Gerald, the slow-rotting Easter bunny, went out into the woods to go hunting. He was invited by this gun nut named Donald that he had met through this kid Paulie. They were halfway through a second bottle of kiwi flavored vodka when Donald brought up the idea. Gerald wasn’t crazy about blowing defenseless animals to pieces until Donald announced he would be bringing enough home distilled whisky to take out two rhinos and a mongoose. And now they had been sitting behind a deer blind for three hours, in the rain, 280 miles from anyplace that came close to registering on Gerald’s charts as civilized. Gerald was less than happy. He glared at Donald who sat stroking his rifle like a man hypnotized by porno.
“I think your smell is scaring off all of the prey. Here, spray a bunch of this on you,” Donald handed him a small aerosol can.
“This is Deep Woods Off.”
“Yup, cover up that shit pronto,” Donald slurred.
“Alright,” Gerald said testily as he pushed himself off the ground. “I’m fucking done.”
As his paws were never really meant to be able to handle a gun, he was clumsy with it and managed to accidentally shoot Donald in the arm. Donald immediately started screaming.
“Shut up bitch, I just grazed you,” Gerald said as he began trudging his way out through the woods.
Donald raised up his rifle, aimed carefully at the back of Gerald’s head and pulled the trigger. There was nothing but a dry click of an empty gun.
“Yeah, I’m that dumb,” Gerald shouted. “I’m going to walk into the woods with a drunk with a gun. I’m a rabbit for chrissakes! That’s right, I took your bullets. And you know what else?”
Donald shook his head in nervous shock.
“I killed your master,” Gerald hissed and continued out of the forest.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Must... Keep... Playing...
This picture is so effing rock-n-roll that it makes my heart pump fire.
The guy is so overcome by the sheer power and mystique that is music, that he has been driven to his knees! His head hangs with exhaustion or ecstasy, he has absolutely no concern for the knees of his tux pants, and yet he keeps pounding those keys!
God damn.
Friday, October 28, 2005
A Good Stumbler Falleth Not
I was wearing my magic hat, the one I wore to come up with the good advertising bits; the great ones the super insidious make-you-buy-a-ton-for-shit-you-won’t-ever-need ones. I have to tell you, this is not a hat I would usually wear outdoors. I fear for the magic, oh heavens, do I fear for the magic. All that wind and rain and weather could wear the magic away like the ocean eroding a shore. But you know, super fast like.
But I couldn’t help myself today. I was wearing a two-piece thong and fishnet gloves, and nothing but nothing went with that get up except that velveteen top hat with an embroidered magenta ‘P’. Not even the magnifying glass earrings which were single-handedly responsible for the Great Bangkok Fire.
Outside the Come In Threes advertising agency – which I always thought sounded a little dirty – I was accosted by this old fool who often panhandled for neckties. He was building a rope bridge to cross the river and get the hell out of this city he said. Well, no fool like an old fool I’d often tell him. But there was something in the air that day that made me want to bash his head in with the enormous hat box I was carrying in my hand. Before I could get a decent swing in, I saw her.
Necessity was walking down the sidewalk in a slim dress that showered diamonds on the sidewalk. She held her young son’s hand. He was skipping slightly. She approached and pursed her lips slightly in a way that made it look like she might be having a petite mal seizure.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” she said.
“Ah, the prodigal son,” I said like a wise ass.
“I’m recklessly extravagant!” he said as he peeked up into my eyes. That was all it took, I had fallen.
“What’s your name little man?”
“Invention!”
“How would you like to come into the office with me, help me take advantage of other people’s fears and neurosis and boil it down to an easily digested and understood couple of words?”
“Birds of a feather,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was responding or just throwing out words. Necessity smiled as I took the boy’s hand and we walked into the office together.
This kid was gonna be a freaking natural.
But I couldn’t help myself today. I was wearing a two-piece thong and fishnet gloves, and nothing but nothing went with that get up except that velveteen top hat with an embroidered magenta ‘P’. Not even the magnifying glass earrings which were single-handedly responsible for the Great Bangkok Fire.
Outside the Come In Threes advertising agency – which I always thought sounded a little dirty – I was accosted by this old fool who often panhandled for neckties. He was building a rope bridge to cross the river and get the hell out of this city he said. Well, no fool like an old fool I’d often tell him. But there was something in the air that day that made me want to bash his head in with the enormous hat box I was carrying in my hand. Before I could get a decent swing in, I saw her.
Necessity was walking down the sidewalk in a slim dress that showered diamonds on the sidewalk. She held her young son’s hand. He was skipping slightly. She approached and pursed her lips slightly in a way that made it look like she might be having a petite mal seizure.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” she said.
“Ah, the prodigal son,” I said like a wise ass.
“I’m recklessly extravagant!” he said as he peeked up into my eyes. That was all it took, I had fallen.
“What’s your name little man?”
“Invention!”
“How would you like to come into the office with me, help me take advantage of other people’s fears and neurosis and boil it down to an easily digested and understood couple of words?”
“Birds of a feather,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was responding or just throwing out words. Necessity smiled as I took the boy’s hand and we walked into the office together.
This kid was gonna be a freaking natural.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Love and Ice Skating
I believe that my lovely Jenny H once said (in answering one of those email survey things that kill me) that she did in fact fall in love everyday. I love that, and I completely understand it. I also often fall in love at the drop of the proverbial hat. It certainly doesn’t tarnish or lessen the love of my life that I am lucky enough to bask in. As a matter of fact, I think she also understands the feeling, and also falls in love quite often herself.
When I was like 5 years old, my parents took me to see Sesame Street on Ice. I was heavy into Sesame Street. Heavy! I had a non-sexual hard on for the Count. He was a vampire for Christ’s sake, but an obsessive-compulsive vampire with a monocle! Anyway, I intended to get seriously excited about seeing Bert and Ernie and Snuffleupagus on ice skates, but I was instead entranced by the young girl sitting in the row in front of me.
