There are times, now and again, during which I feel a strong desire to put some words on paper. It’s not that I’m quaint, or feel that electronic methods are unworthy of my would-be fantastic prose. I suspect that were I to try, the prose, in fact, would be found quite lacking. I think the desire goes back to the basic ideas of the tribal knowledge of our ancestors: if you have something to say, if your life has been worth something, you should communicate it. Tell a story, draw a picture in the sand, tell your children around the fire. Get the knowledge out there.
Get the knowledge out there. That’s what it is for me. Call me arrogant, but I occasionally feel very strongly that I have learned something in the course of my work, and, furthermore, my knowledge must be shared with others.
There are, perhaps, other motives involved. Some of your ideas stick around in a library somewhere, presumably until the heat death of the universe. Maybe I can have my atoms reconstituted into a book bearing my memoir. Hell of a collector’s item, if you can find an audience for it.
People always say you should write what you know. This sounds good until I think about fiction: from what well of personal knowledge does Ms. Holt draw her stories about witchcraft? And writers of historical fiction? Ha!
Yes, of course, the idea is to use your personal experiences as fuel for some masterpiece of character building, world building, or suspense building. Work your minute knowledge of some dead end job into a gripping tale set against an epic emotional backdrop. Make sure you explain to your readers exactly why your accountant main character must use ASPA Rule Three Oh Seven Dash Five when he is tallying up the value of the lives he may save by shooting the bad guy in the face.
This is, by the way, why we end up with pages upon pages filled with detailed descriptions of a person reloading a gun, and the various trials and tribulations he must face before he may attempt, once more, to put an end to his adversary. Don’t worry, he’ll be thwarted in the firefight by some convenient plot device but return at the last hour to achieve victory.
Titles are hard. I bet someone said this, and if they didn’t, I’m claiming this aphorism right now: the hardest words to write are the words that go on the cover.
But I’ve got this figured out.
The title of this book, this hypothetical book I write in my head, or at least think about from time to time, is How To Get The Shit Kicked Out Of You And Live To Tell The Tale.
I know you’ll come around to it, in the end.
I have to admit, the title is a sort of a hopeful one. It came to me while I was working in the North Port. Working, here, is a bit of a euphemism. I was sitting on a hard metal chair, arms and legs bound. The shadowed man in front of me was breathing heavily – clearly the act of breaking my nose and battering my midsection had caused some serious physical exertion. His breath was pungent, echoing the thousands of extra calories he had consumed over time. Still, overweight does not mean underpowered, and the throbbing mass that used to be my nose told me this man knew something about pain.
There weren’t questions, or at least not spoken ones. The man rested, for a moment, then attacked once again. I felt my face swelling under the blows, and thought about my book. It’d be a bestseller, if only I could prove its premise by making it out of here alive.
Because I knew something about taking a beating. It had happened to me before, and I had learned from the experience. Be ready to anticipate the blows. Tense your muscles in an appropriate matter. Prepare for disorientation. Keep your thoughts lucid by concentrating on hard reality. Don’t let yourself drift.
I was not doing a good job at that last point, but then again, I think the decision to allow myself to drift was rational. There were no questions, which indicated to me that either I should have known who these folks were and what they wanted, or that they were simply looking to kill me. Either way, allowing myself to fade may alleviate my sense of helplessness.
After some time, during which I came up with some chapter titles (Don’t Suck At Fighting, Have Backup, Maybe If You Ask Them Nicely They Will Stop Hitting You), I couldn’t support my head any longer. The blood, a trickle seemingly moments ago, was now pouring from my nose and pooling between my thighs.
My vision was fading, tunneling to gray. I thought of another chapter title. How To Get The Blood That Left Your Body Back Inside. Maybe that could be the sequel.
Maybe.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Quick thought
99% of the text of our laws in this country are designed to deal with 1% situations -- things that occur 1% of the time or with 1% of the people.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Seduction, Economic Collapse, and Vacations
Miller’s Genuine Drafts
From the desk of Small Business Data Analysis
Well, it’s been a while since the last edition of MGD. Yours Truly has been on a family “vacation” – which means, of course, that no relaxation occurred whatsoever. Indeed, after about the fifth round of playing a game that my nephew (age 4) calls “Stab Keaton With Household Objects Repeatedly Until Blood Comes Out” I wondered what, exactly, was the point. I mean, sure, I love to have big events with the in-laws and the in-in-laws and the ex-wives and the second-cousins and the people-we-collected-along-the-way-that-we-don’t-even-really-know as much as the next person, but I have my limits.
