In this new and pleasing locale, it seems that my spirits sink with the sun. The shadow world also shadows my inner light. And I'm not sure what to do about it or how to cope.
Sometimes at night, I hear crying in my sleep. And I wake up to find out it was me. It's kind of odd that in this place that represents a very clear indicator of creation and beauty-two things that I'm high on-I can sink low simply because of the sun's setting. It's as if I'm a child, playing peek-a-boo, and believing that when I can't see others, they can't see me, or in this case, that when I can't see the world, it ceases to exist. It feels like I'm in a barren, arctic, moonscape when I hear the wind howl and my mind tells me I'm cold. Without the illusion of familiarity, even that familiarity that is destructive, I am alien.
Among the last of my family, up here in Washington it becomes clearer that this is the last of my family. I have no cell phone that functions, so I feel cut off from the world I know. When I reach out to those voices that are so familiar and comforting, I feel only a vacuum. No one here understands or appreciates my jokes and I even find my own sense of humor waning. It is cold. I can hear the wind.
But with the sun comes renewal. A new day is a new life. My life is meted out one day at a time. Indeed, my life is measured with each breath. Those breaths in the stillness of a peaceful day are like nirvana. I understand Schopenhaur and his aesthetic contemplation in these breaths. When I see this native land across the waters of the sound, I am quite free of will.
The moment, in these moments, simply is. It isn't as if I want to eat the land, or roll around in it, or even take a picture. On some instinctive level, I know that there really isn't anything I can do to enhance the experience. It isn't like some drug or spirit, where a little more has more effect. It is, in itself, the effect. And it is sublime.
But then the punchline of the cruel joke is delivered at dusk. Seriously, I don't know if it's because I'm out of contact with the world I thought I knew, or because I don't yet know the world I should, or the winter depression you hear about in Moscow and other northerly points. I am becoming aware, though, of the erosion of what I thought was an indestructible optimism and permanently jovial attitude. I am becoming like the water that swells and troughs with the wind.
But I am confident and even sure that this will help me. That this will further hone a character and spirit that perseveres despite itself. And one other thing, I need to get my hands on a piano. Stat!
PS-This is just how I feel right now. If any of you doubt that I'm down to get weak or that I still keep it po flo, mix in an email since you can't call me and I'll dominate whatever it is we're doing. But seriously, the psyche is in the repair shop at this moment. Maybe I need a drink or something. Or a fucking heater!
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
From Padawan to Jedi
Up here in Washington, there is a lot going on and much to talk about. I'm sure I'll put my memory to use and talk about some of it here in the days to come. I need to take some pictures. Or at least paint a picture with words about this place. The kids need some attention too. I could cover the food fight we were having at the table the other night. I'm sure I'll get to the mental meltdown I had the other night listening to christmas music. Right now I gotta talk about Shelli, mother of the year.
When I was younger, she baby sat me. And even then she was very domestic and tidy. She went through the rigorous training of my mom giving her the assignment for the day. Mom was like Mr Miyagi, just giving unreasonable jobs for the young learner to do-as training for the years ahead. As it turns out, my mom was pretty particular about how to get stuff clean. For example, she had Shelli clean the windows with razor blades on the parts where windex wouldn't cut it. And that was just the start.
It seems that the table was being set for a domestic super force mega vortex of cleanliness and motherhood back in the late 80's and early nineties. She has now reached the unstoppable black hole event horizon where no mess can escape. It's funny that she was influenced by my mom in so many ways, but the household here is so much different than the one I grew up in. It's as if the old adage of do what I say, not what I do actually worked.
I think a good example of her domesticity was yesterday, when her dad was like, "this is the type of weather for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup". He said this to me in a kind of wistful, and off handed way, like, it'd be sweet if Oakland won the superbowl. Welp, six minutes later, 7 of the cheesiest, golden brown grilled cheese sandwiches were whipped up with tomato soup. Unbelievable. At least it was to me.
She is a force. She gets it done. She is Shell-tonia. And she wins. Her training is complete and she is now a domestic Jedi. She wills soup and sandwiches to being... Impressive. Most impressive.
When I was younger, she baby sat me. And even then she was very domestic and tidy. She went through the rigorous training of my mom giving her the assignment for the day. Mom was like Mr Miyagi, just giving unreasonable jobs for the young learner to do-as training for the years ahead. As it turns out, my mom was pretty particular about how to get stuff clean. For example, she had Shelli clean the windows with razor blades on the parts where windex wouldn't cut it. And that was just the start.
It seems that the table was being set for a domestic super force mega vortex of cleanliness and motherhood back in the late 80's and early nineties. She has now reached the unstoppable black hole event horizon where no mess can escape. It's funny that she was influenced by my mom in so many ways, but the household here is so much different than the one I grew up in. It's as if the old adage of do what I say, not what I do actually worked.
I think a good example of her domesticity was yesterday, when her dad was like, "this is the type of weather for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup". He said this to me in a kind of wistful, and off handed way, like, it'd be sweet if Oakland won the superbowl. Welp, six minutes later, 7 of the cheesiest, golden brown grilled cheese sandwiches were whipped up with tomato soup. Unbelievable. At least it was to me.
She is a force. She gets it done. She is Shell-tonia. And she wins. Her training is complete and she is now a domestic Jedi. She wills soup and sandwiches to being... Impressive. Most impressive.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Just when you thought it was safe...
