So uncreative of me...
Anywho, 2011 is winding down, and 2012 is knocking at the door like the drunk uncle you didn't invite to your New Year's Eve party because you were sure he'd proposition the women in your apartment with crude sex jokes related to his work as a novelty toys salesman (if I could think of any such jokes right now, this would be an excellent metaphor, but my brain is on vacation today for some reason), but he shows up anyway. And it's awful.
The Mayan calendar runs out in 2012, which means a lot of easily-led people assume that the Mayans foretold the end of days. Granted, try asking a Mayan what he meant; you can't, their civilization vanished centuries ago.
Or did it?
Anyway, if next year is the end, at least I can say that I'm a damn good uncle. Oh, and I want to write a book next year, though I say that every year and so far I've done bupkus.
But that's what a resolution is: before it's an empty promise that you made at the beginning of the year which looks untenable as the months coagulate, at least it holds the promise of something new.
Also, there's a very good chance that we'll elect a white man to the White House. I wonder how the media will handle that earth-shaking story, a first in American politics (I'm an Obama guy, but I'm not optimistic. Granted, the guy got Osama, but in case you haven't noticed, a lot of Americans are uncomfortable with him. I spell Tea Party "K-K-K" myself).
But 2012 beckons, calling to us that no, it will not end in a dramatic CGI-palooza of dread and doom. I hope it doesn't, anyway.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Ned's Atomic Dustbin of Crap
The season is over for Clemson football...and we're ACC champs. I know, I know, I don't know that I believe it either.
Clemson is used to...well, how to put it nicely? Stinking. Not just choking, but downright self-murder, especially as the season winds down. And we damn near did so, not once but twice, first at NC State (making their back-up QB look like Dan Marino and Tom Brady's love child) and then against South Carolina (where the new guy most definitely is a love child of Aaron Rodgers and Peyton Manning). So going into last weekend's ACC Championship game against Virginia Tech, to say that I had little hope would be an understatement.
I had lost faith entirely.
It's always sobering coming back down to earth, when you had been on a magical carpet ride of 8-0 football, against opponents who weren't terrible (but maybe weren't as good as they were before, ahem, looking at you Auburn). Doubt is a painful emotion, not because it comes around suddenly but because it creeps under your skin until the next thing you know, you can't even look in the mirror anymore at your orange shirt because deep down you know the wide-eyed innocence of pure unadultered fandom is no longer yours. You have questions about the special teams, you moan the inefficiency of the defense, and your quarterback is not really "your" quarterback so much.
So while I enjoyed the fact that we won last weekend, I couldn't really take any credit for believing that we'd do it. I didn't even watch the game until the fourth quarter, preferring instead to catch up with an old favorite of mine that I hadn't seen in a while.
(500) Days of Summer is, to my mind, the coolest, intentionally cool romantic comedy of our current age. But when I first saw it, and on subsequent viewings, I missed the point; I thought the film was indeed a love story, despite the protestations of the voiceover at the beginning. But upon rewatching it, and after experiencing a personal epiphany of which I may or may not elaborate later, I got it: the film isn't about love, but how to fall in love, and how not to fall in love is ably demonstrated by Tom, the protagonist with whom I couldn't help identify because we have both been known to misread The Graduate and wear Joy Division t-shirts. Behind the indie-rock soundtrack and Zooey(sic) Deschanel's blue eyes, it's the story of how we often talk ourselves into believing things that just aren't so.
Fans do that a lot, in the sports world: we want to believe that our teams are better than they are, or if they're not, that there's an explanation for that that's easily definable (i.e., the curse of Bambino, or the Billy Goat). For a lot of Clemson fans, it's just more comforting to believe that we suck, and that we will continue to suck, with occasional flashes of non-sucking thrown in to suck in the new fans year after year. My niece will be surrounded by Clemson fans, so the poor child will have no choice, you see. But I remember the Boston Red Sox of '04 deciding not to overthrow the Bambino so much as ignore the hell out of him, and just keep playing baseball. You do recall how that turned out, right?
For the longest time, at least over a year, I've not had the confidence to be myself around women. I've tried to "woo" them, or whatever, just failing miserably because deep down, I didn't believe any of it. But now, I have to say, my confidence is sorta back. And while I don't think it is any of your business to say what all brought this about, I suppose it will suffice to say that I'm not looking for someone else to make me feel better about myself anymore. Getting fired might have been the best thing that ever happened to me, because it forced me to take a long look at myself and realize that I'm often the reason I can't get anything I want. Self-defeater, party of one. And that's not what falling in love should be about, this urge to define yourself through someone else's eyes. It should be about you saying...I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Okay, bit cliched there at the end, but you catch my drift, imaginary audience to whom I feel I am speaking?
Anyway, time to get back on that horse, only this time I think I'll be a more confident rider. If I'm not...believe me, I'll probably bitch about it here.
Clemson is used to...well, how to put it nicely? Stinking. Not just choking, but downright self-murder, especially as the season winds down. And we damn near did so, not once but twice, first at NC State (making their back-up QB look like Dan Marino and Tom Brady's love child) and then against South Carolina (where the new guy most definitely is a love child of Aaron Rodgers and Peyton Manning). So going into last weekend's ACC Championship game against Virginia Tech, to say that I had little hope would be an understatement.
I had lost faith entirely.
It's always sobering coming back down to earth, when you had been on a magical carpet ride of 8-0 football, against opponents who weren't terrible (but maybe weren't as good as they were before, ahem, looking at you Auburn). Doubt is a painful emotion, not because it comes around suddenly but because it creeps under your skin until the next thing you know, you can't even look in the mirror anymore at your orange shirt because deep down you know the wide-eyed innocence of pure unadultered fandom is no longer yours. You have questions about the special teams, you moan the inefficiency of the defense, and your quarterback is not really "your" quarterback so much.
So while I enjoyed the fact that we won last weekend, I couldn't really take any credit for believing that we'd do it. I didn't even watch the game until the fourth quarter, preferring instead to catch up with an old favorite of mine that I hadn't seen in a while.
(500) Days of Summer is, to my mind, the coolest, intentionally cool romantic comedy of our current age. But when I first saw it, and on subsequent viewings, I missed the point; I thought the film was indeed a love story, despite the protestations of the voiceover at the beginning. But upon rewatching it, and after experiencing a personal epiphany of which I may or may not elaborate later, I got it: the film isn't about love, but how to fall in love, and how not to fall in love is ably demonstrated by Tom, the protagonist with whom I couldn't help identify because we have both been known to misread The Graduate and wear Joy Division t-shirts. Behind the indie-rock soundtrack and Zooey(sic) Deschanel's blue eyes, it's the story of how we often talk ourselves into believing things that just aren't so.
Fans do that a lot, in the sports world: we want to believe that our teams are better than they are, or if they're not, that there's an explanation for that that's easily definable (i.e., the curse of Bambino, or the Billy Goat). For a lot of Clemson fans, it's just more comforting to believe that we suck, and that we will continue to suck, with occasional flashes of non-sucking thrown in to suck in the new fans year after year. My niece will be surrounded by Clemson fans, so the poor child will have no choice, you see. But I remember the Boston Red Sox of '04 deciding not to overthrow the Bambino so much as ignore the hell out of him, and just keep playing baseball. You do recall how that turned out, right?
For the longest time, at least over a year, I've not had the confidence to be myself around women. I've tried to "woo" them, or whatever, just failing miserably because deep down, I didn't believe any of it. But now, I have to say, my confidence is sorta back. And while I don't think it is any of your business to say what all brought this about, I suppose it will suffice to say that I'm not looking for someone else to make me feel better about myself anymore. Getting fired might have been the best thing that ever happened to me, because it forced me to take a long look at myself and realize that I'm often the reason I can't get anything I want. Self-defeater, party of one. And that's not what falling in love should be about, this urge to define yourself through someone else's eyes. It should be about you saying...I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.
Okay, bit cliched there at the end, but you catch my drift, imaginary audience to whom I feel I am speaking?
Anyway, time to get back on that horse, only this time I think I'll be a more confident rider. If I'm not...believe me, I'll probably bitch about it here.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Nobody Likes an English Major
In the past few weeks, I've worked like crazy at work, and I am recently able to enjoy the fruits of my labor with a slight bump up in my finances (though the forbearance on my student loan payments also helps with that). So I can sit back for a little bit and reflect on what it is that I want out of life.
I want a life, basically.
Since last year and getting fired, I have been "out of the game," so to speak. My romantic attachment to a coworker there came to naught, mostly because I was, to use the proper English term as handed down to us from Dr. Samuel Johnson himself, a "pussy." Too many times I've come close to an emotional connection with someone; too many times I've managed to talk myself out of it or screw it up.
That ends now...or a few months from now. No, now.
Fear, of course, is a powerful emotion, as anyone who makes horror movies can tell you. It's always easier to not go into that spooky-looking house (though granted, the movie is really short and you end up feeling cheated. A buddy and I once traded ideas about how to make the world's shortest horror movie). Fear is based sometimes on experience, but most of the time it comes from the unknown, from the never-dreamt-of possibilities that your worst fears might not be realized, or at least not in the way that you imagined. Sometimes it's worse to do nothing than to do something, because even if you end up in some crazy ghost's Human Souffle, at least you're able to tell your figurative self that you tried.
I suppose it's wrong for me to air family laundry, so I won't go into details, but I have noticed that the inability to act is something of a family trait, whether to ask for help when you need it or just to be more assertive about what it is you want from another person. For a long time now, I've put my wants aside for others, mostly family, who need me to be there for them, and I don't regret it. But a central thought keeps coming up, doing its best to rob me of my satisifaction at another selfless act (though if it were truly selfless, would I take anything from it like that?). When will it be my turn?
I hope soon, or at least I hope to know soon. For now, of course, I must continue on, carrying a load that has seemed less oppressive of late, the burden of being stuck in a situation where the distance between what I want and what I have seems to be hard to cross. But I got a lot, so don't think this is anything more than a former English major's lament. I'm good, now I'm ready to be great.
I want Chuck Norris in the Octagon! No holds barred! ;-p
I want a life, basically.
Since last year and getting fired, I have been "out of the game," so to speak. My romantic attachment to a coworker there came to naught, mostly because I was, to use the proper English term as handed down to us from Dr. Samuel Johnson himself, a "pussy." Too many times I've come close to an emotional connection with someone; too many times I've managed to talk myself out of it or screw it up.
That ends now...or a few months from now. No, now.
Fear, of course, is a powerful emotion, as anyone who makes horror movies can tell you. It's always easier to not go into that spooky-looking house (though granted, the movie is really short and you end up feeling cheated. A buddy and I once traded ideas about how to make the world's shortest horror movie). Fear is based sometimes on experience, but most of the time it comes from the unknown, from the never-dreamt-of possibilities that your worst fears might not be realized, or at least not in the way that you imagined. Sometimes it's worse to do nothing than to do something, because even if you end up in some crazy ghost's Human Souffle, at least you're able to tell your figurative self that you tried.
I suppose it's wrong for me to air family laundry, so I won't go into details, but I have noticed that the inability to act is something of a family trait, whether to ask for help when you need it or just to be more assertive about what it is you want from another person. For a long time now, I've put my wants aside for others, mostly family, who need me to be there for them, and I don't regret it. But a central thought keeps coming up, doing its best to rob me of my satisifaction at another selfless act (though if it were truly selfless, would I take anything from it like that?). When will it be my turn?
I hope soon, or at least I hope to know soon. For now, of course, I must continue on, carrying a load that has seemed less oppressive of late, the burden of being stuck in a situation where the distance between what I want and what I have seems to be hard to cross. But I got a lot, so don't think this is anything more than a former English major's lament. I'm good, now I'm ready to be great.
I want Chuck Norris in the Octagon! No holds barred! ;-p
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Witching Hour
Hello on this Halloween Eve, my friends. Are you ready for a blood-curdling tale of horror and suspense?
Too bad, I don't work that genre too well.
But I do know someone who does: John Carpenter, whose The Thing was recently remade...I'm sorry, "prequeled" by a major Hollywood studio who said "I wonder what happened at the Norwegian camp where the Thing thawed out originally" (answer: chaos ensues). The 1951 original is also good, though less gory, in case you need Halloween viewing options.
I am not a horror guy by and large, and I feel like there's an undercurrent of Puritan morality and conservative politics in even the most forward-thinking horror, a sense of punishment for daring to break society's boundaries. Sure, you get to have all the pot and sex you want, but it means a machete through the groin when you're done. That never sat well with me (of course, if I had a machete in my groin, sitting well would be the least of my worries).
