So it’s mid-year review time around work. These are the good times, the grand times, these are the days. I have written and delivered a number of reviews recently, and more importantly to me, received a review from my boss.
One bit of feedback that I received on my review was that during supervisor meetings there have been times where I appear angry and have outbursts. “Outbursts?!?” I screamed as I jumped up on the desk and slapped the man with my cock. “What the flippin’ F are you talking Jack?”
Actually, I said quite calmly, “Outbursts? Really? Do you have specifics on this? Because I honestly do not know what you’re talking about.” He didn’t. As it turns out, he compiled my review from information he had gathered from my reps and other sups. And I know which sup had these sort of things to say. I equate this with the guy going, “Hey boss, hey look, hey look at that bus that’s coming! Do you know who would fit right underneath that?” Anyway, I was told that I should focus on how I carry myself and how people might perceive this.
Well, I call bullshit. But for the sake of getting out of that room I nodded and carried myself in a way that would allow him to perceive that I was ready to move on. But I started thinking that maybe I do come across as angry and complainy, particularly here at Billy Cleans His Plate. So I wanted to go ahead and publish a list of some things I like. I will call it:
A List Of Some Things I Like:
1) Beer. And whisky. Typically they’re mutually exclusive (having learned the evil power they hold when combined), but I will occasionally go for a bourbon neat with a beer back.
2) Kickers’ smile, particularly when I do something that seems to amaze and humor him all at once. That kid will be the death of me.
3) A drunken feast of General Tsu’s Chicken, Szechuan Hot Sauce Noodles, Steamed Chicken Dumplings and laughter, so much god damned laughter.
4) The way the sun can sometimes sneak out and hit something just the right way, something that you see on a daily basis even, and make you hold your breath at the wonder of it all.
5) Being reminded of how much love I have in my life.
6) This.
7) Bodies of water.
8) A long drive, even with nothing to think about. Oh, and talking shit about a pretty sunset.
9) Doing twosies on number one up there.
10) The idea of a room filled with the folks I love, and music, and how everything else is would pretty much be frosting.
Here comes May everyone, hope you're ready.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Hostest With The Mostest
They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And while I do enjoy me some breakfast – particularly a nice lazy weekend morning breakfast at a great neighborhood breakfast spot with lots of coffee – I have to say, “Screw you most important breakfast people!” I feel the 2:30 AM meal of frozen pizza or Triscuits or an order of Nacho Bell Grande, whatever you use to soak up the alcohol you’ve inundated yourself with, is way more important than breakfast.
I have a knee jerk reaction to people telling me one thing is the best, or most important.
There was a moment in film school when one of my Film History teachers was about to say that Citizen Kane was often regarded as the greatest film made, when I groaned aloud. She asked if I disagreed, and I told her that one, best movie ever is subjective depending on who’s considering it and two, I get tired of people just repeating that it’s the greatest film ever without backing it up. She sort of gave me a sideways smile before saying, “Make a film that’s better and we’ll talk about yours.”
Touche. She did go on to say that she felt Touch of Evil was a superior Orson Welles film. I have recently been pulled into talks about Citizen Kane and how people who watch it for the first time, now nearly seventy years after it was made, are left wondering how it could possibly be considered the best film ever. A lot of that rating is based on the context of what had come before Citizen Kane and how revolutionary it was at the time in regards to story telling, camera work, scope, you name it. Without a fairly well versed knowledge of film history, you’re not going to get that. And if you’re now used to seeing films that have built on, and expanded on, what Citizen Kane brought to the table, you’re bound to be fairly under-whelmed.* I do personally feel that even without that knowledge, it’s a fascinating film and great epic story about the rise and fall of a man. Is it the best film ever? Not to me, but again that’s completely subjective.
I didn’t intend for this to be a mini film school lecture, sorry. I think that there are words and sayings and phrases that get thrown around so often, that just the sheer amount of times you hear them makes them become fact. That’s a shortcut to thinking, and it annoys me.
