EIGHT- FEET TALL (2.4m)

Extended Holiday

2004-12-28T21:11:00.000-05:00

Being the season of joy and mirth I found myself lacking in the subject department over the past few days. Not too much to really rant, whine or complain about. Instead I spent the time with family over eating and post-holiday shopping. No New Year's resolutions planned. No plans for New Year's actually. I'll just keep sloggin away at work until know something concrete.

Happy Holidays

2004-12-24T23:15:00.000-05:00

Seasons greetings.

For the first time in a few years I am at my parents' home staying the night in my old bedroom. I'm not worrying about visiting in-laws nor lamenting the lack of a little marital nookie when my parents are away. Yes, ex-wife and I did screw in my parents' place when we visited; a little "dangerous" you might say. Today I gladly give up the sex for the absence of nagging and the early morning two state drive "we" as a couple made for two Christmas celebrations with her family. Strange cousins, aunts, and uncles were all kind of creepy. Her great grandmother with the bad gas and fading memory was a riot though. I got a used tooth brush my first Christmas from great-gran. The lady was my kind of classy.

My sister is here too. She left shiftless boyfriend at her apartment. Sort of feel sorry for the guy. We all do. My mom at least may reconsider her stance on that situation since he chose to stay home alone for the holidays instead of staying here. Think he knows the folks don't like him? Of course the fact that sister is here instead of there is a little screwy, but oh well, the holiday is here and the time for drama and criticism can wait.

It's time for egg-nog and good cheer and attempting to not dwell on Christmas past when our family was bigger, and for my mom at least, held the hope of getting even bigger. Let's here it one more time for, "I wish I had me some grandbabies."

The final countdown

2004-12-22T22:58:00.000-05:00

One more day of making harassing phone calls to people before the holiday break. Twelve more until the ax either falls or I get a close shave.

Two days in the valley

2004-12-21T21:50:00.000-05:00

I am approaching the home stretch with work. Two days and then it is Christmas Eve. Purhaps I can relax some. The job still stresses me. When will I understand that a job is just a job instead of making it my personal life? I still am not over that fact.

This happened at my last place of employment, with the exception that I surpassed all expectation and blew my required stats through the roof. I worked and worked and worked. My reward amounted to higher expectations disproportionate to my pay until I finally blew a gasket.

Now I am just trying to keep up with the quotas and the criticism. My heart sinks. Not even Mr. Waits can drag me from the quagmire. That, my friends, really blows.

Punch it Chewy

2004-12-19T20:32:00.000-05:00

At least once you need to say it: "Punch it Chewy." And then the world is alright. Okay, maybe not alright, but at least a little bit better.

Today, once again, sigh, I went to do a little bit of work. I am completely stressing myself out and pushing me to the limit in order to bury my editors in stories so I can point and say, "Look, see, I can do my job and then some!"

Of course, they'll nod and say, "How cute. Papers are small this week. We're going to hold or kill two thirds of your stories/photos, though we told you write ALL of them if you hoped to keep your job."

And I'll probably be pissed off and bitching again tomorrow. I wish this were not so. Bitching about one's job constantly is bad enough. Blogging about it is worse. It's boring. I read like a sniffling twerp. That I am. That I am.

But hey, when you got nothing else to do right now, except maybe extol the virtues of cigarettes, masturbation, and the holidays what are you to do? Masturbation is usually reserved for those private times. Smoking? Nothing really to brag about there. And the holidays? As much as I love being able to spend time with my family during this one, all I can really say is, are they over yet?

Perhaps this is just one of the little tepid "phases" we all go through. You know, bitch, blah, blah, blah. Snap and go ape shit or wait for something really good to happen because you know it has to. I mean it's happened so many times before right? You're always impatient for the outcome but once it comes you are usually much better off than you ever could have hoped for.

This is all so true of course. If only I can not be a puts in the meantime. If only I can hold on and as today showed, holy shit, do my job on the fly. I drove by a house fire today. I drove by a house fire, a horrible and tragic event indeed. I drove by and stopped and took pictures because I had my camera with me. I stopped and I took pictures and I interviewed the chief, neighbors, and the home owners. I stumbled upon a little happening news story. I dove right in without fear of interfering or offending anyone, saying in my head "punch it chewy."

I did my job and I got another story. Now if that doesn't impress the shit out of my bosses I don't know what will. We shall see and if not, fuck it. I think my pop might be able to get me an interview with the PR department for a major league football team. Hell, yeah. Uh, touch down.

Centripetal forces at work

2004-12-18T23:26:00.000-05:00

I did not want to go to work this evening, really. I did not want to go the office, grab my notepad and shit and then hit the interstate in order to make it to downtown the old downtown theatre to cover a certain "premier." But I did, against my ever loathing on weekends, lazy, hugely depressed at this moment self.

As I hopped in the car and made my way to the place of my employment to pick up said shit my cell wrung (the nice new one I last purchased on a depressive spending binge). A local friend called to see what was up. Well, it was the dude from last night/this morning who showed concern. He invited me over to play some new football game for PS2 with him and his sons. Wife was going Christmas shopping. I wish I could have, but instead I turned him down. We bullshitted as I drove. I felt so insecure and, not really being homophobic but being unable to erase the manly programming completely, "gay" as I tried to express what was bothering me. Of course being depressed right now draws in a whole host of ills, many of them illusive and unreal. I explained the job situation. I discussed how I really thought my life might be settled by now -- you know happily married with maybe a kid, a house, a dog named Spot, a car, and a job I took pleasure in.

He just chuckled and said he needed to hear that as his sons fought tooth and nail in the background. He asked if I was doing the logical thing, like gathering up my clips, getting a resume together and starting the job search again. In the pit of my despair I didn't even consider that. He introduced me to the pin-hole light at the end of my self-imposed tunnel of despair. We hung up and I felt slightly better.

After that, as I stood in the cold taking photos and waiting to step into the theater where a local documentary was being screened my phone wrung again. This time it was another friend from the place where I lived for five years. We hadn't talked really since I moved back. He's happily married to this incredible woman. They are both working on dissertations and kept me someone sane through the divorce. They define true friends, standing by me when I thought my world was ending before. Today he reminded me just how much some things do not change. We talked about the coveted Golden Tee 2005 rankings at the local pub where we used to play. He talked about his wife gearing up to work for another political campaign soon (the cycle of campaigning just never ends I suppose). Everything in his world remained comfortably the same. And I was glad. Normal, productive, happy people rock, even when I don't always want to see how things can be okay.

And then I went and watched the documentary, about a small local community. The people on the screen mingled with the ultra-urbanites who praised the simplicity of their life. A strange juxiposition. The wealthy and well-meaning well to do just had no fucking idea that such simple views as family, friends, music, and beer were all one needed -- along with a strong wit and insight for those who "got" the joke and jabs made towards their urbane world. Somehow it all made me feel better. I feel as if saying, well, fuck the job. Fuck the merger. Fuck my pathetic ramblings. There are more important things out there. My world became solid and real again.

Misunderstood

2004-12-18T02:50:00.000-05:00

"You aren't mad about the joke I made before are you?" he asked.

"No. No my mood has nothing to do with what you said," I replied as I went to get into my car and leave this evening.

My friend joked earlier on about my inability to call a true bluff. He joked about getting me some "how to" cards for poker after a couple of weeks of bad luck and a few sharks that began playing with us recently who whipped my ass.

Honestly, I just had to get the fuck out of there. I couldn't explain it to my friend. I needed to go home, check my email, perhaps blog, and just go to fucking bed. Maybe the poor card playing brought to light further self-inadequacies. Anxiety and fear began drilling a whole into my head around nine when I started playing. I knew I should have went home in the first place, but somehow I thought going out would make a difference.

Nope. I should have left work for home and curled up into a little ball on the couch. I feel less lonely alone at times like these instead of sitting there in a little fucking crowd where I am emotionally a million miles away from anyone else, trying to bluff myself and everyone else emotionally.

