If It Doesn't Crap, Walk, OR Talk Like a Duck, It Ain't a Duck
One of my more guilty pleasures when I'm at my folks' place is watching CMT (Country Music Television). I'm not a big fan of most of the music that plays there (anymore), but I generally enjoy country music videos because they are the best music videos out there. I have a lot to say about music videos and why Country is on the top of the music video totem pole (followed by rap, R&B, pop, rock, and last of all heavy metal), but I'll just say right now that country music videos are often everything other music videos should be but are not. Anyone wishing to challenge me on that point is welcome to do so.
Anyhow, a music video by one Shania Twain came on. It was a real high-budget affair with Shania riding some high-tech motorcycle through some high-tech superhighways analogous to some N64 video game whose title I cannot recall (G-Force maybe?). Obviously a lot of time and money was put forth into this music video that will not make a dime. Oddly enough, I can't remember the song itself other than that it conspicuously had nothing to do with high-tech motorcycles, computer generated highways, or G-Force... but I'm not going to talk about how terrible most music videos are, dammit, so let me get to the point.
Until I saw this video on CMT, I had completely forgotten that some people still consider Shania Twain to be country music. It's possible that at one point in her career she was, though it has not been the case since I have started following country music (which started in about 1999 I'd guess). However, I'll temporarily put aside the hysterical laughter at the thought of Twain wearing so much as a cowboy boot and assume that she was, in fact, a country artist at one point in her career. I'll even grant that as Twain has moved into pop music, country stations and music video networks like CMT and GAC are inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt and think that, while her current album may be more poppish than her (allegedly, but benignly assumed at this point) earlier country ones, she may yet return to country music and thus it might not be a good idea to alienate her by applying a litmus test to what does and does not constitute a country artist based solely on their last album. The same benefit of the doubt is granted to Faith Hill and probably just about anyone else who has nice hair and looks good in skimpy outfits.
So be it.
But Faith Hill, despite her having moved away from country music in more recent, has three things that Shania Twain does not. First of all, she was very definitively a country music artist for some time in her career. I've seen the videos with her in country & western attire, and however silly she looks in them (she does), she at least had the gumption to wear them. Secondly, anyone who has seen Hill interviewed will note that she is definitely a southern girl in both accent and demeanor. She is a proud mother of two, three, or sixteen hundred kids and, however silly she looks in C&W wear (and she does), she at least looks like she would fit in at a barbeque in Alabama. Third, she is married to Tim McGraw, who is not only considered a country musician in most quarters (outside of Texas) but wears a cowboy had and boots for bona fides.
Shania Twain, on the other hand, pictured in country-wear evokes the hysterical laughter that I'm trying very hard to avoid to maintain at least a veneer of objectivity. Miss Twain is also not from the South, but rather Canada. She does not speak with the accent of a southerner, but rather with the accent of a spoiled bitch who has had everything handed to her on a silver platter because she has a 36-22-36 figure and looks so good in tight leather and skimpy outfits that no one bothers to ask why she isn't wearing more modest attire that someone ostensibly country might wear.
But I digress.
The point of this is that, even though I give her the benefit of the doubt as having perhaps been a country musician at one point in her life and even though I am not in favor of litmus tests for what is and is not considered country, I have to ask: At what point can we kick her out of the club?
I can put up with Kenny Chesney and his pool pictures, Tim McGraw and his tight leather pants singing songs that is a drumline and fiddle away from belonging on bland adult contemporary radio, and Brian White standing there and looking pretty because while Chesney, McGraw, and White may symbolize everything that is wrong with country music, they are at least country musicians insofar as country music stations play them repeatedly and non-country music stations generally do not (as they do, for instance, Twain and Hill). With these things in mind, what exactly does Twain have to do for people to realize that this snobby Canadian with not an ounce of cowboy hat, twang, authenticity, fiddle, steel guitar and/or anything else that actually differentiates country music from pop is not actually a country musician in any sense of the word "country?"
Recently, Dixie Chicks frontgirlie Natalie Maines took a swipe at President Bush and, by extention, those that voted for him and supported him. Since Bush draws most of his support from the south and the south listens to country music, they have been met with a hostile reaction the likes of which I have personally never seen. Former Dixie Chick fans started running over their CDs with tractors, burning them, and calling radio stations to keep them off their blessed country airwaves.
Is that what it's going to take to get Twain off said blessed country airwaves? Will that do it? If so, I'm sure I can find something.
Is this enough? Please? I have the PSD file saved so I can make her say just about anything. Whatever it'll take, let me know. For the good of country music, I'll waste my time and make her say it!
While I was gone, not one, but two regular Friends of No-Lyfe wrote absolutely stellar posts.
Daniel's prose poem is hard to explain, but it's on the subject of depression and the little devil on all our shoulder and the monkey on our back. It evokes powerful images in my mind as I read it and reminded me of one of my favorite songs. If I can find the lyrics to it, I'll post them later.
Like any good doctor, Jack wears a white lab coat, the uniform all of the healing profession wear. The irony of this is lost on Jack, as he sees himself as a healer of himself, as his Ripping is the only sustenance he knows, the fuel for his jagged existence. Scotland Yard's Ripper files suggest that Jack had some kind of surgical or butchery training, so completely did Jack disembowel, gut, and mutilate his victims. The Surgeon. The Butcher. The Barber. These are all Jack. Jack is all these. He wears all of these masks, and he wears none. He needs none. He is the Jack-of-all- trades. He is Janus. He is the Ripper, the Mangler, the Masher, the Joker. He is Jack.
Jack's skin is pale green, the color of mucous, the color of pus, of putrescence. The green skin is mottled with brown and black spots, which fester, turgid and angry, like Jack himself. And hungry. Always hungry. Never satisfied, even while Feeding. Insatiable. Scylla. Charybdis. Dr. Jackal. Jack. His skin is stretched taut over his bones; Jack is skeletal, gaunt, and this shames Jack, so he wraps his white coat tightly around his putrid body, shuffling from shadow to shadow, from streetlamp to streetlamp, from heart to hearth.
Heidi posts on unrealistic expectations, how we have them, what they do to us, and how to deal with them. I have a lot more to say on this, but don't have my thoughts together on the subject yet. In the meantime, take a look at what she's got to say.
The difference between anticipation and the reality of a vacation or a relationship is not just the profusion of details that life insists on showing us. The difference also lies in the part of ourselves that we forget to include in the equation while we anticipate. We don’t plan a vacation realizing that our minds will wander from the backdrop of scenic perfection to the newspaper we forgot to cancel, the bill we forgot to pay, the work that will be waiting upon our return. Similarly, in anticipating a relationship, we forget to include in our mind’s eye all the quirky details of ourselves. We forget that we are sometimes impatient, sometimes moody, sometimes self-absorbed.
Or, perhaps we don’t even forget. Perhaps, in anticipating a vacation or relationship, we are simply hoping that the transformation of our surroundings will also transform us. Somehow, that beautiful ocean view will whisk us away from our hectic work schedule and all its associated worries and headaches. Somehow, that romantic new relationship will transform me from the moody, impatient person I am to the thoughtful, carefree person I wish to be.
Disclaimer: In a break with tradition, I am not giving everyone a pseudonym, but in a couple (pretty obvious) cases, the below is more true than factually accurate.
Links in the Table of Contents area take you down to a specific item. Naturally, I recommend you read it all.
1. Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left. (A,B,C,D,E,F) 2. Change camping grounds, suddenly gain three brothers. 3. Become married in a mutual partnership (as defined by Hawaiian law, sweetheart) without actually going to Hawaii. 4. Remember that everyone who knows of you on this trip thinks you don't smoke anymore. Remind them one by one that you still do. Absorb sense of disappointment. 5. Gain new sidekick (or become sidekick, depending on your perspective). 6. Get sugar craving at three in the morning, have no sugar available anywhere. 7. See man who may be a crazy stalker while searching for sugar, but just go back into your tent and fall fast asleep again. 8. Wake up, meet someone new (sort of), insert foot into mouth. 9. Learn Spanish and teach someone more English. 10. Get wet without swimming 11. Learn the physics of paddling. Relearn. Relearn. Repeat process. 12. Consider the anthropological mechanics of male and female urination habits. 14. Democratize someone into (almost) exploding. 15. Learn that people react differently to fire 16. Learn that they're just fattening you up to be sacrificed to the Sun God and that people don't like to go kayaking in cold, drizzly weather. 17. Rearrange the ice chest on the Titanic 18. Outpace the Deathstar 19. Go up a creek with a paddle, go down it without one. 20. Get good, belated, and much needed backrub. 21. See visions in embers of a fire, including a face, poorly done CG Satan skin, and Batman. 22. Pick up various themes of the trip. 23. Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to make sure you had everything when you left
1. (A) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
I never made a list. I should have made a list. I never did. Even though I should have. Instead I repeated what I needed in my head a hundred times what I would need. Kind of like how I'm repeating that I should have made a list but did not. Over and over again. Unfortunately, I have the worst short-term memory of anyone that I know save fellow No-Lyfer Brian, whose short-term memory is so bad he keeps forgetting about this blog. So I took a trip down to Clear Lake to get what I needed from my parents (I don't keep camping gear and the like cause they have it) earlier this week. I brought back a chair, sleeping bag, and a water cooler. Kept thinking that I was forgetting something.
Thursday night I remembered that I forgot to pick up my bathing suit. Oops. Callie said I could just pick one up at Wallmart, so I didn't worry about it. Then I remembered that I also forgot sun tan lotion. So Thursday night after leaving the Mucky Duck, I drove home to pick up the bathing suit and lotion. I quickly picked up the bathing suit, got a pack of cigarettes for the trip, and trucked back up and made it home by about three or so and went to sleep.
Kevin and Callie arrived at 7:30 or so and I went to the car and threw in the chair the chair, the bathing suit, and the sleeping bag.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes
On the way up, I picked up a pack at the convenience store.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes
2. Change camping grounds, suddenly gain three brothers. 3. Become married in a mutual partnership (as defined by Hawaiian law, sweetheart) without actually going to Hawaii.
When we got there, we discovered that there wasn't nearly enough room on our plot for all our tents. Furthermore, Micah was worried about his two year old son being so close to the water. Micah asked to be moved up, but was assured and reassured that he was given the Number One Spot. The fact that it's not an acceptable spot withstanding, it was certified Number One. Oooh and ahhh at your own leisure. So in a quick decision, we decided to relocate to the public grounds next door. The only problem is that the state of Oklahoma charges not by the car or the person, but by the family.
