hey, remember

Big Day

2010-10-26T15:50:00.004-04:00

Today, Oct. 26, I finished the rough draft of a novel I've been working on intermittently since the summer of '09. The word count comes out to somewhere between 65,000 and 68,000, depending on the software.

This is exciting for me because it's the culmination of a lot of hard work. It's also the second story I've ever actually seen through to completion. The first, which I was also excited about and proud of, was a rough draft of a short story that I wrote over a week in August while taking a break from the novel.

I won't say what it's about. To anyone. Even the mistress.

I'll tell you this though. There is still a lot of work to be done. What's going to happen now is I'm going to spell check it, format it nice and double space it, print it out, put it in a binder, and put that binder on a shelf for another day.

After some time passes, I'll come back to it, read through it, and take lots of notes about things I like, things I hate, and things to change.

Then I'll prop that bidner up on my desk and I'll re-write the whole story.

Then I'll print that out, set it on a shelf. Sometime later, I'll re-read that version, make notes, then prop that binder up and make those changes.

Then, maybe, if I'm lucky and I work very hard, I'll have something worth showing someone.

Until then though, I'll just be proud of doing something that just a couple years ago I would have assumed I'd never do.

Oh, also, I might have forgot to mention:
I didn't get into any schools so the mistress and I quit our jobs and moved in with her dad out in the country where someday she might get some land that we hope to build a house on, deep in the woods, where we can keep bees and raise chickens and goats and garden and just kinda be ourselves but in the meantime we're both broke and working part-time jobs and generally questioning the wisdom of moving in with a man who eats one meal a day that consists of a can of ravioli and half a bag of croutons.

Countdown

2010-03-15T12:00:00.001-04:00

No time for carnelian and white.

Cell Phone Camera, Vol. 1

2010-03-02T00:05:00.013-05:00

When it came time to upgrade from my first cell phone I wanted to find a phone without a camera. It was 2006, and I had theretofore never felt my cell phone's lack of a camera was a hindrance in any way. At the time, you may have heard me say something like "pshaw! To shoehorn the functionality of a camera, great though it may be, into the convenient package of a cellular telephone would be to ensure that neither performs its best. Furthermore, I see as much in having a photographic device on my telephone as I would in having a phonograph on my toaster*."

Fast forward to present day where I have a phone upon which I can access my personal and work calendar, my personal and work email, run an ongoing chat session, play any number of games, read and compose documents, navigate via online map service using GPS, stream music, browse the internet, and yes, take pictures. Shit, I can point the camera at a bar-code and it will scan that bar-code, then tell me what I scanned, then tell me where I can get that thing and for what price. Damn.

It does so much, but it doesn't do that camera thing very well. The Droid's camera is only happy under ideal lighting conditions, and there are no user tools to help decide how to expose. In the dark, the camera's sensor goes crazy with noise and you end up with 5 mega-pixels worth of picture that looks like a capture off a turn of the century webcam.

Still, I use it, and the best thing about taking photos with a phone is that I always forget about the pictures I took. The means that I get to have moments like yesterday, when I realize my phone is filled with a lot of little gems. Though I'd venture to say only one or two of these is what I'd consider a "good photo", here are my favorites, touched up from "crappy" to "eh" as well as I could manage.

* I call trademark on Toasty Trax!

Countdown

2010-02-23T16:12:00.001-05:00

You won't see me in maroon.

Countdown

2010-02-22T15:27:00.001-05:00

I won't be wearing orange.

The Summer Pretzel

2010-01-22T16:25:00.002-05:00

There was a time between my stint in college and my current full time employment where I found myself listless, uninspired, and depressed. That did not preclude me, however, from the ability to find kinship in the most unexpected of places, such as hot pretzel display at Taco Bell.

As the months lumbered by, my friend and I would get together with a couple of other friends who moved to a town off the beaten path, about 45 minutes away. The commute sucked, but one of the perks of their location was their proximity to a Taco Bell.

This wasn't the greatest of Taco Bells, mind you. They didn't have a fryer and that meant no Chalupa shells, among other minor inconveniences. Also, no free drink refills. Still, the closest alternative was a crappier Bell location thirty minutes away.

This Taco Bell happened to be part of a three store complex that featured an ice-cream counter and a pizza shop, neither of which were franchises. It had all the feel of a truck stop with none of the curious conveniences like post cards, third rate books and movies, mini televisions, cb radios, and of course multi-pound bags of beef jerky.

We never bought ice cream, we never ordered pizza. Taco Bell all the way. Minus the lack of refills and a fryer, it was fine faux mexi-merican fast food. There was an oddity, however: between the Bell counter and the Ice Cream stand was a hot pretzel display. In the hot pretzel display were, of course, pretzels - but not many. They looked rather pitiful, that handful of doughy knots in slow orbit under a 400 watt sun.

I can't say I took much notice of the pretzels beyond that, however, until the number in the display shrank to one. One solitary pretzel that remained, paraded slowly in front of all who passed. The first I saw it I thought "oh hey, I guess there was a run on pretzels. Didn't know people actually bought those." I then thought nothing of it until the following week where, again, there was only one pretzel. "How odd" I thought.

Two more weeks passed where only one pretzel circled and I began to wonder aloud about the possibility of it being the same pretzel every week. My friends had already presumed that was the case but I, ever over-estimating humanity, didn't want to think it so. It's not like the place didn't see a moderate amount of traffic, and I didn't want to believe that the staff was that lazy as to not throw away that one last pretzel.

So I went to the case and I studied it; looked for any distinguishing marks that would set it apart from any potential replacements. It didn't take long to find what I was looking for: a thumb print, pressed into the dough, breaking through the brown crust and leaving just a bit of the whiteness below to peek through. I had my clue. All I needed was time.

Time, of course, took care of itself and the next weekend saw me back at the case where I would see the same indentation on the same pretzel in the same spot on its sad and lonely rack. My friends were unimpressed. At first. But the weeks spun and so too did the pretzel, presumably dry as a stegosaurus turd, un-bought, uncared for, unloved. Was employment there so abysmal an existence that the simple restocking of pretzels presented a challenge that could only be tackled after years of counseling and pharmaceuticals? Or did this display inhabit a neutral zone, a No Man's Land under neither Taco Bell's or the ice cream shop's jurisdiction? Was it a buffer between warring nations, or was it simply the pretzel case that time forgot?

I didn't appreciate it at the time, but that pretzel was my mascot for the summer. My kindred spirit. Was it plucked from it's aluminum vine and given the final indignity of a curt disposal, or was it finally sold and consumed by some unknown rube to some other unknown rube who, I could only hope, had a taste for dusty pope-farts? With salt?

Regardless, the pretzel, my unemployment, that summer, all were destined to pass; and so it was.

Word of the Day Quote

2009-11-06T08:57:00.001-05:00

What's unfortunate is that it doesn't carry the same weight spoken as it does written. Written, you see this magnificent thing: stinkard, but spoken you hear stinker with a fumble on the end, possibly due to a piece of stuck food coming dislodged and, by chance, forming a hard consonant on its way out of your mouth and perhaps onto a friend or, one could only hope, a co-worker.

More Shit I Got to Deal With

2009-11-05T16:51:00.001-05:00

If you write an email to me "just checking up" on a project, then you really mean "will you please hurry up" on my project.

This is valid.

If you write that email to me to "just check up", but also CC not only my supervisor, but my supervisor's supervisor, without warning, and without having checked up with just me first...

then you are a fuckhole.

Week 4

2009-10-16T10:15:00.001-04:00

My first failed week.

Last week I continued on my 2 days per week, take it easy on my legs plan, and it was working fine. Over the weekend I thought that if I still felt good after Monday's run, I'd try to go back to 3 days per week.

Instead I was home sick Monday with some stomach issues, and I wasn't feeling it Tuesday or Wednesday. Wednesday night I hurt my knee bounding down the stairs, so I pushed it off until this morning, whereupon I decided bed was too warm.

Next week I have to kick it off strong or I'm in danger of falling out.

Damn. Sports do make you stupid. What the fuck does the above sentence even mean? I can't even imagine a scenario in which I can take myself seriously as those words, in that order, come out of my mouth.

Kick it.

Week 3 Day 1

2009-10-05T09:30:00.001-04:00

I was bargaining with myself. Or debating. One or the other.
The debate was to run today or to run tomorrow and sleep in today. I mean, since I'm only going to do two days a week for the time being, why not do Tuesday and Friday to maximize the time between runs? On the other hand, if I keep my schedule of waking up early Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, even if I don't run on Wednesdays, it will be easier to integrate that third day when I'm ready.

Really what it came down to though was this: I didn't want to wake up early today.

I'm glad I did though. Today was the first time I had fun since day one. There was still soreness in my ankles, but not as much, and for the most part I was able to keep good form. I had also decided to halt my advancement down the Couch to 5K Chart, but instead of dutifully timing my jog times at 90 seconds, I decided to jog until I was uncomfortable, which felt more natural.

Each morning I go out it's closer to night time darkness. It's amazing how rapidly that change seems to happen when you witness it a few times a week. To the west was the nearly full moon and to the sun was below the horizon but coming quickly. It's night when I leave, day when I return. Cool all around.

Also, there's something about those shoes. The novelty's worn off by now, so they're not on my mind like they were two weeks ago. When I slip them on though something magical happens. It's like I've been granted super feet, my feet with super grip powers and super tough soles.

I don't know. I haven't had any coffee this morning and I'm beginning to realize that this post is a mess. But hey, for what it's worth, at least I didn't squeeze the Charmin.

Week 2

2009-10-03T11:14:00.001-04:00

The Blue Zipper caught up on my writing about my attempt at running and offered me some advice which I could be sum up to be "slow down."
I wanted to heed this, but more-so, I wanted to just push myself on the self discipline front and not have to worry about injury, but after running Monday I knew that I had to change my plan up somehow. The muscles in my lower legs hurt too much and I was slowed to a shuffle. Having not ever really injured myself with a strain or a pull, I wasn't sure what the warning signs were and I didn't want to find out the hard way.

So Wednesday the Mistress and I went on an early morning walk instead. Much less strenuous and it kept me on my wake-up schedule.

Friday I ran again with modest success. My legs weren't happy, but they felt recharged compared to Monday, and it makes sense. So, my plan from here, I think, is to pause on the schedule where I am (90 seconds of running, 2 minutes of walking, alternated for 20 minutes) until my muscles build up in my calves, feet, and ankles.

Luckily the reign of blisters has ended.
I haven't given up yet.

Week 1 Day 3:

2009-09-25T12:53:00.001-04:00

I got out the door a bit earlier today, so I saw the sunrise. Kind of. Again, I only really saw brilliant orange clouds in an otherwise dark sky due to buildings and foliage but man, it's something to see. Somehow it's very different than sunset.

The blisters felt better today. Not great, but better. It was the legs that were hurting. My ankles and calves were so stiff that after 10 minutes I almost decided to head back for fear of hurting myself, which of course, I don't want to do. I pressed on because I'm afraid that the first time I bargain or cut myself slack will just open the floodgates for further, weaker excuses. I made it, and as of lunchtime here, I'm not feeling any ill effects.

Except, of course, from being tired. One day a week of good sleep is not nearly enough.

Week 1 Day 2: Whose Genius Idea Was This Anyway?

2009-09-23T13:12:00.001-04:00

I fully expected the first day to be the worst. This was incredibly shortsighted and foolish. Today sucked more by a high order of magnitude. Day one was all nerves. Day two? Day two was all pain.

My run was more of a fast shuffle today as the springs were worn and rusty. The thing, whatever it is, that connects my heel assembly to the calve muscle, or maybe that's just more calve muscle, was very sore. It was tight all of yesterday, but I was hoping a good night's sleep would allow it to heal up a bit. Unfortunately I haven't had good sleep recently.

It was hard to tell which part of me was dogging it and why. Was it getting too little sleep every day of the week but one since like, forever? Was it the sore legs? Was it the seams rubbing against raw skin with each step?

The blisters were both not as bad and worse than I expected. I never knew the proper way to deal with blisters was to pop them. I thought they were to be treated as pimples: just let it be. My feet felt much better after I mauled them. I tried popping them Monday night with a needle, but the needle wasn't sharp enough to go through my tough foot skin, so I had to wait around for a pair of sharp scissors to boil. Yeah, you read right, I hacked at my blisters with a pair of nose scissors. Splort!

(Warning, don't read the above while eating. Especially don't read it if you're about to use mustard and that little bit of yellow mustard juice just ran out onto your sandwich because you forgot to shake it enough. Yeah, don't read the above then think about that.)

The blisters on my big toes felt pretty good today. Not peachy keen, but easy enough to ignore. The blisters on the inside arch of my foot, however, were on fire. Friction every step. In the end I couldn't wait to get back home, stretch again, shower, and... go to work. I could have gone right to bed, to be honest.

Thing is, today's run almost didn't happen. To describe it, I wish there were a way to measure discrete amounts of will, and in addition, that there was a way to adequately communicate the experience of having just one little bit of that will left to do a thing. Then giving that up. That's where I was this morning, round about 6:12. I'd woken up at 4 and was awake well past 5, so of course I was good and sleepy when the alarm went off at 6. After snoozing a couple times* I rationalized. I'm really tired, yeah? Like, it's probably unhealthy for me to try to exercise without proper sleep, not to mention running on such stiff legs. Yeah. You can always run tomorrow. Turn off the alarm. Sleep in.

I had that one last atomic bit of that resolve to actually get out of bed, go outside, and do the pain thing. And as my hand was on its way to relieve me of it, my phone's alarm, which I set just in case the regular one isn't getting my attention, went off. I begrudgingly got up.

I still have to say I love the shoes. I wish I were wearing them now, though if I were, I'd be tired of answering questions about them, and I do think my blisters would protest. Also, the morning sky is quite a thing to behold. I only wish it weren't obscured by so much urban muck and that I could actually see a horizon.

Let's see what Friday holds.

Week 1, Day 1: Blisters and Hills

2009-09-21T21:21:00.004-04:00

I had a lot of anxiety about my first run. First of all, I the plan was to get up at 6am, be back by 7.

That sucks.

Second, I was going to be outside. In town. Where there are other people.

That too sucks.

I like working out in private. It's a very solitary thing to me. I feel very self conscious doing it, and the prospect of being in public only made it harder to self motivate.

I'm talking serious anxiety.

Which kinda melted away when I took in a cool breath of air and I saw the orange morning clouds and the blue behind.

Down the corner from me is a student I know. He's very involved and he was standing on his porch in a suit, checking the time. I startled him when I said hi. After all I was in a sweatshirt with the hood up, and besides, what was I doing out at 6:30 anyway?

The first week is three days of the following: a 5 minute walking warm-up followed by 60 seconds of running and 90 seconds of walking, which alternate for 20 minutes. During the warm up I was itching to start running. I was ready.

Running felt... effortless. Really. I mean it felt good. That is, until I ran out of flat land.

At some point I had to go up or down a hill. Both suck. Uphill really kicked my ass and the downhill, well, that sucked because it's just hard. Jarring.

When I read reviews of these shoes online, people were amazed at how they could feel everything on the ground. The textures and everything. I was not impressed in this regard, and I wondered why until realized that I've been wearing the same pair of shoes pretty much daily for the past year and a half, and the soles are wafer thin. I guess I've been practicing.

They say your feet will be sore and tired because they're going to be used to the support of shoes, which lead to weak foot muscles. My feet feel fine, except for the blisters (which I suppose are to be expected). It's my calves which are tired (which is also to be expected, since they're absorbing the body's shock). I had a lot of meetings to walk between today and believe me, I took my time getting to each one.

