Analog Analogy

Wesley.

2009-03-19T11:20:00.006-04:00

I got a voice-mail yesterday that my dad died. His girlfriend found his body upon returning from a weekend away; the county coroner said he died of a massive heart attack. His drinking and sedentary lifestyle rendered him bloated and unable to move about or get outdoors. He had, as at other times in his life, ballooned out to nearly 350 pounds, though his frame was slight.

Wes wasn't my real dad, though he was my real father. His life was a page from Kerouac, a track from a mid-career Tom Waits record, and some things a lot less romantic all rolled up. Like Barfly meets Glengary Glen Ross meets Cannery Row.

From what I understand, Wes was many things, if not a dad. He was a salesman, a laborer, a drunk, a rambler, a lover of nature and animals a sharp-dresser and a fast-motorcycle-rider. And he was a dad probably a bit, just not to me. His girlfriend had several kids to whom he probably gave at least some parenting, though they, like me, had real dads.

My mother met Wes shortly after he returned from Vietnam after receiving a dishonorable discharge for disobeying orders in a combat zone. He refused to go on a suicide mission that ended up wiping out his platoon. He was sent home, but not before significant exposure to Agent Orange, the effects of which plagued him to his death. He was charismatic and warm despite his time in Vietnam and despite being brought up by a psychotic and violent alcoholic father. He and my mother were married and I was born in 1974. Liquor and pot were his first love however, and by 1976 he had moved on.

Twenty years later, I looked Wes up on my own. We had never met or even corresponded. Nor had our families kept in touch. In fact, his last image of me was probably of a sleeping one-year-old. He was thrilled to hear from me and traveled down from Grand Forks, North Dakota to visit me in St. Paul, Minnesota. He brought me a motorcycle as a gift: 1971 Yamaha 650 that he had restored during a recent period of sobriety. He was a smoker and had installed a cigarette lighter near the bike's ignition, the kind you see in a car where it pops up when it's hot.

A few months later, he visited again and took me to one of the Indian casinos in the area and gave me a hundred dollars to gamble with. I actually came out ahead.

Wes moved to Tennessee a few years later and I visited him in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains where he'd straighten the curves with his crotch-rocket motorcycle. That was the first time saw real hillbillies. They sat on their front porches in rocking chairs, crooked stovepipes jutting from the cobbled shacks, just like in the cartoons.

Several years later just before Christmas, when I was living in Seattle, UPS delivered a smoked salmon to the door. That was Wes. I don't think we'd talked for nearly a year and suddenly this salmon shows up in the mail for Christmas. in 2003 I got married and though he was invited, he did not attend. As it turned out, Wes was drinking again and in bad shape. We didn't speak after that until a couple of weeks ago.

I was walking through the mall on a coffee break and suddenly felt like I should call him. Since we spoke last, I'd been divorced, left New York, moved in with my girlfriend in Maine and had a baby. I didn't know if he was still at the same phone number or even if he was still alive. He was both and answered right away in his deep voice and hybrid accent which straddled the Mason-Dixon line.

He was very happy to hear from me and to learn that he was a grandfather. He told me about his new golden retriever named Ben who was kicked out of guide dog school for being a rebel and I could hear the pride in his voice. I told him about my chihuahua and cats and he was very interested, commenting in ernest about how the intelligence of chihuahuas.

He also said he was happy that I had a good job in this economy and remembered back to the recession in the mid seventies when I was born and he was unemployed. He'd take his pickup truck into the Minnesota woods during my first winter and chop down trees which he would in turn break into firewood and sell to neighbors from our back yard in south Minneapolis.

We didn't talk long, but it was enough so that when I got that voice-mail last night I wasn't filled with regret, only a dull shock that Wes is dead. He requested there be no memorial service and so I suppose this may be his only Eulogy. I can't say it's particularly flattering or well-written, but Wes was a straight-shooter and for that I admire him and for that I'll remember him.

Poladroid.

2009-02-26T17:16:00.005-05:00

I recently discovered Poladroid (for both Mac & Windows). It turns JPEGs into "polaroids" that can then be saved, emailed, whatever. And it's free! It has some tongue-in-cheek nostalgic features as well: the pictures take 3 minutes to "develop" (though shaking them speeds this up), and you can only make 10 pictures in a session, like a Polaroid cartridge. Resulting files are 400 dpi, so they look pretty good! The processing is randomized to a degree so each picture is unique.

2009 Portland, Maine Sex Offenders In The Workplace Calendar: Mr. February!

2009-02-19T14:44:00.008-05:00

February... the shortest of months. That's a good thing in Maine because the coming of March is symbolic of springtime, or "le printemps," as the French say. During the cold and dark month of February, the people of Portland, Maine take solace in the wide variety of cozy neighborhood restaurants peppered throughout the city.

Our own Mr. February, Walter W. Jepson (b. 1960), is one of the unsung heroes that keep the restaurant industry ticking, those who make sure the doors to the town's favorite holes-in-the-wall are open on even the chilliest February evenings.

Walter, who on at least 7 occasions has snuggled up a little too closely with a person or persons under the age of fourteen (so closely in fact that genitals were somehow touched), is an employee of Silly's restaurant. Silly's, whose motto is: "As far as we can discern, the Universe is a very SILLY Place," is conveniently located on Washington Ave. near exit 8.

Just look at all the fabulous menu items at Silly's! Without Walter's hard work and attention to detail, there might be one less destination in our small town to enjoy an XTC pizza and a jar of Tang on a cold winter's night. Congratulations to the staff of Silly's, the residents surrounding the Washington/Cumberland area, and of course to Walter himself, Mister February!

Click here to see others featured in the 2009 Portland, Maine Sex Offenders in the Workplace Calendar!

Limping.

2009-01-23T11:03:00.004-05:00

I work in a shopping mall these days, in retail. I punch a time clock and report to an assistant manager. I remember a certain dignity to retail employees in Manhattan that doesn't seem to exist here. I remember feeling that, in general, people working retail jobs probably led interesting other-lives and, if nothing else, were noteworthy and dignified by virtue of being New Yorkers.

Here, people are nice enough. They have friends and family and hobbies. For me, there's just no sense of being involved in something bigger. Local politics bore me to tears and I couldn't care less about daily news items. I don't think I've ever bothered to pick up a local paper in the year and a half that I've lived here; didn't even consider voting.

Anyway, back to the shopping mall. It's located near the hotel i worked at last year, out in South Portland. It's a one-story affair, trapped in the 80's, with the usual mall suspects: Sears, JC Penny, Macy's, Best Buy. Four or five giant jewelry stores (why?), a food court, a smattering of shitty wagons that sell iPod cases and sunglasses and stuff. Crazily bad piped-in soft-rock (think Lionel Ritchie, Elton John, Michael McDonald).

Oh, and if showing up and pulling open the doors to the shopping mall every morning wasn't bad enough, I'm greeted not only by the likes of Air Supply but to a creepy hodge-podge of elderly exercise enthusiasts: the mall welcomes senior citizens to walk laps around the mall from the early morning before the stores open to the late night.

So as I weave around the geriatrics, through the teal-bathed corridors, forced to listen to god-knows-what, the sickly smell of Cinnabon and BenGay in the air, I ask myself: What the Fuck? What the Fuck am I doing here? Before I got this job I think I went to the mall maybe once during the course of a year. I am 100% alienated.

On my lunch break, I'm forced out into the wilds of the mall to fend for myself for an hour. For the first few weeks, I ate at the food court. McDonalds, Panda Express, Taco Bell, whatever. I can think of few things more depressing than eating shitty fast food in a sea of wiggaz and mall rats, forced to contemplate the lyrics to "Solid as a Rock" or "On the Wings of Love."

If I'm feeling more anxious or have less money, I would go to the TCBY/Pretzel Time at the other end of the mall and just get a frozen yogurt or pretzel dog and sit in a public seating area, often next to mouth-breathing seniors taking a break from their workouts, completing WordFind puzzles and hacking phlegm.

Yesterday, by accident, I was two hours late to work. I forgot that a week ago I'd agreed to come in early to cover my team-leader's dentist appointment. He makes the schedule and he hadn't adjusted it so i forgot. I've been "written up" once already for being late and since then I'd been making a real effort to get to work on time. So yesterday I thought I was 10 minutes early but when I got in I found that I was in danger of receiving a "no-call" infraction which would put me on final notice for termination. It's so humiliating to be treated like a teenager. I mean, I think my boss at Little Cesar's Pizza was more lenient and I was 15 then.

So when lunchtime came around yesterday, I was so depressed that I had to leave the mall during my lunch break. I thought some fresh air would do me good, so I decided to traverse the mall parking lot and cross the main drag to buy some dog food at Petco. All the walkways were blocked by snow piles from the parking lot plows and I had to snake through in a funny way that led me by the Wendy's. I felt depressed and people were looking at me like a homeless person because nobody walks out by the mall.

I decided to drown my sorrows in a Number 2, large, with Dr. Pepper. I saw a manager interviewing a prospective employee and felt so sorry for the kid, before I realized that my job is about the same. By the time I finished the giant box of french fries I was full. I forced myself to eat the hamburger anyway and then, feeling bloated and disgusted with myself, finished the walk to Petco.

I walked back to the dog food section and then realized that I had spent the dog food money at Wendy's. I was $2 short. So I trudged back to the mall, through the teal corridors, past the limping seniors, the chair massage place, past the baby portrait studio and back to my store where I punched back in from lunch. It's a good thing my dog likes cat food.

Chocolate Rain.

2009-01-19T15:34:00.002-05:00

This and This.

Cabbin' Fever.

2009-01-18T11:41:00.007-05:00

A few years ago I lived in Manhattan. One night, I was returning home from SoHo to TriBeCa, walking down Broadway. It was one of those windy winter Manhattan nights that cuts through layers of winter clothing and burns your face. It had started to snow and the slippery sidewalks were almost empty of people.

As with any bad-weather day, there were no cabs to be had. I craned my neck every few seconds to check their fare lights as they approached and finally i saw one letting someone out a block or so upstream near Spring St. I was on the corner of Grand and I jumped into the street and flapped my arms. The cab hit at a red light at Broome and I felt sure someone would claim it while it sat there. But no-one did and the driver kept on coming, almost passing me up but coming to a stop a few buildings down from where I stood.

I ran toward toward the car and as I did I noticed a man running up from Howard Street, the next corner down. It was a race and I would be damned if I was going to lose. I grabbed the door handle first and tried to open it but the other guy shoved me back and I slipped a bit on the icy street. "I don't think so!" he said. And then I saw he was carrying a young boy in his arms.

I regained my balance. "Fuck you. It stopped for me."

"Hey, I have a child here!"

"That's not my problem asshole." I flung the door open and into the man's body, forcing him to slip and fall to his knees in the street." He began to howl at the cab driver that he and his boy needed to get out of the cold and that he would report the driver to the TLC. I jumped into the warm car and the guy grabbed at the door trying to wrestle it open as I wrestled it closed, which I finally did. He was up on his feet again, slamming his fist on the hood of the cab while the boy stood by startled. The man kept yelling, but the swift wind carried the sound away uptown.

The cab pulled away from the curb and the man and his son watched as I rolled down the window and flipped them off. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, the violence, name-calling and all. That's where I was, in my head, when I lived in the city. Reliving this story now makes me feel terrible. Embarrassed. Sad.

Maine 2009 Registered Sex Offenders In The Workplace Calendar!

2008-05-08T10:40:00.006-04:00

Each month we'll take a look at a local citizen who has gone above and beyond to make Portland a better place to live and work. Mister January, Carl H. Anderson, is an employee of the Shipyard Brewery and has achieved the distinguished honor of a statutory rape hat-trick! Yes, three counts of gross sexual assault, or "Engaging in a sexual act with another person and the other person is not the actor's spouse and has not attained the age of 14 years."

Congratulations to Carl and his family. Who ever said mustaches were creepy? Look for him on the Shipyard Brewery tour!

Landlords Without Boarders.

2008-04-22T22:37:00.004-04:00

Wow. There are a lot of shitty apartments in Portland, Maine. And it feels like we've seen them all in the past few days. All were two or three bedroom places priced between $1,000 and $1,350 per month: not top dollar in Portland, but not bottom dollar by any means. All were advertised either in the local paper, craigslist or just by a sign in the window. Most were either on the peninsula, near downtown or out by the University.

So let's see... there were three apartments that looked out onto gas station parking lots, one that had been painted black and pink by this weird African dude named Lado (the bathroom ceiling was also collapsing), one with laundry machines in a basement accessible only from the outside of the house, one next door to a Midas muffler shop on a busy street and four with dropped styrofoam ceilings (one of these with florescent office lights built in).

Then there was the basement apartment or "sub-dwelling" that the happy-go-lucky landlord "sometimes" occupied a part of. I recognized this man from the night he almost backed over me with his SUV in front of that very apartment as I walked my dog. He had yelled "Why don't you try wearing some other color besides black, moron!"

There was the place where we'd have to mow the lawn ourselves, the place with a loud common stairway above the only place a bed could go, the place that we'd need to flush out the furnace water every 30 days and the apartment with the bedroom looking out onto a home for mentally retarded adults. That place had a sweet non-functional fireplace and a landlord with a dyed mustache who lived upstairs.

There was an apartment that, during the day, always had a stretch Hummer parked in front, as there was a neighbor who moonlighted as a chauffeur. It was the early evening when we saw the place and we were lucky enough to see her leaving for work. She was about 21, tall and emaciated with a tight black polyester suit on and a cocked top hat, made-up like a prostitute.

Another place smelled so awful I almost threw up. There was a poor Pug dog crated in the bedroom, large feathers strewn about and a cat with no tail running around peeing on things; there was also a large boat stranded in the front yard. The landlord drove his Vespa across the grass to greet us, wearing a bicycle helmet.

We knew of a house on our block where the occupants owned a giant lynx with a chain-link collar. That place came up for rent but unfortunately it looked as if the lynx had trashed the place.

One apartment had exclusive access to a storage attic: at least 2,000 square feet of hot, unfinished space. Outside the ground-floor rental unit was a group of sunburned wiggers smoking and drinking at ten in the morning, bobbing and weaving to the sounds from a boom box underneath what would have been our baby's room.

The pièce de résistance was a tiny, dilapidated house out in South Portland that butted up to a sea of mammoth Citgo oil tanks, each seemingly the size of a football stadium. The neighbors had cars up on cinderblocks and kids wove through the streets of the weird little neighborhood on their bicycles alongside big-rig oil trucks.

We did find one place that we love. But it's one of two places that overtly doesn't want to rent to us because we have a baby. And a dog. And two cats. Apparently the downstairs neighbors are very sensitive to noise, so the landlord wants us (including our dog and baby) to meet with them. If the neighbors give us the seal of approval, then we're in! Good thing I didn't mention our snow leopard!

Baby Börn.

2008-04-15T19:17:00.004-04:00

It's been a strange time of overt happiness for me this past week, the first week of my daughter's life. Like I don't even seem to care that my taxes, prepared 90 minutes before the deadline, have me owing over $9,000. Or that we gave notice on our beloved apartment and need to find a place by June 1. I guess it all takes a back seat for now.

I tried to take some contract work yesterday and it was a disaster. I was late to both appointments and couldn't do either job; I fumbled my way through and ended up just apologizing and leaving. On the way to the first appointment, I was trapped in a miles-long traffic jam on 295. The next exit wasn't for 10 miles, so traffic just sat there. People were turning off their engines and getting out of their cars to smoke cigarettes and stretch their legs on the median. Eventually I couldn't deal anymore and busted a U-turn across the steeply carved drainage median and found my way via county roads.

At my second appointment, I had to meet with a recruiter at a life insurance agency. He had slicked-back hair and smelled of sugarless gum. His office was festooned with successories and laminated "service pyramids". He looked a lot like Michael Scott and needed me to run wires through his office wall. He was wanting to connect his laptop with a new plasma TV to show powerpoint slides to his prospective recruits. Unfortunately I don't do in-wall wiring and so I told him I'd transfer the work order to someone else.

Then came the soft sell. He started to ask me questions about where I live and my family, angling for a policy sale. He fished out two creepy Lance Armstrong-style wristbands that said "LIFE HAPPENS" from a bulk bag of thousands, acknowledging that they might be "a bit big for the little one yet, ha ha ha."

I was frustrated and dazed when I left the insurance office and drove toward home. I was hungry and a Wendy's drew me into its drive-through. I got my food and drifted into the adjacent WalMart parking lot, shoring up next to a white Ford Windstar. I ate my food, shifting my focus between the Windstar, the Wendy's and the WalMart. I wondered why the Windstar had the word "Sport" splashed in teal across the front quarter panel. Maybe because it had alloy rims?

