Toy Story

Quick observations on my recent trek to purchase some Christmas gifts for my toddler cousins: that shit is pricey.

Less-quick observations to follow: I found myself in Wal-Mart Thursday afternoon/evening trying to do some quick, not-quite-last-minute Xmas shopping for my three adorable (and by "adorable" I mean "thank goodness they're not mine, they go home to someone else after we babysit them but I love them all the same because to not do so would be to be a horrible cousin") cousins. My sis, who is preggers with her first kid on the way soon, was also on my mind as I circled the hell that is the toy department at this time of year, but alas I couldn' justify buying her as-yet-unborn bundle of joy a Boba Fett helmet, no matter how cool it looked.

As I roamed the aisles, wondering how I looked as the only non-accompanied-by-a-kid-or-significant-other person there ("warning, he might be a child molestor!"), I came across some old favorites from my own youth, GI Joe and Transformers and Legos and Star Wars. And let me tell you now, that shit is pricey.

Some of the Lego playsets were up to fifty dollars, ditto the more elaborate Star Wars and GI Joe stuff. Granted, the action figures were their usual not-so-bad price, but the sheer volume of money that would have to be spent to supply an overactive child with said toys could triple our national debt.

As a former overactive child in that overactive decade of the Eighties, I can suddenly see the extent to which my mom put up with my entitled ass by buying me all these toys, usually for Christmas but also for my birthday and also whenever I felt like pitching a fit in Harper's toy department. The poor woman might have gone broke on my account and never even filled me in because she was fond of me for some damn reason. I don't know that, presented with a similar demand from my hypothetical child in the future, I'd do the same.

I might try to suggest that they settle for the Magic 8-Ball instead, and not use it as a weapon against their younger sister (a vision of which, ascribed not to my hypothetical children but to my very real cousins, kept me from purchasing it for any of them).

That's all I got for now, I'll probably return to navel-gazing whining about life a little later ;-)

Indiana Jones and the Retirement Home of Lost Souls

Once, when I was deep in the belly of self-doubt and (not coincedentially) working at Ingles, a coworker of mine said that being around me made him feel better about himself. Seems my complaining about my life made his troubles seem miniscule by comparison.

I promptly ran a stake through him and feasted on his entrails while he watched.

I kid, but that was one of those "watershed moments" that people like me who ponder where the phrase "watershed moment" came from have from time to time, when we realize that maybe we're gloomy Gusses because, well, we like it. It gives us some meaning in our life, a defining characteristic. Granted, a defining characteristic that doesn't get us invited out to parties much, but a definition nonetheless.

I've always thought that depression, alcoholism, and bitting sarcasm were passed down genetically in my family. Lately I've become sensitive to that (see my small rant about the no-good awful Thanksgiving I experienced). I don't want to pass on two of the three to any hypothetical children I may have in the future, provided I can trick a woman into loving me. The sarcasm has to die with my generation...

Some people get religion to help them get over themselves or get out of their own way, and that's fine. If it works for you, more power to you. I just have too much experience as a doubter of God being "Super Jesus, fixer of all problems!" to accept any such defintion. It's not that I don't believe in God (though sometimes I wonder), I just don't feel like the old boy has had the greatest track record when it comes to me.

Though, as a believer in free will, I accept the contradictory statement that, if my life sucks, I can do something about it. Why say "God, get me a pony" when I can simply go out and steal one?

Not that I've ever wanted a pony...

The fact is, feeling sorry for myself is part of my nature, and I think that's passed down through the genes. One family member who shall remain nameless (my grandmother) always cries at family gatherings because one or more family members (lately my mother) aren't in attendence, and of course this is despite the fact that everyone else is there.

I've felt the same way when, on accepting an invitation to hang out with some friends, the one that I'd like to see (usually a girl on whom I might be crushing that week) is not there, and it has spoiled what would otherwise be a perfectly nice time. Hell, I went to Clemson home games for the better part of two seasons on the bastardized hope that someone I liked might be there (if she was, I couldn't make her out in all the orange. Maybe if she'd been wearing orange...). I'm not proud of that, but I did get to hang out with a great bunch of friends, none of whom I wanted to sleep with.

