I Have a Chipmunk Perched on My Shoulder, But I'd Prefer a Finch

Anti-Social Travel Cooler

2009-01-30T07:38:00.000-06:00

I've occupied my new apartment for forty-eight hours now. I've had two semi-restless nights on a graciously loaned air-mattress, eaten out a lot due to a lack of plates / pans, and spent hundreds of dollars buying inexpensive household items to get the lady and I by till we can get all of our nice stuff out west.

While staying at my friends for the last three months I often holed up in my room in an attempt to give them space while enjoying some myself. This solitary time does nothing for my social skills. I find myself verbally stumbling when I'm fortunate enough to enjoy the company of others. I'm so starved for conversation that nightly calls with the lady find me talking to her more than with her. I babble uncontrollably finding pause with my verbal assaults only after hanging up the phone. It's no different at work.

The team at work is a close knit bunch that have enjoyed work related, bond inducing world traveling. Beyond attachment these four guys are extraordinarily smart. Considering these two attributes it's not hard to believe that I find my head spinning as they weave a tale or drudge up trivial knowledge at breakneck speed. I've joined in on occasion but my overall plan is to be quiet. I do the tasks presented to me, am pleasant when addressed, and simply listen to the verbal whirlwind occasionally chuckling when I get the joke.

I feel like a high school jock in the AV club. That's not completely accurate. Imagine a four-hundred strong AV staff that stop feeding four-hundred projectors to stare at me as I enter the room. That's not completely accurate. Exaggerated or not, the dramatic drop in friends and the seemingly uphill battle to obtain new ones that live in the same state is disheartening.

A friend gave me permission to have a break down. She offered her shoulder if I should succumb to the pressure. It’s not that I haven’t considered a mild breakdown, but the bliss I was experiencing was due to self imposed ignorance. Offered permission, I now want to break down.

At night I sit on my travel cooler and watch DVDs on my computer which rests on one of the only items of furniture I own: My fifteen-dollar Ikea table. The bedroom furniture is sad and the front room furnishings are non-existent. When the lady gets out here in two weeks we'll pick out some items to occupy the front room. But when she gets out here I won't even care if there is furniture at all.

Normalcy Over-Easy

2009-01-22T20:38:00.005-06:00

Breakfast is the single most important meal of every day. Not because of it's "good start" qualities but simply because it fits. It's comfortable. Breakfast's consistent nature wins in the long run over the exotic tastes of dinner and lunch. It holds a constant comforting spot at average.

For three months I've lived with my friends in Seattle sans wife, dog, and sense of self. Waking up early in the morning finds me hiding in my room. The two children have been conditioned with a digital clock to abandon their beds at six-o-o and not a minute sooner. This mandate is overridden if the kids hear any noise prior to six-o-o (If someone is awake the day has started.) Such a noise could present itself as a house guest made breakfast, watched television, showered, or even from the simple act of opening his most certainly squeaky bedroom door.

There are so many opportunities to misstep in a situation such as this. Leave a dish out, eat the chips, comment on child raising. All bad. Even when approached with my cautious friendly touch. Not eating dinners they cooked, cleaning all sorts of dishes, and ignoring questionable behavioral from their kids is also meet with mild scorn. As hard as it is on me, it must be at least that hard on them. Sure I don't remember the last Friday night I had to myself, but babysitting seems a fair trade for a roof. Besides, it has been mostly good. I suppose maybe strained at moments would be a good assessment of the bad. I couldn't have accepted this job without their help. That said I'd gladly sleep on a towel in the corner of my very own place.

I move into our West Seattle apartment this weekend. It's not a separate part of the city borrowing it's name sake in an attempt to appear cool; It's in the city proper and stands alone as more of district or burrough. Within two blocks of our modest one-bedroom place are Indian, Chinese, pizza, Italian, and Thai restaurants. Same for a Blockbuster, two banks, coffee, bagels, second run theater, two grocery stores, gas station, a florest, and a place to go out for breakfast.

Though I don't have the keys yet, I visited West Seattle yesterday. I parked outside the apartment and wandered around. Window shopping down California Ave. for a few blocks before catching a flic, eating some za, and wrapping it all up with a grocery run to the fancy, high priced market. For five hours I pretended that I lived there and wandered around with a sense of neighborhood ownership and belonging. It felt good.

Three weeks till my wife flies in with our dog. Now that there is an end date it's almost harder to get through each day. I've busied myself with TV, books, and lots of sleep (naps and otherwise) avoiding the 'missing her' feelings. Even though things will still be upside down till our Chicago place sells, we move all of our stuff west, and purchase a new condo, there is one giant step toward normalcy about to happen; I'll soon be sharing my comfortable morning meals with my lady.

Close Call

2009-01-16T18:45:00.005-06:00

My new job is going well. The hours are long but it turns out I like working. I'm arriving an hour and a half earlier to work than at Sony and I leave anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours later. That said, it's not work.

Sure I have tasks, deadlines, and am challenged every day. None of it seems a chore. Only two months in, I received a glowing review. Not only was I a good guy, as my boss was prone to point out often, I exceeded his expectations for the position and was performing at a level which he expected at the six month mark. All of this was made so much sweeter since I was not laid off from my previous employer this last Thursday, as so many of my friends were.

My old boss didn't replace me when I left. So I'll never know if I would have actually been cut. Considering every single person in the marketing department I designed merchandising materials for was relieved of their jobs, I'm fairly confident my old position was not relevant considering the state of the dying music industry. It's unsettling getting a jolt of happiness from avoiding the cuts while watching so many of my friends cut loose, but having gotten out only two months ago, well ... I can't help but smile.

Fortunately everyone I was really good friends with at Sony were sparred. Are they the lucky ones? I've asked this question every time we've had lay-offs at Sony (once a year, for fourteen years, except the year they announced the big merger which resulted in a forty percent cut of the workforce the following year.) I know I was wishing to be laid off while at Sony. I know financially it would have been the best situation to receive a severance package especially considering the packages are based on tenure. My decision to go west has been proved to be a good one considering. Even if it wasn't for how much I love the job. Right decision. Even if I didn't love the weather (hitting high fifties while Chicago suffers through minus eighteen without considering windchill.) Right decision. Even leaving all of my incredible friends behind. Right decision.

That last one is a stretch. I certainly miss all of my friends. I can always return to Chicago if this place ends up not suiting us. If the job doesn't work out. If I miss my friends. Doing it on my terms is the most important part of the equation. So far so good.

Breaking the Ice

2009-01-09T17:20:00.004-06:00

Four months have passed since I've been writing here. While there have been a few posts in that time (nine if you count the two "I'm too busy to post" posts,) the steady stream of finger chatter has been essentially silenced.

I explained what a busy few months I've had to a friend on email today. I typed out a string of changes and adventures I've undertaken in the last 4 months and realized that every single change fell into exactly one month.

A move across the country when you've lived in the same place for thirty-seven years would have been enough. A new wife - enough. A nine-thousand mile trip to Japan - enough. Quitting a job you've had for fourteen years - you get the picture. Having encountered a life change cocktail like that, I'm surprised I remember to put on pants.

It's not the rain that has me down. It's the two-thousand miles separating my friends and I. In a month from now the lady will be out here sharing a roof once more after three long months of extraordinarily phone bills. Unless all of you plan to move two-thousand miles west, I've a reason to be down.

The longer you stay away from something, the harder and more awkward it is to come back to. Every day I didn't post I wondered how I would start back up. I've a dozen unfinished posts and I'm not sure they're even relevant any longer. I can write new posts in Seattle but I made so many back in Chicago.

I can make new friends in Seattle but I have so many back in Chicago.

How Much Blog Could a Blog Post Post if a Blog Post Could Post Blog?

2008-11-04T23:41:00.003-06:00

What's that sound? It's the sound of a million bloggers posting their satisfaction at the election of Senator Obama. This is one of those posts.

In federal facilities it is customary to display the image of the president. I've always found it an odd practice until tonight. Tonight I would gladly display a photo of our new president elect. Tonight I am encouraged by the decision the country has made. Tonight, for once, I am inclined to believe in hope.

Finally Sinking In

2008-11-03T11:34:00.008-06:00

In case you haven't heard, October was a doosey. Since my last post, five weeks ago on this wonder of cyberspace called Blogger, I've gotten married, travelled to Japan, quit my current job of fourteen years, and accepted a new job that requires a 2000 plus mile move west to Seattle leaving my new wife behind to sell the condo.

Since returning home from Japan, I've been a scheduling fool. If you are in this state, you've probably heard from me about getting togehter 'One last time.' While a small handful of friends couldn't be squeezed in, I did manage to work up a hectic schedule that saw me attending eleven lunches, twelve dinners, one family going away party, and a breakfast in two weeks. This left me little time to fix up the place for sale or consider what to pack.

Sounds like I'm complaining or that I prefer house work over friends. With the staggering amount of good news in October, I'm just trying to keep a level head and see the potential good alongside the potential bad (as part of my Velvet Murphy approach to life.) So when a friend talks about how awesome the new gig will be, I mention the political quality surrounding the creation of this position. When someone tells me Seattle is awesome, I mention that I'm leaving thirty-seven years of relationships and experiences behind.

Johnny D. is the kind of man guys aspire to be; Easy going, intelligent, funny, and willing to accept a man crush from me. He credits me with saving his kid from certain parking lot death even though I was simply part of the search team, not the hero. John is also part of my poker crew made up of current and ex music industry fellas. We've met at my place a dozen times in the last couple years to experience a constant ebb and flow of nickels and dimes while chatting away like school girls.

At the last poker night ever, this last Friday, John exercised one of his other admirable qualities: Honesty. During our extended goodbyes in the parking lot around one am, there was a lull. John said "Moving is something you're supposed to do when you're twenty. I figured, at our age, we're all here. We're settled. And we'd be growing old and playing poker together." While I'm most certainly paraphrasing, the gist of that statement resonates with me. It struck to the core of my hesitation.

I'm not dying and I'll be back as much as humanly / financially possible. But there is no kidding myself. Relationships will fizzle, become awkward, and perhaps die. I've thrown myself into this situation not fully comprehending the full extent of the consequences. The thought of a single relationship perishing has me second guessing this entire thing.

Like a child who won't look at you when you leave, as if gone unseen you've never left, I'm finding it hard to finish typing this post. If I wrap it up, and make my final poignant point I may crumble teary eyed on the bed. So let's just say, to all of you that I'm troubling with a two-thousand mile gap, you will be missed and the rumored fizzly, awkward, death of our friendship has been greatly exaggerated.

Too Swamped to Post Again

2008-09-24T07:54:00.001-05:00

... Busy flying out for last minute interview.

Theraputic Coffee

2008-09-14T11:46:00.005-05:00

The lady is in Minneapolis because I was supposed to play poker last night. I use the word poker loosely; We also play baseball, screw your neighbor, and have even played war for money. I also use the word money loosely. Last time I ended the night up over twenty dollars which, considering we play for nickels and dimes, means I had a stellar night. It's hard to get my six music industry guy friends on the same to organize a game, so when I had four on board I wrote the date in my calendar. Mere hours before I was to steal their money with my mad skills, I received three cancellations.

The lady sits in her room whenever I host poker night and is generally a good sport about not disrupting the guy talk with frequent visits. Needless to say it's boring for her so I always let her know as soon as we've settled on a date. This way she can make plans of her own. Hence the trip to Minny. Sometimes we all need time alone. While chilling with my lady has all the appropriate ingredients to provide a pleasant evening, the scarce "me" time is always a welcome occurrence. With no poker, I was going to get all the "me" time I needed.

For numerous reasons these last few weeks have been a mentally dizzying affair and the anxious, agitated state my brain resides reeks of nervous break down. It's brought on from too much and (strangely) too little going on. The list is long: Wedding plans, honeymoon plans, too much to do at work, no word on Seattle, family deaths, and now a financial blunder of sorts: Due to the poor responses for our wedding (Over forty percent of those invited have sent regrets) we are faced with coming in shy of our contractually defined food and beverage minimum to the tune of over two grand. While we were going to spend this money either way, this two grand is now just going to be handed over to the hotel in return for nothing. This hurts my frugal planning heart. My response to pressure varies. I'll rise to the occasion normally but this weekend I crumbled under the weight of it all. Crumbled as in sat in front of the TV, ate too much, and moped around sans lady. Needing a pick me up, I went to breakfast.

One of my greatest pleasures is this first meal of the day. The delicious food is partly the reason but it's also because breakfast is usually a mellow, un-rushed occurrence where I can regroup and unwind. For this reason even having breakfast alone is a pleasure. Parking at the counter, reading, and sipping coffee for an hour or two settles my soul. The dish washing station was directly in front of me. When my waitress would clean a few plates, the German gentleman next to me would exclaim "Herr Kaffee!" and answer any English to German translations asked of him. A chatty, coffee guzzling lady was to my left. Without my book, I would have suffered accounts of her grandchildren and perhaps worse.

I loose track of how much coffee I've consumed when the refills / top offs occur constantly. Even so, I'm positive I was working on a fifth cup when I gazed into the rising steam for what seemed like minutes. An answer to my anxious melancholy rose with the steam from the coffee and I broke this beverage stare down with a vision of the lady's smiling face.

Death Had a Busy Summer

2008-09-09T15:41:00.005-05:00

I'm so swamped I'm mentally tired. Few loose ends remain with the wedding but there are those few. The honeymoon is slightly planned; Loose clippings are strewn about our living room begging to be scoured and edited down to a casual itinerary. 4th quarter releases have kept the large format printers at work buzzing, my interns busy, and my blogging hat ignored. I've applied for the job four weeks ago now, with only one response from HR and no interviews scheduled. Add to the mix a dead aunt and cousin, and it's not hard to imagine my clouded psyche.

My younger cousin Elizabeth lost her battle with health issues derived from years of anorexia and heroin abuse. She was an energetic, always polite girl who possessed stunning beauty even if she never thought so. Anorexia brought on by body-image induced teenage confusion provided me with an awkward moment where I introduced myself as if a stranger. I knew she was coming to lunch. In fact she was the reason for the lunch. But as I said hello to the various relatives numbering in the double digits, I saved her for last, extended my hand and said "Hi, I'm Tom." Eventually she rebounded, filled out, but still looked to the magazine covers for who she should be and what she should look like. This led to breast implants at eighteen, submissions to Playboy, and five year heroin habit that riddled her with health problems such as seizures, the likes of such ultimately ended her time on Earth.

Sue never forgot to tell me about the time I came to her house, was asked how dinner was, and responded "This beef tastes like rubber." I'm sure it did, she wasn't known for her cooking. Her husband Ken is a despicable sort that never missed an opportunity to belittle even a budding teenage psyche. It's unfortunately a popular club, but I belong to (along with many of my relatives) the "I Don't Really Care for Ken Club." He's a self made millionaire from peddling copy machines coupled with a victorious lawsuit against Xerox that netted him some ungodly amount of dough. His offspring was not invited to the wedding as they are a cackling, self-absorbed duo. Heather, the oldest, shares a profession with yours truly. On the rare occasion she visits you'll be subjected to hour long stories about her trials as a design genius and yet not once has she even acknowledged we share a similar traits. Somehow, amidst all this ugly, Sue was a good egg. Maybe not a bright, shiny light of good egg, but certainly one of the good ones.

Sue had smoked almost her entire life. Watching her mom and dad perish from cigarette induced cancer wasn't enough incentive to quit. For two years now she has been bed ridden and required to sit up in bed so her lungs wouldn't fill with liquid. I haven't spoken to her in quite a while, and it was no surprise to receive a regret to our wedding invite. I sent seventy-five dollars of white daisies and yellow roses to her memorial and can't shake the image of her face or the fact that I never said goodbye.

I've had second thoughts about moving away. While I haven't been offered the job, I still consider it wise to mentally prepare and accept such a huge change as a possibility. If I move away it might not be forever but what's going to bring me back? The need to be around my loved ones, or my attendance at their funeral?

Off the Meat

2008-08-30T09:33:00.001-05:00

My friend Greg makes the best chili I've ever had. His graduation from culinary school provided him with a bag of tricks, but he also has a discerning tongue. Food is more than a meal with Greg. When dining together we often talk about the subtleties of a certain plate, and are generally on the same page. Somehow eating with him reminds me to slow down and taste my food. I mean really taste it, savor it.

Sadly Greg doesn't own a restaurant I can frequent. Not sure if his dreams involve such an idea, but I'd design his logo and menu for free. Receiving an invitation to a meal at his house is a welcome treat. Besides having a kick-ass wife, an adorable string bean daughter, and a remarkably verdant back yard, the seemingly effortlessly prepared meal always satisfies. And there isn't a scrap of meat in his house.

For a long time now, I've been contemplating going veggie. The reasons are obvious and somewhat endless. At the core of the reasons are that I don't enjoy the idea of killing something and then benefiting from it. I'm not a spiritual man but I subscribe to the idea that everything affects everything. A calf restricted from sitting or turning in their cage that also can't avoid standing in their own fecal matter doesn't scream yummy to me. Or humane. The rancher that deals with this sort of thing has to become desensitized to it or suffer mentally. In their desensitization they bury simple / basic traits of kindness which eventually will be expressed to other humans on or off the ranch. And so on.

There is no way I'm swearing off fish however. Which makes me a Pescetarian. How was this line determined? Not sure, but with Tokyo around the corner, I'd be foolish to go hardcore. I've had dreams about Japanese sushi. I will be skipping the chicken and horse shashimi.

It's only been a week and I can't say I'll never have meat again. I feel better, am sleeping better, and haven't really missed it all that much. Next thing you know I'll be protesting naked outside a fur store. Don't worry, I won't share photos of that.

Velvet Murphy

2008-08-25T08:32:00.001-05:00

I've had only a few moments of self enlightenment in life. One was inspired by a Velvet Underground song in my teens. "And everything was all right" might seem like a throw away lyric spewed forth by a hippie laying in the middle of a field, but taken to heart and applied generously, you'd be surprised at how comforting those five words are. Everything is all right turned into everything will go on. Letting one small thing ruin your day is setting you up for a big tumble when something big actually happens. How you react to life's daily trials affects your mood, the moods of those you encounter, and can / should ultimately set a mellow, relaxed pace for your entire life.

Murphy's Law provided me with the other moment. In it's original dismal verse, it paints a picture of an unlucky soul that the world is set on destroying. Take from that the basic message, with none of the depressed self loathing, and you get: Anything that can happen will. A phrase that, in it's preparatory sense, allows someone to consider every possible outcome in any situation. Coupled with the Velvet lyrics, I'm provided caution and comfort simultaneously.

Driving down the highway I am both worried about getting cut off and all right with it. When a loved one passes, I'm never surprised because sometimes people die. When they're gone, Lou's words level me out and push fond memories of the deceased into consciousness. I'm often one of the few at a funeral with a smile.

A few days ago the job was posted. I've waitied over two months for the post and have been trying to get to Seattle for nearly six. I've always known that things might not go my way. In prep, I've attempted to think of every possibility so, if confronted by bad news, I would be only mildly depressed as opposed to homicidal. For all the attention and thought I've given this job quest, I neglected considering one possibility.

The Seattle company had lay-offs just prior to the job being posted. Instead of walking papers, open positions were offered to the newly jobless. I hadn't considered this as a possibility, which is fine because I can't think of everything. But had the position been handed to someone with one foot out the door, my fragile kitten self would have been sent spiraling. Or maybe I would have been happy for them to get the position. After all, I still have a job. Even if I hate it.

Too Swamped to Post ...

2008-08-20T15:29:00.003-05:00

... Busy applying for job.

Gift Guilt

2008-08-11T09:01:00.000-05:00

Our third wedding shower was this weekend, which is good because we desperately needed a new ice cream scooper. Some of our household items are comprised of a mismatched, hand me down mess. Not wanting my divorce to linger, I succumbed to material requests in an attempt to get the ex out of my hair quickly. Mom provided me with spare cookware and plates that met my low maintenance needs for nearly a decade. Getting new stuff, especially since I asked for new stuff from some of you the first time, upsets what little etiquette I have. No matter, because all of this if for the lady.

At first the lady wanted to elope. The idea of a fairytale wedding never appealed to her. As preliminary plans were laid for our secret nuptials, the lady decided she wanted her sisters there. Once they were added, she couldn't get married without having a few of her close friends there. Inviting a few friends and sisters would upset the uninvited mom, and if mom was coming dad would surely be upset if not asked.

Even though our invite list expanded to include close to two-hundred people, remnants of that initial plan remained. Making our wedding bigger, we had only one rule we never comprised: Make sure everyone had a good time. Beyond that, every tradition we could break has been tossed aside. We will not be lighting a unity candle, I won't be fishing out a garter with my teeth, and having desert and wedding cake seemed redundant, so we opted for a cheese cake ending to your meal.

Both the Minneapolis and Chicago showers were well attended, featured our favorite drinks / snacks, and were lovingly planned by our friends and family. Thinking about this planning, we are overwhelmed. When thanked for all this attention, our families and friends respond similarly with earnest sincerity about how much they love both of us. Friends have said that an evening dealing with my ex was not offset by the pleasure of my company, resulting in sparse invitations to social engagements. In contrast, everyone likes the lady. So much so that everyone, no matter how much they like us on an individual basis, like the combination of us even better.

I'm at a loss as to why the lady went thirty-two years without getting hitched. I'd like to take this moment to thank all those less than perfect practice dudes for leaving her alone. I've never been happier. I've never been more myself, with no filters, and I've never smiled as much as when I see her face after a long day. The gifts you give are an expression of how you feel about the lady and I. They are given freely because you are happy for us. Every time I guiltily think about getting gifts from you, I'm reminded of the lady's smile; The only gift I really want.

My Life On Hold

2008-08-08T15:20:00.000-05:00

Summer is typically a tough time to make plans. Mostly because so many plans hit the table, without enough empty slots to accommodate them. While most of these plans are social and welcome, it's the downtime that gives pause for my mind to wander and obsess about the Seattle gig. I've been lying to myself. Tricking myself to believe this is not taking so long. Once I realized the self inflicted denial, I started to feel exhausted from the anxious, excited feelings. There's nothing I think about more.

You should see my closets. Considering a possible move, I've been boxing up non-essentials for months. I love organizing, so even if I don't get the gig, I'll be happy to have things tidy. Five garbage bags later, I can see the back of several cabinets, have consolidated plastic tubs, and have separated myself from so many "One day" items. Cleaning and organizing is a welcome side effect to having anxious feelings.

I should be painting the molding, fixing the closet door, putting some wood putty where the dog chewed the cabinet, and caulking the tub. These were the first chores I considered when first applying for the job, since selling the place would go smoother after tended to. When was that first interview? April? Let me check ... March 18th was my first phone interview. That's over four months ago. Or eighteen weeks, or one-hundred-twenty-six days, or three-thousand-twenty-four hours, or one-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-four-hundred-forty minutes, or ten-million-eight-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-four-hundred seconds.

Considering this, it's excusable that I've found premature preparatory chores to keep my brain busy. Especially since I haven't even applied for the job yet.

You're Not Helping

2008-08-03T10:16:00.000-05:00

We sent your wedding invite this week. The lady and I had a nice moment taking turns throwing clumps of invites into that big blue box before going out to breakfast. I'll never be able to forget the smile on the lady's face as the last of the marital mailing slipped from her fingers.

We're both in our mid thirties and have some money saved for the wedding. Having it completely paid for by the parents is tempting, but it makes us feel icky. The parents are helping and it's understood any money received is our wedding gift as well to help pay for it all; Whatever we need it for: Wedding bills, honeymoon, or a new iPhone, it's our gift. Grandma's friend Karen, visiting from Germany this October, wants to know what special German flavored gift we'd like for our wedding. A fancy, German born gift is not going to mollify our planning hearts into forgetting that Grandma invited a woman we've never met without asking.

We've been forced to make a few tough decisions about who to invite. There are a few friends we would love to invite, but space does not allow. The capacity of the room is so tight that a single person over one-hundred-sixty will require tables to spill onto the dance floor in a connecting room. That awkward moment when the bus boys come to take your table really makes you feel wanted.

Asked if Karen from Germany could attend, room might have been made but we've decided to put our foot down in an attempt to squash any further discourteous maneuvers from grandma. With my backing and assurances, the lady made an awkward, uncharacteristic, and lengthy phone call to a woman who has manipulated, lied, and belittled her for thirty-seven years. Not going to say the lady and I feel good about buttin' heads with grandma, but it is an accomplishment of sorts for the lady.