The attendants included: Kevin Whited, Callie's boyfriend Callie Mark, Kevin's girlfriend (last name abbreviated due to laziness of the author) Louise Whited, Kevin's Mom Frank Whited, Kevin's Dad Mrs. Mark, Callie's mom Micah, Kevin's childhood friend Tom, ditto Gladys, Micah's wife Adric, Micah's son Camille, Kevin and Callie's friend who was going to arrive later in the evening.
So that's a total of five families. We decided that it would be a lot easier if we'd just all pose as Frank & Louise's children. So I became R. Alex Whited and suddenly gained three brothers. As it turned out, we all had the glasses + goatee thing going for us (cept Tom, who had the goatee but no glasses) and I actually look more like Kevin's Mom than Kevin does. So that made us one big giant extended family (Gladys, Adric, and Mrs. Mark being in-laws and Camille, if asked, either Tom's or my wife presumably).
When the Park Ranger arrived to collect his due, he informed Callie (who was our frontwoman on the matter) that Oklahoma considered a family to be a mother, a father, and 2.3 children, rounded down to two. So Callie went ahead and posed as Kevin's wife and asked for leniency. Eventually she struck a deal and that the Whited and Mark familes were considered one. Micah's family was considered another one, and Tom and I slipped in together under Oklahoma's unstated "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy. We'd have some explaining to do if they saw Camille, but we'd have figured something out for certain (happy gay Morman family, anyone?), and three families was a lot better than five.
4. Remember that everyone who knows of you on this trip thinks you don't smoke anymore. Inform them one by one that you still do. Absorb sense of disappointment.
When I first met Louise, she asked me if I was the one she'd sent an email of encouragement after he quit smoking.
I had a cigarette in my hand.
The next morning when I officially met Camille, she asked "Aren't you the one that quit smoking?"
I had a cigarette in my hand. Again.
I didn't smoke all that much (five cigars and 3/4 of a pack for the entire weekend), so it was just my luck that everyone I met who knew of my faltered quest would meet me with a cigarette in my hand. Louise, being a former smoker herself, gave me a hard time with it. The second day she wore a lunch cancer pin. It was all very good-natured, though. To be honest, I really don't mind people giving me a hard time smoking. I actually appreciate it as long as it's not antagonistic. Given my temperament, whoever I settle down with will not be a smoker and thus push me to quit. And I will (at least then, probably before). I don't intend to be a smoker for life and I did well on my last attempt until I was thrown a pretty big curveball in my life.
5. Gain new sidekick (or become sidekick, depending on your perspective).
Adric is the two year old son of Micah and Gladys. The kid is a firecracker. One of the first things Micah said to me about his little boy was that he's (a) indestructable and (b) while he doesn't try to hit sensitive areas, he's about the right height that a randomly thrown punch will land there. So don't worry about playing rough but be sure to protect yourself. His mother is Dominican and Micah thoroughly bilingual (he plans to teach Spanish down here), so his primary language is Spanish. As with most bilingual kids, he's a little behind the language curve (but will catch up and excel his peers in a couple years). So we couldn't really speak to one another and he didn't understand most of what I said and vice-versa. More on this later.
All in all, he's a real neat kid.
I first actually met him at the Number One Spot Campsite. I'm not generally one to fawn over children. Don't get me wrong, I love them. But so do most people and I don't make it my business to compete for the attention of someone else's child. On the other hand, I babysat for a few years and am good with children. When we were all moved to the Public Lot, Adric was throwing a beach ball around and I retrieved it from across the wire fence, where he'd thrown it. "Uh oh," he said, with the cute voice that kids have at two with a limited vocabulary. I smiled and retrieved the ball, which he threw right back at me. I threw it at him. Repeat process until bonding occurs.
Later under the canopy, I was sitting in my chair when he ran up and flung himself across my legs. I thought he was just goofing off, so I just let him lay there. Not long later, he officially climbed on me and sat in my lap. I rearranged him around and we danced (I bopped my leg and he bopped up and down) to Randy Rogers, playing from Kevin's SUV.
It became a common theme for the trip. We played a lot of "ball" and he'd climb on me. Sometimes he'd take my finger and walk me around the campsite. When he'd get too close to someone else's area, I'd turn him around and he'd contentedly walk the other way. until he found something of interest to him.
At one point, he was being kept away from the fire and was getting restless in his mother's arms, so she unloaded a crying Adric on me. Within a minute he was smiling and dancing with me to whatever Rogers tune was playing at the time (we played a lot of Rogers that weekend). He lost interest in me after a few minutes, but it was nonetheless a serene moment.
My father has always been really good with children. Times like this weekend give me hope that I picked that up from him.
1. (B) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
I had planned to use my jacket as a pillow. Unfortunately, the sleeping bag only went halfway up my chest and without the jacket, I was freezing. If there is one thing I fear, it's sleeping cold. It's the most consistent precursor to waking up feeling ill the next morning. At home, I generally sleep in my clothes (or at least long pants) and socks for that reason. It's my kryptonite.
So I was at a loss as to what to do. I meant to bring a pillow with me, but I forgot about that until I had to sleep with the back of my head on the cold plastic tent.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow
6. Get sugar craving at three in the morning, have no sugar available anywhere. 7. See man who may be a crazy stalker while searching for sugar, but just go back into your tent and fall fast asleep again.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with sugar cravings. I've never really understood why, but I'll have a lot of trouble getting back to sleep if I don't find something sugary (or nutrisweetish) to consume. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, swipe one of my roommate's Pepsis, drink it in as few gulps as possible, and go right back to bed.
On Friday night, our first evening there, I got such a craving. Unfortunately, there was nothing remotely sugary around. Nor were there any vending machines. The store was closed and the only soft drinks around had been taken by Frank and Louise for the evening. I wandered around aimlessly in search for some sugary refreshment, but to no avail. While looking, I saw that there was a man leaning against Micah's SUV. I didn't have my glasses on so I couldn't see it. I figured if it was Micah he would have said something. Hoping beyond hope Thinking it was Micah, I went in my tent to hide sleep.
I finally fell back asleep. When I woke up in the morning, I went around looking at shadows in tents to make sure everyone was alive. Reassured, I went to the store, bought a coke, and finally got my sugar. I don't think I did a very good job of looking around to make sure everyone was alright, cause a bright orange tent popped up and I completely missed it. Thankfully, it was Camille and not a psycho-killer camping out waiting for us to all wake up so he could kill us without further disrespecting us by going into our tents.
8. Wake up, meet someone new (sort of), insert foot into mouth.
Note to self: When you meet someone you know is in the medical profession and they refer to the hospital that they're working at, do not, do not, assume that they are a nurse. Cause they might be a week away from being a full-fledged doctor and tired of being accused of being a nurse because of their gender. Especially when they don't know how cool you think nurses are. Not that being a doctor isn't really cool, too. I just didn't personally know any medical doctors until Camille and do know some nurses and nurses are cool, not that being a doctor isn't cooler, and not by thinking she was a nurse instead of a doctor meant that she was less cool cause I think doctors are cooler than nurses, cause I don't necessarily think they are cooler, I just don't think they're necessarily not and mphmuhmmphmumph... ahem, sorry about that. My foot seemed to find its way into my mouth again.
Also note to self: If you don't know a woman's age or approximate age, just avoid the subject of ages (including yours) entirely. Don't even bother professing ignorance and just referring to your generation, cause she might pointedly note that she is part of your generation and assume that you assumed she was younger even though you assumed she was older and mphmuhmmphmumph....
Also also note to self: Find some mouth-repellant shoes.
1. (C) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
Camille is quite the forgiving sort, and when I mentioned that I was without a pillow, she offered me one of hers. Score!
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow
I got my things together to take a shower...
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow Towels
Whiff.
9. Learn Spanish and teach someone more English.
During my adventures with Adric on Saturday and beyond, he would go around pointing to things and sounding out the words. For instance, he would look at dew on plants and say "aqua!" which, of course, means water. Similarly, whenever he wanted to play with the ball, he would point and say "bol!"
Some words were more complicated, however. He would point to bugs and say "pica!" So I thought that pica meant bug. Then he pointed at my cigar and said "pica!" I finally had to turn to Micah and ask what "pica" meant, and he said it was a derivative of the word "picar" which means to bite or to sting. Picante sauce is derived from that word.
Most were pretty simple. For instance, whenever he pointed to cars (toy or real) and said "vroom" I could rest assured that was Spanish for "car."
1. (D) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
Steel-toed boots are not good swimwear.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow Towels Swimming shoes
The store has a pair... three sizes too small.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow Towels Swimming shoes Ouch.
10. Get wet without swimming.
We woke up on Saturday to a chill and fog. Everyone crossed their fingers hoping that the weather would get better. Everyone except me, of course. I dislike the sun. I like overcast, dreary weather. As we were all huddled on the raft, my views on the matter turned out to be very unpopular. The more it rained, the more Callie looked at me and scowled. When the sun came out, I grunted a disapproving "mmmmh" and the sun would go hide again.
The more this happened, the less popular my views on the subject became.
1. (E) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
When the sun finally did come out, Camille came to the rescue again! She was the only one who'd thought to have some sun tan lotion ready for application.
Things I forgot: Lotion Cigarettes Pillow Towels Swimming shoes Ouch.
11. Learn the physics of paddling. Relearn. Relearn. Repeat process.
Apparently, most people spend their first trip doing most of the paddling while everyone else just drinks beer. It's not any sort of hazing or initiation, but rather us newbies are unaccostomed to the point of the trip: drink beer and float. Apparently this has been a real problem in years past when one particular guest thought that this would be an ironman (or ironwoman) endurance contest and that there would be racing and competition involved. Not being the competitive sort, I was quite sure that I would not be bit by that particular bug.
Camille and I ended up sitting together in the back of the raft. Camille is not one for drinking. Even though she spent the previous year being the only paddler on two rafts, she was still inclined to paddle this year. Since I was back there with her and can walk and chew gum drink beer and paddle at the same time, we were the steering department for the course of the afternoon. Unfortunately, I had more upper body strength than she did so while she had to paddle constantly, I need to be less constant about it. The problem was that I kept forgetting which way the raft would steer when I paddled, so I'd think that I desperately need to paddle to catch up I was actually ahead and thus threw us further off-course.
Camille very patiently explained, over and over again, that by paddling my side it'll steer the boat to the other side, but like Bart Simpson and the electrical cupcake, I just kept doing it.
