Thanks, Maynard

When I was first getting know jazz in high school, this man, usually referred to simply as “Maynard,” was the talk of the band. And not just the trumpet section. This man had earned the respect of everybody.

He played in Jimmy Dorsey and Stan Kenton’s big bands, released over 60 albums, and won a Grammy nomination with his recording of the theme to “Rocky.”

When in high school, we were quite aware of his jazz “cred.” There really are not many people around that played with the greats, and Maynard is, to my knowledge, the only one that was himself still touring.

I was able to see him live once while in high school with a group from the jazz band.

It was amazing.

He had recruited some real monster players to back him. He played on many of the tunes—wowing everybody with the perfectly clean pitch on the highest of high notes. What was equally amazing, however, was how he walked out into the crowd, shaking hands, obviously having a ball. I shook hands with Maynard Ferguson.

When not playing or shaking hands, he focused the attention on this group of young standouts with whom he was touring. Educating the next group of great jazz musicians was always top on his list. He was always playing at high schools ( though not my own, unfortunately) raising money for the music programs and instruments that many schools no longer choose to pay for.

He was a great player who gave back to his field and to kids. He will be missed.

A Site Not to Miss

Yeah, I know that I have had pretty much the same links on the right side of my blog for a while, but I’ve updated them now. And I want to draw your attention to one in particular:

THIS ONE

Check it out. It shows some of my brother-in-law’s own art, some art that he’s come across, and some pics of my sis and their kids. As far as I’m concerned, it just doesn’t get much better than this.

All of the art is for sell, so buy all of it. He’ll just make more, I promise. Don’t believe me? Buy it and try to prove me wrong.

My other brother-in-law is into ceramic and, when time allows, makes some really cool stuff. I’d give you a link to his site, too, but he doesn’t have one yet. (I’m calling you out, Sean)

Enjoy.

Warning…This one’s a bit political…

Ok, so in reading a recent article in The Independent, I got really frustrated. I can’t help but feel as though the whole process of keeping informed and being open-minded has, for many people, completely shut down.

Actually, I think that it is running completely backwards.

Ideally, one’s mind should be open. One should read news and historical accounts from a variety of sources, and be willing and able to determine the truth on their own. Now, I know that nobody can be completely separated from their political views. I am quite aware of my own political bias through which I read and interpret news—and I think that it is fair, acceptable, and normal to expect this of anyone. As a result of this bias, there are a number of publications and authors whom I know I can trust. I know that when I read The Independent, for example, it will be rather liberal. I don’t agree with everything that they have to say, but I am often drawn to their take on events. In the same way, I know that when I listen to or read George Will, he will be very conservative. I cannot, however, discount his knowledge of history or his perspective, though I know that I do not agree with the basic political and philosophical premises on which his comments are based.

Unfortunately, I think that many people are completely closed-minded when it comes to politics and religion. Many topics discussed within these realms are pitched as having black-and-white solutions or explanations. Hardly ever is this actually the case. The complexity of the various issues is seriously underappreciated. Talk radio hosts and television news shows make it easy for people to form opinions and buy into quick-fixes by boiling each issue down to simple problems and solutions.

This is dangerous and does their audience a serious disservice.

If, for example, people were allowed/encouraged by the media and lobbying groups to look at the current Israel/Hezbollah debacle more rationally, I think that many lives could have been spared. If mainstream media in this country were to focus on the actual devastation taking place in Lebanon, Americans would have been more likely to be upset about Condi’s feeble attempt at peace, disguised as a weekend in Rome marked by the notable absence of Iran and Syria.

Instead, Israel was painted to be the more significant (and by some, the only) victim in the ordeal, thereby justifying anything that they deemed necessary to stop the rockets from raining in from Southern Lebanon. The fact that civilian casualties in Lebanon were over seven times greater than those in Israel was not fully appreciated or reported by the American press. I would like to think that if it were, the American public would not have allowed Condi to sit on the sidelines while the situation escalated. But this is probably too idealistic.

