For those curious about my latest reading habits, here they are:
The Fountainhead
My god this book is long. It's long and depressing. Anytime I need to realize that life is a slow process of grinding down everything that is pure and wonderful into the mire that is reality then I should pick this book up. Also, listening to moody Amon Tobin while reading it is probably not the best idea for a cheerful reading atmosphere. I'm on a break with this book. Ayn Rand lurks on my coffee table for now, however this moody depression has found it's way into my other reading material...
King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table as broken down by Ayn Rand (sort of, not really.)
Sir Lancelot: Kind of a meathead. Basically the smash-first-ask-questions-later prototype. Very dashing and flirty, but devoted to Guinevere. This horrible love triangle will later destroy the entire Round Table. Good work Lancelot.
Sir Galahad: Goody-two shoes. He sits in the Siege Perilous, which is supposedly a chair in which lesser knights would perish in. Probably the target of a lot of nougies and swirlies for being such a suck-up to Arthur. No other knights sit with him at the feasting table.
Sir Percival: The brooding emo knight. He's one of the group that finally finds the Holy Grail. Percival does so much brooding and navel-gazing that he ends up spending the rest of his days as a hermit in Palestine after finding the cup of Christ. A heart-warming riches to rags story.
Sir Gawain: The genuine nice-guy knight, who inevitably gets the shaft. Poor Gawain gets caught up in the Lancelot-Guinevere-Mordred-Arthur drama. He tries to intervene and make everybody happy and ends up with Lancelot's sword in his eye. Of course, being the nice-guy knight his last act is to pardon Lancelot and compliment him on his dashing tabard.
Sir Bors: The red-shirt knight. He's part of the Grail-finding knight crew, but gets no credit. He labors in anonymity and is neglected in even the Disney version. He doesn't kill anyone, nor does he suffer an honorable death. Probably ends up in a knight retirement home, rambling on to anyone who will listen.
Sir Mordred: The scheming family member. Sir Mordred is Arthur's own nephew, who grows up to inspire plots against Arthur with Morgan Le Fay. The only one with real character in the whole bunch, unfortunately that character turns out to be kind of an ass. Delivers the fatal blow to Arthur in the final battle as Arthur kills him. If Mordred would have swung his sword a little harder, we might be following his myth instead of Arthur's. Should have taken sword lessons from Lancelot. Hindsight is 20/20.
King Arthur: Most of the time, spouts a bunch of hot air and mostly does nothing. Sends his knights of the Round Table to do all the dirty work. His genius idea is to think of a round table concept that promotes feelings of equality, yet he retains the title of King, making his end of the table slightly more rounder. If he'd been born centuries later, he'd probably resemble Bernie Madoff.
Turns out all of the knights in shining armor aren't so shining after all. A good life lesson I suppose.
Back to The Fountainhead I guess. It's all very deep and meaningful, but I'm rooting for Sir Howard to smite his foes. If only it were that simple.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Pride and Joy
This post is dedicated to a special lady.
She'll never leave me. Perhaps one day we'll part company, but oh a teary, teary farewell that will be! She's always honest, never lies. She's faithful, mostly. She's always there when I need her, never complains. Even though I've been upset with her she never holds a grudge. She's always excited to see me, and willing to forgive if I forget the important things. Best of all, she's always enthusiastic and encourages me to try my very best. She's the greatest, and at only twelve grand (roughly) she's the best cost-to-love-ratio lady I'll ever meet.
That's right, she's Jenny, my car. I'll admit, that previous paragraph was a little creepy. But every sappy word is true.
I don't follow a lot of the American Dream. A motorized tie rack and sparkling white picket fence don't really do it for me. But I love my car. Me and that guy with his Pep Boys special winged-out Honda. Me and the guy with the sweet 70's van. Me and that cowgirl with her brand new pickup truck. Our chests puff out with American Pride as we merge into traffic without signaling and pollute off into the sunset collectively as one mobile nation under God (who probably rides a Harley.)
But there's something more to this than just transportation. She's more than that, and I've never pretended she's not. When I was in the car dealership, at no point in time did the thought occur to me that this car was merely a box to sit in from point A to point B. I was thinking more along the lines of what to name her, and what license plate holder would best reflect her personality. And it's these kinds of thoughts that propel me to the mechanics with open checkbook in hand. Because it's not just a wheeled mechanical thing sitting outside that needs a new wheel bearing. It's Jenny, my love, and she's got a sprained ankle...and she needs my help!
If loving your car is American, then treating inanimate objects with the love, care and obsession normally reserved for, um, things that are breathing, is universal. In other words, a thousand children growing up right now, staring into the lifeless beady eyes of their teddy bears as they gently fall asleep will later be the same grownups that gently fall asleep in front of the single lifeless beady eye of their TV. And the television and the TiVo and the home theater system and even the La-Z-Boy recliner will receive the same devotion that good old Mr. Fuzzies did.
It's not creepy, it's just another way for us to remain sane in an otherwise crazy world. So this post is for you Jenny. In reality, you are an unfeeling, unthinking station wagon. In my mind, you are a wonderful woman, spiritual and understanding, feisty and rambunctious, practical and prompt and compassionate and caring. You are the Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stout-hearted Woman. The Tall & Quiet Woman...
You help keep me sane at the low, low price of an occasional oil change.
She'll never leave me. Perhaps one day we'll part company, but oh a teary, teary farewell that will be! She's always honest, never lies. She's faithful, mostly. She's always there when I need her, never complains. Even though I've been upset with her she never holds a grudge. She's always excited to see me, and willing to forgive if I forget the important things. Best of all, she's always enthusiastic and encourages me to try my very best. She's the greatest, and at only twelve grand (roughly) she's the best cost-to-love-ratio lady I'll ever meet.
That's right, she's Jenny, my car. I'll admit, that previous paragraph was a little creepy. But every sappy word is true.
I don't follow a lot of the American Dream. A motorized tie rack and sparkling white picket fence don't really do it for me. But I love my car. Me and that guy with his Pep Boys special winged-out Honda. Me and the guy with the sweet 70's van. Me and that cowgirl with her brand new pickup truck. Our chests puff out with American Pride as we merge into traffic without signaling and pollute off into the sunset collectively as one mobile nation under God (who probably rides a Harley.)
But there's something more to this than just transportation. She's more than that, and I've never pretended she's not. When I was in the car dealership, at no point in time did the thought occur to me that this car was merely a box to sit in from point A to point B. I was thinking more along the lines of what to name her, and what license plate holder would best reflect her personality. And it's these kinds of thoughts that propel me to the mechanics with open checkbook in hand. Because it's not just a wheeled mechanical thing sitting outside that needs a new wheel bearing. It's Jenny, my love, and she's got a sprained ankle...and she needs my help!
If loving your car is American, then treating inanimate objects with the love, care and obsession normally reserved for, um, things that are breathing, is universal. In other words, a thousand children growing up right now, staring into the lifeless beady eyes of their teddy bears as they gently fall asleep will later be the same grownups that gently fall asleep in front of the single lifeless beady eye of their TV. And the television and the TiVo and the home theater system and even the La-Z-Boy recliner will receive the same devotion that good old Mr. Fuzzies did.
It's not creepy, it's just another way for us to remain sane in an otherwise crazy world. So this post is for you Jenny. In reality, you are an unfeeling, unthinking station wagon. In my mind, you are a wonderful woman, spiritual and understanding, feisty and rambunctious, practical and prompt and compassionate and caring. You are the Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stout-hearted Woman. The Tall & Quiet Woman...
You help keep me sane at the low, low price of an occasional oil change.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Summer coming like a car from down the highway
"Summer coming like a car from down the highway." That's a quote from Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. The latest book I've been reading (thanks Mom) And it's true. Summer does come down the highway, especially at night. Two headlights bearing down fast, whoosh. And it leaves just as quickly.
Summer is driving away again. And so it goes.
We're having our first wet weekend of Almost Winter. It's generally heralded by a mashing of cold and warm air and some spotty thundershowers which generally threaten but don't swamp us. High wind, but a wind with idle threats. No power loss, nothing interesting knocked over. If you didn't know the signs you'd think it was just a squall blowing through. But it's not, it's the messenger of Almost Winter.
Soon there will be brief windows of Hot, then more squalls with hail and wind, fitful bursts of rain. Then a sky-opener as the heavens smash us with a liquid fist. The heat withers and withers until we're left with hooded sweatshirts and jeans in our laundry baskets and our shorts stay on the closet floor. It's a quick, methodical transition. It's not that Almost Winter is here in a rush, it's just that summer takes off speeding.
