Yesterday I got into a car accident and found myself in an oddly lit meeting room. God and the Devil were waiting for me with my blog pulled up on a projector screen with several areas circled in red.
G: Thanks for coming. We're a little behind schedule here so let's just get into it. Got a little commentary on your blog so far...
Me: (switching from confused to flattered/hopeful) Really? What do you think?
G: That's right--I forgot that about you--always fishing for compliments, eh...?
D: Don't listen to him--people find that endearing--it makes you look vulnerable, like a little lost puppy that needs snuggling...
M: Don't know if that's exactly what I'm going for, here.
M: So, you had some feedback...
G: Well, to start with, maybe I'd be alright without your defense of me--I think I've been doing okay without your thoughts being made public...Maybe you could consult your 5-year old when it comes to the deeper philosophy--I sent him to you to keep you in line...
Me: Ow!
D: Come on, a little low-level dialog isn't too bad--get the conversation going, stir up a little confusion.
Me: Can I ask a quick question: What was the Tsunami thing all about anyway...?
D: Let's not get into that...we've got contractual obligations for a given number of Acts of God...
G: Well, it tests the faithful...like the dinosaur bones this bozo made me scatter...
D: We've had a 75% increase in agnosticism in the past 3 weeks alone...
G: Let's get back on track here...but seriously, that was probably the worst blog entry I've seen anytime, anywhere. What were you thinking?
G: By the way, maybe you don't realize that the Tennessee Hill dialect you mockingly refer to is actually the purest form of Anglicanized French since the Norman invasion. It's descendants have the lowest influx/output migration in history, and it is the closest resemblance to spoken Latin available. "Worsh", which you portray here (pointing to screen), is actually a direct conjugation of "whorshia", meaning "to vigorously clean".
D: Would it kill you to look something up every once in a while? I mean, really?
G: By the way, just write a check, you cheap bastard! Don't be a hypocrite!
G: And a picture somewhere would be nice...Geez!
Me: Well, I just wanted to get things down and started and then...
G: Cut it out--remember me? Omniscient? Hello? You have no intentions of going back.
D: And the "f-word" so many times? I mean, is that entirely necessary? Seriously, it's distracting.
G: What would your friends and family think if they saw THAT?
Me: I was just getting it out of my system...
G: Ahem!
Me: Alright, damn it, I'll cut it out.
G: This "lion's" entry has something, though. I like the imagery.
D: The "beer" part completely screws it up, though.
Me: You know, I went back and added that because I was trying to say that I'm kinda locked into a role...
G: yeah, yeah...
Me: (voice trailing off)...you know, in my new family...(mumbling)
Me: (renewed energy)You know what I'm saying, right?
G: yeah, yeah, get over it, already!
D: I thought that part never went just right. Did you ever try editing?
G: The "Are we still friends" made me think...I did like that "shit-magic" reference. It was kind of dry yet funny--I almost missed it. You know, I think if you thought about it a little more, you could come up with something else creative that says the same thing without using "shit".
D: I like it just the way it is...but you are a little too aware of the reader sometimes and it makes you sound a little neurotic. Come on, relax a little! But shit-magic was pure genius-did you make that up yourself? What is that, a kenning or something? I haven't seen that since Beowulf!
Me: I laughed to myself when I wrote it! I was there but I still laughed while writing about it.
G: That's kind of a bad sign...you may need some professional help.
G: I thought it was really deep that you used the conversation with your little boy as a symbolic representation of your voice with the audience, like you are trying to get thoughts out but they don't give you enough credit for being smart, and then you turn around and use that low expectation to suprise and amuse them and give them a nice, glowing feeling about having been gently brought into your consciousness and getting a warm feeling of humanity.
Me: Hmmmmm....I hadn't really thought about that to be honest with you--maybe that's reading too much into it-but I like the sound of it-does it hold together under scrutiny?
G: (eyes roll) What's with writing stuff about your family? I mean, come on, the oldest device in the book--really discourages criticism because it humanizes you and makes people think they are criticising sacred ground. Seriously, come on here...Besides, what's Fran going to think when she reads that? You make her sound like a real bitch!
D: Would it kill you to do just a little bit of research every once in a while? It would give you so much more credibility...
G: The math thing on the creativity seems a little arbitrary too (by the way, did you go back and add that? Why not a new entry?)--and couldn't you come up with some numbers that were funny or meaningful or both?
Me: Funny numbers?
G: And the pretty happy (not pretty, happy)--that was a direct ripoff from Hemingway's The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, and even then it had to be explained to you after you had read it 3 times! You're really starting off on a bad foot here...And then you say "it was never pretty"--that point goes a different direction? Don't you proofread?! People are going to see right through that pretentious attitutude of yours.
Me: But overall am I going the right direction here? I know my voice is there but am I too negative and dry to entertain? Do I sound too much like Dave Barry? I couldn't take that...
G: Just keep going. You'll get to the quality stuff--this was just a checkpoint. Figure out if you're going to just pound out whiney-sounding snippets or if you can pull together something for a whole book. Now if you'll excuse us, we're late for the next one...
D: Don't take this too hard. Really, you are a bit sensitive and neurotic. But some of your stuff was hellafunny and creative!
Me: Wait! I've still got some questions!!! I need guidance!!! I 've never done this before!!!....
Fade to black.
Still here.
12 January 2005
10 January 2005
Are we still friends?
When people are asked: What is the best advice you've ever received?, their responses typically go in one of 2 directions: 1) This is a dumb question, and the answer may seem very trivial written down, so it is very tempting to copy exactly what you've seen on a fortune cookie somewhere. Or something else trivial that doesn't give insight to your true failings which require advice. 2) The 2nd type of response is a contrived Confucious-type (or maybe I'm just craving some Kung Pao chicken right now?) zen meditation that is designed to make the teller appear as deep as possible, something like "Stop and smell the roses.", which kinda means something but really isn't advice. In my opinion, Real advice/real instructions for life can't be summarized into a tag line.
I've gotten great advice from people all around me, but they usually give it without trying--I've got my eyes open and my memory recording and my imagination rolling and my interpretive yet non-judgemental (really) attitude pointed in their direction.
I've seen where people care way too much about their job just to come one day to the realization that the job doesn't care too much about them (thus saith Confuciuos). One false move and their legacy can get relegated to the corporate scrap heap where they've seen reputations get piled when they leave the company and someone has to come after them, spend a couple of days to figure out exactly what their interpretation of their responsibilities was, and all of a sudden, miraculously, life goes on at the company without them--the company actually survives! Okay, this paragraph is about me. I worked at a small business. I personally managed and grew that company from a 17-year old shithole that never made $1 to a multi-million dollar corporation that was operating at 30% margin. I grew it from 15 employees to 65. I won contracts and was the legal liaison and salesman and negotiator and resident bad-ass in general. I created an IT department. In the entry of our (shithole) building, there used to be a blank white wall. Actually, it was right by the microwave and there were chili stains, bloodstains, and a coffee splash pattern that could have entertained a CSI "splatter" investigator (but isn't that what I stands for in CSI?) for days. I repainted the wall and put up our corporate values. I thought that since I was the only dumb-ass working as hard and intelligently as I was that I was entitled to a job FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. When I would shake hands with strangers I would be tempted to introduce myself as the savior of this company. It was my identity.
After 5 years of growing each year, we reached the maximum margin that can be reached by improving efficiency. Our 5 year track record had enabled us to get funding, but we weren't getting any more until we posted a couple of years more worth of earnings. I stopped to take a breath and even took a vacation. While I was gone for the 2 weeks, the owner (who had every right to do this, BUT clearly was the genius behind the original chili-splattered condition and track record of the company before I got there) hired a "new guy" that, of course, was a complete prick and saw me as obstacle #1 in his rise to the top (no, I'm not delusional here). When I came back, he became my #1 obstacle in improving things. Against my wishes, we reinvested every solitary dollar rather than reserve cash for emergency expenses (I should have seen this coming, since "new guy" lived in a roach motel and didn't have a car, yet was making $$ decisions). He recruited my team members to his side by allocating new management positions for incompetent people, putting them in way over their head but stocking his "cabinet". I made political mistakes by publicly protesting these changes--I was the guy who wanted "to keep things as they were and resist change". I admit, I wasn't savvy enough to take "new guy" on the right way. Within 6 months, it was a standoff and clearly time for me to go. What an awakening to realize how expendable I was after sincerely putting everything I had into this job! I had uncerimoniously lost my identity and I went through a mourning period when I left.
Allow me to gloat a little: within 2 years, the company folded and reorganized. SCOREBOARD! Of course, "new guy's" take on it was "Well, the company was so unhealthy when I got there, I just wasn't able to salvage it..." By the way, I don't blame "new guy"--he was just an idiot that was enabled to work his shit-magic on the company, and the owner ultimately had to live with the consequences. I'm not (too) bitter, because it was ultimately actually a fantastic, healthy move for me and, as it turned out, a great lesson if I can learn from it.
