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
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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...
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Toy Story
Quick observations on my recent trek to purchase some Christmas gifts for my toddler cousins: that shit is pricey.
Less-quick observations to follow: I found myself in Wal-Mart Thursday afternoon/evening trying to do some quick, not-quite-last-minute Xmas shopping for my three adorable (and by "adorable" I mean "thank goodness they're not mine, they go home to someone else after we babysit them but I love them all the same because to not do so would be to be a horrible cousin") cousins. My sis, who is preggers with her first kid on the way soon, was also on my mind as I circled the hell that is the toy department at this time of year, but alas I couldn' justify buying her as-yet-unborn bundle of joy a Boba Fett helmet, no matter how cool it looked.
As I roamed the aisles, wondering how I looked as the only non-accompanied-by-a-kid-or-significant-other person there ("warning, he might be a child molestor!"), I came across some old favorites from my own youth, GI Joe and Transformers and Legos and Star Wars. And let me tell you now, that shit is pricey.
Some of the Lego playsets were up to fifty dollars, ditto the more elaborate Star Wars and GI Joe stuff. Granted, the action figures were their usual not-so-bad price, but the sheer volume of money that would have to be spent to supply an overactive child with said toys could triple our national debt.
As a former overactive child in that overactive decade of the Eighties, I can suddenly see the extent to which my mom put up with my entitled ass by buying me all these toys, usually for Christmas but also for my birthday and also whenever I felt like pitching a fit in Harper's toy department. The poor woman might have gone broke on my account and never even filled me in because she was fond of me for some damn reason. I don't know that, presented with a similar demand from my hypothetical child in the future, I'd do the same.
I might try to suggest that they settle for the Magic 8-Ball instead, and not use it as a weapon against their younger sister (a vision of which, ascribed not to my hypothetical children but to my very real cousins, kept me from purchasing it for any of them).
That's all I got for now, I'll probably return to navel-gazing whining about life a little later ;-)
Less-quick observations to follow: I found myself in Wal-Mart Thursday afternoon/evening trying to do some quick, not-quite-last-minute Xmas shopping for my three adorable (and by "adorable" I mean "thank goodness they're not mine, they go home to someone else after we babysit them but I love them all the same because to not do so would be to be a horrible cousin") cousins. My sis, who is preggers with her first kid on the way soon, was also on my mind as I circled the hell that is the toy department at this time of year, but alas I couldn' justify buying her as-yet-unborn bundle of joy a Boba Fett helmet, no matter how cool it looked.
As I roamed the aisles, wondering how I looked as the only non-accompanied-by-a-kid-or-significant-other person there ("warning, he might be a child molestor!"), I came across some old favorites from my own youth, GI Joe and Transformers and Legos and Star Wars. And let me tell you now, that shit is pricey.
Some of the Lego playsets were up to fifty dollars, ditto the more elaborate Star Wars and GI Joe stuff. Granted, the action figures were their usual not-so-bad price, but the sheer volume of money that would have to be spent to supply an overactive child with said toys could triple our national debt.
As a former overactive child in that overactive decade of the Eighties, I can suddenly see the extent to which my mom put up with my entitled ass by buying me all these toys, usually for Christmas but also for my birthday and also whenever I felt like pitching a fit in Harper's toy department. The poor woman might have gone broke on my account and never even filled me in because she was fond of me for some damn reason. I don't know that, presented with a similar demand from my hypothetical child in the future, I'd do the same.
I might try to suggest that they settle for the Magic 8-Ball instead, and not use it as a weapon against their younger sister (a vision of which, ascribed not to my hypothetical children but to my very real cousins, kept me from purchasing it for any of them).
That's all I got for now, I'll probably return to navel-gazing whining about life a little later ;-)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Indiana Jones and the Retirement Home of Lost Souls
Once, when I was deep in the belly of self-doubt and (not coincedentially) working at Ingles, a coworker of mine said that being around me made him feel better about himself. Seems my complaining about my life made his troubles seem miniscule by comparison.
I promptly ran a stake through him and feasted on his entrails while he watched.
I kid, but that was one of those "watershed moments" that people like me who ponder where the phrase "watershed moment" came from have from time to time, when we realize that maybe we're gloomy Gusses because, well, we like it. It gives us some meaning in our life, a defining characteristic. Granted, a defining characteristic that doesn't get us invited out to parties much, but a definition nonetheless.