And so it was. Moving through the house I enjoyed a panorama of water sights. Every cardinal point in the house was the resting place of a window to this Pacific north-westerly world. The overcast sky lit the home from every direction and all the while Shelly narrated new promise in this frontier. It occurred to me that we had only just begun to live. It was nearly comical, the feigned disappointment she would speak, with gems like, "I don't know if you like juices or snacks, but we only have snack like foods up here and some juices (she pointed to an over stuffed pantry with every manner of snacks and a branch of the Ocean Spray warehouse with every thirst quenching aid one could conceive of)..." "Oh, and we have steaks and stuff too. I don't know if you like steak." And she'd say it all skeptical, like there was ever a question about whether or not I like steak. Yes Shelly. I think I'll be able to make due.
It felt like the beginning of a horror movie because everything was so perfect. If this were on the silver screen-and rest assured that the town fits any prototype of a happy fishing town-we'd be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she's showing me around and there is happy string music in the background, and then we get to this one house in the neighborhood and she's like, "But you can't go in there, or even look at that house. The Jenkins family was massacred by a crazed shark-man hybrid and his portal to our world exists in their garage." And I'd ask, "well, why don't we just destroy the house and garage?" And she'd be like, "Uh, we really think their stucco guy did an excellent job and we don't want property values to go down. Plus, not having that house there would throw the balance of the street off. So just make sure that you don't look at it when you walk by. Especially if you hear screaming from a little kid who tells you he just needs you to come and untie him from the hot water heater. He got the Smiths like that last March..."
If you can't tell by now, I'm speaking ironically. This place is friggin awesome. When Shelly invited me up here, I made a point to not have any expectations about it and just be glad to have a trip up to see cousin Shell-Bell. It turns out, however, that they have an awesome pad in an awesome area, and most importantly this is an awesome family. Shelly's bona fides are not in question. I've always known her to be overly sweet and my closest relative of my youth. She is totally Po Flow and it would be reasonable to expect her husband and family to be Po Flow as well. And there are really no surprises there. Her old man, Richard is just a cool ass mellow dude. His nature of just being the cool mellow guy compliments mine and Shelly's more extroverted nature well. I'm not sure how long it will take for my exuberance to shift from being a compliment to a liability in his eyes, but for now it's complimentary.
And don't get me started on the kids. And when I say don't get me started on the kids, I mean, 'by all means get me started on the kids'. They are Trevor, Preston, and Kendall in descending ages. Ken-doll is the youngest one at two? He's just a little terror who is always smiling and up to no good. It's hella funny how he'll just flagrantly involve himself in retrieving things from around the house that he shouldn't and bring them to mom with a big ol smile on his face. A Christmas ornament managed to unhook itself from the tree, work it's way into his hands, and from there he walked it to Shelly. She says, "Kendall you know you're not supposed to have glass ornaments...(she says this in a voice completely devoid of any rebuke)". And he just smiles the winningest smile any have likely seen lately, and hands it to her, palm open. It's a gift Shelly! Yay! I've seen the kid scrub a few times and have yet to hear even the beginning of a cry. Just a little man child who mixes it up and smiles a contagious smile that spreads quicker than a rumor. One of the unique things about Ken-doll is that he has the eyes of a man. In and on his face are wisdom, intelligence, and mischief. But his mischief is playful, and the innocence of his young spirit is transparent as the summer water of the sound outside.
The oldest child, Trevor, is somewhat mild mannered and polite. He was the first of Shelly's children that I saw. I knew he was hers before I even registered his face or was told his name. He looks like my cousin in a profound and creepy way. If Shelly dressed as a boy when she was 13 years old, she would look exactly like Trevor. In fact, back when she was thirteen in the eighties, I'm sure she did dress like a boy on a few occasions. And I'm sure she looked just like Trevor.
The last of the kids, but certainly not the least is Billy Preston. His name is just Preston, but I like giving nicknames and I liked Billy Preston so there you go...
Young Preston is just as lovable as his brothers and as polite as any, but has a sweet quirk of going a hundred miles an hour. We could call this borderline ADD, but I prefer fully entrenched awesomeness. The kids saw some of my art with a pen last night and Preston asked me to show him how to do it, or maybe I offered to show him once I saw how much he liked it. Whatever the case, I gave he and Trevor an art lesson, Bob Ross style, where I took them form for form through a little sketch. Preston was super eager and tried to maintain a lead on me, the one who was showing him what to draw. I loved that he was trying to show off and sate his thirst for art with such abandon. It was with the gentlest of urging that I got him to slow down and allow the lesson to proceed.
I love the kids. I love my cousin and her old man. I'm very encouraged by what I see up here. I am restful in what I feel up here. There will be more, for sure. But for now, we are in the first act of this horror/thriller movie, where there are no horrors, but only the thrill of life in this familial paradise.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Tis the season
It looks like it's that time of year again. The Anderson brothers are having their mustache growing contest again, I've noticed that more and more I'm waking up cold, and the mad scramble has begun for me to figure out what I'm going to do with myself for the holidays. And who with.
