The Finish Line

I made it.

The Score

13 Days
7 Schools
7 Applications
$600 +

Is There Even Such a Thing Broccoli and Bean Cassarole? I've never had.

At this rate my blog will soon be a sorry scattering of sporadic mea culpas. I'm busy. Very busy. Too busy to fix my broken computer. Too busy to organize my sock drawer. Too busy to read lengthy books, and too busy to think about writing for this.

In about a month I want to be done applying to MFA programs. My professor's fallen through, so I am relying solely on my own skill, wit, and taste to prepare my portfolio. This has meant long hours in dim lighting, sipping tea, blowing through my fingers to keep warm, and listening to music. I'm convinced its the most pleasure a person can experience alone without the aid of explosives and/or liquor.

(Note to anyone from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives: Just kidding! The most explosive thing I've ever messed with is broccoli and bean casserole, and I'd never dream of handling it while under the influence of alcohol! Like Nancy said, just say no!)

What Better Way to Start the Day?

What better way to start the day than with someone else's drama? Thankfully, we have off-street parking for two cars (four and a motorcycle if you're creative/stupid). To get to this parking, however, one must drive up a one lane alley that is often beset with, depending on the time of day, children on their big wheels and scooters, kids playing football after school, 10-15 guys just hanging out who take an uncomfortably long time to part, only  leave you five inches on either side of your car to pass, and delivery trucks or double parked cars that leave you about an inch of clearance.

This morning, the Mistress and I had to leave for work at the same time, so she offered to drop me off. Unfortunately, we were parked in by a large black pickup truck, pulled right up along our driveway. The driver was a middle aged man, who had just walked across the street and knocked on someone's door. 

Now, I never know what to do in these instances. My instinct is to say something, like "hey, you parked me in, you inconsiderate fuck", but realistically, they know what they did. They see me coming, and so I usually wait passive in my car until they move, which they've always done.

So we get in the car as Truck Guy and Answered The Door guy start talking. Suddenly, it sounds as if Answered The Door guy is yelling, and I think I hear "C'mon man, I got kids." Truck Guy is ignoring him as he walks around to enter his truck. I'm looking over my shoulder at this point and I see Answered The Door guy holding his hand out and yelling "whoa whoa whoa" as Truck Guy starts angrily pulling out, only to get sideswiped by Kid Passing The Road Blocking Truck Guy's Truck. 

And there we were, still waiting to pull out. Awkward!

Gotta Keep 'em Educated

Don't know what the hell's going on with the economy? Know that subprime hoosie-whatsits screwed everything up but don't really understand how? This American Life put two programs: on one months ago about subprime lending, how it came to be the next big thing, and where it got us; the other about the current financial crisis. Both are amazingly informative, and if you've got a couple of hours to sit and listen, by god, do it.
This American Life: The Giant Pool of Money
This American Life: Another Frightening Show About the Economy

And, as far as politics go, David Brooks wrote an amazing piece on the movement conservatism has made towards anti-intellectualism. I understand that there is more than one way to govern a nation, and it is important that we draw on these different perspectives to figure out what's best for our country, but as long as I've been an adult I've only seen our nation divided into polar opposites. There is no way this is healthy for our culture. I've often wondered how we could truly all be so bitterly divided, and this article helped me understand the politics of this division. It was a wonderful, a-ha moment for me.
The Class War Before Palin

Oh, and By the Way

The Mistress moved in about, oh, two weeks ago. She brings with her Katia, age 18

and Nova, age 10

And this, here, is the door we to put up to keep them all separated after Nova got a piece of Starbuck's nose.

They're both okay, but we're clearly going to have to do this the hard way.

Oh, Bother

I've tried my best to keep politics out of my blog here, and it's been easy, because I've been keeping everything out recently. But I can't stands no more.

Tonight is the Vice Presidential Debate, the face off between Joe "Can't Remember the Facts so I'll Make 'em Up" Biden, and Sarah "I Don't Know What The Hell I'm Talking Aboot, but I Sure am Saucy, Yeah?" Palin. Never before have two Vice Presidential Candidates with such horrible nick names faced off.

Excerpts from Palin's interviews have been floating around the web, and watching them gives my brain a mighty hurt.


Watch CBS Videos Online

Translation: What I said is kinda mooseshit, but I'm trying to make it sound as good as I can.

See, these videos piss me off, and I'll tell you why.


Watch CBS Videos Online

Translation: I don't know of any, but boy if I'm not sure there probably are some.

It's obvious she doesn't know what she's talking about. I know, I've seen this before.



Translation: I don't read any papers, now lay off ya liberal harpy.

Think about it: you have too. She sounds like she's giving a oral report on a book she hasn't read. Remember those? Some given by kids who obviously didn't read the book, others given by kids who did but they obviously didn't engage any of the material? For the most part, they're just fun to watch. Like a train wreck. But what burns me is there were always those couple of kids who were charismatic enough that the teacher, maybe thinking "oh, well they're a good kid, they obviously tried", gave them a decent grade.

If this vapid talking head skates by on her easygoing folksiness, it'll confirm everything I learned back in those homeroom days: it doesn't matter how good you are, or how much work you do, so long as you can pour it on.



(Also, hey CBS. Your fall lineup looks like crap. That "details guy solving crimes" show is the only one that remotely interests me, but the poor lead you put in is about as captivating as a roll of soggy paper towels. Seriously, that's the best you could find? Also, I tried to link to your videos, honoring their source, but I just couldn't find the newspaper comment. You should know what's up, that your clip is storming the internet, and change the keyword search accordingly, so that when I type "palin newspaper", OH MY GOD, LOOK AT IT THERE FIRST ON THE LIST. SO THIS IS WHAT THE INTERNET'S ALL ABOUT? MY GOD, IT'S FULL OF STARS!
Fail, sirs, fail.)

Past Me Would Be Dissapointed With Future Me

When I was a kid, I was a stickler for proper pronunciation when it came to labels. I think most kids are, especially when it comes to TV shows, comic book titles, characters and the like. They're cobbling together their identity and making sense of the world one Trademarked name at a time. So yes, generic middle class white mom from 1990, when you offered to buy your kid one of those "Teenage Radioactive Turtle Guys", you were totally being stupid. I remember, as a teen, when the latest grocery store Insalacos came to town, rolling my eyes at a certain family member every time they mispronounced the name of the newest grocery store as Insalados. How could she have been so naive? I swear.

If you've read any of the previous fifty posts here, you know that this story is a build up to something. I'm pretty formulaic. Well, here it is:

You know that Large Hadron Collider? The one that's supposed to end our planet's existence, or perhaps tell us more about how we exist? Chalk it up to skimming instead of careful reading, but for the past month, without blinking, I've been calling it the Large Hardon Collector.

I kid you not.

And, only after about 3 weeks of this, did it first make me snicker.

Poor performance, sir.

Fall

It's nights again.  2-11 again.  It's only been a week, but it already feels as if it's been a year.  I haven't had time to read.  I haven't had time to search for schools.  I've been focusing only on getting various parts of the house in practical functioning.  There is more than too much to do at work, and I feel overwhelmed.  It's all I can do not to let thoughts of unfinished business creep into my home time.  Especially at night, as I try to sleep.  Or first thing in the morning, when I want to plan my day. 

Even at home there's no peace, and I suspect there will be little for some time, as every task feels immediate, urgent, and just barely manageable.  I feel tired, run down, and it's the first week of the semester.  The only thing worse than the chaos is knowing it's not going to end for a long time.

What I miss most though is coming home from work, popping open a Corona, and cooking.  I think it was the best part of summer.  Cooking dinner foods first thing in the morning somehow lacks appeal, and I haven't sunk low enough to start drinking at 10am.

Lend Me your Lamb's Ear

D.M.H. and I spent the past three days or so at the Jersey Shore with my family, and for most of the time I was either drunk or hungover. It was wonderful. I didn't want to come back, and there were a few moments today where I could swear I felt some food poisoning coming on.

Back at home, I was just about to leave for D.M.H.'s place when I remembered I ought to water the garden. I've got a tomato plant with four small 'maters and three pepper plants with the tiniest of buds starting. The fence was as far as I got before I heard a "hey" from behind the neighbor's flower garden. Mrs. Fussnpuss said "I have a question I want to ask you" as she slowly made her way over.

"How are your plants doing up here? Not so good, huh?" She pointed to the three flowers and the Lamb's Ear that I'd planted. The Lamb's Ear's taken off, expanding to fill the space I'd given it. The flowers on the other hand aren't doing so hot. They started off well, but I think a quick thunderstorm we had a couple weeks ago had left them wet, and the sunshine that followed burned the leafs. That's my theory anyway, because one day the leafs were a healthy dark green, the next they were spotted and brown, seemingly instantaneous, and they haven't recovered since.