One of which, apparently, is the volume of circulatory fluid contained within my veins.
Somehow, though, I soldiered through and even got to enjoy brief visit to Charleston, South Carolina where we ate a delightful meal surrounded by people with handle-bar mustaches who were talking about “The War of Northern Aggression” and then got the hell out of there.
Seriously. Those guys are scary.
AND NOW: Has your analytical nature caused problems with your particular desired variety (varieties include straight, gay, and banana-strawberry) of sexual encounters? Do you find yourself trying to use words to remove a woman’s clothing (cash works much better) only to get slapped and walked out on? Do you spend your evenings cuddling up to an anatomically correct mannequin (preferably named Passionate Pam) in the hopes of providing your sad, sad soul with some sort of plastic companionship?
THERE IS AN ANSWER TO YOUR TROUBLES, AND ABC REPORTS!
http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/WhosCounting/story?id=7250901&page=1
Apparently, all you have to do is turn your seduction into a series of logical statements.
FOR INSTANCE (from the article):
Suppose a man flirts with a woman and then asks her, "Will you solemnly promise to give me right now your telephone number if I make a true statement and, conversely, not give me your number if I make a false statement?"
Feeling that this is a flattering and benign request, the woman promises to give him her number if and only if he makes a true statement.
The man then makes his statement: "You will neither give me your telephone number now nor will you sleep with me tonight."
The result is obvious: the woman will look at you, and either have an aneurysm due to the requirement of thought or will simply walk away and eat some strawberry-banana yogurt.
Sorry, I guess analysts are just out of luck.
At least we didn’t screw up this bad
It’s always important to put things in perspective. For example, when I walk out of a bar, alone, thinking of Passionate Pam waiting for me back home, I feel down. However, when I turn to my side and see Sykes another fellow drinker puking his guts out all over an officers shoes while trying to explain that he merely ate a bad piece of sushi, I feel much better about myself.
Thus, it’s important for us to compare our country’s current economic situation to that of Iceland. Sure, we may have run up debts totaling about 350% of our GDP, we may have higher unemployment than any time since the Great Depression, and the Chris Naruto Government Intervention Head Explosion Index may be off-scale high, but it could have been worse.
I present to you the story of Iceland, a country full of fisherman who got their first taste of high finance when, after being isolated from the world for 1100 years, figured out how to securitize their fishing business and decided they could enter the global money market with impunity.
Vanity Fair (shush) has an incredible piece detailing the rise and fall of their financial sector as well as the hardheadedness of the Icelandic male. I highly suggest you go and read http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/04/iceland200904
The most telling interview was with a fisherman-turned-financial-wizard-turned-fisherman-again, who spoke of the years it took him to learn how to fish effectively:
This marvelous [fishing] training was as fresh in his mind as if he’d received it yesterday, and the thought of it makes his eyes mist.
“You spent seven years learning every little nuance of the fishing trade before you were granted the gift of learning from this great captain?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And even then you had to sit at the feet of this great master for many months before you felt as if you knew what you were doing?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you think you could become a banker and speculate in financial markets, without a day of training?”
“That’s a very good question,” he says. He thinks for a minute. “For the first time this evening I lack a word.”
The lesson here is obvious: Iceland has a distinct lack of PR specialists.
From the desk of Small Business Data Analysis
Well, it’s been a while since the last edition of MGD. Yours Truly has been on a family “vacation” – which means, of course, that no relaxation occurred whatsoever. Indeed, after about the fifth round of playing a game that my nephew (age 4) calls “Stab Keaton With Household Objects Repeatedly Until Blood Comes Out” I wondered what, exactly, was the point. I mean, sure, I love to have big events with the in-laws and the in-in-laws and the ex-wives and the second-cousins and the people-we-collected-along-the-way-that-we-don’t-even-really-know as much as the next person, but I have my limits.
One of which, apparently, is the volume of circulatory fluid contained within my veins.
Somehow, though, I soldiered through and even got to enjoy brief visit to Charleston, South Carolina where we ate a delightful meal surrounded by people with handle-bar mustaches who were talking about “The War of Northern Aggression” and then got the hell out of there.
Seriously. Those guys are scary.
AND NOW: Has your analytical nature caused problems with your particular desired variety (varieties include straight, gay, and banana-strawberry) of sexual encounters? Do you find yourself trying to use words to remove a woman’s clothing (cash works much better) only to get slapped and walked out on? Do you spend your evenings cuddling up to an anatomically correct mannequin (preferably named Passionate Pam) in the hopes of providing your sad, sad soul with some sort of plastic companionship?