I've always thought that depression, alcoholism, and bitting sarcasm were passed down genetically in my family. Lately I've become sensitive to that (see my small rant about the no-good awful Thanksgiving I experienced). I don't want to pass on two of the three to any hypothetical children I may have in the future, provided I can trick a woman into loving me. The sarcasm has to die with my generation...
Some people get religion to help them get over themselves or get out of their own way, and that's fine. If it works for you, more power to you. I just have too much experience as a doubter of God being "Super Jesus, fixer of all problems!" to accept any such defintion. It's not that I don't believe in God (though sometimes I wonder), I just don't feel like the old boy has had the greatest track record when it comes to me.
Though, as a believer in free will, I accept the contradictory statement that, if my life sucks, I can do something about it. Why say "God, get me a pony" when I can simply go out and steal one?
Not that I've ever wanted a pony...
The fact is, feeling sorry for myself is part of my nature, and I think that's passed down through the genes. One family member who shall remain nameless (my grandmother) always cries at family gatherings because one or more family members (lately my mother) aren't in attendence, and of course this is despite the fact that everyone else is there.
I've felt the same way when, on accepting an invitation to hang out with some friends, the one that I'd like to see (usually a girl on whom I might be crushing that week) is not there, and it has spoiled what would otherwise be a perfectly nice time. Hell, I went to Clemson home games for the better part of two seasons on the bastardized hope that someone I liked might be there (if she was, I couldn't make her out in all the orange. Maybe if she'd been wearing orange...). I'm not proud of that, but I did get to hang out with a great bunch of friends, none of whom I wanted to sleep with.
Of late, I've felt a little adrift, like my surrogate family is nonexistent (friends whom I've not seen for a while, former co-workers who, once I no longer work there, I don't connect with on the same or any level), and this has on occasion bummed me out. Maybe that's why we have social networking and navel-gazing personal websites that we force on our friends; connections are important, and if you feel like your connections aren't connected well, you lose some sense of who you are. I know that, a year ago at this time, I was part of a close group of work-buddies, one of whom I wanted to sleep with (seems to be a recurring trend, perhaps a psychologist could help me look into that). When I got fired, that network started to come apart a little, mostly because I was hurting from being fired and not sure if being around them would make me happy or sad (answer: a little bit of both). I do know that, to some extent, I'm still angry about being fired (even as I type this in the very library I once called home, I can't help but feel like leaving a small piece of paper or some insignificant piece of trash to register my presence and disapproval some six months later), but I don't think I'd bring this up constantly if I were to hang with my old crew again.
As far as making anyone else feel better about themselves because of my example, I really don't want to do that anymore. For every time I feel down about things, I need to remember how fucking lucky I am, even if I'm not where I want to be. I still have the option, so long as I don't give in to the prevailing notion that I shouldn't bother (thanks, family) or that I can't do anything with whatever gift I've got (me, after reading one too many biographies of artists or athletes blessed but too lazy to develop their gifts).
When I was young, I got into the Beatles big-time, and especially John Lennon (same birthday, and I have the sneaking suspicion that he's my dad despite all evidence to the contrary). Turns out we both grew up minus a pater familias, by mothers who turned to other family members to help, and we both enjoyed lazy doodling instead of paying attention in school (though, in my defense, I was able to get good grades in spite of this). From an early age, I read a lot, and this translated into "Trevor is smart!" in my family, leading me to believe that yes, I was indeed a genius.
I have had occasion to question just how smart I am, because I also inherited a little of my family's legendary stubborness (which is amusing because my grandmother doesn't or won't see how much I'm just like her when it comes to that). If I don't want to do something, I won't. Or I'm too scared to do so. And more often than not, this has been the source of all my troubles.
I don't know what the new year brings, other than me walking away from my part-time weekend job (because of the full-time gig, which means I have my weekends free after January 2. Ladies, call me!) and looking for something where I can get paid to write, because that's the skill I have that can be developed into a career (my talent for juggling two objects at a time nonwithstanding). I don't even know if the friends I have now will be the friends I have a year from now, based on just whatever happens (usual suspect: drifting apart). I do know that I'll try and work on myself a little every day, so that I might be satisfied with what I achieve or fail to achieve when the day is done. Also, I would like to think that I could own a pet and not have it die on me (all evidence to the contrary).