If I just said "No one person is unexpendable", that would be the same trite advice that I've gotten before. But I've lived it. It was humiliating and depressing, and not a very fun story to tell. It was a wake-up call not to read your glowing reviews and get deluded that you have a guarantee. You kinda have to see how unfair it can be for it to really mean something. My life lesson learned: Be careful how you identify yourself with your private, interal voice. If your identity is gained from external sources, like my "Successful Executive" one was, then your identity is the house built on sand--it can be blown away by outside influences and you are left emotionally homeless.
Or it could mean: Don't ever take vacation (?)...
So on to the story where I receive the best advice ever...In grad school, I took a very intensive class on electron microscopy. An electron microscope makes high resolution images and, in those days, the photography part was quite complicated and was a major focus of the class. We were given a scavenger hunt list of about 20 things to photograph, and it would take weeks and weeks to get all of these items completed. Without getting too technical, you could actually physically damage your sample while working with it because you are blasting it with electrons.
Knowing this, our professor, Dr. A, gave us a crystal sample that is particularly sensitive to beam damage and it tends to shatter into beautiful shards while being photographed, which is a good indicator of your skill with the machine. We all used the same sample slide, so it is hard to find a field of view without some beam damage, especially if you aren't one of the first students to use it. In a competitive environment, I actually know someone who purposely went through blasting several fields so there would be a limited number of people who could get this specimen properly photographed (sick, huh? Same guy: left the photo chemical wells half-full and caused one girl to have half-developed pictures, which induced a hysteria which I was able to witness).
So, my buddy had taken the class before me, but was down at the microscope with me (they always put electron microscopes in the basement (dungeon) of the school because it dampens vibration and there are no windows because you don't want any stray light when you are photographing). As I was trying to find the proper field, he wanted to show me the effects of some changes in settings, so I got up and let him "drive" for about 5 minutes. He is a pushy SOB, so when he wanted to take a photo, I let him do it just so he would shut up and get out of the way.
Well, of course during this time, in walks Linda, the lesbian tech who runs the lab, and she gives me a glare. Bad advice previously received from Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice: "A gentleman is assumed to be upright and fair in all his dealings without explanation". Okay, that doesn't work these days. When my buddy is done with his control-freak playing around, I get back to work and spend another 3 hours on the instrument, finally getting the picture I need, etc.
Three days later, Linda confronts me angrily and tells me that she has reported me to Dr. A for academic dishonesty. I'm crushed. Dr. A is my advisor, a pretty gruff guy, and God knows what's going to happen.
Don't these people know everything I'm going through to be in school? Don't they realize that I'm living in a 2-room apartment, taking 15 hours of school plus labs, doing independent research, and working 45 hours per week? Don't they know I have to take a shift that makes me go in at 1:45 AM on Saturday and blows the rest of my weekend from exhaustion just so I can have a day off during the week for labs? Could they realize that I'm just taking my current courseload to gain practical knowledge and it's not part of a degree program? Could they know that I felt like there were people actually cheering for me to fail because my success highlights their self-doubt? I'm dead broke, too--can't they see that? Do they know that my family wanted me to quit college because it wasn't their plan for me? Does Linda know how much I look up to Dr. A? I'm 25--I don't know how to deal with this. I'm completely humiliated.
I go into Dr. A's office.
Me: I need to tell you something.
Dr. A : Okay. Go ahead.
Me: If I turn in some work with my name on it, it's going to be my work.
Dr. A : Okay, that's what I expect from you.
Me: Linda saw something and misinterpreted it. (tears coming to my eyes, probably from relief that he seems to be taking this well).
Dr. A: I'm not concerned about that. I'm more concerned with how you don't seem to be focused on what you're doing. (plus some corrective instruction that doesn't relate here).
So I'm broken up a little, and to me this was a pretty significant meeting. It told me that Dr. A gave me some benefit of the doubt. It also told me that some people have unexpected wisdom.
A week later, Dr. A: Are we still friends?
Now, here's the significance--Dr. A has been around. He's seen every ploy students try in order to endear themselves to the prof in order to obtain favoritism. He keeps things at arm's length. I'm still not sure how many kids he has, or where exactly he lives, or what his thoughts are on personal issues, and I've now known him for 10 years. This was a significant question coming from him. I think he thought I was offended by his advice after I got my part off my chest--not sure...
To analyze this question further: I appreciate the relationship I have with you, and I don't take it for granted. I've considered you an friend in the past and I want you to know that, even though we just had a situation, it doesn't affect the way I feel. Are you cool with that? It put the burden on me to object if I still have an issue. It disarms both sides and clears the air completely.
I swear I use either that exact phrase or a variation of it all the time now.
Easy example: After counseling employees, I say it word for word. Warning: don't try it unless you are prepared for the truth.
Last Friday: Someone was expecting me to work in their office for 4 hours on a project. I showed up knowing I couldn't do all the work they expected. I faced the music and broke the bad news. Then I asked "We're still friends, aren't we?" She laughed and said "of course!" Two minutes before that I thought she was going to take a contract out on me.
When I turned in my projects, I purposely turned in a photo of a beam-damaged sample even though I had (personally) taken a beautiful image of an intact crystal field. Knowing I was going to do this and lose some credit made me work extra hard to do a better job on every other image. I wanted there to be no question about the integrity of all of my work (some people might think this is foolish, but I am quietly proud of having the guts to do this--it was like giving Linda the middle finger).
I got an A.
And I saw Dr. A 3 weeks ago--we're still friends.
I've gotten great advice from people all around me, but they usually give it without trying--I've got my eyes open and my memory recording and my imagination rolling and my interpretive yet non-judgemental (really) attitude pointed in their direction.
I've seen where people care way too much about their job just to come one day to the realization that the job doesn't care too much about them (thus saith Confuciuos). One false move and their legacy can get relegated to the corporate scrap heap where they've seen reputations get piled when they leave the company and someone has to come after them, spend a couple of days to figure out exactly what their interpretation of their responsibilities was, and all of a sudden, miraculously, life goes on at the company without them--the company actually survives! Okay, this paragraph is about me. I worked at a small business. I personally managed and grew that company from a 17-year old shithole that never made $1 to a multi-million dollar corporation that was operating at 30% margin. I grew it from 15 employees to 65. I won contracts and was the legal liaison and salesman and negotiator and resident bad-ass in general. I created an IT department. In the entry of our (shithole) building, there used to be a blank white wall. Actually, it was right by the microwave and there were chili stains, bloodstains, and a coffee splash pattern that could have entertained a CSI "splatter" investigator (but isn't that what I stands for in CSI?) for days. I repainted the wall and put up our corporate values. I thought that since I was the only dumb-ass working as hard and intelligently as I was that I was entitled to a job FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. When I would shake hands with strangers I would be tempted to introduce myself as the savior of this company. It was my identity.
After 5 years of growing each year, we reached the maximum margin that can be reached by improving efficiency. Our 5 year track record had enabled us to get funding, but we weren't getting any more until we posted a couple of years more worth of earnings. I stopped to take a breath and even took a vacation. While I was gone for the 2 weeks, the owner (who had every right to do this, BUT clearly was the genius behind the original chili-splattered condition and track record of the company before I got there) hired a "new guy" that, of course, was a complete prick and saw me as obstacle #1 in his rise to the top (no, I'm not delusional here). When I came back, he became my #1 obstacle in improving things. Against my wishes, we reinvested every solitary dollar rather than reserve cash for emergency expenses (I should have seen this coming, since "new guy" lived in a roach motel and didn't have a car, yet was making $$ decisions). He recruited my team members to his side by allocating new management positions for incompetent people, putting them in way over their head but stocking his "cabinet". I made political mistakes by publicly protesting these changes--I was the guy who wanted "to keep things as they were and resist change". I admit, I wasn't savvy enough to take "new guy" on the right way. Within 6 months, it was a standoff and clearly time for me to go. What an awakening to realize how expendable I was after sincerely putting everything I had into this job! I had uncerimoniously lost my identity and I went through a mourning period when I left.
Allow me to gloat a little: within 2 years, the company folded and reorganized. SCOREBOARD! Of course, "new guy's" take on it was "Well, the company was so unhealthy when I got there, I just wasn't able to salvage it..." By the way, I don't blame "new guy"--he was just an idiot that was enabled to work his shit-magic on the company, and the owner ultimately had to live with the consequences. I'm not (too) bitter, because it was ultimately actually a fantastic, healthy move for me and, as it turned out, a great lesson if I can learn from it.
If I just said "No one person is unexpendable", that would be the same trite advice that I've gotten before. But I've lived it. It was humiliating and depressing, and not a very fun story to tell. It was a wake-up call not to read your glowing reviews and get deluded that you have a guarantee. You kinda have to see how unfair it can be for it to really mean something. My life lesson learned: Be careful how you identify yourself with your private, interal voice. If your identity is gained from external sources, like my "Successful Executive" one was, then your identity is the house built on sand--it can be blown away by outside influences and you are left emotionally homeless.
