Thursday, June 3, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Monday night
Why he was standing there with that... fucking stupid face, that big blouse-like billowing pillowcase shirt-thing... why? Of it all, the first thing I saw were the sandals, obviously, because they were at eye-level on the ground. The poor little plastic Y-band doing the double duty of segregating the largest, grimiest toe from the other little piggies while at the same time clapping a firm grip over the bulk of those feet, was an undistinguished green with it's coating of tarsal mucilage.
The bends and curls of the hair cascading down his leg and ankle naturally drew my eyes up the meaty calf, like the frothing churn of a waterfall. Up and up, until, "Jesus!" Even in the deep shade below the frock, the distinct pock and inclusions of a weathered scrotum were a startling sight so soon after regaining consciousness.
"Excuse me?" The man grinned ridiculous. A dark moon pie face bent down, extending a hand, the angle of his waist blissfully indenting his loose garb. Behind him the sky churned and, in some atmospheric coincidence, as I met his outstretched grasp the thunderheads rent themselves and a brilliant luminance blinded me. "Jesus!"
"Yes?" the man drew me to my feet effortlessly. "Yes?"
"Jesus," I asked, "why do I suck at writing?"
"Well," he responded with a slightly furrowed brow, concerned not confused, "you do well enough while you're drinking. And when you're distracted... So, it's probably a matter of focus."
"Jesus," I muttered. "You might have something there."
The bends and curls of the hair cascading down his leg and ankle naturally drew my eyes up the meaty calf, like the frothing churn of a waterfall. Up and up, until, "Jesus!" Even in the deep shade below the frock, the distinct pock and inclusions of a weathered scrotum were a startling sight so soon after regaining consciousness.
"Excuse me?" The man grinned ridiculous. A dark moon pie face bent down, extending a hand, the angle of his waist blissfully indenting his loose garb. Behind him the sky churned and, in some atmospheric coincidence, as I met his outstretched grasp the thunderheads rent themselves and a brilliant luminance blinded me. "Jesus!"
"Yes?" the man drew me to my feet effortlessly. "Yes?"
"Jesus," I asked, "why do I suck at writing?"
"Well," he responded with a slightly furrowed brow, concerned not confused, "you do well enough while you're drinking. And when you're distracted... So, it's probably a matter of focus."
"Jesus," I muttered. "You might have something there."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Notes from the gullet
Long hiatus from writing. I have been overwhelmed by my underwhelming job, or at least by the amount of time it consumes. Apologies.
Anyway, after some recent revelations and observations I have decided to resume my notes from the gullet of the 9th largest corporation in America. Somewhere between 32nd and 36th worldwide, depending on how you compile your data into rankings.
First, an observation: If you never show up to meetings, people simply assume that you are very busy. Granted, this has to applied in a metered approach, because complete lack of attendance might be viewed borderline insubordination. Therefore, I always attend any meeting that a) serves food, or b) is conducted over the phone/internet. I dial in, state my name, and affix my handset to my head with a large rubber-band to free up my hands for typing, snacking, etc.
Second, a grievance: Automatic toilets are wicked and ruthless and need redesigning. Why do the little sensors that are supposed to detect when it is appropriate to flush seem so wildly inaccurate? My first problem with them arose when every time I laid the paper protective shield over the seat and stood to unbuckle my belt, the mechanism would flush, sucking my carefully placed tissue-donut down into the sewer and forcing me to repeat the process. For a time, I took to approaching the toilet slowly from the side, deliberately holding the protective shield out like a timid toreador trying not to spook the bull. This worked about half the time.
So, in the spirit of the R&D department, I began experimenting with ways to trump the system. Tape, rubber-bands, little paper hats... these are all tools that were deployed in my quest for a less frustrating bathroom experience. Finally, I discovered what seemed to be the simple solution: a Post-it note, placed over the sensor.
This worked well for weeks, until earlier today. Maybe the adhesive was not applied correctly, or maybe my placement was askew, but for whatever reason today's Post-it slipped off while I was still sitting there. And the toilet went crazy. Flushing over and over and over, and these are high power industrial strength flushers, built for the rigors of life in the 9th largest corporation in the US. The trauma has left me with no choice but to return to the quest for a new solution, for I will not suffer another slipped Post-it.
Side note: A coworker entering the bathroom while you are hollering profanities from inside a toilet stall... yes, it evokes that scene from Austin Powers 2, where Tom Arnold thinks Austin's stall fight with a strangler are actually struggles with constipation, but it is still fairly embarrassing.
Anyway, after some recent revelations and observations I have decided to resume my notes from the gullet of the 9th largest corporation in America. Somewhere between 32nd and 36th worldwide, depending on how you compile your data into rankings.
First, an observation: If you never show up to meetings, people simply assume that you are very busy. Granted, this has to applied in a metered approach, because complete lack of attendance might be viewed borderline insubordination. Therefore, I always attend any meeting that a) serves food, or b) is conducted over the phone/internet. I dial in, state my name, and affix my handset to my head with a large rubber-band to free up my hands for typing, snacking, etc.
Second, a grievance: Automatic toilets are wicked and ruthless and need redesigning. Why do the little sensors that are supposed to detect when it is appropriate to flush seem so wildly inaccurate? My first problem with them arose when every time I laid the paper protective shield over the seat and stood to unbuckle my belt, the mechanism would flush, sucking my carefully placed tissue-donut down into the sewer and forcing me to repeat the process. For a time, I took to approaching the toilet slowly from the side, deliberately holding the protective shield out like a timid toreador trying not to spook the bull. This worked about half the time.
So, in the spirit of the R&D department, I began experimenting with ways to trump the system. Tape, rubber-bands, little paper hats... these are all tools that were deployed in my quest for a less frustrating bathroom experience. Finally, I discovered what seemed to be the simple solution: a Post-it note, placed over the sensor.
This worked well for weeks, until earlier today. Maybe the adhesive was not applied correctly, or maybe my placement was askew, but for whatever reason today's Post-it slipped off while I was still sitting there. And the toilet went crazy. Flushing over and over and over, and these are high power industrial strength flushers, built for the rigors of life in the 9th largest corporation in the US. The trauma has left me with no choice but to return to the quest for a new solution, for I will not suffer another slipped Post-it.
Side note: A coworker entering the bathroom while you are hollering profanities from inside a toilet stall... yes, it evokes that scene from Austin Powers 2, where Tom Arnold thinks Austin's stall fight with a strangler are actually struggles with constipation, but it is still fairly embarrassing.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Observation
Nobody here swears. I do not understand how it is possible to be around so many people performing so many frustrating tasks and never hear an explitive. It took me a while to notice this, but it became shockingly clear after a recent incident.
The soda machine (which I will no longer be using. Instead I will paronise the cafeteria, walking the half mile to brave the possibility of another DJ incident) first lied to me by telling me my selection was available when it was in fact sold out, then stole my money when I inserted more to upgrade my selection to a 20 oz. bottle.
As I was vigorously shaking the machine and peppering it's steel body with rapid kicks, an involuntary string of foul language was pouring from my mouth. When a stranger entered the room behind me, offering a nickel (which was the exact amount I was short. He had obviously decifered that from my filthy rantings), I felt oddly shamed.
Normally, nothing about my display of displeasure would have caused any feelings of remorse or humility. That's when it dawned on me. Nobody here swears. I felt like a pariah, some intellectually inferior slob whose simple-mindedness could only handle difficulties and frustration with savage, red-eyed fury.
Just another thing enforcing the feeling that I don't belong here.
The soda machine (which I will no longer be using. Instead I will paronise the cafeteria, walking the half mile to brave the possibility of another DJ incident) first lied to me by telling me my selection was available when it was in fact sold out, then stole my money when I inserted more to upgrade my selection to a 20 oz. bottle.
As I was vigorously shaking the machine and peppering it's steel body with rapid kicks, an involuntary string of foul language was pouring from my mouth. When a stranger entered the room behind me, offering a nickel (which was the exact amount I was short. He had obviously decifered that from my filthy rantings), I felt oddly shamed.
Normally, nothing about my display of displeasure would have caused any feelings of remorse or humility. That's when it dawned on me. Nobody here swears. I felt like a pariah, some intellectually inferior slob whose simple-mindedness could only handle difficulties and frustration with savage, red-eyed fury.
Just another thing enforcing the feeling that I don't belong here.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
the winds
Oh, you ripe, rotten bastard! From the far side of this cubicle you blanket the entire area in your foul fog, nonchalantly slurping soup. You silence conversations from across the room as the wind from your bowel causes people to lose concentration and frown, wrinkling their noses. Your furtive glances about do not go unnoticed, now that your flatulent nature has assaulted my nose several days running. I see your shameful smirk, that small facial tell betraying your odious stealth.
Oh! You henious criminal! You noxious mongrel! Oh! Oh! Again? Why?! How?!
Even wildlife would cower and slink from your putrid air. What nuclear fuel do you pump into that gut which causes such horrifying results? Canaries would keel over your vicinity, crows even. The man on my other side is covering the lower half of his face, leaving only his watering eyes visible. His productivity is reduced to nil as he focuses on breathing as shallowly as possible.
I hope this is just a passing gastrointestinal phenomena, some distress that will heal itself, and soon. Please, oh please...
Oh! You henious criminal! You noxious mongrel! Oh! Oh! Again? Why?! How?!
Even wildlife would cower and slink from your putrid air. What nuclear fuel do you pump into that gut which causes such horrifying results? Canaries would keel over your vicinity, crows even. The man on my other side is covering the lower half of his face, leaving only his watering eyes visible. His productivity is reduced to nil as he focuses on breathing as shallowly as possible.
I hope this is just a passing gastrointestinal phenomena, some distress that will heal itself, and soon. Please, oh please...
Germ warfare
I sit here this morning with a sore throat, runny nose and dry cough, and I can't help but consider all the possible avenues through which germs may have come to me. Being a diligent hand-washer doesn't seem to suffice in these modern days of high contact.
Last week I passed the supply room where a woman pushing a cart loaded with letters and papers heaved a lung-full of air and sneezed a mighty cloud of fine mist all over them. She wiped some clinging spittle from her mouth and proceeded to sort the mail into all the employee folder-boxes.
I, thankfully, do not receive any paper mail. All transmissions to me are digitally scrubbed by a virus filter and deposited on a server, recovered without having to lay a finger on a single filthy surface save my own keyboard. I imagined what my reaction would have been like if it were necessary for me to riffle through those disease ridden documents. There is a box of nitrile gloves and face-masks near the press. Maybe the kitchen would have a set of tongs laying around.
Then, of course, last Thursday was Bunko at the Knights of Columbus, where 30-odd people sit around tables rolling dice, trading partners and conversations, all while sampling the variety of finger foods contributed to the pot-luck style snack table. Fingers are licked, dice blown upon, and microorganisms promenade from host to host.