Last fall I was working on her house. I was preparing to lay down a hardwood floor. The prep work was intense but the finished product was gorgeous. But it wasn't my floor, and it wasn't my house, as I'm often reminded. This year will be different. In some ways, I'll be laying some mental flooring for myself, something that truly will belong to me.
My prep work starts on the subfloor. I've managed to scrap all most of my old patterns and habits. My computer gaming is down, my social interaction is up. My lonely time is down, my alone time is up. Depressed silence is now replaced with focused meditation. I've also spent a couple of weeks at working by myself and it has done wonders for my confidence. Work is still a challenge, but I've been able to take better stock of what I've got in my toolbox. It's getting more full these days, it feels good.
When I'm not at work, I'm trying to be more available. I've found myself calling people on a whim, certainly nothing I've done this summer or previous. If you happen to receive one of my rambling calls, don't worry. I don't really have much to say, but I've discovered that sometimes it's not what you say, it's just that you called. I entertain myself by leaving what I think are hilarious voicemails. If you get one of these, feel free to roll your eyes and delete.
I've also begun work on my personal foundation. I jog twice a week. Sometimes not very far, sometimes for blocks and blocks and blocks. I've found that when I'm angry I run further, which has proven to be the healthiest outlet for my everyday rage buildup I've found. In addition, I play around with my free weights. I'll never join a gym, but reading on free weight exercises and doing a few actually has already helped a bit. That's not so much a testimony to the amount of exercise I've done as it is to how out of shape I started. I feel a bit stronger and faster and work doesn't tire me out the way it used to. We'll see how this goes when I'm no longer jogging in the occasional rain but snow instead. I've got a few more months to work on my mental resolve before that happens though.
It's not all goody-two shoes work though. I've also had the desire lately to get myself in trouble. I still go drinking, but hardly at the rate I was before. These days it's to appease the inner-urgings of my married friends to live vicariously through me. A job that I've found I both excel at and love. I'd like to go out one night and do something crazy and stupid. Maybe a fistfight, maybe a one-night stand. I'd like to do some of the things I was supposed to be doing in my twenties instead of on the wrong side of thirty. Hopefully I've still got some time. My bachelor diet is still atrocious, as I hate cooking for one. At least it's now counter-balanced by my physical activity, but I suspect this will have to change soon too. Leftovers in a tupperware container seem more palatable with a couple of beers anyway.
And so summer flies away. In my head, I'm bent at the waist, fitting floorboards together. Over and over and over again, until the finished project takes shape. I haven't started working on my walls, or painting or any of the fancy parts. Just the foundation, just the base, just the floor. We'll see how far I get with this, and then we'll see what I feel comfortable taking on. Almost Winter creeps in. Summer trails away; tailights in the night.
Summer is driving away again. And so it goes.
We're having our first wet weekend of Almost Winter. It's generally heralded by a mashing of cold and warm air and some spotty thundershowers which generally threaten but don't swamp us. High wind, but a wind with idle threats. No power loss, nothing interesting knocked over. If you didn't know the signs you'd think it was just a squall blowing through. But it's not, it's the messenger of Almost Winter.
Soon there will be brief windows of Hot, then more squalls with hail and wind, fitful bursts of rain. Then a sky-opener as the heavens smash us with a liquid fist. The heat withers and withers until we're left with hooded sweatshirts and jeans in our laundry baskets and our shorts stay on the closet floor. It's a quick, methodical transition. It's not that Almost Winter is here in a rush, it's just that summer takes off speeding.
Last fall I was working on her house. I was preparing to lay down a hardwood floor. The prep work was intense but the finished product was gorgeous. But it wasn't my floor, and it wasn't my house, as I'm often reminded. This year will be different. In some ways, I'll be laying some mental flooring for myself, something that truly will belong to me.
My prep work starts on the subfloor. I've managed to scrap all most of my old patterns and habits. My computer gaming is down, my social interaction is up. My lonely time is down, my alone time is up. Depressed silence is now replaced with focused meditation. I've also spent a couple of weeks at working by myself and it has done wonders for my confidence. Work is still a challenge, but I've been able to take better stock of what I've got in my toolbox. It's getting more full these days, it feels good.
When I'm not at work, I'm trying to be more available. I've found myself calling people on a whim, certainly nothing I've done this summer or previous. If you happen to receive one of my rambling calls, don't worry. I don't really have much to say, but I've discovered that sometimes it's not what you say, it's just that you called. I entertain myself by leaving what I think are hilarious voicemails. If you get one of these, feel free to roll your eyes and delete.
I've also begun work on my personal foundation. I jog twice a week. Sometimes not very far, sometimes for blocks and blocks and blocks. I've found that when I'm angry I run further, which has proven to be the healthiest outlet for my everyday rage buildup I've found. In addition, I play around with my free weights. I'll never join a gym, but reading on free weight exercises and doing a few actually has already helped a bit. That's not so much a testimony to the amount of exercise I've done as it is to how out of shape I started. I feel a bit stronger and faster and work doesn't tire me out the way it used to. We'll see how this goes when I'm no longer jogging in the occasional rain but snow instead. I've got a few more months to work on my mental resolve before that happens though.
It's not all goody-two shoes work though. I've also had the desire lately to get myself in trouble. I still go drinking, but hardly at the rate I was before. These days it's to appease the inner-urgings of my married friends to live vicariously through me. A job that I've found I both excel at and love. I'd like to go out one night and do something crazy and stupid. Maybe a fistfight, maybe a one-night stand. I'd like to do some of the things I was supposed to be doing in my twenties instead of on the wrong side of thirty. Hopefully I've still got some time. My bachelor diet is still atrocious, as I hate cooking for one. At least it's now counter-balanced by my physical activity, but I suspect this will have to change soon too. Leftovers in a tupperware container seem more palatable with a couple of beers anyway.
And so summer flies away. In my head, I'm bent at the waist, fitting floorboards together. Over and over and over again, until the finished project takes shape. I haven't started working on my walls, or painting or any of the fancy parts. Just the foundation, just the base, just the floor. We'll see how far I get with this, and then we'll see what I feel comfortable taking on. Almost Winter creeps in. Summer trails away; tailights in the night.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Weekend Update
I spent a weekend with a friend of mine, who while normally married with a kid and an otherwise responsible person was without said responsibilities for one weekend. Married guys are crazy.
Day One: Get off work late on friday. Hang out at his house, drink beer and play cards. Drink more beer. Drink more beer. Decide to watch Conan the Barbarian. Every time Conan grunts, we drink. Walk down to local bar (no driving because we are responsible). Drink more beer. Watch aesthetically challenged guitar player pick up tons of older woman admirers with his renditions of Jack Johnson. Drink more beer. Don't remember.
Day Two: Wake up. Watch Horton Hears A Who while Hungover (me, not Horton). Walk down to local coffeeshop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Discuss last nights adventure. Walk back to his house and commence the drinking of beer again. More beer, more cards. Discuss the pitfalls of diaper changing and time out giving. Drink more beer. Prepare delicious vietnamese beef stew. Watch DVR-recording of Conan the Destroyer. Agree that Barbarian was better. Drink more beer. Commence shotgunning of beer. For every shotgun, Conan movie gets better dialogue. Shotgun more beer. Don't remember.
Day Three: Wake up . Skip movie and walk straight to coffee shop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Play cards. Discuss the drinking of the beer last night. Discuss important fantasy football strategies. Drink Gatorade mixed with a little gin to get juices flowing. Tackle important chore list. Mount air conditioner while hungover. Climb on ladder and repair side of house while swaying (me and the ladder.) Throw all evidence into recycle container. Find a few beers left in fridge. Drink more beer. Discuss various successes achieved on chore list. Drink more beer...
They say that youth is wasted on the young, and I agree. I finally have the wisdom and maturity to fully appreciate a weekend like this and still be able to function after one. It's like I have reached a middle-aged nirvana. Unfortunately next weekend I'll be back to watching Conan the Destroyer by myself, and he'll be back to changing diapers and giving time outs. But when the stars align, perhaps we'll enjoy another weekend like this.
Day One: Get off work late on friday. Hang out at his house, drink beer and play cards. Drink more beer. Drink more beer. Decide to watch Conan the Barbarian. Every time Conan grunts, we drink. Walk down to local bar (no driving because we are responsible). Drink more beer. Watch aesthetically challenged guitar player pick up tons of older woman admirers with his renditions of Jack Johnson. Drink more beer. Don't remember.