"Yeah, I don't know what happened to the flowers."
"What are they supposed to be?"
"I'm not sure. They were doing well but something's gotten to them."
"Yeah, they don't look to good. I see you've got some Lamb's Ear growing there."
"Yep, that's doing well."
"Well, I wanted to ask you. I used to have Lamb's Ear over there." She pointed to a planter where there's a tree planted, along with some bushes and flowers. "But it disappeared and now I see it's over there now in your yard. I was wondering if I could plant it over here."
"I found it in the yard, here." I pointed to a spot near my foot, which happened to be the exact spot I'd found it. It's an easy find, since the grass never grew over the naked dirt I left when I dug up the two spots of Lamb's Ear my Mother casually pointed out to me one, mentioning I should dig it up before it got mowed.
"I was wondering if I could have some of it back so I could plant it over here."
I kneeled down and desperatly parted the grass over the bald spot, hoping the scar, when combined with my explanation, would be proof enough. "No, I dug it up here. It was growing right he..."
"No, no, no. It was over here in my yard. Maybe it blew over or something. Anyway, could I have it to plant back over here?"

I relented. What could I do? "Sure you could. Help yourself."
She bent over, picking up a tray and a shovel, which she passed over to me. "No, could you dig it up?"

So I did. I dug up all the Lamb's Ear. I helped her load it up on her tray, and I even straightened her shovel for her. While I dug, ripping up he roots, I was pissed at having been accused of something I didn't do, knowing that nothing I said would convince her otherwise. Later, on the road, I had to laugh, anticipating the enjoyment I would get in telling my story. Now that I've written it out though, I'm not so jovial about it anymore. At the time I told myself that I was just being kind, because really, why make life any harder for her? Why add stress to her days, knowing that they're relatively close to her last. I felt as if I were doing her a favor by being so easy going. What I realize now that is the that it didn't matter who was on the other side of the fence, I would have given my Lamb's Ear up anyhow. Little old lady or not.

It doesn't matter that it was my favorite, that I was so proud I'd rescued it from the yard, that it made me think of my mother, or that I rooted it on as it spread, tripling in size, to fill the area beside my porch step with felty green. I gave it up because I still haven't learned when and how to stand up for myself in those moments when I'm caught off guard. I don't handle these situations any better than I did in the third grade. I'd still rather acquiesce than risk being the bad guy or being in the wrong. The only difference is that I don't pout as much afterwards. And, at least until my mind gets washed over with new preoccupations, I'm going to be reminded of these facts every time I step over that fertile brown crater on my way in and out of my house.

Waste of Human Resources

Last night I ate broccoli.  Lots of it.  Raw.  And, for whatever reason, broccoli gives me lots of gas.  It started in volume last night, but had not developed its own aroma.  This morning, however, I awoke to a stern brew.  It was intense.  Dark roast.  The shame is I have to hold it because I'll be in my office all day, and it seems every time I know I've let out a stinker, someone pops in for something.  Even though I'm leaving, I still don't need folks to realize that I'm a disgusting individual they shouldn't associate with.

I discover that in my sleepy haste I've left some questions unanswered that inquiring minds (hi Aunt Laurie!) want to know.

The Program?
I have no idea.  The advice I was given was to look for the programs my favorite writers teach at.  So far, I've only found one the fits the bill: Ohio State, home of Andrew Hudgins, who wrote a book of poetry I fell in love with.  Other than that, it's a bit taxing to search program by program for faculty, then search that faculty for any writing I can find quickly.  I don't have many favorites because I actually don't like most poetry.  It either seems to really rock me, or bore me, and it usually depends on a combination of the writer's form and subject.  I'll find something though.  I'm looking at programs anywhere in the US.  I do mean anywhere.  I'm talking to you, Fairbanks.

The Bathroom?
Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

I Quit My Job and I'm Moving

Kind of, and not really.

Last Tuesday and Wednesday we had a staff retreat, and it was there that I realized I had get out, that I didn't want to be there any longer, and that I had to tell my supervisor. I really wasn't looking forward to it. I know how crazy work was before they filled my position, and I hated the thought of leaving her in that spot again. I ended up finally breaking the news Thursday, telling her that I want to go to school again, and that I intend to send out applications so that I can start in the fall.

I expected her to be understanding but disappointed. As I said the words, I watched her face for that initial reaction, any momentary frown, but none came. She was excited, and wanted to hear all about my plans. Though she said she's not happy about losing me, she's glad I found a direction I want to take that I'm passionate about. She also said she's thrilled I'd given her 10 months, not two weeks, to prepare a search.

I am thrilled to have finally told her. It's not only a relief, but it's nice to have finally committed to this direction in such a big way.

As far as moving goes, Dark Mistress Hawthorn and her room mate have lived in their apartment for over a year now, and though we'd talked about moving in together at some point, they'd agreed to stay there for another year and I thought that was that. Until two weekends ago, that is. Her room mate let her know she's moving back home in mid September, and as they're on a month to month lease, DMH would either need a new room mate or to leave come October. The rent is just too much to go solo. So, we're about to become roomies.

The question is where. We gave ourselves a week to figure out if I was going to move in with her of if she would move in with me. There are pros and cons to numerous to list, but the major factors ended up being money and convenience. It'll be $200 cheaper to live here, but there's also so much to do. For the first time in my life I realized that I've been living like a bachelor. This is no place to be comfortable. This is a place to drink beer, eat burritos, and watch Futurama re-runs. Plus, still no bathroom.

So of course we're going to stay here for the money. I'm not looking forward to more towel showering, but then again, there's way worse ways to live.

The End of the Line

MoviesWhatTheHell

Movies are nine dollars now. Nine dollars. Every year it goes up more, but every year I forget not only that the price always goes up, but also, that it ever went up since I was a kid in high school. I mean, nine dollars? Shit, just make it a ten spot, keep the dollar, and use it to pay the local drunk to beat up the movie talkers.

We saw The Dark Knight last weekend and I missed about ten minutes of the beginning. Four minutes or so to some teenagers who were sitting in the aisle, talking loudly about the alleged stupidity of the hat one of their friends wears, one minute to walk out and find someone to call an usher, and five minutes of sound numbing rage as I wondered just how stupid that kid's hat was. Pretty stupid, I'm guessing, but not surprisingly so.

Last Thursday I dragged the Mistress to a one night showing of Wargames. I love this movie, even though I'm too young to have seen it in theaters. For those who aren't familiar, Matthew Broderick plays a kid who uses his computer (in 1983) to connect to other computers over the phone line (the internet) to look for video games to play before they are released for sale (hacking and piracy). While doing this he accidentally logs into Norad's missile defense computer and initiates a what he (and the computer) thinks is a game of Global Thermonuclear War. I saw it on TV and, being obsessed with both computers and anything radioactive, it spoke to me. Every time it's on TV, I have to watch it. I bought tickets as soon as I could, just in case the 25th showing might sell out. (Which somehow, it didn't.)

It was awesome, but just as the action started to reach climax, the theater went dark and silent. The movie stopped. Someone went to tell the theater staff, and they turned the house lights on. Someone must have jiggled the mouse, because the Windows XP taskbar popped up. All in all we sat for 15 minutes while they got the movie back up for us, right at the spot it stopped. At the end of the show each person got two free passes good at any Regal location. That's a 36 dollar value! Hot Cha!

StandardizedTestWhatTheHell

I downloaded GRE test prep materials which were very helpful. The test has three sections: quantitative (math problems), verbal (analogies, reading comprehension, sentence completion), and an analytical writing section. I felt pretty good about my chances on the analytical section, but the math had me very nervous. Their math review materials started out with basic algebra, like multiplication and long division, which was good because I'd honestly forgotten about how to do those things without a calculator. After struggling through practice problems, I switched to the practice tests on the computer. The first time through I got a 610 verbal, and the second time I got a 690. The math scores were lower on each test, but the programs I'm looking for aren't as concerned with math. As for the verbal it's a bit frustrating, because over half of the questions depend on your vocabulary, and when the whole section is only 28 questions, it feels like luck has quite a bit to do with it.

The test went down last Wednesday. I know I did my best on the written sections, though those scores don't come back for a while. The verbal didn't go as well, and the math was a frantic and stressful scratch paper waster, as expected. At the end of the test they give you your scores, right there, and I got a 630 verbal, and a 710 math. 710! Out of 800! Last week I couldn't do long division. I would have liked the verbal to be higher, but it's a little above the average for the field, so I think I'm set. One less, big thing behind me.

FreeConcertWhatTheHell

D.M.H. and I got to see The Long Winters at a free show in Castle Clinton in Manhattan. It was a great show, intimate, outdoors, and wonderful. The only hitch was I had to take a dump during my favorite song, but hey, there are worse ways to use the restroom.

