Beauty In Between

Today, like as many days as I can in the Fall, I'm enjoying Pumpkin Beer. I've been curled up on the couch, playing videogames while my wife works on homework, or watches television herself. It's a pajama bottoms and sweatshirt kind of day. A younger Syd didn't appreciate this as much. A younger Syd sought stimulation and did so with a vigorous regularity. "What could be worse than boredom?" says the disenfranchised early twenty-something? "What could be better?" replies the thirty something college student. I've engineered this leisure, by continuing to work ahead in school, and I couldn't be happier to lounge when lounge time comes.

It won't be here tomorrow. I think that could be said of far too many things. Tomorrow I face a day of training at work. No customers, yes, but plenty of boredom. In fact, it's the worst boredom I think I could possibly imagine. The last time I had to experience a training day like this, I thought I would just hang myself in the bathroom before the end of the day, and I like life. As adults, we did 'team building' exercises that included putting together, as a group, a series of puzzles intended for children 2 and up. At the time, I was the youngest at 28, yet I still received questions as to where the corner piece should go. I'm serious. I just handed the pieces to someone else and sat down, hoping that Doc Brown would show up and take me away.

The rest of the day progressed in much the same way. I spent an hour and a half listening to people ask department specific questions about a new program to IT, a group of people who knew the program, not the department. I watched people that make about five dollars more on the hour than myself try and puzzle out a cd player. I received the door prize of an electronic door stop and a brochure to the place that we were at. I thought as hard as I could on teleportation, hoping that by thinking it, it may help me realize it. I'd teleport first into a bank, then into a hot tub with naked ladies, Kalhua dipped cigars , and bottles of Cristal . In the background, I would hear the second Ol' Dirty Bastard record on repeat. Not far from my hot tub would be a hammock . It'd be late May/early June and I could sleep on the porch in the nude. Then I woke up to one of the most mundane experiences of my life .

Tomorrow, I get to repeat this experience, but I write this with some degree of satisfaction. Is it better? I'm certain it won't be. I'll listen to insipid questions, by people who quite possible have undeveloped frontal lobes , and watch my clock waiting for the time to leave. I can promise that I'll start looking at the clock around 9:00am and I fully expect to arrive at 8:30am. But at least I have a job. Part of me dies in writing that, like serving capitalism is some kind of grand reward. Great, I can keep my head down, not rock the boat, and get a paycheck. Why bother living if you're just serving? And I can answer that: I am loved. Putting up with bullshit like this allows me to come home and buy my wife whatever it is that her heart fancies. It allows me leisure days like today, where I drink my merry brains away, fighting for freedom on Mars , and watching whatever bullshit I can find on television all day. As much as I never want to be an agent of the ordinary, I'm finding that beauty lies somewhere in between. I choose to live for those moments and work for more of them.

Signed, Definitely Not Me

You are fifteen minutes away from your fifteen minutes of fame. Your knack at self-promotion is an asset more valuable than any amount of money you've ever made. You are poor. Everyone knows your face. You make valiant stands against important things! Your words have weight that cannot be calculated. You get it.

Today, you will rally around someone you barely know, for a cause you were barely close to. You will make it publicly known that you love (LOVE) someone who barely qualifies as an acquaintance. The world will have to feel truly blessed to be near you, but you know that people will still doubt your motivations, even though you know how sincere you are. You believe every word that you speak or write.

You are the owner of wondrous things. You admire your collection. Your collection is more than a series of material goods, but a shrine to your values. You add to it in a number of ways. Your collection is an extension of your being. It shows the world your value as someone who cares. This is not just the logical extension of consumer culture, but you filling a niche that just needed to be scratched. You are keeping it alive and 'it' is important. Maybe someone will make a documentary about you. If only your fifteen minutes would just get here.

You will keep the flame burning.