Day Two: Wake up. Watch Horton Hears A Who while Hungover (me, not Horton). Walk down to local coffeeshop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Discuss last nights adventure. Walk back to his house and commence the drinking of beer again. More beer, more cards. Discuss the pitfalls of diaper changing and time out giving. Drink more beer. Prepare delicious vietnamese beef stew. Watch DVR-recording of Conan the Destroyer. Agree that Barbarian was better. Drink more beer. Commence shotgunning of beer. For every shotgun, Conan movie gets better dialogue. Shotgun more beer. Don't remember.
Day Three: Wake up . Skip movie and walk straight to coffee shop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Play cards. Discuss the drinking of the beer last night. Discuss important fantasy football strategies. Drink Gatorade mixed with a little gin to get juices flowing. Tackle important chore list. Mount air conditioner while hungover. Climb on ladder and repair side of house while swaying (me and the ladder.) Throw all evidence into recycle container. Find a few beers left in fridge. Drink more beer. Discuss various successes achieved on chore list. Drink more beer...
They say that youth is wasted on the young, and I agree. I finally have the wisdom and maturity to fully appreciate a weekend like this and still be able to function after one. It's like I have reached a middle-aged nirvana. Unfortunately next weekend I'll be back to watching Conan the Destroyer by myself, and he'll be back to changing diapers and giving time outs. But when the stars align, perhaps we'll enjoy another weekend like this.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Trimming
The next day after my previous post it was haily. The weather has changed, it's now Hot. I will not spend this season in her backyard.
We are coming to the close of our cabling project here in Pullman at Washington State. The dormitory walls are all laid in brick, and what was a mere construction site has graduated to skeleton, to full form and now nearly to finished project. During this phase of our network building we focus on what we call "trimming." It's a fancy word for simply putting an end on the cable. This connects the bare copper wire to the electronic switch and therefore the outside world. On the other end, a student plugs in their laptop and cruises MySpace, or blogs, or perhaps even studies.
It's an exceedingly simple process. Easy to learn, but difficult to master. To make the job as simple as possible, the four pairs of wires that make up the twisted innards of a cable are color-coded. Each is paired up as a color and a white and the color order is a rigid one. Always blue, orange, green, brown. The wires are fitted in special clips and then forced in, creating the electrical contact and snipped off making a tidy package. The whole kit is then put in a nice faceplate and then screwed into the wall, so the ugly wire parts are hidden, and the whole thing resembles an electrical outlet, just with internet connections instead of plugs. The effect is that someone might never know there are thousands of feet of cable running overhead and underfeet through the building and that the internet is a mysterious ethereal place, and not a humming collection of machines in a room somewhere.
I have learned that it is a humbling thing to know that you have graduated from a university and have the paperwork to prove it, and yet screw up something that is color coded. The individual steps themselves are the essence of simplicity, but this task of blue, orange, green and brown must be repeated on both sides of the cable. All told there are over two thousand connections in the building. Each one bears my fingerprints. Blue, orange, green, brown. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The trick is in the details. The more efficient your movements become the faster the task is done. The faster the wires fall into the place, the faster the faceplate is fixed. Faster and faster, each time more muscle memory than thought. More pattern than deliberation. The workers pull wires in the square, two by two the task is shared...
When faced with a familiar repetitive task, the mind can't help but wander, and I am no exception. To help, I try to keep my mind focused on little mnemonics, little tricks I play on myself, little sayings, little neurotic tics that keep my thoughts from derailing as I move from room to room in the building.
Blue, orange, green, brown. anyone lived in a pretty how town. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Spokane. This is the moment I realize I have moved to Spokane. I am alone. Brown, green, orange, blue. children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew. I am in her house. My pictures are on the wall, my books on the bookshelf. My colors in a room. The house is bright and there are voices. The sound of feet on a hardwood floor. This is our home. Brown, orange, blue green. They said their nevers, they slept their dream. I am walking up the stairs in the Irish Emigrant. I see her, wearing a white dress. We lock eyes. Green, blue, brown, orange...
Fucking orange! There is a construction site again. The faceplate has been screwed into the wall, but I have no recollection of doing it. I discover that while I wasn't paying attention, I've finished the other three rooms on the other side of the hall. I move sluggishly to an undone room.
The motions are automatic. Sit down in the chair, set down the tools. Strip the cable, the place the boot over to protect the connection. Each time I do this am surprised to see how expertly my hands know the task. Snap, pull, twist, click. How quickly they move. It's as though I'm watching someone else work. Orange, brown, green, blue. Somewhere someone is travelling furiously toward you...
While I terminate cable I've been nearly anyplace I've ever been, both in my past and in my future. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Sometimes I'm older, sometimes I'm younger. Most of the time I'm in Spokane, sometimes I'm in Seattle. Sometimes its when we've first met, and we flirt awkwardly. Sometimes we're in the nursing home together and we talk quietly about things that have never happened. Sometimes I think about what I've gained. Most times I think about what I've lost. Sometimes it's a fantasy, sometimes it's real. Back and forth, forwards and backwards I go. Snap, pull, twist, click.
I am on the construction site. I am in college. I am sleeping in my bed at home in Madrona. She is there, she is not there. I am overjoyed, I am defeated. She's my hero, she is my villain. She's an angel, I'm a demon. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Wallingford. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Spokane. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Bellingham. This is the moment I realize I live in a hotel, that I live in her house. That I have no home, that this will never be our house.
This is the moment I stand before Daryl's wedding. your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers... Not his wedding, my wedding, my wedding, my wedding. although you're not beside me now, I know that you have been... one day there will be no substitute, for I'll see you again...
There is a room, there is a building, there is a construction site and I am a worker again.
snap brown, twist green, pull orange, click blue
she loves someone, but she doesn't love you...
We are coming to the close of our cabling project here in Pullman at Washington State. The dormitory walls are all laid in brick, and what was a mere construction site has graduated to skeleton, to full form and now nearly to finished project. During this phase of our network building we focus on what we call "trimming." It's a fancy word for simply putting an end on the cable. This connects the bare copper wire to the electronic switch and therefore the outside world. On the other end, a student plugs in their laptop and cruises MySpace, or blogs, or perhaps even studies.
It's an exceedingly simple process. Easy to learn, but difficult to master. To make the job as simple as possible, the four pairs of wires that make up the twisted innards of a cable are color-coded. Each is paired up as a color and a white and the color order is a rigid one. Always blue, orange, green, brown. The wires are fitted in special clips and then forced in, creating the electrical contact and snipped off making a tidy package. The whole kit is then put in a nice faceplate and then screwed into the wall, so the ugly wire parts are hidden, and the whole thing resembles an electrical outlet, just with internet connections instead of plugs. The effect is that someone might never know there are thousands of feet of cable running overhead and underfeet through the building and that the internet is a mysterious ethereal place, and not a humming collection of machines in a room somewhere.
I have learned that it is a humbling thing to know that you have graduated from a university and have the paperwork to prove it, and yet screw up something that is color coded. The individual steps themselves are the essence of simplicity, but this task of blue, orange, green and brown must be repeated on both sides of the cable. All told there are over two thousand connections in the building. Each one bears my fingerprints. Blue, orange, green, brown. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The trick is in the details. The more efficient your movements become the faster the task is done. The faster the wires fall into the place, the faster the faceplate is fixed. Faster and faster, each time more muscle memory than thought. More pattern than deliberation. The workers pull wires in the square, two by two the task is shared...
When faced with a familiar repetitive task, the mind can't help but wander, and I am no exception. To help, I try to keep my mind focused on little mnemonics, little tricks I play on myself, little sayings, little neurotic tics that keep my thoughts from derailing as I move from room to room in the building.
______
Blue, orange, green, brown. anyone lived in a pretty how town. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Spokane. This is the moment I realize I have moved to Spokane. I am alone. Brown, green, orange, blue. children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew. I am in her house. My pictures are on the wall, my books on the bookshelf. My colors in a room. The house is bright and there are voices. The sound of feet on a hardwood floor. This is our home. Brown, orange, blue green. They said their nevers, they slept their dream. I am walking up the stairs in the Irish Emigrant. I see her, wearing a white dress. We lock eyes. Green, blue, brown, orange...