Whoa! Let me pause here for a second. Muppets on ice? What friggin’ stoner, ice-dance fan thought of that?
This girl though, I never saw her face completely, just a ¾ view from behind, but she made my heart flutter and my stomach do crazy things I wasn’t quite ready for. She had this small little freckle/birth mark just below her left ear that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. She is the only thing I remember about the “icecapade”. It’s as much a mystery today as it was nearly 30 years ago, this notion of love. What brings it on, what is it about a certain person, is it all just chemical? The romantic in me wants to believe that it’s more, but I don’t know.
On the radio, during the car ride home, Paul McCartney and Wings’ Silly Love Songs played and lulled me into a constant reminding of this mystery girl.
To this day when I hear that song – which admittedly is not often – I think of that girl and that freckle, I remember that first thrilling and sort of spins inducing tumble.
When I was like 5 years old, my parents took me to see Sesame Street on Ice. I was heavy into Sesame Street. Heavy! I had a non-sexual hard on for the Count. He was a vampire for Christ’s sake, but an obsessive-compulsive vampire with a monocle! Anyway, I intended to get seriously excited about seeing Bert and Ernie and Snuffleupagus on ice skates, but I was instead entranced by the young girl sitting in the row in front of me.
Whoa! Let me pause here for a second. Muppets on ice? What friggin’ stoner, ice-dance fan thought of that?
This girl though, I never saw her face completely, just a ¾ view from behind, but she made my heart flutter and my stomach do crazy things I wasn’t quite ready for. She had this small little freckle/birth mark just below her left ear that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. She is the only thing I remember about the “icecapade”. It’s as much a mystery today as it was nearly 30 years ago, this notion of love. What brings it on, what is it about a certain person, is it all just chemical? The romantic in me wants to believe that it’s more, but I don’t know.
On the radio, during the car ride home, Paul McCartney and Wings’ Silly Love Songs played and lulled me into a constant reminding of this mystery girl.
To this day when I hear that song – which admittedly is not often – I think of that girl and that freckle, I remember that first thrilling and sort of spins inducing tumble.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Actually, Love
You know what I’m in the mood for?
I’m in the mood to go on up to the 6th floor, walk around with all of the suit clad sales types, smack ‘em on the ass and say, “what’s shaking toots?”
I’m also in the mood to thrash around wildly as security manhandles me out the building, all the while screaming, “Gattica, Gattica!” Mostly in hopes that I can ridicule the guard who admits to liking this shitty movie, or that I can praise the soft-eyed and sensitive one who points out that Al Pacino was actually saying, “Attica, Attica!”
I’m also in the mood to wonder on down to the train tracks after I get up from the sidewalk I’ve been roughly thrown to. I want to hop a train and head off… to Barstow. I would then be in the mood to realize that going to Barstow is a dumb idea and would head on up to convince the conductor that we should go to Olympia so we can visit the old Olympia brewery. He’d say, “shit yeah! I can go for some Oly! It’s the water.” To which I would reply, “yes, it is the water.” I’d smile as I looked out the grit covered engine windows, covering my ears every time the whistle blew to avoid having the train hit a dumbass, and say, “I’m in the mood to get an Oly beer T-shirt”.
I’m also in the mood for tacos.
I’m in the mood to go on up to the 6th floor, walk around with all of the suit clad sales types, smack ‘em on the ass and say, “what’s shaking toots?”
I’m also in the mood to thrash around wildly as security manhandles me out the building, all the while screaming, “Gattica, Gattica!” Mostly in hopes that I can ridicule the guard who admits to liking this shitty movie, or that I can praise the soft-eyed and sensitive one who points out that Al Pacino was actually saying, “Attica, Attica!”
I’m also in the mood to wonder on down to the train tracks after I get up from the sidewalk I’ve been roughly thrown to. I want to hop a train and head off… to Barstow. I would then be in the mood to realize that going to Barstow is a dumb idea and would head on up to convince the conductor that we should go to Olympia so we can visit the old Olympia brewery. He’d say, “shit yeah! I can go for some Oly! It’s the water.” To which I would reply, “yes, it is the water.” I’d smile as I looked out the grit covered engine windows, covering my ears every time the whistle blew to avoid having the train hit a dumbass, and say, “I’m in the mood to get an Oly beer T-shirt”.
I’m also in the mood for tacos.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Once Upon A Time...
Mom has saved a box full of school stuff from when I was a child. There are things like report cards and kindergarten art projects that I’m sure are adorable to parents, but made me want to say to my five year old self, “Look, when you can draw an elephant that doesn’t look retarded, come talk to me”.
I have realized a few things from looking through this veritable box of wonders. I have found that to this day, I draw an elephant as well as I did in kindergarten. I have also been reminded that I always enjoyed writing.
There were stories I had written throughout grade school, a bound book of a story where I went inside a Pac Man game, even a small note to my mom and dad letting them know that I was running away.
These were memories that came at a good time I think. It made me happy to remember that writing was something I had always enjoyed, even at six years old. It was this sort of reaffirmation of purpose, a nudge to my adult mind from that strange child that lived for running around in his imagination. I could almost hear that toe-headed, buck toothed kid quietly say, “You can’t run away from it. Just sit down and write.”
He’s correct, and it felt good to acknowledge that he’s correct. Even if, as one of his teachers specified, he did have problems with character development.
Some things never change
I have realized a few things from looking through this veritable box of wonders. I have found that to this day, I draw an elephant as well as I did in kindergarten. I have also been reminded that I always enjoyed writing.
There were stories I had written throughout grade school, a bound book of a story where I went inside a Pac Man game, even a small note to my mom and dad letting them know that I was running away.
These were memories that came at a good time I think. It made me happy to remember that writing was something I had always enjoyed, even at six years old. It was this sort of reaffirmation of purpose, a nudge to my adult mind from that strange child that lived for running around in his imagination. I could almost hear that toe-headed, buck toothed kid quietly say, “You can’t run away from it. Just sit down and write.”
