One of the classic problems of religion is that of humility, since it involves at least one paradox, if not more. It is hard to aspire to just about anything while at the same time laying claim to inability and an awareness of your own relative lack of knowledge, grace, charm, or virtue. We can see how the paradox works in operation: it weeds outs would-be prophets and lengthens the necessary time to come to know someone else's qualities. It is a buffer against snap judgments.
I thought of toughguys in the movies. They never complain, but there's a camera there, so we know.
The noncomplaining toughguy is a mere archetype. It's too hard for mere mortals to be able to disavow pain while at the same time making clear to everyone that it is almost unbearable.
*
Personal pain is interesting in the warehouse, the "w" for short, because of the various ways it works itself out. For instance, if you do happen to injure yourself, if you tell everyone, then you're considered a pussy, but if you don't, and a single person sees you lagging, or limping, or not jumping on some task prohibited by the injury, then they'll complain about you to anyone who'll listen.
W culture is anti-union. Corporate perks are seen as a sign of weakness. Why anyone would take vacation when other people have to work those days is seen as selfish laziness. In a sense, Big Bill is like a nun. He works seven days a week, for long hours. Because of his debt, he practically owns nothing.
He is, of course, not a nun. Despite the simplicity of his needs (sex, meatloaf, and cherry wheat ale, these days) he is usually penniless. He doesn't even seem to want to get out of debt. It's a nuisance, but since it was impossed on him so ruthlessly by a combination of all-too-human ignorance and fate, he takes it as his lot and can't imagine how life would be otherwise. When someone is kind enough to give him a donut, it seems so unusual to him that it tweaks his sentimental soul and tears come to his eyes.
Suffering, in that world, occurs on a different register than in other arenas I'm familiar with. It is routine for people who work hard, for years, to be fired for being overqualified. If you work for the company long enough, your age will be a liability, and the company will transfer you to increasingly distant branches until the commute and the lowliness of the work finally do you in mentally. After that, it's just a matter of paperwork.
*
I've lived in cities now for a long time, and I realized how far back in time I travelled by moving to Townsend because of the many trick or treaters out tonight. I would go so far as to say hundreds. The center of town was filled with shifting shadows. Lots of elves. Stormtroopers, unintentionally hilarious. Weird nameless things: neon glowing people in funny hats.
I tried to explain to Dufflebag why an eleven year old going as Freddy Krueger wasn't appropriate. No, not because he is a character in R-rated films, although that should be taken into consideration. But because an eleven year old is too old to look cute and too young to look scary. So they just look odd. Like a human face on a dog's body. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't register.
Speaking of Dufflebag, we spent forty-five minutes working on his exploded eyeball make-up and it was a hit, although it confused a number of people who wanted to know what he was. Since when did you have to be a recognizable entity? I mean, he's a kid with an eyeball hanging out of its socket. Doesn't that seem Halloween enough? Does he then have to have some context. Some back history?
Jess stayed at home watching the house while I did the rounds. One homeowner told Dufflebag, "Why don't you grab an extra piece of candy for your Dad."
"He's not my Dad." he said.
"Oh," she said, surprised.
"He's . . . um . . . " he realized he didn't have a label for me, either.
"I'm his agent," I told her.
And we walked off into the Townsend night.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Anatomy of a Warehouse Joke, Part One
Worker one: Why is that bandage on your wrist?
Worker two: I slipped in the ice and damaged the ligaments.
Worker one: You did it masturbating.
Worker two: I slipped in the ice and damaged the ligaments.
Worker one: You did it masturbating.
Anatomy of Warehouse Joke, Part Two
Worker one: I am tired. I have contracted a virus and would prefer to be home rather than in his unheated warehouse.
Worker two: You are a homosexual.
Worker two: You are a homosexual.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Rhymes with Duck
Billy got a rise out of the guys today by doing an imitation of me as Hulk Hogan. Theoretically, this shouldn't make sense, but it did, and everyone immediately recognized what he was doing. Words can't describe.
*
Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Her computer wasn't surge protected, so my brother and I have been trying to figure out how to replace it after it fried in a storm.
My brother took her out for dinner last night and she talked about the computer all night. Her memory seems vague and she needs to be reminded we were getting her a new one. It's as though she forgets the details, but retains the nameless dread.
My mother has been unemployed now for over a year. Whenever I visit, she is on the couch, covered in blankets, and watching Fox news. I've tried to get her out and involved in the community. I put her in touch with a local minister. She knitted him some soap sacks out of crochet but was having none of the religious stuff. I don't think it's because she does or doesn't believe. I think that church makes her feel lonely. She doesn't want to be the old woman in the back.
I've taken her a few times myself, but training and other matters kept me from being consistent. Plus, she seemed suspicious that the minister would try to hit her up for money. Her skepticism about the whole place was grating. The only real pleasure she seemed to get out of it came from being with me and from watching the kids in the pews color and steal pens out of each other's pockets.
*
Dufflebag had been telling us for a week that he had a costume, but today admitted he didn't or had lost it or didn't like it. Hard to figure out what had happened, but it seemed to me that, as a creative kid, he put something together himself but realized the next day that it wouldn't do. A difficult one, that boy! We decided to go to the costume store, but set some ground-rules, knowing he would opt for some ill-fitting 100 dollar demon mask, which we refuse to buy, prompting tears and pessimismistic statements about the very possibility of ever enjoying Halloween again.
We ended up going for a makeup kit that makes it look like his eye popped out. Poor Jess still had to shell out thirty bucks -- money for the blood gel and latex and glue and glue remover. The good thing is that, unlike a premade mask, he's the type of kid who'll take that latex and blood gell and even the glue and glue remover and fiddle with it and maybe even make short videos. His dad bought him a video camera for Christmas once and he makes frequent use of it. Unfortunately, it is battery run and the batteries run out quickly.
Driving home, Jess asked what we wanted for dinner and I said burgers. "But you have burgers all the time!" Jess.
"But we're men, and we love hamburgers!" I said, letting out a whoop, and putting my hand back for Dufflebag to slap.