However they came to me, courtesy dictates that I try my best to keep my germs to myself. I will duck under my desk to sneeze and slap away any hands that trespass upon my keyboard. Just like Needles the Inoculation Robot says, "Only you can prevent the next global pandemic."
Last week I passed the supply room where a woman pushing a cart loaded with letters and papers heaved a lung-full of air and sneezed a mighty cloud of fine mist all over them. She wiped some clinging spittle from her mouth and proceeded to sort the mail into all the employee folder-boxes.
I, thankfully, do not receive any paper mail. All transmissions to me are digitally scrubbed by a virus filter and deposited on a server, recovered without having to lay a finger on a single filthy surface save my own keyboard. I imagined what my reaction would have been like if it were necessary for me to riffle through those disease ridden documents. There is a box of nitrile gloves and face-masks near the press. Maybe the kitchen would have a set of tongs laying around.
Then, of course, last Thursday was Bunko at the Knights of Columbus, where 30-odd people sit around tables rolling dice, trading partners and conversations, all while sampling the variety of finger foods contributed to the pot-luck style snack table. Fingers are licked, dice blown upon, and microorganisms promenade from host to host.
However they came to me, courtesy dictates that I try my best to keep my germs to myself. I will duck under my desk to sneeze and slap away any hands that trespass upon my keyboard. Just like Needles the Inoculation Robot says, "Only you can prevent the next global pandemic."
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Cafeteria
So, today requires a second post.
I dragged myself to the cafeteria, searching for something sticky and carbohydrate-laden that could possibly rejuvenate me. I made-do with an english muffin and a yogurt cup, which is a surprising value here in the complex. Being that the room was entirely empty, I had my choice of tables and picked one near the windows where I sat to enjoy my brunch and listen to the late eighties rock piping through the intercom.
I noticed something strange. A voice accompanied the tunes, singing along softly to "You Shook Me All Night Long" and making quiet murmurs. I assumed it was some fluke, a phone left off the hook back in the kitchen picking up the sounds of the dishwasher.
Then, the voice began to harass me.
"Hey, what you got there? Some toast?" I frowned and stopped chewing. "What kind of yogurt is that? Raspberry? Any good?" I cast a quick glance around to confirm my solitude, only to notice a large Samoan manning a turntable with a stack of records. That's right. There was a DJ in the lunchroom. And I was his audience. And he liked to chat it up.
Normally I might be in a more affable mood, more accepting of a boorish intrusion into my brief period of relaxation, but given my current state, it was difficult for me to remain composed. I wanted to hurl my Dannon Light at him, but instead I just stared intensely at my spoon. I was on the verge of snapping as he continued to pepper me with inane banter when an unwitting fellow employee came to my rescue. He rounded the corner holding a tray with a soda and some noodle salad. "Alright," he blurted, glancing at me. "I love this guy!" He set down his tray and proceeded to execute the silliest, most horrendous dance I have ever born witness to, thrusting his hips and pumping one fist in the air.
"Thank you, kind sir," I whispered under my breath, "for restoring my peace in your own strange manner. May your pocket protector never leak and your sticky notes adhere for eternity." I was able to finish my snack without any more commentary.
I dragged myself to the cafeteria, searching for something sticky and carbohydrate-laden that could possibly rejuvenate me. I made-do with an english muffin and a yogurt cup, which is a surprising value here in the complex. Being that the room was entirely empty, I had my choice of tables and picked one near the windows where I sat to enjoy my brunch and listen to the late eighties rock piping through the intercom.
I noticed something strange. A voice accompanied the tunes, singing along softly to "You Shook Me All Night Long" and making quiet murmurs. I assumed it was some fluke, a phone left off the hook back in the kitchen picking up the sounds of the dishwasher.
Then, the voice began to harass me.
"Hey, what you got there? Some toast?" I frowned and stopped chewing. "What kind of yogurt is that? Raspberry? Any good?" I cast a quick glance around to confirm my solitude, only to notice a large Samoan manning a turntable with a stack of records. That's right. There was a DJ in the lunchroom. And I was his audience. And he liked to chat it up.
Normally I might be in a more affable mood, more accepting of a boorish intrusion into my brief period of relaxation, but given my current state, it was difficult for me to remain composed. I wanted to hurl my Dannon Light at him, but instead I just stared intensely at my spoon. I was on the verge of snapping as he continued to pepper me with inane banter when an unwitting fellow employee came to my rescue. He rounded the corner holding a tray with a soda and some noodle salad. "Alright," he blurted, glancing at me. "I love this guy!" He set down his tray and proceeded to execute the silliest, most horrendous dance I have ever born witness to, thrusting his hips and pumping one fist in the air.
"Thank you, kind sir," I whispered under my breath, "for restoring my peace in your own strange manner. May your pocket protector never leak and your sticky notes adhere for eternity." I was able to finish my snack without any more commentary.
Morning
I am ill today, but since I am at work in a giant corporation I will describe the feeling as "sub-optimal" instead of "sick" or "hung-over." It may be a struggle to perform at "value-added" level today.
When I arrived, a man with an electric screwdriver was disassembling the cubicle next-door. He also had a loud rubber mallet. My appearance startled him. Whether it was my early arrival or my visually sorry state that caused his jump I do not know. After a moment or two, however, he warmed to me. He began speaking in a foreign language, something guttural and phlegmy, and looked at me expectantly. He punctuated sentences by jabbing the air with a yellow box-cutter. I nodded, looked at my watch, and made an escape.
I decided to walk the perimeter of the HP pond. As I approached a group of ducks crowded around me, jostling each other and tilting their heads sideways to peer at me in an anticipatory manner not unlike the office handyman. They were obviously highly domesticated. They were unfazed as I wildly clapped my hands in childish delight. They stared, bored, at the leaf-blower that the groundskeeper used to shatter any possible peace I might have found. I enjoyed the ducks' company for a few minutes before returning to the cube.
When I arrived, a man with an electric screwdriver was disassembling the cubicle next-door. He also had a loud rubber mallet. My appearance startled him. Whether it was my early arrival or my visually sorry state that caused his jump I do not know. After a moment or two, however, he warmed to me. He began speaking in a foreign language, something guttural and phlegmy, and looked at me expectantly. He punctuated sentences by jabbing the air with a yellow box-cutter. I nodded, looked at my watch, and made an escape.
I decided to walk the perimeter of the HP pond. As I approached a group of ducks crowded around me, jostling each other and tilting their heads sideways to peer at me in an anticipatory manner not unlike the office handyman. They were obviously highly domesticated. They were unfazed as I wildly clapped my hands in childish delight. They stared, bored, at the leaf-blower that the groundskeeper used to shatter any possible peace I might have found. I enjoyed the ducks' company for a few minutes before returning to the cube.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Today, I lost my pen
There is a meeting going on across the cubicle wall in which a group of grown men in suits are seated around a tray of assorted miniature pastries and talking about flow. The conversation could be happening in a doctor's office, centered on prostate enlargement, but this flow refers to something more abstract than urine. A small table topper near the donuts reads "synergistic strategies for productive flow".
The hallway out to the press is 200 yards of shiny tile and high, florescent lit ceilings. Since they do not make the shoes with little wheels built into the heel in my size, I am forced to find other ways to make this trek more interesting. My current game of tossing my pen high into the air and trying to catch it without looking up was brought to an abrupt end today.
The weight and shape of my pen (a Zebra GR8 gel- blue) spins exceptionally well, like a juggler's pin. I was thoroughly enjoying the zip with which it left my fingers, and the snap against my palm on it's return. But then it didn't, return that is. I looked up.
Above me hung a convex mirror suspended on a chain, the kind designed to alert you to the forklift approaching the intersection, operated by an inebriated high school dropout who will undoubtedly strike and crush you to death.
There was a hole in the side of the mirror.
After my initial alarm, I realized that had my pen caused this hole, not only would there have been some sort of breaky-noise but debris would have definitely fallen around me. So either my pen had gone into the hole or landed on top of the mirror. I proceeded to the press, hurrying past the security cameras which constantly pan over this entire complex.
"Noah," the press tech said. "Come over here and take notes."
"Um, do you have a pen I can borrow?"
The hallway out to the press is 200 yards of shiny tile and high, florescent lit ceilings. Since they do not make the shoes with little wheels built into the heel in my size, I am forced to find other ways to make this trek more interesting. My current game of tossing my pen high into the air and trying to catch it without looking up was brought to an abrupt end today.
The weight and shape of my pen (a Zebra GR8 gel- blue) spins exceptionally well, like a juggler's pin. I was thoroughly enjoying the zip with which it left my fingers, and the snap against my palm on it's return. But then it didn't, return that is. I looked up.
Above me hung a convex mirror suspended on a chain, the kind designed to alert you to the forklift approaching the intersection, operated by an inebriated high school dropout who will undoubtedly strike and crush you to death.
There was a hole in the side of the mirror.
After my initial alarm, I realized that had my pen caused this hole, not only would there have been some sort of breaky-noise but debris would have definitely fallen around me. So either my pen had gone into the hole or landed on top of the mirror. I proceeded to the press, hurrying past the security cameras which constantly pan over this entire complex.
"Noah," the press tech said. "Come over here and take notes."
"Um, do you have a pen I can borrow?"
Monday, August 17, 2009
Welcome to the weird
Long strings of white and red spool past on a black screen. The man squints intently, his face close to the monitor and his finger-spiked-fist poised for a quick strike hovering above the keyboard. He is a predator; a mongoose fastidiously examining the twists of a snake as it writhes, patiently timing the attack. I pass before the offensive commences.
These people observe my migration many times daily on various time-consuming tasks: the bathroom, the prototype press, the infrared water/ice dispensing robot. They appear secure, totally cemented in purpose. I am but the breeze, a variable that is inevitable and expected, calculated as an algorithm into their sphere of existence.
I pass a man painting the wall with a roller on a twelve foot handle. His role is unambiguous. Just a glance will tell you he is working, the quality of his craftsmanship, the speed at which he progresses. I scurry through during an upswing, past the handle intermittently barricading the hall.
I carry a clipboard, to assuage the doubts of superiors. My pen has been destroyed by the physical manifestations of energy without direction. I look at my watch.
Continued... surely.
These people observe my migration many times daily on various time-consuming tasks: the bathroom, the prototype press, the infrared water/ice dispensing robot. They appear secure, totally cemented in purpose. I am but the breeze, a variable that is inevitable and expected, calculated as an algorithm into their sphere of existence.
I pass a man painting the wall with a roller on a twelve foot handle. His role is unambiguous. Just a glance will tell you he is working, the quality of his craftsmanship, the speed at which he progresses. I scurry through during an upswing, past the handle intermittently barricading the hall.
