They say you can never go Home...

Free Association After a Breakup

2005-12-12T12:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I caught a fleeting glimpse of you
The first time in what's seemed like ages
You were wearing a sweater
The Color of Pain
The Color of Passion

I went on my way
Superficially distracted
By the work and people around me.
Which always seems to quell the tide
That now surges in my quiet hours
Which recently crescendoes late at night
Which bubbles noxiously to the Top when I'm alone.
The time that was once so precious
Peaceful, recharging, solemn
Is now made loud with the memories of you
And no song is just a song anymore
It is a backdrop--a prop--shaped to conform perfectly to my body
A jigsaw puzzle of heartbreak into which
I fit perfectly.

I pause in the solitude I am left with
I hear the cacaphony of Doubt
The Voices of Recrimination, blaming me.
I miss the days when I was unchanged
When my heart was in the off-position
When it was dead, yet perfunctorily beating
For I wouldn't feel the pain I feel.

So all the words I said:
All the things I felt:
Concerning What Was Best For Both;
All my good intentions and self-protective interests,
Just seemed to go out the door
In a fleeting moment
Along w/ your sweater.

Now I have an exercised heart,
But an interior life that has been poisoned
With the unpredictable miasma of emotion
The Same Color of your sweater.

Dates

2005-10-18T12:52:00.000-04:00

I've had a couple of dates the last couple of days, which, for me, is pretty incredible.

Ironically, the one "date" that I enjoyed the most, wasn't really a date at all. In fact, I helped her move. She's great! She's athletic, she's adventurous, and she's funny. Above all, she seems thoughful, kind, and honest. I'm kinda intrigued. I knew of her while I was in high-school, which is a little odd too.

Nevertheless, she's on my mind a lot...

So, I figure, about 12 more dates, and I'll know for sure...

Open Season

2005-10-11T01:55:00.000-04:00

On Friday, I received three calls from three separate girls whom I believe would like to have a relationship with me.

This is stunning on a fundamental level, because I really ain't all that special, nor good looking.

Nevertheless, the process of juggling these reminds me of exactly HOW BAD I am at dealing with people.

The most notable of these young ladies seems pretty brave. She works down the hall in an adjacent department here at the lab. I have seen her for months, smiled briefly as I passed her office. She's very cute, and easy to smile at. It wasn't until maybe two weeks ago, when I parked myself to do some work in an adjacent office to use the computer, that she approached me, and we commenced to have our first conversation together.

I recently had another conversation with her, about the gravid importance Jamba Juice plays in my life. I told her that I'd bring her one. (And in my classic nature, I haven't gotten around to that yet. That was last Thursday).

This past Friday, she intimated that she wanted to tell me something. I, naturally, assumed she was in a high-dudgeon and, sensing my ability to listen to anything almost ad nauseum, wished to vent. This would have been our fourth conversation, and this would not be at all an atypical pattern for a vast majority of past acquaintances.

But she didn't have time to tell me then. So, I said goodbye and that we would undoubtedly talk later.

Later that day, as she was leaving, she stands in the doorway of the laboratory until one of my lab colleagues announces her presence to me.

(Prior to this, my colleagues had intimated that she intended to say that she liked me, so at this point, I was a little nervous, and wished fervently that What Was Going To Happen, would happen on a Monday or Tuesday, where I might have had some more wherewithal, or time to think about this.)

Apparently, she may have communicated this directly to my colleagues, as she looked not a little bit peeved that I hadn't met up with her yet. "I told you I had something to tell you, how come you didn't come by?" Rather accusingly, I might add.

"Oh! I thought you were going to tell me when you had time!"

"Oh. Well, then here." hands me a folded note with her number written on it in pencil.

I am, at this point, flustered on a level equivalent to Avogadro's number. I nervously stammer, "Here, I'll walk you to your car." The thought of having an awkward social exchange on a matter that I was not prepared to address seemed really undesirable proximaly to an audience consisting of my coworkers who could, firsthand, witness my ineptitude with girls.

In the elevator, she makes it easy for me. She explains that there's a really good movie coming out this weekend. I take my cue: I express interest, and that I'll call her on Saturday morning.

I leave her at the elevator, excited, exhilarated, embarrassed, nervous, returning to the second floor with a proportionally increasing anxiousness:

I remember that it's my brother's birthday AND I'm supposed to go to an Engagement Party I had known about for months, AND I'd made plans to go to a live concert with my good friend and my boss. These were all scheduled on the same hour. On my Only Day off During the Week.

Shit. Did I just commit to doing something I physically cannot?

I'm so embarrassed. Do I call?

I do not. I am a total, total bastard; the epitome of a Typical Bad Male.

But not to fear, because it is now Monday, and apparently she has been storming the halls, checking in with all my coworkers, letting them know (so that they may let ME know, with the gleeful delight of Someone In the Know) that she's PISSED! I can almost feel the Pist Mist filling the hallway after I stroll in all bleary and irritated, having had the equivalent of 5 hours sleep. I hide; I write an email. I apologize like a madman. I explain what happened, though it's not a good excuse. I suggest lunch the next day--it's a little easier to get to know someone.

I get a response.

Wait...

Oh my God, it's a bit bitchy!

But Lunch would be acceptable.

Am I dating this girl already? Granted, I know I'm a prick, but is this behavior of distinct...put-offedness something I need to tolerate on ANY level at this point? I don't even know her yet! I'm essentially ALLOWED to do whatever the eff I want--at peril to my own reputation, natch...

I am instantly transported to ALL THE REASONS WHY I DECIDED I WOULD NEVER EVER DATE ANYONE I WORK WITH, NEAR, ADJACENT TO, ETC. And I haven't even had the first date with her yet.

The nightmare is replete: coworkers ALL up in my business, can't go down certain halls for fear of getting the mal occhio, can't concentrate, I'm reduced to some nebulous feeling somewhere between self-loathing and volcanic, others-oriented anger.

Here I am, at the goddamn lab at 2:48 am, having already worked an 11 hour day, and I'm going to have a first date lunch with someone whom I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to technically break up with simultaneously, because there's NO WAY that the little time I have will be enough for her. I probably will need to eat, but won't be able to, due to anxiousness, but more in dire need of sleep (before I begin my shift of 8+ hours), and somehow, robbed of a little more free time that is so precious to me--so precious that it distills a self-interest that transcends the expected self-absorption that usually dictates what time I take as Me Time.

I can't believe this is happening.

I am reminded of how I often deal with telemarketers. I usually tell them, politely, "No Thanks," but they stay on the line, or on the doorstep, convincing me how I've just made a bad decision, until finally, for sake of getting back to it, I simply acquiesce and decide to deal with getting out of it later.

I just recently called Citibank, incredulous over some stupid subscription charge for some roadside service--a service, mind you, that I receive(d) gratis via Volvo--that I apparently agreed to a year ago. And then, I remember. The woman--she wouldn't shut up; I felt simultaneously rude and somehow obligated: Fine, I can cancel anytime? Great. Done. Thanks for calling.

That will be 50 dollars, one year later.

I am a sucker; I am a chump; I am a pucillanimous excuse for a man!

I will not be buying Another Workside Relationship, mark my words!

The Other Side of Glasnost, Part Deux

2005-10-11T01:33:00.000-04:00

I will be the first to admit freely that, having been able to hold Virgin Status for so long, may be an indicator of a few mental problems. However, if I may get all supercilious for a moment, I have spent several hundred dollars in psychotherapy, agonizing over the question of Should I or Shouldn't I just get the dirty deed done. And my psychotherapist has explained that the reasons for my Choices (which really don't seem like choices) are complex and not a little bit justifiable, based on, you know, my Life. So everyone can just Fuck Off a little bit!

But here's what I do know about myself, either as a consequence of being a virgin, or because I simply am a Hopeless Cause:

1) I dislike aggressive women
2) I dislike being coerced, or manipulated
3) I dislike feeling boxed in, beholden to, or accountable for, my time.

Also:
4) I am, in any given relationship:
a) Somewhat fearful and hypersensitive about possibly being
I. manipulated
ii. hurtful
iii. boxed in
iv. held by the balls.

As a result, I have become supremely good at (I imagine) frustrating girls.

I'm 27, and I can openly say that I'm not willing to make time or entertain the possibility of a long-term relationship. It's a distraction to the concentration required to maintain the almost monastic asceticism I use to get through life. Do I suffer from Peter Pan syndrome?

The answer is, I couldn't give two shits. I am much more interested in WHY I feel that my ability to remain so detached, so separate from the rest of humanity--that humanity which must be tossed with the tides of sexual compulsion, that churning miasma of [the concept of] love that keeps a body safely at bay from ever achieving comfort within their own skin--why I feel that this bestows upon me an almost Promethian power?

I feel powerful, I feel vindicated, I feel superhuman.

I feel weak, I feel scared, I feel so incredibly dead inside.

The Other Side of Glasnost.

2005-10-11T01:10:00.000-04:00

Having lived most of my life in a house with several opinionated people, I am, myself, opinionated. However, having lived with an overbearing father for many of those years, I feel that I am cautious (if not a little bit guarded) about what I say. Because, somehow, one does not develop a taste for ridicule in the same way that one gets a taste for beer, or wine, (or really, any alcoholic beverage) as they become older.

In the same way that I may be cautious about what I say, I am also a bit cautious about what I Let People Know.

And yet, the sheer stupidity of that statement does register as 1) I do maintain (albeit loosely) a blog and 2) my last blog entry openly admits that I am, in fact, a virgin.

I have come to realize, having "outed" myself to my "friends", that having this sort of information is regarded somewhat as a commodity. It's palpably regarded with a specious sort of value , and somehow, amazingly (to me), interesting to people. I have found that almost exclusively, everyone who knows about my afflicted status, has, in turn, outed me to someone else they trust.

The process is such:

1) I tell the individual who I decide to trust
2) They pretend (or are) a little bit shocked.
3) I assume that they understand that this information is shared somewhat conspiratorily, in confidence, despite being not a little bit mundane.
4) They immediately tell the closest of their friends whom THEY trust.
5) Suddenly, the whole fucking town knows.

Whatever.

One thing more than I vehemently detest, is people knowing anything about me in the context of a relationship, except for--get this--the people whom I trust.

But this is not a matter of assigning blame! when things concerning me come up as a group topic of discussion. Rather, it is the sense that my life is in any way, shape, form, capacity INTERESTING enough to discuss amongst others!

The fact that it, apparently, is, is supremely annoying.

2005-09-04T22:52:00.000-04:00

My brother was relating a story tonight, about a customer that he waited upon at the Incredibly Mediocre Italian Restaurant where he works.

The customer was an older woman, shaved bald, with a bandana around her head. He brought her the lunch she ordered, and after eating it for maybe five minutes, asked for a box to take it home with her.

My brother, attempting to be polite, asked if everything was to her liking.

She replied, “Oh, yes. I have Brain Cancer, and it’s difficult for me to eat very much.”

My brother, naturally horrified, expressed his condolences like a madman and made sure to take good care of her for the remainder of the meal.

“What the hell is someone supposed to say to that?” my brother asked us all.
Dad was thoughtful for a moment, and said, “You should tell her: ‘Well, if you keep eating here, you’re going to get rectal cancer, too.’”

A Year in Numbers

2005-09-01T01:50:00.000-04:00

It has been well over a year now, since the Year of Zeke was begun. And, it must be owned, a rather long time since any post was posted, from the time whence the year was truly a year.

I feel that there is much relevant for me to document about how Life is; much that I would like to preserve and crystallize upon the interstices of the electronic interweb for my own future arrangement and rearrangement.

Of perhaps greatest relevance would be to get brave and finish writing how things ultimately went down, regarding my dad and working for him. But for the meantime, I have decided that the Year of Zeke will be the Year(s) of Zeke.

I have also decided, in the interests of time, to resort to the type of copy usually found in New
Years Eve additions of any given city newspaper; a sort of Bests and Worsts of the years, to fill in for the missing months.

1 = The number of car-related accidents

2 = The number of syphilitic, decroded rental cars used while car was repaired

40 = The duration in minutes of my morning commute.

80 = The duration, in minutes, of my evening commute.

1= The number of coworkers who have confessed their love for me

1 = The number of microseconds I hesitated while considering the possibility of dating a coworker again.

50% = The probability that I have successfully and politely extricated myself from the above expectation of romance.

1 = The number of female coworkers who has confessed her true hatred for me (to everyone else except me, of course).

2 = Number of attempts above coworker has made to torpedo my fledgling career

100% = The likelihood that above mentioned coworker is a bitch of the highest magnitude who will remain bitter and unmarried for the rest of her miserable life.

3= The number of small (albeit controllable) laboratory fires which have been caused by Yours Truly.

2 = Number of Job offers I have been offered since becoming a temporary worker.

1 = The number of above offers coming from California

Countless = the number of times I contemplated moving back to California.

3= The number of successful mortgage approvals.

1 = The number of offers made on a new abode for Yours Truly

1 = The number of offers accepted on aforementioned abode.

1= The number of mortgage brokers I have fired for being generally incompetent and fucking with my livelihood, by virtue of their incompetence.

1 = The number of broken-hearted younger brothers, whose girlfriend admitted she kissed his (former) friend.

1 = The number of sisters fervently debating how to let said boyfriend know that she wants to get married, without sounding like a total bitch.

33 = Number of miles round trip to get to work

Jobs quit = Two

Quitted Jobs Regretted = Zero

Level of intensity for the gratitude of having quitted those jobs = Avogadro’s number. Multiplied by Faraday’s Constant. Divided by 1 over infinity.

Number of jobs currently holding down= Two

Number of hours I generally work: at least 55.

Number of times sexually harassed while working as a Temp: potentially once

Endured number of attempts to Get Me Fired after rebuffing potential sexual advances in a gentle, naïve way: Three NASTY weeks worth.

Satisfaction derived from seeing this bitch get fired and me getting hired on full time: Godiva Chocolate to the power of 18.

Other Highlights:

I turned twenty-seven. I moved out of the compound.
I bought my own place and became a homeowner.
I made some really good friends.
Told my good friends that I’m still a virgin.
Learned that my ex girlfriend was a slut, who really just wanted to get laid, and got tired for waiting for me. And therefore dumped me. (And here I thought I was being really forward.) Decided that being a virgin might be worthless at this point. And that I am a total idiot.
Had somewhat of a spiritual breakdown about this decision, which is sometimes still in progress, depending on my need for deep emotional drama in my life.
Decided that I do belong in grad school, in one form or another, no doubt about it.
Taught the Nervous Beagle to understand German.
Inclination for the Nervous Beagle to listen to me when outside, irrespective of language employed: Absolute zero degrees Kelvin minus two.
I cut my hair really short.
Lost about 20 pounts.
Shaved off all my chest hair, on a whim.
Went clubbing, met girls, danced with several of them.
Went to a gay bar and had a good time, despite learning about sexual toys that will do some gnarly things to a dudes testicles (they had a gift shop).
Improved my tennis game immeasurably, though my backhand remains a travesty.
Swam 2.8 miles in the Gulf of Mexico, without vomiting on the teeming shores at the termination of the race.