At one point she just told me to go hog-wild and spin us around. The rest of the gang (not to mention other rafters and kayakeers) looked at us like we were crazy, but it was thrilling fun for a spin or two.
I'd had some beer to drink. I don't know what Camille's excuse was.
12. Consider the anthropological mechanics of male and female urination habits.
We had to take numerous pit-stops along the way. We stopped to eat at one point, but it was generally for us guys to relieve ourselves. I say "us guys" literally because Callie and Camille never went. This brought up a rather serious boozed up intellectual conversation on the urination habits of men and women. Namely (in Camille's words) "Girls don't feel the need to announce to the world that they're taking a leak."
Indeed.
Some guys would make a cursory effort to conceal their actions. They might go behind a bush or something. Most of the time, it didn't take a rocket scientist (or glasses) to see what they were doing. Callie said that she wishes she had a camera to take a picture of the four of us lined up, sprawled across the scenery, with our backs to the river but completely unconcerned with the reality that everyone knew what we were doing. I only saw one girl squatting at a point during the trip, but she had two girls lined up in front of her so that we wouldn't see. That was kind of a mistake, either in thinking that it would work or using two scantily clad girls to block her. If not for them, I'd not have noticed at all.
Callie and Camille, the only two ladies on the raft (Gladys, Louise, and Mrs. Mark stayed behind), managed to hold it. Camille didn't drink much so it wasn't that hard for her. Poor Callie needed to go after a couple hours, but refused to compromise her femininity by going anywhere but in a restroom. So she held it. And held it. And held it. Eventually we found a place that had restrooms marked, so we docked. Turns out it was merely a barrell surrounded by something or other and even though it was designated male-female, twasn't gonna happen. Callie held it some more.
At one point, a couple of us conspired to throw her into the water so that she'd just be done with it. She indignantly replied that she would make a point not to go if we did such, and our plans were scrapped.
13. Become more superstitious
14. Democratize someone into (almost) exploding.
We reached a stopping point and debated whether or not to utilize it. Some of us wanted to keep going, but Tom was ready to call it a day and Callie was about to explode. So we held a vote. 4-2.
Poor Callie.
15. Learn that people react differently to fire
Frank: We should put more lighter fluid on this fire. R. Alex: Hmmm. Fire warm. Warm good. Wait, too warm. Move chair back. Good warm. Not warm enough. Move chair forward. There we go. Camille: Fire good. My pocket of zen is right by fire. Yay fire. Nice fire. Sincere fire. Good fire. Adric: ¿Por qué no puedo jugar yo con la cosa dinámica brillante? ¡Quiero jugar con la cosa dinámica brillante! Kevin: Beer. Fire. Paradise. Tom: Hmm. Is my shirt on fire? So it is. So it is. Micah: Uhhhh, Tom....
16. Learn that they're just fattening you up to be sacrificed to the Sun God and that people don't like to go kayaking in cold, drizzly weather.
On Sunday afternoon we were eating tacos everyone was looking to the sky to see if it would warm up. Periodically the sun would come out, I'd scowl, and it would go away, as per Saturday. Finally, Tom suggested that I be sacrificed to the Sun God so that the Sun will come out. Callie noted that they were already fattening me up. The idea became very popular.
Too popular.
But not popular enough for me to stop eating tacos. Alex:Tacos::Camille:Fire::Kevin:Beer
17. Rearrange the ice chest on the Titanic
As the morning wore on, more and more of the old fogies (as defined by anyone older than Camille, the next oldest person) determined that it was too cold and wet (waaaaaah!!) to go kayaking and that they wanted to "stay at the camp" because it was "cold" out and fire is "warm" and "stuff."
Since this was my first trip, I definitely wanted to go out again. However, because I wasn't familiar with the river, I didn't want to go alone. As it turned out, Camille was interested in going as well, and since we were going kayaking instead of rafting, we didn't need to likes of them and their aversion to "turning purple" from the cold. (the air quotes are not quoting their words, merely my mimicking them out of pure pettiness cause Cam and I ventured the river and they did not, so there).
Kevin was good enough to give me an ice chest to take with me with some beer and, water, and diet coke. We weren't sure where to put the chest on the kayak, but there was an area for it behind the seat that looked like it would hold it pretty well. So I tied it down and we were on our way out into the river. For about two seconds. Then I nearly capsized. Being a novice, my balancing skills were already not so great. During the initial jolt, the cooler got off-center adding to my difficulties. I made it across the river and she fastened it better than I did and I was ready to roll.
Or not.
It seemed that no matter how hard I paddled, I wasn't going anywhere. Furthermore, over half the kayak was under water. Paddle paddle paddle. Camille was suddenly 20 feet ahead of me. Paddle paddle paddle. Forty feet. I checked out paddling rates and I was paddling (slightly) faster than she, but to no avail. She slowed down and I sped up, but the half-sunk Titanic wouldn't go. The fact that half of my energy went to balancing the top-heavy beast didn't help. The only places I made ground was when we were caught by the currents.
When we were confronted by the Monolith, she started paddling as fast as she could, leaving me behind to suffer its wrath. Finally, when we managed to outrun it, we pulled ashore and I tried to just tie the cooler onto the back. The problem was that there was no fastener to keep it closed. All I knew is that my arms could not take much more. I seriously considered just buying Kevin a new chest and leaving it behind. But I hate hate hate admitting defeat. Seeing my plight, Camille agreed to take charge of the Titanic, figuring it would give her more of a challenge.
That it did. Once we switched crafts, I was steadily ahead of her and was able to relax my aching arms. She'd underestimated the effect of the chest, much to my glee. But my tired arms and the lighter craft more or less matched her superior paddling skills and higher energy levels against the heavy chest. And when she had trouble keeping up, I got to rest. That in and of itself made me quite thankful.
18. Outpace the Deathstar
I initially dubbed it The Monolith and later, when talking to someone else about it, The Deathstar. It was about 15 rafts or so all interconnected and loaded with excess of fifty drunken assholes. I do not mean to corrolate drunkenness with assholishness, but in this case it fit. They were loud and obnoxious. But not in the cool way we were loud and obnoxious the day before. In an obnoxious obnoxious way. For instance, One lady in the Monolith commented that I'd better unload the cooler from the Titanic cause I was sinking. I ignored her and another guy from the craft pointed at me and warned me that I'd "better look at her when she's talking to [me]."
We only wish Kevin, Micah, Tom, and Callie were there. When we'd had water balloons flung at us the day before, they knew all the right cursewords the yell. My arms were tired and my creative well tapped dry. I grunted and sped up as best I could to catch up with Camille, who'd sped up the second that she saw them.
We finally regrouped later when she was comfortable ahead of them and stalled to wait for me. We went a little further along the way before I needed a quick break.
R. Alex: Hmmm... how far ahead are we from the Monolith? Camille: I don't know. We've probably got about ten minutes. R. Alex: Okay, I need to take a nine minute break.
We ended up breaking for a slightly longer period of time as we rearranged things. We'd apparently left them in the dust. Or they got out. Or drowned.
We can hope, right?
19. Go up a creek with a paddle, go down it without one. 1. (F) Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to prepare and make lists before you left.
On the last series of turns, Camille and I became increasingly more risk-taking. Well, Camille was risk-taking most of the time, but the ice chest added to the effect. To give you an idea, when the Titanic was mine, the front hit a rock or some wood and the entire thing flipped backwards. I'd managed to jump out the side to avoid getting water up my nose. Three cheers for thinking off my feet to the effect of clean nostrils!
So anyhow, I made it through a particularly iffy current that she was going through. I was curious how she was going to make it through. Unfortunately, I was in my own heep of trouble with a giant fallen tree and missed it all. I got tossed and when I got up and regrouped, I looked up and saw all the beer and coke floating away from her capsized craft. She came over to where I was and we laughed about it for a bit. We were not in a particularly advantageous spot and our kayaks kept flipping and doing wacky things even as we were trying to just get it level enough to sit on.
We watched the last remaining item she had on her, the sun tan lotion, float away.
When the sun finally did come out, Camille came to the rescue again! She was the only one who'd thought to have some sun tan lotion ready for application.
Things I forgot: Lotion Lotion (again) Cigarettes Pillow Towels Swimming shoes Ouch.
She finally hopped across the log and tried it from that side with great success. I, on the other hand, was far too stubborn. So I tried it again. Not only was I tipped in under two sections, I was caught by the currents and thrown against the troublesome log. If I'd been wearing my life vest, the kayak would have floated away. But since I'd taken it off and tied it to the craft, I was able to grab hold of it and consequently the kayak.
We never saw the paddle again.
I was paddling with my arms when Phil, the campground manager that we were using, saw us and our predicament. I paddled in as best I could, but reached a stalemate right before the spot where I could get out. Camille extended her paddle to me to pull me in. Of course, she pulled me but not the kayak and I was dunked one last time. Thinking quickly off my feet again, I captured the kayak with my legs and was successfully pulled in.
Phil is a great guy. Not that you'd know it on meeting him. He had a very gruff demeanor. He was a chain smoker, but he really should dip instead of smoke. Not that one is healthier than the other, but he looks like a dipper. If he didn't spit out the side of his mouth every few seconds, he's the type of guy that would. Even though we'd not stayed at his campground as we'd had reservations to do, he didn't charge Kevin for the space (even though Kevin offered). Most importantly (to me), he didn't even charge me in the case of the mysterious missing paddle.
I was apologetic to Camille for making us have to stop early, but we only had 3/4 of a mile left so all was right with the world.
20. Get good, belated, and much needed backrub.
When I commented how tense my muscles were and how much I'd be willing to pay a messeus, she offer to trade backrubs.
Best trade I've brokered in a long time.
21. See visions in embers of a fire, including a face, poorly done CG Satan skin, and Batman.
On the last evening there, we finally built a real campfire. The previous night's was on a stove. This was was on the ground, as fires are meant to be. Louise, Frank, and Mrs. Mark had left. Adric and Gladys and eventually Kevin and Callie went to bed, so Micah, Tom, Camille, and I all hung out by the increasingly dwindling fire. As the night wore on, we all became increasingly sleepy (as night wearing on tends to make us). When I saw a face in the embers of the campfire, people assumed I was getting delirious. I was not, of course, cause there was a face in there. Little eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Camille looked, but couldn't see it. Harrumph. She must have been too delirious in her pocket of campfire zen. I eventually got tired of it staring at me, so I poked it with the stick and went away.
So far so good.