My spiffy heart rate watch worked the whole time and it was cool to see where my heart-rate was.

I wish I had a flatter place to run, but there's nowhere to go that isn't a drive. It's almost time to pop some blisters, but for now, check out this kicks man.

I was going to get a pair in black, or at least brown, to attract the least amount of attention possible, but really I like the blue pair the best. I just wouldn't have had the guts to buy the blue ones if they weren't the only pair left. On a related note, I'd like a percentage of any pools that open up to bet on the date I get beat up on account of these.

Prologue

2009-09-21T20:56:00.002-04:00

I decided I'd give myself a birthday present.
This is the culmination of many factors.
I've always wanted to.
And so the plan came together.

I've always held a watered down disdain for runners, solely for the fact that I couldn't imagine what they were getting out of running. Running? Really? My feelings could be summed up in a single line from Back to the Future III, spoken by an incredulous drunk native of the 1800's, upon hearing Doc's rambling description of the future. "People run? For fun?"

I've always been a chubby kid. I don't know if I'd say fat, but I remember I got to a certain age and noticed that I was bit more rolly and polly than average. My pants were always called "husky." I had tits. Then came gym class: changing in front of my peers, followed by swimming: no way to hide.

My favorite personal indignity: Boy Scout camp. The showers were a concrete pad, surrounded by walls, cold water only. And like many bathroom sinks they had to be held on. Being homophobic shy young men we avoided to shower and I think at a certain point we were forced to go. Why else would we have all gone together?

The unspoken agreement was everyone showered without removing their underwear. This is how I found everyone my age wore boxers. Everyone except me in white. Tight. Briefs.

That wasn't bad compared to what came from the mouth of a young man who had a learning disorder, the kind of which led him to say whatever observation came to mind, much in the manner of Ralph Wiggum's classic "my cat's breath smells like cat food." We were all soaped and showering, doing our best to avoid eye contact and conversation, when he turned to me and said, almost joyfully, "you look like a sumo wrestler."

Some months ago I'd read an article espousing the benefits of "barefoot" running. I use quotes because it was really about shoes that protect the foot from rocks and such while being as thin as possible to mimic the feel of running barefoot. Apparently thicker sole running shoes are designed to minimize heel impact through padding, though their shape necessitates running on your heels. This, they say, is the cause of many running injuries. The alternative would be to run more "naturally" by taking away heel padding to make it painful to strike hard on the heel. Just like running barefoot.

I'm a very skeptical person, and I don't buy into anything new-age-y easily, frequently, or much at all. I was surprised at how much sense this article made to me, and how much I wanted those shoes just to walk around in. I love walking barefoot, I just hate cuts and broken glass and being thrown out of pretty much any commercial establishment (1) (I've grown fond of service(2)).

I forwarded the article to my friend Tyr who I knew would enjoy it, and that evening he'd purchased a pair. Soon after The Blue Zipper sent me a similar, if not the same article (I can't remember), which I thought was aneat coincidence. Then, some weeks later an author, Christopher McDougall, was on the Daily Show. In the roughest of summaries by memory: he'd been studying an ancient people in Mexico who, when the rest stayed to fight the Conquistadors, fled to safety. They live in the middle of bf nowhere but are now being threatened by drug lords, those sons a bitches. Well, what's notable about these people is that they run a lot, and they're super happy, and they don't have cancer or suicide, nor do they have knee or other running related problems. Also, they may or may not fart rainbows. Why? Because they run barefoot.

Now that's not very scientific, but in lieu of some new-age conspiracy afoot (he he) to plant a bunch of articles and books and such to promote the same product at the same time, I took it as further confirmation and pined again for those shoes. "It's a shame I don't run" I thought.

Also, shame they're so ugly.

At one point in my life, I was in relatively good shape. On and off through the years I've done weightlifting routines. Then, one summer I worked as a "meter exchange ... something", and in the summer months I'd hoof it around changing electric meters while wearing long pants, a t-shirt, a thick long sleeve fire retardant shirt, and pounds of tools. The dude training me was a bit of a, uh, dumbass, and when he went on about how much weight he'd lost and how much I'd loose doing the job I just blew it off as bull.

Three months later I was down from 215 pounds to 180. This was still overweight according to that BMI thingymaboob, but it was good. I could wear a large t-shirt and not feel self conscious. It was the first time since that adolescent doubt first began that I started to feel good about how I looked.

I stayed around that weight for a good few years. Then college ended, unemployment and a 4 hour block of Star Trek on Spike TV set in(3). Somewhere along the way I also learned to cook for myself, which has presented a challenge at times. Fast forward to now. I'm around 225. My pant size has gone from 34 to 38 or 40 (depending on stretchability), and I'm pretty self conscious about my gut. I look like a sausage in a large t-shirt, and I have a lot of cool shirts that don't get any love anymore. Hell, there are two I bought that I love and I've never worn them.

I want to wear them.

Then, a few weeks ago, walking side by side with my lady, I had a moment. I thought, in that moment, (though I was listening to everything you said D. Mistress, I swear), I want to run. It was a calm, serene feeling. I'm gonna do it. I thought.

I found this Couch to 5k program which is scheduled over an 9 week period, and I figured hey, if I start in mid September, I could be ready to run a 5k by my birthday. What a cool birthday present that would be, huh? Start feeling better, start losing some weight, stop feeling like a fancy sausage.

So I bought the shoes.
And I printed out the program.
And I dug my sweats out from the closet.
And I dug my larger pair of sweats out from the closet.
And I set up the cool heart rate monitoring watch I got from woot.com for twenty bucks yeah!
And I opened up the door
and I set off into the sunrise.

(1) This hasn't really happened.
(2) Services and goods.
(3) ...it was worth it.

I don't know but I've been told

2009-07-16T10:01:00.001-04:00

don't eat no melons that been growin' mold.

Shit I've got to deal with: Gentle Reminders

2009-05-04T10:17:00.000-04:00

Somebody sent a "Gentle Reminder" to my inbox today. This should be strongly discouraged. Not only do I think the qualification of a reminder as gentle is unprofessional, I find it insulting as well. What does the word gentle add do a message? I cannot recall any communication intended to remind that profited from the word gentle, nor any that suffered from its omission. Gentle, then, has nothing to do with the content of the reminder, and everything to do with indicating the author's displeasure at having to send a secondary or tertiary message to those of us who are too busy ranting about the idiosyncracies of our workplaces to respond an email within a week or so of the first time we read it.

Hands Wrung Hard

2009-04-14T17:31:00.001-04:00

I haven't mailed the forms in yet. Tomorrow. But I contacted the director of the program, as well as the grad admissions office, for that nice school in Boston. You know, the one I visited and fell in love with? I notified them today of my decision not to attend.

This came after much time spent going over numbers and numbers. Estimates, guesses, these were all I had really, but what I figured was this: I'd leave with between $50,000 - $60,000 in student loans. Perhaps I would also leave with contacts and opportunities I had not considered, but most likely I'd leave in search of adjunct teaching positions for not much more than I make now, if not less. As it stands, I'm a long way from being able to afford $700 per month in student loan payments.

Though I know I'd love going there: moving to a new city, not just any city but a literary hub packed with history and opportunity, spending my time in a community of fellow artists dedicated to honing their crafts, meeting new people and forming friendships, partnerships, and artistic connections that would last a lifetime, developing myself as a person and exploring new areas of creativity, being exposed to new experiences that would shape me in ways I couldn't begin to fathom right now, in the end I decided the promise wasn't worth the potential cost. I felt as if I were selling part of my future away for some wonderful experiences now. With there being other, cheaper, opportunities out there, I passed.

Speaking of which, that nice school in Seattle has some TA positions up for grabs. I should find out in a day or two if one of those comes my way. If so, I'm Washington bound, tuition free. If not, I'm facing a similar decision, with an expected $45,000-$50,000 in student loans. Then there's that school I've wanted to go to from the get go down in North Carolina. I know they want to find funding for everyone, but I haven't heard yea or nay from them yet either. Hope springs still, but I'm not feeling very lucky these days.

You Suck, March

2009-04-01T20:29:00.007-04:00

I had a moment this morning to reflect on the past few weeks. I haven't been feeling well lately, and I recalled that about a year ago I found myself cursing the month of March and the challenges it brought. I also recalled that I had quite a miserable March, 2007. Is it the time of year? Coincidence? Perhaps month names that are also verbs are destined to suck.

This month started off great as I rode the high of my MFA acceptance through a fantastic and carefree weekend with some friends. The day we got back, however, we had to tend to a sick Starbuck. Some non human entity had been leaving strange pukes around the house, so we isolated the chief culprit, Starbuck. We didn't catch her puking, but in two days she didn't do any eating or drinking either, so we took her to the vet.

It wasn't good. She'd lost half her weight, and had a condition that necessitated immediate care. Over the next few days we agonized on how much money to spend in search of what was wrong and then how much to fix it. There were many teary nights and harried vet trips. When all was said and done, we were able to care for her at home: she required feedings every 4 hours through a tube run through her neck, as well as several medications doled out through the day.

(Click here for more information on what was wrong with Starbuck)

For the next two weeks the Mistress and I traded off waking up at 4am to feed Starbuck. Feedings take about a half hour, all told, and by the time I would get back to bed I was too awake to fall asleep quickly. Our sleep debts quickly began to compound until the two of us looked like the walking dead. I'd stopped caring to trim my beard and mustache, and the stupid mistakes I was making at work began to garner attention.

Thankfully our efforts and attention paid off and Starbuck began to eat on her own. We could cut back her feedings in order to encourage her to eat more on her own, allowing us to catch up on precious sleep.

The increase in sleep allowed me to regain my mental prowess, which upon its return, began to focus solely on my wait to hear from the remainder of MFA programs I applied to. The two schools that accepted me, the nice one in Seattle and the nice one in Boston, have not offered me much in the way of funding. Nothing from the school in Seattle, and the one in Boston offered a Graduate Assistantship position which, generous though it is, would barely cover my living expenses. For either school I would be looking at student loans in the neighborhood of $45,000 dollars. This is more than the $20,000 debt limit I'd set in my mind, so I'd been counting on one of the other four schools I hadn't heard back from to give me a good offer.

In the mean time, on the small chance that I did choose to go to the school in Boston, I thought The Mistress and I might as well go to the open house to see what's what. That, and I've never been around Boston. This past weekend we dropped Starbuck off with mom and headed north. Raucous P. L. B. Filibuster and The Big E share an apartment in a neighborhood of Boston and were nice enough to let us crash at their place for the night.

Of course, we had a fantastic time in Boston, and I liked the school a great deal. It's made the decision much harder, and every day that goes by I wait nervously for word from one of the remaining schools. It's hard for me not to assume at this point, however, that I'm not getting any other offers. The decision I'm left with in that case is presently tearing me up.

I'm only considering the nice school in Boston, as it's given me a better offer financially than the nice school in Seattle. So what if I decide to go? For one, I get to spend the next three years focusing on my writing. The school offers classes in many genres and types of writing, and I think I might also like to take a class on writing for magazines. Oh, and there was one about writing for columns that I'd like to take. In addition, they have a very tough teaching course that is required if you want a Teaching Assistantship. Less than half those that take the course are actually awarded a position, and it's decided by an interview system. This sounds intimidating, but I respect it. I think it's more fair to the undergraduates being taught and to the new teachers than other schools who throw TAs into a freshman comp course with little preparation. Of course, I don't know if I'd like to teach, but it is the one field that I would be more qualified to work in post MFA than I am now. The pragmatic side of me is very excited about that.

Specifics aside, attending would mean three years of challenges that would push me to grow as a writer and as a person. I would have fun with some good friends, and enjoy living in a culturally rich city. When all is said and done, I might have a chance at chasing down some teaching opportunities, and maybe I'd open up some other writing opportunities that I hadn't planned on. I'd also, however, struggle to make ends meet while at the same time trying to give my writing it's due attention. That is, after all, the reason for going in the first place. Also, best case scenario, I find some teaching jobs that pay just about what I'm making now (not a lot) in a place I'd like to work. That, however, assumes a lot. Funding for liberal arts programs is waning and I presume will continue to do so so long as this economic crisis is in effect. Other than that, I wouldn't be qualified for anything more than I am now, (not much), so I'd have to find a job doing what I could, probably still making about what I do now or less. My increased loan payments would make it difficult to make ends meet, maybe impossible, and could prevent me from saving money or taking out a loan for a car or a house.

So what if I don't go? Well, first, I'd have to stave off the waves of depression as I think about all the fun and excitement I'd be missing. And then the waves of depression that will come as I realize I've got to either find a new job (doing what?) or suck it up and keep working at the job I have now, which feels like a prison sentence. I mentioned previously that it wouldn't be so bad to move away and start over, find a new job, a new place to live, but such a thing is much easier said than done. Especially nowadays. I dread that the truth may not be so, but I can only hope that somewhere, out there, there is a job that won't make me question whether I should wake up in the morning, and I am desperate to know what that job might be and how I can find it. Getting an MFA lets me explore one possible avenue while allowing me to enjoy life and learning for a few years before I again face that dilemma. However, it might make for a harder life down the road, and with the economy where it is, does that seem very prudent? But would it be worth it for the happiness and the personal growth?

This is the impasse at which I find myself, and I... we... are very much awaiting relief. All advice is welcome.

April, save us.

Five Days, Part 1

2009-03-10T23:39:00.001-04:00

Phrases that describe the lifting of a weight from one's chest are cliche, yes, but considering the fact that I've had random chest pains that I finally pinned on my constant anxiety, I feel the cliche is apt. Thursday I received an acceptance letter from a fine institution in Boston, and since then the pains have been gone, gone, gone.

Of course, I wasn't sure if I was going to get the envelope open in the first place. Or, for that matter, if I was going to wake up on the floor some time later, only to be asked what day it is and if I know my own name. Trooper that I am, I managed, and inside was a wonderful folder filled with maps and pamphlets and a glorious congratulatory letter.

Have you ever seen old footage of women who go bonkers when they're told to "come on down" on The Price is Right? The jumping, the screaming, the demented facial contortions; I understand this now. After deafening the poor Mistress, I was on a high like no other. The sky looked sharper. Food tasted better. The world was full of possibility.

It made for a wonderful weekend that I enjoyed with the lightest heart I've had in years.

Now that I'm back, however, I'm faced with this reality: the particular program I'm accepted to, while highly praised, does not generally fund its students well. There are many MFA programs out there that offer funding in the form of tuition remission in addition to the traditional teaching assistant and graduate assistant positions. And, though it might be naive, I'm of the view that so long as I'm not paying tuition, I'll figure out a way to swing cost of living. How could I pass the opportunity up?

However, I have to now consider the option of taking out student loans and going into potentially substantial debt for a degree that won't help me pay that debt off upon exit. I don't know if this is something I'm prepared to do. It's not that I don't think the experience would be worthwhile. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't have spent over $600 to apply to schools in the first place.

It's just that, when I'm honest with myself, part of me would be okay with turning down a debt heavy educational opportunity in favor of starting over somewhere new. Finding a place I'd like to live, looking for a job there that won't drive me to drink, and dedicating my creative life to my craft on my own time. Yes, a tall order, but one I'm conceptually comfortable with for the first time in my life. See, I proved to myself by scrapping through the application process that I can write on my own time, that I'm capable. The praise I've received from my professors and the fact that I was accepted makes me feel that I'm at least a bit talented, and that I'm not wasting mine and everyone else's time. My craft would develop more slowly, and I'd lose out on invaluable perspectives, but how much am I willing to lay down for an MFA? The price of a small car? The price of a (very) small house?