Whatever the future holds, I have one. It's the finding out what that is that's the big story.
I promptly ran a stake through him and feasted on his entrails while he watched.
I kid, but that was one of those "watershed moments" that people like me who ponder where the phrase "watershed moment" came from have from time to time, when we realize that maybe we're gloomy Gusses because, well, we like it. It gives us some meaning in our life, a defining characteristic. Granted, a defining characteristic that doesn't get us invited out to parties much, but a definition nonetheless.
I've always thought that depression, alcoholism, and bitting sarcasm were passed down genetically in my family. Lately I've become sensitive to that (see my small rant about the no-good awful Thanksgiving I experienced). I don't want to pass on two of the three to any hypothetical children I may have in the future, provided I can trick a woman into loving me. The sarcasm has to die with my generation...
Some people get religion to help them get over themselves or get out of their own way, and that's fine. If it works for you, more power to you. I just have too much experience as a doubter of God being "Super Jesus, fixer of all problems!" to accept any such defintion. It's not that I don't believe in God (though sometimes I wonder), I just don't feel like the old boy has had the greatest track record when it comes to me.
Though, as a believer in free will, I accept the contradictory statement that, if my life sucks, I can do something about it. Why say "God, get me a pony" when I can simply go out and steal one?
Not that I've ever wanted a pony...
The fact is, feeling sorry for myself is part of my nature, and I think that's passed down through the genes. One family member who shall remain nameless (my grandmother) always cries at family gatherings because one or more family members (lately my mother) aren't in attendence, and of course this is despite the fact that everyone else is there.
I've felt the same way when, on accepting an invitation to hang out with some friends, the one that I'd like to see (usually a girl on whom I might be crushing that week) is not there, and it has spoiled what would otherwise be a perfectly nice time. Hell, I went to Clemson home games for the better part of two seasons on the bastardized hope that someone I liked might be there (if she was, I couldn't make her out in all the orange. Maybe if she'd been wearing orange...). I'm not proud of that, but I did get to hang out with a great bunch of friends, none of whom I wanted to sleep with.
Of late, I've felt a little adrift, like my surrogate family is nonexistent (friends whom I've not seen for a while, former co-workers who, once I no longer work there, I don't connect with on the same or any level), and this has on occasion bummed me out. Maybe that's why we have social networking and navel-gazing personal websites that we force on our friends; connections are important, and if you feel like your connections aren't connected well, you lose some sense of who you are. I know that, a year ago at this time, I was part of a close group of work-buddies, one of whom I wanted to sleep with (seems to be a recurring trend, perhaps a psychologist could help me look into that). When I got fired, that network started to come apart a little, mostly because I was hurting from being fired and not sure if being around them would make me happy or sad (answer: a little bit of both). I do know that, to some extent, I'm still angry about being fired (even as I type this in the very library I once called home, I can't help but feel like leaving a small piece of paper or some insignificant piece of trash to register my presence and disapproval some six months later), but I don't think I'd bring this up constantly if I were to hang with my old crew again.
As far as making anyone else feel better about themselves because of my example, I really don't want to do that anymore. For every time I feel down about things, I need to remember how fucking lucky I am, even if I'm not where I want to be. I still have the option, so long as I don't give in to the prevailing notion that I shouldn't bother (thanks, family) or that I can't do anything with whatever gift I've got (me, after reading one too many biographies of artists or athletes blessed but too lazy to develop their gifts).
When I was young, I got into the Beatles big-time, and especially John Lennon (same birthday, and I have the sneaking suspicion that he's my dad despite all evidence to the contrary). Turns out we both grew up minus a pater familias, by mothers who turned to other family members to help, and we both enjoyed lazy doodling instead of paying attention in school (though, in my defense, I was able to get good grades in spite of this). From an early age, I read a lot, and this translated into "Trevor is smart!" in my family, leading me to believe that yes, I was indeed a genius.