*
I cooked a rice dish earlier this week that I put into a tupperware container and brought to work. It was big enough to last all week and was made from chicken, jasmine rice, hominy, white and yellow corn, peppers, brocoli, and spices. I must admit: it was delicious.
Billy tried some and liked it so much he wanted to share it with me. I told I couldn't because it was my lunch for the rest of the week. He asked me how much I would sell it to him for.
"Thirty bucks," I told him.
"Dougie, please."
"Twenty."
To my surprise and doubtless his own, he paid me twenty bucks for the rice.
While out driving, I felt bad, and, when I returned to the warehouse, gave him ten, keeping ten for myself.
Ten for two days worth of delicious, nutritious, home-cooked food seemed fair. A bargain! But twenty was taking advantage of Billy's good nature, combined with his insatiable appetite.
I spent part of my ten on lunch at Taco Bells, making me think, only after I greedily bit into a volcano taco, that I had gotten the raw end of the deal.
"Yeah, we love hamburgers. Girls love veggie burgers, but we love hamburgers."
And agreement was reached. Burgers it was, skillet cooked, and what burgers they were.
*
Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Her computer wasn't surge protected, so my brother and I have been trying to figure out how to replace it after it fried in a storm.
My brother took her out for dinner last night and she talked about the computer all night. Her memory seems vague and she needs to be reminded we were getting her a new one. It's as though she forgets the details, but retains the nameless dread.
My mother has been unemployed now for over a year. Whenever I visit, she is on the couch, covered in blankets, and watching Fox news. I've tried to get her out and involved in the community. I put her in touch with a local minister. She knitted him some soap sacks out of crochet but was having none of the religious stuff. I don't think it's because she does or doesn't believe. I think that church makes her feel lonely. She doesn't want to be the old woman in the back.
I've taken her a few times myself, but training and other matters kept me from being consistent. Plus, she seemed suspicious that the minister would try to hit her up for money. Her skepticism about the whole place was grating. The only real pleasure she seemed to get out of it came from being with me and from watching the kids in the pews color and steal pens out of each other's pockets.
*
Dufflebag had been telling us for a week that he had a costume, but today admitted he didn't or had lost it or didn't like it. Hard to figure out what had happened, but it seemed to me that, as a creative kid, he put something together himself but realized the next day that it wouldn't do. A difficult one, that boy! We decided to go to the costume store, but set some ground-rules, knowing he would opt for some ill-fitting 100 dollar demon mask, which we refuse to buy, prompting tears and pessimismistic statements about the very possibility of ever enjoying Halloween again.
We ended up going for a makeup kit that makes it look like his eye popped out. Poor Jess still had to shell out thirty bucks -- money for the blood gel and latex and glue and glue remover. The good thing is that, unlike a premade mask, he's the type of kid who'll take that latex and blood gell and even the glue and glue remover and fiddle with it and maybe even make short videos. His dad bought him a video camera for Christmas once and he makes frequent use of it. Unfortunately, it is battery run and the batteries run out quickly.
Driving home, Jess asked what we wanted for dinner and I said burgers. "But you have burgers all the time!" Jess.
"But we're men, and we love hamburgers!" I said, letting out a whoop, and putting my hand back for Dufflebag to slap.
*
I cooked a rice dish earlier this week that I put into a tupperware container and brought to work. It was big enough to last all week and was made from chicken, jasmine rice, hominy, white and yellow corn, peppers, brocoli, and spices. I must admit: it was delicious.
Billy tried some and liked it so much he wanted to share it with me. I told I couldn't because it was my lunch for the rest of the week. He asked me how much I would sell it to him for.
"Thirty bucks," I told him.
"Dougie, please."
"Twenty."
To my surprise and doubtless his own, he paid me twenty bucks for the rice.
While out driving, I felt bad, and, when I returned to the warehouse, gave him ten, keeping ten for myself.
Ten for two days worth of delicious, nutritious, home-cooked food seemed fair. A bargain! But twenty was taking advantage of Billy's good nature, combined with his insatiable appetite.
I spent part of my ten on lunch at Taco Bells, making me think, only after I greedily bit into a volcano taco, that I had gotten the raw end of the deal.
"Yeah, we love hamburgers. Girls love veggie burgers, but we love hamburgers."
And agreement was reached. Burgers it was, skillet cooked, and what burgers they were.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Checking the Stars in the Skies
This morning I interviewed at an immigration law firm in Worcester and was impressed by the people there and the overall energy. One of the lawyers got his start in language and literature and then turned to law when he considered the options available for English students. He’s also done some martial arts before, and I felt as though we had a lot in common.
He told me that people who go into law with varied life experiences are often highly marketable. He also told me he went into immigration because being a public defender, his other plan, was too much of a grind. He told me he not only works with software engineers trying to come to this country to work, but victims of abuse and oppressive political regimes. “We are the good lawyers,” he said, smiling, noting that there aren’t many people in his profession who get hugs when the case is closed.
It sounded as though he trying to convince me to join the company. I left feeling convinced. I was one of the first interviewees so they explained it will be another week or two before they make a decision, but noted that they were interested in me.
*
Finding the appropriate clothes for a job interview proved a challenge. I haven’t bought new clothes in years. I was able to hobble together respectable duds from my old professorial garb, although it slightly mismatched and the fit was not ideal.
Most of my clothes are suitable for the warehouse (I realized I was wearing a tee-shirt this week that was given to me, as a gift, in 1995. The shirt is older than Dufflebag!) As some sort of Stalinist-surfer-gym bunny-Bohemian-failed writer type, I don’t even own my jeans, since they are supplied by the warehouse. One of the few perks!
My suit jacket is tight on the shoulders; the pants, if anything, too baggy. I bought my belt in high school and it’s worn at the edges. I bought my blue Oxford two years ago when I was teaching, and it is my nicest, and newest, article of clothing. The tie is slightly too short, as most ties are on me, since it’s hard to find one that fits.
It’s nice to sit here in Barnes and Noble, drinking coffee, and feeling professional, which basically means not being covered in dust. There is a virtue in the dust, of course.