BackToWorkWhatTheHell

Tomorrow the dream is over. Back to work. The old grind. The eight to five. I'm not as anxious about it as I was last year, when I seriously debated not getting on the plane back to home from LA, but I'm still not looking forward to throwing myself headlong into solving problems I don't want to have to care about.

Actually, in a way, it might be a touch less stressful than break has been. I won't feel (as) pressured to make every free moment count towards something.

How I'm Spending My Summer Vacation

I think I have a serious problem, for only a troubled soul could turn five weeks off of work into something to stress about. I'm currently rounding out week three of five, and I've come to terms with my vacation time. I enjoyed my winter month off well enough, and last summer, this time, I found myself very busy. I visited my fabulous aunt Laurie, and spent time with my wonderful aunt, uncle, and cousins out in Illinois. I'm sad I couldn't make it again this year, but alas, the monies.

My problem, heading into these off periods, is I always set some lofty goals for myself which I somehow never manage to achieve. This July, my goal was to submit some poems out for publication, prepare for and take the GREs, and to finish the Mistress's theremin. Well, I'm registered to take the GREs in a couple of weeks, and I should be ready to send some work out soon. The theremin, slowly but surely, is coming along. However, I haven't spent as much time as I'd like writing, looking up information on schools, and preparing a critical writing sample, as I've been effectively sidetracked by computers not working.

I could go into a long drawn out story of all the things I've tried to get my computer working, but I won't, because really, who cares.

R.E.M. was amazing
Still no shower in my house
My garden is still growing

Really, I don't know what else to say. Anymore, I only spend time on the internet to hunt for answers to computer questions I have. I haven't kept up on people's blogs, of really, with people in general. Anyhow, you'll probably hear from me again after I'm back to work.

Excitement

Though Excitement is the title of this post, I have to say, I feel pretty even keel at the moment, though I have several reasons to be excited:

• My car is now legal to drive.  All it cost was over nine hundred dollars and a lot of time.
• I have a toilet that flushes now, a bathroom window that opens, and a bathroom light that turns on.  Tell the neighbors, ma!
• In two days, I will see my favorite band live for the first time.
• I just wrote a song about what I plan to make for dinner.  It took about three minutes.  I imagine it as a B-52's tune:
  

I'm making my burritos tonight
I'm gonna make 'em so tight
I'm making my burritos tonight
One bite will make your life alright

Take my hand! I'm going to show you
Burrito land, where the winds will blow you
through the sands, over the hills
wear your head band, the sweat will chill you

Hot burrito, hot hot love
Hot burrito fits like a glove
Hot burrito, hot hot love
Just one bite and you'll join the club!

I'm making my burritos tonight
I'm gonna make 'em oh so tight
I'm making my love-ritos tonight
Just take a bite and it'll set you right

Take my hand! I'm gonna show you
Burrito land, where the kings will know you
and the bands will blow out for you
Take my hand, take my hand!

Hot burrito, hot hot love
Hot burrito tastes like God's love
Hot burrito, hot hot spice
Take a bite and you'll be in the vice, yeah!
Take a bite and you will feel so nice, yeah!
Take a bite and you'll be seeing Christ, yeah!
Take a bite it's made with parboiled...


...riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiice!

Hot burrito, hot hot love (x6)
Hot burrito, I think I love you.

The Moment of Automotive Truth

Today's the day my car's going into a Ford dealership to see if they can track down why the computer is not recording any emissions data. Will they find what's wrong? If so, what will it be? How much will it cost? I will likely find these things out as the day unfolds, so read and bear witness to my car's moment of truth:

8:08am - They called to inform me that they're going to approach this as they would an engine light problem: by "pulling the codes" from the computer. This should run me "ninety four, ninety five". Currency or units left unspecified. Notes: Intentionally?

10:03am - I haven't heard back yet. Growing nervous. What's labor/hr? Problem is likely to be either something simple, or something complex and hard to track down. As time passes, I'm suspecting and fearing the latter.

1:31pm - I hope my car is faring better than my nerves. At least the weather is beautiful, so the walk home won't be so bad.

1:56pm - A Call! They had the same problem. They took it on a road test. It came back passing emissions. I have my emissions sticker. Don't know why it wasn't reading before. $105.82

9:36pm - It's good to have my car back. I'll have to go Saturday to pick my inspection sticker up, and hopefully close the book on this stupid chapter of what's supposed to be a fine summer.

I'm Sleepy, So Blog Post Will Be the Title of this Blog Post

It's freaking hot out. I spent the weekend at D.M.H's place, which thankfully has air conditioning. Saturday I took my car in to Meineke for an emissions recheck. I'd driven 702 miles since my last visit two weeks ago, so I crossed my fingers hoping the computers had gathered enough data.

A couple hours later I got a call. It hadn't. It still read as unable to provide emissions data. I've got an appointment to take it into a Ford dealership on Wednesday, which will be a pain to work out. Plus, god knows how much this will cost.

The rest of Saturday after that was fun, as we threw a surprise party for the D.M.H.'s roommate. Lots of fun and food and drink.

Today I took a ride back home. No Slim Jim this weekend, so my bathroom's in the same condition. Last Monday he was on his way when his serpentine belt broke. I can only assume more car troubles, though I don't know cause he never got back to me. At least I got the yard mowed, and my plants seem to be doing well.

Digging in the Dirt

Monday I slept in my own bed for the first time in eleven days. The bathroom is an empty shell save for a toilet that drains, but does not flush. The rest of the house is a mix of supplies, tools, and my own displaced clutter. The only room left untouched is my bedroom, which feels like a sanctuary away from craziness. Yesterday I spent a couple hours replacing the dryer belt, which broke a week ago. If I thought it would have been difficult, I be surprised at how easy it was. Instead, I thought it would be easy, so of course it kicked my ass.

Last Friday the girlfriend and I took a trip to her home for the holiday weekend. It was nice to see her family again. Actually, it was more than nice. The Mistress showed me about the leavings of her past, and there's little I revere more than our personal childhood mythologies. She also continued in her lessons on how to shoot an SLR camera. Like, you know, a real film camera. I had a blast, and I can't wait to get the pictures back.

We got in late Monday night, and I had taken Tuesday off so I could get my car inspected at the place around the corner from D.M.H.'s house. I knew the tires were iffy, but I was hoping that they might pass and I would have a bit of time to shop around for a new set of skins. If they didn't, I figured it'd be a "hey, go buy some tire and bring it back to get your sticker." Instead I got "you failed on tires, and we couldn't get an emissions reading because the computer says there's not enough data. You'll have to drive the car around for a while until it resets. When you bring it back we'll have to re-inspect the car. That'll be $90."

I had my Monday all planned. I would drop the car off, then enjoy a quiet day to sit and write. A day with nothing going on and no one around. A day unlike any I've had in longer than I can remember. Instead, I figured I'd better try to get my car legal, so I ended up at Wal-Mart, where the cheapest tires were $70. For $75 they had some discounted performance tires, so I went with those. Two hours in Wal-Mart, then Three in the Meineke up the street to get an alignment and another inspection. At least inspection and emissions only ran you $50 there. At one point the guy working on my car came in with a concerned look, the kind you don't want your mechanic to have, and asked me if I just got my car inspected recently. I told him my story up to this point, and he said they should have explained to me that I have 30 days to come back and get my emissions re-checked free of charge. The first place didn't tell me this, even though I explained that I moved from a county where emissions checks aren't required, so I therefore didn't know how things worked. Assholes.

My choice at that point was to drive around and bring the car back on Saturday, hoping the computer gathered enough data, or keep driving it after the inspection ran out to give it more time. I chose for the latter, not wanting to waste any more money. I've never been pulled over, and I don't intend to start now. I'll see if I can get in this Saturday or Monday, and until then, cross my fingers. I will cross them also in the hope that my car's computer's got all the emissions data it needs, and that I don't need to take my car to Ford to have the computer diagnosed at a presumably high cost. Or, that my car fails emissions, which would also suck tons.

Somewhere in there my upstairs computer, the one do all my writing and audio stuff on, crashed. Could not find the operating system. This means hard drive difficulties. I've rescued my writing, but one hard drive is down permanently and the other still won't boot. Props go to my Linux booting iMac for being able to grab my writing from my crippled Linux hard drive, albeit at a turtle's pace.

I feel I've lost the past two weeks. It's exhausting, and I'm overwhelmed. On the exciting side, mom gave me some flowers, three pepper plants, and a tomato plant. I put them in the ground Monday, and it was kind of crazy. I didn't expect to have such a powerful experience, and I still don't understand it, but there was something about seeing all the critters, all the roots, the rusted bolts and pieces of glass hidden buried and forgotten half a foot below my yard that made me feel connected to this place in a way I haven't known. Every morning and afternoon on my way in and out I stop and check on my plants, more excited than I should be.