I have had occasion to question just how smart I am, because I also inherited a little of my family's legendary stubborness (which is amusing because my grandmother doesn't or won't see how much I'm just like her when it comes to that). If I don't want to do something, I won't. Or I'm too scared to do so. And more often than not, this has been the source of all my troubles.
I don't know what the new year brings, other than me walking away from my part-time weekend job (because of the full-time gig, which means I have my weekends free after January 2. Ladies, call me!) and looking for something where I can get paid to write, because that's the skill I have that can be developed into a career (my talent for juggling two objects at a time nonwithstanding). I don't even know if the friends I have now will be the friends I have a year from now, based on just whatever happens (usual suspect: drifting apart). I do know that I'll try and work on myself a little every day, so that I might be satisfied with what I achieve or fail to achieve when the day is done. Also, I would like to think that I could own a pet and not have it die on me (all evidence to the contrary).
Whatever the future holds, I have one. It's the finding out what that is that's the big story.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Somewhere Over Gravity's Rainbow
I'd like to expand a little on the Natty Lite analogy/metaphor, whichever you prefer, from my posting of a few days hence (does anyone use the word "hence" anymore? Other than ex-English majors?). The reason is, I feel like I was rushed by the computer I was on being in close proxemity to another person (as is often the case in a library computer lab) and I don't do well writing-wise when I feel like someone could be watching me as I type, slowly reading along and tying together all the words to form sentences and whatnot.
I'm weird like that.
Anyway, back to Natty Lite: I don't mean to suggest that somehow my life sucks or is bereft of fun. It's just that the non-suckitude is of a degree lesser than what it was, say, a year ago at this time. What I miss about my previous job and the times attached to it was a sense of how perfectly positioned I was for something really special or just nice to happen between myself and someone who shall remain nameless, though she knows who she is (I hope so, anyway). Not that my chances of happiness were invested solely in her, but I did feel better about things when we could share a brief moment together (or, as in the case when we both got bumped from a field trip to the sexy, exciting world of Greenwood, all day together).
Those were my Budweiser days, I guess (I like Bud, I know it's not "the best beer ever" but it hits my sweet spot and I enjoy it immensely, hence "Budweiser days". Can you tell that I'd be an excellent alcoholic if I just put in the time and effort?).
I am lucky, in this economy and with an incoming Repub governor who probably worships at the altar of "fiscal responsibility" i.e., screw the poor folks, to have two jobs, and to be (fingers crossed) in no danger of getting fired from either. Damn lucky, really; from my time walking the diseased carpet of the local unemployment office ("Where Hope Goes to Die"), I know that it could be a lot, lot, looooooooottttttttt worse.
So don't think that I'm complaining too much, or making a big stink when I shouldn't. It's human nature (at least mine) to want something more fulfilling, even when we're sure that what we've got isn't too bad. It's the striving for more out of life that's hopeful; it's when you settle for less than what you're worth that the real trouble begins.
Anyway, that's a rushed clarification of a rushed statement, because the truth is that I need to hit the head. You didn't want to know that, but I felt like sharing.
You're welcome.
I'm weird like that.
Anyway, back to Natty Lite: I don't mean to suggest that somehow my life sucks or is bereft of fun. It's just that the non-suckitude is of a degree lesser than what it was, say, a year ago at this time. What I miss about my previous job and the times attached to it was a sense of how perfectly positioned I was for something really special or just nice to happen between myself and someone who shall remain nameless, though she knows who she is (I hope so, anyway). Not that my chances of happiness were invested solely in her, but I did feel better about things when we could share a brief moment together (or, as in the case when we both got bumped from a field trip to the sexy, exciting world of Greenwood, all day together).
Those were my Budweiser days, I guess (I like Bud, I know it's not "the best beer ever" but it hits my sweet spot and I enjoy it immensely, hence "Budweiser days". Can you tell that I'd be an excellent alcoholic if I just put in the time and effort?).
I am lucky, in this economy and with an incoming Repub governor who probably worships at the altar of "fiscal responsibility" i.e., screw the poor folks, to have two jobs, and to be (fingers crossed) in no danger of getting fired from either. Damn lucky, really; from my time walking the diseased carpet of the local unemployment office ("Where Hope Goes to Die"), I know that it could be a lot, lot, looooooooottttttttt worse.