Or it could mean: Don't ever take vacation (?)...
So on to the story where I receive the best advice ever...In grad school, I took a very intensive class on electron microscopy. An electron microscope makes high resolution images and, in those days, the photography part was quite complicated and was a major focus of the class. We were given a scavenger hunt list of about 20 things to photograph, and it would take weeks and weeks to get all of these items completed. Without getting too technical, you could actually physically damage your sample while working with it because you are blasting it with electrons.
Knowing this, our professor, Dr. A, gave us a crystal sample that is particularly sensitive to beam damage and it tends to shatter into beautiful shards while being photographed, which is a good indicator of your skill with the machine. We all used the same sample slide, so it is hard to find a field of view without some beam damage, especially if you aren't one of the first students to use it. In a competitive environment, I actually know someone who purposely went through blasting several fields so there would be a limited number of people who could get this specimen properly photographed (sick, huh? Same guy: left the photo chemical wells half-full and caused one girl to have half-developed pictures, which induced a hysteria which I was able to witness).
So, my buddy had taken the class before me, but was down at the microscope with me (they always put electron microscopes in the basement (dungeon) of the school because it dampens vibration and there are no windows because you don't want any stray light when you are photographing). As I was trying to find the proper field, he wanted to show me the effects of some changes in settings, so I got up and let him "drive" for about 5 minutes. He is a pushy SOB, so when he wanted to take a photo, I let him do it just so he would shut up and get out of the way.
Well, of course during this time, in walks Linda, the lesbian tech who runs the lab, and she gives me a glare. Bad advice previously received from Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice: "A gentleman is assumed to be upright and fair in all his dealings without explanation". Okay, that doesn't work these days. When my buddy is done with his control-freak playing around, I get back to work and spend another 3 hours on the instrument, finally getting the picture I need, etc.
Three days later, Linda confronts me angrily and tells me that she has reported me to Dr. A for academic dishonesty. I'm crushed. Dr. A is my advisor, a pretty gruff guy, and God knows what's going to happen.
Don't these people know everything I'm going through to be in school? Don't they realize that I'm living in a 2-room apartment, taking 15 hours of school plus labs, doing independent research, and working 45 hours per week? Don't they know I have to take a shift that makes me go in at 1:45 AM on Saturday and blows the rest of my weekend from exhaustion just so I can have a day off during the week for labs? Could they realize that I'm just taking my current courseload to gain practical knowledge and it's not part of a degree program? Could they know that I felt like there were people actually cheering for me to fail because my success highlights their self-doubt? I'm dead broke, too--can't they see that? Do they know that my family wanted me to quit college because it wasn't their plan for me? Does Linda know how much I look up to Dr. A? I'm 25--I don't know how to deal with this. I'm completely humiliated.
I go into Dr. A's office.
Me: I need to tell you something.
Dr. A : Okay. Go ahead.
Me: If I turn in some work with my name on it, it's going to be my work.
Dr. A : Okay, that's what I expect from you.
Me: Linda saw something and misinterpreted it. (tears coming to my eyes, probably from relief that he seems to be taking this well).
Dr. A: I'm not concerned about that. I'm more concerned with how you don't seem to be focused on what you're doing. (plus some corrective instruction that doesn't relate here).
So I'm broken up a little, and to me this was a pretty significant meeting. It told me that Dr. A gave me some benefit of the doubt. It also told me that some people have unexpected wisdom.
A week later, Dr. A: Are we still friends?
Now, here's the significance--Dr. A has been around. He's seen every ploy students try in order to endear themselves to the prof in order to obtain favoritism. He keeps things at arm's length. I'm still not sure how many kids he has, or where exactly he lives, or what his thoughts are on personal issues, and I've now known him for 10 years. This was a significant question coming from him. I think he thought I was offended by his advice after I got my part off my chest--not sure...
To analyze this question further: I appreciate the relationship I have with you, and I don't take it for granted. I've considered you an friend in the past and I want you to know that, even though we just had a situation, it doesn't affect the way I feel. Are you cool with that? It put the burden on me to object if I still have an issue. It disarms both sides and clears the air completely.
I swear I use either that exact phrase or a variation of it all the time now.
Easy example: After counseling employees, I say it word for word. Warning: don't try it unless you are prepared for the truth.
Last Friday: Someone was expecting me to work in their office for 4 hours on a project. I showed up knowing I couldn't do all the work they expected. I faced the music and broke the bad news. Then I asked "We're still friends, aren't we?" She laughed and said "of course!" Two minutes before that I thought she was going to take a contract out on me.
When I turned in my projects, I purposely turned in a photo of a beam-damaged sample even though I had (personally) taken a beautiful image of an intact crystal field. Knowing I was going to do this and lose some credit made me work extra hard to do a better job on every other image. I wanted there to be no question about the integrity of all of my work (some people might think this is foolish, but I am quietly proud of having the guts to do this--it was like giving Linda the middle finger).
I got an A.
And I saw Dr. A 3 weeks ago--we're still friends.
08 January 2005
I am such a liar
I have this tendency to exaggerate. I really can't help it.
Not on job interviews or where it really matters. Seriously, I don't.
Here's an example:
I went to the store and it took me 20 minutes to find the freakin' bread department with the way they rearranged the aisles.
Truth: It was in the back and it took 2 minutes. Someone told me once that grocery stores scatter eggs, meat, milk, and bread strategically through the store to make you cover maximum distance while you're there. Something also about the music to make you spend more time and compulsively buy...Have you ever HEARD the music they play? gag.
Another example:
I've been working my ass off, but I got an order for $80,000 today.
Truth: I worked about as hard as I should--my job is weird. The order was for $77,825.23.
I know people whose words are like the instruction manual to a dishwasher--Exactly what you want to know. I once knew a person who wrote an entire book devoid of adjectives... But it said exactly what he wanted to say.
Do we all want to line up at mealtimes and just get a big squirt of vanilla pudding? Every meal?
There are some people that this REALLY bothers--my wife is one of them. I just can't help myself, though--I have a flair for the dramatic that is just inside. Do I need to pull my heart out and wring out all of the color? (see, that now looks extremely dramatic to me--but you don't think I really mean that I would literally do that, do you? if so, who is reading this to you?) I even tried correcting myself with the exact truth every single time. That lasted a very short time--I feel like it's an inside joke that I get and that anyone I know well enough gets it too. The truth is that my wife gets it--she's much smarter than I am, and it's not like I'm trying to fool her by hiding the truth. Who really gives a shit? But it seems to just completely lose my credibility and frustrate the hell out of her.
Come on, you really don't think I MEAN 20 minutes do you? Is this thing really THAT irritating? if you said "Okay, really how long did it take?" I would laugh and say "okay, 2 minutes, damn it!" I don't think it adds bonus points to my score or something. If I was really irritated with it, I may say "Wow, I bet a lobotomized monkey could find a loaf of bread in a store faster than that!"
I talk enough as it is--do I really need to say "I went to the store and why can't they just make freakin' aisles where everything is in some kind of extremely reasonable order. Although it took me only two minutes to find the bread section, it was extremely frustrating to me to have to search for such an inane thing. I think it's taking advantage of me a little to go get bread because once you convinced me to get bread you piled on 10 more things even though what the hell are you doing tomorrow anyway when I'm going to be driving for exactly 98 miles (I seriously wrote 100 miles here, but remembered that Waco is actually not EXACTLY 100 miles from where I live), teaching a class for 1.45 hours, visiting exactly 3 more people and then driving 98 miles back. You should really value the time that I spent going to the store to get this because I'm really tired from working my ass off at work today."
Wanna know how big the order is?
Not on job interviews or where it really matters. Seriously, I don't.
Here's an example:
I went to the store and it took me 20 minutes to find the freakin' bread department with the way they rearranged the aisles.
Truth: It was in the back and it took 2 minutes. Someone told me once that grocery stores scatter eggs, meat, milk, and bread strategically through the store to make you cover maximum distance while you're there. Something also about the music to make you spend more time and compulsively buy...Have you ever HEARD the music they play? gag.
Another example:
I've been working my ass off, but I got an order for $80,000 today.
Truth: I worked about as hard as I should--my job is weird. The order was for $77,825.23.
I know people whose words are like the instruction manual to a dishwasher--Exactly what you want to know. I once knew a person who wrote an entire book devoid of adjectives... But it said exactly what he wanted to say.
Do we all want to line up at mealtimes and just get a big squirt of vanilla pudding? Every meal?