Of late, I've felt a little adrift, like my surrogate family is nonexistent (friends whom I've not seen for a while, former co-workers who, once I no longer work there, I don't connect with on the same or any level), and this has on occasion bummed me out. Maybe that's why we have social networking and navel-gazing personal websites that we force on our friends; connections are important, and if you feel like your connections aren't connected well, you lose some sense of who you are. I know that, a year ago at this time, I was part of a close group of work-buddies, one of whom I wanted to sleep with (seems to be a recurring trend, perhaps a psychologist could help me look into that). When I got fired, that network started to come apart a little, mostly because I was hurting from being fired and not sure if being around them would make me happy or sad (answer: a little bit of both). I do know that, to some extent, I'm still angry about being fired (even as I type this in the very library I once called home, I can't help but feel like leaving a small piece of paper or some insignificant piece of trash to register my presence and disapproval some six months later), but I don't think I'd bring this up constantly if I were to hang with my old crew again.

As far as making anyone else feel better about themselves because of my example, I really don't want to do that anymore. For every time I feel down about things, I need to remember how fucking lucky I am, even if I'm not where I want to be. I still have the option, so long as I don't give in to the prevailing notion that I shouldn't bother (thanks, family) or that I can't do anything with whatever gift I've got (me, after reading one too many biographies of artists or athletes blessed but too lazy to develop their gifts).

When I was young, I got into the Beatles big-time, and especially John Lennon (same birthday, and I have the sneaking suspicion that he's my dad despite all evidence to the contrary). Turns out we both grew up minus a pater familias, by mothers who turned to other family members to help, and we both enjoyed lazy doodling instead of paying attention in school (though, in my defense, I was able to get good grades in spite of this). From an early age, I read a lot, and this translated into "Trevor is smart!" in my family, leading me to believe that yes, I was indeed a genius.

I have had occasion to question just how smart I am, because I also inherited a little of my family's legendary stubborness (which is amusing because my grandmother doesn't or won't see how much I'm just like her when it comes to that). If I don't want to do something, I won't. Or I'm too scared to do so. And more often than not, this has been the source of all my troubles.

I don't know what the new year brings, other than me walking away from my part-time weekend job (because of the full-time gig, which means I have my weekends free after January 2. Ladies, call me!) and looking for something where I can get paid to write, because that's the skill I have that can be developed into a career (my talent for juggling two objects at a time nonwithstanding). I don't even know if the friends I have now will be the friends I have a year from now, based on just whatever happens (usual suspect: drifting apart). I do know that I'll try and work on myself a little every day, so that I might be satisfied with what I achieve or fail to achieve when the day is done. Also, I would like to think that I could own a pet and not have it die on me (all evidence to the contrary).

Whatever the future holds, I have one. It's the finding out what that is that's the big story.

Somewhere Over Gravity's Rainbow

I'd like to expand a little on the Natty Lite analogy/metaphor, whichever you prefer, from my posting of a few days hence (does anyone use the word "hence" anymore? Other than ex-English majors?). The reason is, I feel like I was rushed by the computer I was on being in close proxemity to another person (as is often the case in a library computer lab) and I don't do well writing-wise when I feel like someone could be watching me as I type, slowly reading along and tying together all the words to form sentences and whatnot.

I'm weird like that.

Anyway, back to Natty Lite: I don't mean to suggest that somehow my life sucks or is bereft of fun. It's just that the non-suckitude is of a degree lesser than what it was, say, a year ago at this time. What I miss about my previous job and the times attached to it was a sense of how perfectly positioned I was for something really special or just nice to happen between myself and someone who shall remain nameless, though she knows who she is (I hope so, anyway). Not that my chances of happiness were invested solely in her, but I did feel better about things when we could share a brief moment together (or, as in the case when we both got bumped from a field trip to the sexy, exciting world of Greenwood, all day together).