The lady and I have wedding plans under control. The invites we lovingly dumped into the mail box had been stamped and ready for months. Almost everything is done and the level of stress is minimal. Sure a move across the country might escalate the stress, but my money is on grandma being responsible for at least some of the escalation.

My Four-Hundred Dollar Haircut

2008-07-29T08:06:00.000-05:00

Keeping my water glass full will warrant more than a twenty percent tip. Cutting me off at a singular glass, while not provoking me to leave nothing, will certainly affect the girth of your food service wallet. I've always wanted to be a waiter. The lady's sister thinks I'd be good at it because I'm chatty. Engaging in conversations with strangers is easy, I go out for gossip riddled dinners with girlfriends regularly, and look forward to chatting with my hairdresser Sarah.

Years ago, I had my locks lifted at Marshal Field's hair salon by a girl named Vita. Vita is a fortyish, stick thin, Italian girl with impeccable morals, and questionable taste in men. Not wanting to leave me high and dry after she quit, she offered to trim my doo out of her home. Washing my hair in the laundry room utility sink was tolerable. Sitting in a dank, decaying basement in front of a television that always seemed to have Soul Train on was tolerable. Being joined by her father or sister, who also lived there, taking calls while working on me, and having random visitors stop by and conversing with her while she was tending to my mop was tolerable. When she started forgetting how to cut my hair...

I have my grandfather's hair. A thick wavy, cowlicky mop that's hard to tame. Beyond sharing hair attributes, all the Dietz men share a similar helmet like cut. Considering my potential follicle fate, I make every effort to avoid it. Changing hair dressers is tough. The quest to secure a replacement is never a straight path. Thinking I might have been paying too much for my haircuts, I went to a five dollar Quick Cuts and was provided with a horrible mess that made me look like I was five, so I called Heidi's in the mall.

I had been to Heidi's before, seeing a punk skateboarding kid named Charlie. While I enjoyed his company and cut, his prices had originally sent me to Vita. The manager told me Charlie had moved on but that he could squeeze me in that same night. I don't recall his name, but I do remember his Cavaricci pants and the helmet cut I received that day.

Wandering aimlessly around the mall I stumbled upon Regis Hair Salon where I randomly selected Sarah as my new mop muse. Sarah is a cute, bubbly sort, who is guarded and sassy without losing site of her manners. She worked quick, cut hair well, and I got out the door for a reasonable price. It had taken four months to find a suitable replacement for pre-laundry basin Vita, but the wait was worth it; Six years later Sarah is still tending to my mop. In fact, Sarah is such a good cut that I found myself reconsidering how I tip.

Gratuity should not be a standard, set percentage for every service. Everyone knows what to tip at a restaurant, but what should you tip for take-out, valet, buffet, or hair cuts? After careful consideration I've come up with my own tipping scale:

Valet and bag handling: Two or three dollars
Take-out: Five to ten percent (on a semi regular basis and only if it's a place I frequent)
Buffet: Ten percent
Wait staff: Ten to twenty percent
Hair stylists: Thirty percent

Sarah spends nearly an hour on my hair, talking with me the whole time and deserves more than a server. Since my haircuts with Sarah are thirty dollars, she gets a ten dollar tip, which means I surrender over four-hundred dollars to her every year. Maybe I should just shave my head from now on and put that four-hundred toward an iPhone.

If I move I'll have to find a new Sarah. This would also mean that I wouldn't have her capable hands cutting my hair for the big day. If you see me at the wedding with a shaggy, soppy doo, please be kind.

Delusional or Hopeful

2008-07-27T21:45:00.000-05:00

I find myself daydreaming often; I'm offered the Seattle gig over a cup of coffee while being praised for how well I interviewed.

Getting my current music industry job was simple. I knew a girl, who knew a guy, and I got an interview. Before the interview I was told "You pretty much have the job, we just have to go through the motions." Thirteen years later, I wonder how much effort, if any, I put into acquiring this job. For the Seattle job I've done test images, written notes on index cards for multiple phone interviews, and been very patient.

There is a fine line between being hopeful and delusional. For this reason my posts are confident relaying facts sprinkled with hopeful wishes, all the while knowing that things may not go my way. Here is what we know:

1) The job has been approved by the subsidiary.
2) The creation of the position is in the parent-company's hands, not so much so they can veto or approve it, but more so they can assign whatever parent-company attributes they need to assign, aka: Red tape.
3) I'm the only person that has been interviewed for the position so far. This privilege being mine before the position posted and any insider could raise their hand.
4) I've been told I made a tremendous impression on the creative group with the test images I created.
5) These test images helped solidified the case to create this position.
6) If and when the job finally surfaces from the red tape, I'm one-hundred percent positive that I will get an interview.
7) The position, while not necessarily being created for me exclusively, has been created around my particular skill set.

String these facts together and you have a bottomless bowl of hopeful soup. Originally I was told I'd be in Seattle for an interview by now. Notoriously slow, this process no longer brings out the anxious. I've found a sweet spot. A crumb of hope, born of facts, that compels me to remain excitedly patient. Not getting the job would be devastating. But as I've said before, I've been reminded how good hope feels. Even if it flirts with delusion.

8) The position has been approved. Mr. Web Editor will be posting the job in the next week or two, and looks forward to talking with me soon.

Six Reasons to Stop Jogging

2008-07-21T09:34:00.000-05:00

I've gained six pounds since I started jogging. Then I lost three pounds. Then I lost four pounds. All in a matter of a few hours. My scale either hates me or is broken. Maybe both.

Progress needs to be measured somehow. I feel better being more active and I know eventually I'll look better. I haven't been keeping the dieting part of this plan completely in check; I've had a few late night snacks and some disastrous meals. Nipping all my fatty habits in a single stroke was a dream.

I skipped jogging the day my traitorous scale revealed itself. Getting on a working scale doesn't appeal to me at this point, but I know I must since my pre-jogging weight (determined by the broken scale) is probably wrong. Then I became ill and fell off the exercise wagon. Nothing sounds worse than running a mile when your nose produces non-stop snot, your lungs are wheezy, and you get dizzy spells. It's not like I needed a big excuse to stop jogging. Any little excuse would do. Apparently what I need is an excuse to jog.

List of possible excuses to jog:
1) Jogging will save on gas
2) If I fall while jogging, I'll probably break my hip and can stay home from work
3) Those shirts aren't going to get sweaty all by themselves
4) If the Earth can make a daily rotation, I should at least be able to jog up the block every day

The lady finds excuses to exercise much easier than I do. She's been doing some cardio aerobic thing daily, just joined a gym, and gets to the treadmill when she can. Although I wasn't bed ridden the entire time being sick, it's taken about two full weeks to return to one-hundred percent. Now the hard part: Getting back outdoors and running 'round town.

Bets are being placed on which me you'll see at the wedding. Betting on tubby me is easy money, but the big money is on the long shot.

Little Lao Lady

2008-07-17T10:42:00.001-05:00

I thought we were friendly with our neighbors across the hall. She brought us sweets from her favorite bakery (which weren't very good,) after visiting her sister in Germany she would return with chocolates, and was always courteous to a fault running into her on laundry day. When she moved without telling us, our feelings got hurted.

As far as condo complexes go, this one could use a face lift. Our interior space is calming after a long day but the hallways with their brown burber, tan/yellow walls, and forest green accents hurt my designing, gay from the waist up soul. The worst aspect of recent remodeling efforts is the dungeon like elevator with fake stone linoleum floor tiles. We don't take the elevator.

Most of the tenants, from the seventy-two units, add to my general distaste.

Irv introduced himself by yelling at me from across the parking lot. My dog was on the lawn, which is a no-go according to the bylaws. I'm all for rules, even ones as lame as this one, but how about walking over to inform me like a civilized human?

One door down live the Kristovis. English is a second language, so conversing with them is ... well, awkward. When we congratulated them on the birth of their daughter, they assumed we were complaining about the crying and could not be convinced otherwise. The crying wasn't bad at all, especially since the child lives half of every year in Bolivia with Grandma because it's cheaper.

There is a couple we enjoy from 102 named Ken and Barb (guess what they substituted for a wedding cake topper.) Sharing a common age with Ken and Barb goes a long way for small talk, but no urges for social endeavors have arisen. Ken talks a lot, smokes a lot, and talks a lot. They work downtown Chicago and want to move West, increasing their round-trip commute to sixty miles a day.

When the movers arrived to move little Lao lady, we were confused. Nothing had ever been mentioned. That day in passing, we were told about the move by little Lao lady and how she would occupy the unit for a while longer since she still needed to sell it. A week later to the day someone else moved in.

While little Lao lady lied, we've already had pleasant encounters with our new neighbor. Her English accent is mildly mesmerizing, her daughter shy but polite, and when I found her car keys near the mail boxes she was overcome with joy. I hope her bakery doesn't suck.

Chuggin' Along

2008-07-15T09:30:00.001-05:00

Unlike past interviewers, Mr. Web Editor is keeping in touch. While he had no real news to relay, his update was detailed, heartfelt and appreciated. He explained that this company is a subsidiary of a bigger company and the job has been green-lit by the subsidiary but not yet by the parent company. Once it is (if it is) I'll be flying out for an interview.

Originally, for the first two positions I applied for, I would have been responsible for flying myself out for an interview and any moving expenses. Not a problem for a job that makes me salivate. This new position not only produces salivation but also finds me emitting enthusiastic monkey noises. It's been hinted that I might not have to pony up for the plane ticket this time around. If you've looked into traveling lately, you'll know why this is exciting. No matter, I'd pay for that ticket. I consider it an investment in my future. Both mine and the lady's future.

Hating Your Kids

2008-07-13T08:30:00.001-05:00

Every second Thursday of every month, for the last four years, I've meet Jill for lunch at Christie's. No confirmations needed, we just show up. Being farther away from the resturaunt, I'm usually late. Stalled by the semis in the industrial area, stuck at work designing garage sale signs for my boss, or getting a seventy-five dollar speeding ticket have been among my excuses. Today I was early. Which really means I was on time. Most importantly, I arrived before her.

Our friendship started over twenty years ago. I used to steal cassette tapes from her at Musicland. Somehow she didn't know, or didn't care. Once, I special ordered a Damned CD from her and was given guff for not buying it at a real record store. I'm surprised I didn't steal that when it arrived. Not sure how we went from casual mall encounters to late night coffee binges, but you'd often find us at Baker's Square, at midnight, spewing dramatic, useless teenage philosophy. When I say I'm not sure how, what I really mean is I can't remember. It's has been over twenty years.

Jill and I have never kissed. Which is strange because I kissed most of the girls I befriended during my teen years. It's probably one of the reasons we are still friends. Being one of my oldest friends, I'm excited for her to attend my wedding. She might not come now since her four year old isn't invited.

The Millennium Hotel is a remodeled Holiday Inn. It's been redone in a Frank Lloyd Wright fashion, with a bit more trendy club feel. As if FLW's cocaine abusing step son might have designed it. Originally we were looking at a large basement room to accommodate our guest list, but then we saw the fourteenth floor. It's the very top floor consisting of one long room on each the west and east side of the building. The all window wall of the west room provides a stunning northward view of downtown Minneapolis only one upped by the Dome room (connecting the east and west rooms) which provides a 360 degree bubble view of the city. One problem, the reception area accommodates only one-hundred and sixty guests.

We've reduced the guest list from two-twenty to one-eighty in an attempt to accommodate the capacity restrictions. To do this we've had to draw a line; Some single invites will be sent out, cousins have been cut, and invites restricting the attendance of kids.

Telling Jill her son can't attend wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't already told her the opposite and I have one more friend who is under the same impression. Not only am I not looking forward to that conversation, restrictions such as these are counter to my easy going overall attitude. I feel like a jerk. Will you still love me in the morning?

No Lonley Holidays

2008-07-11T09:33:00.001-05:00

The lady and I don't have a balcony in our condo. When a friend invites us over for a BBQ we're there. Typically the forth is a no brainer; There will a BBQ to attend. This year a last minute invite saved us from spending this grilling holiday in-doors. In return, we are naming our first born after our hosts: Micheith.

Christmas is going to be weird if I end up in Seattle. Sure I'll come back, but my return will have a reunion quality instead of the familiar, warm, and welcome habit like feeling visits convey now. If I thought it was hard to see my friends now, wait till I move. Will my return warrant a group outing? Or will I struggle to catch ten minutes each with friends as I travel across the city in an attempt to see everybody separately?

I'm not taking the possibility of a move lightly. Actually, I barely comprehend what havoc a move like this will wreak on my friendships. In the end I know everything will balance out; Some friendships will remain the same, some will fade, and others will actually become stronger. I'm getting ahead of myself. There hasn't even been an interview. Well, besides that "casual one" two weeks ago.

I've done some premature Seattle house hunting. I'll most likely be taking a pay cut with this job and, similar to our circumstances in Chicago, we would like to live below our means. We'll probably be looking for another condo, this time in the city of Seattle. New or old doesn't matter. We do however have three rules: Top floor, washing machine and dryer in unit, and a balcony.

Our current place is a self contained cell with no breeze to speak of, even with all the windows gaping. For this reason, comfort demands the use of air conditioning if the outside temp reaches a blistering seventy degrees. Maybe a balcony wouldn't cool our place down any better but at least we could lounge enjoying the weather. Or maybe even have a BBQ of our own.

Till then we'll have to rely on our friends to scratch that outdoor itch. The forth of July invite did just that. The lush yard was soothing under my bare feet, the promising smell from the grill appeased, and the friends ... well, the friends are going to be missed.

Thrifty Contruction Workers

2008-07-09T10:30:00.001-05:00

My boss Wayne didn't receive the nickname Wayniac because of an affiliation with Warner Brothers. He walks faster than anyone, talks faster, and even eats faster. Once at a twelve person business dinner, he woofed down his fillet mignon in four bites before the last person was served.

I've worked for Wayne for six years? Eight? It's been a while. In the beginning he wasn't an ideal boss. Decision making wasn't his strong point, but through a relentless on task approach, brought on by fail-proof organization skills, he has become one of the better bosses I've had. That said, we've never encountered conflict because he lacks a pair. I won't say I get away with a lot, because I do my job well. But the fact that I come in anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes late each day for the last five years without a peep, speaks volumes. Perhaps my seniority affords me perpetual artistic-type tardiness.

As co-workers become aware of the possibilities of the graphics department as it pertains to their job, they inevitably become aware of personal applications. On the clock I've made children's party decorations, birthday party invites, Christmas cards, and printed photos from hedonism. Yesterday, for the first time ever, Wayne asked me to make him a sign.

Wayne makes more money than me. He should, he's my boss. With this money he's purchased a house, out in the suburbs, closer to Canada than Chicago. Being new construction, every detail was obsessed over. Certain details weren't perfect so he's had the builder fix them over and over. With another round of fixes due, he's worried about the workers getting his perfect carpet dirty.

Keeping financial secrets is the fashion. I'm wary of sharing too much lest you perform some backward math and figure what I'm worth. While I'm not a millionaire, talking money is ugly. When the real estate bubble burst, Wayne's home lost ten percent of it's worth. In the same conversation he told me he lost forty-thousand. One simple math problem later, I know how much he paid and lost. He's potentially going to lose more if the builder sells cheaper houses in the hard to sell empty lots. That's why Wayne is hosting a community meeting concerning the class action law-suit in his back yard and again is worried about his carpet.

Being such a community leader comes with responsibilities. So when talk of a neighborhood garage sale came up, Wayne knew who could make the signs.

If I leave this job, in the manner and time frame I hope to, I will submit my resignation directly to Wayne. Since I probably won't be replaced, due to the record industry taking a hard nose dive into the shitter, it gives me no pleasure to think how this will strand Wayne without resources to get his job done. The pleasure I am afforded comes from a change of scenery, replacing one dream job with another, and not dying in this box of a condo. Still, I giggle slightly as I imagine a cold sweat on Wayne's departure pondering brow.

I Want My Dad Back

2008-07-04T10:20:00.000-05:00

Olof is a Swede. He was a good friend in high school, a bad driver, and his dad is dead. Somewhere around senior year we drifted apart but I'm not sure why. The best I can come up with is that I found new friends. Friends that ran in the same circles as girls. Friends that introduced me to my ex. I should have stuck with Olof.

I met Olof during freshman registration. We instantly clicked, talked and joked during the entire process, and succumbed to the wrestling team recruiter before leaving registration. We wrestled on the team for three years together, rode our bikes for hours on long summer days, drove to school together, and played cassette tape loading games on his Commodore 64. Olof's sister was also one of the first girls I ever kissed, which made sleep-overs doubly fun. Until her mom caught on. Senior year might have marked the end of Olof and I, but our parents remained friendly. On a regular basis our fathers went to awful movies together. If you ever wondered about the caliber of any particular flick, knowing that these two planned to attend was an indication that it would most certainly suck.

My father helped my uncle move to Virginia last week. My uncle is taking his mentally disabled sixteen year old, and leaving Chicago behind in search of a fresh start away from their massage parlor (non-therapeutic/happy ending) employed ex / mother. During the five day move, Olof's dad succumbed to a slew of organ failures, went into the hospital, and died. Not being able to say goodbye, was hard for my dad. Having suffered a loss of a similarly aged friend weeks earlier was also hard on him. Knowing his father also passed at sixty-two, harder still. Sharing an age with this triangle of death is giving him pause.

One day I will know exactly what to say to someone who has lost a loved one. That day will regrettably come when I've experienced a surplus of death and am practiced at how to approach the grieving. Until then I'm comfortable ... nay, happy that my brain and tongue are at a loss for words in such situations. Consoling Olof's newly widowed mother, I had a clear sight of the casket as I struggled with small talk. All I wanted to say was I'm sorry and cry, but the small talk continued to trickle out. Running into Olof's sister after twenty years was pleasant. Mostly because with her small talk would not do. She wasn't devoid of social grace, but she was true to her feelings when she proclaimed, through a endless supply of tears, that she wanted her father back.

Never Trust a Hippie to Teach You How To Punch

2008-07-02T09:34:00.004-05:00

Jujut-su class isn't going so well. Last week I had to yell at a kid because he was hitting me too hard. I'm old.

This is the exact Dojo I attended six years ago. I had done my homework to find it. Breaking cinder blocks with my noggin' was not my goal. I wanted something I could use. Something that, if necessary, could get me out of a situation.

I've been in a few physical fights in my life. Most have been during my early teens, when maturity prevents the words from surfacing. One time Chuck, a "good friend", punched me in the mouth after school. He was an alpha type and, looking back, never really a good friend. When I went over to his house, he would toss Chinese stars dangerously in my direction. While his intention was to scare, I'm not sure he would have been too upset if one caught flesh. Previous to the punch in the mouth, Chuck had knocked my school books out of my hands. Friendly teasing I thought and decided to return the favor. Later that day, as we walked toward our homeward bound bus, I saw my chance for retaliation and spilled his books accented with a giggle. Word spread quickly on the bus ride home that he was not pleased and that I was in for a beating. Moments after getting off the bus, I saw his determined knotted face getting closer. I set my books down, put my fists up, and was promptly caught in the jaw by his right hook. Teeth from my lower jaw pierced my cheek resulting in an arterial like spray across the side of my head and I went down.

Miya-Maru Ju-jutsu originated in Japan, but took off in the Bronx. New York is a tough place. The cops need an edge when encountering street fighting men, and this Dojo gave it to them. All the maneuvers are self defensive with an emphasis on controlling the situation there after. This control may involve breaking wrists, arms, and other bones to stop a fight. It was also good exercise.

Sensei Don was an ex FBI agent. He stood approx five foot four inches and was one bad mother-fucker. He wasn't unpleasant, you just knew not to f with him. Everyone had respect for Don. At the beginning of class you bowed with sincerity, and listened when he talked because every verbal morsel was important and interesting. Returning to the Dojo six years later, Don was gone. Only his business partner John remained.

The lady and I had the Dojo to ourselves as no other beginners attened. Having the run of the place came with the dedicated attention of Sensei John. Since John was a talker, this wasn't always a desirable scenario. As if talking to his kids, John would reiterate points in different ways and multiple times until he was sure the knowledge had sunken in. He told us to smile when we practiced falling, blocking punches, and throwing punches because ... well, no one expects you to smile doing those things. He continued making sure we knew that smiling was easier than frowning, it was relaxing, and that when facing an opponent a smile would send strange signals that would perhaps allow you to avoid a physical conflict. Whatever hippie.

John's babbling and unobstructed attention gave birth to an almost complete lack of respect. It is only one of the reasons we decided to take a break from class. The other being the lady doesn't enjoy or know how to punch. I like that in a person.

Double X Chromosome Electronic Goodness

2008-06-30T10:52:00.001-05:00

Back before the iPod, I lugged CDs to work everyday. At the end of the week, I'd end up with thirty or so littering my work area. Sometimes I'd be in the mood for those rarely enjoyed nostalgic Metal albums, other times it was the glam rock, and still others I would get in touch with my feminine side. Mirroring that selective what-I'm-in-the-mood-for method of weekly selection, every Sunday I load up the pod with music for the work week. When the iPod capacity is reached, I empty the whole thing and start over. Last night I decided to go with a theme: Just the chicks.

A female singer (sweet or rough) will scratch my musical itch every time. Do I enjoy the music more if they are cute? Or does making good music make them cute? Really, it's all about the music but I am guilty of occasionally listening to something, really wanting to like it, because I find the vocalist attractive.

Being gay from the waist up, I'm blessed with a sensitive side that allows me to cry at movies, decorate with confidence, and cook with an eye on presentation. Thankfully for the lady, I'm straight from the waist down. Still, three-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-one tracks of nothing but the ladies might eventually put me on the same cycle as the misses. If that happens, I hope Minnesota green lights same sex marriages soon.

Weddings are Easy

2008-06-28T11:53:00.001-05:00

Two months ago I completed the invite design for our October wedding. Last night I sealed and stamped the very last invite. It's not just the invites, I have your thank you note printed, ready to have a personal note scribed onto the bare card before being placed into the already prepared stamped envelope. That's assuming you are invited.

Bridesmaids and groomsmen aren't for us. In place of these tuxedo clad, ugly dress wearing unfortunates, we have requested our families accompany us during the ceremony and at the head table. We don't have any wedding colors, and there will not be any flowers.

We may be skimping on some of the trappings, but not on the good-time-party-fun-stuffs. You'll have your choice of meal served to you along with a salad, sides, and desert. The view of downtown from the fourteenth floor is remarkable. We'll be hosting an open bar all night, something that is uncommon for a Minnesota wedding. I can't ask one hundred plus people to travel from Chicago and make them pay for a drink.

I have a few things to do over the next three and a half months: Rent a tux, make table assignments (along with corresponding place cards,) finish the design for our wedding photo sharing web site, and make the center pieces.

My plan is do very little, if anything, in the month proceeding our wedding. I have little tolerance for chaos. We are arriving in Minneapolis for the wedding two nights before festivities commence. I imagine those days spent relaxing. Preparing for what is most certainly going to be a wonderful event. With you in attendance, even better.

Avoiding Cracks to Save Your Mother's Fat

2008-06-26T08:32:00.003-05:00

On a regular basis, you can find a handful of nourishment minded employees in the kitchen. Lunch provides an hour to spend talking, forgetting about work, and perhaps playing a game of Uno. Today the lunchketeers, consisting of several OCD riddled co-workers, shared all.

Being one of the OCD stricken, I actually found comfort in not sharing as the office manager talked about unplugging curling irons and obsessive cleaning habits. She was one-upped by tales of multiple return trips home to make sure the garage door had properly shut. Then a spread-sheet happy clothes whore one upped that.

I wear the same clothes a lot and find only a single week is needed to cycle through my "outfits." Partially because I only have a few things that fit tubby me, and partially because I have better things to do with my money, like squirrel it away so I can buy nice clothes when I'm sixty-five.

Not only did this OCD participant have too much to wear, but his clothes made a full rotation before being revisited. Two months weere needed to cycle through his closet. To encourage his plan, he kept records of what was worn, in what combination, and on what date. As tedious as that is, it produces a desirable outcome for the fashionable.