There are some people that this REALLY bothers--my wife is one of them. I just can't help myself, though--I have a flair for the dramatic that is just inside. Do I need to pull my heart out and wring out all of the color? (see, that now looks extremely dramatic to me--but you don't think I really mean that I would literally do that, do you? if so, who is reading this to you?) I even tried correcting myself with the exact truth every single time. That lasted a very short time--I feel like it's an inside joke that I get and that anyone I know well enough gets it too. The truth is that my wife gets it--she's much smarter than I am, and it's not like I'm trying to fool her by hiding the truth. Who really gives a shit? But it seems to just completely lose my credibility and frustrate the hell out of her.
Come on, you really don't think I MEAN 20 minutes do you? Is this thing really THAT irritating? if you said "Okay, really how long did it take?" I would laugh and say "okay, 2 minutes, damn it!" I don't think it adds bonus points to my score or something. If I was really irritated with it, I may say "Wow, I bet a lobotomized monkey could find a loaf of bread in a store faster than that!"
I talk enough as it is--do I really need to say "I went to the store and why can't they just make freakin' aisles where everything is in some kind of extremely reasonable order. Although it took me only two minutes to find the bread section, it was extremely frustrating to me to have to search for such an inane thing. I think it's taking advantage of me a little to go get bread because once you convinced me to get bread you piled on 10 more things even though what the hell are you doing tomorrow anyway when I'm going to be driving for exactly 98 miles (I seriously wrote 100 miles here, but remembered that Waco is actually not EXACTLY 100 miles from where I live), teaching a class for 1.45 hours, visiting exactly 3 more people and then driving 98 miles back. You should really value the time that I spent going to the store to get this because I'm really tired from working my ass off at work today."
Wanna know how big the order is?
This really happened
We were driving around looking at Christmas lights in a very nice neighborhood. We drive up to a house covered in lights with a huge, impressive entry floodlighted from all sides.
Fran: It takes a ton of money to build a house like this.
(pause for dramatic effect)
Ryan (my 5 year old): I think it takes a ton of bricks.
I think all parents consider their children to be genius. BUT--is it funny just because I read too much into it? Ever seen the movie "Being There", where the retarded guy is walking around in a very expensive suit and just saying simple things. He looks very distinguished. People end up thinking he's brilliant, women end up trying to sleep with him, he goes on late-night talk shows, and even get's nominated for public office.
Here's another one:
Me: Ryan, I need you to pick up your playroom--it's a mess.
Ryan: But Dad, it's called a playroom. If it was supposed to be clean all the time, it would be a cleanroom.
Now, I don't know if Ryan really knows what a cleanroom is--he may, but it is still funny either way.
Okay, but there's more. I love U2 and was listening to a CD with Ryan in the car. Ryan asks: "Dad, what does it mean to be stuck in a moment and you can't get out of it?" (I SWEAR TO GOD this is word for word).
Me (to myself: Is this one of those things where he's just asking and if I burn too many neurons here maybe I won't have enough when it comes to teaching him really important things like never taking cash advances on your credit card, don't get the
"product protection" thing at Circuit City or fabric protection when you buy a new car?)
to Ryan: I think it can mean a couple of different things. To me, it's when something happens and you have a hard time moving on and trying something new.
Ryan: Dad, I think I'm stuck in a moment...(at this point he describes this complex situation that we glossed over when it came up 2 weeks ago--he didn't get an invitation to a very close friend's birthday party for some reason or another, and he was forced to kind of watch a bunch of other kids going to the party--I know, life sucks when you're 5--Am I wrong to just blow this off and say, "Okay, well, you never know what the motivation is here so just move on"...? Or be like Fran and get on the waiting list to buy a bazooka?)
After this conversation, I realized that I need to be a little more careful, not just explicitly what I say, but realize that this is a little person with a complex psyche.
Fran: It takes a ton of money to build a house like this.
(pause for dramatic effect)
Ryan (my 5 year old): I think it takes a ton of bricks.
I think all parents consider their children to be genius. BUT--is it funny just because I read too much into it? Ever seen the movie "Being There", where the retarded guy is walking around in a very expensive suit and just saying simple things. He looks very distinguished. People end up thinking he's brilliant, women end up trying to sleep with him, he goes on late-night talk shows, and even get's nominated for public office.
Here's another one:
Me: Ryan, I need you to pick up your playroom--it's a mess.
Ryan: But Dad, it's called a playroom. If it was supposed to be clean all the time, it would be a cleanroom.
Now, I don't know if Ryan really knows what a cleanroom is--he may, but it is still funny either way.
Okay, but there's more. I love U2 and was listening to a CD with Ryan in the car. Ryan asks: "Dad, what does it mean to be stuck in a moment and you can't get out of it?" (I SWEAR TO GOD this is word for word).
Me (to myself: Is this one of those things where he's just asking and if I burn too many neurons here maybe I won't have enough when it comes to teaching him really important things like never taking cash advances on your credit card, don't get the
"product protection" thing at Circuit City or fabric protection when you buy a new car?)
to Ryan: I think it can mean a couple of different things. To me, it's when something happens and you have a hard time moving on and trying something new.
Ryan: Dad, I think I'm stuck in a moment...(at this point he describes this complex situation that we glossed over when it came up 2 weeks ago--he didn't get an invitation to a very close friend's birthday party for some reason or another, and he was forced to kind of watch a bunch of other kids going to the party--I know, life sucks when you're 5--Am I wrong to just blow this off and say, "Okay, well, you never know what the motivation is here so just move on"...? Or be like Fran and get on the waiting list to buy a bazooka?)
After this conversation, I realized that I need to be a little more careful, not just explicitly what I say, but realize that this is a little person with a complex psyche.
07 January 2005
Future stuff
Here's stuff I have to get down on paper (?) Later I'll laugh at myself and wonder why I ever thought they would be good topics...
1) How my productivity and time allocation is calculated (remember my funny formula)
2) Melanie's head up her ass (pretty much sums it up and not going to change anytime soon, plus: not too interesting).
3) Vershauterhooten (type B)
4) Scattershooting: am I an incarnation of Blackie Sherrod: Where did Abbie Hoffman go? He seemed like such a geezer (Blackie) so why do I remind myself of him? Am I a Geezer?
5) The Sound and the Fury and the Folks and the Trip
6) What I want to do with Ryan this year
7) How will you know when you get where you're going?
8) No Good Rain and JG
9) Walter Mitty and Uncle Bill (and me)
10) There's something else--damn it, I knew I'd forget...10 topics for books--some ideas already make me want to puke but I have to write them down just so I can cross them off. Here's something: What did the author say he was writing when he wrote "Tender is the Night" (10x better than The Great Gatsby, but not readable for High Schoolers) or "For Whom the Bell Tolls?"
Some of this is code that only I can read (#1,3,5). #7 relates to nothing and I'm not exactly sure why I put in on the list. Sometimes I can take a left turn from something like that and come up with something good. Is that a witty device, or just annoying? I wonder. Some of these things I could write a whole book about. Perhaps not one that anyone would want to read, but make no mistake, we aren't having a problem with volume of writing around here. Just quality (AHHHHHH this was a redundant statement (!) and it was a great opportunity to selectively elminiate unworthy readers and cause a collective question mark to levitate above the world).
I have this problem with balance right now--although I do tend to be a little clumsy, that's not what I mean. I have this internal debate over whether I should educate myself on the more refined skills of writing before I try to crank out my masterpiece or if I should keep it fresh by not polluting my brain with what someone else determines is "good writing". I tried looking up a book about writing, and the description in the computer says "avoiding cliche's and other advice about beginning to write"--ha ha-I guess I'm already screwed, because something that I think is kinda funny is to use a cliche' and then either make fun of myself for using it or maybe using it to set you up for a trite,expected outcome and then, BAM! the left hook...sometimes followed by an uppercut...(went too far there trying to be funny).
Remembering back to elementary school, the kids that were considered most creative were the ones who could color inside the lines. In High School, they were the ones who were able to differ the most from the mainstream while simultaneously not being too "out there". Then there's this whole gray area of "the cutting edge", which is a moving target. I've seen it--I've actually been in art studios in colleges where people are looking at mundane things and creating art--I don't want to get too specific here and ruin the point)--it's just that those people think they are cutting edge and they are spending so much time and sincerely, wholeheartedly chopping out pieces of their soul for these works of art. One of 4 things are going to happen:
a) 2% of the time what they are going to do is going to be so bad that it disgusts and turns the majority of the world off
b) 48% of the time they produce swill that gets stirred into our collective conscious and becomes the art that you walk by in the subway station or in the bottom of a building.
c) 49% of the time the work is talented but unappreciated because 1, the average person is of average intelligence and has average taste and works the average schedule and has an average amount of money and 2, 49% of the people generating this stuff are above average.
d) 1% is true genius, but can still be unappreciated.
Art=a+d
The true test of what's truly creative (yes I used "true" twice and I'm aware of it but I'd rather write a whole defenive sentence than change one of those things (the second) to "genuinely") is looking back at it and seeing what influenced "the next step" or empirically appreciating something for being cool and/or inspirational.