So don't think that I'm complaining too much, or making a big stink when I shouldn't. It's human nature (at least mine) to want something more fulfilling, even when we're sure that what we've got isn't too bad. It's the striving for more out of life that's hopeful; it's when you settle for less than what you're worth that the real trouble begins.
Anyway, that's a rushed clarification of a rushed statement, because the truth is that I need to hit the head. You didn't want to know that, but I felt like sharing.
You're welcome.
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Best a Man Can Get?
Beer drinkers out there, see if you agree with me:
Recently I passed by a restaurant that had once been the site of another restaurant and, thanks to the owners of the most recent place foreclosing on it, the future site of yet another restaurant. The restaurant business in downtown Clemson is pretty cutthroat. Anyway, the reason I really liked the first place (having never been there during its most recent conversion) was because 1.) the female bartenders and wait staff were pretty hot and 2.) that's where I first discovered the truly awful taste of Natural Lite beer.
Natty Lite, to knowledgable beer drinkers, is the sort of stuff you wouldn't serve to your dog or worst enemy. It's what you have when you can't afford the good stuff, or you've had enough good stuff that your wallet is getting thinner but your buzz needs fuel. So you hit up the Natty Lite, hoping that the awful taste will not prevent the beverage from going down smooth. Or at least not gag you.
I'm entering what I'd like to call the Natty Lite portion of my life experience, if you follow me.
What I mean is, the best stuff, the good stuff, is what I can't afford right now or at least once could and now can't. It's a new metaphor for me as well, I haven't worked out the kinks thus far but I think what I mean is that, right now, the best that life has to offer is a bit out of my grasp after a prolonged stay at the well led me to get sent away for drunk and disorderly conduct.
I have two jobs, neither of which I'm passionate about from a career standpoint (more like a "I need money so this will do for now" standpoint). My romantic prospects are minimal, unless I meet a smoking hot supermodel in the next ten seconds.
Ten...nine...eight...yeah, not happening.
Grad school remains something of a hazy, foggy notion, and writing professionally is my goal but I'm unsure how to achieve it.
Like I said, it's Natty Lite all the time for me (and I haven't touched a beer since at least July, so that could be the cause of my recent "alcohol as metaphor for life" meanderings). I just hope by this time next year I can afford the good stuff again. Nothing too fancy, just a nice Budweiser would suffice.
Maybe life is more like the McRib, in which it's available for a limited time...
Recently I passed by a restaurant that had once been the site of another restaurant and, thanks to the owners of the most recent place foreclosing on it, the future site of yet another restaurant. The restaurant business in downtown Clemson is pretty cutthroat. Anyway, the reason I really liked the first place (having never been there during its most recent conversion) was because 1.) the female bartenders and wait staff were pretty hot and 2.) that's where I first discovered the truly awful taste of Natural Lite beer.
Natty Lite, to knowledgable beer drinkers, is the sort of stuff you wouldn't serve to your dog or worst enemy. It's what you have when you can't afford the good stuff, or you've had enough good stuff that your wallet is getting thinner but your buzz needs fuel. So you hit up the Natty Lite, hoping that the awful taste will not prevent the beverage from going down smooth. Or at least not gag you.
I'm entering what I'd like to call the Natty Lite portion of my life experience, if you follow me.
What I mean is, the best stuff, the good stuff, is what I can't afford right now or at least once could and now can't. It's a new metaphor for me as well, I haven't worked out the kinks thus far but I think what I mean is that, right now, the best that life has to offer is a bit out of my grasp after a prolonged stay at the well led me to get sent away for drunk and disorderly conduct.
I have two jobs, neither of which I'm passionate about from a career standpoint (more like a "I need money so this will do for now" standpoint). My romantic prospects are minimal, unless I meet a smoking hot supermodel in the next ten seconds.
Ten...nine...eight...yeah, not happening.
Grad school remains something of a hazy, foggy notion, and writing professionally is my goal but I'm unsure how to achieve it.
Like I said, it's Natty Lite all the time for me (and I haven't touched a beer since at least July, so that could be the cause of my recent "alcohol as metaphor for life" meanderings). I just hope by this time next year I can afford the good stuff again. Nothing too fancy, just a nice Budweiser would suffice.
Maybe life is more like the McRib, in which it's available for a limited time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)