That's not to say that more acceptances aren't on their way. Hopefully complete with rare juicy offers in an otherwise lean year all around. And, if that's the case, of course the sweat of my brow could afford to lie in wait for a couple years while I enrich my artistic side.

Five Days, Part 2

2009-03-10T18:44:00.001-04:00

I'm suffering withdrawals. This past weekend was so great, so fun and carefree, that when we returned from our trip opening the door to my house felt like kicking the bottom out of a giant stack of cardboard boxes, each one hitting me with force enough to sting, but not to bruise.

How could I expect life to live up to the standards of our mini vacation? First, I had my new toy to play with, which dropped digital bread crumbs as we drove to New York to visit the Mistress's friend Filmic Lemieux. She's a hoot through and through, and we ended up wandering around Brooklyn in search of eats after the place we set out for was closed. We settled on indian, which was quite tasty, and had a great time before splitting the check and parting ways.

Though trying to find a place to piss in Jersey City that wasn't locked, closed, or occupied by those passed out from drug use sucked, the next leg of the trip wasn't so bad. That is to say, I honestly don't remember much of it: we drove down to Slim Jim and Bartlet's place, arriving after 3am. Bartlet was staying up with some Street Fighter, the kind that it's been a decade since I last played. I held my own to his challenges through my superior button mashery. I never had a Nintendo or a Super Nintendo, so my fighting game technique has essentially remained unchanged over the years: panic, and panic quickly.

Saturday was absolutely beautiful. Our first real spring day. Upon stepping foot outside I ran to the car where I've kept two mitts and a baseball for the past few years for just such an occasion. Between catch, the tire swing, and a tennis ball thrown up on the roof, we spent a few hours reliving childhood. That night Bartlet broiled up some steak, chicken, peppers, and cucumbers, and they were all fantastic. After dinner we settled in for beer, espresso, and the Battlestar Galactica board game. For reasons I can't succinctly go into, it was a fun game to play but a depressing game to win.

Sunday Slim Jim set up a shooting range for his fancy new pellet gun. It even had a real rifle scope on it, which I'd never used before. I thought I was doing pretty well in showing off what I have for marksmanship until the Mistress went all Annie Oakly on us and started dropping cans like it weren't a thing. She was the only one of the four of us who managed to hit anything while standing. I myself couldn't hit anything unless I was prone. If things get too much worse I know which one of us is getting sent out with the BB gun to net us some squirrel.

It was hard to leave, but we had jobs, cats, and untwatched Battlestar Galactica to get back to.

Those New York Comic Con Photo Blues

2009-02-26T19:16:00.017-05:00

I'm very proud of some of these photos, as I was often shooting in a hurry. Though another way of looking at it is I took hundreds of shots, odds were that some would come out. While there's so much that I could say, so many angles I could approach these photos from, I've decided to resist commentary. They are what they are. Click to embiggen, ponder where applicable.

Our Intrepid Explorers:

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Saturday, Night's Allright.

2009-02-21T21:54:00.001-05:00

Just before I left for work today I checked the mail. My first letter from a school: rejected.

I'm surprised it didn't upset me more, but I think it's in part because I've been so pessimistic that I wasn't surprised, and in part because I've been preparing myself for the idea that life will go on if I don't get in. I'll still have a job, a place to live, someone to love, and things to write. As the night's wearing on though, the rejection's starting to hit me more.

In addition, I'm at work, and the event tonight's a battle of the bands. The band playing right now is only playing Bon-Jovi songs, and the singer is off key. I keep trying tell myself: "just think, a year from now you could be in another state, in a quiet library, doing some research or some great writing." But then I hear "It's my liiiiiiife it's now or never... I ain't gonna live forever!" in some frat dude's cracking voice, and I just don't know what's going on anymore.

How are you spending your Saturday night?

Oh, No Time for Prayer, Bob.

2009-02-16T16:18:00.002-05:00

Just got an email from the director of School C. Said to call when I get the chance. I called, and there was good news, bad news, and advice.

The good news: he said my sample's been getting high marks and strong votes in the committee, and he wouldn't be surprised if I hear back from half the schools I applied to. I can't express how proud this makes me feel.

The bad news: many programs just don't have money this year, due to the flailing economy. Many schools are in tight spots as their endowments have shrunk drastically depending on how they were handled. On one side of the spectrum the school I work for invested very conservatively and saw its endowment take a hit that, compared to the average, is not too bad. Better still, we don't handle much of our operational budget from the endowment, so we're not feeling the pressure yet. Other schools survive by their endowment and have already seen huge chunks of it disappear. So it depends on the school.

The advice: don't go into debt for an MFA degree. If I get an offer with money, grab it and hold on. If I get an offer but there's no money, ask if I can defer for a year and hope things will look up by then. (They won't I'm pretty sure.)

Even so, I'm still reeling from the good news!

Heads up, people!

2009-02-13T13:19:00.002-05:00

Get ready for 6:30!

http://coolepochcountdown.com/

Audacity

2009-02-13T10:16:00.008-05:00

Sometime over the break we visited Bennington and Funk. It was a great time, and I'm sad we don't get to see the two more. During the visit I had to use their restroom a couple of times, each time for more than just a minute or two. This gave me the opportunity to read their shiterature, among which was a 101 rules of writing style book. You know the kind: each page or so has another rule, each rule's a bit of wisdom or motivation to convince you, the reader, that you CAN write the Great American Novel burgeoning inside you.

I was skeptical. Not that these types of books don't offer help, it's just that the help they offer is usually used to placate rather than motivate, and really, I've heard it all before. This book, however, offered alternative takes on classic tips, sometimes refuting them. One of the tips I remember was about not writing at Starbucks. The folks who write at Starbucks want to be seen writing at Starbucks. Write somewhere where you can focus your energy into the page, not into looking cool.

He was a bit glib, but many of the things he had to say rang true to me and I hadn't heard them before. The piece of advice that stuck with me the most was this: don't talk about what you're working on. With anyone. When you get a new writing idea, it can be all encompassing. It can be the only thing you think about all week. It will fill your every idle thought. You can't wait to get started on it, except you've just got to figure one or two things out before jumping in.

So what do you do? You tell your friends. How, in this torrent of excitement, could you not? I know this, because I do this with every project I get worked up about. When someone asks "what's new?", it's the first thing that pops to mind. What the writer pointed out, and what I've found to be the truth, is that every time you talk about that idea, you're deflating it, letting the excitement go. That excitement, that pressing need, that's what's going to sustain you through the hard work of doing. Talking it out neuters the project, taking the urgency away, and allowing it to be postponed indefinitely.

It's in this spirit that I hadn't written here about my desire to write a novel. I mean, it's nothing new: I've entertained the idea of writing prose at novel length for years. This time, however, was different. I'd been sleeping, and I dreamed up a couple of fantastic characters, and when I woke up, I needed to (I do me need) write at least a couple scenes with them. I'd caught the flame of inspiration, and I didn't want to loose it this time, especially knowing now how precious it can be.

Problem is, I didn't feel ready to tackle something like this. I've tried writing stories before, and I found that I write characters and dialogue well, I set scenes up well, I can establish and draw out tension, but what I can't do is figure out what should happen next. Where should the story go? What should this tension resolve to? I don't handle the big picture well.

So I went to the library and took out as many books as I managed to find that might deal with plot or development, and I started reading them. Slowly, thanks to Fallout 3.

This book I'm reading, written in the 70's and from a very different point of view than modern "tap the inner artist inside us all" self helpers, starts with a list of qualities essential to have as a writer. Round about quality nine, they got to "Regularity and Capacity for Work: Pursuit of Excellence", which touched on the subject of finding, then taking, the time to write. This is what most books today start with, or touch on most heavily. I wasn't expecting to find anything new here.

Then I read the following:

Some publishers have been known to suggest that an author short of money "get a job" to finish a book. Some would-be writers go into the teaching profession, or editing, or journalism, thinking in this way to keep in touch with the subject in which they are most vitally interested. It won't work. Better to chop down trees, cook dinners, drive a taxi, or go hunting or fishing - anything with no carryover is safest, once you know where your true interest lies.

And it shook me. Not the kind of thing you want to feel right before bed. I know why I wanted to go to school: to study the craft of writing. I think it would greatly enrich my life. I feel the great need, however, to justify my actions in terms of potential utility, especially after majoring in Philosophy, then struggling to find work afterwords. There is plenty or ridicule out there for people studying the humanities, there always has been. It's impossible not to feel that pressure to lead a life that others call productive.

I think that's why, from the beginning, I imagined myself going into teaching, or editing, or managing a journal; something I could make a living from related to my interests. It's in this way that I imagined myself having the most potential for happiness and satisfaction while still being able to pay the rent. Access to these opportunities is the easiest to justify going to school. What I take away from that quote though is that, if writing is what I want to do, then I should seek to focus solely on that pursuit, and do whatever else I can necessary to survive. To get a job related to writing only provides a sense of security, that at least you're close enough to the world, that should you fail to write, that it's still some part of your life.

The alternative, however, runs counter to the common sense of our culture: to underachieve, do what you have to to get by when you're capable of more, so that your best can go to your writing. The question then falls to me: do I think I'm good enough to justify that kind of life? To what extent is it possible and practical in these times, and to what extent should that matter? Would I have the audacity to do so in the first place?

Days and Days

2009-02-12T22:44:00.002-05:00

63 days until April 15th. Tax day, of course, but also the day when decisions are due to MFA programs. The day by which I must notify any offering programs of my decision to attend or not. 63 days, with mercy less, of hoping there will be a decision to make.

I received an email from School C on Thursday afternoon. They said that my application was currently with their review committee, and in the mean time, their director would like to give me a call to see how the application process is going and to answer any questions I might have. They wanted to know what times would be good to reach me by phone. Knowing I would be an idiot to try to hold a decent phone conversation in a crowded convention hall, I told them I'd be available any time that evening, or again on Monday, but not Friday. My heart was racing, and it was hard to stay focused for the rest of the night at work. They never called.

Up and at 'em early Friday to get to the New York Comic Con so I could take pictures for Mr. Stankfoot, who writes for a PC Gaming website. (Not PC Gaming.) I wasn't getting paid, but he did buy the tickets and food. For my part, I was just happy to be there, amidst the herds of nerds, away from the jerks of work. I also took joy in the challenge of taking photos with the Mistress's too-fine digital SLR. Adjusting aperture, shutter speed, focus... it's like I was a real photographer or something! I ended up with a handful of cool photos, which I'll share when I get motivated to resize them all.

Saturday was a good time too, with the Mistress and I getting together with Spanky and Zanzibar to play Munchkin, the most entertaining card game I've had the pleasure of playing either side of the Mississip. It's designed around a base module which can be played alone, and features 7 expansions that add different elements to the game. Sounds like a bit of a ripoff, but it surprisingly isn't. Each one changes the nature of the game and keeps things fresh. We bought Spanky and Zanzibar the base set and three of the expansions for Christmas, and now I want to pick up the rest just to take over and play. I would love to pick up a set myself, but I don't see who the Mistress and I would play with, shut-ins that we are.

Sunday we watched Fog of War, which is an essential history lesson and reflection on the nature of what it is to be human in the 20th/21st century. I don't know what it says about me, but I had a hard time not relating the ethical dilemmas Mr. McNamara evoked with those explored in Battlestar Galactica. Even though many of these philosophical pauses might go right over the viewer's heads, or be overlooked in lieu of the crazy space-drama and shaky-cam space-action, this show will be held eternally in my highest regards for not only breaching these questions at all, but for doing so with skill and grace.

Also, it was pretty hard not to both empathize with the haunted McNamara, while at the same time noticing the similarities between the handling of Vietnam and the Gulf War II. It's easy to forget how complicated these situations are, how human the players.

After the movie, the Mistress heard my phone ringing. I ran upstairs to get it, hurting my ankle in the process, only to miss the call by less than a second. I was so close that the cell phone counted it as received, not missed, while the call itself went to voicemail. It was the MFA director for School C wanting to discuss my application. He said to call back in the next few minutes if I could. I did, but the line was busy, so I left a message. I sat for two hours, like a dog watching the door for his master, but was never called back.

Though I had Monday off, there were still many inopportune times to be called. Taking a crap, arm deep in a chicken carcass, picking a wedge. It was time, however, for the tried and true, practically cliche, sudsed-up hair and dripping from the shower phone call. I turned the shower off and walked to my bedroom to get away from the loud fan, but it wasn't School C. It was School D! The excitement!

They needed Mr. Templeton's letter of recommendation by the end of the week. The letdown!

Yesterday I had a meeting with my supervisor regarding my yearly performance appraisal. She had nothing but nice things to say about me, which always feels good. We were discussing areas of improvement and projects we want to tackle in the coming year when she mentioned that it's odd planning for the next year out when I might not be around to see it. I had to agree. We then discussed a letter of intent, which I will have to provide, officially documenting my plans to inform my supervisor of my decision to leave or stay by a set date. Provided I wanted to stay, which I am completely welcome to do, she added.

This was the first time the idea that I might leave if I am not accepted into a school was acknowledged. I think she knows I'm growing restless in the position, and she soon brought up the possibility of re-evaluating my hours. She proposed that we would be able to change my schedule to regular, honest American, good ole 8-5 hours, (just like dear old dad used ta work), provided that I'm available to come in other times to monitor events that need attention.

This gave me pause. Would it be worth staying if it meant I could work regular hours? Sure, waking up to get to work at 8am sucks, but you know what? So does working on Saturday nights, precluding most chances of visiting friends. So does only seeing the Mistress for a few minutes in the mornings and for an hour or so before bed. On one hand, I know that the nature of the job itself wouldn't change. The folks who irritate me would just irritate me at different times. The mind numbing tasks would not lose their mass of banality. However, I could see something as simple as a shift change transforming a job I hate into a job I can happily tolerate. It's not as if there aren't things I like here, projects I want to see through, and it's not unreasonable to believe that changing one major fact about the job could put me in a better place, a place where I might actually enjoy what I do.

Of course, I know this is the stuff of rationalization. The reasoning that justifies toxic relationships and addictions. Things will be better when condition x is met, where x is an arbitrary condition of varying probability but ultimately minimal significance. If met, a new condition is selected to keep hope while the situation remains the same. Sometimes though, a little change can make all the difference. I'm convinced, irrationally enough, that had my bed in my college apartment been pushed against the wall instead of left to jut diagonally from the corner, two years of my life would have been significantly different. (Jeff Goldblum could explain it better, I'm sure.) Either way, I will have todecide relatively soon. Sooner than April 15th. I would love, love, love a school to call, mail, or email this decision away. Until then, I'm just counting the days.

Drive Me Backwards

2009-02-03T22:17:00.002-05:00

"The waiting game sucks. Let's play Hungry Hungry Hippos." - Homer J. Simpson

Thanks to this lovely bit of internet over here, I can now keep tabs of who's heard from which programs and when. Of course, I could just not visit the site. Not torment myself with the knowledge that others have heard their good news while I sit here developing endurance in my thumb muscles. Oh, but see, that would require a modicum of will power, would it not?

My job is joyless enough that I'm committed to the idea of searching for another in the event that Calgon U fails to take me away. This, however, is a terrifying prospect. Finding a job was soul crushing enough three years ago. I shudder to think of the narrow window of opportunities available in these times o' plenty. More than not being able to find employment, I'm afraid of finding myself in the fire while yearning for the pot. What if I get out there and scrap my way into a job that's worse than this one? What if, worse still, I realize that the problem wasn't the job, it was the employee all along?