Calling a spade a spade

2005-02-23T06:28:00.000-05:00

A coworker (who I have recently become friendly with) and me were having a conversation togther about theology, when she suddenly punctuated her sentence by expressing her worry that she myave have sounded like she was "trying to convince me to return to The Church." I must have looked a bit confused or stunned, so she said:

"Well, you said you haven't been to Mass in a year; that means you've left the Church." she replied ruefully.

It never occurred to me that my fellow Catholics would have a name for the process that is currently occuring outside of their view, outside of their church, outside of their limited understanding. I had forgotten that it was entirely possible that they would arrive at a pronouncement of the current state of my spirital health much more quickly than I have otherwise managed.

Heretoforth, I had considered myself to be on a hiatus. Don't call me, I'll call you--that sort of thing.

Not sure how I feel about this, other than mostly irritated and only slightly rueful.

Rite of Passage?

2005-02-15T23:00:00.000-05:00

I’ve been told that, living in this town, one will at one time or another experience a nasty car wreck. This is why the insurance premiums are so outrageously high. The traffic in this city is atrocious. It's also Tourist Season, which means the road conditions are especially snarled.

I was in a four-car accident today, coming home from my second day of work. Everyone, including me, is okay. I’m just a little sore in the back.

I thought four cars was pretty significant; however others in my swim class have me beat—they sustained six plus car pileups, just a few weeks ago.

I’m certainly no claims adjustor, but I would surmise my Volvo is only a few thousand shy of being totaled, which means, of course, the car will never be the same, regardless of the quality of the bodywork. For some reason I am terrifically bummed out, and if I were able to cry, I might.

Somehow this car has seemed like the one constant in my life that has not let me down; has followed me wherever I’ve gone and carted me away from everything I’ve wanted to get away from. People (drivers) are seemingly determined to not let that happen, as I have been backed into, dumped off of car carriers, and today’s coup de grace: plowed into at high speeds while at a dead stop in typical congestion.

I think it's asinine to get this worked up over a stupid car, but there is some symbolism here that my mind is determined to recognize and brood over.

I also think that it’s now pretty ridiculous that I’ve dumped so much money into the thing for upkeep, thinking that this is the car I would commit to after years of being a notoriously philandering car owner. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’ve had seven cars in my young life thus far; four of them new. This car was the one I wanted to settle down with, and retire from a life of monthly car payments. And now, we'll spend the rest of our bland existence together, although she'll have a nasty limp, so to speak.

My driver's seat is laying at an odd pitch, because the WHIPS system has been activated, which is Volvo’s answer to lessening the chances of whiplash injuries. I’m not certain whether this means I’ll need a new seat too. (Can the thing be reset? Is this just some sort of refractory period for the seat, after which the seat will return to its upright position?)

Emotions aside however, this is why people buy Volvos, no? To protect themselves from the philistines that populate the roadways. I always thought that this was accomplished by building these things like tanks; however, looking at the two Fords behind me that were responsible for pushing me into an Accord, I would say that the thought process has changed ironically. Now, it's all crumple zones and the like.

Anfang

2005-02-13T21:47:00.000-05:00

I begin a new job tomorrow at large and fairly prominent biotech company. I’ll be a chemist. I’ll be wearing different clothing, waking up at required times, and commuting with the rest of Tampa through Malfunction Junction. I bought new shoes for the lab, painstakingly ensuring that they would not, like my previous pair, leave scuff marks on the floor to such a degree that the custodian makes thinly-veiled threats in Spanish to ram a broom up my ass if I didn’t buy some decent shoes that didn’t come from Payless.

I like to think that if there is a custodian at this new place and I am lucky enough to become friends with them, like I was with Juan back in CA, then I’ll be starting on the right foot. Pun not intended. (I bought my shoes at Dillards this time, Juan. You’d be proud of me.)

I also had to buy a few new pairs of pants, which also brought back memories of my good buddy Bruce, who, because of a sartorial preference for khakis, decided to call me “Fancy pants.”

Apparently, I’ve lost a decent amount of weight these past weeks, to the point that nothing fits very well, which means that the hard work I’ve put in at the gym is actually costing me money. I found three pairs of pants at the Banana outlet for $9.95 which didn't make my ass look all that bad. I bought three identical pairs, and felt afterwards only slightly epicene.

While some beginnings here seem new and fresh and uncomplicated, my endings, so to speak, have remained somewhat indistinct and brush-bordered. Not the fusiform demarcations which I had hoped for.

Nonetheless, moving on, and hopefully, upwards.

Law of Diminishing Privacy

2005-02-09T20:26:00.000-05:00

I read in the local paper that Tampa Bay is now a metropole of approximately 2 million inhabitants. That's 1.1 million more people here than were nine years ago, when I was still in High School and hanging out at the Village Inn with Jennifer, maximizing our two-dollar endless cup of coffee investment, talking about the important issues of our respective worlds, and me falling head-over-heels for her in the process.

But how in God's name is it that I run into old high school people with such frequency?

And furthermore: how is it possible that my younger brother will get his hair cut at the same place I had frequented the very same day, whereby he will be told by the woman cutting his hair (who has, apparently, a considerable knack for remembering last names), that his older brother was here just an hour ago? Whereby, brother will ask said woman, whether aforementioned brother was getting a haircut too? Whereby, woman will respond in the negative and additionally inform younger brother that aforementioned older brother was in earlier for "a little bit of waxing." Which, younger brother will threaten to broadcast [this information] to my father at dinner, who is less than understanding or open-minded about the more exotic forms of grooming for the male of the species.

But seriously: doesn't HIPA cover this kind of stuff?

... But Keep The Old.

2005-02-09T01:13:00.000-05:00

I have, like, only the most amazing friends ever. I’m serious. I can’t even comprehend why they keep me on the friend payroll.

A close buddy of mine actually called me twice today, having not received the decency of a single call from me in several days, just to make sure that I hadn’t thrown myself in the Hillsborough River. Which, I think is like the Charles River of the South. I’m talking Pre Cleaning-Up-The-Charles-River-Days in the Boston of the Nineties. Plus, alligators up the wazoo.

And when I finally picked up the phone this evening, to reassure him lamely that I was okay, did he berate me most deservedly for being an asshat of the highest magnitude? Nay. Did he tell me that I’m the biggest drama queen and/or pussy he has ever known, when I made some excuse about having my head firmly ensconced in my own ass, in an ad hoc, self-defensive, naval gazing (or in this case, anal-gazing) behavior, thereby intimating dramatically that I’ve been [dramatic pause] preoccupied? Again, no. Did he demand explanation as to why I chose the absence of all human contact over Super Bowl weekend, rather than enjoying the superb company of both he and his amazing wife, in the deluxe accommodations of their gracious and trendy riverside residence, which, as it happens, was nearly positioned on top of the Super Bowl itself?! Amazingly, no! He instead had the grace to sound relieved and even let me promise to call him tomorrow.

That spells some serious love AND trust, Roberto. Thanks for that.

And there’s my friend Jenner, back in CA, who, after being essentially ignored for weeks on end by either my steady non-return of phone calls, or my ominous 30 second calls whereby I tell her I’ll call her back in just a little bit, yet fail to do so--Jenner calls me anyway, leaves me the greatest messages; always funny, always edgy, but just enough to let me know that I should call her, dammit, and quit this BS and open up.

And then, there’s my best friend Eric, my childhood friend since I’m 2 years old. Calling to ask me when I’m moving to San Luis Obispo to help build his house, because he needs my help desperately, and offers to pay for my room and board during the whole process, and, promises not to have wild sex on the couch or the kitchen or anywhere else excepting their own bedroom with his lovely new wife while I am under their roof.

Nearly-pointless Side note: I have several favorite memories of Eric, but one in particular I have always liked was summer during our junior year. We had stopped at the drive-through at In-And-Out burger in Newport Beach; I was feeling ueber-cool in his Ford Probe. He, being at the drive through, passed along my order to the disaffected employee inside:

E: …And one cheeseburger with everything on it except onions.

D.E of InandOut: Okay, that will be (rattles off entire list)…and one cheeseburger with everything on it, and onion. (In a Spanish accent (you know, just to strive for the kind of excess of detail common to Russian novelists.))

E: No, one cheeseburger with everything except onions.

D.E: Okay, and two cheeseburgers with extra onions.

E: No (resolutely), one cheeseburger. Everything on it, but no onions.

D.E. Okay, one cheeseburger, onions only?

E: NO FUCKING ONIONS!

D.E: Okay, okay man! No onions! Ai, Holly Sheet!

Any friend who voraciously defends your right to have a hamburger Your Way, Right Away is a friend for life, no? Of course, that was back when I still ate fast food, and didn’t worry about my fat intake constantly. Like right now.

And then. And then there's Ben and Brooke. My old roommates. *Sigh*. I would need to write a post about how I feel about these too. I love youse guys.

You know what I feel like right now? I feel like Stewart Smalley, after screaming at his boss that she’s a duplicitous Vagina, and then goes home to mow through a whole package of Oreos. And then, the line of his dedicated friends begins to form outside the door—his A.A. sponsor, his Gambler’s Anonymous sponsor, his Overeater Anonymous sponsor, etc., etc. ”Stewart, you’re in a shame spiral, buddy! You gotta trace it, face it, and erase it!”

Sweet Italian Jesus. I’m Stewart Freakin’ Smalley. Goddammit, bring me the Eggo waffles. I don’t care anymore.

The Story of What I’ve Been Doing:

Okay: So, I had a meltdown of amazing, nuclear proportions. It was public; meaning the vast majority of my family witnessed it. I didn’t put any holes in the wall, maim, or kill anyone or anything. I’m still feeling a bit fragile, a bit washed over with the various neurotransmitters chucking themselves out of their receptor sites willy-nilly. I’m still, and always will be, probably a bit self-obsessed and withdrawn whenever this kind of shit goes down. But I’m here, I’m in it for the haul, this FL experiment (at least a little longer), and I am climbing out of this sinkhole that has formed under me over night, one step at a time, so help me Hannah. Momentary setback. More on this later.

Also: I’m not alone, it would seem. Oh, no. There are others in my position. Maybe not working with their respective Dads, but back at their respective Family Compounds with their parents, nonetheless. And their dogs have fleas too. (I am a worthy pet owner!) And yes, they will remember you from high school. And miraculously, they will know exactly how to get rid of your dog’s fleas. And it will work, amazingly, amazingly well. And you are therefore destined to fall in love and get married. (Wait, maybe not that one. That’s a bit over the top). But: I. Am. Not. Alone.

More on all that later.

Also, I think I’m going to be writing in this blog more often. I am going to regale you with the most boring minutiae of my life, which for me, ends up being the most fun anyway. You will either like it or hate it. I’m trying not to care.This was a choice, this outlet of self-expression. I’m going to use it for me. FOR ME!

But more on that later.

2005-02-01T01:02:00.000-05:00

It’s a weird sort of town, Temple Terrace. On the one hand, it’s a sleepy little river town, originally built in 1922 for the wealthier, decidedly Caucasian Northern elite. Today, it is strongly middle-class and multicultural; there exists a healthy population of people with Thai, Filipino, White, Black, Arabic, and Pan-Asian background.

To the North is unabashed urban sprawl, an area called New Tampa. It is suburban, somewhat showy, usually gated. A large percentage of people my age have chosen to live or rent there, among the vast quantities of upper-middle class suburban families. Typical to sprawl, there is a single, grandiose four-lane brick-lined exit from each planned community, through which all residents of the community must pass to exit their manicured lawns and matching homes. They all dump off into the only main boulevard that services the huge area, comprised of only two (and sometimes three) lanes. At five-thirty am, the place is jammed like Tokyo in rush hour. Minus the bicycles of course, as the city rednecks…er, forefathers, who developed this area, have deemed conventional bike lanes unnecessary, and widened the streets to accommodate SUVs. I lived here until I moved to California for college; my family moved to Temple Terrace shortly thereafter.

To the East are huge tracts of agricultural land. With lots of cows.

To the West, just outside city limits, is a large university with an enrollment of approximately 40,000 students. There are three hospitals within three miles of the town. Adjacent to the University is the Museum of Science and Industry.

Despite the large number of students, the neighborhoods of the town seem largely calm and peaceful once you leave the city’s main thoroughfares. The narrow streets off these intersections are for the most part densely landscaped, shaded by large Live Oak trees. The trees are typically accessorized with long garlands of Spanish moss, which have largely managed to cling to the majority, despite the best efforts of two hurricanes.

The homes lining the streets are almost always older, sometimes in a state of disrepair, and the styles fall anywhere between unfortunate, late-seventies style contemporary, typical nondescript Florida/California ranch-styles, Spanish & Mediterranean Revival, Mission, mini-Georgian Plantation types, a few Key West designs, and plenty of what I like to call the “Florida Lean-To”—a look which, despite being a house in all senses of its construction, resembles a more artsy-version of a double-wide trailer.

The majority of the homes in this town, if not already situated next to the river, are oriented around a golf course.

When describing “home” to friends back in California, I would inevitably end up mentioning the golf course in an off-handed fashion, usually in a funny but otherwise unessential story. There was, for example, the time my brother commandeered a golf cart with his friends and was hauled off to the pokey on charges of grand theft auto (charges that were eventually dropped, thanks to the Parentals. That was the first time I had heard "fuck" used in the house; the floodgates have since been opened). Or, there’s the violently Christian college in the vicinity and the two students who were caught making love on the course, consequently humiliated in a public fashion, and then expelled from school. (This was a story I had enjoyed on a Christmas break in FL, and again from a girl in my Calculus class at Cal Poly two weeks later, retold with almost perfect fidelity.) And of course, there are the odd helicopter landings as mentioned in the previous post, drunken, naked runs performed at the dead of night, during younger years. There is any number of rather silly and ultimately unimportant, but nevertheless, fun-to-relate stories involving the golf course and my proximity to it.

Some of my ball-breaking friends in California have insinuated that I’m dropping clues about a certain lifestyle. To which I usually reply, that living on or near a golf course in Florida is like saying you live near a gas station, or Wal-Mart, or a 7-11. Golf courses are everywhere, numerous as the bugs and the elderly drivers and the New Yorkers in this state, combined. City crests of several Florida towns should strive for verisimilitude by ditching images of orange trees and peaceful seasides, and instead feature a huge cockroach, on a golf course, holding a semi-automatic weapon.

Which brings me to the last issue—the crime rate.

To the South of Temple Terrace is a small bridge over the Hillsborough River, which, like any of the other cardinal directions mentioned above, brings one back into the city of Tampa. Across the river, the jurisdiction of the Temple Terrace police department ends. The crime rate of Tampa is apparently somewhere between the third and the eighth most violent city in the US. Miami is better. New York is better. LA is far, far better.