I remember when I first started driving – people sensed my ineptitude behind the wheel and would start snickering and offering advice on how to perform the simplest maneuvers when I got to the job sites. For months now, this hasn’t happened. Then, yesterday, I got the snicker: “sure you don’t want to spin the truck around and back in the other way?” the contractor asked.
But the truck and I have achieved some elevated sense of awareness. “I think I got this one,” I said, and drove it, slowly and deliberately, backwards, up a steep incline coming to rest inches from my goal.
I knew what would be a tricky way to back in would turn into an effortless way to back out. I may not have learned much in the warehouse, but I do know how to drive a truck.
*
As excited as I was about the job interview, I’m going to keep applying for positions. I pulled into the Leominster Barnes and Noble to search the listings, but you can only connect to the internet with a credit card, which I can’t do. I thought it was like a regular Starbucks, where you just need an active Starbucks card, which I have. So I’m writing this in word and drinking coffee. This afternoon I’ll head home to continue the search, narrowing the field to law, education, and interesting odd jobs I can do on the weekends to make some extra bread: acting, freelance writing, and whatever else stumbles on my plate. I also have to get off my ass and assemble the computer and treadmill in our study. Since moving in, the study has become the room where we place anything we haven’t figured out a location for yet. So it’s a kind of chaotic wasteland of dead plants, yoga books, paperwork, and stray chairs. The kittens love it and, and will likely be upset when the order comes.
I’m having a small house-warming/All Soul’s Day party at the new house this Saturday, and it seems as though some old friends might make it out. We also have a tournament that day that our guys have been training hard for.
And speaking of training, I tried rolling last night for a single round at the end of class. My knee bothered me just from that limited training, and I could feel an odd burning sensation when I lay down to sleep, even though the leg wasn’t moving. I’m afraid I have some sort of partial tear – which wouldn’t be uncommon. It seems as though we’re going through a phase where many of our guys are injured. I’m not too worried, just attentive. And I’m trying to be smart by avoiding training and resting it whenever possible.
We are also dealing with the dreaded MRSA. At least two of our training partners have come down with drug-resistant staph. We keep the mats clean, but it’s impossible to protect yourself completely. I have only contracted staph once, and it was a miserable experience. Why couldn’t I have gotten into archery instead! Something that doesn’t wear away at the body and take up massive amounts of personal time.
Oh well. The path is set. Proceed!
He told me that people who go into law with varied life experiences are often highly marketable. He also told me he went into immigration because being a public defender, his other plan, was too much of a grind. He told me he not only works with software engineers trying to come to this country to work, but victims of abuse and oppressive political regimes. “We are the good lawyers,” he said, smiling, noting that there aren’t many people in his profession who get hugs when the case is closed.
It sounded as though he trying to convince me to join the company. I left feeling convinced. I was one of the first interviewees so they explained it will be another week or two before they make a decision, but noted that they were interested in me.
*
Finding the appropriate clothes for a job interview proved a challenge. I haven’t bought new clothes in years. I was able to hobble together respectable duds from my old professorial garb, although it slightly mismatched and the fit was not ideal.
Most of my clothes are suitable for the warehouse (I realized I was wearing a tee-shirt this week that was given to me, as a gift, in 1995. The shirt is older than Dufflebag!) As some sort of Stalinist-surfer-gym bunny-Bohemian-failed writer type, I don’t even own my jeans, since they are supplied by the warehouse. One of the few perks!
My suit jacket is tight on the shoulders; the pants, if anything, too baggy. I bought my belt in high school and it’s worn at the edges. I bought my blue Oxford two years ago when I was teaching, and it is my nicest, and newest, article of clothing. The tie is slightly too short, as most ties are on me, since it’s hard to find one that fits.
It’s nice to sit here in Barnes and Noble, drinking coffee, and feeling professional, which basically means not being covered in dust. There is a virtue in the dust, of course.
I remember when I first started driving – people sensed my ineptitude behind the wheel and would start snickering and offering advice on how to perform the simplest maneuvers when I got to the job sites. For months now, this hasn’t happened. Then, yesterday, I got the snicker: “sure you don’t want to spin the truck around and back in the other way?” the contractor asked.
But the truck and I have achieved some elevated sense of awareness. “I think I got this one,” I said, and drove it, slowly and deliberately, backwards, up a steep incline coming to rest inches from my goal.
I knew what would be a tricky way to back in would turn into an effortless way to back out. I may not have learned much in the warehouse, but I do know how to drive a truck.
*
As excited as I was about the job interview, I’m going to keep applying for positions. I pulled into the Leominster Barnes and Noble to search the listings, but you can only connect to the internet with a credit card, which I can’t do. I thought it was like a regular Starbucks, where you just need an active Starbucks card, which I have. So I’m writing this in word and drinking coffee. This afternoon I’ll head home to continue the search, narrowing the field to law, education, and interesting odd jobs I can do on the weekends to make some extra bread: acting, freelance writing, and whatever else stumbles on my plate. I also have to get off my ass and assemble the computer and treadmill in our study. Since moving in, the study has become the room where we place anything we haven’t figured out a location for yet. So it’s a kind of chaotic wasteland of dead plants, yoga books, paperwork, and stray chairs. The kittens love it and, and will likely be upset when the order comes.
I’m having a small house-warming/All Soul’s Day party at the new house this Saturday, and it seems as though some old friends might make it out. We also have a tournament that day that our guys have been training hard for.
And speaking of training, I tried rolling last night for a single round at the end of class. My knee bothered me just from that limited training, and I could feel an odd burning sensation when I lay down to sleep, even though the leg wasn’t moving. I’m afraid I have some sort of partial tear – which wouldn’t be uncommon. It seems as though we’re going through a phase where many of our guys are injured. I’m not too worried, just attentive. And I’m trying to be smart by avoiding training and resting it whenever possible.