Turning 30

I turned thirty yesterday and I'm still waiting for it to hit me. After I lost my virginity the reality of the situation didn't hit home for days. In fact, It took about four days. I walked into a Kroger's to do what it is that people do in such places, paused to consider what I needed, and thought "what the fuck?! I've had sex?" I sincerely thought I'd never get beyond first or second base in my entire life. It wasn't something that I felt sad about, I just thought it was going to happen that way. Maybe, I thought, I'll get to see a girl with no shirt on in real life. And I did. And it was as fun as I thought it would be.

In a few days, I fully anticipate that mid-function, and it will be a mundane function, I'll stop, and have some dramatic meltdown about my age. I may pause to wonder what I've done in life that's amounted to anything, other than to marry one of most beautiful women on the planet, and to have some incredible friends. I'll think about that show on the Discovery channel called Life After People . It'll remind me how temporary all of our accomplishments are anyways, which is both reassuring in that I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss, but also disappointing since I haven't created a lot of things that the world would miss. I'll consider this stuff, get a drink of water, and buy some beer at the store. I'll consider buying the expensive stuff, but since I'm an adult now, economic frugality will kick in, and I'll opt for some Amber Bock , or Michelob's Dunkel Weisse , the poor man's Unibroue .

As it stands, I haven't had any such calamity of spirit. In fact, my actual birthday was excellent. I read Ysrael a short story in 'Drown' by
Junot Diaz , while I waited for Elizabeth to wake up. She had four presents waiting for me and offered me two before breakfast. Now I'm better dressed, which is as good for her as it is for me. We had breakfast at Toast on Market Street. As long as you can get a table in under fifteen minutes, it's always a good experience. We got our table in under two minutes.

We came home and she gave me my other two presents. One of them was a brewing kit, so now we can stay both frugal, and fancy. Apparently, it's not difficult to brew beer, you just have to be patient. I figure it's a good thing to know how to do anyways. If the apocalypse happens, I really need a skill that's useful, and brewing beer may be that skill, because lord knows that I can neither fly an ultra-lite , or throw a bladed boomerang . Ostensibly the water would be rank, and contaminated, choked on the cinders from the nuclear fallout, so beer may be the only thing that people can safely drink. I'm assuming that the brewing process will filter out any unwanted radiation and I'm fairly sure it will. I mean, duh.

Keeping with the beer theme, we drove out to the world's greatest Liquor Barn. I mean, I can only think of a few things that may make it more awesome , and that would involve an indoor pool, a hot tub, pictures of boobs everywhere, and Karp playing on repeat all day. This place has forty beers on tap! Good ones too. We bought a growler of Gulden Draak beer and a six pack of the best pumpkin beer on Earth. We came home, my lovely wife drove to work, and I played my videogame with one of my best pals , while drinking my favorite beer , and listening to music. All I need now is a hammock and some alone time with my wife, maybe a Margarita with an umbrella in it.

Not a bad day. I spent it surrounded by friends and family. A lot of people called me to remind me that I am loved. I want to remember this day every time I get yelled at by someone at work , every time my boss is offering me something inane as something profound, any time I don't get the promotion, or when we don't get to play whatever show it is that we're wanting to play. And my long and wonderful weekend has only started. I am loved!

What Do You Pour Out For A Dead 40oz.?

I just found out Patrick Swayze died at the age of 57. I can now say with some certainty that there is not a higher being, at least not one capable of intervening whatsoever in human affairs. No, this God, or god, or gods, or Cthulu or what have you, probably hates fun times of all sorts. Dear God, have you ever seen a little movie called Roadhouse ? It's about THE BEST DAMNED BOUNCER ever! He was so awesome at bouncering, that people all over the bouncer community talked about him at bouncer conferences. And now he's dead of cancer and not something Monster Truck related, which is actually how Patrick Swayze should have died.

My earliest memories of Patrick Swayze were heinous. Fucking heinous to be specific. My mom and her pals watched Dirty Dancing with a rampant housewife fervor, like watching a loose cannon outlaw teach a stuck up twit how to dance would somehow stop Communism, or get a Republican out of office, or hell, maybe just put some food on the table that was not Kool-Aid, Hot Dogs, or Bologna. It didn't do any of those things though, it just made one eight year old boy very sad, and irritable. One thing it did though, was reinforce my hatred for dancing that has only been partially altered by the invention of Dance, Dance, Revolution , but which is now being challenged again by Dancing With The Stars , which I'm fairly certain was designed to make me want to die.