You cannot order a pizza at the Temple Terrace Papa Johns and have it delivered after 7:00 pm, if you happen to live on the other side of the riverbank. It’s apparently that dangerous. When shit goes down, helicopters come with spotlights that can illuminate a city-block. My old high school lies a few miles down in that direction.

Recently I witnessed someone driving a putatively stolen car at breakneck speeds over the bridge into town. Distantly, one could make out two Tampa police officers, lights flashing and sirens blaring, a good mile behind. The guy lost control of the car, crashed into a nearby utility line, got out and began to run. Within moments, FOUR Temple Terrace police cars swooped out of nowhere, got out of their cars, tackled this guy to the ground, and shackled him. It was pretty cool. These cops are everywhere, and more often than not, they’ll stop you just because. It may be that they saw you picking your nose in a fashion they didn’t like; it could be the fact that you were driving 3 miles over the speed limit.

I like this town. Yes, it’s uncomfortably close to my family. Yes, it has really no one my age to hang out with. However, this is where I want to buy my first hovel.

Since I’ve come here, I’ve been sporadically attending charettes, intended for a large city redevelopment, which puts the city closer to its originally-intended town plan. Whatever. There are huge tracts of zoned-commercial land in this town that are virtually abandoned; it’s a chance to turn things around, give the city a new identity and go the route of responsible urbanism. As of last week, the master plan was finalized, and a rendering of the city’s “New” Downtown is ready, which I am posting because I’m proud of the work that’s been done:

Photo from Torti Gallas & Partners.

Gasparilla 2005

2005-01-29T20:59:00.000-05:00

Gasparilla 2005 in Tampa Bay. (Photo by Cliff McBride of the Tampa Tribune.)

2005-01-29T20:30:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, there was an accident just down the street.

I didn’t immediately know it was an accident; I only saw the droves of cars winding rather disaffectedly through the shaded, twisting streets around Florida College. They reminded me of ants, plucked from their familiar chemotactic highways and dumped suddenly into some child’s ant farm—backing up, turning around, circling, feelers waving in the direction of the mazelike partitions, trying to make sense of it all.

I was heading back to The Compound from the gym, trying to see through the mist that very unexpectedly crossed my eyes. I pulled in and steeled myself to make the goddam phone call—a trivial task! which should be so simple and uncomplicated, but, due to my ability to take reasonably unpleasant vicissitudes and escalate them to life and death proportions, seemed instead to be of monumental significance, like turning down Salvation, or getting out of bed in the morning to attend to matters of oral hygiene.

The sudden roar of helicopters circling the house had become deafening, so I gratefully postponed the call and went to the driveway to investigate, where I found myself face to face with two Aeromed helicopters in the process of landing on the second hole, decidedly halting the golf game of six bewildered citizens who'd stopped their carts short of their ad hoc landing pad.

Then looking to my left, I see the sea of blue and white flashing lights; the Police Army of Temple Terrace blocking off the main arterial highway.

A truck had apparently run a small car off the road. The car had careened into a title company, severely injuring the two young men who were driving.

Within 15 minutes of arriving, the cavalcade of ambulances, firetrucks had left, the helicopters made their elegant liftoff and disappeared into the cloudy sky, and the ambient neighborhood sounds of the kids laughing and yelling in the playground behind me had returned. Their afternoon bell rang shortly thereafter, and then they made their noisy, agreeable retreat into the confines of their little school. Then silence.

Except for the dull hum of embarrassment of being the owner of self-important, histrionic thought patterns, which throbbed mockingly in-time with the flashing police lights.

2005-01-17T20:46:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite books when I was a kid was King Midas and his Magic Touch. I can’t remember if it was part of a curse that ended up being a Lesson Learned, or what, but at the moment, I feel like King Midas’ antithesis. But rather than everything I touch turning to gold, it instead turns to shit.

Motivated and self-starting science guy...

2005-01-09T22:13:00.000-05:00

And so it begins.

Or rather, ends.

New Years in Key West

2005-01-05T17:00:00.000-05:00

Watching the conch shell drop.

The Door of Zeros.

Key West Yellow

Example of the Contentious signage regarding the being of Southernmost.

I think they called themselves a "Gay Guesthouse." Whatever that means.

Really liked the colors.

Real (expensive)Estate.

Mile 0 House.

I don't know why I took this. I think I was waiting for my next drink.

Duval @ Southard.

Churched.

Birds and Sunset.

Evening Revelers (early yet)

The Conch Has Dropped.

The GRE

2004-12-20T23:03:00.000-05:00

I'm at the CUSP of taking it, having put it off three times already.

I'm having some confidence issues.

I have been dutifully spending all Saturday evenings in recent memory, not (as I probably ought to be) whoring myself across large swaths of Tampa's nightlife, but instead at a coffee shop in Hyde Park, studying through my practice book. I'm getting worked over by the English sections.

Long have I prided myself on not being a complete imbecile when it comes to the English Language, my math skills being pretty degenerate as it is. But noooo, the GRE is not content to let that small bit of pride alone.

I will go through a section of 20, get like 1 question wrong, and feel more or less at peace with it. Then, in the very next section, I'll get donkey-punched with 5 incorrectly answered questions, and then I will let forth, repeatedly, a string of sotto vocce obscenities; the likes of which Starbucks Patrons will let me know, via the Stink Eye, they do not appreciate. They are totally insipid and unscrutable. And so aren't these GRE questions.

Here's a (rough) example from memory:

"This park has been preserved in all its ________ wildness so that visitors in future years may see how people lived during the 18th century.

A. hedonistic
B. dog-beshitted
C. untrammeled
D. pristine
E. ghetto

The choice falls to untrammeled and pristine. Considering the two, I think to myself: Park. What PARK, let alone one from the 18th century, is going to be pristine, as in "pure and virginal state", as in "uncorrupted by civilization"? The very nature of a park is to be developed in something other than wildness and/or changed by mankind. Or do they mean that NOW that it's overgrown, it's become a pristine sort of wild? Well, that's weak. Also, how the dammit is anyone going to show off some damned Victorian (or is it Edwardian?) park, left in what is obviously an advanced state of disrepair (if they're only NOW talking about preserving it), if they're not going to engage in some serious slash and burn? That doesn't make sense. Now, untrammeled on the other hand, meaning "unrestricted" or "unconfined" sounds like a better match. They're talking about preserving it, opening it to the public. That sounds pretty unrestrictive to me. I mean, we're assuming that the park was closed previously, maybe while they cleaned out the MTBE and the syringes, and instead of building a gated golf community, it's remaining in its untrammeled wildness.*

It makes perfect sense to me.

It spells dimwit to graduate school admission boards.

I should get a Master's Degree in Sounding LIke I Know What I'm Talking About.

*(The correct answer is dog-beshitted. No, just kidding! It's Pristine. Which you probably guessed, didn't you? No wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know.)

Hidings of Comfort and Joy

2004-12-18T13:54:00.000-05:00

Struck by some pranksters with my kind of humor.

Career Day

2004-12-18T13:02:00.000-05:00

Several mornings ago, I awoke to the insistent klaxon of my alarm clock. This is normally my cue to slap it around for at least one additional half hour, to the end of gaining several, five-minute intervals of peace. Instead, I immediately crawled out of the warm envelope of my bed, showered, and dressed as if I were heading into the laboratory. It was Career Day at the middle school where my sister teaches, and I was to report early morning and talk about my extant career in cancer-related Biotechnology.

I wasn’t looking forward to the whole experience, chiefly because she teaches 5th graders, and I remember being in 5th grade altogether too well. At that age, you seem somehow less obligated to abide by certain social conventions. Which means, if your speaker happens to be obviously a little out of touch with his audience, and looks somewhat unconventional, they are free to yawn with supreme boredom and tell the speaker he looks like a giant penis head.

But I had promised my sister. So I grabbed my lab coat (still spotted with nasty stains from Freshman year in Organic Chemistry), a laboratory notebook, finished up a Powerpoint presentation, and drove in.

Now, you might be thinking at this point: “Em, Powerpoint, dude? That is exactly the sort of asinine miscalculation that guarantees you, an average, out-of-touch penis head, certain death at the hands of 5th graders. Do you really want your fragile Ego’s last gasp of air to be in a classroom smelling suspiciously of bologna? (To which, my responses would be You Might Be Right, and No, Not Really.)

But in this case, I was asked to make one. Did you know that Powerpoint has come to the young? Because I didn’t, and I’m kind-of surprised. Even though my sister’s school is in an economically-disadvantaged part of greater Tampa Bay, the classrooms are equipped with what is called a SmartBoard: a computer projects the image of its desktop upon the board, and the teacher can open, close, drag and click, simply by touching the board. Pretty cool stuff. (Fortunately for me, however, the thing was not functioning. This spared me the embarrassment of acting out my latent fantasies of serving aboard the Starship Enterprise, in the few minutes before the classroom flooded itself with the Impressionable Future of our Country.)

But I’m getting way off track here.

I arrived at school, where I was kindly ushered to the office to sign in, and when I arrived at the office, the Extremely Gorgeous Yet Unavailable Guidance Counselor (who was my age) guided me into an adjacent room, where she offered me OJ, coffee, and a Danish. I felt myself unclench a little bit, having decided that ANY school going to all this trouble to be hospitable certainly would not tow a certain fellow who had mistakenly parked his car in the Faculty Lot.

But, the long and the short of it, is that I stood up in front of 30 odd fifth graders and told them how much fun Science was. And the whole experience was really, really fun. I couldn’t believe how many questions they asked. (Did I do that as a kid?) I mean, they wanted to talk about everything. Cancer, DNA, AIDS. And what would happen if a dog and a cat tried to reproduce. I told them about ligers and they looked at me with such amazement. I showed them cross-sections of tissue stained with various cancerous-elucidating agents, and they were simultaneously grossed-out and fascinated.

One of the little girls raised her hand and asked me “Did you know you wanted to be a scientist when you were little?”

It was one of those moments where a couple items popped into head at the same time.

I thought first of my 6th grade friend Justin (who had the modest beginnings of Tourettes, I think), who, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, looked specifically around for his mother, and having located her, screamed “I WANT TO BE A PIMP!” I still remember the way his mom’s head whipped around to face him, the Scowl of Death etched across her face.

I also remembered wanting to be a veterinarian.

But I answered the question, employing the use of several platitudes that do not belie the frequent reality of life—that reality being, that the vast majority of us do things that we either 1) don’t want to do, in pursuit of other things we do want to do someday or 2) do things because it was easy at the time and it was just easier to stick with it or 3) become slaves to the idea of living a comfortable material life and live with jobs we hate, stomachs that digest themselves under stress, and livers that swell under the influences of alcohol or antidepressants.

I believe the platitude I employed was “You should follow your heart and do what you feel excited about, understanding that it can change.”

I don’t really know if they got it.

But I did. I heard myself saying the words and wondered why it was that I wasn’t, at this very moment, following my own advice.

I briefly paralled this experience with kids to the same kind of growth that occurs in psychologists’ offices. That is, how the right line of questioning can jar one to a better understanding of something, and through it, hopefully, a sort of self-realization.

Which ultimately made me realize, having avoided it so judiciously, I must actually make a few decisions very, very soon.

Gott der Flüsse

2004-12-13T22:10:00.000-05:00

May it rest in Piece(s).

Whatever will soccer moms with only one child named Kaitlin, and a pomeranian named Precious drive now?

The New America

2004-12-11T18:40:00.000-05:00

World, I give you Anne Coulter and Tucker Carlson, two humans* who open their mouths only to have a big, steaming turd fall out.

I would like to exile these people to Canada, where the good folks there can kill them. (With kindness, of course.)

*And by humans, I mean vituperative, mindless, wastes of extracellular fluid, dumber than a sack of hair, flatulent gas bags.

Boca Raton

2004-12-10T11:40:00.000-05:00

Comfortable bed, no sleep has come yet, and it is 5:00 am.

Anyhow, I’m in Boca Raton.

The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Nice—that sort of thing.

I spent the vast majority of this Friday night watching television, which I never really seem to get to do while at home. As a result, I indulge in a sort of marathonesque, TV-watching regimen only while I am traveling on Friday nights. Inexplicably, at the moment I am watching a fairly heinous TNT feel-good TV-Movie. I don’t know what the hell I’m watching, but Juliette Lewis is playing a mentally challenged girl and I am RIVETED. She is spot on with her ability to pull off this role. Right now, she’s busy challenging her controlling, yet stylish, yet compassionate, emasculating bitch of mother (Diane Keaton) and her softie, historically distant, retired alcoholic, yet perpetually-understanding Dad (Tom Skerritt), into letting her go to a “real” school.

I was here primarily to attend an auction benefit for Cancer and Leukemia with several employees of a company that I represent independently. I didn’t know what to expect, but only that I was expected to meet new contacts and sell, sell, sell. Instead, I bonded briefly with the organizer of this event, who unfortunately lost his Father due to leukemia. I knew a lot more about Gleevec and other research options currently being investigated for blood-borne diseases, than the industry I was representing. It was a point of irony not completely lost on me.

I like working with this company, more or less. They’re young and hip, which is nice. Also, they’re almost exclusively Jewish. Which, according to my Mom, is good, because they will like me. Jewish and Italians get a long really well, she says. Mom’s a little crazy. I think she just wants me to be a good Mensch, and marry a nice Jewish girl.

Anyway, at some point, the evening afforded me the opportunity to speak with the owner of this company, who, truth be told, I had been a little bit afraid of. He’s a little intense, and he doesn’t seem bound to the same sort of social restrictions that the rest of us usually fall prey too. For example, he doesn’t mind peppering his speech with the F word.

Please don’t take me wrong. I have nothing against such words. I often use them. In fact, when I’m not using them, I practice using them. With some of my friends, I’ll indulge--no big deal. However, to my view, that is a shite sight different than using it at a quasi-business function with people who may or may not be busy formulating their first or (second impression) of you.
But that is the nature of this fellow. He has defined himself as a straight shooter, no-nonsense, I-Will-Tell-It-Like-It-Is guy. I do think thusly that this is the face he puts on to the rest of The World.

When I spoke with him one on one, it became an entirely different story. He’s articulate, circumspect, filled with advice, and the incidence of use of colorful language plummets. I just find that interesting.

{Update: OH, God. Juliette is now trying to convince her parents that she would like to live alone. I’m already panicked. Are we going to have to deal with something stupid here, like she accidentally burns the place down? I can’t get emotionally invested in this. I wish TV guides published something to forewarn people about any egregious depictions of sentimental themes here. Maybe though, I ought to have known. It is Lifetime, after all.}

Anyway, this guy (whom I’ll call Gabe) started giving me some really interesting advice. And, given the fact that he’s quite a bit older than me, and actually WANTED to talk about this stuff with me, I listened:

He started off as a CPA, then went into real-estate investment, then made a killing in the foreclosesures market. But he got out of it, because he says there is too much risk and activity going on right now. Everyone’s buying apparently, whether they can truly afford it or not. Foreclosure opportunities have dried up now, and the comparison between what people are making and what people owe on their houses is HUGE. Banks, he says, are in for some serious trouble.