I eagerly and willingly admit that Hezbollah is an awful organization that regularly uses terrorist tactics to achieve its unrealistic and catastrophic goals. I just think that the media’s bias in reporting Israel’s forced displacement of nearly 1,000,000 Lebanese is appalling.

It is difficult for the people to hold their government accountable if coverage of its actions and the implications of its policies are a farce.

Where are all of the self-loathing Protestants?

I often hear people say things like “I went to Catholic school….which makes me an ex-Catholic.” The feeling that one’s exit from the Catholic Church was brought about, justified, and perhaps made inevitable simply by the fact that he or she was brought up in the Catholic tradition, seems to be fairly commonplace. Obviously, not everybody who grows up Catholic leaves the fold, but it seems as though those that do leave are able to treat their departure with a great deal of levity, often using it as an intro to a funny quip about nuns or a comment about naughty priests. As someone who grew up in a Protestant church (read: Baptist), I am not generally afforded that luxury. It could very well be a product of the circles in which I run, but my non-participation in church is not something that I can mention in passing. Someone would say something or give me a look of.....judgment is definitely not the correct term here.....concern, that's it. People would look overly concerned with my decision not to participate in church. I do not underestimate the portion of the Bible-belt in which I live. I reside in the heart of Dubya-land. I went to college 20 minutes from the Western Whitehouse, and now live about 7 miles from the house he left when he sobered up, got a job, and moved to Austin. This is conservative country. Of the 8 of us that were inseparable in high school, 3 are full-time, globe-trotting missionaries. I find this remarkable. The 5 remaining friends are in varying stages of backsliding (anything short of being a missionary is considered backsliding). Clearly, I failed to live up to some pretty high standards.

Perhaps the main reason that there is a community of non-participatory Catholics, and not a Protestant equivalent, is that Catholicism requires less of its adherents. It is not unusual for devout Protestants to be present in church every time the door is open. This is a sign of a faithful believer. You feel obligated to show up on Sunday mornings, Wednesday nights, and host or attend a Bible study sometime during the week. It’s just what you do.
Catholicism doesn’t seem to work that way. I have never been Catholic, so I welcome any correction this thesis, but it seems as though only the super-devout do more than attend Mass occasionally. One can, in good faith (no pun, really), call oneself a good Catholic and only attend Mass on Easter and Christmas. Protestants who attempt this subject themselves to “Easter-Christian” specific proselytizing.

My question then, is where is the Diaspora of former Protestants? Are we so frightened by the prospect of being outed and redeemed that we keep our mouths shut? Or is the fact that we left the church such a private and personal thing that we feel as though it is nobody’s business.

I’m not a stand-up comedian, or any kind of comedian for that matter. If I were, however, I suppose that I wouldn’t really feel comfortable airing my deepest personal convictions to a bunch of strangers.
I suppose that people have been leaving the Catholic church for hundreds of years longer than people have been leaving Protestant pews. It’s just a little odd since we Protestants started this whole “leaving” thing.

I hate to admit it, but I guess we all let Martin Luther down.

An open letter to my body

Body,

Since you are always with me, you are quite aware that I occasionally make use of self-deprecating humor. Making fun of you has earned me quite a few laughs over the years. How pale you are. How graceful you aren’t. How you dance like your feet are chained together. I could go on, but I think you are all too aware of what I am talking about.

We've had some good times. It seems, however, that you enjoy this abuse a little too much and gotten the wrong idea about this arrangement. I am convinced of this, because you continue to develop characteristics that make it even easier for me (and others) to poke fun at you. Thanks, but I don't need the help.

Please stop.

Just give me the benefit of the doubt here. Even if you were Brad Pitt, I could find plenty of petty stuff to poke fun at. (Ok, maybe not. But if you were Brad Pitt, you would garner a whole different kind of attention, wouldn’t you?)