THERE IS AN ANSWER TO YOUR TROUBLES, AND ABC REPORTS!
http://abcnews.go.com/Technology/WhosCounting/story?id=7250901&page=1
Apparently, all you have to do is turn your seduction into a series of logical statements.
FOR INSTANCE (from the article):
Suppose a man flirts with a woman and then asks her, "Will you solemnly promise to give me right now your telephone number if I make a true statement and, conversely, not give me your number if I make a false statement?"
Feeling that this is a flattering and benign request, the woman promises to give him her number if and only if he makes a true statement.
The man then makes his statement: "You will neither give me your telephone number now nor will you sleep with me tonight."
The result is obvious: the woman will look at you, and either have an aneurysm due to the requirement of thought or will simply walk away and eat some strawberry-banana yogurt.
Sorry, I guess analysts are just out of luck.
At least we didn’t screw up this bad
It’s always important to put things in perspective. For example, when I walk out of a bar, alone, thinking of Passionate Pam waiting for me back home, I feel down. However, when I turn to my side and see Sykes another fellow drinker puking his guts out all over an officers shoes while trying to explain that he merely ate a bad piece of sushi, I feel much better about myself.
Thus, it’s important for us to compare our country’s current economic situation to that of Iceland. Sure, we may have run up debts totaling about 350% of our GDP, we may have higher unemployment than any time since the Great Depression, and the Chris Naruto Government Intervention Head Explosion Index may be off-scale high, but it could have been worse.
I present to you the story of Iceland, a country full of fisherman who got their first taste of high finance when, after being isolated from the world for 1100 years, figured out how to securitize their fishing business and decided they could enter the global money market with impunity.
Vanity Fair (shush) has an incredible piece detailing the rise and fall of their financial sector as well as the hardheadedness of the Icelandic male. I highly suggest you go and read http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2009/04/iceland200904
The most telling interview was with a fisherman-turned-financial-wizard-turned-fisherman-again, who spoke of the years it took him to learn how to fish effectively:
This marvelous [fishing] training was as fresh in his mind as if he’d received it yesterday, and the thought of it makes his eyes mist.
“You spent seven years learning every little nuance of the fishing trade before you were granted the gift of learning from this great captain?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And even then you had to sit at the feet of this great master for many months before you felt as if you knew what you were doing?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you think you could become a banker and speculate in financial markets, without a day of training?”
“That’s a very good question,” he says. He thinks for a minute. “For the first time this evening I lack a word.”
The lesson here is obvious: Iceland has a distinct lack of PR specialists.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Skiing
As I approached the tree at approximately Warp Factor Nine, I waited expectantly for my life to flash before my eyes. After all, I was on a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, with my rather squishy body about to collide with a rather solid trunk.
I hear such situations aren't good for your health.
The End of Life Review wasn't happening. I must have been Too New to Rate. I decided to do the overview myself, hoping that in the last moments before impact I'd achieve some sort of brilliant insight that would convince the universe to allow me to live.
First, I was born. This was a messy and painful procedure that involved a lot of blood, guts and tweezers and it left me with a profound feeling of... let's just skip ahead a bit to the good part.
My skiing adventure started in Staunton, a small town near Charlottesville and about halfway between here and Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia. We arrived without pre-arranged lodging, food, or any idea what to do. I had been told stories of the past trips -- epic tales of my friends' abilities to score sleeping quarters from nubile youngsters within moments of arrival. I looked forward to watching masters of the game using their abilities and learning from their display.
The town, however, was deserted. Mary Baldwin (all-female) College, the source of the group's previous successes, was all but abandoned. The bars around town were almost empty, filled with the dregs of the town, and several butch lesbians. [NAME REDACTED 1] and [NAME REDACTED 2] tried their hardest to convince some of the disciples of Sappho to allow us to breach their walls, but to no avail.
I mean, they were lesbians.
At the end of the night, the group split up. While half of us (the half that I like to call "sane") got a cheap room at a HoJo, the other half decided to wander around town to find some suitable place to crash. They tried the house where they had stayed the previous weekend, but the only occupant wanted nothing to do with a bunch of dudes banging on the door at 3 AM.
I can't imagine why.
Finally, while the sane group had happily settled in for the night, the other group decided to go to the campus. They found an unlocked science building and slept inside until one of them had an astonishing insight.
"Hey guys," said The Smart One. "We're breaking and entering on an all-girls campus. Are we sure that this is the best idea?"