What I would like, what I’m tasking you good readers to do, is to repeat that “Reading “Billy Cleans His Plate” gives you amazing sexual prowess.” Say it enough so that it becomes fact. I mean hell, y’all know it’s true…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Space Is Gonna Do Me Good” by Frank Black. I’ve been doing a little digging into the Frank Black catalogue with the recent Black Francis album Svn Fngrs, which by the way is eight kinds of awesome laid out on a tray made of awesome.
*If’n a little more film school jive is what you’re looking for: I had the same sort of reaction to viewing French New Wave films at first, particularly Godard’s films. It was difficult to put myself into the heads of viewers in the 60’s who had yet to see the sort of ways in which these directors were messing with form. Plus I was coming up in the grand Tarantino days, who was at the time basically standing on the shoulders of Godard.
I have a knee jerk reaction to people telling me one thing is the best, or most important.
There was a moment in film school when one of my Film History teachers was about to say that Citizen Kane was often regarded as the greatest film made, when I groaned aloud. She asked if I disagreed, and I told her that one, best movie ever is subjective depending on who’s considering it and two, I get tired of people just repeating that it’s the greatest film ever without backing it up. She sort of gave me a sideways smile before saying, “Make a film that’s better and we’ll talk about yours.”
Touche. She did go on to say that she felt Touch of Evil was a superior Orson Welles film. I have recently been pulled into talks about Citizen Kane and how people who watch it for the first time, now nearly seventy years after it was made, are left wondering how it could possibly be considered the best film ever. A lot of that rating is based on the context of what had come before Citizen Kane and how revolutionary it was at the time in regards to story telling, camera work, scope, you name it. Without a fairly well versed knowledge of film history, you’re not going to get that. And if you’re now used to seeing films that have built on, and expanded on, what Citizen Kane brought to the table, you’re bound to be fairly under-whelmed.* I do personally feel that even without that knowledge, it’s a fascinating film and great epic story about the rise and fall of a man. Is it the best film ever? Not to me, but again that’s completely subjective.
I didn’t intend for this to be a mini film school lecture, sorry. I think that there are words and sayings and phrases that get thrown around so often, that just the sheer amount of times you hear them makes them become fact. That’s a shortcut to thinking, and it annoys me.
What I would like, what I’m tasking you good readers to do, is to repeat that “Reading “Billy Cleans His Plate” gives you amazing sexual prowess.” Say it enough so that it becomes fact. I mean hell, y’all know it’s true…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: “Space Is Gonna Do Me Good” by Frank Black. I’ve been doing a little digging into the Frank Black catalogue with the recent Black Francis album Svn Fngrs, which by the way is eight kinds of awesome laid out on a tray made of awesome.
*If’n a little more film school jive is what you’re looking for: I had the same sort of reaction to viewing French New Wave films at first, particularly Godard’s films. It was difficult to put myself into the heads of viewers in the 60’s who had yet to see the sort of ways in which these directors were messing with form. Plus I was coming up in the grand Tarantino days, who was at the time basically standing on the shoulders of Godard.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
"And Over Here Is Where I Compile My Expense Reports"
There is a “Take Your Kid To Work Day” thing going on here at the Death Star. This always seems like way more of a Sitcom convention than something that actually happens in real life. Ah, but no, people do in fact bring their young ones here for a taste of the corporate Kool Aid. There may be those who thrill in sharing with their kids something that they love doing, but I have to believe that a greater number drag them in to show what sort of soul crushing hell they’re in for when the days of recess and summer vacation have faded.
Either that or they show off their offspring to coworkers, which smacks of some weird competition through children thing that is but one small step from toddler gladiators dueling away in the playgrounds of America.
People have asked a number of times when I’m going to bring my son into the office and, depending on the discretion needed with the person, I will answer with variation of the same sentiment: Why would I bring him into this place when I can’t stand being here myself.
I always tend to feel a bit jumpy when suddenly confronted by concentrations of kids where they don’t seem like they should be. I remember going into a short of breath panic attack when 30 grade school children suddenly poured onto the 24 Divisadero as I made my way to work down in the delightful Bayview/Hunter’s Point section of San Francisco. “What the hell are all of these kids doing on this bus?” I thought. It felt as though there were an invasion of sorts, an alien invasion. I felt claustrophobic, and I suddenly quivered with the understanding that I was going to have to wade through all of these 7 and 8 year olds just to get off the bus.