Let’s make a deal, you and me. You stop devolving and falling apart so rapidly, and I’ll try to like you more. If you would take better care of yourself, you might find yourself having more fun. Help me help you. That sounds fair.

Together, we can turn this thing around.

T

I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS!!

It’s amazing to me how belligerent some people will allow themselves to be in public. A few days ago, during a Q & A session following remarks by Senator Dorgan and Congressman Martin Frost, a bitter old man stood up and called Frost a “fraud” and said that he was appalled that such a seasoned policymaker would endorse this particular line of reasoning.

He made this argument, however, by interrupting the congressman, shouting, and speaking out of turn in response to other respondents. At one point, he declared “I’M A PHYSICIST!” as of this would somehow change the course of the argument and justify his rant.

A friend at the event likened it to the SNL skit in which Will Ferrell shouts “I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS” in order to remind his family what a bigshot he was.

Do people have no shame?

Don’t get me wrong, I am passionate about many things. I can see myself being pushed to a point that would cause me to be upset and perhaps even yell at a congressman. But this guy just got mad out of nowhere. His point was not entirely germane to the topic of the evening, and he was in no way provoked. Who knows how long he had been in his seat—just stewing in his anger, carefully selecting the words that would cause so many to think and say “what was that crazy guy so mad about?” Fortunately, Frost is classy and chose to calmly and expertly respond to the guy’s fit of rage.

Having observed this spectacle, I thought that I’d provide a short list of things to keep in mind when you are contemplating yelling about something in public.

· Make sure the person at whom you are yelling is not retired from congress. Don’t get mad at a former politician. He can’t do a whole lot about it.
· Make sure what you are saying makes sense. If all three experts on the panel, the discussion’s moderator, and most everybody else in the room can reasonably counter what you are saying, you might be wrong. At the very least, you haven’t explained yourself well.
· Don’t look crazy. If you have pit-stains, look disheveled, or carry a large bag full of “research” with you at all times, your level of credibility goes down quite a bit.

If you follow these three simple steps, hopefully you can avoid being the giant ass in the room. Somehow I often find myself playing that role for a number other reasons. Perhaps I should work on that.

Tom Petty is My George Washington

This weekend, watching Tom Petty play “Refugee,” singing along with 15,000 of my closest friends, I had a true patriotic moment. Some people get all warm and fuzzy when they see a bald eagle flying overhead. Some when they see the iconic painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware, and some when they watch the Blue Angels perform meticulously choreographed stunts overhead.

For me, hearing Mike Campbell, lead guitarist for the Heartbreakers, wail away as thousands of strangers watch in amazement represents everything that is great about America.

I grew up listening to Tom Petty, so I am more than familiar with the words to most of his hits. I do not own a Tom Petty album, nor would I rank him in my top 50 musicians/artists/performers of all time, even if such a list did exist. I did not even plan on going to the concert until a friend invited me and gave me the ticket.

What is so great about Tom Petty, and numerous artists like him that I could easily include in the same category, is that they are part of the American narrative. When Stevie Nicks made a guest appearance at the show and the duo sang a few covers from their heyday, the number of people singing along did not decrease at all. The crowd had come to see Petty, but sang just as loudly to hits by the Yardbirds and pre-Nicks Fleetwood Mac. These people knew their music. People from all over the state (and who knows where else) had converged on that place, and they all had something in common: they knew the words to the same songs. And this made them happy.

The kind of happiness that Tom Petty induces is an innocent and simple happiness. It has no caveats. Unlike other, more traditional sources of patriotism, it doesn’t have to remind me of the millions that have given their lives so that I might enjoy my freedom. No happiness with a side of guilt. I can be happy just because this song is cool.

Other things have this effect on me, too. Train engineers that wave back. A freshly paved farm-to-market road with a bright yellow line, miles from the closest city. Certified organic produce. Building permits and city inspectors, especially health inspectors. The ACLU. The ACLJ. Gun shows and hip hop clubs.