I've seen creativity defined as a unique set of neuronal connections--that's what I want to do, but it doesn't look like much fun when you spell it out that way. And I'm not sure I can.
1) How my productivity and time allocation is calculated (remember my funny formula)
2) Melanie's head up her ass (pretty much sums it up and not going to change anytime soon, plus: not too interesting).
3) Vershauterhooten (type B)
4) Scattershooting: am I an incarnation of Blackie Sherrod: Where did Abbie Hoffman go? He seemed like such a geezer (Blackie) so why do I remind myself of him? Am I a Geezer?
5) The Sound and the Fury and the Folks and the Trip
6) What I want to do with Ryan this year
7) How will you know when you get where you're going?
8) No Good Rain and JG
9) Walter Mitty and Uncle Bill (and me)
10) There's something else--damn it, I knew I'd forget...10 topics for books--some ideas already make me want to puke but I have to write them down just so I can cross them off. Here's something: What did the author say he was writing when he wrote "Tender is the Night" (10x better than The Great Gatsby, but not readable for High Schoolers) or "For Whom the Bell Tolls?"
Some of this is code that only I can read (#1,3,5). #7 relates to nothing and I'm not exactly sure why I put in on the list. Sometimes I can take a left turn from something like that and come up with something good. Is that a witty device, or just annoying? I wonder. Some of these things I could write a whole book about. Perhaps not one that anyone would want to read, but make no mistake, we aren't having a problem with volume of writing around here. Just quality (AHHHHHH this was a redundant statement (!) and it was a great opportunity to selectively elminiate unworthy readers and cause a collective question mark to levitate above the world).
I have this problem with balance right now--although I do tend to be a little clumsy, that's not what I mean. I have this internal debate over whether I should educate myself on the more refined skills of writing before I try to crank out my masterpiece or if I should keep it fresh by not polluting my brain with what someone else determines is "good writing". I tried looking up a book about writing, and the description in the computer says "avoiding cliche's and other advice about beginning to write"--ha ha-I guess I'm already screwed, because something that I think is kinda funny is to use a cliche' and then either make fun of myself for using it or maybe using it to set you up for a trite,expected outcome and then, BAM! the left hook...sometimes followed by an uppercut...(went too far there trying to be funny).
Remembering back to elementary school, the kids that were considered most creative were the ones who could color inside the lines. In High School, they were the ones who were able to differ the most from the mainstream while simultaneously not being too "out there". Then there's this whole gray area of "the cutting edge", which is a moving target. I've seen it--I've actually been in art studios in colleges where people are looking at mundane things and creating art--I don't want to get too specific here and ruin the point)--it's just that those people think they are cutting edge and they are spending so much time and sincerely, wholeheartedly chopping out pieces of their soul for these works of art. One of 4 things are going to happen:
a) 2% of the time what they are going to do is going to be so bad that it disgusts and turns the majority of the world off
b) 48% of the time they produce swill that gets stirred into our collective conscious and becomes the art that you walk by in the subway station or in the bottom of a building.
c) 49% of the time the work is talented but unappreciated because 1, the average person is of average intelligence and has average taste and works the average schedule and has an average amount of money and 2, 49% of the people generating this stuff are above average.
d) 1% is true genius, but can still be unappreciated.
Art=a+d
The true test of what's truly creative (yes I used "true" twice and I'm aware of it but I'd rather write a whole defenive sentence than change one of those things (the second) to "genuinely") is looking back at it and seeing what influenced "the next step" or empirically appreciating something for being cool and/or inspirational.
I've seen creativity defined as a unique set of neuronal connections--that's what I want to do, but it doesn't look like much fun when you spell it out that way. And I'm not sure I can.
Guilt
Am I entitled to a personal space? I mean figuratively.
This blog is thusfar (is that really a word???--it sounds okay when you say it but it looks like a Turkish curse word when you type it) completely private, but I'm considering letting a trusted person take a peek.
It's really important to me to be honest to people, but I gotta be me as well. I remember letting Ms. Webb read my personal poems when I was a Junior in HS. She read all of them and then smiled at me. Three months later, she was talking to the class and slyly mentioned "When I was in High School, I would have probably gone out with (me!)..." No, this was not a pediphilia case in the making--she was older and was sincerely paying me a compliment. Why oh why did I burn all those poems? I remember the charred paper flaking off the metal spiral and thinking about the guy from Raider's who grabs the medallion and burns it into his skin. It felt like unfaithfulness to have those memories readily available and to read them and still love the girls they were written about in a puppy-like, sophomoric way. Not real love which is forged with fire and incidental pain.
Oh, those poems sucked though!
Maybe I burned them because I feared that they would attract a horde of middle-aged doughy chicks.
Bringing me back to--is it okay to have thoughts recorded and not have 100% full disclosure to the one from whom I withhold nothing? Someone told me: "You know, you can reveal A-X, maybe you don't have to reveal A-Z about what you are thinking..." Not that I really care, but just because I put my stuff out there for scrutiny am I a bad guy for thinking such things? No--I'm just dealing with it honestly while the rest of you punk-asses shuffle through this deal like zombies(okay, I don't mean you personally--oh, you know what I mean, but why did I say "zombies"--is there something more clever that fits?).
Maybe this holds me back from writing--I don't want the scrutiny. I really don't want to be mocked, and this is my secret fear, as it was with my poems. I don't want someone to say, though, when this all comes to an end "Yeah, you blame me for not writing--that was your decision--if it was important enough to you, you would have just done it anyway".
An unrealized yet dreaded Scene:
Me walking down the hall, past the teacher's lounge. Overhearing: "and then he said he wanted to caress her satin hair and count her tiny freckles like they were stars against the chilled raven sky!" Burst of uproarious laughter. Keeling over dead from humiliation.
I swear I'm not blaming my lack of motivation to write on someone else's real actions--just my fear of their actions (okay, maybe it's based on me knowing her). Still--it's my prerogative (looks like too many r's here)to get over it and go...
A bulletin from my job: "You could be a type A personality if you have vague feelings of guilt when you are away from work".
Am I a type A husband? Father?
This blog is thusfar (is that really a word???--it sounds okay when you say it but it looks like a Turkish curse word when you type it) completely private, but I'm considering letting a trusted person take a peek.
It's really important to me to be honest to people, but I gotta be me as well. I remember letting Ms. Webb read my personal poems when I was a Junior in HS. She read all of them and then smiled at me. Three months later, she was talking to the class and slyly mentioned "When I was in High School, I would have probably gone out with (me!)..." No, this was not a pediphilia case in the making--she was older and was sincerely paying me a compliment. Why oh why did I burn all those poems? I remember the charred paper flaking off the metal spiral and thinking about the guy from Raider's who grabs the medallion and burns it into his skin. It felt like unfaithfulness to have those memories readily available and to read them and still love the girls they were written about in a puppy-like, sophomoric way. Not real love which is forged with fire and incidental pain.
Oh, those poems sucked though!
Maybe I burned them because I feared that they would attract a horde of middle-aged doughy chicks.
Bringing me back to--is it okay to have thoughts recorded and not have 100% full disclosure to the one from whom I withhold nothing? Someone told me: "You know, you can reveal A-X, maybe you don't have to reveal A-Z about what you are thinking..." Not that I really care, but just because I put my stuff out there for scrutiny am I a bad guy for thinking such things? No--I'm just dealing with it honestly while the rest of you punk-asses shuffle through this deal like zombies(okay, I don't mean you personally--oh, you know what I mean, but why did I say "zombies"--is there something more clever that fits?).
Maybe this holds me back from writing--I don't want the scrutiny. I really don't want to be mocked, and this is my secret fear, as it was with my poems. I don't want someone to say, though, when this all comes to an end "Yeah, you blame me for not writing--that was your decision--if it was important enough to you, you would have just done it anyway".
An unrealized yet dreaded Scene:
Me walking down the hall, past the teacher's lounge. Overhearing: "and then he said he wanted to caress her satin hair and count her tiny freckles like they were stars against the chilled raven sky!" Burst of uproarious laughter. Keeling over dead from humiliation.
I swear I'm not blaming my lack of motivation to write on someone else's real actions--just my fear of their actions (okay, maybe it's based on me knowing her). Still--it's my prerogative (looks like too many r's here)to get over it and go...
A bulletin from my job: "You could be a type A personality if you have vague feelings of guilt when you are away from work".
Am I a type A husband? Father?
Lions
I had this psychology teacher who described a schizophrenic patient that had this problem where she always thought lions were all around her. After much therapy, she was asked "Are the lions gone?" Her answer "No, I just clench my jaw and walk around them now."
Here's my solution: Go up and bitch-slap one of them and let's settle this shit once and for all right here, right now! That's my way of dealing with issues--also described as "What is wrong with me?!" Safety tip--sometimes the lions bite your ass!
