Cuss Words

Is it a scientific truth that once the mind has learned a worse word, and the mouth has acclimated to saying it, that a lesser swear will not sate the angry spirit?  Or is it just me?  

Is it perhaps another symptom of my untethered spirit?  

The tongue, perhaps, being so much the closer to the brain than the hands is more easily influenced to corruption by the Mr. Hyde within.  Proof to the latter being that I am far less likely to type an inappropriate word or phrase than to say it, even when angered.  And I have never felt the urge to write a swear word in the sand with my foot.  

Never may be an exaggeration, still it has been long enough that I cannot recall a specific instance.

It has been proved that swearing from the mouth can mitigate certain kinds of pain.  I wonder if this also works for anger.  If the pain from stubbing my toe in a dark room can be lessened by singing fuck into the air with a strong enough wind to carry it to all of the bedrooms in the house, can it also ameliorate my displeasure when I feel I have been crossed?  Also, does it work for people who use sign language?  Can they lessen their fury with swears of the hands?  Or is there something in expelling the air?  Are we ejecting a tiny piece of tainted soul that is corrupting our bodies?  Or, like a locomotive, is the smoke we're releasing just evidence of the fire within?  Or is the swear word not an indication of our internal selves at all?

I don't know.  I'm tempted toward belief in the latter, though I must disclose that I swear a good bit and I would hate to think of my soul as being corrupt, especially by something so mundane as a growing thesaurus of vile words.  So I have a bias in the argument.

I was born of a word puritan and a word libertine.  My mother has spoken the word "Damn" twice in my memory; each time a quote.  My father has scarcely gone a day without saying it.  In the 80s "shit" was all the rage; especially in what is to me a nostalgic phrase, "Well, shit fire!"  A turn that I'm certain is much more entertaining to say and hear than it is to do.  The phrase "God Dammit" was highly frowned upon, and "fuck" was forbidden.  In my life my father has said "fuck" only a handful of times and never in the same state as my mother.

I knew all of the cuss words by middle school, roughly age 11.  Some will be invented in the fullness of time, and some will lose their punch, but as they stand right now I know them and have so for some 33 years.  It's something that young children share on the bus and in the quiet corners of the classroom when the teachers are not around, or are not paying attention.  But knowing is not using.  Not all children will take that danger path from the verbal straight and narrow into the murky fields or corruption.

I did not say a lot of bad words when I was in middle school.  "Bitch" was funny to say, especially with incorrect context or meaning.  "What the bitch?" was something I might have said within earshot of a given friend who would laugh at it.  But it wasn't in anger.  I did not begin saying cuss words in anger until my life took a turn down a road I never wanted it to go and got hopelessly lost trying to find a short-cut back to the highway.  There may be causality there, but in which direction?

Never once has saying, "God Dammit" corrected a wrong.  More often it compounds the problem by upsetting my listening children, or angering my wife because my listening children are, in fact, listening.  It has, at times, lessened my own anger.  Though whether it lessened the anger because I had expelled some frustrated steam or because of the immature humor felt from figuratively stepping my toe over the line of maturity and into the sand of the taboo, I do not know.  Science has not answered this to my satisfaction.  Or is it just that said utterance caused immediate embarrassment at my personal loss of control which countered my anger?

What I can tell you is that prior to the scenic route my life has taken I never said, "God Dammit."  Ever.  Now it is a daily phrase.  Every time something goes awry, from spilling paint on my favorite pants to discovering someone else ate the last Pop Tart that was never meant for me.  "Fuck" won't do.  "Shit" and "Dammit" do not come close.  Only "God Dammit" makes me feel an inconsequential amount better.  Except that it doesn't really.

I wonder if, rather than being causally related to my problems, it is instead a symptom of my lack of discipline.  That same untethered spirit that doesn't want to practice music or practice drawing or re-edit a story, and subsequently never has a truly refine piece of art, is the one that doesn't want to care about the words coming out of my mouth.

Ghost Pirate Trees

Ok, Blogger rant below.  I wanted to post a video to give any readers who wander by something to look at.  The video above is of a tarp that blew away on my in-law's farm.  It got caught in the trees and now looks like a spooky ghost pirate ship... in the woods.  I thought the effect was cool.  Hopefully it will translate in this video.

I don't know if this video will work.  The new "free" Blogger phone app sucks.  I'm sorry, Blogger, but it does.  You cannot publish anything in the app.  You can write a draft in it, but if you want to publish it you have to purchase the non-free version.  Or, you can write the draft in the app then come to your computer and publish the draft.