Fucking orange! There is a construction site again. The faceplate has been screwed into the wall, but I have no recollection of doing it. I discover that while I wasn't paying attention, I've finished the other three rooms on the other side of the hall. I move sluggishly to an undone room.
The motions are automatic. Sit down in the chair, set down the tools. Strip the cable, the place the boot over to protect the connection. Each time I do this am surprised to see how expertly my hands know the task. Snap, pull, twist, click. How quickly they move. It's as though I'm watching someone else work. Orange, brown, green, blue. Somewhere someone is travelling furiously toward you...
While I terminate cable I've been nearly anyplace I've ever been, both in my past and in my future. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Sometimes I'm older, sometimes I'm younger. Most of the time I'm in Spokane, sometimes I'm in Seattle. Sometimes its when we've first met, and we flirt awkwardly. Sometimes we're in the nursing home together and we talk quietly about things that have never happened. Sometimes I think about what I've gained. Most times I think about what I've lost. Sometimes it's a fantasy, sometimes it's real. Back and forth, forwards and backwards I go. Snap, pull, twist, click.
I am on the construction site. I am in college. I am sleeping in my bed at home in Madrona. She is there, she is not there. I am overjoyed, I am defeated. She's my hero, she is my villain. She's an angel, I'm a demon. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Wallingford. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Spokane. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Bellingham. This is the moment I realize I live in a hotel, that I live in her house. That I have no home, that this will never be our house.
This is the moment I stand before Daryl's wedding. your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers... Not his wedding, my wedding, my wedding, my wedding. although you're not beside me now, I know that you have been... one day there will be no substitute, for I'll see you again...
______
There is a room, there is a building, there is a construction site and I am a worker again.
snap brown, twist green, pull orange, click blue
she loves someone, but she doesn't love you...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Still Winter
Recently, I came across a joke about the harsher weather here in eastern Washington. The punchline goes like this...we have four seasons and they are Feels like Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Hot.
I'd like to announce that we have escaped the cold clutches of Winter and our now just in the beginning clutches of Still Winter. Still Winter is an odd season, full of fitful weather. One day is clear, the next is rainy, then windy, then clear, then hail, then windy, rainy, cleary and haily (spell checker doesn't work on "haily") all in one go. But like a true Spokanite, we still have our Winter supplies on hand, not fooled for a minute when the temperature climbs above sixty. Our ice melter still has a residence on our porch, our faithful snow shovels stand beside, ready at a minute's notice. In passing, we joke about last year's snow lasting until June, and then check to make sure our can of deicer is still in our glovebox. We may have the opportunity for t-shirts and shorts during Still Winter, but our sweaters and gloves are never far away.
Hot is the season that is not necessarily dictated by the weather, but by the fauna instead. Hot brings coming of insects, the bane of the exposed skin sunseeker. The temperature may climb all it likes, but nothing says Hot like a legion of mosquitoes, freshly hatched and looking for a good time. Hot is a mere few months away, but while the larva wait underground we suffer through a few more weeks of Still Winter.
Still Winter also brings with it a certain psychosis. It's a nervous manic excitement contrasting against the brooding despondency of Winter. It brings with it fits of excitement during sun breaks, and just as quickly as a cloud can intervene, changes to fits of fretful uncertainty. To illustrate my point, I will use the backyard.
Just up until a few weeks ago, there was remained a sizable lump of ice and snow, stubbornly clinging to the ground in our backyard. The snow retreated to a shady section and then retreated no more, apparently content to wait it out through Hot, and then haunt us again come Feels like Winter. Every day I would wake up, look through the kitchen window, and engage in a wily western-movie-style staredown with our resident iceberg. "Surely," I thought, "it can't last much longer, it must understand its chances are hopeless." Every day I would measure the iceberg's progress. When it hailed, it gained a bit of cover above, when it rained or was windy, this cover was then lost. But at no point did the iceberg crack or give in. Never did I see it show so much as a trickle of water.
This weekend, I cracked, I lost it, I snapped like an icicle. Under the pretense of "raking the pine needles" I crept into our backyard, unobserved. My weapon was a steel rake, which under normal circumstances would be used to clear up the years of neglect to our yard. I had more sinister plans in mind this afternoon.
Casually, I brushed off the top layer of needles from the berg. Then, after looking around to make sure nobody was about, I began scraping at the ice. Another quick scan for nosy neighbors, and then vigorous prodding ensued, trying to pierce its tough, wintry hide. Once a weak spot was formed, the gleeful bludgeoning commenced. Had a bystander's view been blocked of the ice, it must have looked like an initiation into the Better Homes and Gardens biker gang.
The cascades of snow flying from my victim only increased the fervor of my attack. And for the first time in my life I felt rage for not just a person or a thing, but an entire season. Every crummy episode in the last six months of my life poured out through that rake, faster and faster, until there was only a wide swath of white-speckled pine needles left...the last chalk outline of Winter.
So here is the moral of this otherwise mostly pointless story. No matter what climate you live in, or what weather you are experiencing (both external and internal weather), sometimes the change of the season needs a little helping along. Sometimes it's not enough to simply observe the changing of the season, or sit back and enjoy small talk with your neighbors regarding a menacing cloud or two. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's up to you to change the weather personally. Who knows? Had I not had my particular episode, it might have snowed again. We'll never know, but I prefer in my mind to think it was me. And just to reward myself, I'll wear t-shirts and shorts and drink cold beer in the sun. That is, if it's not haily.
On the other hand, if I find out who has ushered in the season of Hot by hatching all the mosquito larvae, I think I'll use that rake on him...personally.
I'd like to announce that we have escaped the cold clutches of Winter and our now just in the beginning clutches of Still Winter. Still Winter is an odd season, full of fitful weather. One day is clear, the next is rainy, then windy, then clear, then hail, then windy, rainy, cleary and haily (spell checker doesn't work on "haily") all in one go. But like a true Spokanite, we still have our Winter supplies on hand, not fooled for a minute when the temperature climbs above sixty. Our ice melter still has a residence on our porch, our faithful snow shovels stand beside, ready at a minute's notice. In passing, we joke about last year's snow lasting until June, and then check to make sure our can of deicer is still in our glovebox. We may have the opportunity for t-shirts and shorts during Still Winter, but our sweaters and gloves are never far away.
Hot is the season that is not necessarily dictated by the weather, but by the fauna instead. Hot brings coming of insects, the bane of the exposed skin sunseeker. The temperature may climb all it likes, but nothing says Hot like a legion of mosquitoes, freshly hatched and looking for a good time. Hot is a mere few months away, but while the larva wait underground we suffer through a few more weeks of Still Winter.
Still Winter also brings with it a certain psychosis. It's a nervous manic excitement contrasting against the brooding despondency of Winter. It brings with it fits of excitement during sun breaks, and just as quickly as a cloud can intervene, changes to fits of fretful uncertainty. To illustrate my point, I will use the backyard.
Just up until a few weeks ago, there was remained a sizable lump of ice and snow, stubbornly clinging to the ground in our backyard. The snow retreated to a shady section and then retreated no more, apparently content to wait it out through Hot, and then haunt us again come Feels like Winter. Every day I would wake up, look through the kitchen window, and engage in a wily western-movie-style staredown with our resident iceberg. "Surely," I thought, "it can't last much longer, it must understand its chances are hopeless." Every day I would measure the iceberg's progress. When it hailed, it gained a bit of cover above, when it rained or was windy, this cover was then lost. But at no point did the iceberg crack or give in. Never did I see it show so much as a trickle of water.
This weekend, I cracked, I lost it, I snapped like an icicle. Under the pretense of "raking the pine needles" I crept into our backyard, unobserved. My weapon was a steel rake, which under normal circumstances would be used to clear up the years of neglect to our yard. I had more sinister plans in mind this afternoon.
Casually, I brushed off the top layer of needles from the berg. Then, after looking around to make sure nobody was about, I began scraping at the ice. Another quick scan for nosy neighbors, and then vigorous prodding ensued, trying to pierce its tough, wintry hide. Once a weak spot was formed, the gleeful bludgeoning commenced. Had a bystander's view been blocked of the ice, it must have looked like an initiation into the Better Homes and Gardens biker gang.
The cascades of snow flying from my victim only increased the fervor of my attack. And for the first time in my life I felt rage for not just a person or a thing, but an entire season. Every crummy episode in the last six months of my life poured out through that rake, faster and faster, until there was only a wide swath of white-speckled pine needles left...the last chalk outline of Winter.