I'm currently making my way thru Jerry West's memoir (talk about transition from subjects), and it turns out that he's kind of a miserable bastard. This despite being the NBA logo, playing on a Lakers team that was always denied by the Celtics of that NBA championship until 1972, and supervising both the Showtime Lakers of the Eighties and the beginning of the Threepeat Lakers of the 00's. Still, though, I like the guy. I will post a review of the book on Amazon when I get done.
Ghouls and goblins abound, but beware the scariest Halloween creature of all: Monday morning! Evil laugh!....
Too bad, I don't work that genre too well.
But I do know someone who does: John Carpenter, whose The Thing was recently remade...I'm sorry, "prequeled" by a major Hollywood studio who said "I wonder what happened at the Norwegian camp where the Thing thawed out originally" (answer: chaos ensues). The 1951 original is also good, though less gory, in case you need Halloween viewing options.
I am not a horror guy by and large, and I feel like there's an undercurrent of Puritan morality and conservative politics in even the most forward-thinking horror, a sense of punishment for daring to break society's boundaries. Sure, you get to have all the pot and sex you want, but it means a machete through the groin when you're done. That never sat well with me (of course, if I had a machete in my groin, sitting well would be the least of my worries).
I'm currently making my way thru Jerry West's memoir (talk about transition from subjects), and it turns out that he's kind of a miserable bastard. This despite being the NBA logo, playing on a Lakers team that was always denied by the Celtics of that NBA championship until 1972, and supervising both the Showtime Lakers of the Eighties and the beginning of the Threepeat Lakers of the 00's. Still, though, I like the guy. I will post a review of the book on Amazon when I get done.
Ghouls and goblins abound, but beware the scariest Halloween creature of all: Monday morning! Evil laugh!....
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Underbite of the Damned
Well, Clemson football this season is bound and determined to give me a heart attack: After going up twenty points on VTech, Tajh gets what looks like a bad injury against BC last week and then doesn't show up for the first half against Maryland. That's right, Maryland. Apparently their new QB is Tim Tebow, because he looked damn good last night. They had us beat a couple of times.
But then we came back, and kept coming back.
Sports is overused as a metaphor for life, but I feel like a season like this, as magical as it is, begs to be used by those who don't have a lot else to cling to as a reason to hold on. Whether we win anything big or not is not the issue (though that would be nice, after last season a winning record is good enough for me), it's the feeling you get when you see something that usually doesn't happen (or when it does, happens for the other team against yours) go right for your guys.
Do I think we'll go undefeated? No, I don't; but that's just the historian in me talking, the one who remembers great starts and so-so finishes to seasons past. God, it would be great, but I don't know if it's possible.
Of course, I don't think anyone had us going undefeated through seven games to start the year. Enjoy it, my friends, enjoy it.
Adversity is always around the corner, but we've been dealing with it pretty good so far. I mean, if we're undefeated, obviously it hasn't gotten to us yet.
So fingers crossed, this has already been a season to remember and it's not over yet. Nobody had us doing this so far, I wonder what else we can do with the season that's left. Whatever it is, I'll enjoy it. I can tell you that much.
But then we came back, and kept coming back.
Sports is overused as a metaphor for life, but I feel like a season like this, as magical as it is, begs to be used by those who don't have a lot else to cling to as a reason to hold on. Whether we win anything big or not is not the issue (though that would be nice, after last season a winning record is good enough for me), it's the feeling you get when you see something that usually doesn't happen (or when it does, happens for the other team against yours) go right for your guys.
Do I think we'll go undefeated? No, I don't; but that's just the historian in me talking, the one who remembers great starts and so-so finishes to seasons past. God, it would be great, but I don't know if it's possible.
Of course, I don't think anyone had us going undefeated through seven games to start the year. Enjoy it, my friends, enjoy it.
Adversity is always around the corner, but we've been dealing with it pretty good so far. I mean, if we're undefeated, obviously it hasn't gotten to us yet.
So fingers crossed, this has already been a season to remember and it's not over yet. Nobody had us doing this so far, I wonder what else we can do with the season that's left. Whatever it is, I'll enjoy it. I can tell you that much.
Monday, October 10, 2011
An Open Letter to Hank Williams, Jr.
Hey, Hank, how are you? Rough week last week, huh?
Buddy, I defend your right to free speech as much as the next guy, but when you make an ass of yourself, ESPN is within every right to fire you. Yes, I said "fire". All this BS about you going to them first and quitting? It's face-saving for you, and not particularly convincing to me. I could be wrong, but I heard about the firing before I heard about you "quitting," and I'm pretty sure one or the other has to be true. And seeing as you're prone to crazy things coming out of your mouth, well...
I'm not saying that the Disney Corporation isn't innocent in all this mess; they have a lot of skeletons in their closet. A lot. But in this case, you really left them no choice.
I get that you don't like Obama, and I get that you felt the "golf summit" was a meeting of philosophical unequals. But saying it's like Hitler and the Israeli PM getting together to shoot some tees? Why didn't you go with the notion of you and Little Richard playing music together for a "apples and oranges" metaphor (that clip of the two of you performing the MNF theme was aired on the news a few times, now that's a bizarre crime-fighting team if I ever saw one. An effeminate black man and a stereotypical drunk white Southern guy; coming to NBC this spring!).
Let's face it, though: when was the last time anyone even talked about you? 1985ish? And Hank, buddy, I am not a fan of your music anyway, but really, the MNF theme was pretty disposable. Just throw in a lyric or two about the week's two teams and ask them to cut the check before you leave the studio, 'cause that Wild Turkey IV don't pay for itself, am I right?
I kinda feel like you are only famous because of your dad (who, I'm guessing, might have had the talent in the family. I could be wrong). That's the only reason you have a career, and I'll be damned if I can think of any other reason for people to care what you think. Yes, we have freedom of speech in this country...but we also have freedom to call someone out when they make an ass of themselves.
Hank, my pal...that's you.
Ride this to the top of iTunes, if you must, but just remember: you can't drink away the crazy.
Your friend,
Trevor "None of My Rowdy Friends Listen to Your Music" Seigler
Buddy, I defend your right to free speech as much as the next guy, but when you make an ass of yourself, ESPN is within every right to fire you. Yes, I said "fire". All this BS about you going to them first and quitting? It's face-saving for you, and not particularly convincing to me. I could be wrong, but I heard about the firing before I heard about you "quitting," and I'm pretty sure one or the other has to be true. And seeing as you're prone to crazy things coming out of your mouth, well...
I'm not saying that the Disney Corporation isn't innocent in all this mess; they have a lot of skeletons in their closet. A lot. But in this case, you really left them no choice.
I get that you don't like Obama, and I get that you felt the "golf summit" was a meeting of philosophical unequals. But saying it's like Hitler and the Israeli PM getting together to shoot some tees? Why didn't you go with the notion of you and Little Richard playing music together for a "apples and oranges" metaphor (that clip of the two of you performing the MNF theme was aired on the news a few times, now that's a bizarre crime-fighting team if I ever saw one. An effeminate black man and a stereotypical drunk white Southern guy; coming to NBC this spring!).
Let's face it, though: when was the last time anyone even talked about you? 1985ish? And Hank, buddy, I am not a fan of your music anyway, but really, the MNF theme was pretty disposable. Just throw in a lyric or two about the week's two teams and ask them to cut the check before you leave the studio, 'cause that Wild Turkey IV don't pay for itself, am I right?
I kinda feel like you are only famous because of your dad (who, I'm guessing, might have had the talent in the family. I could be wrong). That's the only reason you have a career, and I'll be damned if I can think of any other reason for people to care what you think. Yes, we have freedom of speech in this country...but we also have freedom to call someone out when they make an ass of themselves.
Hank, my pal...that's you.
Ride this to the top of iTunes, if you must, but just remember: you can't drink away the crazy.
Your friend,
Trevor "None of My Rowdy Friends Listen to Your Music" Seigler
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Just Win, Baby
Another year is past, mein friends: I am officially thirty and the two, on this the day of our Lord October 9, 2011.
Meh...
Birthdays are more fun when you're a kid; you get tons of cool stuff that you didn't have before, or at least some money from relatives to enable you to buy said stuff on your own (plus a little extra if you so choose). As you get older, the choice selection in gifts gets narrower and narrower, unless you're into sexual fetish gear or collectible Star Wars figurines (for the record, neither really appeal to me).
So I went to get my niece something instead; she's just now seven months, and she keeps on growing so that six-months-size clothing is starting to be too small for her. So I got her a shirt for twelve months; she'll probably be wearing it by Christmas time.
She is my sweet baby girl...
I've had about as good and bad a year as I could have thought, in terms of professional and personal stuff. But as bad as things have been sometimes, I still figure there's a chance that my dream of being the first astronaut-late-night-talkshow-host-President of the United States could come true.
Or not.
Meh...
Birthdays are more fun when you're a kid; you get tons of cool stuff that you didn't have before, or at least some money from relatives to enable you to buy said stuff on your own (plus a little extra if you so choose). As you get older, the choice selection in gifts gets narrower and narrower, unless you're into sexual fetish gear or collectible Star Wars figurines (for the record, neither really appeal to me).
So I went to get my niece something instead; she's just now seven months, and she keeps on growing so that six-months-size clothing is starting to be too small for her. So I got her a shirt for twelve months; she'll probably be wearing it by Christmas time.
She is my sweet baby girl...
I've had about as good and bad a year as I could have thought, in terms of professional and personal stuff. But as bad as things have been sometimes, I still figure there's a chance that my dream of being the first astronaut-late-night-talkshow-host-President of the United States could come true.
Or not.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
When I Paint My Masterpiece
So a friend of mine recently asked me if I'd been writing a lot lately, and the answer is that I have not. I have been preoccupied with the usual money issues (lately I seem to be doing better at having cash for when bills come due, though it's always a struggle to have much left over), and I have some other stuff on my mind. So mostly I've been reading.
I might have mentioned Brighton Rock the last time I did an in-depth update, but I want to make special mention of another Graham Greene book, The Comedians. It's not funny, but it's not supposed to be (anything to do with Papa Doc-era Haiti rarely is). Also, I managed to get my hands on the Band biography Across the Great Divide, which was so available because it's been on the BAM shelves since before they moved to the mall...well before the move to the mall, actually.
Greil Marcus' Mystery Train I got through a service the local lib (yes the same ones who fired me) has with other libraries to send books they don't have to libs that have patrons who might want to read 'em. It's pretty good, too.
Also, can you believe Clemson is 4-0. I can't, my friends can't, my co-workers can't, the townfolk of the surrounding area can't, and yet there it is: 4-0. I got a bad feeling about Va. Tech, but who knows?
That is all I got for now, cringing a little about my 32 birthday coming up. Still don't have a date to the prom ;-)
I might have mentioned Brighton Rock the last time I did an in-depth update, but I want to make special mention of another Graham Greene book, The Comedians. It's not funny, but it's not supposed to be (anything to do with Papa Doc-era Haiti rarely is). Also, I managed to get my hands on the Band biography Across the Great Divide, which was so available because it's been on the BAM shelves since before they moved to the mall...well before the move to the mall, actually.
Greil Marcus' Mystery Train I got through a service the local lib (yes the same ones who fired me) has with other libraries to send books they don't have to libs that have patrons who might want to read 'em. It's pretty good, too.
Also, can you believe Clemson is 4-0. I can't, my friends can't, my co-workers can't, the townfolk of the surrounding area can't, and yet there it is: 4-0. I got a bad feeling about Va. Tech, but who knows?
That is all I got for now, cringing a little about my 32 birthday coming up. Still don't have a date to the prom ;-)
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Regrets, I've Had a Few
Short and sweet update, because I'm hungry and haven't eaten yet:
Anyone else find Hell's Kitchen addictive, but guilty about it? I know it's all for the cameras, it's all scripted, but there's very little else on right now that's half as compelling (fall season starts in a few weeks).
Scout is growing like a weed, I swear she'll be driving and texting before the year is over.
Mo money, mo problems (minus the "mo money," but I'm working on it).
Just submitted my column idea to McSweeneys for their consideration (annual column contest), fingers crossed.
Aight, until next time
Anyone else find Hell's Kitchen addictive, but guilty about it? I know it's all for the cameras, it's all scripted, but there's very little else on right now that's half as compelling (fall season starts in a few weeks).
Scout is growing like a weed, I swear she'll be driving and texting before the year is over.
Mo money, mo problems (minus the "mo money," but I'm working on it).
Just submitted my column idea to McSweeneys for their consideration (annual column contest), fingers crossed.