You Don't Deserve It University Tech

It's a fairly common practice to see a university grant honorary degrees and Ph Ds on persons in the public square who go above and beyond in their field and who improve the social knowledge base of a given subject.  In my opinion this is usually a very good practice.  I'm sure that most of these universities are only doing this because they want to bring said excellent individual into their fold of alumni and there-from guilt them into contributing their wealth.  Nevertheless, these hard working and high achieving individuals are being recognized as knowledgeable on a level at least somewhat equal to a scholar in the given subject.

I think this is an excellent practice and if I were to review it I'd give it an A.  And probably an honorary degree.

But this isn't a review of that practice.  This is a proposal to take it a step further.  If real colleges can give real degrees to people who never went to school but who have shown that even without the education they really get it, then I think there should be a fake college to review people who have received real degrees from real colleges, but who, through their own ineptitude and stupidity, have proven that they don't know the first thing about the subject of their degree.  The greatest example I can think of is doctors who still, in spite of all of the evidence to the contrary, claim that vaccines are dangerous.

I propose we name the college You Don't Deserve It University Tech, or YDDIUT (pronounced idiot).  An YDDIUT degree sounds dumb because it is.

We don't give these honorary degrees to people who don't have a degree and perhaps should not know any better.  Nor do we give them to people who have a degree in one discipline, but who are complete morons in a different discipline.  But we do give them to anyone who, in spite of all evidence, and in the field of their degree (so they should know better), continue to hold an opinion that is wrong and dangerous to the public at large.

Is this too harsh?

Happy New Year, You have nice hair.

So I'm walking to work this morning feeling totally down about my job and my commute and my age and everything, and I see this tall, black woman standing at the entrance to the commuter parking lot. 

Her race had nothing to do with it, now that I think about it.  It's the kind of thing that my daughter would probably call me on.  "Why does her being black matter?"  I suppose it doesn't.  Except, I suppose, as a descriptive.  IF she had assaulted me then I'd want to be sure the cops knew she was black.  But she didn't assault me, so I guess I'm back to the fact that her race didn't matter.

Anyway, she was standing at the entrance to the parking lot and my first thought was, "Is that a prostitute?"  She wasn't wearing fishnets or anything remarkably skanky, and we simply don't get hookers in this part of town as the street has a ton of cameras up and down it.  Still, she was just standing there on the sidewalk like she had no where in particular to be.  She was just "hanging out" like you see prostitutes doing in movies and TV.

I wanna say she was wearing black boots and a purple skirt under a long coat, but I may be projecting back on the experience now.  After all, I was only looking at her from the corner of my eye.  The moment you make eye contact that's when people ask you for money or to vote for some ass or to be a Jehovah's Witness.  I know because I'm a big softy and they can see it on me.  They real me in and I give them money that I honestly can't afford to give.  But as I walked by she said something anyway.  She completely ignored the fact that I was ignoring her.  I couldn't hear what she said because of my earbuds, so I took one out and said, "What?"  I was kinda hoping she'd say something like, "Wanna go into the alley for some strange?"  Not because I wanted that, because I really didn't.  I wanted her to say something like that because it would make for a great story.

Instead she said, "Nice hair," and I immediately felt bad for thinking she was a prostitute when all she wanted to do was comment on my awesome hair.  Ok, my hair isn't that awesome.  I mean, it's totally awesome, but I'm supposed to say it isn't so I don't seem arrogant.  Trust me, I'm a short, overweight, middle aged, balding, plain looking guy, but, at least for a little while, my hair looks awesome.  And it was nice of this loitering woman to notice.

Except, in that very short moment before the next thing happened, it started to occur to the back of my mind, where the cynical jerk in me squats, "This could be bait for a trap. Don't take the bait"  But the rest of me said, "It isn't bait, you jerk. Besides, what am I supposed to do, ignore her compliment?"

"Thanks," I said to her and I began to put the earbud back in my ear when she said, "Are you LGBT?"

"No," I said and thought, "what the heck is this?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.  "I didn't mean to offend you.  I'm trans and I just thought with your look you might be part of the LGBT."

"My look," I thought.  I'm wearing an old coat, khakis and a green button shirt.  Then I said, "No, you didn't offend me." And she didn't. "I support the LGBT community.  I'm just not one," which is true.

"Oh," she said.  "That's great.  Could you help me out with some money so I can get some Chick fil a and so I don't have to resort to prostitution?"

"HA!" I heard the cynic in the back of my head shout.  "I was right."

"You were not right, you ass," I thought back.  "She's nice.  And I'm gonna give her $5 so she doesn't have to be a prostitute."

"You're such a naive idiot," he said.