I wondered why the wristbands didn't say "DEATH HAPPENS" as I tossed them into the Wendy's bag with the detritus of my lunch, crumpled it up and headed home to see my baby girl.

Sketchy Days.

2008-04-09T10:13:00.008-04:00

A three-year-old drew this picture of me yesterday. It really captures my state of mind well, i think. When do kids stop being able to see into people's souls so well? Soon he'll be drawing prototypical houses with smokey chimneys and dump trucks and stuff, but for now he's almost clairvoyant. Ellis is the son of a client of mine here in Portland. When he drew this picture, I was three days into major surgery on his dad's only work computer, and I was very stressed about not losing any data and about him being offline for so long.

Also on my mind was the fact that I'm unemployed (I barter with Ellis's dad for picture-framing services). And that rent is past due, and that my former employer is probably not going to give me my final paycheck just to be a dick, and that we can't afford our apartment anymore so in 6 weeks we'll be moving to god-knows-where (someplace where they don't care that I'm unemployed?), and that our car is literally falling apart, and oh yeah, that we're having a daughter two weeks from today.

On the brighter side, I have applied for three good-looking jobs recently, all of which I'm strongly qualified for. Hopefully by the time my daughter can draw pictures of me, I won't look so lost.

Telephone Anxiety.

2008-04-07T09:58:00.003-04:00

A symptom of my depression and anxiety is that I hate the telephone. I hate answering it and I hate calling people. Yet I have a fancy phone and lots of minutes and options. I guess maybe the options are all ways to circumvent talking. I rely on voicemail to field the calls, my data plan enables email on my phone, and unlimited text messaging allows me to reply to many voicemails without having to talk to the person. In fact, did you know you can deposit a message in someone's voicemail box without even calling them? I LOVE that!

Ironically, I don't really use my caller ID because it doesn't matter who's calling; I won't answer. Maybe the best thing would be to not have a phone, and maybe subscribe to a voicemail service so I'd have a phone number, but not a thing that rings. This Google service lets you manage a voicemail number via the web.

Researching "telephobia", I have come across some interesting observations. Check out this bizarre poem:

"The telephone, my nemesis! Spawn of Alex Bell.
The 1880 genesis, connecting Earth and Hell!"

I can identify with this person:

"Perhaps you can trace your phone anxiety to something someone said to you on the phone or maybe you have a fear of something that may be said to you on a call. Not many people understand why I don't answer my phone, and I learned not to care what they think. When you turn the ringer off, you will never know if it rings."

A doctor's insight:

"Fear or anxiety accompanying the use of the telephone is a symptom that is not uncommon. In my own experience it has appeared exclusively in male patients. In the majority of cases in which it has been encountered, it is relieved fairly readily by treatment. The symptom most often appears in the patients' discourse at the time when they are occupied with material from the oedipal phase."

I guess the oedipal part means people get anxious about having to be in the middle of a situation, maybe being forced to make a decision about something or to choose a side? Anyway, if you call me and I don't answer, don't take it personally.

Manimal.

2008-04-06T23:08:00.002-04:00

I've been reading, in Freud's Civilization and its Discontents, about the death instinct, the tendency towards destruction. I also have been fascinated by Freud's assertion that civilization has done little to tame the beast in man and that we still inherently want to kill one another as a form of self-preservation (Darwinism in a sense).

This got me thinking about about my time living in Seattle, a place that prizes political correctness above all else. I felt that many people there, while PC on the surface, were terribly angry and hateful. It seems the more you constrict people's ability to say what they really feel, the more volitile people become and their true animal nature moves closer to the surface.

"...men are not gentle creatures who want to be loved, and who at the most can defend themselves if they are attacked; they are, on the contrary, creatures among whose instinctual endowments is to be reckoned a powerful share of aggressiveness. As a result, their neighbour is for them not only a potential helper or sexual object, but also someone who tempts them to satisfy their aggressiveness on him, to exploit his capacity for work without compensation, to use him sexually without his consent, to seize his possessions, to humiliate him, to cause him pain, to torture and to kill him. Homo homini lupus. [Man is a wolf to man.] Who, in the face of all his experience of life and of history, will have the courage to dispute this assertion?

In consequence of this primary mutual hostility of human beings, civilized society is perpetually threatened with disintegration. The interest of work in common would not hold it together; instinctual passions are stronger than reasonable interests. Civilization has to use its utmost efforts in order to set limits to man's aggressive instincts and to hold the manifestations of them in check...

In spite of every effort, these endeavours of civilization have not so far achieved very much. It hopes to prevent the crudest excesses of brutal violence by itself assuming the right to use violence against criminals, but the law is not able to lay hold of the more cautious and refined manifestations of human aggressiveness. The time comes when each one of us has to give up as illusions the expectations which, in his youth, he pinned upon his fellowmen, and when he may learn how much difficulty and pain has been added to his life by their ill-will."

Hell, No.

2008-04-06T15:06:00.002-04:00

Remember my new job? Yeah, well, that didn't work out so well.

Over the course of seven weeks, my "guaranteed" 20 hours per week had slipped to between 11-13 hours, my initial rate of $45/hour had slipped to $30, and my boss began picking and choosing which hours he felt like paying me for.

According to his twisted logic, you can't charge a client more than he wants to pay. So if a job takes me 6 hours to do, my Korean boss, Hans (what up with that name, dogg?) would chicken out and charge the client for 2 hours, at my expense. Then when I'd object, Hans would attack me, usually via email, CC:ing my colleagues, and insist that I am being naive and tacky.

Hans' accent is eerily Kim Jong Il (in Team America), as is his disposition. He runs a struggling PR firm and I suppose the IT company is a side project to keep himself afloat. He's always swearing at someone or throwing temper tantrums. Every email I would send to the group would immediately be replied to all with a scathing personal attack, usually based on an ESL-related misunderstanding.

So last Wednesday, Hans dramatically called a meeting inviting everyone to attend, the agenda being to discuss my "inability to follow clear instructions." It was during this meeting that Hans screamed across the table at me telling me I am inflexible and difficult to work with and that we should part ways because I'm more of a headache than I'm worth.

I can be stubborn and call people on their attitudes, but I never did that with Hans. I knew from the very beginning that he was an immature drama queen, but I also knew I needed the money so I'd better kiss ass anyway, which I did. I'm actually pretty proud of myself for not walking into his traps on several occasions.

I'm almost expecting a final fuck-you in the form of Hans withholding my last paycheck, even though I gracefully excused myself after he skewered me in Wednesday's meeting. If that turns out to be the case, I will enjoy writing letters to all of the clients I worked with explaining how Hans stole money from a good worker with a baby 3 weeks away and asking them to boycott his firm.

My Boss Is A Hateful Sadist.

2008-04-01T21:29:00.002-04:00

That is all.

Drunk Blogging.

2008-04-01T21:29:00.001-04:00

Although I'm not drunk now, I Treo'd the following stream-of-consciousness when I was drunk indeed, a year or so ago in Brooklyn.

And while I'm not drunk currently, I am at a bar and on my second Moinette. In that spirit, here's what was on my mind this time last year...

stuff:
violent femmes' self-titled.
Dinosaur jr.
Fate. Luck. Love. Sex. Friends. Booze.
irony(/)wit.
Fashion/style.
old/new tom waits.
obesity.
The bus.
Losing weight/gaining.
Touring then/ touring now.
city/suburbs.
$70 per hour/ $30 per hour.
Dating?
family. Sara.
Maine/nyc.
what's so great about nyc? (maybe that ppl have stories and/or are passionate about something. Or are they just lame. Or something in between. Or neither?).

207 Wiggaz Be Havin' Dat F.A.S.

2008-03-17T17:52:00.008-04:00

Portland, Maine has a bizarre abundance of wiggers in their teens and twenties seemingly either having been kicked in the head by a horse or born with fetal-alcohol syndrome.

Why Portland? Perhaps, it's a perfect storm: Maine is, as Barbara Ehrenreich says in Nickel and Dimed, the whitest state in the country (i guess somebody here needs to step up and be black), Maine is economically depressed, leaving Portland, its largest city, a regional destination for social services (cue the parade of impoverished, drunk mothers-to-be). And lastly, Portland experiences massive brain drain, the citizenry leaving only its pock-marked dunces limping behind.

We're So Fucked.

2008-03-15T14:57:00.008-04:00

OK, now that I'm going to be a dad, I guess I'm getting more serious about my political feelings. I would like to take a moment and make the following small edits to our nation in order to improve our health, environment, economy and education systems.

Elections:

One national popular vote. No state or 'super' delegates.

Nobody understands delegates; nobody thinks it's fair.

Media/speaking opportunities at no cost to candidate; no personal funding of campaign, no donations. Like a huge round robin tournament (like all major team sports in the US)

$5.5 billion spent by this year's presidential candidates so far.

Healthcare:

Healthcare for all, paid by taxes. Like every other country.
Health 'bill of rights' for kids.

No junk food in schools (vending machines and cafeteria food).

Domestic Policy:

Enforced separation of church and state; the US is not a Christian country.
Protect same-sex marriage at the Federal level.
Legalize and standardize the most popular recreational drugs (esp. marijuana and cocaine) via licensed vendors (like cigarettes).
Affirmative action (and other "reparations") outlawed. Equal opportunity, less resentment.
Path to citizenship for current illegal immigrants. Tighter borders.
Guarantee Net Neutrality.
Repeal Patriot Act. Seriously, people.
Make higher education free to students, but raise admissions standards (like Australia).
Drinking age lowered to 16 years old to let parents observe formative drinking years.
Standardized education for teenagers about credit. Must pass a test to enter credit world.
In addition to traffic tickets, award random cash prizes for motorists who obey the law. Opposite of a ticket (positive reinforcement).

Foreign Policy:

Pay off foreign debt. Govt. needs to lead by example not to live beyond means. Until debt is paid, spending needs to be reeled in, just like personal finance.
Any military action abroad must have consent of Allies (e.g. EU) and NATO (checks/balances).

Environment:

Start shutting down coal-fired power plants. Open more nuclear plants. Like EU.
Mandate one purely electric (not hybrid) model per make of car sold in US, priced according to middle of that make's range.
Govt. sponsored car-sharing program.
All new SUVs must be hybrid.

By the way, what political party does all this sound like? None? That's because we have a 2-party system, neither of which anyone can completely relate to. Voting in America is like shopping for a car but being forced to pick between Ford and Chevy. What if I want a damn Volkswagen? Too bad.

Seattle Rules, Exhibit 1: Patti Summers.

2008-03-08T20:27:00.007-05:00

Okay, I've had enough fun on this blog at Seattle's expense that I feel it's time to give back to the place that has provided me with such a wealth of material. Let's focus on Patti Summers.

Patti, seen above in 2001, is, in my estimation, as good as Seattle ever got. Squirreled away in the bowels of the Pike Place Market (or "Pike's Place Market" as the fleece-clad locals are wont to say), Patti Summers' Cabaret was an urban Shangri-La. A David-Lynchian otherworld, filled with white lacquered chairs and stucco walls painted with Mediterranean vistas complete with painted window frames out of which one was supposedly gazing.

Patti's visage hung, commanding, at the entrance up until the club's demise in the early aughts. The picture was of Patti in her prime, perhaps in the late 1970s, however by the new millenium Patti was a tired husk of an entertainer: bloated, short-tempered and going through the motions.

Patti's cabaret had offered a full menu at one time, but toward the end there were only pizzas, frozen pizzas, heated up by Patti herself between sets of jazz vocal standards. There were three varieties: cheese, pepperoni and half-cheese-half-pepperoni ringing in at $9, $10 and $9.50 respectively. Drinks were $7 and were the domain of Patti's bass-playing husband Gary Steele who would hustle around the room taking orders while Patti threw the pizzas in. Soda was $3.50.

Most came for the irony, though some visited Patti in earnest. Perhaps they remembered her from the 70s when she was more Streisand-like. Patti herself was not interested in irony and was deadly serious about her operation. She frequently snapped at her customers and at the band. I think she lived in the back of the restaurant.

In the fall of 2001, Patti and Gary wrote a couple of 9-11-themed songs and even put out a two-song CD (it cost $10). My friend Paul bought the CD for me; it was he who introduced me to Patti's club and he knew how much I loved these two songs, us having heard them live many times. And so I leave you with Patti Summers' opus: the poignant and nuanced "Something Just Happened," perhaps the most amazing song about 9-11 ever (but only because Elton John hasn't yet written one to the tune of Candle In The Wind).

CLICK TO LISTEN:
Something Just Happened by Patti Summers (c. 2001 Summers/Steele)

"Freedom is golden and some people broke the rules..." -Patti Summers

Winter Of Our Discontents.

2008-03-07T21:19:00.008-05:00

So I finally finished Wonderful Town, a collection of short stories from the past 80 years or so of The New Yorker, which somehow scores a 4.04 out of 4 stars on LibraryThnig. I do have to agree with the 4.04 though; it really is fantastic.

So last night I picked up a book that I bought from a used book guy on Beaver Street where Broadway turns into Cortlandt Street in Manhattan's Financial District. There are two really good used book guys who set up shop there on weekdays and a legendary lunch wagon vendor known around the area as "The Chicken Man." Oh and in the winter there's a soup stand with great split pea and ham soup. And of course within the aforementioned 100 feet of pavement also sits Yips, the granddaddy of all Chinese buffets, in its surreal basement setting at 18 Beaver.

Oh right, the book. It's called Civilization And Its Discontents, written by Sigmund Freud and published in 1930. My copy, scanned above, was printed in 1960. I think I paid $3.00.

Anyway, I started this book when I still lived in the city. Well, Brooklyn actually. I'm trying but I can't imagine a more boring, desolate book cover (click on it for a super-intense close-up). I have no idea why I bought it, but I'm really enjoying it. It's about the futility of man's search for happiness, the absurdity of religion, and, as Huey Lewis once said, The Power of Love.

Several passages, I thought, were not only breathtakingly honest but also seemed, eerily, to transcend the 75 or so years since being written. I found the following dose of realism particularly salient:

During the last few generations mankind has made an extraordinary advance in the natural sciences and in their technical application and has established his control over nature in a way never before imagined. The single steps of this advance are common knowledge and it is unnecessary to enumerate them. Men are proud of those achievements, and have a right to be. But they seem to have observed that this newly-won power over space and time, this subjugation of the forces of nature, which is the fulfillment of a longing that goes back thousands of years, has not increased the amount of pleasurable satisfaction which they may expect from life and has not made them feel happier. From the recognition of this fact we ought to be content to conclude that power over nature is not the only precondition of human happiness, just as it is not the only goal of cultural endeavor; we ought not to infer from it that technical progress is without value for the economics of our happiness. One would like to ask: is there, then, no positive gain in pleasure, no unequivocal increase in my feeling of happiness, if I can, as often as I please, hear the voice of a child of mine who is living hundreds of miles away or if I can learn in the shortest possible time after a friend has reached his destination that he has come through the long and difficult voyage unharmed? Does it mean nothing that medicine has succeeded in enormously reducing infant mortality and the danger of infection for women in childbirth, and, indeed, in considerably lengthening the average life of a civilized man? And there is a long list that might be added to benefits of this kind which we owe to the much-despised era of scientific and technical advances. But here the voice of pessimistic criticism makes itself heard and warns us that most of these satisfactions follow the model of the 'cheap enjoyment' extolled in the anecdote-the enjoyment obtained by putting a bare leg from under the bedclothes on a cold winter night and drawing it in again. If there had been no railway to conquer distances, my child would never have left his native town and I should need no telephone to hear his voice; if traveling across the ocean by ship had not been introduced, my friend would not have embarked on his sea-voyage and I should not need a cable to relieve my anxiety about him. What is the use of reducing infantile mortality when it is precisely that reduction which imposes the greatest restraint on us in the begetting of children, so that, taken all round, we nevertheless rear no more children than in the days before the reign of hygiene, while at the same time we have created difficult conditions for our sexual life in marriage, and have probably worked against the beneficial effects of natural selection? And, finally, what good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?

That was all one paragraph. Actually only part of a paragraph. Freud is one bad motherfucker. I never knew he was so judgmental and poetic. It's really very beautiful.

ASCII Nicely.

2008-02-28T18:41:00.004-05:00

Here's a fun way to nerd out. Render your girlfriend or pet's name in ASCII. Just because.

Happy Bunny.