I guess he’s predicting that the market will eventually stagnate. But that is not when it’s time to buy! he says. Wait a few years for rates and prices to normalize and come out of stagnation. We are a shiftless society; we move around a lot. Back in the day, people devoted themselves to a company and worked for many years. Now, people chase the money and people move on. The vast majority of people divorce, and therefore need more than one place of domicile. He explains that all of this activity and moving around has really increased the demand. You factor in a lackluster securities market, and you have defined Risk. A risk that appears to be, in some small part, recognizable, from the presence of EVERYONE ELSE in the market.

Gabe let me know that I am young, and there are several things that I’m going to learn as I stay in business for myself:

Firstly, that the expectation of perfection has to stop. Don’t expect it of anything, not even yourself. Don’t even give the ILLUSION of perfection. Admit it first on, don’t hide anything, and people will respect you for it. Why? Because intelligent, rational people know themselves that their own businesses are not perfect either. Owning up to the fact that nothing is perfect apparently can be an indication that one is committed to the idea of steady improvement.

Secondly, that I will fail pretty spectacularly as I continue to find and create business opportunities. This is essential for long-term success. “You can lose everything twice,” he says, “and still come out on top. The fear of failure is not unique, but how you work with it IS.”

If I screw-up enough, he explains, then I will eventually get to the point where the echoes of the Past start ringing loud enough in the Present, to prevent you from going down certain roads again.

Part of being successful is being able to predict a few steps down the road.

How to do this?

Past experience, for one. Secondly, a healthy respect for people’s abilities. There are several people you will meet out there, he says, who will strike you as complete morons. These are people who have the ability to otherwise surprise you with other strong skills. You miss out on them, because of your pre-conceived notion of who they are. Conversely, people who apparently seem With-It, skilled, and put together, require a certain amount of secret skepticism. Ultimately, it’s the yin and yang. Everyone has good abilities and skills, he says. It is vital to identify them and marshal them if one is to be a good Leader. By the same token, for every strong trait, there is usually an inadequate one that keeps the person more or less in a state of balanced equilibrium.

Naturally, this whole process of analyzing a potential business partner (especially a friend, which, as he says, is usually the nicest yet most dangerous scenario, if you’re not completely honest about things) extends to self as well.

Gabe wanted me to know that a good leader is very clear on his own skills and shortcomings. Period. He said nothing about being able to improve one’s shortcomings whatsoever. Have no illusions about them, do not deny them—and you will be successful. Instead, find people who have what you lack.

At my age, he said, I would do well to actively surround myself with other intelligent people. He feels that the vast majority of people in business are afraid to do just that, worried instead about being taken advantage of, looking stupid, etc. “Associate with intelligence in all its forms”, he said. Perhaps that’s the part that relates to self-improvement, which unfortunately his talk did not really cover.

[Heinous TV update: Juliette got her way and now has her own apartment. Apparently her sister is a lesbian. Mom isn’t happy about this!]

What else? A word on complaining. There are complainers everywhere, he says. It’s okay to complain. It’s not okay if that’s all you do. You must find solutions; you must find easier ways to do things. Changing things isn’t usually a matter of thinking big. More often, it tends to be a matter of thinking of something small, and actually using the momentum to make it happen. People may have ideas all the time, but they do nothing to implement it. So, find out what’s wrong with something, and then start thinking about how to fix it.

Try to think 6 steps ahead.

Don’t get blinded solely by the seemingly insufficient aspects of a situation, or its glowing benefits. Try to think about the scenarios that can happen, and think of a way to manage it if it comes to that. BEFORE they occur. Remember, the good and bad have a way of balancing each other out.

{Juliette and her dreamy mentally challenged studmuffin are now hooking it up. I’m afraid that the candles they lit will somehow burn down the house during their lovemaking, and she will be forced to live with her parents again. The horror. I can’t handle this. I’m going to bed.}

Thanks for tuning in to all this drivel; which I think I posted more for me than for anyone else.

Burbank, California

2004-12-08T22:44:00.000-05:00

I spent late Friday, the weekend, and Monday in California, after hitting Lost Vagus for business purposes. The reasons for the visit to Kalifornia were variegated and multifaceted and a lot of other SAT level words that are employed here only to obfuscate the reasons for my going. Tuesday was time to go home, and so accordingly, I turned myself into the Burbank Airport at early hours, for my flight back to the east coast.

I have a semi-sordid history of finding myself confounded at various security checkpoints around this great nation. Actually, confounded might be too vague and at the risk of being such, I think it necessary to broaden out that description with other terms. Like, “deeply humiliated”, “strip search”, “cavity search.” Just to name a few.

Okay, I'm kidding about the cavity search. And about the strip search too, I guess. The deeply humiliated part--don’t ask me to explain that now. Someday, if I’m brave enough, I will share with the Internet how I was outed at Security by several of Delta's Finest. Today is not that day however.

But regardless and notwithstanding, the time had come for me to voluntarily turn over my luggage to a TSA agent, so that my unlaundered briefs might be probed, ostensibly for trace evidence of biological residues that might-could possibly be converted into weapons of mass destruction. (Their confidence in this likelihood is not at all flattering. Also, why not hire a beagle to do this? It’s very hard to pack all that crap in there without having someone go and bugger it all up right before the baggage crew starts using my luggage as batting practice. Hey! I even have a Nervous Beagle who needs a job and might be interested in volunteering her time for this. In fact, I think most beagles are familiar with a myriad of crotch sniffing exercises, if my dog is any representative example. So really, what is the damned reason for this pawing and mulling over my clothes, unless these employees of TSA are just convicted perverts in a work release program?)

As my luggage is put onto the examination table, the proverbial stirrups adjusted and the speculum warmed, the TSA guy looks me in the eyes and says,

“We don’t do black bags on Mondays.”

Me: (Small cough). Excuse me?

TSA agent: (More insistent tone) We don’t do black bags on Mondays.

Me: Ha. Ha. Well, you see, sir, there was a dearth of purple bags, and I really don’t want any trouble. Ha. Ha.

TSA representative: (Looks at me like I’ve contracted a mild case of mental retardation) Think about it! WE don’t do BLACK BAGS on MONDAYS.

Me: (Thinking, to self). Do? What is this “DOING” Shit? Does “doing” constitute something other than pawing through my stuff?

Me: (pondering further) Surely, by “doing”, he isn’t making reference to any sort of humping of my black Samsonite Luggage, now, is he? I mean, it really is quite attractive, even if he’s not into the color. And it bulges quite suggestively, too. Hmm.

Me: (pondering even further). Dammit! I should think my stuff will be thoroughly screwed anyway, what with it being on Southwest and all. God, this is SO unfair!

Me: (coming to senses; arranges features into sheepish grin to avoid any trouble.)

TSA jokester: What day is it today?

Me: (Thinking) Not my lucky day?

Me: (Thinking) The day you don’t hump black bags, apparently?

Me: (Thinking) The day that MTV is filming “Boiling Points” at Burbank Airport, and I'm being filmed right now?

Me: Tuesday?

Me: (Relieved, yet supremely irritated): OH! Not Monday! Ha. Ha. I get it. Ha. Ha. (more weak laughter).

TSA: (proceeds to swab my luggage down for any evidence of my dangerous bodily fluids or genetic material, all the while chortling). That joke always gets the real uptight ones! HA!

Me: Uptight! Ha! Yeah. Maybe I should get some Quaaludes out of that suitcase before you zip it back up. Ha!

Profiles in Courage

2004-11-24T00:56:00.000-05:00

"Of course, it would be much easier if we could all continue to think in traditional political patterns--of liberalism and conservatism, as Republicans and Democrats, from the viewpoint of North and South, management and labor, business and consumer or some equally narrow framework. It would be more comfortable to continue to move and vote in platoons, joining whomever of our colleagues are equally enslaved by some current fashion, raging prejudice or popular movement. But today this nation cannot tolerate the luxury of such lazy political habits. Only the strength and progress and peaceful change that come from independent judgment and individual ideas--and even from the unorthodox and the eccentric--can enable us to surpass that foreign ideology that fears free thought more than it fears hydrogen bombs."

--John F. Kennedy. Profiles in Courage, 1964.

Liberté, égalité, jus d'orange.

2004-11-20T19:10:00.000-05:00

I wrote an extensively lengthy blurb from my recent stay in Boca Raton. Unfortunately it requires serious editing to be even remotely cogent.

However, for my Saturday morning return trip to Tampa, I selected a toll road over the one I usually take. I risked it chiefly on the great hope that I could avoid Hell, in the corporeal manifestation of Interstate-4, which protrudes rudely from the otherwise sprawling backside of Orlando.

This toll road took me through some everglades-like landscapes (I’m still not sure what actually constitutes everglades), and some seriously unpopulated areas. And by unpopulated, I mean no gas stations (or cross streets for that matter) for like, 40 or 50 miles. I motored along quite contentedly, the Volvo emitting its singular, contented whooshing sound as it hums over paved roads at eighty miles an hour. The sky was a nearly cloudless deep blue, and the few lakes I encountered on the way reacted to the sky’s reflection with its own form of dreamy blue effulgence.

I ended up passing through orange groves, whose nearby signs indicated they were owned by Minute Maid. At times, the highway crept upwards in certain places; just long enough to give one a view of the expansive orange trees blanketing the area on both sides, as far as the eye could resolve. Seeing oranges actually growing here in the state reminded me of two things in particular: one, that Florida is still a vastly huge state that hasn't completely killed itself (yet) with tourism and soulless sprawl communities. And secondly, it reminded me of this summer's many hurricanes.

When the hurricanes unfurled their fury upon the Sunshine State, the Floridians who were not so badly affected often reached out for ways to help those rendered less fortunate by the weather. It was a fleeting, yet substantial sense of welfare for the FL community. The media also helped the spirit along, by exhorting the listening public to help resuscitate Florida’s economy: by drinking more Orange Juice.

I suppose it could have been a ploy, but it worked for me. Drinking OJ--after all, how hard is that? That orange juice is a cornerstone of Florida's economy certainly sounded like plausible presupposition at the time, too. And regardless, it’s not exactly a chore to regularly push the stuff past the tongue anyway. So the bit about re-animating Florida’s economy, plus doing my duty as a Floridian and citizen to make Florida right as rain again—well, one gets the idea. I started swilling away.

After seeing the orange trees, and remembering the whole Drinking of Orange Juice to Help Repair Florida’s Economy, I began to idly engage in making large-scale parallels to the current political climate. I am reminded somewhat of older political posters, often in magnet form on refrigerators, commonly situated next to equally strategically vintage-looking Guinness Beer adverts. The ones I’m thinking of are those where women have rolled up their sleeves under a banner of “We can DO IT!” while silhouettes of war planes fly above their red do-rags. Those ads represent a bygone era where America could still unite in solidarity in times of war or aggression. “Scrimp and pinch, sacrifice, trade in your toaster, find your scrap metal, for the Boys overseas!” That sort of thing.

It made me oddly nostalgic (which, due to my age, I don’t think I'm necessarily entitled to feel) for such a time when America collectively rustled up their own proverbial sleeves, and joined together in resourcefulness and courage, to help fight a war from the home front. (Am I wrong about this?)

"Drink OJ! Bring our men and women home from the Middle East!" Wouldn’t that be nice? We could all have a small task to make us believe that we have influence with something, without getting all freaking partisan and crap. I think we in the masses need something like this--one well within the range of our capabilities, such as consuming.

Either way, I'm still drinking my orange juice.

2004-11-17T17:14:00.000-05:00

I swim to help me maintain a feeling of normalcy, which tends to otherwise dissipate in the absence of exercise.

Some people take psychoactive drugs for this. Been there, done that, had the vertigo and the cottonmouth. I'll stick to swimming and the attendant dry skin and losing of weight, so that I can engage in my other coping device, which is Eating.

Although the weather is truly gorgeous in Florida right now, it does get chilly when the sun goes down. And one does not relish jumping into a pool, albeit heated, when on a cold wet pool deck in little else than nylon briefs manufactured by Speedo.

My procedure for getting in the pool at this time of year proceeds in the following manner: I stand on the ledge of the pool, contemplating entry and give myself an extensive pep talk. Then, I ease myself in, one appendage at a time, and when I get to the waist, I pause slightly for things to right themselves again, bite the bullet and submerge, and finally push off the wall to begin the workout.

One of these little stinkers, who swims on the youth Swim Team before our Masters Team begins, snuck up behind me and pushes me in at the step where I am in deep meditation about actually getting into the water.

I hit the water like a baby elephant. She (the stinkerette) laughs. I fake mock outrage (how can you be mad at these little guys?) and immediately begin to swim to get warm.

I proceed to shave off so much time on my swimming that I am now considering running straight out of the Men’s Locker room and doing a cannonball into my lane.

It’s interesting how the unexpected “pushes” in Life get one moving not only sooner, but a little faster.

Metanoia Ergasia

2004-11-14T20:26:00.000-05:00

Six months in, and I am still very much at odds with the concepts of Sales and Marketing as a whole. I am also at odds with working with my Dad. However, I am slightly more comfortable with the daily dynamics of that, than I am with my lingering reservations about this shift in my career. I am learning quite a bit through this process--not so much necessarily about sales only, but about myself, how I react to Life, and how others react to Life as well.

Firstly, I have come to understand that while I was a Scientist, it was of common, professionally-held value to maintain an attitude of diffident skepticism; one of "No, That Won't Work." Being able to prove that notion, empirically and efficiently, was an added benefit. (This shows perhaps how limited my science experience really was.)

On the other hand, I have learned while I have been a Salesman, adopting an attitude of "Yes, That Will Work," is valued. As a result, the ability to use both creativity and relationships to actually make it so, seems to differentiate one Salesman from another. Being able to do it quickly and efficiently is the difference between a good salesman and an outstanding one.

I have learned that many, many people, either through deliberate intent or social stupidity, are perfectly comfortable using emotional manipulation and false data to manipulate an individual into assisting them. I have learned that such people rarely understand a sacrifice made on their behalf, should one buy into their web of deception. Individuals can be roughly hashed into two different groups: Energy Makers, and Energy Takers. There are both subtle and obvious signs for either. Determining who is an Energy Taker preserves one's own mental energy. (Subnote: by using such kitschy expressions, I inadvertently put my Life in the hands of other trite platitudes that may find homes on Bumper Stickers, fortune cookie tags, and Successories(tm) crap. Undecided about appropriate level of worry required this point.)

I have realized that, as a general rule, I am still Working for Money, whereas I should instead be Creating Money. The difference is important to understand, being a quasi-business owner, née corporate lab drone. I am accustomed to managing the fallout; the mess-ups; the repairs. It feels natural and comfortable to me--even when someone is yelling down the phone--I feel in my element when I am managing someone's Drama. What I must learn instead, is the part inextricably tied to actually selling. It is infinitely more productive, at least in theory. It's in the mode of Creation, rather than Repair. Whole new worlds of thought.

