Ya know, it's kinda hard to write when you're in a good mood. I mean... when you've got something to bitch about the words just gush out of you. Witness the previous post. Eh? Eh? But when things are going pretty well - well, it's just not as motivating.
Example: Famous Russian Author Dudes. I mean, those guys had something to bitch about... and they did! "Notes from the Underground" - now that was a corker! All about a guy spiraling downward into his own egocentric nightmare. Or just about anything by Bukowski. Tooth and nail, baby! Tooth and nail. (Yeah, okay, Bukowski is German-American but he's one of my favorite author's and I got sidetracked, okay? Okay!?) "Crime and Punishment" is another good one. Or even "A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" if you want to dig on the whole prison thing.
There's an art to bitching, really, and when its done well it is a thing of beauty.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
To Any Who've Felt The Same..
(Written several months ago. Posted today)
I've come to a few conclusions. But I’m really just jealous.
One, the fear of the unknown is what keeps smart people under higher management's collective thumbs. I've read articles of people living on the streets or in the projects that became huge successes and multimillionaires. What gives? I sit and wonder what it is about these people that enabled them to achieve what they've achieved. What was the driving force and the confidence that goaded them into success?
Two, someone paved the way for many of these clowns with money so why not ride the coattails of a relative to success? Make money the old-fashioned way - inherit it.
Three, I believe I am smarter than any of these jackasses yet held at bay by my own inadequacies, fear, lack of confidence and the inability to keep my mind focused on a simple task at hand. Most of the time out of sheer boredom.
This came to me a moment ago when the main principle of our firm called me over to his office to discuss this project he wants my help with. As I left his office I rounded the corner of the staircase and stared blankly and defeatedly at the run of steps descending below me and it was an all-to-realization of what I feared I would become; an autocad bitch.
What I do is nothing short of data entry. What my brain is, is becoming is mush. What my emotions are becoming is another story altogether.
Hate.
Anger.
Jealousy.
Envy.
Apply the majority of the 7 deadly sins here: __________________________.
So what now?
Honestly, I can't say and don't know. I'll bitch, complain, whine, moan and throw my hands up in disgust at my position in life and how I feel sorry for myself. I'll realize what's inside of me that very few others understand and then get lectured by some lackey about how I should be thankful for what I have.
Dear Lackey - I got it. You clearly don't.
What some don't get is what goes on inside my noodle and the gifts I was bestowed with. A fairly terrible existence to be sure. If you think about it, most people excel in a few certain things in their life. Not me. I excel at nothing yet accomplish things easily. Life bores me but I'm literally the boy in the bubble, trapped with only myself to have fun with while begging for understanding and chances.
But no.
How selfish is it that we're born and have no choice over the matter?
Some people shake their heads at this theory. The theory of the selfish acts of the mom and dad. Boyfriend and girlfriend, with little regard for what the combinations of themselves is going to produce. I don't need a lecture on odds, I get that too. I also get the good in life and people can tell me all they want how good I've got it and that I should be thankful I'm not living in some third world country. I understand, and I am thankful I live in America where numbskulls, more than anywhere in the world can excel in life simply by surrounding themselves with the really smart people of the world. Or become bad actors and make millions, all the while smiley glad-handing their merry ways to their 8,000 s.f. homes with pools, dune buggies and maid service.
To listen to these people complain about anything makes my stomach turn. It was like watching the behind-the-scenes making of "The Passion of the Christ" and showing Mel Gibson getting bent out of shape because the people in the movie, that don't understand english, didn't get what he was trying to tell them to do.If I could have transported myself anywhere on earth to any place in time it would have been right then and right there and I would have beamed down in front of Mel and punched him in the mouth, then lectured him on how impossible it is for us to relate to what he was having a bad day about based solely on his financial position on the planet. Not to mention his freedoms.
Standing at the stairs looking down I realized I cannot do this any longer, but then I can't really do much else at the moment. What a terrible place to live in.
But it’s slowly getting better. Or maybe I’m just becoming more apathetic.
I've come to a few conclusions. But I’m really just jealous.