Some issues are tougher than others--growing up in my family was bizzaro-land, but I always felt like the guy in the episode of The Twilight Zone who was the protagonist walking through the world were everybody was acting weird--he knows that the situation is out of control, and at first he kind of protests to people, but then he realizes "Okay, no one's listening here, better keep this to myself or they will start thinking I'm the weird one."
Then at age 12 or 13 my Momma told me I had a different Daddy than everyone else (I'm saying it this way to trivialize it--it was horribly traumatic, and just to give you some insight into my wonderful parentage, started when my brother asked my mom what a "bastard" is...)
Boy, I was unwittingly in for a ride.
Did you know that when you are adopted (by my Stepfather), you get a new birth certificate? This is guaranteed to jack with your head. I guess it seemed like a good idea to just not ever talk about it and pretend everything's normal, and then wait for a opportune moment to spring it on the young lad.
I've heard other people say they used to kid their siblings about being left on the doorstep by a stranger, or raised by wolves, or other such things. All of a sudden in our house we had new stuff to not ever talk about. They weren't lions, but it was that gorilla (800 lb.? 1000 lb?--not sure how big it was...)that we weren't supposed to mention.
Remember in Home Alone where Kevin says "I made my family disappear!" I kind of chuckle about that--I love some of them like you love a stray dog, or an old chair that you didn't like at first but it kinda looks good in that corner and you've learned how to make the footrest come up when you want to even though the lever doesn't work. And some more than others--some wholeheartedly, like Don, who was my original little buddy, and whom I tried to kill but he saved my life in the end by being my assistant memory of our childhood. But I guess when the underlying theme is that "You don't belong", eventually you buy it (when you get older you can clearly separate it from normal teenage angst)! Thank God! I had minimal damage because I always was listening to my own soundtrack (I'm thankful for the invention of the walkman--I could just play it to myself--I think I'm trying to get too fancy with my metaphor and just confusing myself here, but like in Shakespeare it's a light interlude), which was telling me "Know what? You're a good guy and you're doing your best to survive in this bullshit situation. Learn from it. Let it push you. Rise above it and you'll be a better man if you survive. If you want it, you can have the last laugh." I did. I could, but it's not me.
Life continued. Got (very luckily and happily) married. Had (beautiful, wonderful, treasured) kids. Thought about stuff. Quasi-recovered from my childhood trauma, halfway stuffed it deep down inside in hopes it would dissolve. Pretty happy, successful guy (not: pretty, happy, successful--It was never pretty).
Then it happened!
Thanks to my buddies at Google, and a scrap of paper with my grandparents' names scrawled on it for some reason or another, I found those from whom I was Separated at Birth, and I heard it all click.
No, it wasn't the sound of reloading the glock for life to take another cheap shot at me now that I was winning. Boy, could I have handled that? I think so, but thank God I don't need to worry about it.
Separated at Birth took on a new meaning (am I doomed to use cliche's? I swear to God I'm trying to stop--I acknowledge the problem and appeal to a higher power).
Okay, I have to outline a converation for you:
Me: something something something---I have a new family.
Other person: Huh?
Me: Yeah, my parents split up before I was born and I've never met my dad--I looked them up.
O: Huh?
Me: Yup. And I have new grandparents, and a sister that I didn't even know about.
O: So...you have a different Dad? What's he like?
Me: Well, I haven't ever met him--He's got issues and he's cut off from his family, but I have everyone else.
O: Are you going to meet them?
Me: Already have--they are awesome.
O: Wow, that's heavy!
Me: You're telling me!
(So...like in music--put repeat bars on that (if I ever stopped spewing out so many words and went back and reformatted, I could probably figure out a clever way of doing this) Repeat about 100 (,000) times!
The ramifications of this are incredible. After studying Biology (Bachelor's degree with 40 hours of Grad School, including lab work)--I thought I knew what was heritable. Is a spirit passed down in genes? I certainly thought not, but offer up myself as living proof.
My half-sister is a new-found treasure--she is one of my closest living relatives and in discovering things about her I feel like I have validated some positive things that I always suspected about myself but was afraid to claim (started to list things here but started feeling cheesy about it and N will probably be the first living person to read this entry, so got a little self-conscious). When we compared notes, we have so much history and characteristics in common that it was literally frightening to me that I'm living this pre-programmed life against my will (althought that comfortably explains why I voted for Bush in the last election when every fiber of my being was screaming out as I darkened the box)--I started off writing this AM thinking this was where I was going--our common stuff, because it's pretty uncanny. The funny thing is, just finding this group of people was so freeing that I could be doing this comparison with Weezy Jefferson and still feel like I want to see a million things in common (If you're on the outside looking in, you're just gonna have to trust me that this is hilariously funny, and I promise not to make too many inside comments in the future).
N--perhaps you also recognize my blog's title and it's source via my paternal lineage (for the rest of you, I kinda feel like when I'm talking over Ryan's head and I'm spelling out stuff so he can't figure it out...although my boy is starting to catch on). Note: I changed my blog title from :Jim Bob's caffeine induced musings (sounded hick to me).
So, I've awakened myself now with that last line from being absorbed in thought and totally honest, and I'll try not to be too self-conscious and edit out things I've written that truly mean something.
This is harder than I thought, and I feel like I'm using up all the 1's an 0's available to me just to get out trivial things, working up to the real stuff I wanted to say. Trying very hard not to stop short of saying real things. Looking at the tabby thing on the right that says that I've typed way too much and wondering if people will make it this far in my dialog...
You ever meet someone at the gym, or school, or getting your car fixed, and then everytime you seem them again you kind of creep back to that context and can only think of things in that context until someone gets brave and changes the topic? aside: Ever been that person and the other person resists? I know someone that, every time we collide along the way in life,we talk about beer. I hate beer--I think it tastes like pee (that's my best guess anyway). I mean, I've really tried to like it, even (we're talking about beer here), and let my friends hook me up with their favorites, but I just can't get into it. And it really isn't interesting at all to me. But with this guy, we talk about beer. I kind of got into some ruts with the new family, too, and the ruts were comfortable for a while but awkward now and make me feel ridiculously needy because it is like we all have problems we keep trying to solve for each other--the overall message, I think, though, is: I'd like to help you any way I can--I'll be right here...
I always think of myself as a happy guy, certainly optimistic, and try to be encouraging to others. This experience made me an emotional wreck for a while and made some past memories and lies surface. I was pretty embarrassed that that's the first side that I showed to my new family, and some of them have forgiven me but all of them seem to like me. Maybe it was okay that I didn't go in with my contrived game-face on (complete with eye-black to protect me from too much of the light). To fill the empty spaces of time and conversations, I feel like I sure have been a chatty bastard with small talk, and, oddly for me, at times a little on the needy side as I assimilate into their group, to the point of imposing on their time and attention beyond what I deserve, but I am dealing with a family lifeline changing--one starting/one ending.
I think it's the right thing for me to do to take on the lions.
Here's my solution: Go up and bitch-slap one of them and let's settle this shit once and for all right here, right now! That's my way of dealing with issues--also described as "What is wrong with me?!" Safety tip--sometimes the lions bite your ass!
Some issues are tougher than others--growing up in my family was bizzaro-land, but I always felt like the guy in the episode of The Twilight Zone who was the protagonist walking through the world were everybody was acting weird--he knows that the situation is out of control, and at first he kind of protests to people, but then he realizes "Okay, no one's listening here, better keep this to myself or they will start thinking I'm the weird one."
Then at age 12 or 13 my Momma told me I had a different Daddy than everyone else (I'm saying it this way to trivialize it--it was horribly traumatic, and just to give you some insight into my wonderful parentage, started when my brother asked my mom what a "bastard" is...)
Boy, I was unwittingly in for a ride.
Did you know that when you are adopted (by my Stepfather), you get a new birth certificate? This is guaranteed to jack with your head. I guess it seemed like a good idea to just not ever talk about it and pretend everything's normal, and then wait for a opportune moment to spring it on the young lad.
I've heard other people say they used to kid their siblings about being left on the doorstep by a stranger, or raised by wolves, or other such things. All of a sudden in our house we had new stuff to not ever talk about. They weren't lions, but it was that gorilla (800 lb.? 1000 lb?--not sure how big it was...)that we weren't supposed to mention.
Remember in Home Alone where Kevin says "I made my family disappear!" I kind of chuckle about that--I love some of them like you love a stray dog, or an old chair that you didn't like at first but it kinda looks good in that corner and you've learned how to make the footrest come up when you want to even though the lever doesn't work. And some more than others--some wholeheartedly, like Don, who was my original little buddy, and whom I tried to kill but he saved my life in the end by being my assistant memory of our childhood. But I guess when the underlying theme is that "You don't belong", eventually you buy it (when you get older you can clearly separate it from normal teenage angst)! Thank God! I had minimal damage because I always was listening to my own soundtrack (I'm thankful for the invention of the walkman--I could just play it to myself--I think I'm trying to get too fancy with my metaphor and just confusing myself here, but like in Shakespeare it's a light interlude), which was telling me "Know what? You're a good guy and you're doing your best to survive in this bullshit situation. Learn from it. Let it push you. Rise above it and you'll be a better man if you survive. If you want it, you can have the last laugh." I did. I could, but it's not me.