"Sure it is," mumbled [1]. "Why would anyone have a problem with us chilling in here?"
Fortunately for the non-sane group, The Smart One prevailed and convinced the others to go sleep in the car.
Saturday morning, thoroughly disappointed in the Staunton Experience, we set off for Snowshoe. The road from Staunton led us through beautiful forests, re-purposed mining towns, and, at the state line, a sign cheerfully informing us that incest was now legal.
We arrived, geared up, and hit the slopes. Brimming with confidence, and a five minute lesson from Felix, I attached my skis to my boots, turned to face the hill, and started off.
Five seconds later, my scream rang through the air like a carillon and my head hit the snow with a resounding crunch. After a brief struggle, I got back up, reattached my skis, and tried again.
After the fourth or fifth fall (the repeated impacts caused some minor memory failure), I realized that Felix hadn't taught me some of the minor details needed to ski successfully, such as a) turning and b) stopping. I trundled up the mountain and went to the "magic carpet" area, where you could learn how to accomplish these important maneuvers on a slope that was about as steep as a desk.
The lack of speed didn't stop me, however. I fell down at least six or seven more times before finally figuring out the basics. I returned to the run and started down. This time, I lasted at least fifteen seconds before falling. I slowly made my way down the slope, pausing often to collect various things I had left behind -- skis, poles, goggles, my internal organs, etc.
I reached the bottom, finally, and got on the ski lift. This part, at least, seemed easy. You simply sat down, lowered the bar, and enjoyed the view going up. I reached the top of the lift, stood up, allowed the lift to push me forward, and promptly fell over, causing the operator to stop the lift.
I was a bit embarrassed, but I had done it. One complete run. In only three hours. But I had done it, successfully. Over the course of the day, I did the same run several times, slowly learning how to navigate the various terrain features without losing structural (or intestinal) integrity.
The sun was setting when I made my final run of the day. After a pep talk with Felix and Dave, I decided to take a slightly different fork. They told me it would be slightly harder, but if I successfully navigated it, I'd be able to do many other trails across the resort. I set off, passing by several Keaton-shaped impressions along the way. I slowed down at the decision point and turned down the fork.
Felix and Dave said it would be slightly harder. What they didn't say was that by "slightly harder" they meant "a sudden descent followed by a leap over a gaping chasm filled with yetis and other possibly imaginary monsters."
Fortunately, I was prepared for such a scenario. I knew exactly what to do. I panicked. I tried to cut back and forth, but I picked up speed anyway. I hit the bottom of the run hard, and overbalanced. I held an impromptu yard sale, my equipment flying in different directions as I slid right off the course and towards the forest.
As I lay on my stomach sliding across the snow going way too fast, it came to me. A brilliant insight. A profound thought that would hopefully be sufficient to placate the Gods of the Slopes and permit my survival. It popped into my head with frightful and immediate clarity.
I'm not a very good skier.
With that thought, I slid into the tree with a dull thud -- and remained among the living. I moved my limbs, tested my strength, got back up, and lived to ski another day.
The next day, I did the bunny hill.
Twenty times.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Conflicts of Interest
I have a lot of thoughts about the bailout/stimulus/whatever, and a lot of thoughts about the most common REACTIONS to the BSW, but I'm afraid to post too much of them?
Why? Conflict of interest. Though I haven't posted any details about my job here and I doubt my employer is crawling the internet looking for little ole' me, I don't want to get in to any trouble by writing about things that have anything to do with the company.
Normally I wouldn't care -- I'd trust myself to talk in general and personal terms without talking about my employer specifically, but in this economy, I'm more concerned about losing my job than "normally."
I put "normally" in quotes because the economy has been like this ever since I got hired -- so I guess I don't really know what sort of cojones I'd have in a normal economy.
Why? Conflict of interest. Though I haven't posted any details about my job here and I doubt my employer is crawling the internet looking for little ole' me, I don't want to get in to any trouble by writing about things that have anything to do with the company.
Normally I wouldn't care -- I'd trust myself to talk in general and personal terms without talking about my employer specifically, but in this economy, I'm more concerned about losing my job than "normally."
I put "normally" in quotes because the economy has been like this ever since I got hired -- so I guess I don't really know what sort of cojones I'd have in a normal economy.
Monday, January 26, 2009
MGD: In the news this week
I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing something funny every week or so. The first thing I wrote was very work-related so I didn't post it here for fear of getting the Big Pink Slip, but I'll try and post as much as I can here.
In the news this week
This past week was monumental. The inauguration of a new president, the changing of the guard, the historic opportunity for renewal and reconciliation with our political foes. A time for speeches, poetry and pre-recorded music.
