The core elements of the Star Wars movies are typical of fantasy stories (I'm talking the classic Star Wars):
The reluctant farmboy is called to adventure, guided by a mystic wizard with a ragtag group of friends and their noble steed to infiltrate a spooky fortress and rescue a perfect princess from the sinister clutches of a real bad dude.
George Lucas blew our minds by putting a futuristic spin on things and it is my assertion that he was heavily influenced by a crappy warehouse environment. When I, myself, am working in a crappy warehouse I see many things that I recognize from the Star Wars films.
Starting with all the smooth polished floors, the similarities between the technology in the ship hangers and warehouse equipment: lasers, how my "tug" is like a speeder-bike, how you can put a cart on the (fork)lift and raise it two feet and it looks like it's floating as Luke's speeder does. If you've ever seen those robotic arms they use for welding, it would be easy to evolve that thought into a droid. The "trash compactor" scene could easily have been the influence of a warehouse environment. Where else, but a warehouse, could you possibly find a general populace made up of guys that look and sound like wookies or that has a "Star Wars"-level of people missing limbs? And who among us has never had a boss that bears a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hut?
Can't you just imagine George Lucas and a coworker slacking off out behind a warehouse with George waving around one of those long flourescent light tubes and saying, "Ernie, watch as I bring balance to the universe with my Sabre of Light!"
And then his friend, Ernie (who is missing his front teeth and his left hand), says, "But firth you'll have to vanquith me, the darth lord!"
George says, "Very well. Prepare to be smitten as you've never been smitten before, Darth."
And then Ernie says, "But, Lucath... I'm your father."
And then George says, "Wait wait, I need to write this down."
Maybe that is difficult to picture but that is only because the dialogue I wrote is twice as good as any Lucas ever did. But I think you get the idea. It practically writes itself if you think about it, just like "Back to the Future" was penned by some electronics student. C'mon, Flux Capacitor? Did he open a book on soldering and randomly point at words to come up with that one? And I'm sure "the fourth dimension" (time) was a daily topic in his "Math for Guys Who Like Drawing Lightning Bolts" class.
So there you have it, the best deconstruction since that movie "Shakespeare In Love." I have no evidence of any of these connections. It's pure speculation but it still makes me feel better that my crappy job may have me on a path like that of Lucas.
For educational purposes I tried to find a clear and concise definition of "Deconstruction" but I don't think one exists (so the word "deconstruction" is a perfect example of its own definition: basically, that no one can agree what it means). Here is one of the more straight-forward definitions I found on Google:
Deconstruction is a complex concept that is based on the limitations of language to express one meaning for a word. Such considerations as the context, biases in the speaker, power (economic and/or political) change over time and thus meanings and interpretations change over time. Deconstructionists thus state the impossibility of a single signification, representation and/or reality that all will agree is true.
Kind of like the way people read the Bible.
If you ask me, using this as a method to analyze literature seems to take you away from the story and what the writer DOES successfully communicate to you just for the sake of knit-picking the differences between the social conditions of the writer and you, whoever-you-are.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Not For Dial-Up
Just wanted to post some recent drawings by the 5 year old:
Cat:3 legs for perspective, not because he can't count.
Mother apatosaurus with child (Stick figure for sizing). He also did a rhinoceros picture just like this but three pics is my limit tonight.
T. Rex fossils
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Ear-nema?
Someone told me, a long time ago, that cleaning your ears with Q-tips pushes wax deeper into your ear where you cannot get it out and that, instead, you should buy some ear-cleaning kit with a turkey-baster thing and ear-cleaning solution to flush it all out.
Does anyone actually do that? I like cleaning my ears with Q-tips.
Does anyone actually do that? I like cleaning my ears with Q-tips.
Darlin' Don't You Go and Cut Your Hair. Do You Think it's Gonna Make Him Change?
To all the dads who dread the morning chore of putting their daughter's hair in a ponytail, I have just come across the most revolutionary discovery: THE HEADBAND. Headbands are awesome. Try them out.
And to all the over-achieving dads who make pigtails or even braid their daughter's hair: My hat is off to you.
And to all the over-achieving dads who make pigtails or even braid their daughter's hair: My hat is off to you.
Monday, March 27, 2006
V for Effort. Make that an E.
I went and watched V for Vendetta over the weekend. I was entertained but it wasn't as good as the first Matrix movie or even Constantine. I do okay with subversive movies and I suspect that people who don't will not like this movie. If you can't handle 15 minutes of Starship Troopers you probably won't like V.
The main reason to see V in the theater is to get the full of effect of the simultaneous expolsions, classical music and fireworks as V blows up historical British landmarks. The movie can get slow in parts, I was hoping for a little more action. I did like the touch of the "star/victim" of the most recent version of the film "1984" as the corrupt chancellor in V.
Here are my criticisms:
Natalie Portman's role was not good enough. She's a good actor who appears in a lot of hit movies, and yet her most stand out performance has been that piece of crap "Where the heart is" because she doesn't get very good roles. "Garden State" was alright but it didn't show her ability. And "Star Wars," bah! She didn't have the will live, let alone to save the prequels.
I suspect the writers used current U.S. events to parallel as examples of the corrupt oppressive rule of the future so in the film they sort of seemed cliche. Maybe that's because I read the news. To people who don't read the news it might have been mind-blowing stuff. The banning of art and books seems cliched, too.
The plots of V didn't seem any better than the vile actions of the oppressive government. While I am all for standing against oppression, I'm still not an anarchist.
The subplot about liberation through "coming out of the closet" was granted too much time. Probably has to do with one of the Warchowski brother's going through medical alterations to become a Warchowski sister.
The themes should have been more ethical instead of political. Acceptance should be a virtue regardless of your political pursuasion.
The most unbelievable part of the movie was the calm composure of the everyday people as they overthrew their government. I really wish people could be like that but there are too many morons out there for that to be a reality. In real life it would have turned into a riot faster than you could say "Rodney King" or "The Lakers won the championship."
I like the theme of removing oppression but it's been done better in other movies. Still, it's more fun to watch others liberate themselves from corrupt rule rather than take on the task of removing our own.
The main reason to see V in the theater is to get the full of effect of the simultaneous expolsions, classical music and fireworks as V blows up historical British landmarks. The movie can get slow in parts, I was hoping for a little more action. I did like the touch of the "star/victim" of the most recent version of the film "1984" as the corrupt chancellor in V.
Here are my criticisms:
I like the theme of removing oppression but it's been done better in other movies. Still, it's more fun to watch others liberate themselves from corrupt rule rather than take on the task of removing our own.
Classic Cartoon Violence
Once in awhile my kids and I watch Tom and Jerry reruns on Cartoon Network. There is rarely any speaking. It's mostly slapstick and violence but we are all entertained. I wouldn't think of myself as someone to support cartoon violence but when an episode opens with Tom the cat lazing in an armchair on a summer afternoon playing paddleball where he has replaced the rubber ball with Jerry the mouse, I start laughing.
In an episode we just saw there is a buckaroo mouse who travels around with his guitar performing the song "Froggy went a' courtin'" for anyone who will listen. At key moments of his performance he always breaks a string on his guitar and Tom the cat always busts up laughing at the singer's misfortune. Then the mouse will do something like reach out of the television and pull out Tom's whiskers or something.
It's not what Mary Poppins would teach but it doesn't seem that bad and it sure makes me laugh.
In an episode we just saw there is a buckaroo mouse who travels around with his guitar performing the song "Froggy went a' courtin'" for anyone who will listen. At key moments of his performance he always breaks a string on his guitar and Tom the cat always busts up laughing at the singer's misfortune. Then the mouse will do something like reach out of the television and pull out Tom's whiskers or something.
It's not what Mary Poppins would teach but it doesn't seem that bad and it sure makes me laugh.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Run for the Border
Tonight they had me moving matresses and really heavy furniture at work. When you do that they give you a "temp" to help you out. They call these temps "perma-temps" because they work there everyday. Basically, it is safe to assume they are illegals from Mexico. The last temp I worked with acted just like all the other losers I work with, just in Spanish. He commented on every girl he saw (I learned that "caliente" means "horny" in addition to meaning "hot."), he talked about how he doesn't like being stereo-typed as a Mexican even though he stereotyped others: "Chinese don't know nothing. Nobody in China is educated." When he asked me what my heritage was and I said, "Native American... Indian." He asked, quite seriously, "Don't you think there are too many Indians in this country?" I said, "Maybe if you count all the white people who think they are Indian." Otherwise, the answer is "never."
But the temp I worked with tonight was really nice. He said to call him "Yair-moe" (Guillermo). I started asking about his life when he saw a baby-bath-pillow that was going to be loaded onto a truck and he got all sentimental. I asked, "Are you having a baby?" He said, "Some day." I asked, "Are you married?" He said, "June 10th."
He said he's been in the United States for almost a year. He used to attend a university in Mexico, that's where he learned English. He said he studied Electronics and that the Mexican government told the people in his city that the Ford Motor Company Factory in their city was one of the most promising opportunities a worker could have, so he went and got a job there. He said he welded the exhaust systems on Lincolns, Mercurys and Fords (including the new Ford Fusion). He said Ford paid him $40 a week (400 pesos). When he found out that the people working at Ford who had the same degree he was trying to attain in school made the same pay he did, he quit school and quit Ford. He decided to get serious about life. He left his girlfriend in Mexico and he is in Utah until it's time for his wedding to earn money for the festivities and to get started in life (he said he originally chose Canada to make money but he was worried he would lose his car if he went there). He also intends to buy a lot of tools here that he can use to make a living in Mexico. I told him he could try his hand at online auctions if the economy was really bad where he lived; in the sense that it's a viable way to draw money to a place that doesn't have any.
Don't worry, Fraud Squad, he seems like a level headed guy who wants to work hard and earn what he's after. But he's just now figuring out that working hard isn't enough, you know, the whole "dog eat dog" thing. I was exalted in his misery: He said, "You are 29? I'm 24. You look younger than me. And you're stronger than me (we were moving some heavy, heavy stuff). I feel old."
I said, "I've been lifting heavy boxes five days a week since December and you have a mustache."
But the temp I worked with tonight was really nice. He said to call him "Yair-moe" (Guillermo). I started asking about his life when he saw a baby-bath-pillow that was going to be loaded onto a truck and he got all sentimental. I asked, "Are you having a baby?" He said, "Some day." I asked, "Are you married?" He said, "June 10th."
He said he's been in the United States for almost a year. He used to attend a university in Mexico, that's where he learned English. He said he studied Electronics and that the Mexican government told the people in his city that the Ford Motor Company Factory in their city was one of the most promising opportunities a worker could have, so he went and got a job there. He said he welded the exhaust systems on Lincolns, Mercurys and Fords (including the new Ford Fusion). He said Ford paid him $40 a week (400 pesos). When he found out that the people working at Ford who had the same degree he was trying to attain in school made the same pay he did, he quit school and quit Ford. He decided to get serious about life. He left his girlfriend in Mexico and he is in Utah until it's time for his wedding to earn money for the festivities and to get started in life (he said he originally chose Canada to make money but he was worried he would lose his car if he went there). He also intends to buy a lot of tools here that he can use to make a living in Mexico. I told him he could try his hand at online auctions if the economy was really bad where he lived; in the sense that it's a viable way to draw money to a place that doesn't have any.
Don't worry, Fraud Squad, he seems like a level headed guy who wants to work hard and earn what he's after. But he's just now figuring out that working hard isn't enough, you know, the whole "dog eat dog" thing. I was exalted in his misery: He said, "You are 29? I'm 24. You look younger than me. And you're stronger than me (we were moving some heavy, heavy stuff). I feel old."
I said, "I've been lifting heavy boxes five days a week since December and you have a mustache."
Work Quirks
I know you probably think my job is strange enough but I wanted to tell even more things that make it odd. I'm not talking about our Tug drag races (with or without a skier being pulled behind) or dangling from the lifts by our safety harnesses, I mean strange things you don't notice right away.
For instance, every payday each worker is given a new pair of work gloves by the management. The workers need to be able to push little buttons on our laser scanners as we work so everyone whips out their knives and dismembers the thumb and fore-finger from every new glove. And for days and days there are hundreds of severed rubber fingers and thumbs bouncing around the floor of the warehouse. Trust me, it's strange.
I was driving my tug through a remote corner of our million-square-foot warehouse and caught something creepy out of the corner of my eye. I did a double take to find that the corner is filled with sculptures of angels and ladies in crude cages, upright and laying on the floor, just strewn about. I tried to take a picture of this but just snapped it fast so my bosses wouldn't think I was up to something.
Another strange thing is this short, full-figured guy named Carl who flies off the handle any time you talk to him. He has buzzed red hair and the girliest figure you have ever seen on a man. He's really curvy. I can't get over it.
I also wanted to include a picture of the wound on my finger; I shishkabobbed my finger on a piece of wood too big to be called a splinter tonight. My camera couldn't take a good close-up though. Oh well.
Finally, my favorite thing about work: George. George is cool. He's originally from Ghana, Africa but moved to the US from England. He hardly ever speaks, except when he's on his cell phone speaking a language I can't identify. The cool thing about George is that he's got the groove in his heart. If he hears a radio pumping out a fat beat he's more likely than not to bust a move that would make Michael Jackson sit down and take notes. One second, George will be calling out item numbers and pushing buttons on his gun, next second his whole body is wagging like he's going to fly away. He can't help it. He was stuck in a warehouse traffic jam with people all around him tonight and that Kanye West song "Gold Digger" started playing. I think he was trying to resist but George started bobbing his head and he couldn't bob his head without swaying his shoulders and then it spread to his hips... everyone started laughing. I said, "Get down, George, go 'head get down."
George says he's going to stay in America because his wife will be having a baby soon. His wife will braid your hair in corn rows if you make their family dinner.
I'm sure I've forgotten about twenty other things but that's enough for now.
For instance, every payday each worker is given a new pair of work gloves by the management. The workers need to be able to push little buttons on our laser scanners as we work so everyone whips out their knives and dismembers the thumb and fore-finger from every new glove. And for days and days there are hundreds of severed rubber fingers and thumbs bouncing around the floor of the warehouse. Trust me, it's strange.
I was driving my tug through a remote corner of our million-square-foot warehouse and caught something creepy out of the corner of my eye. I did a double take to find that the corner is filled with sculptures of angels and ladies in crude cages, upright and laying on the floor, just strewn about. I tried to take a picture of this but just snapped it fast so my bosses wouldn't think I was up to something.
Another strange thing is this short, full-figured guy named Carl who flies off the handle any time you talk to him. He has buzzed red hair and the girliest figure you have ever seen on a man. He's really curvy. I can't get over it.
I also wanted to include a picture of the wound on my finger; I shishkabobbed my finger on a piece of wood too big to be called a splinter tonight. My camera couldn't take a good close-up though. Oh well.
Finally, my favorite thing about work: George. George is cool. He's originally from Ghana, Africa but moved to the US from England. He hardly ever speaks, except when he's on his cell phone speaking a language I can't identify. The cool thing about George is that he's got the groove in his heart. If he hears a radio pumping out a fat beat he's more likely than not to bust a move that would make Michael Jackson sit down and take notes. One second, George will be calling out item numbers and pushing buttons on his gun, next second his whole body is wagging like he's going to fly away. He can't help it. He was stuck in a warehouse traffic jam with people all around him tonight and that Kanye West song "Gold Digger" started playing. I think he was trying to resist but George started bobbing his head and he couldn't bob his head without swaying his shoulders and then it spread to his hips... everyone started laughing. I said, "Get down, George, go 'head get down."
George says he's going to stay in America because his wife will be having a baby soon. His wife will braid your hair in corn rows if you make their family dinner.
I'm sure I've forgotten about twenty other things but that's enough for now.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Red Suspenders
You know that my job situation has been shaky lately, so recently I was just looking around at other careers. I looked up how to become a firefighter.
I'm not making fun of firefighters and I would gladly work in a fire fighting position over any job I have ever had but several things about that webpage struck me as odd or amusing.