Life continued. Got (very luckily and happily) married. Had (beautiful, wonderful, treasured) kids. Thought about stuff. Quasi-recovered from my childhood trauma, halfway stuffed it deep down inside in hopes it would dissolve. Pretty happy, successful guy (not: pretty, happy, successful--It was never pretty).
Then it happened!
Thanks to my buddies at Google, and a scrap of paper with my grandparents' names scrawled on it for some reason or another, I found those from whom I was Separated at Birth, and I heard it all click.
No, it wasn't the sound of reloading the glock for life to take another cheap shot at me now that I was winning. Boy, could I have handled that? I think so, but thank God I don't need to worry about it.
Separated at Birth took on a new meaning (am I doomed to use cliche's? I swear to God I'm trying to stop--I acknowledge the problem and appeal to a higher power).
Okay, I have to outline a converation for you:
Me: something something something---I have a new family.
Other person: Huh?
Me: Yeah, my parents split up before I was born and I've never met my dad--I looked them up.
O: Huh?
Me: Yup. And I have new grandparents, and a sister that I didn't even know about.
O: So...you have a different Dad? What's he like?
Me: Well, I haven't ever met him--He's got issues and he's cut off from his family, but I have everyone else.
O: Are you going to meet them?
Me: Already have--they are awesome.
O: Wow, that's heavy!
Me: You're telling me!
(So...like in music--put repeat bars on that (if I ever stopped spewing out so many words and went back and reformatted, I could probably figure out a clever way of doing this) Repeat about 100 (,000) times!
The ramifications of this are incredible. After studying Biology (Bachelor's degree with 40 hours of Grad School, including lab work)--I thought I knew what was heritable. Is a spirit passed down in genes? I certainly thought not, but offer up myself as living proof.
My half-sister is a new-found treasure--she is one of my closest living relatives and in discovering things about her I feel like I have validated some positive things that I always suspected about myself but was afraid to claim (started to list things here but started feeling cheesy about it and N will probably be the first living person to read this entry, so got a little self-conscious). When we compared notes, we have so much history and characteristics in common that it was literally frightening to me that I'm living this pre-programmed life against my will (althought that comfortably explains why I voted for Bush in the last election when every fiber of my being was screaming out as I darkened the box)--I started off writing this AM thinking this was where I was going--our common stuff, because it's pretty uncanny. The funny thing is, just finding this group of people was so freeing that I could be doing this comparison with Weezy Jefferson and still feel like I want to see a million things in common (If you're on the outside looking in, you're just gonna have to trust me that this is hilariously funny, and I promise not to make too many inside comments in the future).
N--perhaps you also recognize my blog's title and it's source via my paternal lineage (for the rest of you, I kinda feel like when I'm talking over Ryan's head and I'm spelling out stuff so he can't figure it out...although my boy is starting to catch on). Note: I changed my blog title from :Jim Bob's caffeine induced musings (sounded hick to me).
So, I've awakened myself now with that last line from being absorbed in thought and totally honest, and I'll try not to be too self-conscious and edit out things I've written that truly mean something.
This is harder than I thought, and I feel like I'm using up all the 1's an 0's available to me just to get out trivial things, working up to the real stuff I wanted to say. Trying very hard not to stop short of saying real things. Looking at the tabby thing on the right that says that I've typed way too much and wondering if people will make it this far in my dialog...
You ever meet someone at the gym, or school, or getting your car fixed, and then everytime you seem them again you kind of creep back to that context and can only think of things in that context until someone gets brave and changes the topic? aside: Ever been that person and the other person resists? I know someone that, every time we collide along the way in life,we talk about beer. I hate beer--I think it tastes like pee (that's my best guess anyway). I mean, I've really tried to like it, even (we're talking about beer here), and let my friends hook me up with their favorites, but I just can't get into it. And it really isn't interesting at all to me. But with this guy, we talk about beer. I kind of got into some ruts with the new family, too, and the ruts were comfortable for a while but awkward now and make me feel ridiculously needy because it is like we all have problems we keep trying to solve for each other--the overall message, I think, though, is: I'd like to help you any way I can--I'll be right here...
I always think of myself as a happy guy, certainly optimistic, and try to be encouraging to others. This experience made me an emotional wreck for a while and made some past memories and lies surface. I was pretty embarrassed that that's the first side that I showed to my new family, and some of them have forgiven me but all of them seem to like me. Maybe it was okay that I didn't go in with my contrived game-face on (complete with eye-black to protect me from too much of the light). To fill the empty spaces of time and conversations, I feel like I sure have been a chatty bastard with small talk, and, oddly for me, at times a little on the needy side as I assimilate into their group, to the point of imposing on their time and attention beyond what I deserve, but I am dealing with a family lifeline changing--one starting/one ending.
I think it's the right thing for me to do to take on the lions.
Armageddon and cell phones
This is a game we used to play when I was growing up--okay, at the time I didn't know I was playing...I thought it was "life". Pick any random event, and my Dad could tell you how your innocently stupid decision results in the downfall of the human race (or perhaps just personal ruin and damnation).
Example: In college, barely paying tuition, etc. Just got married.
Dad: You got renter's insurance?
Me: Well, Dad--not yet. I'm holding off for now. (unsaid part: I had to look in the couch cushions for gas money to go pick up my paycheck and the rent's late)
My move: Hey, well, if there's a fire or something, I guess I could just pick up another breakfast table at a garage sale for, like 20 bucks or so...
Dad's trump: Oh, you think so, huh? Don't you know you could accidentally burn down your apartment building and be held liable? You could be held responsible for everyone's stuff! And the Building! And the rest of the World! (okay, I added that part for dramatic effect--insert that weird echoing thing they do for announcing upcoming tractor pull contests).
Me (meekly): Well, would my $25,000 policy have covered that anyway?
Crushing blow: You mean you don't have an umbrella policy also? You know, they could take that out of your paycheck for the rest of your life! I'm just trying to give you some advice here!..
Insurance was a big player in our house. It was kind of like buying a lotto ticket--if the old man kicks over, we all get a trip to DisneyWorld and a new car--have some more pork rinds, Dad. Maybe that was one reason why it was good that he was a Texas Ranger's fan--if that doesn't give you hypertension after 30 years of shitty seasons, I don't know what it takes to kill you. Like one of those cockroaches who could survive nuclear holocaust (am I the only one that cringes every time dubya says "nu-cular", or even when you see it coming in one of his speeches? Surely someone has pointed this out to him and it's just plain stubbornness at this point, right?)
Reminds me of Midnight Cowboy and Dustin Hoffman's character talking about falling down and hurting yourself in a building as a ploy: "another way to collect insurance" with an all-knowing nod.
You can never have the right amount of insurance, can you? There's always some smarmy asshole wannabe insurance suit willing to tell you how you aren't covered for one thing or another. They've poisoned the little guy who sits on my shoulder and tells me what to do. But I let it go, then secretly feel like I've left the house without any underwear on...
--so, I wandered out into the blog world and I'm now tremendously self-conscious about how bad my blog sucks compared to all the smart people of the world. Maybe if I looked up stuff I could appear to be smarter. Or add some type of formatting. or pictures.
Maybe I'll go back and take the bad language out--or edit myself. I could really make some snappy lines up to compliment some of my less-witty previous musings. But I'm not trying to write you a research paper here (Yo!) !
Right now, my blog resembles this text game we used to play called Zork (and yes, it rhymes with "dork"). In retrospect, it was the most retarded game ever, because it had no graphics whatsoever--just descriptions, and bad ones at that--you could recreate this game yourself on a Big Chief tablet. There were even multiple versions of this game. I remember spending $$ to buy the whole Zork Anthology--it's kind of like buying an old CD even though there are only 2 good songs on it, just because you are kind of nostalgic and remember it being better than it really is.
Is there anything sadder than something that went out of style 15 years ago? If it's 100 years ago, it's kinda cool, you know? Maybe it'll show up on Antiques Roadshow or something. And after a while it's kinda cool again, you know--like parachute pants or something--an oddity that you can't really find (or can you? all these people who wear jogging suits like they are a fashion statement...) but at any rate, there's a window of time where it's just sad.
Here's another example: technology in movies and stuff.
Watch 3 Days of the Condor--c'est tre cool with the HUMONGOUS buick-sized dot matrix printers deafening everyone (the girl in the computer room doesn't here everyone get gunned down in the hall) and how it's really neat that they have a video camera outside the door! Robert Redford re-wiring the telephone wires by dropping under the street via a manhole and hooking up his handset...Cool!