One, the fear of the unknown is what keeps smart people under higher management's collective thumbs. I've read articles of people living on the streets or in the projects that became huge successes and multimillionaires. What gives? I sit and wonder what it is about these people that enabled them to achieve what they've achieved. What was the driving force and the confidence that goaded them into success?
Two, someone paved the way for many of these clowns with money so why not ride the coattails of a relative to success? Make money the old-fashioned way - inherit it.
Three, I believe I am smarter than any of these jackasses yet held at bay by my own inadequacies, fear, lack of confidence and the inability to keep my mind focused on a simple task at hand. Most of the time out of sheer boredom.
This came to me a moment ago when the main principle of our firm called me over to his office to discuss this project he wants my help with. As I left his office I rounded the corner of the staircase and stared blankly and defeatedly at the run of steps descending below me and it was an all-to-realization of what I feared I would become; an autocad bitch.
What I do is nothing short of data entry. What my brain is, is becoming is mush. What my emotions are becoming is another story altogether.
Hate.
Anger.
Jealousy.
Envy.
Apply the majority of the 7 deadly sins here: __________________________.
So what now?
Honestly, I can't say and don't know. I'll bitch, complain, whine, moan and throw my hands up in disgust at my position in life and how I feel sorry for myself. I'll realize what's inside of me that very few others understand and then get lectured by some lackey about how I should be thankful for what I have.
Dear Lackey - I got it. You clearly don't.
What some don't get is what goes on inside my noodle and the gifts I was bestowed with. A fairly terrible existence to be sure. If you think about it, most people excel in a few certain things in their life. Not me. I excel at nothing yet accomplish things easily. Life bores me but I'm literally the boy in the bubble, trapped with only myself to have fun with while begging for understanding and chances.
But no.
How selfish is it that we're born and have no choice over the matter?
Some people shake their heads at this theory. The theory of the selfish acts of the mom and dad. Boyfriend and girlfriend, with little regard for what the combinations of themselves is going to produce. I don't need a lecture on odds, I get that too. I also get the good in life and people can tell me all they want how good I've got it and that I should be thankful I'm not living in some third world country. I understand, and I am thankful I live in America where numbskulls, more than anywhere in the world can excel in life simply by surrounding themselves with the really smart people of the world. Or become bad actors and make millions, all the while smiley glad-handing their merry ways to their 8,000 s.f. homes with pools, dune buggies and maid service.
To listen to these people complain about anything makes my stomach turn. It was like watching the behind-the-scenes making of "The Passion of the Christ" and showing Mel Gibson getting bent out of shape because the people in the movie, that don't understand english, didn't get what he was trying to tell them to do.If I could have transported myself anywhere on earth to any place in time it would have been right then and right there and I would have beamed down in front of Mel and punched him in the mouth, then lectured him on how impossible it is for us to relate to what he was having a bad day about based solely on his financial position on the planet. Not to mention his freedoms.
Standing at the stairs looking down I realized I cannot do this any longer, but then I can't really do much else at the moment. What a terrible place to live in.
But it’s slowly getting better. Or maybe I’m just becoming more apathetic.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Welcome to the Party!
Hey! It's 5:30am again and here I am writing away again (jerk). Yeah, neato! It's really nothing (loser) I am doing for myself. Just a little sumpin' fo' da peoples! (yeah, right) Honest. My heart is filled with chocolatey goodness.
Two things:
1. Let's welcome "Seal" to the party. (And what exactly does "Seal" mean anyway?)
2. (I had something to write here, honest - it's just too effin' early)
3. (Oh, yeah, now I remember...) In honor of my new compatriot, I've unveiled two new blog links. "Family Guy" and "Bitter Bartender Girl". (And, yes, I know, this is the third thing on my list - get a life!) Kindly direct your peepers to the right.
Why these two links? The first would be fairly obvious if you were to witness the Stewie tattoo on Seal's ass. (Just kidding. I've never seen Seal's ass. Really. Besides, its a tattoo of Brian the Dog). The second... well, let's just say there is a certain ascerbic lure to this site, and, I think, a style that will appeal to my partner in crime.