He’s correct, and it felt good to acknowledge that he’s correct. Even if, as one of his teachers specified, he did have problems with character development.
Some things never change
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Saturday Missive
I’m tired ‘cause I stayed up later than I should have and then one of the cats went on some sort of maniacal binge that involved a lot of climbing and jumping, and then I had to get up before dawn to go to work and I have just chugged a Chai Latte and rubbed my eyes so long and hard that everything looks a little washed out and distorted.
And I’m sweating a little bit.
I have this urge to end every sentence I say to anyone with, “and hilarity ensues”. I have sat within these cubicle walls for nearly seven hours already and I’m feeling a little pent up and aggressive. I have strong urges to pick up something and throw it at people. I mean soft things like this Santa Claus stress relieving squishee thing, and an apple that has slowly been going bad over the last 6 weeks or so, not a stapler or anything. I would hit them with my marksman like aim and yell, “and hilarity ensues!”
I am also starting to get one of those sort of headaches that makes me think of pulsing, alien flesh bursting out of my skull.
Frankly, I just want to go home, read my book and drink a can of Rainier. Shit yeah!
And I’m sweating a little bit.
I have this urge to end every sentence I say to anyone with, “and hilarity ensues”. I have sat within these cubicle walls for nearly seven hours already and I’m feeling a little pent up and aggressive. I have strong urges to pick up something and throw it at people. I mean soft things like this Santa Claus stress relieving squishee thing, and an apple that has slowly been going bad over the last 6 weeks or so, not a stapler or anything. I would hit them with my marksman like aim and yell, “and hilarity ensues!”
I am also starting to get one of those sort of headaches that makes me think of pulsing, alien flesh bursting out of my skull.
Frankly, I just want to go home, read my book and drink a can of Rainier. Shit yeah!
Friday, October 21, 2005
"She Was Glorious, Burning..."
I met Denis Johnson the other night, the author of the fantastic Jesus Son.
For awhile there, I had this weird relationship with Jesus Son. The lovely Ms. Jennifer Miller was reading it, and I think I was attracted to the title as I was beginning a Velvet Underground phase in my life.
In the song Heroin, Lou Reed sings “And I feel just like Jesus’ son”
Jenny M. proclaimed that this book was her favorite and she had read it multiple times. This seemed like high praise indeed as, and I can’t say why specifically, Jenny doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would read a book more than once. In fact, she sort seems like the kind of person who would mercilessly scorn a person who admitted to reading a book more than once.
That may not be true, and again, I cannot say why I feel that way.
At around the same time, I was taking a creative writing class at SFSU and we read a short story at the start of class that made me kind of stop and go, “whoah, that was good”. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the first part of Denis Johnson’s Jesus Son.
Then, not long after, I was visiting C&G and noticed a copy of Jesus Son on their bookshelf. I mentioned to Chris that I had been running into this book multiple times and heard it was good. He said to me, in all seriousness –
“If I have not recommended this book to you, I have been remiss as a friend.”
What did I expect on meeting Denis Johnson? Did I want him to be taken by my natural greatness, so much so that he felt the need to write something about me, something specifically for me? Of course, but that’s what I expect out of everyone I meet…
He looked like someone’s uncle from Woodburn, Oregon or maybe Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; older, weather worn, dressed in a flannel jacket. He seemed really uncomfortable being around people he didn’t know. I shook his hand and told him it was a pleasure to meet him. I was then immediately forgotten as actors circled the writer and did their actor thing.
It was sort of heartening to find that someone fairly accomplished was still just this uncomfortable and seriously normal guy.
For awhile there, I had this weird relationship with Jesus Son. The lovely Ms. Jennifer Miller was reading it, and I think I was attracted to the title as I was beginning a Velvet Underground phase in my life.
In the song Heroin, Lou Reed sings “And I feel just like Jesus’ son”
Jenny M. proclaimed that this book was her favorite and she had read it multiple times. This seemed like high praise indeed as, and I can’t say why specifically, Jenny doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would read a book more than once. In fact, she sort seems like the kind of person who would mercilessly scorn a person who admitted to reading a book more than once.
That may not be true, and again, I cannot say why I feel that way.
At around the same time, I was taking a creative writing class at SFSU and we read a short story at the start of class that made me kind of stop and go, “whoah, that was good”. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was the first part of Denis Johnson’s Jesus Son.
Then, not long after, I was visiting C&G and noticed a copy of Jesus Son on their bookshelf. I mentioned to Chris that I had been running into this book multiple times and heard it was good. He said to me, in all seriousness –
“If I have not recommended this book to you, I have been remiss as a friend.”
What did I expect on meeting Denis Johnson? Did I want him to be taken by my natural greatness, so much so that he felt the need to write something about me, something specifically for me? Of course, but that’s what I expect out of everyone I meet…
He looked like someone’s uncle from Woodburn, Oregon or maybe Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; older, weather worn, dressed in a flannel jacket. He seemed really uncomfortable being around people he didn’t know. I shook his hand and told him it was a pleasure to meet him. I was then immediately forgotten as actors circled the writer and did their actor thing.
It was sort of heartening to find that someone fairly accomplished was still just this uncomfortable and seriously normal guy.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
I Left My Heart In Natchitoches
Driving through Louisiana is a strange experience worthy of numerous posts, worthy of a novel. I have made the trip from Dallas to New Orleans on a few occasions and if it is something you are thinking about doing – at some point when New Orleans becomes inhabitable again – I would like to impart some well meaning advice:
1. You can never go wrong with Led Zeppelin on a road trip, but there’s something about that stretch of road that is just calls out for two albums. The Last Waltz by The Band sets that trip up so right you’d think divine providence was involved. And American Beauty by the Grateful Dead, genius. Yeah, I’m prepared for you Dead haters, but seriously this album just matches the swampy, melancholy-hopeful anticipation of arrival down in the French Quarter.