Aight, until next time
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Apparently Jesus Looks Like Kenny Loggins, Circa 1981
In the wake of what has turned out to be a pretty busy weather day on the East Coast (with thankfully none of the Armageddon-esque predictions about New York or DC being swamped, though there is significant damage all around), it seems a little silly for me to come on here and talk about the end of the world like I had planned to some forty-eight hours or so earlier. You see, when I heard that Irene could hit New York, the center of everything culturally about America that I either love or loathe with ill-hidden envy, I was taken aback.
Maybe, for once, the doomsayers had it right, the "end-times" crowd who not only believe that the world will end in their lifetime, they damn well pray that it does. You know the type, mostly church-associated and all "Jesus will rise and smote the infidels" or some other such stuff that we former believers (or former wannabe non-believers) associate with superstition (the feeling, not the amazing Stevie Wonder song of the same name). I could scoff at such things before, but as the threat from Irene seemed more imminent, I began to wonder: maybe it could all end?
Part of this, I'll admit, is the little boy in me, the one that sat scared straight as some old-timey preacher would come at the invitation of the local pastor and give a fire-and-brimstone sermon about how we're living in the end times and it's only a matter of time before the trumpets from on high tell us to duck and cover, and while we're down there kiss our arse goodbye (thank you, XTC). Part of it is a real fear, however, that for all my "worldly" knowledge, acquired more from books than from worldly experiences (such as warfare, genocide, and an enemy hellbent on destroying me, though God knows that Hulk Hogan tried) is no match for the unknowable, the illogical, the "doesn't fit with what science tells us", because I come from a part of the country where science is still a dirty word.
Logic holds no candle to the idea of Jesus or God just saying "to hell with it" and scrapping the whole plan, in many people's eyes.
My grandmother asked me to read a book called "Heaven Is For Real," about a little kid who apparently visited Heaven and regaled his folks with tales of the afterlife for a time, seeming to confirm that, well, Heaven is for real. I smelled "power of suggestion" and "doctoring" when I saw that the father was a preacher, as well as "blatent political edge" when it turned out the co-author also helped write Sarah Palin's book. So I was not in a place to naturally accept that everything this kid says is "for real."
Now, having read the book, I can say that if this kid thought he went to Heaven, and if it's a comfort to his folks that he says he did, who am I to judge? I know that faith (as opposed to religion) offers hope to the hopeless, and even the cynical part of me would like to believe that there's no harm in comfort. Say you're a victim of the Holocaust; would you be comforted by the idea that after you die, you're pretty much gone? Nope, I'd hope the victims of the Holocaust especially but anyone whose death came in awful circumstances in general might have something more to look forward to than just "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Hope is just a four-letter word, but it's up there with hate and love as being one of the more powerful four-letter words in our language.
That being said, I feel like some gentle, perhaps unintentional, coaching from the parents might have gone on behind the scenes, perhaps helped along by a child's natural imagination. I say this because my niece, who is six months old, has an old remote that her daddy gave her to play with. She can point it at the TV and pretend that she's doing something to the TV (perhaps to freak her out, I could be behind her with the real remote the next time she wants to change the channel and do so). I don't doubt the sincerity of the family, but I do think some grasping at straws might account for some of the more fantastical claims. And underneath it all is the idea that perhaps the end times are right around the corner.
To me, that's the most dangerous thing about religion, whatever your belief system. Trafficking in Armageddon-speak doesn't do much good for a mind easily led by suggestion, like mine was as a kid (and maybe still is, if I can take the doomsdayers seriously when it comes to Irene), and it strikes me as almost the opposite of what Christianity in particular is about. Turning to your religion to smite your enemies, to lay waste to them, is what happened on 9/11, which is about a week or so away from being ten years old. That's a version of "old-timed religion" that isn't good enough for me.
Basically, if you are of the mindset that the world is gonna end and the Bible says so, I wonder about you, I really do. After all, I might not know the Bible backwards and forwards, but I do remember that part about "no one will know" when the world ends. Also, that little thing about being kind to your neighbors, no matter how disgusting their "BBQ sauce - old family receipe involving lime!" is. Heaven may be for real, but I'm guessing you can't get in if you take pleasure in other people's pain when you think you get to go right away while they have to wait a thousand years. Sorry, sounds a little unfair to me.
I think a lot of the end-timers think that, if the world ends today, all their problems will be solved. Poppycock, I say. Problems don't last, but people can, and do, survive the worst of what life has to bear, especially if (but not necessarily mandatory) some matter of faith is within them. Call it what you will, but I'd like to think there's something more to this than sitting in a Starbucks waiting for my heart to stop after one mocha latte too many (I don't even know what a mocha latte is). I could be wrong, however, but I hope I ain't.
Oh, in the book there's a picture of what some little girl thinks Jesus looks like. Trust me, hold it up to a pic of Kenny Loggins from the Eighties and you'd swear they're identical. Blasphemous to believe that "Footloose" could be the anthem of Heaven? Yes, but it sure beats "Your Momma Don't Dance (And Your Daddy Don't Rock and Roll)".
Good night, and good luck
Maybe, for once, the doomsayers had it right, the "end-times" crowd who not only believe that the world will end in their lifetime, they damn well pray that it does. You know the type, mostly church-associated and all "Jesus will rise and smote the infidels" or some other such stuff that we former believers (or former wannabe non-believers) associate with superstition (the feeling, not the amazing Stevie Wonder song of the same name). I could scoff at such things before, but as the threat from Irene seemed more imminent, I began to wonder: maybe it could all end?
Part of this, I'll admit, is the little boy in me, the one that sat scared straight as some old-timey preacher would come at the invitation of the local pastor and give a fire-and-brimstone sermon about how we're living in the end times and it's only a matter of time before the trumpets from on high tell us to duck and cover, and while we're down there kiss our arse goodbye (thank you, XTC). Part of it is a real fear, however, that for all my "worldly" knowledge, acquired more from books than from worldly experiences (such as warfare, genocide, and an enemy hellbent on destroying me, though God knows that Hulk Hogan tried) is no match for the unknowable, the illogical, the "doesn't fit with what science tells us", because I come from a part of the country where science is still a dirty word.
Logic holds no candle to the idea of Jesus or God just saying "to hell with it" and scrapping the whole plan, in many people's eyes.
My grandmother asked me to read a book called "Heaven Is For Real," about a little kid who apparently visited Heaven and regaled his folks with tales of the afterlife for a time, seeming to confirm that, well, Heaven is for real. I smelled "power of suggestion" and "doctoring" when I saw that the father was a preacher, as well as "blatent political edge" when it turned out the co-author also helped write Sarah Palin's book. So I was not in a place to naturally accept that everything this kid says is "for real."
Now, having read the book, I can say that if this kid thought he went to Heaven, and if it's a comfort to his folks that he says he did, who am I to judge? I know that faith (as opposed to religion) offers hope to the hopeless, and even the cynical part of me would like to believe that there's no harm in comfort. Say you're a victim of the Holocaust; would you be comforted by the idea that after you die, you're pretty much gone? Nope, I'd hope the victims of the Holocaust especially but anyone whose death came in awful circumstances in general might have something more to look forward to than just "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Hope is just a four-letter word, but it's up there with hate and love as being one of the more powerful four-letter words in our language.
That being said, I feel like some gentle, perhaps unintentional, coaching from the parents might have gone on behind the scenes, perhaps helped along by a child's natural imagination. I say this because my niece, who is six months old, has an old remote that her daddy gave her to play with. She can point it at the TV and pretend that she's doing something to the TV (perhaps to freak her out, I could be behind her with the real remote the next time she wants to change the channel and do so). I don't doubt the sincerity of the family, but I do think some grasping at straws might account for some of the more fantastical claims. And underneath it all is the idea that perhaps the end times are right around the corner.
To me, that's the most dangerous thing about religion, whatever your belief system. Trafficking in Armageddon-speak doesn't do much good for a mind easily led by suggestion, like mine was as a kid (and maybe still is, if I can take the doomsdayers seriously when it comes to Irene), and it strikes me as almost the opposite of what Christianity in particular is about. Turning to your religion to smite your enemies, to lay waste to them, is what happened on 9/11, which is about a week or so away from being ten years old. That's a version of "old-timed religion" that isn't good enough for me.
Basically, if you are of the mindset that the world is gonna end and the Bible says so, I wonder about you, I really do. After all, I might not know the Bible backwards and forwards, but I do remember that part about "no one will know" when the world ends. Also, that little thing about being kind to your neighbors, no matter how disgusting their "BBQ sauce - old family receipe involving lime!" is. Heaven may be for real, but I'm guessing you can't get in if you take pleasure in other people's pain when you think you get to go right away while they have to wait a thousand years. Sorry, sounds a little unfair to me.
I think a lot of the end-timers think that, if the world ends today, all their problems will be solved. Poppycock, I say. Problems don't last, but people can, and do, survive the worst of what life has to bear, especially if (but not necessarily mandatory) some matter of faith is within them. Call it what you will, but I'd like to think there's something more to this than sitting in a Starbucks waiting for my heart to stop after one mocha latte too many (I don't even know what a mocha latte is). I could be wrong, however, but I hope I ain't.
Oh, in the book there's a picture of what some little girl thinks Jesus looks like. Trust me, hold it up to a pic of Kenny Loggins from the Eighties and you'd swear they're identical. Blasphemous to believe that "Footloose" could be the anthem of Heaven? Yes, but it sure beats "Your Momma Don't Dance (And Your Daddy Don't Rock and Roll)".
Good night, and good luck
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Ah, The Irish
I voted for Barack Obama in 2008, in part because the thought of a black man running this country seemed so dire to the many small-town racists I call neighbors that I had to do my part to make it a reality. Also, I identified with the whole "dad out of the picture/raised by mom and grandparents" angle of his story, and I caught a speech of his at Clemson, on campus, where he captivated and amused us in equal turns. The guy could deliver a speech, and whatever else you can say about him, he's done that much for a fractured nation after the Mad Libs style of the former Malaproper-In-Chief.
But I'm not sure that he'll be much more than that, when all is said and done. And it's not because he hasn't tried, but because he's been stopped at just about every turn by an opposition that, going back to Nixon, traffics in the victim mentality while simultaneously victimizing those it deems as its very oppressors. You can's spell Tea Party without KKK, in my opinion, and all those who oppose Obama just because of who he is, as opposed to what he stands for, do so with a panache and a visual appeal to the dumbest among us that leaves little doubt how far they'll go to "take our country back."
Before Obama, I thought Bobby Kennedy was the last decent human being to run for the office, and that was with the knowledge that he'd approved wiretaps on Martin Luther King, among other things. But we live in a world where our politicians spit out family values while fathering a whole other family or two on the side, so I prefer the honest ones (the few honest ones) who own up to being fucked-up, but self-awareness is not prized in political debate. I didn't even have to watch the GOP candidate debate to tell you that most of them would blame Obama for everything that's ever gone wrong in this country. Obama will be a historic president for his race alone, but they would have you believe that he's consulting the Little Red Book of Chairman Mao while sacrificing white virgins to his heathen gods. Obama is not a saint, but he's a damn sight more appealing than the dunderheads currently angling for the honor of trying to unseat him.
That includes the "not a candidate" candidate, Sarah Motherfuckin' Palin. She's a political beast unleashed on the body politic who will gnaw at the very fabric of American democracy before someone has the good sense to tell her to go to hell. She is John McCain's gift to America after he's gone, his giant "Fuck You" to the country that failed to elect him when he ran as himself, and thus had to reinvent himself after Bush screwed him over as a tried-and-true conservative when he was probably the furthest thing from it prior to 2000. The John McCain of back then was like Willie Stark in the early part of All The King's Men, the John McCain of 2008 was more like Willie post-governorship, after he'd been corrupted.
If I were alive in '68, I would've voted for RFK, and I will vote for Obama in 2012, because someday I can tell my grandkids, with my head held high, that I helped elect the first black president of the United States (and perhaps got him re-elected, too). But if he doesn't win, and some idiot from the Tea Party's "hot list" gets in, I won't worry too much. It's a little crazy to get invested in politics to the extent that you threaten to leave the country if the other guys win. Besides, whatever else, this is still the best country on the planet in terms of opportunity, even though sometimes it feels like that opportunity is getting harder to reach. One reason I can't vote GOP: I ain't got enough money. The minute I realized that, almost over a decade ago, I decided that I could never vote for such monied assholes (unless, of course, I get a shitload of money. Then it's GOP all the way, baby!). So I don't care who the Repubs run, I ain't voting for 'em. And if they win, I'll talk bad about 'em all I want. Unlike certain members of my family, I am not bitter enough yet to piss on other people just because they don't agree with me. I went through that phase and was unbearable. Nowadays I just hope for the best.
Because I'm guessing the best we can manage under President Bachman or Romney is nuclear war with Canada.