So today, when I walk into the restroom to find a young man, perhaps 11 or so, on his knees in the doorway of one of the stalls, something in my mind started screaming that there was something very wrong here. At once I felt that there really shouldn’t be a reason for this kid to be doing whatever he was about to do – again, he was on his knees in a men’s room stall. I just as quickly realized that my first instinct to ask if I could help him with something was going to sound simply awful were someone to walk in behind me.
I managed to throw an uno, I know you were worried, but I couldn’t help wondering just what the hell he was doing over there.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: It’s not really stuck, but “We’re Gonna Rise” off the new Breeders album is something pretty.
Either that or they show off their offspring to coworkers, which smacks of some weird competition through children thing that is but one small step from toddler gladiators dueling away in the playgrounds of America.
People have asked a number of times when I’m going to bring my son into the office and, depending on the discretion needed with the person, I will answer with variation of the same sentiment: Why would I bring him into this place when I can’t stand being here myself.
I always tend to feel a bit jumpy when suddenly confronted by concentrations of kids where they don’t seem like they should be. I remember going into a short of breath panic attack when 30 grade school children suddenly poured onto the 24 Divisadero as I made my way to work down in the delightful Bayview/Hunter’s Point section of San Francisco. “What the hell are all of these kids doing on this bus?” I thought. It felt as though there were an invasion of sorts, an alien invasion. I felt claustrophobic, and I suddenly quivered with the understanding that I was going to have to wade through all of these 7 and 8 year olds just to get off the bus.
So today, when I walk into the restroom to find a young man, perhaps 11 or so, on his knees in the doorway of one of the stalls, something in my mind started screaming that there was something very wrong here. At once I felt that there really shouldn’t be a reason for this kid to be doing whatever he was about to do – again, he was on his knees in a men’s room stall. I just as quickly realized that my first instinct to ask if I could help him with something was going to sound simply awful were someone to walk in behind me.
I managed to throw an uno, I know you were worried, but I couldn’t help wondering just what the hell he was doing over there.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: It’s not really stuck, but “We’re Gonna Rise” off the new Breeders album is something pretty.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
So Many Have Paid To See
We finished up the show this weekend with a Sunday matinee, which is really the way you want to close out a show that has broken your heart a little bit in a big celebratory explosion of joy and booze fueled nudity.
It’s not by the way, Sunday afternoon just does not lend itself to the sort of debauchery I’ve come to expect from myself. We tried to jump in and F some shiznit up Saturday night, but it turned out to be far too sedate, a little melancholy. There was a moment of excitement when I got dragged into a conversation with crazy alcoholic stream-of-consciousness guy on the back porch. Example of conversation:
“Speaking of sports cars {no one was by the by}, on my last day of real estate school, I’m coming across the 520 and I see this guy pulled over in a Viper. Why do I pull over? It’s a freaking Viper! The guy’s test driving it and I take him to a shop. This gray daddy drops in with a rocket on his hip, and a leather NASCAR coat. I’m down in Daytona in a rental with this hotty who’s like I can’t drive on the sand, and I’m like, Yankee fucking blue, you can drive on the sand…”
Let those 3 little dots carry the burden of near twenty minutes of rambling, almost poetic, monologue. But aside from this, our show ended with a whimper, not the bang this cast is accustomed to. Which seems fine in a way, being it felt like it never fully belonged to us. I think we certainly did justice by this show, that we went out there and made some magic, but ultimately this is a tight and talented cast led by a talented director waiting for a show we love. It was like a dry run of sorts.
Almost as if it weren’t ready to completely let go, the show came back to haunt me today, a mere two days after the close.
One of the actors in the boy’s dressing room brought his laptop in nightly. Some nights we would entertain ourselves by watching heinous videos from the 80’s. Some of these included 3 different Hall & Oates videos. “She’s Gone” is disturbing in ways I was unprepared for, like vicodin mixing really poorly with pot brownies, watch it and share in the suffering. “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)” was disturbing in that “shit I lived through the 80’s and all this seemed like a good idea” plus the added benefit of choreographed head turns to each call and response of “no no – no can do.” “Maneater?” all kinds of scary – again mostly for the 80’s pop video trappings but there was also the wandering panther to contend with.
