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.

Sittin' On It

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!"

1st Day: Harshing the Mellow

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

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.

Fall

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

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

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

Waste of Human Resources

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

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

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

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

I Quit My Job and I'm Moving

Kind of, and not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of the Line

MoviesWhatTheHell

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

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

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

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

StandardizedTestWhatTheHell

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

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

FreeConcertWhatTheHell

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

BackToWorkWhatTheHell

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

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

How I'm Spending My Summer Vacation

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

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

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

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

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

Physical Demands

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

Physical Demands/Work Environment Frequency of Activity

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


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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Om nom nom. Nom.

Goodbye March, You Bastard of a Month

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was delicious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Reason March Was The Longest Month

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

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

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

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

Party to the Squirrel Murders

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!

Ducky Fuzz

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

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!

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.

Ginger Bread Shack (Love Sold Seperately)

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:

1. Quality, delicious construction,
2. Firewood, for those cold, long winters,
3. Tin roof,
4. Stack of tires,
5. Dead grass,
   
6. Broken flagstone sidewalk,
7. Tire four, around back,
8. Crawlspace, because critters need homes too.
   

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.