STEPH DEROSA: MOD-DECO PEEING >>>

Last week I had the privilege of attending Wintergrass 2008 in the Hotel Murano. I was able to soak in the beautiful artwork, and all the fancy-schmancy renovations that were so badly needed in the old Sheraton Tacoma Hotel. Can you guess what major re-do was my favorite? Easy answer: The restrooms. From the small tiled walls to the blue bowl sinks to the art-encompassing chocolate brown backgrounds, these restrooms screamed mod-deco.

But of course, my mind wandered as I sat upon the shiny new Hotel Murano potty thrones. It wandered back to my short-lived career as a restaurant supervisor at the old Sheraton Tacoma Hotel in 1999. Then my mind wandered to all of the jobs I've encountered, or should I say have encountered me. I've had just about every job in the United States. OK, maybe just every job in Texas. OK, fine, every job that a graduate of a small Texas no-name party college could have. I've even been a pizza delivery person.

Look, not that there's anything wrong with being a pizza delivery person, (God knows we all can appreciate someone bringing you a round and cheesy cardiac arrest at midnight), but leave it to me to degrade myself just a little bit more¬" I actually delivered them on a bike. I delivered them right onto the campus of Texas A&M. Ugh.

I would strategically time when exactly I would be riding the pizza express bike across campus, so as not to run into any ridicule from students.

Hey you on the bike! That's my pizza! 
Hey girl! Ride that pizza-mobile over this way!
Hey pizza girl! Vote for George Bush!

You get the point. They were all morons. The mocking hurt, and it definitely wasn't good for my ego.

Aside from the ridicule, there were the logistics. Think about it, you're riding a bike with a pizza. Where the hell do you put the pizza on a bike? You tied that damned thing to the back of your bike¬" where there was a pizza basket. Yeah, that's right, you heard me. A fucking pizza basket. It really couldn't get any worse. Maybe if they made me deliver on a pink moped embellished with red flames on the side. That maybe would've been more humiliating. Maybe.

So although the bike riding expedited the pizza delivery, and even if you rode fast enough to dodge the humiliation, you still had to walk the pizza into the building. Imagine this: Walking a pizza through college classroom buildings and dormitories in a red Pizza Hut shirt. I recited my mantra repeatedly in my head as I wandered those scholastic hallways,Someone please, kill me now. My worst nightmare was to run into someone I knew.Oh, hey Steph! Whatcha doin¦ *looks at pizza*¬Â¦ oh. You're delivering pizza? Didn't you finish college? What happened with that?

How do you answer a question like that? I was constantly reminded that I was, in fact, living in Satan's petri dish. They would say something like,Oh yeah, I'm working toward my masters in Ecology and Steve and I are engaged to be married next fall.Listening to this, I would want to stab myself in the ear with a fork. Damned bitches.

So as I finished up my very modern potty break in the very modern Hotel Murano restroom, I remind myself how I'm quite lucky to be where I am now. I've paid my dues with some shitty jobs, but now I have my favorite job ever. I get to watch some amazing bands, trot around town, write down my rants and obsessions, and these suckers at the Weekly Volcano actually pay me for it. Now if I could only field the late night phone calls from Matt Driscoll trying to order a deep-dish from me. Jerk.