How does that go step more scary? I was informed today that during a Vashon Island crafts fair sort of thingy, a coworker was accosted by a man selling his CD full of pan pipe renditions of pop songs – including, but not limited to, a pan pipe version of “Maneater” by Hall and Oates.
Fuck yes I want a piece of that.
It’s not by the way, Sunday afternoon just does not lend itself to the sort of debauchery I’ve come to expect from myself. We tried to jump in and F some shiznit up Saturday night, but it turned out to be far too sedate, a little melancholy. There was a moment of excitement when I got dragged into a conversation with crazy alcoholic stream-of-consciousness guy on the back porch. Example of conversation:
“Speaking of sports cars {no one was by the by}, on my last day of real estate school, I’m coming across the 520 and I see this guy pulled over in a Viper. Why do I pull over? It’s a freaking Viper! The guy’s test driving it and I take him to a shop. This gray daddy drops in with a rocket on his hip, and a leather NASCAR coat. I’m down in Daytona in a rental with this hotty who’s like I can’t drive on the sand, and I’m like, Yankee fucking blue, you can drive on the sand…”
Let those 3 little dots carry the burden of near twenty minutes of rambling, almost poetic, monologue. But aside from this, our show ended with a whimper, not the bang this cast is accustomed to. Which seems fine in a way, being it felt like it never fully belonged to us. I think we certainly did justice by this show, that we went out there and made some magic, but ultimately this is a tight and talented cast led by a talented director waiting for a show we love. It was like a dry run of sorts.
Almost as if it weren’t ready to completely let go, the show came back to haunt me today, a mere two days after the close.
One of the actors in the boy’s dressing room brought his laptop in nightly. Some nights we would entertain ourselves by watching heinous videos from the 80’s. Some of these included 3 different Hall & Oates videos. “She’s Gone” is disturbing in ways I was unprepared for, like vicodin mixing really poorly with pot brownies, watch it and share in the suffering. “I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)” was disturbing in that “shit I lived through the 80’s and all this seemed like a good idea” plus the added benefit of choreographed head turns to each call and response of “no no – no can do.” “Maneater?” all kinds of scary – again mostly for the 80’s pop video trappings but there was also the wandering panther to contend with.
How does that go step more scary? I was informed today that during a Vashon Island crafts fair sort of thingy, a coworker was accosted by a man selling his CD full of pan pipe renditions of pop songs – including, but not limited to, a pan pipe version of “Maneater” by Hall and Oates.
Fuck yes I want a piece of that.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Blatant Misuse Of Power
We went from a quick flash of summer, a quarter’s worth of stripper boob through a peepshow window, on Saturday to today. Saturday was glorious, again one of those days that can make you forget the psychic trauma of winter in the “Pee En Dub” as the kids are calling it (PNW, or Pacific Northwest).
Again, no kids are calling it this, and if they are it should stop immediately. I recommend full scale street war if necessary; sling shots that fire bags o’ poo, Molotov cocktails in empty energy drink cans with the exploitive name of “Joose” printed on the side.
But Saturday, insanely clear and sunny and warm; I left the show Saturday night at ten something, walking out through the backstage doors to air that still felt way warm and inviting of delicious trouble. I was reminded of late summer nights in a Central California college town, of cheap booze and smokes and nowhere to go and little to worry about. It was an interesting next chapter to the remembered feelings of being twelve and in love for the first time that came earlier that day.
And today, filled with rain and lightening and thunder and hatred for the job I find myself doing. Almost as if on a psychic whim, I glanced up through the window in time to see a molten flash of lightning over the hills and past the freeway. I secretly wished for some anomaly in the air, in the radio and cell phones waves cruising through that air, to carry that lightning to me on buffeting pulses and charge it directly into my soul.
Then, through my fingertips, I would show those in the cubes around me that I am definitely done fucking around.
Again, no kids are calling it this, and if they are it should stop immediately. I recommend full scale street war if necessary; sling shots that fire bags o’ poo, Molotov cocktails in empty energy drink cans with the exploitive name of “Joose” printed on the side.
