Been taking a lot of Helga-style pictures with my phone. I'm not a photographer, but if mood's all that matters, and if photography could be likened to coffee, then I've been brewing some really good freeze-dried shots.
I've been dying to get a long idea out, but all I can muster are observations: my last three girlfriends came from broken homes. The last two have parents who came out. All my girlfriends think I'm a sweetheart at best and at worst am downright mean. My biggest motivation for getting through the early parts of my relationships has always been physical desire, but mellows out into love. Conversely, I'm usually very attracted to my female strictly-friends friends, but never pursued anything more because I feared losing their friendship. I didn't have that fear when I went for the gold with my as-yet-unrealized girlfriends, and I wonder if that stems from bravery or a lack of respect.
I mentioned to my mom that I have a girlfriend. I not only praised her, but really felt that she was worth praising. It was a first for me. Have been receiving a lot of praise from customers on bar. Not directly, but very audible remarks to each other like, "What did I tell ya? 'The Man's" on bar." Frou frou drinks morph into serious drinks and I'm treated like the veteran in the pro shop and not just a shot jock.
Here's a good place to stop.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Friday, October 3, 2008
A/V
Oh man. I've been home all day. My days off come whenever I get them. They're not so much planned as they just happen--eff knows I go visibly nuts as my tolerance wears down. Except for one 0.2 mile stroll to get some food and air, I have been online reading wiki's and watching videos. I did not know about the line up changes in Marilyn Manson or nine inch nails, PeTA, or the back story on nin's label change; Russian ideas of latte art or Asian Burger King commercials; a kick ass Battlestar Galactica board game; the myriad of YouTube comedy groups who spoofs and apology video blogs.
A sampling:
And of course.
I love This American Life.
A sampling:
And of course.
I love This American Life.
Dauntingly Unsolvable / This American Life #364: Going Big
I woke this morning from an emotional dream. I was writing a response to someone from the dream and then got distracted. The response, the dream, they are gone. Few things recur in my life, and the ones they do are not "strong." They are not needs like air that strive to have themselves fulfilled. Those recurring interests in my life are closer to bright colors that no matter what I am or what I'm doing will pull my attention. A car crash is a car crash, and it is an amazing sight that will make you rubberneck where ever you are.
I feel silly admitting how much fighting and gaming take up my attention. Whenever I clean house the first things I move are my stacks of combat manuals and boxes of RPG books. Those books outnumber (and outweigh) the cumulative sum of every theatre and coffee book I've ever seen. I told a teacher about the things I'm into, my to-be voice acting lesson, coping with the stress of management, fencing. We talked more, or rather, I kept talking and realized she was flashing an analytical gaze at me.
"What's with the fighting?" She pegged me as an "8." I had her explain the preceding "7," and the "9" that followed. She had a psychology degree of some kind. She was also a teacher, so she's used to Terminator-style mechanical dissection of people, clothed in a warm gaze of interest and guided by a sense of improvement. I can't remember much about "8's" except that I didn't agree with the assessment. A combination of 7 and 9 is what I identified with (and no, it's not 8). She pressed the "fighting" question, and I held my tongue. It's been some days since my feigned ignorance; admittedly I didn't know what it was exactly, and I wasn't ready to talk it out to her. Who knows what the hell I would have said.
Gaming, as I know it, is an excapist activity for me. It's every possibility that isn't possible for me. It's every Action, Sci-Fi, Fantasy Novel, Comic Book-adaptation presented as something that I, or at least the character I'm portraying, could do. The games are the plays in which I always get cast, in the roles I want without any political or psychological compromise. Fighting, that's a different beat.
I've got a lot of packrat in me. That harmless, cute vermin whose mindset is, "what if I will need this later?" The ultimate conclusion of being a packrat is becoming rich and owning two of everything so I will never run out, or if something bad happens to a primary I will always have a second. Well I'm not rich, so it's more like, "I should hold onto this because not only might I need it later, I might not have the chance to have it again." Fighting is an extension of that packrat instinct.
It's not a survival instinct. My survival instinct is running. Gasping for air is a survival instinct. Fighting is my way to retain my druthers, my ground, my work terms, my girlfriend, my place in a grocery line. Fighting is my assertition. It's my way to keep what I have because... I have it now and I might not have it again. Yeah, I have some ways to turn fighting into a gainful profession, but all I want is what I got.
Escaping and Fighting. Ignoring the now, or nuking it into unrecognition. Those are options that I keep on my plate. Goodamn packrat.
I feel silly admitting how much fighting and gaming take up my attention. Whenever I clean house the first things I move are my stacks of combat manuals and boxes of RPG books. Those books outnumber (and outweigh) the cumulative sum of every theatre and coffee book I've ever seen. I told a teacher about the things I'm into, my to-be voice acting lesson, coping with the stress of management, fencing. We talked more, or rather, I kept talking and realized she was flashing an analytical gaze at me.