A time for Fox News executives to flip the Master Opinion Switch from “suck up” to “blow up.”
I participated in this opportunity for renewal by getting trimming my excessively lengthy tresses, which altered my appearance to that of a 12 year old. Specifically, this 12 year old.
But amidst the fracas and the hoo-hahing and the soleful cries of saddened conservatives howling at the moon, a few news items fell through the cracks.
ITEM: Senator Russ Feingold (D – Green Bay Packers) proposed a constitutional amendment to require special elections in the case of Senate vacancies.
Currently, when senators leave office mid-term due to death, retirement, sudden hatred of democracy, etc. they are replaced according to the laws of their home state. Some states, such as Wisconsin and Oregon, already require special elections. Many states have gubernatorial appointments, which can be a problem when your governor is either a) blind and unable to conduct evaluations based upon physical appearance (like the rest of the country can, gosh darnit!) or b) a f**king nutjob.
Some states, however, have slightly less conventional processes.
ITEM: The World Underwater Ironing Record, for years in the hands of the Australians, has now returned to its rightful place in the United Kingdom. I am not making this up. According to the BBC, 128 British scuba divers braved freezing temperatures to iron clothing up to 20 meters (or 3.7 parsecs) underwater.
Ironing clothing.
In freezing water.
I wish I could make a joke here about some sort of even MORE ridiculous “World Record,” but sadly I cannot. Maybe something involving Ty Twigg and the word ‘what.’
ITEM: Democrats have discovered the importance of words.
WASHINGTON – President Obama today delivered his first major speech dealing with Iran.
“For years, George Bush and fellow Republicans mastered the use of words to frame debates. They successfully passed the No Child Left Behind Act, which turned our schools into forgotten wastelands ruled by packs of foreign-language students while kids in band desperately try to remember how turn their tubas into radios to call for help. They enacted the Clean Skies Act, which killed millions in Los Angeles when the smog became sentient and went on a rampage through Hollywood.”
“They passed the Help America Vote Act, which worked to prevent several groups from voting, such as college students, union members and anyone who has ever visited San Francisco.”
“It has long been time for my own party to learn how to manipulate and distort language in order to achieve OUR mischievous ends. And so now, today, I am proud to announce the start of one of my campaign promises. Today, the United States will engage in Direct Diplomacy with Iran.”
“The missile strikes will begin shortly.”
As always, positive feedback will be rewarded with candy and sunshine, rainbows and fairy dust. People who return negative feedback will disappear from their beds in the dead of night. Contributions always welcome – thanks to Chris Naruto for finding the article on Underwater Ironing.
In the news this week
This past week was monumental. The inauguration of a new president, the changing of the guard, the historic opportunity for renewal and reconciliation with our political foes. A time for speeches, poetry and pre-recorded music.
A time for Fox News executives to flip the Master Opinion Switch from “suck up” to “blow up.”
I participated in this opportunity for renewal by getting trimming my excessively lengthy tresses, which altered my appearance to that of a 12 year old. Specifically, this 12 year old.
But amidst the fracas and the hoo-hahing and the soleful cries of saddened conservatives howling at the moon, a few news items fell through the cracks.
ITEM: Senator Russ Feingold (D – Green Bay Packers) proposed a constitutional amendment to require special elections in the case of Senate vacancies.
Currently, when senators leave office mid-term due to death, retirement, sudden hatred of democracy, etc. they are replaced according to the laws of their home state. Some states, such as Wisconsin and Oregon, already require special elections. Many states have gubernatorial appointments, which can be a problem when your governor is either a) blind and unable to conduct evaluations based upon physical appearance (like the rest of the country can, gosh darnit!) or b) a f**king nutjob.
Some states, however, have slightly less conventional processes.
- ALASKA: Moose hunting competition coupled with a long-distance eye exam. Candidates MUST be able to see Russia, preferably from their place of residence.
- ARIZONA: Candidates are taken out into the desert with nothing more than a stick to ward off scorpions and a topographic map of Canada. After the inevitable fight with sticks used as lightsabers, the last person alive is declared senator. The winner must then change his or her legal name to “John McCain.”
- CALIFORNIA: Candidates are chosen for their intelligence, knowledge of public policy, and ability to make the rest of America mutter “goddamn Californians” under their breath.
ITEM: The World Underwater Ironing Record, for years in the hands of the Australians, has now returned to its rightful place in the United Kingdom. I am not making this up. According to the BBC, 128 British scuba divers braved freezing temperatures to iron clothing up to 20 meters (or 3.7 parsecs) underwater.