For example, these "Frequently Asked Questions" in regard to completing the application process:
51. What do I wear to the polygraph?
53. What do I do next after failing the polygraph test?
54. Are polygraph tests lying to us? (Of course YOU would think so, you just failed.)
It can be a daunting road to become a firefighter. Common qualifications of 2 years of fire school, tough physical tests and becoming a paramedic (easy, right?) and volunteer work at your local station are all recommended. To receive an official badge, it is likely you will need to begin your career in a place you do not wish to live.
How does the author describe being a rookie firefighter? You know, after you just spent years of your life plowing through school, taxing your body and volunteering to get there:
He describes going over drills all througout the day, but mostly he describes doing housekeeping for the senior firemen. Making coffee, doing dishes, getting the newspaper and laying it out, cleaning up their messes.
"...I always make it a point to be the first one in the bathrooms with my scrubber/bleach-water mix/comet etc. TIP: WHEN CLEANING THE TOILETS INSTEAD OF FLUSHING THE SOAPY WATER DOWN THE TOILET ONCE THEY’RE CLEAN, LEAVE THE SOAPY WATER IN THE BOWL, IT WILL SHOW THE MEMBERS OF YOUR CREW THAT YOU DID THE TOILETS...
...12:00 p.m. lunch time, I am always the last to gather my plate unless ordered otherwise and I usually take the smallest portion. Even though I’m the last to sit down and eat, I’m always the 1st to get up and get in the suds. Do I eat so fast that I don’t even taste the food most of the time, answer is probably. I do dishes till the cook for the day calls for a “game for dishes” which entails some card or dice game where I will intentionally lose because at the end of the game do you think its good to see the rookie at the table while his captains are in the suds…HELL NO...
My typical day as a rookie starts off at 4:30 am... 1:30 a.m. I finally go to sleep when the last member of my crew has gone to sleep.
Oh yeah in addition (you need to expect) the “GAMES” that the senior firefighters like to play with the rookie at whatever time of the day/night they please."
If I, personally, worked that hard to become a firefighter, I would have a difficult time letting myself be treated like some fraternity pledge. Maybe I am not a good sport but is there any profession that does not rob you of your dignity before rewarding you? Is it just human nature that established members ABSOLUTELY MUST demean the new? I've never been frat-boy material.
Here are some excerpts regarding firefighter pay:
The average firefighter salary range is $50,000-$65,000. The work schedule of a firefighter consists of two 24-hour days per week, for an average of 8 days per month. Because of the many days firefighters normally have off during a month, many firefighters maintain a second job to supplement their income. These second careers consist of salesmen, ambulance drivers, accountants, landscapers, contractors, attorneys... (basically anything).
I don't know if that sounds good or not. I hope you learned something about firefighters.
I'm not making fun of firefighters and I would gladly work in a fire fighting position over any job I have ever had but several things about that webpage struck me as odd or amusing.
For example, these "Frequently Asked Questions" in regard to completing the application process:
51. What do I wear to the polygraph?
53. What do I do next after failing the polygraph test?
54. Are polygraph tests lying to us? (Of course YOU would think so, you just failed.)
It can be a daunting road to become a firefighter. Common qualifications of 2 years of fire school, tough physical tests and becoming a paramedic (easy, right?) and volunteer work at your local station are all recommended. To receive an official badge, it is likely you will need to begin your career in a place you do not wish to live.
How does the author describe being a rookie firefighter? You know, after you just spent years of your life plowing through school, taxing your body and volunteering to get there:
He describes going over drills all througout the day, but mostly he describes doing housekeeping for the senior firemen. Making coffee, doing dishes, getting the newspaper and laying it out, cleaning up their messes.
"...I always make it a point to be the first one in the bathrooms with my scrubber/bleach-water mix/comet etc. TIP: WHEN CLEANING THE TOILETS INSTEAD OF FLUSHING THE SOAPY WATER DOWN THE TOILET ONCE THEY’RE CLEAN, LEAVE THE SOAPY WATER IN THE BOWL, IT WILL SHOW THE MEMBERS OF YOUR CREW THAT YOU DID THE TOILETS...
...12:00 p.m. lunch time, I am always the last to gather my plate unless ordered otherwise and I usually take the smallest portion. Even though I’m the last to sit down and eat, I’m always the 1st to get up and get in the suds. Do I eat so fast that I don’t even taste the food most of the time, answer is probably. I do dishes till the cook for the day calls for a “game for dishes” which entails some card or dice game where I will intentionally lose because at the end of the game do you think its good to see the rookie at the table while his captains are in the suds…HELL NO...
My typical day as a rookie starts off at 4:30 am... 1:30 a.m. I finally go to sleep when the last member of my crew has gone to sleep.
Oh yeah in addition (you need to expect) the “GAMES” that the senior firefighters like to play with the rookie at whatever time of the day/night they please."
If I, personally, worked that hard to become a firefighter, I would have a difficult time letting myself be treated like some fraternity pledge. Maybe I am not a good sport but is there any profession that does not rob you of your dignity before rewarding you? Is it just human nature that established members ABSOLUTELY MUST demean the new? I've never been frat-boy material.
Here are some excerpts regarding firefighter pay:
The average firefighter salary range is $50,000-$65,000. The work schedule of a firefighter consists of two 24-hour days per week, for an average of 8 days per month. Because of the many days firefighters normally have off during a month, many firefighters maintain a second job to supplement their income. These second careers consist of salesmen, ambulance drivers, accountants, landscapers, contractors, attorneys... (basically anything).
I don't know if that sounds good or not. I hope you learned something about firefighters.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
All Nighter
The other day my mother-in-law asked me if I could help her son with his Chemistry homework, as he is doing poorly in the class. He just turned 17. Tonight I went to help him. He is doing poorly enough that he doesn't even bother to take the book home. He had a few sheets of homework and most of them were filled out correctly --- just figuring out molarity. It all revolves around one equation. If you can do one, you can do them all. (Divide the grams of your solute by their molecular weight to get "moles" and then divide that by the amount of the solvent in liters. Boom. Molarity. If it's a solid, rather than a liquid, it's called "molality." Most of Chemistry is just a big science vocabulary test.)
It's always fun to do the homework when you already know how to do it. Like how you wish you can grab the pencil and fly through your kindergartener's homework packet. You know what all of the pictures will be before you've connected the dots.
I was thinking that it's funny that it's such a priority to teach this stuff to young kids when they could really care less and anyone who's moved beyond high school is abandoned. After high school, you have to make a special point of learning anything or knowing it's significance (and worse, you have to pay tuition and jump through those hoops if you want a document saying that you know it).
I picture a perfect society where a portion of the work week is dedicated just to maintaining basic math skills. Last week the bosses told us (in so many words) the company had checked out wages at similar jobs and decided to give us all a five percent raise (the turnover is already bad enough). Later I heard Shrek saying, "that's like a $.54 raise. It's like an extra $3000 a year."
I said, "Actually, if the raise comes off our base pay (which I'm sure it does), it's more like $.45."
Shrek freaked out. He went to his friend who had done the math for him. They were both so upset that they brought it up with our bosses in our nightly meeting. I really didn't have the heart to tell them it would be nowhere near $3000 a year and I didn't want to suffer through watching him attempt math to prove it.
I hate school but love learning. My goal is to never again be employed in a "Dilbert-esque" atmosphere. My goal is not to be employed with monkeys on heavy machinery. My goal is to actually redeem all those college credits and get a degree. I guess it all depends on when my kids can get by without a parent.
My biggest mistake was to go to college thinking I was doing it to make myself a better person and persue my interests. That is the worst thing you could ever do. Go to school with a WELL PAYING career in mind and don't stop until you're there. Forget your friends. Forget your family. Forget the outside world or life-experiences.
I had no guidance and now I pay the price. Here is what I was told by two advisors from two of the largest schools in Utah:
Advisor: "Why did you want to see me?"
Me: "Because I've been in school for three years and I've never spoken to an advisor."
Advisor: "That's not my fault."
That's the meat of the conversation. He gave me a schedule of classes I should take over the next year. When I went to register, half the classes were not offered.
The next time I talked to an advisor, I was married and had a toddler, I worked full time and went to school full time taking killer classes. I did fine the first semester but was nose-diving the following semester. I went to an advisor to see if he could help me.
Me: "I feel guilty about not spending time with my son. Work takes up all the time I need to study. What do you think?"
Advisor: "What kind of work do you do?"
Me: "Stopping internet fraud."
Advisor: "Well. Preventing internet fraud is important and I would imagine it's interesting... but is it more important than your education and your career plans?"
I was somewhat baffled at the question. I didn't know how many steps backward I needed to take to explain that I didn't work recreationally. I had what was known as "responsibilities." I wanted to tell him that I would pitch the idea of eating rats under a bridge for the next few years to my family so we could make my education our top priority. I already knew how my wife would feel about that scenario.
Is there such a thing as an advisor who understands the basic workings of our social structure and who doesn't just want to point fingers?
I'm going back to help my brother-in-law some more tomorrow. Maybe I can make Chemistry seem interesting and explain things in a way that is applicable to the world we live in.
Mostly I want a vacation. I haven't had one since we bought our house, unless you count the four days we spent driving to Cali and back when my grandpa died. They probably won't be impressed at work if the new guy asks for a week off.
It's always fun to do the homework when you already know how to do it. Like how you wish you can grab the pencil and fly through your kindergartener's homework packet. You know what all of the pictures will be before you've connected the dots.
I was thinking that it's funny that it's such a priority to teach this stuff to young kids when they could really care less and anyone who's moved beyond high school is abandoned. After high school, you have to make a special point of learning anything or knowing it's significance (and worse, you have to pay tuition and jump through those hoops if you want a document saying that you know it).
I picture a perfect society where a portion of the work week is dedicated just to maintaining basic math skills. Last week the bosses told us (in so many words) the company had checked out wages at similar jobs and decided to give us all a five percent raise (the turnover is already bad enough). Later I heard Shrek saying, "that's like a $.54 raise. It's like an extra $3000 a year."
I said, "Actually, if the raise comes off our base pay (which I'm sure it does), it's more like $.45."
Shrek freaked out. He went to his friend who had done the math for him. They were both so upset that they brought it up with our bosses in our nightly meeting. I really didn't have the heart to tell them it would be nowhere near $3000 a year and I didn't want to suffer through watching him attempt math to prove it.
I hate school but love learning. My goal is to never again be employed in a "Dilbert-esque" atmosphere. My goal is not to be employed with monkeys on heavy machinery. My goal is to actually redeem all those college credits and get a degree. I guess it all depends on when my kids can get by without a parent.
My biggest mistake was to go to college thinking I was doing it to make myself a better person and persue my interests. That is the worst thing you could ever do. Go to school with a WELL PAYING career in mind and don't stop until you're there. Forget your friends. Forget your family. Forget the outside world or life-experiences.
I had no guidance and now I pay the price. Here is what I was told by two advisors from two of the largest schools in Utah:
Advisor: "Why did you want to see me?"
Me: "Because I've been in school for three years and I've never spoken to an advisor."
Advisor: "That's not my fault."
That's the meat of the conversation. He gave me a schedule of classes I should take over the next year. When I went to register, half the classes were not offered.
The next time I talked to an advisor, I was married and had a toddler, I worked full time and went to school full time taking killer classes. I did fine the first semester but was nose-diving the following semester. I went to an advisor to see if he could help me.
Me: "I feel guilty about not spending time with my son. Work takes up all the time I need to study. What do you think?"
Advisor: "What kind of work do you do?"
Me: "Stopping internet fraud."
Advisor: "Well. Preventing internet fraud is important and I would imagine it's interesting... but is it more important than your education and your career plans?"
I was somewhat baffled at the question. I didn't know how many steps backward I needed to take to explain that I didn't work recreationally. I had what was known as "responsibilities." I wanted to tell him that I would pitch the idea of eating rats under a bridge for the next few years to my family so we could make my education our top priority. I already knew how my wife would feel about that scenario.
Is there such a thing as an advisor who understands the basic workings of our social structure and who doesn't just want to point fingers?
I'm going back to help my brother-in-law some more tomorrow. Maybe I can make Chemistry seem interesting and explain things in a way that is applicable to the world we live in.
Mostly I want a vacation. I haven't had one since we bought our house, unless you count the four days we spent driving to Cali and back when my grandpa died. They probably won't be impressed at work if the new guy asks for a week off.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
No Sanctuary
I won't say that I almost got into a fist-fight tonight, but some stupid gangster at work got all up in my face like he wanted to. The gangster comes in a few hours later than me and his job is to peel off all of the plastic and cardboard and bubblewrap from the couches like it's Christmas morning and to put together dressers and stuff before they are delivered to people's houses. He spread out all the furniture that we had lined up to make a little sanctuary for himself but he did not leave any room for us tuggers to drop off anymore furniture at that truck.
When I showed up to drop off a couch I saw all of this and I started organizing the furniture to make room. The gangster noticed me and started cussing and yelling at me. He only said three sentences over and over: "Don't f**king touch that! This is my f**king job! Go do your f**king job!" Then he came stomping over to me like he meant business and started yelling them in my face. I think he was genuinely surprised that I didn't scamper off like some stray dog he had just kicked.
First of all, I have illustrated how everyone I work with talks the talk but no one seems to walk the walk when it comes to being tough. This knowledge made it impossible to be scared. And "F**king do this, motherf**ker!" is how business gets done there. If I hear that 10 hours a day, everyday, then cussing at me to scare me off just isn't going to work. They have overused the words so much in trying to be tough all the time that they have become meaningless. Nothing short of a boxcutter in my face or the gangster with his dumb hat floating on his curly afro running at me with his fist in the air with his homeboys all beside him is going to make me back off.
The sad part is that I think I have become truly apethetic enough that I was okay with the idea of letting him start a fistfight at two in the morning in a warehouse on the edge of town OVER COUCHES! You want to throw a punch because I moved your stupid couch? Be my guest. Just don't hit me in the zit.
At my computer job the most pathetic part of my day was when I would microwave a burrito at 1 am and eat it alone... in silence... waiting to go back to my cubicle so I could just get another day over with. Being face to face with the couch moron brought back lame flashbacks of facing bullies when I was twelve years old. It was another highlight of pathetic work moments.
The moron just kept shouting the same three sentences. I shouted, "I'm trying to do my job! You need to make room, there is MORE coming. If you don't do it, I WILL!" How is that for a threat? That's right. I'm pretty macho, too.
Then I walked off, dropped off the couch and made more room that others could use.
I know that everyone wants me to be happy. They want me to put a positive spin on what I see out there. But I'm just going to keep calling things as I see them. I know, I know: I need a new job. Yeah, yeah, I'll get right on that.
When I showed up to drop off a couch I saw all of this and I started organizing the furniture to make room. The gangster noticed me and started cussing and yelling at me. He only said three sentences over and over: "Don't f**king touch that! This is my f**king job! Go do your f**king job!" Then he came stomping over to me like he meant business and started yelling them in my face. I think he was genuinely surprised that I didn't scamper off like some stray dog he had just kicked.
First of all, I have illustrated how everyone I work with talks the talk but no one seems to walk the walk when it comes to being tough. This knowledge made it impossible to be scared. And "F**king do this, motherf**ker!" is how business gets done there. If I hear that 10 hours a day, everyday, then cussing at me to scare me off just isn't going to work. They have overused the words so much in trying to be tough all the time that they have become meaningless. Nothing short of a boxcutter in my face or the gangster with his dumb hat floating on his curly afro running at me with his fist in the air with his homeboys all beside him is going to make me back off.
The sad part is that I think I have become truly apethetic enough that I was okay with the idea of letting him start a fistfight at two in the morning in a warehouse on the edge of town OVER COUCHES! You want to throw a punch because I moved your stupid couch? Be my guest. Just don't hit me in the zit.
At my computer job the most pathetic part of my day was when I would microwave a burrito at 1 am and eat it alone... in silence... waiting to go back to my cubicle so I could just get another day over with. Being face to face with the couch moron brought back lame flashbacks of facing bullies when I was twelve years old. It was another highlight of pathetic work moments.
The moron just kept shouting the same three sentences. I shouted, "I'm trying to do my job! You need to make room, there is MORE coming. If you don't do it, I WILL!" How is that for a threat? That's right. I'm pretty macho, too.
