lamp isn’t by any means a beacon of luminosity, it says something about the person who owns it. I don’t know, maybe I’m just insecure.

That said, goodbye, traditional lamp. I’m plugging in my lava lamp again.

So, there you have it. If you find any navigational problems with the new layout, shoot me an email.