Saturday, April 30, 2005

Pinch me

I'm a little jacked up (ok, for once I'm not exaggerating: I'm fairly bouncing off the walls) because I stumbled across a job opening that's one of the few positions that makes me excited about stepping out of the food industry. It's as a campus tour representative for an art university.

Here's a brief rundown of what they're looking for:
*is an ideal opportunity for an outgoing individual who enjoys engaging and informing people
*We are looking for an articulate individual who will become well versed in our ten major, facilities, and various other pertinent aspects of the school.
*responsible for clearly and enthusiastically communicating information

Requirements:
*Minimum of 1 year customer service experience required.
*Previous experience working in an art or theatre environment and/or Prior experience in public speaking a plus.
*Must be comfortable and confident giving presentations to large groups and individuals.
*Excellent verbal communications and interpersonal skills.
*Able to work occasional Saturdays and evenings.

As we all know, talking to strangers and large groups is highly intimidating for me, I'm rigidly attached to my M-F, 9-5 bean counter-like lifestyle, have had no exposure to the art world and am confounded by artists in general. *chortlesnickerkneeslap* (Whew! I just slay me sometimes!) A writer working at an art university, how rich would that be?

Seriously, this is like a dream job - it would capitalize on most of my strengths and specifically the ones that would rarely get used in a traditional office setting - which is a big reason that inspired my return to restaurant a year ago. On top of this, I used to do campus tours when I was at university and thought back then that I'd be thrilled to do it professionally after graduation. I loved it. Unfortunately, I didn't love South Tacoma.

Honest to God, if I could walk into their HR office right now and pitch myself, I would. Which, of course, means I've been staring at an empty page for like 4 hours trying to figure out how to write a cover letter that will get me an interview. The big struggle is to write something that isn't one page long run-on sentence in 5 point font that ends with: 'So, can I have the job, can I, huh huh, can I pleeeeeeeeeease?!?!' GAHHHH!!

Do you think they'd mind if I camped on their doorstep until I got the position?

Thursday, April 28, 2005

All hail the n00b!

For perspective: with the exception of about 3 years, I have been working in the restaurant industry continuously since the age of 15. As I stated in an earlier post, I am well into my 35th year on this beautiful blue planet of ours. With the exception of physical plant maintenance, I have worked every conceivable position in a restaurant or bar. To be concise, I know about fire, the dangers of cobustibles and how to properly handle Sternos.

Shortly before 5pm this evening while rearranging the steamtable: "Hello Mr. Sterno, let's just put you out, shall we?"
quick blue flash "Um, no, that's fine. I didn't really want those bangs. Useless, actually." (Note that Mr. Sterno displayed no sign of remorse or contrition.)

On the upside, I did manage to avoid my eyebrows. Surgical precision at it's best, I'll tell you what.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Recurring themes and anticipation

For over a week, in the most unexpected places, I've heard "Can't Hardly Wait" by The Replacements. Perhaps it's a natural spring song full of an awkward but honest and soaring anticipation. Perhaps I'm just chomping at the bit to get things started. Perhaps I'll never know. But whatever it is, it's pure magic.

I'll write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight I can't hold a pen
Someone's got a stamp that I can borrow
I promise not to blow the address again

Lights that flash in the evening,
Through a crack in the drapes

Jesus rides beside me
He never buys any smokes
Hurry up, hurry up, ain't you had enough of this stuff
Ashtray floors, dirty clothes, and filthy jokes

See you're high and lonesome
Try and try and try

Lights that flash in the evening,
Through a hole in the drapes
I'll be home when I'm sleeping
I can't hardly wait

I can't wait. Hardly wait.

"It's been a quiet week here in Lake Wobegon"

Well, no, not really, but I always wanted to say that.

I've clearly got some updating to do, but I wanted to post and say that I'm alive, though still sleeping insane amounts. Regime changes take place while I sleep. I've begun checking the news as part of my mid-slumber bathroom break routine, half expecting to find that we're colonizing Mars, or better yet, have found a way to get MUNI to run effectively.

Of course, nothing of sort (especially the MUNI pipedream) has happened, however I am slowly returning to fully functioning levels and look forward to being in top form very, very soon. Thanks so very much to everyone for your care and support - its been deeply appreciated!

Also, a very warm welcome to Salt Water: thanks for reading and commenting! It was a wonderful surprise to hear from a new reader, I hope you enjoy poking around these parts.


Ciao for now, guys, and talk to you soon!

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

Invisibility or flight?