Work, that-thing-by-which-I-tend-to-define-myself, really is fucking with me right now. It's sad, but I really can't explain that to a bunch of guys who just do their jobs. Perhaps it was just better that I let them believed I got miffed about some card game. Revealing how fucked up you are takes courage too, and I spent all of mine yesterday.

I do know it was better to read this one blog in particular tonight. What fucking masturbatorial bullshit. If getting satisfactorily fucked is so difficult go shoot yourself in the genitals. And I sigh, and I think, maybe life ain't too bad. At least all I'm doing is complicating the process, but still seeking to be happy.

And right now, I'll take that anyway I can get it.

"Some days you wake up in the army"

2004-12-16T23:35:00.000-05:00

"And some days it's the enemy"

That is one line from "Some Days Are Better Than Others" on in U2's 1993 Zooropa album. As a high school junior (that should approximate my age for you a little better) I loved the shit out of that album and that song in particular. I don't know why those two lines in the lyrics stuck with me, but when things aren't necessarily great I always hum them. Today I went to work. I bellied up to my desk and began calling, writing, and attempting to be the good employee. I felt the acid reflux crawling up the back of my throat the whole time and I just pushed forward until I could push no further. I felt as if my fellow employees were tip toeing around me as if I wore the mark of Cain somehow. Okay, maybe that is a bit mellow dramatic. I killed no one, but you get the gist.

Anyway, I finally went up to my boss and asked her if I should go looking for another job. She shook her head and said that decision wasn't hers to make. She would not be the one making the final call. Her boss would. At least one person would be leaving the office though, she said in no vague terms. As the new guy my heart sank a little further. Her only advice was that I push harder to prove that I am worthy of my employment. I told her I plan to continue to try. I expressed my dismay over not even receiving a contributing line on the story I helped with. I told her I needed laser pointed guidance in terms of what she wanted, not some vague this and that criticism that shifted like the light from a prism. She agreed. She apologized for not giving me the orientation and acclimating process that every other employee received, like shadowing another reporter to see how things worked for that particular paper and to have a clear definition as to what was expected of me.

Perhaps I should quit. Perhaps the next two weeks, which we figured was how long I had before my ninety days is up, will be a futile and wasted effort. Her pep talk about showing the peeps that I can hang didn't motivate me that much to take my marching orders from the military. Instead it made me feel as if the company I so badly wanted to work for has become the enemy. Bull-headedness did motivate me though. Holding in, continuing to put forth effort did. If I am facing defeat due to a combination of economic pressures on the company and a buy-out then so be it. At least I will leave with a clear conscious in my own head and a few clips under my belt.

And I will be able to hum another bar of that tune I so love:

Some days it all adds up
And what you got is not enough
Some days are better than others

And the day I'm let go after trying my best to make a go of it will be the day I am able smile and be somehow content in the face of an otherwise unfair and abysmal situation.

Gutless wonder

2004-12-15T22:06:00.000-05:00

For the past two weeks my employer not so vaguely threatened my job status. I need to do more the boss says.

The eye of Mordor is upon me and I have no ring of power to render me invisible to its ever searching gaze. The pressure sears through my ego with efficient speed. After another talk about how I am not doing this right or how I need to do more of that I literally wanted to crawl up into a little ball. Beating someone over the head constantly with his shortcomings is not good training and retaining techniques. This I know, but the powers that be would have me believe whether they let me go or not, for whatever reason, is completely up to me. In actuality I am powerless when confronted with their will. I try to be a good employee. I wrote seven stories this week, took about 5 photos, wrote about 10 briefs. One story fell threw and a ego inflated reporter whom I helped with a story because they were sick gave me no credit. Her argument was I added nothing new to the story. Simply put, if she were well she would have covered the event that dealt with the issue I knew nothing about better. I'm glad that two thirds of the quotes she used were mined by me. I'm glad I wasn't alerted to what I was expected to do until an hour before the hearing.

Honestly, I think a lot of what is going on right now is my paralyzing fears being pitted against a companies numbers. I am one of those numbers and the question is boiling down to am I producing enough little numbers to justify the even smaller number that is my salary. Like I said before, the term "buy-out" is in the air. The company wants to appear lean and efficient in the eyes of its new master. Sacrafices may need to be made I am told. That makes me feel as if I am going around saying "bawww."

Of course my general complaining and gutless reaction to this is not helping matters either. I mean I really don't stand up for myself. I don't demand any real structure or input when criticism is made of my performance. When generally told to do more or do better, I never rebut with "But how? How do I do more of what you want?" I didn't really react to the accusation that I did not do enough. I don't like conflicts in my work. And I don't want to sound like a complainer (secretly knowing the whole time that I know that I am).

Basically, I am upset and I am scared. After years of doing things that I didn't want to do because of someone else's will and the little disasters that followed thereafter I now find myself at the cusp of running away from or losing something that I think I really enjoy doing, in part. There is no real fight left in me. I'm going up against the pimp that asks more from his bitch and I can't figure out how to play the game. Or how to stand firm in the eye's gaze.

Dream

2004-12-13T22:53:00.000-05:00

To prove my utter geekiness I share with you my latest read, Neil Gaiman's "The Sandman: Endless Nights." Its a soft bound collection of fantasy tales that depict a cross section of seven beings/deities/states of existence within their long lives, if they could be classified as such. They are by age of creation Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium who was once Delight. According to Sandman mythos these seven aspects contain all human and universal existence. I know, it all sounds rather cornball but this was the stuff my adolescence and young adulthood was based in. Sandman was originally a series that ran from 1988 to 1996 and followed the waning days of Morpheus, former incarnate of Dreams. While other kids were watching poorly drawn Saturday morning cartoons I delved into a world that was packed with stories of faded gods, the only Emperor of America, horror, Shakespeare, fairies, tales of woe, and the Kindly Ones amongst many others. The comic was one of the most imaginative to date (followed closely by Alan Moore's recent Promethia series). It introduced me to a host of mythological figures, all of whom I researched and told strange morality tales and an interesting mix of beliefs. Just ask, I can tell you the Greek god of dreams for all animal life. No shit, my brain is a vast repository of otherwise useless information.

The new book came out last year as a follow up by its author, a promised return to the land of ethereal. Seven illustrators accompanied Gaiman's words through seven distinct impressions of each of the Endless. The art was breathtaking and imaginative throughout. I got lost in the book for hours, reading and re-reading its glossy pages. The book took me back to a time before everyday life crept in, before I started worrying about bills and the mundane material world. It also reminded me just how much of my world is based on this outlandish viewpoint presented, of a belief in underlying cause and effect. This, along with an interview with an artist who extolled the power and need for art flared an imagination that I thought had been long smashed. Maybe its time to write poorly written fictional prose again or to try and script a funny book, more pretensiously known as a "graphic novel." Who knows, maybe it will all be richer: the bittersweet pretend balanced with the harsh reality of personal experience. Hell, is that not my life right now anyway?

We named the dog Indiana

2004-12-12T22:40:00.000-05:00

Really there is nothing to write about tonight. Perhaps the best thing I can say is nothing happened today other than the fact that I sat and watched the Indian Jones marathon on Sci-Fi all day. I love these movies. In my book the last was the best simply because it developed a personal relationship between father and son, something I wish I had more of. In general I love the ruggedness of Ford's character and the comical effect of him getting the crap knocked out of him continuously but still managing to come out on top.

I hope this theme plays out in my own work. I go to work tomorrow for another week of running the gauntlet. The holiday's are so slow. It is so difficult to come up with enough story ideas. And I have the pressure of a job review coming up that may determine my future employment. Corporate America can be so cool towards its employees. And that is how my boss's boss sees me, as an employee, a story producing machine who if he does not operate efficiently enough is easily discarded since I am within the first ninety days of my employment. Sigh. If I could recommed one thing to any employer, it is this: set goals with new employees, review, once goals are reached compliment and set new goals. Don't' allow them to reach certain goals and then harshly criticize them for not doing better. It's kind of what has been happening to me lately. Frustrating, but bitching about it is not becoming I know.