Then I walked off, dropped off the couch and made more room that others could use.
I know that everyone wants me to be happy. They want me to put a positive spin on what I see out there. But I'm just going to keep calling things as I see them. I know, I know: I need a new job. Yeah, yeah, I'll get right on that.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Saturday, What a Day
A couple weeks ago my friend Ross' wife called my wife and said they had some tickets to Disney On Ice. I told you I don't care too much for Disney and I certainly don't care much for bastardized versions of "Finding Nemo" hacked out by second-rate ice skater/mimes/actors. We went anyway. About noon on Saturday, Ross called to tell us he still meant for us to go through with the half baked plans and we attended the two o'clock show at the Delta Center.
It was a little taste of DisneyLand here in Salt Lake with vendors selling $10 snow cones and cotton candy. One old man came and stood by us barking about palm-sized Nemo toys. A lady asked, "How much are those?"
He said, "These are $18 and these are $20." When nobody bought any he said, "Nobody wants to buy any of these? NOBODY? Well, I'll be..." and he walked away like we were all the worst parents in the world. I wished I had something to throw at him.
I had to leave halfway through the show to go to work. How was your weekend?
I have also forgotten to mention that Ross and Heidi had their third baby on Groundhog's Day. A boy named Everett. Sorry I forgot to tell everyone till now. Despite the fact that I drive a minivan, I am compelled to tease Ross for buying a minivan because he was such a hold out.
It was a little taste of DisneyLand here in Salt Lake with vendors selling $10 snow cones and cotton candy. One old man came and stood by us barking about palm-sized Nemo toys. A lady asked, "How much are those?"
He said, "These are $18 and these are $20." When nobody bought any he said, "Nobody wants to buy any of these? NOBODY? Well, I'll be..." and he walked away like we were all the worst parents in the world. I wished I had something to throw at him.
I had to leave halfway through the show to go to work. How was your weekend?
I have also forgotten to mention that Ross and Heidi had their third baby on Groundhog's Day. A boy named Everett. Sorry I forgot to tell everyone till now. Despite the fact that I drive a minivan, I am compelled to tease Ross for buying a minivan because he was such a hold out.
Dan the Man, Down With the Program
Dan the Man is our plumber. He's an awesome old man who likes to quote The A-team: I love it when a plan comes together. About two years ago, he and I replaced all of the water pipes in my house. He made me do as much as the work as I could to save money, like resetting the toilet and taking down all the old pipes with a sawzall. He even dropped off a jackhammer one night and told me to make a hole in the basement floor for a new floor drain.
We called him on Friday to fix the leaky faucet in our bathtub and he showed up at 8:30 Monday morning. He finished in 30 minutes. He laughs hard at all his own jokes and remembered after two years that I worked a computer job. He even had an extended conversation with our two year old about Dora the Explorer.
If you need a good plumber or a father figure here in the Salt Lake Valley, send me an email and I will hook you up.
We called him on Friday to fix the leaky faucet in our bathtub and he showed up at 8:30 Monday morning. He finished in 30 minutes. He laughs hard at all his own jokes and remembered after two years that I worked a computer job. He even had an extended conversation with our two year old about Dora the Explorer.
If you need a good plumber or a father figure here in the Salt Lake Valley, send me an email and I will hook you up.
Kahka Pu Pu
Forget all the benefits people blather about regarding teaching your infants sign language. Our 8 month old is completely fluent in all dialects of Ewok and Motorboat. Buh buh buh buh buh, aku tak tak.
I'm always afraid to let him see himself in the mirror for fear that he will be disappointed that he is a wiggling lump of muscle and not a lean, mean jumping bean like his brother and sister are. Then again, maybe he is just happy he doesn't currently have a giant, painful blemish on the bridge of his nose like his daddy.
I'm always afraid to let him see himself in the mirror for fear that he will be disappointed that he is a wiggling lump of muscle and not a lean, mean jumping bean like his brother and sister are. Then again, maybe he is just happy he doesn't currently have a giant, painful blemish on the bridge of his nose like his daddy.
Hands and Feet Inside the Car
It's possible that I like writing stories as my escape and "letting things out." If I focused entirely on my daily life all you would get from me is endless details of hundreds of hours of moving furniture.
HIDDEN CHARGES
1. This week we took our "Cowboy hat" neighbors to the health clinic again. We really don't mind taking a little time to take them places, since they can't drive. It's one thing to talk to them on the street (in the freshest air available), but it's another thing to be enclosed in a car with them. It takes a minute inside the car for the smell of stale cat crap and gasoline to overwhelm you and by then it's too late to come up with a reason to roll down the window. Then the smell lingers in the car for a couple of days.
2. I don't mind manual labor, even with the cuts and bruises. I still prefer it to desk work. I can handle bosses that throw temper tantrums and call you "dumbass." I deal with working with morons who are likely to squish you to death with heavy machinery (you just have to stay on your car with no limbs exposed). But the other day after the ritualistic sexual harassment of female customers within earshot (There's tons of hot p***** down there! etc.) I mentioned, "A lot of the girls these guys talk about aren't even very good looking, but they talk about them like they are all Victoria Secret models."
A guy who introduced himself to me as "Load Dog" replied, "I don't think Victoria has any secrets left. Ha ha ha. Have you seen Jeff Foxworthy?" At which point a lively conversation broke out about the joyful anticipation about the release of "Larry the Cable Guy's" upcoming movie.
I never wanted to walk out on a job so badly. These people have nothing to offer me. After my experiences with work and school, I absolutely understand why people turn to drugs and alcohol (I don't encourage the use of these things, but I UNDERSTAND. Remember what Beck said, "The drugs won't kill your day job").
Everyone at work is fond of saying, "I don't give a f***!" If that's true then why aren't you moving any of the heavy stuff? I think they DO care, they're just lazy and they think that saying those words makes them sound tough. But then, after a night of everyone not giving a f***, the place is a mess to the point that no one can even move and then they realize they have to clean up after themselves and do things that make it easier for EVERYONE to work.
Speaking of projecting toughness: I think my coworkers all use music as a gauge of toughness. Ask them what bands they like and you will only get answers like "Slipknot" or "Mudvayne." There is a guy named Scottie who looks and walks exactly like Gordon (the blogger I link to), except he's not funny nor smart. Scottie has kind of a "captain of the football team" look to him and his face is all filled out from lots of beer drinking (those things aren't true of Gordon). I think I made Scottie really mad on my very first day when I asked him what music he listened to and he said, "Slayer" and I started laughing and I asked, "Aren't those guys like 50 years old and dead by now?"
Maybe I will freak everyone out by taking a radio to work and blasting my wife's Olivia Newton John "Xanadu" CD through the warehouse. Forget about the Blues Tonight! Got some dancin' ta do!
HIDDEN CHARGES
1. This week we took our "Cowboy hat" neighbors to the health clinic again. We really don't mind taking a little time to take them places, since they can't drive. It's one thing to talk to them on the street (in the freshest air available), but it's another thing to be enclosed in a car with them. It takes a minute inside the car for the smell of stale cat crap and gasoline to overwhelm you and by then it's too late to come up with a reason to roll down the window. Then the smell lingers in the car for a couple of days.
2. I don't mind manual labor, even with the cuts and bruises. I still prefer it to desk work. I can handle bosses that throw temper tantrums and call you "dumbass." I deal with working with morons who are likely to squish you to death with heavy machinery (you just have to stay on your car with no limbs exposed). But the other day after the ritualistic sexual harassment of female customers within earshot (There's tons of hot p***** down there! etc.) I mentioned, "A lot of the girls these guys talk about aren't even very good looking, but they talk about them like they are all Victoria Secret models."
A guy who introduced himself to me as "Load Dog" replied, "I don't think Victoria has any secrets left. Ha ha ha. Have you seen Jeff Foxworthy?" At which point a lively conversation broke out about the joyful anticipation about the release of "Larry the Cable Guy's" upcoming movie.
I never wanted to walk out on a job so badly. These people have nothing to offer me. After my experiences with work and school, I absolutely understand why people turn to drugs and alcohol (I don't encourage the use of these things, but I UNDERSTAND. Remember what Beck said, "The drugs won't kill your day job").
Everyone at work is fond of saying, "I don't give a f***!" If that's true then why aren't you moving any of the heavy stuff? I think they DO care, they're just lazy and they think that saying those words makes them sound tough. But then, after a night of everyone not giving a f***, the place is a mess to the point that no one can even move and then they realize they have to clean up after themselves and do things that make it easier for EVERYONE to work.
Speaking of projecting toughness: I think my coworkers all use music as a gauge of toughness. Ask them what bands they like and you will only get answers like "Slipknot" or "Mudvayne." There is a guy named Scottie who looks and walks exactly like Gordon (the blogger I link to), except he's not funny nor smart. Scottie has kind of a "captain of the football team" look to him and his face is all filled out from lots of beer drinking (those things aren't true of Gordon). I think I made Scottie really mad on my very first day when I asked him what music he listened to and he said, "Slayer" and I started laughing and I asked, "Aren't those guys like 50 years old and dead by now?"
Maybe I will freak everyone out by taking a radio to work and blasting my wife's Olivia Newton John "Xanadu" CD through the warehouse. Forget about the Blues Tonight! Got some dancin' ta do!
Badittude!
My wife: "I think I burnt your bagel."
Me: "That's okay. I'll eat it. A burnt bagel fits in nicely with the rest of my life."
My wife looks at me like she doesn't know where to begin the lecture I so desperately need.
I try to top it off by shouting: "MY LIFE SUCKS!" But I accidently crack up laughing and ruin the whole effect.
Me: "That's okay. I'll eat it. A burnt bagel fits in nicely with the rest of my life."
My wife looks at me like she doesn't know where to begin the lecture I so desperately need.
I try to top it off by shouting: "MY LIFE SUCKS!" But I accidently crack up laughing and ruin the whole effect.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Nibbling at History
Today Ethan came up to me with his bow and some suction-cup arrows in his hands and asked, "Dad, who is the guy on the dollar bill that killed a lot of Indians?"
I said, "Andrew Jackson."
Ethan turned to his little sister and said, "You're Andrew Jackson. You're trying to kill me."
Ethan has already learned of presidents in school: George Washington was first and stars in a myth about a cherry tree and Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. We were at Costco trying to buy some pizza when I got a twenty out of an ATM. Ethan saw it and asked if it was George Washington on the bill. I told him who it was and the most notable thing about Jackson's presidency. It's a simplification but it will have to do until Ethan is old enough to understand the Trail of Tears.
Saying that Jackson is an Indian Killer is more accurate than the older boys I overheard in Target proposing a game: "You be Adolf Hitler and I will be George W. Bush."
Boys will be boys.
I said, "Andrew Jackson."
Ethan turned to his little sister and said, "You're Andrew Jackson. You're trying to kill me."
Ethan has already learned of presidents in school: George Washington was first and stars in a myth about a cherry tree and Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves. We were at Costco trying to buy some pizza when I got a twenty out of an ATM. Ethan saw it and asked if it was George Washington on the bill. I told him who it was and the most notable thing about Jackson's presidency. It's a simplification but it will have to do until Ethan is old enough to understand the Trail of Tears.
Saying that Jackson is an Indian Killer is more accurate than the older boys I overheard in Target proposing a game: "You be Adolf Hitler and I will be George W. Bush."
Boys will be boys.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Baby is Leaving
Babies are only babies for a few months. Then they get huge; big enough it looks strange that you're carrying them around in your arms. Our littlest one is on that fateful verge of crawling and speaking. There goes the quiet thoughtful stare I came to know. It becomes the age of "I want to do things for myself but I can't, so instead I'll scream about it." They find screaming is much more effective than merely crying in their old dolphin-style squeek.
Our oldest one is past the perfect-four-year-old stage and has moved on to the point that he will leave the house and run across the street without telling you. The other day we were walking out to the car and, in a matter of seconds, I found him amid the January weather soaking wet and holding a DVD in his hand. I got really mad (it's the new and horrible me). I dragged him inside, "You don't take DVDs out of the house. You don't turn on the water (the outside spigot). You don't get soaking wet when we're leaving."
He said, "Olivia turned the water on." She smiled at me and said, "Sorry, dad." The older kids like to piss each other off for fun. They are so surprised when they get in trouble for it and they pity themselves for having such a tyrant for a father. I'm zero-tolerance now and my only warning to them is to say, "Do you want me to get mad at you? Then stop now." They are very creative at coming up with ways to annoy: Dumping all the baby food into the bucket on the back of a tricycle. Stealing all the baby wipes to clean their toys or to use as blankets for all the sleeping toys they spread across the floor. They carry DVDs with them everywhere they go. If you give them a thimble full of juice in a garbage can, they can find a way to spill it across two rooms. Voila! Theater-quality sticky floors.
We provide them with five meals a day and maybe two of them end up in their stomachs. I can't wait for puberty to settle them down.
Our oldest one is past the perfect-four-year-old stage and has moved on to the point that he will leave the house and run across the street without telling you. The other day we were walking out to the car and, in a matter of seconds, I found him amid the January weather soaking wet and holding a DVD in his hand. I got really mad (it's the new and horrible me). I dragged him inside, "You don't take DVDs out of the house. You don't turn on the water (the outside spigot). You don't get soaking wet when we're leaving."
He said, "Olivia turned the water on." She smiled at me and said, "Sorry, dad." The older kids like to piss each other off for fun. They are so surprised when they get in trouble for it and they pity themselves for having such a tyrant for a father. I'm zero-tolerance now and my only warning to them is to say, "Do you want me to get mad at you? Then stop now." They are very creative at coming up with ways to annoy: Dumping all the baby food into the bucket on the back of a tricycle. Stealing all the baby wipes to clean their toys or to use as blankets for all the sleeping toys they spread across the floor. They carry DVDs with them everywhere they go. If you give them a thimble full of juice in a garbage can, they can find a way to spill it across two rooms. Voila! Theater-quality sticky floors.
We provide them with five meals a day and maybe two of them end up in their stomachs. I can't wait for puberty to settle them down.
Kneading the Dough
Over the years I have met several people who have attended school to learn Massage Therapy as a career. Guess where I met the bulk of them. At work. My work, not giving massages. Even the ones who give massages on the side still have a fulltime job somewhere else, you know, to pay off $10K in loans to the massage school.
The unlucky guy I mentioned said he met his wife while they both attended massage school. Neither of them do massage for income. I told him, "At least you got a wife out of school. That has to be worth something."
I know the schools like to sell the idea of a career on a cruise ship or at a vacation resort and that some people may actually do that, but I'm getting the impression that people who support themselves this way are few and far between. I would be curious to know the ratio of jobs performing massages and the number of students who attend the schools for this career. I guess the numbers are heavily lobsided.
I conclude that massages are much more effective for finding a life partner than they are for a stable living. You can keep your $10K.
The unlucky guy I mentioned said he met his wife while they both attended massage school. Neither of them do massage for income. I told him, "At least you got a wife out of school. That has to be worth something."
I know the schools like to sell the idea of a career on a cruise ship or at a vacation resort and that some people may actually do that, but I'm getting the impression that people who support themselves this way are few and far between. I would be curious to know the ratio of jobs performing massages and the number of students who attend the schools for this career. I guess the numbers are heavily lobsided.
I conclude that massages are much more effective for finding a life partner than they are for a stable living. You can keep your $10K.
What Up?
Little things I've thought about lately:
Why put spinning hubcaps on a minivan or even low profile tires and big "dubs" on any truck or SUV? The cool parents at school have them.
Why can't you buy Mr. Pibb in cans?(not that I would)
When did it become appropriate to use the word "piehole" in a commercial for a children's breakfast cereal? Wouldn't "empty-calorie-hole" be a better fit?
Speaking of which, can the fellas put a schedule together to "check up" on Beyonce tonight and every night so she can zip her bootylicious piehole about it?
Tragedy magnets. I'm not talking about myself. There is a guy at work and his pregnant wife developed an infection and they had to give up the baby. The wife is still sick. This guy also suffers from serious problems with his liver. He holds one arm tight against his gut all night and tries to move furniture with the other. Don't ask me what he does when he has to lift a 350 pound curio into an upright position. The other day we were waiting for day-shift to leave and we were standing around the trash compactor. Some dummy was throwing in a bunch of smashed up pallets and ended up hitting the unlucky guy square in the forehead with a six-foot 2X4. I told him to go report it in case he needs treatment for it. He won't. I don't know why he took this job. He doesn't even try. He will probably be gone by next month, one way or another.