2008-02-28T10:15:00.007-05:00

I just discovered Happy Bunny. A client I was working with earlier this week had a Happy Bunny daily tear-off calendar and this was that day's HB. Flipping through, there were lots of good ones, but this is still my favorite.

Runners up include:
-your anger makes me happy
-it's fun to write things about the bitches i hate
-hating you makes me all warm inside

The creator, Jim Benton, has lots of other characters too. I can't wait until my daughter is old enough for this great stuff! First step: being born. Next step: becoming cynical and jaded, like her pa.

Hope for Humanity.

2008-02-23T14:25:00.008-05:00

My world was rocked the other day when I discovered that the sweet, merciful Telecom Lords have finally answered my prayers: it is now possible to turn off those agonizing instructions after your voicemail greeting. The ones that tell callers how to leave a message. I guess there are still people left on the planet who have NEVER LEFT A FREAKING VOICEMAIL MESSAGE??

Maybe it's just Sprint that has made this possible, I'm not sure yet. Here's how:

call into your voicemail, then from the main menu:
personal options (3)
greeting (2)
change your main greeting (1)
add or remove caller instructions (3)

Then you'll hear the words you've only dreamed about:

"After your greeting the following instructions can be played:

'To leave a voice message, press 1, or just wait for the tone. To send a numeric page, press 2 now. At the tone, please record your voice message. When you are finished recording, you may hang up or press pound for more options. To leave a callback number, press 5.'

If you want these instructions to be played, press 1. If you do not want these instructions to be played, press 2."

PRESS 2!!!

If you would please take a few seconds to delete this monologue from your outgoing message. The world will truly be a better place.

Atheists Got It Tough.

2008-02-23T12:25:00.005-05:00

Christians love to talk about how Atheists are depressed because they have no higher meaning in life. Without God, they figure, of course you'd be depressed and suicidal because there's nothing to live for. The way I see it though, it's because we value life so much that it pisses us off to see people embrace mediocrity the way they do (especially here in the US). To go outside and walk around is to drape yourself in bland. Unless you live in NYC, which is an atheist's Mecca.

Seriously, strip malls, fast food, obese people, traffic, bad art, ugly clothes: these all conspire to bring down a person who has one life to live. It would be like having your wedding day marred by a freak tragedy, killing several of your guests. Or waking up and brewing your favorite coffee only to find out your half-n-half is spoiled!

Spoiled is a good word. All these jerks walking around like life on earth is their time of suffering and they'll be rewarded with gold and chocolates or a big Sharper Image massage chair in the sky are spoiling it for the rest of us, the ones who feel this time is too precious to be spent wearing acid-washed jeans or pretending that it's okay to keep a president in office who utters the word "god." Or going to bad movies or watching commercials or talking to salesmen.

So listen up zealots, just because you have to get up early doesn't mean I have to hear your alarm through the wall every morning. N'um sayin'?

Love The One You're With.

2008-02-19T17:49:00.006-05:00

Okay, after a hiatus fueled by the glee of newfound employment, I have returned to Earth and to my readers. Yes, I have readers! Not many, but a few. And I love you. You know who you are.

Since moving to Maine and becoming poor as crap, I've learned a new lesson: If you can't be with the one you love (honey), love the one you're with... do-do-do-do-do-do-DO-DO. I wrote that just now. What I mean is, there have been a few biggish things I've wanted or needed to change, replace, fix or upgrade, but without ANY money to spare, I've had to improvise.

First was my computer. I didn't have one until my friend (and talented graphic designer) Michael and his wife Sadie gave me their busted little iBook. I think Sadie had tripped on the power cord and yanked the computer off of a table or something, then stepped on it while trying to keep her balance.

The screen was cracked and the hard drive was broken. But I really needed a computer, being a computer tech and all. So I replaced the hard drive with one I had lying around my friend (and sousaphone player) John had a spare screen he gave to me. After a few harrowing procedures and many hours of work, I had a fully-functioning laptop.

Next, my one good pair of dress pants (handy for job interviews) that aren't totally baggy on me (i.e. the only pants I've purchased since being 50 lbs fatter) had a run of misfortune. I snagged them with a hulking piece of metal at work, then a button fell off, they became too dirty to wear, plus I realized they were too long. So I took them to the dry cleaner and had them shortened, cleaned and mended. I will finally get those out of hawk with my first real paycheck.

Reeve's iBook died the other day. The screen was all jittery and the whole thing kept freezing. Luckily I found a solution in an online forum which was to remove the case and super-glue 3 thicknesses of squares cut from an old credit card to a certain part of the chassis of the computer, thus applying pressure to a broken solder joint on the motherboard. It seems to work now.

My boots, like my pants, were getting tired. I went to mall-towne looking for suitable replacement pair but everything was either too expensive or else brown. So last night I got out the super glue and big metal glue clamps and repaired the soles, then bought some saddle soap for the salt stains and some black polish, some fancy $12 insoles from the grocery store and some waterproofing spray and I'll be damned if these boots don't have a new lease on life!

The living room was bugging me and so I did a major reshuffling of furniture and lighting and now it seems perfect. The dishwasher had been leaving everything really gritty since we moved in, so I researched what to do and cleaned it out and bought a special soap and now it's fine.

My espresso machine is old and was missing its portafilter handle. The front panel had snapped off and was hanging by wires. It was dirty throughout. So I replaced the handle, learned how to clean it, super-glued the face back on, found some tricks to making better espresso with my particular machine and now I'm loving it.

My cell phone was a burden. It was slow, unreliable, it had low battery life. I found an online update to the phone's software, uninstalled some programs I didn't need and now I'm really happy with it. My dining chairs were embarrassingly rusty, so I used the steel wool I bought for just that purpose TWO YEARS AGO and scrubbed them down.

I guess I could go on. What I started to say was "Look at what you can do with what you've already got, even though things seem broken or old!" but after all this typing, I guess what I'm saying is "Damn, I've been way more productive and optimistic since I've been on Prozac!"

Now... what do I do about the cat peeing on the floor?

Hell, Yes.

2008-02-05T20:57:00.000-05:00

I totally scored the job I wanted.

After 5 months of hard-core job searching in and around Portland, Maine, I found what seems like a perfect job. I'm still in shock, and I'm technically working there on a trial basis to see if I fit well with the firm. But I have a job! And it's not shitty! My coworkers are a couple of nice and like-minded ex-New Yorkers. Stylish, even-keeled, intelligent, and definitely not anal IT Nazis. They didn't run a credit check on me, they didn't even call my references. We drank beer at the conference table during the interview!

The first thing I did was to quit my bar job. It felt really good. I'll have one more weekend there starting Friday, then that's it. The next thing I did was to tell my landlord I got a real job and that we won't have to move out of our apartment. That also felt good.

I still feel like I shouldn't let myself get too excited or feel too relieved because what if they hate me or I somehow fuck this up? For now, I just have to remember to get up earlier, shave more often, make a smaller pot of coffee and turn the heat down when I leave the house.

Seattle Sucks: Exhibit 4... The Ned Flanders Effect.

2008-02-01T12:07:00.000-05:00

I hate the bombastic music that heralds the start of the BBC World Service at 9a.m. EST when WNYC switches over to the Brits for the hour. So I'm always running to the radio at 8:59 to turn the station before the melodramatic brass and string assault.

This morning I tuned to KUOW for my 9-10a.m. refuge from British accents. It's the station at the University of Washington in Seattle (where I used to work). The DJ's name was Derek Wang (pictured) and Reeve asked "Is that how they talk in Seattle?" I winced and said yes. She said "Oh my god! He sounds just like Ned Flanders!" I laughed because it's totally true.

Everyone in Seattle sounds like Ned fucking Flanders!

See for yourself. I made some clips:

Ned Flanders
Derek Wang

Still... better than a British accent.

[Also see: Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3]

Declare The Pennies On Your Eyes.

2008-01-31T10:40:00.000-05:00

Ever since my tax lien went public, I've been flooded with paper mail from credit doctors of all sorts. Usually they come in the form of an "official" document to be opened only by addressee, complete with faux red-rubber-stamps like "URGENT" or "ACTION TAKEN" betrayed only by their 'pre-sorted' postage.

But this one is different. Holy Crap! What kind of Year 3000 punishment is about to rain down on me? THE TAX MAN IS COMING! AND HE HAS REALLY BAD SKIN! I hope he doesn't trash my new 3D suit!

Hope Is A Two-Headed Flower.

2008-01-30T13:14:00.000-05:00

Reeve's mom gave us this flower bulb back in November and we planted it right away. It soon sprouted, then grew slowly, unfurling its green arms. We went away over Christmas for a couple of days and left the heat in the apartment off. When we came back the plant had totally flopped over and wilted.

We staked it up with dry spaghetti and yarn and it collapsed again, looking completely defeated. Some time went by and we cut off a few creased and torn chutes, and eventually the remaining stalk started growing straight again, up toward the skylight.

Well, it got really big and tall but we weren't sure if it was going to bloom. Then, just a couple of days ago, out popped not one but two big blossoms. On the same day I received an email from someone I had contacted a few months back, asking if I had settled into a job yet here in Portland. He referenced a previous email which, strangely, I never received and said he was currently looking to add a fourth person to his consulting firm and could we meet the next day?

So we met yesterday and will meet again next week, but it looks like a very strong lead with a talented and hip group of ex-New Yorkers. And it pays well. Cross your fingers for me!

Miller & Willie.

2008-01-30T12:25:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO ENLARGE
I called up and got an annoyed sounding woman's "Hello?" I asked if I had reached Andrew's Brewing Company. I heard a shuffling and then a man's voice came on "Hello?" I asked again and he confirmed that I had the right number. I asked whether they do brewery tours (with the hope of meeting the animals pictured on the beer label). That's when I learned the tragic news.

The man on the phone said the dog and cat (Miller and Willie) are long dead. But, he said, they led good lives and are buried in the backyard. Oh, and there are plenty of other dogs and cats running around the brewery these days, I was assured. I asked the man's name and he sounded confused. "Andy." Of course, what was I thinking? This brewery doesn't even have a website, let alone a staff.

Andy said he doesn't much like giving tours, but he will if he has to. He's two hours north of Portland, not too far from Bar Harbor. He said if I give him a few days' notice, he could show me around on a Saturday. He usually cuts wood all day on Saturdays, he said. But he'd come out of the woods to show me the place. And added that I shouldn't expect too much. "It's no Shipyard Brewery, but the beer's better at least."

I also learned that Miller the dog had a brother named Nick, as if I needed another reason to drink this beer. Seriously, with this label, I don't know how Andrew's isn't a major contender.

Brooklyn.

2008-01-29T21:30:00.001-05:00

Brooklyn: I think about you every day, good and awful.

CLICK TO VIEW FULL-SIZE SLIDESHOW

Lien On Me.

2008-01-27T17:03:00.000-05:00

Two liens actually. One federal and one state. It's okay though; they'll magically disappear from my credit report in 10 years. Poof!

I've been ruminating about my FICO score lately as I helplessly watch an assortment of nails expertly hammered into my credit coffin. The IRS action was the debt zenith of the recent months since my move to Maine. Other highlights include my bank closing my checking account following a "sustained overdraft" of $650; an ER bill sent to collections; a few cell phone and internet shut-offs; back rent on our apartment, vet and car repair bills, etc.

Of course a job-- even a modest job-- would set me on the road to recovery. I had a job, as a Traveling IT Guy, but I just found out that the company I was working for was less-than-clear about what I was being paid. The $1,300 check I was planning on using to pay my back rent appeared in my mailbox in the form of a $200 slap in the face. All of my jobs for the past two months, even jobs I drove 2 hours to get to, were paid at only $20 each (but were supposed to pay out at $55-$250 per job).

The only solid job lead I have now is with a large local employer who requires a credit check. Yep, I need "an excellent credit score" (according to my 20-year-old recruiter) in order to be considered for employment with this company. In fact, when this policy was introduced in December, the person in the now-vacant position was fired for having a bankruptcy on his report. It seems the company retro-assessed the "risk" of their current employees.

I also needed to provide a list, including dates, of all of my residences for the past seven years (I've had nine). And submit to a drug test. I have to wonder if there are civilizations whose members don't live and die by their credit histories.

I Feel You, Roz.

2008-01-23T22:36:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO ENLARGE

Gravy Job.

2008-01-19T19:33:00.001-05:00

Every week when I show up to work, the first thing I do is go to the break room to punch in. And every week there is some seriously nasty food sitting out just for us employees. There's always at least one heaping, congealed plate of sausage gravy. Here we see some bonus bits of bacon frozen in time.

There's also a note from the manager taped to the refrigerator encouraging us to help ourselves to any expired milk or yogurt we find. God I love this job.

Driven by Positive Thinking.

2008-01-19T18:03:00.001-05:00

My "manager" at the hotel bar is about 25. This is his mug.

My girlfriend doesn't think this is funny and I sort of agree. She thinks it's just pedestrian and not any more clever than the average indie comedy film about hipster slackers working corporate jobs. I do agree, but when I post here, it's more about identifying things that depress me rather than trying to make people laugh.

After all, I really don't have or expect a readership. I've posted over 60 items and have had 3 comments from the world. I do this for me, for my current and future self. Maybe by trotting my pet peeves out, I'll realize their banality and move on.

I guess what I hate about this mug is that this guy has been effectively lobotomized at age 25. The mug is consistent with the rest of his personality and his "go get 'em-ness" as an assistant manager at an airport hotel. Perhaps what really bothers me is that:

a. I wish I was blissfully ignorant like him;
b. my inability to understand him reminds me of the alienation I feel as an American;
c. he earns more than I do;
d. he has more hair than me;
e. he has better credit than me;
f. he's younger than me;
g. he's on a career track.

Or maybe I just hate him because he's Driven by Positive Thinking.

Salad Bar Mitzvah.

2008-01-15T21:37:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO ENLARGE
For my IT Guy job, I go all around the greater Portland, Maine area to retail and office locations as well as people's homes. Today I was sent out to a grocery store to fix this 42" plasma TV/computer setup that dangles from the ceiling above the store's salad bar.

The TV has a desktop PC bolted to the back of it and a black steel shell covering the PC, the whole streamlined mess suspended from a pole. The salad bar was near the meat counter, so when I arrived, I asked the meat person to page the store manager so I could check in and she did. "Amy Martino to the salad bar please." Suddenly, the poor woman at the meat counter was reamed a new anus by an assistant manager with a greasy comb-over.

"Don't EVER page the manager by their full name unless it's an emergency! That's the code for an emergency! It's 'MIZZ Martino' unless you're being robbed or you cut your hand off in the slicer... I swear to god, if you page the manager by their full name, you'll have four guys running over here preparing for an emergency!"

Then, presumably to call off the approaching mob, the comb-over guy snapped up the white phone and enunciated "MIZZ MARTINO... to the salad bar please... MIZZ Martino." The deli woman cocked her head and fidgeted with her ear. I wasn't sure if she was embarrassed for herself or for comb-over guy.

Anyway, the jobs were easy: remove the massive aerodynamic steel shell and replace some cables. Of course, until I fixed it, I didn't know what the screen would be displaying. I just perched on the stair ladder tinkering with wires and watching the weirdos parading through loading up their salad tubs with "salad," perhaps in the throes of a 2008 resolution. You know, salad-- pineapple rings, jello, pasta, croutons, dinner rolls, cheese, fruit medley, ranch dressing-- healthy stuff. Smashed into a gallon-sized tub, its top held on by rubber bands.

Maybe the vantage point of the stair ladder inflated my confidence, but I couldn't stop judging these people. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. A goateed employee broke my trance. "LCD or plasma?"

"Sorry?"

"LCD or plasma?" this time nodding up toward the TV I was working on.

"Oh, ah, plasma."

"See, I want an LCD. My wife is making me wait a few more years cuz the price keeps coming down. 10 years ago one of them cost eight grand!" Then something caught his attention and he was gone.

As I worked, I reflected on the day before, and how I was completely out of money and had no gas in the car. I had ended up at a toll booth on I-95 without the $1.25 I needed to pass through. I rolled up to the guy and said "I don't have it!" He calmly wrote me a promissory note (!) and had me sign my name agreeing to mail $1.25 to the Maine Turnpike Authority within 5 days.

I felt so demoralized but was soon distracted by the fuel gauge dipping into uncharted territory. I was so sure that I was going to run out of gas that I was just running damage control, shutting down unnecessary drains on the electrical system-- stereo, headlights, GPS-- in an effort to get the last few meters out of what I had in the tank.