I gave her a few dollars and she gave me a hug with a little more cheek touching than I was comfortable with.  I could feel her face stubble.  I wished her happy new year and she wished it back.

As I walked away I was torn between feeling good about myself and loving this strange and diverse city, and wondering if I should come to work a different way tomorrow.  I also made a mental note to buy more button up shirts.

History

"Those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it."
                         -George Santayana

This quote by the poet and philosopher George Santayana is probably true.  But the problem as I see it is that people misunderstand the lesson; especially on a macro scale.

What do I mean?  Well, it is true that those societies and countries who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it.  But many people believe that the lesson here is to learn your history so that you are not doomed to repeat it.  But that is, unfortunately, not the case.  The fact is you're damned to repeat your history regardless.

I have my degree in History from the University of Georgia, 1998.  I have studied my history.  I have learned lessons from the past.  And when I see society making stupid as shit choices I raise my voice in protest.  I vote against the tide.  But guess what?  You cannot change the tide and you cannot control a frothy mouthed crowd.

When the IT financial bubble of the late 90s was growing financial advisers all around were giving warning.  Those warnings went unheeded and we had a small recession and suddenly there were thousands of computer programmers without jobs.  When the housing bubble of the early 2000s was growing financial advisers all around were giving warning.  Those warnings went unheeded and we had a very large recession, the likes of which we had not seen since the Great Depression.  And thousands of families, mine included, lost their homes.  And for the last 8 years financial advisers have been saying, "Maybe we should do something about this 0% interest rate."  But no one seems to be listening.

All through history historians have stood at the sidelines giving warning and being treated as the old-fuddy-duddy-coot.

"Hey..." he or she would say.  "Hey, guys?  I think we might have already tried this."
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You guys remember, right?" s/he would shout.  "You remember how we kinda started a war?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You remember that we kinda killed like... tens of thousands of innocent people?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.
"You remember that we lost thousands of our sons and daughters?  You remember that we ended the war worse off than when we started?"
And the crowd would rumble and ignore the old coot.

So yes, if you do not learn from your history you are doomed to repeat it.  AND if you do learn from your history you are doomed to repeat it.  So I think the very sad lesson George Santayana was teaching is, "Don't learn your history because you're doomed to repeat it.  But if you don't know you are repeating it you'll only be an ass.  You won't also feel like one."

K-Pop

I’m sure it happens to every generation.  Their parents don’t understand – or won’t understand – the things that they are “in to.”  So the kids get frustrated and rebel, embracing more holistically that which the parents don’t understand.  And subsequently they promise to never be so out of touch with their children, but they are anyway.

I was lucky.  My parents were fairly liberal.  They never questioned my or my siblings' music.  They rarely questioned our fashion sense.  Our hair was ours to style.  Pretty much anything to do with culture they let us have our own way.  But then again, unlike my siblings, I was pretty slow to notice anything cultural.  I was so entrenched in video games and comic books that I didn’t notice the culture or counter culture all around me.  I didn’t care about my clothes.  In seventh grade my teacher teased me for wearing bell bottoms.  It was 1987.  I didn’t even comb my hair – no exaggeration – until my sophomore year. And I didn’t discover New Wave music until 1994; arguably ten years after the genre's halcyon days.

Still, I had the occasional parental bout and I had more than a few friends who clashed with their parents.  So I promised I was going to be understanding.  I was never going to be one of those parents who said, “That music is too loud,” or “That movie made no sense,” or “Those clothes are ridiculous.”  I’ve done pretty well so far.

So, long story short, my daughter has gotten into K-Pop.  In case you do not know, K-Pop is an abbreviation for Korean Pop music.  I’ve been made to listen to at least three different bands.  How many songs I could not guess.  I have to admit that the dancing and the music and singing are certainly professional.  It is all appealing to the eyes and ears.

But the lyrics.  Ah the lyrics.

I don’t speak Korean.  Though Korean is the second most spoken language in Georgia, my home state, it has never been one of my top languages to learn.  Now I find that I may be forced to learn the language or I’m going to wind up being one of those parents who – very honestly – says, “I can’t understand a darn thing they’re sayin’!”

Tom Cruise is a Dream Liar

Tom Cruise is a dream liar.

I don’t remember where or when exactly the dream began and I don’t know where exactly I was… you know how dreams go, they flow in an out of plot lines and they jump from places you’ve been to places that have never existed in time.  Suffice it to stay the dream started before the portion I am relaying to you and takes place somewhere I’ve never been.

And Tom Cruise was flirting pretty heavily with me.  

