Say my name, bitch

Some mangy bastard stole my nameplate off my office door.  I don’t know what anyone else would do with my name, which IRL is a lot more distinctive than the alias I use here, but then again I work on a college campus and students do lots of things that make no sense to someone in the working world.  I certainly did my share when I was one, and mindless vandalism was a favorite.  Rarely theft, though.

I’m blaming the theft on students because they’re always the easiest target.  But I work on an open campus a short walk from downtown in a large American city and anyone can come strolling through the halls here.  Especially during football season, looking for a back door into the stadium under which my building is housed.  I’m surprised more don’t year-round.

Partially denuded office door

I figure it wasn’t personal, or at least political, or otherwise they would have removed the FCNL antiwar sticker too.  Still: losing that tag burns my ass.  I kept it from my previous job, where everybody had one on their cubicle attached with little pieces of velcro because we were always getting moved around.  Folks here complimented me on such a nice-looking tag and asked where they could get one.  “Go be a slave for G_______ Bank,” I said to end the conversation.

Now all’s left are the velcro strips, twin woolly-bears permanently stranded on the door.  They remind me of a certain record company executive’s eyebrows in the rock and roll novel I just read.  Which somehow makes it a lot worse.