When I thought I felt the car lurching, I called 611 on my cell phone and had Sprint add roadside assistance to my monthly plan. I tried to sound nonchalant: "Hi, is there some sort of roadside assistance that Sprint offers? There is? Hmm, I think I might be interested in adding that today." The operator told me that in the event I ever need to use my new feature, all I need to do is dial #ROAD. Somehow I made it home without needing to.

Then, last night, I did some cash-in-hand Mac support for my film-maker friend David which allowed me to fill the tank with gas, maybe for the first time. I couldn't stop staring at the gas gauge after that. The needle looked so funny all the way up. I was so used to it being in the red or even below the red. I was hypnotized by it, smiling like an idiot.

These were my thoughts when the plasma screen came to life and I was snapped back into the moment, successful in my tinkering. The content on the screen was a bewildering arrangement of panels and frames displaying all kinds of information. Scrolling news, a slide show of supermarket specials, a tanned TV cook talking about lime zest. "I just love to use lime zest. Even when a recipe calls for lemon zest I use lime zest! When you're choosing your lime, choose the shiniest one. The shiniest lime will have the most juice."

Huh. OK. Well, that was fixed. So I wrapped the black shell back around the works and bolted it in place. I gathered up my tools and asked the poor meat woman if she'd please page Mizz Merino back to the salad bar and had her sign my completed work order.

Then, as I walked away I turned to look back at the salad bar. Several schlubs were gathered around smashing "salad" into their tubs, heads cocked up at the TV processing some amuont of the bombastic content. Maybe they were wondering what lime zest was.

I almost turned to leave, then was suddenly proud of what I'd accomplished. I came and fixed something that was broken and now these people were interacting with the thing. Though in the most banal sense, I was useful and felt like a real person. Just like with the gas gauge, I was hypnotized by the TV, smiling like an idiot.

Excellent Communications Skills.

2008-01-11T14:08:00.003-05:00

When applying for jobs, I am always sure to call attention to my excellent communication skills. After a while though, it just sounds rote and I start to wonder if my skills really are all that great. But then I see something like this and I am reminded that people suffer at the hands of poor communicators.

p.s. People still use clip-art?

Nerd Spray.

2008-01-10T18:09:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, my IT Guy job is hard. But sometimes I show up on site and there's nothing for me to do. Whatever the problem was has vanished. This frequently happens with printers. One of my first support calls was to a place that printed paychecks; both of their paycheck printers were broken. When I arrived, the printers were humming along nicely and there was apparently nothing that needed attention.

The woman in charge of the print room had fixed them by installing "maintenance kits" which was already about as much as I would ever know how to do. She was glad I was there anyway. "Well, now that you're here, maybe you could go through and do a preventive maintenance on these machines just to keep us going as long as possible."

I figured I might as well do something so I could say I was there and get paid for the call. All I could think to do was to get out my can of compressed air, open the hatches on the sides of the printers and thoughtfully spritz some air into the works.

My girlfriend calls it Nerd Spray. I made a point of getting the most industrial-looking brand at the electronics store here in Portland. The can is huge. It commands respect.

Yesterday I was sent to a local heat oil company to service a $7,000 Printronix "line matrix printer," the thing they use to print people's power bills. That's it up there on the left. When I arrived I was shown to the printer which was spitting out power bills at a steady pace. The error message on the screen that was called in had disappeared several hours ago. Out comes the Nerd Spray.

I got $80 for that call and $120 for the call to the paycheck place. It offsets days like today: I drive 90 minutes each way to New Hampshire, spending $25 on gas and tolls in order to swap someone's CD drive in their home PC for $45. And then on they way home, about to run out of gas, I slap down the last 4 quarters to my name on the counter of an off-ramp gas station "Put these on 3," as if I'm betting on a horse.

The downside is that the Nerd Spray jobs engender a different kind of stress, almost worse than the stress of "will I be able to fix this thing." It becomes "will I be able to pretend I know some advanced IT voodoo and put a curse on this thing so it won't break again in the next 24 hours?"

The Young People.

2008-01-08T10:48:00.000-05:00

Just when I was beginning to think that I was living in a backwater here in Maine, along comes the Portland Press Herald to the rescue with a cutting-edge column called NXT: Next Generation, in which a not-too-old and not-too-black Minnesotan named Justin Ellis "brings you dispatches about 'the young people' and what they do."

OMFG!

Hat Trick.

2008-01-07T21:02:00.000-05:00

For three consecutive nights-- an entire "work week"-- I had no customers at the bar.

Sure, the shifts are only 4-10, but come on. 18 straight business hours with NOT ONE PERSON. Except for my friend David who was out by the mall anyway and stopped in for a Coke because I guilted him.

Not making any money is one thing, as is being bored. But as you may know, I live for the random customers at this place. The occasional bar patrons at this deserted airport hotel are the only solace for a 33-year-old bartender making $135/week. With a BA and 10 years of professional IT experience.

Like last week. I had this guy at the bar, a real NYC artist with works in the permanent collections of the MOMA and the Whitney. He asked for an Absolut with grapefruit juice and soda, then ordered a pizza to the bar and split it with me. He was such a breath of fresh air: not only a living, breathing (smoking) customer, but proof that New York still exists even though I can't see it anymore. We talked about how embarrassed we are by humanity, about Chinatown, where he lives, and about DUMBO, where he has his studio.

He was witty, flamboyant and self-assured-- such the opposite of New Englanders. He seemed genuinely interested in me and how I ended up at the bar. We finished off the pizza, he fielded a few cell phone calls, had a couple more drinks, and signed his check which included a huge tip, even though I ate his pizza and complained to him most of the time.

And then he was gone, and I was again staring at this horrible carpeting and the piped-in musical counterpart to the carpeting. It was an elevator version of No Woman No Cry. The local 10:00 news was on the TV and I suddenly felt so depressed.

You Want Your Cancer Meds WHEN?!?!

2008-01-02T19:16:00.000-05:00

As a freelance "IT Guy" working part-time for a 3rd party dispatch service, I frequently pose as an employee of companies I've never heard of, at places I've never been for people I will never meet. That's all pretty awkward, but the hardest part to get used to is showing up at a place only to be faced with technology I've never laid hands-- or sometimes eyes-- on. In my life.

Yesterday I drove 40 miles out of town to a Rite-Aid to "replace a part in a printer," according to my work order. I showed up and identified myself to the nearest cashier as an employee of Silver Fox Solutions. I was asked to wait, then greeted by a pleasant, big-haired manager named Darlene who told me to follow her to the broken printer.

I was expecting to be taken to some crusty manager's office when Darlene dipped through the waist-high swinging door of the photo department and nodded at a large metal structure. She hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her high-waisted jeans and said "There she be. Have fun." and dipped back into the store leaving the door swinging and me staring at the structure, blankly nodding my head.

It turned out that the monolith I was to service was the main digital imaging workstation for the photo department-- the thing that prints the customers' digital photos. I read through the PDF I was given when I accepted the job and the document took me through disassembly of the steel shell that housed the printer and the replacement of the faulty part.

After three hours, victory was mine when, suddenly, an entire roll of someone's pictures began to spit out one after the other-- a dozen or so flash-washed images of a house cat in various stages of repose on what must have been a new scratching post, Christmas tree in the background.

I'm trying not to get too stressed by the randomness of these jobs. I'm not about to lose sleep if I'm responsible for some fat-ass not getting his boring Christmas pictures back before New Year's day, but today I had to go fix some weird drug-dispensing tower at a hospital cancer ward.

Of course when I took the job I was merely told that I'd be troubleshooting a USB peripheral on a computer. In fact, the computer in question controlled a variety of "peripherals" including locks on two drug refrigerators and the doors and drawers of the giant drug-dispensing tower.

I introduced myself to the receptionist at the cancer ward as an employee of Generation Next, and when a nurse showed me to the drug tower, she assumed I was intimately familiar with not only the workings of "the system," but also its quirks. "Of course the fridge door takes forever to pop open once the system unlocks it, but you know how long we've been complaining about that."

The tower was loaded with drug vials with names like Cyclophosphamide and Mitomycin. The drugs are very expensive, she told me, up to $9,000 for a single dose. I was there because the drawers and doors of the tower no longer opened when "the system" told them to. I sized the whole shebang up and down with the nurse still standing there. I nodded slowly, gravely, with narrowed eyes, opening and closing the doors of the cabinet softly as if feeling for some tell-tale resistance in the hinges. "Mm-Hm..."

Once the nurse left me alone for a few minutes and I got a feel for how all of this equipment worked in concert, my panic subsided and I took notice of my immediate surroundings. There, taped to one of the drug refrigerators, was one of those "humorous" line drawings you'd see in a DMV cubicle or stuck to a cash register at a hole-in-the-wall auto parts store, or perhaps at a Rite-Aid photo department: a 10th generation photocopy of a guy falling on the ground and bursting into laughter saying "You want it When?!"

Wait, what?

"Excuse me, nurse? Can I please have my chemo?"
"When would you like that, sir?"
"Um, well, can I get it now? I mean I'm here and everything. And I'm dying and stuff"
"Wait... YOU WANT IT WHEN?! AHH-HA-HA-HA-HA"

Anyway, somehow I fixed the tower and got out of there. This job is so weird. I keep thinking one day the jig will be up.

Sell Phone.

2007-12-30T19:03:00.001-05:00

CLICK IMAGE TO ENLARGE
This is my cell phone legacy. 14 phones in 10 years. They got steadily smaller over the first seven or eight models. Then I started a trend of big/small/big/small. As you can see, I'm ready for "small" again. And so, as is customary, I'm selling my phone. And, as is also customary, I have my eye on a Sony Ericsson phone. The perfect Treo antidote!

Après l'école.

2007-12-28T18:58:00.000-05:00

In 1984, I lived in San Ramon, California. My parents were about to get divorced, my sister had run away from home at 15, and I was in the fourth grade. My best friends were a group of three brothers from a strict Christian household: Joe, James and John. Their parents were named Joseph and Mary.

Joseph had an enormous beard and worked for Industrial Light and Magic, George Lucas' company. He had art boards propped up around the house that would be used in Return of the Jedi-- big boards with intricate paintings of the interior of the Death Star.

I would go to the brothers' house to play Atari, hang out in their backyard fort, climb trees and do other Christian-friendly stuff. For seamier times, I'd hang out with my other friend, Brad. Brad was a latchkey kid like me. He'd steal money from his mom's purse and buy us candy and sodas. Then we'd leaf through his dad's porn collection.

But Brad and the brothers were weekend friends. The interminable weekday afternoons-- between getting out of school and my mother coming home from work-- I spent alone. I would while away the hours after school by dumpster diving for Amway samples or shoplifting from the Safeway by the video arcade. And I figured out that if I worked a metal nail file in and out of the quarter slot of the newspaper machines that the quarters would spill out, Vegas-style. Then, it was off to play Ms. Pac-Man.

What I mostly shoplifted was candy bars-- five or six at a time, all different kinds. When I got home I'd unwrap them all and arrange them on a plate. I also had figured out that a certain combination of button presses on the cable box would tune in the pay channels. And so, each day after school, with my plate of candy bars, I would kick my feet up in front of Escapade, the precursor to The Playboy Channel. All by myself on Interlochen Drive.

Two Dads and a Motherboard.

2007-12-22T16:54:00.000-05:00

I have an odd job, I really do. I work part time for a national tech-support dispatch service and jobs get routed to the pool of nearby technicians via email and text messages. When the text or email shows up on my phone, I scramble to get to a computer and log into my account and accept the job before anyone else does. Sometimes I get it, sometimes I don't.

The job can be either commercial or residential. If it's residential, I usually go to someone's weird house in god-knows-what suburb. In any case, I am required to represent whatever company is sourcing me that day (e.g. CompUSA, Acer, Dell). It's hard to remember who I'm representing on any given visit, so it becomes "Hello, my name is Nick and I'm with (slowly scan work order in hand) "International Laser." Smile.

Today I drove to Lebanon, Maine, near the New Hampshire border. Maine has all kinds of cities named after foreign places. A quick look at the map reveals names like: China, Lebanon, Vienna, Lisbon, Peru, Wales, Mexico, Sidney, Palermo, Paris, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Naples, Madrid, Belfast, etc.

Anyway, today I drove to Lebanon and met with an old queen named Ron who had a dead computer which he professed to having bought at "Walmart's." Ron had the patina of a serious lifetime smoker. He had 'smoker's hair', 'smoker's face', and a shredded voice. He wore black jeans, a tucked-in mock-turtleneck and a studded black belt. Ron lived with his partner Steven (another tense, white-bread Mainer) and an adopted Pakistani teenager, a boy named Rahesh.

Rahesh had only a Maine accent and was called on to figure out the basement lighting. That's where the computer was. His two dads snapped at one another upstairs while I got to work dismantling the PC. "I said 'can you pour me a soda?'!"

"You just had a soda!"

They were preparing something in the kitchen for their Christmas dinner and the entire house including the basement smelled like bagel dogs. My job was to replace Ron's motherboard, which I did, and as I waited for the computer to start back up, I looked around and really drank in the scene for the first time. Shelves and shelves of antique bibles, several dozen VHS tapes including a 2-tape set of My Fair Lady, several books on sexuality and a few really old sets of philosophy books, spanning dozens of volumes, on unfinished plywood shelves.

The basement was done up in wainscoting and brown shag, severely torn in places. Several dusty museum-ready stereo components were lined up on a low, lacquered entertainment center: an audio cassette deck, an early CD player, a turntable, a receiver. I began the final steps of reassembling the PC so I could get out of there.

Then the dads started in again: "Did you turn my oven down!?"

"Yes! Do you want the outside to burn before the inside's even cooked?"

I felt sorry for Rahesh, then felt guilty for feeling sorry for him. He's just a teenager with parents like anyone else. As long as the three of them love each other, it doesn't matter how weird Ron's skin is or if they are having burned or raw bagel dogs for Christmas. Then I felt a little bit happy for them.

I got Ron's elaborate signature on a few forms and wished them all a happy holiday. As I left the house, they were all filing down to the basement, as a family, to check out the fixed computer. I wondered what they'd do, gathered around the computer. I imagined them browsing to a sports website or maybe the dads would check a joint email account. I have to admit, I felt useful. Which is rare.

Do YOU Support Our Troops?

2007-12-21T10:14:00.000-05:00

If I was less ADD, I would read a Noam Chomsky or Marshall McLuhan book all the way through. Well, among lots of other books. And blogs. I did make it through Chomsky's 9/11 treatise but that was more of a pamphlet really. The thing I love about him is that he's so level-headed. And because his political analysis is not aligned with religious values or commercial or political interests, he delivers interpretations of events and policies that are in stark opposition to popular media interpretations, and does so in an emotionless and matter-of-fact way. He's not a scaremonger or a shouter or even a conspiracy theorist. In fact his delivery is kind of dry. You'd almost expect him to be Canadian.

And because he's also a linguist, Chomsky is exactly the kind of guy you turn to when all of the magnetic yellow ribbons on Volvos and pickup trucks alike have you scratching your head. Here's an excerpt from a paper entitled "The Spectacular Achievements of Propaganda" delivered in Kentfield, CA on March 17, 1991 (during the Gulf War).

"Support our troops." Who can be against that? Or yellow ribbons. Who can be against that? ... In fact, what does it mean if somebody asks you, Do you support the people in Iowa? Can you say, Yes, I support them, or No, I don't support them? It's not even a question. It doesn't mean anything. That's the point. The point of public relations slogans like "Support our troops" is that they don't mean anything. They mean as much as whether you support the people in Iowa. Of course, there was an issue. The issue was, Do you support our policy? But you don't want people to think about the issue. That's the whole point of good propaganda. You want to create a slogan that nobody's going to be against, and everybody's going to be for, because nobody knows what it means because it doesn't mean anything, but its crucial value is that it diverts your attention from a question that does mean something: Do you support our policy? That's the one you're not allowed to talk about."

Snipers.

2007-12-21T09:08:00.000-05:00

I absolutely love these three panels from Dan Clowes' Ice Haven. The line "An anonymous note speaks for everyone!" is brilliant; it must be what deluded, passive-aggressive neighbors actually tell themselves when they, say, leave a note on my car criticizing where I park.

Then, a few days later, an anonymous call to the police speaks for everyone when I'm rousted from bed on a Saturday morning by a cop pounding on my door telling me to move my car from its legal but apparently not-kosher-with-an-unnamed-neighbor spot. A spot which I pay to use.