Tom is not really my type, being that he’s not a vaginated person, but I admit I was flattered.  He was trying to persuade me to do a stunt with him that involved me hanging on to the side of a building and him pulling me up to safety.  He assured me that he had done the stunt countless times and that I would enjoy the rush of adrenalin from it.  He kept putting his hand on my shoulder and looking into my eyes.  I thought he was going to lean in for a kiss.  I can’t remember if I wanted him to.  The hetero-awake me says that I absolutely did not want this.  But the dream me plays loosey-goosey with gender roles and I really think that me was being wooed by Mr. Cruise.  I called him Tom in the dream.  Tom asked me to.  That was part of the dream I left out.  By this point we were already close.

So the deal was this.  I would hang onto the side of a fake building.  Tom would hold out his hand for me to grab and I would.  Then he would use his superior upper body strength to pull me over the ledge and into his arms.

He was very reassuring.  He kept saying things like, “I’ll be there for you,” and “You’ll be perfectly safe,” and “Nothing can go wrong,” and “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”  I got the feeling he was starting to care for me as much as I did for him.  He was really winning me over.

I was hooked.  What did I have to lose?  Tom had it all under control.  So I jumped on the ledge and immediately everything was awful.

The instant I made contact with the wall a close, personal friend of Tom’s walked up and began talking with him.  Tom hugged him and they laughed and patted each other on the shoulders.  Who was this guy?  Those were my shoulder pats!  This bozo was stealing my dream Tom.  Meanwhile I was losing my grip.

It turns out hanging onto a ledge is a very difficult thing to do.  I don’t know how good I am at it in reality, but in the dream world I suck.  I called to Tom and he held out the “just-a-minute-finger” that parents give to kids when the adults are talking.  I slipped a little.

So I looked down at the ground, which had up until seconds ago been a story or two away, and it was like 9 stories below.  I freak out and called to Tom again.  He wagged the just-a-minute-finger in case I didn’t see it before.  Then he and his home-wrecker buddy laughed again.  What a piece of shit that guy was.  Not Tom.  At that moment Tom was still my would-be savior.  I hadn’t lost hope just yet.  But I had just about lost my grip.

I slipped a little more.  I was now bound to the ledge – and to my life – by only the tips of my 8 fingers.  Things looked bad.  

“Tom!” I called.  He apparently was done with his affair because as I was losing my grip his hand appeared from over the ledge and grabbed mine.  But his grip was poor and nothing more than fingers grabbing fingers; his wait-just-a-minute fingers and my too-late-I’m-falling-fingers.  And those fingers didn’t agree on whether I was safe or doomed.

I looked into Tom’s heroic eyes, but they did not gleam as they had earlier.  Their confidence was clouded by doom; by worry.  He knew his grip was not true.  

And I slipped.

And I fell to my death.

Actually, I didn’t.  I’ve never died in a dream.  I don’t believe that really happens.  I’ve nearly died in many dreams, but things always happen to save me.  If I’m underwater and running out of breath, I suddenly remember that I’ve always been able to breathe under water.  If I’m falling, I suddenly remember I can fly or float.  If I’m being shot or stabbed, I suddenly remember that I’m not in a dream with guns or knives.  And if the reality altering machine is broken, I just wake up.

In this dream the reality altering machine worked.  Tom and I lost our grip on each other and I plummeted.  I looked into his horrified eyes and I dropped to my certain doom.  But after two or three stories my descent slowed considerably.  I was still falling, just not very quickly.  Instead of dropping to my doom Tom had to watch in horror as I dropped 9 stories to my broken ankles.

Then I woke up.

Tom Cruise is a dream liar.

I’ve been to sleep like four times since that dream and he hasn’t shown up to apologize.

Bad Health Advice

I hate getting bad health advice. Now, when I say "bad" I don't mean that this is health advice that will hurt you. It simply doesn't do any good. Like someone saying, "In order to be healthy you should live a healthier life."

That's bad advice. Perhaps LAME advice is a better term. But I'll stick with bad.

So Yahoo had an article titled: 5 Foods To Never Eat. I was expecting it to say something like, The new 18,000 calorie Deep Fried Bacon Burger, or The Supreme Chocolate Pizza Smoothie. You know, stuff like that. But these were the 5 things you should avoid eating:

1. Sugar
2. Other Unhealthy Foods
3. Fats
4. Carbs
5. Processed Foods

Seriously? "Other Unhealthy Foods?" Are we so stupid that we need people to tell us that in order to stay healthy we need to not eat unhealthy foods? And frankly, shouldn't "Other Unhealthy Foods" be the bottom of a list of bad foods to eat? I mean, stylistically speaking, can you really say, "Other Foods" and then go on to list still other foods? Doesn't "other" capture everything that hasn't been mentioned thus far?