Can I just stay home and watch the Indiana Jones trilogy again tomorrow?

Sometimes

2004-12-12T01:45:00.000-05:00

I am not one for sentimentality and longing, really. I am not some desperate boy in search of some desperate girl. Tried it once. Didn't work out so well. At an age where I actually want to learn from my mistakes.

With that said, after sleeping much too late on Saturday and suffering the consequences at nearly 2 a.m. on Sunday I just think it would be nice to have a woman I care for to cuddle up to and to spoon with in bed.

Hopefully the spooning part does not make me any less of a man.

Sleep deprivation Test

2004-12-11T15:22:00.000-05:00

Usually within large crowds I am quiet and reserved. I am the observer who could tell you how someone holds their glass. After a bit I can distinguish between the fake schmoozing smiles that people give when they are disinterested in the conversation they are engaged in and the real belly laugh.

I know that some people, especially those who expect reporters to be extroverts, find my manner to be off-setting and disquieting. Some actually say so. But I have always found the heart of the matter in details and mannerisms. Words are not always to be trusted.

And yes, there is a certain amount of shyness involved in my behavior. Will I ask the right question or will I just say something flat out stupid? Everything I try to say is deliberate. I don't always succeed, especially in new situations where I am extremely self-aware. I've come to accept that though. I've learned to work with who I am instead of fighting against it. When I fight against I typically come across as an asshole in most social situations. This brings us to last night and early this morning.

At 5 a.m. I sat around a card table with about five other fellows. The whole time I was thinking, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." It was completely stupid to be up so late. I don't drink, so it was not as if I were snockered or drooling, but at some point during the night I became giddy from sleep deprivation. In this state all defenses fall. I started talking in large volume. I made jokes, some of which were really funny, others that fell on their face, and still those that were completely insensitive and asinine to those around me. To be honest, I don't even remember most of what I said, other than when I said one thing in particular someone commented that they'd hate to see me boozed up because they knew I'd be a babbler. And I know I would be too.

After crawling in bed at around six this morning and waking up around one the first thought that came to mind was, "What the fuck did I say last night?" This reaction from me, as if I were drunk. I mean rationally I know we all say silly shit from time to time. We have to. It's all a part of being human. I'd like to believe, "No, not me. Keep quiet and you won't have to worry about it." But sometimes, being giddy and letting my superfluous stupidity fly, is, I don't know, liberating.

2004-12-09T23:16:00.000-05:00

I watched ER tonight. I have not watched it in years. The show has become horribly cliche and unoriginal. The first couple of seasons were good, but now --uh. The only thing it reminded me of was my grandfather, who on my tenth birthday went into the hospital for a slipped disk in his back only to have his surgeon discover his body secretly riddled with cancer. The infestation and mutation of rebel cells began in his prostrate. The disease had already spread to his bones by the time it was found.

I remember the call to my parents house after we came back from a birthday party I had at a friends. I remember my mom rushing to the hospital concerned.

I remember the short, "What are you looking at?" when I got in the car with my grandfather the day my mother told her friend who was babysitting my little sister and I the prognosis.

I remember being told by a neighbor, as the treatments and long nights and the realization that my prayers were being unanswered by God for a miracle sunk in, that men do not cry. I didn't after that, not even at his funeral.

I remember watching a baseball game on the television with my grandfather in his bedroom as he obsessively used a tape measure to plot the circumference of his shrinking forearm. We used to go to baseball games all the time. I remember him asking me if I thought he was going to die. My face gave the non-bullshit answer.

I remember the morning he did finally pass. I stayed at my grandparents' house. Mom returned from the hospice where he was being cared for in his final days. The sun was bright. I think it was cold out. I felt guilty about the peace I got in knowing he had finally passed.

I remember being helped to get close up to his face as he lie in a casket in the funeral home by my grandmother. I remember my lips on his cold skin. It was the only kiss I ever remember giving him and it was a kiss goodbye.

It's time to take your medicine

2004-12-08T18:09:00.000-05:00

Okay, I know I am neurotic. I know that I am spastic. I know that I generally appear to be of two minds. One mind is sad and mooshy, mopey, wounded, self-centered and overly melodramatic. The other is somewhat agitated, assoholic, possibly humorous in the right light, and well, self-centered. But do I really need my meds?

I ask this, and I probably should not, because I have a counter on my blog. Said counter will do little things like give general information about who visits my site. Tah-dah. Yes I am that self centered. Anyway, I usually am happy to see that one or two people happen across my blog. Whoopie! I say to myself because now I'm just not a blathering idiot talking to himself. Someone else as equally insane is willing to read my drivel -- at least for a moment or two. But today I found that someone from Pfizer (home of Zoloft, Rogaine, Ben Gay and a various assortment of other wonder drugs) had perused my website. What-the-fuck? I mean am I really so sick, so sore, so balding that I've become the target for a major pharmaceutical company? Obviously so. I could say I wish they'd hand me some free samples, but I find some drugs, especially sleekly advertised anti-depressants to be, well, too "Brave New World" for me. Basically my philosophy is "bring the pain." It reminds me that I am human and allows me to struggle and grow. But of course I am not a serious depressive nor am I that delusional or old. Perhaps if they deal out some viagra or lipator for my cholesterol we can talk.

But really, if anyone has the courage to tell me, am I that insane or am I just being extremely paranoid delusional?

The Mundane

2004-12-07T22:27:00.000-05:00

Sometimes the facade just slips. After hours of work, drab weather, and run-of-the-mill concerns someone notices the expression on your face and the sad, tired look in your eyes. They take the time, if only for a brief moment to shore up your flagging spirits.

This happened for me tonight while out shooting some holiday photos with a point and click (I do everything except pagination and editing at my work). Wandering around with camera envy as the real photographer with the real camera snatched up excellent pics and then seeing happy families with small children my mind began to drift toward the darker side. A few years ago I thought those happy married people and uber successful professionals would be me by now. I thought I met the perfect woman. I put off my career to move with her so she could attend graduate school. We married and I thought we'd have the perfect home, professional lives and family. None of that came true. She too had her own facade. Locked into a "permanent" situation that she initiated her demons came forth. There was no cheering up her flagging spirits or her insecurities with a simple gesture. So that dream ended when she moved on, seeking an unobtainable comfort from someone else.

All of this went through my mind as I walked with camera in hand, photographing adorable children and toddlers all clamoring onto Santa's lap or giggling in a daddy's arm. Life never really has worked as I would have it. Of course when I think of this I delve into self-pity and loathing. I'm blindsided and become tired and not even the brightest day can make it any better, or so I think. Tonight though an official I typically interview saw me sort of standing there, just on the edge of the crowd. She came up to me with a concerned frown at first, penetrating my eyes, and then she smiled a broad warm smile. She squeezed my arm and asked, "Isn't this great?"

We were watching a toddler hopping and skipping and jumping around to Christmas Carols. "Let me see your pics," she said. And then she showed me hers. She cooed and awed and we talked about how great kids were. In the end she said something like, "Aren't we lucky, being able to be here surrounded by so much love , innocence, and happiness when it so seems to be lacking in other aspects of our world?" Without waiting for a response she turned to walk away, stopped, and look back. "Happy holidays," she said with that same warm smile and a wink. And suddenly I felt better, refocused, and grateful that I do have today to enjoy and that I can vicariously enjoy others joy and be sustained. It is all so much better than the alternative of still seeking the answers, wanting more, or wanting different instead of settling on being happy with what I've got. Suddenly the happy holiday face and professionalism was no longer just a face I wore while trying to take pictures.