Bathroom Report, Day 4

I was certain I'd published day two, but I guess I hadn't.

Tuesday night Slim Jim caught some plaster to the ear and I encouraged him to go to the hospital after I saw some ear meat. Nothing serious, just cosmetic. If he hadn't gone to get stiches he would have had some crazy cool ear scar. He was upset about all this though because of lost time.

Apparently a group of our old friends were at the hospital due to someone else's finger injury and they all met up and hung out. Wednesday I got in early after having taken a half day to get my windshield fixed, and all those folks showed up at around five or six. It was nice to see them all, but I felt a little stressed making everyone dinner in addition to the fact that work stopped when they arrived.

Thursday the crew (Slim had recruited) tore out quite a bit. Demolition's pretty much done, so I'm pissing in jars for the time being. Check it out:






I'm off to the Mistresses' home town for the weekend, so we'll see what's next. Slim's going home tonight or tomorrow I think, so I'm guessing I'll be staying at the Mistresses' for a while.

Bathroom Report, Day 1

Slim Jim's been planning on remodeling the bathroom for some time now. He took the week off to work on the house, arriving late Sunday. He gave me the following options on the bathroom: do a little bit at a time to keep it functional/livable, or do it all at once to try to have as much done by the end of the week. Those weren't his words exactly. He thinks he can get it done in a week. Actually, I think he has to think that, or he will get discouraged. The week deadline gives him a finish line to run for. I, on the other hand, need to believe that he can't do it in the week. That way I'm mentally prepared when (if, but really when) it doesn't happen.

Yesterday marked the first day of work, and I came home to see the shower I bathed in just the previous night cut into pieces and stacked on my porch. By the end of the evening, the only thing left in the bathroom was a (thankfully) working toilet.

Starbuck was very good through all this. That is, until I came home. Me being in the room gave her permission under the cat code of conduct to explore, and she was very interested in the holes leading to the drop ceiling below. It had always been my plan to take her somewhere when Slim did heavy construction, so last night I packed her up and took her to my parent's house.

She doesn't like their cat. Big Orange, on the other hand, couldn't care less. He's just eating and napping as usual. Meanwhile Starbuck feels the need to hiss at his very presence. I feel bad for him, but so long as he keeps his whatever attitude, I think he'll be fine. She'll be fine, too. She strode out of her carrier like she owned the place.

I felt guilty leaving her, but dad said "you think that's bad? You just wait until you're dropping you kid off at daycare, or at the babysitter so you can go party."



Note the metal box on the right hand wall. That's Fussnpuss' medicine cabinet. I know it wouldn't happen, but every time I see it I imagine pushing on it and seeing it pop out on her side. I can't believe that's all that seperates our bathrooms though. No more maligning my neigbhor over the phone on the john.

Ain't it a Mother

I figured that, for Mother's day, I'd invite my folks over and cook dinner for them. You know, kind of a good faith role reversing thank you: a meal for all the years of meals and laundry and money and time and who knows what other parental sacrifices else. Hungover and running late, by the time I ran out of the house to buy groceries, my folks had already started their drive. Unfortunately, when I ran out, I was missing a crucial component to my plans: keys. I'm usually very good about this, and being of the paranoid sort, I had never considered leaving a spare set outside. Dark Mistress Hawthorne has keys to my house, but she was halfway across the state, driving out to visit her injured father. Slim Jim, my friend/landlord has keys, but he lives hours away. I gave my parents a set as well, but by the time I called them about it, they were practically around the corner. And besides that, they don't remember me giving them a set anyway.

The most obvious way into the house would have been through the bathroom window, which I'd left open. Because I like my stuff, I keep all the ground floor windows locked. The bathroom window sits right above the porch roof, which wasn't too far off the ground, but far enough to make me nervous. I considered how I could climb up there: the stack of miscellaneous lawn chairs, the plastic bins 'o' plenty, perhaps the carpet roll in conjunction with the unassembled bed loft kit. Have I mentioned that though I live in an urban area, I have a back porch fitting of any cunnerman shack? Oh, I could go on: Two old grills: gas and charcoal. Two antique sleds. Two old air conditioners. Two electric weed trimmers. It's like my porch is an a Noah's Arc for garage sale items.

I did not suffer for lack of stackable items. It was just that the thought of hoisting my frame up on that pitched roof was too much for my dizzy hangover addled constitution, so I set about a safer method of entry.

Now, the principle behind picking locks is simple, and the practice of doing so is less difficult than it is time consuming and kind of boring. I suppose with proper tools and a bit more experience it would become a more efficient ordeal, but lock picking is definitely more about the ends than the means. Now, if you were to ask me about lock picking, or if we happened to be hanging out and the topic came up, I would probably come across sounding like a bit of an expert. This is because I know vaguely how locks work, and I'm a bit of an ass who likes to sound smarter than he is. In reality, I've successfully picked locks two and a half times. Two counts come from the old metal office desk I have in the home whose drawers were stuck shut after I moved. I figured the locks had somehow engaged themselves with all the bumping and tipping and what not. Using a thumbtack and a bent paper clip I successfully got both locks to spin. I then realized that the drawers weren't locked, they just got jammed somehow, and I had just picked my locks closed.

The half count comes from college, when my friend, Slim Jim actually, had explained to me how locks work and, in turn, how they could be picked. I was studying at the Humanities Center where they have old, nice, wooden desks. I got bored and saw there was a lock for the desk drawer right in front of me. Using, again, a thumb tack and a paper clip, I fidgeted with the thing until I got the lock to close. Luckily I had sense enough to have the drawer open at the time, because I was never able to pick the lock back open. To this day, if you try to close the drawer flush, it stops against that stuck lock tab.

But that was then, and I felt pretty confident in my ability to tackle this lock. All I needed was the proper tools. Unfortunately, I was far away from my office supplies, so I had to settle for whatever I could find in the junkyard of my porch. My first try involved an antique pair of scissors, some copper wire, and a metal tooth broken from a rake. Even though I was excited at how easy it was to use these black weathered scissors to cut and strip the copper wire, that method was fruitless. The wire proved to soft, no matter how I bent and twisted. My next try involved cutting a square of aluminum from a soda can, which I folded and pressed into a bar. This might have worked, but when I made them small enough to fit the lock, they were too weak and bent.

Finally my parents arrived. I had hoped to have dinner going by the time they got there and here I was, filthy, trying to break into my own house. We decided the bathroom window really was the way to go, but I could only get as far as standing on the trash can before I lost my nerve. Dad jumped up there easy, crawled inside, and unlocked the door.

Mom stayed behind as we went grocery shopping. He helped me pick out the ground beef, he picked out the cole slaw. He picked out the onion rolls that mom likes. By the time we got back, mom was there washing the last of my large pile plastic containers. I hate washing those, and I had a few month collection stacked in one half of the sink. I yelled at her for it, but she said she just couldn't stand it.

Dad made cocktails, showed me his hamburger making technique while mom made the instant pasta salad. It all turned out delicious, even if it wasn't really the reversal I'd planned. It wasn't the fancy dinner I had in mind from the start, it wasn't ready by the time they got there, they ended up doing most of the work, and that was after they came to the rescue and got me into my own damn house. We all had a good time though, and at least I got this dumb blog post out of it.

Physical Demands

I was reviewing my position description at work, and at the end of the description was the following list.

Physical Demands/Work Environment Frequency of Activity

Stand: Often
Walk: Often
Sit: Often
Use hands to finger, handle, or feel: Often
Reach with hands and arms: Often
Climb or balance: Seldom
Stoop, kneel, crouch, or crawl: Seldom
Talk or hear: Nearly Continuously
Taste or smell: Often
Lifting – up to 10 pounds: Often
Lifting – up to 25 pounds: Often
Lifting – up to 50 pounds: Seldom
Lifting – up to 100 pounds: Seldom
Lifting – over 100 pounds: Not Required
Vibration: Often


Vibration? Really? I've never once experienced on the job vibration. What did they have in mind, exactly? I feel gipped.

Tidbits

When I was a young'n, I loved, this snack called Do-Dads! That's not excitement, I think there was an exclamation point in the title. It was like Chex Mix, only better. Much, much better. This is coming from someone who will eat Chex Mix until he bleeds from is salt numbed mouth.

On the back of the box there was a list of the individual snacks included in the mix, such as pretzel rods or peanuts, each with a picture and a description of the item. Being the type of child who would go on to organize his Legos by into bins by size, shape, and color, this itemized snacking list was right up my alley. With the visuals and descriptions I was able to get a better understanding of the snack's constituent parts, which allowed me to better understand my unique bond with each of them. Most, like the peanuts and pretzel rods already mentioned, could be snacks on their own, easily had elsewhere. The one snack I've never seen outside a box of Do-Dads! was Tidbits, which were cylindrical cheese crackers about the shape and size of capsule pills. Do-Dads, sadly, disappeared right around the time I was old enough to go to the store and buy them for myself. The point of this story?