2. If you’re not so into fried food, do not stop for a snack, well almost anywhere, but in particular gas stations.
A vast amount of Louisiana is dark, swampy darkness. Along that lonely Interstate 49 are a few “bright” spots, places like Natchitoches and Opelousas. These are places that rang alarm bells in the parts of my brain that had thoroughly soaked up 80’s horror/slasher films. Yup, people could easily disappear in these remote places. People could disappear at the hands of people that said “yup” a lot.
In Natchitoches is a gas station that apparently felt that the bobble head animal market was just getting ready to explode. They had a bobble head version of every animal on the planet; bobble head turtles, bobble head mongooses, bobble head giant squid. They also had their own restaurant which served only fried food. Deep fat fried food.
Fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried catfish, fried pickles, fried okra, fried potatoes, fried corn. I’m saying whole cobs of corn were battered and deep fried. If you did not want your food of the deep fried variety, you did not eat here; unless you were eating salt and pepper.
That’s all fine and well, you do not eat in a gas station if you are concerned about how healthy you are eating. And man, I like me some fried okra, that shit is good. Not so good though when it’s been sitting around under a heat lamp for what I would guess would be thirteenish hours.
So my advice on this fine Thursday, if driving through Louisiana: bring The Last Waltz and American Beauty, if you need to stop in a place like Natchitoches or Opelousas get out as quickly as possible, and for the love of god don’t eat at one of their gas stations.
That’s probably just good advice all around though…
1. You can never go wrong with Led Zeppelin on a road trip, but there’s something about that stretch of road that is just calls out for two albums. The Last Waltz by The Band sets that trip up so right you’d think divine providence was involved. And American Beauty by the Grateful Dead, genius. Yeah, I’m prepared for you Dead haters, but seriously this album just matches the swampy, melancholy-hopeful anticipation of arrival down in the French Quarter.
2. If you’re not so into fried food, do not stop for a snack, well almost anywhere, but in particular gas stations.
A vast amount of Louisiana is dark, swampy darkness. Along that lonely Interstate 49 are a few “bright” spots, places like Natchitoches and Opelousas. These are places that rang alarm bells in the parts of my brain that had thoroughly soaked up 80’s horror/slasher films. Yup, people could easily disappear in these remote places. People could disappear at the hands of people that said “yup” a lot.
In Natchitoches is a gas station that apparently felt that the bobble head animal market was just getting ready to explode. They had a bobble head version of every animal on the planet; bobble head turtles, bobble head mongooses, bobble head giant squid. They also had their own restaurant which served only fried food. Deep fat fried food.
Fried chicken, fried shrimp, fried catfish, fried pickles, fried okra, fried potatoes, fried corn. I’m saying whole cobs of corn were battered and deep fried. If you did not want your food of the deep fried variety, you did not eat here; unless you were eating salt and pepper.
That’s all fine and well, you do not eat in a gas station if you are concerned about how healthy you are eating. And man, I like me some fried okra, that shit is good. Not so good though when it’s been sitting around under a heat lamp for what I would guess would be thirteenish hours.
So my advice on this fine Thursday, if driving through Louisiana: bring The Last Waltz and American Beauty, if you need to stop in a place like Natchitoches or Opelousas get out as quickly as possible, and for the love of god don’t eat at one of their gas stations.
That’s probably just good advice all around though…
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Time Passages
Whenever I think about time capsules (which honestly is not often), those boxes buried with mementos of the times, I think about what I would put into one. The contents change every time this thought comes around as what is important to me at the time changes.
For instance, back in seventh grade I would have put a pair of jeans with a side comb pocket and packages of blueberry Hubba Bubba.
Today, this morning, right now, if pressed at gunpoint or sharp object, I would place into a time capsule:
An empty twelver of Pabst Blue Ribbon
An Ikea catalogue
A Polaroid of one of the Pike’s Place Market fish throwing guys standing around with his hands in his pockets
A can of Crisco
A VHS copy of Two of a Kind with John Travolta and Olivia Newton John
An 8-track of The Best of Jim Croce
Jim Croce… Jim “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” Croce… This guy just doesn’t seem like he should be a popular music star.
But these were the days before videos. And when a singer/songwriter dies in a plane crash in Natchitoches, Louisiana, people suddenly raise up their voices in praise. My dad was a huge Jim Croce fan; Bob Segar, Jimmy Buffet and The Eagles as well. My dad has, shall we say, an eclectic taste in shitty music.
I do remember him saying once, while driving to Bremerton as a child with Jim Croce’s Time In A Bottle playing, that it sounded like Mr. Croce knew he was going to die when he sang that song. This is a comment I have always held onto for some reason. A plainly stated comment that fit the musical mood, a quiet moment where my dad expressed the emotions he got from a song.
Yeah Jim Croce’s alright. You Don’t Mess Around With Jim is a pretty decent song, and even the schmaltzy Time In A Bottle gives me a little tear.
Jimmy Buffet though, can lick my balls.
For instance, back in seventh grade I would have put a pair of jeans with a side comb pocket and packages of blueberry Hubba Bubba.
Today, this morning, right now, if pressed at gunpoint or sharp object, I would place into a time capsule:
An empty twelver of Pabst Blue Ribbon
An Ikea catalogue
A Polaroid of one of the Pike’s Place Market fish throwing guys standing around with his hands in his pockets
A can of Crisco
A VHS copy of Two of a Kind with John Travolta and Olivia Newton John
An 8-track of The Best of Jim Croce
Jim Croce… Jim “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” Croce… This guy just doesn’t seem like he should be a popular music star.
But these were the days before videos. And when a singer/songwriter dies in a plane crash in Natchitoches, Louisiana, people suddenly raise up their voices in praise. My dad was a huge Jim Croce fan; Bob Segar, Jimmy Buffet and The Eagles as well. My dad has, shall we say, an eclectic taste in shitty music.
I do remember him saying once, while driving to Bremerton as a child with Jim Croce’s Time In A Bottle playing, that it sounded like Mr. Croce knew he was going to die when he sang that song. This is a comment I have always held onto for some reason. A plainly stated comment that fit the musical mood, a quiet moment where my dad expressed the emotions he got from a song.