Invasion of the Starbuck Rogers

2004-12-06T22:16:00.000-05:00

I knew it was a mistake. The new coat of paint and plush chairs. The use of mood music instead of worn out old favorites.

Today I went into my old coffee shop, the one safely tucked away from the world in this dank sub-basement that existed forever in the old metro area crammed with art house rules. I found it as a wee lad, about 16, when I used to run away from the suburban nightmare to the bright lights of the big city. People were cool in that intellectually hip sort of way sipping their European named drinks. The patrons all read books by the likes of Kafka and Dostoevsky. They were poor college students, the literary chic, the poetic hack and the infinite pothead losers intermingled at just the right proportion.

Today it sunk in. The place had changed.

I visited a couple of times since my infamous move back to the land where I grew up. (I will write another installment of about me soon, I promise) At first the shop was familiar. It reminded me of summers with friends after we were away from each other for months while attending college. It reminded me of my escape from high school hell. It reminded me of rainy days the way the pregnant hippy chick did at the other place. But then I started listening to the music. I started looking at the people. The place somewhat gentrified. There were grumbles from long time veterans of kick ass shop lattes before Starbucks made lattes cool in the bad yuppie since of the word. The 50 year old plus conservative men in pullover cardigan with their Oprah-book-club of the month wives were in tow began invading. Little Christians even discussed the Bible, not in an intellectual exploratory way, but more in the "Baby Jesus saves" sort of way in one of the new couches.

Perhaps the light of the place faded before I moved back, but it was not until today, until I saw the change in paint did it sink in. All the cool, hip, wow art galleries, tattoo parlors, and studios that so freely reigned when I was younger finally brought about their own demise, and that of the coffee shop. Those artsy folk cleaned up the area just enough for rich, conservative America to amble out of their burrows and into the bad neighborhoods. You know, the neighborhoods where the drug addicts, the whores, and those people once lived. It was done through a steady increase in commerce and the raising of the rent I am sure. It allowed the Starbuck Rogers and their wives to say "Ah, geez. How risky. How trendy! How hip and dangerous are we!" venturing into the city, when hip and dangerous actually left the building the minute they walked through the door.

Now Kafka and Dostoevsky and the Bible will still be read no doubt but not because its all about the preening of young intellects or a genuine curiosity, but because Oprah or the minister at church said so. Today I missed the day when I could look forward to the strange man in the pink cowboy uniform come in, hitting on women, quoting Elliott and being completely oblivious to his own spectacle. Where now does the land of misfit people, the precursors to prepackaged cool go for a good cup of joe?

I don't wanna

2004-12-05T13:05:00.000-05:00

I'm procrastinating. I promised myself I would go into the office for a little while this afternoon before I went to take some photos this evening. I'm in this situation because I love how people assume that you don't have a life if you are a reporter.

"Can you meet to take my picture on Sunday evening, say around eight?"

Are you fucking crazy? I hope to be curled up on the couch with a cup of cocoa or something watching all the bad television I recorded over the past week and didn't get to watch because I covered boring ass meetings where nothing happened.

Of course that is only what I thinkimmediately. Then I think is watching television alone on a Sunday evening really much of a life. So, what actually comes out of my mouth after much debate and begrudging of the fact is this:

"Sure, sounds great. I'll be there at eight."

And then that snowballs. Somehow I scheduled three photos to take between 6:30 and 8 p.m. in the area. Then I get to thinking, I could just go into the office beforehand to polish off a couple stories so I won't have to write them Monday -- a day where I have two or three new stories to cover and write for a five o'clock deadline.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Can we add an extra day to the weekend?

On Dating

2004-12-04T11:12:00.000-05:00

I meant to write a post on this subject. The fiasco that was the online flirting affair I attempted lit my fire. And my weekly poker game, listening to the married folk carp and bitch about the little annoying things their spouses do usually gets me going on the topic as well. I absolutely cannot believe that it is customary and acceptable for married men to complain about the little things in their relationships. Fuckers. Many nights, especially on the weekends I wish I had someone special to share my life with and to just be around. Even familiarity has its benefits. It's so fucking stressful trying to impress or get to know someone, only realizing that you blew it because you didn't hold your dinner fork right on the date. Yes, this honestly was a reason one time. A friend's wife befriended said date before I asked her out. Friend's wife relayed it back to me afterwards, with the disclaimer that this shallow woman really was not that great of a friend. Made me feel fucking better at least.

I married once. And then I contracted the social disease called divorce. Living in a socially conservative area I continue to run into women who are like ewwww whenever the subject of dating a divorced guy is brought up. What can I fucking say to that? Most don't want to take the time to hear the marriage started going south when the sick little wench started getting snail mail love-letters from inmates she counseled in prison, hiding them from me, and secretly cooing over them. Or, even more unfortunate and twisted, she lightly mutilated herself whenever confronted with something, anything she felt guilty about. So, confronting her with the love letters was like putting a razor blade in her hand. How do you explain to a potentially new partner that it was the marriage, not the divorce that fucked you up emotionally and now that you are divorced you are so much better? And, yes, I became a up a fucked up mess for a while in that marriage, fretting about what my own hurt and pain at her little betrayals and late nights out would cause her to do to herself if I expressed them.

I did try, oh I tried to make it work with marriage counseling ( spelling doom immediately) and convincing her to go to therapy. Nothing seemed to help her face up to her dark secrets and then she had the gall to leave me. She left me for the guy she spent all those long nights out with. Our relationship was not conducive to her "isms" because I started to no longer feel sorry for her. I hope she's happy today. She was sick and I hope she eventually got well without doing to much damage to herself or others. Of course I've known women much older who hopscotch through the same pattern, so who knows.

That's been nearly three years ago now.

But how do you explain that to a woman? Usually you don't. You put the divorce thing out there on the table, so if things do click, you don't have to explain why you didn't share this oh-so-important fact later on. Once the feeling out questions come up, you shrug and stay away from the details to the best of your abilities because somehow you know the details reflect something bad about you. And you fidget with your fork and that is what fucks it all up.

So you end up playing cards each Friday night with a bunch of married guys who all like to complain about the little things in their marriages, like being asked to take out the garbage or to stick to the family budget this Friday night. I just want to tell them to shut the fuck up about it already. And then I remember this is what normal married people tend to do, they carp about each other because it is safe to do. And with familiarity comes some friction. By the wee hours of Saturday morning I've settled on the acceptable solution of masturbation and being single for at least another week, at least until I find someone who can deal with the disease.

Today is the day

2004-12-04T02:14:00.000-05:00

This evening when I left the parking lot of a hall where some semi-religious holiday gathering went on I got to experience the not to true meaning of the season.

People began filtering out shortly after a collection basket of sorts was passed around the auditorium and general grunts were made about honoring our service men and trying to congeal an idea of "peace on earth" with "bomb the shit out of those 'faceless terrorist' mother fuckers." Up until that point I had a relatively opinion free day. I covered a few odds and ends. I did a few interviews. Things were swell, even knowing I'd be working this weekend.

But the prayer and the sermon and the general back patting and self victimizing (No body thinks about us! The poor vet who served and is not remembered! Tell that to my grandfather or great uncles who fought in various wars, but never once bitched or prayed for recognition of their generation's sacrifice) pissed me off. So, I was distracted when I went to pull out of my parking space. I saw him easing along the row of parked cars on the other side of me but not her walking up the fucking middle of the isle in the pitch black. I really did not even come close to hitting her. She was still at a safe distance as I inched out. But I startled her a bit and for that I am sorry.

The hammer was this, not five minutes earlier I saw this man and woman tucking their chins into their chest and praying. I find nothing wrong with prayer. I do it myself, in my own way some times when things are going extremely good or when they are extremely rough. I remember thinking how devout this older couple looked. Looked is the key word here.