To stave off crippling self doubt I've been obsessing over the latest run of Battlestar Galactica episodes (phenomenal), and immersing myself in the post-apocalyptic nuclear wasteland of Washington DC via Fallout 3 (also phenomenal). I'm also trying to read several books, but somehow, they're not getting their due love. Oh, and occasionally I'll go to work, where I'll marvel at the bizarre feeling I get in my head, the one where it feels as if the lights are intermittently, incrimentally dimming. But it's not just the lights, it's everything. I swear, I can feel the brain matter up there rotting from disuse.

It's not all doom and gloom in Camp Funk Muffington. This week is extra awesome as it contains only three working days. I'm taking Friday and Saturday off to serve as sidekick and freelance photographer for Stankfoot at the New York Comic Con. I've never been to one of these and I have no idea what I'm in for, but I'm excited none the less.

Also, plane tickets and hotel reservations have been made, and the Dark Mistress will be accompanying me to California for a conference in April! Work picks up my bill (knock it all I want, the perks do rock), and the bonus is, we're staying the whole week so we'll get a chance to hang with the Queen of Kickassery herself, Aunt Laurie!

That should sustain me through the next few months of work. But seriously, someone freaking accept me, please? I'm a nice guy! I bathe regularly!

Recycled Content, Part 2

2009-01-29T22:27:00.002-05:00

This here is about the best thing I've heard of all month.

Yeah, that's right.

Eat it January.

Sittin' On It

2009-01-28T08:11:00.006-05:00

Perhaps it was Sir Francois Bacon who said it best: work sucks, dude. Also, life's a beach.

Then he stole my wallet. I should have never let him in my house to begin with. I'm not even sure he was a really knighted. I mean, he was like 19, and selling magazine subscriptions.

So I work with three 20 year-olds. We'll call them Huey, Dewey, and Frank. Well, all three were in my office when one brought up Richie Cunningham. Y'know, from Happy Days. His professor had mentioned Richie Cunningham during a lecture, and he said Huey said "I thought it was weird that he made a Donnie Darko reference." At which point I looked at him like this:

He was thinking of Jim Cunningham, played by Patrick Swayze. Not that I knew this at the time, though I'd seen this Donnie Darko of which he spoke. So I said "that's weird. I don't remember that name, but it's also the name of the kid from Happy Days."

To which he replied, "what's the Happy Days."

To which I replied "what?"

Two out of three hadn't heard of this "Happy Days". This got me all twisted up. "You know, Happy Days, with The Fonz?"

"C'mon, The Fonz?"

How do you explain all that is Arthur Fonzerelli to someone? "Okay, so the show is like, all about how good the 50's were, right? Like That 70's show came out in the 90's, this was like that but in the 70's about the 50's. And Fonzi? He's a total badass, right? But he's not a badass like, I mean, he's a total badass in that he's cool but he's totally got a heart of gold, right? And, I mean, he lives over Richie Cunningham's garage."

"So who's Richie Cunningham?"

"He's, y'know, uh, Opie? Directed Apollo 13. Narrates Arrested Development?"

"Opie, from that Mayberry show?"

"Yeah! That's the one. The Andy Griffith Show. Anyway, the Fonz was like, the coolest guy in town. He had greased up hair and a leather jacket and he could bang anything with his fist and it'd just work like magic and he'd go 'Eyyyyyy' and put his thumbs up like this and then snap his fingers and put his arms out and a couple of girls would just show up and I'm pretty sure they'd go have relations but y'know he'd be tender and respectful and all because he's a good guy."

"Eyyyyyyy!"

Why Do I Do the Things I Do?

2009-01-27T21:21:00.002-05:00

I've been chatting with my aunt all evening. Somewhere along the line I decided to start entering random ASCII codes in during our chat. (in an email or a word processor or something where you can type, hold alt and press a few numbers. For example: alt + 155 = ¢. Did I just blow your mind, or was that just gas?)

When she mentioned these mystery symbols, I claimed not to see them or know what she was talking about, and in this way, I was entertained.

Like the time I took my friend's expansive CD collection and used scotch tape to secure each shut. Not a lot mind you. Just a short piece down the middle of the widest part, so you could get the corners up before they snapped shut. And why scotch tape? Well, because it's clear of course. Oh, and the integral part is picking enough random CDs that it's a regular nuisance, but not so many that it prompts the victim to search every one.

Oh, to be evil.

1st Day: Harshing the Mellow

2009-01-13T21:05:00.002-05:00

Not working for four weeks then starting back right in the middle of things is like binge drinking for nine hours. Except the hangover starts a few hours in, and instead of drinking tasty liquor and feeling merry, you're drinking emails and reservations and feeling like someone took sandpaper to your brain.

I'm Mike D and I'm Back From the Dead

2009-01-12T18:32:00.005-05:00

It's been so long since I've written a substantive post here that if we've only been keeping in touch via this blog, there's no way to really catch up. The list of people this applies to is woefully long: friends, relatives, there are many folks whom I've been negligent in keeping in touch. Of course, those folks also know that this is nothing new, that I've a pattern of falling off the map with tide-like regularity.

Also, I have a half-hour, well 25 minutes now actually, before the Dark Mistress comes home and we go out to eat. We're celebrating the passing of my winter break. In the next, uh, 23 minutes, I hope to sum up what I've been up to lately.

As my previous post alluded to, I sent in all the needed materials for my MFA applications on December 8th, the deadline I'd set for myself. Ahh! I just spilled corn husker's lotion all over myself! 21 minutes!

On the beginning of my last day of work December 18th actually, I decided to pop into the English building, having seen my Professor's car in the lot. He happened to be in, and I learned that he and his wife suffered a horrible personal loss, which is why he was so hard to get a hold of this semester.

Over the course of the nest few weeks I'd get various notices from schools that they hadn't received the letters of recommendation from my professors. As of last week, I've sent 5 or 6 emails out to them (the professors), and I'm done. They're adults, they're professionals, and if emailing them doesn't work, what else can I do? It's break, so it's not like I can track them down in their offices.

After work ended, I hung up my hat for some serious and long needed decompression. It actually began with a bit of depression. Applying to MFA programs had been my sole purpose since the summer. It was incredibly stressful, but it also shut up that little voice in the back of my head that always says things like "what you're doing isn't important", "how is this bettering yourself in any way?", "you're going to end up a boring nobody that no-one cares about unless you get off the couch". (Those voices, by the way, are counter-productive)

Shit! 11 Minutes.
Well, anyway, I got through the slump by working on a craft project and ended up coming to a sense of calm and accomplishment. One of my biggest sources of anxiety in my post-college life was how hard it is to find the time to do the things that are important to me, the things that make me feel like I am doing something important. Well, for one, applying to MFA programs involved a lot of research, reading, and writing. I had to do it while also helping the Dark Mistress move in, cooking, and cleaning (though not as much as I suppose I should), and working. My life wasn't in a good balance necessarily, but I managed to find the time to do it. And it was much, much harder than doing those things I like to do, like writing.

Second, I came to appreciate how much I really do love writing and why. I won't go into it here, but it feels like the past several years of my life have I slowly worked towards realizing that I'm happiest with life, and myself, when I'm being creative. When I'm trying to make something beautiful or striking or at least fun. It's something that seems pretty obvious to my friends, I don't know why it took me so long to figure out.

Lets see, 6 minutes. Other highlights from break:
The house is driving the Mistress and I nuts. It's so cluttered. We've simply run out of room to put things, and that means there's a lot still unpacked. We've made some great progress though. The living room is slowly becoming a nice place to be, and just today I cleaned up the Middle bedroom, which was a re-god-dammed-diculous disaster, rivaled only by those people with mental illnesses who can't manage to throw anything away.

The Mistress and I watched The Ballad of Jack and Rose, Into the Wild, and finished the series Six Feet Under, the finale of which had us both sobbing for what felt like a half hour. Assholes. I cut up my first whole chicken to make a crock pot recipe that was basically chicken, spices, zucchini, and broth. (It was delicious).

AHH! I'm out of time! We had an awesome new years, I played many video games, drank a fair amount of liquor, saw old friends, and ate out perhaps a little too much, but hey, it was winter break, man.

Maybe there'll be a part II tomorrow, maybe not.

The Finish Line

2008-12-08T17:24:00.001-05:00

I made it.

The Score

2008-11-25T09:14:00.002-05:00

13 Days
7 Schools
7 Applications
$600 +

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

2008-11-18T19:44:00.002-05:00

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?

2008-10-22T21:16:00.001-04:00

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

2008-10-12T01:16:00.002-04:00

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

2008-10-11T13:50:00.000-04:00

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

2008-10-02T10:47:00.001-04:00

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

2008-09-17T11:29:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-29T19:06:00.003-04:00

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

2008-08-25T21:47:00.004-04:00

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

2008-08-13T23:29:00.002-04:00

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

2008-08-10T19:04:00.002-04:00

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

2008-07-28T23:07:00.005-04:00

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

2008-07-18T17:42:00.004-04:00

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

2008-06-16T14:57:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-11T21:35:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-08T23:00:00.004-04:00

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

2008-06-04T22:00:00.001-04:00

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

2008-05-23T12:13:00.003-04:00

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

2008-05-20T17:42:00.002-04:00

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

2008-05-20T17:38:00.001-04:00

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

2008-05-09T18:34:00.003-04:00

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

2008-05-09T01:01:00.004-04:00

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

2008-04-30T14:44:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-25T21:02:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-22T12:55:00.005-04:00

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

2008-04-21T11:53:00.001-04:00

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

2008-04-10T12:32:00.001-04:00

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

2008-04-04T21:32:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-03T11:12:00.008-04:00

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

2008-03-14T17:30:00.003-04:00

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!"

2008-03-14T11:45:00.003-04:00

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?

2008-03-13T11:20:00.002-04:00

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!

2008-03-10T19:00:00.006-04:00

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

2008-02-29T00:45:00.001-05:00

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!

If You Wish To Be Remembered, Die Inside a Crawl Space

2008-02-28T12:31:00.003-05:00

The dead squirrel(s?) smells a bit riper each day. The smell has gone from cabbagy to peppery, and it's getting to the point where I've come close to gagging. The woman who's office is across the hall planned a memorial for the squirrels, but of course it was on Monday, when I wasn't going to be at work. If it happened, I missed it. Also, part of the plan was a cross, which pissed me off. Who said these squirrels were Christan? I was thinking a nice secular wreath of peanuts or something.

Class is a bit frustrating. We've been holding workshops for the past couple weeks or more. Our workshops are run so that everyone gets a copy of everyone else's poem. We take everyone's poems home and write up comments for them. Having been told to look for the things that don't work, the first set of comments I wrote up focused only on that. I figured they'd understand that, if I didn't mention it, it must be working. When my poem was workshopped, the write ups I received had a lot of positive comments, which made me feel like quite the ass for being so harsh.
Workshops are a funny thing. I get a thrill when my poem's the target. Hours and hours are poured into a poem that I then hold out for everyone to tear it apart every which way they can. It's like field testing a prototype of a machine. You'll find the weak spots by seeing where it breaks. The key to not being heartbroken is separating myself from the work. Once I got past the notion that they're not invalidating what I have to say, just the way I've said it, I was free and in the clear. I love picking up the pieces of a poem freshly rended. It opens up opportunities I wouldn't have noticed before, and really, isn't it just like playing with Legos as a kid? Build something up, kick it all down, then build it again, better.
Still, there's something that does drive me crazy about workshops, and it's comments like “I just don't get it...” There's one student in particular who's a pro at giving such helpful information. Now, let's suppose that a good poem has a fine mix of mystery and straight talk. The straight talk will get you through the first couple readings, make you feel as if you at least understood what world the poem creates. The mystery, however, should be there enough to prompt you to read it repeatedly, to get joy out of teasing out the deeper meanings. When I first started reading poetry, I hated how it made me feel dumb for not understanding it immediately, upon the first read. It wasn't until I realized that the pros don't understand it the first time either, and that part of the joy is in the discovery, the unfolding of the mystery, that I first felt free to enjoy poetry at my own pace (and not feel dumb).
Now, I'm not going to say that my poem struck a perfect balance, but I will say that I think it made a damn good attempt. Most people either understood it right away, or came to understand it as they read it further or as it was discussed. This one student, however, could only offer “I guess it's supposed to make that kind of sense, but I think it should really have more things in it.” (Also, they didn't like my stanza structure because it didn't contribute to the meaning, and “we learned in class that the line breaks and stanzas we choose should mean something.” I understand how they seemed so arbitrary, considering they didn't understand the meaning the stanzas were to contribute to.)
When getting a piece workshopped, not all information is going to be on the mark. But, it still might speak to a problem elsewhere, so I try not to discount any of it. And, in the end it's my choice what to consider and what to forget. However, the student I'm been bitching about seems to be phoning it in. I don't think they read my poem more than twice. It's clear to me from this (and other incidences in class), that this student just isn't committed. I understand that one class may not be the most important thing in a student's life, but really, if you can't at least fake it, you're wasting your time as well as everyone else's.
The best part of all of this is, when it came time to workshop this student's poem, I didn't understand it one freaking bit. I laughed so hard at that. I guess I expected theirs to focus on the places that gave them trouble with mine. I must have read it twenty times, just to make sure it wasn't me. The problems were grammatical ambiguities (much like the pronoun soup above) that left too much up to question. I hope though that my comments went further than “I just don't understand” and were more helpful than the ones I received.

I actually planned to use this time to talk about some bigger stuff. Like, what the hell to do with my life, etc. But I think I might try to make a quick Peter Gabriel mix for the road trip I'm taking this weekend instead. I wonder if I can throw this together in the hour I have. There's so much to work with – you could easily make a PG mix in any mood. Damn.

Party to the Squirrel Murders

2008-02-21T13:55:00.002-05:00

It had to be sometime last month when I heard them in my office ceiling. I wasn't sure what it was, but it definitely had feet. With little claws. Claws that would scratch against the duct work, lighting fixtures, and as time went on, attempt to lift the drop ceiling tiles. (This always made me jump, as there was usually a period of silence preceded by movement in the corner of my eye, and a loud noise.) I wasn't sure if it was of the critter or varmint variety, but everyone else seemed to think it was a squirrel, which makes sense. Most college campuses in the area are havens for a large squirrel population, and ours is no different.

My boss told me to call facilities, who would send the animal control folks they have a contract with. In the past, they'd trap the squirrels and release them. I hoped that part of the process would be finding their path entrance and sealing that, because if one found it, more would.

Because of my hours, I've never been around when the animal control guy's been there. On his first visit, he didn't spot any animals, but did see some droppings, so he left out some bait. I suppose this was a method to prove there were animals in the active in the ceiling, and that I wasn't having any sort of waking auditory hallucinations. (I wish work were that exciting.) The next week I heard at least two animals, running back and forth, scratching against the noisiest things they could find. I was convinced they would finally get enough leverage on one of the ceiling tiles to lift it all the way. I was in the constant mental process of preparing myself for a face to face meeting from my cute but destructive visitors.

The next week when I came to work, I saw a mess of what looked to be pine needles, or seed shells, or some other dead plant product, along with some droppings, that had fallen between the crack and the ceiling, so I called facilities again. And, again, I wasn't there when the guy came the next day to put in traps. Except, this time, traps really meant poison that, according to the guy, the animals would eat there, then run off and die somewhere else, sometime later. I wondered how you could be sure that the squirrel wouldn't die somewhere inside, but I figured that this guy was a pro and that he must have known something that I didn't. Like, maybe squirrels like to go off into the woods before they die or something.