Lastly: Mentors.

I have learned that not everyone in the world is fortunate enough to have a mentor in all areas of their lives. Sometimes, it would seem that one is asked to tackle the Big Events without any buffer, or any real reliable advice or guidance. This realization has been a tough one. I think I rather expected some sort of Indian Guide to appear on the scene and endow me with the knowledge to handle things in a cool-as-dammit matter. Instead, making it through such challenges seems first and foremost, to require intuition. Waking up my sense of intuition has been a slow process, that proceeds in a fashion roughly similar to how I wake up on a Monday morning. (By hitting "Snooze" several hundred times. )

In those moments where one may fervently desire the guidance of a mentor or a guru, but none seem available, friends make an excellent resource. They can usually pull you sufficiently out of a cycle of self-denial and admonition that has no utility.

On an ultimately personal note:

I cannot expect my Dad to operate in the capacity of a mentor. This is a realization associated with some sadness and surprise. Dad may know things I don't, but he doesn't have the raw materials to explain them to me. As a almost-ironic consequence, I do not have the character fibre to listen to him become agitated with me when I ask questions for my own clarification. With attempting to figure out a problem or a challenge, I have learned, as I have in childhood, that it's best not to ask.

People in college and at work have pointed out in the past that I generally operate by two standards in my life: 1) Do it now, worry about forgiveness (or input) later. 2) Remain occluded and vague about any given plans or intent. I used to think that this seemingly-innate capacity for Omerta was just part of my personality. Now I know it has everything to do with how I have operated as a kid. I have to decide now, as a result of this realization, what the heck I'm going to do about it.

It's interesting, how all of this stuff cracks one open, psychologically-speaking.

This Election

2004-11-09T01:01:00.000-05:00

I’m not quite sure to say about all of this election business.

So the US has spoken, and the winning majority has indicated that four more years with the current president is okay by them.

America has its beginnings in idealism, religious zealotry, rebellious individualism, pioneering spunk and courage, and economic lassiez-faire. It has contributed to our livelihood; it has contributed to our downfall. Perhaps this is all part of a theme, or a psychosocial character profile of Americans; one that has not diluted so much over the course of many subsequent generations, and one that influences the politics of current.

But then again, we seem to be a melting pot, and not so segregated so as to preserve these ancestral qualities in-situ. Yet our coasts are evidently experiencing very different things in comparison to the Midwest. So maybe the present (and historical) predilection for moral extremes in the US cannot explain the divide that is reflected in the bitter controversy surrounding the election, surrounding the war, surrounding the economy, surrounding the environment, and on and on, und so weiter, ad infinitum ad nauseum, etc.

So then, is it a lack of intelligence? As tempting as it might be for me, or anyone else, to write off an entire half of a country (or perhaps an ENTIRE country) as being irredeemably stupid, I suspect it might be inaccurate. I might, due to my piss-and-vinegar nature, and unabashedly elitist affect, try to write such an excoriating piece. But alas, I’m just not as creative and humerous as some other people, who have better writing styles than I (high compliments go to those to whom those links correspond; I admire you tremendously) to attempt to do so.

I wish to say that, aside from moral reasons, or intelligence, or the economy being the determinant for one presidential candidate over another, I suspect that Fear had a lot more to do with the actual Win. Which makes sense to me. After all, fear is, and ever shall be, the human instinct that seems the most powerful determinant over the outcome of human decisions. Human lives are disguised as complexity, built upon a chassis of Fear; it seems inherent in our nature. Ironically enough, Fear seems to be one of the most easily influenced and manipulated.

What are Americans afraid of, generally, and why?

Are we afraid of same sex marriage? Are we just afraid of the power of the word “marriage”? Or by giving up the post-modern essence of the word, are we afraid of societal change beyond our control? Does this, in fact, follow?

Are we afraid of losing our ability to achieve the American Dream?

Are we afraid of not having enough to eat? Is that why we are among the world's most overweight?

Are we afraid that Terrorists can change the US so dramatically, that our Number One Priority must be eradication; over education, over hunger---over consensus? Are we that enlightened, that powerful, that we can afford to re-write the book on Fighting Terrorism without the tutelage and support of our older fellow countries?

Are we afraid of losing our identity, or individuality, even if it is hopelessly tied to status, or recklessness, or irresponsible excess (such as owning a HumVEE)? Why?

Granted, I realize it might be arrogant to assume that anyone outside of the US gives a damn about our election. What I’m not sure about on the other hand, is whether it is ALSO arrogant presumption to assume everyone else in the World has a well-defined, strong opinion of the US. The American media has a lot to do with the provenance of this strongly-held opinion, whether it is misguided or not. So forgive us in advance.

I'm trying a new technique that I learned from my new good friend Susannah Whelan (thanks Susannah!). I'm doing what they do on the Capitol: I'm eliciting others for some authentic feedback.

It seems to me that many Americans want to talk about things at the moment. Sometimes, that impulse seems to take the form of chastisement, of denial, of doomsday, of outright petulant bravado. I believe this is progress, nevertheless. I suspect the younger set are becoming concerned with how our image reflects in the world community, in light of decisions that are perceived as taking us away from solidarity with the rest of our neighbors (namely, the Kyoto initiative, the record of making decisions with N.A.T.O, etc.). And they’re concerned about our safety and our livelihood, too, which is a new experience for us.

People, the arctic circle is melting, and the world sometimes seems like it’s going to hell in a handbasket. All the infighting and dramatic crap like this isn’t helping much.

We need some clarity. We need some solutions. We need some insight.

And my blog desperately needs a breath of fresh air.

My 1 dollar attempt at doing something productive is to have anyone--Americans, expats, Europeans, Australians, Panasians, Eurasians, South Americans or some combination therein--give their opinion on the state of the US, both internally and externally, by writing their thoughts and opinions, to be shared on this pitiful blog. I would love to hear from anyone who is interested in extolling, or cautioning against, the virtues of a more socialized, a more peaceful, or more truculent, a more independent, or more cooperative, United States.

Come on, please don’t make be actively search you out and beg you to write something.

Three Depresso Items and A Moment Of Zen

2004-10-28T15:35:00.000-04:00

1) Next(h)ell: I am a Power User. Or rather, that is what the tatooed and disaffected youths at my local Nextel store would like me to believe. I am now Power Using the hell out of my fourth phone. It's been four months since I first purchased Phone Number One and embarked upon this Very Special Relationship; one, I'll wager, resembles the kind of relationship Lizzy Borden had with her parents. I average one phone per month. I'm like, the J-Lo of Cell Phone Ownership, people. Although, two of the three deaths have been caused partially by me. Phone Number One, I threw in a fit of rage, having just lost my umpteenth important call in spitting distance of a cell tower. The second was purely accidental: I was demonstrating how my new phone didn't ring unless I banged it a few times against a table. My party trick failed that one time, and my colour LED screen dramatically exsanguinated itself on the table. I plead involuntary phoneslaughter. But whatever; none of that really depresses me. But, Power User? I beg your pardon...

2) Decaf Mocha Depresso, please: Saturday night, and it's my turn to order at Starbucks, and before I could spit out the first phoneme of my order, the woman behind the counter, having eyed me as I made my deliberate approach to the register, cuts me off; looks at me with increasingly concerned-looking crinkles around her soft brown eyes: "Oh, honey, it's OKAY. You can RELAX here. Don't worry about a THING." Severely confused, and not a little bit pissed, I begin to form a response. But no! Doe Eyed Cashier gently places a finger against her ample lips and shushes me gently and yet, excessively long. Like, "shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh",
as if I were a crying, constipated baby. I stop trying to talk, absolutely fascinated. She continues, "Baby, I understand exactly. I'm obsessive-compulsive too. You don't have to explain. Mary understands e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g."

Mary, apparently, did not however understand how badly I needed a Cafe Americano at that very moment. And since when does knowing EXACTLY what you want when you're up at bat at the 'Bucks, constitute Mental Disorder? I mean, should I have instead stared vacantly at the "menu" and after several infuriating "um's", ordered an impossibly customised drink? Get off the Klonipin, Mary! Live Life the way it was meant to be lived--one coffee shy of Total Public Meltdown!

3) My Job Title: I just checked the side of this blog, and it reminds me that I'm supposed to be pretending to dabble in Sales and Marketing. Which is odd, because with all the Drama I've had to be dealing with, my Job Title should probably read Child Psychologist. Which is odd, you know, because I just checked my paystub, and I am NOT pulling in Psychologist-style bucks. Which means, I am seriously infantalizing my dealers. Or they are playing me Beyond Belief. I'm going to start bringing wet wipes with me when I visit them, and the first thing I will ask them, as I proffer the diaper-pink box leaking Baby Powder Smell, is "Wipe now, or later?"

*Sigh* But there has been one silver-lined cloud in the drama storm of my day, and I think today, it's this picture. How cute does little Yasser look in his little onesie?

McDating

2004-10-17T22:34:00.000-04:00

I suppose I was dumped last week, and I feel like utter crap about it still.

I say dumped with a sort of uncertainty, because it was not altogether dissimilar to giving one’s Notice by abandoning one’s job. That is to say specifically, my phone calls began to go unreturned. I have concluded, after about a week of several calls a day (a point of huge embarrassment for me) that you can’t really make anyone return calls. And therefore, the act of not returning them becomes, in essence, a message. That message is, in fact, the universal one for Bugger Off.

I feel a bit like my heart has been tread on, and finding I am dwelling a lot of how things went down, and how I’ve contributed. The sheer ridiculousness of these feelings DO register, in an academic, super-conscious sort of way. What I mean is, this wasn’t even a relationship, technically. It had been two months, a handful of dates, the exact number of which I could count on one hand, a large number of hours logged on a cell phone, and a single exploratory kiss. There really is no sense in feeling this way, as nothing is owed and (as I am told by several people) there is no social obligation otherwise requiring one to give notice of quitting said relationship.

But why the hell is this the case?

Why isn't it considered normal just to pick up the phone when it rings and say something to the effect of It's Not Going To Work? Make something up, for God Sake.

I wonder whether it's due to our culture of drive-thru and disposable everything, that people feel perfectly entitled to throw people away without even a bullshit email or a conversation or a phone call that attempts to address the breaking up, as feeble or as misguided or as judicious as it may be. Pretending you Died or simply ignoring someone to end the relationship is so tremendously low-class in my book.

Another Reason Why the Swedish Are So Incredibly Awesome

2004-10-14T21:28:00.000-04:00

A recent letter from Volvo:

Zeke XXXX
XXX X. XXXXX XXXXX
Temple Terrace, FL XXXXX-XXXX

Dear Zeke,

We hope you were not affected by the recent disaster in your area, but if you were, please accept our sympathy and concern.

Volvo understands that you may experience temporary financial problems due to conditions beyond your control. We are available to help if you need it. We can offer payment extensions allowing you to defer your next one or two monthly payments. While an extension will allow you to defer a monthly payment until a later date, interest may continue to accrue on the deferred payments if you executed a simple interest contract with us. If you need assistance, please call our Customer Service Center at this toll-free number:

1-800-770-8234

(...)

We truly appreciate your business and want you to know that we are here to assist you.

Sincerely,

Your Friends at Volvo Car Finance.

MY Friends at Volvo. My Friends. At Volvo.

*Sigh.* I love my Volvo, and I love it even more with the thought in mind that one or more brilliant Swedes are concerned with my possible plight. It's like having a guardian angel or something. I think mine shall be named Per.

Hmm. Well, okay--technically, the writer or this letter is likely holed up in a US subsidiary in NJ with bad lighting and terrible ventilation, rather than a sleek office building that I had imagined, awash with halogen lighting and overlooking the North Sea. But no matter. It's the thought that counts, which undoubtedly came straight from Göteborg.

I must say; it's a damn nice feeling, the idea that someone in Europe is thinking of some silly Floridians battered about by four hurricanes, and their ability make a payment on their Swedish Taurus. Especially in light of all else that's going on in this World.

Puppy Love

2004-10-09T23:35:00.000-04:00

I just came home from studying at The Starbucks.

I walked into the house and the Nervous Beagle was curled up on the couch (which is, unoficially, verboten). Still in her prone, somnambulatory state, she thumped her tail in greeting as I walked into the family room.

I tiptoed to the kitchen, open the fridge and grabbed some pepperoni for the lonely stroll over to my side of the Compound. On my way out, I fed her a slice, Communion-wafer style. She opened her eyes to eat it, and gazed back at me in ecstatic surprise, as if I had just proposed to her or something.

A Round-About story concerning John Kerry.

2004-10-06T06:07:00.000-04:00

Recently, my dear Mother has been gently prodding me to talk to my brother.

The subject of this talk did not, in fact, have anything to do with his seeming inability to manage money (a tragic design flaw that my parents, time and again, feel obligated to shield him from) as evidenced by a recent Bill of Collection left for public inspection on the kitchen table.

It did not have anything to do with his newly-found predilection for poker and/or other forms of gambling played until the wee hours of the morning, either.

It had to do with the fact that my little brother accepted an invitation to see John Kerry in Tampa, extended to him by a (somewhat) recent ex-priest.

To say that I, and my siblings, have been raised as Catholic, is an understatement equal in magnitude of saying that Bhopal, India experienced a few inconveniences during the Union Carbide gas leak of 1984. I don't wish to exaggerate (but seeing as I have already done so, and quite cavalierly), I expect that there is enough religious paraphernalia in this house, stashed away in drawers or otherwise prominently hung on the wall, to exert its own (albeit infinitesimal) gravitational force.

This ex-priest has somehow taken a vague liking to my younger brother (who, let it be known, is in all respects legally, a grown adult). He leaves him excessively large tips when he frequents his Restaurant, always in the company of a few other young men. He seems like an overly nice person, if not somewhat lonely.

This has set off alarm bells for Mom, and while I can start to understand her concerns about his motives, I find it more interesting to cogitate on what it is that is so frightening to her. If, indeed, this ex-priest is hitting on my brother, can she really believe that human sexuality is so fluid so as to change my brother's preferences through overtipping and a ticket to see a presidential candidate? Or could he be kidnapped and forced to become a brainwashed member of the "alternative" Catholic parish down the street?

I suppose anything is possible--even the eventuality where monkeys fly, pell-mell, out of my rear-end. But I highly, highly doubt it.

In all honesty, I ultimately forgot to sit down and have a talk with my ADULT younger brother about the items listed on my mom's Agenda--the dangers of date-rape drugs, the concept that people may want more from one than simply one's own sparkling personality, and of course, the danger of wanton Democratic Party-ness.

However, due to my miscarriage of Older Brother Responsibility, he went. To see John Kerry. And apparently, he met him, shook his hand, and got his picture taken with him by whatever photographic team that Senator Kerry takes with him these days. He says that Senator Kerry is "really cool" and that he wishes that he had more time to talk with him.

More time to talk with him.

I am astounded. And when I ask what they've talked about, he's rather vague, but I think it had something to do with involuntary military service. (That, or possibly legalised gambling.)