Then one side of the campfire started looking familiar. It looked like CG for a planet or something. Then I realized that it actually looked a little like skin. Satan's skin, it occured to me. It took about fifteen minutes of pondering where I'd seen that CG skin before (and about ten minutes of Micah and Tom ridiculing me. Harrumph again). Then I remembered it from a movie, but my companions were unconvinced. Bah to them all, I thought.
Then I saw something colossaly weird. It looked like a BTAS version of Batman's torso and head. Not just any torso and head, but one I've seen before on little Batman bottles where the squirter is coming out of his back. Though the embers lacked said squirter, I felt it was time for bed.
22. Pick up various themes of the trip.
Theme song: "Rhonda's Prayer" by Dead End Angels. ("Thank you Lord, we don't need any more rain") Beer commercial motto: "No one cares about your beer quite as much as you do" -Kevin Whited Camera effects: Lowered contrast. Grey skies meet lush green wood. What made the trip so enjoyable: The people, without a doubt. In a situation like this (cold weather, rain, etc) the key to enjoyment is flexibility and we had a wonderfully flexible group. Many bitched about the weather, but no one let it stop them from enjoying themselves. On the first day Camille and I paddled and most of the other people didn't and no one complained that we were moving too fast or too slow or steering wrong. Also true for Camille on the kayaking day where a number of things went wrong but we had a great time.When Kevin's beer was lost, for instance, her verifiably did not kill me. I can't remember the last time I was with a group that large without factions being formed or anyone really getting angry with anyone else. Those are many of the reasons I avoid large group activities and they were notably absent.
I can't wait for next year.
23. Make lists all the way up on all the ways you failed to make sure you had everything when you left
Things I could have forgotten, items scratched off in my possession: Bathing suit Chair* Sleeping bag Cooler** Cigarettes Glasses
*- I techically have it, but it was crushed when a certain two year old was jumping up and down on me.
Kevin shows the way to this music review by Houston "We-Wish-We-Were-In-Frisco" Press music critic William Michael Smith, who uses what is ostensibly a review of F-Co's latest album to rip into Texas Country Music.
Unfortunately, impressive press kits aside, [F-Co's] The King of Texas is simply another entry in the overcrowded, rapidly-going-stale Texicana New Wave, where me-too bands are cloned faster than lab rats. [...] The King of Texas follows the commercially successful least-common-denominator formula developed in the Pat Green kitchen and scrupulously imitated by Cory Morrow and a jillion other neo-Texas country acts that are almost indistinguishable from one another in their kitschy taco'd straw hats. Those partial to music that doesn't dare even the slightest deviation from the original mashed potatoes recipe will probably catapult The King of Texas to the top of our Texas music charts with considerable haste. Yee-haw. Yeah, buddy.
I come here not to praise F-Co, a band that I was probably the least impressed with when we saw them open up for Roger Wilko (whom I'm positive that Mr. Smith would put into the redundant category as well). I come to bury Smith's idiotic notion that Texas Country Music is built on conformity.
In fact, that Cory Morrow is the only one he specifically mentions merely illustrates that point. Just about everyone else he could mention has significant distinctions from Green. Juxtaposing Morrow and Green as an example of the subgenre's monotony is itself redundant because Green and Morrow have been juxtaposed since day one. Why? Because they went to Texas Tech together. They used to play Wednesday night shows together at a bar in Lubbock. They are artistic siblings. Morrow isn't imitating Green any more than the reverse, and Green being signed first (Morrow was actually in talks with a label a few years ago, but they broke down) doesn't suddenly make Morrow an imitator.
There are others that could plausibly fit this format. Roger Creager has a number of beer hall tunes, but he also has a Tejano tune and a touching anthem about getting his deceased grandfather's guns. Kevin Fowler might if you read his lyrics sheet, but his sound is different from most of the subgenre (I don't care for it much, personally, but many many others disagree). Dub Miller writes about beer halls, but also cowboys reacting to the changing world around them. And of course love songs. They've all got love songs that have nothing to do with "kitschy taco'd straw hats."
Now, not having heard F-Co's CD, they may well be the band with nothing else to offer but derivatives of Green, Morrow, Creager et al. If Smith were to leave it at that, neither Kevin nor I would be compelled to write about it. But to dismiss the entire subset would be analogous to dismissing a Smith favorite, Max Stalling, cause Stalling's work is similar to Robert Earl Keen's with only half the range of music.
But Stalling, in Smith's assessment and mine, has quite a bit of talent. Stalling has a narrow range of music but does it extraordinarily well. Why doesn't Smith spend more time explaining why F-Co doesn't have talent (and they might not) and less time explaining why those of us who enjoy the music are mindless conformists with no apparent taste in music.
I figured I'd get "bear" as I tend to fit the description I saw on Owen's blog. Didn't know there was a wolf. This kinda works too.
I actually have a lot of t-shirts and such with pictures of wolves on them. At some point, my then-girlfriend Tanni was under the mistaken impression that timberwolves were my favorite animal so she made it a theme of our first birthday together. I got a wolf shirt, stuffed puppet, and a couple other things. I didn't really have a favorite animal, so I ended up adopting it as mine for the course of the long relationship. I've not picked a favorite wild animal since so I suppose that it still has that honor.
Conversation between erstwhile No-Lyfe Brian and myself:
Brian: you heading down yet? RAW: What's that old Hertz saying? RAW: "Not exactly" Brian: "We'll kill you and **** your dead corpse"? Brian: wait, no... Brian: that's the MPAA's saying Brian: Okay, so when will you get here? You get me all hot and bothered for drinking and then NOTHING! RAW: You forgot the second part of the MPAA saying RAW: "and we'll film it happening AND RETAIN THE COPYRIGHTS! BWAHAHAHA"
TPB is an extraordinary writer with a gift for narrative (those are not compliments I toss around loosely). In fact, I'll come clean about something right now. There have been a handful of bloggers that have influenced my work. For instance, Letters To People Who Don't Read The Blog was borne from a post on The Last Page where she hand-wrote and scanned a little note she wrote to some Alabamans on the DC subway. She also may or may not have influenced my dialoguic posts. Dialogue is my writing strongsuit, but I always did enjoy her Him/Her posts before I started writing personal posts, so who knows? Tony Pierce's Busblog is one that I've always enjoyed and that influenced my using different styles of posts (such as the Melodramatic Identity Crisis series). Frequent visitor Heidi Rogers's earliest posts, dealing with abstract issues going on in her life has also inspired some posts and the type of thing I'd like to do more often. Not to mention Lileks, who is the blogger that I inspire to be that I will likely never be able to. This is by no means a compehensive list, there are just too many to name.
One of them is TPB, who posted something that has deeply influenced my contributions to NLJ more than any other blogger.
Some time ago, he posted a story of meeting an old friend. I was relatively new to Unbillable Hours at the time and tend to avoid lengthy posts, but its title was a quote from one of a favorite Counting Crows song and its opening quote was that of a Paul Simon song that I not only enjoy, but that Jason and I once filmed a music video to.
It was about a more or less uneventful meeting, but the inductive characterization was stunning and as soon as I read it, I thought to myself "that's the kind of thing that I would like to do." The concept of posts-as-narrative has been particularly prolific in these pages recently. I only wish that my life were in fact more interesting so that I could run posts in that inspired format more often. As it is, I don't generally post about events in my life as they unfold (in other words, I may write about someone I dated or something I did, but I'm not inclined to write about someone new I just met or something concrete that I am thinking about).
So check it out. When you've got time, read all of the posts in the "My Favorites" section to the left.
I plan to post more on the direction of NLJ and my writing soon, though I'm just now getting my thoughts together on the subjects. I'll keep you posted on that.
Posting will be sporadic this week, but I will be posting (it turns out things to post are one of the many things I think about as I clean).
UPDATE: Just so you don't all start rolling your eyes saying "Good riddence, he's going to quit again!" that's not an option on the table. I will continue to blog, but where and what is what's under consideration. I'll post something about it before I head up to Oklahoma with Kevin and company this weekend.
UPDATE II: The Last Page post I refer to above is here. Thanks to Page for promptly replying to my inquiry on the matter!
Things to buy or otherwise procure: 1. Garbage bags 2. Light bulb 3. pillow covers 4. topsheet blanket
What to be done Monday 1. Call TWC at 8:30, 9:30, 10:30, 11:30, leave message at 2:00 2. Laundry Axis of Necessity: Blankets, whites, jeans 3. Clean floor of room 4. Clean chair 5. Drive home and send check to Jay 6. Send application for at least 5 positions
What to be done Tuesday 1. Clean table downstairs 2. Clean car 3. Clean bathroom 4. Laundry Axis of Other Stuff: blanks, blues, lights 5. Send application for at least 5 positions
What to be done Wednesday 1. Clean closet 2. Clean main area downstairs 3. Send application for at least 5 positions
1. If I don't get ahold of the Texas Workforce Commission by 3pm tomorrow, I may not be recieving unemployment. I've called four times a (week)day since Thursday, to no avail. Long story, I'll explain later.
2. Remember that whole "quitting smoking" thing? To make a long story short, that was thrown out the window and in to moving traffic below. When I lost the job, I had too much time on my hands and too much to think about. My apologies for not mentioning it sooner, but I didn't right away because there were things on my mind and then forgot about it. I was reminded Thursday night when Cathy, who reads this blog from time to time, expressed surprise when I lit up. I'll get back to you on this one.
3. Even though I spent four hours yesterday writing a week's worth of posts, I'm not going to post them this week.
4. Even though I have three things I definitely want to post about this week, I'm probably not going to post on those either.
5. I am leaving town Friday morning, so no posting next weekend.
6. Between now and then, though, I'm going to be officially posting about the crap that no one cares about. Specifically:
7. I couldn't sleep last night because my bed made me itch. When I finally got up this morning, I had no pants. I am on my last pair of socks and underwear. I'm out of t-shirts. I haven't done laundry in one (1) month. Unlike previously when I ran into this problem, I can't afford to just go out and buy new clothes.
8. My room is a pig-sty, and I don't use that term lightly. So:
9. I'm going to use this blog as a listmaker for the various things I have to do and my progress. By the time I leave Friday morning, I'm going to have this place cleaned up, because if I do not:
10. I am going to call a certain figure from my past that was obsessed with cleanliness and I'll ask for her help. That means that (a) I'll be repeatedly reminded by her that I terminated the relationship before she could make a clean man out of me, (b) I'll owe her, and (c) see her again before she's over it and all the complicatedness that entails.