Two years ago today I bought my first car with the help of a co-signing father (who also put some money down - thanks dad!). I had an incredible sense of pride knowing that this was my car, in my name, on my dime. It's been mostly good since then. I've only had one major issue since I bought it: a $20 part in the transmission that limited me to first and second gear. That's another story though.

Car's up for inspection at the end of the month, and as it is, I knew it won't pass. For one, the windshield has cracks running nearly its entire length. It happened from the inside, is my fault, and again, is another story. The brakes were also bad. They felt off the day I test drove it, pulsating when applied at any speed, but I didn't know enough then and figured that it was an irregularity that would work itself out. Two years later and believe it or not, the pulsating only got worse. New brakes, new winshield, lots of money. Thank goodness the economy tanked and we all got $600 sent to us in hopes we'd put a down on new plasma TV's or some such nonsense. For me: easy come, easy go. Thank you, sub-prime lending crisis. Without you, I'd never be able to afford to fix my car.

I started with the brakes, figuring I could do them myself. I'd changed front brake rotors and pads once before, and it's not too complicated. Sunday the Mistress and I drove around, picking up the parts and tools I'd need. Brake pads and rotors came out to about 100, maybe 120 total. I forget off the top of my head. The original plan was, if I had time, to do it Sunday. Time ran out, so I decided to change D.M.H.'s tail light, marker light, and headlight assembly, which took all of 20 minutes, and to check and properly inflate our tires.

Monday after work I got started a bit late because I realized I never lifted the car onto jack stands before, so I needed to search for safe jacking points. I got the car up on stands easily enough, though when you haven't done it in a while, it's downright scary. I pulled the front wheels and just about got into pulling the right brake caliper when I hit a snag.

When I was buying parts, I almost bought a set of allen wrenches, which would be needed to loosen and remove the caliper guide bolts. I knew Slim Jim had some in the basement, and figured "don't go overboard, just get what you need." Well there I am, car on jacks, needing a 7mm allen wrech, holding in my hand a set that goes 10-8-6...

Knowing I didn't have the time or heart to put everything back together so I could run to the hardware store so I could try again, I figured that since I had her all apart, I'd rotate the tires. Now, I know it's important to rotate your tires every... so often. But I also grew up in a house where I don't remember anyone rotating the tires on our cars in any sort of a hurry, and we all turned out fine. The tires on my car are a year and a half old. I should have rotated them a couple times, but I never got around to it, being cheap/poor and busy/distracted. Hey, better late then never, right?

I pulled the rear drivers side tire and saw something I hadn't previously known was possible. The tread on the rear tires was pretty damn good, or so I thought until I saw the diagonal grooves that ran across the face on half the tire, down to the low tread indicators.

Held at the right angle, they made the tire look like a polygon instead of a circle.

Stumped, and not sure I should even bother rotating the tires, I called my old man, who was also pretty stumped. I put her all back together, just the way she was when I started two hours prior, and started researching what in blazes could cause diagonal wear patterns on a rear wheel.

Turns out that incorrect toe can. What is toe? Flatten your hands and put them side by side on the table in front of you, as if you were making an imaginary hallway and your hands were the walls running parallel. Got it? Now cock your wrist a bit so your left hand points diagonally inward, as if the hallway were narrowing. If your hands were tires, their toe would be incorrectly adjusted.

Tuesday I tried again, packing a new set of wrenches. Though there were a few snags, I eventually got the brakes switched out and the car back on the ground in about an hour forty five. I test drove it and didn't drive into any walls, so I'd call the whole operation a success.

Oddly enough, while the old brake rotors were scored to hell, with groves up to a quarter inch wide and clearly visible from a distance, the pads weren't in too bad of a shape. It's eerie to drive on these new brakes, as I've never driven this car without it vibrating when I'm stopping. It was a mental cue, so I constantly feel like I'm not actually braking when I try to stop.

I guess the next steps are to have the windshield replaced (I'm not tackling that one without experience), to buy four new tires, to have the alignment fixed all around, and then to cross my fingers and hope that my struts aren't bad because that could also be a factor in accelerated tire wear.

This entry was titled Tidbits because I was going to write about a whole bunch of stuff in one big post, but you know what?

Me either.

Good Times

Daytime hours now, and in my first week my supervisor an I have already laid out a plan for the summer.  It's important to start now because somehow it's true that if you let the first couple weeks slip by, you'll lose the whole summer.  Which you know, doesn't sound all bad.

Remember that project I'd been working on at work?  The one that ate April and most of March?  There was drama because I "took too long", which in fact is true.  I however wasn't given much guidance or any deadlines.  This happened to be part of our area supervisor's friend's pet project, so during my supervisor's meeting with our area supervisor, words were spoken about my disappointing performance.  My supervisor, though she may stress me out, has got my back and I should never forget that.  She did her best to remind her (and I) that there were things that could have happened better on both sides, and that we can all learn from this.  Disgustingly wholesome, I know, but it helped me get past being pissed. 

A little bit, anyway.

I have eleven vacation days to take before June 30th.  Hot cha!  I took the day off today because Dark Mistress, Stankfoot, Spanky, Zanzibar, and myself are going to Philly to see the Kids in the Hall.  We're going to check out South Street, eat a cheese steak, and take in the (hopefully still) funny boys of Canadian sketch comedy.

Tomorrow Stankfoot, Spanky, and I are going to be shirk responsibility for the day to hang out and play video games.  Then I've got work Friday, then the weekend.  How the hell can you complain about that? 

Good times.

Neighbors: Can't Live With Them, Can't Hate Who You Live Next To Without Them

Oh, doddering Mrs. Fussnpuss, how life has brought you here I dare not know.  Were you always ornery, easily irritated by each passing fellow, judging safely from the slit you pry in your mini blinds?  Or has years of taking shit made you who you are?  Toughened you beyond an empathetic point of view.  Is this what I have in store: a world that tasks me more as years slip by, no one to listen to my complaints, my perspective, my existence less valued than treated as a nuisance?

Trash gets picked up Monday morning, but because I usually stay at Dark Mistress Hawthorne's Sunday night, my empty can will set on the curb.  Usually, by the time I get home, it's already been dragged to my back porch.  The first few weeks this happened I was somewhat irked.  I could only imagine that it bothered Fussnpuss so much that she was compelled to drag this huge can, which just about comes to her chin, all the way around my house.  She'd do this, but she wouldn't leave a note, or knock, and this in turn bothered me.  For crying out, I'm talking about the can setting there no later than noon after the trash was picked up.

One day I came home and saw her waddling her way backwards down my walk, plastic bin hidden in front of her.  She said something like "Oh hi there.  I see your can sitting there and I always figure I'd bring it back for you, I hope you don't mind."   "Not at all" I said, smiling, lying.  Well, half lying.  I did mind, when I thought she did it because she was bothered to.  Now, though, it seemed she was just being neighborly.  Looking out for the nice young man next door.

Our trash day changed this week from Sunday to Thursday.  This excited me because I'd finally be around to pick my can up.  (Plus, I'm usually home Wednesday nights, making it more likely I'd remember to take the trash out after work.)  Seriously, ask D.M.H.  I don't think I ever told her why, but I know I mentioned New Trash Day day to her numerous excited times. 

Thursday morning, on my way to (the final) class (of the semester!) the trash wasn't picked up.  Wasn't picked up on my way back at 11 either.  I didn't hear the truck come before I went to work at 2, so I left it.  Apparently they did come.  Apparently Mrs. Fussnpuss moved my can to the back yard again.  And, apparently one of the college students that lives in the other house next to mine helped her move my can to my back yard, all the while listening to her complain about "the college kid who lives here and never bothers to take his can in."


How life has brought us here I dare not know.

In Which I (Maybe) Get to the Point

In reading back over my posts, this month I have twice now compared favorably myself against Cylons, indicating that I have a plan. This makes me sad in two ways. One in that I have not yet finished what I started, which is explaining that plan, and two in that, c'mon, am I really that big of a nerd?

It's safe to say that, for the most part, the past two weeks were miserable. I'd been volunteered to work on someone's project at work and, being a perfectionist, I think I worked too hard on it. I took it to Atlanta with me, working on it every night in the hotel room. I've been stressing about it since mid March, but crunch time was these past two weeks. Between this project, an event I was working on, and my regular duties, I regularly came in early and left very, very late. Staying three and a half hours late after work is one thing. It's another when you usually get out at 11pm.