So here is the moral of this otherwise mostly pointless story. No matter what climate you live in, or what weather you are experiencing (both external and internal weather), sometimes the change of the season needs a little helping along. Sometimes it's not enough to simply observe the changing of the season, or sit back and enjoy small talk with your neighbors regarding a menacing cloud or two. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's up to you to change the weather personally. Who knows? Had I not had my particular episode, it might have snowed again. We'll never know, but I prefer in my mind to think it was me. And just to reward myself, I'll wear t-shirts and shorts and drink cold beer in the sun. That is, if it's not haily.
On the other hand, if I find out who has ushered in the season of Hot by hatching all the mosquito larvae, I think I'll use that rake on him...personally.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Walked Away...
Well it's been quite an absence from the interwebs for me, but I'm glad to be back.
In fact, with the last couple of months I've had, I'm happy just to be typing away, warm and safe. Winter's grasp is collapsing all around us and the once mammoth snow drifts have been weathered down to dirty wet white humps. It's not yet sixty and sunny, but we're drifting more toward pleasant and farther away from the harsh.
But this second winter (arguably worse than my first winter) has left one indelible mark as it travels into memory.
So here is the scene. Daryl (my coworker and friend) and I are frequent travelers on a certain I-195, the tiny artery that connects Pullman to Spokane and therefore, the outside world. The Pullman Highway, as it's also known, is a winding strip of largely two lane, undivided highway that weaves through the wheat fields and towns of the Palouse. For those that have never been there, it's a place that manages to be eerily beautiful with no trees. In the fall and summer it's bare brown hills rolling over and over each other to the horizon. In the spring, it's the runty stalks of wheat breaking through forming a green haze. In the winter, it's nothing but white on white as the hills fold in and out of the skyline and frozen mist.
It's a pretty stretch of road, but not the best maintained, though I'm sure the annual take from pulling over idiotic college kids speeding is more than enough to feed the asphalt appetites of several byways. In the winter, the road is too long to be routinely serviced by deicing trucks and plows and instead the convoys of trucks work in sections: Colfax to Pullman, Rosalia to Spokane, Steptoe to Spangle, etc. Sometimes it's possible to have beautiful stretch of road lead into horrible conditions immediately depending on how the wind and mist settles in.
The point of this preamble being, the road is beautiful and dangerous, and most often times in the winter, it is both. We've had a few close calls before, but we've always arrived in Pullman or Spokane ultimately unscathed, with nothing more than an elevated blood pressure and whitened knuckles. To further the jeopardy, we travel in a vehicle designed almost purposefully to be bad in slick conditions. The work van is bulky and top heavy, with poor winter tires and rear wheel drive. With sufficient weight over the rear wheels, it's manageable. With a lightened rear, it will lose the drive wheels at nearly any speed with any hint of ice or slush.
Daryl was driving, and I was feebly attempting to stay awake in the passenger seat at about 7:00 in the morning as we left Spokane on 3/10. The weather had gotten warmer and rained a few weeks prior, but this Tuesday was in the middle of a nasty cold snap. We had our personal gear packed along with our work gear which included an industrial strength shopvac and generator. The day started normally, and it was still dark while we sipped our cheap coffee and made our way to WSU.
Approximately twenty minutes later the van was on its side after making a full rotational roll and a half turn lengthwise. Daryl was banging on his crushed driver side door to try and climb out and I was crawling through the cargo bay attempting to force the rear door open to escape.
For those of you that have been involved in a violent event such as a car crash, you know that there are two big phases. Phase one is when the adrenaline is going. Phase two is when it shuts off.
Phase one for me was closed eyes, the feeling of spin like a carnival ride. Sounds of a ladder smashing into a canister vacuum, into the generator, into the side of the van, repeat. The smell of spilled coffee on my clothes, of grimy tools. The abrupt smell of cold winter wind running through a broken window. The smell of gasoline.
My accident wasn't much different than any other. Icy roads caused a loss of control of the vehicle, which caused a rollover accident as the van left the roadway and slid down the embankment. Daryl and I walked away from the accident. If you've never been in a major accident and you turn on the TV and the anchor says "...and the driver and passenger of the vehicle both walked away..." it feels like this:
Your eyes see a sideways van, which makes no sense. Your can feel all your fingers. You can move and walk and run. There is no pain. There are people running toward you. You wave your hands, you don't remember if you yell. Your brain says: holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit....
In truth, the most traumatizing event took place well after the accident on that same day at the junkyard where our work van was laid to rest. In Phase Two, you begin to make sense of what the sounds and smells meant. And when you see how the van was crushed and smashed and broken, you begin to see yourself inside and you understand how violent the world is. You understand how unfortunate a relatively tiny patch of ice can be, how randomly it clings to some parts of road and not others. You understand what tiny forces can cascade into violent events. You understand how quickly and easily control can be taken from you.
You also see how fortunate you can be. In our case, there were no cars in the opposing lane that we crossed on our trip into a farmer's field. There was no precipice off the side, there was no sudden impact. All of the forces we felt were spread out over time. The spinning the rolling was as soft was we could make it, driving across hard asphalt and frozen ground to rest in a hollow of mud and snow.
I see how Daryl made a series of very good decisions in a short time, to steer into the first slide and attempt to steer back out of the second. He did not jam on the brake or the accelerator, did not fight the skid but instead tried to coax the van back on the road. Because of these decisions, we did not slide or flip on the road, potentially being struck by other vehicles. After the van came to a rest, he was able to force his door open, as gas fumes leaked from the overturned generator's carburetor.
So considering all the fortune and misfortune that occurred in one day, I'm sitting here typing away just like normal. All of our gear and our personal desktop computers all survived the accident. Daryl and I were largely uninjured, in fact the only visual indication that either one of us had been in a crash was an approx 2mm cut on my finger from broken glass. That's it. The only lasting issue after the crash, is the death of our work van. Instead, Daryl and I travel to work in his Hyundai Elantra, which has considerably less cargo space. But we make do.
So here it is, back to normal. And you know what, spring is here! I've never been happier for a new season.
P.S. Buckle Up!
In fact, with the last couple of months I've had, I'm happy just to be typing away, warm and safe. Winter's grasp is collapsing all around us and the once mammoth snow drifts have been weathered down to dirty wet white humps. It's not yet sixty and sunny, but we're drifting more toward pleasant and farther away from the harsh.
But this second winter (arguably worse than my first winter) has left one indelible mark as it travels into memory.
So here is the scene. Daryl (my coworker and friend) and I are frequent travelers on a certain I-195, the tiny artery that connects Pullman to Spokane and therefore, the outside world. The Pullman Highway, as it's also known, is a winding strip of largely two lane, undivided highway that weaves through the wheat fields and towns of the Palouse. For those that have never been there, it's a place that manages to be eerily beautiful with no trees. In the fall and summer it's bare brown hills rolling over and over each other to the horizon. In the spring, it's the runty stalks of wheat breaking through forming a green haze. In the winter, it's nothing but white on white as the hills fold in and out of the skyline and frozen mist.
It's a pretty stretch of road, but not the best maintained, though I'm sure the annual take from pulling over idiotic college kids speeding is more than enough to feed the asphalt appetites of several byways. In the winter, the road is too long to be routinely serviced by deicing trucks and plows and instead the convoys of trucks work in sections: Colfax to Pullman, Rosalia to Spokane, Steptoe to Spangle, etc. Sometimes it's possible to have beautiful stretch of road lead into horrible conditions immediately depending on how the wind and mist settles in.
The point of this preamble being, the road is beautiful and dangerous, and most often times in the winter, it is both. We've had a few close calls before, but we've always arrived in Pullman or Spokane ultimately unscathed, with nothing more than an elevated blood pressure and whitened knuckles. To further the jeopardy, we travel in a vehicle designed almost purposefully to be bad in slick conditions. The work van is bulky and top heavy, with poor winter tires and rear wheel drive. With sufficient weight over the rear wheels, it's manageable. With a lightened rear, it will lose the drive wheels at nearly any speed with any hint of ice or slush.
Daryl was driving, and I was feebly attempting to stay awake in the passenger seat at about 7:00 in the morning as we left Spokane on 3/10. The weather had gotten warmer and rained a few weeks prior, but this Tuesday was in the middle of a nasty cold snap. We had our personal gear packed along with our work gear which included an industrial strength shopvac and generator. The day started normally, and it was still dark while we sipped our cheap coffee and made our way to WSU.