The one upping continued when the next OCD participant shared her fears of becoming fat. To remain slim she eats well balanced meals, exercises daily, and avoids stepping into shadows; If she ever finds herself engulfed in an overweight shadow she quickly side steps, exhales, and holds her breath to prevent a transfer of fat to her body. Perhaps everyone found comfort in sharing, knowing they weren't alone, but this last eccentricity raised the bar so high that no one spoke of peculiar habits for the remainder of the lunch.

I've been jogging for two weeks now. I've increased the length of my sweaty morning jogs to two miles. I've stopped eating late night snacks, and my meal portions are under control. While all of this hard work will eventually result in a thinner version of me, I'm considering an all together new routine that involves casting my shadow on co-workers.

Not a Hickey

2008-06-24T10:32:00.001-05:00

I've counted twenty-three mosquito bites on my right arm alone. Risking Malaria is acceptable if I'm able to shoot my friend in the head during a game of paint-ball.

I was an hour late. The week has been so busy my planning suffered. Almost to the park, and ahead of the group, I realized my oh-so-baggy jeans had no belt. Knowing it would be hard to run with my jeans around my ankles and not wanting the mystery of boxers or briefs to be dispelled, I went looking for a trouser support system. I was sent back tracking for forty minutes to the nearest Target where I purchased a belt that was too big, and helped only a little. As I drove back, in communication with the bachelor, I worried about being "That guy."

I'm not the most athletic guy. Frolicking military style in the woods with twenty-three others, shooting paint balls for over six hours took it's toll. Most of these guys were ten or more years younger, and almost half were ex-gymnasts (who are generally an athletic bunch.) This didn't bother me or my paint ball tactics; I always hid and guarded the flag.

I was chicken for most the day and, by the time I had the guts, I lacked the energy. I briefly thought about hiding in my car sitting the last round out, but it was too much damn fun, so I recklessly forged ahead. I had become braver, so I set out along the creek and dove into the brush crawling through the mud on all fours. Not being a stealthy thirty-seven year old, a youngin' got the drop on me and provided me with a welt on my neck that resembles a love bite. If only I would have stuck with my plan, I wouldn't have to wear a turtle neck.

Skipping Lunch Makes Me Giddy

2008-06-23T13:02:00.004-05:00

I had a fifteen minute interview last Friday. Sixty-five minutes into the interview, I feel pretty good about my chances. That and I was really hungry at dinner time. Scott (Mr. Editor in Chief) did most of the talking which left all my prepared questions answered. The interview went so well, I'm having trouble remaining subdued.

Being the only graphics guy at my current job, I've become a jack of all trades. Being told the job description, it occurred to me: The job being created calls on all of my abilities. As if ... nah, it couldn't be. But it was. Every time my inside guy informed Scott of another one of my abilities, the possibilities were considered, tasks realized as they pertained to the position, and then added to the job description. This position has been created around my exact skill set.

The impression I made with the images from a week ago was immense. Not only were the images received well and heavily complimented by Scott, they also validated his case for creating this job, resulting in management green-lighting the job's creation. "Very impressed with you as a candidate and individual" and "You'd make a good fit" were just a few of the positive comments relayed. Scott hypothetically went into details about when I could start, if I had to move a family, sell a home, what the salary might be, and that, if all went well with the position, I'd be up for a promotion and raise in under a year. Making sure along the way that I realized nothing was promised.

Through posts, I've shared every detail about my job hunt adventure. My parents however have been kept completely in the dark on purpose. I didn't want to make waves until things looked serious. Until I was flying out for an interview. They are smart people though. Considering they know my friend works there, I suspect they won't be too surprised when I tell them. Chances are, I'll be having that talk soon.

Even Steven Wasn't This Even

2008-06-21T13:29:00.000-05:00

Luckily the lady finds my need for order cute. The wedding invites are stamped and ready four months ahead of schedule, I know exactly where all nine remotes I own are, and I could send a Christmas card to your parents in Iowa if I wanted to. Order for me is the fresh breath of comfort that I constantly strive to accomplish, but it's not always for my satisfaction.

In the beginning, I cut the lady a break. She was just starting off in Chicago, so I couldn't see making her spring for half the bills. Getting her financial feet planted firmly on the ground, her share of the bills increased. Currently, we are even steven. If I pick up a bag of spinach, she owes me two dollars. She doesn't pay for my onions, and I don't pay for her glutten-free bread.

I'm the fairest person you'll ever meet. I might be annoying while being fair, but you'll never accuse me of cheating you. That rice-crispie treat was not only cut with precision, but you'll get pick of the halves. When large groups dining out are involved, I don't mind being in charge of the bill because, unlike some, I can accurately add tax and tip to a bill. If you underpay, I have no qualms telling you. That said, I occasionally get stuck throwing in a few extra bucks, but I sleep better knowing the tip was adequate.

Being this down the middle only applies to tangible, monetary situations. I don't mind cooking nearly every meal the lady and I eat and, if I don't feel like cooking, we'll order out. However, you'll then have to worry about the asian ladies getting their paws on me, as well as paying for exactly half of the take out.

Art to be Proud of

2008-06-18T08:42:00.002-05:00

What I do at work can hardly be called artistic. For the majority of the time, I print out large scale versions of album covers and adhere them to foam core. Well, the interns do a lot of the adhering. Occasionally, I am presented with a challenging project that actually requires thought and time to accomplish. Most of the time, this is still not art.

A few years ago I applied for a design position at a music label in New York and the need for a portfolio presented itself. Being a designer for lots-o-years, along with a anal organizer, I've been religiously collecting my design work with the eventual goal of creating a portfolio.

Looking through hundreds of past designs, I started to notice a theme; Most of work really sucked. There were glimpses of brilliance, but no maturity or subtleness. I suppose designing merchandising materials, always trying to get someone's attention as they stroll past, my designs tend to scream rather than soothe. Still, I managed to scrape together a collection of examples that I wouldn't be ashamed to share.

Nothing ever came of that job, but I did acquire a set of applicable standards for my design projects; If I don't want to see it in my portfolio, it's not going out the door. This rule requires more time spent conceptualizing (resulting in some missed deadlines,) the welcome side-effect of an ever evolving design maturity, and gave birth to a set design related goals to consider whenever faced with a challenge.

Last March, my L.A. counter-part Dan was laid off. That left two of us to supply the entire country with merchandising materials. With the inclusion of L.A., my work load has easily doubled. I'm unable to adhere to the self imposed portfolio-worthy rule and have been designing nothing but sub par crap. I'm also recycling designs from years past, literally just changing details / album covers to satisfy new requests. With no end in site to the busy work load, I'm in dire need of a day off to calm my design hungry heart. That or a change of scenery.

Greener Than Me

2008-06-16T10:23:00.000-05:00

Today I received a Philp K. Dick book shipped in a recycled El Paso taco shell box. I smiled at the novelty of it, and was reminded that I'm just not that green.

That fact that our building doesn't recycle would be a good excuse to refrain, but it doesn't stop us. The lady and I sort all of our cans, bottles, and taco shell containers for the trip to the local recyclery. Driving there of course.

I still subscribe to half a dozen magazines that I barely read and the amount of foam core I've encouraged into the world at work, should keep me up at night.

A light in my car has come on and off regularly for years. I found out it was the emmison when I checked the manual. When I receive the postcard for my annual required emission test, I make sure I go on a day the light is off.

Mitsuaw is a Japanese grocery store that has freshly made Nigiri and various rolls for a reasonable price. Last weekend it sounded good. Checking out, I declined the bag for our grub, but didn't think to carry the four pieces of Nigiri without the aid of a take-home, over-sized, styrofoam container.

In the seventies and eighties, recycling wasn't as popular. The effects of container waste and lack of renewable resources wasn't terribly obvious to our parents. I do remember bringing in soda bottles for the deposit, but that was only because I desired the cash.

Today's kids, while reminding me I'm getting old, also remind me how prevalent recycling is. It's refreshing to receive scornful looks from nieces and nephews if I slip and toss a recyclable item into the trash. It's of no comfort to know that they'll be able to point a finger at me when the world implodes.

Commuters Hate Joggers

2008-06-14T09:02:00.000-05:00

I did not get hit by a car. But the bored, seemingly taunting stares make me self-conscious. Am I holding my hands funny like a stroke victim? Does my head, in this particular shade of red worry them? Does my jiggle make them crave Jello?

Calling myself a jogger after hardly a week, seems presumptuous. I'm jogging, but at what point do I become a jogger? When I have to tape my nipples down like a marathon runner? For all they know, I've been running for years and I prefer being tubby.

Six years ago, when I was actually a jogger, I remember passing a SUV with the driver laughing and pointing in my direction. Remembering that vividly years later seems silly. I didn't ask for this brain, and I'm just most certainly stuck with it.

Angie was a rail thin, Jagger lipped, sixth grader with hair seemingly made to be feathered. She flipped me the bird from a passing school bus, demanded I move my "Big head" so she could see the projector screen in science class, and once in speech class crassly spread her legs while shooting me a defiant wink. Gathering these incidents together like this, perhaps Angie fancied me. Regardless, these are merely a few of the biting memories destined to embarrass me till my last breath.

There is a sunny side to this defective "This is your life" nightmare parade of embarrassing moments; I have similarly stuck memories that make me smile. Visions of smiling faces, smells that make me dizzy, and nostalgic childish teenage antics.

So when you pass someone, anyone on the side of the road, don't point, poke fun, or flip them the bird. Because it might be me, and then I'll go to my death bed unable to clear my noggin' of your mean, mean face.

Sometimes You Get What You Ask For ...

2008-06-12T16:18:00.005-05:00

... Even if you weren't serious when you asked for it.

It's not the best cartoon, but I'm kinda out of element here. Oh, and after I uploaded the image, I realized the request was for a chicken. Gandhi and poultry will have to do.

Like, Totally Forgetting

2008-06-11T10:02:00.002-05:00

Forgetting is one thing, but losing your thoughts from one second to the next is another. Having an idea for a post, I opened blogger, clicked "Create", and instantly forgot what I was going to type. Not only the body of the post, but the entire idea.

Making a post out this memory deficient incident seems like a waste because you've all read about my memory inadequacies and attempts to compensate through a constant dribble of self addressed notes. You haven't heard about the fears born from my poor memory. At thirty-six my brain is sharp and extraordinary forgetful, which produces a flushed panicked feeling. Essentially, I fear becoming that old man whom nobody talks to because of his inability to communicate intelligently, sitting in the corner slowly dying from mental atrophy.

At the core of the problem is that I remember only what is important. It's important that I love and adore the lady, but not important to remember her work schedule. When I complete a work order, the details are dismissed. If asked about the completed the job, I can only recall that it's finished and nothing more. It's not important to remember and forgetting is done on purpose.

It's the same with forgetting what I was going to post about. I had the idea, stepped up to the computer, opened Blogger, and forgot. The most important part of this process is having the idea in the first place. Writing it down is really secondary.

Change = Monkey

2008-06-09T09:20:00.002-05:00

Now all that's left to do is beat that old guy.

Click on image to see original.

Burning Lungs and Sweaty T-Shirts

2008-06-07T11:36:00.002-05:00

Today is the first time since the fall that I ran a mile. Getting up early lately has provided me time to think about exercising. Being wrapped snuggly in my bed sheets has provided me with the excuse not to.

Tired of being fatty, I decided one hot summer day six years ago to start jogging. Having no running shoes, not even something that resembled gym shoes, I purchased a pair on the way home from work. It was hot. Hot even for July. That didn't stop me from running a mile that night.

I had no stride, no breathing technique, didn't know how to plant my feet or launch, and I didn't know how to pace myself. Stopping three times during that mile showed me just how out of shape I was. I ran the next day and the next.

December was cold for running outdoors. Running almost every day since I started had provided me with a weight loss induced svelte look, increased daily energy, and the ability to run five miles daily with only the clock preventing a further journey. Hurting my hamstring wasn't on the menu.

The hamstring isn't a single muscle or tendon. It's a mass of intertwining muscles and tendons that make up most of the upper leg, from the knee to your hip. Addressing torn, distressed, or other wise under the weather hamstring muscles is a difficult task, even for professionals. As is evidenced by the noticeably taught feeling I've sustained in my right leg for the last 6 years.

Physical therapy barely helped, but moving two friends did more harm than anything else. I can finally sleep comfortably, without waking from a hamstring induced pain referrals to other muscles. But the tension is still higher than my left leg. Still requires attention. Still worries me.

Stretching this morning while tired was the worst. Nothing feels right in the AM, muscles don't stretch as far as you'd like, and I was looking for things to do that weren't exercising. Getting past that hump this morning was tough.

I'm planning on jogging tomorrow as well. Wish fatty luck.

Not the Outdoor Type

2008-06-05T12:31:00.000-05:00

I've let down my eight year old nephew. But not as much as his dead-beat dad, so I feel all right. A month ago my nephew sheepishly asked me if I would go on a father-son camping trip. The idea of being outside, with no computer was startling. I remembered camping; Sleeping in caves with bats, cooking bad scrambled eggs in a crappy little steel pan, while being wet and un-showered the entire weekend. I might have had fun at the time, being eight or nine at the oldest, but I've grown up now and detest the idea of camping.

To attend the Friday night camping trip, I had to sell tickets to see Willie Nelson at Ravinia, a wonderful outdoor park with surprisingly good sound, and no restrictions preventing patrons from bringing in food or alcohol. Willie hasn't graced Chicago with a visit in a while, but I sold those tickets (at a loss) without thinking twice. I felt honored by my nephew's request.

There is a pecking order of father figures for my recently divorce burdened nephew:
1) Grandpa
2) & 3) My brother and I
4) The husband of a close girlfriend to my sister
5) His dad

Sad as that is, my nephew is better off. No secret that hangin' out with dead-beat pops would lead to the development of less than desirable traits.

For the entire month I asked my sister for details about the outing. Would I have to take a day off? Where was it? Was anyone else I knew going? What do I need to bring? What do I need to buy? Finally, late last week, my sister secured the info and informed me the camping trip was scheduled for two nights, not one. While the thought of two nights made me miserable, I was mostly upset because, having been told the trip was only Friday, I had purchased tickets for another concert that conflicted with the second night.

Falling in and out of grace with me is my sister's favorite past-time. Luckily my level-headed mom, not wanting to be in the middle, suggested we talk on the phone, instead of duking it out on email. After apologizing and being apologized to, I asked to speak with my nephew. I told him I wasn't going make it on the camping trip, but that my tied in the rankings brother would. Unaware of the behind the scenes turmoil, he said "Oh, OK" and that was it. With a little guilt, I purchased another pair of tickets to see Willie.

Secret Sessions and No Promises

2008-06-03T10:32:00.004-05:00

I've been lying to you through my silence. I heard back from Seattle. I'm sure you've expected to hear one of two things: 1) That interviews were proceeding or 2) They were taking a pass on me. You wouldn't be alone, since that is exactly what I expected.

Waiting in my mailbox last Thursday was a detailed, lengthy note from the Editor in Chief of the web site. He asked me to create some images as a sort of test. But not really a test. Lemme explain. The Editor in Chief has a hand in determining the responsibilities for the job I'm in the running for. On a daily basis, he needs a designer to produce photoshop enhanced / altered images of a humorous nature using artwork from the company's product line to accompany newly posted web articles. I was provided past articles from their website and challenged to create three such images. The images I create will be used to argue his case, for the inclusion of this responsibility to the job, at meetings in the following weeks. Wait a second ... what's that smell? Oh, it's the reek of dream job.

Receiving the note I was ... well, why look for that five dollar word. I was excited. I took my lunch break to create the first one and nailed it. I've heard from my inside source, that the image has been passed around this rather large company inducing giggles, loud laughter and humorous tears. Thursday night I made the second one. Not laugh out loud funny, but humorous and a fine example of my Photoshop prowess. Sunday I created the last one which is on par with the first, in the humor department.

No promises have been made. Actually, there have been paragraphs exchanged making extra sure I know no promises have been made. Through participating in this project I have gained a leg up on others who may be interested in the job, a handful of people who credit me with making them laugh now know my name, and the Editor in Chief is in my corner. Not too bad for three and a half hours of work.

The Editor-in-Chief-Web-Guy has warned that it might take a while. To that I say it's already taken a while. But I can wait some more. I've had lots of practice being patient lately.

Childhood Dreams of Androgyny

2008-06-02T09:58:00.001-05:00

Babysitting is fun. Especially when the baby likes me. If I ever run into a baby that doesn't, I just leave. Luckily for her, the baby I watched this week was fond of me.

Rosalyne is a one year old, fair skinned, four toothed sweet heart. She enjoys long walks around the couch, penguins, and playing with baked potatoes that her mom plans to eat. She doesn't however, enjoy being put down to bed.

Similar to a lot of my baby blessed friends, there is little fuss over night-time rituals with Rosalyne's parents. Her diaper is checked and she is put into her crib completely sans fuss. Apparently we are more fun than mommy and daddy because, when the lady and I put her down for the night, she cried for over a half an hour.

Even the first time I babysat a child, I knew not respond to their crocodile tears with a visit. That said, there is almost nothing worse than listening to a baby cry. Thirty minutes is a long time. Maybe a varmint had crawled into her bed.

No varmint could be found and a check of the diaper did not curl my nose hairs. After the poop check, I placed her back in her crib and decided to nonchalantly sit next to the crib, with intentions of sneaking away a moment later. Her little eyes poured through the bars of the crib, watching me as I pretended not to notice her.

My singing voice is .... well, it's OK. You won't find me auditioning for American Idol or indulging in karaoke, but I enjoy struggling with a tune in the car. When I decided to sing Rosalyne to sleep, the words to all the worlds nursery rhymes simultaneously escaped me. So I sang her Bowie.

While "Jamming good with weird and gilly" might seemingly take cues from any number of Dr. Seuss classics, the rest of the tune dredged up images of ego, deceit, and revenge perpetrated by and towards the greatest rocker in the world: Ziggy. In other words, a lovely, well rounded bed-time fairytale.

Having run through the song a few times, I decided to put a cork in it. The path to the door was clear and the book I remembered to bring wasn't going to read itself. Standing, I saw those eyes poking at me again. Her anger was apparent before I left the room, and continued as I watched her on the baby monitor downstairs.

Lesson learned; Not even Bowie is perfect.

It Moved

2008-05-31T13:54:00.011-05:00

I'm positive she didn't intend to, but when my massage therapist Jordan was relieving tension in my shoulder using her elbow, her fingertips brushed delicately across the tips of my hairline, and it moved.

My lady has been a massage therapist for a decade. Occasionally I walk in the door, after a long day at work, to find her massage table set up in the living room. This is about the only time I don't feel guilty asking her for therapeutic attention. I know how tiresome work days can sometimes be and I'm usually sitting at a computer. My lady however is on her feet, exerting her muscles in a strenuous manner daily. The last thing I want is for her to reach a threshold over my minor aches and pains.

When I received the text yesterday that she was treating me to a massage, from her favorite massage therapist at X-Sports this weekend, I had mixed feelings. Was she treating me because she hadn't worked on me for a while? Or was it just because she was nice? Going with the later, I joyfully accepted and insisted on paying the tips.

Luckily I was positioned on my stomach, when the incident occurred, but that didn't prevent a panicked feeling from taking hold. Imagined scenarios of her getting an eye full and leaving the session in a huff perpetuated my most certainly flushed face. Men have little control in a situation such as this. For no reason at all, on a daily basis, I find myself happy. Unlike all those times, I was in my birthday suit, and had no means of concealment.

Left to control the situation using my mental faculties, I set my mind to think of something that would surely deflate the situation. The first thing that came to mind was "Dead Grandma." Slightly shocked by the idea, I was elated that I could not conjure imagery to match. I was still in panic mode and without another idea, so I went with it.

Are There Interns in Seattle?

2008-05-30T10:00:00.001-05:00

Work was extremely busy this week. So busy I had little time to post. It may seem ridiculous to complain, having recently posted about slacking for a week while working on wedding stuffs, but I wasn't a total slack. Even if I wasn't operating on all cylinders, I had loyal interns working diligently to keep the output level high. Interns that I no longer have, now that the semester has come to an end.

If it wasn't for interns, my professional world would collapse. My job would not be possible, slacking or no. It turns out interns are also good friend material; I see four former interns socially on a regular basis, and have invited six to my wedding. That's what happens when you're cooped up with me, two times a week for eight hours a day. You start to like me.

I interviewed five interns for the summer session, but three of them turned it down. So I'm left with my number two pick, and my number five pick. With some hesitation, the need for two able bodies compelled me to hire pick number five.

With any luck, I'll be moving in the next month or two, and I'll no longer need to worry about hiring interns as cheap help. But then who will I make friends with?

Reluctantly Yours, Tubby

2008-05-28T09:00:00.003-05:00

Not surprising, but my belly hurts from all the pizza I ate this weekend. Getting the large seems like a good idea fiscally, but if I cared about myself, the small would have sufficed. The single pizza, I purchased for lunch on Saturday, fed me for five meals. Yes I had pizza for breakfast and yes I ate it all. Partly because leftover pizza is almost always better than freshly delivered, and partly because I wanted to erase the existence of this pie from the fridge.

There were two goals this weekend. One I accomplished by downing a lot of pizza. The other conflicted with the eating, so my goal to exercise didn't gain lift-off. The lady and I started a Ju-Jutsu class a few weeks back. Meeting once a week, it's not the type of exercise that will induce weight loss. I'm filled with a surge of energy after a class, reminding me how I used to feel when in shape. So the idea to shape up is rolling 'round my tubby noggin', waiting for the perfect moment to be realized. Trouble is, there is no perfect moment.

I had a fat dream last night. My ex and I were shopping at the mall. Not only could I not find anything that fit, but I had three pairs of jeans with me and continually changed from pair to pair, trying to decide which fit best. Upon making a decision, I'd toss the other two, only to retrieve them moments later from the trash and start the whole cycle over. There was no end to the dream, unless you count me waking up feeling fat an ending.

My tubby twenties were a result of getting married and being lazy. Sadly, it took the drive and pain of a divorce to start exercising. I hurt my hamstring jogging about a year after starting, stopped exercising, met the lady, and proceeded to pack on the pizza pounds. Last year I got back into a routine, lost some weight, but ultimately lost the battle when our treadmill started to malfunction. It was the electrical that would sputter out, giving less than ample juice to the machine, resulting in sudden drops in speed. Not very conducive to a safe, stationary work-out. Those are just excuses, not the reasons.

I eat late night snacks all the time. If snacks aren't available, I improvise by nibbling on whatever resembles food, sans preparation. I wake up in the early morning after a late night binge, and sleep pleasantly when I refrain. Strangely, this knowledge doesn't stop me from snacking. Plus, I've always been part of the clean plate club. Growing up, we were made to finish everything before we could leave the table. Sometimes hours would pass as I struggled with frigid green beans and rubbery steak. I also eat fast, which is why I don't feel full until it's too late. Actually, sometimes that bloated feeling doesn't stop me from cleaning my plate.

Not for the wedding, but by the wedding, I should try and get a grip on it. Maybe if all of you referred to me as fatty, I'd get off my ass and do something about it.

Not Required Reading

2008-05-26T16:32:00.002-05:00

Often a tale I'm weaving is met with knowing glances. That's what happens when you write the most popular blog this side of the Mississippi. Or at least this side of Route 53, in Rolling Meadows, zip code 60008, Kirchoff Rd., Brookwood Condos.

I edit my posts heavily. There are so many facts and digressions trimmed from the the first draft that I am capable of telling a story you've read seem fresh. But I still feel odd when I knowingly cover familiar ground. My memory is so poor that I constantly write myself notes. Little yellow reminders, crowding my desk, have been replaced by notes crowding my in-box. My electro calendar automatically emails me important dates and social plans. Otherwise I would have forgotten about my haircut tonight. Considering this, it's not hard to imagine I may spin a tale twice.

It's like encountering someone with breath that stinks of death, with a poppyseed in their teeth, or Charmin stuck to their sneaker. You can either tell them, saving them hours of reflective embarrassment, or confess your secret keeping delight at the end of the day accented with a giggle. I'll stop a story if I realize you've already heard it, but please don't hesitate to tell me if you're experiencing deja vu.