"What's with the fighting?" She pegged me as an "8." I had her explain the preceding "7," and the "9" that followed. She had a psychology degree of some kind. She was also a teacher, so she's used to Terminator-style mechanical dissection of people, clothed in a warm gaze of interest and guided by a sense of improvement. I can't remember much about "8's" except that I didn't agree with the assessment. A combination of 7 and 9 is what I identified with (and no, it's not 8). She pressed the "fighting" question, and I held my tongue. It's been some days since my feigned ignorance; admittedly I didn't know what it was exactly, and I wasn't ready to talk it out to her. Who knows what the hell I would have said.
Gaming, as I know it, is an excapist activity for me. It's every possibility that isn't possible for me. It's every Action, Sci-Fi, Fantasy Novel, Comic Book-adaptation presented as something that I, or at least the character I'm portraying, could do. The games are the plays in which I always get cast, in the roles I want without any political or psychological compromise. Fighting, that's a different beat.
I've got a lot of packrat in me. That harmless, cute vermin whose mindset is, "what if I will need this later?" The ultimate conclusion of being a packrat is becoming rich and owning two of everything so I will never run out, or if something bad happens to a primary I will always have a second. Well I'm not rich, so it's more like, "I should hold onto this because not only might I need it later, I might not have the chance to have it again." Fighting is an extension of that packrat instinct.
It's not a survival instinct. My survival instinct is running. Gasping for air is a survival instinct. Fighting is my way to retain my druthers, my ground, my work terms, my girlfriend, my place in a grocery line. Fighting is my assertition. It's my way to keep what I have because... I have it now and I might not have it again. Yeah, I have some ways to turn fighting into a gainful profession, but all I want is what I got.
Escaping and Fighting. Ignoring the now, or nuking it into unrecognition. Those are options that I keep on my plate. Goodamn packrat.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Stream of Conscious in Supposed Preparation or Practice of Nanowrimo
Ahem.
In another window is a Pixies video of them playing Wave of Mutilation, live, and sometime current. I clicked on a link to get here, from another live vid of them in 1988. The singer sounds real, like a guy who made it out of his garage. I've backspaced twice and skipped over thoughts that happen but weren't typed. The goal is to only move forward, no edits, no correction. We're seeking volume not quality. I've already stopped four times to backspace, replug in an outlet, and investigate my iTunes podcast situation. Self-editing and monitering is natural to me.
Jesus I haven't talked about anything at all. Maybe this is a mission for someone else.
In another window is a Pixies video of them playing Wave of Mutilation, live, and sometime current. I clicked on a link to get here, from another live vid of them in 1988. The singer sounds real, like a guy who made it out of his garage. I've backspaced twice and skipped over thoughts that happen but weren't typed. The goal is to only move forward, no edits, no correction. We're seeking volume not quality. I've already stopped four times to backspace, replug in an outlet, and investigate my iTunes podcast situation. Self-editing and monitering is natural to me.
Jesus I haven't talked about anything at all. Maybe this is a mission for someone else.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
"Short Term" Defined
Small cycles, short stories--sometimes it feels like my life is that one episode you catch of a show that you don't watch, but still manage to see that one episode.
My grandmother was back in the hospital, and despite the optimistic estimation of the doc, she's not going to live three to six months, it's going to be those numbers in days. I still can't see her; I'm sick, and I can run the risk of catching or transmitting anything with her. Her "Pancreatic Infection" is her wish manifested--to be back with her husband and not living a life she's not enjoying. Maybe... two days. I give myself two days. I'm not trying to delay visiting her. I'm not afraid of her death--in fact I'm pretty settled that she's gone on to something better.
It's a lot like the hand dealt to me yesterday. I've worked 10-14 hours days all this week, but it hasn't been enough. My job requires 50+ hours of non-cafe shift duties and I haven't had a chance to do any of it. Either I'm sick, or someone else is sick, or someone quits and then I'm working again in the cafe or doing my best to do nothing else but rest. I can't "delegate" because most of the tasks I want to spread take as much time explaining as they do doing. It takes as much time writing e-mails as it does to do the tasks I say I'm going to do in them. And everyone needs to know--which isn't the problem, because I think everyone should know--but FUCK, between smiling all the time and running myself ragged, I get texts from friends who want to rub in the fact that I don't text back and Damn it, why am I such a shitty friend? I've fought the idea of a 9-to-5 job because I thought it would be to confining--or rather, DEFINING. I didn't want to be defined by my job. But, as Aristotle points out, "We are what we frequently do." I know I'm not the Joker, but I've been walking like him. If I keep it up, it'll stick as my walk. So, if I spend my waking eight as a self-styled unappreciated manager then by-golly, I AM that unappreciated manager, and all my actions will read as that. Or, I can take up the offer and take a step back and be... well, what would I become?