Those were my Budweiser days, I guess (I like Bud, I know it's not "the best beer ever" but it hits my sweet spot and I enjoy it immensely, hence "Budweiser days". Can you tell that I'd be an excellent alcoholic if I just put in the time and effort?).

I am lucky, in this economy and with an incoming Repub governor who probably worships at the altar of "fiscal responsibility" i.e., screw the poor folks, to have two jobs, and to be (fingers crossed) in no danger of getting fired from either. Damn lucky, really; from my time walking the diseased carpet of the local unemployment office ("Where Hope Goes to Die"), I know that it could be a lot, lot, looooooooottttttttt worse.

So don't think that I'm complaining too much, or making a big stink when I shouldn't. It's human nature (at least mine) to want something more fulfilling, even when we're sure that what we've got isn't too bad. It's the striving for more out of life that's hopeful; it's when you settle for less than what you're worth that the real trouble begins.

Anyway, that's a rushed clarification of a rushed statement, because the truth is that I need to hit the head. You didn't want to know that, but I felt like sharing.

You're welcome.

The Best a Man Can Get?

Beer drinkers out there, see if you agree with me:

Recently I passed by a restaurant that had once been the site of another restaurant and, thanks to the owners of the most recent place foreclosing on it, the future site of yet another restaurant. The restaurant business in downtown Clemson is pretty cutthroat. Anyway, the reason I really liked the first place (having never been there during its most recent conversion) was because 1.) the female bartenders and wait staff were pretty hot and 2.) that's where I first discovered the truly awful taste of Natural Lite beer.

Natty Lite, to knowledgable beer drinkers, is the sort of stuff you wouldn't serve to your dog or worst enemy. It's what you have when you can't afford the good stuff, or you've had enough good stuff that your wallet is getting thinner but your buzz needs fuel. So you hit up the Natty Lite, hoping that the awful taste will not prevent the beverage from going down smooth. Or at least not gag you.

I'm entering what I'd like to call the Natty Lite portion of my life experience, if you follow me.

What I mean is, the best stuff, the good stuff, is what I can't afford right now or at least once could and now can't. It's a new metaphor for me as well, I haven't worked out the kinks thus far but I think what I mean is that, right now, the best that life has to offer is a bit out of my grasp after a prolonged stay at the well led me to get sent away for drunk and disorderly conduct.

I have two jobs, neither of which I'm passionate about from a career standpoint (more like a "I need money so this will do for now" standpoint). My romantic prospects are minimal, unless I meet a smoking hot supermodel in the next ten seconds.

Ten...nine...eight...yeah, not happening.

Grad school remains something of a hazy, foggy notion, and writing professionally is my goal but I'm unsure how to achieve it.

Like I said, it's Natty Lite all the time for me (and I haven't touched a beer since at least July, so that could be the cause of my recent "alcohol as metaphor for life" meanderings). I just hope by this time next year I can afford the good stuff again. Nothing too fancy, just a nice Budweiser would suffice.

Maybe life is more like the McRib, in which it's available for a limited time...

Pardon Me, Sir...

Brief one: earlier today I was having lunch at Subway in Clemson, where a nice three-way stop is. A guy was standing at the corner, counting the people crossing from different directions.

I considered going out there and asking if he was a terrorist. Or a student stuck doing a project for a class. But more likely a terrorist.

My mind works funny some times.

The Walrus was Paul

Thanksgiving, that time to get together with family and share a delicious meal and fond memories. Or, in our house, it's known as the Comedy Central Roast of Trevor Seigler.

The less said about that the better, though I'll say that this year was particularly hard because I was (am) still recovering from the helacious summer which saw me lose my job, my finances, and my self-confidence. So thank you to all the relatives who took time to remind me that I'm the family screw-up. When I have kids, my family will all have perished in a tragic blimp accident at Super Bowl Whatever.