None of these things just happen. Countries that are rife with corruption and full of people who are either disinterested or scared to take action don’t have such luxuries. When a relatively mild earthquake hits Turkey, and all of the shabbily constructed homes and other buildings collapse, it’s horrible. It’s horrible and tragic and unnecessary. If their government had the means and the willingness to enforce the appropriate building codes, such devastation wouldn’t seal the fate of so many thousands of poor people. When such a thing happens, I am reminded of why I love this country so much.

There are many things about this country that are shitty, too. And many of them involve the same government that enforce the various permits that I just finished praising. What gives me hope, a hope that makes the shit almost bearable, is that we are willing to change. We have the means to change. Americans seem determined not to let the political entropy that paralyzes much of the world establish a firm hold on their country. Yes, it is hard to tell this at times, but I can’t help but think that this country is bound for better times.

At least that’s what I think when I listen to Tom Petty.

I’m not sorry. Pink was in my crayon box, too.

Why is it that every time I wear a pink shirt (which is not often, since I only have two in rotation), I cannot go the day without hearing “hey, nice pink shirt?” These comments inevitably come from people with which I work. With the exception of one person (the second oldest and third-highest paid), everyone with whom I work has been to college. They are, presumably, educated people living the uncloistered examined life in Dallas. Why is it then that these same people find it noteworthy that a man would wear a pink shirt, and continue to find it noteworthy, even though I regularly wear pink?

I am not an effeminate man, so perhaps they don’t expect to see me in pink. Perhaps if I were effeminate, they would be less likely to say something, afraid that they might offend me in some way. Following this line of reasoning, I suppose that I should take it as confirmation that no one suspects my appreciation of the aesthetic (this is what I call my attention to detail, when my finances permit, in fashion and food) as anything effeminate.

I am glad that this is the case, because I find it incredibly infuriating and repulsive that cleanliness, personal hygiene, and fashion sense are all ascribed effeminate properties. If a guy has a clean, well appointed apartment, he must be gay. If a man appreciates a professional manicure/pedicure, he must be gay.

This line of reasoning was used recently by the Army to discover a translator’s sexual preference. Apparently, because of “don’t ask, don’t tell” policies, it’s not ok to ask someone whether or not they are gay, but you can use tricky questions such as “are you involved with community theatre?” to ascertain one’s sexual orientation.

No, I’m not kidding.

Never mind that the training the replacements for the nearly 11,000 gay soldiers dismissed since 1994’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy has cost the military nearly $329 million (or the amount we spend every two weeks in Iraq.

I’m not sure how this blog turned into an anti-homophobe, anti-war rant, but there you go.

I wear pink. The color was in my crayon box, so I figured it was fair game.

Democracy is a Funny Thing

So, yesterday was a first for me. I participated in my first political march. With the detestable violence in the Middle East, I felt as though I really should do something. And since we do not live in a direct democracy, and will not therefore have a referendum vote on whether or not current US foreign policy towards Israel is completely masochistic, I am forced to voice my feelings elsewhere.

And where better to voice one's beliefs than in a silent peace march in downtown Dallas at 4 PM on a Sunday afternoon?

We were told to wear white and not to carry any flags or hostile signs. This was to be a march in favor of an immediate cease-fire in Lebanon, not a Cindy Shehan political spectacular.

When we pulled up, we parked on the street. Right next to the "No parking - Anytime" sign. To be sure that the urban myth regarding no towing or parking tickets was true, we decided to ask a local peace officer.

ME: So, is it ok if we park here?

Peace Officer: Um, it should be.

ME: (Puzzled look)

PO: Are you two part of the protest?

Friend: It's a peace march.

PO: You two don't look Palestinian.

ME: We just care. And she's Lebanese.

PO: (Rolls up window. Continues to listen to what must be Toby Keith)


After this little exchange restored my faith in the police. We continued towards the gathering of the white-clad peaceniks. It was a cosmopolitan group. If you can call a group that is 80% Muslim cosmopolitan. The other 20% was pretty mixed. Some hippies. Some yuppies. Some kids brought there against their will by their parents.