We are also dealing with the dreaded MRSA. At least two of our training partners have come down with drug-resistant staph. We keep the mats clean, but it’s impossible to protect yourself completely. I have only contracted staph once, and it was a miserable experience. Why couldn’t I have gotten into archery instead! Something that doesn’t wear away at the body and take up massive amounts of personal time.
Oh well. The path is set. Proceed!
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Sad Parade
Slappy the Chihuahua woke me up two nights ago, crying at the door. And, as in some existential Beckett directed Buster Keaton nightmare film, as soon as I opened it she ran in with the cats and they all scattered. This was at five in the morning. I would herd one cat out, then the dog, and then they would be run back in as I managed to get the third beast out the door.
I finally got them all out and yelled at them.
Miraculously, Jess didn't wake up.
The next morning I told her what happened and Jess, who, like myself, can make herself laugh at her own jokes, started imaging outloud how the three went back downstairs in single file. "The sad parade!" she said before bursting into teary laughter.
*
I found out today that an old training partner of mine had a heart attack while working out. Fortunately, he recovered, but it reminded me of David, and of mortality, and of how precarious the whole enterprise can be at times: training, living, the lot.
Right now I've been dealing with a knee injury for almost a year that doesn't seem to heal. At the very least, it's made me give up hope of competing. At most, at times, I wonder how much more time I have in me. Such thoughts only come in my darker moments. But it's something I have to face.
*
Big Bill admited to getting choked up, thinking of me leaving the warehouse. We make life bearable for each other. In what might otherwise be a bleak world, we joke around and provide perspective and motivation to see the day out.
He told me that he was thinking of this as he drove home and, unexpectedly, Sinatra came on the radio to sing "My Way."
"And Dougie," the 280 lb. bruiser admitted, "I started crying like a baby."
I finally got them all out and yelled at them.
Miraculously, Jess didn't wake up.
The next morning I told her what happened and Jess, who, like myself, can make herself laugh at her own jokes, started imaging outloud how the three went back downstairs in single file. "The sad parade!" she said before bursting into teary laughter.
*
I found out today that an old training partner of mine had a heart attack while working out. Fortunately, he recovered, but it reminded me of David, and of mortality, and of how precarious the whole enterprise can be at times: training, living, the lot.
Right now I've been dealing with a knee injury for almost a year that doesn't seem to heal. At the very least, it's made me give up hope of competing. At most, at times, I wonder how much more time I have in me. Such thoughts only come in my darker moments. But it's something I have to face.
*
Big Bill admited to getting choked up, thinking of me leaving the warehouse. We make life bearable for each other. In what might otherwise be a bleak world, we joke around and provide perspective and motivation to see the day out.
He told me that he was thinking of this as he drove home and, unexpectedly, Sinatra came on the radio to sing "My Way."
"And Dougie," the 280 lb. bruiser admitted, "I started crying like a baby."
Sunday, October 26, 2008
alonetime
I read today that the ipod will go the way of the record player.
I don't like to say dinosaur, as it appears that dinosaurs didn't disappear as the result of some inherent inability to adapt, but because of accidental calamity.
They are going the way of the record player because of something called the Cloud. It's too distracting to capitalize it as such, so we'll call it "the cloud" and you'll have to take my meaning.
The cloud involves the notion that some complete and total archive will, at some point, be accessible for a monthly fee. With some ipod-like device, you'll be able to call forth any song at any point and, probably, 100 suggestions of others songs you might like if that one moves you.
I read this as I continued to rip cds onto my computer, building a substantial library that will, if past history is used as evidence, evaporate in seconds when this laptop fails it's humble driver. Not driver. That's a bad word, since it's used elsewhere in computers. What am I? Typer? Surfer? Wayfinder? Wanderer?
Whatever happens, it's been nice to reacquaint myself with the dustier sections of my cd collection, and to see how they drifted into recognizable patterns. I just got through ripping a few Beatles cds, followed by Springsteen's Nebraska, followed by the Jerry Lee Lewis boxed set.
I can, at best, describe the effect of listening to my cds on random in terms of a good Quentin Tarantino soundtrack. I know he isn't the hippest lad on the block anymore, but he also opened up the pleasures of incongruity as they relate to life experience, so that it all now makes sense, on an unseasonably warm day in October, to watch the kittens attack each other while hearing Pussy Galore, then Entombed, then the coffee cantata by Bach, followed by Laura Nyro, and ending up with a near orgasmic, as if it was all planned, cut from Band on the Run. And the cats, they do play.
*
Jess and I walked to the Main Street Cafe in Townsend where the ever friendly, slightly bumbling, Cambodian proprietor, took our orders and told us why his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. I would like to think the film popped into his mind because of a certain air of innocent romance about us.
Our talked revolved around, as it often does these days, job seeking. Jess told me that her concern about a law career was the added loans.
A few hours later, Mikey and George came over to train in the attic and we ended on the same subject, with Mikey repeating the same concerns. Mikey came down strong for the position that I'm sort of natural teacher and should pursue high school ed. I listened.
As for the attic, it deserves its own mention.
Our new home is small, and has poetry. The angles are curious. It was built in the 1780's and was famous, in the past decade or so, for the owners spectacular Halloween decorations. We've been warned that people may show up to see this year, although they've made efforts to let everyone know that the display was bought and moved to nearby Groton.
Since it is small, and since we had to negotiate for space, I ended up with the attic. The stairs are broken, so you need a ladder to get up there, but it is a sort of guy's paradise, with wooden walls jutting with rusty nails, a medicine ball, various pulleys and bands, and a ten foot square jiu-jitsu mat. To my eyes, it looks like a primitive Japanese dojo, and its austerity gives me no end of pleasure. I even set up a Zen meditation cushion which I have used once and now seems to be the place where people drop their gym bags. But it's still nice to know I can disappear there if the fancy strikes me.
The attic has the curious feature of retaining heat, so that even on cold nights, it's possible to work out there in comfort. I suppose the summer will be less hospitable. But good for certain types of yoga.
Currently, it is lit only by a worklamp I bought at Home Depot for five dollars.