Writing here keeps me honest. Sometimes honest about not being honest. While I'm making no excuses for my sometimes sketchy morals, I still regard this as a social barometer of sorts and a moral check system. That and I enjoy knowing some people look forward to new posts and getting a comment or two makes my day. That said, some friends apologize for not reading my blog. It's not required reading.

Let's make a deal: Stop reading this blog. Or continue to read this blog and don't talk to me in person ever again. In return, I'll tell you about that piece of cilantro stuck in your teeth since April.

Somebody Needs to Take Basic Math Again

2008-05-25T16:54:00.000-05:00

"Twenty-four hours," "check your email," and "Remember the time change from Seattle" made me hopeful I'd have heard something by now. But a week has passed with no communication. Am I surprised? No, not at all.

My hopes were intentionally subdued and faded in the last two months waiting expectantly for news. Now, a week after the "twenty-four hour" message, I find myself preparing not only for another long wait, but also a summer of being overworked at my current job.

The trick is remaining polite with a general air of happy casualness when I communicate with Seattle HR. My first instinct is to whine. Being a whiner would not look good on my resume, I refrain.

Don't hold your breath. I'm not holding mine. You'll know when I do.

Tell Me What You CAN Eat

2008-05-24T15:11:00.006-05:00

There isn't a moment that I don't want to spend with the lady. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy a solitary day apart. Or, in the case of this long holiday weekend, three. Does it make me a bad boyfriend opting out of a home-sick, Minneapolis bound adventure? Sending my wife-to-be on her own? There must have been some reason or a commitment I felt obliged to honor.

Our lives have been non stop lately. Weekends and weeknights are packed with social engagements, concerts, or babysitting. We are taking Ju-Jitsu, learning Japanese, planning a wedding, and our honeymoon. Simply, the schedule is overloaded and about to burst. In the last two weeks I've had this anxious, spinning out of control, nervous break down feeling. I went to the doctor, and he told me to stay home this weekend, plan nothing, and eat pizza.

For you, the average dairy and wheat tolerant community, pizza is not such a rare, anxiously anticipated moment. While the lady and I concoct a suitable pizza substitute from alternative materials, the commonly used pizza ingredients: 1) Wheat and 2) Cheese, are poison to the lady's belly.

She'll never make a fuss like a child turning their nose up a brussel sprouts or meatloaf. That's why so many people make a fuss for her; My family always has glutten-free desert handy, to top off any meal. Visited friends always purchase items to satiate her wheat-free cravings. If her allergies are forgotten or unknown, the lady will dine within her diet, without the slightest deflated or fussy peep.

That said, the pizza never tastes as good as a day spent with her.

Second Verse, Same as the First

2008-05-16T23:53:00.000-05:00

I'll write about bad news in this blog. But there hasn't been word one about the Seattle gig to report. Until this week.

It's been almost two months since my phone interview and three weeks since my last note from Stacy in HR. Two days ago, I received an email informing me the two positions I had applied for are being put on hold. Stacy enthusiastically tipped me that the job descriptions are being revised, new posting will appear shortly, and that she would be talking to me soon. That's a good sign. But not as good of a sign as the next email I received.

I have a friend on the inside at this dream job. He called me in a huff, needing my resume and some design samples. When asked what the position was, he responded "Things are happening" and could give no more details. I'm not sure what is "happening," but, shortly after his call, I received another note from Stacy; I should expect contact from the head of the web development team in the next twenty-four hours.

Considering two months have passed, with barely a word from anyone but Stacy, twenty-four hours seems unlikely. I've had to subdue my enthusiasm for obtaining this dream job. When I got the "Things are happening" call from my friend, it hit me again; I could be moving soon. I needed to readjust, allow myself to get excited again, and most importantly, mentally prepare for a move across the country.

I'm confident twenty-four hours will come and go without contact. Along with all the other dream job qualities of this company, all employees enjoy year-round half day Fridays. Good for them, bad for me. Maybe I'll hear more on Monday.

Random Technical Charity

2008-05-14T14:03:00.000-05:00

My computer is broken. An upgrade would be nice, but it was either a new computer or the honeymoon. Saying I need a new machine is stretch. Only the CD/DVD burner is malfunctioning. Strangely, the optical drive burns CDs just fine, but insert a DVD and it's promptly spit out, like a vending machine disagreeing with a crumpled bill.

For years I've received horrible, uninformed, sloppy, and rude technical support (Reports of Dell's India based tech service have sent stock holders running.) Then I switched to a Mac. While the performance of the competing platforms is an argument for another day, I have never heard of or been victim to bad customer service while technically trouble-shooting.

Navigating through the Mac computer assisted directory requires three to four button depressions before reaching a live, polite, and patient human who is not reading from a script and is informed as to the inner workings of their products. When I called about my drive, I was told in a gruff, dismissive manner that my warranty had expired a month earlier, and there was nothing that could be done for me.

I'm more frugal than cheap, so I talked to a friend who knows a guy, who knows a guy about looking at my machine. Pablo was very helpful; Suggesting that I perform system updates and try different types of DVD media because ... blah, blah, etc, etc. Sadly, his advice was more a recipe to find out what wasn't wrong. In the end, everything he suggested, didn't come close to a fix.

My father is a computer wiz. Or at least he was in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Growing up he provided early model, terrific personal computing gadgets for my budding brain. I used basic-language programs to design a choose your own adventure game, drew directly into the the computer via a drawing tablet, and programed simple animations, my hands typing away for countless hours on my Atari 800XL. Graduating to my first desktop was exciting; I could take that thing apart, change out drives, reformat whatever, and make it faster so rotating a graphic file ten degrees clockwise might take four hours instead of six. I considered replacing the failing optical drive myself, but over the last decade, I've become less of an inside the box kind of guy.

I was warned that Pablo might take his time with my machine, since it's a side job. Just the idea of not having my machine, for even a week, nearly sent my techy, internet dependent heart into withdrawal. While it might be the most expensive option, it would also probably be the fastest; I needed to bring my machine into an Apple retail store.

Every Apple store has a technical support department, lovingly dubbed the Genius Bar. Einstein would be overqualified, but it is staffed by bright, helpful individuals. I only waited ten minutes before getting the opportunity to convey the situation to my curiously named genius: Oleg. DVD drive not working, CDs writing fine, and out of warranty. Having been told, over the phone, I would need to shell out fifty dollars for a diagnosis, I inquired how I would be billed up front. The words "We don't charge to look at your computer" caress my frugal heart. When I informed Oleg my warranty expired in March he said "Two months is close enough."

Groomzilla I Ain't

2008-05-12T08:02:00.000-05:00

Wedding plans are coming along swimmingly. I've typed numerous detailed itineraries, corresponding to the equally numerous annotated reception hall maps, in an attempt to bring clarity to my ... I mean our wedding plan. The hotel knows what to serve and when to serve it. The DJ knows what to play and when. The reverend has a detailed script with notations on how to address the crowd. I've even prepared an itinerary and map for our families. I've booked the shuttle for brunch, our 4 night stay at the hotel suite, written out the entire text for the invite, and made a shot list for the photographer. It's amazing how much you can get done when your boss is traveling on business.

NARM is a music convention. It stands for something, something, whatever. Who cares as long as all my bosses are required to attend and it's not in Chicago, like it was last year. I'm responsible for creating all sorts of merchandising materials for the main NARM suite, separate music label suites, and coordinating the arrival of these materials which, for some reason, is harder than it sounds. It took me a solid week and a half to design, print, produce and ship everything. Barely a minute spent on anything else.

Currently, I'm looking at a pile of about two dozen work requests while more arrive via email constantly. Especially since everybody is back from NARM. While I printed some of simpler requests, I haven't even attempted or pretended to look at the others.

There are three things you can do at work: 1) Perform the task you are paid to do, 2) Waste time, 3) Be productive personally. The later is an accurate description of the week I just concluded. I definitely needed a break. Did I deserve a relaxed, personally constructive week because I worked late and skipped lunches while in NARM hell? Maybe, but I wasn't waiting around for anyone to give me a push. Instead widdling away the hours by following a Youtube link into infinity, I choose to firm up some wedding plans.

Jill from the hotel, along with Britney who's handling our brunch, are either amazed at my detailed planning or scared they are witnessing just the tip of my micro-managing, OCD planning prowess. They don't have to worry. I heart the idea of not doing a single thing in September for the wedding. That's why I'm doing so much now. During work. On the clock.

Should I File Frozen Vegetables Under "F" or "V"?

2008-05-11T15:01:00.000-05:00

Julia Ward Howe is the mother of all mothers. The author of the Mother's Day Proclamation (Something I didn't know until today,) she was a passive feminist who wrote the proclamation in 1870 as a reaction to the carnage of the American Civil War. It was a call for all women to get candy, perfume, and diamonds one day a year ... Um, no. The proclamation called for women of all nationalities, to protest glorification of war. My mom's kinda cool too.

Whenever I think about my mommy, I think about her encouraging me to draw from instructional books when I was five, telling me to use a condom as a teenager, and cupping her hands to catch my vomit at Toys R Us.

She is the easiest person to tease, and the best at taking such jabs in good spirits. She microwaves all her vegetables, keeps a bicycle tire patch in her spiral bound phone book under "P", is in possession of tupperware older than me, and can clean a T-bone better than any ravenous animal I've ever seen on the Discovery Channel.

We didn't grow up rich or poor, but rather right in the middle. My parents have never had fancy cars or trendy clothes, but I was all but laughed at when I applied for financial aid at college. Money doesn't make being a mom easier. She is the reason I value manners and the thoughtful consideration of others. She worked hard to make me who I am. Thanks ma.

Visions of Canine Retaliation

2008-05-09T16:00:00.005-05:00

Our dog Aimee has it hard. She's sleeping still, two hours after we've gotten up. When the mood hits her, she'll get up and dance around her food dish, as if trained to do so for the circus. On occasion, she delivers a brown package in the living room and receives some harsh tones, a smack on the rear, and is constrained to her bed for all of five minutes. But this post isn't about my dog and her rough life.

I don't expect to get the warm fuzzies when watching Animal Cop atrocities, but shocked, outraged tears have never been on the menu, until last night.

His name was Trouble. A orange brown mutt that was tied up outside for weeks and forgotten. Instead of a chain, these negligent, torturous souls used a combination of thin wire, chain link, and jumper cables to secure him to the fence. There was no slack on this makeshift lead, restricting the dog the same tiny area at all times, requiring him to sleep in his own excrement.

At the beginning of this six week, outdoor adventure, he was a puppy. While puppies grow, restrictive makeshift collars don't. The chain, wire, and jumper cable dug a two inch deep gash around Trouble's entire neck. The tangled mess of metal was painfully resting on his exposed spine.

Only a single visit was required before the cops rescued Trouble. After being sedated, the embedded chain was carefully pulled bit by bit from the gash, flesh coming away with each scrap of metal. It was at this point when I started gasping, tensing up, and crying. I wanted to hit record on the Tivo, but decided that I didn't want to be personally responsible for anyone else witnessing this.

Trouble came around nicely. His neck encompassing open sore was still very obvious, the vision of his protruding rib cage had been blurred by a healthy diet, and his tail happily wagged whenever the camera was present. When he bit into the plastic hand interfering with his meals, it was decided he would not adopt well and was euthanized.

There must be adoption candidates who could handle dogs that need extra attention. Candidates that occupy houses without kids and are competent adults capable of debugging certain tendencies, and normalizing a troubled dog's demeanor. This is most likely a situation when it's easier said than done. I'm upset Trouble didn't recover and experience the good life. I suppose the few weeks spent in recovery was good living, compared to what he knew as life.

There was no resolution to the Trouble story. The owners were never brought to justice and It's probably wise of them hide. I have moments of bliss as I imagine them dying, tied to a fence.

Postal Hemoraging

2008-05-07T10:23:00.013-05:00

Our Japanese honeymoon required it, so I applied for my passport today. I tried yesterday, but the homemade passport photos I brought weren't up to government standards. When I returned today, with photos of my smaller head, the line was long.

From yesterday's visit, I knew there was only one passport agent at the post office: Sunni. Sunni isn't Asian, as her name might suggest, so she probably doesn't want my baby. Think roadside diner, heavy make up, bleach blond, wicked wit, and short temper. Even when she was being nice, she was mean. I suppose that comes with working a government job and constantly dealing with cranky, service deprived customers.

Luckily, the passport situation is a lot better than it was this time last year. Compared to the solitary month I'll be waiting, the process once took over six months, ruining vacation plans across the country. Even though we decided our Honeymoon would take place in Tokyo four months ago, I have been planning on obtaining my passport for over a year. Why did it take me so long? I wanted a thinner, less puffy me in the passport photo. Instead of waiting for that magical transformation to svelte, I satisfied my need for visual perfection by digitally clearing blemishes on my passport photo.

If you've ever been to the post office, you know the service is light and show up expecting a wait. There is a reason the phrase "Going postal" exists, so treading lightly is an attractive precaution. Luckily I've been reading a lot, and had a book handy. Ten minutes in, my reading was interrupted by a vocally hot tempered patron. "Can somebody help me?" and "Why do all the clerks leave when they see a line form?" were shouted with guttural intensity, making me wish I had worn my kevlar vest today. Sunni didn't yell, but her responses were angry, deliberate, and it was obvious she didn't care about fueling his quick fuse temper. As his face turned different, brighter shades of red, another waiting customer calmed him down with expertise and confidence. Perhaps he was a hostage negotiator by profession. That or a postal worker planted to diffuse such situations.

"Rough day" I said smiling, as Sunni inspected my passport papers. Half of me wanted to be the good guy, and the other half wanted any schemes of passive retaliation directed toward something besides my passport application. Sunni smiled back, talked about how it was worse at eight-thirty when she was the only clerk on hand, and seemed generally pleased that the yelling had passed. Actually, she seemed un-phased by the yelling. Could it be so common place that she could shrug it off with such little effort and in so little time?

You give what you get is an old, vague phrase. Smiling at a stranger will warrant a similar response; Frowning while looking at your feet will conveys and produce a different one. When I have the clarity, I can avoid being affected by the legions of angry, spiteful, and temperamental masses. But I'm not immune.

When I wrote a check out for the wrong amount, Sunni angrily brought it to my attention. Then I was told my sloppy, retail affected signature would not cut it. I raised my right hand, listening to Sunni spout off her familiar government verse, swearing to the legitimacy of the submitted information and wondered if her anger, which showed obviously while on the clock, was apparent during her evenings off.

Nothing to See Here, Move Along

2008-05-05T11:43:00.007-05:00

While most of you will not benefit from last nights efforts (what with all your fancy RSS feeds and email notifications,) I have given the blog a face-lift. No longer will you venture to "I Have a Chipmunk Perched on My Shoulder, But I'd Prefer a Finch" and scratch your head while saying "This guy is a graphic designer?"

I Heart My Star Wars Girlfriend

2008-05-03T03:33:00.002-05:00

The lady is going out with friends tonight, which is something she doesn't do much anymore. It's been tough starting from scratch in the social acquaintance department, since moving to Chicago and it's hard for her to find a kindred soul amongst a bunch of twenty-two year old, fresh out of school co-workers. Personally, I have no problem making friends with youngsters. Or as I like to call them: Free help.

Interns will one day inherit the Earth. And it's not just because they are holed up in a room with me all day. Several past interns are close friends of mine and you'll meet some of them at my wedding. One such friend/past intern is partly responsible for the lady and I dating.

The lady and I worked together 10 years ago; Her out of the Minneapolis office, me in Chicago. My job required calls the MN office daily and, as fate would have it, the lady's job was to answer those calls. After a short time, the length of our calls increased to include personal tidbits, small talk, and some minor, harmless flirting. Two things delighted me about the lady: 1) She was the sweetest, kindest person I had ever talked to, and 2) She liked Star Wars. While the lady played the role of my platonic "Star Wars Girlfriend," the fiancee was all my heart needed and desired, or so I thought.

Turning twenty-one, this friend/past intern/cupid was excited and it wasn't about the legal consumption of alcohol. He could now attend twenty-one and over concerts. One such concert/festival was a weekend long, avant guard, noise fest at the Fine Line Music Cafe in Minneapolis. While I never had the pleasure, Minneapolis is home to Soul Asylum, The Replacements, Prince, and Mystery Science Theater 3000, so it couldn't be that bad of a place to visit.

The festival music (or festival "sounds") would have satisfied the likes of Jack Kerouac, Yoko Ono, or John Zorn. Dodging ashtrays, fresh fruit, and instruments during performances was a common theme. The performer that enticed me to attend, Neil Michael Hagerty of Royal Trux fame, had canceled his appearance. Because of all this, I knew my attendance at the noise-fest would be sporadic at best. Luckily, I had sent emails to the few Minnesotans I knew, wondering if any of them would like to visit while I was in town. The lady answered my call, meeting me on a Saturday night to play host. Lee's Liquor Lounge and First Ave made for a gritty, right up my alley introduction to Minneapolis. Plus, she was cuter than I remembered. As the evening drew to a close, I wanted to kiss her.

On the agenda for tonight is pizza. Maybe I'll have a few beers, watch a movie, and do a little reading as well. I enjoy my time alone; I get to do whatever I please, with out any responsibility bigger than tending to the dog. Still, the time alone makes me realize how awfully pale life would be sans lady. I heart my Star Wars girlfriend.

I'm Down with OCD, Yeah You Know Me

2008-05-01T13:49:00.000-05:00

In keeping with my "No Book Left Behind" policy, I've read six novels in the past month and a half. While they aren't epic tales, they aren't picture books either and they each have three things in common: They are well written, wildly fantastic, and are all Philip K. Dick novels.

Philip K. Dick's twin sister died shortly after birth. He struggled with her absence throughout his entire life, commonly speaking of having an emptiness in him, a hole, a void that his sister should occupy. His books have been turned into a slew of almost entirely horrible movies: Blade Runner ("Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" in it's paper form, and the only good adaptation,) Total Recall, Minority Report (based on a 10 page short story,) Next, Paycheck, and A Scanner Darkly. Being dead for twenty-five years, PKD was only fortunate enough to see Blade Runner hit the silver screen. He attributed his prolific writing style, of his one-hundred-twenty-one short stories and forty-four novels, to his immense appetite for drugs. Up until two months ago, I had read only a handful of his short stories and a few novels. Then my OCD kicked in.

Not only did I decide I needed to read them all, I decided that it would be best to read them in the order they were written. I've been purchasing the old paper back editions with their fabulously bad covers, failing spines, and yellowed pages off eBay and Amazon market place. Planning ahead, I keep the next novel at the ready so I can start it immediately upon finishing the previous one. Although I may be making this task sound like a chore, from the rigid structure and rules I have adopted, I am enjoying every word, twist, and derive no satisfaction from the quantity of the books I've finished. No, this is more of a pleasurable quest.

When I finished "Eye in the Sky", "Cosmic Puppets" had not yet arrived. I did however have "Time Out of Joint" in my possession, which was the next-next in line. I waited a few days, anxiously checking the mail, but when it didn't arrive by the weekend, I forged ahead. This decision to go out of order hurt my OCD heart.

"Cosmic Puppets" arrived today and I considered (but refrained from) bumping the current novel back to it's proper place in line, and returning to the plan. Does refraining get me some sort of OCD medal of courage? Even if I plan on returning to the original pattern and making sure this never happens again?

I'm Doing My Part to Help the Economy

2008-04-29T15:55:00.000-05:00

I'm not an economic genius. I'm pretty sure there is some kind of down-turn going on with the dollar, economy, and housing market. However, I feel the general public is affected more by the media, than anything else.

This is how my little brain sees it: Famous, well regarded economist predicts slight economic down-turn. Media picks up the story, predicting gas prices will rise along with a reduction in big ticket item purchases (ie houes, cars.) Other media outlets pick up on the story and sensationalize the details to one up the other networks, until the story is exaggerated and prematurely bleak. When the public sees the story carried in the paper, CNN, and the Today Show, they stop spending and in effect create what they feared: An economic down-turn.

It might not be that simple but the lady and I are doing our part to counter this wave of economic turmoil; Four thousand dollars later, our honeymoon to Tokyo is booked. We are staying in Shinjinku, a trendy spot filled with shops and lots of restaurants to satisfy our foodie hearts. I've never traveled outside of North America, and the places I have been were easy to plan for. Maybe it's the language barrier, but I'm having a hard time planning this trip.

Last time I went to NYC, I went online and picked a slew of places to eat, spas, things to do, cool bars, and sorted through reviews about all those places for several hours. I came up with an air tight plan, that could be broken, changed, and morphed to our traveling moods on a whim. Whenever I try to do the same for Tokyo, I'm met with a wall of foreign characters that only induces frustration for my planning, OCD laden heart. Not being able to plan, plan, plan this four-thousand dollar trip makes me anxious. I have visions of us holed up in our most certainly small room, watching television the entire time we are there.

Now that I think about it, our trip isn't helping the US economy at all, as everything (save a small fee for Travelocity) is going to the Japanese economy. Looks like I'll need to buy an iPhone or something to make up for that. You can help too by spending some money. Starting with that well thought out six-hundo-dollar government check George W is sending us this week.

I Wish I Could Speak to My Dead Dog

2008-04-22T13:24:00.001-05:00

My mother killed my childhood dog while I was vacationing in Florida. I was on the road with a friend and his family, at the age of fifteen, winding through the Carolinas, Georgia, the Smokey Mountains, to Florida and then back home. Arriving home after my two week adventure, I expected all sorts of excited greetings; My parents happy to see my tanned face, my brother putting Mario Brothers on pause for a moment to wave hi, my sister waving but not hanging up the phone, and the family dog jumping all over me, licking my face uncontrollably. Instead, the house was empty.

Although it might seem like she was named for a prostitute, Trixie was in fact a black and white, fifteen pound dog that was lovingly trained by my mom the "dog whisperer." She fetched the paper daily, would roll over, stay, sit, play dead, and do all sorts of other tricks that my miniature pincher does none of.

The current family dog (Trixie's replacement) is getting up there; Cass is a half Collie, half Alaskan Shepard who is the sweetest dog, fetches the paper, never needs to be leashed, and is fifteen years old. Old enough that my parents get her the one year rabies shot, instead of potentially wasting money on the shot that lasts two years. While discussing her approaching demise, I made my mother promise not to put Cass down until I could say goodbye.

Trying to make her case about putting Trixie down, my mom provided a laundry list of reasons: She wouldn't even eat liver sausage. Murderer! She wouldn't walk to the corner. Murderer! And was shivering in the corner, throwing up. Mur.... well that one is kinda bad. Did I want my beloved Trixie to suffer four days till I returned? No. Was it that important for her to see me, or me to see her? Yes.

Imagining her suffer pains me, but the idea that I could not send her off with a loving look and comforting pet is worse. I love animals. Sometimes more than people. While I'm not faulting my mother's actions, denying me this farewell under the circumstances, I want to be there next time a family dog dies. Death is death. It's not the similarity of the blood or species that's important, but the proximity of the hearts.

As if the conversation of her demise had been translated to her, while simultaneously exclaiming "don't bury me yet," Cass was overcome with the urge to play. She pounced at me like a tiger, ran circles around the living room as I gave chase, and came back for more.

I Thought I Might be Writing Posts From Seattle by Now

2008-04-18T13:29:00.000-05:00

It's now been almost two weeks since I was supposed to hear something about a second interview. Five weeks since my well prepared, stellar performance at the initial phone interview. I know the corporate machine is a slow ride, but this wait is starting to get to me. Even if I do make it to the next round, there is yet another round after that, and then a final decision to pick from the finalists. If I am fortunate enough to secure employment, I suspct it may be sometime during Obama's presidency.

At her request, I've traded several detail lite emails with Stacy in HR. Everyone of them drafted thoughtfully, sent timely, and responded to within a day. The gist of every response I receive is that there is nothing new to report. No details. Nothing to communicate. Nothing decided. No ... you get the idea.

Seattle is still a long ways a way apparently. While I'm approaching mental exhaustion anticipating news, I've found something to temporarily occupy my mind as I wait: I've applied for a second position, in a different department, at the same company.