Last week was the first I noticed the silence in my ceiling. It felt suddenly a bit more lonely, though a bit more sanitary as well. I figured John and Jane Q Squirrel must have felt sick, run off into the woods, nuzzled up together, and expired, looking into eachother's beady little eyes. Either that, or they suffered internal hemorrhaging and puked their foaming, bloody guts out. Together. I also hoped that, though I saw no maintenance take place and know it didn't happen, the entrance was found and sealed. In the end, whatever happened to those poor creatures, happened in or near a vent, because now the entrance of the building smells of sweet, rotting cabbage.

Oops!

Why My Pants Don't Fit

2008-02-07T12:56:00.000-05:00

(One reason, anyway)

I had to scrounge up some lunch today. No ready to eat leftovers, didn't feel like ramen, no time to cook from scratch. But, I'm eating right now. What could it be?

It's the Funky Muffin's Famous Low Life Expectancy Bean Bowl, featuring:
1 can Bush's Baked Beans (Onion Flavored)
2 freezer hot dogs (of mysterious origin)
Remainder of Funky Muffin's Famous Quickmake Chipotle Burrito Filling (for a bit of kick/because there's not enough left for another burrito)
Remainder of Sharp Cheddar bits (for use in aforementioned burritos)

The verdict?
Adequate. The spice from the burrito filling is more than welcome, and the sharp cheddar feels at home with the beans and franks. It's ten times better than eating plain baked beans, yet falls so terribly short of other high cholesterol meat-bowl meals, like Hamburger Helper.

God help Dark Mistress Hawthorne.

(ps. The Sneeze and Achewood are particularly tasty today as well)

When the Old Folk Sulk at Radio Shack

2008-02-05T22:22:00.001-05:00

I was hanging out with Stankfoot Monday, playing XBOX while my car got an oil change. We swung out to Taco Bell for lunch, and on the way, I asked "hey, can we stop at Radio Shack? I need to pick something up. It'll only take a minute."

What I needed to pick up was a battery holder, because I'd cut the one on the theremin out to use in fixing something for work. I happened to have our purchasing card on me, and felt like I ought to replace the one I used.

(because a working theremin is a happy theremin)

Being Monday, and an afternoon, I expected the place to be dead. The first thing I saw was two old folks looking at cell phones. The man was tall and skinny, while she was shorter and bent. Both looked to be in their eighties, maybe nineties. (Or, perhaps, some rough seventies.) I thought to myself "christ, good luck!" I mean, I'm a college educated person in his early adulthood, and I have a hard time understanding the intricate contingencies of my cell phone plan. Then, of course, I felt guilty for assuming that they couldn't just because of their age.

I found the part I needed and got in line behind a woman who looked to be in her late 50's. She was holding a lot of papers and discussing something with the sales rep when the phone rang. As he juggled the phone call and whatever he was looking up for her, my attention was drawn to the other sales rep, who was taking the couple's information. I presumed it was to open a cell phone account. The sales rep asked for the man's name, and the man, after giving his first name, said "here, it'd be easier if you just read it from my driver's license." He kept his leather wallet shut with a rubber band, and his voice sounded like dry oatmeal.

"Could I please have your address?"
I thought I heard the street name as "Stonederricks". I guess the sales rep had trouble too and he asked "could you spell that?" Suddenly, the woman sprang to life and asked "Can you spell it?"
"Yes, could you spell the street name?"
She paused, never breaking her glare, and said "Well, how do you spell stone?"

It's worth mentioning at this point that the couple actually didn't say anything, as much as they yelled it. By this time, the sales rep I was in line for gracefully ended his phone conversation and resumed trying to resolve whatever the issue was with the woman in front of me. There was a return, a radio with features not advertised, a canceled transaction, and an item that couldn't be ordered because it's not at the warehouse. Meanwhile, there were at least three people behind me, and I could hear their snickers and grumblings.

The sales rep calmly said "I've got the stone part. What's the other part?"
"The other part? Terrace! Terrace!"
"Okay, terrace."
"Don't give me any aggravation. I've had more aggravation than I already need."
"Now Mary, I could be having one of my bad talking days. Maybe I didn't say it good."
She turned and waved him off, resting her elbows on the counter. I couldn't help but feel amused, and I tried the best I could to hide my smirk. She was too much like a caricature of an old woman, too surrealistically sit-com-ish for me not to be dizzy with reflection on the absurdity of the moment.

"And the zip?"
She sprang back up off the counter. "The zip code? Where are we? What's your zip code here?"
"I don't know, ma'am."
This only further infuriated her. "That doesn't make! What do the! How can't you know?"
"I'm not from around here."
"You're not from around here. How can you work here then?"
"I'm new here. I just transfered. This is my second day."
She hunkered back down the counter.
"Well then... I guess... We should see someone with more experience then."

There was a pause as the sales rep typed their information in. I felt bad for him. I didn't know if really was his second day or not, but regardless, he was doing a remarkable job. He kept his face and voice even, never raising it, never mocking them, and never becoming short.

"You need a secret word for your account. What's your favorite hobby?"
"Hobby?" he started chuckling, "I'm retired! Geez."

The sales rep walked around to show them what phones they could get for free with their plan. "Which one should I get, Mary?"
"Oh Morris, I don't care, pick whatever one you like."
"Well, this one has big numbers, but this one might be easier to see at night. What phone should I get, Mary?
"Oh Morris. I don't care! Just pick a phone you like."
"Well, I don't know. It's got to have big numbers. We're old, you know! Mary, which phone do you think I should get?"
"Morris! Just pick one! I don't care! I'm going to fall over!"
The men behind me had been chuckling at this, but softly. It was when she said this that the woman in front of me giggled loud enough to hear.
"I have trouble standing, you know." She looked up at us for the first time. I was terrified, because she had two lazy eyes, and I had no idea if she was singling me out or not. "Do you know what? I've had five heart attacks! Five! I just buried my sister on December 12th. I have trouble standing for long periods of time. Go ahead and laugh, I don't care. You try it. Go ahead and laugh."
She waved us off and slumped down on the counter. The sales rep said "I'm going to see about getting you a chair."

The woman in front of me motherly said "Oh no! We weren't laughing at you, we were laughing with you! We know it's-"
"Go ahead and laugh."
"Oh no! It can be hard to-"
"Go ahead and laugh. I've had five heart attacks!"
Morris turned around and added. "She has, too!"
"Go ahead and laugh."
The rep returned from the back with a folding chair and set it up for her to sit on. Unprompted, she said, either to him or to all of us, "I'm not a liar!" He sat her down. "I wouldn't lie about that!"

I felt all sorts of emotions, but mostly I felt sad. There was exasperation and exhaustion her voice. I somewhat did expect her to fall over. I don't know what she went through before we walked in the store, but she'd had enough. It wasn't the sales rep's fault, or any of our faults. Had the world simply grown to complex? Had everything become a burden? Once it starts to slip through your fingers, is there any way to firmly grasp the world again? Or can you only watch it go by?

The woman in front of me finished up and immediately walked over to the old woman, sitting in her chair. "I want you to know we weren't laughing at you."
"I don't care, you go ahead and laugh."
"It's just that-"
"You guys go ahead-"
"-and we know how hard-"
"-get so tired-"

Their voices folded together and faded as my focus was drawn by my purchase. It took me twenty minutes to buy one part. I felt bad for bringing Stankfoot into this. Three steps out of the store he said "I was laughing at her."

"Yeah," I said, "I was too."

Ducky Fuzz

2008-01-24T11:30:00.000-05:00

I just had class and it was actually a bit of fun. My favorite moment was when someone asked Mr. Templeton, who you should know is a man in his mid thirties to mid forties, who grew up in the south, if he had ever "heard of Hank Williams."

The five seconds of silence that followed whas what I live for.

We worked in groups today, and my classmates are actually decent, smart, and nice people, which worked to break my cynical, defensive view of them, and served to make me feel like a bit of an asshole.

Yesterday, at work, I witnessed a group warmup activity where all the participants form a circle. The activity starts when one person says "Fuzzy Ducks". The person to their left then has to say "Fuzzy Ducks", and so on, until someone elects to say "Does He?" instead. This causes the circle to reverse, and people now switch to saying "Ducky Fuzz". That is, until someone says "Does He?" again and the word and direction yet again switch. If someone mispeaks or takes too long, they are elimenated from the circle.

Try this, out loud. Your instinct isn't to go from "Fuzzy Ducks" to "Ducky Fuzz", but rather to simply swap the first letters, resulting in some foul language. I was waiting for it, eagerly, and perhaps immaturely. The highlight was a flustered young man, uttering "Duzzy, Fluzz, Fuzzy... shit."

Like Spinning Plates

2008-01-22T12:47:00.000-05:00

I started taking a class. Last Tuesday. Advanced Poetry writing. I was fucking nervous. I haven't been in a class since the spring of 2005. I know the professor. I was in the first class he ever taught here, which happens to be the class that precedes this one in subject matter. Which was back in 2004. The class is six other students, all undergraduates, and myself. They startle me with their youth. Their smooth skin. Their bright, eager eyes. Their carefully planned first day of class clothing choices. I'm wearing my work clothes: a sweater so I don't look like ten pounds of crap stuffed in a five pound sack. Last time I saw my mother, she noticed that I had some gray hairs on my temple and in my beard.

Our first assignment: go to our library and find twenty journals that publish contemporary poetry, and read this fifteen page article “a few times” so we can “really talk it through.” After work, I'm on the couch reading my article, and I have a moment. This whole thing feels odd. I haven't had homework in years, since I was a full time student, and with its duty and obligation come a litany of flashbacks that crash against my current surroundings. I am suddenly hyper-aware of all around me. My feet tucked into an old blanket. The napkin in my lap holding a half peeled, half eaten Clementine. The cat, ever peering from just beyond the edge of my paper. I finish my orange and decide to make some tea. Leaning against the kitchen counter, kettle warming to my left, my homework in my hand, I wonder to myself: is this what being an adult is? Dishes in the sink, tea and oranges on the couch? Bills clipped above the doorway and kitty litter to be scooped? Car payments, loans, utilities, and eight to five?

It's Thursday and I'm in class again. I ran to the library after dinner Wednesday night and lurked around the stacks in the basement, opening journal after journal and keeping a list on paper of what I found. I look around the table and every other student has typed their list up, their names and the date at the top of the paper. I feel a flash of foolishness, though I know this isn't the type of class where we'd be asked to hand this list in. I know he asked us to do this just so we'd get a sense of what our library had, what our resources were, and where to find them. We each read through our lists. Apparently, most of my classmates searched for their journals on-line. Our assignment for next Tuesday: find twenty journals in the library and to hold them in our hands.

We come to discussion of the article. It was a speech by former poet laureate Mark Strand in which he attempts to defend poetry. He starts by creating a fictional account of his attempt to write the very speech his giving, where he has a series of encounters with a student and his girlfriend. They ask him questions pertaining to the speech and poetry in general. To each he replies with an eloquent response that speaks to a certain aspect of poetry, but to each response he backs off, reflects, and determines that, to a degree, he is full of shit. The speech continues with this pattern until he decides, at the end, it is best not to give it at all.

Of course, this is meant to be cheeky and clever. People like cheeky and clever speeches. It wasn't until I read the article a second time, wrote out each argument and his reason for discounting it, that I realized that the structure of his speech was also the point: poetry attempts all these things, but is not any of them wholly. Poetry is about coming as close as you can to encapsulating an experience, whatever it may be, but it never fully recreates it. There is always a gap, a layer of mystery. And just like any abstraction will fail to capture an experience, any attempt at defining poetry will suffer the same fate.

I looked around the table again. Everyone had their articles out, and everyone's article was pristine. I was the only person at the table with my notebook out, which was full of summaries, arrows, connecting lines, and ideas, jotted in four colors. “What did you all think of this article?” Prolonged silence. At the end of the table a young lady speaks up: “I didn't like the end.”

“What about it didn't you like?”

“I don't know. How it ended like that. I didn't like that.”

There is a small panic in the other student's eyes. A furrowed brow an a pout when the professor disagrees with them. A beaming that occurs when he does. I realize that it's all on the line for them. This is what they are: students. Is this how we're different? This is their identity, and they need to succeed. If they don't, they fail more than their class. Here I am, strolling in, doing my homework before and after work, between cooking and cleaning, from the quiet comfort of my house. I could drop this class tomorrow, and if I do, so what? I still eat. I still work. I am no longer expected to succeed, and no one will come down on me. I won't come down on me. I have nothing to lose, I have nothing to fear. They have no idea what life outside of college will be like, but they know that it depends on everything they do now.

I remember what that was like. It's terrifying. It's overpowering. But it's not mine anymore. And I don't belong here. I can see how every question, every statement the professor makes, is designed to elicit a train of thought. Formed to gently massage out a response. Baby steps. I get it, and though it's entertaining to watch, it's uncomfortable. I am between two worlds here. From nine to eleven, Tuesday and Thursday, I will be an undergraduate student. From two to eleven I will be a young student affairs professional, and I don't belong there either. I see through the bullshit. I am put off by the constant dishonesty, the self serving political jockeying. I refuse to pray on the altar of my resume, and for that I will only watch others step over, pass by, as I struggle in the same position.

Maybe that's naive. Maybe I'm not so different than my class mates, only further along the curve. I've been there, and though the material may be new, the methods boring now. Maybe in ten years I'll be able to look back on this entry, on my take of home and work, and I'll see how immature I was, how much I had to learn. Still, the feeling remains. I don't belong here. I am no longer a college student. I am not a professional. I just live in limbo, playing the role of both.

I saw one of my work study students at the library the other day. He was quite unsettled. He didn't recognize me in “normal clothes.”

Holiday Vacation SuperPost!

2008-01-11T17:27:00.000-05:00

Back to work with me. I started yesterday, though I had a retreat to attend Monday. At first I thought it wasn’t too bad. I thought that if I could clear my head and stay aware of who I was and why I was here, I could better handle the stresses of work. That plan worked until I got on the phone with my boss. She’s high strung, and understandably so, but the moment I heard her voice darting from crisis to crisis I felt my blood pressure rise. Other people’s problems becomes her crisis which then I have to adopt. Week in, week out, until summer. Assessment: work is going to continue to blow.

I’ve wanted to post all during break, but it felt too daunting of a task, as each day brought more to share. Last post I wrote before break I mentioned I wanted to do something creative each day. What I had in mind was to write each day, if just for a little bit. No dice. I wrote word zero all break. What really sucks was I was working on a longer story on which I was making quite a bit of progress back in October, but in November something happened and I stopped making time to write. When I went to try during break, nothing was coming to me because I became foreign to that world I created. I got frustrated, bowed to the page, and gave up. I didn’t have time to mull on that for long as Christmas was coming and Santa had some business to attend to.

Back before the Dark Mistress and I were a “thing”, she once asked me, upon my mention of previous electronics experience, if I would be able to build a Theremin. I replied that yes, it’d be possible to purchase and build a Theremin kit, I imagine. The topic came up again a month or two ago, and apparently she’s always wanted one.

I remembered this six days before Christmas, and thus began my five day obsession with building my love a Theremin.

A quick google search revealed several kits online, but they were all fairly expensive. Then I came across a site that promised I could build my own for about $75, which was still more than I was willing to spend, but I couldn’t resist how awesome a project it could be.

Now what is a Theremin? If Wikipedia hasn’t told you by now, it’s a music instrument that is played without touching it. Traditionally there is a vertical antenna and a horizontal loop antenna. The distance between your right hand and the vertical antenna controls pitch, the distance between your left hand and the horizontal antenna controls volume.