But I'm not sure that he'll be much more than that, when all is said and done. And it's not because he hasn't tried, but because he's been stopped at just about every turn by an opposition that, going back to Nixon, traffics in the victim mentality while simultaneously victimizing those it deems as its very oppressors. You can's spell Tea Party without KKK, in my opinion, and all those who oppose Obama just because of who he is, as opposed to what he stands for, do so with a panache and a visual appeal to the dumbest among us that leaves little doubt how far they'll go to "take our country back."
Before Obama, I thought Bobby Kennedy was the last decent human being to run for the office, and that was with the knowledge that he'd approved wiretaps on Martin Luther King, among other things. But we live in a world where our politicians spit out family values while fathering a whole other family or two on the side, so I prefer the honest ones (the few honest ones) who own up to being fucked-up, but self-awareness is not prized in political debate. I didn't even have to watch the GOP candidate debate to tell you that most of them would blame Obama for everything that's ever gone wrong in this country. Obama will be a historic president for his race alone, but they would have you believe that he's consulting the Little Red Book of Chairman Mao while sacrificing white virgins to his heathen gods. Obama is not a saint, but he's a damn sight more appealing than the dunderheads currently angling for the honor of trying to unseat him.
That includes the "not a candidate" candidate, Sarah Motherfuckin' Palin. She's a political beast unleashed on the body politic who will gnaw at the very fabric of American democracy before someone has the good sense to tell her to go to hell. She is John McCain's gift to America after he's gone, his giant "Fuck You" to the country that failed to elect him when he ran as himself, and thus had to reinvent himself after Bush screwed him over as a tried-and-true conservative when he was probably the furthest thing from it prior to 2000. The John McCain of back then was like Willie Stark in the early part of All The King's Men, the John McCain of 2008 was more like Willie post-governorship, after he'd been corrupted.
If I were alive in '68, I would've voted for RFK, and I will vote for Obama in 2012, because someday I can tell my grandkids, with my head held high, that I helped elect the first black president of the United States (and perhaps got him re-elected, too). But if he doesn't win, and some idiot from the Tea Party's "hot list" gets in, I won't worry too much. It's a little crazy to get invested in politics to the extent that you threaten to leave the country if the other guys win. Besides, whatever else, this is still the best country on the planet in terms of opportunity, even though sometimes it feels like that opportunity is getting harder to reach. One reason I can't vote GOP: I ain't got enough money. The minute I realized that, almost over a decade ago, I decided that I could never vote for such monied assholes (unless, of course, I get a shitload of money. Then it's GOP all the way, baby!). So I don't care who the Repubs run, I ain't voting for 'em. And if they win, I'll talk bad about 'em all I want. Unlike certain members of my family, I am not bitter enough yet to piss on other people just because they don't agree with me. I went through that phase and was unbearable. Nowadays I just hope for the best.
Because I'm guessing the best we can manage under President Bachman or Romney is nuclear war with Canada.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Bacon & Eggs
I cringe a little when I run into someone I know that I haven't seen in a while, especially if I haven't seen them since before I got fired from my library gig. It's not that I'm a horribly unfriendly person, but I know that the polite, well-meaning question of "how are you doing" will come up.
How am I doing? Do you really want me to answer that?
If they had asked that last summer, before I got the hotel breakfast bar gig in late July, I probably would've broken down crying and wailing at the unfairness of the world. Nowadays, apart from a growing desire to be rid of the small little town I've called home for far, far too long and the nagging fear that I won't ever write anything substantial anymore, I would say I'm doing okay.
Really, I am.
In consideration of all the things that could have happened to me (getting squashed by an out-of-control truck, turning into a zombie, or being forced to sit through one of the "Twilight" movies), I got off pretty easy. And while my situation isn't ideal, it isn't soul-crushing either; I've been around long enough now to know that bad stuff often does, and damn it being a cliche but it's true, happen for a reason.
Sometimes that reason is to rob you of your ill-earned sense that "at last things are going my way," but it was ill-earned. You were a jackass. You kinda had it coming.
But anyway, back to "how are you?"; I've had to field that one quite a lot, and nowadays I can say that I have a job, it's not a career but something to pay the bills, and hopefully I get something going on the job-that-could-be-a-career front soon.
I will say, I'm shocked when I run into someone I knew from high school who is glad to see me, because often this same person would be someone that shunned or picked on me during said high school era (not that I made myself an unappealing target, having the nerve to get acne and glasses right before the most important phase of puberty and thus maximum attractivness to the opposite sex). Maybe I was better-liked in high school than I thought. Or maybe it's reassuring to them that the guy who always said he was gonna leave Walhalla is, alas, still here.
I wonder sometimes if anyone I graduated with ended up doing what they wanted to do with their lives. Odds are no, but maybe they're doing something enjoyable that they didn't know they'd like when they wanted to be God-knows-what back then.
Anyway, I'm not going to any of the reunions until I have one of the Kardashian girls to hang on my arm and draw envy from the crowd with (even if her dead-eye stare betrays her Kardashian tendency to look prettier than her personality ought to be)
How am I doing? Do you really want me to answer that?
If they had asked that last summer, before I got the hotel breakfast bar gig in late July, I probably would've broken down crying and wailing at the unfairness of the world. Nowadays, apart from a growing desire to be rid of the small little town I've called home for far, far too long and the nagging fear that I won't ever write anything substantial anymore, I would say I'm doing okay.
Really, I am.
In consideration of all the things that could have happened to me (getting squashed by an out-of-control truck, turning into a zombie, or being forced to sit through one of the "Twilight" movies), I got off pretty easy. And while my situation isn't ideal, it isn't soul-crushing either; I've been around long enough now to know that bad stuff often does, and damn it being a cliche but it's true, happen for a reason.
Sometimes that reason is to rob you of your ill-earned sense that "at last things are going my way," but it was ill-earned. You were a jackass. You kinda had it coming.
But anyway, back to "how are you?"; I've had to field that one quite a lot, and nowadays I can say that I have a job, it's not a career but something to pay the bills, and hopefully I get something going on the job-that-could-be-a-career front soon.
I will say, I'm shocked when I run into someone I knew from high school who is glad to see me, because often this same person would be someone that shunned or picked on me during said high school era (not that I made myself an unappealing target, having the nerve to get acne and glasses right before the most important phase of puberty and thus maximum attractivness to the opposite sex). Maybe I was better-liked in high school than I thought. Or maybe it's reassuring to them that the guy who always said he was gonna leave Walhalla is, alas, still here.
I wonder sometimes if anyone I graduated with ended up doing what they wanted to do with their lives. Odds are no, but maybe they're doing something enjoyable that they didn't know they'd like when they wanted to be God-knows-what back then.
Anyway, I'm not going to any of the reunions until I have one of the Kardashian girls to hang on my arm and draw envy from the crowd with (even if her dead-eye stare betrays her Kardashian tendency to look prettier than her personality ought to be)
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Saturday
Not much to say today, just that every song should now begin with Jason Derulo saying "Jason Derulo" so that maybe, just maybe, the world can see how ridiculous this is and stone the bastard (in the Old Testament sense) out of his and our misery.
Okay, let me explain: every Derulo song seems to begin with Mr. Derulo (obviously afraid that we won't know it's him) saying "Jason Derulo!" (yes there is an exclamation mark in his speech pattern there) so that we know who the artist is. Think about the biggest artists who ever lived, when did they begin their songs by saying "The Beatles!," "Velvet Underground!," or "Vanilla Ice!"?
Exactly.
Just something that annoys me a little. Anyway...
Okay, let me explain: every Derulo song seems to begin with Mr. Derulo (obviously afraid that we won't know it's him) saying "Jason Derulo!" (yes there is an exclamation mark in his speech pattern there) so that we know who the artist is. Think about the biggest artists who ever lived, when did they begin their songs by saying "The Beatles!," "Velvet Underground!," or "Vanilla Ice!"?
Exactly.
Just something that annoys me a little. Anyway...
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Obligatory Casey Anthony Post
As you may not have heard if you're Osama Bin Laden (and thus dead), Casey Anthony was found not guilty of the more serious charges against her (including that tiny one about killing her daughter). And as you might expect, this is a topic of some discussion in the nation at this time, with media talking heads exploding over themselves to try and explain why the jury is so stupid.
To that, I say....shaddup!
Yes, I think Casey Anthony is guilty of something. I didn't follow the case as much as Nancy Grace did, but when someone goes a month before reporting their kid missing, you have to believe there's more than just simple negligance going on. Let's get that out of the way.
But in a trial under the American legal system, you have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that someone is guilty of the charges they are alleged with. What the jurors have said is, the prosecution didn't prove its case.
Before Nancy Grace can explode through yet another hideous hairdo, she needs to remember that the legal system, while not perfect, is the best one we've got, and vigilantes don't need any encouragement.
One thing that stuck out to me was when Grace started bellyaching about Anthony's possible moves to write a book about her case so as to make money. What the hell has Grace been doing for the past however many years since the story broke, doing episode after episode about this case and basically engaging in a smear campaign (admittedly against a reprehensible woman, but still)? Trust me, any argument she makes about "rights of victims" is bullshit; it's about Nancy Grace's right to make a buck exploiting a tragedy. And we're all party to it, because we watched Nancy and those of her ilk make what was a tragic but nondescript murder case into a national obsession. It's the OJ Syndrome all over again.
Now then, who wants to talk about The News of the World and what a sack of shit Rupert Murdoch is?
To that, I say....shaddup!
Yes, I think Casey Anthony is guilty of something. I didn't follow the case as much as Nancy Grace did, but when someone goes a month before reporting their kid missing, you have to believe there's more than just simple negligance going on. Let's get that out of the way.
But in a trial under the American legal system, you have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that someone is guilty of the charges they are alleged with. What the jurors have said is, the prosecution didn't prove its case.
Before Nancy Grace can explode through yet another hideous hairdo, she needs to remember that the legal system, while not perfect, is the best one we've got, and vigilantes don't need any encouragement.
One thing that stuck out to me was when Grace started bellyaching about Anthony's possible moves to write a book about her case so as to make money. What the hell has Grace been doing for the past however many years since the story broke, doing episode after episode about this case and basically engaging in a smear campaign (admittedly against a reprehensible woman, but still)? Trust me, any argument she makes about "rights of victims" is bullshit; it's about Nancy Grace's right to make a buck exploiting a tragedy. And we're all party to it, because we watched Nancy and those of her ilk make what was a tragic but nondescript murder case into a national obsession. It's the OJ Syndrome all over again.
Now then, who wants to talk about The News of the World and what a sack of shit Rupert Murdoch is?
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Mating Game
I come from a family in which pet-owning is almost mandatory (it's amazing that I've gone as long as I have without a pet myself), and so it should be no surprise that animals are drawn to us. One such animal is a beast of a dog that my grandpa inherited from my uncle. He's an old soul, he's probably on his last legs, and he's fixed so that the only damage he can do procreation-wise is maybe some light dry-humping. My sis started moving into a house a few blocks down from us and brought her two dogs with her, one male and one female. I go up there occasionally to visit, and wouldn't you know that the dog that lives with me and Gramps has to follow me up there or sense my presence and arrive some minutes after I have. Of course, it could be the female dog that gets his attention; she's fixed, but you wouldn't know it by how much she likes to jump around. Like I said, the worst that these two together could get up to would be some dry-humping. But it's still nice to think their passions might co-mingle.
Sometimes I feel like the older male dog when I'm talking to girls in Clemson, which is where I have to spend a significant chunk of my time because I work downtown. I'm in my thirties now, and I've never really had anything resembling a "relationship" with a member of the opposite sex. Mostly this is my fault, but it doesn't help that, in some of the circles I ran in as a much younger person, the girls I knew were superficial, stuck-up, and tethered to dickless wonders of boyfriends (not bitter much, am I?). Now, with a more healthy view of myself (for the most part), I still feel a little like that guy who would get all worked up over a girl, only to find out she's unavailable, and thus give up entirely.
"Bros before hoes" probably didn't exist as a phrase when I was a kid, but it's long been the code by which I live. Simply put, if a girl would cheat on her boyfriend with me, why wouldn't she cheat on me with some other dude? Also, the karma retributions are manifest; let's say her last boyfriend gave her the gift that keeps on giving (i.e., some sort of VD). I get to pass that on like a chain letter.
I've been thinking about this lately because I'm so old (well, to my mind anyway) and the girls I meet are literally girls, between eighteen and some point in their early twenties. Women my own age, around here anyway, are all married to their second or third husband, tied down by a litter of malcontent kids, and somewhere on the wrong side of "letting it all hang out." Plus, I suspect that a lot of them are on meth. You see a lot when you work in the customer-service industry, as I have for most of my working life.