Speaking of Blimp Accidents
I'm reading a book right now called Listen to This, which has some essays about pop stars but mostly seems to be about classical music, a genre of which I know little. Or at least not as much as, say, classical music snobs. I'm a rock guy, I can tell you all about the Velvet Underground's line-up changes or Oasis songs that most obviously rip off the Beatles (John Cale replaced by Doug Yule on the first one, every song on the last one). Beethoven is the crazy-haired German guy, right? Trick question, they're all crazy-haired German guys.

Ah, composers...

For some reason I'm finding myself thinking about a friend of mine from high school, and when I say "friend" I mean "guy who I probably wouldn't associate with if not for academic team." We called him (mockingly, I'm sure, but with a little mixture of awe) "Will the Thrill." He knew the classical music world cold, as well as science and math. In fact, all the guys on the team apart from yours truly were into that stuff, but when it came to pop culture they were clueless. If you've ever seen that one King of the Hill where Bobby is the pop-culture guy for his school's team, that was me for Walhalla in 1995?-1997.

Like I said, I was a pop-culture guy, especially when it came to music. John Lennon and Paul McCartney begat Lou Reed, who begat David Bowie, who begat the Sex Pistols, who begat Run-DMC, who begat Wesley Willis...I had it down cold. But classical music escaped me, though (like science) I really wanted to know it better. My ignorance of it was comfortable in that it didn't make me stand out from the herd (everyone else knew about as much as I did, which isn't saying a lot) but I wanted to pursue some study of it because I thought I'd be smarter as a result.

Needless to say, if I'm complaining now about not getting classical music (apart from being used on soundtracks to movies or on elevators to lull us passengers into a false sense of "there's no way the cords will break"), I didn't pursue that education. Rock and pop musicians were always more interesting, and it was easier to see the meaning behind, say, "She Loves You" because the words were right there. Of course, I've seen Amadeus (which does Mozart-as-Johnny-Rotten quite well, even if the historical record doesn't seem to bear it out), so I know that, like most artists, composers weren't just staid, boring characters who never did anything. Their shit stunk as well, in their day.

The reason I bring up Will the Thrill is because he grew up in what can best be described as "a living hell" for someone like me, no TV or music from after 1950. Just anything fun that happened since the Eisenhower administration, basically. And he didn't know what he was missing, in a lot of our peers' eyes. I can remember on a bus trip to NYC with the drama club how he stayed up to watch Star Wars for presumably the first time while everyone else passed out asleep. I always wondered what it'd be like to be that culturally backward, at least from my perspective. Perhaps that's what attracts and irritates me about classical music, as much as I'd like to understand it and be able to pick out favorite composers or pieces, I know deep down that I'll never really "get it" or that my appreciation will always be tempered with a sense of "can they hurry up, I have a concert film of Joy Division that I'm dying to see!"

That might be the motivation (other than staving off boredom) behind my frequent reading this past summer, really before I got fired even (it helped that I was working at a library; to not read would be like working at an auto parts store and not knowing anything about cars). I've read a lot of books, some of them great, some of them terrible, but mostly good. The urge to educate yourself, however fleeting or incomplete, is a basic human necessity, and I wonder if I'm ever going to do much with it other than say to myself "hmm, didn't know that."

Just some random musings for the day, I guess...

Next year I'm spending Thanksgiving alone (well, with my smoking hot female supermodel girlfriend and her hot friends...a boy can dream)

Pronounced Tree-Vore Sea-Glor

Try the Octopus
Life has the ability to throw a few dozen monkey wrenches your way, even some of your own construction. But it also provides unique opportunities to step outside the norm, ingest something you once would have considered gross into your body, and, while paying for that later in the bathroom of your local Wal-Mart, leave you glad that you tried it. For me, that was the decision to eat octopus at a local Chinese buffet place.

Yes, the beast with eight arms to hold you is quite tasty, if you're having the baby kind. Granted, I recall seeing an episode of CSI New York where a trendy chef killed a food blogger by ramming a live octopus down her throat (all while Gary Sinese squinted and reminded you to vote for McCain), so my reluctance to digest it might be understandable. That, and the fact that it's an octopus, not chopped up or anything, just there.