The principle involves two oscillators, which are circuits that produce a waveform. (think of ripples in water… a rolling up and down wave like that) A Theremin uses two oscillators built and fine tuned to create identical waveforms. They are attached to the pitch antenna in such a way that the distortion of the electromagnetic field put out by the antenna by your hand throws the oscillators out of sync. If one oscillator is oscillating at 1100khz, and the other is oscillating at 1540khz, the difference between the two would create a tone at 440hz, which would be an A.

I knew very little of this going in. I had to start from scratch. I started Thursday when I etched my own pc board by printing his track layout on glossy photo paper and ironing it on, then soaking it in a mixture of hydrogen peroxide and hydrochloric acid. It was messier than I expected, and I didn’t feel quite right the rest of the night. By Saturday I had the first set of components in and tested.

The circuit is built so it oscillates around the frequencies of AM radio, so each oscillator it is tested by tapping on the coils and tuning the radio until you can hear it. This happened for me on Friday night, I believe, and was cause for much celebration. I'm pretty sure I ate a whole box of Runts. It was around this time Slim Jim stopped by.

I told Slim Jim of my Christmas Theremin project, and he ended up being a huge help. Though he wasn't able to directly solve any of my problems, he knows a thing or two about electronics, and just being able to explain a problem to someone is enough sometimes to clear a mental blockage. One of the problems I was running into in trying to get it working was there are a few parts that dangle loose whose position is essential cool noise production, so I set about mounting the project in a case before I went any further.

I recognized in one of the examples on dude's site a DVD shelf in which he mounted one of his Theremins. I happen to have two of those exact shelves: one in use, one in the basement. (One used to be Leggolamb's. Random Fact!) In the name of Love and Science, I cut into that mother. It was then that my long term vision crystallized: not just to build a working Theremin, but to build a case it could be packed up into and transported. What's the point in building this cool as hell thing if you can't take it to parties, right? Would I seriously give her a mess of boards and wires, when I could give her a hinged plywood masterpiece? It's without Slim Jim that I would have failed here, as he showed me some wood working basics needed so as not to look like a damn chimp tossing around Samsonite.

Once mounted to the shelf, it “came to life” for the first time. (Okay, once I mounted it to the shelf, realized I reversed polarity on a component or two, then remounted it. I was under the gun!) What had been a faint whistle earlier became a full bodied... louder whistle. Again, I was giddy. If I had another box of Runts...

It is just about one of the coolest things to experience for the first time. I have no idea why. Perhaps there's something fundamentally spooky about a speaker's whistling in response to how close I slip my hand towards and antenna. The interaction becomes intuitive very quickly, and every time I hook it up, twenty minutes of my life inexplicably disappears.

If Christmas is anything, it's a chance for those of us who get off on withholding to taunt and torture the hell out of our loved ones. In this case, it was the Mistress, who knew I was doing something related to a gift for her. By some miracle, she had no clue what was keeping me up nights and exposing me to Chlorine gas. My lie became “playing Half-Life”, which of course didn't hold water, but didn't tell her anything either. I never managed to finish the doors for the case, the wiring for the panel, or the volume control circuitry, yet it was all more than worth it to see the look on her face when she pushed her hand into the sweet field of radiation and heard a sweeping whistle come through a pair of computer speakers.

Christmas for me was a little strange. On one hand, it's the first time I've had to drive any distance to my folks place for Christmas. (Last year was the first time I wasn't staying there for some extended period of time, and that was disturbing enough.) It just made things feel different, more adult. On the other hand, my folks got me an XBOX 360, which I did not see coming at all. It was the first time in a long time I felt like a kid at Christmas: barely being able to wait to pry into my new toys. I'd wanted one for two years now, but I would probably never buy one. I could never justify it, and by the time I could, the next generation of consoles would already be out.

This is the first video game console I've ever had during the prime of it's run. I was given a Playstation year after the PS2 came out, and an Atari 2600 at the dawn of the age of Nintendo. Not that I'm complaining. I think it's for the best, as I know my attention span and I needed all the focus I could get. I'm just trying to express how much I enjoy its presence.

The time between Christmas and New Years is, frankly, a blur. D.M.H. and I hung out almost all the time and it was wonderful. I didn't get to play 360 as much as I wanted to, say, Christmas day, but D.M.H. was very accommodating. We were both really spoiled by seeing each other every day though.

For New Years, we stopped by Spanky and Zanzibar's place for some Taboo, then some Scene-It. Dark Mistress Hawthorne was billed as top seed against a mysterious figure with ties to the past. Named Skidmark. We played in teams, and D.M.H. was my (drunk) partner. I was so proud of myself when she didn't know the first question we were asked but I did. (Trading Spaces, thank you.) I, however, did not answer one answer correctly for the remainder of the three games we played, while our team went on to win every one. I have to say, we had Skidmark uncomfortably close to our tails most of the time. The Dark Mistress is, apparently, a half crazed movie trivia machine.

Shortly after that, she went back to work, and I turned my focus on the house. And the XBOX. Well, first the XBOX, then the house. Two weekends ago we visited Slim Jim and got to catch up with one of my favorite people from college, The Blue Zipper, whom I hadn't seen in over a year. It was fantastic to see her again. It was also super cool to visit Slim Jim for once and to see what it's like where he lives. Before we left, he gave us a video projector to try hooking up to the iMac. He'd picked it up at some point but had no use for it at the time.

So the remainder of my break was spent on three projects: cleaning the laundry room, turning the kitchen out, and setting up this projector. And wouldn't you know it, I somehow got all three done! My clothes are off the floor for the first time in months, for the first time since I've moved in I know what is in every drawer and every cupboard in my kitchen, and finally, I have to say there's no joy greater than getting lost in the mountainous crags of Commander Adama's four foot high cheek.

I'd post you some wonderful pictures, but at the moment I am sans camera, which isn't nearly as cool as being Santana, but you gotta go with what you know.

Wishing You All The Best

2007-12-31T02:04:00.001-05:00

Ginger Bread Shack (Love Sold Seperately)

2007-12-17T22:56:00.000-05:00

Last week at work we had a Holiday Party where we were (strongly) encouraged to make structures from gingerbread. I'd never done such a thing before, so absent of any preconception, I shot from the heart. Behold, my Ginger Bread Shack:

Quality, delicious construction,
Firewood, for those cold, long winters,
Tin roof,
Stack of tires,
Dead grass,
Broken flagstone sidewalk,
Tire four, around back,
Crawlspace, because critters need homes too.

Adventure Today!

2007-12-17T21:47:00.000-05:00

Saturday night we "got some weather" in the form of a mess of sleet. I couldn't shovel it. I had to pick at it, then scoop the chunks aside. Yesterday it took me two hours to clear most of the driveway and the sidewalk in front of my house. I don't know what we did to piss off God, but it must have happened recently, because when I was a kid, I remember snow dammit. Not this two inches of Satan's own frosty brine from hell.

My town isn't famous for its street plowing. Also, it's on the side of a hill. This is fun if you're into staring out the window, waiting for something cool to happen. Not if you like to keep your premiums down. I'm fortunate enough to have off street parking behind my house. Unfortunately my only access to these spots is a one lane alley that runs uphill. Let's say that my house is 75% of the way up this hill. I only got my car 40% of the way up before I lost momentum. There was a set of well worn tracks that was mostly patches of slush and ice with some rare areas worn through to the pavement. I kept backing up about 20 feet and trying to get a run, but I never got as far up as I did the first time. I knew I should have gotten a better run from the start, but I didn't because I 1) foolishly thought the road would be in better shape than last night, and 2) was made nervous by all the damn kids screwing around in the alley as they made their way to school. I had to back my way down the whole hill and park in a lot that's about five minutes away by foot. Though this was all stressful, I don't think it would have been so bad if I didn't have to really poop.

I debated leaving my car in the lot against making another try before dusk, thinking the roads would have melted the most by then. My second attempt proved more fruitful, though scarier, as I floored it on the way up and made a 15 mph Hail Mary drive into my driveway through the uncleared ice.

Other recent adventures include: losing my ATM/check card, and ripping half my pinky toe nail off by stubbing it into the door jam (thanks Starbuck!).

The weekend wasn't all bad though. Got to have spur the moment dinner with old friends, watch The Office, Natural Born Killers, and Putney Swope with the Mistress, and I do believe we made some tea.

Freedom, Horrible Freedom

2007-12-12T18:06:00.000-05:00

Freedom
Today was my last day of work for about a month. My job is only ten months, so between December and January, I come suddenly into a glut of free time. I have some goals in mind about how I should spend this precious resource. For one thing, I want to do something creative, like write, for at least an hour once each day. If I miss a day here or there I should be okay, so long as I do it most days. The other goal is to finally make this house mine: finish the kitchen, clean out the bathroom closet, decorate, and enjoy. Doesn't sound like too much to ask, does it? We'll see.

Master of all I see
The situation on my Grape iMac is as follows: with OS 9 installed, I'm able to play DVDs without a problem. However, under Linux, they are unwatchable. Under Linux, I can watch DivX, AVI, and other compressed video formats. I can't easily find players to do so for Mac OS 9. The solution: dual boot.

Without going into the gruesome details, it was a chore and a half to get this thing to dual boot. Last night I experienced the fabulous, magical moment when the whole damn thing finally worked. I felt cocky as hell. It runs Xubuntu fairly well, and browsing the internet suprisingly does not suck. (We're talking eight year old tech here people, and mid range tech at that.)

Also, I made a desktop for it:

I wanted to incorporate the the purple coloring while giving a nod to Xubuntu (the mouse in the circle thing). None of the desktops I found online matched the intense grapeness the iMac exudes. They just don't color 'em like the used to. Remember when the look caught on, and everything plastic was being made with fruity iMac like colors? That didn't last long. It was a late 90's thing, what with the good times and optimism and all.

While waiting for packages to download and install I framed some more posters. I had one really nice frame that was the size of the last two posters I had left. One was a Mallrats poster, the other a Star Trek IV poster. I decided to go with the Star Trek poster, even though I already knew where I wanted to hang the Mallrats poster, because it is a vintage, beat up poster. I felt seniority won it. It wasn't until after I got it all mounted that I noticed the following:

How freaking cool is that? I had no idea!

Frames
Sunday the Mistress and I went on a trip to find barry sax reeds (for her) and poster board (for me). For poster board we ended up at Michael's. I left spending way more than I intended to, for they had poster frames on sale, and you see, I must frame posters for reasons not yet determined. Actually, I think it's because I framed one, and felt that I had to frame the rest or they wouldn't look right. It was stressful, weighing out whether or not I buy these sweet frames on sale, or whether I wait like I was planning to so I'd have more money to buy other people things for Christmas, but in the end, my selfish-ass won.

Saturday
Oh geez, let's see.

Last weekend was a "take it easy" kind of weekend. Saturday The Mistress and I took a trip out to visit my college friend Johnny Blue Jeans. He had dinner and desert waiting for us: a delicious teryaki style pasta and chicken dish, followed by tea, canollis, and napoleons. His friends Brackus and Q.B. were there as well, and we all took delight in light discussion and ping pong.

Johnny Blue Jeans spent two years in Ukraine for the Peace Corps after college. I can't imagine how much he learned or how valuable that kind of perspective is. The last time I was at his house, I think, was his welcome back gathering about a year ago. I remember him looking both overwhelmed and distant. I'm sure part of it was time zone shock, but it made me think about how jarring it would be to culture switch instantaneously the way he had.

He was certainly more present and accounted for this weekend, though as we talked some tough themes certainly came up. That night I think I attributed them to a search for identity and meaning after having his home culture checked against another. After reflecting, I came back to the same conclusion I have again and again: no one I know in my age group knows what the fuck. That is to say: none of us have a clear drive or passion, (or if they do, not one they can sustain or pursue), none of us have a clear idea of what we feel we ought to be doing with our lives, and none of us have a sense of who we are or who we want to be.

Maybe I just hang out with too many atheists.

Friday
I (finally) had lunch with the Templetons! We discussed writing, school, work, family, and the what-nots. See, I'm trying to figure out who I am, or, more importantly(?), who I want to be. I'd like to go back to school, but seriously, for what? The answer is obvious: for something I'm passionate about, or for something that will allow me to do something I'm passionate about. What, then? Do I go to school for an MA or an MFA for writing? Do I look into something maybe dealing with gender studies, and take it all the way to a PhD? Do I try my hand at the LSATs and see if I can dig my way through law school just because the challenge excites me? No one can answer except me, of course. This would be fine except I don't know what the fuck.

The Templetons, being professors, students, practitioners, and admirers of the written word, spoke mostly of English MA programs and Creative Writing MFAs. Both lead you to teaching positions by default, and their advice was this: only go all the way it if you're sure that's what you'll want to do. I've never taught, and frankly, the notion of trying scares me. I love explaining things to people who are interested, but that hardly encapsulates the experience of teaching today. The more I read about how tough it is, the more I feel I'm not cut out for it.

On another note, Mr. Templeton's teaching an advanced poetry class this spring. I saw it in the class listings, but would never have asked about it, since I failed the last class I took with him. (It was an independent study course we designed, and never finished my portfolio to wrap the course up. A bout of writer's block combined with having graduated did me in.) He, however, asked if I would be interested in sitting in his class. Of course I said I was interested, and plan on emailing him soon to say yes. It's 9:20 in the morning or so, but where the class is held is less than 5 minutes walking distance from my house, which is just too cool. I know it's not coming across here, but I am so incredibly excited about this.

Car Parts
To celebrate the birth of Dark Mistress Hawthorne, I presented her the following: Windshield Wiper Blades and a (very nice) Mag Lite. (Also, a hand made card and a promise to dinner out somewhere nice.) She loved it. She was especially excited about the wiper blades, as hers currently suck, but she would never get around to actually replacing them. (We all know how that is.) She loved the gifts and is still my girlfriend, for which I am glad.

I Forgot To Add... Racism!

2007-12-05T22:52:00.000-05:00

The Mistress reminded me that I forgot to mention Saturday's party at Easycheese's house. Every year (I'm guessing) Easycheese, an old friend from high school, hosts a "Thanksgiving Leftovers Party", the theme of which is: bring a dish of leftover Thanksgiving food. Though doors technically opened at one, by the time the Mistress and I arrived (at seven or eight I think) there was already a room temperature buffet of meats and deserts.

Our contribution was a pumpkin roll, one of six I helped D.M.H. make. I'm glad she set one aside for the party, as I would hate to have to pick out one leftover and bring it, thus breaking up the "Thanksgiving Set". Thanksgiving isn't about the Turkey. It's about the synergism of all the holiday dinner components.

I'm never using the word synergism to describe anything food related again. You know why.

This party was a get together for people who knew each other in high school, and the people some of those people met in college. I was very excited to see some of them, The Big E in particular. See, The Big E and Easycheese were in my Spanish class my freshmen year of high school. Now, myself, I liked Star Trek. I liked They Might Be Giants. I spent most of my time with my computer. I was, what you might say, a nerd. Being a freshmen, I was still feeling out my place in the ambient social hierarchies. The Big E and Easycheese were both upperclassmen, and they were "nerds" as well. With them, I was able to delight in and celebrate oddities and absurdities everyone else was too cool or too distracted to get. They made it "okay" to be a "nerd", and I am forever indebted to them for that.

Also at the party was Raucous P. L. B. Filibuster. Raucous is brash, loud, forward to the point of being borderline rude, and just a damn good time. He also was an upperclassmen I knew from high school, and I still can't put my finger on why we get along. I don't even know that we do. Maybe I just enjoy listening to his outrageous rants and biting comments, most of which I agree with.