As I tapped my breaks I heard the man from across the isle wish me a happy fucking holiday as if I were the scum of the earth. I stopped my vehicle to get out and apologize face-to-face, honest. There was no malicious intent, but I couldn't do that since both booked it into their car as if I were the Anti-Christ come to steal their souls. With a small peel of tires they were off. I'd almost wish they hit someone, but then that would me someone would actually be hurt. All I can think of those people is the idea that if their God is so small that he abandons them and they his teaching at the sight of a simple mistake it's time that maybe they find a new God. On second thought, I probably shouldn't believe that. To each their own even if some would have us believe otherwise.

I just hope that they have a fucking happy holiday as well.

You're so money and you don't even know it. . .

2004-12-02T22:25:00.000-05:00

test baby test

Today I accomplished something totally unbelievable and new to me. I actually performed the stutter step, mush mouth, foot shuffling insecurity thing while commenting on someone's blog. I mean I love this person's writing for writings sake don't get me wrong but somehow I found myself trying to flirt through little paragraphs. As I did so my spelling became more muddled and poor. Even my apology for spelling and grammatical errors had grammatical and spelling errors. I ended up sounding like John Favreau's character Mike Peters from *Swingers when he kept calling and leaving messages on that woman's answering machine.

I am by far the world's biggest dork for today. (Yes, this is dork week on this blog -- kind of like shark week, except a lot less cool).

I mean come on, could I really be flirting with a woman who I only kind of know due to what she shares about her life on a website? Yes, yes I could. In some twisted ways it only makes sense. A guy who likes to write, who (amazingly enough) gets paid to write is infatuated with a writer. Of course friends and colleagues would laugh their ass off if they heard me utter (1.) this. Hell, even I am laughing my ass off.

Wadda loser.

And then to admit all of this on my own blog, a place where I can create and shape reality however I like it? Twisted, completely, utterly (2. I'm stuck on a word that makes me want to say moo, help me here) twisted.

* At least I gained the knowledge when I went to check the spelling of his name that John Favreau did not direct Swingers as I thought he did. He only wrote it. Doug Liman, the guy who also directed The Bourne Identity (fair), Go (excellent), and episodes 1 and 2 of The O.C. (oh how far the mighty doth fall) did. I'm so utterly (3.) blown away by that.

Down Time

2004-12-01T23:17:00.000-05:00

This evening, after a day of much fretting and hard work, I came home with a sack of bad fried chicken from the grocery store in one hand and a new movie in the other. I ran like a mad-man on the treadmill to assuage any guilt about my dietary choice and then I made up a plate, curled up on the couch, and hit play on the DVD machine. I watched not one, but two of my all-time dork-fest favorite movies --Superman and Spiderman II.

I love both for their simplistic story lines; tales of loss, of love, of amazing feats of valor and of hope. I watched and I felt like a kid again. I felt a bit less dramatic watching the melodrama unfold with two men dressed in tights made of primary colors. Stress and doubt melted.

I can't really explain why I love my superheroes so much. Perhaps it involves all the hours I spent reading funny books growing up while other more coordinated children played baseball, football, basketball or soccer. .Grown up me can dissect the shit out of these movies. I can tell you how antiquated the moralist yarns are, how much better other films are in terms of technical qualities, and how fucked up from a purely theoretical feminist/psychoanalytical blah blah blah the characters' relationships are and what those relationships say. -- Have I mentioned that I went to graduate school for a while? -- But I don't. I simply turn off that part of my brain and I revert.

As a child I was an idealist twit. Obviously, as an adult I can revert back to believing the world is as simple as my mind.

Fore example I once (and I guess still would like to) believed that:

some basic moralistic cliches are all one needs.
that there are heroes and they will save the day.
and that eventually the geek will get the girl for which he pines.

These movies are simple containers for that and allow me to zen tap it on a greasy-fried-chicken-eating level.

Perhaps the dead should remain buried. But at the same time I will sleep better tonight knowing that part of me is still there under the layers of adult bullshit, even under the hurt of knowing that I will never get that complete innocence back.

And I know I probably should have dumped that thinking and comfort a long time ago. Perhaps I'm like all of Nick Hornby's man-boy characters. Perhaps I define who I am too much by my pulp culture menagerie, but as Peter Park alludes to in Spiderman II, I will always be who I am. So, fuck it.

Spiderman, Spiderman, does everything a spider can . . .

Tuesdays with . . .

2004-11-30T20:18:00.000-05:00

I grew up in an immigrant family full of aging story tellers. After reading the book about Morrie, I could in some ways swear some family members were related to him. My grandmother and grandfather, great-uncles and aunts, second and third cousins all possessed this strange ability to captivate me with stories -- and not just any stories. Their own. They would lay an oral history before me that swerved this way and that. The monologue would meander and wind through decades, heartaches, generations and wars. They imparted some harsh experiences coupled with hope. Epic, everyday living history at its best.

So today I sat in a small cafe with a very old gentleman. We drank coffee as rain poured outside. I put a digital recorder on the table, pushed the red button and asked him to tell me about his life. I really only needed about 20 minutes to get what I needed. We ended up sitting and chatting for the better part of the afternoon. (What can I say? I like long conversations in coffee shops -- diners -- cafes -- whatever.)

Anyway, this guy, we'll call him Marv, he told me about growing up in the urban area where my grandmother was raised. He told me of his first job, of area politics and change. Marv mentioned names I recognized and families who rose to prominence locally with grandchildren that I speak with regularly. He told me about wild parties in his younger days. He made jokes about men "combing their mustaches" in the backyard.

I didn't follow the lingo, but think I understood.

He discussed his idyllic home and community. He shared a few experiences from World War II. He ended our conversation with his retelling of the battle of the bulge and said it was no big deal, and yet I could tell that it was by the momentary far off look in his eye. I learned of his life and saw patterns within the community that I lived in that I did not see before we spoke.

I rememberd the cliche, everyone has a story. Not all are worth telling, but more are than what we give credit for. Occasionally I am given the opportunity to put down fleeting impressions of a rich oral tradition to paper. And of course, I see the imperfections of the translation that written words are not always able to convey.

I can only ever hope to evoke the essence of a life story. I can only wish to hear them all.

Bad Monday's

2004-11-29T21:30:00.000-05:00

Today I wanted to do no less than simply vomit all over my polished brown leather shoes. It was one of those fight or flight sort of days. I slugged it out most of the morning, making phone calls, conducting interviews and putting word to paper. So much catching up to do. So little time. The Thanksgiving holiday took its toll with vacationers and closed city buildings and no call backs.

Others, even Jay, seemed to handle the performance anxieties just fine. She pounded out words like a pro. I wrote and then smoked. Wrote and smoked. Wrote and --cough, gag, sputter-- smoked. I accomplished about half of what I intended to by noon. Finally I could not take it any more. I walked out of the office for an hour and did not want to come back.

I do what I usually do in situations like these, without deciding to just leave. I found a quiet place, I listened to the world around me and attempted to focus my mind, to clear out the chorus of insecurities and nay-sayers. I wedged just enough serenity into my day to go back to work at 1 with a bit of hard fought sanity.

I was slow to start , but I did. I managed to squeak out three full stories today. Less than what my boss hoped. More than I expected. Vast amounts of energy were spent trying to hold my shit together. Not even Tom could help today. Of course there were edits and questions to be answered that appeared in my box by the end of the day.

Why is it that I must both love and hate what I do?

Luncheon

2004-11-28T21:47:00.000-05:00

Not much went on in my world post-Thanksgiving. All-in-all I succeeded in avoiding the hustle of holiday shopping this weekend: mostly by staying in. I sporadically stressed about work tomorrow. So little was done in terms of writing stories and meeting deadlines on Friday due to sources either closing shop or being out and about for the holiday. The only good thing Friday brought was conversation with a coworker -- and not just any coworker.