The march itself was pretty unremarkable. It was just your average group of 300 people walking 1.5 miles around downtown Dallas hoping to achieve some political objective. What exactly did these people (and myself, I suppose) hope to accomplish out there? So what if 300 Muslims and hippies think that the US gov't is doing something stupid? 500,000 marched on those same streets a few months ago, and the immigration debate was not changed at all.

I feel as though I have been placated by this whole "democratic process." Am I supposed to feel as though a little march that no one will see and maybe a call to my senator will change something? I don't think the point of these little acts are to bring about real change. The real point is to make myself feel better.

I am glad that I participated yesterday. I think that it is important for me as a young pork-loving white person to show the Muslims that came out to march that they are not alone in their frustration and anger with the policies that are killing their families abroad. I just hate that we are given this sense that by walking around in the heat, we are actually solving anything globally. What we are actually doing is finding a community that shares our beliefs and finding some sort of peace that we are not alone in how we think. Perhaps that is all that we can hope to accomplish on a Sunday afternoon.

Americans Should Care about the World Cup, In Spite of Themselves

Something donned on me yesterday when I turned on the World Cup. I realized why football is not popular in America. Iran was playing Mexico. Who should I, as a good and faithful American patriot, supporter of troops, user of oil, listener to talk radio, root for in this game?

I am, of course, surprised and appalled that Iran is even allowed to compete in these games. This enormous oversight alone casts doubt on the entire institution of soccer. I am equally surprised that any Mexicans still live in Mexico. I thought that by now all of the good players would have left that country to play in the lucrative European leagues.

For an American to “get into” soccer, he/she would have to recognize that these other countries exist. The fact that we have had 150,000+ young men and women in Iraq for over 3 years and over two thirds of Americans can’t find the country on a map shows this country’s disdain for geography. It used to be said that Americans learn geography through war, but not even that seems to be working anymore. We just don’t want anything to do with other countries.

NFL Europe is a complete bust over here. It’s not because the scores are low, they are not. It is because the teams play in places we’ve never been and are full of players we’ve never heard of. We’d rather watch a boring 3-2 baseball game than root for the Frankfurt Galaxy in the World Bowl. It’s just easier. If someone truly loved the game, why would it matter that they are playing on the other side of the pond? It’s because the Frankfort Galaxy isn’t part of our cultural construct. We didn’t grow up hearing about that infamous game in Zurich where the rookie for the Amsterdam Admirals broke all of the single-game rushing records in one day. There are no highways named after legendary coaches. We don’t buy cars from a dealership owned by the famous Hamburg Sea Devils quarterback. It’s just not a part of who we are.

Our ‘world’ is much smaller. Much easier to comprehend. And to influence.

We call the teams that win our Super Bowl, NCAA football and basketball championships, the World Series, and NBA championships “World Champions.” They didn’t compete against the world. We simply assume that because they won here, they could win anywhere.

We usually don’t make a showing in the World Cup, so we don’t bother tuning in. Meanwhile, the best that America has to offer gets blown out of the water by a team that is pretty bad financial and political shape. But most Americans couldn’t care less about that, either.

Watch the World Cup. The entire world is interested. Let’s use this game. this moment, to help us understand why.

A Captive Audience

Yesterday I met a man who scared me very much. He was wielding scissors, had a firm grasp of my head for nearly 30 minutes, and wouldn’t let me leave without paying.

He was my barber.

Actually, to be honest, I think that charging that much for a haircut is against the barber creed. This is why he is required by law to call himself a “stylist.”

It wasn’t the scissors or high prices that scared me most, though. It was the conversation. Two of the first several questions that he asked me were “So, what kind of work do you do?” and “Where did you go to school?” These were innocent questions – neither out of the ordinary nor invasive. Questions that anyone might ask to get to know someone better. You’re choice of school, field of study, and occupation often says a lot about you.