Gastric adventurer, I am not. I inherited a lot from my crazy-ass family, one of them being the tender tummy that has betrayed many a Seigler at a non-family food-eating setting. My apologies to all the parties I've ruined by farting and/or leaving something worse in the adjoining bathroom that might need to be killed by those with stronger stuff, as Shakespeare might say.

But there I was, already enjoying the sushi at the buffet place (a hell of a lot better now, they have actual chefs preparing it right as you watch. Back in the old days, it was all dry and presented unattractively under big lights) when a friend that I ran into there suggested I try the octopus. Sure, this was the same friend who once poured salt into my scalp during a camping trip, rendering me a life-sized French fry for the rest of the evening as we lacked clean water to bathe in. But times had changed, and now he was daring me to try octopus. What could possibly go wrong?

Nothing, as it turned out; the octopus was delicious, and I went back for seconds. Combined with the amount of sushi I ate (I was kinda hungry yesterday after work, and breakfast food gets old fast, especially as the afternoon creeps on, so I had to have something that I hadn't cooked), that might have caused my brief visit to the men's room in Wal-Mart, towards the back (I was looking for CDRs when the first rumblings of attack groaned). Anyway, I fear I've said too much about such things, but in all the experience (of eating octopus, not the bathroom in Wal-Mart) was enjoyable, and I'd do it again.

I might just avoid going back for seconds...

Disgruntled Employee of the Month
Had an interesting pow-wow with a buddy of mine at a restaurant in Clemson (a bonafide sushi establishment where the portions were healthy American-sized instead of repressed Japanese not-really-that-hungry-sized; all this talk of sushi makes me want to rent Seven Samurai and cheer on Toshiro Mifune) about work and how, no matter how easy your job might be, or how fulfilling it might be, you'll always find something to grumble about. The fact is, some folks live to complain about their jobs.

Those people are called "succubi" or "incubi," depending on their gender.

I've worked with constant complainers, hell, I've been the one complaining on numerous occasions. What is it about work that makes it the most despised of the four-letter words? I guess it's the fact that we earn money (good) but in order to do so, we have to show up at a place from one time to another time (bad) and be expected to do something while there (very bad). If we're lucky (rarely), we enjoy said job and/or activities contained therein, except when the money we receive is minimal at best (excruciating).

Which is why I advocate the Communist-Nazi overthrow of corrupt American capitalism (he-he, kidding...or am I?).

It's the simplest maxim: love what you do, do what you love. Yet so many people find it hard to achieve that. I'd love to know how many people I graduated with from high school have the job that they wanted or thought would be fulfilling. I'd also like to know how many found fulfillment in a job they didn't even know they could or would have when they got out of school.

Me? I'm good for now, though I do need to be looking for something more permenant or "career-worthy" that what I got going on now.

Until then, I'll try the octopus...

And Another Thing...

Sorry about the double postings on one day, but it's my blog and I can do what I want. I have this juicy tidbit about one or more Jonas brothers and I...just kidding.

It occurs to me that I might wish to explain myself and why, after three previous blogs (all of them gone, except for the stupid one I started and then never got around to from earlier this summer) I feel the need to write yet another one. It's simple, really, and it's the motivation for most of the things I do in my life, for good or ill.

That's right, it's because of a girl.

Specifically, I was reading a friend's recent note on Facebook (one of those websites that seems to be popular with the kids, I don't know it much myself except for that I'm on there whenever I get online in the hopes that someone will be impressed because I "like" Roberto Bolano or the Cure) in which she talked about how hard it is to write and send stuff off because of fear of rejection or just fear of putting yourself out there. After offering some advice which amounted to "you must try to send your stuff out, otherwise no one will read it," I had an epiphany.

I'm a bit of a hypocrite.