I carry a clipboard, to assuage the doubts of superiors. My pen has been destroyed by the physical manifestations of energy without direction. I look at my watch.
Continued... surely.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
New job...
Its hard to say what causes the general feeling of angst that settles over me within the first two hours of being here. It is definetly quiet around my cubicle, the only real obtrusion into the otherwise silent space is keyboard clicks and sighing. Maybe I just get nervous around so many people wearing glasses.
I still have no computer, no voicemail and no real sense of what my main objective is. The assistant to the manager's assistant feels very badly about the hardware situation. I first met her on my second day. After twiddling my thumbs for several hours, I was finally able to corner my boss between his meetings. He stood in the hallway eating a rough looking salad from a plastic container, looking puzzled when I asked, "So, Loay is busy and I don't really know what I should be doing right now."
"Um," he looked around as if he wasn't sure who I was or why I was asking him for direction. "Go upstairs and find Jen. Ask her where the pens are, or something."
"Who's Jen?" I asked.
He replied over his shoulder as he ducked into the meeting room. "My assistant's assistant," he said with a mouthful of lettuce.
Jen showed me to the office supply cabinet. It brimmed with batteries and ink-jet cartridges, but the only notepads were graphing paper and the choice of pens limited to 2 varieties, both cheap. Apparently people use laptops around here for everything, but they don't have a spare for me.
After another day of putzing, I asked Jen for a computer mouse and was given a dozen to choose from. An hour later I requested a calculator. She rummaged through drawers bursting with candy and cookies and assorted sweets before locating a bruised pocket Casio similar to what banks give out to 10-year-olds who open a checking account. Then I asked for a ruler, which was even more difficult to procure. "Do you happen to have an abacus?" She actually started to look around before I stopped her.
So now at my desk I have a file cabinet, a wire shelving system, three clear plastic cubes containing paper clips, binder clips and thumbtacks, a staple remover but no stapler, two kinds of tape, a ruler, a calculator and a keyboard, mouse and gigantic twin monitors, but no computer.
I walk around quite a bit, because the fear of being cornered by a superior and interrogated about my productivity is far easier to take than the weird emptiness around my office space. The break room near my desk has a high-tech water and ice dispenser that uses radio frequencies to detect when you are holding a cup under it, but there is no silverware or plates. I asked Loay where I could find a spoon and was directed to the official cafeteria nearly a half-mile away across the sprawling multi-acre compound.
Several e-mails have now informed me that my computer has been ordered, and most are followed by messages that the orders have been canceled for one reason or another. Today is Thursday, August 13th. My original order was placed Tuesday, July 13th.
This is my first time working for a major corporation, and I don't understand how anybody could ever feel comfortable in a place like this.
I still have no computer, no voicemail and no real sense of what my main objective is. The assistant to the manager's assistant feels very badly about the hardware situation. I first met her on my second day. After twiddling my thumbs for several hours, I was finally able to corner my boss between his meetings. He stood in the hallway eating a rough looking salad from a plastic container, looking puzzled when I asked, "So, Loay is busy and I don't really know what I should be doing right now."
"Um," he looked around as if he wasn't sure who I was or why I was asking him for direction. "Go upstairs and find Jen. Ask her where the pens are, or something."
"Who's Jen?" I asked.
He replied over his shoulder as he ducked into the meeting room. "My assistant's assistant," he said with a mouthful of lettuce.
Jen showed me to the office supply cabinet. It brimmed with batteries and ink-jet cartridges, but the only notepads were graphing paper and the choice of pens limited to 2 varieties, both cheap. Apparently people use laptops around here for everything, but they don't have a spare for me.
After another day of putzing, I asked Jen for a computer mouse and was given a dozen to choose from. An hour later I requested a calculator. She rummaged through drawers bursting with candy and cookies and assorted sweets before locating a bruised pocket Casio similar to what banks give out to 10-year-olds who open a checking account. Then I asked for a ruler, which was even more difficult to procure. "Do you happen to have an abacus?" She actually started to look around before I stopped her.
So now at my desk I have a file cabinet, a wire shelving system, three clear plastic cubes containing paper clips, binder clips and thumbtacks, a staple remover but no stapler, two kinds of tape, a ruler, a calculator and a keyboard, mouse and gigantic twin monitors, but no computer.
I walk around quite a bit, because the fear of being cornered by a superior and interrogated about my productivity is far easier to take than the weird emptiness around my office space. The break room near my desk has a high-tech water and ice dispenser that uses radio frequencies to detect when you are holding a cup under it, but there is no silverware or plates. I asked Loay where I could find a spoon and was directed to the official cafeteria nearly a half-mile away across the sprawling multi-acre compound.
Several e-mails have now informed me that my computer has been ordered, and most are followed by messages that the orders have been canceled for one reason or another. Today is Thursday, August 13th. My original order was placed Tuesday, July 13th.
This is my first time working for a major corporation, and I don't understand how anybody could ever feel comfortable in a place like this.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Jack
Jack drove truck.
More specifically, he drove a semi trailer filled with trash (other people's trash, mostly) up and down the grey veins snaking spider-webbed across northern California. Over the mounting years (growing ever past his own expectations when he had initially, with reluctance, taken the job), the tires of his Freightliner had greased a triangle plotted between the floating trash barge dock, the cadmium & heavy metals reclamation compound and, biweekly, the durable electronic recycling center (which gave the warm fuzzies to a growing lazily-conscientious population, allowing them to believe they were still doing their small part by considerately disposing of their aged computer monitor when in fact they were dropping a mercury grenade off at a depot to be shipped to China and burned in a putrid battleground stretching farther than the eye could see by a sinewy man with no fingertips or sense of smell wearing a tank-top) run by people who held their bottom lines above tired ideals.
This was not being put past Jack. He had recognized his instrumentally insignificant role in this grand irony of the garbage wheel. His personal feelings seemed in constant bloom as if agitated by the vibrations knobby tires sent shuddering through his cab. Guilt followed resignation followed resolve. Occasionally his stomach would churn on the greasy reminders of his place in the big trash dance. Other times he would shrug and think about the line of people who would take his place without remorse.
No matter his feelings, no matter the particular day or specific circumstance which brokered their encounter, the people who shared his highways had to make peace with their past as it thundered towering and overflowing overtaking them in the fast lane. Children would gape at the peaks of disposable diapers capping refuse mountains like snow. Adults would ignore the jetsam which wiggled free from the mound and skidded into the ditch, ignored. He captained a ghost ship filled with the bygone, from tiny insignificant moments to entirely encompassing histories, coffee filters to last testaments, jettisoned once and now filling the rear-view like filthy memories.
Once, on a particularly introspective and dejected evening, fueled and demoralized by spirits of liquid and haunt, he was labeled in permanent inks across his right foot "Filthy Pilot." He pictured his toes as the anchor sinking all those yesterdays, miring things best forgotten, himself being absorbed with them tangled in wedding tapes and tampon strings. They gently pressed 16,000 pounds of history into the earth.
During the first few weeks he found it fascinating what people would discard. The parking spot reserved for him in the covered carport adjacent to his apartment complex was barricaded with good intentions pulled from his early loads: furniture that appeared to be antique only in need of refinishing and upholstery, electronic gadgets that might be tinkered or easily repaired, wrecked bicycles and lawnmowers whose gears would surely be salvageable. But those were the early days, before he became jaded and complacent. He had no use for other people's trash anymore.
That is, until he found the envelope of money.
More specifically, he drove a semi trailer filled with trash (other people's trash, mostly) up and down the grey veins snaking spider-webbed across northern California. Over the mounting years (growing ever past his own expectations when he had initially, with reluctance, taken the job), the tires of his Freightliner had greased a triangle plotted between the floating trash barge dock, the cadmium & heavy metals reclamation compound and, biweekly, the durable electronic recycling center (which gave the warm fuzzies to a growing lazily-conscientious population, allowing them to believe they were still doing their small part by considerately disposing of their aged computer monitor when in fact they were dropping a mercury grenade off at a depot to be shipped to China and burned in a putrid battleground stretching farther than the eye could see by a sinewy man with no fingertips or sense of smell wearing a tank-top) run by people who held their bottom lines above tired ideals.
This was not being put past Jack. He had recognized his instrumentally insignificant role in this grand irony of the garbage wheel. His personal feelings seemed in constant bloom as if agitated by the vibrations knobby tires sent shuddering through his cab. Guilt followed resignation followed resolve. Occasionally his stomach would churn on the greasy reminders of his place in the big trash dance. Other times he would shrug and think about the line of people who would take his place without remorse.
No matter his feelings, no matter the particular day or specific circumstance which brokered their encounter, the people who shared his highways had to make peace with their past as it thundered towering and overflowing overtaking them in the fast lane. Children would gape at the peaks of disposable diapers capping refuse mountains like snow. Adults would ignore the jetsam which wiggled free from the mound and skidded into the ditch, ignored. He captained a ghost ship filled with the bygone, from tiny insignificant moments to entirely encompassing histories, coffee filters to last testaments, jettisoned once and now filling the rear-view like filthy memories.
Once, on a particularly introspective and dejected evening, fueled and demoralized by spirits of liquid and haunt, he was labeled in permanent inks across his right foot "Filthy Pilot." He pictured his toes as the anchor sinking all those yesterdays, miring things best forgotten, himself being absorbed with them tangled in wedding tapes and tampon strings. They gently pressed 16,000 pounds of history into the earth.
During the first few weeks he found it fascinating what people would discard. The parking spot reserved for him in the covered carport adjacent to his apartment complex was barricaded with good intentions pulled from his early loads: furniture that appeared to be antique only in need of refinishing and upholstery, electronic gadgets that might be tinkered or easily repaired, wrecked bicycles and lawnmowers whose gears would surely be salvageable. But those were the early days, before he became jaded and complacent. He had no use for other people's trash anymore.
That is, until he found the envelope of money.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
8 cups of coffee, 4 sentences
So, being that my wife was out this morning on an errand, that being picking up her mother from the airport in Portland—slightly over 100 miles away—and being that the single and solitary driving force behind my leaving the warm folds of my blankets in the morning is the cheerful percolation of rapidly heated water through grounds of coffee within our electric chrome carafe, and being that I was alone (as my wife was out as I have previously mentioned) and my faberware plug-in coffee brewer makes 8 cups of coffee (although the nature of their measurement is dubious at best, seeing as no mug is that small) so being all these things, a very large amount of coffee was ingested by myself this morning, alone and in rapid succession downed diluted with vanilla soy creamer as I attempted to comply with my spouse's wish that I clean the sinks and counter tops and vacuum during her absence in an attempt to make our humble home slightly less unsightly to her mother whom she was off in Portland retrieving from the airport causing the lonely caffeine bender during which I was now in the midst of and having trouble focusing on the task at hand.