When I told him where I worked, the conversation turned political. When I told him that I went to Baylor, the conversation turned conservative. Crazy conservative.

Now, before I go any further, please let me explain something. Those of you that know me know that I am by no means a card-carrying Republican (though I once was). You know that I have very few nice things to say about Bill O’Reilly, Ann Coulter, Lou Dobbs, or any other the other conservative scaremongers. I neither disagree completely with Dubya, nor agree completely with Dean, Kennedy, Clinton, Franken, or Biden. I welcome a healthy, well-informed discussion with someone that has an open mind. And I try to do my part by being well-informed and keeping my mind open.

That being said, this guy scared me.

Apparently “I went to Baylor” is code for “I, too, am a political conservative who bases my political views on my Christian faith.” Having made this assumption, he talked to me as though I should be nodding in agreement to the hypotheses that he was spouting off. I wasn’t. From the “one-world government” type paranoia to even a suspicion about the membership of presidential cabinet members being members of the Council on Foreign Relations, this guy was off the charts.

I don’t know from where he gets his news, but he did say that he listens to a lot of talk radio. Judging by the fact that he had absolutely no clue about the massacre in Haditha by US Marines, I think I have a good idea about the kind of radio shows to which he listens.

Why is it that the most vocal people are often the least informed? Perhaps it’s because if you don’t really understand the complexities of a given situation (and I am not claiming here to understand much, if anything), it is incredibly easy to offer a solution. It is also easy to be spoon-fed your news and solutions to the various problems in one big swallow. This is the service that crazy (often, but not always) conservative talk radio personalities provide. These (often, but not always) guys spout out information often citing other hosts as sources, and then provide solutions that they see as funny, clever, or incredibly simple. This is how “quick and easy” solutions like attacking Iran, the gay marriage ban, and building a big-ass fence along the Rio Grande gain such wide popularity. If the public is ill-informed about the complexities of a problem, it’s much easier to over-simplify the solutions. I have a simple solution for you: TURN OFF THE LOUD SCAREMONGERS AND FIND OUT WHAT IS REALLY GOING ON.

I’m sorry to yell. I just get frustrated sometimes.

I’ll leave all of the scary religious stuff that my stylist said to a later post, but let’s just say it made me nervous to know that this guy gets to vote. Not only this, but he belongs to a church full of people that are (presumably) just like him. They get to vote, too.

So, even though I was a little scared going in, and a little goofy-looking going out (the way he styled my hair, I looked like Conan O’Brian and Lyle Lovett’s lovechild), it was one of the best haircuts I’ve ever had. And the conversation, though scary, was interesting and a little entertaining.

A Few Observations

People whose explanation for doing something is simply "because it's a free country, and I have the right to," are most likely incapable of understanding that that makes absolutely no sense. These people should be avoided.

Example:

Rational Person: "Hey, uh, why do you own a handgun? You live in a gated community in the suburbs"

Insane Person: "Because it's a free country and I have the right to own a handgun if I want to, buddy!"

RP: "Oh, so you don't need a handgun, you just do it because you're allowed to. Got it."

IP: "Umm, yeah. And to protect my personal property from thieves, terrorists, and the French."

RP: "Right. Ok."


This same conversation could take place with someone who drives a dually and lives in an apartment, refuses to buy a Dixie Chicks album (even though they can't wait until they are played next on the radio), or see The DaVinci Code (even though they know that the movie can't actually hurt them).

People like this cannot be rationed with because they ignore the portion of the brain that gives the rest of us this capability. All we can do is keep our cool during conversations like the one above, and hope that somewhere (deep) inside, they too know that what they are saying makes no sense.

Beware of Grown Men in Shorts

Ok, Let me explain...