Granted, in my defense I'd been busy since early June trying to get some form of employment (the cause of which I might get into later, but suffice it to say that I didn't have much else to think about), so writing my own little things wasn't a big concern compared to paying my bills. And though I tried my damnedest to find something where I could write for money, such jobs were not forthcoming. It's one of those "you have to have experience for this job, but in order to have experience you have to have this job" situations that many people find themselves stuck in. A catch-....some sort of number, I think. Catch-18?

Anyway, it's all well and good to tell someone else that they should pursue their dreams of writing, it's another thing to do it yourself, or to get back in the saddle after you've had the wind knocked out of you. I got lazy working where I did, I'll admit it; trying to send material out for publishers to read didn't seem to be as big a deal when I had a steady paycheck and a job I loved. I'm trying to work on that now, making time to write while also not starving because I don't have money. This is one small step into that deep pool, and the damn thing is I can't swim a lick so the metaphor loses its meaning if you would literally drown in a realistic circumstance.

I just confused the hell out of myself.

So yeah, this is kind-of for her, kind-of for myself (see, self, you can write! Write away, young scribbler!), and kind-of for (I hope) the people out there who like to read a thirty-something musing away about life and other stuff. All two of you.

Enjoy!

One for Every Home

Dorkus Erectus
Before I ever saw Wes Anderson's masterpiece Rushmore, I bought the soundtrack because the trailer had one of my alltime favorite Who songs ("A Quick One While He's Away") blaring over scenes of Max Fischer doing what he does best. I bought the soundtrack, saw the movie a while later, and realized (probably for the first time) that being a dork wasn't such a bad thing.

I didn't get any Max Fischer groupies banging down my door, but that was to be expected.

My point is, I'm a dork. Nerd. Spaz. Dweeb. You name it, I've heard it. My sexuality has been impugned (ironically by jocks who grapple one another around the testicles and call it "sports), my masculinity derided, my eyesight tested by lens that render me instantly uncool. There was a time when I worried so much about this that I chose to hide the fact that I wore glasses, occasionally slipping them on during class so I could read the far-away chalkboard (why I had to sit a football field's length away is beyond grown-up me, but fourteen-year-old me didn't question the logic) and then slipping them off into my bookbag so that when my peers turned around to leave class, I was spectacle-less (blind as a bat, but no four-eyes to weigh me down).

It took me years to embrace my dorkiness, and just when I start to think maybe I've outgrown said dorkiness, I do or say something in the vicinity of someone not dorky and reveal myself for what I am. It's like that part of any sci-fi "hidden identity" movie (my favorite: The Thing) where the kindly old man is revealed to be a demonic beast. Or, in my case, a hopeless spazz. Such is life, apparently; humiliation is my forte.

But I think it's safe to say that, with repeated viewings of Monty Python-related material and the support and love of fellow nerds and geeks out there (mostly on the internet...c'mon, it's not just about porn, people), I've become more accepting of my status. Doesn't mean I have to like it, nay, it doesn't even mean that I can't try to change it, if for the betterment of mankind. But at least I'm not a Jersey Shore cast member. Those people are ridiculous; if anyone remembers the Real World: San Francisco cast, it's like a houseful of Pucks are on TV now.

It's a bit like the climactic scene from Revenge of the Nerds, where a hirsute Anthony Edwards implores his fellow nerds and "anyone who's ever felt picked on" to come down from the stands and stand all against Ted McGinley and his asshole "beautiful people" friends. Come unto me, fellow rejects and spazzes, and let us not be ashamed that we know the "Star Wars Holiday Special" was the first appearance of Boba Fett or that the Korean War only lasted approximately three to four years while MASH lasted eleven seasons. Someday, the beautiful people will wish that they'd listened to us...or maybe not.

Only time can tell. Right, Stephen Hawking?

Let's Try This Again, Shall We?

Nothing fancy or long-winded, I just feel the need, after some months of avoiding it, to try and write semi-regularly (and with some restraint) about my life and/or the events contained wherein, with a nod to the fact that 1.) I am possibly insane and 2.) embarassingly blabby about myself and my opinions.

But hey, a blog is supposed to be ego-driven, isn't it?

Thanks for coming, enjoy the view