I use the term 'mad scramble' loosely. What it really is is the holiday coming and going with plans on my part being neither made nor executed. There are living relatives who live in the area, yet they remain elusive in the final quarter of these last few years. If we were honest with each other, it kinda bums me out. It's not a secret to any of my friends that I don't look forward to the holiday season since my parents died. I've managed, however, to keep it in some box that's defined by the absence of my mom and dad. There's actually more to it than that.
But the season isn't here to bum and I'm not here to blog anything bummy. My long lost cousin Shelley invited my up to her pad in Washington state. And I'm off on the 14th. And I'm excited about it. And it's with family. Cousin Shelley was always very sweet and identified with my mom (who's name was Michelle. Michelle, Shelley.). I remember my mom once bleached her upper lip when Shelley was too young, in her mom's mind, to wax. Pointless anecdote, except for the fact that my mom and she had a slightly conspiratorial relationship and mom was creative on her behalf.
Shelley used to baby sit me when I was younger because she used to stay with us. And my mom and dad used to pay her pretty well, or at least it seemed to me to be pretty well. I saw an Aerosmith video as a young kid, and when I say young, I mean like 6 or seven and I was trying to describe who the video was by to her. She guessed Guns and Roses.
For 45 minutes, I thought 'Rag Doll' was by Guns and Roses. Again, it's a pointless anecdote, but these and other things are the beautiful impressions I have of a loving family member in my oh so happy youth. It reminds me of my parents to talk to Shelley again. I hope that during my visit, I'll not only have fond memories of the past, but a lovely time meeting her new family and getting closer to the woman she has become. And it's likely that my future self will be influenced positively by her present self the way my present self was influenced positively by her past self. You can't step into the same river twice.
Oh, and this morning I'm helping yet another one cheat on her term paper for college. Her identity will remain in confidence, but I'll let slip that she's angelic, an overachiever (maybe her eternal self will influence my temporal being to yada yada yada...), and she just whipped up chorizo and eggs for me so I'll be heading over to the pawn shop pretty soon to get her a nice ring. She may be slightly coy, but everyone on the west coast knows that chorizo is the way to my heart.
I use the term 'mad scramble' loosely. What it really is is the holiday coming and going with plans on my part being neither made nor executed. There are living relatives who live in the area, yet they remain elusive in the final quarter of these last few years. If we were honest with each other, it kinda bums me out. It's not a secret to any of my friends that I don't look forward to the holiday season since my parents died. I've managed, however, to keep it in some box that's defined by the absence of my mom and dad. There's actually more to it than that.
But the season isn't here to bum and I'm not here to blog anything bummy. My long lost cousin Shelley invited my up to her pad in Washington state. And I'm off on the 14th. And I'm excited about it. And it's with family. Cousin Shelley was always very sweet and identified with my mom (who's name was Michelle. Michelle, Shelley.). I remember my mom once bleached her upper lip when Shelley was too young, in her mom's mind, to wax. Pointless anecdote, except for the fact that my mom and she had a slightly conspiratorial relationship and mom was creative on her behalf.
Shelley used to baby sit me when I was younger because she used to stay with us. And my mom and dad used to pay her pretty well, or at least it seemed to me to be pretty well. I saw an Aerosmith video as a young kid, and when I say young, I mean like 6 or seven and I was trying to describe who the video was by to her. She guessed Guns and Roses.
For 45 minutes, I thought 'Rag Doll' was by Guns and Roses. Again, it's a pointless anecdote, but these and other things are the beautiful impressions I have of a loving family member in my oh so happy youth. It reminds me of my parents to talk to Shelley again. I hope that during my visit, I'll not only have fond memories of the past, but a lovely time meeting her new family and getting closer to the woman she has become. And it's likely that my future self will be influenced positively by her present self the way my present self was influenced positively by her past self. You can't step into the same river twice.
Oh, and this morning I'm helping yet another one cheat on her term paper for college. Her identity will remain in confidence, but I'll let slip that she's angelic, an overachiever (maybe her eternal self will influence my temporal being to yada yada yada...), and she just whipped up chorizo and eggs for me so I'll be heading over to the pawn shop pretty soon to get her a nice ring. She may be slightly coy, but everyone on the west coast knows that chorizo is the way to my heart.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Bump city
I had an itch. It was my car and it's refusal to play nice. I found out that in addition to the water pump repair, I needed to replace the head gasket. So, for those of you keeping track at home, I've spent about seven hundred dollars on this car that I still owe 800 on, is worth maybe 1500, and is gonna cost another rack to fix (thousand). So, I don't know how you are at math, but in my world, when you add all of that up it equals a trip to Reno and a whole box of bad decisions.
Let's be clear here. By the time I got back to Sac at six am and had sat on the porch for four hours without a wink of sleep and was wide awake, I made a pit stop at the nearest church. I brought a helmet too. Just in case. But let's get to it...
My boy from the eighties, going back like atari and parachute pants, was like "hey Watts, let's roll to Reno. On me." I was like I'll go, but I'm about to be on Reno. Now, this decision wasn't made with the same haste it sounds like. It percolated for a good couple minutes before I said screw it. And naturally an idea formed. Ten bucks on ten games. 850 to 1 odds. 8,500 dollars. Duh. Ya, well it didn't quite work out that way.