"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." - Batman, The Dark Knight
Take two sums. The first is the difference in pay between manager and not-manager. The second sum is the value I place on my happiness (it's intangible, but play along).
If the first sum, A, is greater than the second sum, B, then I should stay on as manager. It would be "worth it." But! if the the second sum is greater than the first sum, well hell, I should willingly step aside and be un-manager.
My happiness is worth much more than $200.00.
Make no mistake: I willingly took on the job... two months ago, and this sequence of events, after the initial shock, isn't totally surprising. I haven't fulfilled all of my Must-Do's; from an outside prospective, especially one from the owners stand point, I would have tried to give the current manager (i.e., me) more support rather than change horses midstream. Not only is it surprising, it shows a lack of faith on their part, an unwillingness to "stick out through the rough spots," and only serves to perpetuate the company's reputation for discontinuity.
Whatever. I will train my replacement. I will have my strengths utilized.
* * *
I've been urged to do NaNoWriMo this year. I've been told to "do the things I wouldn't normally write about." I guess Barista Jones' Diary is out of the question, yeh?
My grandmother was back in the hospital, and despite the optimistic estimation of the doc, she's not going to live three to six months, it's going to be those numbers in days. I still can't see her; I'm sick, and I can run the risk of catching or transmitting anything with her. Her "Pancreatic Infection" is her wish manifested--to be back with her husband and not living a life she's not enjoying. Maybe... two days. I give myself two days. I'm not trying to delay visiting her. I'm not afraid of her death--in fact I'm pretty settled that she's gone on to something better.
It's a lot like the hand dealt to me yesterday. I've worked 10-14 hours days all this week, but it hasn't been enough. My job requires 50+ hours of non-cafe shift duties and I haven't had a chance to do any of it. Either I'm sick, or someone else is sick, or someone quits and then I'm working again in the cafe or doing my best to do nothing else but rest. I can't "delegate" because most of the tasks I want to spread take as much time explaining as they do doing. It takes as much time writing e-mails as it does to do the tasks I say I'm going to do in them. And everyone needs to know--which isn't the problem, because I think everyone should know--but FUCK, between smiling all the time and running myself ragged, I get texts from friends who want to rub in the fact that I don't text back and Damn it, why am I such a shitty friend? I've fought the idea of a 9-to-5 job because I thought it would be to confining--or rather, DEFINING. I didn't want to be defined by my job. But, as Aristotle points out, "We are what we frequently do." I know I'm not the Joker, but I've been walking like him. If I keep it up, it'll stick as my walk. So, if I spend my waking eight as a self-styled unappreciated manager then by-golly, I AM that unappreciated manager, and all my actions will read as that. Or, I can take up the offer and take a step back and be... well, what would I become?
"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me." - Batman, The Dark Knight
Take two sums. The first is the difference in pay between manager and not-manager. The second sum is the value I place on my happiness (it's intangible, but play along).
If the first sum, A, is greater than the second sum, B, then I should stay on as manager. It would be "worth it." But! if the the second sum is greater than the first sum, well hell, I should willingly step aside and be un-manager.
My happiness is worth much more than $200.00.
Make no mistake: I willingly took on the job... two months ago, and this sequence of events, after the initial shock, isn't totally surprising. I haven't fulfilled all of my Must-Do's; from an outside prospective, especially one from the owners stand point, I would have tried to give the current manager (i.e., me) more support rather than change horses midstream. Not only is it surprising, it shows a lack of faith on their part, an unwillingness to "stick out through the rough spots," and only serves to perpetuate the company's reputation for discontinuity.
Whatever. I will train my replacement. I will have my strengths utilized.
* * *
I've been urged to do NaNoWriMo this year. I've been told to "do the things I wouldn't normally write about." I guess Barista Jones' Diary is out of the question, yeh?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Excuse The Distance / Settling the Score
I've had 36+ hours of work packed into the last three days and I'm pooped. Tomorrow's the Big Day, and I know I should be doing something but I'm so drained, just looking at the 10 e-mail messages that arrived today makes my brain groan. I was listening to Death Cab just now. I don't remember how I got onto that track, but
...OK, I think I remember.
I was reading the Vertigo Encyclopedia, a DK book featuring the work of the publisher of Y: The Last Man. Vertigo, as I'm quickly realizing, is my favorite comic publisher. Every graphic novel that I've casually passed in the last two years that has gripped my attention has had Vertigo stamped on it. The entry on Y made me particularly sad: it was a limited run series, sixty issues, that I followed to like issue... 48. Well, that's a guess. I read the graphic novels, the collected form of the comic, with my Ex. It was our series, our in-joke, the thing that we got that no one else we knew got. So I--we--read it, and near the end of the series, the time between the graphics stretched. It stretched, but not far enough: The relationship ended before I finished the series. It's hard not to get too hung up on my short attention span or my tendency to not finish things in regard to this story, but the ending is the same: no comic, no relationship, no happy ending.