This weekend, even though I had to go in twice Sunday to take care of some events, felt like a vacation. No homework, no workwork to bring home. Saturday the Mistress and I went out to dinner in high fashion, treating ourselves to pricey Italian. Then we met up with some friends at another restaurant where we had dessert. For the first time in a long time I was able to indulge myself for a day, driving up to visit Stankfoot on Monday. We played video games, we hit Taco Bell, I held the ladder while he took down his Christmas lights. It was fantastic.

The following will only be funny to those following Galactica:
On our drive to Taco Bell, he turned to me and said in a mock school teacher tone: "So, what did you learn from this week's episode?"
"Um," I searched, "don't piss off Tory."
And then, with his hands cupped closed, he said "Very good. I want you to remember that as you take command..." He moved his hands toward me, opening them to reveal this:



For those not familiar with the show, he was mimicking a very touching scene from the series where father promoted son. He couldn't have done it better. Now that I think about it, that'd be a good way for two B*G nerds to propose to each other. It would have to be a private and serious moment:

"So, what do you think makes us work so well together?" A conversation of any length, as long as it's serious, introspective, and dramatically lit, should follow. Finally, the one who started should stand up, pull a jewelry box from a nearby dresser, desk, or table, and move to kneel, saying with as much throaty gravel as they can add to their voice, "good. I want you to remember that as you take command... of my heart."

Back on topic, though I'm sure reality will set in once I'm back behind my desk, it's fitting that I feel a reprieve from work at about this time when I'm thinking of how I would like to move on from it.

Class, though it's been frustrating, has done wonders for my poetry writing. In 2004, Mr. Templeton opened my eyes to the potential of verse. By 2005 I was writing like crazy, but by the end of spring I'd burnt out. I lost confidence in my ability, and distractions like "I'm unemployed and living at home all the sudden" didn't help me gain any perspective. Three years later, I'm feeling confident again. My writing has improved, though I was not notably active. I think it's because of a gain in perspective. My problem in 2005 was, looking back, I felt I'd run out of things to say. As prolific as I was in that short period of time, I'm not surprised. Though it doesn't feel like it some times, I've learned quite a bit these three years. Somehow, I've found a thing or two to right about.

It is clear to me that, though I don't know of any dream job, any path through life free of struggle, I would like to at least struggle for something that I enjoy, something that resonates with me. I've also learned that regardless of the method or the medium, I need to be creating to be happy. It's like a pressure valve. No, it's more than that. When I struggle for hours only to, in a flash, find the right word, the perfect turn of phrase, I'm filled with immense satisfaction. I am rarely more proud of myself, more accepting and forgiving of myself, then after I have made, and made well.

So, instead of crossing my fingers and hoping that through some convoluted series of miraculous and absurd events that I end up the as the new bassist for R.E.M., (sorry Mike, I'd have to), I decided I'm going to apply for creative writing programs with a focus on Poetry. This, of course, means a lot of work. I have to:

• Study for and take the GREs
• Read more poetry, become familiar with poets I'd like to study under
• Find programs that I like with poets I like who teach
• Weigh the benefits of an MA vs. an MFA,
  
• Consider where and if I'd pursue a PHD
• If applying for an MA, creating a sample of Critical Writing, something which I do not have strong experience in
• Revise my best poems for a portfolio
• Find journals I'd like to seek publication in
  
• Submit my best poems for publication in various journals
  

This is scary. This is considering moving away from places and people I love. This is moving to leave a job with steady pay and benefits to study a field with narrow options of employment upon graduation during unsteady economic times. I frequently have second thoughts, but what I have to remember is it's those second thoughts that will keep me here. If I were happy here, I wouldn't want to leave so desperately. No, it really was worse than you remember it last year, and no, it won't be better next year. I know this, but I have to remind myself regularly.

There you have it. My plan. I have about a year to make it happen.

Some Subtle Changes

I've had the hankering to make myself a blog title picture. I have tons of pictures I took with my digital camera, and I thought about playing with color and black and white, fading into color or away from it, etc. Just messing around. Well, there was some downtime the other day and I couldn't find the picture I was going to use (a macro shot of flowers), so I instead started messing around with the one you see above. I literally got frustrated and started randomly dragging the mouse around when I found an effect I liked.

Thus, the genesis of the pretentious image you see above. I changed the template colors to match, though I'm not sure how I feel about it. I worry about the readability. While the contrast is high, I find it's screwy sometimes to read a long time in white on black. If this ends up bothering anyone, let me know and I'll work something else out. Wuss.

I'm sorry March. I didn't mean it. I've just been under a lot of stress lately

Okay okay okay okay okay. I can finish what I started. For once. I swear.

End of March saw me off to Atlanta, GA, for a professional conference. It was a mediocre experience, which was disappointing to me. I enjoyed last year's conference a great deal, and I was looking forward to this one. A number of things factored into my rating this trip as blah.

First, I went alone. Technically, many people in my department were there, but I don't know them personally. We don't know much about each other, we don't hang out, and they don't have my cell phone number. By change, I ran into them at the keynote and I followed them to dinner. They're all super nice people, but I felt I didn't have much to talk about with them. The reason why is also one of th reasons why I didn't enjoy the conference: I'm not a Student Affairs person.

Just about everyone in my department is Student Affairs. My area is in with them, but technically, we're a service position. We're facilities people. I appreciate why we're brought into the fold, the spirit of inclusion, the sharing of information. It's a good practice. Being folded in though means we're expected to think, act, and preform like Student Affairs professionals. We end up doing programming, we end up working on strategic plans, we're expected to perform assessment. The problem is, none of us are specifically trained to think this way. It's assumed by members on staff that I have a MA in Student Affairs because that's the track, that's what everyone has.

Being between the service world and the professional world is personally frustrating, as in our professional group there is hierarchy, and there is occasional wrangling, but for the most part it is a respectful environment of peers. There is a power differential however in my service role. When I control access to limited resources my peers need, I am no longer their peer. I am in that airy half-world of service where I am in a position of power, a position to grant access, but also frequently forced to acquiesce, to bend rules, ignore policy, to be powered over in deference to those who feel entitled to the resources I keep.

In short, it stinks. I feel as if I would be, and have been, unable to form any meaningful, human, relation with folks in the department. In the times I've tried, I've been let down, disappointed, burned.

Not having the Student Affairs background also means I had nothing to talk about at dinner, I had little to talk about with strangers, and it was a constant uphill effort to relate the sessions to my particular position, and to contribute meaningfully to sessions that involved group activity.

The weather also stunk. Cold and wet. I was expecting a nice sneak peak at spring, but except for the ever-present mention of peaches, I could have just as well been here.

I'd never been to Atlanta, and I wanted to go out and explore. Unfortunately, I've got a project I was volunteered for that's sucking up all my free time at work, and a bit of my free time at home. I spent every evening in the hotel room, plugging away. I also wanted to go to a record store, to buy the new R.E.M. and B-52's cds while I was in their home state! Unfortunately, the nearest shopping center was two miles away, and the mall was six, and I didn't have the time to sacrifice.

It was also difficult to be at this conference, knowing I don't want to be in the field anymore. Somehow, that takes the wind out of your sails.

Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan for what's beyond. This is major for me. News on this, however, will have to come at a later date. I simply must eat some fajitas now.

Om nom nom. Nom.

Runts, Battlestar

I'm at work.  It's quite here.  I can't believe that in just an hour and a half I'll be able to watch the best television show I've ever seen.  I'm anxious, I'm giddy, I think I might have to poo a little but I'm not sure, and I just can't stands it!

Something of substance:
I like Runts, (the Willy Wonka candy, not the smallest animal of a litter.  Well hell, I like those runts too.  I mean, c'mon, who doesn't like rooting for the underdog?), and I recently noticed that all Runts are not priced equal.  WalMart sells Runts cheaper than Best Buy, for example.  This past weekend, D.M.H. and I were at Wegmans, where they sell Runts by the pound.  Curious, I found the following:

Wegmans Price
$1.99/lb = $0.124/oz

Amazon.com Price
7oz @ $3.00 = $0.429/oz

Candy Crate.com Price
7oz @ $2.00 = $0.286/oz

Best Buy Price
7oz @ $1.49 = $0.213/oz

WalMart Price?
7oz @ $0.89 = $0.127/oz
7oz @ $0.79 = $0.113/oz

I can't remember the WalMart and BestBuy prices exactly, and that's crucial.  Damn.
Seriously though, who the hell is going to buy a three dollar box of candy on Amazon.com?
Maybe someone from a country where they're not sold.

Okay, back to waiting.

...

Goodbye March, You Bastard of a Month

What I should be doing right now: I should be unpacking. I should be... frak it, I should be doing dozens of things. But right now writing feels better.

Every week in March, hell, almost every day in March, something came up to write about. Seriously, it was interesting times. I've just been too busy to get to them. The following is a quick ass summary.