I guess it's just a question of what I want versus what I can get. When all your experiences have been mixed, it's hard to know when you might actually have a shot. I still sometimes make the mistake of thinking just because a girl says "hi" to me that she wants my body (a reasonable assumption, right?). I remember once, when I was working at the Clemson university library, I'm pretty sure an older woman hit on me. If she hadn't reminded me of my grandmother (because when I say "older," I mean "remembers where she was when Kennedy was shot" older), who knows what might have happened? Then again, I could have been misreading the signals.
My options are thus: girls who are younger but not hung-up on any age difference (I'm thirty-one, not seventy-two. If they want to date me, it won't be for my money), women my own age who aren't attached and are looking (harder to find in this area), and crazy old ladies who want to mother me and shower cash on me like I'm some child prostitute that their husband brought back from Thailand (okay, bit of a stretch, but I'm thinking outside the box). I say all this not as a means of generating sympathy or even a pity-whatever (though that would be nice, it would improve my batting average). I'm just tired of meeting the love of my life and then meeting her handsome husband, to paraphrase Alanis Morrisette.
Also, if any rich older ladies see this and are open to it, I can be your boy-toy. I hope you like 'em a little on the love-handles side.
Sometimes I feel like the older male dog when I'm talking to girls in Clemson, which is where I have to spend a significant chunk of my time because I work downtown. I'm in my thirties now, and I've never really had anything resembling a "relationship" with a member of the opposite sex. Mostly this is my fault, but it doesn't help that, in some of the circles I ran in as a much younger person, the girls I knew were superficial, stuck-up, and tethered to dickless wonders of boyfriends (not bitter much, am I?). Now, with a more healthy view of myself (for the most part), I still feel a little like that guy who would get all worked up over a girl, only to find out she's unavailable, and thus give up entirely.
"Bros before hoes" probably didn't exist as a phrase when I was a kid, but it's long been the code by which I live. Simply put, if a girl would cheat on her boyfriend with me, why wouldn't she cheat on me with some other dude? Also, the karma retributions are manifest; let's say her last boyfriend gave her the gift that keeps on giving (i.e., some sort of VD). I get to pass that on like a chain letter.
I've been thinking about this lately because I'm so old (well, to my mind anyway) and the girls I meet are literally girls, between eighteen and some point in their early twenties. Women my own age, around here anyway, are all married to their second or third husband, tied down by a litter of malcontent kids, and somewhere on the wrong side of "letting it all hang out." Plus, I suspect that a lot of them are on meth. You see a lot when you work in the customer-service industry, as I have for most of my working life.
I guess it's just a question of what I want versus what I can get. When all your experiences have been mixed, it's hard to know when you might actually have a shot. I still sometimes make the mistake of thinking just because a girl says "hi" to me that she wants my body (a reasonable assumption, right?). I remember once, when I was working at the Clemson university library, I'm pretty sure an older woman hit on me. If she hadn't reminded me of my grandmother (because when I say "older," I mean "remembers where she was when Kennedy was shot" older), who knows what might have happened? Then again, I could have been misreading the signals.
My options are thus: girls who are younger but not hung-up on any age difference (I'm thirty-one, not seventy-two. If they want to date me, it won't be for my money), women my own age who aren't attached and are looking (harder to find in this area), and crazy old ladies who want to mother me and shower cash on me like I'm some child prostitute that their husband brought back from Thailand (okay, bit of a stretch, but I'm thinking outside the box). I say all this not as a means of generating sympathy or even a pity-whatever (though that would be nice, it would improve my batting average). I'm just tired of meeting the love of my life and then meeting her handsome husband, to paraphrase Alanis Morrisette.
Also, if any rich older ladies see this and are open to it, I can be your boy-toy. I hope you like 'em a little on the love-handles side.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Smile, It's Tuesday
Happy 4th of July...weekend, it's just now July 2nd where I am so I feel a bit premature about yelling "happy 4th of July!" when we're not even there yet. Go figure, I'm a stickler for waiting until the appropriate moment to celebrate our nation's founding.
Well, scratch that: the lamestream media's officially-sanctioned version of events that led to our nation's founding. You know how they distort things, making it sound like we forgot to do anything about abolishing slavery right off the bat, or kept Chinamen from coming over until we needed railroads and were too lazy to build them ourselves. You know, that sort of thing.
American history, when you're an idealistic kid, is a very different animal from what you learn as you get older (assuming you learn anything, what with the condition of American education). When you're a kid, all those guys on the poster that goes around the wall, the dead white guys who are recognizable because some of them are on the money that you have for lunch that day, they seem like nice guys. A little hard to gauge in terms of how much they like to party, but you're guessing that Lincoln would do the Electric Slide while Teddy Roosevelt shot a bear just for the hell of it, and Franklin Pierce would be doing jello shots off Rutherford B. Hayes' facial hair. Maybe you didn't think of such things when you were a kid, and I can't say that I did either. But for the most part, you knew the basic facts about America, and were content.
Then, say, you read about the whole Indian forced-resettlement thing (basically pushing them to the Pacific, until we decided that we wanted that too), everything to do with being black in America (at the lib I used to work at, there was a series of books called "You Wouldn't Want to Be A..." with some historical context, usually like a "Titanic passenger" or "Jamestown colonist." I once suggested "You Wouldn't Want to Be a Black Person in America 1619-1955 or So"), Jewish, Irish, any other kind of "-ish," and sharecropping. A lot of bad shit has gone down under the banner of the Stars and Stripes, people.
But I think that's a good thing, in a way. We're the most powerful nation on earth (well, except for the Chinese), and we're looked up to (well, except for the time that ex-cheerleader was in charge). We have made amends somewhat for some of that bad shit, but we could do more. But I think we'll get there.
We don't need the idealized version of history, the one that says nothing bad ever happened and if it did, it was the pinko liberal homo Commies' fault. We need an honest appraisal of where we've been, what we've done, and what we got right. So this 4th of July, take some time to appreciate the real America, the one that shows up at your barbecue three sheets to the wind and intolerant of the Irish. Because as fucked-up as this America is, he's got some redeeming qualities. He never molested you, right?
Happy Independence Day, bitches!!!
Well, scratch that: the lamestream media's officially-sanctioned version of events that led to our nation's founding. You know how they distort things, making it sound like we forgot to do anything about abolishing slavery right off the bat, or kept Chinamen from coming over until we needed railroads and were too lazy to build them ourselves. You know, that sort of thing.
American history, when you're an idealistic kid, is a very different animal from what you learn as you get older (assuming you learn anything, what with the condition of American education). When you're a kid, all those guys on the poster that goes around the wall, the dead white guys who are recognizable because some of them are on the money that you have for lunch that day, they seem like nice guys. A little hard to gauge in terms of how much they like to party, but you're guessing that Lincoln would do the Electric Slide while Teddy Roosevelt shot a bear just for the hell of it, and Franklin Pierce would be doing jello shots off Rutherford B. Hayes' facial hair. Maybe you didn't think of such things when you were a kid, and I can't say that I did either. But for the most part, you knew the basic facts about America, and were content.
Then, say, you read about the whole Indian forced-resettlement thing (basically pushing them to the Pacific, until we decided that we wanted that too), everything to do with being black in America (at the lib I used to work at, there was a series of books called "You Wouldn't Want to Be A..." with some historical context, usually like a "Titanic passenger" or "Jamestown colonist." I once suggested "You Wouldn't Want to Be a Black Person in America 1619-1955 or So"), Jewish, Irish, any other kind of "-ish," and sharecropping. A lot of bad shit has gone down under the banner of the Stars and Stripes, people.
But I think that's a good thing, in a way. We're the most powerful nation on earth (well, except for the Chinese), and we're looked up to (well, except for the time that ex-cheerleader was in charge). We have made amends somewhat for some of that bad shit, but we could do more. But I think we'll get there.
We don't need the idealized version of history, the one that says nothing bad ever happened and if it did, it was the pinko liberal homo Commies' fault. We need an honest appraisal of where we've been, what we've done, and what we got right. So this 4th of July, take some time to appreciate the real America, the one that shows up at your barbecue three sheets to the wind and intolerant of the Irish. Because as fucked-up as this America is, he's got some redeeming qualities. He never molested you, right?
Happy Independence Day, bitches!!!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Quick Update
The baby is good, my sis and mom are moving in to my great-grandma's old place to be closer to home (and less close to Pendleton's drugs-and-guns district), and work is about work. I am still searching for an outlet for my skills as a writer, or short-order cook, whichever comes first. Currently reading a new bio of Malcolm X and thinking about reviving my idea for a hilarious sitcom in which a Black Muslim is the middle child of a bizarre middle-class white family (Malcolm X in The Middle). I'll let you know if it gets picked up.
Adios for now.
Adios for now.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
No Direction Home
I've been thinking about a lot lately, what with the whole "world coming to an end" business surrounding this past Saturday (I guess the guy called it wrong...again. Worse than a weatherman). Not just that, but a lot of stuff around my family is going down, I won't go into it but suffice it to say that nobody has a "normal" family, and anyone that claims to do so is lying.
Also, I've been reading about the Civil War, by which I mean The Civil War, by Shelby Foote. I always meant to pick up one of the massive volumes of his masterwork whenever I used to see it on the shelves of the library, and now that I have (and am currently 300+ pages into the first, 800-page volume), I like it pretty good. You might remember Foote as the grandfatherly figure from Ken Burns' film The Civil War, a folksy oldtimer who could very well have been there on the battlefield by virtue of how authoritativly he talked about it.
It got me thinking, when I went to BAM yesterday and saw all the anti-Obama books that are (shockingly) still being put out, considering this is the same man who, oh, I don't know, took down the greatest terrorist leader to threaten our shores. It made me sad to think that the history of this era won't be written by a clear-headed, sober-minded gentleman, but by an overwrought collection of belly-aching racists. Yes, I said racists.
You see, people call Obama a "socialist" because if they called him what they really wanted to (starts with "n," ends with "-er," and in the middle are some other letters), they'd be justifiably labeled as racists. How do I know this? Because I'm a Southerner, I've grown up with people who thought nothing of using such a word (then again, they weren't trying to sell books to the public at large), and I'd like to think I can tell a bully at long distances. You might think that, if you knew me and how much I opposed Bush, I was ignoring the anti-Bush rhetoric of that era and focusing solely on the nasty Obama haters. I see your argument, figurative internet audience, but let me say this: when we put a Hitler moustache on Dubya, it was stupid. When the other guys put a Hitler moustache on Obama, it was stupid and racist. There is a difference.
Lately I've been looking for an outlet for such thoughts as I might have on the things I care about, something that could help me find a wider audience and perhaps some financial gain as well. If you, figurative internet audience, can think of a place for me to trade my wares, let me know.
Also, I've been reading about the Civil War, by which I mean The Civil War, by Shelby Foote. I always meant to pick up one of the massive volumes of his masterwork whenever I used to see it on the shelves of the library, and now that I have (and am currently 300+ pages into the first, 800-page volume), I like it pretty good. You might remember Foote as the grandfatherly figure from Ken Burns' film The Civil War, a folksy oldtimer who could very well have been there on the battlefield by virtue of how authoritativly he talked about it.
It got me thinking, when I went to BAM yesterday and saw all the anti-Obama books that are (shockingly) still being put out, considering this is the same man who, oh, I don't know, took down the greatest terrorist leader to threaten our shores. It made me sad to think that the history of this era won't be written by a clear-headed, sober-minded gentleman, but by an overwrought collection of belly-aching racists. Yes, I said racists.
You see, people call Obama a "socialist" because if they called him what they really wanted to (starts with "n," ends with "-er," and in the middle are some other letters), they'd be justifiably labeled as racists. How do I know this? Because I'm a Southerner, I've grown up with people who thought nothing of using such a word (then again, they weren't trying to sell books to the public at large), and I'd like to think I can tell a bully at long distances. You might think that, if you knew me and how much I opposed Bush, I was ignoring the anti-Bush rhetoric of that era and focusing solely on the nasty Obama haters. I see your argument, figurative internet audience, but let me say this: when we put a Hitler moustache on Dubya, it was stupid. When the other guys put a Hitler moustache on Obama, it was stupid and racist. There is a difference.
Lately I've been looking for an outlet for such thoughts as I might have on the things I care about, something that could help me find a wider audience and perhaps some financial gain as well. If you, figurative internet audience, can think of a place for me to trade my wares, let me know.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Neutral Milk Hotel
...is a good band, thanks for the shout-out on Parks & Recs.
Anyway, last night was an experience in babysitting at once familiar and (thanks to baby Scout) brand-spanking new: the night of the cranky, hard-to-please baby. Sis brought her up to spend time with the grands while she went to a baby shower (funny how one girl having a baby inspires all her friends to do the same). Scout was fussy except when she was feeding or napping, and it seemed like everytime I tried to calm her, I made the situation worse.
