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...