And so, tail between legs, I go downstairs to move the car with the weight of at least one set of eyes on me as I begin to chip the ice from my windshield. Eyes, no doubt, on a pinched, chuckling, perhaps bearded face. Eyes most likely behind round wire-rimmed glasses. Glasses maybe a bit foggy from a steaming cup of coffee or tea clenched by the bitter fingers which had gripped the red pen to scrawl the note that spoke for everyone.

In Minneapolis, They All Look Like Me.

2007-12-19T11:04:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO LISTEN
Here's a song I'm working on, feel free to offer ideas on arrangement and instrumentation.

The Todd.

2007-12-18T22:56:00.000-05:00

Journal Entry: Wednesday, December 6, 2000

The Todd River wound through town like a dusty serpent fossil; once or twice each year it would attract enough rainwater to begin to flow, sometimes to swell, and sometimes to carry away garbage, animals, even people. On a particular summer night in 1992 it was as dry as ever, and as I approached its sandy banks I brought my bicycle to a halt and jumped off. I was returning from Alice Springs to our little home, a shy, lopsided wallflower on the outskirts of town. The warm air carried suggestions of drunkenness and discord among the tribes people whom resided among the wispy, brittle bush that dotted our Central Australian landscape: deep bellowing and shrieking from the torn numbed throats of a beaten, weathered people. It is tempting to trace the spaghetti schematic of my late 20's neuroses to my 17-year-old interpretations of the dangers lurking in the night along the banks of the Todd River. The idea of snakes haunted me terribly and with money I saved from stocking grocery store shelves I bought a small lamp to attach to my bicycle, anticipating better odds of survival lest I come across a king brown snake taking in the warmth of the Stuart Highway or one of many scabby three-legged dogs that were affixed to the "blackfella camps."

I could see our little porch light scratching through the tar of the moonless desert night: a comforting signifier that my cries for help might have the ability, if uttered during some grizzly scenario, to be carried by a hot breeze through an open window and into the ears of my sleeping parents. Our small tilted house lay at the end of a dirt track. The dirt track split from the Stuart Highway and ran about a half mile, corrugated and dusty, curvy and unforgiving and was cut in half by the Todd. My family owned a rusty Volkswagen bus that required a full-throttled preamble to a Todd River traverse. even then becoming mired, almost terminally, in the deep sandy basin but generally breaking free, as if from quicksand, to begin an overheated meander into town. Crossing by bicycle was impossible. I waded through the prehistoric sand, dragging my little machine behind, light flickering between white and yellow in a vain attempt to warn of miscellaneous evils via its dim composite of my immediate future.

At first I was confused by the hissing. To recall the prickling of skin and the welling of tears is effortless. The raw instinct of fear split through me like an axe and I froze waiting for teeth to pierce skin, for my spine to become poisoned, for venom to begin its journey to critical organs. I wondered about the breeze. Which direction was it blowing? Toward the house? Away from the house? Would the Aborigines hear me? Could I even bellow for help? I stared at the ground as I did once when confronted by a large dog while throwing newspapers on a dark winter morning. I hoped the serpent would sense my benevolence in the way the dog had as its snarls turned to growls and then throaty warnings until eventually he released me from his locked attention. I wondered if my jeans would help, or my boots. Where would it strike? Would it hurt? I then realized, with no lesser of a fear, that there was no snake.

____________

Watching the flickering oval of sand at my feet I realized the ground was becoming increasingly visible. illuminated with a green hue and the hissing was becoming louder. It's hard to describe how easily one can be frightened in the Central Australian desert at night. There are things there that kill people. There are spiders that can destroy a person's nervous system. There are dogs and snakes and scorpions. There are people, invisible and omnipresent: people half-understood. People kill people in the desert (the murder rate in Alice Springs is the highest per capita in the world). Loud hissing noises only serve to rattle a traveler's nerves. Bright green light on a dirt track miles from any appliance capable of producing bright green light only serves to cause a traveler to hastily review the details of his life and to try to revise his half-hearted religious pessimism.

I looked up. Falling from the sky was a green ball of flame, its descent clumsy and vital and mortal. An enormous rock was screaming through the sky over my head. It was on fire. It came from space. Never had I felt my eyes forced open so wide nor such a sustained chill throughout my body. My benevolence shifted skyward in its focus and I felt okay. No snake was biting me, no three-legged dog was tearing out my innards, nothing was infecting my spine with venom. I was watching a meteorite descend from the heavens. My body cut a sharp and shifting shadow on the ground as the rock rumbled through the sky just a few hundred feet above sizzling loudly and crisply. I started to cry.

The whole affair couldn't have lasted more than 45 seconds and ended with an almost subsonic impact several hundred feet to the north. It was the lowest of low sounds-- the kind you feel rather than hear. I felt as I did after sex with a stranger-- an odd post-coital awkwardness checked only by the validation of the sexual experience and the satisfaction obtained thereby. I stood spent and confused in the darkness that again swallowed my bicycle and me and I realized that my light was no longer flickering but shining steadfast. I started to laugh.

I covered the remaining distance to the house in record time, exhilarated and happy and humbled. I switched on the radio scanner in the living room and listened for any mention of the meteorite by air traffic controllers or policemen or truckers. Nothing. I stepped out onto the wide wooden porch and listened for sirens. I listened for shouting and I wondered if more celestial debris would assume broad sizzling arcs above the dark little house. But the desert was quiet. Even the specter that met the earth just minutes before had fallen deathly still and silent but I knew it was there on our neighbor's land. Melting the sand and rock it touched, pulsing, steaming, cooling and expanding, half buried. I climbed into bed wondering if the rock was still glowing, wondering where it came from. I wondered if I had not been out on the track, would it have gone unnoticed? Was I the only one on the planet who saw this shooting star touch the Earth? I slept beautifully and dreamlessly.

The 8th Destruction of Portland, Maine.

2007-12-18T22:13:00.000-05:00

I was looking over the flap copy of this 1950's folding map of Portland, Maine recently (pictured and click-able above) and I learned that in the past 50 years or so, the population of Portland proper has dwindled from 81,000 to 63,000. Considering the hardship the city weathered prior to the 20th century (it was destroyed four times by fire and three times by war-- hence the Phoenix on the state seal), I am left to wonder what silent power is destroying the city now and whether this Phoenix has a ninth life?

Here's what the map people said back in the 50's (thank goodness for OCR):

PORTLAND INFORMATION

Portland, Maine's largest city, with a population of over 81,000, is the hub of a metropolitan area known as Greater Portland. This area includes South Portland, Cape Elizabeth, Scarboro, Westbrook and Falmouth, with a combined population of more than 155,000.

Portland was settled by two Englishmen, George Cleeves and Richard Tucker, in 1632 and was known by the Indians as Machigonne. It was known as Casco Neck until 1658, when the name was changed to Falmouth. On July 4, 1786, Portland was incorporated as a town; the city charter was adopted March 26, 1852. Portland became the capital of Maine and continued as the capital until 1831, when the state offices were removed to Augusta.

Greater Portland has more than 250 diversified industries. Several, such as pulp, lumber, furniture, paper, boxes, wood turning and cabinet work, and the processing and canning of farm and fishery products, are based on the natural resources of the region. Other products manufactured here are printing and publishing items, foundry products, stoves, wearing apparel, boots and shoes, elevators, industrial machinery. refrigeration equipment, marine hardware, clothespins, candy, card tables, bakery products, metal and paper containers, and metal culverts.

The city proper is located on a peninsula, almost entirely surrounded by water. Portland harbor is recognized as one of the deepest and safest on the Atlantic seaboard. Its piers are closer to the ocean than any other port. Many shipping lines make Portland a regular port of call. Principal cargoes include woodpulp, oil products, coal, grain, china, clay, bauxite, and lumber.

Portland is also the center of transportation and a distribution point for northern New England. It is the present terminus of the 107-mile-long Maine Turnpike which links Portsmouth, New Hampshire with Maine's capital city.

Today, Greater Portland continues as a major recreational area. In summer, public beaches accommodate hundreds daily. Only 15 miles to the south is famed Old Orchard Beach. There are many parks, playgrounds and athletic fields, an 18-hole municipal golf course, nine other courses, tennis courts, yacht clubs, indoor swimming pools, and many other healthful and recreational facilities.

Numerous sites, within easy walking distance, are of historic and scenic interest to visitors in Portland. On Fore Street are the Henry Wadsworth Longfellow birthplace and the sites of the first meeting house, erected in 1680, and the first settler's house. Portland Head Light, built in 1791, under President George Washington, First Parish Church, Fort Allen Park, Fort Gorges, Portland Observatory, and various other scenes and structures merit the attention of visitors.

Minstrels and Charlatans.

2007-12-18T22:08:00.000-05:00

I've mentioned Martin Seligman's book, Learned Optimism here before.
Seligman says that the pessimistic mind, governed by permanent, pervasive and personal explanatory style is also keenly realistic. He says (Page 109) "There is considerable evidence that depressed people, though sadder, are wiser."

I've been feeling sad and wise lately. Say, for the past 8 years or so. This wisdom keeps me from enjoying the dumbed-down blissful ignorance that is my right as an American and it pisses me off. TV, of course, is the lowest common denominator and I expect anything I switch on to be offensive and insulting. Only lately have I realized that this includes public TV too.

Apparently some people have no trouble believing the crap that comes out of the mouths of the Wayne Dyers of the world. But me, I watch "doctor" Wayne Dyer on public TV purely for comic relief. In fact when he came to my town (Seattle), I got some friends together and went and saw him in person. Try as we might, we couldn't keep from laughing out loud during his overly earnest presentation. Why can't everyone just get that any jackass who has written 18 books (not to mention all this other bullshit) is a complete charlatan.

Another thing I see on public TV a lot are these weird doo-wop concerts featuring all-star lineups of old-school doo-wop acts like The Penguins and The Drifters. First of all, these people are minstrels and their acts should be treated the way Sambo dolls are treated these days: preserved for reference of an early, ignorant time in our culture. Not trotted out in front of fat, bearded, Cosby-sweater-wearing crackers.

Secondly, if you've ever seen one of these concerts on PBS, the editing is truly unsettling. Swells of cheers and applause come from seemingly nowhere, at illogical times during the performances and the audience is never shown along with the stage performer, i.e. the audience was most likely shot by itself reacting to prompts rather than having shared time and place with the act they're supposedly watching. You know, the way the America's Funniest Home Videos audience is filmed.

Why do I have to be on guard constantly? Because someone's always trying to trick me. Every day. At least I'm not completely alone.

Miss Neighborhood, 1987.

2007-12-18T19:44:00.000-05:00

Journal Entry: Sunday, December 10, 2000

It was the late 1980's. Our neighborhood was typical of the stale hot part of California east of the San Francisco Bay. In our section of Concord, we had an Elvis impersonator, we had a retired HAM radio operator, even a recycler. We had schoolteachers. We had psycho sex offenders and soccer moms and soccer kids and kids who beat up soccer kids and men who beat up their soccer mom wives. We had a Naval weapons facility; it lay at the fingertips of an arm of water that stretched eastward from the Bay, double-jointed and impossible, made possible by blasting and dredging and money. Ships and trains arrived daily trafficking nuclear weapons to and from earth-covered bunkers, scattered with antelope and invisible from the air.

The yards of the houses in the town were dotted with all types of fruits and vegetables now seemingly exotic and even incredible to me as an assimilated Midwesterner: walnuts, peaches, plums, guavas, figs, pomegranates, kumquats, loquats, oranges, apples, grapefruit, Swiss chard, persimmons. It seldom rained. It was seldom windy. Lawns were watered daily, garbage picked up weekly, and every other Thursday at dusk, dozens of pounding, black helicopters descended to dump Malithion onto our homes to exterminate our fruit flies. The government recommended we remain indoors.

I lived with my mother, her fourth husband, Jeffrey, and a truckload of insecurities in an Army green rambler on Margo Drive. My parents drove matching Dodge Darts and worked at the same middle school in Walnut Creek. Apart from that they had nothing really in common, save for an interest in Louis L'Amour novels and Gewürztraminer. On Sundays we'd have waffles for breakfast and then cruise the flea market at the Solano drive-in. They'd look for Louis L'Amour novels and I would covet old hi-fl gear and Beatles LPs. Apart from that, we weren't a family.

The only one-on-one interactions I had with my stepfather were boots to my bed when I slept through my paper route alarm and stern warnings about door-slamming. He knew a guy over in Solano who invented a little rubber device to make trees grow straight and so after his janitorial shift at the middle school, Jeffrey would go work at Grow-Strait until quite late. Doing god-knows-what. The weekends saw him shut in the garage turning wood on an industrial lathe or manipulating band saws, drill presses and the like to produce bizarre dishes and implements.

Each morning for five years I sat on the tiled floor of the front entry and folded newspapers. The smell of newsprint and recycled rubber bands collided with the exhaust from my stepfather's bright yellow Dart as it drifted through the screen door as he left it running endlessly in the driveway. He was very particular about his car. Once out of the house, I enjoyed the still, dark neighborhood and stumbled around throwing my papers and inspecting the yards and cars to see what had changed from the day before. I studied the front page of the paper: the extended weather forecast, the headlines, the pictures. The ink built up on my hands and I wet them with the dewy grass, wiping them clean on my canvas bag.

______
There was a girl who lived on my route named Shelly Doorak. She went to Concord High and dated a boy who drove a white Camaro. She was kind of a bad girl and never looked at me when our paths crossed. At sixteen, she was the cutest girl in the neighborhood and had never said a word to anybody I knew. At the end of the month I went around to each house to collect the $7 subscription fee and! actually prayed, to some god, that Shelly would answer the Doorak's avocado green door. She never did, but one morning in late summer there was a bra lying on the welcome mat where the paper needed to go and I picked it up, a little white piece of cotton, and wondered about it. I became nervous and didn't know what to do with it... leave it on the mat? Throw it in the bushes? Wrap it up in their newspaper? I decided the best thing was to stick it in my bag and take it home. I hid it inside of a toy helicopter and every now and then I took it out and looked at it but usually I was afraid to, until one day it was gone and I was paralyzed with fear and guilt. Who had taken it? My mom? Was I in trouble? How did she think a little bra ended up in my helicopter? What was she doing looking in my helicopter?

I was fourteen and my sexual slate was clean. Squeaky-cleaa In fact it had not yet been unpacked from the box. Rumors were all around school about Shelly and her sexual exploits with various high school bad boys. Standing in the Doorack's dark front yard. forty papers in my shoulder beg and breathing on my cold fingers, I watched her pull on sweaters and make her bed and put on lip-gloss. Huey Lewis played on my headphones and I watched her talk on the phone, flip over cassettes in her boom box and fight with her mom. I watched her brush, curl, crimp, tease and blow-dry her hair. I saw where she hid her cigarettes and where she kept her socks. I was looking in on Shelly Doorak's life and knew things about her that even the white Camaro guy didn't know. When I'd see her smoking behind the grocery store on the way home from school I knew how many shirts she tried on that morning and the color of her underwear.

In the summertime the sun came up early and I lost my window to Shelly's life. I knew it would be months before I would know her again. The sun pinned our town down like a tanned wrestler. The hills turned to gold in the distance, the antelope danced around on the nuclear missiles and my parents consumed more Louis L'Amour and Gewürztraminer. I saw Shelly smoking by the dumpsters behind the store and wondered how many shirts she had tried on beibre school. The yellow Dart choked me, the alarm was ignored and the bed was kicked for three more months. The helicopters dumped cancer and we remained indoors, windows closed, air conditioners on. I wondered about my older sister who ran away from home and whether she had a boom box in which to flip tapes or a hair dryer wherever she was living. I waited and waited until the cold weather and daylight savings would again change my world.

Teens in the 50's are a Thing of the Past.

2007-12-15T22:15:00.000-05:00

Remember those filthy old computers I hauled out of the Jenny Craig? Well they're still in my car. Except one which I brought up into my apartment after scooping out the dander and human fur from inside. And what a diamond in the rough! Squirreled away in a safe place deep within the bowels of Windows 98 (first edition) was a folder chock full of personal MS Works documents.

Below is my favorite, in its entirety: a fascinating and meticulously-credited research paper entitled "Research Paper" that pulls no punches as it lays bare the differences between parents and teens of today and those of the mid-century.

In the 1950’s music consisted of mostly jazz, blues, and rock and roll. We still listen to those styles of music in 2005, but along with new music we have expanded our choices of style and have also expanded to new ways of listening to it. Being a teenager of 2005 is superior to being a teenager in the 1950’s because of the premium technology of CD players and IPods which have replaced the record player. The availability of these machines, where you can listen to the music, and what you can listen to has greatly improved since the 1950’s.