Sometimes when I have a post of a personal nature, I immediately pull the post (and put it in the drafts bin and think about whether or not I really want to post it). It's generally when I forget to tag it to go into the Drafts folder. So if you happen to visit in the split second that something is posted and it's not there when you refresh, that's why.
The Trial of The Guy Who Looked Like Ben Affleck Playing Green Arrow...
For those of you interested, over at The Texas Mercury author and former cop Bob Weir has a rather measured but skeptical view of the Scott Peterson above and beyond the simple "He's guilty cause he just looks scummy" variety I'm so used to seeing. Choice quote:
The fact is, spousal murder is the easiest homicide to solve because, not only is the spouse the prime suspect, but the detectives who do the investigating are experts at breaking down the guilty party. You only commit murder once; they investigate it for a living. They have heard every alibi, witnessed every reaction, studied every facial nuance, and evaluated every feigned attempt at sadness by the “grieving” widow(er).
It would take someone with nerves of steel and frigid blood to withstand the relentless probe of skilled interrogators. Furthermore, there is no statute of limitations on murder, so they can take their time, if necessary, to put the pieces together over months or years. In the Peterson case, Scott’s nerves must have been shredded to the point of panic when he decided to do a Miss Clairol and head for the border.
I tend to turn the channel when they start talking about it on TV, but I found Weir's observations worth my time to keep things in perspective.
This Moment In History... Unrecorded Due To a Corrupt Index Table
Kevin, Callie, John, Cathy and I were at the Randy Rogers show last night. Kevin was trying to get it on dat, but unfortunately the table of contents on the minidisc screwed up. It was quite tragic as Randy put on a great show with his own solid music as well as some great covers including the classic "Dead Flowers" and somewhat obscure Chris Knight Sorryville tune. Such is life, of course, and if anyone knows how rebellious computers and electronics can be, it's me.
Of course, later in the show we were panicking when Randy, in between songs, looked up at us and asked if we (I say "we" meaning Kevin and Callie and not so much me, but some of the glory and fame must rub off on me, right?) were getting a copy of it on tape. Alas, we had to yell back, it was not to be.
Then Randy Rogers goes into one of his best anti-Nashville rants ever. And we're not getting it recorded! Quickly we scrambled for some way to get it down somewhere. Kevin had a sharpie and I had the back of a paper CD sleeve so I quickly scribbled it down as best I could.
After the show, we talked to Randy (as has become custom) and told him about the rebellious recorder and how we furiously scrambled to get the quote written down. Turns out that it was derived along with Phil Pritchett, a No-Lyfe favorite. No-Lyfers Jason, Brian, and I used to go to all of his shows before he hightailed it to Nashville. We still catch him whenever we can now that he's back, though it's harder to coordinate now that I'm the only one living in Houston. Now I just try (with mixed success) to convince friends to go (Kevin, Callie, Ed - my novel editor, Elciem - long story, Tanni - my ex-girlfriend, Kav - Tanni's future husband, and anyone else who will listen). And so it all came together.
If you want to know the select quote from the rant, click on the image above the post.
Is there anything more sapping than spending TWO HOURS filling out an online application, having to look up irrelevent information like your daggun' blood type and then when you finish getting a message saying something to the effect of "Unfortunately, we cannot respond to all applications. but we will look over yours soon. If there is a match, we will contact you. Please do not call and follow up. Thank you"?
I Wish This Question Were Hypothetical (Or That I Could Tell You The Specifics), But It Isn't (And I Can't)
I need y'all's input.
Let's say you really needed a big favor from someone. Only one person you know can do it, but you don't care all that much for the person. They either don't know or don't care and like you a lot anyway. Here's the kicker: You know that if they asked this of you, you would tell them to drop dead, but you don't expect that to be their reaction at all.
The question: Is it ethical to ask?
[Disclaimer: This has nothing to do with any No-Lyfe Productions members or readers of the No-Lyfe Journal]
Finally, someone explains women in a language I can understand!
In database terms, men are hierarchical and women are relational, unless we decide we're temporarily hierarchical, but:
The database is made up of an infinite number of tables, with no fixed or defined keys. The keys can be changed on the fly, as needed. Each record and field in the table is of variable length and is constantly and dynamically changing. The purpose of the database is determine how you feel about us, to gauge how well you will or do take care of us, and want you want us to do (at any given moment) to create a response that will confirm or deny something specific you said, that cannot mean what you said, because you never say what you mean.
Any suggestions or inferences to standardize the tables or normalize the data are proof that you DO think we look fat in that outfit.
Max Stalling: This next song is gonna be a little French existentialism or some other foreign ism or something. R. Alex:HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Elciem: Uh... Alex? What's so funny? R. Alex:Nothing. Elciem: Oooookay.... Update: Overheard this quote on Houston Marchman's signiature song, "Vietnashville" "Country music ain't in to no existential angst."
[In the middle of a conversation about jury duty] Lisa: am i lovable? RAW: lovable? Lisa: yes lovable RAW: explain Lisa: you don't know what lovable is? RAW: In better languages than English, love is split into many more specific words. Unfortunately, English just has that one-size-fits-all inspecific word. Lisa: having qualities that attract affection RAW: romantic affection or the general sort? Lisa: both RAW: I think everybody is lovable in the general way. RAW: In the romantic way, you have been loved, so you are lovable. Lisa: ok Lisa: but i've changed since then RAW: I don't think one can intrinsically change from "lovable" to "unlovable" in the romantic sense. Lisa: ok Lisa: nice diplomatic answers RAW: For someone who continually railed against diplomacy with Iraq, I'm surprisingly good at it in my personal life. Lisa: so I see
Paige follows Marne into her office. Marne starts shuffling around her desk while Paige stands, uncertain of what she's in for.
Marne pauses for a moment and glances up at her guest. Paige's cluelessness was quite apparent. "You can sit down," she says, pushing her glasses up to her face.
"Huh?"
"You can sit down. Really," Marne explains, trying to sound reassuring, but coming across quite the opposite. Suddenly it felt like she was in the principal's office. The power imbalance was astounding. Marne had something interesting or incriminating about Eddie, but seemed secretive about what it was. More than that, she'd managed to stand her own ground with Eddie while he'd managed to seduce everyone, man or woman, to one extent or another. For Paige, that extent was five long years. How long did it take Marne to figure out that he was the scumbag that he was? Paige couldn't help but wonder how it had taken her an entire year, never mind let him convince her to put up with it this long? Perhaps it was because Marne wasn't born and raised here. Like the New York editors that shot him down, she could see through his rural charm. Whatever the case, Paige's embarrassment was snowballing quickly while Marne shuffled through endless amounts of paper.
Sitting down did little to make Paige feel less awkward. She still didn't know what to do. Should she look around Marne's office at the various awards and degrees or would that be prying? Why can't Marne hurry up and find whatever it is she's looking for?
"Ah-hah!" Marne yells as she springs up from her crouch. Her glasses fly off her face. "Mmmmmh, hold this," she orders, giving Paige a poorly developed photograph. Paige takes a look as Marne leans over to find her glasses. It's a poorly developed picture of Marne with some man who looks a little familiar, though she can't place it. He's holding a bottle of beer and wearing a forced smile. She is slumping against the stool at the bar, with a martini class. Meanwhile, Marne finds her specs and slips them back into their case.
"What is this?"
"It's a Polaroid. A pretty lousy one, though. The Mexican man who took the picture thought we were a couple. We obliged him and I bought the picture because I wanted something to remember our meeting by."
"Whose meeting? Who is this?"
"He looks familiar, doesn't he?"
"Yeah."
"Recognize him?"
"I can't... I can't quite place it," Paige confesses.
"That's okay. I don't think you've ever met him. It's his smile, isn't it? His smile gives him away."
Paige looks closer and almost drops the picture. "Oh, my God. It's the Caldwell smile. Dispassionate. Almost devious looking. Who is this?"
"David Caldwell."
"David? Oh, right! Eddie's older brother. He never talked about him, though. I think I only knew of him by old family pictures. Why were you with David Caldwell at a bar getting your picture taken?"
"That's actually the airport lounge up in Little Rock. We were under an unbelievable amount of snow and both of our flights were cancelled. I was headed down to Austin for the holidays and he was on his way back to California. He was wearing a Sheffield High jacket. I didn't know he was a Caldwell or I wouldn't have talked to him. But I figured 'hey, you know, he looks like he could use someone to talk to, and he's apparently from around here' and that was as good a conversation starter as any."
"What do you mean he looked like he could use someone to talk to?"
"He looked really down-and-out. Like he'd just been punched in the gut. If I was a painter I'd have painted a portrait of him sitting there over the bar in his old high school jacket. He had a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, but be wasn't paying too much attention to either one of them. And... something about the way the lamps behind the bar and the way it reflected off the jacket. Something just drew me to him. It's hard to explain, I guess," Marne tries to explain, almost squinting to investigate Paige's face to see if she understood or thought Marne has lost her mind.
"I'm not sure I understand. Do you have a thing for Eddie's brother? Is that why you rejected Eddie?"
Marne starts waving her hands back and forth to indicated an insistent "No! No, no, no, no, no. That's what I'm getting at. What I'm saying is that I felt there was something interesting. The jacket, the neglected beer and tobacco. I'm a people-watcher, and he was someone that I wanted to watch, and talk to. It felt like he had a story to tell and that I wanted to hear it. And boy did he and boy, boy, did I."
Between her admiration of Marne's rejection of Eddie and the disapproval from Marne that she got for her involvement with him, she'd forgotten how genuinely strange Marne can be. Maybe it wasn't all out of spite that she wondered what Eddie saw in her during their blissful new-couple days together when Marne seemed like such a witch. Marne's going out on a limb here to help her, so she's not a witch, but gauging by her shifting eyes and overwhelming desire to have her peculiarities understood, she's definitely strange. "Hey, you know what, I'm just going to sit back and let you tell me why this picture is important."
"It's not the picture," Marne explains, waving her fingers into the air. "It's the conversation. I asked him what brought him down to Little Rock and he said that he was actually from Sheffield and I said 'oh, what a coincidence, me too!' and he said 'small world' and I asked 'isn't it?' and... boy, you can tell I'm a writer because it's taking me forever to get where I'm going. Anyway, so I asked him if he did a lot of visiting while he was in town and he told me that he only visited one person: His first love."
Paige nods. She's not in a hurry, but she still hasn't heard the point to all of this and it's showing.