Why put spinning hubcaps on a minivan or even low profile tires and big "dubs" on any truck or SUV? The cool parents at school have them.
Why can't you buy Mr. Pibb in cans?(not that I would)
When did it become appropriate to use the word "piehole" in a commercial for a children's breakfast cereal? Wouldn't "empty-calorie-hole" be a better fit?
Speaking of which, can the fellas put a schedule together to "check up" on Beyonce tonight and every night so she can zip her bootylicious piehole about it?
Tragedy magnets. I'm not talking about myself. There is a guy at work and his pregnant wife developed an infection and they had to give up the baby. The wife is still sick. This guy also suffers from serious problems with his liver. He holds one arm tight against his gut all night and tries to move furniture with the other. Don't ask me what he does when he has to lift a 350 pound curio into an upright position. The other day we were waiting for day-shift to leave and we were standing around the trash compactor. Some dummy was throwing in a bunch of smashed up pallets and ended up hitting the unlucky guy square in the forehead with a six-foot 2X4. I told him to go report it in case he needs treatment for it. He won't. I don't know why he took this job. He doesn't even try. He will probably be gone by next month, one way or another.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Let's All Take Turns As the "I" in TEAM
Time is scarce. I work a lot, take care of the kids and now we've even thrown in research on buying and selling homes. Sorry about the neglect but the universe has not shifted and the blog is not at the center of the swirling mass.
I finally had my "training and orientation" at the furniture store job today. After three weeks of working they officially showed my how to use industrial equipment like forklifts, including the terminology like "load center" and "stability triangle," and then they made me sign a paper promising never to operate machinery I haven't been trained on. Starting..... NOW!
Orientation was difficult. I almost made several outbursts and was constantly laughing into my shoulder. It was a strange combination of warehouse dudes and salesmen. The salesmen had NO sense of humor. I thought orientation would make me excited about work, as this is where jobs usually describe in great detail all the ways that they are going to take care of you. But it was just a lot of talk about how "Big Brother is watching" and telling us not to do all the things my bosses do. They won't tolerate harassment, they say, as I described for you earlier.
The health "benefits" are $400 per month. There is no company stock plan unless you want to invest in Warren Buffet, who owns this and many, many other companies. They mentioned the 401k several times over 3.5 hours and in the final minutes I asked what percentage the company matched. The HR lady intentionally coughed as she responded, "Thrrr...percent."
I asked, "Thirty percent?"
"THREE percent." She said.
And then all the salesmen agreed that only some fantasy employer would ever give you a 30% match. It was EVERYTHING I could do not to say, "They sure use a lot of paper and pamphlets to describe such lousy, lousy benefits."
I put my soul into ruin at my desk job. I'm willing to grind my body to dust moving furniture. And I'm not sure what I will have left to work with after that... but I was willing to go on with this for my personal cause. But now I think I finally agree with my wife that I can do better. I was sorely disappointed in my coworkers that none of them thought of these benefits as horrible. Even the store discount was "cost plus 22%." Costco won't mark up ANYTHING over 14% above cost. Makes me want to put a baggie over my hand before I pick up my company discount and put it in the trash.
My coworkers were even annoyed with me for asking questions. They wanted to go home. I wanted to know how my employer was going to take care of my family. I don't mind being the "i" in team but I think it should look more like: Team! (with the "i" inverted)
Back to the grindstone. The fact that the mortgage-man looked at our credit (even with my work history over the past four months) and approved us for $50,000 MORE than what we were approved for when we bought our current house just makes me think lenders are careless and desperate. So maybe we're all in it together.
I finally had my "training and orientation" at the furniture store job today. After three weeks of working they officially showed my how to use industrial equipment like forklifts, including the terminology like "load center" and "stability triangle," and then they made me sign a paper promising never to operate machinery I haven't been trained on. Starting..... NOW!
Orientation was difficult. I almost made several outbursts and was constantly laughing into my shoulder. It was a strange combination of warehouse dudes and salesmen. The salesmen had NO sense of humor. I thought orientation would make me excited about work, as this is where jobs usually describe in great detail all the ways that they are going to take care of you. But it was just a lot of talk about how "Big Brother is watching" and telling us not to do all the things my bosses do. They won't tolerate harassment, they say, as I described for you earlier.
The health "benefits" are $400 per month. There is no company stock plan unless you want to invest in Warren Buffet, who owns this and many, many other companies. They mentioned the 401k several times over 3.5 hours and in the final minutes I asked what percentage the company matched. The HR lady intentionally coughed as she responded, "Thrrr...percent."
I asked, "Thirty percent?"
"THREE percent." She said.
And then all the salesmen agreed that only some fantasy employer would ever give you a 30% match. It was EVERYTHING I could do not to say, "They sure use a lot of paper and pamphlets to describe such lousy, lousy benefits."
I put my soul into ruin at my desk job. I'm willing to grind my body to dust moving furniture. And I'm not sure what I will have left to work with after that... but I was willing to go on with this for my personal cause. But now I think I finally agree with my wife that I can do better. I was sorely disappointed in my coworkers that none of them thought of these benefits as horrible. Even the store discount was "cost plus 22%." Costco won't mark up ANYTHING over 14% above cost. Makes me want to put a baggie over my hand before I pick up my company discount and put it in the trash.
My coworkers were even annoyed with me for asking questions. They wanted to go home. I wanted to know how my employer was going to take care of my family. I don't mind being the "i" in team but I think it should look more like: Team! (with the "i" inverted)
Back to the grindstone. The fact that the mortgage-man looked at our credit (even with my work history over the past four months) and approved us for $50,000 MORE than what we were approved for when we bought our current house just makes me think lenders are careless and desperate. So maybe we're all in it together.
Brown Sugar, How Come You Taste So Good?
Is it my imagination or have teenaged fastfood workers all been replaced by older minority women? I guess the teenaged set has all been consumed by telemarketing and hotel greeter positions, huh? I just get a horrible feeling in my gut (assumably unrelated to the garbage I'm about to send down my tongue wagging disposal) at the prospect of anyone's grandma switching out the soda syrup and picking up my wrappers.
When I took our kids to Burger King to play on the slide a little while ago, several customers lit up at our striking family. One old guy said, "That's what we need to see in these restaurants" in reference to the smiling little faces I sired that seemed to serve as his springboard into nastalgia.
An exhausted voice asked, "What would you like to order?" and then the manager (inspired by the old guy) came up and suggested, "You need to be more energetic when you're helping the customers" and then the manager smiled and his head wobbled around like it was about to completely unscrew, "WHAT would you like to ORDER?"
But it takes strength that I know I don't have for these people just to show up to work. Cut them some slack, manager. The job prospects under the golden arches or between the flame broiled buns are much worse than even what I am facing. Liberate the little brown mamas.
When I took our kids to Burger King to play on the slide a little while ago, several customers lit up at our striking family. One old guy said, "That's what we need to see in these restaurants" in reference to the smiling little faces I sired that seemed to serve as his springboard into nastalgia.
An exhausted voice asked, "What would you like to order?" and then the manager (inspired by the old guy) came up and suggested, "You need to be more energetic when you're helping the customers" and then the manager smiled and his head wobbled around like it was about to completely unscrew, "WHAT would you like to ORDER?"
But it takes strength that I know I don't have for these people just to show up to work. Cut them some slack, manager. The job prospects under the golden arches or between the flame broiled buns are much worse than even what I am facing. Liberate the little brown mamas.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Dancing Queen
While our daughter is in her dance classes, parents have the option to leave or to wait in the lobby with the other parents. On the first day of dance classes we chatted a little bit with some of the other moms. One mom said that this was her daughter's second year in dance classes but she had almost chosen not to enrolled her again, "you know... because of the neighborhood," she said.
Our neighborhood is not the fanciest neighborhood but we have found nothing to be scared of here. It actually seems a bit more alive than most neighborhoods. But we assumed she must know something about the neighborhood we didn't and we didn't make an issue of it.
We don't stay during the classes. My wife goes to pick up our daughter a few minutes before class ends. When she walks in, she is constantly overhearing that same mother regaling the other mothers with personal stories built around statements such as "These are the drugs I will never do again and here is why..." or "I don't think that it is okay to sleep around, it's just that I've really liked all the guys I've been with..." (What choice did she have?).
When my wife finishes telling me each weeks developments, I tease her, "Way to direct your husband to the girl who 'just can't help herself.'" But given the girl's sordid past, I wonder what type of people in our neighborhood this druggie slut is worried about to the point she would deny her daughter dance classes. The type who know about the skeletons in her closet?
I know this is gossip but it's not like I'm naming names here. I don't really think of her as a druggie or a slut, I just use this as an example of how I think people are funny. Funny in a "laughing at you" kind of way. Rock on.
Our neighborhood is not the fanciest neighborhood but we have found nothing to be scared of here. It actually seems a bit more alive than most neighborhoods. But we assumed she must know something about the neighborhood we didn't and we didn't make an issue of it.
We don't stay during the classes. My wife goes to pick up our daughter a few minutes before class ends. When she walks in, she is constantly overhearing that same mother regaling the other mothers with personal stories built around statements such as "These are the drugs I will never do again and here is why..." or "I don't think that it is okay to sleep around, it's just that I've really liked all the guys I've been with..." (What choice did she have?).
When my wife finishes telling me each weeks developments, I tease her, "Way to direct your husband to the girl who 'just can't help herself.'" But given the girl's sordid past, I wonder what type of people in our neighborhood this druggie slut is worried about to the point she would deny her daughter dance classes. The type who know about the skeletons in her closet?
I know this is gossip but it's not like I'm naming names here. I don't really think of her as a druggie or a slut, I just use this as an example of how I think people are funny. Funny in a "laughing at you" kind of way. Rock on.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
No-toe-rious
In life, it seems like most problems can be solved by money. It's easy to think a job or unrequited feelings are the source of most problems. But little things have a way of sending ripples through your life as well. For instance, this week there has been a yellowish, crescent-shaped wedge splitting apart my family: My overgrown toenails.
I've just been busy. While I've managed to keep my teeth brushed and even my fingernails trimmed, my toenails have been neglected. This led to several unintentional clawings and all sorts feelings of discontent. Today I made fast work of clipping those dead cells and depositing them in the garbage can. A funk has immediately been lifted from my universe.
So if you are in a funk and can't figure out why, try clipping your nails. If you have nothing better to do you could brush your teeth again or, heaven forbid, floss. Just thought I'd spread some of the wisdom of my many philosophies on life.
I've just been busy. While I've managed to keep my teeth brushed and even my fingernails trimmed, my toenails have been neglected. This led to several unintentional clawings and all sorts feelings of discontent. Today I made fast work of clipping those dead cells and depositing them in the garbage can. A funk has immediately been lifted from my universe.
So if you are in a funk and can't figure out why, try clipping your nails. If you have nothing better to do you could brush your teeth again or, heaven forbid, floss. Just thought I'd spread some of the wisdom of my many philosophies on life.
Uprooting
We don't know for certain, but most of our future plans involve selling our house this summer. I talked to a broker and he told us they would make us the lovely deal of charging ONLY $11,000 in fees to list our cottage for sale. My wife has a friend who sells houses but in that business it seems like even friends are not very helpful. If we could get our house listed with an MLS number I'm sure it would sell itself though I know nothing of the paperwork involved. Does anyone have any advice on the best way to sell a house?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Getting Screwed at the Drive-Thru
I've been having bad luck at fast food drive-thrus lately. About a week ago we stopped by KFC. The only thing my wife will eat there is a chicken pot-pie, so when the big board buzzbox told me they were out of pot-pies I hit the gas and swerved around the car ahead of me to leave. I barely realized that I had nearly killed some old man wearing a leather jacket as he came zipping through the drive-thru corridor on his motorized wheelchair. I felt bad but I am also a little upset at the man because what the hell was he doing cruising in my blindspot in a fast food drive thru in his wheelchair? I'm just glad I didn't hit him. It's probably the closest I've ever come to killing someone.
Tonight it was wet and miserable weather so we let the kids talk us into taking them to Burger King to play on the slides again. But I wasn't going to eat there. So on the way home I stopped for some tacos. Waiting to place an order, I was five feet away with my headlights on when I saw the backup lights on the Infiniti sedan in front of me turn on. When the car started to roll back toward me I laid on the horn. She backed right into our van anyway.
The driver stepped out of her car and approached to assess the damage. She said, "I didn't see you there. And I looked. But I stopped as soon as I heard you yell (referring to my horn, I guess)."
I immediately forgave her as I was certain she was utterly retarded. But I did have misgivings about letting her continue to operate that big piece of machinery. I didn't realize the "High Maintenance" bumper sticker on the rear of her car applied to everyone in her vicinity. It does. The taco sellers were all pumped up about it, as they had watched the whole thing on their parking lot cameras.
No real harm has been done but maybe I'll start going inside and just ordering to go instead.
Tonight it was wet and miserable weather so we let the kids talk us into taking them to Burger King to play on the slides again. But I wasn't going to eat there. So on the way home I stopped for some tacos. Waiting to place an order, I was five feet away with my headlights on when I saw the backup lights on the Infiniti sedan in front of me turn on. When the car started to roll back toward me I laid on the horn. She backed right into our van anyway.
The driver stepped out of her car and approached to assess the damage. She said, "I didn't see you there. And I looked. But I stopped as soon as I heard you yell (referring to my horn, I guess)."
I immediately forgave her as I was certain she was utterly retarded. But I did have misgivings about letting her continue to operate that big piece of machinery. I didn't realize the "High Maintenance" bumper sticker on the rear of her car applied to everyone in her vicinity. It does. The taco sellers were all pumped up about it, as they had watched the whole thing on their parking lot cameras.
No real harm has been done but maybe I'll start going inside and just ordering to go instead.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Lateral Movement
I watched the movie "Sideways" last week. See, I suck at being a movie buff because I watch one, maybe two, movies a week. The characters were entertaining and you could read a lot into them. The actors were good and convincing. Wine-dude really looked heartbroken and you could surmise that, aside from his wife leaving him, his father had also previously been ill and possibly committed suicide. His book was obviously too long and most assuredly just an emotional dumping ground. The Church-guy, better known as "Lull" from "Wings," was funny but an idiot.
What I'm trying to say is that it was entertaining but didn't seem to have a clear message other than "there is a sad man out there who may be getting better." I got the sense that the love for wine was a displacement for the love he felt for his ex-wife. Maybe that was obvious or maybe I'm completely wrong.Maddox wrote a funny bit about the movie Sideways. Maybe I should take his advice and actually read the book. Enjoy.
What I'm trying to say is that it was entertaining but didn't seem to have a clear message other than "there is a sad man out there who may be getting better." I got the sense that the love for wine was a displacement for the love he felt for his ex-wife. Maybe that was obvious or maybe I'm completely wrong.Maddox wrote a funny bit about the movie Sideways. Maybe I should take his advice and actually read the book. Enjoy.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Macho Macho Harassment
I have noticed a strong need among my coworkers to cast a tough image. It's kind of funny because most of it is talk. When it comes time to lug a 200 pound sofa across the floor, most of them take it halfway to the appropriate spot and call that good enough.
I already told you about "motherf**cker" replacing the word "dude" or "man." The main exception to being called in that way is to be christened with a nickname. Names like Shrek, Bubblehead or Dumbass. Dumbass isn't very creative but I am glad that it has already been assigned to someone. There are also a handful of guys who look more like Shrek than the guy who has been distinguished as Shrek.
There is a hispanic guy from Los Angeles named Marco. Marco used to be a gangbanger but has settled down in Utah. He does like to pick on a scrawny white boy with nerdily parted hair and glasses. EVERY time he goes past the blond kid he yells something like, "You big pussy, cracker faggot!" or flips him the bird or something. There was also some enormous belching activity resonating through the warehouse (comparative to Debbie at my last job) that I was finally able to trace back to Marco. The burping was a mystery that bothered me for some time. Anyway, that blond boy may or may not be annoying but nobody really deserves to be talked to that way. He may just be really annoying because I also heard Bubblehead yell, "Hey Chicken Little!" at him. A close enough likeness to make me laugh.