Yeah Jim Croce’s alright. You Don’t Mess Around With Jim is a pretty decent song, and even the schmaltzy Time In A Bottle gives me a little tear.
Jimmy Buffet though, can lick my balls.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Meetings
I love meetings, business meetings I mean, work meetings. I love them and I hate them, it’s a dichotomous relationship.
I love that I threw in the word dichotomous.
I love being able to get away from the phones, and thusly from really annoying and inane customers, who while they’re busy spilling their childish nonsense, I have my finger on the mute button and am saying, “blah, blah, blah fucking whine about it some more”. It also gives me the chance to soak up the beautiful mystery that is corporate culture.
Oh sure, it seems like an oxymoron - corporate culture, but for those of you lucky enough to have never had to experience a corporate job, believe me… it’s true. Corporate culture has its own language, it has its own expectations, its own dress codes, it has its own favorite holiday side dish that – I shouldn’t be telling you this – has nothing to do with potatoes. Keep it under your hat.
Meetings are a way for middle management folks to think they’re doing something productive. It’s an illusion of communication, an illusion of getting something done. Business meetings are a lot like kids pretending they’re eating a dinner they don’t like by pushing around pieces of said dinner on their plate. Parents don’t fall for that shit, you’d think businessmen would be wise to it too.
You’d think a lot of things about businessmen that you’d be wrong about.
Meetings are also a way for underlings to bitch about the fact that they’re, well, underlings. I had to listen to people, acting just as immaturely as most of our customers by the by, throw out complaints about how their jobs weren’t fun anymore.
I wanted to jump up on my sardonic high horse and yell out to those shiftless little fuckers that, “hey dumbasses, they don’t usually pay you to do things that are fun for you, hookers aside. And hookers aren’t having fun, nor are they getting free coffee and health care! Have none of you ever actually worked before? Did you actually believe the sitcoms when they promised a job that would allow you to own a house, a big fucking house, and yet spend hours a day away from your chosen, “fun” occupation? If you’re going to sit here and complain about how upset you are with your job, and yet refuse to get off your widening, pasty ass and do something about it, then I have no respect for you what so fucking ever!”
But I didn’t. I sipped my coffee and watched the clock, and listened to that sort of Orwellian business-speak that passes for talking. And I did fight the urge to bust out with Madonna's Material Girl.
*And for those with the Billy Cleans His Plate checklist out: I made pumpkin soup with my homemade vegetable stock yesterday. It was pumpkininny!
I love that I threw in the word dichotomous.
I love being able to get away from the phones, and thusly from really annoying and inane customers, who while they’re busy spilling their childish nonsense, I have my finger on the mute button and am saying, “blah, blah, blah fucking whine about it some more”. It also gives me the chance to soak up the beautiful mystery that is corporate culture.
Oh sure, it seems like an oxymoron - corporate culture, but for those of you lucky enough to have never had to experience a corporate job, believe me… it’s true. Corporate culture has its own language, it has its own expectations, its own dress codes, it has its own favorite holiday side dish that – I shouldn’t be telling you this – has nothing to do with potatoes. Keep it under your hat.
Meetings are a way for middle management folks to think they’re doing something productive. It’s an illusion of communication, an illusion of getting something done. Business meetings are a lot like kids pretending they’re eating a dinner they don’t like by pushing around pieces of said dinner on their plate. Parents don’t fall for that shit, you’d think businessmen would be wise to it too.
You’d think a lot of things about businessmen that you’d be wrong about.
Meetings are also a way for underlings to bitch about the fact that they’re, well, underlings. I had to listen to people, acting just as immaturely as most of our customers by the by, throw out complaints about how their jobs weren’t fun anymore.
I wanted to jump up on my sardonic high horse and yell out to those shiftless little fuckers that, “hey dumbasses, they don’t usually pay you to do things that are fun for you, hookers aside. And hookers aren’t having fun, nor are they getting free coffee and health care! Have none of you ever actually worked before? Did you actually believe the sitcoms when they promised a job that would allow you to own a house, a big fucking house, and yet spend hours a day away from your chosen, “fun” occupation? If you’re going to sit here and complain about how upset you are with your job, and yet refuse to get off your widening, pasty ass and do something about it, then I have no respect for you what so fucking ever!”
But I didn’t. I sipped my coffee and watched the clock, and listened to that sort of Orwellian business-speak that passes for talking. And I did fight the urge to bust out with Madonna's Material Girl.
*And for those with the Billy Cleans His Plate checklist out: I made pumpkin soup with my homemade vegetable stock yesterday. It was pumpkininny!
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Saturday Lovin'
As my new Saturday shift begins at 6:30 in the am, and as there are few people here and no supervisor types, I went straight from bed to work. No shower and even a second hand baseball cap on my head that I bought in a Portland Value Village. If my fellow coworkers cannot take the penetrating funk that is the odor of Billy, screw ‘em – let ‘em riot!
I have also shared the news with these people that in some circles I am known as a “dance machine”.
I did not however say which circles…
I have also shared the news with these people that in some circles I am known as a “dance machine”.
I did not however say which circles…
Friday, October 14, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Dream Series #3
So I have this highway dream series. It involves a long road trip along a straight strip of highway. I am sure that this is brought on by many trips up the ol’ 5 between California and Washington.
This dream highway goes through a variety of terrains, but one constant is a long stretch of divided highway through a flat, green field and this huge but gentle curve where there is this monster gas station that sells effing everything. I always seem to be coming on this shopper’s paradise late at night and in desperate need of smokes.
Last night’s dream was a bit different in that it added a nice stress level to the typical highway dream. I was helping my brother move to Monterey. We were a while on the road before I realized we needed to turn around and tell mom we had left and that we needed to get some cassette tapes for the trip. Mom was fairly nonplussed with both our leaving and our having left without saying goodbye. The only cassettes I could find were about ten tapes by The Cure that were not albums, but songs selected from a variety of albums and put together. A record company mix tape if you will.