Marne continues, "So he was telling me about this girl who was a few years younger than him. They met when he graduated from college and came back down here to settle down and figure out what he was going to do next. They were sort of star-crossed lovers but despite all the years between I could see how much he meant to her. It didn't even occur to me until he explained that he came back to see her and visit her grave, as he does at the anniversary of her death every year. Her death in an automobile accident."
Paige props up from her chair. "Well that's interesting, Eddie's high school girlfriend-"
"I know. Everybody knows."
Paige nods. Indeed, the story of Adelle's death had spread as far and wide as Eddie's short story, "Survivor's Guilt," had circulated. He changed the names and the circumstances a little, but everyone in this town and anyone outside it with the ability to listen to Eddie ramble knew of it. Though Paige never knew Adelle, she's always felt spiteful of her and yet also felt guilty for that spite. At one point when Eddie accused her of lacking creativity, Paige threw the fact that the stories he built his name on were all based on Adelle. His beating was merciless and she never brought it up again.
I thought the exact same thing. Right up until David told me that her name was Adelle. How many Adelles do you reckon live in Sheffield? How many would you say are a few years younger than Eddie's brother, who is about give years older than Eddie? Think that she'd be just out of high school when David probably graduated college, and I'm pretty sure the answer is one."
"So the angelic Adelle was cheating on him. Wow, that will absolutely crush him," Paige thinks aloud with a smile.
Marne clears her throat. "You're assuming that Eddie never knew.
"Well of course Eddie never knew. He worshipped her. If he'd known, good lord, he'd have, he'd have..." Paige said, pausing for a moment to cut on her cheek that he'd administered last night. "Oh my God."
I backtracked a Google land on our site and ran across this press release.
Batman/Superman is pulling in some great numbers now that WB has decided to keep it on their schedule for next year with all-new episodes. WB has decided to drop Batman Beyond, The Zeta Project, and Static Shock to focus on bringing in a new era of Batman/Superman with all-new creators!
"Bruce Timm & Paul Dini have been fired so we bring in some new blood! We want to bring a whole new angle to Batman and Superman!" says new Batman/Superman exec Jon Peters. "We'll be completely changing these characters and making them accessible to everyone. We want to make these heroes "everyday" heroes, know what I mean?"
Peters, a self proclaimed long-time fans of about 10 minutes, proclaims he'll be making alot of alterations to the backrounds of the heroes and bringing in new voices and characters.
Peters says of Superman: "Well, we're gonna ditch that whole alien thing. I thought that made Superman completely dull and unapproachable. Is made him seem more super than any other man, and I don't want that. His new origin will be very simple. When he was biking riding at the age of five he fell down a well and landed on a genie lamp. His wish was for powers! I'm sure anyone can relate to falling off their bike! He'll also be a garbage man now, as well, becuase we couldn't think of any other job to give him."
Then I saw that it was dated 2001. Whew, I thought, they apparently canned this idea. But the more I read, the more I feared that this idea even made any headway.
Also, due to the success of 1997's movie Batman & Robin Joel Schumacer was brought in as a consultant, producer, and director of the new animated Batman shows. Schumacer thinks that he and Peters will turn the animated world on it's ear (or as Schumacer said: Nice round beautiful bottom) with these new visions on these already classic series.
Schumacer told us all about his plans for Batman and Robin. He too will be retooling Batman origin and his backround. Batman's retooled origin will be changed just a little bit. Schumacer explains:
"Batman's parents will still be alive and will live in a trailer outside the mansion. Tantalizing!"
It wasn't until I met Superman's new origin and sidekick, Andros (which actually occured earlier in the article, but I have a tendency to skip around articles while I read).
Peters says of Superman: "Well, we're gonna ditch that whole alien thing. I thought that made Superman completely dull and unapproachable. Is made him seem more super than any other man, and I don't want that. His new origin will be very simple. When he was biking riding at the age of five he fell down a well and landed on a genie lamp. His wish was for powers! I'm sure anyone can relate to falling off their bike! He'll also be a garbage man now, as well, becuase we couldn't think of any other job to give him."
Peters also reveals that even his classic suit will be changed. "It will be beige with a hint of orange. Those colors symbolize...ah...something that's near to him, like his super-ally Andros: The Multi-Cultural-Everyone-Can-Relate-To-Lad. We're bringing him in so we can relate to every single demographic. Expect him to be a different race every week! Crazy!"
Okay, so yeah, the joke is on me. I would just like to say that it took me WAY too long for me to realize that this was a joke. It's not cause I'm stupid, either. It's cause the Batman/Superman TV serials (as well as the Justice League cartoon) are about the only thing WB has done right in marketing its characters in a number of years. I guess it's good those serials were ended before too much damage could be done. Though Justice League is still on, I guess (I don't have cable). They're also working on a Teen Titans that's going to be pretty lame, but I guess you can't hit all the right notes all the time.
Now, if only they'd get Paul Dini to do the next Superman movie. Or Batman. Or Ambush Bug. I don't care! Just stop the madness!
(Caution, Ambush Bug site bugs you with ambush of pop-up ads. Ha ha ha.)
I shower in the morning, though I've been second-guessing myself on it. Like Daniel and Heidi, I'm not the greatest at getting up in the morning. Sometimes, sometimes I am annoying-happy in the mornings. The problem is that getting out of bed is one thing, but "waking up" is another. Showers wake me up, and when I know that I have to do something after I wake up that I don't want to, it's rather difficult to get me in the shower quickly and when I do finally go, I'm already running late.
On the other hand, like Adam, my hair in the morning is not acceptable if I don't shower. So even if when I do shower at night, I have to throw a lot of water in my hair, which strikes me as being redundant and impractical. I hate impractical.
On the other hand, when I do take a shower, I'm ready to conquer the world and that's a great feeling. When I'm out of town and wake up on Sunday morning, if I decide to shower when I get back, I almost always end up leaving pretty early (even when there's a blue-eyed reason to stay). If I bite the bullet and shower there, I'm inclined to be a lot more social and want to stick around.
So what to do? What do to? I'd like to get in the habit of doing one or the other...
I had my second interview at the Courthouse today. We're still in the general phase of the selection, however, but on certain questions we were pulled aside to answer specific and personal questions. There are, by my estimation, approximately 180 of the original 240 candidates remaining for the thirteen existing positions. More interviews will be held later this week. Mine is going to be Thursday morning. If I survive that cut, there will likely be a final interview at the beginning of next month.
I am legally barred from telling you what exactly the position is and from discussing any of the specifics. If I do get a spot, I will likely not be posting much for the two-week or so duration of the job.
But I'm pretty sure I'm not going to get it. The odds are still roughly 15-to-1 and some of my views pertinent to the position are statistical outliers, meaning that one of the interviewers has a vested interest in my not taking up a slot that could be used by someone with more conventional Texan views of the criminal justice system.
For all of you who know me well...you know I'm not the best academic student ever to grace this earth. And there are many jokes that circle round our camps of my failed traversings into the world of success in these realms. However, one of these dynasties has finally come to an end. My friends and neighbors, German is no more. A mediocre warrior of sub-level determination and loads of laziness somehow slipped past this dreadful creature, unscathed. All that's left is heartfelt memories and one burning book. Long live the German.
Unlike most Lyrigraphs, this one is not based on something that happened. Rather, it's based on a rather elaborate dream that I had last night. Most of my dreams have anamolies in them as dreams are wont to, so I wittled this one down into the coherent story of the dream. All of the discriptions are as real as I remember them. Lastly, I'm not aiming for any ethnic slurring inuendo with the landlord character. That just happens to be the only thing that I remember about her.
When the earth was still flat and clouds made of fire and mountains stretched up to the sky sometimes higher
My estranged girlfriend and I were going to a Blue October show. We'd gotten lost a couple times on the way up, but eventually found our way. Our car trip had just given her more time to drink so by the time we got there, she was plastered. Unlike most Blue October shows, this one was at the Astrodome and not Fitz. The stage was set up on where the field used to be, but now only resided a concrete floor. No one sat in the bleachers, so it was not a show big enough worthy of the huge venue. She raced onto the concrete field leaving me behind. I wasn't in the mood to be amongst the big crowd, so I decided to go find a bite to eat.
folks roamed the earth like big rolling kegs they had two sets of arms they had two sets of legs They had two faces peering of one giant head so they could watch all around them as they talked while they read and they never knew nothing of love It was before the origin of love
The restaurant was actually inside the Dome, running along the wall where hot dog stands or restrooms usually were. It was an actual restaurant, though, with an entrance and places to eat. They're all the rage in the new stadiums, but I hadn't recalled the Astrodome ever having one. The diner was long and narrow, with only one booth to either side of the walkway. There was a counter to the left of the entrance, a fountain beside that, and a restroom in the corner on the left, so there was actually only a couple booths on the left side with several on the right. The floor was concrete, but they'd added a superfluous wooden wall to give it the "feel" of a place that was not actually just a little restaurant in a nook or cranny of the stadium. The tables were also wood with a red and white plastic tablecloth. The wooden benches had red pads that were added for comfort, but looked odd hanging off the unfinished wood. The lighting was the ultrabright lighting that when poorly kept up with flickers and hurts the eyes of everyone around. The kind you usually see in offices.
There were a couple people in line ordering food and a couple taking their burger and fries, cobbled together in a red plastic basket with wax paper lining. There was only one person seated alone in a booth. She was looking in my direction, but quite obviously staring into the abyss. I, along with the passing Blue October fans outside the door, were invisible to her. That gave me the opportunity to look at her without being seen, an opportunity that people-watchers such as myself love.
Now there was three sexes and one that looked like two men glued up back to back they were called the children of the sun And similar in strength and girth was the children of the earth looked liked two girls rolled up in one and the children of the moon looked like a fork stuck on a spoon it was part sun, part earth, part daughter, part son
Her hair was bleached blond, a few shades too light to be natural, coming down to her shoulders before falling behind them to be caught by a scrunchy I couldn't see that was probably half-way down her back, only holding her hair enough to keep it out of her eyes.. It was so straight and thin it looked like it had been ironed. Her hair was apparently naturally pretty dark, or at least that's what her dark brown of black eyebrows told me. At one point she was wearing black mascara and lipstick, though both had worn away. The mascara had either been worn off or cried away by tears that had apparently dried. Her lipstick was still slightly darkened at the edges, but their pinkness had snuck through. Her skin was extremely pale, so much so that she looked completely white where the bright lights glistened off her skin of her collarbone, nose and a couple other places. Her collarbone and a little bit of the cleavage borne from her full figure were exposed by her liberally unbottoned plaid red and black flannel shirt. It was too sizes too large. She wore a tight black spandex bra beneath.