As the night settled in, a large group of us gathered around to play Apples to Apples, a game in which everyone has five cards which conatin nouns, such as "Detroit, Mars, Anne Boleyn, The Philadelphia 76'ers, and Infants". Then one player gets an adjective card, such as "Respectful". Each player then picks which card in their hand they think the player holding the adjective card thinks most represents that adjective. That player then gets to pick which noun he likes best for his adjective. It sounds straightforward, but it's a wonderful game that really brings out people's individual senses of humor. My favorite (okay, the only one I can remember), is I voted Nicholas Cage as the most "Christy" submission I was given. (Christy was not a card, but what came about when I was passed a "Create Your Own Category" card on my first turn and proclaimed "Jesus Christ... I don't know. Jesus Christ.")

During a break in the action an argument kicked up between a woman whom I don't know well and Raucous. I wish I knew how it started, but to summarize, this woman, an adult near age 30, who seemed an intelligent person otherwise, thinks, honestly, that when Black people wash their skin with white fabric, that they turn the fabric black. At first I thought she was joking, but she dizzied me with this gem: "It's not their skin, it's the different oils on their skin, and it's the oils that turn the washcloth black." Raucous fought valiently in the name of common sense, but nothing short of having an actual person with dark complexion wash with a white cloth for all to see would sway her from her misguided notions. "That's why they don't like to go swimming!"

At which someone brilliantly cleared the awkwardness with a nerd stirring a capella rendition of "Racist Friend".

(Track 6 off the album Flood by They Might Be Giants, 1990.)

Impulse Buys, Gift Envy

2007-12-05T14:27:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow is Dark Mistress Hawthorne's Birthday, and this morning I needed to run to the store to get one of her gifts. Unfortunately I slept late, which meant I had to scramble to get a plan together so I could make the store and make it home in time to make it to work.

I'm usually fairly immune to impulse buying, but occasionally the constant repression of my consumerist instincts results in a momentary lack of thriftiness. Today it took the form in a cat toy,

a poster frame,

and candy canes!

I know that Tarantino posters are so undergrad, but... fuck you, doubting internal monologue.

On a related note, my presents for D. M. H. are truly awful. I will let you know what they were later (she might be listening). Seriously, this is just about the worst birthday gift I think I've given. It wasn't so much a lack of time, but a lack of mental energy and clarity that left me in a lurch. I must redeem myself at Christmas.

A few questions remain: is mentioning this a calculated attempt at mitigating my girlfriend's expectations while garnering a modicum of sympathy? Perhaps. Will she still be my girlfriend come Friday? Probably. Will I try harder next time? Yeah, I think so. Will Starbuck help me wrap the presents? If by help, you mean be a colossal but cute pain in the ass, then definitely.

Like Sand Through My Fingers

2007-12-04T00:40:00.000-05:00

I've not posted in two weeks because it's been a crazy two weeks. Not overly crazy mind you, but it was the holidays and all. Here's a bullet point style of what I've been up to.

PRE HOLIDAYS

I think it was Monday before Thanksgiving I decided to finally make cookies. I say finally because a year ago at least mom bought me chocolate chips, Reese's Pieces... chips, and Heath Bar chips. Though chocolate chip will always be my favorite, I went with Heath out of curiosity. The recipe was mostly peanut butter and lard, and I don't have an electric mixer. Just this little hand job. Wait. That doesn't sound right.

I figured I'd suck it up and do it like in the old days and all. How did people make cookies before electricity, right? It was so freaking hard to turn that handle that the mixer actually skipped a gear. This caused me to test it out of the bowl, which of course sent peanut butter batter everywhichwhere, evoking one or two childhood memories at least.

In the end though, I came out with a batch of cookies that were delicious. Out of the oven, at least. At room temperature, they were mediocre at best. I took some to the Dark Mistress's house for her and her roomie, and I took some home for my folks. I visited my folks yesterday and there was still one cookie left. I of course must face truth: if folk do not eat your cookies in two weeks time, they simply do not inspire.

HOLIFRICKANDAYS

I decided at mom's suggestion to take Starbuck to Thanksgiving with me. I was worried how she'd get along with Big Orange/Bad Puddy/Bad Boy/Hobbes/my parents' cat. His big and mellow (except around children) and was nothing but curious about Starbuck. Starbuck, whether it was because she was still in the cone or just being in new territory, did nothing but hiss. All in all there were no problems though.

I got into town early to see the old high school rivalry football game with some high school friends. I'm not huge into football but it was an exciting game. Plus I ran into a kid I used to be close friends with back in grade school, and it turns out he lives twenty minutes from me. We exchanged numbers, and I can't wait to catch up with him.

THE LONG WEEKEND
The day after Thanksgiving I took Starbuck in to get her stitches out, but unfortunately they said she wasn't as "closed up inside" as they'd like, so it was back home with a couple of staples, some antibiotics, and another week of the cone.

She got good at managing with the cone, so I let her have reign of the house. They gave me treats to wrap her pills in, but that only worked once, so I had to learn how to pill her the good old fashion "this is for your own good" way. (For those wondering, that is to say I cradle her in my lap, hold her jaw open with one hand, and drop the pill at the back of her throat with the other.) For being such a spitfire, she's also a real good sport.

I generally avoid anything Black Friday, but I saw one deal I couldn't pass up: 5'x7.5' area carpets for $24. Granted, there were only three patterns to choose from, but they were all better than monotone.

Saturday my old friends Bennington and Funk stopped by. (Bennington and I have known each other since we were wee, and Funk is her husband.) It was a surprise visit, and we ended up going out to dinner. Also, they were the first to sign my guest book/type writer, which I suppose makes it official.

Sunday I celebrated my birthday, though it wasn't my birthday, with the Mistress, my folks, and my folks' folks. For the most part, it was good times. I came into some money, which I decided I will hide so I won't use it to pay the bills. It will instead go towards the "I want an electric guitar" fund. Because I want an electric guitar.

Monday it was to Spanky and Zanzibar's house to meet up with Stankfoot and play some hockey and Warhammer. It was fantastic.

BACK TO WORK

Going back to work was harsh. I had early meetings all week and had to stay late a lot. Not much free time. That's all there is to say.

Tuesday I had plans to get lunch with the, uh, Templetons. They're both former creative writing professors of mine, and without going into great detail, know that they've influenced me a great deal. I've decided that I don't want to keep working my job, but I don't want to cut without a plan. I'd like to go back to school, but I don't know for what. Every time I make up my mind, I find myself discouraged a few months later by tales of what comes after. I went to college from high school because that's what I was supposed to do. I studied philosophy because that's what engaged me. I want to go to school again because I want to be working on and towards something that's enriching and engaging, but I'm not going to just wing it. If I go, I want to know for what and why.

I want to get the Templetons' perspectives on creative writing, MAs and MFAs, teaching, and the like. Unfortunately, they stood me up, so ?.

Also, Tuesday I bought a toy:

I've always wanted one. I used to set up labs of these for the high school as a summer job. I don't have cable, and I don't have any televisions. But for $20 I have an old computer with a DVD player in it that sits nicely right in front of my couch.

All week I was obsessed with the notion of installing Linux or BSD on it. Why? I'm glad you asked. The iMac I bought comes with OS 9, which is kind of old. Browsing the internet with it sucks, because it doesn't run any modern browsers nicely. With Linux or BSD, I could install free, modern, and more secure applications. But, mostly, it's because I want to prove I can.

Sometime during the week I also tricked out the coffee table so there wouldn't be a mess'o'wire underneath. Eye hooks to the rescue!

Wednesday I was late for a very important meeting. Like, thirty minutes in front of everyone on our staff late. To a workshop. But I was late for the best of reasons, I reckon. Just as I was about to leave, my neighbor, Mrs. Fussnpuss knocked. Her toilet was running and she couldn't stop it. While my father pointed out that'll make it hard to go to the bathroom, the fact of the matter was it was wasting a lot of water and would have continued to do so had I not poked around in there. The culprit? A strange mineral build up that kept her flapper from sealing.

He he.

And Friday Starbuck returned to the vet to get her staples out. She's back to her old self again, minus some ovaries, plus a gross scar.

Tonight

Today was the first, legit "me" day I've had since... I dunno. Stankfoot and I hit the Bell early, and afterwards I began doing the things I do. To be honest, I don't remember what all I did and in what order, but here's a short list: washed sheets and blankets, did a load of dishes, took all the boxes and crap in the living room to other rooms to be organized and unpacked (finally), unrolled new carpet 2, re-arranged some of the living room, drained the hose and shut off the water leading to the outdoor faucet, vacuumed living room, decorated my tree (tree courtesy of a Grandma, lights courtesy of mom, bells courtesy of D. M. Hawthorne),...

... rescued a sweet Medusa lamp from the basement, hung mirrors in the hallway, and hung a couple posters. The living room looks, well, respectable.

Like someone actually lives here.

Oh, and the cherry on top:

Who kicks ass? I kick ass! Well, maybe just a little. I almost can't believe it works. How well, we shall yet see.

Absurdities in Dream, No. 1: Boogie Vans, Cadillac Man, and My Father, the Jumper.

2007-11-20T08:06:00.000-05:00

In the fist of what, depending on the frequency and absurdity of my dreams, will be a continuing series of tales from my subconscious, I present to you Monday morning's dreams.

Of course, what I remember is a merely a tenth of the curiosities that played before me last night. At one point I was looking down on a freeway from a high and distant vantage. In one lane of travel a continuous line of "boogie" vans approached, each painted wildly and driven straight from a time portal to the 70's. The other lane of travel, however, was empty. Empty, save for one rebellious soul, driving a purple hopped up Cadillac. This thing was set up to drag and kicked all sorts of ass.

All I could think was I want to buy that car.. I debated on this, weighing the cost of the car, which apparently I could afford, against its general asskickery.

Never mind the problem of getting a hold of the owner, since he was driving away and I was up on a cliff or something. After coming very close to deciding I would buy it, I figured against it, as buying new drag racing tires for it would be too expensive.

Flash forward and I'm on the rooftop of a city building. My father has gotten himself some sort of costume with mechanical legs that allows him to jump from roof to roof. He's wearing a simple, stupid red costume that's a cross between a Mexican wrestler's and a Power Ranger's. He's very excited about this whole thing, and lands near me to tell me how awesome it is. I mention something about hurting himself, but he's convinced he's invincible, and goes bounding off. I can see him slipping, tripping, or in some other easy to imagine way, going over the edge of a tall building to his certain demise. All I can do is watch and worry.

Weekendery

2007-11-18T17:57:00.000-05:00

As I said, Bixby and The Tzar were in town to visit. Not me specifically, but to make their way around town in general. Friday night, another college friend and former housemate Leggolamb was in town. She was meeting up with friends and wanted to see who was around and if we were interested in going out.

I got out of work early and just in time to welcome Bixby and The Tzar. We got them set up in the attic suite. The were understandably tired and went to bed shortly thereafter. I was feeling bad about leaving Starbuck, and I was feeling tired, so I called up Leggo and declined her offer. Then I poured myself a stiff Soy Russian (because my real milk expired) and watched 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Next day I woke up at noon, missing my company but catching up on much needed sleep I'd gypped myself on all week. Went to work, which sucked almost all around. Got out late, again missing my company. Leggolamb's plans fell through though, so she, Slim Jim, and I stayed up talking for a bit. Then we all went to sleep.

I only slept till 11:30 or so this morning, which again, was glorious. However, I missed the departure of Bixby and The Tzar, which made me feel like a bit of a jerk. If I hadn't stayed up late cleaning all week, I might have seen more of them. But then I'd have been embarrassed about the house.

There's a lesson in here somewhere. Unfortunately the genius of Kubrick is sucking up my reflective energies, so shrugs all around.

When Leggolamb's ride came I saw that it was snowing! The first snow of the year! This always excites me. Way more than it should.

Stankfoot came to town and he, Slim Jim, and I went to Taco Bell and kicked around. It was lovely.

While waiting for Stankfoot, Slim Jim and I tracked down and fixed some electrical gremlins. The light at the top of the basement stairs was out and it wasn't the bulb. Turned out to be a weak wire nut in the box the switch was in. Then, the plug my computer's getting power from has no ground. Plus, it was really touchy. Slim replaced the outlet and we tracked down the open ground to a box in the basement. There were five or six ground wires not really touching each other.

The guy who wired this place wasn't very thorough. As I said, all the smoke alarms have fresh batteries.

The big downer is there's blood on Starbuck's stiches. It could be from when I took her cone off and started biting at them. I stopped her right away but she still got at them a few times. Or, maybe it's from when she was playing and jumping around yesterday. She's getting awful punchy, being so full of energy but confined to one room. If only I had a door to the upstairs or something, so I could at least give her a whole floor.

I can't wait for this to be over and her to be all healed up.

The Dark Mistress just walked in! With a cornbread muffin! She's been away all weekend, helping her friend on a school project. I am off to eat this muffin.

Delicious.

A Post That's Not About My Cat?!

2007-11-16T14:17:00.000-05:00

This week I've gone through several stages of tired. If I felt I could rely on my current state of mind, I would classify this list as comprehensive. I've been damn tired. I've been stupid mistakes tired. I've been cranky tired. I've been angry tired. I've been confused tired. I've been hopeless tired. I've been giggly tired.

This weekend my friends Bixby, her boyfriend The Tzar, and Slim Jim will all take up lodging here. Bixby reserved two spaces way back in August. So of course I forgot. Even though I wrote it down in my calendar. It was there, in my brain, in some form or capacity. Certainly not a useful one. It occurred to me in a very real way this Tuesday that I would actually have people in my house this weekend. This necessitated some emergency cleaning like nobody's dirty business.

So Tuesday I was up until 2:30 after work cleaning the bathroom, which I haven't done since I moved in. Wednesday I put in 15 hours, so I didn't do much of anything house related. Yesterday was laundry, and this morning was more laundry, straightening up my creativity room, sweeping the creativity room, installing new batteries in all the smoke alarms, straightening up the living room, vacuuming the living room, vacuuming the upstairs hall and stairs, doing dishes, making two chicken, cheddar cheese, mayo, and Cholula burritos, eating two chicken, cheddar cheese, mayo, and Cholula burritos, and petting my cat.

It was a very stressful week. What's nice though is when people visit, it's like a kick in the ass to get all these I've wanted to do done. Check it out: for the first time since moving in, I have an honest to god living room:

Also, I finally set up something I've wanted to have since I knew I was moving here:

Kitty Pity Pics

2007-11-13T23:58:00.000-05:00

As promised.

She actually doesn't look all that pitiful.

Quite dignified, actually. She must be feeling much better.

I jinxed her

2007-11-13T11:36:00.001-05:00

Starbuck now has a beautiful plastic cat bonnet. Watching her struggle around the room, bumping her cone into everything, then watching her flail to try to get it off was torture and kept me up past three. She seemed fine with it at first. Lying in a blanket right beside my mattress, she put up no resistance when I put it on. We even got to play just after. She kept staring at me with what looked to be her disembodied head while she'd lazily paw at the blanket I dangled in front of her. It was heart breaking but cute. Then came the moment when she realized that this cone was actually attached firmly to her. Kind of like that moment when folks first realize that mortality has a bead on them it's never going to loose, she freaked out a bit. But physically instead of existentially.

Well, who knows. Maybe existentially too. Maybe this was a watershed moment. Maybe it came to her in a flash: Hey, this guy's just fucking with me! What am I doing in this house? Why can't I ever get out?

I'll never know though as she hasn't been talking to me. Starbuck was always very conversational. She had inquisitive mews, assertive mews, WTF mews. She meowed during natural pauses in my monologue, and I always answered, pretending she said what the conflicting viewpoint in my head would have said.