Approximately twenty minutes later the van was on its side after making a full rotational roll and a half turn lengthwise. Daryl was banging on his crushed driver side door to try and climb out and I was crawling through the cargo bay attempting to force the rear door open to escape.
For those of you that have been involved in a violent event such as a car crash, you know that there are two big phases. Phase one is when the adrenaline is going. Phase two is when it shuts off.
Phase one for me was closed eyes, the feeling of spin like a carnival ride. Sounds of a ladder smashing into a canister vacuum, into the generator, into the side of the van, repeat. The smell of spilled coffee on my clothes, of grimy tools. The abrupt smell of cold winter wind running through a broken window. The smell of gasoline.
My accident wasn't much different than any other. Icy roads caused a loss of control of the vehicle, which caused a rollover accident as the van left the roadway and slid down the embankment. Daryl and I walked away from the accident. If you've never been in a major accident and you turn on the TV and the anchor says "...and the driver and passenger of the vehicle both walked away..." it feels like this:
Your eyes see a sideways van, which makes no sense. Your can feel all your fingers. You can move and walk and run. There is no pain. There are people running toward you. You wave your hands, you don't remember if you yell. Your brain says: holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit....
In truth, the most traumatizing event took place well after the accident on that same day at the junkyard where our work van was laid to rest. In Phase Two, you begin to make sense of what the sounds and smells meant. And when you see how the van was crushed and smashed and broken, you begin to see yourself inside and you understand how violent the world is. You understand how unfortunate a relatively tiny patch of ice can be, how randomly it clings to some parts of road and not others. You understand what tiny forces can cascade into violent events. You understand how quickly and easily control can be taken from you.
You also see how fortunate you can be. In our case, there were no cars in the opposing lane that we crossed on our trip into a farmer's field. There was no precipice off the side, there was no sudden impact. All of the forces we felt were spread out over time. The spinning the rolling was as soft was we could make it, driving across hard asphalt and frozen ground to rest in a hollow of mud and snow.
I see how Daryl made a series of very good decisions in a short time, to steer into the first slide and attempt to steer back out of the second. He did not jam on the brake or the accelerator, did not fight the skid but instead tried to coax the van back on the road. Because of these decisions, we did not slide or flip on the road, potentially being struck by other vehicles. After the van came to a rest, he was able to force his door open, as gas fumes leaked from the overturned generator's carburetor.
So considering all the fortune and misfortune that occurred in one day, I'm sitting here typing away just like normal. All of our gear and our personal desktop computers all survived the accident. Daryl and I were largely uninjured, in fact the only visual indication that either one of us had been in a crash was an approx 2mm cut on my finger from broken glass. That's it. The only lasting issue after the crash, is the death of our work van. Instead, Daryl and I travel to work in his Hyundai Elantra, which has considerably less cargo space. But we make do.
So here it is, back to normal. And you know what, spring is here! I've never been happier for a new season.
P.S. Buckle Up!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Few Good Men
Ok, it's pre-mid January. What have we got on the agenda? Oh yeah, a new president will be inaugurated ushering in potentially the most historical bit of history we've witnessed. Or at least the most historical history that will be most immediately recorded as such and played back on DVR's and DVD's and Blackberries and Iphones and beamed via satellite directly into your skull, etc. Not saying it's going to be a media spectacle of course. But I'd be delighted if there is a little class in the whole thing. I'd be a sad puppy if halfway through I am invited to text in the name of the Obama offspring I find the cutest. Bleh.
Anyway, what else? Hmmm...taxes are coming up, ew. Um, the Superbowl is coming up to determine whichever team was most kind to the officiating team in the bribe department this past holiday season. (Thanks for my lifelong cynicism, Pittsburgh Steelers.) But what else? What other traditional hoop must I jump through?
Resolutions you dolt!
Or did I purposely skip past those? I recall one year somewhere in the mix of high school where I admitted that my resolution was to have "no resolution" at all that year. It seemed like pure genius to me, very zen-like. Unfortunately, all those around me saw this as less Taoist, and more Cop-out. So every year beyond that has had at least one easily forgettable resolution. But this year needs to be different.
So I sat down with myself and was completely and totally honest. What about me needs to change and grow and nurture so that I can more fully enjoy this year and those to come? I thought of the usual, weight loss, the ability to run more than 10 yards without being winded, dressing nicer. Naw, I'd already cycled through those. Instead I cooked up a really good one. Hey, I'm 29, I'm on the cusp of the next stage of my life. So this year my resolution is...
...to be a man!
That's right, enough I'm trading my bar t-shirts for polos, my pint glasses for rocks tumblers. I wave goodbye to Kanye and say hello to Public Radio. I say adieu to my ripped-jeans and wriggle into a pair of wrinkle free Dockers. I will no longer utter the word "motherfucker" and instead replace it with the more socially acceptable "business associate." I won't be giddy at the idea of a house party unless they specifically state that wine and cheese will be served. My delight will double if it becomes a BYOP affair (Bring Your Own Pate) affair.
Or at least I'll pick up some man mannerisms.
Mannerism #1. Be a Handy Man. I really should have paid more attention in autoshop, I keep reminding myself. I have the mechanical aptitude of a toddler, I really do. It's gotten to the point that the standards that others hold for me have sunk so low, people are delighted when I am handed a screwdriver and don't immediately accidently gouge my eye out. So I resolve to take on household projects all by myself for the first time. Except I do need monitoring around power tools.
Mannerism#2. Be a Sporty Man. Well I can check bowling off the list. After several months of randomly bowling every other weekend or so over drinks my bowling skill has actually gotten worse. Add to that list softball, as my arm strength is somewhere around Mr. Jamie Moyer, except without all that accuracy. In fact, every time I strut out to the infield, I can hear "Wild Thing" playing over and over again in my head. At least drinking is also encouraged for this sport too. But I need to declare and backup my proficiency in a completely unathletic and arbitrary sport. So I think I'll take up darts. Uh oh there goes "Wild Thing" again....OH GOD MY EYE!
Mannerism #3. Be a Well-Dressed Man. Ok, here I can actually make some strides. I know that flat-front khakis are in, and they pretty much come in one color (hint: it's khaki). I know that stripey shirts are ok, but nothing says professional like a bleached white shirt offset by a incredibly masculine pink tye (hint: it's actually salmon). So, I vow to work on the wardrobe. Unfortunately my current occupation usually has me crawling through attics or steam tunnels. Knowing that one should never button the lower button does me little good, when I've hooked my sportcoat on a building truss and am currently strangling myself while I grapple for my ladder.
Mannerism #4. Be a Money Man. I took approximately five minutes of an econ class in college once, which pretty much sums up my financial awareness. I know that demand and supply are involved in a ritualistic dance and when conditions are right they invest with each other and a consumer is born. Or maybe that was health class, I don't remember. Anyway, the point is my financial responsibility level is right around an Enron executive, except without the Enron salary. My retirement package is literally a package under my bed (I packed extra undies). So until that time, I consider running across the hardwood floor and sliding on my socks wearing nothing but my professional white shirt, some of my retirement boxers and some killer shades as proof positive that I know what I'm doing with my investment portfolio. I also sing Bow-Bow...chicka-chickaaaa!
Mannerism #5. Be a Sensitive Man. This one I've got in spades. While everybody else in college was learning...well learning basically important stuff, I was off learning the acceptable rhyme variations of a sonnet. I'm also currently learning the differences between wines that actually comes in bottles. Bye, bye Franzia, you were a good friend. I'm learning the appropriate time to give flowers and cards and have taken to cruising the O channel now and again. (Also, the Hallmark channel rules.) I'm in the process of understanding a woman's wants and needs and how best to fulfill her wondrous desires (hint: empty the dishwasher).
So all in all there is much work to be done. But like the Marines commercials show, one can be transformed from an ordinary guy like myself to a crisp, standout Manly Man merely by scaling a cliff with your bare hands, and then putting on a nice Blazer and waving a sword around in synchronized fashion. Without gouging an eye.
Sigh.
Maybe I'll regress this once, as I sit here typing with my bar shirt on and drinking my Miller Lite with *gasp* no coaster! Then tomorrow I'll get back on the wagon.
Anyway, what else? Hmmm...taxes are coming up, ew. Um, the Superbowl is coming up to determine whichever team was most kind to the officiating team in the bribe department this past holiday season. (Thanks for my lifelong cynicism, Pittsburgh Steelers.) But what else? What other traditional hoop must I jump through?
Resolutions you dolt!
