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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
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)
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)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, November 14, 2010
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!
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
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
But hey, a blog is supposed to be ego-driven, isn't it?
Thanks for coming, enjoy the view
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