It was on going back out to the moving van that I realized it was the same one we had used to move up to Seattle and I had forgotten to return it. I started freaking out, wondering how I would ever be able to pay for this. I talked to some pump jockey kid at a Shell station (yep, for some reason I made sure to check that it was a Shell station) who told me that I would need to take the van back to the company, but to bring along a journalist who would also act as my attorney.
This was all a very stressful way to wake up, heart pounding and breathing hard, at 3 in the morning.
This dream highway goes through a variety of terrains, but one constant is a long stretch of divided highway through a flat, green field and this huge but gentle curve where there is this monster gas station that sells effing everything. I always seem to be coming on this shopper’s paradise late at night and in desperate need of smokes.
Last night’s dream was a bit different in that it added a nice stress level to the typical highway dream. I was helping my brother move to Monterey. We were a while on the road before I realized we needed to turn around and tell mom we had left and that we needed to get some cassette tapes for the trip. Mom was fairly nonplussed with both our leaving and our having left without saying goodbye. The only cassettes I could find were about ten tapes by The Cure that were not albums, but songs selected from a variety of albums and put together. A record company mix tape if you will.
It was on going back out to the moving van that I realized it was the same one we had used to move up to Seattle and I had forgotten to return it. I started freaking out, wondering how I would ever be able to pay for this. I talked to some pump jockey kid at a Shell station (yep, for some reason I made sure to check that it was a Shell station) who told me that I would need to take the van back to the company, but to bring along a journalist who would also act as my attorney.
This was all a very stressful way to wake up, heart pounding and breathing hard, at 3 in the morning.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Just A Drill
Mark stood out in the enormous parking lot, staring at the building and trying to drown out the blaring alarm sound by humming Oops, I Did It Again to himself. He was just beginning to sway to involuntary dance moves when Joseph shuffled up to him.
“Hey man, can I bum a smoke?” Joseph asked.
Mark begrudgingly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the pack and handed him a cigarette.
“Why don’t you buy your own? Mooch.”
“I’m trying to quit, so I’m not buying packs anymore.” Joseph put the cigarette in his mouth and waited expectantly.
“Fuck,” Mark said with exasperation. He pulled out his lighter and lit Joseph’s smoke for him. “At nearly $7 a pack don’t expect me to carry your habit for you!”
Joseph walked away with an overwrought, sad look on his face. Mark rubbed his arms, wishing he had brought his jacket with him. Why did there have to be a fire drill when it was like 40 degrees outside? Hundreds of people were milling around like confused farm animals. He could see Doug ambling towards him.
“Did you hear about the Risk Management guys?” Doug asked. Mark shook his head no. “Apparently, Brent thought it was a real fire and began shoving and trampling people in the stairwell trying to escape – about 6 people are severely injured, if not dead. Nicky was explaining a joke to someone with her hands and threw a cup of scalding hot tea in some HR temp’s face.”
Mark nodded, staring down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand.
“We’ve been out here for like 15 minutes, how much longer you think it’ll be?” Doug asked while he hopped from one foot to the other.
Mark shrugged his shoulders and placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He was bringing the lighter up when Shaun grabbed it from him and began walking off towards the building.
“What are you doing?” Mark shouted to him.
“They want a fire?” Shaun called back. “I’ll give ‘em a fucking fire!”
“Hey man, can I bum a smoke?” Joseph asked.
Mark begrudgingly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the pack and handed him a cigarette.
“Why don’t you buy your own? Mooch.”
“I’m trying to quit, so I’m not buying packs anymore.” Joseph put the cigarette in his mouth and waited expectantly.
“Fuck,” Mark said with exasperation. He pulled out his lighter and lit Joseph’s smoke for him. “At nearly $7 a pack don’t expect me to carry your habit for you!”
Joseph walked away with an overwrought, sad look on his face. Mark rubbed his arms, wishing he had brought his jacket with him. Why did there have to be a fire drill when it was like 40 degrees outside? Hundreds of people were milling around like confused farm animals. He could see Doug ambling towards him.
“Did you hear about the Risk Management guys?” Doug asked. Mark shook his head no. “Apparently, Brent thought it was a real fire and began shoving and trampling people in the stairwell trying to escape – about 6 people are severely injured, if not dead. Nicky was explaining a joke to someone with her hands and threw a cup of scalding hot tea in some HR temp’s face.”
Mark nodded, staring down at the pack of cigarettes in his hand.
“We’ve been out here for like 15 minutes, how much longer you think it’ll be?” Doug asked while he hopped from one foot to the other.
Mark shrugged his shoulders and placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He was bringing the lighter up when Shaun grabbed it from him and began walking off towards the building.
“What are you doing?” Mark shouted to him.
“They want a fire?” Shaun called back. “I’ll give ‘em a fucking fire!”
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Schnarper-Harnne's
I have a new schedule, with Saturdays working and with Mondays off. It can be a drag, but whatever, having Mondays off can be cool. I was going to try to be super industrious and post from home yesterday while away from work, but I was neither super nor industrious.
I did however make some homemade chicken stock for the upcoming fall soup bonanza*
What I would have mentioned yesterday, typing comfortably from my couch instead of this fluorescent blighted and wobbly, second hand office chair, would have been a story about my lovelies Chris and Greta who were in town for a whirlwind visit.
Chris and Greta (or C & G if you’re abbreviation minded) are two of my favorite people in the world and are the source of a miasma of partner swapping rumors that seem to follow us around. While we did all get married together, and did subsequently take our honeymoons together, we do not, as a group, swing.
Well me and Chris do, but that story will follow…
We seem to speak our own language, the four of us, which most likely makes others feel uncomfortable and excluded. There is also a comfort level between us that is amazing bordering on obscene. We only got them for one night this trip (Chris has family up in this area that were requesting their presence), but I’ll take whatever I can get.