Scout hates her uncle...
No, just kidding, but I do think the poor girl is teething already (or maybe right on time? I'm not sure about these things), so I guess that's part of it. Or maybe it was being in a strange place not her comfortable apartment with Mom and Dad that did it. At any rate, she eventually went to sleep and Sis came back to get her. I watched The King's Speech on and off last night, inbetween trying to comfort my niece while failing to do so. Good movie, though I still think the Facebook movie got robbed (Zuckerberg!!!!).
And that's all I got for now.
Anyway, last night was an experience in babysitting at once familiar and (thanks to baby Scout) brand-spanking new: the night of the cranky, hard-to-please baby. Sis brought her up to spend time with the grands while she went to a baby shower (funny how one girl having a baby inspires all her friends to do the same). Scout was fussy except when she was feeding or napping, and it seemed like everytime I tried to calm her, I made the situation worse.
Scout hates her uncle...
No, just kidding, but I do think the poor girl is teething already (or maybe right on time? I'm not sure about these things), so I guess that's part of it. Or maybe it was being in a strange place not her comfortable apartment with Mom and Dad that did it. At any rate, she eventually went to sleep and Sis came back to get her. I watched The King's Speech on and off last night, inbetween trying to comfort my niece while failing to do so. Good movie, though I still think the Facebook movie got robbed (Zuckerberg!!!!).
And that's all I got for now.
Monday, May 2, 2011
With Six You Get Eggroll...Mmm, Eggroll
Osama Bin Laden, the long-feared mastermind behind the September 11 attacks, is no more. He has ceased to be, he has run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This is an ex-parrot.
Thank you for indulging me in that.
Now then, emotions...mixed. On the one hand, jubilation that the son of a bitch is dead, also surprise that he was still alive (wasn't he supposed to be on dialysis?), and gratefulness that my black president did something that a lot of other people's white presidents couldn't manage. Take that, haters.
Of course, I know that some other self-important motherfucker will rise to the challenge of replacing Bin Laden, it's like Brian Johnson replacing Bon Scott in AC/DC almost. But hopefully Bin Laden was so charismatic, like Hitler, that the idea of anyone other than him in charge is just ludicrous. Like Glenn Frey taking over for Don Henley should Henley leave the Eagles to make more awful solo records.
It's a good day, people...
Thank you for indulging me in that.
Now then, emotions...mixed. On the one hand, jubilation that the son of a bitch is dead, also surprise that he was still alive (wasn't he supposed to be on dialysis?), and gratefulness that my black president did something that a lot of other people's white presidents couldn't manage. Take that, haters.
Of course, I know that some other self-important motherfucker will rise to the challenge of replacing Bin Laden, it's like Brian Johnson replacing Bon Scott in AC/DC almost. But hopefully Bin Laden was so charismatic, like Hitler, that the idea of anyone other than him in charge is just ludicrous. Like Glenn Frey taking over for Don Henley should Henley leave the Eagles to make more awful solo records.
It's a good day, people...
Sunday, April 10, 2011
So This is Casablanca, Eh?
The government might not have shut down this week, but Glenn Beck did; Fox News reportedly canceled the self-appointed mindfucker's show, which apparently is running til the end of the year still but after that will be kaput. You know what this means, of course... Glenn was right about someone being out to silence him. The fact that it was Fox News...that's an M. Night Shamalamadingdong worthy twist. I kid, but the fact is that Fox News, by firing the guy most people think of when you say "Fox News," is really doing themselves a disservice. Nobody talks about O'Reilly anymore; he went from being a firebrand of conservative thought to everyone's drunk grandfather bitching about Socialism while passing out at the wheel of his yacht which is in dry dock in your parents' backyard. Hannity is still like the Urkel of right-wing nutjobs, but I haven't heard him mentioned in years. Dude's last book came out in paperback right out of the gate. Ann Coulter morphed into Sue Sylvester, G. Gordon Liddy tried to hunt down that Nigerian prince who stole his money, and Rush Limbaugh is going deaf. I can remember a time when these people walked the earth like fire-breathing dragons of hate, then Bush got in there and screwed up big time so now they're like neutered housecats, albeit the kind that piss all over your furniture and berate you about Obama's lack of a birth certificate. The GOP might as well admit that they're going to try to "put the White back in the White House" next year, I think there's one token non-white guy who isn't Michael Steele still in the party and he seems like more of a long shot that Al Sharpton ever was. High times indeed. That's all I got for today.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Hot Child in the City
Just wanted to check in, I know it's been a while (and my last post was, now that I think about it, unintentionally morbid), but I've been busy with work and such. Don't worry, I also neglected my online family on the Oregon Trail. Last I heard, Pa had been scalped by Indians, Sis and Mama were taken out by cholera, and I was selling myself to interested prospectors in the Idaho mountains. If you are an aspiring literary snob, or just think to yourself "someday someone will recognize my genius at literary puns," check out the Clemson Literary Festival (fourth one in a row) this week. I was a bit bewildered to see on the website (www.clemson.edu/litfest) that Kurt Vonnegut was at some point "associated" with the university. If this means "you can find his books in our library," then yes, he was associated with Clemson. Other than that, I'm wondering what possible connection the author of Breakfast of Champions could have with the school still obsessed with our one and only title. Anyway, toodles!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Lady Magaga
Death: How to Make It Work For You, On the Job
I've been thinking about mortality a lot lately, not on account of any illnesses I might have (though I could have loads; it's been ages since I went to the doc), but because I read a really good book about the subject by Julian Barnes (Metroland). The book is called Nothing to Be Frightened Of. He basically presents the idea of death as the be-all-end-all and how terrifying that can be, but also how oddly reassuring the thought is that, well, this is it, better make the best of it.
I suppose the idea of mortality comes up more often in my mind now because I'm much older than I ever thought I might be, if not in terms of chronology than in terms of years of experience, without having experienced some basic human needs in the course of my life (thus, if I died tomorrow, I'd feel more than a little cheated, all things considered). When I was younger and stupidly fixated on the idea of "dying young" but not before "blessing the world with a masterpiece," the idea of much good coming after thirty would have been suspect to my mind. Then again, the heroic early death of literary or cinematic or musical heroes often leaves out the very important fact that you're fucked after you die, because all the posthumous mythologizing can't raise you from your tomb.
Which is why you never see the zombie Ian Curtis or a reanimated JD Salinger running around these days.
One of the basic arguments of the book has to do with the afterlife, and whether or not it exists. Barnes is of the opinion that it doesn't, and I can see his logic for it (wouldn't it be egotistical of us to suppose that, just because we had the run of things on this side of the mortal coin, we could have even longer stays of execution on the other?). But there's enough of the Southern Baptist faith of which I was brought up in and for a large part rejected still left to make me fearful of the idea that nothing exists beyond the void. Pretty heady stuff, and all this after having a new niece born into my life that I look forward to seeing grow up and imparting my wisdom to, provided I don't get lucky in the genetic race to continue propagating the species and never mate myself (I mean, mate with another person besides myself, not that I can mate with myself...bloody hell).
Lighter Topics
Spring is here...is it? Just around the corner?...well, something resembling it seems to be lollygagging around, and in the interim my allergies are starting their return to full and annoying life. I look forward to the first dusting of pollen, because that will be the sign that I was wise to save so many coins for possible trips to the car wash.
Ay dios mio...
I've been thinking about mortality a lot lately, not on account of any illnesses I might have (though I could have loads; it's been ages since I went to the doc), but because I read a really good book about the subject by Julian Barnes (Metroland). The book is called Nothing to Be Frightened Of. He basically presents the idea of death as the be-all-end-all and how terrifying that can be, but also how oddly reassuring the thought is that, well, this is it, better make the best of it.
I suppose the idea of mortality comes up more often in my mind now because I'm much older than I ever thought I might be, if not in terms of chronology than in terms of years of experience, without having experienced some basic human needs in the course of my life (thus, if I died tomorrow, I'd feel more than a little cheated, all things considered). When I was younger and stupidly fixated on the idea of "dying young" but not before "blessing the world with a masterpiece," the idea of much good coming after thirty would have been suspect to my mind. Then again, the heroic early death of literary or cinematic or musical heroes often leaves out the very important fact that you're fucked after you die, because all the posthumous mythologizing can't raise you from your tomb.
Which is why you never see the zombie Ian Curtis or a reanimated JD Salinger running around these days.
One of the basic arguments of the book has to do with the afterlife, and whether or not it exists. Barnes is of the opinion that it doesn't, and I can see his logic for it (wouldn't it be egotistical of us to suppose that, just because we had the run of things on this side of the mortal coin, we could have even longer stays of execution on the other?). But there's enough of the Southern Baptist faith of which I was brought up in and for a large part rejected still left to make me fearful of the idea that nothing exists beyond the void. Pretty heady stuff, and all this after having a new niece born into my life that I look forward to seeing grow up and imparting my wisdom to, provided I don't get lucky in the genetic race to continue propagating the species and never mate myself (I mean, mate with another person besides myself, not that I can mate with myself...bloody hell).
Lighter Topics
Spring is here...is it? Just around the corner?...well, something resembling it seems to be lollygagging around, and in the interim my allergies are starting their return to full and annoying life. I look forward to the first dusting of pollen, because that will be the sign that I was wise to save so many coins for possible trips to the car wash.
Ay dios mio...
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Hiroshima, Mon Amour
As often happens lately, something truly horrifying has happened in the world. I'm not just talking about the NFL labor agreement kerfuffle (though that is bad), I mean the earthquake, tsunami, and now explosion at a nuclear plant in Japan, all within the span of forty-eight hours. I wrote up something about that for a website I contribute to regularly (by "regularly" I mean "infrequently"), so I won't go into detail here. I just want to send out a thought or two for the Japanese people, I'm not a praying person much so it feels wrong to say "praying" for them but I reckon it's about right.
It seems like some people want to say this is a "sign of the apocalypse". Those people are idiots and jerks.
Anyway, I got to hold the baby again last night, she went to sleep in my arms and I almost fell asleep myself (I'd been up since six in the morning, on account of work). Did I mention how cute she is?
Shout out to my first follower, who I'm betting based on his comment is my cousin Brandon. If this is correct, he will quote a Morrissey solo (not the Smiths) lyric in the comments section of this post. The ball is in your court, sir...;-p
It seems like some people want to say this is a "sign of the apocalypse". Those people are idiots and jerks.
Anyway, I got to hold the baby again last night, she went to sleep in my arms and I almost fell asleep myself (I'd been up since six in the morning, on account of work). Did I mention how cute she is?
Shout out to my first follower, who I'm betting based on his comment is my cousin Brandon. If this is correct, he will quote a Morrissey solo (not the Smiths) lyric in the comments section of this post. The ball is in your court, sir...;-p
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Uncle Trevordomus
I had been predicting the birth of my niece, Dusty Sade, for some time now, but I was wrong every time. She came into the world this past Tuesday, February 22, so now I don't have to constantly ask my sister "have you had your baby yet?" I'm sure that's the least of her worries.
It's hard to describe just what's going on in me right now, other than the monster case of indigestion or whatever it was that almost kept me up all night and may or may not be related to the questionable nature of the hamburger steak that was served for dinner (the less you know about this, the better). In regards to my niece, I mean, it's odd because she went from being this abstract concept (i.e., there's a baby in my sister's belly) to a real, live, screaming and crying thing. I've held her twice now, and each time she stretches and squirms and makes horrible faces like she's about to cry, and I can't help but badger perfect strangers with the picture I now have on my cell phone when I first open it up, of her looking at me like I'm nuts. I love the little stinker.
And yes, I have indeed shown off the picture I took of her, she's just about the cutest thing I've seen. It's different than, say, when a cousin or uncle of mine has a kid (as has happened over the past six years now), I mean, those babies are cute and all, but this is different. My sister, whom I can still recall as a bald-headed little stinker, has her own now, covered in hair and sporting some tiny, tiny hands and feet. It feels like I'm closer to this one than to my cousins or whatnot.
In the past, I've wondered what it might be like to have a family of my own, kids that look like me but hopefully have better luck in social situations in which they have to talk to girls. Not being sexually active in high school did mean that I avoided the pitfall of having a kid right before graduation that could, in turn, derail my chances to have fun away at college, but then I didn't have much fun in college, either. Also, there was the whole "not being sexually active" part, which was not by choice. Anyway, I would like to think I'd be a good dad, perhaps because I'm something of an okay babysitter (who else would let his three-year-old cousin "ground and pound" him for her amusement while tears streamed down his face from all the pain she was inflicting with her surprisingly muscular fists?). Time will tell if I can land a girlfriend, much less a baby mama. But for the time being, I will try to be the best uncle I can to little Vanity T'Pau.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Arcade Fire Can Also Win Best Album
My sister is still, as of this writing, swollen with pregnancy, but I reckon she'll pop at some point soon because...okay, I just jinxed it, she's now going to carry the baby into March. Sorry, sis.