Records were 10-12 inches and easily breakable.(Gale, “45 RPM”) They sold for 4 to 5 dollars per record. CD’s are roughly 15 to 20 dollars each, but contain larger amounts of music and are a better quality. These CDs are much more compact than records are. The phonograph was a large piece of equipment as well. Because CD players can be quite small, it isn’t abnormal to seem them being stocked in local stores whereas a phonograph takes up a sizeable amount of room and was sold in very few stores. The internet has also helped the availability of CD players. In the 1950’s the internet was a thing of the future so phonographs couldn’t be advertised like CD players are now.

In the 1950’s listening to music was a family affair. The phonograph was usually like a piece of furniture. It was kept in the drawer of a cabinet in the living room inbetween the t.v. and a coffee table.(Pelham) The parents had control of when you were able to listen to music. Teenagers rarely had their own phonograph. The parents owned it and decided when you could or couldn’t play it. Their children wouldn’t be able to listen to music in their own bedrooms like teenagers today do. It is common for teens to own a stereo, walkman or even an ipod of their very own. This would allow teens to listen to music wherever they felt like, but teens of the 50’s were confined to listening to their parents music in their own living room.

Parents are more lenient with what they allow their children to listen to now than in the 50’s. As long as the parents of today don’t have to listen to what their children are listening to they don’t mind it. In the 50’s, since the phonograph was generally in the living room, parents had control over what their children listened to. If they didn’t like what they were listening to they just had to turn it off. If teens wanted to listen to something deemed inappropriate by their parents they wouldn’t be able to listen to it in the 50’s. The teens of 2005 have a better chance of listening to what they want to listen to with the technology provided. With headphones in their walkmans and ipods their parents would never know what they are listening to.

With the advantages of technology on the side of 2005’s teens it would be much better to be a teen now than one in the 50’s. CD players and CDs are much more available to teens now than in the 50’s. Today teens also have a larger variety of musical styles that they can listen to and with the invention of walkman they can listen to it wherever they’d like. Teens in the 50’s are a thing of the past.

*Results Not Typical.

2007-12-15T20:50:00.000-05:00

I've been working sometimes for this weird tech support dispatch service. Calls come in via text messages and email and us registered techs sign into our "online office" and either accept or reject the jobs. There are a lot of techs and not a lot of jobs, so it's a scramble to get to the computer as fast as possible to claim the available work.

Recently I scored a gravy job (you might say) carting some old dander-riddled PCs from the sinister-looking meeting room of a Jenny Craig franchise in a nearby strip mall. If you haven't been to one, these "weight loss centers" are in a formal sense like gyms for sedentary optimists. Here, plump, shawl-clad "weight-loss consultants" tailor an eating regimen to allow clients to achieve their fantasy girth. All the trappings of a gym are present: duplicitous salespeople, unclear terms of service, memberships, managers, proprietary equipment, etc. Though I guess gyms don't have posters of Kirstie Alley everywhere.

Anyway, check out this photo I scored while there. These 'food portraits' are about 3 feet square in real life! Jenny's "product", that is, what the "consultants" are selling, is this weird food that is stored and sold on the premises. In fact, when I walked into the place I flashed back to the first time I walked into an Arby's (it was during a Minneapolis winter. I was a freshman in college and had just sold plasma next door and Arby's cashed the plasma checks but I digress). Wet cat food. That's the smell.

What'll It Be?

2007-12-08T18:19:00.000-05:00

It's my third week of bar-tending. My 8th shift. I work in a hotel bar on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights-- a hotel for business travelers-- and there are very few "guests" on the weekends. And the hotel is by the Mall, directly across the street from Michaels Crafts (no apostrophe) so there are no walk-ins, only hotel guests.

The only stuff around here is mall-area stuff: some loco border restaurants, a stereo store called Tweeter, a Zales, another diamond store just like Zales, a few other hotels that look exactly like mine, a Best Buy, a Chili's, a giant pet store called Pet Quarters. Most of these get the possessive treatment by the locals: Tweeter's, Best Buy's, etc.

Some nights I have no customers, some nights I have a few. Last night I had the most ever. My first customers were a newly-wed couple married only hours earlier at City Hall. They were about 50 years old and the woman asked if I had Champagne. I was happy to report that we did have "sparkling wine"-- personal-sized bottles of Freixenet-- and would they like a couple of bottles. She asked if the bottles had corks that made a popping noise. They did.

The groom was in the ink game, and wove fascinating yarns like the one about the latest Bacardi label that has invisible, bootleg-proofing ink detectable only under a black light. Then there was his racountement concerning his company's production of money-printing ink for the federal government. "We got Brinks trucks comin' and guys with shotguns picking up green ink." After the Freixenet, he ordered a Mudslide. I Googled it.

Last week I had a woman, whose birthday it was, treating herself to a glass of wine before taking herself to dinner at the Old Country Buffet adjacent to Best Buy's. When she returned she seemed really depressed and finished another Robert Mondavi Chardonnay rather quickly before adjourning to her room.

On the Thanksgiving weekend, "Mainers" flocked to the hotel from all over the state to take advantage of the early morning Black Friday deals. Even into the night, groups of three and four would return to the hotel just long enough to unload their cars, the luggage trolley dripping with sacs de joie.

I had a single mother at the bar the other night whose daughter was upstairs sleeping after a swim in the pool. As the woman slipped into drunkenness, I learned about her visits to the Methodone clinic and life in general in Milo, Maine.

Later that night, a guy slunk up to the empty bar and sheepishly ordered a "Mar-ga-rita." He just turned 21 and I was his first bartender. "Let me ask you something" he said. How much liquor is in a Mar-ga-rita?" I showed him the conical metal shot glass and he twisted his lips around and asked if maybe I could use less. He spent the next 45 minutes talking about Christ.

I finally got a chance to make a Martini last night: dirty, up with olives.

Found on Craigslist.

2007-12-08T11:52:00.000-05:00

family pet

___________________________________
Reply to: sale-501735212@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-12-07, 11:53PM EST

Loving family looking for a family pet for son. Must be good with kids. Either cheap or free.

It ain't.

2007-11-28T11:35:00.001-05:00

Joblessness is depressing. You can't pay rent and have to ask the landlord to put you on a payment plan. When it's your girlfriend's birthday, all you can afford is a card. And even the money for the card has to come from the change jar.

I spent my last money on a trip to Boston on Monday to meet with an IT recruiter. I knew she didn't have any jobs and that it was basically an informational interview, but I figured I could use a break from lying at home on the couch combing the Internet for jobs.

What I hadn't thought through was that the trip out there would cost me, and not just the four hours in the car. After all the tolls, gas and parking, the trip cost $90. On Sunday, I did some fluke freelance work before my bar-tending job and made $120 in three hours, the same money as three bar shifts. I was excited because I thought it meant I could pay my phone bill. Today my phone was shut off.

Having recently read Learned Optimism by Martin Seligman (recommended by my last therapist), I know that in order to save myself from the flat-spin of depression, I need to monitor my internal monologue . My explanatory style, says the book, determines how my circumstances effect my state of mind.

If I tell myself that I'm still unemployed because nobody wants me, or that I'm worthless because I'm broke, I'm going to start taking a whole lot of naps and getting into fights with strangers down in the town. The book calls those thoughts "permanent, personal and pervasive." Permanent because the attributes (e.g. "worthless") are not changeable, pervasive because the badness bleeds into other aspects of my life (e.g. 'broke = worthless'). Personal because I'm not recognizing other, external, circumstances that could cause my being unemployed (i.e. it's my fault).

Since finishing Learned Optimism, I have struggled to put the theory into practice. When my cat started sneezing, I imagined the other pets getting sick and the inevitable vet bills. When the recruiters didn't call me back or return my emails, I jumped to the conclusion that they were scam artists and that there are no jobs, only phony postings designed to harvest resumes and personal information. At least that's externalizing.

I'm hoping that the bank pays my bad rent check this month. If so, it will leave me $544 in the red, but at least rent will be paid. It will take me six weeks to make $544 at my bar-tending job. This is the kind of situation where credit cards are probably good to have. I can't get one though because my credit is so bad.

When my friends say they're broke, I get the feeling they mean they're cash-poor, but that they ultimately have savings, credit cards and/or relatives to fall back on. I have none of these. I already owe my best friend $1,500 since last year and my dad $500. I owe three years of back taxes to the IRS, $60,000 in student loans, and about $10,000 to a debt management company. My phone, gas and electric are frequently shut off. My girlfriend is sick of bailing me out and I don't blame her. In four months, she'll need to stop working to have the baby. Then it's all up to me.

And I wish my fucking eye would stop twitching.

Posting from Cell Phone.

2007-11-24T17:19:00.001-05:00

This is where I spend my Friday and Saturday evenings. Gotta go Google how to make a Martini. In case I get a customer.

Evangelical Free Church: Queens, NY.

2007-11-22T10:36:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO VIEW FULL-SIZE SLIDESHOW
I took this series of photos in the summer of 2007 at Community Bible Evangelical Free Church in Richmond Hill, Queens in NYC.

A Scanner Darkly: Part 1.

2007-11-19T19:21:00.000-05:00

CLICK TO LISTEN

I've listened to this conversation dozens of times, though I was never intended to be a party to it. While it brings to mind Raymond and Peter, it's a bit more disturbing because, after all, this conflict is between a grown man and his mother.

I intercepted this cordless phone conversation (and many more like it) on a radio scanner while living in a ramshackle apartment building called the The Sherbrooke on the corner of Franklin and Aldrich in Minneapolis' Wedge neighborhood. I didn't just happen upon these phone calls; I actively programmed the the cordless telephone frequencies into my scanner and routinely trolled them while relaxing with a beer or two after work.

Let me set this up for you: the guy, Matthew, is around 40 at the time (year 2000), a pale, fat schlub who drives a shitty red pickup truck and sets up folding chairs at the Convention Center for a living. He lives in a ground floor apartment in the roach-infested Sherbrooke with his heroin-addled girlfriend, Kathy. Matthew has just returned from the hospital where he has been recovering from a heart attack.

While Matthew was in the hospital, I heard Kathy on the phone many times. She was doing what any lovesick woman would do while waiting for her stricken beau to return home: calling tricks over to the house, getting high and selling drugs.

Upon Matthew's return, he spent an afternoon on the phone with every distant acquaintance trying to borrow money. His only success that day was a guy who barely remembered Matthew, in Waconia, way the hell out on highway 5, who was willing to write a check for ten dollars. Matthew drove the shitty red pickup truck out there even though it was Sunday and the banks were closed.

Shortly after this call from mom, Matthew robbed a bank and was quickly taken into custody by the FBI, plucked from The Sherbrooke on a snowy Minneapolis morning. I was there. It was cool.

German Engrish.

2007-11-15T10:46:00.000-05:00

Not to undermine my sincere good feelings toward the omnipresent Japanese non sequitur (wait, let's try that again), but damned if the Germans aren't giving them a run for their money. German tech company TrekStor has a line of MP3 players called iBeat, which comes in various colors. TrekStor's naming convention has been: iBeat Pink, iBeat Gold etc.

This summer, when it came time for TrekStor to dub its darkest of colors, things went terribly wrong. The "iBeat Blaxx" with it's astonishing name, caused quite a ruckus on the tech blogs and elsewhere. TrekStor said "our bad" and shortened the name to Blaxx (minus the iBeat moniker), but went on to name a special edition MP3 player the "iBeat Dieter Bohlen." I guess they didn't quite understand the mechanics of their grammatical mistake.

On a related note, I happen to own the TrekStor "Vibez" (a name not quite as embarrassing) and when I stopped into J&R to buy the neoprene carrying case (more of a sleeve really), also made by TrekStor, I received a delightful little surprise. The name of the sleeve? The "Vibez Skin Bag!" Not to be confused with the "Vibez Stretch Bag" of course.

Ken Create Part 2: The Press Pack.

2007-11-14T09:51:00.000-05:00

Click for Entire Press Pack

This is for all the haters who think Ken is the Andy Kaufman of the 21st Century. Allow me to repeat what I told you in the first Ken Create post: Ken's "routine" is NOT ironic. Not intentionally anyway. Above are the documents comprising Ken's 'press pack.'

Teaser?

Here, is a couple of pictures to pass around. Thanks- Ken Create.
I'm also, working on a new Bio-- also, playing the key boards-- for my act.

Nick, The Lights you see at the end of the video, was-- Two color changes, since then my friends company-- has made green, blue, white, -- and a mix of colors, that I now use in my show! 6 lights altogether
Ken Create

TELEPHONE NUMBER
973-595-7359

Don't miss the list of every show Ken's ever put on, including the Nursing Home section. Below is the full, unedited, 12-minute Ken Create reel as it appeared on the VHS tape Ken sent to me as part of the press pack.

Oh, and if you don't have the back story on Ken, get it here.

Young Professional Seeks Shitty, Expensive Room.

2007-11-13T15:00:00.000-05:00

About a year ago, I was faced with finding a replacement renter for the room I was occupying on Powers Street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. This wasn't hip Williamsburg; Powers at Graham Avenue was Italian to the bone and rumored to have a sizable mafia presence. After all, this was the neighborhood portrayed in Donnie Brasco where the Bonanno crime family achieved infamy in the early 70's.

The room cost $1,000/month and was in a free-standing former auto garage (a.k.a. loft), accessible by a monstrous roll-up door. The interior was dark and dirty. The furniture was dilapidated and matted with food and bong-water stains. There was no bathroom, only an enclosed toilet and a separate shower whose moldy curtain opened directly to the kitchen. The kitchen was unique in that it was the only room in the whole building with a window. My room was made of sonically-transparent Sheetrock partition walls.

There were three other roommates, all guys in their early 30's: a grade school teacher, a social worker and a graphic designer. The latter was obsessed with KISS. He had KISS comic books, KISS fridge magnets, an elaborate toy KISS music stage with poseable KISS action figures, etc.

My first night in the loft I took my dog out for a walk and on the way out of the apartment, I passed through the "living room" (the old automotive service bay) where the KISS roommate was on one of the stained couches watching a Japanese KISS concert DVD with a large pizza to himself. I went for a rather long walk and ended up spending an hour or two at Barcade before heading home. When I got back, the KISS roommate was in the same position on the couch, in a cloud of pot smoke, having finished off his pizza, and seemed to be watching the same interminable Ace Frehley guitar solo as when I left.

Oh yeah, and the roommates were all in this weird funk band. And they used to be in this other weird funk band.

Anyway, I posted an ad on Craigslist for my room and received a flurry of responses. In another city, you'd expect only weirdos to get excited about this apartment, and those weirdos probably wouldn't be looking to drop $1,000/month. But, in New York City, here's what I got:

I saw your post on Craigslist. Sounds like a pretty cool place.

I'm a 28 year old straight male. I work at a production company that focuses on stand up comedy for television and live venues, and I'm also a comedy writer. Also involved in making comedy short films, improv, etc., although that has nothing to do with work.

I'm a very laid back, friendly guy, neat, clean, etc.

A little bit more about me:

Favorite Movies: Bottle Rocket, Annie Hall, Sunset Boulevard, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Player, True Romance, Wet Hot American Summer

TV: Real Time with Bill Maher, Daily Show with John Stewart, Colbert Report, The Office, and I loved Arrested Development when it was on.

Books: Fitzgerald, Hunter S. Thompson, Amis, Evelyn Waugh, Douglas Adams

I went to University of Southern California film school and University of Vermont.

So...let me know if you'd like to set up at appointment for me to come by.

More just like this came by the hour...

Hi, I would love to meet you/ see the apartment.
My name is Ryan, I’m 24, and recently moved from Montreal.
I work in Manhattan full time as an event planner. I am creative, outgoing, respectful and clean. Love music (play the guitar), movies, and food (I am an excellent cook!). Overall, an awesome guy to hang out with/ share a common space.

Ryan

xxxx & Company
Luxury Marketing
xx Madison Avenue, 16th Floor
New York, NY 10016

The responses came for days.