*
Dufflebag normally goes with his father every other Saturday through Sunday. This week, Jess made the case that Friday night was better and the offer was accepted, so that we actually had a whole day of rare alone time yesterday. We were able to spend the day resting at our will, watching horror movies, and lounging around.
We are so busy with teaching and work and training and kids and family that alone time is rare.
I wouldn't say we squandered it with napping. We were both so tired.
But there is a certain deep sleep that comes on Saturday afternoons, in someone else's soft arms, that trumps a long list of other pleasures.
*
Since writing, I've moved from cds that seemed related to one another to a section that seems random: Motorhead, Jonathan Richmond, Rapeman, Soca music, and the Chieftains, all back to back. The soundtrack!
Jess is upstairs, likely sleeping soundly, and that's where I should be. But I'm on a roll with the ripping, and wanted to share some words before bed.
Another sip of wine. Welcome back, everyone.
I don't like to say dinosaur, as it appears that dinosaurs didn't disappear as the result of some inherent inability to adapt, but because of accidental calamity.
They are going the way of the record player because of something called the Cloud. It's too distracting to capitalize it as such, so we'll call it "the cloud" and you'll have to take my meaning.
The cloud involves the notion that some complete and total archive will, at some point, be accessible for a monthly fee. With some ipod-like device, you'll be able to call forth any song at any point and, probably, 100 suggestions of others songs you might like if that one moves you.
I read this as I continued to rip cds onto my computer, building a substantial library that will, if past history is used as evidence, evaporate in seconds when this laptop fails it's humble driver. Not driver. That's a bad word, since it's used elsewhere in computers. What am I? Typer? Surfer? Wayfinder? Wanderer?
Whatever happens, it's been nice to reacquaint myself with the dustier sections of my cd collection, and to see how they drifted into recognizable patterns. I just got through ripping a few Beatles cds, followed by Springsteen's Nebraska, followed by the Jerry Lee Lewis boxed set.
I can, at best, describe the effect of listening to my cds on random in terms of a good Quentin Tarantino soundtrack. I know he isn't the hippest lad on the block anymore, but he also opened up the pleasures of incongruity as they relate to life experience, so that it all now makes sense, on an unseasonably warm day in October, to watch the kittens attack each other while hearing Pussy Galore, then Entombed, then the coffee cantata by Bach, followed by Laura Nyro, and ending up with a near orgasmic, as if it was all planned, cut from Band on the Run. And the cats, they do play.
*
Jess and I walked to the Main Street Cafe in Townsend where the ever friendly, slightly bumbling, Cambodian proprietor, took our orders and told us why his favorite film was When Harry Met Sally. I would like to think the film popped into his mind because of a certain air of innocent romance about us.
Our talked revolved around, as it often does these days, job seeking. Jess told me that her concern about a law career was the added loans.
A few hours later, Mikey and George came over to train in the attic and we ended on the same subject, with Mikey repeating the same concerns. Mikey came down strong for the position that I'm sort of natural teacher and should pursue high school ed. I listened.
As for the attic, it deserves its own mention.
Our new home is small, and has poetry. The angles are curious. It was built in the 1780's and was famous, in the past decade or so, for the owners spectacular Halloween decorations. We've been warned that people may show up to see this year, although they've made efforts to let everyone know that the display was bought and moved to nearby Groton.
Since it is small, and since we had to negotiate for space, I ended up with the attic. The stairs are broken, so you need a ladder to get up there, but it is a sort of guy's paradise, with wooden walls jutting with rusty nails, a medicine ball, various pulleys and bands, and a ten foot square jiu-jitsu mat. To my eyes, it looks like a primitive Japanese dojo, and its austerity gives me no end of pleasure. I even set up a Zen meditation cushion which I have used once and now seems to be the place where people drop their gym bags. But it's still nice to know I can disappear there if the fancy strikes me.
The attic has the curious feature of retaining heat, so that even on cold nights, it's possible to work out there in comfort. I suppose the summer will be less hospitable. But good for certain types of yoga.
Currently, it is lit only by a worklamp I bought at Home Depot for five dollars.
*
Dufflebag normally goes with his father every other Saturday through Sunday. This week, Jess made the case that Friday night was better and the offer was accepted, so that we actually had a whole day of rare alone time yesterday. We were able to spend the day resting at our will, watching horror movies, and lounging around.
We are so busy with teaching and work and training and kids and family that alone time is rare.
I wouldn't say we squandered it with napping. We were both so tired.
But there is a certain deep sleep that comes on Saturday afternoons, in someone else's soft arms, that trumps a long list of other pleasures.
*
Since writing, I've moved from cds that seemed related to one another to a section that seems random: Motorhead, Jonathan Richmond, Rapeman, Soca music, and the Chieftains, all back to back. The soundtrack!
Jess is upstairs, likely sleeping soundly, and that's where I should be. But I'm on a roll with the ripping, and wanted to share some words before bed.
Another sip of wine. Welcome back, everyone.
Rainsounds
I've slept well recently, but the damn dog woke me up.
We're trying to keep her out of the bed because, as she's gotten older, she's started pissing in an ever increasing number of places, and the bed is one of them. When we woke up this morning, we found she had left a frothy stain on the comforter that went all the way down to the mattress.
*
I missed both a UFC and a friend's fight tonight. Mostly this was for financial reasons, but it also gave J and me a night to ourselves. Since moving to our new home, we haven't had a single night alone, just to relax. We've both been so busy that we still went to bed early.
In general, I'm moving away from jiu-jitsu. I wanted to make at least a part-time career out of it, but I had some major disappointments this year when I was forced to the practical reality of making a clean dollar in that world. Training so much, at my age, means both constantly being injured in small ways and giving up nights.
Jess was getting tired of being alone night after night -- we're both early risers so that by the time I get home, she was already asleep.
I had invested myself so much in training that other aspects of my life suffered, particularly work, where I've continued to get paid very little at the warehouse. I have yet to solve the riddle of a career for myself.