So long Patrick Swayze. Tomorrow at red dawn, I will dance dirty to the roadhouse, and surf out to point break. I will pour out a forty for you and then pour out Cristal for that forty. I will consider ripping someone's throat out at work tomorrow, but unlike your wild card portrayal of Dalton , I will not rip out someone's throat in front of my wife, because that would be a buzzkill, and would probably create an anti-sexfield . I hate anti-sexfields.

My Savage Ulcer

On an almost annual basis, I apply for a different position within my company. I do this in an effort to lessen my stress load. Ideally, I'd like to not reach the ripe age of 46, fall over while cutting the grass one day, with a heat stroke, and a mild heart attack. By then, I wager that I'll have ulcers the size of footballs in my gut, I'll curse regularly, and I'll hate every child that walks across my lawn. I'll probably drink my liver into a tiny, shrivelled, hate filled sac of bile, that filters nothing but violence, and piss into my blood stream. I'll wear a fisherman's hat, but I'll hate myself for wearing it. I'll swear at passing cars and hate loud sounds. By then, I'll have sold my instruments in a fit of rage at my lack of accomplishment. I may have children by then and I'll put on a good face for them, but since I'm bottling my anger, it'll only increase the size of my ulcers. The stately age of 46 is not looking so bright.

To thwart my impending doom, I try to find work that would hopefully lower the size of my future ulcer. Maybe something where idiots don't get idiot all over my face, trying to understand simple concepts. Maybe a position where people don't ask the same question five times expecting a different answer. Hell, I'd just settle for a job where people didn't think it was acceptable to ask a question, wait five seconds, and immediately proceed to talk over me. Here, dear customer, is a jug of SHUT THE FUCK UP juice. Drink deep.

I annually apply and annually get declined. This year, I applied for yet another lateral transition within the company. I interviewed the fuck out of this position. I had quick and effective answers for every question asked of me. I really thought this through. I left them laughing, which I always take as a positive sign. Clearly it was not effective enough. Instead of hiring me, they are in all likelyhood going to hire my mouth-breathing neighbor, who has to have every directive repeated to her at least fifteen times before finally feeling brave enough to take her own initiative. The primary difference in this situation has nothing to do with any statistical difference between myself and anyone else, as the facts can easily prove themselves. No, as I understand it, the difference is considerably more superficial, more along the lines of what hangs between my legs, a term I use loosely I may add, and how I use this to piss upright.

It infuriates me to feel this way, that my gender has an influence in creating bias in others. It's reasonable to believe that people share in this bias or that some people hate white people or males or blondes or whatever. I realize that prejudice knows no bounds. I also realize how absurd it sounds for a white male to bemoan his position in life. I'm not sure where I missed the boat on privilege, at least in using that privilege to improve my lot in life. I have an awful, anger-inducing, rage powering job, that may eventually cause me to self-combust. Clearly I am the constant in each situation, but when I present myself as amiable, confident, and knowledgable, especially when I prove these conceits by showing my dedication to education, and by progressively handling more responsibility with less recognization yet still fail to produce any positive rewards from this, well, I'm at a loss for words.

So tonight my friends, I will drink. I'll toast a future liver that is fully functional, and capable of filtering the most putrid of rum into pure water. I'll toast to my ulcers and wish them an early, but painless demise. Mostly I'll be commiserating my many opportunities lost. I imagine that as my thirtieth birthday grows nearer, I may find plenty of opportunities to revisit this trend with more regularity. I'll toast to looking up, not down.

Girl Pants, Bums, and Aqualung.