You know, I would hate to see myself someday having to make a case for my sanity while a doctor holds a printout of the above in his/her hand.

I felt like a big softy, but the house felt very empty while Starbuck was at the vet yesterday. Very quiet, with no one to answer my once, and again, rhetorical questions. When I brought her home last night, the silence continued. It was just this morning that I got my first peep out of her, and it was wonderful to hear her voice again. I hope this whole experience doesn't leave her quiet and introspective. There need be only one fellow in the house like that.

I'd understand though, as the cage doesn't exist until we posit it as one, and that can be an unsettling realization. No amount of me telling her it's for her own good that I keep her inside could ever convince her otherwise. Maybe from now on she'll be my little Andy Dufresne.

I promise some kitty pity pictures later. For now, there's work to be done, and oatmeal to be eaten.

Big Day for Starbuck

2007-11-12T23:43:00.000-05:00

This weekend almost felt like a holiday, considering last weekend I only had one day off, and I felt lucky to get even that. Plus, this week is the last full week until Thanksgiving Break, and that means good things for everyone. And by everyone I mean me, because I'm like that.

Saturday saw a productive day at work, which always feels great. Sunday the Mistress and I continued our mission to cross educate each other on our favorite shows. She's currently showing me the second season of The Office and the first/last season of Freaks and Geeks. I've got her a third of the way through season one of Battlestar Galactica. Then we visited my folks and our friends Bozzie and Mudskipper.

Then there's today. Today was to be my day. I'd been looking forward to it all week. My plans were insane in scope: I figured I could reorganize the entire kitchen, rearrange my bedrooms, reclaim my entire living room, or perhaps all three if I were focused enough. Really though, I was afforded this day because I had to stay in town, as today was the day Starbuck got her itty bitty kitty bits snipped.

I knew I was going to hit Taco Bell with my good friend Stankfoot, but after that, the day was wide open. Project one was setting up the 5.1 system I was gifted (thanks Stank). This involved running wires across the room via the drop tile ceiling, which was messy and tedious. I have been rewarded, however, with the aural fruits of six speaker sound first time in my life.

After that I ran some boxes down to the basement (other people's crap that was taking up space), then it was off to pick up Starbuck.

She was an ornery cuss, hissing at everyone except me from behind the slits of her carrier. I was comforting her when I got my shock: the bill was $336.

Now, I was expecting at least $150. And I was prepared for maybe $200. But I wanted to cry when I heard $336. I'm not exaggerating. I didn't know how to react, except to give the young lady my credit card, because I couldn't afford to take that out of my account.

I ran my credit card up when I was unemployed, and I've been struggling to pay it off ever since. I was damn this summer I could taste it until some shit went down with my old house, which I had to put on my card because I couldn't afford it. This vet bill more than doubles what I had left on my one card, which may not sound like a lot, but to me it is. I get paid once a month on the first. I have to guess how tight I'll be for the month in order to decide how much to put towards my cards because they are both due early in the month. On months I know I have a bit more leniency I put $100 towards each, which leaves me with a couple hundred after bills for gas and groceries for the month. Not having that burden would be such a relief, and I think I'm going to have a stiff drink to celebrate the day it happens. If it ever does happen.

But back to Starbuck, who had some real problems, having been cut open and what not. She was still obviously very sedated when I let her out of her carrier, as her whole rear end would list to one side or the other as she tried to walk a straight line. In addition to failing her roadside, she couldn't manage to cover her waste when going to the litter box. What she was good at doing, though, was licking at her sutures. No amount of yelling, clapping, or pulling her head away was persuading her. It was 7:57, the vet closed at 8, and I was on the phone asking if I could run over to get a cone. They stayed to give me one (though it was only 8:05 when I got there), but when I got home to put it on her, she was about to have a nap. I hope I don't have to use it. I don't want her to end up like this poor soul:

The rest of the night Starbuck slept and I set upon the kitchen with the fury of a madman so that I might have something to feel good about before I sleep tonight. I didn't get as far as I thought I could. I certainly didn't turn the whole thing out, but I did make a bit of progress though, and I think by the end of the week, if I'm diligent, I may be able to claim this kitchen as my own. I already reclaimed the posting area. This used to be covered with postcards and notes from past tenants/friends:

The numbers are calendar dates. When I get a bill, I plan on sticking it up there under the approximate time of month it's due, thus raising my awareness of when I gotta pay the man. This should be an improvement over my current I should check what's collected under my keyboard method. Yes, I know it's off center, but I didn't have scissors or tape, and I was on the phone when I made it.

What Do I Know About Partying or Anything?

2007-11-09T22:45:00.001-05:00

I suppose the first post ought be a statement of intent. Why a blog? Why now?

It's been terrible at keeping up with friends and family lately. I figured this would be an easy way to let them know I'm still alive That's pretty much it.

So, family, friends, what have I been up to?

Little background: the latest era of my life consists of me living in a new town, alone, for the first time in my life. This started back around July/August. It was a hectic time, with me being busy/out of the state one third of the month of July. My plan was this: move all I could in July, finish up in August, and be set to live the way I want starting in September.

That "living the way I want" part involved time to play, write, and possibly record music, and time to read and write prose and poetry. I recently discovered how important these things are to me, and decided that, for me, a life without them is a life not worth living. Not at the moment, anyway.

Two things changed those plans: the house, and the lady friend. In August, I started dating/going out/whatever label makes sense, with a wonderful young woman we'll name, for the sake of e-anonymity, Dark Mistress Hawthorne. I hadn't dated in three years and I hadn't been in a relationship for four, so I feel a bit unsettled in how natural it's felt as I now reflect on it. You'll be hearing more about her, but what's to note is, while I don't regret time spent with her one bit, time spent with her isn't time spent alone, and time spent alone is the only time I can create. In short, she wasn't a part of the plan.

Thing two is the monster of a project that is my house. For those not in the know on my deal, one of my best friends from college, whom I shall call from here out Slim Jim, bought a house on the cheap from the county. It was a mess when he bought it. He cleaned it up, made it livable, and started renting to students in the area. He soon grew tired of being an enforcer when it came to cash, so he offered me a sweet deal on living there. The rent is below what I'd pay for similar in the area, and it's a whole four bedroom one bath half duplex, all to my damn self. I jumped all over it.

Part of the deal turned out that I inherited a house of other people's crap. This is both good and bad. I inherited a fancy Cuisinart coffee maker, an assortment of teas and canned goods, moth infested rice, a basement full of wet clothes and sweet ass power tools (the tools are all Slim Jim's, but I have his blessing to use them), two irons (look ma, both hands!), more pots and pans than I can shake two irons at (because irons are heavy), and... let's just say it's a lot.

I never had the chance to really move in and make the space my own from the get go. Instead, I've adapted to living off of what others left behind, filling in with my stuff when necessary. I've felt a bit like a long term squatter, and in all but the three bedrooms I've cleaned out, there are remainders everywhere of the lives once lived in this house.

What do I still have left to do? I have a living room full of boxes that need to get put away. I have a kitchen full of random kitchen... stuff that needs to be organized. I'm talking, pull everything out of every cupboard, keep or throw it, then reorganize. Those are really the last two big projects, but they're humdingers.

So when do I get to do all of this? A normal work week for me is Tuesday through Saturday, 2pm-11pm. My sleep schedule, ideally, is 12am-8am, and in practice, 2 or 3am - 9 or 10am. This means the majority of my free time is in the morning, before work. I planned it this way because every other week I have meetings at 10am. If I got up at 1pm for work at 2, and stayed up into the morning, I would probably get more done, a 10am meeting would be equivalent to a meeting at 4am for someone who went to work at 8. Imagine that, would you?

Friday and Saturday nights Dark Mistress Hawthorne keeps me company, staying in through the morning. Sundays we usually hang out, visit people, go on trips, or hit animals with her car. Not on purpose. Mondays she goes to work, and I usually visit my friends and family in my hometown. Finally, one day a week I'll usually go visit the residence of Dark Mistress Hawthorne. This means all my unassigned free time really takes place from when I wake up to when I go to work, three days out of the week. Unless, of course, I have one of those meetings that happens every other week. Then it's only two days.

What do I do with that time? Assuming I wake at 8am, (It's happened!), I get up, entertain Starbuck (my cat), make some tea, and go work on something creative until 11am. At 11, or if I'm truly stuck, I begin working on something productive around the house. For example: today I put weather stripping around the back door, which was leaking like a cheesecloth balloon. If I have to cook something to eat for the week (I pack my dinners), I do so at Noon. Otherwise I keep working. At 1 is when I have to start getting ready for work, though sometimes I slack and get involved in a video game for a half hour or so, causing me to rush in a frenzy.

I'm not sure why, but in all this, I've felt a little stressed and worn thin. I wish I had more time to spend with the lady, with my writing, and with my cat. Not to mention my folks and my friends. But, for now, this is what it is, I am what I am, you are what you are, and tautologies remain an excellent method ending conversations in a fatalistic, yet positive tone.

Character Guide

2007-11-09T11:11:00.004-05:00

The names of people and places here have been changed in the interest of privacy. Oh, sure, it would take a person maybe five minutes or less to figure out my real name, and internet detectives could make out the rest in due time. I'm not worried about that. I simply don't want a google search of my real name + my work place or my job or my friend's real names to bring people here. It's better for them, it's better for me, and really, it's better for me.

Plus, it's an excuse to make up names for people.

Speaking of which:

hey, remember Character Guide!
In order of appearance:

Dark Mistress Hawthorne
High school friend of Zanzibar, came from her podunk home town to stay with Spanky, Zanzibar, and I back in early 2007. She is a maker of sweet t-shirts, an amateur photographer, a Coen Brothers fan, an animal lover, a mediocre driver, a closeted LiveJournal user, and a wonderful person . Also, she's my girlfriend/cohabitant.
Fact: neither dark, nor a mistress, nor a Hawthorne. Discuss.

Skills:
T-Shirt Makery, General Craft, General Cookery, Advanced Bakery, Advanced Sarcasm

Special Abilities:
*CLASSIFIED*

Modifiers:

___________________________

Slim Jim
College friend and owner of my house. Lives around the DC area. Likes: electronics, computers, dark humor, empathy, inquiry, survival. Dislikes: dishonesty, mathematics, hangovers, social castes.

Skills:
Soldering, General HandiCraft, Survival

Special Abilities:
Intelligent Conversation, ADHD, Vehicular Combustion

Modifiers:
Intelligence +5

___________________________

Auntie L
She and I go way back. She's a wit without match, and can wit anyone under the table without batting an eye. Seriously. She's like the Socrates of wit. Also, she's one of two people who ever comment here, so you probably at least know of her by now.

Skills:
General Knittery, Advanced Letter Writing

Special Abilities:
Razor Wit, Intelligent Conversation

Modifiers:
Intelligence +4
Cooking -5

___________________________

Stankfoot
My fellow Taco Bell aficionado and Battlestar Galactica freak. Also, my right hand Warhammer man. (For the emperor, brother.)

Skills:
General Motorcycling, Advanced Computer Tech

Special Abilities:
Fast Food Grease Resistance, Airbrushing

Modifiers:

___________________________

Bixby
Friend from college, fellow Trekkie, fantasizer of Riker. She, Slim Jim, The Blue Zipper and I lived together for half of every week for half of a summer once. It was rocking good times.

Skills:
Engineering, Debate

Special Abilities:
Line Dancing

Modifiers:
+5 Debate (in the presence of like-minded individuals)

___________________________

The Tzar
Boyfriend to Bixby

Skills:
Unknown

Special Abilities:
Line Dancing, Beard Trimming

Modifiers:

___________________________

Leggolamb
Drinking partner from college who constantly emasculated me. Quoth my father: "You drink like a truck driver's wife." A hoot in general.

Skills:
Advanced Drinking, Debate, Advanced Sarcasm

Special Abilities:
Recognizing issues of Gender and Class inequality

Modifiers:
Liver -5

___________________________

Bennington
Bennington was probably my first friend. I met her when I was two. I can't say I liked her when I was two, because I'm pretty sure my interests were still mostly related to bodily functions and bright colors. Upon reflection, not much has changed.
Though we've led separate paths through life, Bennington and I still remain friends.

Skills:
Teaching

Special Abilities:
Teaching

Modifiers:
Hey, teaching's pretty amazing.

___________________________

Funk
Husband to Bennington. He's my favorite jamming partner, and when he was at his tops, was a hell of a guitarist. We only jammed once though, but it was too fine.

Skills:
Teaching

Special Abilities:
Code Breaking

Modifiers:

___________________________

Mrs. Fussnpuss

Estimated age rage: 78-92. Obsessively cleans every last spec of ice, snow, or garbage from her walk. Though her posture may be bent, her spirit remains strong. (Whatever that means.)

Skills:
Hanging clothes on the line, Trash can moving, Sidewalk cleaning, Lectures on The New Deal, Passive Aggression, Aggressive Aggression, Aggressive... Passion?

Special Abilities:
Fear of "Those" People, Old School Guilt.

Modifiers:
Longevity +70
Charisma -10

___________________________

Spanky

Ska lover, tattoo collector, video game aficionado, friend from the old school days, and former room mate. Only likes meat and cheese on his taco.

Skills: Ranged Weapon Attacks, Selective Information Sharing, Charming Old Folk, Charming Young Folk, Mario Kart.

Special Ability: Really, aren't all his abilities special?

Modifiers:
Charisma +7

___________________________

Zanzibar

Music lover, tattoo collector, culture aficionado, wife of Spanky, and former room mate. Only likes iambic pentameter. Once threw a (toy) piano through a third story window. Exists in one or more of the three states: tired, cold, or hungry.

Skills: Debate, Multitasking, Mario Party

Special Ability: Facial expression manipulation.

Modifiers:
Cred: +5

___________________________

The Templetons
My creative writing professors from college. I don't know much about them personally, but they seem to be fairly swell people, even if they are a bit hard to get in touch with.

Skills:
Teaching

Special Abilities:
?

Modifiers:
Wow, I'm fucking tired of this system. How about you?

___________________________

Brackus
Long time friend of Johnny Blue Jeans.

Skills:
unknown

Special Abilities:
unknown

Modifiers:

___________________________

Q.B.
Other long time friend of Johnny Blue Jeans

Skills:
unknown

Special Abilities:
unknown

Modifiers:
___________________________
Johnny Blue Jeans
Room mate and friend from college. Stand up guy who spent a couple years teaching English in the Ukraine for the Peace Corps.

Skills:
General Athleticism

Special Abilities:
Russian

Modifiers:
Endurance +10
___________________________

Raucous P. L. B. Filibuster
Dude is a hilarious loudmouth and old friend from high school. Looks like a cross between William Shatner and Bob Hope, which makes his commentary even funnier.

Skills:
General Sarcasm

Special Abilities:
Vocal Projection, Razor Wit

Modifiers:
Height -2

___________________________

Skidmark
Nice guy. Movie trivia buff. Brother of a girl I went to elementary school with. Seriously, I know nothing about this kid.

Skills:
unknown

Special Abilities:
Fact Recollection

Modifiers:
Memory +15
___________________________

The Big E
Introduced me to, among other things, the evil pleasures of tabletop roll playing games. Yes, Dungeons and Dragons. Yes, I had a neck beard in high school, why do you ask?

I met The Big E when I was a high school freshmen and he was a senior, and he likes to say he was responsible for my early corruption. The truth is, I was already a bit weird, he just gave me the opportunity to express that.

Skills:
Dungeon Mastery, Prolific bearding.

Special Abilities:
Intimidation, Charm

Modifiers:
Awesome +50, Ability to digest corn and corn derived products -infinity
___________________________