Seal, can I get a witness?
Okay, that's enough for now.Except for, uh..
"POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"
Yeah. That's it.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Comeuppance
Creative people live interesting lives.
Or perhaps they’re addicted to chaos.
Despite knowing what I wanted to do, actually doing it was an entirely different adventure. After 40 years of existence (God willing), I no longer look back with regret for not taking risks sooner, I reflect back with thankfulness for my comeuppance. The back-breaking thankless jobs of digging ditches and trimming trees. The sunburn and dehydration. The unrealistic and irritating contractor that yelled too much while being on the bottom rung on the ladder of employment. In Arizona.
Mowing acres and acres of grass…
I’ve taken those years of experience and mistakes in the field and out, and transformed them into useful tools for an office. This, I believe, is a good selling point and affords me respect from those doing the manual labor. It also allows me to communicate with them as real people and lead if need be, because I have respect for what they’re doing. It’s my paint on the canvas that they’re transforming into real life and something tangible, so I cannot cut corners and expect to be represented wholly.
My mission is real and general. Give respect to all, not just those who I feel deserve it. “Please” and “Thank you” still mean something, and so does getting your hands dirty even when you feel you’ve already paid enough dues. The road to licensure is my goal, and I take it seriously but know I can’t do it on my own. Once completed, drinks are on me.
Time to make the donuts?
Ugh. Its morning again and here I am click, clack, clacking away.
One good thing about waking up in the early morning hours... you can do stuff you might not otherwise do. Why not? You've got nothing better to do (sleep? we don't need no stinkin' sleep!) and there's no one to stop you. At least no one who's awake.
Yesterday was a bitch at work, so it was especially fun to flagellate myself up the mountain. (No this is not a masturbation reference, though, upon reflection, it is another great way to relieve stress. Or at least distract myself for twenty minutes of bliss. (pause) Okay, five minutes (slight pause) Okay, three - but that's it!)
Back to the mountain: Camelback! Yeah, its not really a mountain but it goes up a ways and narcissistic/masochistic individuals like myself tend to congregate there.
After a crappy day at work, its a really great way to pound out your troubles, burn flab, and, hey, why not get a tan in the process? At least you can on the weekends. And, oh yeah, there's that whole natural desert landscape - an oasis in the middle of the city... blah blah blah. You get the picture.
Anyhoo...
Came home last night after expending the last bit of energy and promptly fell asleep.
Yep, its a glamorous life but someone has to lead it.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Interesting side note
It's 5 a.m. and I normally wouldn't be writing right now, but, lo and behold, I'm awake. In fact I've been awake for about an hour now. "Trouble sleeping?" you ask? Nope. I somehow managed to reset the time instead of the alarm last night and when I awoke (at what I am now guessing was aproximately 4 a.m., give or take) I leaped from my bed and... well, you get the idea.
When did I discover the error of my ways? That's right, in my car. I'd frantically thrown all the makings for the day including lunch, lunchtime reading, work clothes and hiking clothes into the car and was preparing to "lay some patch" (rushing off at breakneck speed) when I noticed the car clock. It said 4:43 a.m.
(pause)
Then I confirmed with the time with my phone.
(pause)
The irony here is that I rarely even set my alarm - usually just wake up when I want to - but had decided to be extra-extra responsible last night after staying up late, reading. So now I've got enough time to kill, but not really enough time to go back to sleep.
The lesson to my story? No good deed goes unpunished.
Alack.
Maybe I'll settle in for a little nap after all. (slight pause). Then I can do it all again in about an hour.
When did I discover the error of my ways? That's right, in my car. I'd frantically thrown all the makings for the day including lunch, lunchtime reading, work clothes and hiking clothes into the car and was preparing to "lay some patch" (rushing off at breakneck speed) when I noticed the car clock. It said 4:43 a.m.
(pause)
Then I confirmed with the time with my phone.
(pause)
The irony here is that I rarely even set my alarm - usually just wake up when I want to - but had decided to be extra-extra responsible last night after staying up late, reading. So now I've got enough time to kill, but not really enough time to go back to sleep.