But who cares? Probably not the managers, as I went to check how many couches I was delivering per hour and they were huddled around the stats sheet (printed on that old green and white striped printer paper with the perforated holes on the sides). They were saying, "These numbers look pretty good. Do we get a bonus?"
Another answered, "No, you don't get to bone us. Maybe you can bone Gus. Heh Heh."
Then some customers walked past to the corner where we sell scratched and dented furniture and one of the managers said, "I would tap that though" referring to a customer who was less than ten feet away.
Another manager, "Yeah, I'd tap that."
Even the middle-aged middle-management dorks seem to feel the macho pressure.
A few jobs ago I almost got in the middle of a sexual harassment issue. There was a guy who was always shooting his mouth off, saying things like "Let's all go out back... this girl (who was present in the group) said she would show us her tits." Or he would openly ask the same girl when they were going to hook up and do the nasty. The guy was married, by the way. He would constantly talk about how he would never be able to make it through a day of work if he didn't resort to thinking about sex for the majority of his shift. When you would tell him to cool down he would get mad. Anyway, that girl finally got sick of it and told the bosses and it caused a huge fuss. It just so happened that I called in sick the day of the big crux. I wasn't out to get the guy, I just said I would tell the bosses what I had heard. I thought everyone would. I figured the guy wouldn't openly talk like that if he was worried about getting talked to about it. But I guess I was the star witness and NOBODY else would admit to ever hearing the guy say anything questionable.
Anyway, they solved the entire problem by showing a video in the break room. And we all lived happily ever after.
I already told you about "motherf**cker" replacing the word "dude" or "man." The main exception to being called in that way is to be christened with a nickname. Names like Shrek, Bubblehead or Dumbass. Dumbass isn't very creative but I am glad that it has already been assigned to someone. There are also a handful of guys who look more like Shrek than the guy who has been distinguished as Shrek.
There is a hispanic guy from Los Angeles named Marco. Marco used to be a gangbanger but has settled down in Utah. He does like to pick on a scrawny white boy with nerdily parted hair and glasses. EVERY time he goes past the blond kid he yells something like, "You big pussy, cracker faggot!" or flips him the bird or something. There was also some enormous belching activity resonating through the warehouse (comparative to Debbie at my last job) that I was finally able to trace back to Marco. The burping was a mystery that bothered me for some time. Anyway, that blond boy may or may not be annoying but nobody really deserves to be talked to that way. He may just be really annoying because I also heard Bubblehead yell, "Hey Chicken Little!" at him. A close enough likeness to make me laugh.
But who cares? Probably not the managers, as I went to check how many couches I was delivering per hour and they were huddled around the stats sheet (printed on that old green and white striped printer paper with the perforated holes on the sides). They were saying, "These numbers look pretty good. Do we get a bonus?"
Another answered, "No, you don't get to bone us. Maybe you can bone Gus. Heh Heh."
Then some customers walked past to the corner where we sell scratched and dented furniture and one of the managers said, "I would tap that though" referring to a customer who was less than ten feet away.
Another manager, "Yeah, I'd tap that."
Even the middle-aged middle-management dorks seem to feel the macho pressure.
A few jobs ago I almost got in the middle of a sexual harassment issue. There was a guy who was always shooting his mouth off, saying things like "Let's all go out back... this girl (who was present in the group) said she would show us her tits." Or he would openly ask the same girl when they were going to hook up and do the nasty. The guy was married, by the way. He would constantly talk about how he would never be able to make it through a day of work if he didn't resort to thinking about sex for the majority of his shift. When you would tell him to cool down he would get mad. Anyway, that girl finally got sick of it and told the bosses and it caused a huge fuss. It just so happened that I called in sick the day of the big crux. I wasn't out to get the guy, I just said I would tell the bosses what I had heard. I thought everyone would. I figured the guy wouldn't openly talk like that if he was worried about getting talked to about it. But I guess I was the star witness and NOBODY else would admit to ever hearing the guy say anything questionable.
Anyway, they solved the entire problem by showing a video in the break room. And we all lived happily ever after.
Nickels and Dimes
The other day I was standing in the kitchen when Ethan came in and said, "Dad, I had a great idea. I can get my money and we can give it to the lady at the fish store and get a fish."
He kept working on us for a fews and we finally agreed. On Saturday we planned our fish-buying trip. Ethan found a five dollar bill in his room and held it in his hand all day. Sixty dollars later we were set up with a 2.5 gallon fish setup. We bought some of those "sunburst" fish. The kids named them Sunbeam, Seahorsey and Cursy (the cursin' fish, I call it). When I woke up on Sunday morning one of them was already dead. I still haven't learned which fish is which.
Who would have thought that pooped-on rocks cost more than clean rocks? The fish were listed at $3.50 each. Wouldn't it be nice if the reality was that simple?
He kept working on us for a fews and we finally agreed. On Saturday we planned our fish-buying trip. Ethan found a five dollar bill in his room and held it in his hand all day. Sixty dollars later we were set up with a 2.5 gallon fish setup. We bought some of those "sunburst" fish. The kids named them Sunbeam, Seahorsey and Cursy (the cursin' fish, I call it). When I woke up on Sunday morning one of them was already dead. I still haven't learned which fish is which.
Who would have thought that pooped-on rocks cost more than clean rocks? The fish were listed at $3.50 each. Wouldn't it be nice if the reality was that simple?
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Keep on Truckin'
Yes, I have been very busy working. They tell me I'm working 10 hour days but when I figure the numbers over twelve hours are gone from my day when its done. Between that and laundry and kindergarten, the day goes by fast.
Work is interesting. You don't need to know anyone's name... everyone just goes by "motherf**ker." There is a group of guys that cruise around on special forklifts where the driver can rise up to 50 feet. I've been working with the "tugs." Tugs are like bumpercars built by Hummer. The forklift guys load little trailers with furniture and the tugs pick up the trailers and take them to the bays to be trucked out onto the highways. Driving a tug is like being a mechanical centipede in a land of furniture. I still have to get down carrying mattresses over my head. Those pillowtop queensized ones make you stagger around like a drunk man.
Everyone has to take lunch and break together because a guy was crushed to death by a row of marble tables that fell on him like dominos last year. No more working alone. The mofos taped his obituary on the shelf where he died.
At lunch time the TV is always set to TV Land: All in the Family. It's awkward to watch Archie Bunker rant on about how he refuses to "break bread with Jungle Bunnies" when there are several black people eating next to you. Anyway, it's already time for me to go again. Catch you all later.
Work is interesting. You don't need to know anyone's name... everyone just goes by "motherf**ker." There is a group of guys that cruise around on special forklifts where the driver can rise up to 50 feet. I've been working with the "tugs." Tugs are like bumpercars built by Hummer. The forklift guys load little trailers with furniture and the tugs pick up the trailers and take them to the bays to be trucked out onto the highways. Driving a tug is like being a mechanical centipede in a land of furniture. I still have to get down carrying mattresses over my head. Those pillowtop queensized ones make you stagger around like a drunk man.
Everyone has to take lunch and break together because a guy was crushed to death by a row of marble tables that fell on him like dominos last year. No more working alone. The mofos taped his obituary on the shelf where he died.
At lunch time the TV is always set to TV Land: All in the Family. It's awkward to watch Archie Bunker rant on about how he refuses to "break bread with Jungle Bunnies" when there are several black people eating next to you. Anyway, it's already time for me to go again. Catch you all later.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Shirt Sizing
Shopping is not something I generally enjoy. This may be in part because even buying a simple t-shirt becomes complicated. I have tens of t-shirts that are "Large" that seem to fit me when I buy them but then I must double in size overnight and suddenly the little sleeves are riding up in my armpits. On the otherhand, when I put on an extra-large shirt there is so much loose material around my waist it looks like I'm incompetent at tying up my toga.
Even with my box-loading, pig-wrestling muscles, I'm 150 pounds with arms like broomsticks. Many 15 year olds just entering puberty are my size. In our "big-fat-fatty" society, I do not think I should be lost in some void between large and extra-large. Shirt sizing should be recalibrated to make me a small to medium and save large and extra-large for guys like Howie Long and Jiminy Glick. I used to be astounded by sizes like XXXL being common but now I understand. The sizing is just off. And would it kill someone to make a shirt with a subtle V-shape like the human body is supposed to have?
Even with my box-loading, pig-wrestling muscles, I'm 150 pounds with arms like broomsticks. Many 15 year olds just entering puberty are my size. In our "big-fat-fatty" society, I do not think I should be lost in some void between large and extra-large. Shirt sizing should be recalibrated to make me a small to medium and save large and extra-large for guys like Howie Long and Jiminy Glick. I used to be astounded by sizes like XXXL being common but now I understand. The sizing is just off. And would it kill someone to make a shirt with a subtle V-shape like the human body is supposed to have?
Public Restrooms
Yes, we could go on for hours and hours about people who go into restroom stalls and cut loose with a nonchalance that would make Fonzi seem more like Cornholio or about boogers or "musings" on the walls or strange eyes peeking between the gaps around the doors or standing too close to exposed gentlemen or the basic etiquette of not participating in conversation while someone is doing their business but those are all commonplace.
When I go into public restrooms I have some recurring thoughts that I thought I would share:
Once you wear your new shoes into a public restroom they are no longer new. It doesn't matter if you've only had them a few minutes. The "new" is gone.
In my late teens, someone pointed out to me that they always flush public toilets with their foot to avoid germs. That seems like it would spread MORE germs but, once you find out there is a certain percentage of people who flush with their foot, you virtually have no choice but to start flushing with your foot as well.
Why do so many establishments place their paper towel dispensers above elbow level? The water starts running down to your elbow and possibly your armpit depending on your height. And where do they find that toilet paper that is so hard to unroll?
"Touch as few things as possible" is a good philosophy.
Smell ya later.
When I go into public restrooms I have some recurring thoughts that I thought I would share:
Smell ya later.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Love is All Around You
Now I should finish off the neighbor gossip by telling you about Mike Love. I tell you his name because it is not likely to be his actual name.
Just to give you a visual image, Mike is a black man in his 50's, slight of build. On the snowy day that we moved in he approached one of my brothers-in-law and said, "Hey! Would you guys like some help moving in?" My brother-in-law said, "Yes." (He just wanted to get done faster. We had plenty of help already.) Mike said, "Okay. I'll go get some more helpers and we'll get you all moved in." We didn't see Mike again for about 3 days.
Since we started our collection of toddlers we have become anti-coffee-table people. We had a coffee table that my mother-in-law bought from a secondhand store and painted to look like marble. It looked good but just about all of the kids in my wife's family have a childhood story about braining themselves on the solid metal fixture. We wanted to spare our children from continuing that legacy so we left the coffee table on the side of our house when we moved in until we could figure out what to do with it.
One day, Mike shows up at the front door. He says, "What's the deal with that coffee table? Are you throwing it out? It would look great against one of my apartment walls with my TV on it."
I said, "We haven't figured out what were going to do with it, yet." Before I could offer, Mike said, "Well if you decide you don't want it anymore just tell me. That's a good looking table." I said, "Okay." This was pretty much a daily event until we gave him the table. At which point he said he owed us a barbeque.
Mike claimed to be the very first boyfriend of the widow who used to live nextdoor (now those white-trashy people with the pool table live there). We really liked the widow. She was very nice but sad and stressed out. Her 14 year old daughter had a big tattoo on her back that said "Daddy's Girl." She did not look 14. That seems to be the case with many of the young girls around here. The daughter told us her mother would often go to the cemetery to lay down on her husband's grave and have a good cry. They didn't have any money so they sold the house and moved.
But Mike hung around for awhile. He didn't live with the widow. He rented a garage apartment just down the road and would try to help the widow keep up the house. The trend became that anytime there was any item in my front or back yard, Mike would come and ask me, "What's the deal with that thing? What's up with the broken pile of wood? What's up with the little satellite dish? Where did you get that second Jeep Cherokee? I bought a Jeep Cherokee just like yours, could I get some parts off your second Jeep?"
Mike also got a part-time job with a store that rents lawn equipment, like rototillers. After work he would bring home various pieces of equipment and then go door to door to get some pay in trade for some fast yardwork. He kept asking us if we wanted him to bring us anything. We hesitantly asked for a rototiller to get our yards ready for sod. He made numerous promises to deliver one to us. One day he showed up with a trailer full of equipment and asked me to help him unload it. I did. I said, "Is any of these a rototiller?" He said, "No, this is an aerator and that is a power-rake." We ended up borrowing a tiller from the Cowboy Hat People. But before that, Mike came by our house and aerated and power-raked our yard. Later he came to me and said, "I do that for a lot of the neighbors. They'll usually give me like $20." I told him thanks but that we still had plans to till the whole thing. I instructed my wife never to give him money, not that she listens to me.
Mike got fired from that job because of his outside money-making tactics. The Cowboy Hat People were well acquainted with Mike and it turns out they co-signed for Mike on loans for over $2000 and he has not paid them back. When the widow moved, Mike hung around for a little while but then disappeared. They say he was living with some woman who had agreed to let him sell her belongings to pay some creditor down in Las Vegas. The widow was supposed to pick Mike up at the bus station when he returned and the Cowboy Hat People planned to meet him with the police. Mike didn't show up that day. Mike will make a split-second cameo in our neighborhood now and again. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt but have to worry when he tells me things like, "Oh yeah, I knocked down a board when I was jumping over the fence in your backyard the other day..."
He's just one of those people that takes advantage of anyone who tries to help him. I really get to feeling like I live on Cannery Row.
Just to give you a visual image, Mike is a black man in his 50's, slight of build. On the snowy day that we moved in he approached one of my brothers-in-law and said, "Hey! Would you guys like some help moving in?" My brother-in-law said, "Yes." (He just wanted to get done faster. We had plenty of help already.) Mike said, "Okay. I'll go get some more helpers and we'll get you all moved in." We didn't see Mike again for about 3 days.
Since we started our collection of toddlers we have become anti-coffee-table people. We had a coffee table that my mother-in-law bought from a secondhand store and painted to look like marble. It looked good but just about all of the kids in my wife's family have a childhood story about braining themselves on the solid metal fixture. We wanted to spare our children from continuing that legacy so we left the coffee table on the side of our house when we moved in until we could figure out what to do with it.
One day, Mike shows up at the front door. He says, "What's the deal with that coffee table? Are you throwing it out? It would look great against one of my apartment walls with my TV on it."
I said, "We haven't figured out what were going to do with it, yet." Before I could offer, Mike said, "Well if you decide you don't want it anymore just tell me. That's a good looking table." I said, "Okay." This was pretty much a daily event until we gave him the table. At which point he said he owed us a barbeque.
Mike claimed to be the very first boyfriend of the widow who used to live nextdoor (now those white-trashy people with the pool table live there). We really liked the widow. She was very nice but sad and stressed out. Her 14 year old daughter had a big tattoo on her back that said "Daddy's Girl." She did not look 14. That seems to be the case with many of the young girls around here. The daughter told us her mother would often go to the cemetery to lay down on her husband's grave and have a good cry. They didn't have any money so they sold the house and moved.
But Mike hung around for awhile. He didn't live with the widow. He rented a garage apartment just down the road and would try to help the widow keep up the house. The trend became that anytime there was any item in my front or back yard, Mike would come and ask me, "What's the deal with that thing? What's up with the broken pile of wood? What's up with the little satellite dish? Where did you get that second Jeep Cherokee? I bought a Jeep Cherokee just like yours, could I get some parts off your second Jeep?"
Mike also got a part-time job with a store that rents lawn equipment, like rototillers. After work he would bring home various pieces of equipment and then go door to door to get some pay in trade for some fast yardwork. He kept asking us if we wanted him to bring us anything. We hesitantly asked for a rototiller to get our yards ready for sod. He made numerous promises to deliver one to us. One day he showed up with a trailer full of equipment and asked me to help him unload it. I did. I said, "Is any of these a rototiller?" He said, "No, this is an aerator and that is a power-rake." We ended up borrowing a tiller from the Cowboy Hat People. But before that, Mike came by our house and aerated and power-raked our yard. Later he came to me and said, "I do that for a lot of the neighbors. They'll usually give me like $20." I told him thanks but that we still had plans to till the whole thing. I instructed my wife never to give him money, not that she listens to me.