There is one woman where I work who is relatively the same age that I am. She also shares the educational background and upbringing that I have. The only difference between her and I is that she is married, which is great. I could talk to this woman without mincing words or wondering "what if?" as we took an extended lunch at this little diner. No one, and I mean no one, came into the office on Friday -- not editor, advertiser, or other fellow reporters. My female lunchtime cohort is a stickler for getting things done, a grade "a" A-type personality and that drove her into work. I was there out of a mixture of panic and because I am still relatively new and have not garnered enough time off and use it simply because I want to.

Anyway, female coworker (who we'll call "Jay" for expediency from this point forward) and I sat in said diner picking at our plates and chatting about anything that came to mind. We complained of our work and sang its praises simultaneously. We dipped into family upbringing and life philosophies. We talked relationships, past and present. I utterly opened up with my moodiness and insecurities. For me it was all very lovely and comfortable. I could laugh at myself. I felt as if the pressure of a bolder were temporarily lifted from my chest. Who knows what she thought of me afterwards.

Jay is the perpetual optimist to my shades of gray personality. She laughed at some of my assertions on life; she nodded and smiled in the appropriate places that made me feel smart and interesting, instead of dull and borish in my bitchings. She reminded me that life is not that bad and dreams are worth having. She also brought up a vital aspect of myself that I seldom think of.

I am most myself and open around women. By no means am I saying all women or trying to draw sexist lines, but I don't know, at times I come across those rare women who allow me to put down all my dukes. All emotional dodging and weaving dissipates for a moment. This happens best when there is no chance for a sexual or romantic relationship. Jay is happily married and I know first hand how devastating an affair can be on someone. So, no, I am not deceiving myself here when I say I lost all self awareness and just seem to bond in conversation with this person.

Since I was a small child all my real life role models and support were women. My grandmother definitely qualifies. And my mother too when she helped to care for my grandfather who died of prostrate cancer when I was ten. Mom shone then with strength and a certain amount of stoicism that trumped any usual martyrism. Her father's dying was larger than her complaints with life. Mom remained honest with me throughout the year long ordeal. She taught me to sit aside emotion at just the right time. I only wish she were able to keep a positive outlook on the nature of life as the years after grandpa's death marched on.

Also, with my grandfather's passing I lost my last strong male role model. A WWII vet, private plane pilot, gambler, blue collar employee, and all around rough neck, my grandfather secretly adored me and outwardly showed me his love by showing me his world as a young boy when he took me around to his haunts on weekends. My father worked and worked as I grew up. He held little patience to show me the "manly" things in life. If I could not do it right the first time (changing brakes, using the table saw) then forget it. He still acts this way and therefore there never really has been a medium for which we could share in order to bond.

During my teen years many teachers, all female, fed my ego and possible talents with care. I bonded with many of them. They led me to eventual pursue a career in education that ultimately wilted under various fears.

Jamie, Courtney, Lacy and Carrie were all female friends my own age whom I shared a special buddy bond with in high school and college. There was also the ill-fated relationships that always started out solid and ended for a multitude of typical reasons. I remained friends with a few and simply lost contact with most.

Over the past few years I made friends with a few men. Some actually were comfortable, but never quite like having a good female friend to listen to and to talk to. I don't know what it is about the repertoire men have, but it usually involves subtle layers of bullshitting one another that I am no good at interpreting. It doesn't help that I don't like football, cars, or speaking of last weekends great sexual conquests. Perhaps, once again, that is due in part to a lack of a relationship with my dad. Maybe I am just weird.

For two hours, without consciously thinking about it at the time, Jay reminded me of all of this. I know there is probably some deep and seedy -- or totally obvious -- reason why I feel so drawn to friendships with women over men. I know it probably has some Freudian bullshit reason tying back to my mother and father, but the women in my life just seem to be more substantive and real.

The women I am friends with tell me its okay to share my emotions, to let my guard down, to roll out from underneath the bolder before it crushes me.

Jay and I talked for two and a half hours. We talked about literature and relationships and nothing in particular without missing a beat. I felt as if I walked away from the situation feeling better than I have since I moved back here in August.

Amending the List

2004-11-25T21:11:00.000-05:00

Sometimes life does not work out as scripted. Sometimes it just smacks you in the face to re-center your universe.

Today I arrived at the Thanksgiving celebration a little early. The house filled with a delicious aroma. Sister and boyfriend had not yet arrived. Dad gingerly walked around the house helping to prepare the meal.

My mom stood in the kitchen, eyes brimming with tears. Grandma was having one of her bad days. She was tired and sleeping often and afraid in her own house. The trauma would be too much to transport her from the home where she lives with another relative to my parents house.

"The holiday's just are not the same anymore," mom said, choking down a sob.

The list, as I remembered it, as I could comfortably bitch about it in my last post, was not playing out.

For mom this topped off a rather bad year, a year I mostly missed living some 700 miles away. A year where my other grandmother had died and my papaw would be spending it with one of my dad's brothers. A year where having family over for Thanksgiving shrank by two and grew by one in the past three years with my return home.

Mom and I immediately went to work and put together a care package for my grandmother. We drove to the city to see her. Dad stayed home to get things ready for when my sister showed up.

Once at my grandma's little yellow house we went in and saw her sitting in the kitchen, puffy-eyed and looking all of her age.

"You just keep getting more handsome," she said when I step into the kitchen.

I bent down and kissed her forehead, lips savoring the softness and the warmth of her wrinkled skin, nose recognizing the sent of her talcum. Familiarity.

Mom and I unpacked a cardboard box we used to transport some dishes. We heated the food. We kept telling grandma what day it was. We sat for about an hour and watched her eat. Grandma asked about why I wasn't dating right now. I chose to go with the "rich broad" line. Grandma laughed.

Her laugh reminded me that in her younger day's grandma enjoyed a good beer, course language and a dirty joke every once in a while at the local corner pub. In that laugh was the wisdom, the pain and the humor of the youngest of eight children from a German immigrant family who were lucky to get by. The hands that held the fork where those that, during World War II, sewed buttons onto sailors' peacoats for 4 cents a button to help her family. The same hands mended my Snoopy doll often when I were little.

Looking at her I reminded myself that her mother died of cancer when she was 18. She did not marry until her mid-thirties and did not have my mom until she was 38. I remembered my grandmother, so often found sitting in that kitchen, as a pillar all of my life.

"Life is good if you don't weaken," she often said.

Recently she added wryly, "And I am weakening."

Her unabashed ability to face life squarely, to retain humor and love for others is a marvel.

Before my mom and I left to go home and have dinner with the rest of my family, Grandma had me bend over, kissed my cheek, and whispered to me how much she loved me.

In that moment I was a little boy again. I wanted nothing more than to cry -- not for what life has done to her, because what I learned from her is that life just is. I wanted to shed tears of gratitude for this woman who gave me all of my good parts that are rarely shown.

I found what to give thanks for on this day.