Reordering that part of me involves reordering a sense of who I am, and it's not easy. No one can deny that the life of a lawyer, or a warehouse worker, or of a teacher, or of a writer, are all of a different order. By freeing up time, I also wanted to lubricate the wheel of fate a little, because it appeared that I was stuck.
*
When I wrote on the farm, I was able to get away with a near total honesty. When I returned to Massachusetts, I couldn't do that anymore. This seemed hard for people to understand when I explained it to them, but I suppose it's because most people don't understand the nature of trying to write openly in that manner. They also might have been goading me into giving them the dirty. Fat chance, suckas.
There remain arenas where I can be open. I haven't told anyone at the bjj school I'm writing again, so I have leeway there. The guys in the warehouse are computer illiterate and probably illiterate in the classic sense as well, at least to some degree. So there's dirt to be found.
I didn't tell J at first about this because I wanted to generate some energy but she saw me reading an email from Howard and caught the line about me blogging again. I don't think she's read it yet, but that's because we were busy today buying shower heads and batteries and other odds and ends.
I managed to increase my own prospects today by buying a reading lamp at Big Lots. Up until now, I had to change places with J if I wanted to get reading done at night, since the lamp was on her side. Fortunately, she is a deep sleeper, and is quietly lying next to me now as I write.
*
It's good that my biggest problem is not having enough time: not enough time to write, to train, to be with J, to read, to drink coffee. I like this hunger, or this feeling that despite whatever has happened, I'm still in a position where I would be happy with a few more hours a day.
We're trying to keep her out of the bed because, as she's gotten older, she's started pissing in an ever increasing number of places, and the bed is one of them. When we woke up this morning, we found she had left a frothy stain on the comforter that went all the way down to the mattress.
*
I missed both a UFC and a friend's fight tonight. Mostly this was for financial reasons, but it also gave J and me a night to ourselves. Since moving to our new home, we haven't had a single night alone, just to relax. We've both been so busy that we still went to bed early.
In general, I'm moving away from jiu-jitsu. I wanted to make at least a part-time career out of it, but I had some major disappointments this year when I was forced to the practical reality of making a clean dollar in that world. Training so much, at my age, means both constantly being injured in small ways and giving up nights.
Jess was getting tired of being alone night after night -- we're both early risers so that by the time I get home, she was already asleep.
I had invested myself so much in training that other aspects of my life suffered, particularly work, where I've continued to get paid very little at the warehouse. I have yet to solve the riddle of a career for myself.
Reordering that part of me involves reordering a sense of who I am, and it's not easy. No one can deny that the life of a lawyer, or a warehouse worker, or of a teacher, or of a writer, are all of a different order. By freeing up time, I also wanted to lubricate the wheel of fate a little, because it appeared that I was stuck.
*
When I wrote on the farm, I was able to get away with a near total honesty. When I returned to Massachusetts, I couldn't do that anymore. This seemed hard for people to understand when I explained it to them, but I suppose it's because most people don't understand the nature of trying to write openly in that manner. They also might have been goading me into giving them the dirty. Fat chance, suckas.
There remain arenas where I can be open. I haven't told anyone at the bjj school I'm writing again, so I have leeway there. The guys in the warehouse are computer illiterate and probably illiterate in the classic sense as well, at least to some degree. So there's dirt to be found.
I didn't tell J at first about this because I wanted to generate some energy but she saw me reading an email from Howard and caught the line about me blogging again. I don't think she's read it yet, but that's because we were busy today buying shower heads and batteries and other odds and ends.
I managed to increase my own prospects today by buying a reading lamp at Big Lots. Up until now, I had to change places with J if I wanted to get reading done at night, since the lamp was on her side. Fortunately, she is a deep sleeper, and is quietly lying next to me now as I write.
*
It's good that my biggest problem is not having enough time: not enough time to write, to train, to be with J, to read, to drink coffee. I like this hunger, or this feeling that despite whatever has happened, I'm still in a position where I would be happy with a few more hours a day.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Pleasures of the Day
It's cold in Townsend, and beautiful.I'm just getting used to the neighborhood, having moved here just three weeks ago. I am alone -- J brought her son out to visit his Dad for the weekend. I was going to call the son I, but I figured that would confuse I with I, so I'll call him Dufflebag.
Dufflebag's primary occupations are horror movie trailers and energy drinks. The former advertise films he is not allowed to see and the latter are treats he cannot have. He is a good kid. I had never dated anyone with a child for any period of time, and I didn't know how we'd get along. I figured that if I was a kid, I wouldn't have liked some dude my Mom dated who moved in weeks later. Fortunately for us, Dufflebag has a brighter soul than mine and we get along more than fine.
The other day someone asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said he wanted to be a jiu-jitsu teacher. Run away, Dufflebag! Run away from the mafiosa politics and would-be cultish authority figures! Run away from that odd confusion between character and hobby. Geez. Does any other hobby take so much time and dedication to achieve such meager goals? Consider and beware.
I find the notion of someone finding me a rolemodel strange, since I tend to think of myself as a failure in multiple enterprises. I am, however, good with animals and they like to sit on my belly. I suppose that counts for someone.
*
Pleasures being an odd word, since the day was ostensible bleak and cold. Weatherwise, newswise.
Linen n things went bankrupt. Circuit City might. The layoffs are finally hitting the HVAC industry and two people came into the warehouse today asking the Boss for hints about where to apply. I saw about five accidents on the road today, an unusually high number. Enough to give the near winter a barren, Mad Maxish atmosphere. Since I drive a big, beat-up truck, I feel safe, if not invulnerable. If something went terribly wrong, I have the feeling that I'd be one to survive. Maybe that's something else I'm good at: generating the necessary optimism.
For the first time, the owners cancelled the annual Christmas Party. We arranged to have our own private party at a local strip club. I'll go to the Chinese restaurant for cocktails before, but I won't go to a strip club, and not for any other reason than that I really would rather spend a cold night in December alone with J and Dufflebag.