The question of which power one would choose given the opportunity, is one that has come up on a regular basis throughout my life, as is likely with most of us. It's one of those hypothetical, flight of fancy sort of questions that usually serves as fodder for interesting and digressive conversation.

I find it both a fascinating and entertaining subject for a few different reasons. One of them is that not only did I not have to think twice the first time I answered, but my answer has never changed. I've debated, sometimes hotly and incredulously, I given consideration, but my conclusion has always been the same.


What also intrigues about this question is the reasoning behind the choices that people make...and just how ardent they feel about their personal decisions, often to the point of being completely unable to see the attributes of the other option. It seems to tap into a certain almost archetypal identification or deep yearning that people
recognize immediately.

So, for you, my blogging loverlies out there, which would it be and why?



Monday, April 18, 2005

On being God's Private Mystery

Saturday was a memorable date in FG history, and while I intended to post something profound, witty and moving to mark the date, circumstances had another idea and that post will have to wait until I get some more sleep and I reacquaint myself with a few resources that seem to be in short supply here in la Cabeza de la Frisbee. Namely, basic intelligence and articulation.

Having bought some more time for that project, let's revisit Saturday night in the real world of the Frisbee. To say that it had been a long week would be an understatement, but Friday rounded things out nicely with a number of spontaneous and impromptu connections with friends and a snacky, gabfest dinner with an old fling (btw, Serge, John agrees that it just ain't the same in these parts withoutcha...especially when we were deconstructing a couple of dishes we'd ordered; we both miss you like crazy, man.) All of this culminated in me skipping my daily nap *gasp*, throwing caution to the wind and reading until almost 4am. Not tired, but knowing that I needed sleep, I put the book aside and tried to sleep with mixed results. The details are unimportant, but in the end, I slept for a decent six hours and went about my day, somewhat nervously preparing for what was meant to be a very long and busy night at work.

To my disappointment, I started feeling ready for nappy-time about an hour and a half before I needed to be at work. I rallied and took some Vivarin to work with me. I buffered the night with a little Vivarin and nursed a Red Bull for good measure. Thankfully, we weren't slammed and the night went off without a hitch.

Until roughly midnight.

Somewhere between midnight and 12:30, I hit the wall. Heretofore known as The Wall. The Wall is solid, dense and disturbingly unforgiving. As a matter of fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that The Wall actually smacks back, if not being guilty of outright winding up for the pitch of one's ass being delivered on a plate. I'm sure that I don't need to state that The Wall kicked my sorry excuse for hind end to the not so proverbial curb.

It started with the inexplicable puddle of liquid on the floor under the bar. Not good, but workable. Then my register was off. Significantly. Impossibly significantly. Think Gross National Product numbers. Double that, you might be close. Shouldn't be a big deal, because it's so obviously incorrect instead of a shortage, but WTFF, man?? I swear I can never get the numbers right. Guh. Then. THEN, the milk crates that I store my beautiful and bountiful bottles of booze are gone.

Now, before I continue, note that the span of time between the beginning of the above paragraph and the end of it is roughly 30 minutes as I was still making drinks for random customers and, ostensibly, using these moments to punctuate my slow descent into Hell. Arrival in Hell came shortly thereafter and without the use of any landing gear to speak of.

Returning to the till in hopes of finding that the register report had inexplicably readjusted and rewritten itself, I was disappointed to find that nothing had changed and at that point, I noticed that I didn't have any bags for the deposit as it hit me that I was just fucking tired. I was past tired. And I was tired of being tired. My body hurt. I was tired of that as well. I couldn't think straight. Fucking tired. Simple addition and subtraction principles eluded me and English was beginning to resemble a second, very VERY foreign language in form and function. In response to this, my brain performed what it has apparently deemed as the appropriate plan of action and I started to cry. (Fuck this fucking tired shit, I'm going home.)

TIRED.

This, clearly, would be the moment that my boss type person would choose to walk through and want to check in on things. It took him a minute to register that I was in tears as I avoided looking at him. Once he noticed, he asked me what was wrong. A reasonable and logical question to ask, but of course, it only upset me more because while my pre-reptilian brain was screaming "I just need to sleeeeeep! Can't I please take a nap and do this later?" My Frisbee mouth said, "Well the till is off by like 40 billion, there's a puddle on the floor, but I don't piddle in public and suh-suh-suh-someone took my milk cuh-cuh-crates. Oh, and I'm outta bags too-oo."

