You Suck, March

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.

Days and Days

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.

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

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.

Oh, and By the Way

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

and Nova, age 10

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

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

Lend Me your Lamb's Ear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Quit My Job and I'm Moving

Kind of, and not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of the Line

MoviesWhatTheHell

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

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

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

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

StandardizedTestWhatTheHell

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

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

FreeConcertWhatTheHell

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

BackToWorkWhatTheHell

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

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

How I'm Spending My Summer Vacation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Digging in the Dirt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bathroom Report, Day 4

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

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

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

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






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

Tidbits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me either.

Good Times

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

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

A little bit, anyway.

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

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

Good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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


How life has brought us here I dare not know.

In Which I (Maybe) Get to the Point

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A New Toy! Joy!

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

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

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





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

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

Why My Pants Don't Fit

(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)

Holiday Vacation SuperPost!

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.

Adventure Today!

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

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.