The lesson to my story? No good deed goes unpunished.
Alack.
Maybe I'll settle in for a little nap after all. (slight pause). Then I can do it all again in about an hour.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
By the prickling of my thumbs...
Its Sunday night and I am winding down from a fairly pleasant, though somewhat surreal weekend. Went down to Tucson and caught up with my old buddy, Dee-wayne.
We've been friends since we were in grade school (Dad still refers to him as "ol' slack-jaw" owing to his childhood propensity towards mouth breathing) and the strangest thing about seeing him after two years is how un-strange it was. Kinda like slipping on an old pair of shoes that were stuck under the bed. You thought they were gone - and they're not - and it's really cool for a bit - and then you put them on and its like they were never missing.
Think its strange to compare friends to old shoes? Yeah, maybe. I can't decide if this is a normal state of mind for the returning traveller or if I am ever so slightly disconnected right now. Maybe a little of both.
Just finished reading "Something Wicked This Way Comes" for the first time, by the way. Not my favorite Bradbury, ever, but not bad. It was a little slow to start but picked up after the first hundred pages or so.
Have I mentioned what a kick-ass library we have in Phoenix? (Did I say "we?" Hmm. Maybe Phoenix really is the place for me, after all). The Barton-something-or-other-Library (Barton Fink? Bartelby Scrivener? Butterburr?) is pretty damned cool. It's a four-story glass, steel, and neon box that actually looks pretty cool -and- wonder of wonders, they have books! A lot of books. Even books I like to read. No, really. Okay, blah blah blah, back to "Something Wicked..."
So the book is a sleeper to start (typical sci-fi/mystery stuff) but then gets more interesting when the father of one of the two kids gets involved. He's this somewhat distant, melancholic dude who appreciates but is a definite contrast to the wildness of youth. He drone on a bit about good and evil, but... then he touches on death, and how things get tainted with a sadness because of it.
Later, he manages to overcome the forces of darkness/evil/etc. with laughter. Yes, its all a bit syrupy (and maybe a little preachy) but something struck a chord in me and I thought, "yup, that's why I read this book"; to remember about laughter and light. Thank you Mr. Bradbury, wherever you are.
Well. I gotta get up and make the donuts tomorrow. Peace.
We've been friends since we were in grade school (Dad still refers to him as "ol' slack-jaw" owing to his childhood propensity towards mouth breathing) and the strangest thing about seeing him after two years is how un-strange it was. Kinda like slipping on an old pair of shoes that were stuck under the bed. You thought they were gone - and they're not - and it's really cool for a bit - and then you put them on and its like they were never missing.
Think its strange to compare friends to old shoes? Yeah, maybe. I can't decide if this is a normal state of mind for the returning traveller or if I am ever so slightly disconnected right now. Maybe a little of both.
Just finished reading "Something Wicked This Way Comes" for the first time, by the way. Not my favorite Bradbury, ever, but not bad. It was a little slow to start but picked up after the first hundred pages or so.
Have I mentioned what a kick-ass library we have in Phoenix? (Did I say "we?" Hmm. Maybe Phoenix really is the place for me, after all). The Barton-something-or-other-Library (Barton Fink? Bartelby Scrivener? Butterburr?) is pretty damned cool. It's a four-story glass, steel, and neon box that actually looks pretty cool -and- wonder of wonders, they have books! A lot of books. Even books I like to read. No, really. Okay, blah blah blah, back to "Something Wicked..."
So the book is a sleeper to start (typical sci-fi/mystery stuff) but then gets more interesting when the father of one of the two kids gets involved. He's this somewhat distant, melancholic dude who appreciates but is a definite contrast to the wildness of youth. He drone on a bit about good and evil, but... then he touches on death, and how things get tainted with a sadness because of it.
Later, he manages to overcome the forces of darkness/evil/etc. with laughter. Yes, its all a bit syrupy (and maybe a little preachy) but something struck a chord in me and I thought, "yup, that's why I read this book"; to remember about laughter and light. Thank you Mr. Bradbury, wherever you are.
Well. I gotta get up and make the donuts tomorrow. Peace.
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