I slipped into the bench opposite of her in the booth and started talking. I couldn't hear what I was saying and when she replied, I was equally deaf to her words. I wanted to get a better look of her face, but from the moment I sat down on, she kept looking down. We talked for what seemed like hours. I just kept looking at her while she periodically looked up at me with her pale, pale blue eyes, before looking back down. As the conversation rolled on, I decided I wanted to do something to make her feel better, or at least make myself feel better by trying. I placed my hand on hers and noticed in a horrifying instant that she was wearing black nail polish. For whatever reason, nail polish is the biggest repellent that any woman can wear and that was a bigger sign of our impermanence than my loud, obnoxious girlfriend by the stage fifty yards away. But it was too late. Once I did that, she finally looked up at me and grasped my hand. Suddenly, it didn't seem to matter anymore.
Now the Gods grew quite scared of our strength and defiance And Thor said, I'm going to kill them all with my hammer like I killed the giants
But Zeus said, "No you better let me use my lightning like scissors. Like I cut the legs off the whales and and Dinosaurs into lizards"
We talked about a lot of things while our hands were touching, then holding. I was still oblivious to most her words and mine, though I could feel the tone change. Periodically she'd stop from telling me something and I could read her lips asking "What?" And I would say "nothing" and smile. My smile kept getting bigger.
Finally, we got up and walked out, arm in arm. In the chair she had slumped. With our arms locked, she stood taller than I had expected. I left my soon to be ex-girlfriend at the show, but I don't think I cared.
Then he grabbed up some bolts and he let out a laugh Said. "I'll split them right down the middle and cut them right up in half And the storm clouds gathered above in great balls of fire
It was some time later when we were having another fierce argument. When we first got this place, I remember it seeming so large. Now it's just a mid-sized room with a corridoor hallway. The wood is finished, but it's scratched here and there. While I recall their having been doors in the hallway before, right now the only one leads straight to the bedroom. She looked different. Her nail polish was gone and her thin bleached hair had given way to a full brown color. The nail polish was gone. She still kept the mildly pudgy figure that she had when we met, but it was so much more attractive to me. Her face hung down over her face. Periodically, I could see one pale blue eye looking at me through tears that wouldn't dry. She was no longer standing tall, instead sitting slumped on the edge of our bed.
And then fire shot down from the sky in bolts like shining blades of a knife and it ripped right through the flesh of the children of the sun and the moon and the earth And some Indian God, sewed the wound up into a hole pulled around to our bellies to remind us of the price we paid
We were interrupted by a pounding at the door. I walked out of the room and across the thin hallway and answered it. It was a thin, elderly Jewish woman who immediately began yelling at me with some paper in her hand. I yelled back, but there wasn't much I could say to her. She peered over to see my partner, but the hallway was far too thin and long for her to see much of anything. Did the woman think she'd left me? I didn't know, but I know that thought would have pleased her immeasurably. I wasn't going to let her in, but she brusqued right by me. When I caught up she'd made it in the room with my estranged lover laying on the bed, crying. I told the woman to leave, but she chose not to. I think it was her property and she had the right to stay. She yelled some more and handed me the folded paper with our room number written on red ink on the outside. I didn't need to read it to know what it said.
I kept asking myself "Where are we going to live?" Or maybe I was just worried about where I was going to live.
And Osirus and the Gods of the nile gathered up a big storm to blow a hurricane to scatter us away in a flood of wind and rain the sea of tidal waves wash us all away and if we don't behave they'll cut us down again and we'll be hopping around on one foot and looking through one eye
The woman finally left, but didn't close the door behind her. I walked over, shut the door and walked back. I wondered to myself when our bedroom had become so small. She shuffled over to the corner of the bed and looked at me through the one eye that could see through her hair.
The last time I saw you We'd just split in two You was looking at me and I was looking at you You had a way so familiar I could not recognize coz you had blood on your face and I had blood in my eyes but I could swear by your expression that the pain down in your soul was the same as the one down in mine
I sat down next to her and talked to her in a softer tone. I still couldn't hear what I was saying, but she seemed to be feeding off of it. For the first time in what must have been a long time, we really talked. I think I asked her to look at me and I raised her chin with my fingers. Then we kissed.
That's the pain that cuts straight line down to the heart We call it love So we wrapped our arms around each other tried to shove ourselves back together It was making love Making love
As she laid against me comfortably, but not happily, I was unable to sleep. The paper was sitting on the dresser across the way. As long as it was there, I sleep was beyond my reach.
I looked at her one last time as she slept. I could see the uncertainty in her dreaming face. We both knew that when we woke up this morning, we'd be facing the same problems that we had when we woke up yesterday morning. Or not. I grabbed my bag and started throwing things inside of it. We'd sold most of everything along the way, so there was very little to pack. She snuggled against the blanket as she slept calmly, but not happily.
I, put my key on the kitchen table, and left.
It was a cold dark evening such a long time ago when by the mighty hand of Jove... It was a sad story how we became lonely two legged creatures
It's the story of the Origin of Love
Song: Origin of Love Artist: Hedwig and the Angry Inch Album: Hedwig and the Angry Inch Soundtrack
I'm typing this from my folks house, where I'm staying tonight. I just finished having a few drinks with a couple friends and am about to go to bed. Tomorrow I'll be recording for Adjusters for most of the day and hopefully catching a movie tomorrow night. Thursday I have my first job interview at the County Courthouse. It's temp job at only $6 a day, but money's money, right?
If I don't get said job, there may be some posting on Thursday. I wouldn't go counting on much of anything till then. Adam will be recording with me tomorrow, Jason is knee deep in exams, and Brian has forgotten that he's a blogger. Don't worry, though, Richard Simmons's Severed Head will be joining us shortly and so our ranks will not quite be so thin.
Nerddom has become a common theme here at the No-Lyfe Journal. Particularly how one is defined and differenciated from a dork. In any case, Michael Duff has a wonderful article at University Daily on how nerds need to get over it and grow up:
Nerds hate teamwork. They're so brilliant, they think they should be allowed to break the rules. You may be the most brilliant programmer on Earth, but if you can't get along with the finance, distribution and marketing people, your brilliant code will never see the light of day.
Success requires diplomacy - the ability to recognize and adapt to the needs of others. Nerds resent this. They call it sucking up. There's plenty of sucking up done in the corporate world, but there's also a lot of genuine cooperation.
This ability to cooperate is what separates the nerds from the popular people, and popular kids learn this early, engaging in projects that require cooperation within a recognized organizational framework.
Like it or not, politics is a legitimate part of our world, and people who practice it get good at it, just as surely as the computer geek will get good at software.
Popularity is not simply a matter of natural gifts. It's a series of conscious choices. You have to choose your path, and you have to make sacrifices along the way. Maybe you'd rather be home writing a Quake mod, but you show up at the fund-raiser because you value your place in the organization.
This feeds in to one of the many subjects I've been wrestling with. To what degree must one sacrifice oneself for a better standing in a social environment. The First voice suggests that one mustn't at all and that each sacrifice of ones thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and interests is a betrayal of oneself. The Second voice suggests the exact opposite, that we are nothing that the world doesn't see. So however grand and wonderful we may be, however smart we may be, it doesn't matter because no one ever sees it. Theoretically there is a tradeoff somewhere down the line and one can start being more authentic once genuine friendships (outside the insular society of introverted nerddom) are achieved. But once one pretends to be something they're not (in my case, comfortable in large social gatherings), it is often difficult to backtrack without feeling at least a little dishonest. Which, of course, such a person has been (and to a degree we all are in the name of "diplomacy").
Between these two extremes lies a middle ground of sorts. The nerd in Duff's passage above can still program Quake mods, but ought to get out more and at least try to be more comfortable out there in the big, bad, world. I am also a believer that many extroverts often lack an internal focal point from which their personality eminates. The term for this is often "empty suits" but one needn't be stupid to be a victim. Former President Bill Clinton, a classic extrovert, was unquestionably a very intelligent individual but often seemed so wrapped up in trying to please so many that there were always questions as to what, if anything, he stood for. The same could be said of President Bush before 9/11, wheeling and dealing, having a cute nickname for political allies and opponents alike. He's taken on a more serious edge since the attacks and many of his critics that used to accuse him of being an empty suit have switched tracks by now painting him as being insular, in the case of some more extreme critics, psychopathic.
Which is to say that I believe in most cases, one must err in one direction or the other as it's impossible to maintain complete equilibrium between solitairy fortitude and self-promotion.
If we bring this to a favorite subject of mine, Typology, we are each born with tendencies towards extroversion and introversion. Theories diverge as to whether this is the most or least important trait, but it is the first one in the four-letter description. One can be "in between" the two, but like most ambidextrous people, they will instinctively rely on one or the other. Nerds are generally of the Introverted pursuasion, so their instict is to work alone whenever possible. While I'm relatively close on the E/I axis, I am more inclined to place myself in the "I" in part because I work better on projects individually than I do on team ones. It's one of the reasons that I spend most of my creative energy writing novels (and blog posts) where I can do things on my own terms.
Whichever side of the axis one finds themselves, whenever placed in an uncomfortable postion, they are more likely than not going to slide further down that axis. An introvert will thus become more isolated as they try to figure things out or avoid society altogether in their own little world. As such, when faced with turmoil, that is exactly the point that they need to insure that doesn't happen. Most nerds, however, have had an uncomfortable childhood and thus spent a lot of time in their own little worlds, be it creative alternative universes (such as myself) or copiously investigating the nuts and bolts of technology or creating things via programming. As such, many are so completely out of touch with society to the point of being indignant, or even proud, of their unpopularity. Oftentimes failing to realize (a) the power of social acceptance was likely in their grasp to begin with and (b) as we get older, nerd-like behavior becomes less socially demoralizing. In the case of (b), the entire world around them has changed and they refuse to recognize it because they have become so comfortable in their own little pocket of zen and able to direct all the unfortunate consequences towards the outside world.
That can become dangrous circular thinking ("they don't like me, so I won't try to win their acceptance, they still don't like me, so I will try even less for their approval," etc), which is why I argue that they need to expand their horizons.
This is a question that I've been dealing with in regards to myself and my current pocket of zen (writing in solitude, reading about Typology in a social vacuum, remaining eclectic to a fault). I'm more than comfortable where I am, yet the feeling that there is a world out there that I am not experiencing in my introverted bliss will not leave me be. Yet I enjoy doing what I do. I enjoy having three novels under my belt and a fourth one to be picked up soon. So am I looking to mess up a good thing or do I think that just because I'm sliding further into introversion?