Drinking was involved, of course, but at some point after midnightish, we all went for a walk to try and wake up some of the sleepier minded in the troop. We walked through the newly opened reservoir park in our neighborhood and fell with a drunken thump on the children’s playground area.
Chris and I pumped those swings in lame, drunken attempts to go over the bar. We also did head first and upside down trips on the spiral slides. I tell you this, because nothing quite beats playing on a swing set after hours. It is something I highly recommend.
Our place always feels a little emptier, a little less filled with love when C & G depart, and this short visit was no exception. And the exits now feel a little harder knowing that they’re not just a 3 hour drive away. But, like a show that just moves you to limits you didn’t know you had, the visit was beautiful even if it was too short.
*For those keeping track of the fall bread/pie/soup marathon, I have now made 2 apple pies (successfully) and a batch of both vegetable and chicken stock that are crying out for homemade soup.
I did however make some homemade chicken stock for the upcoming fall soup bonanza*
What I would have mentioned yesterday, typing comfortably from my couch instead of this fluorescent blighted and wobbly, second hand office chair, would have been a story about my lovelies Chris and Greta who were in town for a whirlwind visit.
Chris and Greta (or C & G if you’re abbreviation minded) are two of my favorite people in the world and are the source of a miasma of partner swapping rumors that seem to follow us around. While we did all get married together, and did subsequently take our honeymoons together, we do not, as a group, swing.
Well me and Chris do, but that story will follow…
We seem to speak our own language, the four of us, which most likely makes others feel uncomfortable and excluded. There is also a comfort level between us that is amazing bordering on obscene. We only got them for one night this trip (Chris has family up in this area that were requesting their presence), but I’ll take whatever I can get.
Drinking was involved, of course, but at some point after midnightish, we all went for a walk to try and wake up some of the sleepier minded in the troop. We walked through the newly opened reservoir park in our neighborhood and fell with a drunken thump on the children’s playground area.
Chris and I pumped those swings in lame, drunken attempts to go over the bar. We also did head first and upside down trips on the spiral slides. I tell you this, because nothing quite beats playing on a swing set after hours. It is something I highly recommend.
Our place always feels a little emptier, a little less filled with love when C & G depart, and this short visit was no exception. And the exits now feel a little harder knowing that they’re not just a 3 hour drive away. But, like a show that just moves you to limits you didn’t know you had, the visit was beautiful even if it was too short.
*For those keeping track of the fall bread/pie/soup marathon, I have now made 2 apple pies (successfully) and a batch of both vegetable and chicken stock that are crying out for homemade soup.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Dance of Love
We’re close, right? We can talk? I feel it is important that you know this about me…
There are days when I need to suppress the urge to jump up on my desk, do a little dance and sing a song of my own design to everyone around. On some days, there is also the desire to rip off articles of clothing as well.
By “suppress the urge” I mean that I have to get up and walk away from my desk or there is a real danger that I will not be able to help myself.
It’s not all for the attention by the way, I have this uncontrollable urge to make people’s lives, particularly people trapped in this sort of soul crushing cube farm environment, just a little surreal. I feel it is my duty.
And truth be told, I enjoy having the sort of reputation of being a little disturbed, a little unpredictable.
Plus, I do have a hard on for the sound of laughter.
Thanks for listening, I feel better. And yes, I will put my pants on now.
By the way, here is the winner of Billy Cleans His Plate’s inaugural “Holy Shit” award:
There are days when I need to suppress the urge to jump up on my desk, do a little dance and sing a song of my own design to everyone around. On some days, there is also the desire to rip off articles of clothing as well.
By “suppress the urge” I mean that I have to get up and walk away from my desk or there is a real danger that I will not be able to help myself.
It’s not all for the attention by the way, I have this uncontrollable urge to make people’s lives, particularly people trapped in this sort of soul crushing cube farm environment, just a little surreal. I feel it is my duty.
And truth be told, I enjoy having the sort of reputation of being a little disturbed, a little unpredictable.
Plus, I do have a hard on for the sound of laughter.
Thanks for listening, I feel better. And yes, I will put my pants on now.
By the way, here is the winner of Billy Cleans His Plate’s inaugural “Holy Shit” award:
Thursday, October 06, 2005
F is For...
“Seriously, what are you doing?”
“See that guy, that’s how you’re supposed to dress.”
“Why would anybody care about this?”
“Nobody loves you, they just put up with you.”
“Talentless hack!”
These are voices that I hear all the time; sitting at a desk and staring at a blank computer screen, walking down the street, lying in bed and trying to get to sleep. Oh yeah, especially at night those voices come creeping.
I can usually drown them out with thoughts of money woes, but that’s just as fucking useless. So I try to drown all of it out with dirty sex fantasies.
But what’s the point? I’m assuming most people have these negative little fucker monkeys living in their brains, but why? Is it some sort of cosmic testing ground where your success can be measured on how you react to these things? Either you become paralyzed by your own fear of failure, or you’re spurned on to show ‘em they’re wrong?
I cannot answer this, therefore I fail again. What I can tell you, is that I think I’ve finally grown tired of hearing it.
That, and that the hamburger in this lunch I made is friggin gristle-tastic. Gross!
“See that guy, that’s how you’re supposed to dress.”
“Why would anybody care about this?”
“Nobody loves you, they just put up with you.”
“Talentless hack!”
These are voices that I hear all the time; sitting at a desk and staring at a blank computer screen, walking down the street, lying in bed and trying to get to sleep. Oh yeah, especially at night those voices come creeping.
I can usually drown them out with thoughts of money woes, but that’s just as fucking useless. So I try to drown all of it out with dirty sex fantasies.
But what’s the point? I’m assuming most people have these negative little fucker monkeys living in their brains, but why? Is it some sort of cosmic testing ground where your success can be measured on how you react to these things? Either you become paralyzed by your own fear of failure, or you’re spurned on to show ‘em they’re wrong?
I cannot answer this, therefore I fail again. What I can tell you, is that I think I’ve finally grown tired of hearing it.