We hit the road and stopped for party favors. You know, hats and whistles and stuff. Then we had an energetic trip to Reno. About half way up the mountain, I was somewhat overcome. I saw the trees passing by on the side of the road in a blur against the lazy progress of the farther mountains. And this against the seemingly inert sky. I got to thinking about perspective and relative motion. I perceived mockery from the gods, who know so well the optimism of those who go up the hill. From the King, I felt something else. I still felt love. And even this depravity was no surprise.
So I bumped into something and couldn't think straight. It was looking like the bets were gonna have to wait. Walking through the casinos, I felt the anonymity of a thousand glances. Between checking my pulse and surveying, I noticed no one would engage me. I saw the story of these multitudes in quick glances, where a good looking guy would walk with his over weight girl with a pained expression. It was written all over his face. He didn't have to say a word.
And the girl who doesn't fit in with her friends that have seared their conscience to the point of being obstinate. She was worried about abstinence. And it was written all over her face.
The lonely men would bet when the hungry girls watched. Months of Social Security can buy a smile. These marionettes danced on their strings, but their wooden faces were painted on.
In the dark lights of a club, the girls would say hello. Depending on their profession, they would discuss their favorite topics. And their favorite topics revealed their profession. The professionals would ask what you did. They would ask if you were having a good time. They were asking if you could afford to pay for a good time. The others would share their preferences in popular music over drinks and lay backward across the bar. Or they would rest their chin in their hand with a look of concentration normally relegated to math problems, feigning interest in the facade that each character hid behind.
But let me tell you, the facade at the Orchard club was painted by Picasso. Though I resisted their charms outwardly, I found them uh...charming...and nice. A pretty girl who could have been a hundred pounds sat next to me.
She said her name was Harley. I said my name was Jenkins. She laughed and said we were both using aliases. I said something about the irony of being honest about lying about your name. I called her closer. She put her ear next to my mouth. I told her, "Listen Harley, you seem really nice, so I don't want to waste your time. You won't get a dime out of me. But the guy next to you is unhappily married and loaded with cash. And the guy next to him is completely unhinged, so don't push it over there." Welp, she must have the scent down or something, because even though I was completely full of shit in my scouting report, she couldn't have known that and went straight to homicide McGee and talked him out of like three dances. After all, they are professional.
One of them was more persistent. I gave her the run down that I wasn't gonna buy a dance et cetera. She asked if she didn't excite me. She asked this more explicitly than that. I told her good luck. Annie May must have been Dirty Harry or something cause she was feeling lucky. And I was appalled when she grabbed my junk. But if I was honest with myself and everyone else, it did appeal to my more base instincts.
And then one of the gang, who by the way was the class of like 92 Christian Brothers, said he had to go home. He needed a ride. Offered money that it would later turn out was already spent. I said I'd take him home. We got up and I was humming a tune to myself.
I fell in love with like 4 or 5 or 12 or 22 strippers. A good facade indeed.
I bumped into something again and had an energetic ride home. The scene below the red lights haunted me for the ride home. I was repulsed and intrigued. The expressionless expression of this exhibition felt like so many mannequins, advertising their coverings and accepting the implication of emptiness. I even caught Harley, when she wasn't talking to Unhinged, having a faraway look. It was written all over her face.
So I left with my companion. I bumped into something and had an energetic and reflective ride home. And even now I wonder if and when I'll go back.
If you're wondering about the bets, I left before I made the hail mary, but the night before, we lost 2500 because some no talent ass clown on ASU couldn't catch a touchdown pass and it bounced off him and into a defender's hands in the end zone. So, I don't want to talk about it. I didn't place a bet, but I had a ticket for a bill in my hand on it that my buddy gave me. I'll massacre everything.
Let's be clear here. By the time I got back to Sac at six am and had sat on the porch for four hours without a wink of sleep and was wide awake, I made a pit stop at the nearest church. I brought a helmet too. Just in case. But let's get to it...
My boy from the eighties, going back like atari and parachute pants, was like "hey Watts, let's roll to Reno. On me." I was like I'll go, but I'm about to be on Reno. Now, this decision wasn't made with the same haste it sounds like. It percolated for a good couple minutes before I said screw it. And naturally an idea formed. Ten bucks on ten games. 850 to 1 odds. 8,500 dollars. Duh. Ya, well it didn't quite work out that way.
We hit the road and stopped for party favors. You know, hats and whistles and stuff. Then we had an energetic trip to Reno. About half way up the mountain, I was somewhat overcome. I saw the trees passing by on the side of the road in a blur against the lazy progress of the farther mountains. And this against the seemingly inert sky. I got to thinking about perspective and relative motion. I perceived mockery from the gods, who know so well the optimism of those who go up the hill. From the King, I felt something else. I still felt love. And even this depravity was no surprise.
So I bumped into something and couldn't think straight. It was looking like the bets were gonna have to wait. Walking through the casinos, I felt the anonymity of a thousand glances. Between checking my pulse and surveying, I noticed no one would engage me. I saw the story of these multitudes in quick glances, where a good looking guy would walk with his over weight girl with a pained expression. It was written all over his face. He didn't have to say a word.
And the girl who doesn't fit in with her friends that have seared their conscience to the point of being obstinate. She was worried about abstinence. And it was written all over her face.
The lonely men would bet when the hungry girls watched. Months of Social Security can buy a smile. These marionettes danced on their strings, but their wooden faces were painted on.