Read The Bourne Identity (not watch Matt Damon, whose acting makes me sleepy)--Lame-o-rama. It's written at the cusp of time where technology was developing but there weren't cell phones. It gets frustrating: "What shall we do? We must get to a telephone booth somewhere...How can I possibly call overseas?" Lame!
I had a point, here, I really did....I was trying to come up with something from the 80's/90's that's geeky (big hair?), but the best example of all this to me is how the '70's stuff was considered soooooo stupid during the '80's, but now it's funky and cool.
Gotta go for now, but first another example of the Armageddon game:
Me: I was thinking about taking a typing class.
Dad: Take drafting--you could always get work as a draftsman
Me: I was just thinking that typing could come in handy someday
Dad: What the hell for? Are you going to be a typist? That's woman's work! Draftsmen never run out of work.
Me: Well, you know, computers and stuff
Dad: Suit yourself--just don't come whining to me when you can't find work!
hee hee!
Example: In college, barely paying tuition, etc. Just got married.
Dad: You got renter's insurance?
Me: Well, Dad--not yet. I'm holding off for now. (unsaid part: I had to look in the couch cushions for gas money to go pick up my paycheck and the rent's late)
My move: Hey, well, if there's a fire or something, I guess I could just pick up another breakfast table at a garage sale for, like 20 bucks or so...
Dad's trump: Oh, you think so, huh? Don't you know you could accidentally burn down your apartment building and be held liable? You could be held responsible for everyone's stuff! And the Building! And the rest of the World! (okay, I added that part for dramatic effect--insert that weird echoing thing they do for announcing upcoming tractor pull contests).
Me (meekly): Well, would my $25,000 policy have covered that anyway?
Crushing blow: You mean you don't have an umbrella policy also? You know, they could take that out of your paycheck for the rest of your life! I'm just trying to give you some advice here!..
Insurance was a big player in our house. It was kind of like buying a lotto ticket--if the old man kicks over, we all get a trip to DisneyWorld and a new car--have some more pork rinds, Dad. Maybe that was one reason why it was good that he was a Texas Ranger's fan--if that doesn't give you hypertension after 30 years of shitty seasons, I don't know what it takes to kill you. Like one of those cockroaches who could survive nuclear holocaust (am I the only one that cringes every time dubya says "nu-cular", or even when you see it coming in one of his speeches? Surely someone has pointed this out to him and it's just plain stubbornness at this point, right?)
Reminds me of Midnight Cowboy and Dustin Hoffman's character talking about falling down and hurting yourself in a building as a ploy: "another way to collect insurance" with an all-knowing nod.
You can never have the right amount of insurance, can you? There's always some smarmy asshole wannabe insurance suit willing to tell you how you aren't covered for one thing or another. They've poisoned the little guy who sits on my shoulder and tells me what to do. But I let it go, then secretly feel like I've left the house without any underwear on...
--so, I wandered out into the blog world and I'm now tremendously self-conscious about how bad my blog sucks compared to all the smart people of the world. Maybe if I looked up stuff I could appear to be smarter. Or add some type of formatting. or pictures.
Maybe I'll go back and take the bad language out--or edit myself. I could really make some snappy lines up to compliment some of my less-witty previous musings. But I'm not trying to write you a research paper here (Yo!) !
Right now, my blog resembles this text game we used to play called Zork (and yes, it rhymes with "dork"). In retrospect, it was the most retarded game ever, because it had no graphics whatsoever--just descriptions, and bad ones at that--you could recreate this game yourself on a Big Chief tablet. There were even multiple versions of this game. I remember spending $$ to buy the whole Zork Anthology--it's kind of like buying an old CD even though there are only 2 good songs on it, just because you are kind of nostalgic and remember it being better than it really is.
Is there anything sadder than something that went out of style 15 years ago? If it's 100 years ago, it's kinda cool, you know? Maybe it'll show up on Antiques Roadshow or something. And after a while it's kinda cool again, you know--like parachute pants or something--an oddity that you can't really find (or can you? all these people who wear jogging suits like they are a fashion statement...) but at any rate, there's a window of time where it's just sad.
Here's another example: technology in movies and stuff.
Watch 3 Days of the Condor--c'est tre cool with the HUMONGOUS buick-sized dot matrix printers deafening everyone (the girl in the computer room doesn't here everyone get gunned down in the hall) and how it's really neat that they have a video camera outside the door! Robert Redford re-wiring the telephone wires by dropping under the street via a manhole and hooking up his handset...Cool!
Read The Bourne Identity (not watch Matt Damon, whose acting makes me sleepy)--Lame-o-rama. It's written at the cusp of time where technology was developing but there weren't cell phones. It gets frustrating: "What shall we do? We must get to a telephone booth somewhere...How can I possibly call overseas?" Lame!
I had a point, here, I really did....I was trying to come up with something from the 80's/90's that's geeky (big hair?), but the best example of all this to me is how the '70's stuff was considered soooooo stupid during the '80's, but now it's funky and cool.
Gotta go for now, but first another example of the Armageddon game:
Me: I was thinking about taking a typing class.
Dad: Take drafting--you could always get work as a draftsman
Me: I was just thinking that typing could come in handy someday
Dad: What the hell for? Are you going to be a typist? That's woman's work! Draftsmen never run out of work.
Me: Well, you know, computers and stuff
Dad: Suit yourself--just don't come whining to me when you can't find work!
hee hee!
06 January 2005
Thump. Thump. Is this thing on?
Holy shit! I really started a blog.
That's what I get for staying up 2 nights in a row and guzzling down Vietnamese coffee. I can't even remember all my sign in stuff, so this may be the only posting for a while--why don't I ever write that stuff down? I keep thinking that maybe some hacker-administrator somewhere thinks--you know, maybe this goofball just uses the same password everywhere he goes so maybe I could just order a yacht and charge it to his visa account (yeah right--my credit limit wouldn't put a gallon of gas in your 1975 pinto, asshole!) So....I keep changing my passwords everywhere and trying to keep a secret agent-style list of it somewhere (where?) and then I end up with 10 email accounts and things being charged to my fucking credit cards that I can't turn off and classmates.com sending me 100 notifications per day telling me that some ex-classmate from high school has something to say to me but I guess we'll never know....
Okay, stopping for another sip of coffee here...God, this stuff is good!
My sister recommended this to me because I'm a frustrated writer in the making. Actually, I think I covet (why did I use that word?) my idealized writer's lifestyle of living by the lake somewhere beautiful, wearing some kind of white flowing robe and/or flannel shirt. Looking out over a balcony. Sitting down and writing whenever I want to feel like it and then bitching all the time about writer's block (I never get that--I just start producing the lowest-possible quality reading this side of a cereal box panel). Then cashing checks for a go-zillion dollars. Is that reality?
Hmmm, maybe my sister was tired of my long Emails and was suggesting an outlet other than filling up her Email with strange ramblings??
Actually, I'm a little spooked now about letting anyone in on my thoughts...not that I'm interesting enough to stalk...--God, I sound paranoid.
I have a bizarre life. I promise--You have no freaking idea.
Hopefully I'll be back if I can remember my 4:00 AM-inspired password. What happens when I press this button?...
That's what I get for staying up 2 nights in a row and guzzling down Vietnamese coffee. I can't even remember all my sign in stuff, so this may be the only posting for a while--why don't I ever write that stuff down? I keep thinking that maybe some hacker-administrator somewhere thinks--you know, maybe this goofball just uses the same password everywhere he goes so maybe I could just order a yacht and charge it to his visa account (yeah right--my credit limit wouldn't put a gallon of gas in your 1975 pinto, asshole!) So....I keep changing my passwords everywhere and trying to keep a secret agent-style list of it somewhere (where?) and then I end up with 10 email accounts and things being charged to my fucking credit cards that I can't turn off and classmates.com sending me 100 notifications per day telling me that some ex-classmate from high school has something to say to me but I guess we'll never know....
Okay, stopping for another sip of coffee here...God, this stuff is good!
My sister recommended this to me because I'm a frustrated writer in the making. Actually, I think I covet (why did I use that word?) my idealized writer's lifestyle of living by the lake somewhere beautiful, wearing some kind of white flowing robe and/or flannel shirt. Looking out over a balcony. Sitting down and writing whenever I want to feel like it and then bitching all the time about writer's block (I never get that--I just start producing the lowest-possible quality reading this side of a cereal box panel). Then cashing checks for a go-zillion dollars. Is that reality?
Hmmm, maybe my sister was tired of my long Emails and was suggesting an outlet other than filling up her Email with strange ramblings??
Actually, I'm a little spooked now about letting anyone in on my thoughts...not that I'm interesting enough to stalk...--God, I sound paranoid.
I have a bizarre life. I promise--You have no freaking idea.
Hopefully I'll be back if I can remember my 4:00 AM-inspired password. What happens when I press this button?...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