I was running an errand for work in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon one day, and I saw a man walking down the street. I saw several people walking down the street, in fact, but this man stood out for some reason. Something seemed a little...Suspicious. Now, this was a clean-cut man dressed in newish clothes just minding his own business walking alone not bothering a soul. "What was it, then, that created my suspicion?" I ask myself.

It was his shorts.

This was a grown man in perhaps his mid-thirties wearing a yellow plaid button-up shirt tucked into his olive green cargo shorts. He was also wearing oakleys and tennis shoes with white crew socks. Now, perhaps this choice in attire stood out because I happened to see him walking in one of the notoriously trendy parts of town. But it got me to thinking...

If this man has the type of job that allows him to meander around Dallas with not a care in the world on a Tuesday afternoon, one would be let to assume that he would have slightly better fashion sense than he was exhibiting on the day in question. Before you accuse me of judging this man for merely dressing in a way that shows blatant disregard for the last 10 years in the evolution of men's fashion, please believe me: he looked uncomfortable in his own skin and unfamiliar with his surroundings, like he was up to no good.

I didn't stick around to see what he was up to, but I know that it wasn't good. Of this I am certain.

So, in short, never trust a grown man dressed in shorts in the middle of a weekday. He should know better. Any man who shuns common sense like this is obviously spending entirely too much time devising an evil scheme to terrorize puppies and/or small children.

Why My Neighbor Makes Me Hate People

Last night, I had a wonderful evening watching the Mavs game. As usual, I got along with everybody (even Spurs fans) and the night ended very well. When I arrived home, however, I was greeted by a small pile of rat-dog shit. Someone had allowed their rat-dog to shit on the sidewalk. Not only on the sidewalk, but on the sidewalk immediately at the bottom of the stairs to my front porch. Had I not been paying close attention to where I was stepping, I would have stepped right in it.
Noting the unique position of the pile (what kind of crazy dog actually craps on concrete?), it really made an impression on me. It really takes a special person to stand there and watch one's dog unload on someone else's porch? It is methodical and careless actions such as these that cause me to really hate people sometimes (all of the time).
I think that there are two types of people in this world - special people such as my neighbor, who have no concept of others, allow their pets to shit indiscriminately, and leave the police scanner on full-blast 24/7 (yes, he does this too); and people who care enough to at least pick up after one's pet, return lost wallets, bring your paper in from the rain, and other things such as this. Now, I understand that there are varying degrees of each type of people, but my mind tends to force people into one of these two groups for one main reason: I need something to hate.
Those of you that know me know that I am extremely laid back. I am not quick to anger. I don't pick fights. I would rather be nice than be a prick. This comes at a cost. I am not immune to the normal frustrations, annoyances, and irritations of normal life. I just channel them a different way.
I store all of my rage inside until that unfortunate person cuts me off, hangs up on me, or wrongs me in some other relatively minor way. At that point, when the time is just right, I have been known to explode. I still do not pick fights...it's much more passive aggressive at this point. I yell obscenities, sometimes deliver a strategic middle finger, or some other means of focusing my hate.
If I am not careful, these passive aggressive tendencies will certainly get me in trouble. Just last night, for example, two kids pulled up in a Pontiac as I was walking to my car. They came to a complete stop right between me and my car - showing no consideration whatsoever for the fact that I even existed. So that the driver would know which type of person he was, I provided a gentle reminder in the form of a sarcastic comment. It was, of course, loud enough for them to hear me.
Fortunately, they were smaller in stature than me, and neither of my subsequent comments persuaded them to exit their car to further explore the subject. They did, however, call me a 'bitch' from the street as they left. This just gives further proof that my initial analysis was correct.
I do need to be more careful, I suppose. But I still can't help but be curious about how my neighbor would react to have a big pile of (dog, cow, horse, human) shit on his front steps.

Baby Talk

So, I spent this past weekend with my sisters, who between them, have about 73 children. While the actual number is 5, the omnipresence this weekend of small people at various stages of mobility and cognitive development, makes 73 a more accurate representation of the "Children Index." This is similar to the heat index. It may only be 90 degrees outside, but the humidity and proximity of Satan might make it feel like 190 degrees. It's mostly used as an excuse for old and lazy people to stay in their 72 degree home and bitch about the weather, but the concept is easily tranferred into an analogy for children.