In the dark lights of a club, the girls would say hello. Depending on their profession, they would discuss their favorite topics. And their favorite topics revealed their profession. The professionals would ask what you did. They would ask if you were having a good time. They were asking if you could afford to pay for a good time. The others would share their preferences in popular music over drinks and lay backward across the bar. Or they would rest their chin in their hand with a look of concentration normally relegated to math problems, feigning interest in the facade that each character hid behind.
But let me tell you, the facade at the Orchard club was painted by Picasso. Though I resisted their charms outwardly, I found them uh...charming...and nice. A pretty girl who could have been a hundred pounds sat next to me.
She said her name was Harley. I said my name was Jenkins. She laughed and said we were both using aliases. I said something about the irony of being honest about lying about your name. I called her closer. She put her ear next to my mouth. I told her, "Listen Harley, you seem really nice, so I don't want to waste your time. You won't get a dime out of me. But the guy next to you is unhappily married and loaded with cash. And the guy next to him is completely unhinged, so don't push it over there." Welp, she must have the scent down or something, because even though I was completely full of shit in my scouting report, she couldn't have known that and went straight to homicide McGee and talked him out of like three dances. After all, they are professional.
One of them was more persistent. I gave her the run down that I wasn't gonna buy a dance et cetera. She asked if she didn't excite me. She asked this more explicitly than that. I told her good luck. Annie May must have been Dirty Harry or something cause she was feeling lucky. And I was appalled when she grabbed my junk. But if I was honest with myself and everyone else, it did appeal to my more base instincts.
And then one of the gang, who by the way was the class of like 92 Christian Brothers, said he had to go home. He needed a ride. Offered money that it would later turn out was already spent. I said I'd take him home. We got up and I was humming a tune to myself.
I fell in love with like 4 or 5 or 12 or 22 strippers. A good facade indeed.
I bumped into something again and had an energetic ride home. The scene below the red lights haunted me for the ride home. I was repulsed and intrigued. The expressionless expression of this exhibition felt like so many mannequins, advertising their coverings and accepting the implication of emptiness. I even caught Harley, when she wasn't talking to Unhinged, having a faraway look. It was written all over her face.
So I left with my companion. I bumped into something and had an energetic and reflective ride home. And even now I wonder if and when I'll go back.
If you're wondering about the bets, I left before I made the hail mary, but the night before, we lost 2500 because some no talent ass clown on ASU couldn't catch a touchdown pass and it bounced off him and into a defender's hands in the end zone. So, I don't want to talk about it. I didn't place a bet, but I had a ticket for a bill in my hand on it that my buddy gave me. I'll massacre everything.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Allahu Akbar
Ya so my car broke a few weeks ago. We're ofer two with the foreign cars so far. Anyway, I begged, borrowed, and begged some more to get an advance so I could fix the thing. Welp, the ol' mechanic, Elvis, who is Mexican (I know, it's freaking awesome) gave me the good news, "jor car? Eez new wadur pu-ump. Buh joo have a know ther prolem?" Head gasket. Ya. Sweet. I drove it off, with a new water pump because everyone knows I can't pay for a head gasket repair. And it broke down at a mosque in the back hills of Orangevale or something. So...hopefully it won't explode when I go to get it. Or, maybe hopefully it will. My bad, that was insensitive. I'm getting close here. Getting close. Don't push.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I can't even talk about it
No, really. I can't even talk about it. This is some risky business. I kinda thought the freefall situation was situated a little and I'd have to change the name. No chance. The rip chord is just fluttering in my hands and a bunch of pots and pans are falling out of my pack. This is really not recommended by the coalition of good gestures. On a brighter note, I have another movie idea.
Not gonna get too far into it right now, but it involves a methy kinda guy in a trailer park and his life. It's an interesting life. Far more so than creative minds could devise. It's gonna open with a quote, like in a narrative, with the guy saying, "The first time I bought cocaine in public was in Los Angeles, 1988...". Boom! Hooked, and it only gets better from there. I really can't talk about some of the other stuff that's gone on. But really, yikes!
Not gonna get too far into it right now, but it involves a methy kinda guy in a trailer park and his life. It's an interesting life. Far more so than creative minds could devise. It's gonna open with a quote, like in a narrative, with the guy saying, "The first time I bought cocaine in public was in Los Angeles, 1988...". Boom! Hooked, and it only gets better from there. I really can't talk about some of the other stuff that's gone on. But really, yikes!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Mixing it in
Basically, I've neglected the portrait lately and so I'm gonna mix one in. If you've been keeping up, and by keeping up I mean if you read the last post, then you know I have a job. While the job is at this point drastically insufficient in terms of its monetary value, it is possibly the sweetest gig on earth. And when I say the sweetest gig on earth, I mean it's the best job I've had outside of playing baseball. Outside of playing baseball, I've had precisely two jobs in the last ten years. One was working in a warehouse in the armpit of California, Fresno. The other is at Image Health in Roseville California. For any who are even remotely familiar with central and northern California geography, a fair comparison of the two jobs is the comparison between the two cities. Fresno, a place that I have openly referred to as the dingleberry of California offered a similarly grand employment opportunity. Roseville may not be Bel Air, but next to Fresno it seems like an all inclusive, paid vacation to a twelve star resort in the Bahamas. Or a cruise around the world on an opulent and eccentric Russian billionaire's Yacht. With the girls included.