Anyway, before the birth of Jermajesty Beyonce, I will say that the past few weeks of waiting for her to arrive have caused me to wonder about my own fitness as a parent, should I be lucky enough to con a woman into loving me. I'm great with the cousins and half-cousins who have come through my grandparents' abode over the years for babysitting (that's not me saying that, I have testimonials that me taking a whiffle bat to the crotch kept Lil Satan entertained enough to allow the grands some much-needed bickering time), but the thought of my own kid, a little copy of me, somehow being born onto this planet and then asking me to clean up his or her shit, well, that's just a little unnerving.
You see, my experiences with women have been of the disappointing kind, sometimes I was the instigator of it or she was, but the result was usually the same; something that started off kinda nice devolved because one or both of us was too insecure to really think this might last.
So god forbid that I bring a child into that equation. Also, it doesn't help that, of the various couplings within my family (marriage-wise, I mean; no incest that I know of), only a couple are of the "romantic, isn't it?" variety. What I mean is, marriage and family are not conducive to happiness amongst my family, or if it is, it's aided by the abuse and misuse of alcohol and/or drugs. Depression seems to run in the family, as well as "playful" ball-busting that, for someone as sensitive as me, has sometimes come off as more mean than meaningful (see my thoughts on Thanksgiving).
But I always had an "out": my father's side of the family. Granted, I know next to nothing about them, but that's the point: I can come up with all sorts of identities for the man and his kinfolks. He could have been a hero, and his father before him, and they never spent any major holiday sitting around the table eying each other with mutual suspicion and ill-concieved contempt for some imagined past wrong. Not that my family is Swedish malaise personified, but let's just say Ingmar Bergman could have a field day with them (I've only seen a couple of Bergman films, but really, you see one and you get the idea. Plus, I read both of his autobiographies). But my father's side, the family I didn't know...they could be just about anything.
To this day, my efforts to construct what my father was really like, assuming he's not around anymore (I don't even know if that's the case or not) have failed, or I just haven't pursued them to the best of my ability. It's this lack of closure, maybe, that has something to do with my lack to be the kind of guy I could see having a family, and being there. Maybe, deep down, I fear I'd run away at the first sign of trouble (say, the part where my future girlfriend or wife says "we need to talk" and indicates that yes, my sperm is powerful enough to propogate the species), or I'd just plain suck at it. Maybe I should quit being such a scaredy cat.
Anyway, not to extend all this to my as-yet unborn niece, but I hope she gets none of the weird shit that the rest of my family has; I know I'll try my best to be Uncle Trevor for her, and not "weird Uncle Trevor who lives in the basement and never talks to women." I'll love her no matter when she's born, but I hope for my sister's sake it's before St Patty's day.
Trevor
Anyway, before the birth of Jermajesty Beyonce, I will say that the past few weeks of waiting for her to arrive have caused me to wonder about my own fitness as a parent, should I be lucky enough to con a woman into loving me. I'm great with the cousins and half-cousins who have come through my grandparents' abode over the years for babysitting (that's not me saying that, I have testimonials that me taking a whiffle bat to the crotch kept Lil Satan entertained enough to allow the grands some much-needed bickering time), but the thought of my own kid, a little copy of me, somehow being born onto this planet and then asking me to clean up his or her shit, well, that's just a little unnerving.
You see, my experiences with women have been of the disappointing kind, sometimes I was the instigator of it or she was, but the result was usually the same; something that started off kinda nice devolved because one or both of us was too insecure to really think this might last.
So god forbid that I bring a child into that equation. Also, it doesn't help that, of the various couplings within my family (marriage-wise, I mean; no incest that I know of), only a couple are of the "romantic, isn't it?" variety. What I mean is, marriage and family are not conducive to happiness amongst my family, or if it is, it's aided by the abuse and misuse of alcohol and/or drugs. Depression seems to run in the family, as well as "playful" ball-busting that, for someone as sensitive as me, has sometimes come off as more mean than meaningful (see my thoughts on Thanksgiving).
But I always had an "out": my father's side of the family. Granted, I know next to nothing about them, but that's the point: I can come up with all sorts of identities for the man and his kinfolks. He could have been a hero, and his father before him, and they never spent any major holiday sitting around the table eying each other with mutual suspicion and ill-concieved contempt for some imagined past wrong. Not that my family is Swedish malaise personified, but let's just say Ingmar Bergman could have a field day with them (I've only seen a couple of Bergman films, but really, you see one and you get the idea. Plus, I read both of his autobiographies). But my father's side, the family I didn't know...they could be just about anything.
To this day, my efforts to construct what my father was really like, assuming he's not around anymore (I don't even know if that's the case or not) have failed, or I just haven't pursued them to the best of my ability. It's this lack of closure, maybe, that has something to do with my lack to be the kind of guy I could see having a family, and being there. Maybe, deep down, I fear I'd run away at the first sign of trouble (say, the part where my future girlfriend or wife says "we need to talk" and indicates that yes, my sperm is powerful enough to propogate the species), or I'd just plain suck at it. Maybe I should quit being such a scaredy cat.
Anyway, not to extend all this to my as-yet unborn niece, but I hope she gets none of the weird shit that the rest of my family has; I know I'll try my best to be Uncle Trevor for her, and not "weird Uncle Trevor who lives in the basement and never talks to women." I'll love her no matter when she's born, but I hope for my sister's sake it's before St Patty's day.
Trevor
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Rapists Never Win...Except in the NBA
Wait, did I say that? Too soon?
Anyway, life has been moving along for yours truly, sister is still preggers though her due date is closing in (I'm ready to meet my new niece, Kajagoogoo Wham! Stewart; she doesn't know it yet, but my sister is naming her child after an Eighties pop music princess of the mall circuit so, to protect her identity, I'll refer to her as such here, varying the one-hit wonder or established Eighties act with each update until I become sick of such shenanigans).
Just now, I took the online Jeopardy test, nailing a few ("Camus," "McCall Smith" for the "author of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency") and whiffing on a few ("raining cats and dogs?" Gotta hate the slap-to-the-forehead-after-the-fact realization). This is the fourth year in a row I've taken the test, and I'm missing Glee for this (though to be fair, the recent season arc has been "you gotta be fucking kidding me" in terms of plot consistancy and/or development).
Things are certainly different from the first few times I took it; gone is the arrogant, "I totally got this" of my callow youth, though the rib-kicking I took emotionally and financially last year might have more to do with that than any general lack of information retrieval on my part. I gotta be honest, "Jeopardy" money is and always has been my "realistic plan to pay off student loans" since I started taking this test. Cats and Dogs will be haunting me in my sleep, even if somehow I manage to get through the gauntlet.
But that's the perks of being a smart guy, book-wise; you can't always apply that to the real world. In fact, it's safe to say that, in many ways, an education can be more of a hinderance than a help, considering what kind of education you're talking about. I know all about the French New Wave, the Beatles, the presidents of this here United States (like the author of "Decision Points," George W. Bush...the one and only time I'm glad I know that, thanks again Jeopardy), but applying that to the real world seems harder than I thought. In preperation for the Jeopardy test, I read the Ken Jennings book about his time on the show, and he made some very observant points while also writing a very entertaining book: knowing trivia doesn't necessarily translate as intelligence, though it can.
But hey, I tried, and that's more than I can say for a lot of people. Whether I get anywhere with it this year or the next (because, oh yes, I will try again next year), the fact is I took a chance on something that I might be good at. I'm gonna have to keep that in mind if a job opens up for which I am somehow qualified via my degree, because it's awfully easy to say "nah, they wouldn't give me the job anyway."
Okay, back to home and to catch the last little bit of Glee...though I predict that it will suck.
Anyway, life has been moving along for yours truly, sister is still preggers though her due date is closing in (I'm ready to meet my new niece, Kajagoogoo Wham! Stewart; she doesn't know it yet, but my sister is naming her child after an Eighties pop music princess of the mall circuit so, to protect her identity, I'll refer to her as such here, varying the one-hit wonder or established Eighties act with each update until I become sick of such shenanigans).
Just now, I took the online Jeopardy test, nailing a few ("Camus," "McCall Smith" for the "author of the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency") and whiffing on a few ("raining cats and dogs?" Gotta hate the slap-to-the-forehead-after-the-fact realization). This is the fourth year in a row I've taken the test, and I'm missing Glee for this (though to be fair, the recent season arc has been "you gotta be fucking kidding me" in terms of plot consistancy and/or development).
Things are certainly different from the first few times I took it; gone is the arrogant, "I totally got this" of my callow youth, though the rib-kicking I took emotionally and financially last year might have more to do with that than any general lack of information retrieval on my part. I gotta be honest, "Jeopardy" money is and always has been my "realistic plan to pay off student loans" since I started taking this test. Cats and Dogs will be haunting me in my sleep, even if somehow I manage to get through the gauntlet.
But that's the perks of being a smart guy, book-wise; you can't always apply that to the real world. In fact, it's safe to say that, in many ways, an education can be more of a hinderance than a help, considering what kind of education you're talking about. I know all about the French New Wave, the Beatles, the presidents of this here United States (like the author of "Decision Points," George W. Bush...the one and only time I'm glad I know that, thanks again Jeopardy), but applying that to the real world seems harder than I thought. In preperation for the Jeopardy test, I read the Ken Jennings book about his time on the show, and he made some very observant points while also writing a very entertaining book: knowing trivia doesn't necessarily translate as intelligence, though it can.
But hey, I tried, and that's more than I can say for a lot of people. Whether I get anywhere with it this year or the next (because, oh yes, I will try again next year), the fact is I took a chance on something that I might be good at. I'm gonna have to keep that in mind if a job opens up for which I am somehow qualified via my degree, because it's awfully easy to say "nah, they wouldn't give me the job anyway."
Okay, back to home and to catch the last little bit of Glee...though I predict that it will suck.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Something Wicked Hard This Way Comes
Snow, snow, snow...it's all you hear about in these parts lately. Bet the folks in Antartica think we're being a little paranoid about it, inbetween times when they ask themselves "why am I in Antartica?"
Yes, it's been a snowy season in the Deep South this year, further proof (if you're a Republican) that Obama is sending this country straight to socialist hell or (if you're a Democrat) that the GOP is hellbent on turning everything to shit.
No wonder some nutjob in Arizona goes on a shooting spree...
I'm not here to say that the GOP is to blame, though God knows they do their fair share to stir up the hornet's nest of crazy mofos in this country. The Dems, much as I love 'em, are screwing the pooch.
Though to be fair, Sarah Palin puts a gunsight on your district and then you get shot? Got to be hard to ignore.
Anyway, on personal terms this has been a long month. I left my job at the hotel, then the snow storm and subsequent absence of hours at my other job left me thinking "hmm, perhaps I was a bit hasty to jump off that boat." I am available for weekend work, if any potential employers stumble across this, but I hope I'm making something out of nothing.
The fact that I went for a simple oil job yesterday and let myself be talked into spending $100 more on a new battery for my car even though, in retrospect, I didn't notice anything wrong with the other one...yeah, that doesn't play into my fears regarding my income at all.
Last summer, when I went so long between paychecks that I was begging and pleading for extensions on payments past due, I felt like I never wanted to be anywhere near this position again. So far, I've been lucky enough to not feel quite so pressured...until the loss of work due to the snow left me just a little aware of that feeling creeping back up.
So yeah, time to start working the pole again. My stripper name? "Misty Rainz"
I will continue to fight on, of course, sending off stories or essays until one gets published (one did, on OverthinkingIt.com, all about possible presidential candidates for Hollywood to make movies off of. Robot president, anyone?). God knows my good looks won't pay my bills unless people who judge these things suddenly get myopic.
Though, for the record, I am one sexy beast. :-p
Trev
Yes, it's been a snowy season in the Deep South this year, further proof (if you're a Republican) that Obama is sending this country straight to socialist hell or (if you're a Democrat) that the GOP is hellbent on turning everything to shit.
No wonder some nutjob in Arizona goes on a shooting spree...
I'm not here to say that the GOP is to blame, though God knows they do their fair share to stir up the hornet's nest of crazy mofos in this country. The Dems, much as I love 'em, are screwing the pooch.
Though to be fair, Sarah Palin puts a gunsight on your district and then you get shot? Got to be hard to ignore.