So, after writing part of an e-mail and replacing the toilet-paper roll and filling the dish washing tub and watching the dog urinate, I answered the phone to a robotic voice reminding me to pick up a reserved book and return an over-due DVD which I hadn't yet watched, causing me to panic and abandon my growing number of half-completed tasks and rush off down the sidewalk in one sock and my PJ top which happens to be a sweatshirt with Homer Simpson reading "Springfield Unathletic Department", slopping now cooling coffee out of a Scooby Doo mug as I huffed past the St. Mary's Catholic church and the rather large lurking man who muttered something very strange as I passed.
"I am a very dangerous man," he said with a low and menacing tone which would normally compel me to quicken my pace and makes it even more bizarre that after 8 cups of coffee my reaction would be to slow and stop and turn to say, "We are all dangerous, given the right circumstances or tools," as I glanced around to point out a man who scurried along across the street carrying a sign of indecipherable deduction and said, "That man's sign might be a dangerous statement, sending some deranged psychopath into a spiral of degraded behavior like the Beatles did to Charlie Manson," even though I had no idea how the sign read, although I believed that I had seen the word 'Corinthians' along the bottom.
So the menacer loomed and the sign-holder caught interest and approached and I came up with numerous other examples of how everyone is dangerous, such as drunk drivers and people digging holes without calling the natural gas company, and as the sign came closer it became clear that it was nothing but jumbles of letters and gibberish scrawled in big messy capital letters on the flattened inside of a produce box, and the strikingly twisted facial features of the sign-wielder became more pronounced and vivid and I pointed at him and shouted at the menacer, "THAT is a dangerous man, sir!" unable to control my own vim, but the menacer only shrugged, and the sign-holder continued right past us as if we were invisible, and I swapped items at the library to hurry home and use the bathroom, being that I had many cups of coffee this morning.
So, after writing part of an e-mail and replacing the toilet-paper roll and filling the dish washing tub and watching the dog urinate, I answered the phone to a robotic voice reminding me to pick up a reserved book and return an over-due DVD which I hadn't yet watched, causing me to panic and abandon my growing number of half-completed tasks and rush off down the sidewalk in one sock and my PJ top which happens to be a sweatshirt with Homer Simpson reading "Springfield Unathletic Department", slopping now cooling coffee out of a Scooby Doo mug as I huffed past the St. Mary's Catholic church and the rather large lurking man who muttered something very strange as I passed.
"I am a very dangerous man," he said with a low and menacing tone which would normally compel me to quicken my pace and makes it even more bizarre that after 8 cups of coffee my reaction would be to slow and stop and turn to say, "We are all dangerous, given the right circumstances or tools," as I glanced around to point out a man who scurried along across the street carrying a sign of indecipherable deduction and said, "That man's sign might be a dangerous statement, sending some deranged psychopath into a spiral of degraded behavior like the Beatles did to Charlie Manson," even though I had no idea how the sign read, although I believed that I had seen the word 'Corinthians' along the bottom.
So the menacer loomed and the sign-holder caught interest and approached and I came up with numerous other examples of how everyone is dangerous, such as drunk drivers and people digging holes without calling the natural gas company, and as the sign came closer it became clear that it was nothing but jumbles of letters and gibberish scrawled in big messy capital letters on the flattened inside of a produce box, and the strikingly twisted facial features of the sign-wielder became more pronounced and vivid and I pointed at him and shouted at the menacer, "THAT is a dangerous man, sir!" unable to control my own vim, but the menacer only shrugged, and the sign-holder continued right past us as if we were invisible, and I swapped items at the library to hurry home and use the bathroom, being that I had many cups of coffee this morning.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Lips!!!!
I mis-posted earlier. The lyrics to the song were "Shut your lips. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." It has been corrected. Thank you, sugar plum wife-o-mine.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Horsehead
We really weren't sure what to make of him, the chubby, late 40's, mustachioed man seated in a chair by the jukebox bobbing his head vigorously to the driving dance beats. Between games of pinball, Tegan ad I would take turns eyeballing him, as well as the rest of the room. At first we thought he was probably with a group playing pool nearby, but when they left and he remained, we had to reassess.
Maybe he was a new bouncer, his seeming ridiculousness merely a facade covering great experience. This theory was overturned by two points. First, as trouble simmering at another pool table began to become more heated, he paid very little attention, almost averting his eyes from the situation.
Secondly and possibly more importantly, he was regularly pumping several dollar bills into the jukebox to select music whereas employees wield a remote control. A group of very young girls were now shooting 9-ball, and his bobbing throbbing presence was causing an obvious anxiety.
I was almost certain that the songs were repeating, but their similarity made it difficult to be positive. Then over the thumping refrain, "Shut your lips. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." my suspicions were confirmed. As I pondered the reference to Helen Keller (I guess the more accurate "Do the Helen Keller and redefine how society teaches individuals with aural/ocular impairments" wasn't very euphonious) a heavily tattooed man across the room thrust his finger towards the jukebox bopper and yelled, "Dammit, I can only handle hearing this fucking song 5 times in a night. Quit playing the same fucking songs!"
Mr. Mustache continued to nod his head nearly in rhythm to the beat, eyes half closed, as if simultaneously agreeing with and ignoring his assailant.
Some strange spell had been broken, and others began to adventure into the strange man's sphere and select music to play. The early Pink Floyd "Bike" began and the head bobbing became more erratic. The beat shifts and modulations broke down his disjointed self-confidence and he soon departed, leaving a group of early-20 hippies playing Grateful Dead. Their tastes were more varied than Mustache, however, because they also played "Don't you remember you told me you loved me, Baby!" and an early rap song with lyrics politely benign.
The Horsehead always has fun people-watching.
Maybe he was a new bouncer, his seeming ridiculousness merely a facade covering great experience. This theory was overturned by two points. First, as trouble simmering at another pool table began to become more heated, he paid very little attention, almost averting his eyes from the situation.
Secondly and possibly more importantly, he was regularly pumping several dollar bills into the jukebox to select music whereas employees wield a remote control. A group of very young girls were now shooting 9-ball, and his bobbing throbbing presence was causing an obvious anxiety.
I was almost certain that the songs were repeating, but their similarity made it difficult to be positive. Then over the thumping refrain, "Shut your lips. Shut your lips. Do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips." my suspicions were confirmed. As I pondered the reference to Helen Keller (I guess the more accurate "Do the Helen Keller and redefine how society teaches individuals with aural/ocular impairments" wasn't very euphonious) a heavily tattooed man across the room thrust his finger towards the jukebox bopper and yelled, "Dammit, I can only handle hearing this fucking song 5 times in a night. Quit playing the same fucking songs!"
Mr. Mustache continued to nod his head nearly in rhythm to the beat, eyes half closed, as if simultaneously agreeing with and ignoring his assailant.
Some strange spell had been broken, and others began to adventure into the strange man's sphere and select music to play. The early Pink Floyd "Bike" began and the head bobbing became more erratic. The beat shifts and modulations broke down his disjointed self-confidence and he soon departed, leaving a group of early-20 hippies playing Grateful Dead. Their tastes were more varied than Mustache, however, because they also played "Don't you remember you told me you loved me, Baby!" and an early rap song with lyrics politely benign.
The Horsehead always has fun people-watching.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Too soon
I've been on a bit of a break from posting, enjoying the early summer with my newly liberated wife. Free from the shackles of higher education's encompassing schedule we have kept relatively busy. I barely find the time for simple tasks and they are starting to build up. For instance, I finally got around to cleaning out my wallet last night. Among the dust bunnies and moth carcasses was a receipt reading 'Thank you for shopping at Cash Depot: ATM. Green Bay, Wisconsin.' Shopping?
Speaking of shopping, the radio man says that Billy Mays, pitchman extraordiniare, has passed away this morning. Although it hasn't been announced, I suspect fowl play, possibly found asphyxiated with a Shamwow lodged in his throat. Oh Oh, wouldn't it be terrible if he was done in by his own products, like choking on several Big City Slider mini-burgers? Or maybe he collapsed under his own genius and swallowed a lethal dose of Oxy-clean.
I suppose it's too soon for this humor.
More stories soon.
Speaking of shopping, the radio man says that Billy Mays, pitchman extraordiniare, has passed away this morning. Although it hasn't been announced, I suspect fowl play, possibly found asphyxiated with a Shamwow lodged in his throat. Oh Oh, wouldn't it be terrible if he was done in by his own products, like choking on several Big City Slider mini-burgers? Or maybe he collapsed under his own genius and swallowed a lethal dose of Oxy-clean.
I suppose it's too soon for this humor.
More stories soon.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Susan
Susan Hischman was a dour woman, with a sour pout perpetually residing below the long nose that some might call regal, while others would simply label "big". Her salt-and-pepper hair was cropped above her shoulders in a bob, shoulders draped in one of her closet's many plaid shirts. It wasn't with some mannish intent that her jeans rode so high upon her wide hips, but simply a side effect of pants with such an oil-lamp curvature.
The canine usually wheezing at her side was some mish-mash of dog DNA. Large lumps of benign growth gave his torso a mutant appearance but did little to distract from the unsettling fact that the dog's expression mirrored his owner. Children did not ask to pet Petey on the street. His frown seemed unnatural and disturbing, as if the muscles permitting such a human emotion had been surgically implanted.
And that is why, had the brown bulgy envelope been a living creature with eyes and awareness—some papery slug crossing the sidewalk, two frowns would have loomed down at it. Petey's nose left little wet spots on it before Susan stiffly stooped and snatched it away. Had it lain a foot away and not in her direct path, Susan would have passed it by. Like many grudging altruists, she would retrieve litter only when it presented itself so ineluctably. She crinkled up her long nose and gambled a quick peek inside, expecting some disintegrating mush of formerly edible substance.
Standing just feet from the dumpster her quick peek was masochistic curiosity, like opening the yogurt container plumbed from the depths of a refrigerator cleaning. What repelling repugnance might it hold?
As Petey spattered the blue steel of the trash bin with yellow, Susan's frown grew roots and bent to acrobatic depths on her chin. From the envelope bloomed the crinkled corners of currency. Hundreds of 20 and 50 dollar bills formed a thick wad between her finger-bones. She blinked, twice.
This new, deep frown remained rooted the whole walk home, holding the envelope at arms length like a particularly ripe doo-bag. She dropped it on her end-table, which was empty, clean, barren as a windswept desert. It's brown existence was like some animal dropping in the room's aesthetic. Petey was oblivious to the envelope's obtrusiveness as he slopped water ravenously from his chrome dish.