That, and that the hamburger in this lunch I made is friggin gristle-tastic. Gross!
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Confession for Wednesday
I’ve been trying to eat healthier as part of my “major life re-arrangement upon making a major move” plan. This plan includes less TV watching and a huge increase in creative endeavors ala acting in shows and this here bloggy blog.
But back to the eating… I’ve been doing okay with this healthier eating thing, doing a majority of my eating at home from meals I have made myself (this is also hugely affected by the income). However, last night’s dinner consisted of about 5 Pabst Blue Ribbons, some tater tots and half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.
I have done really well with the not watching television though, so please don’t try to entice me by telling me what I’m missing. Like Hellby writing to tell me that Conan O’Brien is turning over his entire television show to U2.
Since you cannot hear my voice when you are reading this, you do not know that those words are dripping with sarcasm, seriously, dripping. A puddle of sarcasm is forming underneath my monitor in which a large number of my harshly voiced complaints are doing laps; a softly whispered desire is doing the butterfly.
P.S. Hellby – U2 still sucks.
But back to the eating… I’ve been doing okay with this healthier eating thing, doing a majority of my eating at home from meals I have made myself (this is also hugely affected by the income). However, last night’s dinner consisted of about 5 Pabst Blue Ribbons, some tater tots and half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.
I have done really well with the not watching television though, so please don’t try to entice me by telling me what I’m missing. Like Hellby writing to tell me that Conan O’Brien is turning over his entire television show to U2.
Since you cannot hear my voice when you are reading this, you do not know that those words are dripping with sarcasm, seriously, dripping. A puddle of sarcasm is forming underneath my monitor in which a large number of my harshly voiced complaints are doing laps; a softly whispered desire is doing the butterfly.
P.S. Hellby – U2 still sucks.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Homeless In Seattle
There was a guy on the corner down where downtown starts to become the less shiny and full of professional buildings downtown, down where the buildings are only a couple of stories tall and somehow always gray. This guy was doing a little dance. Actually, by little I mean a really big, sort of spastic dance. And I don’t want to make any assumptions, but I’m pretty sure he was homeless as most (again, most) non homeless people do not have their own shopping carts, nor do they do seizure dances on the corner.
Shakey McShakerson made me think about my favorite homeless folks in San Francisco, and I realized that I missed some of ‘em a little bit. You know, once you get used to seeing something every day, you sort of pine for it when it’s gone – even if it does smell remarkably like cheap gin and urine.
There was the “How you doin’” guy. An elder black man that sat on the steps of the church on Haight Street (which had been closed for the 7+ years that I lived there) and would always ask, “how you doin’” from half a block away, before he hit you up for change.
And the tourettes guy who sat on the bench at the California Street cable car turn-around. Man, nobody could spout a nonsensical stream of filthy and angry gibberish like that guy. God speed you, crazy cable car turn-around guy!
I also started to pine for the days when I would walk through the financial district and see R. Crumb’s brother sitting in a yoga pose, chewing string.
There is a concern that the winter up here will thin out the homeless herd. I mean it’s not that big of a concern, frankly I would probably sleep better without the yelling at night. But I may not get the chance to learn of them by their acts and habits. And I’m not sure if any of them had Mr. Heron for Driver’s Ed in high school, but he always told us, if you’re homeless – head south, it’s warmer.
Shakey McShakerson made me think about my favorite homeless folks in San Francisco, and I realized that I missed some of ‘em a little bit. You know, once you get used to seeing something every day, you sort of pine for it when it’s gone – even if it does smell remarkably like cheap gin and urine.
There was the “How you doin’” guy. An elder black man that sat on the steps of the church on Haight Street (which had been closed for the 7+ years that I lived there) and would always ask, “how you doin’” from half a block away, before he hit you up for change.
And the tourettes guy who sat on the bench at the California Street cable car turn-around. Man, nobody could spout a nonsensical stream of filthy and angry gibberish like that guy. God speed you, crazy cable car turn-around guy!
I also started to pine for the days when I would walk through the financial district and see R. Crumb’s brother sitting in a yoga pose, chewing string.
There is a concern that the winter up here will thin out the homeless herd. I mean it’s not that big of a concern, frankly I would probably sleep better without the yelling at night. But I may not get the chance to learn of them by their acts and habits. And I’m not sure if any of them had Mr. Heron for Driver’s Ed in high school, but he always told us, if you’re homeless – head south, it’s warmer.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Feel The Newness
I’m starting a new position today at the old jobby job, and I’m feeling a little discombobulated.
I don’t want to be a baby about it, but sitting in new cubicle always throws my day off. As much as I hate to think so, I’m a creature of habit, and when that habit is thrown out of whack I either fly or I hunker down.
Usually, if I’m unchained by obligations, I look at the break in habit as an adventure, a chance for something completely unexpected. Unfortunately, I am unable to thrust that sickeningly positive frame of mind onto work situations.
The secret of my “success” in being able to work these sort of soul crushing jobs is to find the habit and wrap yourself in the routine like a heavy blanket. This allows me to function on auto pilot; if I started to think, I would realize that my life is ticking away a customer call at a time under this awful fluorescent glare.
Anyway… Hoping to be used to the new cube tomorrow where I will be back to full power and full creamy goodness!
I don’t want to be a baby about it, but sitting in new cubicle always throws my day off. As much as I hate to think so, I’m a creature of habit, and when that habit is thrown out of whack I either fly or I hunker down.
Usually, if I’m unchained by obligations, I look at the break in habit as an adventure, a chance for something completely unexpected. Unfortunately, I am unable to thrust that sickeningly positive frame of mind onto work situations.
The secret of my “success” in being able to work these sort of soul crushing jobs is to find the habit and wrap yourself in the routine like a heavy blanket. This allows me to function on auto pilot; if I started to think, I would realize that my life is ticking away a customer call at a time under this awful fluorescent glare.
Anyway… Hoping to be used to the new cube tomorrow where I will be back to full power and full creamy goodness!
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