Teaching Migrating Geese to Read

2008-04-17T10:55:00.000-05:00

My car was towed while attending a Billy Ray Cyrus concert. I did have a good time at this work event, but it wasn't because of the music; The ladies and their tasseled attire provided the entertainment. None of this fashion cop fun made up for the sinking feeling I received when I turned the corner, and didn't see my ride. I stood scratching my head in the very spot previous occupied by my recently transmission challenged vehicle, and read a sign that only prohibited parking from 6am to 5pm. When my similarly stranded passenger pointed out another sign 20 feet away, that made it unlawful to park from 5pm to 6am, I knew why my car was gone.

There are too many signs in this world. Signs where there shouldn't be signs. Signs that state obvious details. Maybe it's because everyone is scared of being sued, or maybe these signs were installed as a result of such lawsuits, but I occasionally suppress the urge to physically remove them.

Considering my aversion to signs, it's ironic that I create signs for a living. While it's my job to separate kids from their allowance (and I am deeply ashamed of that,) I'm creating signs for the retail environment, where you'd expect to be assaulted by signs designed to inspire consumption. Other signs I run into, on a daily basis, instruct us on how fast to drive, that bridges might get icy in winter, and when there is a deaf child living nearby. While I don't want to run down any child with my car (not even a deaf one,) there is one rule I abide when I see one in the street: I stop.

I encounter a similar abundance of signs at my condo complex. There are signs that say you can't park in the front of the building, where to park your over-sized truck, that you must live in the complex to use the trash bins, handwritten signs with instructions for the brown clad UPS driver, and lately, signs warning everyone not to feed the geese.

The geese are migrating north or south, I don't know. What I do know is that this is the first time, in the eight years I've lived in my condo, that I've ever seen them make the front lawn their home. While dodging the neon green geese feces is a minor concern, I'm not bothered by their presence nor have I ever been tempted to provide nourishment. Feeding the geese seems like a bad idea, an obvious no-no, and a sign is not going to deter the idiot who does feed them. So, I've been taking these signs down as I see them. When they reappear, I remove them again. The last time I took one down, I decided to replace it with one of my own.

I run into signs daily that, if harmlessly tweaked, could provide humor to the weary masses. Perhaps this is the beginning as well as the end of my life as a sign vandal, and perhaps I've taken the baby step needed to jump start my vision of (if not a sign free world) a humorously tweaked sign laden world. The idea that I might make one person smile, and one humorless soul frown as they remove the offending sign, makes me smile. Maybe one day I'll make you smile, and I won't even know it.

The Asians Want My Baby

2008-04-15T12:29:00.000-05:00

I've never been good at picking up on signals. While I can almost always discern people's moods and underlying intentions, I've never easily detected if someone is interested. I've always needed things spelled out for me, in regards to the "more than friends" signals.

I've written notes in grade school with check boxes (Yes if you like me, and no if you don't) and during my awkward high school days it wasn't much better; I needed a conversation clearly stating that you were my girlfriend, for that to be true. So when the various Asian ladies show interest, at all the various Asian eateries I frequent, it's not a surprise that I need someone a bit more savvy to translate and convey these visual cues.

Asian food, in the last fifteen years, has become a staple in my digestive endeavors. I was introduced to sushi (by an ironically named boss: Fish) almost thirteen years ago, I'm fortunate to have the best Thai food in Chicagoland a mere half-mile from my home, and I've run into a slew of cute Asian ladies that all want my baby.

Once, at my favorite Thai haunt, I was asked if "that girl" I occasionally dine with was my girlfriend. Contrary to my usual inability to read people, it was perfectly clear that "Yes she is" was not the desired response. She wanted my baby.

Another one of my Asian girlfriends went missing in action from a favorite Pho eatery. She reappeared last weekend as our waitress, during one of the wallet draining sushi excursions. When a friend said she was blushing, after I told her I remembered her, I knew she wanted my baby.

Asians in general are a beautiful sort and rarely have I run into one that hasn't been polite. Still, all my Asian girlfriends are missing one thing: None of them hold my heart. Meeting the lady is the best thing that has ever happened to me and yes, she wants my baby.

Years Later, the Memory of Denny's Furry Blue Thong Remains

2008-04-09T09:37:00.003-05:00

The third installment in a, hopefully never ending, look into the mind of my ex-boss Denny.

Denny had a stabbin' cabin. He's moved out of state, so I'm assuming it's been sold, but maybe he has a new one in Pennsylvania. I don't really want to know or imagine what went on there. Regardless, constantly picking up waitresses at work functions, mistresses moving from out of state to be with him, and ex-assistants sending him flowers were not uncommon occurrences, all requiring this second home away from home.

Vague, lawsuit inspiring, marriage vow breaking recollections of his sexual conquests were shared at work, and always in mixed company. From the canter and obvious lack of remorse while recalling these tales, you could tell he was proud of his indiscretions. I found the idea of cheating more difficult to mentally absorb.

A girl from Kinko's was hot for me. Needing copies often, I got to know her well, and even better the short time I was employed there. After a well attended work outing, we found ourselves clearing the snow from our cars and not wanting the night to end. So, we sought shelter in her van while the ice melted from our warming vehicles. When she made a pass at me, I wanted to kiss back. Due to my crumbling, doomed marriage I had been deprived of any intimate attention for over eight months at this point, but I was married and simply couldn't reciprocate. Not even a little. I put myself into this situation, knowing what might occur, which was my only fault. Beyond that, I consider my actions a moral victory of sorts, since I hadn't succumbed to my desires.

Denny didn't like his wife's ass. While this is an ugly, embarrassing conversation to have, he made it made more so when he shared this with his female assistant. Uglier still when he complimented the assistant's ass and remarked how he wished his wife's was similar.

Another of his assistants was a Polish born, loud mouth, crass individual named Sylvia. While she would say ugly things as a rule during her short three months of employment, her heritage as a Playboy model was hard to ignore. She was hired because of her body and fired because of her incompetence. None of this prevented him from hittin' that before and after her dismissal.

Denny and his wife attended Hedonism regularly. While the dictionary definition of Hedonism is a spiritual pursuit of pleasure in it's purist form, it has been interpreted by the horny masses as a morally deficient, sexual passport. The Hedonism my ex-boss frequented featured toga parties that turned into naked romps on the beach, body painting, orgies, and wife swapping.

Being the go to tech guy in the office, Denny would often ask me to look up prices for new televisions, print a photo of him with some lame country artist, or help him attach a file to an email. One frightful afternoon I was approached in hushed tones. Along with these hushed tones he brought a digital camera, photo printer, and lack of knowledge of how to use either. While I didn't see the entire content of the camera, as I instructed him on the use of his new gadgets, I was unfortunate enough to see a few shots. I wish I could forget the vision of his wife painted in blue body-paint and his similarly colored furry thong.

Other Dennytacular reads:
Denny, The Fair and Balanced Whistler
Denny's Birthday Gift From His Fat, Fat Wife

If I Don't Hear Something Soon, I'm Bound to Do Something Drastic. Like Wait Till Tomorrow.

2008-04-07T16:20:00.001-05:00

Today is the day I'm supposed to hear something about the Seattle gig. While I'm confident I made a stellar impression, could do the job easily, and have agreed to a slew of concessions that should get me to round two of the interview process, I'm still anxious and excited.

Emusic wants me to take a survey. You get my money every month, not my opinion.

All day I've been watching my email. Every time one comes my way, I let out a singular, involuntary gasp.

The Catlow Theater is playing "The Bucket List" this week. I'll save my five dollars.

While I'm sure they are working on trimming the list of candidates down, it could easily be another week or two before my fate is revealed.

A potential bidder wants to know if I'll ship the Simpsons season 6 DVD set I have on eBay to Canada. Sure.

I don't believe in the jinx. Several friends have refrained from asking for an update because of the jinx. I appreciate their superstitious, kind hearts. I only occasionally ask if an unemployed friend has found a job. If your house is taking a while to unload, I don't bring it up every time I see you. This is different. This possibility has provided hope and I'm happy to share with everyone.

Bob Lefsetz continues to email me his often dribbly literary nonsense, even though twice I've tried to unsubscribe.

Several friends have emailed me today. Apparently they marked their calendars. Thanks.

Ticketmaster just emailed me about an exclusive pre-sale offer for Yes tickets.

The importance of this interview process has already been discovered; A cemented realization that finding a new position soon, on my own terms, is insurmountably better for my mental well being than lingering around this dying company for a golden parachute.

Seller af_books just shipped my recently purchased Philip K. Dick book: The Man Who Japed.

It's close to 5pm PST. I'm not going to hear anything today and that's all right. For the last week, I've had a carefully prepared, casual sounding inquiry typed and ready for Stacy in HR.

The Cascade Drive In is now open for spring. They are playing "Nim's Island" and "Superhero Movie" this weekend. No thanks.

Why the F@*$ Did They Both Get Cake?

2008-04-07T13:36:00.001-05:00

We celebrated my mother's 59th birthday last night by having her make us a meatloaf dinner. My parents birthdays, along with their wedding anniversary, are so close that they get jipped. It's common for them to receive a single gift for all three occasions, from their three children. While this might seem unfair and uncool, it allows us to get them a nice gift instead of golf balls and socks.

Plans had been discussed to do the same type of combined super gift this year. But when it came time to pull the trigger, my sister (the planner) was missing in action. I picked up the slack, nailed the plan down on email, and when details of money owed arose my sister informed us that, not only was she forgoing her original plan, but also that she had already purchased our mom a bird bath. This left my brother and I holding a stale plan. We came up with a suitable substitute and our sister signed her name to that gift anyway.

My sister's kids have had a lot to deal with in the last couple years. The strain of a divorce shows occasionally, taking the form of delusional scenarios where their father buys the house next to my parents and visits could be arranged on a whim. In reality, their father has seen them a mere 5 times in the last two years, since they moved back from Ohio. That said, they have my sister wrapped. Because kids are so obviously a personal part of any parent's life, it's tough to openly judge parental techniques. But let's give it a try.

Throughout the entire meatloaf meal, the kids were continually told to eat. The birthday menu consisted of bacon laced meatloaf, corn, mashed potatoes, and biscuits. The only items willingly eaten were the bacon and biscuits amidst countless, defiant cries of "I'm not eating that" or "I'm not hungry." So when another piece of bacon was requested, do you think mommy bargained for the consumption of some corn, meatloaf, or mashed potatoes? Nope. It was handed over with a submission laden casualness that was embarrassing.

Dinner with these two is always a tiresome event. I'm not going to bore you by recalling every insubordinate dinner-time detail, because we would be here a while. The kids have it hard during the transition to their daddyless life. No doubt they'll need extra attention, but they'll also need structure. If getting through a meal is this tough, can you imagine how little those kids will listen to mom when a real problem arises? Start with basics and stick to your guns. Your kids will respect you for it. You can start by sending them to bed without desert once in a while.

I Received a Pretty Good Interest Rate on the Loan I Took Out, to Pay for All the Meals I'll be Eating This Weekend

2008-04-06T00:14:00.001-05:00

I've never been that good with money. My whole savings / investment MO is to hide the money away so I don't see it. Otherwise I might buy something I can't really afford on eBay. My first ever transaction on eBay was selling a 6x6 foot Millennium Falcon for $1500 back in '98. Then there was the Planet of Apes sleeping bag with the shredded inner lining, that I retrieved from my parents trash bin. Not in my wildest did I ever think it would sell for $800. I've probably put all that money right back into eBay, purchasing crap that I didn't need.

Over the last few years I've managed to get my 401k to a pretty healthy level, pay off my car, my student loans, I don't have credit cards, and occasionally over pay my mortgage. Somehow saving for the wedding is harder than I thought it would be. Maybe the recent set back of a failed transmission, and it's $2k price tag, has demoralized my saving heart. I received my quarterly 401k update and it's obvious the economy's fiscal legs are shaky; Since the beginning of the year, I've lost two dollars for every one I've contributed.

A mild panic set in as I hurried down the hall to my accountant co-worker, the provider of gracious, vague, yet helpful financial advise. Once it was established that I wasn't retiring in the near future, she told me worrying about the drop was useless and suggested I ride it out. To my surprise, she also suggested I contribute more if I could. "Buy low, sell high" she said, which is about the simplest financial 101 cliché to understand but was tough to recall realizing a financial loss. While I don't have any more funds to float toward the market, I'm comfortable after this advise and not touching a thing.

I don't live paycheck to paycheck, but it seems like I am always spending more than I'd like. I suppose if circumstances required my fiscal scrutiny I could manage with less. I'll have to do with less if I move to Seattle. Making less will require the occasional social lie. No, I can't go for sushi because I have plans with X Saturday and will be doing Y on Sunday, when in reality X and Y are the same thing: Sitting at home watching the tele with the lady. It will be quite a change to not do everything I want, when the idea or mood hits me, but I'm up for the social downgrade in exchange for happiness.

This weekend I have three dinner outings planned, and none of them are going to be cheap. I'm showing up prepared to lay down more than a few bills tonight not just for my dinner, but to buy a friend's sushi as payment for a foolish bet. Wish my savings challenged wallet luck. Upon winning the bet, my friend's exact words were: "I'm going to eat so much sushi, you'll have to postpone the wedding."

I Wish I Had a Blu-Ray Player to Play My New Blu-Ray Disc

2008-04-04T11:28:00.001-05:00

Recently I unearthed a rather large, dusty box of cassette tapes. These relics made it all the way from Minneapolis and I regret telling the lady to bring them along, instead of tossing them as she had planned. There are some questionable gems in there (buh-uuuuudy,) not to mention a hell of a lovingly crafted custom gift from her then heavy metal sister. Some are albums we still listen to, while others have not been blessed with any attention in the last twenty years and never made the transition to compact disc. So we'll be buying a few of these so we can relive some of these fond audiorific memories. However, once we get the CD, we'll just be packing it away with the others.

Last year I took on the daunting task of uploading all of our music onto the computer. I have painstakingly tweaked info about each release, collected or scanned every piece of cover art into a perfect, digital square, and backed it all up so that I won't cry if one of my hard drives fails. My 5 year old iPod holds a mere 20 gigs (equaling 400 CDs) of the 220 gigs of music. Because of the iPod, I haven't played a CD in years. That's why, in accordance with my overly organized / anal self, I recently packed all our CDs away.

Technology has always been a part of my life. My father went to college for computers in the 60's, back when they had reel to reel and punch-card computers, I remember typing messages back and forth to my cousin on the computer back in 1984, waiting a half an hour for video games to load off a tape cassette on the Commodore 64, and writing choose your own adventure text based, basic language programs back before I kissed my first girl. While I'll miss looking at the booklets of my CDs, I'll trade that for the convenience of carrying 400 albums in a device the size of a calculator over large format anything. I don't want to be 70 with 12 O'Clock continually flashing on my iPod ala your grandma's VCR. Technology is my fountain of youth.

I don't currently own an high definition television. Even if I did, I don't have an HD signal from the cable company. I pay nine dollars for cable and I like the idea of dieing with that plan in place. Especially since, through an honest, accidental miscommunication, we get the fifty dollar plan at the nine dollar price. Am I going to replace the hundreds of DVDs with their digitally superior, younger, and high definition brother the Blu-ray? Not a chance; DVD is good enough. But from this point forward, I'll be purchasing Blu-ray discs for any new releases, even though I don't own a player to watch them. Because I'm young, hip, and my future kids will not be cooler than me.

I've Easily Sent Thirty Requests for an Update, Why Haven't I Heard Back?

2008-04-02T17:01:00.000-05:00

I was told, weeks ago in my initial interview, that I'd hear more by April 7th. The lethargic, molasses like corporate machine just moves that slow. Waiting three weeks to hear, if I made the cut for a round two interview, inspires feelings of bleakness while I trudge through tiresome work tasks. While I haven't (as the title of this post suggests) been pestering the HR girl who interviewed me at all, I already have a friendly, inquisitive email draft ready, if the specified date comes and goes without an update.

Everyone in the company just returned from company wide meetings. This is the first year that my invite was lost in the mail and it sends a clear message: I am not part of the team anymore. With lay-offs a yearly (if not twice a year) occurrence, it's easy to see why constantly getting more work, more responsibility, and less recognition warrant my loyalty devoid indifference to this company.

To say that I've mentally checked out of this job is an accurate statement. While I'm not putting all my faith in securing this particular opportunity, I am hopeful. Hope is a word I have not been able to type or mutter for longer than I'd like to remember. I like the idea of hope. If I'm not picked to fill this position, I've at least regained knowledge of what hope feels like and will take that knowledge with me on an aggressive search for a new career.

When I started this job 13 years ago, I thought it would be a fine company to retire at. After all, it was a dream job. That said, if this new dream job doesn't pan out, I won't be sad. I'll just start actively looking, because nothing here makes me smile anymore.

I Heart Talking to Myself

2008-03-25T14:22:00.000-05:00

We've all seen or been that child sitting in a corner, with dolls or a bat-mobile, simultaneously pretending to be both villain and good guy. No one ever told me to stop pretending, so I talk to myself constantly. Instead of cop and robber, I rehash missed come back lines to perfection and imagine future discussions prematurely with a little self absorbed vocal pollution. I've been divorced now for seven years, but there is one conversation I still rehash often.

It was apparent my ex wasn't going to win any awards for her communication skills; Troubles would arise and my requests to verbally resolve them, along with suggestions to attend couples therapy, were ignored. I suspected she was having an affair and straightforwardly asked if she was, on several occasions. Not satisfied with her denials, I did some research.

Getting the phone records was easy. While most phone calls were made to my parents or hers, I would call unknown numbers if I couldn't find the number in my data hungry organizer. After a few days and dozens of calls, I came across Stephen's number.

Finding his number on the list was no surprise, but it wasn't until I matched the dates of these calls to my social calendar that I knew something was going on. Confronting her at this point would have solved nothing, because this wasn't proof. I decided I had to hear one of these phone conversations and with the help of a simple Radio Shack device, I did. I'd turn the recorder on whenever I was out and, upon returning from an overnight work trip to Peoria, I hit the mother load: The best and worst phone calls I could have every hoped for or feared.

The first of two calls was Stephen checking his voice mail from my house. The second was an hour long conversation with accounts of their entire relationship: Initial intimate encounters, deception tactics, and how she was going to eventually leave me. When I finished listening, I was appropriately white faced and shaking. A good friend drove me to my parents house where I retold the story, cried to my lawyer cousin while soliciting advice, and stalled my inevitable return home till I knew my ex would be asleep.

I was awake when my ex shook me on the couch, to tell me she was leaving for work. As soon as she drove away, I retrieved boxes from my car to pack up her belongings. I delivered them to the house of her confused and teary grandmother. Lastly, I left a note in her car: "I will never talk to you again, unless it is through a lawyer."

Strangely, I was happy. I had suffered our marriage (and attempts to save it) for so long that, having the end in sight was a relief. Not talking to her ever again, as the note suggested, was merely wishful thinking. We talked for hours as she sobbed and pleaded with me to reconsider. I was unreceptive to her suggestions about therapy at this point, but she had asked so many times (pleaded really,) that I reluctantly agreed to go. It was at this point that I lost the upper hand and she told me she didn't think the marriage would work out. In the frustrating, commonly rehashed version of this conversation, I never agree to counseling.

I generally use talking with myself for more constructive, future realm conversations. Like talking with a hiring manager about a job in Seattle. For a week I have been prematurely hashing together this possible 2nd interview by imagining concerns and squashing them with precise, intelligent arguments while in the shower, car, or alone in my office. I'm as prepared as I can be and I'm looking forward to talking to myself about the third interview.

God Damn it, I Love That Mother F'ing New iPod

2008-03-24T11:00:00.001-05:00

Look at it. It's beautiful. It has map applications, email, contacts, calendar, internet, and it's a mother f'ing iPod.

Maybe I should skip the new iPod and just get the iPhone. That has a camera and, well ... a phone.

My desire for new stuff is bigger than my wallet. My wallet cries when the commercials come on for that phone. It knows it may be attacked at any moment. Ravaged and pillaged, it's plastic license protector torn and waving in the wind.

One of my favorite lines, when out and about (and in need of information) is "If only I had an iPhone..." One time, I couldn't remember my boss' finance's name, before we meet them for Christmas dinner at his mother's house, but sadly I couldn't look it up on their engagement web site before dinner. Sorry, that was just one of their commercials.

I'm busy saving for the end of my life, which is kind of sad, when put like that. But I am seriously thinking about putting it all on hold for this baby. Loosing myself from 5 hundo isn't going to push back my retirement. Wasn't I just looking at new TVs last week?

My TV is old though. Got that sucker back in the 90's, and refurbished to boot. The bottom right corner never could show that elusive red color, and it's displaying a constant wave of lines (faint as they might be) across the screen, in a top to bottom motion. It's heavy, it gets dusty, it uses electricity, and displays a strange, yet enticing, set of moving images from outer space.

Oh, and my computer is kinda slow. That bitch is three years old. I know someone, somewhere is trucking along faster than me.

My car doesn't even have a key chain remote to unlock the doors. I have a roll of (stolen) duct tape jammed in the door pocket to keep the speaker from rattling, even when the rock is playing at a mere whisper of it's potential. Plus it's kinda slow, just like my computer.

And that's why my projected retirement age is now 80.

Giving Up Green for Green

2008-03-20T14:55:00.000-05:00

If it was up to my interviewer Stacy, I think I would already have the job; It went that well. Stacy is a bubbly sort, relating geeky stories about her older brother, catching herself sharing too much with a stranger, and openly expressing her delightful surprise at some of the questions I had prepared.

In preparation for this interview, I collected several specific situations when conflict and failure had occurred in the workplace (along with the resolutions,) accomplishments when my experience secured discretionary marketing or saved the company money, my overall qualifications, reasons I wanted to work there, and questions about the company. I separated each unique, specific example and wrote them on flash cards, while keeping the lists together on single cards. Although I didn't use most of them, they were there if needed.

The department head had provided Stacy with a list of questions, all of which I immodestly nailed. If I make the cut for the next step, the phone interview will lean toward the technical. At my job, I am the department, so the idea of talking tech makes me anxious because I don't know the lingo. Still, I know what I'm talking about and am capable. I just need to prepare similarly for this portion of the interview, while remaining modest and relaxed.

Not happy about the idea of moving away from family and friends, but I can say that I am up for this Seattle adventure. While it might rain a little more than in Chicago, everyone I know living there loves it. Seattle flowers bloom in February while I scrape frozen hail chunks off my windshield, everything is simultaneously near the ocean and mountains, and it's greener than where you live. Besides the dream job qualities, the completely web based design responsibilities, and creative team environment there is a gym, a daycare (should I need one,) and the 401K program is insanely generous.

Years ago, as my divorce approached, I slashed my 401k contributions along with other adjustable / controllable expenses, in preparation for my singular salary. Keeping the condo, more specifically paying for the condo, was going to be tough. When the divorce dust settled, I realized my ex was spending her entire paycheck and some of mine. This financial revelation allowed contributions to restart.

I've decided that I want this job, the move across the country, and the chance to start again, even though I'll be slashing my 401k contributions once more when I take a pay cut.

To All the Girls I've Played Tron with Before

2008-03-17T11:58:00.000-05:00

I spent ten hand cramping hours stripping wall paper yesterday. It hurts to type, but I'm not complaining. I enjoy helping my friends bring their recently purchased hundred year old house into the 21st century. There is at least six layers of paint on everything, lots of fire code issues with the electrical, some front porch sinkage, and a tasteless creative approach to decoration consistent throughout. None of this taints the potential of this beauty in the rough. In two weeks, when the paint goes up and the floors are refinished, it will be an enviable, beautiful home.

I've always enjoyed long drives and I got one yesterday. The two hour long round-trip, to this house, allowed me some time to relax while driving past a considerable portion of my teenage era haunts. A rush of faces sprang into consciousness as I passed this or that landmark: That's where Bonnie lived with her purple shag carpet covered living room wall and that's the drive in movie where we drunkenly got naked. Kris worked at that Dunkin Donuts. I can still feel the sting of the thousand mosquito bites I suffered to spend a few hours kissing her, in that woodsy back yard. One landmark I passed held more memories than all combined: Galaxy World.

For the entire length of my teenage years I frequented this video arcade. Always on the prowl for girls, we'd cruise the black lit, winding path meeting eyes, pointing at parachute clad behinds in approval, and occasionally dropping a quarter into our favorite machines, for some non girl chasing fun. I enjoyed classic games like Qix and Tempest, but Tron was by far my favorite. So much so, that I purchased one a few years back.