Mike got fired from that job because of his outside money-making tactics. The Cowboy Hat People were well acquainted with Mike and it turns out they co-signed for Mike on loans for over $2000 and he has not paid them back. When the widow moved, Mike hung around for a little while but then disappeared. They say he was living with some woman who had agreed to let him sell her belongings to pay some creditor down in Las Vegas. The widow was supposed to pick Mike up at the bus station when he returned and the Cowboy Hat People planned to meet him with the police. Mike didn't show up that day. Mike will make a split-second cameo in our neighborhood now and again. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt but have to worry when he tells me things like, "Oh yeah, I knocked down a board when I was jumping over the fence in your backyard the other day..."
He's just one of those people that takes advantage of anyone who tries to help him. I really get to feeling like I live on Cannery Row.
The Cowboy Hat People
I try to avoid getting into gossip about my neighbors but I wanted to show you these crafts they made, so here we go:Our neighbor's are always doing strange crafts like drawing Scooby Doo on those styrofoam plates you get when you buy a pound of hamburger at the grocery store. They are prone to having strokes and siezures so they live off diability and they are pretty bored. They will come over to our house just to show us pictures they took of themselves.
They made these dogs out of beads. We told them we would like to buy one for our son and one for our daughter. They made these dogs special for us: One boy and one girl if you care to look closely at the picture.
We moved into our house in February a couple years ago. We saw "The cowboy-hat people" around the neighborhood. They live right across the street from us. At first we thought they may be polygamists becuase they dress so oddly. They're not. It's a couple in their 50's and their 93 year old mother. In the winter they all wear leather jackets and cowboy hats everywhere they go. The hats have homemade beadwork draped all over them. In the summer they wear shorts and the lady wears a Tweety-Bird (looneytunes) sports bra and the man wears an unbuttoned shirt, letting it all hang out. They wear these clothes for days at a time. These people can't drive because of the siezures so they're always walking. They took out a cinder block wall with their truck and a field of sapling trees not too long ago. They are constantly telling us, "If you see one of us having a siezure in the street stay back and DON'T call an ambulance. We get kicking pretty good so we don't want you to get hurt and we don't want to pay for an ambulance. We get through them just fine." They love to shovel snow. They love to dig up tree stumps (which we also hired them to do two summers ago). They tell stories that make you think they are compulsive liars but the stories are always consistent from one of them to the next so they must be true. They will talk your ear off until you tell them you have to go. They tell you about how old the mother is, about the big tires on their brother's truck, about their plans to pave their driveway someday. Anytime they see you outside they will come and talk to you, breathing cigarette smoke all over your kids.
They've invited us over a few times for watermelon and such. They have one room that's pretty regularly filled with cat crap. Once, I gave them a ride in our car to a medical center to get their prescriptions and I almost died of the smell. If the lady stubs her toe or something, she'll say "Oh Peanuts!" if she does it twice she'll say, "Oh Peanut Brittle!" We have known them for two years, taken them to the grocery store, to the hospital, worked on eachother's yards and they still think that my name is Eric and that my wife is Lanore.
They are pretty snoopy but very kind. We like them even though they can be embarrassing. They take some getting used to. They freaked out my brother-in-law just by being themselves. When I told them we were expecting our third child they told me how they always thought about adopting... "You know, just one kid. Like a four year old... but the state only gives us so much money and we don't know that we could afford it."
When a giant limb fell off of our dead tree and onto a city truck and out into the street, they came running with saws and axes as fast as they could to clear up the mess. When we ordered the sod for our front lawn, they came over and just started laying it like we had asked them to, even though we didn't. Anyway, it's just another example of very strange but very kind people.
Valentine's Day
I got that forklift job yesterday. I got to pee in a cup and everything. And my mother-in-law offered to watch our children so my wife and I could go out for Valentine's Day. I thought we would both be working, making for 3 lame Valentine's Days in a row. But with a babysitter lined up I made plans to go out. I should have clarified in my last blog entry that I only watch movies that I can get my hands on cheap or free. We rarely go to the full-price theater. I checked and there were no new movies I wanted to see so instead I found some tickets to a ballet performance of Romeo and Juliet downtown. I considered a murder/mystery dinner thing but it didn't seem like Valentine's Day to me.
The ballet was pretty cool. Everyone is dressed nicely (a few people wear jeans and others look like they are at the prom). Nobody is shoving popcorn in their face or sucking on a Big Gulp. There are a lot of younger people there that give you the impression that they don't actually like ballet but are willing to pretend that they do for the sake of seeming "cultured." The program booklet is filled with advertisements for plastic surgeons and ladies that want to dress you and shop for you "professionally" because you're a hopeless slob who wears brown shoes with a black belt.
For about three minutes, you wonder why you're staring at an ornate gate surrounded by dramatic shadows and then you remember this is all live and guys are back there in the darkness pushing pieces of the set around. It gives you a moment to realize that every note of music is being made by someone down in the orchestra pit. It's not a CD playing over the speaker system.
There are only a few people that get to dance a lot. The rest of the cast seem like glorified mimes. I asked my wife, "Don't you think it would hurt to get picked up by your rib-cage a hundred times a day?" Poor Juliet. Some of the scenes are drawn out, like where Juliet dances out her conflicted feelings of whether or not to take the potion that will make her appear to be dead. Mercutio's death scene was pretty good because he tries to play it off like he's only pretending to die. Mercutio was an oriental dude in this version of the story.
I like live things because it's finally appropriate to clap. I always think people are strange for clapping in movie theaters. But at the ballet, if you like the spotlight work, if you like the costumes, sets, music or even the dancing, you can clap and the person responsible will hear you. About ten percent of the audience watched three hours of professional dancers leaping in the air and then they practically ran out of the theater the moment Juliet stabs herself.... you know, to beat the traffic. Seems somewhat rude to watch the dancers for three hours and then bail one minute before they take their final bows.
So it ended up as a good Valentine's Day. Employment and a good date (though one or two ballets a year would be plenty). When I called in sick for work my boss started out like he was going to be vindictive. He started to say something like, "This puts us in a brutal situation..." but then he just said, "Well, you do good work so just go and have fun." I really haven't had a chance to despise the box loading job. Oh well.
The ballet was pretty cool. Everyone is dressed nicely (a few people wear jeans and others look like they are at the prom). Nobody is shoving popcorn in their face or sucking on a Big Gulp. There are a lot of younger people there that give you the impression that they don't actually like ballet but are willing to pretend that they do for the sake of seeming "cultured." The program booklet is filled with advertisements for plastic surgeons and ladies that want to dress you and shop for you "professionally" because you're a hopeless slob who wears brown shoes with a black belt.
For about three minutes, you wonder why you're staring at an ornate gate surrounded by dramatic shadows and then you remember this is all live and guys are back there in the darkness pushing pieces of the set around. It gives you a moment to realize that every note of music is being made by someone down in the orchestra pit. It's not a CD playing over the speaker system.
There are only a few people that get to dance a lot. The rest of the cast seem like glorified mimes. I asked my wife, "Don't you think it would hurt to get picked up by your rib-cage a hundred times a day?" Poor Juliet. Some of the scenes are drawn out, like where Juliet dances out her conflicted feelings of whether or not to take the potion that will make her appear to be dead. Mercutio's death scene was pretty good because he tries to play it off like he's only pretending to die. Mercutio was an oriental dude in this version of the story.
I like live things because it's finally appropriate to clap. I always think people are strange for clapping in movie theaters. But at the ballet, if you like the spotlight work, if you like the costumes, sets, music or even the dancing, you can clap and the person responsible will hear you. About ten percent of the audience watched three hours of professional dancers leaping in the air and then they practically ran out of the theater the moment Juliet stabs herself.... you know, to beat the traffic. Seems somewhat rude to watch the dancers for three hours and then bail one minute before they take their final bows.
So it ended up as a good Valentine's Day. Employment and a good date (though one or two ballets a year would be plenty). When I called in sick for work my boss started out like he was going to be vindictive. He started to say something like, "This puts us in a brutal situation..." but then he just said, "Well, you do good work so just go and have fun." I really haven't had a chance to despise the box loading job. Oh well.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Bunch of Words About Movies
I must be on the same brain-wave as my friends as they have recently blogged about movies as well. I put it off but decided to write about movies anyhow. I didn't use to care very much about movies. In fact, I think actors are given way too much credit for what they do. I've always preferred to live so that I'm busy enough with my interests that I don't know what's playing in the theaters or even what the films are about.
I'm in a lost state right now. Meaning, I know things have to change soon but I don't know how. I'm going somewhere but I don't know where. And during this time I have latched on to movies. Some people like to drink, my wife has candy and now I like to have movies ready to watch at all times. My wife is terrified of sharks so I bought that movie "Open Water" for $5 about stranded scuba divers in shark infested waters. That's just what we do. I don't know why.
I thought I was on my way to being a movie buff but just reading my friends blogs about movies reveals that I have been outclassed. I don't know that many movies nor do I really have the urge to search them out. I'll just watch whatever and hope I can find something of value in them. The trick is to be very, VERY forgiving. If you assume a movie is going to be awful then the odds are good you will be pleasantly surprised. I watched Sweet Home Alabama this weekend. I'm willing to say it was OK, so long as I keep from my mind that the film did nothing to make me think fondly of "the south," that Reese Witherspoon did nothing to assure her first husband that him becoming successful was not important, nor that the actions of the characters are rational ways for anyone to behave in a serious relationship: it is not good advice for impressionable minds that you should leave your fiance for some dude you haven't seen nor talked to for seven years.
I think acting has much more to do with your personality than talent. It's not very impressive that people can pretend well. It's like being rewarded for being a good liar. It is, however, very unimpressive when they can't act. I've wanted to see Cold Mountain since it was released and just barely watched it. I was surprised to see Jack White from The White Stripes in the movie. He did fine. Why is it so hard for so many actors to act well?
I love the scene in "The man who knew too little" where Bill Murray thinks he's in a "pretend" conspiracy. He's in a car with a girl and she's crying because her partner was killed. Thinking she's an actor, Bill says, "Are you crying? You guys are good. Did you poke yourself in the eye? Are you thinking, 'my dog is dead'? 'My dog... is dead!'" Bill Murray cracks me up so bad. Anyway, I'm the world's biggest and worst movie fan right now.
Making movies is different. There was a guy at my last job. He was crazy. Bizarre. He taped his eyelids up at night to stay awake. But making movies was his passion. I imagine he took a lot of meds and frequently spaced-out with a shit-eating grin on his face. He changed a part in a Vampire/Western movie so I could be in it. I played an Indian. I had no lines and two death scenes (one as a mortal, one as a vampire). We went to a mineshaft in Big Cottonwood Canyon to shoot for a day. The scene was me and a vampire killing eachother. I took it seriously. Too seriously, as I found out, because the strange guy likes extra-hokey, over-acting. If I knew that I would have done some hooting and gone all wild-eyed. The girl who played the vampire was a bartender who just liked to act on the side. She was good. She looked like a fool but she stayed in her vampire character the whole time, wiggling her fingers, hissing, rocking from side to side. We shot the part where I ran up and stabbed her several times, then we had to get some close shots of my hand plunging the stake into her heart. The bartender got mad at me and said, "What are you doing? What's with that big old smile?" I said, "We're just filming my hand... it's okay to smile." But I think smiling was distracting to her. The vampire movie didn't get finished. They scrapped it.
That strange-movie-maker quit his job. In the usual fashion, on the day he received his final stock options he walked in, put his stuff in a box and walked out. Didn't talk to anyone. They say he went to Chicago to make more movies. Before that, he gave me a film to watch. It was three films: One documentary about a strange kid from Beaver, Utah and two remakes of that documentary with Sean Penn and Crispin Glover. The Beaver Kid was some strange kid who wanted to be famous really bad and showed up in Salt Lake in the early 80's to check out the new News helicopter. A camera man came out to talk to him and filmed the event. The Beaver Kid invited the camera man to come to Beaver to see him perform a song dressed as Olivia Newton John. Very strange. The real Beaver Kid was cooler than both the performances by Penn and Glover. I think writers and directors deserve more credit.
My little sister said she wants to make movies. She goes to college next year. I told her she would have to go all out if she wants to accomplish anything. It's not something you will succeed at if you do it half-assed.
I'm in a lost state right now. Meaning, I know things have to change soon but I don't know how. I'm going somewhere but I don't know where. And during this time I have latched on to movies. Some people like to drink, my wife has candy and now I like to have movies ready to watch at all times. My wife is terrified of sharks so I bought that movie "Open Water" for $5 about stranded scuba divers in shark infested waters. That's just what we do. I don't know why.
I thought I was on my way to being a movie buff but just reading my friends blogs about movies reveals that I have been outclassed. I don't know that many movies nor do I really have the urge to search them out. I'll just watch whatever and hope I can find something of value in them. The trick is to be very, VERY forgiving. If you assume a movie is going to be awful then the odds are good you will be pleasantly surprised. I watched Sweet Home Alabama this weekend. I'm willing to say it was OK, so long as I keep from my mind that the film did nothing to make me think fondly of "the south," that Reese Witherspoon did nothing to assure her first husband that him becoming successful was not important, nor that the actions of the characters are rational ways for anyone to behave in a serious relationship: it is not good advice for impressionable minds that you should leave your fiance for some dude you haven't seen nor talked to for seven years.
I think acting has much more to do with your personality than talent. It's not very impressive that people can pretend well. It's like being rewarded for being a good liar. It is, however, very unimpressive when they can't act. I've wanted to see Cold Mountain since it was released and just barely watched it. I was surprised to see Jack White from The White Stripes in the movie. He did fine. Why is it so hard for so many actors to act well?
I love the scene in "The man who knew too little" where Bill Murray thinks he's in a "pretend" conspiracy. He's in a car with a girl and she's crying because her partner was killed. Thinking she's an actor, Bill says, "Are you crying? You guys are good. Did you poke yourself in the eye? Are you thinking, 'my dog is dead'? 'My dog... is dead!'" Bill Murray cracks me up so bad. Anyway, I'm the world's biggest and worst movie fan right now.
Making movies is different. There was a guy at my last job. He was crazy. Bizarre. He taped his eyelids up at night to stay awake. But making movies was his passion. I imagine he took a lot of meds and frequently spaced-out with a shit-eating grin on his face. He changed a part in a Vampire/Western movie so I could be in it. I played an Indian. I had no lines and two death scenes (one as a mortal, one as a vampire). We went to a mineshaft in Big Cottonwood Canyon to shoot for a day. The scene was me and a vampire killing eachother. I took it seriously. Too seriously, as I found out, because the strange guy likes extra-hokey, over-acting. If I knew that I would have done some hooting and gone all wild-eyed. The girl who played the vampire was a bartender who just liked to act on the side. She was good. She looked like a fool but she stayed in her vampire character the whole time, wiggling her fingers, hissing, rocking from side to side. We shot the part where I ran up and stabbed her several times, then we had to get some close shots of my hand plunging the stake into her heart. The bartender got mad at me and said, "What are you doing? What's with that big old smile?" I said, "We're just filming my hand... it's okay to smile." But I think smiling was distracting to her. The vampire movie didn't get finished. They scrapped it.
That strange-movie-maker quit his job. In the usual fashion, on the day he received his final stock options he walked in, put his stuff in a box and walked out. Didn't talk to anyone. They say he went to Chicago to make more movies. Before that, he gave me a film to watch. It was three films: One documentary about a strange kid from Beaver, Utah and two remakes of that documentary with Sean Penn and Crispin Glover. The Beaver Kid was some strange kid who wanted to be famous really bad and showed up in Salt Lake in the early 80's to check out the new News helicopter. A camera man came out to talk to him and filmed the event. The Beaver Kid invited the camera man to come to Beaver to see him perform a song dressed as Olivia Newton John. Very strange. The real Beaver Kid was cooler than both the performances by Penn and Glover. I think writers and directors deserve more credit.