There was no sausage incident today. It was payday, and I indulged in a sub called a Northender. In NYC, it would have been good. It did have prosciutto, but also something that seemed like bologna. The lettuce was white, although not wilted. I could tell from the long lines that the place was a local favorite, thus favored and digestible. Favored status on the road comes from any place not run just for merest profit. These days, the profit driven places -- the ones that serve bland but passing food, are generally staffed by Brazilians. This is a stereotype that I came to through over a year of observation, so I'm sticking to it.
The great moment of the day came when I passed a one-day truck sale in Burlington. I bought a few hiking headlamps and a laser leveller for twenty bucks. More than fair.
*
J asked me if I wanted anything while she was out. I told her I wanted pomegranite juice and jalapeno jelly to mix with vodka. She looked at me for a second, wondering if I was joking, but she knows me enough now. "Where the hell am I going to buy jalapeno jelly?!" she asked, throwing up her hands and rolling her eyes.
I haven't had a drink all week. As I mentioned below, I only had seven bucks in my pocket. So a bottle of vodka comes with payday.
I told Billy and we talked at length about how being drunk makes music sound good. We began to drool, showing the sort of greed for bombed tunage like some old codger shivering as a nubile passed him by, smiling.
I'm not drunk yet. Still, the music sounds good.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Like Rabelais . . .
I enjoy lists of things, particularly those involving aesthetic pleasure.
My old computer crashed and all the music tracks disappeared into the othernet.
Because of a knee and back injury, and my desire to spend more time with J and I, I haven't been training as much at night and I have time both to write this and to start ripping cds.
This is what I've done so far, in order:
- Robert Pollard, "From a Compound Eye. . ."
- The National, "Alligator"
- Sonic Youth, "Rather Ripped"
- Roky Erickson, "The Evil One"
- Al Jolson, "The Essential Recordings"
- Ella Fitzgerald, "Songs from the Songbook, Disc. 3"
- Rev. Gary Davis, "Blues and Ragtime"
- The Beatles, "Help!"
- Jamie T, "Panic Prevention"
- Burzum, "Aske"
- Metallica, "Ride the Lightning"
- Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, "Qawalli"
- Radiohead, "Airbag . . ."
- Tortoise, "Millions Now Living Will Never Die"
- Jelly Roll Morton, "Volume One"
- Leonard Cohen, "Songs from a Room"
- Mahler, "Symphony No. 1"
- Germs, "GI"
- Kraftwerk, "The Model: Retrospective"
perhaps no laptop is complete without Kraftwerk, so I'll leave it there for now.
Grip Hypnotizer
I'm just getting used to this again. Give me time. Patience!
I sent off a resume to a law firm in Leominster and got an email back requesting that I call the office to set up an appointment. I set the alarm on my phone so it would go off exactly at nine this morning to remind me to call. A regular early bird. I get up for work at five-thirty, and this gives me considerable advantage over my previous, late riser self.
Right now I'm listening to some cds Anton burned for me two years ago. I've had so little access to the sort of time that lends itself to listening to music. The radio in the worktruck isn't great, so I mostly listen to NPR and audio cds. I think of my older self, the musical self, in the same way I think of the boy who once had to take a cold October bus to school.
During my drives, I manipulate a lump of green silicon that I bought at EMS. It is supposed to develop grip strength, but it has the added benefit of keeping me amused. The silicon material seems to melt when you squeeze softly, allowing me constant variation in the feeling of the thing. I time it out: ten squeezes one hand, ten the other. Back and forth, sometimes letting my mind drift so much that I wonder for how many miles I'd been kneading the lump from lump to snake to ring back to lump.
*
I called a man about a job posted on craigslist for a radio dj. He sounded old and told me that he had been getting such calls all day and that his name was George. He told me that he thought the radio station had shut down some time ago. It sounded as though he wanted someone to talk to, so I indulged him, and he talked to me about Quincy, the town in which he lived.
*
My pitch would have been for a comedy show with Big Bill. I work with Big Bill and some of you remember and, by now, some of you have met him. His is gruff and strong and bald. He used to have red hair. He works twelve hour days and is always broke, a classic working stiff who can never get ahead despite his life's obvious humble state.
I told Bill about it and it seemed to ignite his imagination. He said we should send a guy out in the street to play a variation on a warehouse game called "pockets." In pockets, you bank on having more money than your opponent, because whoever has more cash in his pockets gets the other's, assuming they decided to play along. No one ever does, but we threaten to. I doubt anyone would have as much cash as Billy. Because of bad credit and money management skills, he doesn't have a bank account and cashes all checks immediately. Thus, he often ends the week with a roll of hundreds in his pocket.
After making a car and insurance payment last week and buying beer and wings for the fight, I was left with seven dollars to last me the entire week. By tonight, I still had six left, which went into the gas tank because it was getting low. I spent a dollar on coffee yesterday.
To survive on nothing, or next to it, I made rice and tuna every night for the next day's lunch. Each morning I woke up early so I could fry some eggs for a sandwich. I bought a sixteen ounce roll of spicy Jimmy Dean sausage, too.
This morning I was so rushed that the sandwich tumbled out of my hands as I was trying to open the door. This meant I wouldn't have breakfast. J saw this and told me later she almost cried for me, because she knew what it meant.
*
Instead of eating, I thought about food, and remember an ambling internal conversation as I drove. Since I spend much of my day driving, it allows me to indulge in amounts of self-absorption that most would consider excessive. But it's better than loading pipe off a steel pallet.
I thought about what constitutes sausage. When I was younger, I figured it was the shape, but the shape is only caused by the casing. Jimmy Dean sausage is formed into burger-shaped rounds. But steak stuffed into a sausage casing would be some type of beef sausage, no? Perhaps it's better not to think of such things when the sun has yet to rise and you're looking at a long, hungry morning.
I sent off a resume to a law firm in Leominster and got an email back requesting that I call the office to set up an appointment. I set the alarm on my phone so it would go off exactly at nine this morning to remind me to call. A regular early bird. I get up for work at five-thirty, and this gives me considerable advantage over my previous, late riser self.