My historically politically-apathetic little bro is charged with patriotic duty for the first time.

I'm not sure what will work up my parents more; the knowledge that he attended, or the fact that my brother's vote is pretty much decided for at this point.

Counting Sheep

2004-10-04T23:21:00.000-04:00

This business of liking someone a lot seems like it shouldn’t be as romanticized as it is—in books and in movies, etc. Rather, it should be a diagnosis included in the DSM-IV, as it feels quite a bit more like a mental affliction.

The mind is worn down to the nubs, with scenarios and seemingly hysteric if/then questions. (What are the implications if she does this? What should I do then? Then what will that mean? What if she runs?) The scenarios seem endless; therefore so do the number of questions.

Logic, my usual Friend through more rational times, has seemingly gone dormant in the face of this rather arctic mélange of emotions and misread signals.

I’m wondering now how badly I’ve screwed this up.

I’m wondering how exactly I’ve gone about doing it.

I wonder how many miles it will take for triage-type visits

And what kinds of words it will take to show that I’m Serious.

In the meantime, I shall be perfecting my skills at insomnia.

Date 4

2004-10-01T15:39:00.000-04:00

Recently, a young lady (who I am trying to coerce into liking me) invited me to attend an Engagement Party. One of the recipients for whom this shindig was intended was her long-time friend from High School. I got the distinct impression that this party was more for the parents, who were Rotarians with thriving social networks, but also quite vocal in their opinion that this engagement was very long in the coming. This sentiment, and the resulting falderal resulting in this expansive party, was the source of some irritation for this young lady’s friend. However, like most Italians I have met, adding food and liberally applying drink usually lubricates these things to the point of being really enjoyable. And such was the case here.

My Date felt a bit awkward, I think, knowing very few people there and quite possibly feeling a bit anxious with the added pressure of my presence. However, I proposed we sit down and eat some dinner, and so we did. Shortly thereafter, two energetic, elderly, married couples joined us.

What immediately followed was a rousing discussion about one of the elderly ladies' medical history.

She was telling us that she (and her husband) became rigid vegetarians due to a very bad hot dog she had ingested at some point approximately three years ago. It was so horrible, she related, because here insides were so clogged up and she couldn’t do anything for a time. Until! something finally broke and she made number two that was “the consistency of water.” The resulting diarrhoea eventually “blew out a few feet of her colon.” Seriously. That's a direct quote.

We were treated to a quick yet graphic description of what that looked like (coiled out like Italian Sausage) and the resulting effects (which I will magnanimously spare you from at this point).

Yes, this was terribly bad timing and not to mention gross, but did I stop, mid-bite, while mowing through my lasagna? Well, yes, I did, but only so I could concentrate on not aspirating it while I restrained my laughter in a fit of heaving shoulders.

My lovely date did not even miss a beat. She was completely composed and actually engaged this woman in a conversational tactic which gently switched the topic from gastrointestinal distress, to a more mundane topic (which in this case, was her pets). I marveled at her ability to remain composed. But then again, I’m immature and love Potty Humor. So maybe it was easier than I thought.

The new discussion thread began with a narrative introduction of her two dogs; one of whom I could swear she said was named Kinky. (It could have been Kiki, but I think the former sounds eminently more interesting.) Then she immediately related that the German Shepard on the adjacent property had taken a liking to one of her little poodles. And by taking a liking, I mean had apparently been trying to hump the little poodle every chance it could. “You know,” she said “it sounds really bad, but he doesn’t like the Black One. He always wants to hump the Blonde one!”

I certainly appreciated her candidness in the matter, but found I disagreed fundamentally with her Alsatian’s rather singular taste in women.

The Calm

2004-09-27T11:52:00.000-04:00

I don't know what it is about the next day after a hurricane, but I would imagine it is different, depending on who was "lucky" enough, geographically speaking, to run into it first. For example, those poor people in Jupiter and Vero Beach have simply been pummeled. Do they crawl out of the woodwork; survey the damage with an overwhelming sense of loss and despair? Or do they crawl out of the woodwork, and survey the damage with an overwhelming sense of loss and gratitude?

We Tampons (or is it Tampanians?) on the Gulf Side got a solid smacking-around, but have, through all of these hurricanes, fared nothing less than miraculously, and with better outcome than nearly all of the Floridian metropoles.

Tampa is still a decent-sized mess, however. Traffic lights are out, there's some flooding danger, and utility trucks are driving around in long, emergency-light-flashing processions, and occasionally there is the siren of a fire truck, ostensibly racing to the site of a fallen live wire. However, while driving to the local coffee shop this morning, a measurable sense of peace was registered by me.

The sky somehow seems a bit clearer and brighter, the temperature outside is a wonderfully balmy 87 degrees, and there is a strong breeze blowing. Traffic is light, and despite the traffic lights that are out, drivers are remarkably courteous for a change. I accidentally cut someone off while exiting the golf course today and they smiled and waved, as I gave my best impression of a penitent asshole that has just realized the error of his driving ways.

It's a palpable sense of calm, I tell you.

I'm not sure, but I would guess the provenance of this attitude springs from the fact that many of us were cooped up with the rest of the family for nearly the whole weekend, due to everything being closed.

My brother, who would otherwise be engaging in local hooliganism, logged his hours at home for a change. While I was pretending to study, he came by and suggested we pull out the Legos. After having ensured that my blinds were pulled and prying eyes would not be able to detect my rapid regression into a pimply-faced childhood, I joined my brother in constructing the Lego Castles of Our Past.

At some point, I pulled a Star Trek phaser out of the cardboard box that stowed these Legos, and showed it to my brother. "Remember this?" I said.

"Yeah," he replied. "I remember when you made me buy that for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"You were like, in the 8th grade or something, and you were too embarrassed to buy it yourself."

"No way. I don't remember that!'

"Yes way, dipshit" he said. "And the matching communicator too."

I was newly struck with my complete lack of coolness as a kid (as if I had never encountered it before).

However, it was raining like crazy outside, and there were Elven Fortresses to construct, and for the moment, I put aside my past and present lame-osity and concentrate fully on finding the grey hinge piece that had eluded me for the past 10 minutes.

Working for the Weekend

2004-09-23T23:49:00.000-04:00

Well, another weekend has arrived in the great paradise that is Florida, and that can only mean that we're due for our next hurricane.

I'm off to prepare. Again.

Where the rubber hits the road...

2004-09-21T13:10:00.000-04:00

This has been the start of an astoundingly bewildering week.

Wait, no. I think I need something more concrete, because that sounds too fraught with possibility.

This week is Shite.

First off, the business end is just nuts. It is tough to explain, and deadly boring to otherwise attempt, but suffice to say, I feel I am experiencing the effect of relative inexperience, which is preventing me from being able to do other people's job's for them in a pre-emptive fashion. That is to say, I don't know what all I need to be prepared for, because so much of this still seems new. While that's all great and good, decisions are made, plans carried out, and I can't think fast enough, with respect to the possible pitfalls and the things that ultimately could go wrong. And meanwhile, the people who are affected by these shortcomings bitch at me. It’s been a total nightmare.

Yesterday, I spent SIX hours at the country estate of two Bay Area lawyers, repairing or otherwise optimising a cadre of gas lights installed around the place, because the electricians did not do their jobs, and had, in their infinite experience and wisdom, decided that "there was no problem." I experienced a short-lived self-congratulatory glow having fixed the buggers on little more than the fragments of high school physics still lingering in the brain. Then I realized that I certainly don’t get paid for all this effort. But whatever! I have three more trips like that to make this week alone.

Today, my father approached the subject with The Business. Specifically, his new career forays are going very well and he wants me to take over his old business entirely. But that isn't entirely true or straightforward either. In fact, here, in bottom line fashion, are my choices (as I have translated them):

1) Get Thee to school, pursue Thine Brilliant Career in medicine/science/biotech and make a lot of money.

(This overly effusive and generous notion was put forth by Dad upon learning that a close friend of mine, having spent 2 grueling years studying as a Physician's Assistant, was making really decent money straight out of school. Dad is officially Gung Ho on Science now and after 8 years, has finally started to see the financial wisdom of having a Son involved in Biochemistry).

2) Take over The Business entirely:
a) At the end of the year, I would be all on my own.
b) The shareholders would be me, me and me.
c) It would completely be my own and could do as I pleased--isn't that great?
d) Oh, and by the way, there is the small matter of a business loan that requires paying off.
a. I'll owe Dad this money as I continue to grow (or fail) this business.
b. The magnitude of this debt will apparently remain, for the time being, as unknown as Jimmy Hoffa’s location.

I hate to say, “to toot my own horn,” because it sounds conceited. And also, “toot” reminds me of our childhood code word for the forbidden “fart” and thusly, conjures up a mental scenario of a Proud Me proclaiming publicly my own skills loudly and, having just finished, find that, while speaking, the room has filled up with an increasingly foul scent that has left the audience snickering---but regardless; I digress: To toot my own horn, I HAD imagined this latter outcome. If 26 years have taught me anything, it is to be somewhat strategic w/r/t offers extended upon familial largesse.

I think I can deal pretty efficiently with all that.

But add to that, the Relationship that I've been in the process of beginning seems to be drying up fast. I get the distinct impression that I am being shoved off, and I'm not sure why, or what I’ve done to cause the effect. I’m sure it has something to do with being nerdy and relatively uncertain and unconfident. It's incredibly uncomfortable to be on this side of the looking glass, to be sure.

And of course, there is the absence of any real social outlet outside of the confines of The Family—and I say family with all the attendant gravity of a reference to the Soprano kind.

I just checked Realtor.com today, looking at prices for homes in the area of Ventura. Homes that were $350,000 last year are now going for $680,000. That, more than anything, signified that I shall not be moving to California anytime soon. Unless, the Big One comes and a new coastline is formed.

I have this niggling feeling today--one of general toxicity. I always create a sort of meringue out of a day-to-day Life, and it collapses under the influence of too much rigorous beating.

Which brings me back to the title of this rather pathetic post. In some measure, I was looking for these things. I was looking for a little bit more autonomy with this business. And, I admit, I was looking for a bit of a blessing from the parentals, with respect to pursuing my interest in medicine. At times, I have wanted a relationship that runs seemingly on autopilot. And in some measure, now I’ve got it all. But the devil seems somewhere in the details, and now that the rubber of this car hits the road, I wonder if I wouldn’t have liked a nice pair of rollerblades instead.

Next stop: Personal Ads?

2004-09-10T22:53:00.000-04:00

Going to the gym to meet new people has proved thus far to be a pretty spectacular bust. Allow me to elaborate:

The first fellow I was working out with regularly seemed like a really cool guy who took an interest in my business. I found that to be pretty movitating actually, and he always offered some good books for me to read to help me round myself out from a business perspective. Then he gave me a CD to listen to, which I thought was pretty magnanimous, so I listened to it. I thought it might be a hearty tool for increasing my knowledge for how to run a small business, and I could do it in lieu of otherwise using my time in the car to flick-off my fellow brothers and sisters on the road. Anyhow, I got to the very end of the thing, and the last sentence went something like this:

"if you are interested in learning more about Network 21, then contact the person who introduced you to this CD, for more books and tapes."

Major Groan. I've been BAITED FOR A DAMN AMWAY SCHEME. (How could I have been so naive?!)

Okay, fine. Moving on:

Today, I was racing into the facilities frantically, catching up w/ a good friend in California before donning the speedo and entering the pool. I had almost reached the locker room when a Staff Member cautioned me to use the other bathroom, as there had recently been "an incident" in the Mens' locker room. Naturally, I assumed that one of the poor kiddies pooped somewhere other than a toilet, and the place was just momentarily fouled. So I changed in the alternate bathroom, got into the pool, and went through the grueling swim routine.

Afterwards, I asked another teammate whether they thought the incident in the locker room had been cleaned up, and they looked at me a bit funny, then briefed me on the circumstances: Apparently, my swim partner had been showering off in the vicinity of another male, and while engaged in the rather lonely business of showering, decided to get more personal by grabbing adjacent male in shower on rear end in overtly sexual manner. This overture was not appreciated by the other male, who promptly notified security, who promptly notified the police, who promptly sent 3 of their finest officers over to investigate. My swim partner confessed, and was promptly banned from entering the facility again, under threat of tresspassing.

My reaction to this was both shock, a little pity, and quite honestly a bit of relief (thank God he didn't grab a kid!). On the other hand, how sad that he attempted such a thing. I had seen him looking at me in the locker room, but not necessarily while I was changing or anything, and had simply concluded that he must be a little mentally impaired and/or subject to compulsive behaviour. (This notion was further concretized when he once explained the huge cocktail of psychoactive drugs he was taking. It would be the equivalent of a chemical lobotomy for most people.)

Anyhow, the long and the short of it, is that I have the worst radar for scams and gayness going. More immediately, I'm back to doing chest press without a spotter. Which really sucks.

Tokyojen: We're going to need to broaden out that Questionnaire a wee bit.

Wir muessen zu Gott wenden, mit alle unsere Kleinigkeiten...

2004-09-03T01:39:00.000-04:00

For all of my formal religious programming, I am still pretty dumb when it comes to matters of faith.

Last month, I attended a Lutheran church in the neighborhood, because I saw a sign that said "German service, 3:00 p.m.". And because I think that German rocks, and I was desperately lonely, I attended the service.

I don't know if it was the difference in the Church, or the fact that it was in a language other than English, and thus forced me to pay acute attention to translating, instead of just drooling on myself--but I got something out of it. It was really very nice, indeed.

I met a lot of wonderful septuagenarians/octogenarians at the subsequent kaffeeklatsch who graciously tolerated me, and my jagged German, and fed me absolutely amazing coffee cake and dessert items. Several of them are trying to set me up with their husband's German clubs, etc. Imagine! ME! A dago, being invited to be part of some German equivalent of the Sons of Italy! I love these people!

Anyway, it was a nice pick-me-up. Wasn't completely the answer to my loneliness though, but a good respite.

However.

Maybe the whole process works in spite of itself.

It might be premature (and God help me if I jinx it), but I think, as of yesterday, my loneliness factor might have increased by a factor of at least 10.

Forces of Nature Conspiring?

2004-09-03T01:21:00.000-04:00

While I moan on about these Hurricanes, my dear friend Jen is besieged with both earthquakes and volcanoes, in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Hurricane Frances

2004-09-02T22:56:00.001-04:00

The funniest thing about this Monster seething off the coast, like a bran muffin and two cups of coffee on an empty stomach, is how absolutely pissed it has made my father.

One might think, okay, anger: sure! That's a completely natural, healthy reaction to the circs., in light of massive property damage, possible loss of life, and days of miserable humidity sans Power. Of course, one might-could be hideously wrong, too.

It is the fact that all schools in the entire area, from Tampa, Orlando, and down to the Keys are closed tomorrow, that has incensed Dad so.