I am a 28 yr old female with a small non barking bulldog. I work some days modeling and some nights bartending. This apt sounds really great 4 me so if you are interested in showing your apt please send me an email or giving me a call at 917 xxx 8948-Christie
________________________

Im leaving for virgin islands from 9-13th – could I come and see the space/meet you guys soon? I’m 27, female, like living with guys, love music – day job on 49th and park, starting two companies and love to sing. Laid back. You all sound cool…ok, you can reach me here anytime. Yours, Kristin
________________________

your place sounds fun. My name is Dave. i am 22 years
old. i curently work at a small company that builds
custom bicycles (brooklyn Machine Works). I do well, so making rent
won't be an issue.

i ride my bike everywhere, occasionally on adventures
and sometimes with no hands - to show off. i spend sometime at my
girlfriends place. but am looking for a home of my own. i'm sociable,
neat, and i have a passion for the dishes.

anyways i'd love to see the place some time this week.
i'm available in the evenings during the week and all
day on the weekends.

thanks
david
________________________

Hi,
The place sounds really nice, I would love to check it out if it is
still available. My name is John and I'm a singing/songwriting, painting,
photographer. I'm active and open minded. I have a lot of experience
living with new people and am clean, respectful, considerate, and
responsible. That equals good roommate. Right now I'm pretty focused
on art and paying the rent. I work at a photostudio and am interning in
the photography department at Saturday night live. Please let me know if i
can check out the room. Thanks a lot,

John
________________________

Hi, my name is Michelle. I'm a 25 yo female living in Boston. I went to school here for Graphic Design, and I recently got a job at Saatchi & Saatchi, thus the reason why I'm moving to NY and looking for an apartment.

About me: I'm very laid back, like to work out, go out, but I also work full and part time so I don't expect to be home a lot. Non smoker, straight, looking for a nice apartment and a nice roommate that I can get along with. I'm looking to move in on the first of January, or hopefully a couple of days before. My phone number is 857.xxx.9270.

Let me know if you're interested. Your apartment seems like a good place. Do you have any pictures of the apartment? I'll be in NY on Sunday so hopefully I can come by on Monday to see the room.

I look forward in hearing back from you.
________________________

Hi!
Your apartment sounds great and exactly what I'm lookin for. My name
is Fiona, I'm 25 and irish and I'm a graphic designer for Victoria's
Secret. I've been living in Brooklyn for almost 2 years now but still
haven;t found that place where i can feel settled and really enjoy my
home. I love to cycle, sew, paint, listen to music, take funny
pictures and go to shows with friends.
I'm looking for roomates who are passionate about what they do but
chilled and easy to gel with. I feel like I'm easy to get on with but
if you think I'd fit the bill maybe you can call me to meet up
properly...
Hope to hear from you soon!
Cheers
fi
________________________

Hi,
My name is Ed.

My girlfriend and I are looking for a place to live soon as she starts her job in Jan......

We are both in our mid 20's, musicians, and visual artists. (im the serious musician dabbling in bent/hacked video and shes a professional photographer whos been playing horns since childhood)

We are relaxed, responsible roommates in a !drama-free! relationship with lots of different references to back up these claims.

She just graduated from a fancy liberal arts school (Bard, upstate) and i will be going back to school and working part time (rent covered with the help of financial aid).

We are both busy individuals and will be out alot. any long weekend/break from school ill most likely be touring...(more so after feb.)....

i lived and worked in brooklyn for 3 years before moving into her dorm last fall and then we landed a sweet renovate-4-rent deal....

im a decent carpenter and electrician (not liscenced though)

hopefully we could suspend any aversion to moving two peoples into the room (if there is any) long enough, to actually talk over things as we are flexible people....

I could come by tues (the 5th) in the morning;early afternoon but have to leave for a gig at vassar college later on,,,,,
if that works for y'all so ring us anytime day or night (646) xxx 9661
or just write....

cheers
ed and lea
________________________

Hi there,

My name is Donna and I have just moved out of an apartment just off of Montrose Ave (Scholes St.). I am looking for something in the area as although its not the heart of Manhattan it is very easy to get to the city.

I am 29 and originally from London but moved from San Francisco two months ago where I was working in theater production for 15 months.
I work off of Wall St. for a real estate brokers but have just finished an MA in Arts Management and would like to be a writer. I am due to take a evening writing course in the New Year.

I am really easy to get along with, clean, respectful and love go out and be social at the weekends, especially in the city or in and around Bedford Ave. I work long hours in the week though, so love the idea of a chilled living situation too.

I always have a good relationship with all my roommates - in fact I moved to New York with my former roommate from San Francisco. He lives a few blocks from me and I am staying with him until I find somewhere.

My interests include music, painting, reading, writing. I am also a bit of a gym rat, so love to work out, bike ride, that kind of thing. I love to cook also and usually do a big cook up at least once a week.

Anyway, if you feel I may be what you are looking for please give me a call on 347 xxx 3347 or shoot me an email at this address.

Thanks for your consideration!

Donna
________________________

Hello Nick,

I'm a 26 year old male publicist who currently resides in Williamsburg. I'd be thrilled to come check out the place sometime.

I've lived in New York my entire life. My work deals mainly with books, however I also represent a charity, as well as some music acts. I also love to cook, and I'm rather good at it (pardon the immodesty)

I'm a total news addict, and I tend to read way too many newspapers, magazines, and books. I also have a really big tv.

I'm also very clean, and my bills are always paid on time. I do like to party on the weekends.

I'm looking for house mates that I can hang out with once in a while, have a meal or some drinks with.

I have references.

You can check out my myspace profile if you'd like.

Please let me know your thoughts.

Best,
Peter
________________________

Hi Nick,
I saw your posting on craigslist and I am so excited about your apartment! My best friend and I want to move in to a place together and we were thinking of splitting the room. We both travel a lot so we wouldn't be their all the time. She and I work at a coffee shop, and she and I work opposite shifts so we would rarely be their at the same time.We are both artists and your apartment sounds perfect, I'd love to come see it. We are both really nice and friendly girls and I hope you consider us. Here is my number please feel free to call with any questions.
646-xxx-6287.
All the best,
Aisling

I remember thinking how strange and depressing it was that all these seemingly interesting, fun-loving and successful people weren't able to do better than that rotten $1,000 room. But New York is like that. You sacrifice everything just to be there. That apartment was my best option at the time and I too was thrilled to get into it.

Wheel's on Fire.

2007-11-12T10:17:00.001-05:00

You see stuff like this every day in New York. Minor human dramas that bring people out of their own worlds for a few seconds. Here in the Financial District, where Whitehall Street becomes Broadway just below "The Bull," we see a kebab cart fire, stoked by heavy winds.

I loved that people slowed down or even stopped to look at each other, sharing the experience, if only for a second, in what is surely NYC's busiest few blocks. In typical New Yorker fashion, a few even got involved: the guy in the white T-shirt who stamps out the flaming kebabs; the big guy in the shirt and tie who "supervised" the scene; the newspaper vendor who kept his eye on the kebab man's wind-swept cap.

To a tourist, it might look the opposite. It might look like people rushing by and not caring. Not picking up the cap. Not talking to the kebab man. When you live in New York for a while, you start to see the subtle humanity.

Buenos Aires 2006.

2007-11-08T12:23:00.000-05:00

CLICK FOR FULL-SIZE SLIDESHOW.

I took these photos during a 10-day trip to Buenos Aires in February, 2006.

Cartoon Therapy.

2007-11-07T09:48:00.001-05:00

At the peak of my depression, about two years ago, I felt like my psychotherapy and drugs weren't working at all. I was self-medicating with booze, food, sleep, web surfing and spending money I didn't have. Even so, I still felt like shit all the time. I had the idea one day that I'd draw cartoons to make myself feel better, and it worked-- but only while I was drawing them. Afterward it just made me sad to look at them. I was so at odds with the world that just going through the motions of living wore me out.

That year I was constantly broke and had collectors after me. My stepmother had recently died of cancer leaving my two teenage sisters without a mother. I was badly injured after being beaten up on a visit to Argentina so I was limping around on crutches. I was fired from my job without warning. I was getting divorced and secretly spending nights at work. My new puppy was very sick. I was 70 pounds overweight.

It seemed like everyone in NYC was prospering and loving life except for me. Everyone had more money, was in better shape, had better relationships, was better looking, more talented, and more accomplished. I found enjoyment nowhere and was constantly getting into altercations with strangers on the street.

The Dynamic Shows Ever Bein' Gave.

2007-11-06T19:22:00.000-05:00

I got into the cult of 'J&H Productions Guy' a few years ago and I feel it's mandatory listening for all. There's a pretty good site devoted to J&H so I won't get too in-depth. However I will take a moment to identify these audio clips as symbolic of the type of thing that keeps me going spiritually.

I was walking with my friend Michael down Hudson Street in TriBeCa on a lunch break a couple of summers ago when he had a mini-epiphany: a common thread running through all of his friendships was an appreciation of the absurd. I felt the same, but I think it goes deeper than we realized that day.

I think what links Michael to me, etc., is not just an appreciation of the absurdity of human nature but also a deep, unequivocal acceptance and appreciation for its place in the world and for the people (and animals) who embody it. Even when the joke's on us. It's how I lived through the past several years of depression.

It's in this spirit that I present J&H Productions Guy: wonderfully deluded, perhaps clinically, yet with a true zest for life!

J&H Productions: (part 1) (part 2)

Sample quote:

"I would like for a respond to J&H Productions pertaining to these shows that will be giving inside and outside as for as the coliseums that he gave you a picture of on the paper, and he would like for J&H Productions and the labels to give shows together in these places."

Afro Ninja.

2007-11-06T10:43:00.000-05:00

Afro Ninja: "Humh."
*Backflip goes terribly wrong.*
*Afro Ninja attempts graceful segue into nunchucks*
Woman 1: (off camera) Oh my god are you OK?
Woman 2: (off camera) "No. He's not."
Afro Ninja: No, I'm ok.
Woman 1: Are you sure?
Afro Ninja: "Yeah, I'm aiight."
Man with Fresh Braidz: "Sit down, sit down, stay down, don't try to stand up."
Afro Ninja: "Sorry."

Subaru Lesbians.

2007-11-05T09:20:00.001-05:00

In early 1990, my mom's best friend bought a brand new Subaru Legacy station wagon. She had short hair and a golden retriever. I just got my driver's permit a few months before and Nancy was cool enough to offer me the keys for a spin around my shitty hometown of Concord, California. When she pulled into the driveway I ran out only to be face-raked: the Subaru had a stick-shift. Oh well.

Subaru-driving lesbians proliferated throughout the 90's and into this decade, and I started to wonder what it was about lesbians that compelled them drive these cars. It started to bother me. Was the Subaru an advertisement of sexual disposition or a subconscious coincidence?

I wondered the same about short hair and comfy shoes, golf clubs, high-waisted jeans, big dogs, polar fleece and precious acoustic music. Having lived in the lesbian-havens of Minneapolis, Seattle and now Portland, Maine1, I've felt like these cues are heavy-handed subtexts: passive-aggressive and, well, offensive.2 Moreover, a notion of wagon-circling, if you will, is implied, equivalent to pickup-truck ownership being mandatory suburban-macho accoutrement. I get that this perceived cliquishness may all just be a backlash to repression, but still...

Recently, this Washington Post article from back in 2000 made me realize that there is no subtext afoot:

"Coincidentally or not, the Subaru-lesbian connection seems to have spread throughout the car-buying lesbian community. 'We call [Subarus] Lesbarus,' said Pam Derderian, CEO and principal partner of Do Tell Inc., a gay niche marketing firm that created the Rainbow Card program."

(Subaru was a founding sponsor of the Rainbow Endowment, whose Visa Rainbow Card has raised more than $1.5 million for health, civil rights and cultural causes.)

I found more clarification here, where I was surprised to read as the opening line of Subaru president Rick Lociano's annual address to his dealers in 2004:

"O Forester! O Forester! It is as if thou hast dropped from heaven itself onto the Island of Lesbos!"

Further, the entire keynote was campy to the max:

"A crack team of psychoanalysts worked non-stop with top-tier engineers to design a body shape that breathes 'rugged utilitarian frumpiness' while avoiding the obvious pitfalls of what I call 'overphalluscizing'. In a stroke of genius, one of my junior marketing execs suggested that dealers add a deluxe dog cage at no extra charge. And we did it all at a price that even a substitute P.E. teacher can afford.

Then there were the Subaru print ads with taglines like: "Get Out. And Stay Out.", "It's Not a Choice. It's the Way We're Built." and the most provocative: "Likes to be Driven Hard and Put Away Wet."

Ironically, now that I know the Lesbaru phenomenon is merely the result of willful marketing, it seems less nefarious and even a little bit light-hearted. See? Writing can be therapeutic.

End Notes:

My girlfriend insists that the majority of Subaru-driving women here in Portland are not gay, but rather "rugged New Englanders" who happen to also wear polar fleece, LHBs, and high-waisted jeans. Let's just say it's probably no coincidence that there is a history of L.L. Bean Edition Subarus. Bonus factoid: L.L.Bean has a Subaru Edition women's 'fitness fleece' pullover!
In the way I seem to be offended by other 1-way communications like bumper stickers and these fucking hats.

Irony Kilt the Seatards.

2007-11-04T12:10:00.000-05:00

Utilikilts were the bane of my existence when I lived in Seattle. I swear to motherfucking god these things actually exist, and in numbers. I'm not going to spend a lot of time on such an easy target. But man did they PISS ME OFF!

I had to laugh at this guy's page (entitled "Utilikilts are Stupid and Dumb"), which shows several photos of Utilikilts in the wild. If you think the official photo (above) is cringe-worthy, you ain't seen nuthin' yet!

Oh, and the best quote from that site I just linked to?

"If you ever see someone wearing a Utilikilt, do what I do and make him feel as shitty as possible."

Adventures of the B77 Bus.

2007-11-02T14:08:00.000-04:00

The B77 winds through the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Red Hook and Park Slope. Along the way, it crosses the Gowanus Canal, you know, where the mob has been dumping bodies for around a century. On my way to work, the bus got stuck when the Gowanus started to overflow into 9th street

At around 45 seconds into the video, you can see the bus driver next to me, having abandoned his post, high and dry in the raised back section of the flooding bus. He said nothing to anyone the whole time. The passengers were interacting, however; one of those rare, beautiful moments of New Yorker camaraderie.

Ken Create.

2007-11-01T14:00:00.000-04:00

CLICK TO PLAY VIDEO
For better or for worse, I’m responsible for Ken Create’s fame. A friend in my office was sent this video. He passed it around the office and I uploaded it to iFilm and VH1 selected him for their viral video Web Junk 20 TV show. The host was pretty harsh.

Contrary to popular belief, the tape is not old (2002). Or ironic. This video is also on archive.org where Ken himself comments:

I am Ken Create and welcome to my world of modern dance> I'm glad you like the video. If you would like to order one, or to just contact me you can do so directly. My phone number is *82(973)595-7359. I live in Paterson, NJ and the video was shot by the folks at Innovative Marketing, located in Wyckoff, NJ By Bill Hennessey.

If you would like more information, please contact Justin Style @ (201) 444-6267

I called the number and spoke to Ken, who said he found out about his bizarre fame when a friend called demanding he switch on VH1. To my surprise, Ken's thick Jersey accent and poor grammar were as intense as in the video and he betrayed not an ounce of irony. He earnestly explained that the phone number in the video was for an old cell phone that was stolen from his car and that he hopes people will find his new phone number in the archive.org comments.

I didn't let on that I helped to give him his little boost. Instead I mentioned that we might need his services for an office party. He quickly sent me a "press pack" free of charge, though initially he wanted $20. It included an 8x10 glossy signed photo, his full video reel on a VHS tape, and, for some reason, a complete listing of every Ken Create performance ever. The list dates back to the 80's and includes a special section for Ken's nursing home performances.

I go back and forth about whether I was cruel to Ken. Regardless, I'll be happy to scan and post Ken's press pack and full reel if there's interest.

SEE: KEN CREATE PART 2

Holy Christ.

2007-11-01T13:25:00.000-04:00

"Reverend X" is perhaps the greatest potty-mouthed preacher I've ever seen.

Faith Center.

2007-10-31T13:40:00.000-04:00

CLICK FOR FULL-SIZE SLIDESHOW.
A recent contract job I had with a NYC non-profit hunger advocacy group took me to some crazy places all over the five boroughs. Like this fabulous church basement in Bed Stuy, Brooklyn.

A Lot of Dick's in my Pants.

2007-10-31T11:36:00.000-04:00

I'm just over six feet tall. After college, in 2001, I weighed 180lbs. I had for several years. By 2006 I weighed 255. Today I'm hovering at 205 and drilling holes in my belts. These pants used to be tight on me.

I had reached the point of not being able to find my size in NYC. First I noticed at Express, when shopping for some wedding clothes. Then Zara, then the Levi's store, then H&M. In the summer of 2006 at my peak weight, I actually resorted to buying a pair of jeans (size 40) at WalMart in Missouri on a trip to see my older sister graduate from Army boot camp.