Perhaps I'll stop and see if they still had Tron, I thought. Or at least cruise the games looking for any number of classics and drop a few quarters. When I turned the corner, clearing the similarly frequented White Castle, Galaxy World was gone. Not demolished gone, but newly inhabited by a corporate chain bowling alley gone. My eyes lingered on the site in disbelief. Hopeful visions of the previous owners sleeping amongst piles of quarters, from the sale of such a personal landmark, filled my grief stricken skull. I thought about stopping still, but knew my memories would not be satiated.

All my memories are becoming dusty and faded. Change is good, I keep telling myself. But as I consciously try to convince myself of that, I'm reminded of how I cried when my parents painted my room a different, unfamiliar color at the age of five. I think back to the feeling of loss upon finding my favorite blanket cut into dust rags. Now I can add the demise of Galaxy World to that list. We all cherish and find comfort in the familiar, but I'm starting to realize I might have a problem accepting change. While I gladly dismissed all of my high school era haircuts and acid washed jeans, I love the idea of my youth and apply landmark status to every place that holds fond memories. The memories I create today and tomorrow, will end up just as cherished one day, but they haven't gathered as much fondly dispersed, lovingly scattered dust.

I Have an Interview Next Week, Don't Tell Anyone.

2008-03-13T16:16:00.000-05:00

Why do I feel dirty, making arrangements to take a lunch time interview? Sure my boss wouldn't be happy that I'm looking, since he just today gave me a near perfect performance review. But really I'm not looking for jobs right now, a friend gave me the heads up about this vacancy. The position is a wee bit over my head, but I can manage it with a charitable allowance of "on the job" training. The company is the antithesis of Sony BMG; It is prosperous, employees hundreds, and is growing or at least stable. Instead of becoming embarrassingly complicated and slight, the benefits are excellent and the 401k program makes retirement seem almost possible.

I tend to get down on myself, when confronted with opportunities. It is both in an attempt to ready myself for rejection and because I dislike the idea of change. I've had the same car for 7 years now, same condo for eight, and same job for 13. The lady is about the only part of my life not requiring an upgrade. When I first started at Sony BMG, I painted displays and visited Kinko's daily to produce various fliers and handbills. Now I'm doing so much more, but I'll spare you the laundry list. Suffice to say that I am capable of more now, I am worth it, and gosh darn it I like myself.

Leaving this place would have been sad a year ago, but the faces have changed so much that I no longer look forward to it. With the masses of employees and friends being let go over the years, not only has daily work life been socially sad, but also my work load has steadily increased at an unrelenting pace. That's old news (less people same work,) but this last cut has put such a strain, on my daily mental well being, that my nights have become a precious sanctuary for my sanity. I shut off when I go home and find comfort lounging away the night, cuddling with the lady in an attempt to forget. She is the only reason I survive this job. The single thing I look forward to daily.

Our wedding date is slowly coming into focus and the realization, that I'll be hitched in seven months, thrills me. Since I've already had a wedding in Illinois, we've decided to give this next one to the state of my ladies' birth: Minnesota. Organizing an out of state wedding might seem difficult, but we've already booked the hall / hotel, the reverend, the photog, and secured the DJ (with an even trade for his business web site design.) We'll be taking more than two wonderfully work free weeks off to drive up to Minneapolis early, be wed, drive back, and head off to a little city you might have heard of called Tokyo. The only difference, if I get this job, will be that we'll have to fly into Minneapolis from Seattle, to host our wedding.

The Simple Post

2008-03-11T08:50:00.001-05:00

I'm sitting in the basement of a house with no air conditioning. Not that it needs to be on, it's all of six degrees in Minneapolis today. The fact that this house doesn't have air is no mystery, the father doesn't want it. Although he hasn't discussed his reasons with me, it has something to do with him going without as a child. Upon my return this summer, I'll be suffering, but I respect and understand a decision based on such unarguable reasoning.

I try to write thoughtful, informative emails to people whenever I get the chance. I make sure to avoid half assed notes, never send form letters, get my emotions on the page (even if I have to use a smiley face or two,) and make sure to give a little info if I'm asking for some. All in an attempt to bring communication from the email age to the heartfelt correspondence between friends that it once was. Last week I received a handwritten note from a friend, adorned with smile inducing Hello Kitty stickers and an overall charm that has made my entire week brighter. The content is straight forward and polite, something that doesn't quite give her sarcasm and wit justice, is a welcoming relic of an idea, a glimpse from the past, and a reminder of all the letters I never wrote. I've purchased stationary, and I stink eye it every time I open the cupboard. I've never had a pen pal in Russia, an out of state cousin to write to, or a brother in the military. That last one is a lie and it pains me to admit, during his four years of service, I never wrote.

Life seems too complicated at times. On occasion, I long for the good old days, the simple times when all there was to worry about was which car laden polo I was wearing to school and if all my Star Wars toys were accounted for. Simple worries such as this still exist (Where are you Boba Fett?,) but they've been added to, blanketed with bigger and more demanding worries. Even keeping up with friends takes a lot of effort. I hesitate to say it's a chore, because as much as my nap time suffers with a full social calendar, it is always better to be out with friends than slobbering on your pillow. Back in the day, making plans with a friend to go to a concert, or see Teen Wolf for the third time, was simple. The hardest part was coming up with the money and the ride. Those worries dissolved when the gang turned 16 and became employed.

My first job was making pizza. Waiting 3 months to turn 16 would not do, so I lied on my application. I started with the important, yet tedious, tasks of making dough, sauce, coleslaw, and various other sides requiring use of the 10 gallon mixer. The eventual move up to pizza maker, was a big deal. I was responsible for everything: Spread the dough into it's circular shape, distribute the sauce, apply all the requested toppings, cook the pizzas in the knuckle balding rotary oven, and then cut and box 'em. It was a lot for a 15 year old to handle on a Friday night, and also exactly enough. This first job still resonates with me; I dream about opening my own pizza joint and employing 15 year olds till I retire. I've already drawn up plans, come up with a name, secured the recipe, considered locations, gimmicks, and designed a logo.

As I get older, my life is turning into a quest for the simple things. I may surround myself with high tech gadgets and fancy hair products, but I long for the old days when worries of the day dissipated long before my head hit the pillow. If only I knew then, what I know now ... is a phrase I often ponder while daydreaming. I wish someone would invent a time machine. Although stopping Hitler, Columbine, and John Wayne Gacy would be considered as initial tasks, I'd start by going back to whisper that perfect come back line in my 11 year old ear so that Suzie would cry instead of me, I'd go back and tell college bound me to study computer animation, and I'd go back to tell my 23 year old self to write letters to my duty bound brother.

Never Loan Money to the Jewish, French, Japanese, Chinese, Indian, English, German, African, Mexican, Canadian, or Russian. The Pollocks are OK.

2008-03-08T15:08:00.000-06:00

I am always the planner. I schedule card games, Guitar Hero parties, and nights out with friends from different colliding friend worlds. I'll be the one to get everyone going to a show, the one who buys the tickets, and the one who plans the dinner reservations before the show. All of this, I happily do. But when money is involved, you better pay.

Sure I've occasionally welshed in my 36 years, but I'm happy to say those embarrassing incidents occurred twenty years ago. I was learning, at that self centered age, and if I was slow to pay someone back, it was never malicious. I've had "friends" pay their debts by writing checks dated a full month into the future and others mail me a check the second I communicate a total, even though I would see them in a few days.

Being out $20.75 didn't make my mortgage payment late or have me washing dishes to pay for any meals. However, waiting two months for the money, was merely a rude start to the conclusion of this minor transaction. When I was finally paid, instead of the twenty and change, I received a flat twenty. As if I should pay 75 cents for the privilege of doing the delinquent a favor.

I'm not much for confrontation, but you'll know if I'm mad. It's not enough to be honest, I've been trying to be transparently honest. This requires me to say unpopular things, sometimes be harsh (in a constructive manner,) and confront anyone who is failing me as a friend.

Give everyone the same amount of trust. What they do with it dictates whether they receive more or less trust. While this tardy debt delivery isn't strictly a matter of trust, his actions tell me one of two things: 1) He doesn't care about me or 2) He was raised by a jackass.

Is he always rude? Not always. Is he annoying? A lot of the time, yes. I've had conversations with him about his annoying quirks and, to his credit, he has taken the criticism as constructive and made an effort to change. That said, I've informed him that I will no longer include him in any of my reindeer games, unless I have his money up front.

My Hair is Sad Because My Car is Broken

2008-03-04T10:02:00.000-06:00

I met a girl named Amy on the train. She worked on the 91st floor, of the wobbly when windy Sears Tower, while I was pursuing my everything under the sun college degree. Glances lingered on first sight, but it would take months before first contact.

Catching the train at the same stop allowed us continual flirty looks, but once boarded, we would occupy separate seats. I was never good at approaching a girl and pick-up lines filled me with an urge to blow nervous, embarrassed chunks. So it was surprising when, 2 stops from our mutual destination, I switched seats to sit next to her.

Amy was a beautiful Italian girl, who at 25, lived with her sister about a mile from my parent's house. She was a music fan, prankster, thoughtfully secretive, and my Yoda in all things intimate and otherwise sexual. I won't go into details, but finding yourself miles from home, clothed only in a trench coat and shoes on a frigid January night, interacting with another similarly dressed accomplice on the hood of a car, was every nineteen year old's dream.

Amy wouldn't drive with in me in my car. She was embarrassed by it. While probably the only ugly thing about her, my car did resemble a vehicle used on the set of Sanford & Son. At least she was honest. Sneaking out of her window late one night, to avoid alarming her sleeping sister, I jumped into my car and drove away. At the first application of the brakes, almost as if they popped, the pedal succumbed to the pressure and fell fully to the floorboard. I was grinding metal on metal and had the echoy, baby waking sound to prove it. It was rough getting home, and harder still getting to the auto shop, but the truly rough part was coming in the form of an $800 bill to fix the brakes. This total wouldn't have sounded so bad if I wasn't 19 and in college. It also didn't help that, a mere two years earlier, I had paid only $200 more than the repair bill, to purchase it.

Henry the 1979, brown, Celica hatchback was a friend of sorts. The dash was coming apart, pieces of cracked vinyl and crumbly foam came off at a steady pace. Instead of disposing of these little bits of Henry, my friends and I would rearrange the parts on the dash, wedging them into cracks and ultimately creating something resembling an "outsider art" project. Henry had a stick shift, from what seemed to be, a school bus. The long lever made for easy work of many a Magnum PI spin out. Once, after leaving an under age, drink laden new years party, Henry encountered an un-welcomed delivery of vomit from a 17 year old passenger. Unable to stop the car in time, the floorboard behind the passenger's seat was enveloped in a regurgitated mix of pink champagne, beer, and Wild Turkey. Once out of the car, the drunkard fell, rolled down the snow covered 20 foot embankment, and into a ditch. Remembering that humorous tumble did not make up for the fact that Henry suffered the entire winter, as the vomit had frozen solid before cleaning could commence.

Men dream about fast cars. They long for their favorite Corvette, from their favorite era. A friend has a Trans Am that resembles the Bandit's in every detail. All of this in the name of mid-life-I'm-going-to-die-soon crisis. If I ever hit my mid-life crisis, and desire a vehicular face-lift, I'll get myself another Henry. But instead of waxing it, souping up the engine, and keeping it under wraps during the winter months, you'll find me doing donuts in empty parking lots, after a heavy snow.

My knowledge of cars, and how to keep them running, is a shallow pond. I bragged proudly to the lady last year, after successfully changing a headlight and feel helpless when confronted by any other issue of a car based, mechanical nature. Even so, the news that the transmission (in my current ride: The Civic) had failed and would require a cool $1900 to fix, was quite a shock this morning. So much of a shock that I missed several spots shaving, my hair looks slept on, and I forgot a handful of essential items I intended to bring to work.

While the Civic has never let me down, in the 6 years I've owned it, I have never named it. Besides a few with the lady, I'm hard pressed to come up with a list of memories as heart warming as those I have with Henry. Perhaps time will reveal stories, from the last six years, to be as precious as those from 20 years ago.

To an extent, treating cars like people says something about me. While I'm having trouble deciding whether to fix it or go shopping, I have decided one thing: This car deserves a name.

I've Been Reading a Lot Lately, and Now I'm Really Smart

2008-03-02T06:54:00.000-06:00

TV is an awful, time wasting invention that we would all be better off without. And my poo sells for $100 a pound on eBay.

I have to be selective with my TV consumption. The trick is to not even start watching a show. Because, if I start, I feel obliged to finish. Not because I need to know which of the top ten female vocalists will once and for all suppress Simon's criticisms, but because I feel somehow incomplete as I lay in bed wondering. It's the same thing with any meal.

When I was smaller, I was always made to finished my dinner. I'd sit at an empty table, trying to choke down the frigidly cold steak chunks and decomposing vegetables. Without a family dog to remedy the situation, I was left to figure this one out myself.

Definitely once, but quite possibly twice each meal, I would stuff inedible food chunks into the sides of my mouth, chipmunk style, and excuse myself for a bathroom break. As soon as the door shut, I immediately filled the water cup, then I'd spit everything out while pouring a slow, steady stream of water into the bowl mimicking the sound of my ten year old urination, just in case my mother was suspicious and outside the door collecting clues.

For years I've been using the television as my main source of entertainment. Books would be asked for at Christmas and birthdays; Although started with a breath of excitement, each would end up with the others, a mere 30 pages or so read, neatly stacked on the nightstand, their bookmarks glaring at me every time I passed.

I took a few weeks off at the end of last year. I had good intentions to fall into an exercise routine, fix up the place, organize the hell out of everything, and read more. Embarrassingly, most of those things went undone. Days would pass and my schedule started to resemble that of someone working the night shift. However, I did manage to pick up one of those orphaned books and finish it, and then another. Two months later, I'm about to finish my 7th book. I can guarantee you I haven't read that much in the last decade. How did I do it? I take fake poos at work.

Sometimes it's just a chapter, other times, more. The biggest dilemma was not the obvious moral question of being on the clock, but whether or not to fake poo with my pants on, or off. The idea of sitting on the toilet pants on, seemed slightly more disgusting than the alternative. But it also seemed strange with pants off, since I did not have any deliveries. In the end, I found pants off was the way to go, but the slightest argument to the contrary could change my mind.

To get through a chapter, I've endured brown clouds that would make anyone cry. The loud talkers and the cell phone users irritated me immensely (keep it down, I'm fake pooing!) One patron of the pot found it impossible to turn off the faucet, after washing, which was so completely distracting, that I stopped mid chapter.

The writers strike was good for quelling my television consumption. Will I watch more and read less, now that the strike is over? Yes. But I will make this promise: To the books of the world, I promise to power through and finish each one of you that I start.

No more orphans. No book left behind.

Denny, The Fair and Balanced Whistler

2008-02-28T13:32:00.001-06:00

The second installment in a, hopefully never ending, look into the mind of my ex-boss Denny.

Denny was bored a lot. You could tell this from the ironed crease in his jeans. He had worked very hard, for numerous years, to permanently skirt all his responsibilities as head boss, so he could watch Fox News in his office all day. Even when talking to you, his eyes would wander to the television screen beaming all that "fair and balanced." The joke, around the office, was that he was paid handsomely to watch Fox News all day. That really wasn't a joke.

It's always a good idea to appear busy in the presence of your boss. Lingering, chatting, and mellowness are not qualities that will increase your salary. I always pick up the pace when passing my bosses' office, and I try to make sure I have some papers in hand along with a thoughtful pen behind my ear. Half to relay the message that I'm busy, which I generally am, and half so the window in which to stop me in my tracks, is small enough that he can't.

Whenever Denny was not traveling, boring whatever account he was visiting, he was bored at the office. Monday through Thursday (he never worked Fridays) he'd snoop around the office looking for items out of place, various sloppy scenes, and, in general, whatever offended him and didn't convey a tidy office image. He would notify the mail-room clerk that the kitchen was out of plastic spoons, ask his assistant to design a new fax cover sheet with the current season sport team's logo, and complain about the piles of Celine Dion foam core boards that he inexplicably tripped over, every time he left his office.

After jumping through his hoops for a while, it dawned on me that keeping his personal office path clear of any offending materials, combined with his apparent inability to stray from this path, would work to my advantage. Figuring out what the offending materials were, was easy. Figuring out his daily routine was also, very easy.

Unfortunately, if I was on my game, Denny would start to pick on the support staff. He would comment on how their plants were ugly and needed attention, or that they stacked their CDs in a sloppy manner. He would always be the one complaining that the paper towels were out, the water cooler needed attention, and the sugar bowl was empty.

If he was somehow appeased, and he had been there a few hours, he'd leave for the day. We'd often bet a few bucks at lunch on whether or not he would still be at the office, upon our return. When he returned the next day, for a second round of boredom, he'd have nothing else to bitch about and you'd find him wandering the halls whistling and swinging his arms like a school kid on an extended recess.

He would always whistle the same tune. At first I couldn't place it, but hearing it day after day, week after week, I finally realized (with great satisfaction) what the tune was; Denny was whistling "If I Only Had a Brain" from the Wizard of Oz. While certainly a catchy tune, it's also quite an unfortunate one to have perpetually stuck in your noggin'. Seeing it as my duty to inform, I quietly told the crew.

Soon, it wasn't enough to hear him whistling this tune, as he passed your open office door. As if he was the pied piper, I'd float toward the door and watch him and his melody wander away. Sharing a tuneful Denny moment, with another co-worker, was a highlight of anyone's day.

Denny knew the ax was coming down. He'd prepared by building a new house out of state and had been "secretly" sending his mail there for months. When he was eventually laid off, it took him a mere week before permanently occupying this new home. I'd like to think he's wandering his, most certainly too big of a house, having straightened all the wall hangings twice already today, and finding time to whistle his favorite tune.

Other Dennytacular reads:
Denny's Birthday Gift From His Fat, Fat Wife

I Don't Want to Die in This Box

2008-02-26T14:47:00.000-06:00

I've lived only 4 places in my entire 36 years of life. My first place of residence was the house my parents rented, right after they were married. I don't remember much about that place besides hiding un-chewable bits of dinner under my dad's lazy boy, getting in trouble for eating weeds in the backyard, and my infatuation with our next door neighbor babysitter. Her name was Kristen.

The next home kept me safe and warm from the age of 6 into my early twenties. Here I received stitches inside my nasal cavity from trying to retrieve Boba Fett's Slave One ship from a rather high shelf, secured my first ever kiss with Tara "Bug Eyes" Ryan, had to explain the ass dents in the hood of my dad's '84 Reliant, and frequently clean soap from between my teeth while silently staring at my similarly punished sister.

I moved out of that house, with a friend for a year, only to return to save all the dollars I could, for the little wedding that couldn't. Then I bought my condo. I've been there eight years now. It's hard to keep track of how long, for some reason, but the lady keeps my time line straight. She might not resemble an elephant in any outward appearance kind of way, but the brain on that one ... she doesn't forget.

I love the outdoors. With that said, I never go hiking or camping. I just like knowing it's out there. In my place, I forget that sometimes. It's unfortunate but, lacking a balcony, I'm unable to enjoy even a simple breeze. The complex is surround by lush greens, in non winter months, but there is nothing tackier than sitting in a lawn chair in plain sight of 30 of your neighbors. I know, I've seen it.

It's taken me 8 years to find a small handful of good eats: an amazing Thai place (2 miles away) a good diner for breakfast (4 miles away) and a good Phoo place (8 miles away.) For a foodie, like myself, the variety is just not sufficient.

There is the bitchy condo board lady who, for some reason, has taken a liking to me in a very talkative manner, people that curse and yell when one of my dog's paws touches the grass, and I'm surrounded by lots of old people. Sad, old people.

Last week, an older resident was lost in our 70 unit building. I could hear him knocking on, what turned out to be another old guy's door, repeatedly muttering "They locked me out." Opening my door, I recognized him and knew he was on the correct floor, but that his place was on the east side of the building. I politely pointed him in the right direction, amid his protests, in an attempt to save him any embarrassment.

What I'm saying is that I like food, and people that are generally a decade younger or older than myself, and I'd like to live around some of those people and eat some of that food. So, I've decided to move into the city. Well, I decided that years ago. I just haven't done anything about it yet.

Yet is such a dangerous and vague word. It allows you to ignore the details, and just go on with life as is. Yet allows you to believe there is always a better time to accomplish your goals: I'm waiting to see if I get laid off, before I move. I'm going to wait till the summer, because no one will purchase my place in the winter. And lately: Let's wait till after the wedding, we've too much on our plates, without thinking about how to arrange the furniture to engage potential buyers properly. And then it will be winter again.

Part of me not only wants to move, but move out of state. Ya know, go on an adventure, explore the world, etc. It would have to be somewhere exciting, someplace that doesn't resemble Dayton, Ohio. I'm thinking the coasts. Somewhere with views a plenty to make up for the last 8 years of longingly staring at the drapery.

Moving would require some work be done on the place. After working such long days, saving the world as I do with my designs for latin floor bin headers and $30 foam core mounted album cover blow ups, it's hard to come home and want to do anything but relax. Any realtor is going to tell me I have to replace the closet doors and repaint the molding.

There I go again, making another excuse.

This is Not a Real Post. If This Was a Real Post, It Would Read Much Better.

2008-02-25T21:39:00.001-06:00

Found out everything went well with the litho fix. Thought I would share. Sorry for the backward email read.

From: XXXX, Carly, - Detroit" Carly.XXXX@XXXXXXXX.com
Date: Mon, 25 Feb 2008 10:27:15 -0800
To: "XXXXX, XXX, " XXX.XXXXXX@XXXXXXX.com
Subject: RE: Sara Bareilles Instore Event - 2/23 Ann Arbor, Mi - The Recap

Nobody noticed. Nobody knew. Nobody was mad. Nice job fixing them up....you are one creative bastard :)~

From: XXXXXXX, XXX,
Sent: Monday, February 25, 2008 1:24 PM
To: XXXXXXX, Carly, - Detroit
Subject: Re: Sara Bareilles Instore Event - 2/23 Ann Arbor, Mi - The Recap

How did the fixed lithos go over? Did people notice? Was anyone mad?

From: XXXXXX, Carly, BMG - Detroit
Sent: Monday, February 25, 2008 12:57 PM
To: XXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: Sara Bareilles Instore Event - 2/23 Ann Arbor, Mi - The Recap

Who: Sara Bareilles
What: Over 300 Copies of "Little Voice" sold, 800 Fans In Attendance!!!!
When: Saturday, February 23rd at 12:30 pm
Where: Borders' Newest Addition - A Concept Store in Ann Arbor, Mi - Grand Opening Weekend

At 10 am Saturday 2/23 eager fans were waiting in the performance ...

Unique to the event, a limited edition lithograph poster was provided to fans who purchased a copy of "Little Voice" at the event. The lithographs turned out beautifully, offered additional incentive for customers to purchase the record and gave her fans a wonderful way to remember this event! A VERY special thank you XXX XXXXX for creating the beautiful lithographs as well as the merchandising materials that made this event stand out!

With love,
McGyver

I Went On Vacation and All I Got Was This Stupid, Fat Wallet

2008-02-24T17:08:00.001-06:00

I'm not very well traveled. I've been to Mexico, twice. That was not only to the same city, but also the same resort. I've gone to Canada, twice as well. Once was a two week drive up through Windsor, Toronto, and Quebec which still provides me with warm memories. The second time was a quarrel filled, shared bathroom mess with a girlfriend, which almost ended my days, due to a runaway lawn chair on the highway. So, I was happy to add a trip to the west coast to this list.

I went with a friend, this last weekend, to visit one of our mutual friends. One of the things, us land locked citizens were looking forward to, was the sushi. So our host had made reservations at a semi-swanky place for Saturday.

My travel buddy and I ordered and shared the entire night. Everyone said we made for a nice looking couple. We ordered a large bottle of sake together and the chef's choice sashimi plate. When this $50 selection arrived, it consisted of 11 different selections, 2-4 pieces of each, all wonderful except the octopus, which is still just too chewy to be labeled good. Besides that, we ordered some geoduck sashimi, flounder sashimi, clam shooters, a veggie tempura roll, and something else that I forget the name of.

There was only one problem with the meal. I didn't pay for it.