This teaser article was meant to get you to watch a video to get more detail. I didn't watch it. If you want me to have better health then you need to have better writing skills.

Here, I'll give you 5 Things Never To Do When Writing:

1. Never excessively repeat yourself too much
2. Never write not good
3. Do/Don't contradict yourself/others.
4. Never excessively repeat yourself too much
5. Always end by repeating one of the things you said previously to drive the point home never excessively repeat yourself too much

Master these 6 key things to never master and you'll be on your way to writing an article I'll never read with more respect.

Misplacement

I've transferred to the Department of Poorly Placed Things. Currently I'm working in the division Furniture Accessories and Painting Tarps. I don't really know how Painting Tarps got lumped in with Furniture Accessories. Basically my duty is to confuse the hell out of people; especially auditors. If people leave my office not knowing wth I do, then I've succeeded.

Our new commissioner has promised to run things better. None of my supervisors is really sure if that means we should be more confusing or less.

If I don't get laid off in the next year I'm hoping to transfer to Sundries, Test Results and Fingernail Clippers.

Bloody Wall

So our facilities people were going to paint the office this week, but when they went to strip the wall paper off the building started screaming like mad and bleeding. They immediately stopped pulling off the paper, but the building still cried for hours. Sadly one of our more clumsy employees was walking by the above pictured spot with a class of freshly squeezed lemonade when... well.

The Community for the Humane Treatment and Eventual Liberation of All Walls and Ceilings, the CHTELAWC, has filed suit against our department on behalf of the wall. Technically I'm not supposed to talk to the public about it, but I say to heck with the man. The people have the right to know.

What?

I was walking back from the restroom to my office when a co-worker stopped me in the hall. He said, "Hello" and I said "Hello" back. Then he said, "I see you're wearing a shirt."

... blink-blink


I think some people have a conversation quota. They cannot let certain moments pass without a minimum number of words being spoken. It doesn't seem, however, that those words need to matter or mean anything to anyone.

If quizzle pop so lotta water salad puffle. Biz dip.

expansion

I woke up this morning and there was a Public Notice nailed to my refrigerator.

Never mind the fact that now my fridge is leaking cold air from a nail hole when a piece of cello-tape would have sufficed...

The notice read that "at long last" the dispute over which grocery store would claim rights to my pantry had been settled. Kroger had shown, to a fair and unbiased committee of five, that it had entered its request for expansion into said territory a full twenty minutes prior to Publix. This "territory" being my kitchen pantry.

Publix has, per the notice posted through my refrigerator door, up to twenty days from the posting of the notice to appeal this decision and show good cause as to why the determination made by the committee should be reconsidered. Should Publix fail to make appeal in a timely fashion then on the 21st day after the notice posting Kroger can assume said territory by moving in and charging my household per trip to the pantry.

This notice made no mention of my rights or what action I could take to stop this "territory" from being "assumed."

I took the notice in hand and made my way to the nearest Kroger. The nearest Kroger was on the opposite side of the oak tree in my front yard. There had been two white oaks in my yard when we moved in, but after a heated battle between Kroger's lawyers and the squirrel community of my neighborhood, it was determined, by a fair and unbiased committee, that the second white oak tree was redundant. The tree was removed and "replanted at a nice farm in the northern part of the state." Incidentally, I visited that farm last summer and my white oak had magically become a scraggly pine tree.

At the Kroger I presented the notice to the manager, named Joe, who informed me that I had removed an official legal notice and that he was duty bound to call the sheriff's department. However, he said, if I made a copy - using his copy machine for just $2.00 a copy - and replaced the notice, he would look the other way just this once.

When I returned with the photocopied notice Manager Joe claimed ignorance of the notice and indeed claimed not to even know what a public notice was, though he had earlier told me that I had broken laws in removing it. I asked if he had any knowledge of Kroger's intentions to move into my pantry and he said that he was "not at liberty to discuss the expansion prerogatives of Corporate." Finally I asked Joe if he knew what Kroger planned on doing with my pantry when I already had a Kroger in my front yard and two other stores in my back yard.

Joe assured me that Kroger's move into "the" pantry would be a benefit to everyone. Kroger would restock the shelves of "the" pantry - for he would not allow me to call it "mine" - every morning. I would pay Kroger for the replaced goods, at only slightly elevated costs, and in return I would get fresh goods. "Kroger would," Joe mumbled quickly, "Reserve the right to charge fees for: the removal of unused or spoiled product, for maintenance on the pantry door, for the merchandising and display of product, for advertising, for the removal of non-Kroger products and for the inclusion of non-promotional goods in the pantry. Appearance of slightly elevated prices would likely, but not certainly, be due to fluctuating labor costs. Kroger could but probably would not enter other territories of the house unless it deemed such expansion necessary to fair competition and survival of the store."

