TRANSCRIBED:
Looks like a long weekend. Rob and I dropped in to see his mom and we had a pleasant chat. The difference in her is like day and night, black and white. She is a real spirited gal, in her own way. Rob showed up wearing blue jeans, so going anywhere was out of the picture.
In addition, things look fairly promising with the part-time job. Not only am I exactly what they’re looking for (i.e. somebody who can do minor repairs). Heh, I can fix the crates they come in. The interviewer turned out to be the company president. And the pay, somewhere between $8.25 per hour and as high as $9.16 if I learn how to fix the machines in detail.
Hey, with the ones I used to own, it is a necessity. As predicted, Heather is putting off the job until the end of February now. I had the lack of sense to drop in to Spunky’s about 2:00 in the morning. It might not be bad under the right circumstances.
[Author’s note: Clearly I was referring to a different job than at the tax office. Eight bucks an hour was good money in 1980. Heather was my roomie for six months, she was an army brat, total alcoholic, and addicted to television. Spunky’s was a late night cabaret. In my younger days, I was an expert dancer and learned to show up late if one wanted to leave early. Know what I mean?]
This is an actual display at the Vancouver Art Gallery on this day, 1980. It's a pile of . . . something.
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