My little sister said she wants to make movies. She goes to college next year. I told her she would have to go all out if she wants to accomplish anything. It's not something you will succeed at if you do it half-assed.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Blaming Our Virtue
The broker that made a big wad of money when we bought our house sent us a mini-calendar filled with "inspirational" quotes by famous americans. Read one-at-a-time they are words of encouragement. But if you read them all and gather the theme they seem to suggest that it's the reader's fault that the reader has not achieved greatness. It works best if you think of yourself as some kind of couch-fungus rather than someone who actually has hobbies and interests but little time to devote to those activities due to daily responsibilities. The vague quotations seem to throw caution to the wind and shirk the idea that perhaps you do things for other people who won't mind if you suddenly cast off the life you've built to chase whatever dreams you haven't realized yet.
I don't doubt in the human ability to laze about but if we all had the resources of say, Paris Hilton, then I'm sure we would see some amazing things from people on a daily basis. The structure of our society seems to discourage allowing people any free time, starting with elementary school. Life becomes an endless 9 to 5 day of crap you wish you didn't have to deal with and often those hours don't meet your needs. I know if I were provided a place to live and food to eat I could come up with some kick-ass things beyond writing and music. I think my big fault is that I do things because I enjoy them. If I COULD drive myself to do things for fame and fortune I would probably have more accomplished and more money but I would ultimately dislike myself.
People always think I look young and are surprised to learn that I am married and have kids. They ask how I like it. It is a struggle but it is rewarding in that I always feel like I have something important to do. I feel like my main purpose is to make a better generation to replace my generation. Next to that, writing a song as popular as "I'm too sexy" doesn't seem important anymore. I will still sneak in my own accomplishments but I see my kids as the hope of the future; burdened with cleaning up our messes in a sea of people who don't care and often are offended at the notion. I feel guilty at the terrible odds against them. I hope I have better advice for them than drivel like: "It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not."
I don't doubt in the human ability to laze about but if we all had the resources of say, Paris Hilton, then I'm sure we would see some amazing things from people on a daily basis. The structure of our society seems to discourage allowing people any free time, starting with elementary school. Life becomes an endless 9 to 5 day of crap you wish you didn't have to deal with and often those hours don't meet your needs. I know if I were provided a place to live and food to eat I could come up with some kick-ass things beyond writing and music. I think my big fault is that I do things because I enjoy them. If I COULD drive myself to do things for fame and fortune I would probably have more accomplished and more money but I would ultimately dislike myself.
People always think I look young and are surprised to learn that I am married and have kids. They ask how I like it. It is a struggle but it is rewarding in that I always feel like I have something important to do. I feel like my main purpose is to make a better generation to replace my generation. Next to that, writing a song as popular as "I'm too sexy" doesn't seem important anymore. I will still sneak in my own accomplishments but I see my kids as the hope of the future; burdened with cleaning up our messes in a sea of people who don't care and often are offended at the notion. I feel guilty at the terrible odds against them. I hope I have better advice for them than drivel like: "It's not who you are that holds you back, it's who you think you're not."
Saturday, February 11, 2006
The Land of Ghosts
The Salt Lake Tribune is running a story about native americans and their right to use peyote in religious ceremonies. There is a debate over who can use peyote. It seems like many people do not like this practice and, therefore, are looking to limit the use of the drug to members of federally recognized indian tribes.
The problem is that many indian tribes have not been recognized by the federal government. Though these people have ancestors who have lived in north america for thousands of years, apparently, they don't count as native americans because Uncle Sam hasn't put his stamp on them. Why not? Because when a tribe is recognized the government has to give them money and land. Does Uncle Sam like to give those things? No. It doesn't seem to bother anyone that people in this country are denied their own heritage because the government doesn't want to pay for it. But the real culprit in protecting the use of peyote is the United States Constitution (Which, it so happens, was heavily inspired by the Iroquois people. It's got to be some kind of conspiracy! Look it up.); damn freedom of religion. We'll see if the first amendment is good enough for the courts. And to native americans who fail to be recognized... you will need to content yourself in the land of ghosts.
The problem is that many indian tribes have not been recognized by the federal government. Though these people have ancestors who have lived in north america for thousands of years, apparently, they don't count as native americans because Uncle Sam hasn't put his stamp on them. Why not? Because when a tribe is recognized the government has to give them money and land. Does Uncle Sam like to give those things? No. It doesn't seem to bother anyone that people in this country are denied their own heritage because the government doesn't want to pay for it. But the real culprit in protecting the use of peyote is the United States Constitution (Which, it so happens, was heavily inspired by the Iroquois people. It's got to be some kind of conspiracy! Look it up.); damn freedom of religion. We'll see if the first amendment is good enough for the courts. And to native americans who fail to be recognized... you will need to content yourself in the land of ghosts.
Friday, February 10, 2006
That's More Like It
The last couple of days I was frustrated. If you thought I was negative before then you really would have been in for a ride had I decided to blog. But I decided to spare you. I hope this gives you confidence that I don't throw just any crap onto the blog. It has to be special crap. You may be asking yourself, "Then what was that blog with the dolls all about?" That was a simple illustration of how ANYTHING is more interesting than cleaning your kid's room, even playing with dolls. Do you think Oprah is going to give you nuggets of life like that? Fat Chance. Am I right, ladies? I'm right.
Eleanor told me I was nicer when we first got married. It's true. I still have patience and a sense of humor but I tend to reserve them for people who aren't going to waste my time or for people that can at least be reasoned with. My time is valuable to me. This has led me to a new philosophy where I no longer accept empty promises. Like the ones you see in every TV commercial, like pep talks from your boss and so forth. But today there are signs that the tide is changing.
On Monday I interviewed for a forklift job in a furniture warehouse. The interview went well and I felt like it was in the bag. But nowadays everyone wants to run a background check on prospective employees. It's a process that takes about a week and just seems to give employers time to forget about you. At my box-loading job, they said they have to turn away 58% of applicants because they fail the background check. They say it like we will be surprised to learn that we have never committed any felonies. So yesterday it felt like the interview had never occurred but I called and left a message asking to know what the situation was. The furniture guy left a message on our machine for me to call him but I didn't get home until after he left his office. I have to take this as a positive sign unless the man is too empathetic to leave a message on the machine saying the position has already been filled. I won't count on it until I know, but hopefully I got the job. It's not like I'm shooting for the moon. The pay will just get us by and possibly spare us from the usual 600% markup on furniture prices.
I missed the phone call because we were having our taxes done with our tax dude. It was fast and easy and our return is more than twice what I expected. It will afford me to be a box loader for some time if need be. This doesn't mean I like Bush's tax cuts. Have you seen his knew budget? Cutting funds from schools, the poor, the elderly and selling public lands and STILL bringing in a record deficit. The tax cuts come at a price. Getting a big tax return does make me feel a little better about the hell I endured to stash it away last year. I guess I felt like I deserved more out of that last job.
It's funny how my little kids get so interested in who I work for and what I do. They learn the logos. They point out buildings with the logos, commercials with the logos, trucks with the logos. And they are proud of them. They respect that the pay the company provides allows them to have fun. I was actually proud of my last job for some time, but then management gets some unsubstantiated gut-feeling that taking away everything that makes your job seem bearable will somehow boost earnings. I've seen postings that the last company I worked for is currently hiring with opening wages at $1.50 below the wage I started at 5 years ago. The bosses where I work now treat me well; they give me tokens for the vending machines, they give me gift cards, they mailed me a company lapel pin. If I ever wear something with lapels I will think of the pin and laugh. But I appreciate it. If only they would give me full time hours and pay me enough to live on... then I would be proud along with my kids.
My kids actually think of batteries as the ultimate currency. Batteries make all their toys come to life. Dear lord... please bless that the double-a's in my LMAX will never die. Thank you for robo-raptors. Amen.
At the moment, I do not have the money from my tax return nor the job at the furniture place but the near future seems promising and this time I will let myself enjoy it.
Eleanor told me I was nicer when we first got married. It's true. I still have patience and a sense of humor but I tend to reserve them for people who aren't going to waste my time or for people that can at least be reasoned with. My time is valuable to me. This has led me to a new philosophy where I no longer accept empty promises. Like the ones you see in every TV commercial, like pep talks from your boss and so forth. But today there are signs that the tide is changing.
On Monday I interviewed for a forklift job in a furniture warehouse. The interview went well and I felt like it was in the bag. But nowadays everyone wants to run a background check on prospective employees. It's a process that takes about a week and just seems to give employers time to forget about you. At my box-loading job, they said they have to turn away 58% of applicants because they fail the background check. They say it like we will be surprised to learn that we have never committed any felonies. So yesterday it felt like the interview had never occurred but I called and left a message asking to know what the situation was. The furniture guy left a message on our machine for me to call him but I didn't get home until after he left his office. I have to take this as a positive sign unless the man is too empathetic to leave a message on the machine saying the position has already been filled. I won't count on it until I know, but hopefully I got the job. It's not like I'm shooting for the moon. The pay will just get us by and possibly spare us from the usual 600% markup on furniture prices.
I missed the phone call because we were having our taxes done with our tax dude. It was fast and easy and our return is more than twice what I expected. It will afford me to be a box loader for some time if need be. This doesn't mean I like Bush's tax cuts. Have you seen his knew budget? Cutting funds from schools, the poor, the elderly and selling public lands and STILL bringing in a record deficit. The tax cuts come at a price. Getting a big tax return does make me feel a little better about the hell I endured to stash it away last year. I guess I felt like I deserved more out of that last job.
It's funny how my little kids get so interested in who I work for and what I do. They learn the logos. They point out buildings with the logos, commercials with the logos, trucks with the logos. And they are proud of them. They respect that the pay the company provides allows them to have fun. I was actually proud of my last job for some time, but then management gets some unsubstantiated gut-feeling that taking away everything that makes your job seem bearable will somehow boost earnings. I've seen postings that the last company I worked for is currently hiring with opening wages at $1.50 below the wage I started at 5 years ago. The bosses where I work now treat me well; they give me tokens for the vending machines, they give me gift cards, they mailed me a company lapel pin. If I ever wear something with lapels I will think of the pin and laugh. But I appreciate it. If only they would give me full time hours and pay me enough to live on... then I would be proud along with my kids.
My kids actually think of batteries as the ultimate currency. Batteries make all their toys come to life. Dear lord... please bless that the double-a's in my LMAX will never die. Thank you for robo-raptors. Amen.
At the moment, I do not have the money from my tax return nor the job at the furniture place but the near future seems promising and this time I will let myself enjoy it.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Elmo 2006
I shot my mouth off about Elmo to my kids and the rest of you so I felt obligated to go to his show. The kids left the lights on in the van so the battery died and I spent the morning pulling our Jeep up on the lawn to jump it. After I drove it a few miles on the highway I came home and got the kids dressed. It was 10:30 by the time I made it to the bookstore. They said the tickets were all gone. It turns out the tickets were just for the privilege of standing in line to put your kids on the monster's lap. We thought of the event as more of a circus side-show so lap-sitting was not important to us.
If you don't stand in line, you can basically walk right up to Elmo. Elmo was a 6 foot, expressionless dude who was isolated on a bench in a roped off corner. I heard children younger than mine asking, "why doesn't he talk?" You would think a professional could talk. Apparently, you can be a professional so long as you have the capacity to sit and wave. That gives me hope for my own professional career. Maybe it was a professional mime or something. It would have been more entertaining to see Elmo trapped in an invisible box or walking against the wind or something.
I myself was a rarity: the only dad in the bookstore. The rest was pushy moms and scattering kids; maybe a couple of grandparents. There was a lot of hype for this. I'm sure it's much cooler the way the organizers picture it in their heads. Kids don't like to stand in line. Kids don't like to sit and be quiet while you read them a story while a creepy guy in an Elmo costume sits quietly, quarantined behind you.
If you don't stand in line, you can basically walk right up to Elmo. Elmo was a 6 foot, expressionless dude who was isolated on a bench in a roped off corner. I heard children younger than mine asking, "why doesn't he talk?" You would think a professional could talk. Apparently, you can be a professional so long as you have the capacity to sit and wave. That gives me hope for my own professional career. Maybe it was a professional mime or something. It would have been more entertaining to see Elmo trapped in an invisible box or walking against the wind or something.
I myself was a rarity: the only dad in the bookstore. The rest was pushy moms and scattering kids; maybe a couple of grandparents. There was a lot of hype for this. I'm sure it's much cooler the way the organizers picture it in their heads. Kids don't like to stand in line. Kids don't like to sit and be quiet while you read them a story while a creepy guy in an Elmo costume sits quietly, quarantined behind you.
All the Wrong Places
Doesn't it always seem to go this way? The naked Barbie always ends up with the guy with the slimy green tongue, playing host to an evil parasitic, symbiotic entity from outer space. They look happy for now but give it a month or two...
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Elmo's World
I went back to the bookstore to ask about Elmo's upcoming appearance:
"So is it like a muppet Elmo?"
"Oh no. It's a guy in a full Elmo suit. He's a PROFESSIONAL. That's why you have to get tickets. Because he is a professional. It's going to be so awesome."
The kids are still excited about seeing a guy in an Elmo suit but I make no promises. Maybe I'll show up in an Elmo t-shirt with a cartoon bubble coming off his head that says, "Who wants to die?"
"So is it like a muppet Elmo?"
"Oh no. It's a guy in a full Elmo suit. He's a PROFESSIONAL. That's why you have to get tickets. Because he is a professional. It's going to be so awesome."
The kids are still excited about seeing a guy in an Elmo suit but I make no promises. Maybe I'll show up in an Elmo t-shirt with a cartoon bubble coming off his head that says, "Who wants to die?"
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Emancipation Proclamation
The other day I was putting shoes on our daughter's feet. Ethan came up to me and wrote a message on his Magnadoodle: My life is myn (mine).
I didn't push him for much of an explanation. I will just accept that my reign of terror is over.
I didn't push him for much of an explanation. I will just accept that my reign of terror is over.
The Next Level
I worked with Gordon for some time and sort of thought of his personality as the "upper-limit" of directness and brutal honesty but after checking his family blog I am left disillusioned. For instance, people liked to dim the lights at work in the late hours. One night a coworker was looking for the correct combination of which lights should be on and which left off. Drawing the attention of the entire wing of the office, he looked at his audience and said, "What are you all staring at?"
Gordon stands up and shouts from a hundred feet away (Was it over the heads of just one or was it two supervisors? I can't remember.), he shouts, "We're looking at the retard flipping the lights on and off! Now sit your doughy ass down!" That's just one example. However, his brother has recently posted a picture of himself wearing nothing but a cowboy hat on his knob. No hands, no strings. I believe this to be the same brother who previously posted a picture of his browner, mushier, stinkier "newborn." Apparently, the bar is set pretty high in that family if you want to be on top.
Years ago, I had a roommate named Sam. He was young and wild. You had to worry about him the way you would worry about an overactive puppy in a roomful of priceless vases. But then one time all of his friends came to visit and suddenly Sam was the very model of self-composure and even good-judgment and responsibility. He did his best to control them: Don't rub bumpers as were driving through the canyon. Don't pick the locks to the girls' dorms. Don't capture the wallabies in the Logan Zoo. I did think it was funny how Sam and his girlfriend made frequent and whole-hearted attempts to depants each other in public. One day, we went out to play football in the snow. Sam tackled Slimy Sculpin and, a few seconds too late, Sam's friends decided they should all dogpile on top of them, crushing Sculpin through the snow into the mucky earth. Slimy Sculpin rose up and punched Sam in the face. Don't worry, it's a sign of affection between manly men and we are all still friends. The point is, it was strange to see the role change in Sam when his friends came to visit. Aside: Sam was the best skiing partner ever, but he broke his back skiing in the Alps.
When I started high school on the indian reservation in northern California I had two friends that were brothers and I spent some weekends at their house. One weekend we picked up another kid from school named John. John was entertaining but could become annoying really fast. My first time ever playing Super Techmo Bowl was at John's house. We shot some arrows into some bails of hay even though the draw on his bow was too long for my arms and we boxed with his boxing gloves. We went cruising around and when it got dark we drove down the country lane to John's house. His dad met us in the driveway and started yelling, "You guys need to be quiet. I could hear you yelling from a mile down the road!"