Ironing clothing.
In freezing water.
I wish I could make a joke here about some sort of even MORE ridiculous “World Record,” but sadly I cannot. Maybe something involving Ty Twigg and the word ‘what.’
ITEM: Democrats have discovered the importance of words.
WASHINGTON – President Obama today delivered his first major speech dealing with Iran.
“For years, George Bush and fellow Republicans mastered the use of words to frame debates. They successfully passed the No Child Left Behind Act, which turned our schools into forgotten wastelands ruled by packs of foreign-language students while kids in band desperately try to remember how turn their tubas into radios to call for help. They enacted the Clean Skies Act, which killed millions in Los Angeles when the smog became sentient and went on a rampage through Hollywood.”
“They passed the Help America Vote Act, which worked to prevent several groups from voting, such as college students, union members and anyone who has ever visited San Francisco.”
“It has long been time for my own party to learn how to manipulate and distort language in order to achieve OUR mischievous ends. And so now, today, I am proud to announce the start of one of my campaign promises. Today, the United States will engage in Direct Diplomacy with Iran.”
“The missile strikes will begin shortly.”
As always, positive feedback will be rewarded with candy and sunshine, rainbows and fairy dust. People who return negative feedback will disappear from their beds in the dead of night. Contributions always welcome – thanks to Chris Naruto for finding the article on Underwater Ironing.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Airplane weirdness
So, the way my flight from Madison to DC is set up right now, I fly Continental flight 6441 from Madison to Detroit, and then Northwest flight 240 to DCA, where I drive 2 hours back to RVA.
Here's the thing, and you can verify this. IT'S THE SAME FRICKIN' PLANE! I understand all sorts of codesharing and crap goes on, but you'd think at least it'd be consistent so I'd be identified with the same airline for both legs.
Weird.
Here's the thing, and you can verify this. IT'S THE SAME FRICKIN' PLANE! I understand all sorts of codesharing and crap goes on, but you'd think at least it'd be consistent so I'd be identified with the same airline for both legs.
Weird.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Truth in pricing...
This and this sort of thing really piss me off. If a government agency doesn't bill you correctly or makes a clerical error in processing, it's their own damn fault. You should not be responsible for their mistake unless the mistake was clearly obvious on its face (for example, being charged $400 total for tuition when you should have been $4,000).
There's a law on the books in most (if not all) states that if they charge you a higher price at the checkout than what's posted they have to refund the difference, plus sometimes an extra percentage as a penalty. The same goes for you, government. You quote me a fine, or a fee, or something like that, that's the price I'm going to pay.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Home is where...
I haven't lived in too many places.
When I was small, I lived in a smallish house (that's not the right house, just the right street) in a suburb of Chicago. I remember it in broad strokes and events. Entry closet with a mirror where I made lifesavers spark. Living room where I damaged my upper lip. Dining room where I was told the birthday invitations had gone without stamps and no one would be coming to my party. Where my parents looked at me with worried faces as half my face swelled after an extremely unlucky bee sting.
Kitchen with gas stove -- we made omelets while tornadoes whistled through Chicago. My bedroom -- oddly I don't have many memories of it other than Sesame Street. Upstairs, my parents' room and the nursery. A basement: Dad's study with a computer and shelves and shelves of thick books. A stone floor on which my parents placed a bicycle for me to find.
The place I've called home for the longest period of my life (and many times still do) is on the north side of Madison. Suburban, larger and newer than the house in Oak Park, with a lawn and an attached garage, it was the American dream for my parents, and it is the place I identify most strongly with.
In college I lived in one dorm room for two years -- though shared with two different roommates. The first year was marked by tension and unease, the second I had more influence on the contents and presentation. I spent a summer subletting a basement room in a newish house which I never felt right about.
And then the Mills house. A year for personal growth and discovery, or something. A year in which friendships were strained and ruined over some of the smallest things I can imagine. A year in which I moved bedrooms, discovered my irrational fear of centipedes. I took our landlord to court, took out the trash, and took out my frustrations on some drumheads.
Mills came close to being a home, for awhile. It had the sort of space I needed. I contributed furniture and possessions to the common space. Second semester, my bedroom had enough room to walk around in (and I will always be appreciative to the roommate who agreed to switch with me). But it was always a battle. A battle against mold. A battle against bugs. A battle against roommates who had somehow changed from good friends into enemies.