I stared for a moment at Manager Joe. "How can I stop this from happening?" I finally asked.

"You can't stop this from happening," he replied. "You missed your chance to vote at the house meeting on 4-15-09."

"Where was the meeting?"

"In your living room, where all house meetings are conducted."

"Wait, 4-15-09? We were on vacation then."

"That's not our fault. The meeting was held. A vote was taken. Due process was given. The committee determined that by rights of imminent domain, your kitchen pantry was open for commercial expansion and development."

So I left the Kroger frustrated and decided that I might have better luck with the opposition. Publix is in my back yard.

"I see you have Public Notice 1804.b" the manager said as I entered the Publix. "My name is Bob."

"Michael," I said. "I live in the house."

"Yes, we know," he said. "I was really disappointed that we missed out on that expansion. I would have submitted my paperwork on time, but my fax machine jammed that day and well, that twenty minutes was all it took for Kroger to win the rights. It's a real shame too. I had to lay off two staff members for loss of that territory."

I was bemused and befuddled. "Then you aren't planning on appealing the determination?"

"No," Bob said, "We don't have the budget for it. Besides, we have our eye on your coffee table. I've already submitted the paperwork to the planning and zoning committee. If I get that space then I can supply your living room with dry foods and perhaps some appetizers."

"I can't have food lying around," I said. "It will rot."

"Oh, don't worry about that. We can remove any rotten or unused food. For a fee, of course."

"But I have cats."

"Oh, that's great. I can supply you with cat foods and products. Not to mention deodorants. That's good, I need to write that down."

"But my cats only eat prescription diet food."

"We don't carry that. But I might be able to order it for you for an additional cost."

"I don't want you in my living room!" I yelled.

"Oh," Bob said, sounding hurt. "I see. Well, then. I guess you'll have to take that up with the planning and zoning committee. I haven't scheduled the meeting yet. When is your next vacation?"

voices

I'm not a terribly superstitious guy. I don't really believe in ghosts - though I want to - or in aliens - though I want to there too. I might be tempted to believe if I had a little proof. But then I guess "proof" takes the "belief" out of belief. You don't really believe in something that is obvious.

"Hey, Michael, do you believe in this rock?" guy holds up a rock.

"What am I supposed to believe it will do?"

"Nothing. Just be a rock. Do you believe in it?"

"Do I believe that the rock is a rock?"

"I don't know. Just do you believe in it?"

"Do you mean, 'do I believe it can accomplish whatever it sets it's mind to?'"

"Do you believe in it?"

"I don't know. I guess so. I mean, I believe it's a rock. I don't believe it can save my soul or cure cancer. I don't know what I'm supposed to believe about the rock."


I might be tempted to believe in aliens or ghosts if I ever met anyone who believed. Actually, I know several very intelligent people who claim to have seen a ghost. I believe that they saw what they saw and so I believe in ghosts slightly more than aliens. But I've never known anyone who believed in aliens.

I mean yes, I believe there are aliens out there. But I don't believe they have visited the earth. And if they have they must be technologically advanced enough to avoid detection.

But I digress. I was talking about superstition and the fact that I'm not. Not much.

Now, my wife has this noise maker that she does not go to bed without. It makes different sounds that act as gray noise or white noise or whatever color noise it is, so that you can get to sleep. Mostly Rebecca likes the Babbling Brook noise.

If you ask me the Babbling Brook is not just a recording of water. I think it also has different sounds in the background thrown together in rhythmic intervals to simulate water noise. The power of suggestion does the rest.

If you sit and listen to the sounds of the Babbling Brook for an hour or so - which is not so hard to do when you can't sleep or you're reading a book in bed - all of the sounds that are mushed together with the water sounds by the noise maker start to separate and you can hear them for what they are. Usually what I hear is a light tapping of different pitch wood blocks, or the faint sound of a piano playing three or four notes in a row, along with the sound of plastic wrap being rustled. Sometimes I hear a guitar and wind sounds, or maybe wind chimes tinkling. There is nothing spectacular about the sounds or the melodies. They are just sounds in repeated rhythm that contribute to the feel of endless gallons of water flowing past stones or logs at some place in a brook.