Right now I'm listening to some cds Anton burned for me two years ago. I've had so little access to the sort of time that lends itself to listening to music. The radio in the worktruck isn't great, so I mostly listen to NPR and audio cds. I think of my older self, the musical self, in the same way I think of the boy who once had to take a cold October bus to school.
During my drives, I manipulate a lump of green silicon that I bought at EMS. It is supposed to develop grip strength, but it has the added benefit of keeping me amused. The silicon material seems to melt when you squeeze softly, allowing me constant variation in the feeling of the thing. I time it out: ten squeezes one hand, ten the other. Back and forth, sometimes letting my mind drift so much that I wonder for how many miles I'd been kneading the lump from lump to snake to ring back to lump.
*
I called a man about a job posted on craigslist for a radio dj. He sounded old and told me that he had been getting such calls all day and that his name was George. He told me that he thought the radio station had shut down some time ago. It sounded as though he wanted someone to talk to, so I indulged him, and he talked to me about Quincy, the town in which he lived.
*
My pitch would have been for a comedy show with Big Bill. I work with Big Bill and some of you remember and, by now, some of you have met him. His is gruff and strong and bald. He used to have red hair. He works twelve hour days and is always broke, a classic working stiff who can never get ahead despite his life's obvious humble state.
I told Bill about it and it seemed to ignite his imagination. He said we should send a guy out in the street to play a variation on a warehouse game called "pockets." In pockets, you bank on having more money than your opponent, because whoever has more cash in his pockets gets the other's, assuming they decided to play along. No one ever does, but we threaten to. I doubt anyone would have as much cash as Billy. Because of bad credit and money management skills, he doesn't have a bank account and cashes all checks immediately. Thus, he often ends the week with a roll of hundreds in his pocket.
After making a car and insurance payment last week and buying beer and wings for the fight, I was left with seven dollars to last me the entire week. By tonight, I still had six left, which went into the gas tank because it was getting low. I spent a dollar on coffee yesterday.
To survive on nothing, or next to it, I made rice and tuna every night for the next day's lunch. Each morning I woke up early so I could fry some eggs for a sandwich. I bought a sixteen ounce roll of spicy Jimmy Dean sausage, too.
This morning I was so rushed that the sandwich tumbled out of my hands as I was trying to open the door. This meant I wouldn't have breakfast. J saw this and told me later she almost cried for me, because she knew what it meant.
*
Instead of eating, I thought about food, and remember an ambling internal conversation as I drove. Since I spend much of my day driving, it allows me to indulge in amounts of self-absorption that most would consider excessive. But it's better than loading pipe off a steel pallet.
I thought about what constitutes sausage. When I was younger, I figured it was the shape, but the shape is only caused by the casing. Jimmy Dean sausage is formed into burger-shaped rounds. But steak stuffed into a sausage casing would be some type of beef sausage, no? Perhaps it's better not to think of such things when the sun has yet to rise and you're looking at a long, hungry morning.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
And here we are, spinning
I stopped blogging long ago and for various reasons. It is time to begin again.
Here's the brief overview: I spent years in graduate school only to see my entire academic career collapse over the course of a few weeks because of a mix of factors: poverty, a collapse of will, indifference among those who could have helped and, most importantly, a virus that left me incapacitated for over a month. I thought I was going to die and made plans to commit suicide so that my family wouldn't have to pay for hospital expenses.
Since then, I've worked odd jobs: a gig at a mental institution that drove me to a panic attack, a college writing instruction position that didn't pay enough, and, most importantly, a job at a warehouse where I divide my time between restocking shelves and making small deliveries.
I also teach martial arts at night. It doesn't pay well. I guess you could call it a passion of mine, and it is, but right now I'm at the point where my passion is dimmed by increasing debt and financial problems.
I live with my girlfriend, whom I love, and her eleven year old son, along with a neurotic chihuahua and two kittens.
My dream used to be to be a writer. It is yet another failed venture among many.
Enjoying the lists? Let's see. Well, academia, obviously. Writer. That's been said. Martial arts teacher. For reasons I may or may not get into. What else? I was a musician for years before finally giving up on that, too. It is not an exercise in self-pity to say that I'm a case study in failure. I would even say bad luck, although that doesn't cut it, since I manage to have a good time and have managed to surround myself with good friends. If anything, I consider myself lucky despite the trajectory of failure and decline.
Another list. I write for various reasons. One is to help myself understand. I also enjoy writing as a form of revenge. I like to air grievances. I like to talk about what I'm not supposed to. At this point, I've been silent for a long time, and there's a lot to say, so keep reading and hang on. Dig?
Here's the brief overview: I spent years in graduate school only to see my entire academic career collapse over the course of a few weeks because of a mix of factors: poverty, a collapse of will, indifference among those who could have helped and, most importantly, a virus that left me incapacitated for over a month. I thought I was going to die and made plans to commit suicide so that my family wouldn't have to pay for hospital expenses.
Since then, I've worked odd jobs: a gig at a mental institution that drove me to a panic attack, a college writing instruction position that didn't pay enough, and, most importantly, a job at a warehouse where I divide my time between restocking shelves and making small deliveries.
I also teach martial arts at night. It doesn't pay well. I guess you could call it a passion of mine, and it is, but right now I'm at the point where my passion is dimmed by increasing debt and financial problems.
I live with my girlfriend, whom I love, and her eleven year old son, along with a neurotic chihuahua and two kittens.
My dream used to be to be a writer. It is yet another failed venture among many.
Enjoying the lists? Let's see. Well, academia, obviously. Writer. That's been said. Martial arts teacher. For reasons I may or may not get into. What else? I was a musician for years before finally giving up on that, too. It is not an exercise in self-pity to say that I'm a case study in failure. I would even say bad luck, although that doesn't cut it, since I manage to have a good time and have managed to surround myself with good friends. If anything, I consider myself lucky despite the trajectory of failure and decline.
Another list. I write for various reasons. One is to help myself understand. I also enjoy writing as a form of revenge. I like to air grievances. I like to talk about what I'm not supposed to. At this point, I've been silent for a long time, and there's a lot to say, so keep reading and hang on. Dig?
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