The next year, I moved into a smaller apartment on Dayton Street. I had big dreams for Dayton. Here was an apartment with some CLASS. And here were some roommates I had known for years.
Did it turn out that way? Nope. The previous tenants ruined the place. The jacuzzi was broken and the landlord never fixed it. The centipedes returned in full force. And one roommate left and subletted his room. I holed up in my room, most of the time, going through the daily routine but just passing time while things happened around me and to me.
I think about all of this because right now, once again, many of my life's possessions are in boxes or scattered around floors and closets because I've just recently moved.
When I first came to Richmond, I was tired of the college life. For reasons which I'm sure I'll write about later, I felt that I had never really gotten the right stuff out of college and at that moment I wanted something completely different. Something new, something nice and clean and bug-free.
So I ended up in Wyndham -- a suburb of a suburb. The Maple Bluff of Richmond, except the shrink wrap was still on the mansions and the man-made pond struggled to maintain a water level.
Here, I thought, was something good. Here was a place with the space I needed. An attached garage. New appliances. No bugs. I checked each problem I had with previous apartments off in my mind (mold? sufficient outlets? a place to park? functioning plumbing? shower pressure?). On the surface, it reminded me of my parents' house in Madison, and I decided that's what I needed.
I was so very wrong. Yeah, the space was nice, but I couldn't use it to satisfaction -- any attempt to play drums would be quickly stopped by an angry mother with a crying infant. My neighbors were families and my neighborhood lacked soul.
It was sterile. And although it reminded me of my previous home, it was not home and couldn't serve as my home. It focused my mind on what I didn't have -- both in the present and in the past.
Even when I lived on Nova Way, my neighbors weren't my own age. There were a few kids a grade ahead of me and a few kids my sister's age, but no one my own age. With one parent commuting and another one stressed out at her status as practically a single mother, I spent most of my time alone reading books or teaching myself computing through play. It didn't help that the bee sting gave me a nice unhealthy phobia of the outdoors.
So when I found myself in a place that reminded me of that other home, spending my time in a similar fashion (reading books, screwing around on the computer, and generally being a hermit), I revolted.
It was a large internal struggle. Certainly I could come to some sort of compromise? This time I had friends in town whose couches I could crash on. It would be expensive to leave and take a long time.
But I knew what was coming at some level before too many weeks had passed; some boxes never got unpacked.
So now I'm here in the Fan. An old house, with bugs (though not centipedes, just roaches... much easier to exterminate) and drafts and random water damage and all of that shit.
But there are PEOPLE here. I can go walk outside and see people from all walks of life. My downstairs neighbors are in a similar place in life. Most of my friends from work live within 10 blocks. I can go out and drink without worrying about making it home.
It has its downsides, of course (what place that I've moved to hasn't had big problems I've discovered after moving in?). There are roaches -- hopefully my landlord will come through and they will be exterminated. My couch didn't fit in the apartment and had to be hastily sold to a friend (again, something I won't ever forget)
This place has potential. The kitchen is nice. There's room for my instruments. There's space in my bedroom to pace and think. The morning comes with full light in every room. At this point, it's a case of committing. I have an opportunity to put some soul into this space -- not just make it a storage zone for all of my shit (which it is right now).
In the past, I've measured my commitment to a place by the amount of work it would take to get all my possessions packed and removed to another location (I can do it in a day if I have help). Now, I want to measure it by the experiences I have as a resident here. I want to feel like this is home and that means I need to define it by the positive things that happen here.
(If anything, my parents' home was mine because of everything that transpired in the basement of that house, not the fact that it housed my bedroom)
I'm sure I'll move out of here at some point, whether to another place in the Fan, another neighborhood in Richmond or another city altogether. And at that point, I'll curse myself for spending time getting this place polished up and assembled properly. But right now I have the motivation to make this place mine.
I hope I can go through with it -- this is not a trivial task. I'm missing a couch right now, and refuse to get one until after the exterminators have done their thing. I can't cook too much yet. In two weeks I'm going back to Madison for two weeks, and I may find my honeymoon to this location has ended.
I've often said that your living space says a lot about you. How you clean, how you furnish, how you stock and store and organize. But there's more to the picture. Your living space says a lot to you as well. It's not a one-way street. It's a conversation, hopefully between friends. And that's why despite the roaches, despite the awkward laundry, despite the small refrigerator and old floors and slight water damage, I feel better here.
Friday, December 5, 2008
The story of my relationships...
...is captured perfectly in today's XKCD. (Especially in high school)
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The keys dropped into the slot with a final clang...