The Giving of the Thanks

2004-11-24T22:39:00.000-05:00

My plans for tomorrow are as follows:

Get copious amounts of sleep. When given a weekday off in which you are usually getting ganged banged by deadlines and lack of time, enjoy. Spend the time blissfully unconscious instead of within the hyper-reality that usually surrounds the clock.
Wake up with enough time to get ready, buy whatever pie is leftover at the local S-Mart grocery. This will probably be a coffee cake. Pie is too high class for the S-Mart to keep in massive quantities. Definitely get frustrated and angry in line because I am not the only stupid man buying crap cake for a family get together at the last minute. We will all be frustrated and angry together, in line, waiting for the cashiers of the lowest common denominator, who could not get the day off and are as equally irritable, to incorrectly ring up our day old coffee cakes.
Arrive at my parents house just in time for dinner to be served to keep frustration and anger from being further inflamed.
Get chastised by my mother for not showing up soon enough to help with the meal even though we go through the same routine each holiday -- offer to help, be told no because I'm a "man" then listen to martyr speech about how much time and effort she put forth alone in order to serve her family this delicious meal. Anger stymied by the fact that meal really is delicious.
Feel a little crummy for the crap cake just bought.
Hold my 85 year old grandmother's hand sporadically during the meal and chat. Appreciate every moment with this woman who acted as shelter and support when I was younger and railed against my parents when I actually believed I may change them and that I was nothing like them.
Answer the same question about not having a girlfriend and the reasons why twenty bazillion times. "Grandma, I'm waiting for that rich broad" if I just want to make her chuckle and snort, or "Really grandma, I'm just not good at relationships -- too hurt by the past and too selfish right now to think of anyone else," which is closer to the truth. *By the way my grandmother has dementia. This both sucks and is a source of comic relief at times (she put all of her bills in the cheese bin of her refrigerator one time and will tell my mom, her daughter, to kiss her ass at least once due to the accompanying behavioral side affects -- we think).
Be grateful that the situation is not the same that it was nearly three years ago when I was going through the divorce and Granny kept asking where my wife was every five minutes. Fucking painful.
Bully my way back into the kitchen after dinner is served to help clean up and wrestle with my younger sister and her unemployed boyfriend for left-overs. I will kick unemployed boyfriend's ass just for giggles if given the opportunity.
Offer to take my grandmother home, in part to spend more time with her and also to navigate away from possibility of going out with folks to see cheesy-bad, recently released holiday movie. May succeed in taking grandma home. Will fail miserably skipping out on the movie. Family rarely ever goes out together anymore. Done this for years, will feel obliged.
It will be Dad's turn to grumble about the spending of money since mom will want the "tight ass" to pay for movie for all. He'll cave. He must concede the cash up sometime. Better in a cheaper fashion like a movie than having to re-tile whole kitchen to appease later. Possible that re-tile job may be cheaper though.
Shake my head throughout movie. Watch mom begin to nod. Movie ends. Hug my mom and say goodbye.
On drive home reflect, see pattern of my familial life, and realize that I do give thanks for it, if for nothing other than its familiarity. And a lot of times, even though I bitch about things I don't like in them and see reflected in some angles of me, I realize that familiarity is a deeper sort of love.
Then really smile as I nestle down in bed knowing I work the next day, which insures no traumatic encounters with early bird shoppers at 5 a.m. I'll see my coffee cake crowd on Christmas Eve.

ABOUT ME: Growing up Middle Class

2004-11-23T21:07:00.000-05:00

Growing up Middle Class
I grew up in one of the only subdivisions nestled within a small farm community. The backdrop of my most informative years was a compromise between my parents -- not too rural for my mother who grew up in the city, and not to urban for my father whose family consisted of a long line of farmers. My mother worked as a greeting card stocker for a short while then as an rural elementary school's teachers aide, which she still is. My father worked massive amounts of overtime as a telephone repair man in a nearby large city, which he too still does. There own meshing of life philosophies, upbringing, occupations and preferences within a 26 year marriage are, if nothing else, a fascinating study in paradox and equilibrium. Perhaps as much could be said for most of the middle-class today. And my parents both draw the definition of middle class mentality in how I was raised.

Others speak of how when they were raised, they survived on less without realizing they were poor or finding pride in the fact that the family was able to "make it." All I can say is this, as a middle class kid who was bought new shoes often, fed to the point of portliness by the age of 12, and over-privleged enough to under-appreciate everything that being suburban in America had to offer unfortunately does not have such mystique. From my own experience growing up we are consumers of material wants over actual needs in order to satiate an incurable unnamed fear some of the time, if not more than we realize. That tends to manifest itself in various ways -- ambition to remain "upwardly mobile" and on the move, to develop a sort of tribal mind-set with those of our own ilk and to constantly seek more beyond our means that keeps dreams and goals an arm-lengths away.

With that said, I would neither classify my childhood or my parents child-raising technique as good or bad, just turbulent at times. No serious abuse, alcoholism in the home or major tragedy visited the scene in the making of this boy. Mostly, if anything negative can be said my upbringing it is this, there was a great amount of economic insecurity and very little direction given in how to succeed and be positive in life that always met with financial over-compensation on my parents part.

My father, the direct result of a depression mentality, hoarded and continues to hoard pennies to the detriment of his ability to truly enjoy life. My mother balances that with an extreme self-sacrificing in terms of what she is willing to do for her children and family that she at once finds to be fulfilling and a curse. These two opposing paradigms created fights, friction and a particularly negative outlook on life and the concept of hope when I was growing up. The mantra in my house hold always seemed to be "You'll understand how hard life is when you grow up." My parents lives involve(d) preparation for some great apocalyptic event that still has not arrived.

It was for these reasons and that outlook, though I did know that my parents loved me and did the best they could, that I decided to strike out on my own at the age of 18 when I went away to college. I thought I would surmount their fears by shear willpower alone. I dreamed of New York City and a life amongst the cultured and the literati. Of course I wish it were only that dreamy. From the very beginnings of my young adult life the dream of success and happiness was compromised.

Atmosphere

2004-11-22T23:19:00.000-05:00

Rivulets ran down my windshield and the wiper blades moved back and forth in a slow and methodical fashion as I drove to work this morning. The weather was on par with the mood I was in -- bleak with a high chance for gloom. Driving in such weather usually has one of two affects on me -- either its a day for jazz or one for Tom Waits.

I fumbled around in my car as I drove looking for Mule Variations, one of my all time favorite discs. A cigarette poked out from my lips, smoke curling in the air nearly blinding me as I tried to keep one eye on the road and the other poking around in the beat up carrying case I stash under my driver side seat for such an occasion. Finally I found what I was looking for with the minimal amount of road swerving and no fatalities. I popped the disc in and returned my full attention to the road ahead. The gravel voice that is so recognizably Waits barreled through the two good driver side speakers left in my car. I listened as Tom advised some nebulous persona that they better "get behind the mule" and suddenly I mellowed out considerable.

I thought about the two Terri Gross interviews Waits did on Fresh Air, all coy with his responses and a bit illusive. I could not help but form a thin smile. Coy and illusive, sort of like my own emotions.

"The absurd character that is Tom Waits seemed absolutely befitting for a day like today" I thought in typical fashion as my wiper blades gave out a shrill squeak during a break in the drizzle. The noise only added to the symphony playing in my car.

Waits's hobo persona is what first attracted me to his music. I only saw him a few years back on VH1's Story Tellers. Something about his melancholy, the restless wandering of the hobo image reflected, or inferred, drew me closer to what felt like a kindred spirit. After seeing him I went out and bought a back log of his CD's. I know it sounds strange but I also realized no one except Tom Waits, with the visual presence he exudes, could get away with singing the songs he does. Rod Stewart should burn in effigy for covering even one of them.

By the time I got to where I was going Tom had crooned two-thirds the way through his disc. I myself then became somewhat grouse. The absurdity of the world, seeing it in chimney reds as described in another album, began to sink in. As I pulled into a half vacant parking lot in front of a building where I was to meet a source "Hold On" began to play and almost as instant as the switch between tracks my mood began to alleviate to one of a melancholy hope. Waits imploring someone, a woman I suppose to take his hand and hold on in the midst of desperation reflects the faith I sheath when sliding down that depressive slope -- ego inverted.

I lingered until the end of the song then shut down the engine, grabbed a note pad, and deliberately walked in the rain from my car to the building. The interview went fine. The rest of my work day was solid. I settled into this determined, low down crank out some stories kind of mood. My boss complimented me on my fitting in. I didn't worry about the imminent buy-out of where I worked and I muscled forward. Much better than the lethargy and procrastination I sometimes settle upon in these moods.

By evening I decided it was time for a break, time to drive around one of my beat areas before another meeting. The rain stopped. Run-off pooled into cold little ponds and pothole lakes along the roads. Before I knew it I found myself parking in front of this swanky little coffee shop, where I got out of my car and went in.