Ya, next to Fresno, Roseville is something like that.
And the job is pretty sweet too. Apart from the perks, which include me dropping thirty pounds and building muscle that would have otherwise taken me four to six months and hundreds of dollars worth of supplements to acquire, I work with cool people and at the service of cool clients. If you remember the post, 'A cut above the rest', my employment in Fresno began with me cutting my finger and getting eight stitches. Somehow, it got worse every day after that. I worked with a group of ten that had a collective IQ somewhere in the neighborhood of my bank balance. Did I mention that I'm flat broke? Ya, so the Fresno crowd didn't get jokes. Nor did they crack jokes. And they breathed out of their mouths. The Image Health group are at least in triple digits for the most part and are generally a jovial bunch. And things just keep getting better.
So my boss, Rachelle, who I have openly characterized as some mutant hybrid of Mother Theresa and Demi Moore has welcomed two of her children to town. One of whom is a seventeen year old high school senior named Jacqueline who is very lovely and nice. The other is a fifteen year old named Alex. And this is where things get better. After school, Rachelle drags the yard monsters to work where it would seem that my job (barring any pressing matters that have to do with the business we conduct at Image Health) is to hang with the young man.
This kid is a character. Since my maturity level hovers somewhere in the pre-pubescent range of ten to thirteen, we get along well. Before they came to town, Rachelle related an anecdote to me that pretty much summed up Alex's deal. At a Subway sandwich shop, the kid saw a bearded old freak and asked this guy if he would take young Alex as his padawan learner. That's Star Wars for you commies out there who don't know great American cinema when you see it. It's this kind of smart assedness that makes me feel at home with the youngster.
I don't think he is literally smoking any weed yet, but he has that stoner look to him. And he has the kind of witty disposition that would otherwise make me suspicious of indulgence in the alternative medicine that makes us giddy and hungry. I mentioned to Rachelle that I didn't want to be responsible for corrupting her young son. She told me that it'd be more likely that he would corrupt me. Well then. I might have gone a little too far today when I told him that one of my old room mates tried to pay his rent by pawning off a hooker on me for his rent. Don't worry, I didn't accept those terms and made clear to Alex my opposition to such licentious bartering. I did relay my colorful response, however, and in hindsight it may have been better to edit the response. I mean, the kids are from Utah, where there may be hooking, but I imagine it's the sanitized hooking that can only be found in the most conservative locales. I hope the kid doesn't respond to his first proposition by telling the girl he wouldn't give a squirt of piss for her.
But I digress. It isn't that there is really any tedium at this job at Image Health. But whatever monotony there is is now lessened by the company of my bright eyed and fresh faced friend. He doesn't have red hair, but I think ginger ale may be his new nick name. BTW, we are gonna make a movie about some of the characters we deal with at Image Health. Dancing Dan is for sure gonna be portrayed by Alex with a goatee sharpied in and a generous amount of flour across his face and chest area. We're just thinking in rough terms at this point, but Dancing Dan is gonna be the staple of this piece of art. And maybe I'll get Rondell to come and play Nike. Oh, it's gonna be priceless.
Ya, next to Fresno, Roseville is something like that.
And the job is pretty sweet too. Apart from the perks, which include me dropping thirty pounds and building muscle that would have otherwise taken me four to six months and hundreds of dollars worth of supplements to acquire, I work with cool people and at the service of cool clients. If you remember the post, 'A cut above the rest', my employment in Fresno began with me cutting my finger and getting eight stitches. Somehow, it got worse every day after that. I worked with a group of ten that had a collective IQ somewhere in the neighborhood of my bank balance. Did I mention that I'm flat broke? Ya, so the Fresno crowd didn't get jokes. Nor did they crack jokes. And they breathed out of their mouths. The Image Health group are at least in triple digits for the most part and are generally a jovial bunch. And things just keep getting better.
So my boss, Rachelle, who I have openly characterized as some mutant hybrid of Mother Theresa and Demi Moore has welcomed two of her children to town. One of whom is a seventeen year old high school senior named Jacqueline who is very lovely and nice. The other is a fifteen year old named Alex. And this is where things get better. After school, Rachelle drags the yard monsters to work where it would seem that my job (barring any pressing matters that have to do with the business we conduct at Image Health) is to hang with the young man.
This kid is a character. Since my maturity level hovers somewhere in the pre-pubescent range of ten to thirteen, we get along well. Before they came to town, Rachelle related an anecdote to me that pretty much summed up Alex's deal. At a Subway sandwich shop, the kid saw a bearded old freak and asked this guy if he would take young Alex as his padawan learner. That's Star Wars for you commies out there who don't know great American cinema when you see it. It's this kind of smart assedness that makes me feel at home with the youngster.
I don't think he is literally smoking any weed yet, but he has that stoner look to him. And he has the kind of witty disposition that would otherwise make me suspicious of indulgence in the alternative medicine that makes us giddy and hungry. I mentioned to Rachelle that I didn't want to be responsible for corrupting her young son. She told me that it'd be more likely that he would corrupt me. Well then. I might have gone a little too far today when I told him that one of my old room mates tried to pay his rent by pawning off a hooker on me for his rent. Don't worry, I didn't accept those terms and made clear to Alex my opposition to such licentious bartering. I did relay my colorful response, however, and in hindsight it may have been better to edit the response. I mean, the kids are from Utah, where there may be hooking, but I imagine it's the sanitized hooking that can only be found in the most conservative locales. I hope the kid doesn't respond to his first proposition by telling the girl he wouldn't give a squirt of piss for her.