Susan abruptly decided it was time for bed, snapping away from the table and marching towards her toothbrush. Perhaps the morning's light would dissipate this illusion and return that sense of routine that fed her frowns. Those frowns that permeated even her dreams.
The canine usually wheezing at her side was some mish-mash of dog DNA. Large lumps of benign growth gave his torso a mutant appearance but did little to distract from the unsettling fact that the dog's expression mirrored his owner. Children did not ask to pet Petey on the street. His frown seemed unnatural and disturbing, as if the muscles permitting such a human emotion had been surgically implanted.
And that is why, had the brown bulgy envelope been a living creature with eyes and awareness—some papery slug crossing the sidewalk, two frowns would have loomed down at it. Petey's nose left little wet spots on it before Susan stiffly stooped and snatched it away. Had it lain a foot away and not in her direct path, Susan would have passed it by. Like many grudging altruists, she would retrieve litter only when it presented itself so ineluctably. She crinkled up her long nose and gambled a quick peek inside, expecting some disintegrating mush of formerly edible substance.
Standing just feet from the dumpster her quick peek was masochistic curiosity, like opening the yogurt container plumbed from the depths of a refrigerator cleaning. What repelling repugnance might it hold?
As Petey spattered the blue steel of the trash bin with yellow, Susan's frown grew roots and bent to acrobatic depths on her chin. From the envelope bloomed the crinkled corners of currency. Hundreds of 20 and 50 dollar bills formed a thick wad between her finger-bones. She blinked, twice.
This new, deep frown remained rooted the whole walk home, holding the envelope at arms length like a particularly ripe doo-bag. She dropped it on her end-table, which was empty, clean, barren as a windswept desert. It's brown existence was like some animal dropping in the room's aesthetic. Petey was oblivious to the envelope's obtrusiveness as he slopped water ravenously from his chrome dish.
Susan abruptly decided it was time for bed, snapping away from the table and marching towards her toothbrush. Perhaps the morning's light would dissipate this illusion and return that sense of routine that fed her frowns. Those frowns that permeated even her dreams.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happenings and Goings On
Updates:
Tegan finished her first year of nursing school and is plotting a barbecue bash tomorrow. Incidentally, that is the one day on the computer's weather forecast with a thunderbolt icon.
We opened a bottle of my father's 2004 plum wine and enjoyed it with out friends Sarah and Greg. It was quite tasty. We also have a 2005 plum wine still in our rack, as well as every other bottle of wine we have ever been given.
My free YMCA membership is about to run out, but over the last 3 months I've shed 12 pounds. Down to a sleek 177. Punched a few new holes in the belt. Still debating wether to pay for a membership.
Lots of new stories in the works, but nothing ready to publish.
I can't even get rejection letters from the places I apply to, except from Lane county, which seems to have consolidated all my rejections for the numerous positions I've jumped at into one flimsy postcard. I tacked it up on my wall, a symbol of the rewards reaped through perseverance.
Tegan finished her first year of nursing school and is plotting a barbecue bash tomorrow. Incidentally, that is the one day on the computer's weather forecast with a thunderbolt icon.
We opened a bottle of my father's 2004 plum wine and enjoyed it with out friends Sarah and Greg. It was quite tasty. We also have a 2005 plum wine still in our rack, as well as every other bottle of wine we have ever been given.
My free YMCA membership is about to run out, but over the last 3 months I've shed 12 pounds. Down to a sleek 177. Punched a few new holes in the belt. Still debating wether to pay for a membership.
Lots of new stories in the works, but nothing ready to publish.
I can't even get rejection letters from the places I apply to, except from Lane county, which seems to have consolidated all my rejections for the numerous positions I've jumped at into one flimsy postcard. I tacked it up on my wall, a symbol of the rewards reaped through perseverance.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Short
If he hadn't been there, the stiffness of his brown suit might still have held it upright, standing behind the yellow tape line like a mannequin behind a mime's window. His expression was rigid, so much that it might have been simply an extension of his starched shirt. Yet for all his stillness, a fire danced in his eyes.
Milo's mouth was too dry to speak, much less swallow. He felt his eyeballs being pulled, sucked from their sockets by the gravity of electric gaze pinning him. Breath he didn't realize occupied his lungs was now wheezing out in a disgorged, ugly laugh. "hhhhhhaaaaaaaaa..." His knees angled inwards causing his torso to swivel like a slinky on rubber hips. Milo saw an ocean, a blue billowing sheet of silk, as his head bounced on the linoleum.
The figure in the brown suit did not move. He waited for the next attendant to come along and contemplated what he would try next. His toes nearly touched the line, but remained separated. After all, Milo had told him to stay behind the yellow tape line. And a devil can only do what man allows him.
Milo's mouth was too dry to speak, much less swallow. He felt his eyeballs being pulled, sucked from their sockets by the gravity of electric gaze pinning him. Breath he didn't realize occupied his lungs was now wheezing out in a disgorged, ugly laugh. "hhhhhhaaaaaaaaa..." His knees angled inwards causing his torso to swivel like a slinky on rubber hips. Milo saw an ocean, a blue billowing sheet of silk, as his head bounced on the linoleum.
The figure in the brown suit did not move. He waited for the next attendant to come along and contemplated what he would try next. His toes nearly touched the line, but remained separated. After all, Milo had told him to stay behind the yellow tape line. And a devil can only do what man allows him.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Roll them bones
On the first Wednesday of every month, the short asian bartender of the Knights of Columbus club knocks on our living room window to remind us that Thursday is Bunko night.
Bunko is a simple dice game, it's fast-clip driven by enthusiastic octogenarians whose competitive side flares every time the bell is rung. You rotate tables and partners, keeping the conversations fresh. "Working yet?" they will ask me, and I will smile and shake my head. "Get that unemployment," they will say. For a roomful of McCain/Palin votes, they don't seem too upset at my stint on welfare.
Some of the regulars get snippy if you are on a hot streak. "That'll do," they will say in their grandmotherly fashion, reaching for the dice prematurely. You have to watch when they keep score. There isn't any malevolence, just poor arithmetic, but sometimes their numbers don't add up.
The median age of participants is 74, and everyone is a member of the catholic church. The drinks are cheap and the potluck snacks abundant, so it really is a great deal for a $5 buy-in.
Most of the time the prize money is split 3-ways with the average prize being at least $30, but last night they attempted a new system. When the breakdown was complete (which took awhile, remember the poor math) some people got $2.50, some got $7. I think I was the only person who didn't win any money.
Regardless of how they will split the money or how mercilessly they rib me about my seemingly endless unemployment, I look forward to the first Thursday of the month and our next match-up in the windowless cinder-block building across the alley.
Bunko is a simple dice game, it's fast-clip driven by enthusiastic octogenarians whose competitive side flares every time the bell is rung. You rotate tables and partners, keeping the conversations fresh. "Working yet?" they will ask me, and I will smile and shake my head. "Get that unemployment," they will say. For a roomful of McCain/Palin votes, they don't seem too upset at my stint on welfare.
Some of the regulars get snippy if you are on a hot streak. "That'll do," they will say in their grandmotherly fashion, reaching for the dice prematurely. You have to watch when they keep score. There isn't any malevolence, just poor arithmetic, but sometimes their numbers don't add up.
The median age of participants is 74, and everyone is a member of the catholic church. The drinks are cheap and the potluck snacks abundant, so it really is a great deal for a $5 buy-in.
Most of the time the prize money is split 3-ways with the average prize being at least $30, but last night they attempted a new system. When the breakdown was complete (which took awhile, remember the poor math) some people got $2.50, some got $7. I think I was the only person who didn't win any money.
Regardless of how they will split the money or how mercilessly they rib me about my seemingly endless unemployment, I look forward to the first Thursday of the month and our next match-up in the windowless cinder-block building across the alley.
Friday, May 29, 2009
stress relief
Were it possible, I would kick both of my dogs square in the nuts. They deserve it for all the worry and strife they cause. Of course Mudd's testicles were removed seven years ago and Crumb never actually had them (although she does have a strange pseudo-penis that Tegan refuses to acknowledge. In my opinion, she is a canine hermaphrodite.)
Um... that is all I really had to say. Internal mono-blog: Is it a good idea to blog about non-existent dog nuts? Probably not.
Um... that is all I really had to say. Internal mono-blog: Is it a good idea to blog about non-existent dog nuts? Probably not.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tim: A True Story
Tim just walked past my window. His story will make a good post—a memory from our first days in Eugene that refreshes itself periodically.
We had lived in our apartment in the big yellow house for 3 weeks or so. My eyes were grainy with sleep as I opened the door at 8 AM. The knocker was a bald man, early thirties, with two huge satchels and an oil drum. The barrel had been modified with creativity, an oxyacetylene torch and no small amount of patience into a gigantic candle holder, the likes of which you can find, in miniature, at any number of hippie-trinket stores nation wide.
He stood there smiling, but nonplussed. "Is Steve here?" "No," I replied. "There is no Steve here."
"I just got in from Indiana, and my friend used to live here..." He seemed genuine, so I frowned and nodded sympathetically. "Could I leave my bags on your porch? Just for today. I will be back to get them tonight or tomorrow." Our porch was expansive and, at that point in time, fairly free of clutter, leaving plenty of room for his parcels. I looked past him at the driveway.
It might be noted here that a man lived in our driveway, his bunk set up in the back of a toyota pickup. It has little bearing on the story, as he rose early to procure McDonald's breakfast and dine on the riverbank and so had not been roused by the commotion, but it sets the ambiance for our situation.
Next to the Toyota was a Vespa scooter, red and dented with a front Indiana inspection sticker. There was a motor oil box bungeed to the tail. It was only then that I noticed the Indiana license plate affixed to one of the stranger's bags. He noticed my puzzlement. "It does really well on the flat, but going over the mountains... Man, sometimes I couldn't get over 25 or 30 miles per hour." I looked at the two huge duffles and oil drum again.
"OK," I said. "You can leave that box, too, if you want." "Oh no," he laughed. "It takes about a quart of oil every day." He pulled out in a big blue cloud of smoke and ruckus.
Three weeks later we sat pondering those bags. "Fuck it," our neighbor finally caved. "He's not coming back. I like the giant candle holder/lantern barrel, but what is in those bags?" He opened one and and shocked us all.
"Garbage." Nelson (our neighbor) emptied wrappers, cans, crumpled paper and finally a medium-sized oak branch from the duffle. "It's a bunch of fucking garbage."
Literally, as if scripted and on cue, the beaten Vespa pulled into our driveway trailing it's blue streamer. Tim dismounted and came up the steps. "Hey," he said. Nelson had successfully stuffed some of the trash back into the bag and was now holding it with a guilty look on his face. Tim took the duffle and opened it. He removed the oak branch.