Or did I purposely skip past those? I recall one year somewhere in the mix of high school where I admitted that my resolution was to have "no resolution" at all that year. It seemed like pure genius to me, very zen-like. Unfortunately, all those around me saw this as less Taoist, and more Cop-out. So every year beyond that has had at least one easily forgettable resolution. But this year needs to be different.
So I sat down with myself and was completely and totally honest. What about me needs to change and grow and nurture so that I can more fully enjoy this year and those to come? I thought of the usual, weight loss, the ability to run more than 10 yards without being winded, dressing nicer. Naw, I'd already cycled through those. Instead I cooked up a really good one. Hey, I'm 29, I'm on the cusp of the next stage of my life. So this year my resolution is...
...to be a man!
That's right, enough I'm trading my bar t-shirts for polos, my pint glasses for rocks tumblers. I wave goodbye to Kanye and say hello to Public Radio. I say adieu to my ripped-jeans and wriggle into a pair of wrinkle free Dockers. I will no longer utter the word "motherfucker" and instead replace it with the more socially acceptable "business associate." I won't be giddy at the idea of a house party unless they specifically state that wine and cheese will be served. My delight will double if it becomes a BYOP affair (Bring Your Own Pate) affair.
Or at least I'll pick up some man mannerisms.
Mannerism #1. Be a Handy Man. I really should have paid more attention in autoshop, I keep reminding myself. I have the mechanical aptitude of a toddler, I really do. It's gotten to the point that the standards that others hold for me have sunk so low, people are delighted when I am handed a screwdriver and don't immediately accidently gouge my eye out. So I resolve to take on household projects all by myself for the first time. Except I do need monitoring around power tools.
Mannerism#2. Be a Sporty Man. Well I can check bowling off the list. After several months of randomly bowling every other weekend or so over drinks my bowling skill has actually gotten worse. Add to that list softball, as my arm strength is somewhere around Mr. Jamie Moyer, except without all that accuracy. In fact, every time I strut out to the infield, I can hear "Wild Thing" playing over and over again in my head. At least drinking is also encouraged for this sport too. But I need to declare and backup my proficiency in a completely unathletic and arbitrary sport. So I think I'll take up darts. Uh oh there goes "Wild Thing" again....OH GOD MY EYE!
Mannerism #3. Be a Well-Dressed Man. Ok, here I can actually make some strides. I know that flat-front khakis are in, and they pretty much come in one color (hint: it's khaki). I know that stripey shirts are ok, but nothing says professional like a bleached white shirt offset by a incredibly masculine pink tye (hint: it's actually salmon). So, I vow to work on the wardrobe. Unfortunately my current occupation usually has me crawling through attics or steam tunnels. Knowing that one should never button the lower button does me little good, when I've hooked my sportcoat on a building truss and am currently strangling myself while I grapple for my ladder.
Mannerism #4. Be a Money Man. I took approximately five minutes of an econ class in college once, which pretty much sums up my financial awareness. I know that demand and supply are involved in a ritualistic dance and when conditions are right they invest with each other and a consumer is born. Or maybe that was health class, I don't remember. Anyway, the point is my financial responsibility level is right around an Enron executive, except without the Enron salary. My retirement package is literally a package under my bed (I packed extra undies). So until that time, I consider running across the hardwood floor and sliding on my socks wearing nothing but my professional white shirt, some of my retirement boxers and some killer shades as proof positive that I know what I'm doing with my investment portfolio. I also sing Bow-Bow...chicka-chickaaaa!
Mannerism #5. Be a Sensitive Man. This one I've got in spades. While everybody else in college was learning...well learning basically important stuff, I was off learning the acceptable rhyme variations of a sonnet. I'm also currently learning the differences between wines that actually comes in bottles. Bye, bye Franzia, you were a good friend. I'm learning the appropriate time to give flowers and cards and have taken to cruising the O channel now and again. (Also, the Hallmark channel rules.) I'm in the process of understanding a woman's wants and needs and how best to fulfill her wondrous desires (hint: empty the dishwasher).
So all in all there is much work to be done. But like the Marines commercials show, one can be transformed from an ordinary guy like myself to a crisp, standout Manly Man merely by scaling a cliff with your bare hands, and then putting on a nice Blazer and waving a sword around in synchronized fashion. Without gouging an eye.
Sigh.
Maybe I'll regress this once, as I sit here typing with my bar shirt on and drinking my Miller Lite with *gasp* no coaster! Then tomorrow I'll get back on the wagon.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Thanks Dee.
This blog is a little more somber than the others I suppose. A bit more melancholy, a bit more sober. You see, today I lost an important member of my broadly weaving social circle and it caused me to pause a moment.
She's not a family member, though her family has all but taken me in. She's not a teacher, though she's shared more than a few life lessons over gin and tonics. She's not even I knew for very long, or spent a significant amount of time with. Just enough time to know. Today I lost my best friend's grandmother, by the name of Dee. Which, to type it out, makes it feel a small event. But in reality, it weighs heavily on my concience. In fact, it weighs arguably heavier than my own grandmother's death, which in a sad occurence, was one year ago this day.
I have also been recently moving apartments. The economic climate these days has forced me out of my plush two bed and two bath apartment into a more austere one bedroom unit, which I really should have been in all along. It turns out to be a dissapointingly small savings each month for the move, but each little bit counts. Anyway, as I was moving, I stumbled across my old senior yearbook. As I flipped through the pages, I ran across an old familiar name. Again, not someone I'm attached to strongly, but just enough to feel a twinge of sadness. Her name is Susanna Stodden, a onetime high school classmate and fellow college dorm inhabitant. She also would have been present at (it turns out later) mutual friend Rick's wedding as a bridesmaid. She was murdered a few summers ago along with her mother a few summers ago as they hiked a trail up near Bellingham. I googled her name, hoping that justice had caught up with their killer, but no such luck.
What Susanna and Dee have in common is that they are both people who left just enough of an impression on me to know that they were inherently good people. If you consider all the folks one comes in contact with on a daily, weekly or even yearly basis, sometimes that seems a rare quality. They really, really were, and I really, really wish they were still with us.
To face death is one of the inevitable tasks of being alive as most of us have found out. However, it's the folks that you know deep down in your heart deserve life that make you angry at death. Make you want to yell and scream and throw a tantrum. Make you yell at the sky at night about things not being fair. Somehow in my head, if my best friend's grandmother, and my friend's wife's bridesmaid were still alive, my life would be more balanced, more fair, more just. But they are not, so it is not.
So I grieve quietly when I am alone. I catch myself thinking that I am overly sentimental, that these things should be felt, dealt with and then moved along from. But that is just not my style. It is a good reminder about mortality, about what the real cost of being alive is, and what the penalty for taking things for granted is and what the payoff for living fully is. No possible incarnation of a hell can persecute or a heaven reward as fully as what your reputation you leave behind on earth will impress on your soul. And in the case of these good folks, their memory is cherished by people they barely really knew which is as good a reward as you can get from your work on earth I guess.
So here's my thanks to Dee and Susanna, and also a somber New Year's resolution. I am hoping to be a little more courageous this year (like Susanna), and a little more generous (like Dee). I'm hoping to participate a bit more in what life has to offer (like Susanna) and open my home selflessly to others (like Dee). I'm hoping that these little giant events in my life wake up a bit so that when my time's at an end, whether it be sooner or later, someone may have known for very little may pause a bit too.
So thanks and goodbye Dee and Susanna.
Also, a special thanks to her husband Don. I won't pretend to know what the pain is like of losing a wife, and I earnestly hope I never feel it. But I hope the outpour of love from your family can help ease your mind. I hope the stories flow, I hope the memories never dim.
She's not a family member, though her family has all but taken me in. She's not a teacher, though she's shared more than a few life lessons over gin and tonics. She's not even I knew for very long, or spent a significant amount of time with. Just enough time to know. Today I lost my best friend's grandmother, by the name of Dee. Which, to type it out, makes it feel a small event. But in reality, it weighs heavily on my concience. In fact, it weighs arguably heavier than my own grandmother's death, which in a sad occurence, was one year ago this day.