I immediately liked the place. The walls were covered in a layer of cheap pastel paints. Overstuffed couches and barcaloungers formed little islands here and there, dispersed amongst the few oddly matched table sets that littered the place. An old style deli counter frig marked the line between patron and staff. A few people lounged around reading copies of the New York Times. I looked for last Sunday's Times and found it. I read one article in particular as I waited on my grande latte and felt as if I had a brush with celebrity. I then nestled down into a particular couch that reminded me of college days and stared out the window at the road that wound its way up a steep hill.

Before I knew it there was this dark haired hippie chick sitting in a lounger near me. She sipped some tea and smiled. Her belly was firm and round. She patted it and just began telling me what it was like to be pregnant with her first child.

"It's the most amazing thing," she said, marveling at the new contours of her own body. "Well, after the morning sickness ended at least."

She was married to a PhD grad student. They lived a little up the road. He graded papers as she walked/waddled down here to enjoy the weather. We talked a bit about what I did, life in general, literature and really nothing memorable at all. She was earthy and warm and I thought her husband the luckiest man. Perhaps we talked for an hour, maybe a little more. She punctuated her discussion with little pats on her tummy every once in a while. I wore a smile the entire time.

I finally had to get up and leave. As I did I realized some mellow jazz played in the background. My emotions were a calm sea. I felt connected to the world around me. Everything seemed less absurd. Mind, body, and spirit seemed in focus.

"Hmmm," I thought to myself, "Mr. Waits there is one thing you are wrong about. There is no need to call the cops. You can meet nice girls in coffee shops."

Mornings

2004-11-22T07:11:00.000-05:00

Sometimes mornings positively change everything. This is not one of those mornings. I awoke and immediately began to scour the television news stations and online weekend editions of the newspapers to see if I missed anything monumental over the weekend that I will need to chase down today. I then drank a cup of java and stepped on the scale. A relatively slender man, I stepped on the evil weight machine only to cringe and then gingerly step off. The pizza and lethargy obviously did my physique no good yesterday.

I did, amazingly enough, sleep long and well last night. Unlike some, such as Heather over at This Fish Needs A Bicycle , I never really suffer from insomnia. I used to but I found some personal techniques that help me fall right to sleep in any situation. None of them involve high levels of alcohol or tranquilizer either.

I already know it will be a crappy day outside, like yesterday and the day before that. Hell, recently nothing but gray clouds that seem to have the power to drain the life out of everything reigned overhead. Late fall and most of the winter months are my enemy. I feel like Superman, a being powered by a yellow sun whose soul is being deprived his necessary sustenance each time he's denied its rays for too long. (Yes, I am a childhood comic book geek as well. Don't even get me started).

The best I can hope for in terms of uplift today is perhaps some baby laughter or toddler talk. If I can't find any of that I hopefully have the next best thing in the blogs I linked to this page. I prompt anyone else who stumbles across this page to read them. I will point out that they are all by women. Each has a unique vantage point, a superior writing style compared to my own, and an amazing eloquence that reflects a much deeper emotional understanding than my own. I hope your day is better.

Ego puncture

2004-11-21T19:37:00.000-05:00

I spent most of my time sleeping today. I awoke at 11:30, ate two crumble cake doughnuts and drank one can of Diet Mountain Dew. I smoked two cigarettes, cursing myself horribly for being so weak. Over the past month and a half I believed I successfully kicked the habit. I then went and laid back down to watch a little television and promptly began to dose for the rest of the day in a depressive stupor.

The stupor and smoking binge began before the weekend. After work on Friday I broke down and made a bee line to the nearest gas station to buy a pack of cancer sticks. I had to relieve the tension somehow. During the course of my work day I dealt with an angry reader who believed I misquoted him on a story. I didn't. I simply recontextualized his comments to fit within the flow. He said I confused his confirmation and repeating of another's belief by making him sound like the originator of said beliefs. After our conversation, where I did profusely apologize, I walked up to my editor and handed her a slip of paper on which I wrote the gentleman's name, telephone number and grievance. She looked perturbed and said she would handle it.

I then went back to my cubicle, opened my email and read this generalized and impersonal letter from the owner of the weekly newspaper for which I worked. He's selling it and all the other newspapers he owns to some mega-giant newspaper corporation which just happens to own the soon to be exclusive daily in my town. A second daily exists right now, but it will dissolve early next year. My paper operates within a substantial subscription base in the burbs. The big bad daily recently increased its staff to burrow into those burbs. With the flood of unemployed reporters on the local market once the other daily closes I am doomed. I am the new guy and basically two other people in the area will have more experience covering the same beats I do. Surely the mega-co. will want to hire a few reporters from the defunct daily and consolidate some of their holdings and employee positions. So I smoke. I smoke and I tinker with my writing here.

It all really is a shame. I had this huge post on growing up in middle America I planned to unleash upon the world tonight, but now I am too exhausted. Last night I stayed up too late watching bad television. Today I slept too much. My stomach churns at the thought of being unemployed and the possible need to relocate.

I also did something I typically do when I am worried or concerned or depressed. Yesterday I spent money. I went Christmas shopping with my mother Saturday afternoon and ended up buying a new cell phone -- a $200 cell phone. I convinced myself that I just had to because the coverage on my current service, the one I had when I moved back, absolutely sucked and now was an opportune time, since I had the money, to switch services.

I am so shallow. No amount of cigarettes, sleep, or cool factor eminating from my new cell could actually make me feel better. Perhaps ordering a large pepperoni pizza will.

The cell sounds great dialing.

ABOUT ME

2004-11-20T13:32:00.000-05:00

It may or may not be worth noting for this web site that I am a writer and reporter by profession, so I am keenly conscious of my writing style. My profession, which I will discuss at times because it is a large part of my life today and therefore completely unavoidable not to mention, makes anonymity on this site paramount. Additionally, I see my weaknesses as a writer constantly. Some posts may be more clunky and awkward than others if I am trying on a new style of writing. Certain words will appear too often in posts occasionally. The over use of one particular word every-so-often is something that I do and am reminded of by others. Lately the catch word has been "that." Editors are wonderful people and obviously I will have none except myself here, so I apologize profusely now and beg that you struggle through to the good bits.

Also, I have blogged in the past. That blog is still in existence. I have a small but loyal following mostly composed of friends who know me personally and with whom I share daily happenings. Those happenings, and the seedier, more mellow-dramatic emotions I sometimes experience are guarded there though. This is mainly due to the fact that at time I wish to write about my readers. At other times I feel a need to keep up a certain persona that restrains me from completely unleashing a bothersome train of thought or criticism on certain issues I know my friends hold dear. And once again, with so many knowing who I am there, there is always a danger of my blog interfering with my very public career. With that said, I begin this blog with no true hopes of it ever becoming popular amongst fellow blog-o-philes or web elitist. I simply hope to keep web trolls at bay and to polish my writing; to receive the occassional comment to know someone is out there reading; to maintain a creative outlet where I can openly express myself and also garner a deeper understanding of me. As I realized lately, much self-seeking has slipped away but every once in a while those old pangs of trying to figure out my "true self"" do arise.

By the way I am 28. I probably have all the concerns and crises most my age do with their coming of age and impending adulthood which entails an increasingly settled nature of living and the collection of a few unrealized dreams. I will never forget how shocked I was to hear a much reveared instructor tell me once that he did not truly know himself and accept his status as an adult until he was 30. After the shock settled in, I adopted 30 as the official coming-of-age benchmark. In spite of that I still believe I am more neurotic about life than many, but not all. I am an obsessive, and at times compulsive, personality. I can be humorous in subtle ways, am always quiet within large crowds and willingly donate about $20 every Friday night to a small group of buddies when we play Texas Hold 'Em.