I've had house guests before and I make up a very warm and welcoming blow up bed. I take my guests to my favorite haunts, or places that I think they would like. I show 'em a good time and I don't expect anything in return. When I'm fighting with them over breakfast, about whether or not they can spring for my ham omelet and hash-browns, I usually give in. Mostly because I do the same thing for my hosts, when traveling, to say thanks for the roof.

Let's see if you are good at math. Go back a few paragraphs, and add up what we ordered at our sushi dinner. Go ahead, I'll wait.

OK, if you answered "About a $100 each for both of you glutenous bipeds", then you are correct. We knew we were tasting a type of freshness that we could not come by in a suburb of Chicago, so we didn't hold back. Besides, we were on vacation. But knowing we had ordered so much, we were speechless when the bill came, already processed on our host's credit card.

My mother is the nicest woman ever. She's even nicer than your mom. Being brought up by the nicest woman alive, I naturally became a nice boy. But not even nice, more than nice. Accommodating to the point of self neglect.

I grew up making such an effort to not inconvenience people that, in my late teens and to this day, I've had to shed a lot of that niceness, in a very conscious manner.

I was 12 and it was hot outside; Something that was painfully obvious since I was on a 5 mile bike ride to a friend's house. Halfway through the trip, I cursed as I passed the grocery store because my wallet was barren of even a penny, and I could not afford a beverage.

I was a trim little kid, but the sweat was pouring out seemingly from everywhere and I was starting to get a headache, as the sun superheated my pre-teen brain. The trip was not an incredible distance, nor was the trail hilly (I was in the midwest, after all) but it was a true test of stamina, and also an indication of my heat index inexperience (hot=stay inside.)

I finally arrived and dragged my sweat covered, dehydrated, headache riddled body up the drive and into my friend's house. It must have been obvious that the trip had taken a toll, because my friend's mom immediately offered me a cup of Kool-aid. I graciously declined.

I look back at this instance often, when assessing situations of personal niceness. Because, well ... let's be honest, that isn't being nice. It's an attempt to keep from inconveniencing someone with my dreadfully demanding, Kool-aid needs.

So, I would have never ordered so much food, on my friend's tab. I had started the trip with a set amount of cash, and had spent very little of it at that point. In fact, I was planning on pushing all my chips across the table, at dinner, and paying for myself and my host. I know my date was thinking the same. All in the name of nice.

Financial revenge came to mind. I thought about littering their house with twenties, when we returned from dinner. Something inside me felt guilty. Here was a guy who was putting me up for four days, has two kids, recently moved, bought a new house, had to endure a pay cut, and was buying me one of the top 10 most expensive dinners I've ever enjoyed. Accepting this moment of generosity, went against everything I had learned as a child, everything my mother had instilled in me. So what was I to do?

Nothing. I've decided to do nothing. But I have reserved the right for random, excessive, retaliatory niceness in the future. Thanks for the fish.

Nobody Will Hire Me If They Read This

2008-02-19T23:24:00.000-06:00

The guy who had my position in LA, left his post. The details are light, so the method and circumstances of the departure are fuzzy. No matter, I now have his work on my plate. With the staggering amount of work that is now coming my way, I'm going to ask for a raise.

Yearly merit raises were coming up, so I figured my best bet was to strike prior to them dolling out that giggle inducing raise (you have to laugh or you'll cry.)

Of course, days before I was to present my case, I was given my merit raise. I hadn't had a chance to prepare, and I didn't feel comfortable haggling at that moment. The decision had been made, and now it would even be hard to get an increase in the form of a warm hug, from the higher ups.

"With this increase, you are now my highest paid rep."

Can I argue after that? And can you take that as the truth? Should I have asked to see everyone's pay rate as proof? My plan had been obliterated, was fading away, drifting into the fluorescent lights, and waving goodbye sadly.

I've checked around and I could pull down a few more bills, at a different job, but that would more than likely require me to be at work on time.

I was never mistaken for prompt, but this was different; A continuously growing departure from my scheduled time and actual arrival. At first it was 10 minutes but, as the years went on without the slightest objection from any of my numerous managers, it became 30, 45, and then an hour.

I always take measures to make my arrival and departure, a mystery. I enter the office through a side door, and pass as few occupied offices as possible. Never my bosses'. I cling to the walls, to stay clear of the office manager's sight line and quietly approach common areas with a cautious ear.

My boss knows I'm not timely, but I'm pretty sure my efforts mask the consistency and extent of my tardiness. So after telling me the increase, my boss took that percentage, my current salary, and figured the actual increase in dollars. At that moment, I saw a faint glimmer of regret in my bosses' eyes. No, not regret. Hesitation, maybe. No, not that either. It was as if he had just figured out for the very first time, what I brought home, and decided that I wasn't worth it.

As if to solidify that last thought in my bosses' mind, I went on with my day and made one of the biggest, poorly timed, costliest blunders I've ever made.

I am an infamously bad speller. Something I have possibly only hidden from you because of my bestest of friends: Spell check. You may have met.

When I first started this job 13 years ago, I painted all the merchandising materials. The graphics room started with me, and it started without a computer. I miss those simple days, painting for a living. Now I produce materials for half the country, including the two most demanding cities: NYC and LA. Considering how busy I have been, a misspelling was inevitable.

This misspelling was in an artist's name and rendered useless 100+ limited edition lithographs, I had designed and printed. These lithos had required 4 visits this weekend to load fresh paper rolls into the large format printer, 5 hours to cut, and approximately 1000 dollars in paper. Let it also be known that it was 4:30pm, when the error came to my attention, and the lithos needed to be in Detroit the next day.

Speechless, startled, and white knuckled, I stumbled over to the lithos and began to scratch off an area in an attempt to merge the offending "I" and it's neighbor, the good "E". No good. I considered printing patches for the lithos, but that would look horrible. Then I remembered my old paints in the cabinet.

I shoved the garbage can out of the way and opened the rarely visited cabinet. All the colors were there, but were they still good? I shake the red, still liquid, good sign, the black, same thing. This may just work. The red won't open, so I cut the top off the plastic bottle and pour the decade old acrylic into a discarded, intern germ infested cup. I quickly mix two separate colors that match the litho and go to work.

Almost two hours later, I have repaired all of the lithos, and the result (while being of a different finish) is a miraculous response to the misspelling. I so surprised myself with this fix, that I decided to share.

So my question is this: Since I McGyvered the shit out of this problem, would you hire me?

It's Hard to Eat Eggs Benedict with Chopsticks

2008-02-18T14:24:00.001-06:00

While out for sushi this weekend, my lady warmed up to her chopsticks. It's been a long time coming, but she finally handled her chopsticks without that look of frustration, sadness, bewilderment, and defeat simultaneously being broadcast by her knotted brow. Good thing too, because we are going to Japan soon, and those heartless bastards would heckle her in the streets.

We both enjoy Japanese cuisine. We've had trips to NYC, and know we are settling for an inferior product, in the landlocked state of Illinois. Can Tokyo be that much better than NYC? 35 million thin, short, people simultaneously just said "Yes."

All the travel books say there is no bad sushi in Japan, and a friend said he has even had amazing sushi from a 7-11.

The thought occurred that I might get tired of sushi, udon, etc on our trip. That's fine. I'll break that up with a good breakfast?

From what I read, Japanese breakfast is not what us westerners think of as breakfast. While that may not come as a surprise, since raw sea creatures are all the rage over there, it is a surprise that, what they eat for dinner, is also what they eat for breakfast.

The typical "breakfast box" consists of rice, smoked fish, and miso soup. Sometimes you'll get salad. From every post I've read, any attempt at securing a western style breakfast, by local businesses, induces a longing sadness and sudden weight loss in your wallet. Even Denny's disregards their heritage in Japan. Although going to a Denny's in Japan is sad, I can understand the quest for breakfast temporarily clouding your judgment. The idea that all those people will never know the beauty that is Moons Over My Hammy, is also sad.

I've never had the premo cable package (HBO, Showtime, Cinemax) for various reasons, but mostly because I'm worried about inexplicably losing countless hours to "Taxi Cab Confessions." And, if there is the occasional series I'd like to see, I just can't bring myself to sign up for one show. So, when the Sopranos started, I made arrangements with a friend to tape it.

A few of his friends were as cheap as me, so he came up with the idea to host a weekly pot luck / Sopranos dinner. Eight of us watched an entire season together. One night Italian, then Mexican, and one time ... wait for it ... breakfast.

There were scrambled eggs, fried eggs, bacon, sausage, omelets, hash browns, french toast, and pancakes. All made lovingly by friends, and delicious because of it. That was nearly 4 years ago, but the memory has never gone stale. It's going to be sad not having breakfast for 10 days, but as far as problems go, I'll take this one. When I get back, I'm definitely having a breakfast party.

So, congrats to the lady, and no pressure. Just don't relapse and embarrass me over there. If you do, I won't share any of my smuggled Coco Puffs.

Death's Coming Over for Dinner. What Should I Make?

2008-02-16T14:35:00.000-06:00

Today I've spent the first, of several hours, designing a funeral program for a friend's sister. She hasn't passed yet but, in an attempt to prepare, they have asked that I begin the design.

I've been provided with a few mishandled photos, that require serious attention, to be remotely presentable.

That sounds like I'm complaining. I'm not. As I meticulously remove the scratches, hairs, and random mysterious artifacts from each scan, I am struck with the heaviness of the situation. Perhaps even a bit of guilt, staring at the smiling face in the photo, knowing she's unaware of these preparations.

The sister's liver is failing. The doctors have released her from the hospital, to live out her remaining days in the comfort of her home. Though it's her doing, through years of alcohol abuse, it doesn't make it any easier to see a sibling (someone that has only recently turned 40) slip away.

At first, the thought of the design proceeding the death, seemed inappropriate. However, it took only a few thoughtful moments to realize that, not only was this practical (because who wants to worry about this in the days preceding the actual funeral,) but it is also a means to deal, cope, and distract from the severity of the situation.

To say, we as a race, think about death a lot, is an understatement. We consider death when we pull out of our drive way, when we eat a greasy hamburger, walk across an icy parking lot, and when soberly inspecting our thinning / graying hair.

I'm going to die. There, I said it. Will it be:
a) In 1 year
b) In 20 years
c) In 60 Years
d) All of the above

The answer might as well be D, because I lapsed on the payments for my crystal ball.

Not going to give you one of those live for the day speeches. How could I possibly type something like that when, only last weekend, I wasted an entire Saturday parked in front of a "Beauty and the Geek" marathon. If I really thought life was precious, wouldn't I have taken that Saturday and at least done something productive, like finally beat that AFI song, in Guitar Hero, on hard?

I have both fond memories, and giant holes, stored in my gray matter concerning the first 36 years of me. I cherish every memory and gap equally. I have a few regrets: Specific moments where I let people down, was embarrassingly mean / thoughtless, or lost sight of taking care of myself.

One regret is the first Rebecca. A girl that I met in college. She was an amazing doodle artist, inspired soul, and a southern girl to boot. I was in one of my off phases with the ex-wife (then, only my ex-girlfriend,) when I met the first Rebecca. When things got serious, my brain melted with indecision, and I returned to my ex.

If I had controlled my elusive mental focus and stayed with first Rebecca, there is a chance I would have never married my ex and thus avoided the divorce all together. But there's the catch: If I didn't run back to my ex, get married, and divorced, I would have never fallen in love with Rebecca the last. Last not because she is the last one so far, but the last true love I will have, the only one I want, and the ultimate match for me and my remaining days. So this regret is really pointless. It all happened exactly like it should have.

No I'm not writing a self help book, nor have I ever suffered reading one. But being this happy, I can't imagine that anything I did, up until falling for the lady, was wrong. And I'm certainly not applying that ugly, ugly word regret to anything of the sort.

There is nothing you can do to avoid death. People try, by making themselves look younger, buying that o-so-cliche sports car, and dating people that are the same age as their offspring. None of that works. You're chasing the dragon, man. The fountain of youth. The pot of ... you get the point.

As a matter of fact, death is about the only thing you can't do a single thing about. Sure you can eat better and exercise but that's not a guarantee. No, nothing can stop it. So here's a thought: Stop worrying about it.

Easier said that done is a phrase I loathe. But, in this particular moment ... well, it fits so well, that I must.

Whatever you need to do to get there, do it. Study Buddhism or listen to "All We Are is Dust in the Wind" over and over, but do something. I don't have to tell you that, once you accept death as a card life deals on occasion, you'll be much happier. But in case I do need to tell you, I just did.

I have to get back to work on those photos. Yes I'm putting a lot of time into them, but it gives me comfort, to provide comfort to such a dear friend. And I hope, when I meet my (hopefully dramatic car chase induced) demise, that someone will do the same for me.

Memory Loss is the New Black

2008-02-15T08:17:00.000-06:00

I enjoy going out to lunch, during the week. It's nice to get out, away from the unforgiving work flow, and catch up with friends. Apparently, I like going out to lunch so much, that I made plans with 4 different people for the same day.

Back in college, I used to paint a lot. I used oil based paints that require a strong solvent, to make them pliable. There were all sorts of natural options, to dilute the paint, like linseed oil and the sort. I chose turpentine.

Painting with turpentine, for hours on end, in my 10x10 foot room at my parents house, was a bad idea. I'm pretty sure the toxic air was pinching out the tiny life candles of, more than a few of, my precious brain cells.

My first car was a '79 Celica hatchback. I named it Henry. There was a hole in the floor board, directly behind the clutch. Perfect for resting my heel, but not so perfect when it rained. In the winter, the doors would occasionally freeze shut. Unlocking the hatch gained me access to the car, but crawling through the collection of empty food containers and various other sticky contents was, in hindsight, unfortunate garbage disposal on my part.

Beyond all this charm, it was also missing it's gas cap. Something I could have easily remedied, and a detail that did not go unnoticed, by the occasional passenger. Their window would always come down, in an attempt to diffuse the fumes. I didn't notice.

So when the calls confirming my 4 different lunch plans started to come in, I thought back to these two poor choices. There's no way to prove if, these avoidable circumstances, had contributed to my unfortunate habit of crowding my social plate.

Yes, I said habit.

This isn't the first time, and sadly, it won't be the last. If I'm lucky, I'll live as long as any white, slightly overweight, male should live. But knowing the state of my memory today, I'm troubled that, perhaps in 10 years, I'll happen upon a day with 6 lunches to attend.

I can't remember phone numbers either, and have been known to look up even my own. That said, I store everything. Every detail of my life has been stored and cataloged on a computer.

I can tell you when my friends were born, when someone died, dates of parties past, when certain albums came out, how much your child weighed upon birth, and your sister's finance's IM address.

I started my data collecting with my Sharp Wizard pocket organizer, in the early 90's. It had 64k worth of memory and was an important fixture in my daily life. Don't know how insignificant 64k is, by today's standards? To store just one of your favorite Steve Miller MP3s (let's assume it's "Fly Like an Eagle,") I'd need a total of 49 of the 64k Sharp Wizard personal organizers.

Having this mass of data has come in handy, more often than you'd think. People at work know to ask me when they can't find the number for Custom Freight, I'm one of the only ones that will remember your birthday, and I always know when craw fish are in season.

The price I pay for being a super organized data hound, is that I rely on the computer and I know very little, off the top of my head. If I was lost in some forest, days passing by with no sign of life, and then suddenly happened upon a working pay phone, I wouldn't even be able to call my girlfriend.

So is it the various fumes, or the computer that is to blame? More importantly, who have I chosen to grace with my presence at lunch today? Hopefully it's the one person reading this post.

I'll Prove My Love Today with Diamonds

2008-02-14T14:27:00.000-06:00

"So, what did your boyfriend get you for valentine's day?"

Knowing this question will be asked of my lady, every year on Feb 15th, means I will begrudgingly find myself purchasing chocolates and a card for her. Not that she doesn't deserve it, well ... you know, Hallmark holiday and all.

Dinner? Whenever I've found myself out on valentine's day, I always feel like a 40 year old at a high school prom. Instead of dinner on valentine's day, how about we go out Friday for "There's Nothing in the Fridge Day?"

And yes, I'll get you a corsage and wear my tux.

How Do You Say "I'm Lazy" in Japanese?

2008-02-12T22:30:00.000-06:00

Never mind, I'll just type it in English.

First, the good news: The lady and I have decided to go to Japan for our Honeymoon.

Right now we are in the planning stages, trying to figure out what to do. Tours? Not really interested, but that puts a lot of work on us to make sure we don't just get there and sit in our super expensive hotel room watching English films on TV, translated into Japanese, with English subtitles.

Now, the bad news: I'm taking a Japanese language class, and I can't seem to open the book.

I take the book with me everywhere, but I rarely open it. The flash cards have rough corners (as if from heavy use) but that's just from being shuffled around, as I remove them from my bag at night and replace them in the morning. My book and flash cards are within arms reach, as I type.

There are 4 different ways to greet people in Japanese, depending on the time of day and, on occasion, what you are doing after you part ways. During the first class, my instructor drew these different times of day on the chalk board, using the placement of the sun, to differentiate the subtle differences. She would adorably jump from drawing to drawing and point anxiously into the class, waiting for the proper response. Kind of like a torturous, one sided version of spin the bottle.

In the class there are two Lao girls, who can rattle off those crazy sounds with no problem ("I" sounds like "E" and "E" sounds like "Eh",) a guy married to a Japanese woman (traveling back and forth frequently,) a girl who has already taken two years of Japanese, and one other guy: My fellow stooge.

He, at least, is composed enough to reference his notes when questioned. I instantly forget everything. Right after being asked a question, I get the urge to stand up and say "I have to use the restroom."

Then I would quietly put on my coat, shoulder my bag, and never return to class.

I narrowly escaped failing German in high school. I can only rattle off a few simple phrases like "What time is it?" and "I don't speak German." Plus I can call your mother ugly and lazy.

A few years after high school, I ran into my German teacher. He admitted to me, that I received the (barely) passing grade, because my parents had showered him in chocolates.

Knowing that my fate had been decided by parental coco products, I still accepted the challenge of learning Japanese. But who is going to get my teacher chocolates this time?

Oyasuminasai.

I'm Getting My Tivo a Valentines Gift, Not My Girlfriend

2008-02-11T11:45:00.000-06:00

I had convinced myself that the Oscars were last night. I suppose I was more excited about the Oscars than the Grammys, but excited isn't the right word I'd use for either award show. I was just confused.

Even when I called the lady, and she told me she was watching the Grammys, it didn't register. Even when she said she had Tivoed it, to catch the performance from Moris Day and the Time (a music group, not associated with a movie,) it didn't register. Even when I sat down at midnight to watch the Oscars, it still didn't register.

I work in the music industry and I could care less about the Grammys. I paused at the Feist performance and at the Amy Winehouse performance. I wasn't impressed by either. Neither seemed comfortable up there, performing or otherwise. Nobody feels comfortable at the Grammys. Nobody feels comfortable watching the Grammys either.

Between the growing apathy toward award shows, and the increasing hatred of the music industry, the Grammys are a sad, sorry show. A platform for the likes of Kanye West and his lack of gracious modesty.

Does anyone care? Do I? Have you stopped reading this post already? I wouldn't blame you, if you had.

That said, I'm not really excited about the Oscars either. Most of the movies I haven't seen. I just want the Cohen brothers to take home some naked golden statues. They deserve it.

Thanks to Tivo, for letting me get through the Grammys, a 4 hour program, in less than 30 minutes. I'll never get that half hour of my life back, but at least I had all that extra time to do ... well nothing.

This is My "I Want a Kid" Post

2008-02-11T10:10:00.000-06:00

Can you parent with a sense of humor? Being a authority figure and a friend?

I think so?

Saturday was supposed to be dinner with another couple. Instead, their babysitter crapped out, so they arrived with their 2 year old in tow. I prepared myself for a night of annoyance. Just in case.

Not so worried about the kid being annoying, because who can blame the kid? I constantly judge the parenting, in an attempt to find my own parenting path (Even though I have nothing to test my parenting skills with, at the moment.)

Luckily the parents were mellow, easy going, loving, and everyone had a fun time because of it. Including the child, who couldn't have been happier or more pleasant, even when she had to apply herself to get attention from the parents, for what ever reason (Cough, cough ... Guitar Hero.)

Parenting is not easy, I know this. I've never pretended to think this. But there is a certain mellowness that it should be approached with.

I know this from being the go to babysitter, among my friends. I know this from having to quell quarrels over blocks, from accidentally trying to fit a 2 year old in an infant jumper, and cleaning gag inducing diaper mishaps, that I hope to never see the likes of again. I watch my niece and nephew overnight on a monthly basis. When they treat me like the substitute teacher, I rise to the occasion and deprogram them without fail.

Am I fooling myself when I think I can be both the go to fun-guy and the authority figure?

It's all a matter of meaning what you say, follow through, and talking to / treating the child as an equal. Something this world could use a little more of, in general.

I've been thinking about being a parent for a long time. Figuring out how I would like to raise my future child. Maybe I'll stick to my guns, and maybe I'll feed them a bowl of coco-puffs every night for dinner. Either way, I'll love that child. And maybe then I'll understand all the oddities that I witness in my child raising friends.

So after dinner, we all came back to our place for a little Guitar Hero. The parents had never played before, and were instantly hooked (it is more fun than it should be.) Jokes about child neglect and the two year old drinking out of the toilet bowl were flying around, as the parents enjoyed themselves.

The two year old was running around with our dog Aimee (an 8lb Miniature Pincher,) chasing her till she got bored. Then our dog would chase the girl, till she was bored.

At one point, the two year old's curiosity got the best of her, and she poked Aimee square in the poop hole.

The world didn't end, no one was crying, no one was in trouble, and suddenly my question had been answered.

They Lied

2008-02-09T14:29:00.000-06:00

Received this hand stamp at the MGMT show last night.

I'll spare you the review (which is a review in itself) but wanted to share this photo.

Loving the random and unexpected humor.

A Few Sounds, That Tickled My Underside in '07

2008-02-08T17:37:00.001-06:00

Lots of records here. I probably forgot more than a few.

Made sure to include lots-o-links so you can hear the music, which is certainly more important than reading what I have to say. Enjoy.

Thurston Moore
Trees Outside the Academy

Just got this, but it is bound to be a classic. Within the Tom, play-list of life, anyway. It's not as hard edged as the Sonic Youth you (and some of your parents) grew up with. Very in line with the last Sonic Youth record in it's noise devoid, catchy, melodic kind of way. Have not seen any plans to come through on tour but I'm sure he is busy debueing his label Estactic Peace. Where he is nurturing the likes of: Be Your Own Pet, Magik Markers, Awesome Colors, and Black Helicopter among others.

Not much to see on his Myspace page, so skip it.

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
Baby 81

One of the best rock records I have heard in a long, long time. This band kinda bored me before. Good in doses, but this! There. Is. Not. A. Single. Bad. Track. On. This. Record.

The outakes of this album are out as well: America X: The Baby 81 Sessions. This is the first of three bands, that made the list, coming from the mothership that is Sony BMG.

Saw BRMC twice in '07 and they came through 3 (maybe 4) times. The performances mirrored my interest in their catalog; cold with the old stuff and on my feet with the new.

He Recommends: Every song on this album.

BRMC on Myspace

Land of Talk
Applause, Cheer, Boo, Hiss

Did I say the record had to have come out in '07? No, and here is a perfect example. Out in late '06 and I still listen to this one weekly. Was also happy to have seen them twice in '07. First time was at Subterranean, a bar that has benefited immensely from the recent implementation of the city's clean air act, Then at Schubas.

Hailing from Montreal, the female lead is slightly spastic, crowd oblivious, and outgrowing her wardrobe. The music is dead on to the CD and energetic, sassy, and twinged with an 'I Give Up" attitude.

He Recommends: All my Friends, Magnetic Hill, Breakbaxxx, Seafoam

Land of Talk on Myspace

Go! Team
Proof of Youth

They self describe their sound as a jump rope chanting, Sonic Youth guitar riff, car chase horn, Charlie Brown meets big band sound. It's fun, upbeat, fresh, inspired, loud at times, and mild at other (mild when the Japanese guitarist sings, not the lead rapping female). They also put on one of the most engaging shows I have seen in a a while, but your experience may vary.

When I tell people I like this band, their foreheads get all crinkled up. What's that called again? Oh yeah, confusion. I have not run into a single person that likes this band, but they have fans. I'm one of them.