Your Own Rules Are The Most Fun To Break
I'm a stubborn man. I once stopped eating beef because I stayed up late one night reading the tall tale of John Titor, self proclaimed time traveler. Of course, as the number of sleepless hours increases, so to does their susceptibility to wac ass stories and conspiracy theories. Mr. Titor was making quite a bit of sense at 3am. In Mr. Titor's future, America's been split by civil war, nuked by Russia (just the cities), and it's population decimated by Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, which was a result of years of people unknowingly eating Mad Cow infected beef for years, as it's possible for years to pass before symptoms appear.

I stayed up the rest of the night reading about the disease and was both creeped out and fascinated. It's not caused by a virus or a bacteria, but by a protein, a chemical. It is, in essence, a chemical reaction that slowly disables your brain.

So I stopped eating beef. This doesn't sound like a big deal, but at the time I was eating hamburgers like it was my job, and touring Taco Bell once a week. How long did I stop eating beef? Long after my irrational fear of Mad Cow, as it had been replaced by an irrational fear of Irony: I was subconsciously convinced that if I started eating beef, I'd get the disease for sure, just because, well, wouldn't that be funny?

Shit, I didn't want to ramble because I'm in a hurry. Looks like I failed that one already! Point is, I didn't eat beef for years, and more than the fear, it was really because I was curious how hard it would be, and how long I could do it. One day, on vacation, my aunt's family left half a "hamburger" pizza sitting cold on the stove. No one was around. I was hungry. I was curious. I was bored.

It was delicious.

In middle school and high school I watched an impressive amount of TV. Prime time had to be watched: 2 hours. Then there was reruns at and around dinner: 1-2hours. Of course, there's after school: 1.5 hours. Ooh! X-Files: 1hr. You get the picture. I remember a health class where we calculated our weekly TV viewing time, and I remember being one of the highest in the class with something close to 30 hours of TV per week. Maybe I was the only one being honest. I'd make that mistake again in shop class, when everyone was talking about the size of their penis.

When I got to college I stopped watching TV, mostly because I didn't have a TV. I was amazed to find that I didn't miss it at all. I'd miss a show here or there, but mostly, I felt liberated. And, except for that stint of unemployment I spent on my parent's couch, I've been mostly TV free since. That is, until now.

It was thrilling to call the cable company. I felt as if I were doing something immoral, illegal I ordered extended basic, nothing fancy, but I'm also renting a DVR. Without it, cable wouldn't be worth it, as I'm never home during shows I want to watch. Right now I've got it hooked up to the projector, and I must say, it is nigh awesome.

What was the impetus for such a drastic break from principle for the sake of principle?

Battlestar Galactica is Better Than Life Itself
...and its FINAL season debuts TO FUCKING MORROW. I've waited over a gods damned year for this show to come back on the air. Seriously, if you're curious, don't watch it. Go, now, to the video store, to your Netflix Queue, and rent the Miniseries and first Season 1 discs. It is a glorious serial, and to carelessly see the final season's episodes before you're ready would be crime enough that, once you realized the gravity of your transgression, the promised land of plot you've spoiled, you would be unable to resist the compulsion to blind yourself with your mother's broach.

I couldn't pass the opportunity to see my favorite show of all time wrap itself up on the sheet hung on my wall.

While we're on the topic of sci-fi, I love Star Trek. I'm not going to go into specifics, I just do. (Battlestar Galactica is a far superior show, and I can admit that.) My friend Stankfoot, a Star Wars fan from childhood, sent me a link to a survey where folks can vote as to who'd win a fight: Han Solo, or Captain Jean-Luc Picard. The previous week, Solo defeated Kirk. Of course he's going to beat Picard. I'm not going to go into the details of what a fight between these two fictional characters would entail. I just know he's going to win, because when it comes down to it, Star Wars is the Wal-Mart of science fiction. There. I said it. Mediocre. Ubiquitous.

Another Reason March Was The Longest Month

R.E.M., my favorite band, released their latest CD two days ago. I haven't picked my copy up yet, but I have listened to it at least 40 times in the past week. I could write a thesis about why their latest albums began to misfire, but I'll just say this: I own every CD they put out, except their last. It was the first time I listened to a new R.E.M. CD all the way through, and was not captured or hooked even once.

Of course, the media are hyping this up as their "return". I won't go that far. I'm not 100% on every song, and there are issues. What is exciting though is there are songs here that I am in love with, 100%, and that's a magical thing no matter what the band. I'm thrilled that it's R.E.M.

I also made a pact with myself. No matter how much money I don't have, I'm buying concert tickets for their tour this summer. I've never seen my favorite band live, and it's something I want to do before I die (or they quit), why not do it while they're riding high?

There's more to write about, but I'm hungry and out of time. I've decided what I want to do in the next couple years. Unlike the Cylons, I have a plan. I just got in from Atlanta yesterday, where I attended a professional conference. That's a story too. Hopefully I'll get to it before May.

Friday Observations

1: Why do people freak out when I put my merchandise behind them on the conveyor without putting a divider down?  When I was a child I delighted in watching people use the magic My Stuff/Your Stuff-Stick, loving how all agreed to it's order and rule.  Nowadays, if there's a line, I'll cram my stuff as close to the next person's and I'll use the stick.  But when it's just two of us, I leave a gap.  Yet, when I did so today, the older gentleman in front of me nervously fumbled for a bar, though he could not find one.  I just assume the cashier can perceive the border between our goods what with the foot and a half gap I left between them.  And even in there is confusion, is it a big deal to say "I'm sorry, that's his"?  I sense this is more about personal space and comfort zones than it is about practicality.  It'd be interesting to conduct a study to see how close you can put your stuff to another person's before they show signs of agitation.

2: Do I, driving in the parking lot of Taco Bell, two chalupas in my hand, look like I want to buy a home theater system?  I was about to park and enjoy some early springtime air, good mix CD tunes, and my aforementioned fast faux-Mexican food, when a couple of guys driving an SUV come to a jerking halt beside me.  "HAAAAY!" says the one who looks vaguely like David Arquette with an expression of excitement that far outstrips anything socially acceptable.  "Would you be interested in buying a home theater system?  Our company got one free!" 

This is an old, old scam, and I've been targeted with variations on two other occasions.  The first time, I was 16 and on Main Street of my hometown when someone asked me if I wanted to buy these great speakers he had in his trunk.  Like, $500 speakers, but I could have them for $200.  See, his company was going to deliver them to someone's house but turns out, they were ordered by mistake!  So like, free speakers, right?!  I remember being very attracted to his offer and bemoaning my lack of cash.  I'm thinking it's probably a good thing most 16 year olds don't roll around town with hundreds wadded up in their jeans pockets.  (At least none of the 16 year olds I hung with did.) 

The second time I was older (and a touch wiser).  I was walking along campus when a couple of dudes in a cargo van asked me if I wanted a deal on some cheap speakers.  Same deal: mistakenly ordered, already paid for, they can't go back to the warehouse with them.  At least they had a commercial looking vehicle.  The guys today, though they both had jumpsuits that looked like uniforms, were driving an X-Terra that, while not as creepy as a white windowless cargo van (I should know, I used to drive one), just does not look like a company delivery vehicle.  When I declined their offer, they drove off, with the Arquettesque passenger never breaking his frantically ecstatic grimace.

3: Why is it that nine times out of ten, when I see Prius on the Highway, it is passing me?  I assume one of the main reasons for buying a Prius is for it's fuel efficiency, is it not?  Do the drivers realize that doing 70 is a fairly reliable way to get shit gas mileage, hybrid or not?

4: There's a listing on our classified system (same one I got the organ and the iMac through): "I have a 80% new bike to sell. Price is 29 dollars."



...what? 
80%...  new?  How, I mean, I can't even begin to think of how one would measure this!  What does that mean?  Like, at what rate does newness decrease with use?  Is it percentage newness per hour use?  Per mile?  Do accidents or dropping the bike or leaving out in the rain take points off?  Is it a new bike, but the seller replaced the wheels and seat with used ones?  How do you determine percentage then?  By weight?  WTF is 80% of a bike?!  My head is going to explode trying to make sense of this!  And the best part: for twenty nine dollars!  Not thirty, not twenty five.  An 80% new bike is worth twenty nine dollars.  I'm having flashbacks to those nightmare math test questions. 

(15pts) Geraldo is riding his 80% new bicycle (worth $29) from home, and is traveling northwest at an average rate of 15 k/hr.  His sister, Monique, is riding her bike, which is 90% new, in the opposite direction, from school.  If Geraldo and Monique's school is 7 kilometers away from their home, and they both start riding at the same time, at what rate must Monique ride her bike so that she meets Gerald halfway?  How new will her bike be when they meet? How much will it be worth?  Show your work:

Chat with Aunt: "All Aboard!"