But Saturday, insanely clear and sunny and warm; I left the show Saturday night at ten something, walking out through the backstage doors to air that still felt way warm and inviting of delicious trouble. I was reminded of late summer nights in a Central California college town, of cheap booze and smokes and nowhere to go and little to worry about. It was an interesting next chapter to the remembered feelings of being twelve and in love for the first time that came earlier that day.
And today, filled with rain and lightening and thunder and hatred for the job I find myself doing. Almost as if on a psychic whim, I glanced up through the window in time to see a molten flash of lightning over the hills and past the freeway. I secretly wished for some anomaly in the air, in the radio and cell phones waves cruising through that air, to carry that lightning to me on buffeting pulses and charge it directly into my soul.
Then, through my fingertips, I would show those in the cubes around me that I am definitely done fucking around.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
A Mystery, Wrapped In An Enigma
It's a question that has plagued mankind for years now, and I'm beginning to think there will never be an answer.
Who let the dogs out?
Who? Who? Who?
It's a conspiracy of massive proportians, and I'm beginning to think Haliburton, in cahoots with the CIA, had something to do with it.
Perhaps the dogs let themselves out. Has anyone considered this? Considered what implications this holds for the rest of us?
I'm going to tell my young son to stay sharp, stay diligent, so that one day he may walk into the Hall of Records, head held high, and learn the awful truth.
Who let the dogs out?
Who? Who? Who?
It's a conspiracy of massive proportians, and I'm beginning to think Haliburton, in cahoots with the CIA, had something to do with it.
Perhaps the dogs let themselves out. Has anyone considered this? Considered what implications this holds for the rest of us?
I'm going to tell my young son to stay sharp, stay diligent, so that one day he may walk into the Hall of Records, head held high, and learn the awful truth.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Sacrilicious
I learned recently that a rainbow is a symbol of God’s promise not to drown us in a raging flood again.
I never went to Sunday School as a tyke, so I missed little gems of knowledge like this. Thanks to a combination of my alcoholic grandfather finding God and my grandmother’s love of a good religious tract glued and varnished onto a piece of wood you can hang on the wall of a double-wide, I learned that when I’m having a rough time, Jesus will carry me down the beach.
It got me to thinking about other things that I understood about God. And again, I have to state here that I’m not a biblical scholar..
From what I can gather, God is eternal love. A large part of that eternal love though is smiting the shit out of people. To this point, God has a zero tolerance policy – don’t mess with God. But remember, God loves you – as long as you’re not Muslim or gay.
God apparently likes for babies to be angels.
Sometimes God seems like an alcoholic stepfather who will lose his shit with little to no provocation and destroy your town; or your action figure set up of Han Solo being lowered into the carbon freezing chamber, whichever metaphor you’re following.
These things that make God go all example number 3, are behaviors that God put in us. God apparently has a little self hatred to deal with.
War, killing in God’s name, things like that… God’s cool with. Anything fun like whoring and boozing, God’s not a fan of and will, again, destroy your town.
God only talks when you’re ready to hear. The same, interestingly enough, can be said about Radiohead albums.
God wears a robe and has a beard. This again seems like further examples of the alcoholic stepfather theory.
According to Roger Waters, “What God wants, God gets (God help us all).”
I’m sure there’s more, but that’s what pops up, top of the head like. I’m going to go dodge some lightning bolts, enjoy my pillar of saltness…
I never went to Sunday School as a tyke, so I missed little gems of knowledge like this. Thanks to a combination of my alcoholic grandfather finding God and my grandmother’s love of a good religious tract glued and varnished onto a piece of wood you can hang on the wall of a double-wide, I learned that when I’m having a rough time, Jesus will carry me down the beach.
It got me to thinking about other things that I understood about God. And again, I have to state here that I’m not a biblical scholar..
From what I can gather, God is eternal love. A large part of that eternal love though is smiting the shit out of people. To this point, God has a zero tolerance policy – don’t mess with God. But remember, God loves you – as long as you’re not Muslim or gay.
God apparently likes for babies to be angels.
Sometimes God seems like an alcoholic stepfather who will lose his shit with little to no provocation and destroy your town; or your action figure set up of Han Solo being lowered into the carbon freezing chamber, whichever metaphor you’re following.