"Oh, yeah. That's right, I was invisible..." He was congenial, smiling as he stuffed one garbage sack into the barrel and slung the other on his back. We watched as he roped the smaller sack atop the oil box and wedged the drum (second sack within) between his legs, turned a tiny key and vanished in a stinking blue cloud. Did I mention he had a sparkly red helmet? Well, he did.
So, as I said in the beginning of this story, I still see him regularly. He does not recognize me, thankfully, even though twice I have called him by name and followed with an explanation of how I know it. I have run into him everywhere, from our friend's rock and mineral shop, to catching him chucking trash into the street outside the dog-wash in the middle of the night. A few weeks ago he popped up at the tavern we frequent with an upside-down pentagram tattooed on his forehead and concentric circles above his eyebrows. I know now that they must have been either Henna or ball-point pen, because they are no longer visible.
He is not the craziest person we've met (I'll save "Medley" for another time) but he holds a special place in our memories.
We had lived in our apartment in the big yellow house for 3 weeks or so. My eyes were grainy with sleep as I opened the door at 8 AM. The knocker was a bald man, early thirties, with two huge satchels and an oil drum. The barrel had been modified with creativity, an oxyacetylene torch and no small amount of patience into a gigantic candle holder, the likes of which you can find, in miniature, at any number of hippie-trinket stores nation wide.
He stood there smiling, but nonplussed. "Is Steve here?" "No," I replied. "There is no Steve here."
"I just got in from Indiana, and my friend used to live here..." He seemed genuine, so I frowned and nodded sympathetically. "Could I leave my bags on your porch? Just for today. I will be back to get them tonight or tomorrow." Our porch was expansive and, at that point in time, fairly free of clutter, leaving plenty of room for his parcels. I looked past him at the driveway.
It might be noted here that a man lived in our driveway, his bunk set up in the back of a toyota pickup. It has little bearing on the story, as he rose early to procure McDonald's breakfast and dine on the riverbank and so had not been roused by the commotion, but it sets the ambiance for our situation.
Next to the Toyota was a Vespa scooter, red and dented with a front Indiana inspection sticker. There was a motor oil box bungeed to the tail. It was only then that I noticed the Indiana license plate affixed to one of the stranger's bags. He noticed my puzzlement. "It does really well on the flat, but going over the mountains... Man, sometimes I couldn't get over 25 or 30 miles per hour." I looked at the two huge duffles and oil drum again.
"OK," I said. "You can leave that box, too, if you want." "Oh no," he laughed. "It takes about a quart of oil every day." He pulled out in a big blue cloud of smoke and ruckus.
Three weeks later we sat pondering those bags. "Fuck it," our neighbor finally caved. "He's not coming back. I like the giant candle holder/lantern barrel, but what is in those bags?" He opened one and and shocked us all.
"Garbage." Nelson (our neighbor) emptied wrappers, cans, crumpled paper and finally a medium-sized oak branch from the duffle. "It's a bunch of fucking garbage."
Literally, as if scripted and on cue, the beaten Vespa pulled into our driveway trailing it's blue streamer. Tim dismounted and came up the steps. "Hey," he said. Nelson had successfully stuffed some of the trash back into the bag and was now holding it with a guilty look on his face. Tim took the duffle and opened it. He removed the oak branch.
"Oh, yeah. That's right, I was invisible..." He was congenial, smiling as he stuffed one garbage sack into the barrel and slung the other on his back. We watched as he roped the smaller sack atop the oil box and wedged the drum (second sack within) between his legs, turned a tiny key and vanished in a stinking blue cloud. Did I mention he had a sparkly red helmet? Well, he did.
So, as I said in the beginning of this story, I still see him regularly. He does not recognize me, thankfully, even though twice I have called him by name and followed with an explanation of how I know it. I have run into him everywhere, from our friend's rock and mineral shop, to catching him chucking trash into the street outside the dog-wash in the middle of the night. A few weeks ago he popped up at the tavern we frequent with an upside-down pentagram tattooed on his forehead and concentric circles above his eyebrows. I know now that they must have been either Henna or ball-point pen, because they are no longer visible.
He is not the craziest person we've met (I'll save "Medley" for another time) but he holds a special place in our memories.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Hook
"I'm going to start a pineapple farm."
Like a giant, rabid moth beating it's powdered wings frantically against his apple-shiny cheeks, the makeup girl made no discernible acknowledgment of his comment. He was but simulacrum seated before her, one of many light-bulbs against which she could bash her talcum talents into exhaustion. Certainly her metal had been honed by richer, more idolized figures. Her disinterest interested him. He swallowed a lump in his throat that was his pride.
He had the intense urge to say something outrageous just to get a reaction — like, "Your mother mentioned something in bed last night..." Her stoic gaze and carefully metered patting was almost animatronic. She didn't even apologize after slapping her dust-bunny into his open eye when he had flinched at a sweat bee sting. After all, he was the one who jerked. He was the jerk.
A man in tight shimmering pants strode past carrying a xylophone mounted to a harness. A very disenchanted llama followed behind him, which of course evoked the question: Who was that harness was for? Did the llama play xylophone? Did it dance as the man in shiny pants played? What was the hook?
Sitting in the make-up chair, his hook was obvious, as it was a foot long 7/8th inch tapered piece of curled chromoly jutting from his right wrist. The hook itself was not the hook, however. That proxy had held his hand's place for nearly 22 years. The reason CBS executives thought people would want to see him on television was entirely unrelated.
The audience wouldn't want to hear about when he was twelve and the boat carrying 40 cuban refugees, himself among them, had broken apart 25 miles off the Florida coast. His mother had drown along with 28 others.
The crowd didn't care about his daughter's courageous fight against Melanoma, surviving numerous rounds of chemotherapy and skin grafts, never allowing her fear to surmount her will. She was at home in bed, dreaming.
All those people watching had no interest in his struggles, inspirations, affirmations, insights — in him as a human. He was a grinder monkey, a nameless automaton with a flawed nasal canal that allowed him to whistle through his ears. He would close his eyes and blow, people would clap, and he would slink back off into obscurity.
Suddenly overwhelmed, a tear ran down his cheek. Which, consequently, finally got the make-up girl to acknowledge him, and in her startling husky voice, she said, "Shit."
Like a giant, rabid moth beating it's powdered wings frantically against his apple-shiny cheeks, the makeup girl made no discernible acknowledgment of his comment. He was but simulacrum seated before her, one of many light-bulbs against which she could bash her talcum talents into exhaustion. Certainly her metal had been honed by richer, more idolized figures. Her disinterest interested him. He swallowed a lump in his throat that was his pride.
He had the intense urge to say something outrageous just to get a reaction — like, "Your mother mentioned something in bed last night..." Her stoic gaze and carefully metered patting was almost animatronic. She didn't even apologize after slapping her dust-bunny into his open eye when he had flinched at a sweat bee sting. After all, he was the one who jerked. He was the jerk.
A man in tight shimmering pants strode past carrying a xylophone mounted to a harness. A very disenchanted llama followed behind him, which of course evoked the question: Who was that harness was for? Did the llama play xylophone? Did it dance as the man in shiny pants played? What was the hook?
Sitting in the make-up chair, his hook was obvious, as it was a foot long 7/8th inch tapered piece of curled chromoly jutting from his right wrist. The hook itself was not the hook, however. That proxy had held his hand's place for nearly 22 years. The reason CBS executives thought people would want to see him on television was entirely unrelated.
The audience wouldn't want to hear about when he was twelve and the boat carrying 40 cuban refugees, himself among them, had broken apart 25 miles off the Florida coast. His mother had drown along with 28 others.
The crowd didn't care about his daughter's courageous fight against Melanoma, surviving numerous rounds of chemotherapy and skin grafts, never allowing her fear to surmount her will. She was at home in bed, dreaming.
All those people watching had no interest in his struggles, inspirations, affirmations, insights — in him as a human. He was a grinder monkey, a nameless automaton with a flawed nasal canal that allowed him to whistle through his ears. He would close his eyes and blow, people would clap, and he would slink back off into obscurity.
Suddenly overwhelmed, a tear ran down his cheek. Which, consequently, finally got the make-up girl to acknowledge him, and in her startling husky voice, she said, "Shit."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Unfinished yarns
Earlier tonight, as the recliner I perched upon pitched north (quite expectantly... since reclining is what recliners do), I watched a shabbily encased cord unwind from its chrome enclosure as the lamp I was attempting to repair (while plugged in) was further traumatized. After stabilization, the frayed weaving and electrical components protruding from the lamp's base illustrated a greater deficiency.
This particular fixture exudes robust durability. It's trifecta of positional lamps appear bomb-proof. When one of the illuminating colanders popped from it's pivot last week, both my spouse and myself were baffled. Since the hour was late, my response was to deal with it later.
It is later. So now, attempting to calm my racing heart after nearly electrocuting myself and/or pitching strait off the chair and out the window, I discount the allegorical substance in those frail and frazzled wires jutting like guts from a steel pole. This experience was about the moment...
I remember thinking, as the chair shifted beneath my stupidity, "Don't do anything stupid, like kill yourself." This was not a magnanimous revelation. No, I was thinking of myself and all the stories I have started and not finished. I've got too many ridiculous tales that are already, in one way or the other, preserved as lasting legacy yet need major overhaul. To surrender those yarns like tadpoles into the trout stream, immature and incomplete, would be my warped vision of a true tragedy.
This particular fixture exudes robust durability. It's trifecta of positional lamps appear bomb-proof. When one of the illuminating colanders popped from it's pivot last week, both my spouse and myself were baffled. Since the hour was late, my response was to deal with it later.
It is later. So now, attempting to calm my racing heart after nearly electrocuting myself and/or pitching strait off the chair and out the window, I discount the allegorical substance in those frail and frazzled wires jutting like guts from a steel pole. This experience was about the moment...
I remember thinking, as the chair shifted beneath my stupidity, "Don't do anything stupid, like kill yourself." This was not a magnanimous revelation. No, I was thinking of myself and all the stories I have started and not finished. I've got too many ridiculous tales that are already, in one way or the other, preserved as lasting legacy yet need major overhaul. To surrender those yarns like tadpoles into the trout stream, immature and incomplete, would be my warped vision of a true tragedy.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
A story about a bridge
Standing alone in the dark, brittle and bleached, the old structure still allowed safe passage over Willup Creek. It's reliable fingers plunged down, perpetually testing the tepidness of the waters. Headlights would crawl across it's splintering beams less and less frequently as the night spooled past. Cars that carried strangers, lovers, dreaming children, quarreling parents; It's shivering timbers supported them all alike.