... and so ended my short stay in Suburbia. I've been thinking a lot about the moving process and doing some meta-analysis of why I decided to move and I hope to write it all down here at some point over the next couple of days. Not sure when I'll find the time, what with all of the boxes I have sitting around here but I think the thoughts are important ones.
At least to me. :-P
Monday, October 20, 2008
Like snow in California
Those who have driven in my car know that one of my favorite possessions is my XM radio. In my opinion, they do a terrible job marketing this thing, because it is just a fantastic service. Now, it's true that I mostly listen to the Comedy channel (and let me tell you, that ALONE would be enough for me to pay the monthly fee), but my tastes rotate.
For months, I've been content to listen to people making dirty jokes. But Fall is here, and with the change in season comes a change in taste. I want music, I want chord progressions and interesting lyrics and in particular, I want to hear stuff I've never heard before.
This was satisfied for awhile with the purchase of an LP from a local (well, Virginia Beach) band called "Tokyo" which opened for Oppenheimer a month or so ago -- but there's just so many times that you can play a five-song album before you get a little bored with it.
A good friend proclaiming that it was "bland" certainly hastened my boredom.
In terms of discovering new music, XM does me proud. Every time I surf through the 15-20 channels dedicated to the various forms of "rock," I see artists and tracks I've never heard of. I often find myself exercising my short term memory as I frantically try to store the names of artists and songs in my head to download (and yes, pay money to) as soon as I get to my destination.
The other main benefit of XM is the quality. It's not great, certainly not CD quality, but better than you'll get from terrestrial stations (and better quality streams are available online). So I can, in fact, turn up the volume and hear some sort of vibrancy in the music that traditional radio is missing.
And really, what is the point of listening to music if you can't hear the highest highs and the lowest lows?
Perhaps now you can possibly understand my frustration when I turn up a song that is particularly groovetacular and I hear a loud annoying buzz somewhere to my right. At first I believe it's just something loose on the dash or in one of the pockets.
Nope.
Busted a speaker. This can happen for many reasons, but if I had to choose one, I'd have to say it was due to my awesomeness.
Or just the fact that I like to play music pretty loud with factory speakers.
So I'm left listening to the radio at a totally reasonable volume -- that is to say a totally unreasonable volume for me -- until I find the time to get my car into the shop and fixed up.
Bugger.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Mission Statement
I've had a lot of different web presences in the past. My internet identity started out with a Geocities account back when they assigned web addresses based on the idea of communities with streets and house numbers -- I was on 3976 Maze street, Times Square.
Or something.
After I grew bored of working with frames and bullshit banner ads (and when the technology became available) I eventually got myself a Livejournal and fully bought in to the emo-teenager lifestyle. I never wrote poems on my Chucks (I never even owned Chucks to begin with), but I did write long diatribes about how Terribly Horribly Awful my life was.
Mmmmmmm, diatribes.
In college, I finally bite the bullet and bought space on a REAL server and a domain name -- keatnet.net. I had (and still have, to be honest) grandiose plans for that address, but instead of the Awesome Keaton-based Community I dreamed, it became more of a storage facility -- holding little gadgets and files for me as well as some subdomains for my various hobbies.
I wanted to start a new blog there, with full control over the features and the layout and everything... but come on -- a domain name based on a take-off of my NAME? Who DOES that?
Oh. Right. I did.
Again.
Well, this one has a history, at least. Last year I wrote a column for The Daily Cardinal called, you guessed it, Miller's Genuine Drafts. It was at least partially funny and so here I am again, writing some random shit into the ether.
There are, in fact, "deeper" reasons. I'm not sure what direction I'm going to take this piece of my online identity. I've been following politics very closely and it'd certainly be nice to have an outlet for some of those thoughts that isn't Big Orange or the comments section of CNN. On the other hand, the election is soon and who knows how much interest I will keep after then -- I imagine I'll still follow politics but then again I used to be obsessed with the Starcraft ladder.
There are also other things that happen in my life that I can certainly use an outlet for. Though I'm pretty sure divulging Trade Secrets will get me fired faster than you can say "what's in your wallet, a pink slip?" but day-to-day tales of the Office life are probably kosher.
Probably.
So it'll be a mix, a range, a variety, if you will. Some days you'll get the politics, others I'll be detailing my experiences trying to make a decent meal without spending hours at the stove.
And I'm sure it won't be too long before I'm off discussing the pleasures of a good ironing.
Tonight I'm in a political mood, but I'm not going to go off into some liberal manifesto right now -- it's coming, I assure you -- so I will leave you with this.
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