Some time this week, I'm going to be writing the next chapter of a Blogvel, where various bloggers write a chapter of an ongoing novel. Matt Stebbins of Crammed Cranium left me with a doozy of a cliffhanger, but I think I'm up to the task.
If you want to read what's gone on thus far, here you go: Chapterette 1 by Vectorgirl Chapterette 2 at Witt & Wisdom (search for "Turn the Paige") Chapterette 3 at Tequila Mockingbird (search for "April 13") Chapterette 4 at Blog on the Run (search for "April 22") Chapterette 5 at Boo-Blog Chapterette 6 at Crammed Cranium
As Good a "Do Not Disturb Ever" Sign As I've Ever Seen
Luckily for me, whatever chance a certain femalien and I had for a relationship has long since passed.
Why luckily? She has a stored away message denoting that her "life is completely falling apart around her" and she wants to die and I see it, on average, twice a week.
I still haven't figured out what draws me to these people (or vice-versa), but I'm sure working on it.
Well I got me an everyman suit and a firm handshake I'm looking for a line of work and some money to make I just hope I don't have to take a job in Cleveland It's just a little too far from my current state
Elciem was sipping coffee, looking out onto the cars creeping by on the busy street adjacent to the coffee shop where we decided to meet up. I didn’t like coffee, but the weather was cool and windy enough that I’d decided to partake in some hot chocolate.
“I don’t understand it,” she said, “Devin doesn’t have a job, Bin doesn’t either. All they do is sit around the apartment all day and play those video games and then go out and get drunk all night. Even when they do get jobs, all they do is bartend. I was sure they were going to make a lot more of themselves.”
“Well, they did both drop out of college-” I interjected.
“That’s not what I mean. They should at least be working towards something respectable. They’re all just bums. Even Ed, who has a degree and a job just works tech support for $8 an hour.”
“He has a degree in English. But besides, you have to start somewhere, don’t you?” I asked.
“So says Mr. Unemployed.”
“I’m a college student!”
“No excuse. You know you could handle a job. You just aren’t looking for one.”
“I am, actually.”
“Not hard enough. You’re just like the rest. Bums! The whole lot of you!"
Now it helps in an interview to be a little insistent that you never pumped gas you were a customer fuel assistant mowing lawns was a stint in agricultural landscape and your paper route was a journalistic means of escape
Some months later, we were engaged in a romantic entanglement too complicated to really explain. I’d moved out of the dorms to an apartment, but was still unable to find work. She was still plugging away at the staffing agency’s headquarters. She’d left Devin and Bin and their sloth behind. That I was unemployed was not exactly of a whole lot of comfort to her.
One night were eating at an Italian restaurant. I was a little underdressed for the occasion because I’d been scrambling around all day doing chores. She was wearing her clothes from work, including a sweater and a skirt. Her nails had a flawless French manicure. I’d forgotten to shave.
I was telling her all about my day. Unlike most days where I was trying to find anything I could to keep busy, I’d had a really productive day. I’d gotten some writing done, taken care of a number of chores, had a long talk with my roommate, and made some trades on my fantasy baseball team. When I was excitedly telling her about my day, she started squinting a bit. She raised her hand to stop me, before lowering it again to straighten out her skirt. I raised an eyebrow as she cleared her throat.
“So, find a job today?” she asked, ostensibly joking but with a piercing seriousness. I’d sent out a couple resumes the day before, but that day I’d done nothing.
“I’m sorry. Continue,” she said with an air of superiority and an intentionally obvious disinterest in anything else I had to say.
Things ended not long after that. Ironically enough, just after I’d found a job.
Resume, resume, resume, resume There's no job for which I seem fit so I'll have to bend the truth a little bit It's hard to sum up your life in just one page
Things had been over for over a year when we met up again at a twenty-four hour diner down the street. We had just met to touch base.
Her manicured nails had given way to short, stubby nails. She wore a casual jacket and blue jeans while I hadn’t changed out of my work attire.
She was talking about her efforts to please everyone, who seemed to believe that she had nothing but time to devote to them because she’d been laid off a couple months earlier. She was working on a web site for her father, trying to mend fences with her boyfriend, and helping the Houston Anime Club to-
I interrupted. “So, find a job today?” I asked and grinned.
Now the older generation has gotten the wrong impression cause I never went to war of had to live through a depression they said "Son give thanks for the places that you get to" In the meantime I'm still looking for something tough to live through
I’ve been unemployed for roughly a week now. The company I worked for did all of their human resources through the company that she worked for, so all of my termination papers were blazon with her company’s name across the top. She told me that she’d been let go just when she thought the worst was behind her, at work. Just after she no longer feared it. As I signed the papers, I couldn’t have put it better myself.
She called me up as soon as she’d heard. She asked how I was doing. “Pretty good… for a bum,” I answered.
"I know what you mean," she replied.
Resume, resume, resume, resume There's no job for which I seem fit so I'll have to bend the truth a little bit It's hard to sum up your life in just one page
Lyrics: Song: Resume Artist: Phil Pritchett Album: Suburban Legends
One of the oddities of being unemployed is how time and space mean nothing. this happened when I was unemployed too. Without work to anchor my day, I can stay up later, which in turn has me getting up later, which... night becomes day and day becomes night.
Thursday night I slept from 4:30-10am or so. Then, last night, I laid down at 10 or so to kill time before going to see 1100 Springs play and the next thing I knew it was 3:30 in the morning. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I was thus awake until around 2:00, when I sat down to kill a little time before going to the International Festival with Kevin and company, and of course fell asleep until 9 or so this evening, missing it all.
Anyone wanna take odds on my ability to return to a normal sleep schedule by Monday?
James Durbin, a former blogger whose old work I used to read regularly, has returned in recent months and is back to form:
The following ad in "The St Louis Post Dispatch" is reported to have received numerous calls: " SINGLE Durbin...Seeks female companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I'm a good looking guy who loves to eat, drink and play Golden Tee. Candlelight dinners in front of the television will have me eating out of your hand. Rub me the right way and watch me respond. I enjoy silence when I' talking and when I'm watching the tube. If you bring Imo's Pizza, I'll be at the front door when you get home from work, wearing boxers with holes in the crotch and a dirty teeshirt with stains. Kiss me and chances are I'll never call you back. I enjoy talking, about life, philosophy, history, beer, sports, women, sex, relationships, disgusting personal habits, gossip about close friends and people we just met, pseudo-intellectual psychobabble, and talking. I can be funny if I'm trying to get you to sleep with me or pay for our dinner. I may snore, but only after a night of heavy drinking, which basically means every time we are together. If you set me up with one of your friends, I'll either completely ignore them or pine after them ceaselessly until you fix me up with another one of your friends. A certified tough guy, I often cry during thunderstorms and when my mother calls. Excellent waitress/stripper rapport.
Yep, it's that time again. Another excerpt from Something So Perfect. I don't know if you guys enjoy these or not or if you even read them, but as I collect my thoughts, this is all I can provide until Monday. Written last November, it seems oddly appropriate.
The only backstory you need here is that Brett's full name is Bradley Thomas Carter and that he has just been emancipated from a two year relationship.
Tuesday, November 26, 2002 (11:30 pm) “You’re not the one with all the problems, you’re the one with all the pride” –Blue October
Brett spent much of the evening informing people that things were, in fact, finally over. His discomfort was quite apparent. In typical male fashion, Brett has little patience for pity, giving or receiving. I think receiving it was probably harder on it.
When he was reeling from the first time Maria dumped him, he went on and on to the point that I wondered if he liked the part of a martyr. He didn’t. The more I listened the more I realized what upset and angered him. Not so much that she’d rejected him, but that he had made a mistake. He’d made a mistake in trusting her and throwing so much time and energy towards what he should have seen as a failing relationship. It wasn’t even the time and energy, but rather the poor judgment he showed in making that decision.
I suspect that it’s not much different with Johanna. Bradley Thomas Carter, who’d graduated high school as a National Merit Scholar and who was the first Carter ever to graduate from college, screwed up. He’d screwed up by staying with Johanna and by believing in her, to whatever extent that he truly did. Every consolation that his friends and family gave him was just another reminder of that.
Marshal Hollis, his former best friend, who graduated with the same GPA and went on to even more impressive achievement in college, was right. Marshal and Brad had their falling out when things had ended with Johanna the first time and Marshal’s response was “I told you so.” And he did. Marshal was right. Brett was wrong. As gifted and aware as Brett has always been, he reacted to failure very poorly.
His penitence was making those calls. Telling all of his friends, most of whom knew the uphill endeavor he’d embarked in, that he’d failed. There would be no clever relationship termination contract. There would be no flair or loud and furious departure, just the resignation by both he and Johanna that the last two years of their life had been for naught. Johanna had Scott now and Brett was left with the ghost of Marshal, whom he had consistently fallen short of escaping.
Ty, whose words would have been most sincere, couldn’t talk for long. After he’d made his last call, Brett was on the staircase, smoking alone. I’d gotten cold and he granted me leave, saying that he’d join me shortly inside. He hadn’t called Marshal, but somehow he’d heard. I couldn’t hear through the window what they were saying to one another.
Marshal looked different. His usually close-shaven face had stubble; His usually meticulously kept hair hadn’t been washed; His shirt was untucked. It looks as though he came as soon as he heard. He had a brown paper bag with liquor inside. Brett took a few swigs. Marshal cracked one joke after another until Brett smiled. I don’t know if Marshal was trying to mend their fractured friendship or he was oblivious to the fact that he was precisely the wrong person to be consoling him, but Brett smiled. Maybe to get him to go away.
Whatever the case, it was eating him up inside. The last humiliation of the fallen, proud soul, in the form of an estranged friend lending a hand.
When Marshal left, Brett stayed outside a while longer. The smile he’d given Marshal was gone. He didn’t look hurt, probably because he wouldn’t let himself feel that no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t look angry, either. He looked determined. Maybe he was determined that he would never make that mistake again or to find some bright side or lesson learned.
While I watched him, I became convinced his determination was rooted in something else entirely. He’d given Marshal a cursory smile, maybe just so he’d go away, but I could tell that when he woke up tomorrow, nothing would be different between them. I wanted to go out there with him, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Two years ago, when he was feeling glum, he found Johanna and thought that through her he’d found redemption. I think therein lies the determination behind his cold expression and unshaking eyes. He was determined to fight off his demons alone, so that he may be proud again.