They have an electronic press kit, that gets you inside the minds of these kids. I'd start here. If you aren't interested, after watching it, skip the record.

While finding the link for the press kit video, I saw this comment and thought I'd share:
"I basically only listen to Black Metal, but The Go! Team are one of the few non-metal bands I just can't get enough of. They are fucking brilliant!"

Not sure if that seals the deal for you, but I'd be hella curious if I ran across that quote. Anything that can make a death metal fan stray, worth a listen.

Maybe this isn't for everyone, but that's not going to keep me from trying to convince you to check it out.

He Recommends: Grip Like a Vice, Doing it Right, Fake ID

Go! Team on Myspace

Shout out Louds
Our Ill Wills

First listen, I disliked this. I was expecting more of the same from these Stockholm exports. Not one of those 'I Only Like the First Album' kinda people, so I tend to stick with records like this, knowing I'll change my mind.

I actually consider it a good sign, when I don't like an album on first listen. Of course I know if something is shit that I'd never like, but this is different. There is something in there, something speaking to my brain, on some level, it just needs to be translated for me.

It's usually that I need to wipe clean my gray matter from any preconceived notions. Somebody told me this sounds like this, or a magazine heralded this band as the next xyz.

In this case it was forgetting, or rather remembering that the second album is not always going to be the same as the first. It's going to be an extension, but it has to be bigger. They've been touring, a lot. They were able to quit their day jobs, when the first album came out. Now all the do is play.

That said, this is one of the largest leaps from any debut album I can think of. The other being Radiohead's jump from Pablo Honey to the Bends (one of my top albums of all time.)

This album is mature, and the fact that it reminds me of the Cure a bit, doesn't change the fact that this is their sound.

So check out the first one: Howl, Howl, Gaff, Gaff but make sure you listen to this one forgetting everything I've typed above. Wouldn't want you going in with any preconceived notions.

He Recommends: Hard Rain, Time Left for Love, Normandie, Impossible, You are Dreaming, Tonight I Have to Leave it

Shout out Louds on Myspace

Feist
The Reminder

An iPod commercial? Really. Yes, really. I doubt you've been overexposed to that commercial and I don't blame people for selling out early nowadays. That's how bands make money off of their records.

This isn't one of those records you want to exercise to. It's happy, in a mellow kind of way. And it's simple, in a very well thought out kind of way.

Her voice is constantly on the verge of cracking with an urgency and yet still mild. Don't ask to explain the contradiction. It's there, and it's what makes her voice beautiful.

He Recommends: 1,2,3,4, I Feel it All, So Sorry

Feist on Myspace

Josh Ritter
Historical Conquest

This is his 7th release?

Maybe I wouldn't have liked the older ones, as they were released, but now I want them all.

The sound of this album deserves mention. Who ever produced this (and yes I'm too lazy to look up who) deserves half the credit.

One of those albums that will take you by surprise. Even convert you. Whatever you need converting from.

Lyrically, this album is brilliant. Think an upbeat early Dylan. Think Leonard Cohen, and again upbeat.

He's from Idaho and the first words out his mouth are "Potato" just so he doesn't have to hear it from you. I saw / met him at the Park West last year. He is sweet, friendly, happy and none of it is an act.

Seeing him perform, you'd think it was his first time on stage. Not because he's nervous but because he-is-so-happy. It's unnerving, at first. Once you get used to it, and realize it's not an act, you start to wonder why every band you see isn't this happy. Shouldn't they all be? They're all living the life. Yet most brood around like their dog was just run over.

Josh is one of those people, that if you see him sad, you're sad. I know several people like that. A nearly constant source of happiness. Something you can look forward to.

Might I also mention that he has a good eye too. Whoever (again too lazy) designs his CDs, T-shirts, etc is amazing.

This is the second release from the mothership.

He Recommends: Empty Hearts, Real Long Distance, Wait for Love, Rumors, Open Doors, The Temptation of Adam (my favorite for it's lyrics), To the Dogs or Whoever, Right moves.

Hell, just buy it. It's that good.

Josh Ritter on Myspace

Dinosaur Jr.
Beyond

J Mascis is old, and his full gray long hair is proof. He's not revisiting this Dino Jr for the money or the good ole times. This record is just as good as any other from him and the boys.

Does it really stand up to the others? The answer is: Not Yet, but it will. It's just that we haven't lived with this one for 10 - 15 years.

If you want an honest rock record with heart, you can't go wrong here.

He Recommends: Pick Me Up, Were Not Alone, Almost Ready

Dinosaur Jr. on Myspace

Grinderman
Self Titled

Nick Cave is hit or miss for me. Wanted to hear this, when it first came out, but I just forgot about it. I just let it pass.

Then I saw him and the band on Letterman. I f'in loved it. It was raw, dirty, powerful, dark, noisy, and they all looked homeless in their thrift store suits.

It's this appearance that made me want to see them live. I checked, they had just been here, and at the Metro. A 1200 capacity venue with better than average sound. Shit.

Anyway, the album has some tunes you need to visit often to find the beauty, but some hit you right away. It's not rock, it's not old Nick. But it's just as guttural as his early Birthday Party tunes.

Oh, and his web site is a trip, if you can get it to work. Worth checking out.

He Recommends: Depth Charge Ethel, No Pussy Blues, Get It On

Grinderman on Myspace
Grinderman's Web Site

Bat for Lashes
Fur and Gold

Tori Amos, meets Joanna Newsom, meets ... you get it. This music has a vagina.

Saw these ladies twice in '07. The first was impressive, but the second time, while equally impressive musically, was tainted by princess fits from the lead.

I have to give credit to my lady, who went to see them with me once. When it comes to music, she is more of a guy than me. Anyway, after leaving the show, she said: "Well ... if you didn't have a vagina before the show, you certainly have one now."

These girls have a soft sound, can play the shit out of their instruments (the guitarist is amazing on anything she touches,) and impress even non-believers, like my lady.

Check out the video of "What's a girl to do?" It's a spooky ET meets Donnie Darko type of thing. Really cool. The song is excellent as well.

He Also Recommends: Sarah, and Tahiti

Bat for Lashes on Myspace

Jarvis Cocker
Jarvis

First solo album from lead man of the nearly 3 decade old band Pulp.

Jarvis Cocker (whose initials match another famous person, he reminds us on occasion) is one witty bloke. Yeah, he's English.

His humor and whit are not the only reason this is one of the best albums this year. It's he music too.

Upbeat tunes and mellow numbers all score high.

Took a while for this to be available, here in the states. Not sure why. It took almost a year from when I saw the first video: Don't Let Him Waste Your Time. He plays a cab driver who sings the song to his fare while running over bikers, trees, getting flats ... I won't ruin it for you.

Besides a NYC and Bonnaroo gig last year, nothing planned for states.

Last I checked, his Myspace page had MP3s of him reading Halloween tales. Yep, still there. His Letterman performance is on there too.

He Recommends: Fat Children, Black Magic, and Don't Let Him Waste Your Time.

Jarvis Cocker does Halloween on Myspace

Amy Winehouse
Back to Black

Yes, I fell for this. Have you avoided it? I don't blame you. I initially did the same, till something compelled me to check it out.

I had heard "Rehab" and could take or leave it.

So what was it that made me check it out? Not sure, but I'm glad I did. It is a fantastic throw back to old Motown. Not a stylized record, but something that was building up inside her, from her surroundings (she was brought up and surrounded by musicians.)

Although she isn't responsible for the music, not having actually played it, she did pick it to back up her tense, tear jerking vocals / lyrics.

The Dap-Kings are from NY, and Amy would be nothing without them. Sure she has the voice, but the marriage is the miracle. Did I say miracle. I suppose I meant it, a little.

This time around I wasn't lazy, the producer is Mark Ronson and he is responsible for this record. He also put out an amazing record this year. It's a covers record and he does wonderful things with songs from The Smiths, The Jam, Radiohead and more.

So, if you can't stand "Rehab", give some of the others I suggest a listen. Then call me an idiot for liking her. I dare you.

He Recommends: He Can Only Hold Her, You Know I'm No Good, and Tears Dry On Their Own.

Amy Winehouse on Myspace
The Myspace page has some weird sound stuff going on. You might think it's a mistake, but I think it's an attempt by Universal at stopping anyone from borrowing music from the page. Those crazy bastards.

The View
Hats Off tot he Buskers

Poor little bastards can't get their visas to tour. Hanging out with Pete Doehtry and doing cocaine with Kate Moss all day, can do that to you. Well, only if you get caught, which they did.

This album is made by teenagers but you wouldn't know it. Similar to the Arctic Monkeys, these boys seem way too good for their own good.

Will they produce another good record? Not sure. The drug thing is a problem. This is the third from the mothership.

The kid has a warbly voice and all the tunes are catchy. This is high rotation.

He Recommends: Same Jeans, Face for the Radio, Dance into the Night, Street Heights

The View on Myspace

Arctic Monkeys
My Favorite Worst Nightmare

The first record is perfect. You've probably already heard of this band. But I'm not trying to be first.

I wanted more of the same. This had moments of the same, but was slightly different. I mean, where do you go from perfect?

Still, after applying my rule about not liking something on first listen (see above,) I gave it another shot. And another and another. Until I loved it.

No time had gone past, between the two releases. Sure they were separated by real time. But not Me time. The first record was still in serious heavy rotation, when the second came along. I had no time to yearn for growth from this band. I hadn't taken a breath.

They have matured. And how couldn't you when you are under 20 and making sounds like this?

I recently listened to a KCRW broadcast with these guys. It was good, not because of the interview, to be sure. Funny to hear that they had met Bowie (all time favorite,) backstage at one of their shows. Funny because they weren't impressed and made it a point to make sure the listeners knew they weren't fans.

He Recommends: Old Yellow Bricks, Fluorescent Adolescent, Brainstorm

Arctic Monkeys on Myspace

RTX
Western Exterminator

Second release from the female half of the disbanded Royal Trux.

This is a completely raw rock record and I can hear all sorts of bits from other songs in here. I fully suspect these songs were all inspired by a particular song each.

I hear Motley Crue, Slayer, Danzig, Kiss, Anthrax, Iron Butterfly, Ratt, it's all in there with a twist unlike anything I've heard before, not trying to be something else, just what it is.

The fact that I hear all that is weird because I read an interview with them about the influences. They named Bowie and ... well they didn't name anything that I was hearing.

Caught them at the Empty Bottle last year (and missing a second show at the end of this month, sad.) A little rough live, at first. After warming up, they were on, and I could start to feel the energy.

This is one of those bands (Pussy Galore, Royal Trux, Neil Michael Hagerty, and RTX) that always push themselves and I'm up for the ride. I love everything they put out, and grow with them. Sometimes to the point, where the old stuff loses it's luster.

He Recommends: Dude Love, Black Bananas

RTX on Myspace

Denny's Birthday Gift From His Fat, Fat Wife

2008-02-08T10:14:00.000-06:00

My boss, rather everyone's boss here at Sony BMG, was a casualty of the layoffs last week.

He was not a great boss, and not a hard worker.

He did provide us all with some fantastic stories. Stories that I don't want to forget. Stories that, when read, will make you laugh and cringe.

These stories might remind you of the Office on NBC. If you haven't seen the Office, you're not missing much. Maybe I say that because I don't need the Office. I have my own ridiculous / obscene office stories. Maybe, with the absence of this source, I'll have to start watching.

I'll be relaying stories about my ex-boss on a regular basis, as I remember them, but only one at a time. No need to rush the brilliance that is / was Denny.

Here is a jem, one of the most recent, and one of the best. I had the thought to start in the middle. Promise the best story later. But they are all good.

Denny has a skinny wife. So skinny we secretly call her Skeletor. I was never good at keeping secrets.

She's nice enough, but controlled by Denny. He watches what she eats, makes her exercise, and let's everyone know that he's the man by yelling at her, over the phone, in the middle of meetings.

So it was Denny's birthday. It was before the last two layoffs, so the lunch room was packed (10 people) and most of us were playing Uno. The gamers were sitting at a different table, having a different conversation when he interrupted. He wanted to tell us about one of his birthday gifts. Who knows, maybe it was his only birthday gift. I hadn't gotten him anything.

He spoke to the entire lunch room and proceeded to tell us all about this gift. He also wanted to make sure that we all knew he had not asked for it. That his wife had done it all on her own. He also wanted all of us to know, before the reveal, that it was one of the best gifts he has ever received from her.

His wife had joined a gym, to get back in shape for him, as a birthday gift.

Getting yourself a gift, as a gift for someone else, is lame. That's like me telling the lady that I got myself a subscription to Newsweek so I could be up to date, on current events, and thus be a better conversationalist over dinner, for her benefit.

Let's break this down, in an attempt to (forgive me) get inside Denny's head.

First, his wife is not fat, she is really trim. Second, he thinks this is a great gift. I think it takes a certain kind of ugly to think this way. Another type of ugly to want to share this with people.

Levels of Wrong:
1) Thinking this way is horrible
2) Sharing it with even one person is disgusting
3) Sharing it with a group of your peers is embarrassing
4) Interrupting all lunchtime conversation (at work) and sharing it with 10 of your underlings (mixed company) is just plain startling

How is this acceptable conversation, in the work place or otherwise?

People let out little laughs, dropped their jaws, and gave each other sly amused / outraged looks. What do you say to your boss? The guy who decides how good or bad your raise will be? I'll tell you: Nothing.

One of the best gifts he's ever received.

Oprah and I

2008-02-07T11:12:00.000-06:00

So I watched Oprah this morning.

Little voice inside my head: "You don't have to post it. Just hit delete. No one will know!"

The show was about being organized and clutter free. Two things I find very important. Not because I want to, my brain requires those two qualities of me at all times. So I am a sucker for any show that promises to clean up that dirty, dirty home.

I feel better when I see the transformation. I feel happy for the family whose home has been reclaimed. And I secretly wonder what their house looks like today, months after the miracle. Has it remained immaculate? Perhaps they have made more improvements. What an exciting thought.

Probably not surprising: I keep my place very organized. Not so clean, but very organized. I've noticed recently that the place looks almost exactly the same with or with out guests over.

Television programs of this nature make me anxious. I need to see the end. I need to see the resolution. It's not enough to have my place just right. I've found myself organizing my parents refrigerator, their cabinets, and grimacing at the table full of papers and mail. Shows like this scratch an itch. With that said, I was very late for work.

Oprah starts at 9am and so do I.

As long as I get my fix.

I'm Glad I made $17.50 Yesterday to Cover My Parking Ticket

2008-02-07T10:48:00.001-06:00

As the panels of jurors were called throughout the morning, I continued to size up the crowd, wondering who I would have to serve with.

I wasn't worried about being stuck in a room with a republican or a mormon, it was the incessant yappers, abundantly littered around the room, that I was worried about. I can still hear a pair of them yapping, a full day later, and it hurts my heart, just a little.

I was ridiculously worried about being on time as well. I arrived, in the general area of the courthouse, 1 and a half hours early. So I went to breakfast and got a parking ticket.

All around the court house were posted signs about the "One Day Served" policy, which (as simple as it sounds) means that if you serve one day, you have served your duty. Completely opposite of the one day policy, were signs warnings about the possibility that jury duty could last months or even a year.

I'm not part of a team, at work. I am the team. One month off? A year? And at $17.50 a day, I'd be taking a pretty hefty salary cut.

So I wished for a day of reading my book, until I was dismissed. I got it. Now I'm back at work wishing for a day of reading.

Job Woes or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Constant Threat of Layoffs

2008-02-05T13:39:00.000-06:00

It happened again last week just as it's happened every year for the last 13. I didn't have to worry about layoffs when I worked at Rosatti's pizza.

Actually, it's happened every year except one. That was the year they announced the super merger of Sony and BMG. Which, as you've probably guessed, didn't relive any tensions or fears about layoffs.

I'm starting to think I'm not one of the lucky ones.

This music industry thing is in the shitter. Do I have the answers to save it? No. Well, I have some ideas, but who would listen to a graphic designer (in a fly over state) about future business models?

Let me first draw a distinction between me and the evil (perceived or real) that is the music industry. I love music. 13 years ago (Today! It's actually 13 years exactly today!) I was baffled with excitement. You mean I get to work with music, and design things all day. Cool. Wait a second ... I get paid too?

I listen to music all day, search for new stuff regularly and go to shows several times a month. Not because I have to, but as a super obsessed hyper-hobby with an insatiable appetite music fan. Does this buy me membership into the "I'm one of the cool ones" academy? Am I guilty by association?

Indulge me through this excerpt from Clerks:

Randal: So they build another Death Star, right?
Dante: Yeah.
Randal: Now the first one they built was completed and fully operational before the Rebels destroyed it.
Dante: Luke blew it up. Give credit where it's due.
Randal:And the second one was still being built when they blew it up.
Dante: Compliments of Lando Calrissian.
Randal: Something just never sat right with me the second time they destroyed it. I could never put my finger on it-something just wasn't right.
Dante: And you figured it out?
Randal: Well, the thing is, the first Death Star was manned by the Imperial army-storm troopers, dignitaries- the only people onboard were Imperials.
Dante: Basically.
Randal: So when they blew it up, no prob. Evil is punished.
Dante: And the second time around...?
Randal: The second time around, it wasn't even finished yet. They were still under construction.
Dante: So?
Randal: A construction job of that magnitude would require a helluva lot more manpower than the Imperial army had to offer. I'll bet there were independent contractors working on that thing: plumbers, aluminum siders, roofers.
Dante: Not just Imperials, is what you're getting at.
Randal: Exactly. In order to get it built quickly and quietly they'd hire anybody who could do the job. Do you think the average storm trooper knows how to install a toilet main? All they know is killing and white uniforms.
Dante: All right, so even if independent contractors are working on the Death Star, why are you uneasy with its destruction?
Randal: All those innocent contractors hired to do a job were killed- casualties of a war they had nothing to do with. (notices Dante's confusion) All right, look-you're a roofer, and some juicy government contract comes your way; you got the wife and kids and the two-story in suburbia-this is a government contract, which means all sorts of benefits. All of a sudden these left-wing militants blast you with lasers and wipe out everyone within a three-mile radius. You didn't ask for that. You have no personal politics. You're just trying to scrape out a living.
(The Blue-Collar Man (Thomas Burke) joins them.)
Blue-Collar Man: Excuse me. I don't mean to interrupt, but what were you talking about?
Randal: The ending of Return of the Jedi.
Dante: My friend is trying to convince me that any contractors working on the uncompleted Death Star were innocent victims when the space station was destroyed by the rebels.
Blue-Collar Man: Well, I'm a contractor myself. I'm a roofer... (digs into pocket and produces business card) Dunn and Reddy Home Improvements. And speaking as a roofer, I can say that a roofer's personal politics come heavily into play when choosing jobs.
Randal: Like when?
Blue-Collar Man: Three months ago I was offered a job up in the hills. A beautiful house with tons of property. It was a simple reshingling job, but I was told that if it was finished within a day, my price would be doubled. Then I realized whose house it was.
Dante: Whose house was it?
Blue-Collar Man: Dominick Bambino's.
Randal: "Babyface" Bambino? The gangster?
Blue-Collar Man: The same. The money was right, but the risk was too big. I knew who he was, and based on that, I passed the job on to a friend of mine.
Dante: Based on personal politics.
Blue-Collar Man: Right. And that week, the Foresci family put a hit on Babyface's house. My friend was shot and killed. He wasn't even finished shingling.
Randal: No way!
Blue-Collar Man: (paying for coffee) I'm alive because I knew there were risks involved taking on that particular client. My friend wasn't so lucky. (pauses to reflect) You know, any contractor willing to work on that Death Star knew the risks. If they were killed, it was their own fault. A roofer listens to this... (taps his heart) not his wallet.

I knew the risks of working for the man, going in. What are the risks? Well, for one, I knew I didn't like all the music we were putting out. As a matter of fact there are very few of our releases that I lovingly place into my CD player.

Our main goal as a company is to separate kids from their allowance. The same kids that choose to steal music now. Ha!

So I knew the risks. But are we the most evil company out there? No. Our business isn't killing anybody. Did we lose track of what this business is about. Yes. 100% yes.

We don't sell beef jerky. And while there is nothing wrong with the sweetest of all road-trip snacks, we sell something more important, in the scheme of things. Every song / album / artist you like is dear to you. You like it because you can relate, because the lyrics hit you like a bolt of that bright white stuff from the sky, because the beat makes you set down your drink and boogey. Yes I said boogey.

Music produces such an emotional feeling, that charging for it (and ripping someone off for it, ie one good song a release, special editions, I could go on for years ...) is a very bad / sad thing.

I remember Aha's "Take on Me" vividly. It was a pretty cool video, for it's time. Second, it's kind of a sappy, yet up-beat, song that someone could easily self apply as a love song. I'm not sure I ever took those lyrics and said: "Yeah, that's me and what's her name." But I remember seeing that video, in a movie theater, while I was on my first date ever.

Her name was Jenny. Or maybe that was her best friend's name, whom I also liked. Regardless, I can picture her face, that video, and holding her hand. There was never a second date, but the moment remains. And it's marked by a song.

So I might not have liked most of the tunes we produced, but I was still enjoying myself; I was surrounded by people who also loved their jobs. These same people who have slowly been discarded, over the years, and replaced with nothing. The work remains, the body doesn't. I still work with some cool people, but there are not many left.

As low-level peons, we can't make the big changes. Sometimes we are even stifled when we try to make the small ones. It's not going to matter when someone picks your name from a hat and hands you that pink slip.

The decision makers are driving and killing this company. None of them have iPods, none of them are under 30, and none of them want any trouble. They just want to retire, their ginormous paycheck intact till the end.

Music companies, over the last 20 years, have lost site of what our product is. We sell an emotionally charged product that, once absorbed, becomes a priceless emotional part of people and can not be taken away. By losing site of what our responsibility was, we lost control of our business, and our future. If this company remained just about the music, I think the guys steering the boat would have realized what to do, when the downloading came.

In general, people hate the music industry. We have had a bad rap for a long time. We charge too much, we pay radio stations to bludgeon listeners with the same song (over and over) and now we sue people for embracing technology. A technology that the big guys barely understand. I think it's fairly obvious what we think about our customers, we just want to snake every dollar we can out of their wallets.

Are we doing enough to change? No. Should I have my job? Probably not. Do I want it? Yes, but not how it is now. I don't like working like a dog AND having to worry about being laid off.

It's going to change, whether we like it or not. No matter what we try to do. All the FYE's will go under, and the Best Buy's and Borders or the world will stop devoting valuable floor space to antiquated technology.

What to do? I've heard this plenty of places: give people what they want. And no, it's not a Ringle. What they want is iTunes with no DRM and cheaper (yes I said cheaper) prices. What they want is a subscription service. What they want is an ad based FREE service.

Give it to them. Give them every choice they could possibly want. Give them options, not restrictions.

Lastly, it's time to abandon the brick and mortar, instead of tip toeing around them, in an attempt to spare their feelings. What do they care if we create an online portal with all our music with cheaper prices than that physcial CD in their store? They are shrinking space for music in their stores, and have been sending out muffled smoke signals about removing CDs completely, for years now.

I could go on, but just having this out there makes it better. For me, at least.

February 5th, the first day of the rest of your life

2008-02-05T13:11:00.000-06:00

The greatest blog ever written starts today. Too bad this is not that blog.

Why write a blog? Now? Well, not being the first, and certainly not being the last, I have the distinct privilege of being right in the middle. Ya know, neither black or white, just kinda gray. And I'm fine with that.

I'll be looking to do several things:
1) Learn to spell - I am an imfomosouley bad speller type of person. Sure I've got spell check, like the rest of you. But, what I mean to do is correct some 10 odd years of being ignored or ignoring English class. Damn you Mr. Haskins. Why didn't you challenge me?

2) Find an outlet for my designs - Not only do I want to feature my work, I want feedback. Give it to me straight and you get a cookie. I choose the cookie though, so beware.

3) Catalog what the f is going with my life - Yeah that's pretty vague and normal / everyday. I want to write so just let me. I don't tell you that your collection of miniature guitar pins is stupid, so afford me the same courtesy.

You're going to hear about the last 4 years, when my life restarted and the impressive (to me) year that 2008 should be.

There. That's the intro. No fuss, just fat.