Tonight, as I read my book, I became aware of a voice. At first I thought my neighbors must be outside talking. But it was almost 1 o'clock. Why on earth would they be out talking at 1 am? Then I realized that the same words were repeating over and over. I knew it must be the noise maker. And I am 90% convinced that it was only my imagination that created the words I was hearing. In truth what was probably happening was that different sounds had been crammed together by the noise maker and that when you caught the rhythm just right you could almost make out words. Perhaps a paper crumpling sound was crammed in with a siren in the distance and a goat bleeting at night. I knew it MUST be a aural illusion.

Still, after hearing

Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...
Get out of bed...

for thirty minutes I thought that it really couldn't hurt to get out of bed then come downstairs and get a drink of water. Perhaps get a little separation from the demons in the noise maker. And while I'm down here I might as well write about my neuroses.

Oh Yeah. I totally believe in demons.

Yet Again

Ok. I don't want to say this because it's only been about 6 weeks, but I'm pretty sure I hate my job. My new job that sucks.

I'm constantly freakin' busy. Every ten seconds my boss runs into my office and says, "You need to be in this meeting. I'm on the project now, but I want out of it and eventually you will do it. Oh, and when you aren't doing this, that and those, do that one also."

"But what about the ones from yesterday?" I might ask.

"What about them? Are they done yet?"

"When could I possibly have done them? No."

"Oh, that reminds me. You need to attend the training on time management, project management, management management and bullshit management."

"When can I possibly do all of this other stuff?"

"You'll learn that at the training."

"Fine. When is it?"

"Tomorrow. All day."

"But I have four meetings tomorrow that you scheduled. Three of them at the same time."

"And?"

-blink- -blink-
********

You have no idea how close to accurate that is.

Being in a job I didn't love was acceptable before. Then I had time to goof around, draw, write and post to the blog during the day. Now there's no time. And on the scattered few days when there might be some time to scrape together a blog post I feel all guilty because they've got me totally convinced that my new job is important.

"Michael, we're counting on you."

"What? For what?"

"For that thing this weekend that we talked about in the meeting. Very important."

"What thing?"

"The thing we've discussed every day for the last week? The crucial thing."

"Oh right."

WHAT F*ING IDIOT GAVE ME AN IMPORTANT JOB?

Didn't they know better?

And last Friday my boss comes into my office and says, "Did we mention that there will be a lot of travel in this job?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, there will be."



*&#%*#&#%*@$&%@#$&$w@#$&#%$%*#$@&%@##%*ING HELL

Faces

Last night I woke up and I heard the left side of my face bragging to the right side of my face that he was easier to shave and he got fewer cuts. I was a little shocked at first because I didn't realize that it was a source of pride or shame for a face side. But then I got really freaked out when I heard both sides talking at the same time. Up until that point I had assumed they were taking turns using my mouth to talk to each other.

Later, after the left side had fallen asleep, I heard the right side quietly crying. He was mumbling to himself and I swear I heard him say that he 'wasn't going to take it anymore,' and that maybe he'd 'just go where he's wanted.'

If I wake up and half my face is gone... I just don't know.



Resumes Sent: 4
Stories Sent: 2
-This week I sent The Tree of Men to Realms of Fantasy.
My suckitude: 3

Horns

I got an e-mail at work today from a Susan Wormwood. She was whining with her mock niceness about how I wasn't doing my job correctly and if I had she'd have the certificates I'd promised her weeks ago.

I don't even know who Susan Wormwood is. She's probably a daemon. I should have quit this job the day they started allowing them to work here. The EEOC makes no provisions for hiring hoary hosts. I don't care that their knack for clerical work and bureaucracy is beyond compare. By hiring those devils (they smell of sulfur if you ask me) we are just inviting more to come here. MORE!!! Do we want that? This place is already crawling with their kind.

The next thing you know the Commissioner will be sending our good paying jobs to hell. No good will come of it.

When was the last time you saw an angel working for the Department of Labor, I ask you? This damned place.

...
ps. Turns out I do have an archived e-mail where I "might" have told Wormwood I'd have those certificates for her. I don't care. I don't need her fat, devil "pleases," and "I-hope-I'm-not-bothering-yous." Cloven hoofed baby.

Santa Wishes

Did you make your list for Santa yet? If you send your wishes to Santa, and you are good, he'll give you what you want.

I've never made a wish list for him because I know he won't give me anything. He told me a long time ago that I was bad and he'd never give me what I wanted. I was in fifth grade and it happened at school. Santa came walking into my class. He looked a lot like my teacher, and I thought he had boobs, but he was wearing red and had a beard so I knew it was him. Everyone got to sit on Santa's lap. Some boys got to sit longer than others. Anyway, I went to sit on his lap and he said, "Forget it, fat boy. You are a bad student and your heart is dead. You will never get anything out of me. Ass." The "ass" part was just cold.