Yesterday was the first weekday on my vacation and a pretty satisfying day at that. Aside from my nose draining into my throat, all was well in the world. I got a haircut and beard trim, so I no longer look like I escaped from a hobo camp. I stopped at the Great Escape, which is always a pleasant experience for me. I drove to Elizabeth's work at 1pm, picked her up for lunch, and drove to Q-Doba, which I've warmed up to. We sat in the window while we ate. A bum walked by, as bums are known to do. As he walked by the window, he looked directly at two emo/hipster type guys, both wearing girl pants, looked at us, made effeminate hand gestures, and laughed at both as they passed.

Allow me to reiterate. A homeless man, a deaf homeless man as it were, still finds it in his heart to clown two hipsters. It may have been one of the most satisfying things I've experienced in quite some time. I laughed out loud.

And this is why I love living in the Weirdo Part of town. I am blessed with oddity on a daily basis. One of my favorite accounts came about six months ago, at least as my recollection serves. Elizabeth and I were walking home from something. I don't recall what. We were near our house when we heard a flute in the distance. This kid was sitting on his porch, looking really sullen, and angst ridden, and playing a flute. I had this magnificent vision that he was on the porch after an argument with his parents. In my head, it went like this:

Mom: Blah, Blah... you're grounded.
Boy: I hate you mom!

Then he storms outside and plays Aqualung and thinks about running away. I love the Highlands.

Brain Pudding

I woke up this morning at 7am, so I could do this on a bicycle. I made a litany of mistakes. I did not take water, thinking their would be ample opportunity for that on the trail. I did not wear any sunscreen. Sweat poured into my eyes, because I had no headgear. This was only aggravated by the sunburn I developed about half-way through; this trail has almost no shade for the entirety of the trip. Never let it be said that I'm a smart man.

I didn't arrive home until about 12:30pm. There was a wealth of errands that needed running today and I knew if I didn't ask to leave immediately, I would fall asleep for an indeterminate amount of time. So, after a shower, the wife and I headed to the mall, one of my least favorite places in earth. Four or so hours later, I arrived home.

My second wind had come. I had a little beer and proceeded to watch Southland Tales , while reading Final Crisis . I think I gave my brain scoliosis. Both the movie and the comic are batshit insane. Typifying either as esoteric does an injustice to the word. I'm not sure what Southland Tales was about. I didn't hate it, but I also didn't take much from it. Richard Kelly directed the movie and I can only imagine that it was a prank on Hollywood. Not only was the plot abstract and surreal, but it seemed to imply that efforts at renewable energy were a negative thing. This confuses and saddens me. I can only hope that Richard Kelly got it out of his system as The Box looks really interesting.

It's interesting to compare Southland Tales with Final Crisis, as the latter makes the former seem like Die Hard by comparison. Grant Morrison wrote it, which, for anyone that remains remotely familiar with comics should know, means that it made the concept of "insane" watered down. In a lot of ways Morrison is the real deal. When he wrote The Invisibles he actually tried to convince the public to have a 'wankathon', wherein everyone would masturbate at the same time everywhere on Earth as part of some sexual magic spell. I'm serious. DC was not particularly pleased with his use of the letters section.

That said, Final Crisis is some sort of surreal tribute to Jack Kirby's Fourth World , which I'm mostly unfamiliar with. I've read various things where Morrison explained that he wanted to create some sort of hyperactive comic, something that was so far removed from form and convention that it would be impossible to relate as a movie, and I'm fairly certain that he succeeded. Superman plugs a hole in the universe to stop Mandrakk, a vampiric Monitor (don't ask), from doing something rotten. I'm not sure what. And that's just part of it. If that doesn't send up giant WTF flags, I'm not sure what will.

And now my brain is off. I kind of just want to watch Full House or something like that, but I'm afraid that my perception, at least for the day, is tainted by hyper-fiction, beer, and the exhaustion of a 27.5 mile bike ride. At least I supposedly burned off some calories. That certainly doesn't hurt anything.

Incidentally, I thank my wife for showing me how html code works. Not only is she nicer looking than me, but she is smarter than I am, which doesn't say much. I am a lucky man.