Anyway, on personal terms this has been a long month. I left my job at the hotel, then the snow storm and subsequent absence of hours at my other job left me thinking "hmm, perhaps I was a bit hasty to jump off that boat." I am available for weekend work, if any potential employers stumble across this, but I hope I'm making something out of nothing.
The fact that I went for a simple oil job yesterday and let myself be talked into spending $100 more on a new battery for my car even though, in retrospect, I didn't notice anything wrong with the other one...yeah, that doesn't play into my fears regarding my income at all.
Last summer, when I went so long between paychecks that I was begging and pleading for extensions on payments past due, I felt like I never wanted to be anywhere near this position again. So far, I've been lucky enough to not feel quite so pressured...until the loss of work due to the snow left me just a little aware of that feeling creeping back up.
So yeah, time to start working the pole again. My stripper name? "Misty Rainz"
I will continue to fight on, of course, sending off stories or essays until one gets published (one did, on OverthinkingIt.com, all about possible presidential candidates for Hollywood to make movies off of. Robot president, anyone?). God knows my good looks won't pay my bills unless people who judge these things suddenly get myopic.
Though, for the record, I am one sexy beast. :-p
Trev
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Duck's Arse Part One
I can distinctly recall the worst haircut I ever got, without necessarily recalling the specific year. I know it was in the summer time, I might have been between middle and high school or maybe just middle school terms (it was definitely after my sixth-grade year, because I was now wearing the glasses that I'd gotten that previous birthday pretty regularly. Before, I'd tried to conceal my glasses by only wearing them when I sat at the back of a classroom, unable to see the board otherwise. The little grooves on the sides of my nose gave me away). Anyway, it was definitely at a point before I got into the Beatles and decided that I liked having long hair. Prior to this, if a strand fell onto my lower neck, I panicked and rushed to the nearest barbershop.
My stepdad took me, my sis, and little brother to this place in downtown Clemson, an older-than-dirt barbershop where the guy running the place was an ex-Marine (you could tell by the infinite pictures of him in uniform, standing on some battleship deck with his platoon, ready to fight the infernal Japs or something). My little brother was up first, and he got what my stepdad wanted him to get: a flat-top. I laughed at my brother as his hair came buzzing off. Then it was my turn.
Like I said, I was wearing glasses at this point, I was blind as a bat without them (still am, matter of fact) and I had no idea what was going on. The snickers of my sister and freshly-shorn brother were an indication that, whatever was going on, it wasn't my usual "short back and sides and top and front, sideburns half what they are now". It wasn't until I got to put my glasses back on and missed the usual tug of hair on the side enveloping the ear pieces that I saw what had happened.
A fucking flat-top.
I'd never been a hat person much before, but the entirity of that ride home was spent with me encased in a baseball cap and refusing to take it off for my a-hole siblings, who enjoyed this a little too much. Thankfully it was the summer, which meant I didn't have to be seen in school like this. I did, however, have to be seen in Sunday school like this; having not quite acquired the ability to lay out of church that would later serve me so well (being unable to find a clean shirt, perhaps, or taking my sweet time showering only to find at the last minute that I was running behind and gosh, why don't I just stay here while you guys go?), I went into the little gym behind the main church anxious about being seen. For an adolescent boy, appearance matters as much as it does to the opposite sex; we live and die by what our peers think of us, and it's all about surface appearance. I already had two strikes against me, as puberty had not been kind when it doled out my ration of zits and pimples and I also had the new insult of eyeglasses with heavy lenses and old-school frames. Now I looked like a pimply GI Joe, the one dubbed "Sacrificial Man" who appears at the bottom of the toy rack and usually fulfills the role on a mission of being the one guy that COBRA soldiers can shoot at accurately and kill.
The first Sunday after my haircut, I went into the gym and made a beeline for the bathroom, to see if my hair (or absence of hair) was as bad as I thought. No, it was not...it was worse. Dressed up in a button-up shirt and jeans, I looked awful. I resolved to stay in there until Sunday school was over; I could avoid the taunting and jeers of my peers if I stayed put and played a little trash-can basketball for thirty minutes. A few more Sundays of that, and I got good at trashcan basketball, though judging from the reactions of my fellow Sunday schoolers who saw me hanging out in the men's room the entire time class was in session, I may have acquired a reputation as gay.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, except in the adolescent hierarchy of summer-time church-ordained school activities in which "Bible Jeopardy" trumps the secular, real-life variety (What is a Godless athiest that will burn in hell, Alex?).
Anyway, I bring all this up because when I was younger, I didn't have much control over my body. I had no say in when my zits would go away, or what methods my grandmother would use to hasten their exit from my face (think "medieval Spanish torture chamber" and you're on the right track, at least according to my memory), but I could control my hair. I thought I could, anyway, by showering at night before going to bed and thus avoiding the hassle of showering in the morning (because the water was cold or I was sensitive or something). This lead to years of me looking slightly greasy until (I'm ashamed to say it) college, when it hit me to reverse the time of day during which I washed my hair.
I will muse on this some more at a later date...
My stepdad took me, my sis, and little brother to this place in downtown Clemson, an older-than-dirt barbershop where the guy running the place was an ex-Marine (you could tell by the infinite pictures of him in uniform, standing on some battleship deck with his platoon, ready to fight the infernal Japs or something). My little brother was up first, and he got what my stepdad wanted him to get: a flat-top. I laughed at my brother as his hair came buzzing off. Then it was my turn.
Like I said, I was wearing glasses at this point, I was blind as a bat without them (still am, matter of fact) and I had no idea what was going on. The snickers of my sister and freshly-shorn brother were an indication that, whatever was going on, it wasn't my usual "short back and sides and top and front, sideburns half what they are now". It wasn't until I got to put my glasses back on and missed the usual tug of hair on the side enveloping the ear pieces that I saw what had happened.
A fucking flat-top.
I'd never been a hat person much before, but the entirity of that ride home was spent with me encased in a baseball cap and refusing to take it off for my a-hole siblings, who enjoyed this a little too much. Thankfully it was the summer, which meant I didn't have to be seen in school like this. I did, however, have to be seen in Sunday school like this; having not quite acquired the ability to lay out of church that would later serve me so well (being unable to find a clean shirt, perhaps, or taking my sweet time showering only to find at the last minute that I was running behind and gosh, why don't I just stay here while you guys go?), I went into the little gym behind the main church anxious about being seen. For an adolescent boy, appearance matters as much as it does to the opposite sex; we live and die by what our peers think of us, and it's all about surface appearance. I already had two strikes against me, as puberty had not been kind when it doled out my ration of zits and pimples and I also had the new insult of eyeglasses with heavy lenses and old-school frames. Now I looked like a pimply GI Joe, the one dubbed "Sacrificial Man" who appears at the bottom of the toy rack and usually fulfills the role on a mission of being the one guy that COBRA soldiers can shoot at accurately and kill.
The first Sunday after my haircut, I went into the gym and made a beeline for the bathroom, to see if my hair (or absence of hair) was as bad as I thought. No, it was not...it was worse. Dressed up in a button-up shirt and jeans, I looked awful. I resolved to stay in there until Sunday school was over; I could avoid the taunting and jeers of my peers if I stayed put and played a little trash-can basketball for thirty minutes. A few more Sundays of that, and I got good at trashcan basketball, though judging from the reactions of my fellow Sunday schoolers who saw me hanging out in the men's room the entire time class was in session, I may have acquired a reputation as gay.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, except in the adolescent hierarchy of summer-time church-ordained school activities in which "Bible Jeopardy" trumps the secular, real-life variety (What is a Godless athiest that will burn in hell, Alex?).
Anyway, I bring all this up because when I was younger, I didn't have much control over my body. I had no say in when my zits would go away, or what methods my grandmother would use to hasten their exit from my face (think "medieval Spanish torture chamber" and you're on the right track, at least according to my memory), but I could control my hair. I thought I could, anyway, by showering at night before going to bed and thus avoiding the hassle of showering in the morning (because the water was cold or I was sensitive or something). This lead to years of me looking slightly greasy until (I'm ashamed to say it) college, when it hit me to reverse the time of day during which I washed my hair.
I will muse on this some more at a later date...
Saturday, January 1, 2011
1/1/11: Get On Your Knees and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye
I kid, I kid...
It's a new year, and Facebook isn't working, so I guess I'll have to do some random rambling here. No New Year's Resolutions per se, though those will come later; like most people, I have to think long and hard before I decide which things I'm going to say I stop doing but actually don't.
2011 doesn't have quite the same ring to it as "2010," but it's shaping up to be a big year. By that I mean, well, it's one year removed from 2012, so you know what that means:
Palin Watch '11: To Run or Not to Run
I won't bore you with predicting whether Sarah "I Run from Responsibility" Palin will run for prez in '12, that's not what this blog is about. It would require me to desist from navel-gazing long enough to consider other things. But I will say this:
You can't spell "Tea Party" without KKK
Anyway...
This is my last weekend slinging hash at the hotel I have worked at since mid-July, on account of having a full-time job in Clemson and wanting my weekends back (and now that I'm reasonably financially sound for now, knock on wood and kiss my four-leaf clover). I said I'd stay through the holiday season, and dammit all the holiday season is over.
I feel good about leaving, this is the first time in years I've actually left a job of my own choosing and that time worked out pretty well (I went from hating myself at Ingles to liking myself at the Clemson library and thinking too much of myself at the Seneca Daily Journal). Still, I will miss some aspects of the job: I actually learned to enjoy the drive down here at five in the morning, on account of having the roads to myself except for the odd cop or less-odd drunk. My confidence took a hit after being fired from the library, so finding a place where I could not only do the job but do it well helped a lot. And I never met a co-worker I didn't like while I was here; everyone has been nice to me and treated me pretty good.
The downside? Football season; so many hungry, entitled mouths, so little time. But it's not all bad; I do enjoy the rush of having to take care of a lot of things within a short timespan. It makes the downtime I've had this past month all that much more enjoyable; I've earned the right to goof off primarily because I worked so hard to keep thinks going during football season.
So I'll miss this place, and I'll probably miss the paychecks as well (I'm hoping to get something going on the writing front, more on that later), but I'm glad to get out when I am. I'm not averse to being tied down to one place, but I want to do more with my life than what I've done so far. Every job I've had, I've taken something away from it (in the case of Ingles, they still don't know about how much "free" ice cream I used to eat), and this one gave me a place to get back on my feet, survey the damage, and start cleaning up. For that, I will always be grateful.
Don't forget to tip...
It's a new year, and Facebook isn't working, so I guess I'll have to do some random rambling here. No New Year's Resolutions per se, though those will come later; like most people, I have to think long and hard before I decide which things I'm going to say I stop doing but actually don't.
2011 doesn't have quite the same ring to it as "2010," but it's shaping up to be a big year. By that I mean, well, it's one year removed from 2012, so you know what that means:
Palin Watch '11: To Run or Not to Run
I won't bore you with predicting whether Sarah "I Run from Responsibility" Palin will run for prez in '12, that's not what this blog is about. It would require me to desist from navel-gazing long enough to consider other things. But I will say this:
You can't spell "Tea Party" without KKK
Anyway...
This is my last weekend slinging hash at the hotel I have worked at since mid-July, on account of having a full-time job in Clemson and wanting my weekends back (and now that I'm reasonably financially sound for now, knock on wood and kiss my four-leaf clover). I said I'd stay through the holiday season, and dammit all the holiday season is over.
I feel good about leaving, this is the first time in years I've actually left a job of my own choosing and that time worked out pretty well (I went from hating myself at Ingles to liking myself at the Clemson library and thinking too much of myself at the Seneca Daily Journal). Still, I will miss some aspects of the job: I actually learned to enjoy the drive down here at five in the morning, on account of having the roads to myself except for the odd cop or less-odd drunk. My confidence took a hit after being fired from the library, so finding a place where I could not only do the job but do it well helped a lot. And I never met a co-worker I didn't like while I was here; everyone has been nice to me and treated me pretty good.
The downside? Football season; so many hungry, entitled mouths, so little time. But it's not all bad; I do enjoy the rush of having to take care of a lot of things within a short timespan. It makes the downtime I've had this past month all that much more enjoyable; I've earned the right to goof off primarily because I worked so hard to keep thinks going during football season.
So I'll miss this place, and I'll probably miss the paychecks as well (I'm hoping to get something going on the writing front, more on that later), but I'm glad to get out when I am. I'm not averse to being tied down to one place, but I want to do more with my life than what I've done so far. Every job I've had, I've taken something away from it (in the case of Ingles, they still don't know about how much "free" ice cream I used to eat), and this one gave me a place to get back on my feet, survey the damage, and start cleaning up. For that, I will always be grateful.
Don't forget to tip...
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