But I digress. It isn't that there is really any tedium at this job at Image Health. But whatever monotony there is is now lessened by the company of my bright eyed and fresh faced friend. He doesn't have red hair, but I think ginger ale may be his new nick name. BTW, we are gonna make a movie about some of the characters we deal with at Image Health. Dancing Dan is for sure gonna be portrayed by Alex with a goatee sharpied in and a generous amount of flour across his face and chest area. We're just thinking in rough terms at this point, but Dancing Dan is gonna be the staple of this piece of art. And maybe I'll get Rondell to come and play Nike. Oh, it's gonna be priceless.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Positive flow
You guys have been missing out. And I've been a bit selfish. There have been antics and mayhem going on that would for sure have been best served, or perhaps better served humanity if they were documented. And it's all been positive flow. And this is positive flow in the good sense, not Reynaldo and Stephen positive flow. Or, as my bud Dev would say, "PoFlow neg". Whatever the case, things are awesome at work. Somehow, even though I'm being paid next to nothing, I find my job fulfilling and gratifying.
It would be dishonest to suggest that the most major contributor to my feelings of optimism were anything other than myself, and my choice to just bring a better attitude to life. However, there are some other factors at work. Some of which were and are instrumental in my ability to bring my A game positive attitude day in and day out. The chief factor among them is my boss, Rachelle.
Now, it's true that she occasionally hacks into my facebook and leaves interesting updates. Another glaring shortcoming of her's is that she rarely has seen the movie I use as a reference to make whatever pointless point I find myself trying to make. And her most criminal offense may be the fact that even though she had a cameo in the movie "License to Drive", which is by any accepted standard, among the sweetest 80's movies there is, she hasn't seen the film. Yet even so, she is a pleasure to work with. I find that that's the most accurate characterization of our working relationship, that I work with her. Even though she is the boss, and makes the rules, she is open to suggestion and easy to talk to. I feel like we are a tag team when working together, and no matter how busy we may get, she keeps her cool and I find that the work gets done with high marks in quality and glowing reviews in customer satisfaction. Truly, she is a treasure to Image Health.
I can't realistically recall and explain the antics that we engage in at work in any way that would do justice to the fun that ensues. I can say, however, that she is not above laughing with me when I reference Gargamel from the Smurfs when selling a potential costumer on the phone. Nor is she above rating my paper airplanes' when I beat the boredom by folding a piece of paper and tossing it across the office. And it warms my heart to see she and the other mothers with whom I work dote on their children. It reminds me so much of my mom and the way she talked about me to others. Rachelle always has a ready ear, too, when I get nostalgic and reminisce on my parents and their antics.
Rachelle is not alone either. When it comes to work, nearly everyone there has a unique contribution to the tapestry. There's Helen, the laser hair removal woman who leases space in the office and is also my piano student. She is another striking beauty with the physique of a nineteen year old girl and playfulness of a child, yet with the sharp wit and intellect of a radio talk show host. She too brings her A game most of the time.
And Rudie, who I affectionately call the Image gnome, not because of his height, but rather because he is always there, like a lawn ornament. He could be the most engaging person I've known, well, apart from Jason Randall, the Las Vegas magician who had legitimate mind control. Rudie could sell snow skis to a quadriplegic that lives in the desert. He was a client of my father's back in the day and always has a good story as well as some new insight. He is a very smart man and quite curious about the world around him. We love Rudie, but he'd better give me a pay raise sometime soon if he doesn't want to be skiing from his wheel chair. Naw, I'm kidding. But seriously Rudie, it's about time for an increase in pay.
Let us not forget Dirty Dan with the dancing hands on sometimes women but he prefers a man. Dan is my counter part technician. He hooks the men up to the machine when I'm not around and is also a Masseuse. He's not really dirty, but he told me his nickname in the 70's was dancing Dan. And you know what? It doesn't surprise me for a second. Basically, when you look at Dan and think about him in the seventies, you know for a fact that he did boat loads of Coke. And that he danced the night away is a certainty. I could go into detail, but that basically sums it up. I'm not saying he still does drugs, even though by the sound of things, his eagerness to talk would indicate that he starts every day with a little bump. I'm sure it's just a quirk of character.
Not to drag it out here, but the other manager is a woman named Nike who looks like either Cecil Fielder or Mr. T. Take your pick. Oh, and apparently her store (the next one to open) will have Zebra patterns on the couches in the lobby. I think I saw this before on Soul Plane. No biggie, just a little cultural sensitivity. And we just hired three more girls to help out with some of the duties at the new store. All of whom are fun and pretty effing raw. Rachel is an ex-marine who just gets it done. Deandra is a sweetheart/angel with a ready laugh and a penchant for men with questionable character. Sandra has a foul mouth and a bad attitude. It's kinda strange, but I think I like it. All the girls are very beautiful and full of character. And they help the day go by in the blink of an eye.