I cried a lot. One of my friends tried to comfort me, but it was no use. I knew that life would suck from then on. That's actually how I learned that my parents didn't believe in Santa - because I got presents that year. Santa had cut me off, that part was clear. So the giant, bounteous haul I got that year must have come from my heathen parents and their non-believing ways. That's when I started peeing on their pillows once a week or so.

Shortly after that my dad gave away our dog to a farm in upstate Georgia. He said that the police had discovered Scruffy's true owners and that he didn't have a choice but to give him away. I remember it like it was yesterday because I had to help dad plant a really large tree seed in the back yard pretty deep. I think we planted it too deep because that tree never grew.

Dad was pretty upset, later, when the pillows continued to smell like pee. He went out and bought new pillows. And when those smelled like pee a week later we moved to a new house. He kept saying he was haunted by Scruffy's ghost. I told him that it was impossible because Scruffy was in a farm in upstate Georgia. He stuttered that I was right and he laughed a humorless laugh. But he grew increasingly paranoid and jerky. Over time he quit shaving, gained a lot of weight and grew out his beard. Eventually his hair turned white. Now he looks exactly like my fifth grade teacher.

Midnight

I went on a midnight grocery run last night. Had to get a few things.

I don't know about you, but there is something about a woman with a penchant for talking to anyone in her vicinity while washing her car with wet towelettes under a parking lot street light - at midnight no less - that kinda puts me on my guard. So, Crazy-bug-eyed-lady, if you happen to read this blog, I am sorry my "new fangled door unlocker thing" spooked you as I walked back to my car. But I promise you, my haunted car was more afraid of you than you were of it.

I must have been getting tired too. On my way home I swear I saw part of the road get up and cross to the other side of the road.

Shaving

You know, you spend 20 years shaving your face and you really think you have this whole shaving thing down. But in case you were planning on taking that next logical step, let me first offer you this word of warning: Your back is much bigger than your face. And harder to reach.

For this job you will need:

1. Extendo razors for those hard to reach places (not yet invented)
2. At least 3 mirrors to see what you are doing.
3. 3 blind servants to hold the mirrors.
4. Drano.

Estimated time: 1 hour.

In lieu of having the preceding list I would recommend the following:

1. At least one week of arm stretches before you begin. Flexibility is key.
2. A standing mirror placed strategically in back of you with your bathroom mirror in front.
3. Drano. Non negotiable.

Estimated time: 2 hours.

The key to finishing this job is suspending judgment. If you had made your own body then you certainly would have chosen a smooth back. For that matter, you would have given yourself a high speed metabolism and rock hard abs. And while we are on the subject, you'd be a few more inches taller and you'd have a full head of hair. Your teeth wouldn't be so crooked and you'd function best on 4 hours of sleep.

BUT, you didn't make yourself. You're stuck with what you got. The Lord God did his very best with the DNA your parents provided - you know it's true. You need to come to terms with that. You also need to do more sit-ups and you need to shave that back. That field of fur isn't going to shave itself.

OK, there are plenty of you out there who would suggest that to shorten this depilating job down a bit you should solicit the help of your significant other. S/he can shave your back much more quickly than you. I would not recommend this. In fact, I would highly unrecommend it. You see, love might be blind, but it is a willful blindness. Love won't see the things it doesn't want to see. But if you stick a razor in love's hand and tell love to shave away, love will regain its sight. And that is a miracle that no relationship needs. LOVE MUST REMAIN BLIND!

Love already knows you fart in bed, you pick your nose, your morning breath reaks, your love handles are creeping around the front and back, you spend way too much time watching cartoons, you would eat pizza at every meal if she didn't intervene and you are not getting up when the kids cry at night. Love bought some serious glasses last year, remember? Do you really want to tempt love? NO. Shave your back yourself. Trust me.

The Smell Wheel

Am I the only person who thinks that buttered popcorn and warm urine are just about the same smell?

If there was a smell wheel, like the color wheel but with smells, I think urine and buttered popcorn would be side by side; like yellow and slightly golden yellow.

I think that there are a lot of delicious and beautiful smells that are just the slightest variation away from putrid and disgusting. When I was in college the appartment complex I lived in had a long row of trees that bloomed white in the spring. For a week they smelled nice and pretty and they looked beautiful and I loved to walk past them. After that week they smelled exactly like crotch. But the smell wasn't really all that different.

And how often have you been in a far corner of your house when you thought, "Oh God, what is that awful smell?" Then when your wife tells you she's stewing pot roast you think, "Ooh, that sounds delicious," and suddenly the smells is yummy.

Nasty sits right next to delicious on the smell wheel.