My father is absolutely convinced that the crack teams of meteorologists, who are monitoring this thing like it's Michael Jackson at Disney World, are straight-up Liars who are doing all this simply to incite the masses and increase sales at Loewe’s and Home Despot. It's a conspiracy! And I'm sure he thinks that somehow those Gays are involved in it too. (Someday, when I'm more patient, I shall have to relate his theories about the Gay Mafia, who are single-handedly causing jobs to dry up, moral centres to crumble, and horsemen of the apocalypse to come galloping up from the pits of Hell for a quick game of polo and some scotch on the rocks, before they lay claim to Earth.)

So, canceling all school in the area was the straw that caught the barn afire. He's been stewing about it the whole damn night, sipping his Pinot "Eggregio" and flipping through the channels.

My sister, a fifth grade teacher, arrives for her bi-weekly visit to The Compound in the midst of this maelstrom, to exercise her visitation rights to the Nervous Beagle and share a quick bitch-sesh from me.

Dad: Give me the number to the school board.

Sister: Why?

Dad: I want to call those jerks. I CAN'T BELIEVE they cancelled school. These people are just crazy...they don't know what the hell they’re doing.

Sis: Dad, the whole of South Florida is evacuated. They need the schools in the area to house the 2.5 million that are evacuating.

Dad: That's ridiculous! They don't need to do that! They're making a big deal out of absolutely nothing!

Sis: [Silent]

Dad: (Raving, as though it's my SISTER'S FAULT that school is not in session.)

D: (Complaining still; sun has set, crickets chirping, entire empires have fallen...)

S: [Silent]

S: Dad, let's pretend for a second I'm not a teacher in Hillsborough County.

D: I'm not going to use your name!

S: (Seemingly ponders this.) Let's pretend anyway.

D: (Confused)

S: Okay, ready? I'm not giving it to you. Get off the couch and get the number yourself, if it’s that important. Don’t get irate at me.

(Exeunt)

This stands in stark contrast with my mode of dealing with him:

Me: Dad, I think these people are evacuating. There’s no way this traffic is going to let up.

Dad: No, they’re not! Jesus! There aren't enough brain surgeons in this state to lobotomise all these assholes!

Moi: (explodes nuclear style, narrowly missing all the colors of the colorful metaphor rainbow by mere angstroms)

D: [Silent]

Mir: So…are you going to help me with an alternate route or what?

(Complete radio silence)

I’ve been wound a bit tightly as of late.

Italian Men

2004-08-22T23:40:00.000-04:00

I've got an answer for you, MSN! It's because we have all inherited the Cheap Ass Mo-Fo gene! (It's on locus #24, right next to the gene for Back Hair and the Prone To Overeating gene. May also be found in the vicinity of the Most Likely will Drive a Camaro chromosome and the No one is EVER going to sleep with you if you insist upon sleeping on those silk sheets, You Weenie gene.)

Nashville, Tennessee

2004-08-22T22:28:00.000-04:00

I am in Nashville. There were chiefly three reasons I was looking forward to coming here:

1) To find (and ingest) a Peanut-Butter-and-Quaalude sandwich, in honour of The Elvis,
2) To be able to sing "Tennessee Stud" by Johnny Cash, and really feel it.
3) To attend my First Sales Meeting.

Anyhooch, I finished the song pretty quickly, and found out that Quaaludes have seemingly disappeared the way of all eighties hallmarks, like Molly Ringwald and Jelly bracelets. So, that left me with pretty much just the sales meeting.

I have learned that sales meetings run much like corporate day-to-day meetings, to the effect of being a colossal waste of time. Sure, the agendas ALWAYS look good--great! you think: This will be a very productive set of hours!

No.

It is an immutable law, proven more empirically than the Second (of Thermodynamic fame) that should one have compiled a decent agenda, there must be a polar antithesis to that order, in the form of a loud-mouthed complainer. No matter what! that person MUST be there, if only to balance out the cosmos.

In this case, since the sales were good, and we had surpassed all of the goals put forth this time last year, people were in a fine mood. And the arch-rival to agenderly order was in full-effect and presiding, but thusly, had switched from Complain mode to full Panegyric mode. In the midst of making overtures (which required frequent forays to the front of room, displacing the Master of Agendal Progress), he managed to incite nearly everyone in the room to a frenzied, congratulatory warm fuzziness about Our Product, which to be honest, eventually seemed like one big metaphorical circle jerk. (Not that I've attended one of these, but let me tell you, the thought of all these old farts joining a circle and doing something together OTHER than blustering seemed really funny at the time).

Part of me could not help but survey my new colleagues critically and wonder if this was my sort of legacy, too. For example, nearly every one of these men are sporting what David Sedaris calls "Dick-doos" (their stomachs stick out farther than their dicks do). Which is particularly disheartening. I mean, it's not that I have washboard abs or something, but I'm at least in the slow lane for a pack of coronitas. And yes, dammit, I know, it's okay to be different. It doesn't [theoretically] mean that I can't still do my job--it's just that I'm NOT GOOD AT being different. And that makes me so angry I can't stand it.

That seems to be the trouble with me this past week. Sure, I get it! So does [probably] everyone else, because I've made such a big deal of it here. I'm not necessarily the norm in this line of business, and you know what? I'm really thankful for it. But it worries me, too, tremendously. How is my scorn for what these people do--what I do--helping anything? It's not like any one of us is on their way to discovering a cure for cancer or anything, so why should that fact bother me so very much? I mean, if I feel so damned passionate about healthcare and medicine, then why am I HERE and not THERE? And then, if I'm in conflict about that, then why the hell am I not doing anything about it to get to it?

I seem to be caught in this absolutely paralyzing web of inaction. Whether it be for the good of this work, or the good of my future work, I am stymied. Either that, or too comfortable. But it doesn't seem like comfort at all--it seems like frustration. It seems like a battle every which way. If it's not with my Dad's domineering mindset(s), than it is with myself. Making all these customers "happy" is exhausting and seemingly impossible, and yet, I am a slave to the idea--in the absence of either having the knowledge (technical, social, or otherwise) or self-discipline to be different. I can't stand the idea of playing the part of a toady any more than I can tolerate the idea of being oppressively controlled. The coup de grâce is, seemingly, the inability to make a move with any sort of inertia.

In moments like these, I flirt with the idea of a spiritual form of demolition--somehow I feel like if I am sifting through the shards I'll see the purer form of the building. Yet, when the tenement is constructed again, for the purposes of a passably-livable existence, the construction seems strangely the same.

Boy, this is enough messy theorising for one night, I should think! Anyway, I have to concentrate on practicing my southern drawl for my speech tomorrow night, and steeling my features for the inevitable and tasteless racial joke that will come at some point, from some yokel who has made the mistake of thinking that I am going to regard him as anything other than a waste of protoplasm.

Clearly Not Interested In Attracting New Membership

2004-08-20T00:49:00.000-04:00

It's official. The Catholic Church has lost their collective minds.

Denying a sick kid Holy Communion? That's up there with defrauding the elderly and stealing from orphans.

Is the Catholic Church even INTERESTED in preserving the members they've got? Oh, I forgot--the vague sense of guilt about EVERYTHING and a lifetime of sex drive suppression should be enough to really keep Her members squatting in the pews. This whole molestation "thing" will blow over in NO TIME FLAT.

Charley

2004-08-12T21:49:00.000-04:00

Well, dammit, it looks like it's coming straight for this little hamlet.

This should be interesting.

At the Gym

2004-08-01T20:51:00.000-04:00

I've been going to the gym frequently, in a desperate attempt to meet new people and perhaps make a friend or two. The going's been rather tough, thus far.

During my workout, a dude and, ostensibly, his [slightly zaftig] girlfriend arrived, ostensibly, to do a couples workout. I went about my own business, methodically plodding through my routine. At some point, I looked up to see aforementioned Dude sitting at a bench with some 5 sets of free weights arranged around him in some speechless U pattern. I was completely irritated at this boldness. Was it really necessary to sit there and systematically heave through all these dumbells in order to impress his girlfriend, at the expense of depriving everyone else of the right to use the equipment? For God's sake, couldn't they do their foreplay somewhere else? Somewhere not in the vicinity of those trying to finish their exercise?

Then I felt bad for being so judgmental. I mean, big deal, right? If it's helping the guy get lucky, then why should I be such a player hater? Do I really want to be a bitter, jealous person who is going to resent heavily anyone else who's getting laid on a regular basis?

No, I don't think I do.

Sarasota

2004-08-01T20:46:00.000-04:00

On Friday, I was alerted by Dad via Nextel DirectConnect, only to have the proprietress, (with whom I was working) ask for my phone, and then subsequently moan into it, "Uh, we're kind of busy right now!" while faking an orgasm. My dad was terribly confused, and then embarassed. For me, on the other hand, this was pretty much the highlight of my week.

Jupiter

2004-07-28T23:36:00.000-04:00

This week I am in Jupiter, FL. I’m told that the beaches are beautiful here. However, I’ve been busy being in shock after the realization that it is 86 degrees outside AND I’m still in Florida AND it’s still summertime. I’m seriously thinking about moving here. Plus, it’s really beautiful. The cloud formations are amazing, and they’ve got some pretty nice hills. And yachts!—everyone here’s got yachts.

This time, my Dad has accompanied me on this trip. I spent the better part of three hours silently critiquing his driving style and marveling at the fact that he hasn’t killed himself or anyone else while navigating toll roads, while attached to a cell phone.

I guess it must be admitted that Florida has its fair share of more seasoned (read, nearly-dead) drivers. Perhaps for this reason, Florida has installed what is termed “rumble strips” on the margins of most highways. The way it works is, when Grampa starts nodding off behind the wheel of his Cadillac of Death, the strips create a noise and reverberation loud and obnoxious enough to wake him up to enjoy a few more days of Adult Depends and shuffleboard. For me, the noise is obnoxious enough even one time to keep me awake on all subsequent trips. Dad crosses the strips at regular intervals. It’s the damned phone. I think he traded in a lobe of his brain when he signed up for his cellular plan.

Anyhow, during the course of the week, I’ve begun to really wonder whether this job’s for me. It’s not just the trouble I have visualizing myself as a marketing guy or a salesman—it’s just that I can’t really get…hormonal… about this industry in which I am now representing.

I sat down the other day with a student friend of my Mother’s—they’re both in Nursing school—and I was asking her about a thesis she is in the process of writing. I have an interest in theses myself, as I am beginning to write one for an old professor at Cal Poly. I found myself talking about viruses and induction and vaccines and getting totally worked up about it. That is, until my father came into the room, having been on the cell phone for tens of minutes, looking pretty peeved that I was not speaking a language he understands.

The other thing is, the people that I normally deal with are a bit different than me. I don’t intend to say that’s a bad thing, to be different from me. God knows, it could only be a plus. It’s not the Nascar references I routinely don’t get, or even the fact that I’ve never been to a Pork Pull. There’s a certain lack of candor or polish that’s lacking here. And again, that’s not a bad thing, necessarily. But is it really necessary to use the term “fucker” to refer to the current product of discussion? I’m all about the F word, but that doesn’t mean I want to use it like this, especially while I’m trying to do business over the cloying fog of your cigar, which frankly, smells like smouldering dog shit.

So, my thoughts have turned to whether it’s a good thing I’m doing this thing here, w/ my Dad’s business.

Then today:

We had essentially clenched a touch-and-go deal with a very influential customer, who, despite some pretty concrete info, had ultimately decided that we could be trusted because the company we represent happened to be owned by someone who is third- generation Eastern-Bloc. Which, you know, is the sine qua non of integrity, apparently.

During this sentimental exchange, my Dad caught my eyes, and for a split second, the same flash went across his as did mine. It was the equivalent of rolling one’s eyes, but almost imperceptibly so. Then we both smiled knowingly.

And then I realized, that in some way, my Dad totally makes this job worth doing. Well, SOMETIMES. But you know, I was absolutely shocked to come to that realization. So many years that we’ve butted heads; refused to see or respect each others’ differences—and it turns out that the same kinds of things irk us.

I was so glad he was there.

Tomorrow morning, I hope to see the beach before I leave for Delray Beach, Coral Springs, and ultimately, Naples. I will be telling everyone down there that I am of Lithuanian-descent, so for those of you who know I’m Italian, please keep it on the down-low.

The Panhandle

2004-07-28T23:30:00.000-04:00

I have recently returned from a week-long business trip from the Panhandle, which included stops in Pensacola, Panama City, Port St. Joe, Apalachicola, Destin, Fort Walton Beach, and many, many more. During the course of this trip, I have not only learned that Florida is divided into two time zones, but that Florida is one damned big state. Granted, one look at a map and a pass of the eye over Florida’s rather flaccid geography, and it might be tempting to write off this state as one without staying power. However, despite its perpetually-detumescent condition, Florida is a state of magisterial length and girth, I'm here to tell you.

Those who travel to the Panhandle on a regular basis have a special term of endowment--er, endearment--for this part of the state: L.A. This would not, in fact, have anything to due with Miami’s showy cousin-city on the West Coast, but everything to do with its proximity to other Confederate States, namely Alabama. Which explains the nickname, L.A, (Lower Alabama.)
During my guided tour of this area, I was treated to some of the incredible local vernacular, which I am determined to start incorporating into my regular speech patterns:

Aw’m wrapped up tightah than a fiddle string!

It’s slam empty!

Watch youself theh, aw made uh devil of uh mess!

That’s jes’ wottamelon talkin’!

I have also been treated to stories about an unfortunate folk in Alabama termed inbreeds--or IB’s for short. One fellow told me I could spot them by their “5 gallon” heads. (Despite my constantly roving eye, I was not lucky enough to spot one). Another told me a story about a particular IB who was born with his left eye positioned on the upper-left area of his forehead, which endowed him with an ability to see around corners. (For a split second, I wished I could be an IB. But that moment quickly passed, when I reminded myself that at least I can flip my eyelids over. And I’m double-jointed.)

And if I wasn’t already worried about not fitting in—having a complete lack of anteriorally-located eyeball, nor having any original story whatever about IB’s, coupled with the fact that I have no cool vernacular of my own, save the ever popular “stoked”, I was counseled to sound as little as a white-assed Yankee as I possibly could, because the locals wouldn’t take kindly to me otherwise. Greaaaat.
.
As a kid, I was routinely mistaken for my Mother when I picked up the phone. (I still carry the complex.) And, having lived in Southern California for a good portion of my childhood, I have been accused of talking through my nose, like a gayer version of Don Johnson. But moving to Massachusetts in the springtime of my adolescence did somewhat help my speech patters sound more testosterone charged. But now—apparently sounding like I’ve done time in New England is a deal breaker. What to do? Go back to talking through my nose? I spent a good portion of the day ruminating about how to sound more like a southerner, and wishing I spent more time listening to country music.

All of my worries were for naught however, because one solid day of being in the world of the panhandle, surrounded by some of the thickest accents I’ve heard south of Georgia, I was twanging with the best of them.

Heck, I was even telling my new friend J, who was my tourguide through the Panhandle, that he was “jes’ tawkin’ wottamellons” by the close of the day.