The sweethearts who stole kisses below it's weathered canopy would etch their epithets into it's beams. And each scribe would step back with their pocket-knives, absorbing all those letters and hearts, the cluster of identities, and feel a ring of guilt. Smooching here, below their vandalism, would no longer feel so secret or spontaneous. One small act of graffiti had amputated that small piece of youth, whittled it off with a dull drug-store edge.
Occasionally the vibrations of tires would shimmy a knot from it's hole, releasing it to plink into the ripples like some old fashion bobber. Damsel flies would use it as an island, a ship, as it bumped it's way along the water path, eyed by fish and craw-dads, eventually to sink or rot or be swept beyond what could be imagined. Tiny bits of a bridge whose sole purpose was to be solid and stationary, immobile, would drift off on epic adventures.
And the night that it collapsed, sending all those planks and lumbers to join their departed parts, all those carved proclamations of love and fidelity to rush into the blue, it was vacant. The next morning people of the community gathered to view what wasn't there. They looked at the hole in the road leaving air over the maw of the river. They looked at the air and thought private thoughts. And while it was agreed that the bridge had obviously been an antiquated bit of unsafe infrastructure, it was missed.
An industrial grey overpass replaced it, sturdy and uninspiring. The only bits of itself to break loose were pebbles that would plummet into the sediment to be buried and forgotten. The only graffiti it would accept came from an aerosol spray-can, the passionless mischief of hooligans. Most folks found themselves taking the long loop to town. When they looked at the new concrete fixture, all they saw was a hole. All the imagination and fallibility had washed away.
The sweethearts who stole kisses below it's weathered canopy would etch their epithets into it's beams. And each scribe would step back with their pocket-knives, absorbing all those letters and hearts, the cluster of identities, and feel a ring of guilt. Smooching here, below their vandalism, would no longer feel so secret or spontaneous. One small act of graffiti had amputated that small piece of youth, whittled it off with a dull drug-store edge.
Occasionally the vibrations of tires would shimmy a knot from it's hole, releasing it to plink into the ripples like some old fashion bobber. Damsel flies would use it as an island, a ship, as it bumped it's way along the water path, eyed by fish and craw-dads, eventually to sink or rot or be swept beyond what could be imagined. Tiny bits of a bridge whose sole purpose was to be solid and stationary, immobile, would drift off on epic adventures.
And the night that it collapsed, sending all those planks and lumbers to join their departed parts, all those carved proclamations of love and fidelity to rush into the blue, it was vacant. The next morning people of the community gathered to view what wasn't there. They looked at the hole in the road leaving air over the maw of the river. They looked at the air and thought private thoughts. And while it was agreed that the bridge had obviously been an antiquated bit of unsafe infrastructure, it was missed.
An industrial grey overpass replaced it, sturdy and uninspiring. The only bits of itself to break loose were pebbles that would plummet into the sediment to be buried and forgotten. The only graffiti it would accept came from an aerosol spray-can, the passionless mischief of hooligans. Most folks found themselves taking the long loop to town. When they looked at the new concrete fixture, all they saw was a hole. All the imagination and fallibility had washed away.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Underpants Update
Several months have passed since an absence of regular tagless Hanes medium size boxers forced my purchase of the premium variety. It's stingy 2-pack left a wanting of value, therefore I expected the quality to be tops. Would I be disappointed after the proper breaking-in period? Here is an update.
Lets begin with the positive points. Comfort: The soft cotton cloth and comfy waistband proves luxurious. Despite having a tag sewn into the back, it is unnoticeable. Fashion: The bright striped pattern provides the piece of mind that should there be some nightmarish episode involving the loss of trousers, I can blush confidently.
But now the negatives. First of all, they seem to shrink after washing. Granted, they return readily to their stretched state soon after their rare laundering. So it's a minor flaw which is easily sidestepped by not washing them.
My main problem is with the button on the fly. Underwear, in my opinion, should be free of hardware. A simple ungapped over-flap is sufficient for its basic function. To stand in front of a urinal, fumbling through the fly-hole of one's blue-jeans in an attempt to re-fix a fastener not only looks foolish but seems redundant.
So there you have it, interested parties. Weigh the evidence for yourself before dropping $20 on two pairs of boxers. For my part, I will stick to the $15 three pack of regular tagless.
Lets begin with the positive points. Comfort: The soft cotton cloth and comfy waistband proves luxurious. Despite having a tag sewn into the back, it is unnoticeable. Fashion: The bright striped pattern provides the piece of mind that should there be some nightmarish episode involving the loss of trousers, I can blush confidently.
But now the negatives. First of all, they seem to shrink after washing. Granted, they return readily to their stretched state soon after their rare laundering. So it's a minor flaw which is easily sidestepped by not washing them.
My main problem is with the button on the fly. Underwear, in my opinion, should be free of hardware. A simple ungapped over-flap is sufficient for its basic function. To stand in front of a urinal, fumbling through the fly-hole of one's blue-jeans in an attempt to re-fix a fastener not only looks foolish but seems redundant.
So there you have it, interested parties. Weigh the evidence for yourself before dropping $20 on two pairs of boxers. For my part, I will stick to the $15 three pack of regular tagless.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Exactly true
The diner served dry hamburgers. The false fifties memorabilia (Route 66 signs, wide Chevy grilles, a cornerless jukebox) weren't distraction enough for the two men crammed into the red and white pleather booth, so the dry hamburgers certainly weren't helping. Thomas set his seeded bun down next to his cold crinkle-cut fries.
"I killed a man once."
This wasn't exactly true. To say he killed a man, actively ending his existence on this earth, removing him from the 6 cubic feet (or so) of specific space he occupied in time, was inaccurate.
Thomas referred to a night two years earlier. Walking to a free concert, he passed a man sprawled on the concrete in front of a 7-11. The unnatural angles of his limbs paused Thomas' gait. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily. He said, "Hello." There was no motion from the figure splayed on the stoop. Thomas poked him gently with the toe of his shoe. Nothing.
And so Thomas stooped, noticing on his decent the scuffed paper cup perched on the curb, it's insides stained with the coffee or tea that it had once held, now encompassing several coins. He placed his fingers on the transient's jugular. Nothing.
The flesh wasn't cold, however. Thomas had thought about CPR, about the cup, about those chapped lips and his own. He abruptly stood, and after depositing 17 cents into the cup, briskly walked away. It was only several hours later, after the concert, after seeing the coroner at the 7-11, after thoughts of phone calls and emergency medical personnel and their wages and society's burdens; only after all the whores in his mind had peddled their wares did Thomas realize he might have held a role in this timely passing.
Russell looked at Thomas across the faded red diner table. He found himself trapped in a small corner booth with a person who might be capable of terrible things. "What was it like?"
"I get a boner thinking about it." Thomas tried to act nonchalant, picking up a soggy potato wedge and wondering why he had divulged that truly intimate bit of information. He felt some strange camaraderie for this person he had met online several weeks ago. It was true; his arousal at the memory of that night and it's obvious violence. Even though his participation was limited to the possibilities of his inaction (his neglect, indirectly causing death which might have been delayed), he felt very pivotal.
Russell nervously pushed catsup around on his plate with a fry. "I've, uh... I've never killed thing."
Which also was not exactly true. From a lawyer's standpoint maybe, it was asphyxiation and traumatic spinal injuries and internal ruptures that had caused the deaths of 12 men he had met at various diners over the past six months. Russell watched the waitress lean on her hip after forcefully smacking the chrome ringer. She chewed gum, so Russell watched her chew it. He did not become aroused thinking of his violent trysts. He became aroused during them.
And so the strangers exchanged inexact truths for 45 minutes before mounting the nerve to retire to a hotel room with their perversions. Later that night, one would leave.
"I killed a man once."
This wasn't exactly true. To say he killed a man, actively ending his existence on this earth, removing him from the 6 cubic feet (or so) of specific space he occupied in time, was inaccurate.
Thomas referred to a night two years earlier. Walking to a free concert, he passed a man sprawled on the concrete in front of a 7-11. The unnatural angles of his limbs paused Thomas' gait. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily. He said, "Hello." There was no motion from the figure splayed on the stoop. Thomas poked him gently with the toe of his shoe. Nothing.
And so Thomas stooped, noticing on his decent the scuffed paper cup perched on the curb, it's insides stained with the coffee or tea that it had once held, now encompassing several coins. He placed his fingers on the transient's jugular. Nothing.
The flesh wasn't cold, however. Thomas had thought about CPR, about the cup, about those chapped lips and his own. He abruptly stood, and after depositing 17 cents into the cup, briskly walked away. It was only several hours later, after the concert, after seeing the coroner at the 7-11, after thoughts of phone calls and emergency medical personnel and their wages and society's burdens; only after all the whores in his mind had peddled their wares did Thomas realize he might have held a role in this timely passing.
Russell looked at Thomas across the faded red diner table. He found himself trapped in a small corner booth with a person who might be capable of terrible things. "What was it like?"
"I get a boner thinking about it." Thomas tried to act nonchalant, picking up a soggy potato wedge and wondering why he had divulged that truly intimate bit of information. He felt some strange camaraderie for this person he had met online several weeks ago. It was true; his arousal at the memory of that night and it's obvious violence. Even though his participation was limited to the possibilities of his inaction (his neglect, indirectly causing death which might have been delayed), he felt very pivotal.
Russell nervously pushed catsup around on his plate with a fry. "I've, uh... I've never killed thing."
Which also was not exactly true. From a lawyer's standpoint maybe, it was asphyxiation and traumatic spinal injuries and internal ruptures that had caused the deaths of 12 men he had met at various diners over the past six months. Russell watched the waitress lean on her hip after forcefully smacking the chrome ringer. She chewed gum, so Russell watched her chew it. He did not become aroused thinking of his violent trysts. He became aroused during them.
And so the strangers exchanged inexact truths for 45 minutes before mounting the nerve to retire to a hotel room with their perversions. Later that night, one would leave.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Personal Anxiety Exposition
There is a bubble inside of me. A marble. A swollen, pregnant orb that dives and floats. It bumps against organs. It's filling of cold gas causes twitches and flutters of the guts and heart and epiglottis as it ascends toward the brain, only to end up slithering southward again; redundant in reverse.
Some suggest a chemical cure. Pills, well... we all have our irrational phobias. No pharmaceuticals shall quell my jitters due to a very complex jigsaw puzzle of personal predisposition. Tablets and capsules and caplets shall remain piled in their powdery bins, across town, across the street, elsewhere. I choose my frets and fusses over them.
It's like looking at a picture of a stranger standing with hands on hips. You look at his yellow jacket with it's strange fringe and the angles of his geometry. His eyes are downcast, yet he is you, in a jacket you do not recognize on a street you cannot place. The more you stare at this figure, this self-effigy, the more uncertainties you fight.