Laurie: So my friend Criss has a new phrase that I need you to spread.
me: Shit in a Philly?
Laurie: It's--Awesome Train, as in "The awesome train is making express stops only on the way to Emoville."
The Awesome Train is totally green. It runs on coolness.
me: Hmm.. explain further so I know explicitly how to use it
Laurie: It's a train full of awesome. How much more explanation does one need?
Don’t get in the way of the awesome train cause youre gonna get fucking run over.
Like if someone is trying to rain on your parade.
me: Is the subject of the awesome ironic or truly a thing to appreciate
Laurie: the latter.
although, I suppose it could go either way.
me: Let me see if I've got it right.
I was going to be on the Price is Right, but instead I lost my arm because I was waving it out the window of The Awesome Train
Even though I was told explicitly not to do so.
Laurie: you may be overthinking it.
me: Hmm.
Laurie: Next time you cosy up to the Dark Mistress say, "I hope you're ready because the Awesome Train just pulled into the station for a two hour layover." or something like that.
me: How about; I was driving across a railroad crossing and my car stalled and I heard a whistle and I jumped out right before my car got hit by The Awesome Train.
But it was okay because the train was carrying Kittens and so I got one and that's kind of cool.
Laurie: See, you'd want to be hit by the Awesome Train. YOU are the Awesome Train.
See the train. Be the train.
me: Would they show TV on the Awesome Train?
Would they show reruns of MASH?
Laurie: Only themost awesome programs
sure
me: That show was pretty good, but it might be too dark for the Awesome Train.
How about this;
Laurie: Here's the official word on TV: it would be real world road rules challenge all the time
That comes from Criss
me: I just missed the Peace Train, so I'll have to take the Awesome Train instead. And now I need to get my tickets changed, but I think it's okay, because Awesome Train tickets are cheaper.
Laurie: You're getting there.
Less wordy.
me: Awesome Train impregnated my cat and gave me a delicious burrito?
Laurie: Criss says:
they are not for sale buddy
Criss says:
minnie drivier hands them out
Criss says:
in the lobby
me: Awesome Train earned me an online degree in Criminal Justice?
Laurie: You may not be ready for the awesome train.
~fin~

What the Bread, Man?

As I walked through my yard to my car on Tuesday, something on the fence caught my eye. It was bread. More specifically, about a third or a half of a hot dog bun, either bitten or torn off and crumbled up. It was pressed on top of one of the chain link fence posts that separates my yard from my parking spots, and the back alley behind. I swatted it off the fence, not having time to throw it in my trash. I swatted it off because I now have a theory. A paranoid theory, perhaps, and one based on wild speculation. Really though, aren't those the most fun?

This is the fourth time I've found fragments of foodstuffs left around the exterior of my house. When I moved in, there was a half eaten cupcake on top of my mailbox. At the time I simply chalked this up to the weirdass menagerie of previous tenants. The same menagerie that left closets full of clothes, half eaten calzones to bake for months in garbage bag ovens warmed by the sun, and pins stuck through the miniblind strings so that when I drew them I was rewarded with a constellation of bloody spots across my palm.

The mailbox half cupcake was the only non bread item I've found. A few months later there was another baked good on my mailbox; this time a piece of hot dog bun. I promptly threw it away. Then, this winter while shoveling the sidewalk between my house and the neighbors', I found another piece of bun balanced on my windowsill. This was the one that made me wonder.

I mentioned it to Slim Jim, and he said “yeah, the neighborhood kids are always leaving treats around.” I live in a semi urban area. Post industrial, with row-homes galore. Most of my street is duplexes or row-homes build a hundred years ago or more from brick. The population here is a mix of Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, old White people, and White undergraduate college students. As you could imagine, there are some tensions. Pretty much between the college students and everyone else.

I used to live in the house next door back in my college days. I remember the thing back then was the neighborhood kids, mostly not yet high school age, would congregate on someone's porch hang out there for hours. The porch would almost always belong to a house full of college students, such as ourselves. I remember I would hear them on the porch and I'd feel uncomfortable. I had to go to class, or out to the store. What should I say? What did they want? I decided on “hey, what's up”, and kept walking, otherwise ignoring them.

One day I brought home a tray of leftover cookies from my work study job. Shortly thereafter, Johnny Blue Jeans, who lived there as well, came home from class and mentioned the kids were out there. He took the tray of cookies out and offered them, and they accepted. A little after that they stopped coming back. A month or two later there was an editorial in the school paper about student-community relations written by a young man whose house was also on our street. Neighborhood kids, he said, were always hanging out on their porch, and no about of pleading, yelling, or badgering would get them to leave.

So I have to wonder: has a new group of children seen my parking tag and taken to setting these gifts about my house in an attempt to rile me? Are the pieces left behind as markers of some sort, and if so, for what intent? Are they part of a test to see how often I'm home or how frequently I check the exterior of my house? Is there a drunk old man who buys a pack of hot dog rolls and eats them while wandering past my house? Is it one of my old college friends playing a sort of long term prank/participating in a sort of personal flux art performance, the very kind of thing I delight in doing to others?

I propose a Thursday toast: to mystery.

A New Toy! Joy!

The place where I work has a board for classifieds that I check regularly for both amusement (people trying to sell their apartment in overpriced piecemeal) and the occasional deal ($20 iMac, anyone?). Early this week I checked and saw an ad that read "Organ for Sale", which went on to list a working Hammond organ without a price. I did some quick research, quickly became enamored with the notion of owning one, and shot an email asking the price. She replied "It's yours if you want it." Let it not be said that I'm one to pass on some free organ.

The only problem is that, being an honest to god non-transistor, tonewheel organ, I found it was likely to weight between three and four hundred pounds. I emailed Slim Jim to ask if he were coming around this weekend, if he'd be able to bring the trailer for his car. Plans came together frantically on Friday night to pick it up on Saturday. Of course, Saturday, it was raining, hard. I bought a dolly and a couple tarps from the hardware store as D.M.H. waited at my place for Slim Jim. I was fretting over whether to move it or not, since I doubted that rain would be friendly to a complex electromechanical machine, moving a heavy awkward object would only be more difficult with tarps hanging from it, and to top it off, the Mistress wasn't feeling well. Sunday was out though, and when the sun broke through the clouds, we decided to go for it.

The woman giving it away was very nice and accommodating as we invaded her home with tarps, duct tape, and a dolly. We just had gotten the organ to the door when rain started coming down sideways. She invited us to take our time and tarp the organ up, and by the time we were finished it was only raining lightly. It took us an hour, maybe more to get from the house to being situated on the trailer. The sun finally broke again just as we finished tying it down, and I enjoyed a moment of satisfaction before the stress of making sure it stayed on the trailer during the drive home. Getting it in my house was much easier than getting it out of hers, and we were all happy to find out when we unwrapped it in my kitchen like an overgrown redneck Christmas gift that everything had remained dry. It turned right on (as right on as old organs turn) and played! Behold:





It came with a bunch of song books, but they're hard for me to use, as I don't know what note each key is (I can find middle C and extrapolate from there), and I don't know my treble clef well (Every Good Boy Does Fine!). Instead I've been trying to learn songs by ear. My first goal is a song from the Battlestar Galactica soundtrack called Roslin and Adama (NERD!). It is a beautiful, moving piece that I will inevitably suck every last ounce of subtlety and grace from. In the mean time, I can wait for the Dark Mistress to come over and then pretend I'm scoring a soap opera while she tries to have a conversation with me.

Yes, It was I who ate all the ice cream. (MINOR CHORD!) And you know what? It was damn good.

Screw You, Google

Keeping in line with today's trend writing about the things that piss me off, how about when I'm trying to search for the intersection of two things (such as "David Horvath" and "The Aquabats") and I have to sift through useless results due to advertising. (A site featuring USEFUL CONTENT on search item A will have USELESS CONTENT in the form of ads for topic B, or vice versa.)

I was searching for David Horvath because of Uglydolls. I read an obnoxiously punny an ad stating more or less "HAY GUYS, WE NOW HAS TEH UGLYDOLLS!!!1!", which made me think: what are these "Ugly Dolls", and why don't I know about them? So I googled them and found they're a series of cute/hip/ironic monster looking plushie dolls. The thing is, they looked awful familiar to artwork I've seen in costumes and album covers created for The Aquabats. Knowing The Aquabats have had many an artist work with them, I wondered if David was one of them, or if this were just another unfortunate art coincidence.

In general, when searching for information on an item, it sucks to have to sift through dozens of pages of ads that don't have any useful information. The reason I single out Google is, of all the useless results that frustrated me, the worst was a page where the only mention of "The Aquabats" was from two Google Ads links on the site. I would have assumed Google to have designed their system so that their search results don't pick up (useless) content from their ad boxes.

Besides that, and their frightening, unprecedented conglomeration of financial and technological power and information, I love my Gmail, Reader, and Blogger accounts!