So, don't for a second consider yourselves caught up. Most of the stuff that's noteworthy is stuff that I can't even blog for fear of reprisals or consequences. And the stuff that is blogable...I just didn't get into it. But that's what I've been doing with my day. And when I look back on the abortion that was the Fresno experiment, I think only good riddance. I deodorized the arm pit of California by simply extricating myself. Smell ya later Grizzlies. And hello Roseville. Good morning, Image Health.
It would be dishonest to suggest that the most major contributor to my feelings of optimism were anything other than myself, and my choice to just bring a better attitude to life. However, there are some other factors at work. Some of which were and are instrumental in my ability to bring my A game positive attitude day in and day out. The chief factor among them is my boss, Rachelle.
| Rachelle-second from the right |
I can't realistically recall and explain the antics that we engage in at work in any way that would do justice to the fun that ensues. I can say, however, that she is not above laughing with me when I reference Gargamel from the Smurfs when selling a potential costumer on the phone. Nor is she above rating my paper airplanes' when I beat the boredom by folding a piece of paper and tossing it across the office. And it warms my heart to see she and the other mothers with whom I work dote on their children. It reminds me so much of my mom and the way she talked about me to others. Rachelle always has a ready ear, too, when I get nostalgic and reminisce on my parents and their antics.
Rachelle is not alone either. When it comes to work, nearly everyone there has a unique contribution to the tapestry. There's Helen, the laser hair removal woman who leases space in the office and is also my piano student. She is another striking beauty with the physique of a nineteen year old girl and playfulness of a child, yet with the sharp wit and intellect of a radio talk show host. She too brings her A game most of the time.
And Rudie, who I affectionately call the Image gnome, not because of his height, but rather because he is always there, like a lawn ornament. He could be the most engaging person I've known, well, apart from Jason Randall, the Las Vegas magician who had legitimate mind control. Rudie could sell snow skis to a quadriplegic that lives in the desert. He was a client of my father's back in the day and always has a good story as well as some new insight. He is a very smart man and quite curious about the world around him. We love Rudie, but he'd better give me a pay raise sometime soon if he doesn't want to be skiing from his wheel chair. Naw, I'm kidding. But seriously Rudie, it's about time for an increase in pay.
Let us not forget Dirty Dan with the dancing hands on sometimes women but he prefers a man. Dan is my counter part technician. He hooks the men up to the machine when I'm not around and is also a Masseuse. He's not really dirty, but he told me his nickname in the 70's was dancing Dan. And you know what? It doesn't surprise me for a second. Basically, when you look at Dan and think about him in the seventies, you know for a fact that he did boat loads of Coke. And that he danced the night away is a certainty. I could go into detail, but that basically sums it up. I'm not saying he still does drugs, even though by the sound of things, his eagerness to talk would indicate that he starts every day with a little bump. I'm sure it's just a quirk of character.
Not to drag it out here, but the other manager is a woman named Nike who looks like either Cecil Fielder or Mr. T. Take your pick. Oh, and apparently her store (the next one to open) will have Zebra patterns on the couches in the lobby. I think I saw this before on Soul Plane. No biggie, just a little cultural sensitivity. And we just hired three more girls to help out with some of the duties at the new store. All of whom are fun and pretty effing raw. Rachel is an ex-marine who just gets it done. Deandra is a sweetheart/angel with a ready laugh and a penchant for men with questionable character. Sandra has a foul mouth and a bad attitude. It's kinda strange, but I think I like it. All the girls are very beautiful and full of character. And they help the day go by in the blink of an eye.
So, don't for a second consider yourselves caught up. Most of the stuff that's noteworthy is stuff that I can't even blog for fear of reprisals or consequences. And the stuff that is blogable...I just didn't get into it. But that's what I've been doing with my day. And when I look back on the abortion that was the Fresno experiment, I think only good riddance. I deodorized the arm pit of California by simply extricating myself. Smell ya later Grizzlies. And hello Roseville. Good morning, Image Health.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Movie Review
Trust me when I tell you that the three minute trailer is the best part of this movie. Nearly horrendous, but certainly a train wreck. Looked cool and sounded nice, but on the whole made no sense. I got a little bit weak a few times, admittedly, but found myself cringing and wincing mostly as I took in what amounted to a disjointed dream I had after watching the cartoon when I was little, just going from topic to topic and explosions and flying stuff and girls and space things...Actually, that sounded kinda cool. It wasn't that cool.
Now that I've been talking about it for a minute, it may be more like child birth, where you do it and it sucks, but after having done it, you're better off? I don't know. What I do know is that I am the least snooty person when it comes to movies and will watch mindless macho crap with the best of them. In this case, not so. Maybe I'll watch it again in 3-d. After all, I am the same guy who made a snowball without gloves like four times before I figured out I didn't like my hands being frozen. It might take a couple viewings of Transformers to figure out that I don't like...Whatever the fuck that was.
Now that I've been talking about it for a minute, it may be more like child birth, where you do it and it sucks, but after having done it, you're better off? I don't know. What I do know is that I am the least snooty person when it comes to movies and will watch mindless macho crap with the best of them. In this case, not so. Maybe I'll watch it again in 3-d. After all, I am the same guy who made a snowball without gloves like four times before I figured out I didn't like my hands being frozen. It might take a couple viewings of Transformers to figure out that I don't like...Whatever the fuck that was.
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