So the clothing is not familiar, the street nameless... Things are lost occasionally. But then, who took the picture: A forgotten lover? A passer-by? Why the look of resignation, the feeling of defeat? Why is this image in your hands, anyway?
Searching for answers, for certainty, only mounts questions upon questions. Your back itches in a place you cannot reach, so you ignore it as best you can.
There you have it: what my anxiety is like.
Why do I delve into these ridiculous tirades about personal psyche instead of just posting the actual tribulations of my day-to-day existence? Well, I need to write this down. Why publish it in digital public instead of just journalling privately? Well... I need an excuse to make it worth reading.
Some suggest a chemical cure. Pills, well... we all have our irrational phobias. No pharmaceuticals shall quell my jitters due to a very complex jigsaw puzzle of personal predisposition. Tablets and capsules and caplets shall remain piled in their powdery bins, across town, across the street, elsewhere. I choose my frets and fusses over them.
It's like looking at a picture of a stranger standing with hands on hips. You look at his yellow jacket with it's strange fringe and the angles of his geometry. His eyes are downcast, yet he is you, in a jacket you do not recognize on a street you cannot place. The more you stare at this figure, this self-effigy, the more uncertainties you fight.
So the clothing is not familiar, the street nameless... Things are lost occasionally. But then, who took the picture: A forgotten lover? A passer-by? Why the look of resignation, the feeling of defeat? Why is this image in your hands, anyway?
Searching for answers, for certainty, only mounts questions upon questions. Your back itches in a place you cannot reach, so you ignore it as best you can.
There you have it: what my anxiety is like.
Why do I delve into these ridiculous tirades about personal psyche instead of just posting the actual tribulations of my day-to-day existence? Well, I need to write this down. Why publish it in digital public instead of just journalling privately? Well... I need an excuse to make it worth reading.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Nothing
It was beautiful.
That dangling bead of drink, suspended by a microscopic friction between liquid and follicle.
It lingered for eternity, elbowing the beard hairs on either side, trembling on it's prickly precipice. Sour and acidic, the droplet resembled the obvious tear.
It was something.
Nothing. Nothing. Leonard rustled his paper purposefully. It was 4 in the afternoon and he was working though his second gin, scanning the print which blackened his fingers, waiting for the phone to ring, for a knock at the door that would rouse the dogs.
For something. He wiped the drop from his beard.
He focused on his own quiet breathing, listening to it's rhythm as his eyes languished on the page, on the sentence "... dragging the river..." "Notify next of kin..."
A fly buzzed and flitted and landed on the thin edge of the paper. Leonard watched it rub it's front legs together, like a greedy cartoon character anticipating some ill-gotten plunder. He stopped breathing. It was something, that insect perched there, praying or plotting or preening.
Leonard sucked in wind forcefully, causing the bug to jump and the dogs to prick up their ears. He exhaled and waited for something.
For the next something.
That dangling bead of drink, suspended by a microscopic friction between liquid and follicle.
It lingered for eternity, elbowing the beard hairs on either side, trembling on it's prickly precipice. Sour and acidic, the droplet resembled the obvious tear.
It was something.
Nothing. Nothing. Leonard rustled his paper purposefully. It was 4 in the afternoon and he was working though his second gin, scanning the print which blackened his fingers, waiting for the phone to ring, for a knock at the door that would rouse the dogs.
For something. He wiped the drop from his beard.
He focused on his own quiet breathing, listening to it's rhythm as his eyes languished on the page, on the sentence "... dragging the river..." "Notify next of kin..."
A fly buzzed and flitted and landed on the thin edge of the paper. Leonard watched it rub it's front legs together, like a greedy cartoon character anticipating some ill-gotten plunder. He stopped breathing. It was something, that insect perched there, praying or plotting or preening.
Leonard sucked in wind forcefully, causing the bug to jump and the dogs to prick up their ears. He exhaled and waited for something.
For the next something.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Those teeth
Thom Skree's teeth conjured both predator and prey. They blinked briefly from beneath his mustache; the thin, long dentition of a carnivore that evoked bones blanched in the sun. He tapped his finger on the desk, or rather on the manuscript laying before him, breaking Harold's transfixion.
"Mr. Bansay. Harold, may I call you Harold? Good. Now..." Skree went on speaking as Harold slipped away again, staring at the movements of the face across the mahogany table. He was not alone, neither on his side of the desk or in his staring, as his mother beside him was equally preoccupied.
'Those teeth,' Harold's mother thought.
'That mustache,' Harold thought.
"Harold," Mr. Skree's voice cut into Harold's reverie. "Please understand, your piece is... unique. Provoking, but..." Skree's fingers emulated his teeth in length and impeccability. Their cuticles brushed invisible lint from his lapels. His tongue ran over his incisors, bulging out his mustache like a mouse under straw. "Given your recent... difficulties, our publishing house has policies regarding business with anyone involved as a defendant in pending felony charges."
Those "difficulties" played through Harold Bansay's daydream as he gazed at Mr. Skree's upper lip. The first, several weeks ago, involved the server at a creperie. According to the police report, the dust-up originated over a dispute of billing, but Harold knew better.
The second, only yesterday, was, in Harold's view, more of a misunderstanding. A miscommunication, really, a folly that under other circumstances would have been a forgettable nonevent easily laughed off, had the other party not been a member of the greater metro police force.
"And," Skree continued. "To be perfectly honest, this isn't really marketable. It's not really Sci-Fi, not suspense, well... We just don't know how to sell this."
Sweat beaded on the bridge of Harold's nose and nostrils. His mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
Skree cleared his throat. "Inventive as it is, a story about people who's mustaches control what they say is... AHHHHHHH!" Skree's calm demeanor was shattered as Harold suddenly vaulted across the desk, a glimmering strait razor glinting in his fingers.
Harold's poor mother was aggressively shoved aside as two burley men appeared from nowhere to subdue the ranting author. "I can cut it off, Mr. Skree! You don't know what you're saying! Let me cut it off, Mr. Skree! It's making you say these things!"
After the disarming and forcible removal of Harold from the office, Skree and Mrs. Bansay sat silently contemplating one another. "Mrs. Bansay... Um, I believe your son will be at the police station on 3rd and Morris." He offered a pained smile of consolation. "May I validate your parking?"
'Those teeth,' thought Harold's mother.
"Mr. Bansay. Harold, may I call you Harold? Good. Now..." Skree went on speaking as Harold slipped away again, staring at the movements of the face across the mahogany table. He was not alone, neither on his side of the desk or in his staring, as his mother beside him was equally preoccupied.
'Those teeth,' Harold's mother thought.
'That mustache,' Harold thought.
"Harold," Mr. Skree's voice cut into Harold's reverie. "Please understand, your piece is... unique. Provoking, but..." Skree's fingers emulated his teeth in length and impeccability. Their cuticles brushed invisible lint from his lapels. His tongue ran over his incisors, bulging out his mustache like a mouse under straw. "Given your recent... difficulties, our publishing house has policies regarding business with anyone involved as a defendant in pending felony charges."
Those "difficulties" played through Harold Bansay's daydream as he gazed at Mr. Skree's upper lip. The first, several weeks ago, involved the server at a creperie. According to the police report, the dust-up originated over a dispute of billing, but Harold knew better.
The second, only yesterday, was, in Harold's view, more of a misunderstanding. A miscommunication, really, a folly that under other circumstances would have been a forgettable nonevent easily laughed off, had the other party not been a member of the greater metro police force.
"And," Skree continued. "To be perfectly honest, this isn't really marketable. It's not really Sci-Fi, not suspense, well... We just don't know how to sell this."
Sweat beaded on the bridge of Harold's nose and nostrils. His mother shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
Skree cleared his throat. "Inventive as it is, a story about people who's mustaches control what they say is... AHHHHHHH!" Skree's calm demeanor was shattered as Harold suddenly vaulted across the desk, a glimmering strait razor glinting in his fingers.
Harold's poor mother was aggressively shoved aside as two burley men appeared from nowhere to subdue the ranting author. "I can cut it off, Mr. Skree! You don't know what you're saying! Let me cut it off, Mr. Skree! It's making you say these things!"
After the disarming and forcible removal of Harold from the office, Skree and Mrs. Bansay sat silently contemplating one another. "Mrs. Bansay... Um, I believe your son will be at the police station on 3rd and Morris." He offered a pained smile of consolation. "May I validate your parking?"
'Those teeth,' thought Harold's mother.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Figments
Outside, winds lift skirts and debris. Men with hard livers wipe their faces as they exit dim rooms of pungent air. Branches lash at their supporting trunks, agitated by ghosts and figments and dreams.
Inside, isobars coast in smooth tandem over the pull of a vibrant map. Their brilliant shift and sweep chart dark disturbance, predicting the hereafter. Specters in this box of lights and the shade in my thoughts leer.
The rock-stars of my youth have been sucked into the maw of their muses. Left to rattle my windows, the wraiths of their hot deaths howl like wolves in the wind. The world through the window tilts with the gusts, yet it feels like I'm the one leaning; being bent akimbo by haunts.
Dogs bark in my dreams.
Inside, isobars coast in smooth tandem over the pull of a vibrant map. Their brilliant shift and sweep chart dark disturbance, predicting the hereafter. Specters in this box of lights and the shade in my thoughts leer.
The rock-stars of my youth have been sucked into the maw of their muses. Left to rattle my windows, the wraiths of their hot deaths howl like wolves in the wind. The world through the window tilts with the gusts, yet it feels like I'm the one leaning; being bent akimbo by haunts.
Dogs bark in my dreams.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Zippers & Nuts & 8 & 0
Tegan and I went to a Squirrel Nut Zippers concert last night. We (Tegan, actually) was able to procure the signature of both singers and founding members, Jim Mathas and Katharine Whalen.
We approached Jim as he mingled between opening acts, haranguing women with his disarming southern charm. He turned to us with the reek of malt. Obviously plastered, he scrawled "Tegan, *scribble* 2009" across the front of our cd liner. We recoiled to a safe distance.
Katharine was sitting alone after the show. She was gracious and genuinely nice as she put her name on her picture in the booklet. Looking back, we regretted not asking her to accompany us for a drink.
It was 80 degrees here yesterday. Tegan got a sunburn. I wonder if there is still snow on the ground in Wisconsin. Probably not much.
We approached Jim as he mingled between opening acts, haranguing women with his disarming southern charm. He turned to us with the reek of malt. Obviously plastered, he scrawled "Tegan, *scribble* 2009" across the front of our cd liner. We recoiled to a safe distance.
Katharine was sitting alone after the show. She was gracious and genuinely nice as she put her name on her picture in the booklet. Looking back, we regretted not asking her to accompany us for a drink.
It was 80 degrees here yesterday. Tegan got a sunburn. I wonder if there is still snow on the ground in Wisconsin. Probably not much.
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