That being said, please do not take the comments above as any indication that I do not love my nieces and nephews (with all of the words in the English language, there really should be one word that means 'the children of my siblings'). I do love them very much and I really enjoy being around them. It's just that I live alone, can listen to whatever I want, say whatever I want, and do whatever I want - regardless of the 'appropriateness,' volume, or time of day. So being around so many children for two full days around which one has to be so mindful of what one says or refers to, is an enormous departure from my normal life. This fact, along with the fact that absolutely none of my day-to-day human interaction is with people below the age of 22, I am not entirely sure how to talk to a baby. I don't just go around speaking baby talk, so I when the opportunity arises, it shows that I am desperately out of practice. I can't help but feel as though the baby knows that I'm new to this, and already thinks less of me. It's very uncomfortable to feel as though you've let down a 6 month old. But at least I'm setting the bar low. I'd rather disappoint them now, than set their hopes high and disappoint them when they're old enough to voice it.

Relax, it's just me

So, you'll notice that more than a month has passed since my last post. I know that had each and every one of you (read: nobody) hooked with only two posts, and that your lives have been thrown into imbalance because you don't know what's going on with me. How's his apartment? Did he throw more stuff away? Has his attitude towards fellow bloggers changed? Does he realize that his talking to a non-existent and therefore completely made-up audience is tantamount to his having a conversation with an imaginary person? Did he just type that?

Well, get up off your couch, throw away the ice cream carton, put down the zoloft - I'm back. Though this next statement will be contradictory to the fact that I write all of these (3) posts from work, please believe me when I say that I have been busy. That's at least the excuse that I give myself and others.

In fact, I'm pretty lazy.

I graduated from a fancy private university with a BA in international studies. That's what happens when you decide while waiting tables in college that being "happy" and doing "what you love" is better than being able to pay your bills every month, living in a cool loft downtown, and driving a schnazzy car. We all made fun of business majors while we were in school - claiming that they had no souls, were in it only for the money, and would never be satisfied with pushing papers and crunching numbers. Well, folks, I was wrong.

Somehow I ended up as an event planner. That means I have papers to push, numbers to crunch, and alot of self-important ass to kiss. So basically, instead of finding a job that has meaning, I found one that does not pay and at which I have to work ungodly hours. I then go home to my apartment in the 'hood, decide which bills to pay, and do it all over again the next day. Now, I suppose that things aren't entirely as bleak as I make them. I get to meet interesting people. Drive around senators. Meet Bono. My boss never lets an opportunity go by without placating me with reminders of the "intangibles" of my job. Apparently he lives in a world where such "intangibles" are easily substituted for hard currency that one can use to keep the lights on in one's dimly lit shithole.

I'm in a big funk today. I apologize for whining so much. I promise not to bitch quite so much next time.

What's my deal?

So I finally finished moving yesterday. I find it amazing that I can throw away about 10 full trashbags of stuff from my old place, and my new place is still way too full of stuff - most of which I don't use.

I think it's time to shed some of this crap - books I've read or never will read, clothes I haven't worn in years...you know the drill. For some reason I'm hell bent on having certain things, while at the same time I'm frustrated about having so much crap and running out of room to put it.

Well, now that I'm finished writing, I think I'll go watch Fight Club again....and then go shopping.

And we're off....

I don't read blogs, and I seem to not think much of those people who rely on them for their news, ideas, culture, sense of humor, etc.

So why did I start a blog if I think so little of those that use them? It's not because I see myself as ultimately interesting, or even that I don't expect to be the only person to ever see these feeble words. It's mostly that I'm bored at work and I want to write and think about something other than what I get paid (barely) to do write and think about all week.

And with that, we're off....