I have also been recently moving apartments. The economic climate these days has forced me out of my plush two bed and two bath apartment into a more austere one bedroom unit, which I really should have been in all along. It turns out to be a dissapointingly small savings each month for the move, but each little bit counts. Anyway, as I was moving, I stumbled across my old senior yearbook. As I flipped through the pages, I ran across an old familiar name. Again, not someone I'm attached to strongly, but just enough to feel a twinge of sadness. Her name is Susanna Stodden, a onetime high school classmate and fellow college dorm inhabitant. She also would have been present at (it turns out later) mutual friend Rick's wedding as a bridesmaid. She was murdered a few summers ago along with her mother a few summers ago as they hiked a trail up near Bellingham. I googled her name, hoping that justice had caught up with their killer, but no such luck.
What Susanna and Dee have in common is that they are both people who left just enough of an impression on me to know that they were inherently good people. If you consider all the folks one comes in contact with on a daily, weekly or even yearly basis, sometimes that seems a rare quality. They really, really were, and I really, really wish they were still with us.
To face death is one of the inevitable tasks of being alive as most of us have found out. However, it's the folks that you know deep down in your heart deserve life that make you angry at death. Make you want to yell and scream and throw a tantrum. Make you yell at the sky at night about things not being fair. Somehow in my head, if my best friend's grandmother, and my friend's wife's bridesmaid were still alive, my life would be more balanced, more fair, more just. But they are not, so it is not.
So I grieve quietly when I am alone. I catch myself thinking that I am overly sentimental, that these things should be felt, dealt with and then moved along from. But that is just not my style. It is a good reminder about mortality, about what the real cost of being alive is, and what the penalty for taking things for granted is and what the payoff for living fully is. No possible incarnation of a hell can persecute or a heaven reward as fully as what your reputation you leave behind on earth will impress on your soul. And in the case of these good folks, their memory is cherished by people they barely really knew which is as good a reward as you can get from your work on earth I guess.
So here's my thanks to Dee and Susanna, and also a somber New Year's resolution. I am hoping to be a little more courageous this year (like Susanna), and a little more generous (like Dee). I'm hoping to participate a bit more in what life has to offer (like Susanna) and open my home selflessly to others (like Dee). I'm hoping that these little giant events in my life wake up a bit so that when my time's at an end, whether it be sooner or later, someone may have known for very little may pause a bit too.
So thanks and goodbye Dee and Susanna.
Also, a special thanks to her husband Don. I won't pretend to know what the pain is like of losing a wife, and I earnestly hope I never feel it. But I hope the outpour of love from your family can help ease your mind. I hope the stories flow, I hope the memories never dim.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
...and the band played on
First off Happy New Year!
This year taught me that some folks should really consider retirement. Among those on the list, I include Brett Favre and Dick Clark. Good old Dick Clark may have a Rockin' New Years special, but it has been many years since the man has done any rockin' whatsoever. I don't dislike the guy, and he is the spirit of the televised new year but it's hard to watch him struggle through another new years and then have the camera cut away to an idiotically grinning Ryan Seacrest surrounded with miscellaneous pop stars and about 50,000 shit-faced New Yorkers. It may be time to pass the torch.
But I digress.
Most peroidicals are welcoming the new year by first posting the rememberances of those lost in 2008. Well, TWIS too has a member of the Spokane community I'd like to mourn, one who's end came much too soon. As of 2009, Spokane has lost its only hip-hop radio station.
Sure it's no Edmund Hillary, or Tim Russert, but to the average joe a radio station is a big deal. Back in the big town, there has been at least one or two proud stations airing the phat beats. Why I remember the good ol' days switching the home radio presets to KPLZ and KUBE when my parents weren't home so I could hear the latest Boyz II Men track. And here too in Spokane, we had a station that I would settle on when I had my fill of Classic Rock, Country or Christian Babbling.
I sensed the end was near when over the holiday season, the station temporarily switched to a "holiday music" only format. That's right, obnoxious christmas music 24 hours a day pumped right into your ears over the air. There are only so many times you can play the Chipmunks christmas special. I kept the station on my preset list, hoping that by the 26th, this would all blow over and I could continue to count on the radio to provide me with the latest from TI and Lil' Wayne.
But alas, it is no more.
Instead, the station has become 96.9 Howling Coyote Country. That's right, insult to injury. Country music has assimiliated my only refuge; destroyed my only oasis of civilization in the desert. Country music has grown from the folksy songs of women singing of cheating men, and men of cheating cards into a monstrous multimedia juggernaut. It's no longer the Grand Ol' Opry, it's now the Grand Ol' CMT. Granted, most of the hip-hop produced today is mindless drivel and I have a hard time defending most of it. But it would be nice to judge for myself how badly written the new Jay-Z lyrics are or how horribly over produced the new Kanye West song is. Instead I can now press scan on the car radio and run the entire spectrum without so much as a snippet of a sprinkler high-hat beat.
So those of you blessed to be a in a musically diverse area, don't take this for granted! Embrace every day with a helping of Akon, or Method Man. Cherish each moment of hip-hopness like it was your last before we are consumed in the apocaplypse caused by Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. As for me, I'm going to go through my CD's and make sure the car is stocked with Wu-Tang, Outkast, Tribe and Common. It's a sad state of affairs, but hopefully an enterprising young man with a few bucks in his pocket will decide that Spokane is big-city enough to deserve some funky fresh beats. I'll hunker down until that day comes.
I think my pal Biz Markie said it best:
This is another hit from Biz Markie
Dedicated to the radio, not he or she
Be-cause it's time for them to get recognized
This is my version of the Nobel Peace Prize
That's why I'm comin out my face like this
Far as negativity, you never get dissed
If it wasn't for you, nobody would know
That's why this is something for the radiohhhh
This year taught me that some folks should really consider retirement. Among those on the list, I include Brett Favre and Dick Clark. Good old Dick Clark may have a Rockin' New Years special, but it has been many years since the man has done any rockin' whatsoever. I don't dislike the guy, and he is the spirit of the televised new year but it's hard to watch him struggle through another new years and then have the camera cut away to an idiotically grinning Ryan Seacrest surrounded with miscellaneous pop stars and about 50,000 shit-faced New Yorkers. It may be time to pass the torch.
But I digress.
Most peroidicals are welcoming the new year by first posting the rememberances of those lost in 2008. Well, TWIS too has a member of the Spokane community I'd like to mourn, one who's end came much too soon. As of 2009, Spokane has lost its only hip-hop radio station.
Sure it's no Edmund Hillary, or Tim Russert, but to the average joe a radio station is a big deal. Back in the big town, there has been at least one or two proud stations airing the phat beats. Why I remember the good ol' days switching the home radio presets to KPLZ and KUBE when my parents weren't home so I could hear the latest Boyz II Men track. And here too in Spokane, we had a station that I would settle on when I had my fill of Classic Rock, Country or Christian Babbling.
I sensed the end was near when over the holiday season, the station temporarily switched to a "holiday music" only format. That's right, obnoxious christmas music 24 hours a day pumped right into your ears over the air. There are only so many times you can play the Chipmunks christmas special. I kept the station on my preset list, hoping that by the 26th, this would all blow over and I could continue to count on the radio to provide me with the latest from TI and Lil' Wayne.
But alas, it is no more.
Instead, the station has become 96.9 Howling Coyote Country. That's right, insult to injury. Country music has assimiliated my only refuge; destroyed my only oasis of civilization in the desert. Country music has grown from the folksy songs of women singing of cheating men, and men of cheating cards into a monstrous multimedia juggernaut. It's no longer the Grand Ol' Opry, it's now the Grand Ol' CMT. Granted, most of the hip-hop produced today is mindless drivel and I have a hard time defending most of it. But it would be nice to judge for myself how badly written the new Jay-Z lyrics are or how horribly over produced the new Kanye West song is. Instead I can now press scan on the car radio and run the entire spectrum without so much as a snippet of a sprinkler high-hat beat.
So those of you blessed to be a in a musically diverse area, don't take this for granted! Embrace every day with a helping of Akon, or Method Man. Cherish each moment of hip-hopness like it was your last before we are consumed in the apocaplypse caused by Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. As for me, I'm going to go through my CD's and make sure the car is stocked with Wu-Tang, Outkast, Tribe and Common. It's a sad state of affairs, but hopefully an enterprising young man with a few bucks in his pocket will decide that Spokane is big-city enough to deserve some funky fresh beats. I'll hunker down until that day comes.
I think my pal Biz Markie said it best:
This is another hit from Biz Markie
Dedicated to the radio, not he or she
Be-cause it's time for them to get recognized
This is my version of the Nobel Peace Prize
That's why I'm comin out my face like this
Far as negativity, you never get dissed
If it wasn't for you, nobody would know
That's why this is something for the radiohhhh
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