Double the deal, Double the Entendre

2004-07-19T19:18:00.000-04:00

I admit it: I have a bit of a weakness for things that come of out Bath and Body works. Certainly, I do feel a bit less of a man, strolling in all flipflops and poloshirts, to find some aromatherapy lotion that will help me get a good sleep. But you know, sleep is quite a valuable thing, and therefore, I'm willing to shell out a few bucks and take a hit on the old Pride, even if it makes me look like the kind of guy who might knit, or highlight his hair, or even shave his scrotum occasionally.

I surreptitiously perused the pinkish baskets of floral-scented goodness, and when I had enough, I oiled up to the counter where a knock-out brunette was at the register. At the last moment, I chose to rifle through a basket of lipstick-sized air fresheners, whose smells included, among others, "fresh linen." I must have looked a big agonized, because the brunette leaned forward and said silkily, "You know you want it."

Taken aback, and embarrassed, and somehow simultaneously turned on, but wishing to look bold, masculine, in-control, and directed--directed! "I made decisions easily and powerfully!"--I bought it.

She gave me my total, and I gave her exact change for the amount.

"Wow, you're the first person that's given me exact change today!"

I was going to start stammering, having fallen into a narcotic wooziness induced by all the feminine energy around me, and become shy in front of this Vision of Brunette Loveliness,--start to explain about the handy change purse that I bring with me, which is just perfect for exact change scenarios, like paying for that soy chai to sip while reading Memoirs of a Geisha.

But instead, I leaned forward and said in a husky voice, "Gosh, I've always wanted to be someone's First."

To which, she turned a heart-vibrating hue of red.

The Vagaries of Business Finance, by Father Mussolini

2004-07-19T19:06:00.000-04:00

I invited my father to see "I, Robot" with me on Friday. Upon arriving to the movie theatre:

Dad: Eleven dollars? That's ridiculous. I'm not paying that kind of money for a damn movie!

Me: Well, Dad, that's okay, because I'M paying.

Dad: No, goddamit, you're not paying for me. That's ridiculous. I'm waiting until the 7:50 pm show.

Me: Okay, sure, Dad. No problem. Whatever you want.

Clerk: ...that will be 22 dollars, sir.

Me: Okay, great. Here you go.

Dad: (incredulous) What are you doing? I said I was going to pay!

Me: Geez, Dad, I'm sorry...it all happened so fast. I didn't mean to!

Later on that weekend, at a moderately-priced Italian restaurant...

Attractive Waitress: (bringing check for 75 plus dollars) Thank you!

Me: (reaching for my wallet).

Dad: Oh, Tom, just throw that on your business card. Let the business pay for it.

Tom: (shocked) Dad, have you SEEN my Amex card this month? It's higher than Robert Downey, Jr on the day after his birthday!

Dad: Relax, Tom! It's only money. Go ahead and charge it.

Jacksonville

2004-07-07T18:39:00.000-04:00

This week, I am visiting the great city of Jacksonville, FL, on business. I've got a list of clients, given to me by Father Mussolini, which could be measured in cubits. Considering the torrential rain coming down at the moment, cubits might be a good measurement to be familiar with, should I need to resort to building an Ark of biblical proportions, to sail out of this place.

I was told today (by someone very much In The Know), that Jacksonville is growing faster than President Bush's nose. There are some 100,000 homes being built in the area, this year alone, and no doubt, all of them will be built on newly-synthesized golf courses designed by Jack Niklaus's son-in-law. (Or Tom Fazio's son's best-friend's neighbor's cousin. Or some other terribly-extruded relationship to some (likely aged) Golf dignitary.)

It turns out that Jacksonville has a good bit of historical credibility. It was named after Andrew Jackson. During the civil war, the city served as a base for blockade runners, and during Reconstruction, was a popular winter resort. Presently, it really is a quite-nice place; tons of families, good schools in the area, nice homes, good economy. They've also got good beaches proximally-located, has a decent historic area that's been freshened up, and Mayo Clinic is here too. It's undeniably on the up-and-up.

Regardless and not withstanding which, most of us who've lived in Florida in the past ten years know Jacksonville from a more infamous standpoint: its involvement in the paper-milling business. Why paper-milling, you ask? And why Jacksonville for that matter? I don't know exactly; may have something to do with its juxtaposition on the St. Johns River. But whatever, none of that is important.

What IS relevant to know, however, is that Jacksonville's involvement in this industry had perfumed this 750 some-odd sq. mile sprawling city with a singularly heinous scent. I like to describe it as, the Collective Ass of a Thousand Counties.

I am much chagrined to have determined today, after a 9 year absence, that this smell is all but undetectable.

Which got me to wondering on the various ways to market this pleasing fact to would-be home buyers in the state:

"Now with less Ass Scent."

"Jacksonville: Denuding vegetation every day for your golfing pleasure."

"Jacksonville! Doing our part for the Great North American Enclosure Movement. Visit one our many gated golf communities today!"

"Come to Jacksonville! We've got that Fresh Feeling your mother forbade you to talk about."

"Jacksonville: Protecting your affluential family from other undesirable affluential families, one security kiosk at a time."

"Jacksonville: Because everyone should have a golf-course view."

Spider Webs

2004-07-05T21:59:00.000-04:00

My dad convinced me to go see Spider Man 2 with him this evening. This brings the number of movies I've seen in theatres, this summer alone, to a grand total of four. This is more than I've seen in one year, and I expect I'm going for several more visits.
I was otherwise dancing eye to eye with an evening spent with my Studying for the GRE book. Spidey, therefore, sounded like a marvelous plan. So, Dad and I piled into the Volvo and headed to Ybor Centro.

The movie was great; a certifiably excellent, sound sequel.

Me: Thanks, Dad. That was a lot of fun.

Dad: Well, I didn't pay.

Me: I know that, Dad. Thanks for coming out. It was fun.

Dad: Oh, yeah, well..um (clears throat). Oh, you mean, thanks for the company.

Me: I just mean, thanks in general.

Dad: (Happy sounding; rattling off expectations and projections for Installment 3).

I am struck, as ever, with the sense that my Dad's knee-jerk view of himself may be one of a bottom line. It never seems to occur to him that his kids generally accept the concept of spending time with him; time that does not involve pedantic and critical suggestions about Our Lives and the Way We live it, tied in concert with some cash outlay. That we may enjoy our time with him, and that we like it when he's simply content himself.

It must be difficult to keep us at bay and at the same time, feel duty-bound to ensure our individual progression through life by his own financial investment. (Which, let's be honest, is probably a far-sight more like venture-type speculation than a solid financial investment.) It's as if he's afraid that we'll take or deplete (what he views as) his only bargaining chip (money) and thus, steal away his power (have no need for him anymore). It's a terribly confusing dynamic, especially to those of us trying to make an honest go of rewriting the history of This Relationship. In fact, it is not unlike a web of sorts, confounding us who are affixed to it.

Desert Dating

2004-07-04T19:25:00.000-04:00

Every time two or more of us kids are gathered around the dinner table, it turns into a hotly contested argument about the state of things in the US, particularly under the peerless leadership of the Current President of the United States (heretoforth referred to as The Hedge). My parents usually play the role of The Blissfully-Convinced Republican.

Brother: Answer me this: why the hell are we in Iraq?

Dad: Because we're fighting The Evil that lives there.

Later..

Brother: There's absolutely no reason to go there if it weren't for the oil; that's all there is to it.

Dad: So, you're saying you wouldn't want to go to Iraq?

Brother: (Dumbfounded) Dad, why the hell would I want to go to there?

Dad: (Thoughtful) Well, they have dark-skinned women there.

Pause. Silence.

Dad: I thought you liked dark-skinned women!

Southern Bathrooms

2004-06-26T23:48:00.000-04:00

Some people would disagree with me when I insist that Florida is indeed part of The South. I would challenge these nay-sayers to go to a restaurant, drink some sweet tea, and reflect upon the strength of their convictions from the comfort of the establishment's facilities. Nowhere is supporting evidence for annexation of Florida to the South more visible than in Her Bathrooms. Because nothing says The South quite like a piss-riddled toilet.

The Veil Has Fallen (Part 1):

2004-06-26T23:18:00.000-04:00

Before I left California, I had my first massage. It was given to me by my coworkers, who were somehow of the distinct conviction that I needed to relax.

I'd had a certain amount of fear concerning massages, which prevented me in the past from going. As I feel I am a fairly tightly-wound and repressed person, I feel I need not trifle with things that have potential to

1) Cause me to burst into tears when some secret pain attached to some back-alley chakra is prodded, thereby making me look a sap
2) Cause me to sport a very public erection, thereby making me look a pervert.

Thusly, I have avoided massages with the kind of intensity reserved for high school reunions and rehashing the past with drunk ex-girlfriends.

Nevertheless, I was presented with this Japanese-style massage, and there was no denying my secret fascination/fear any longer.

So prior to the massage, I was instructed to bathe myself “ritually.” This entailed sitting completely naked on a wooden stool, pouring buckets of water over myself. I tried not to think about how this bench had seen more ass than Rob Lowe in the 80’s and concentrated on rinsing out my chlorine-ravaged hair, as ritually as I could muster. Then, I was to step into a jacuzzi, built into the middle of the room, and ritually soak. Again, buck naked. I sat in there for some thirty minutes, looking into a zen garden, listening to the sound of falling water. Very naked. Very ritual.

After the 104 degree soak, I was somewhat overheated. So, during the beginning of the massage, I was breathing jaggedly, desperate to not sound like some pervert getting off on being touched while wearing nothing but a kimono.

Finally the lady giving the massage (magic fingers) broke the silence. I told her that I was moving home and living with my parents, at least initially, while I figured things out. I mentioned that we’ve had our difficulties getting along, my father and I. She told me that when I go home, my job will be to find a new language to use with my Dad.

It was so ironic and prescient that, as SOON as I had finished my massage and come home to check my voice messages, Dad called and essentially negated the relaxation obtained from the experience. Instantly. And none-too-ritually, I might add.

And that was the first time I started practicing my new language with him. One largely populated with F-words.

Primordial Paradise

2004-06-14T23:45:00.000-04:00

Even having lived here some eight-odd years ago, I can recall nothing of the insects of this land, except the red ants, whose homes I would routinely mow over whilst doing the yardwork.

When I announced I’d be leaving for Florida, there were the expected twenty-odd jokes about The Damn Bugs. Cockroaches so big, they defy the phylum to which they’ve been relegated, and due to their heinous proportions have been named, euphemistically, Palmetto bugs, so as not to scare off the would-be settlers of this place. “Palmetto” sounds like some line of rattan furniture at Pier One. We’re talking BUGS that could strap your refrigerator on its back, and run off with it during the night, people.

Everyone is lousy w/ stories about their experiences w/ bugs in FL. A very dear friend of mine sends me photographic evidence of her Kills, grainy polaroids with a ruler or some other ad-hoc reference marker next to the Carcass, to illustrate the dramatic proportions. That’s all very funny and whatnot, but one cannot grasp the gravid nature of the situation, faced even with all this anecdotal evidence.

But clearly, I suffer from short-term memory loss.

This evening, after returning from Harry Potter, I set about calming down the Nervous Beagle while my brother makes a frozen pizza and settles in with Instant Migrane™ (AOL Instant Messenger). Shortly thereafter, I hear him cuss several Shits and an avowal that He Can’t Believe It You Have Got To Be Kidding Me. He calls me into the bathroom, and tells me that there is a spider in there.

I gingerly part the shower curtain, to reveal the offending arachnid.

I encounter the largest spider I have seen outside of a laboratory, to date. It was hairy, it was the size of my fist. I could hear it gnashing its chelicera. You could have put a saddle on this bastard, and ridden it around the Grand Canyon, like a pack animal.

On Running

2004-06-07T23:26:00.000-04:00

I like to run, and frequently do so at night. It isn’t only the oppressive, slavish Florida heat, which causes one to sweat, Naked-At-School-in-a-Dream-Style, that makes night-running my preference. Rather, it is a feeling of speed which I imagine I am better able to achieve whilst under the sexy, sheer fabric of a nighttime backdrop. It’s sort-of an enhanced proprioception, which is otherwise totally shot to hell under the harsh light of daytime. The usual orchestras of cicadas and crickets, endlessly warming-up their string sections, do provide some company, and the rhythmic throbbing of the golf course sprinklers serve as a metronome for my dirty old nikes, as they pound the ground (alternating grass and pavement).

Actually, im Wahrheit, the thing that running at night grants me is the ability to keep my pride intact.

There is, firstly, this business of my running cadence, which I imagine to be rather rough and loping, rather like a mental patient running from his next shot of thorazine in the butt cheeks. Secondly, the nighttime cover allows me to wear some pretty heinous t-shirts—-the kinds that I have no business wearing, as I do not meet the Bicep size minimum required to wear them. (And please don’t make fun. They make me run faster. Also, have I mentioned it’s bloody hot here?)

Anyhow, a few nights back, I went running, just before sunset. I started earlier than usual, as I was attempting to replace the Cacophony of fear and self-recrimination of the day (What the hell am I really doing here?), with the White Noise of physical exhaustion. I was just getting to the point where I was hitting a second wind, closer to the river.

As I was approaching the climax of a runner’s high, I promptly aspirated a bug. Rather, it would be more accurate to say that a bug dive-bombed my uvula, kamikaze-style. The damn thing flew directly into my gag zone, and became lodged.

And I did what any person in an ill-fitting muscle tee, with a bug lodged in the throat would do. I very noisily threw up in someone’s bushes.

The punchline here is, I don’t really know what. Except I’ve always had a low-grade fear of large insects flying into my mouth, and now a really significant one has, and it’s okay.

So, I’ve decided that everything will be okay, despite that I’m living at home at 26, but feeling like I’m sixteen. And my mom still closes my shades for me at night.

We will deal with that one tomorrow.

A Policy Of Truth

2004-06-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure exactly why I'm challenging myself to do this.

I grew up believing that seeing the truth of things can set one apart. But then childhood intervened in its usual cruel way and I found that delivering truth to others, in the form of simple observations even, was a surefire way to find oneself in the stew. To this day, I am ashamed to say that have been kissing the ring on the finger of the proverbial Emperor and forcing myself to believe in the wisdom of his fashion statement, as evidenced by his New Clothes.

Except now, I desire to state the inevitable; the obvious. I want to scream it. The emperor is not only bare-assed naked, but he is also morbidly obese, is going bald, and has a remarkably small penis.

Thusly, this is a record of my self discovery. This is the proof of my re-grooming as a human being, and hopefully a better one at that.

And since I’m a sucker for the path of most resistance (and not a little bit narcissistic), I have elected to publish it here, under the garish light of electronic chaperones.

This is the story of me, a man, in a self-alotted one year-long process of figuring out his Place in the World, if there is such a thing. While living in Florida. In his Parents' house. Who are both republicans, and receive 8 X 10 pictures of George W and his wife, thanking them for their contributions.

Thanks for coming.