Having read the entry today was sort of an ending. It wasn't happy, but at least now I know. I know what Yorick saw in his vision, I know what happens in issue 60(-ish). I know what I miss.
Vertigo published four issues of American Splendor, the Harvey Pekar, gonzo comic. His intensely unnecessary dissection of his observations and reflections. (Like this blog is to me.) I watched the movie American Splendor around the time I read Y, and I listened to Death Cab around that time, so... there. I'm amazed at how packaged my memories are, how my eyes, ears, and tastes can be segregated by years. My life is lived in era's--large bites, that's for sure, but bites I can remember.
The Anniversary is tomorrow and I am going into it as a virgin. In every era of my life I've walked the line between disinterest and escapist. I'm usually the escapist--but definitely, I cannot be disinterested tomorrow. It's not going to be casual because the the thing we're celebrating is one of the few things that continues to bring me joy.
So there. Tomorrow's gonna be a party, and hopefully one of the relationships in my life that can count as long term.
Here's to the long-run.
...OK, I think I remember.
I was reading the Vertigo Encyclopedia, a DK book featuring the work of the publisher of Y: The Last Man. Vertigo, as I'm quickly realizing, is my favorite comic publisher. Every graphic novel that I've casually passed in the last two years that has gripped my attention has had Vertigo stamped on it. The entry on Y made me particularly sad: it was a limited run series, sixty issues, that I followed to like issue... 48. Well, that's a guess. I read the graphic novels, the collected form of the comic, with my Ex. It was our series, our in-joke, the thing that we got that no one else we knew got. So I--we--read it, and near the end of the series, the time between the graphics stretched. It stretched, but not far enough: The relationship ended before I finished the series. It's hard not to get too hung up on my short attention span or my tendency to not finish things in regard to this story, but the ending is the same: no comic, no relationship, no happy ending.
Having read the entry today was sort of an ending. It wasn't happy, but at least now I know. I know what Yorick saw in his vision, I know what happens in issue 60(-ish). I know what I miss.
Vertigo published four issues of American Splendor, the Harvey Pekar, gonzo comic. His intensely unnecessary dissection of his observations and reflections. (Like this blog is to me.) I watched the movie American Splendor around the time I read Y, and I listened to Death Cab around that time, so... there. I'm amazed at how packaged my memories are, how my eyes, ears, and tastes can be segregated by years. My life is lived in era's--large bites, that's for sure, but bites I can remember.
The Anniversary is tomorrow and I am going into it as a virgin. In every era of my life I've walked the line between disinterest and escapist. I'm usually the escapist--but definitely, I cannot be disinterested tomorrow. It's not going to be casual because the the thing we're celebrating is one of the few things that continues to bring me joy.
So there. Tomorrow's gonna be a party, and hopefully one of the relationships in my life that can count as long term.
Here's to the long-run.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
I'm Tired
It's hard to convey fact without emotion. Every person is biased, beginning with what they choose to speak about. Speaking is an action dictated by choice, and those choices act as natural filters for the things that don't interest us.
I want you to know that I've been very productive, that nearly all of my energy in the past two days have had decided, positive results. I have managed; I have been present, delegating, handling, and greasing the gears of my shop.
I want you to know that it's taken its toll. I want you to know that I want you to know--so you'll know. So you'll put my sluggishness that is present now, into context. That its not lethargy or indifference. So you understand.
But I understand that there's a part of me that's looking for a valid excuse to be unproductive, at least for part of the time. Perhaps to gain a little sympathy. That's why I'm telling you. Maybe I'm looking to earn brownie points. Maybe you'll think better of me and give me the benefit of the doubt when I'm acting in a fashion that's not exceptional.
Or maybe you'll just let me sleep already.
I want you to know that I've been very productive, that nearly all of my energy in the past two days have had decided, positive results. I have managed; I have been present, delegating, handling, and greasing the gears of my shop.
I want you to know that it's taken its toll. I want you to know that I want you to know--so you'll know. So you'll put my sluggishness that is present now, into context. That its not lethargy or indifference. So you understand.
But I understand that there's a part of me that's looking for a valid excuse to be unproductive, at least for part of the time. Perhaps to gain a little sympathy. That's why I'm telling you. Maybe I'm looking to earn brownie points. Maybe you'll think better of me and give me the benefit of the doubt when I'm acting in a fashion that's not exceptional.
Or maybe you'll just let me sleep already.
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Let's do this.
Exactly. Thanks, Elaine.