John said, "What?" and his dad said, "Don't play stupid with me. Do you want me to kick your ass right here in front of your friends? Now go inside! You guys need to go home."
The way John went to a darkened side of the house and stood like a kid being punished in elementary school gave me the sense that the talk of an "ass kicking" was not uncommon nor an exaggeration. After that I decided John could be annoying around me all he wanted.
Gordon stands up and shouts from a hundred feet away (Was it over the heads of just one or was it two supervisors? I can't remember.), he shouts, "We're looking at the retard flipping the lights on and off! Now sit your doughy ass down!" That's just one example. However, his brother has recently posted a picture of himself wearing nothing but a cowboy hat on his knob. No hands, no strings. I believe this to be the same brother who previously posted a picture of his browner, mushier, stinkier "newborn." Apparently, the bar is set pretty high in that family if you want to be on top.
Years ago, I had a roommate named Sam. He was young and wild. You had to worry about him the way you would worry about an overactive puppy in a roomful of priceless vases. But then one time all of his friends came to visit and suddenly Sam was the very model of self-composure and even good-judgment and responsibility. He did his best to control them: Don't rub bumpers as were driving through the canyon. Don't pick the locks to the girls' dorms. Don't capture the wallabies in the Logan Zoo. I did think it was funny how Sam and his girlfriend made frequent and whole-hearted attempts to depants each other in public. One day, we went out to play football in the snow. Sam tackled Slimy Sculpin and, a few seconds too late, Sam's friends decided they should all dogpile on top of them, crushing Sculpin through the snow into the mucky earth. Slimy Sculpin rose up and punched Sam in the face. Don't worry, it's a sign of affection between manly men and we are all still friends. The point is, it was strange to see the role change in Sam when his friends came to visit. Aside: Sam was the best skiing partner ever, but he broke his back skiing in the Alps.
When I started high school on the indian reservation in northern California I had two friends that were brothers and I spent some weekends at their house. One weekend we picked up another kid from school named John. John was entertaining but could become annoying really fast. My first time ever playing Super Techmo Bowl was at John's house. We shot some arrows into some bails of hay even though the draw on his bow was too long for my arms and we boxed with his boxing gloves. We went cruising around and when it got dark we drove down the country lane to John's house. His dad met us in the driveway and started yelling, "You guys need to be quiet. I could hear you yelling from a mile down the road!"
John said, "What?" and his dad said, "Don't play stupid with me. Do you want me to kick your ass right here in front of your friends? Now go inside! You guys need to go home."
The way John went to a darkened side of the house and stood like a kid being punished in elementary school gave me the sense that the talk of an "ass kicking" was not uncommon nor an exaggeration. After that I decided John could be annoying around me all he wanted.
One Foot in Snowboarder Zen
I went snowboarding today (Saturday). Just casual cruising. I was actually glad the runs were groomed cause I'm tired of having jello legs. I reached my goal of seeing for miles around in Mineral Basin. It was windy though and they had to shut down the tram. It's disorienting to swoosh down the hill at 20 mph and have wind-blown snow-snakes crawling over your feet like the ground is moving. The resort is building a new chairlift to Mineral Basin. They say the Forest Service won't let them run another lift to the top of the ridge so instead they are tunneling through the mountian. I think they call it a "Magic Carpet." It will come in handy in the upcoming age of Nuclear Scaring. Fallout shelter.
I rode the lift with an 18 year old girl from Philadelphia. She said, "Do you live here? Are you just going to school?" and it made me laugh. I told her about my wife and kids. She said next year she would be attending "FIT" in New York. It's like "MIT" except the "F" stands for "Fashion." I told her all of my fashion peeves as outlined in my "Sissypants" blog. She agreed. Then I said, "We need to get back to our roots of stealing fashion ideas from poor black kids in the inner-city so they can be sold in "The Gap" to middle-class suburban kids." She didn't respond to that. She might have thought I was making fun of her career choice.
I rode with another guy who was visiting his brother here in Utah. He was american but says he lives in Manila, Philippines or Beijing, China. He said Manila is a concrete jungle with nothing left of an indigenous culture. He said it's a hodgepodge of all the people who have stopped by throughout time. He said he feels like he connects with China. He said he works for a bank (like Worldbank, he said) and he is supposed to help rural districts become developed in all aspects. He said the degree of separation between the rich and poor there is a real crisis. That "alarms are going off." The rice farmers live in third world conditions while the urban setting is driven by fraudulent trade.
But I said China is looked at as an up-and-coming economic powerhouse. I said China was an area of concern at my last job due to all of the counterfeit goods being sold. I said that when I looked up info on the situation I saw that, worse yet, fake Nikes, handbags, DVDs and jewelry are only the beginning. They make fake windshields. You don't want to find out the hard way that it's not actually safety glass. There is also a huge issue with counterfeit prescription drugs throughout Asia and Africa. So, "Not only do you have AIDS, sir, you were also duped on your medication."
The man on the lift said that they are even creating counterfeit eggs (the eggs people eat). He said they are having issues with fake baby formula, which is just a mixture of chalk dust and sugar. Most of the babies that don't die of malnutrition develop a "giant head" deformity. He said part of the problem with "Bird Flu" in China is that they've found that a lot of the vaccines they've used were also counterfeit. It's caused a lot of problems.
Do you want to know what is even cooler than that? America's skyrocketing national and federal debt is mostly owned by China. So Mr. Bush can "ask" for hundreds of billions of dollars for unnecessary wars and that other crap he does in addition to passing out tax refunds to millionaires and the rest of us can bask in the warming knowledge that our nation owes its soul to the communist knock-off kiosk which is China. Likely, they probably counterfeit our money but, if they wanted to, they could destroy the US dollar. Will $10.00 be the new $0.13 per hour? Do you think Mr. Bush knows the answer to that question? He should, but it's all too easy to picture him saying "nobody ever told me that was a problem." Because he says that all the time. Way to LEAD. How is that for National Security?
Let's reiterate on China: Communist. Poor people feed their babies chalk. Sick people pay for and ingest fake medicine. Contract for a fake vaccine is more valuable than containing a global homicidal illness. The economy is driven by fraud. But hey, Wall Street loves China and they pay for our wars...
Maybe life would be better if I just kept my mouth shut and lit up the green stuff on the chairlift like the other jobless moochers at the ski resort.
I rode the lift with an 18 year old girl from Philadelphia. She said, "Do you live here? Are you just going to school?" and it made me laugh. I told her about my wife and kids. She said next year she would be attending "FIT" in New York. It's like "MIT" except the "F" stands for "Fashion." I told her all of my fashion peeves as outlined in my "Sissypants" blog. She agreed. Then I said, "We need to get back to our roots of stealing fashion ideas from poor black kids in the inner-city so they can be sold in "The Gap" to middle-class suburban kids." She didn't respond to that. She might have thought I was making fun of her career choice.
I rode with another guy who was visiting his brother here in Utah. He was american but says he lives in Manila, Philippines or Beijing, China. He said Manila is a concrete jungle with nothing left of an indigenous culture. He said it's a hodgepodge of all the people who have stopped by throughout time. He said he feels like he connects with China. He said he works for a bank (like Worldbank, he said) and he is supposed to help rural districts become developed in all aspects. He said the degree of separation between the rich and poor there is a real crisis. That "alarms are going off." The rice farmers live in third world conditions while the urban setting is driven by fraudulent trade.
But I said China is looked at as an up-and-coming economic powerhouse. I said China was an area of concern at my last job due to all of the counterfeit goods being sold. I said that when I looked up info on the situation I saw that, worse yet, fake Nikes, handbags, DVDs and jewelry are only the beginning. They make fake windshields. You don't want to find out the hard way that it's not actually safety glass. There is also a huge issue with counterfeit prescription drugs throughout Asia and Africa. So, "Not only do you have AIDS, sir, you were also duped on your medication."
The man on the lift said that they are even creating counterfeit eggs (the eggs people eat). He said they are having issues with fake baby formula, which is just a mixture of chalk dust and sugar. Most of the babies that don't die of malnutrition develop a "giant head" deformity. He said part of the problem with "Bird Flu" in China is that they've found that a lot of the vaccines they've used were also counterfeit. It's caused a lot of problems.
Do you want to know what is even cooler than that? America's skyrocketing national and federal debt is mostly owned by China. So Mr. Bush can "ask" for hundreds of billions of dollars for unnecessary wars and that other crap he does in addition to passing out tax refunds to millionaires and the rest of us can bask in the warming knowledge that our nation owes its soul to the communist knock-off kiosk which is China. Likely, they probably counterfeit our money but, if they wanted to, they could destroy the US dollar. Will $10.00 be the new $0.13 per hour? Do you think Mr. Bush knows the answer to that question? He should, but it's all too easy to picture him saying "nobody ever told me that was a problem." Because he says that all the time. Way to LEAD. How is that for National Security?
Let's reiterate on China: Communist. Poor people feed their babies chalk. Sick people pay for and ingest fake medicine. Contract for a fake vaccine is more valuable than containing a global homicidal illness. The economy is driven by fraud. But hey, Wall Street loves China and they pay for our wars...
Maybe life would be better if I just kept my mouth shut and lit up the green stuff on the chairlift like the other jobless moochers at the ski resort.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Deleted Scenes
I thought that once shows like Fear Factor and CSI started showing bikini-babes eating animal genitalia and ultra-graphic autopsies that we had reached a point of "anything goes" on TV. But the other night I was watching "Simpsons" reruns and told my wife to hurry into the room to see "Moe the Bartender" teach a class on "Funk Dancing for Self-Defense." It's one of the funniest scenes of all time.
Moe says, "Alright folks, here's the 411. Say some gangsta is dissin' your flygirl. You just give him one of these..." Then he cranks a the music on his ghetto blaster and busts some intense funk moves. He does a backflip and then whips out a shotgun, pumping three blasts towards his class. It's hilarious.
I've seen it several times on DVD. But when that episode aired on TV the scene had been removed. I guess it could have been the studio that cut the scene... for violence? It actually seems tame by today's standards. Or possibly they cut it to fit in more commercials but whatever the reason... it's a shame the world can't get it over the airwaves.
Moe says, "Alright folks, here's the 411. Say some gangsta is dissin' your flygirl. You just give him one of these..." Then he cranks a the music on his ghetto blaster and busts some intense funk moves. He does a backflip and then whips out a shotgun, pumping three blasts towards his class. It's hilarious.
I've seen it several times on DVD. But when that episode aired on TV the scene had been removed. I guess it could have been the studio that cut the scene... for violence? It actually seems tame by today's standards. Or possibly they cut it to fit in more commercials but whatever the reason... it's a shame the world can't get it over the airwaves.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Tragic, The Blathering: Sissypants
You've probably seen him around. He's the guy with his belt cinched beneath his cheeks. Often, they are pants designed for girls. I think the look may be a throwback to the days of birdleg punk pants, even though these kids probably don't realize it and probably think punk was something invented by Green Day. They pride themselves that they heard of AC/DC before they bought the T-shirt at JC Penney.There are usually signs that these guys care about fashion and that they put some thought into their look before deciding on the drooping-girls'-pants-and-hoodie-sweatshirt-look. I think the bottom line is that they are looking for an identity: "I follow in the trends cause I wanna have some friends." It's just a bad time for trends, by the look of it.
So this guy has low strength and low hit points as he is obviously asking for a boot-stomping. Oy, oy, oy!
While we are talking about fashion for guys... I think I should also pass the wisdom about guys in trench coats and turtle-neck shirts.
When a guy wears a trench coat or a turtle-neck shirt it is a clear cry for help. They may think they have things together. They may seem normal otherwise, but it is a cry for help. If the guy is your friend then try to get him back on track. It is probably the "searching for an identity" thing again, only these guys want an identity that bucks the trends... so they go for the street-vigilante or wannabe-yuppie look, I guess.
If the trench coat or turtleneck is accompanied by camouflage (double whammy!) then the wearer may be too far gone to be saved. If the ensemble is worn in summer then things are even worse. I actually almost prefer this guy to "sissypants" because you don't have to see the "I hope my pants don't fall down" swagger in their walk.
I recently saw a comedian (I think his name is Mitch Hedger) who compared wearing a turtle-neck to being strangled by someone with weak hands, all day long. He said if you add a backpack it's like a weak-handed midget is trying to take you down.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Steal My Body Home
After reading and commenting on "Ignitor's" blog, I thought people may think it's strange that I feel that SLC and "northern Utah" are a world apart. True, I can make the drive in 3.5 hours but I also have 3 kids, age 5 and under. To go to the grocery store is an event in itself. You have to construct this fortress of cart, kids, car seats and coats just to be mobile within the store. You have to hope one of them doesn't go shooting away and need to be hunted. You hope what you put in the cart, stays in the cart and you keep an eye on the contents of the cart to ensure that only authorized material is being purchased. And if ONE member of family has to use the bathroom, it sends ripples through the whole unit requiring "special arrangements" to be made. As a parent, the timer is always ticking or you are trying to manage your kids telepathically, evaluating the sounds outside with the greatest scrutiny. Once I don't have to worry about these things then I will think about making an "experience" of using the bathroom by adding a heated toilet seat.
And those are just the menial daily tasks. If you try to bump things up to a road trip then the furthest thing from your mind should be relaxation. Maybe I can buy myself some leniency on my blog's spelling, grammar and inability to run with a complete thought by pointing out that much if this is accomplished with a 7 month old betweeen myself and the computer. This hobby is another of my selfish indulgences. Like reading a book at 3am. It seems like a sort of identity theft. I'm allowed to be myself only in brief stolen moments when I can sneak away.
This is the lifestyle I'm getting used to for the next 5 years or so. I hope my friends and family understand. This is the reason why it's not tons of fun to hang out: if the kids feel like watching Spongebob for two hours then that's what we'll probably do. I don't like to make them take it upon themselves to make their own fun around my feet as I do what I want.
To jump to the next thought: I also think that we're too young to reminisce about 'the good old days.' We should think the best are still ahead, regardless of the unlikelihood. Here's to a future that isn't here or now.
And those are just the menial daily tasks. If you try to bump things up to a road trip then the furthest thing from your mind should be relaxation. Maybe I can buy myself some leniency on my blog's spelling, grammar and inability to run with a complete thought by pointing out that much if this is accomplished with a 7 month old betweeen myself and the computer. This hobby is another of my selfish indulgences. Like reading a book at 3am. It seems like a sort of identity theft. I'm allowed to be myself only in brief stolen moments when I can sneak away.
This is the lifestyle I'm getting used to for the next 5 years or so. I hope my friends and family understand. This is the reason why it's not tons of fun to hang out: if the kids feel like watching Spongebob for two hours then that's what we'll probably do. I don't like to make them take it upon themselves to make their own fun around my feet as I do what I want.
To jump to the next thought: I also think that we're too young to reminisce about 'the good old days.' We should think the best are still ahead, regardless of the unlikelihood. Here's to a future that isn't here or now.
Hot Crossed Buns, Be the First on Your Block
Toto, the Japanese company behind luxury heated toilet seats, is to open a factory in Mexico in a bid to keep up with surging demand in the US.
I don't know about the "heated" part... it doesn't seem like a region you would like to make sweatier than necessary but the hose-down sounds good... aside from complications with drying.
I don't know about the "heated" part... it doesn't seem like a region you would like to make sweatier than necessary but the hose-down sounds good... aside from complications with drying.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Files Without Wing Dings
What is our obsession with acronyms? Now that I'm a BMOC (big man on campus) of sorts around the BSC (blog spot community), people give me SO's (shout outs; raise the roof y'all) as FWW or FWOW. It reminds me of being called JR at my dad's house. Acronym are pretty hip and I just don't know that I'm CLD (cool like dat). It's the same way I fear sunvisors, backwards or forwards. Anyway, BRB, headin' down to KFC for a 3pc combo, LOFL. OK. (Eleanor informed me that was an acronym sparked by president Andrew Jackson, he being a poor speller, thinking it was an acronym for "All Correct" but this site says otherwise.)
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