So why did I gain 75 pounds in six years? It was a lot of alcohol, food and SSRIs. Plus turning 30 I guess, whatever that means. I got so depressed in Seattle (2001) that my doctor at the Pike Market free clinic put me on Wellbutrin. I also started to self-medicate with wine and Belgian beer. And food. Lots of food. Tim's jalepeño potato chips were a favorite. Also "Beer Bites" from Uli's sausage stand at the Pike Market.

And I was eating out a lot, especially on weekends. Glo's on Capitol Hill, The Cyclops, The Crocodile, and Macrina Bakery in Belltown. Lunch and dinner options were innumerable: Shiro's for sushi, Palace Kitchen for burgers, Than Brothers for Pho, Tiger Room for Thai, Mama's for Mexican. Zeek's Pizza, Green Cat Café when vegetarians came to town, Bimbo's Bitchin' Burrito Kitchen, Le Pichet, La Fontana and Mario's for Italian, Jojo Teriyaki, Le Panier bakery for pain au chocolat, Alibi Room for risotto, the Caesar at Rose Bud, hot dogs at the Seattle Center, scones at Bauhaus, donuts at Zeitgeist, Chinese at the Shanghai Garden in the ID, ridiculous sandwiches from Mario Batali's dad at Salumi, and of course Dick's! Oh God, Dick's!

I also was burning through nearly a bottle of wine a day from the Cost Plus near my apartment, stocking up on high-alcohol Belgian beers from the Stumbling Monk, eating crazy amounts of breads and cheeses at home, cooking gigantic meals and going out drinking with friends frequently. The Wellbutrin gave way to Zoloft which yielded to Lexapro, the anti-narcolepsy drug Provigil, Effexor XR, Stratera and finally good ol' Prozac.

Moving to NYC didn't change anything. Only a new and bigger list of food places and just as much booze and pills. So how did I lose 50 pounds in 2007 without stepping foot in a gym or doing a lick of exercise? No more fatty take out food, no morning baked goods, very basic lunches (an Odwalla bar and some carrots for example), portion control at home, no more soda, rarely any preserved or prepackaged foods and 0-1 drinks per day instead of 5.

I'm still overweight by about 20 pounds; might have to exercise after all. Blah.

AH HA HA HA!

2007-10-31T11:11:00.000-04:00

Bushwick, Brooklyn.

2007-10-30T15:52:00.000-04:00

I took these a few months ago on a hot day in Bushwick.
CLICK TO VIEW FULL-SIZE SLIDESHOW.

Is it Road Rage if You're Walking?

2007-10-30T13:22:00.000-04:00

So one fine Seattle morning I was strolling down 5th Ave. to my horrible government job at the world's 2nd ugliest office tower (the ugliest is a few blocks from it). Each morning I'd get coffee from the stand on the corner of 5th and Columbia. Coffee stands in Seattle are very popular and people wait in line a very long time for a perfect drink. Oh, and when I say "coffee," I mean an espresso drink of some variety. Mine was the Americano: 2 shots of espresso in a large cup topped off with hot (near boiling) water.

Well, upon getting my coffee, I shuffled off to cross the street. I had the light and stepped into the street when a big fancy Mercedes lays on his horn and starts edging into me from behind and left. He was making a right turn and I was 'in his way.' He was feverishly pointing out that I had a 'flashing red hand' signal.1 Huh.

So I did what anyone would do and pounded my fist on his hood, at which point he rolled his window down and started swearing up and down at me. So I did what anyone would do and spritzed some coffee at him through his open window. Enough came through the hole in my coffee lid to dot his fancy suit.

He grabbed for his coffee Thermos and tried doing the same, but came up a few feet short. So I did what anyone would do and got him again with my coffee.2 Only this time the lid came off.

To simply say that the guy's head was bathed in scalding coffee wouldn't do. His suit was ruined, his face was probably melting off, his foot relaxed from the brake and his car drifted onto the sidewalk silently, coming to rest with the driver hunched over the wheel.

So I did what anyone would do and trotted off to work with a little spring in my step. I sure showed him! A few minutes later I felt sick to my stomach and wondered just what the fuck I had done/become. That's around the time I started on anti-depressants. Unfortunately things would get worse before they got better.

End notes:

People in Seattle actually stay put on the curb once the 'red hand' starts flashing. Even if tumbleweeds are blowing across the street and there are no cars within blocks. Maybe it's because the SPD writes a ridiculous number of jaywalking tickets.
I hadn't had my coffee yet, obviously.

Do You Know Who I Am?

2007-10-30T10:27:00.001-04:00

Poor Little Fool.

2007-10-26T12:08:00.000-04:00

About the time I started college I began to not believe in things. I had an Ancient History teacher at Augsburg College named Rick Nelson who often cautioned against accepting historical "facts" at face value. There were so many points of failure when attempting to learn about history: political revisions (including lies), details lost in translation or interpolated incorrectly from incomplete records (or even from paintings or other physical artifacts), technology used in dating that can be less than accurate; the list goes on.

Then came other courses: Logic, Argumentation, Media Ethics, Public Speaking, each with its own new way to pick and sort facts and formulate interpretations. Each teaching a strange new precision: precision in the Humanities.

Since receiving my Journalism degree in the winter of 2000 (at age 26), I've been unable to believe in much that can't be proven. I must have been in the perfect malleable, freshman state when I walked into that Ancient History class and I'm sure Rick Nelson knew that. He was an incredibly nice old man, loved all around campus, but sometimes I think he ruined my life.

It was like I was suddenly cursed with the ability to see in another dimension. Like those irritating Magic Eye illustrations in the 90's that suddenly popped out at me when I finally learned to dislocate my eyes.

Magic Eye flap copy:

"Stare into these seemingly abstract fields of color, and an enchanting 3D image will materialize, all from an abstract, seemingly random field of color!

Once you discover your Magic Eye, a whole new world of experience will open to you. You will be astounded by the depth and clarity of the totally hidden image that develops before you like an instant photo! Discover and train your gift of deep vision!"

I discovered my co-worker in the college's A/V department was a pathological liar. And so was my friend Matt who I'd met that year. Everyone had ulterior motives, nothing was as advertised, everything was a trick, nothing deserved to be taken at face value unless it was undoubtedly simple and true. Like hobos, 78s, my Navy pea coat, and my Polaroid camera.

I became extremely critical of everything, especially advertising and art. I spent hours at the Hard Times Café on Riverside Avenue taking a Hi-Liter to my hard-back copy of the Warren Commission's report on the assassination of JFK. I scribbled little notes in the margins like "why?" and "doubtful."

I'd take breaks to play backgammon with homeless guys while they blew smoke everywhere. The large windows out to the street were foggy and icy against the Minneapolis night air. I drank lots of strong coffee even late at night and I had dread-locked hair.

Seattle Sucks: Exhibits 1-3

2007-10-24T10:40:00.000-04:00

Even 5 years after my 18-month stint in Seattle, I can get instantly riled-up about how much I hated it. I really and truly hated it. Hopefully through writing here I can say my peace and try to move on, but Seattle offended me on such a deep and personal level as to become an archetype of sorts. I'm not sure I can forgive Seattle, but I'd like to try. For my own sake.

The first step, I think, is airing all of my grievances. This will take many posts. As I write, I'll need to pepper the reader with examples. I'll number them (in no particular order) because there aren't enough letters in the alphabet.

Here's Exhibit 1.

I hesitate to even comment on why a convention of Furries creeps me out. I would actually see people walking around Seattle with Conifur t-shirts (the predecessor to RainFurrest). These are sick, sick people (or "folks" as they like to say in Seattle). Sick 'folks.' If you are a sicko, you should seek help. Please do not try to pretend that this fetish is benign or somehow deserves recognition in society.

This is a good segue into Exhibit 2.

Fat lib has the same air of cavalier ignorance as RainFurrest. Again, instead of fixing problems, people in Seattle celebrate them. Basically giving up and having no respect for themselves. This theme is omnipresent in Seattle. Sort of like the Gum Wall.

People 'let themselves go' in such extreme ways that it sometimes seemed like I was strolling the grounds of a sanitarium. Yet I think somehow they feel like they're 'keepin it real' by not wasting money on clothes, haircuts, razors, deodorant, etc. For example, Seattle is crawling with dudes wearing ponytails and/or nasty unkempt beards (known as unix beards) and/or Drizabone coats (huh?!) and/or fedoras! Frequently ALL of the above in a single ensemble!

So I guess this guy will be Exhibit 3.

Women are no exception, and until I lived in Brooklyn I never could have realized the similarity of "folks" in Seattle to Frum, whose very appearance is a sort of masochistic hair shirt.

sackcloth... sack-dress... coincidence?

Loss Leader.

2007-10-23T15:12:00.000-04:00

I've been weaning myself off of 75mg of Effexor XR. Actually I went off cold turkey when I realized that my newly uninsured cost is $140/month. The pharmacist said there isn't a (cheaper) generic version of XR, the extended release version, though it appears there will be in 2010. So for a few weeks now I've been really dizzy and have been having vivid bad dreams. Something else, unexpected, has also occurred: I've been in a better mood.

In fact not only have I noticed it, but so have others. Probably the best example is my extreme reaction to this. I swear to god I find myself lying in bed in the middle of the night laughing so hard I'm afraid I'll wake up my girlfriend. Tears streaming and all. For some reason I think it is SO FUNNY! Also I find myself whistling (WTF?) and not taking naps during the day (WTF??).

The other interesting angle here is that I'm also on Prozac (well, Fluoxetine HCL actually), 40mg to be exact. This is the first time I've ever ONLY been on Prozac. I'll be pissed if that's all I've needed for the past 7 years. I'll also be happy.

The final twist is that I can't afford the Prozac either... or I couldn't until I saw a WalMart TV commercial that encouraged me to go to their website and check to see if Fluoxetine was on their list of over 400 $4 (yes, that's FOUR DOLLAR) prescriptions. It was.

It's what's called a "Loss Leader" in business jargon, and it's a brilliant move on WalMart's part. By offering something that everybody wants and many people NEED (almost-free drugs), they get people like me wandering into the store who would never ever have a reason or desire to set foot in a WalMart.

Of course they take a hit on the drugs but they think they'll make up for it by the hapless new drug customer dropping cash on other stuff while they're in the WalMart picking up their drugs. "No, I'm sorry, sir. your Effexor XR is still not ready. Feel free to browse the store while you wait."

I hate to support WalMart, even a little, but maybe if I go in and just get the prescription and NOTHING ELSE, I can walk out with my head high?

Picking at Scabs.

2007-10-23T12:07:00.000-04:00

I have to go back and figure some things out. Firstly I need to untangle a professional train wreck. I'm filing for unemployment benefits because I can't find a damn job here in Maine. I really don't want to file, not because of pride, but because I'd much rather find work, and, to be honest, the process is forcing me to reopen a chapter I thought was closed for good.

My last two jobs in New York were 1099 contracts (freelance jobs in NYC-speak) and therefore do not interest the NY State Dept. of Labor when it comes to assessing my qualifications for receiving unemployment benefits. They want to know who my last "employer" was and by that they mean W2 work. OK, so that would be a job I quit, which sort of disqualifies me for unemployment benefits. But I only quit because I was about to be fired... does that matter?

The answer: maybe.

In order for NYSDL to make a judgment, they need some forms filled in. The exercise of answering their questions brought back memories of being SO frustrated and SO depressed during the six months I worked for (let's call them) "Smacky."

1. Employer name: "Smacky"
2. How long did you work for this employer: 6 months
3. What was the last date you worked for this employer? 3/23/2007
4. What was your rate of pay? $31/hour; no benefits whatsoever.
5. What were your hours and days of work? 10am-6pm Mon-Fri.
6. What kind of work did you do? Computer support for clients of "Smacky."
7. Why did you quit your job? (Give specific reason): My employer was unhappy with my work. It was clear from his feedback and frustration that I was not a good fit for "Smacky." I believed that I would be fired soon and I did not want a termination on my record.
8. What final incident (on or off the job) caused you to quit? (Please describe in detail. If there was no specific incident that resulted in your quitting, please state this.) Several weekly formal meetings and daily informal meetings eventually revealed that our frustration had reached a point requiring action. I asked whether an "exit strategy" should be pursued and my boss indicated that he thought that was the best idea.
9. Were there any previous incidents that influenced you to quit your job? I was put into a situation with a client in which I was expected to produce results in a short time under high-pressure without the tools and information I needed. When I failed under these impossible circumstances, I was made to feel at fault by my employer. Also, my boss reduced my hours and clients which made me feel that I was being "phased out" of the company.
10. Before you quit, did you take any action to resolve the situation? If yes, describe the results of the action. My boss and I met weekly for several weeks to try to find ways for me to continue working at "Smacky." Smacky reduced my hours and clients to try to make me feel less overwhelmed.
11. Did you notify your employer that you were leaving? Yes. On what date? 3/1/2007. What reason did you give for quitting? I was unable to work under "Smacky" management. I felt inadequate and micro-managed. My professional self-confidence was eroded. I felt set up to fail. I was becoming increasingly depressed as a result.

Now I fax the form back and wait three weeks.

Real Art.

2007-10-22T14:38:00.000-04:00

What is it about artists? What is an artist? Why do I hate most artists even when I love their art? Do people confuse art with expression? Just because you sit hunched over until all hours knitting iPod cases with little Japanimation character iron-ons and then sell the finished product on consignment at a trendy boutique, does that mean you're an artist? What if you were the very first person to ever do that? Then are you an artist? Or maybe you're an innovator, tastemaker, craftsperson, or other non-artist? Is the artist the guy selling his streetscapes from a folding table on West Broadway in SoHo on the weekends? Or the guy on the other side of the glass in the SoHo gallery with interminable white space and little red dots on what's been sold?

Then there are authors, musicians, screenwriters, even what, pre-cable TV, would surely have been called craftsmen: chefs, architects, interior designers, dog trainers... Is it shameful to be a craftsman when artists get the real status? What role does art play in our society? What role should it play?

So many questions. A Postmodernist might say there is no such thing as art. Art can't be proven to exist. There's no testing for art. After all, isn't anything art the minute its put in front of a white wall? What would Duchamp say? Why did a bicycle wheel resonate with so many people? Or a urinal? For that matter what about a photograph constitutes art? Isn't a photograph the ultimate non-art? It's just a "graph" of light as it hits photosensitive paper, right? Is the Sears Portrait Studio teeming with undiscovered talent? What about a painting of a photo?

Maybe art has some minimum requirements, like following a movement or school, attention to line, detail, shading, composition, context? That sounds a lot like craft. Or at least good craft. How about adding that art needs to evoke an emotional response or connect psychologically to an audience or even create lore. But then, that sounds a lot like advertising. At least good advertising.

I've been wanting to ask these questions since junior high school but they've always seemed so, well, junior high. I figured I'd eventually figure out the answers but here I am at 33 and not any closer to the truth about art. Maybe it's completely personal on the part of the creator and the consumer. And maybe only one of those parties needs to think something is art for it to be so?

Beginning at The Beginning.

2007-10-22T13:24:00.000-04:00

I was brought up godless and I stayed that way. I don't understand why, if people really believe in god, they aren't running around screaming and yelling with shivers constantly running up and down their spines and why they'd be able to concentrate on anything as mundane as earthly tasks like programming the TiVo or blanching green beans? Like how I might feel if I saw a flying saucer in the woods or if my cat abruptly turned to me and said "it's Tuesday, don't forget the recycling." I'd go bananas. Yet people believe a WAY bigger deal exists than a talking cat and yet they're just like "Whatever"?

In 1985 I had the Back to the Future soundtrack on cassette and I'd fall asleep listening to the instrumental side while thinking about flying a remote controlled airplane (the object of my desire at that time). I remember thinking: if I ever get my hands on an RC plane, how will I EVER concentrate on ANYTHING ELSE? My life and every minute of it would be completely and utterly devoted to flying that plane! Imagine 100 years previous, just the notion of an airplane AT ALL probably made the Wright brothers (and the rest of humanity) feel the same way!

Yet the plane showed up (theirs, not mine) and the world kept on keepin' on. The running around and screaming probably only lasted a few days and though a major era was born, people still found a way to concentrate on blanching green beans. So I wonder. Maybe I need a grander analogy still. What if there really was a time-traveling DeLorean? Would that be enough to cause mass hysteria? Lawlessness? I just don't believe that ppl truly believe there's a god or an afterlife.

Anyway... how about that local sports team?