These things that make God go all example number 3, are behaviors that God put in us. God apparently has a little self hatred to deal with.
War, killing in God’s name, things like that… God’s cool with. Anything fun like whoring and boozing, God’s not a fan of and will, again, destroy your town.
God only talks when you’re ready to hear. The same, interestingly enough, can be said about Radiohead albums.
God wears a robe and has a beard. This again seems like further examples of the alcoholic stepfather theory.
According to Roger Waters, “What God wants, God gets (God help us all).”
I’m sure there’s more, but that’s what pops up, top of the head like. I’m going to go dodge some lightning bolts, enjoy my pillar of saltness…
Monday, April 07, 2008
A Little Story About Billy Joe
I’ve been neglectful of this blog here. I’m like an alcoholic, traveling salesman dad. “I’ll get to ya’ tomorrow kid,” I slur to my blog, exhaling the previous nights funk of bourbon and smoke. “Here’s five dollars, go buy yourself a birthday present. And get daddy a Gatorade.” Years later, I wonder why it is my blog doesn’t talk to me, call me on my birthday, why it can’t even sit in the same room with me long enough to watch Fellowship Of The Ring with me – and not even the Extended Cut, the theatrical version…
I’ve been busy. Again this work thing where I have to be responsible and do stuff and answer to people. Last week I simply did not have any time, today I’m making a conscious effort to not work. I’m also making a conscious effort not to feel guilty about it.
I’ve been tired. I tell the tale of a girl, but I call her a woman, she’s a little bit older than me; strong legs, strong face, voice like milk, breasts like a cluster of grapes. And okay, Pixies lyrics aside, seriously, I’ve been tired. And I don’t know if it’s because of the tired, or in spite of the tired, or if tired has nothing to do with it whatsoever, but I have taken to doing dramatic interpretations of songs. Currently, “Take The Money And Run” by The Steve Miller Band is my favorite to do. Following up a close second though is “Desperado” by The Eagles. Shitty 70’s music apparently makes for good dramatic interpretation.
I’ve been doing the show for what feels like nonstop, but in actuality has been a week. We’ve had some good shows, we’ve had a lackluster show that I hope was only obviously lackluster to the cast, and we had a great show Saturday that has me excited about getting back in there again this week.
Other than that, there’s not a ton going on last week. Saturday I finally got to spend more time at home than the hours I sleep. It was good to spend a little time with Kickers, playing ridiculous noise games and showing him how to crash two toy trucks together. He doesn’t treat me with that sort of passive aggressive bitchiness that I would have had I been away from me for a week, he smiles and laughs, and dances when I play guitar, offers up a kiss from time to time and only sets small fires.
And now it’s back to work.
I’ve been busy. Again this work thing where I have to be responsible and do stuff and answer to people. Last week I simply did not have any time, today I’m making a conscious effort to not work. I’m also making a conscious effort not to feel guilty about it.
I’ve been tired. I tell the tale of a girl, but I call her a woman, she’s a little bit older than me; strong legs, strong face, voice like milk, breasts like a cluster of grapes. And okay, Pixies lyrics aside, seriously, I’ve been tired. And I don’t know if it’s because of the tired, or in spite of the tired, or if tired has nothing to do with it whatsoever, but I have taken to doing dramatic interpretations of songs. Currently, “Take The Money And Run” by The Steve Miller Band is my favorite to do. Following up a close second though is “Desperado” by The Eagles. Shitty 70’s music apparently makes for good dramatic interpretation.
I’ve been doing the show for what feels like nonstop, but in actuality has been a week. We’ve had some good shows, we’ve had a lackluster show that I hope was only obviously lackluster to the cast, and we had a great show Saturday that has me excited about getting back in there again this week.
Other than that, there’s not a ton going on last week. Saturday I finally got to spend more time at home than the hours I sleep. It was good to spend a little time with Kickers, playing ridiculous noise games and showing him how to crash two toy trucks together. He doesn’t treat me with that sort of passive aggressive bitchiness that I would have had I been away from me for a week, he smiles and laughs, and dances when I play guitar, offers up a kiss from time to time and only sets small fires.
And now it’s back to work.
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