To add insult to complete injury, I have and always have had a horrible habit of involuntary hyperventilation when I get upset enough to cry. I think that it was funny in a really pathetic way when I was 5, but it persists to this day. I am 35. Closer now to middle age than to elementary school. Standing behind a bar at 1:30, crying and hiccupping about puddles, crates and banks does not inspire respect or admiration in any manner. Pique one's trainwreck fascination? Absolutely. Instill confidence? Not so much.

He was expert in performing the proper calming techniques, but something in me had already leapt over the emotional Niagra Falls and there was no coming back. Worst of all, I could see his 'who replaced my bartender with a raving lunatic?' expression and from deep inside I was yelling, 'I know, huh? When you find out, send me the info and details - I'll bring her back, I promise!'

Le sigh.

Nothing left to do but become the new President of the HairClub for Men. Good times. That, at least, would make sense.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

"You are pretty much the coolest animal, a Liger."

I knew after posting that comment about Abby and her quizzes, I was bound to return. Return, I did, and I wholeheartedly admit to loving that little egostroke I got care of Quizilla.



Liger
You are pretty much the coolest animal, a Liger.



Which Napoleon Dynamite character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


I can even do the little Spocky eyebrow thing the Liger is doing in that drawing. Werd.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Memeatology con't

From [info]rickenharp (better known as .m. to some) "the idea is as follows: I'm taking (his) list of 20 artists and keeping the ones that I've seen, eliminating those I haven't, and adding in artists I have seen that aren't on the list until I get the total back up to 20 again.

Feel free to keep the chain alive..."


1. Dead Can Dance
2. Tori Amos
3. Blondie
4. The Cure
5. Duran Duran

6. Journey (2 nights in a row - hey, I was 16)
7. The Church

8. Front 242
9. Stryper (my first concert)
10. Everything But The Girl
11. Oingo Boingo
12. The Violent Femmes
13. GWAR
14. Rammstein
15. The Residents
16. Soul Coughing
17. Gary Numan
18. Chris Isaak
19. The Ramones
20. The Smithereens

I limited the list to pop/rock acts to provide maximum overlap, but I'm sure there are as many 'geek-lists' out there for jazz, classical, opera, indie, etc....

I really need to get a job. Away from internet access.

Point of Note

I have heard that supposedly you can't read things (as in written material) in your dreams. I have also heard that you can't read the same thing twice in a dream. Then again, I've heard that if you die in your dreams, you die for real. All pure rubbish. Patently untrue. These hypotheses are nothing more than the product of lazy dreamers. (I keed, I keed!)

I do feel that I should point out that as for the content of the postcard and texts in my dream, not only am I something of a lyrics fanatic and know those songs backwards and forwards, but I almost always have music playing and the likelihood that those songs were playing as I slept is high. But still...I'd take Abby's quizzes over this dream stuff anyday. This is just plain stoopit.

Saxifrage

The next week or so is the worst period, just a stupid span of time punctuated by waves of base and abject sadness and general suckage. That and an impetuous impatience (how dare something like a bruised heart threaten to break my stride?) Usually, I have some sort of gainful employemnt to throw myself into until the dust settles, but this time, it's just a lot of job hunting and contemplating my navel.

I had a dream this evening. I was on a boat that was traveling through an amazing path of galactic clusters. For awhile, Logan was with me. We were talking about the clusters and making plans for the upcoming Spoon show. We pulled up beside another boat and as he switched boats to be with his girlfriend, he handed me a postcard. It was from A and it was postmarked from both Florida and Guam (WTF?) It said:

Everything hits at once
What we need is just what we want
I go to sleep but think that you're next to me
I go to sleep and think you're next to me

We continued through the clusters and the boat captain told me not to forget to check my text messages. When I looked at my cell there was a text from A that read:

I'll never hold you back
And I won't force my will
I will no longer do the Devil's wishes....
But I will be there with you when you turn out the light
Said I will be there with you when you turn out the light
I will be there with you when you turn out the light

I started to put my phone away and a second text came through from A:

If there’s anything you want
Come on back ‘cause it’s all still here
I’ll be in the back room drinking my half of the beer…
And now time is my time
Time is my own
And I feel so alive yet feel so alone
'Cause you know you’re the one and that that hasn’t changed

Now, I have had Spoon on the brain (the quotes are from Spoon songs: 'Everything Hits At Once', 'Paper Tiger' & 'Anything You Want', respectively) and have been in contact with Logan as we're planning to see them in June when they hit SF, but the content of those specific quotes is nothing short of a complete mindfuck. This is where I become my own worst enemy and would do just about anything to turn my brain off. I suppose that this is just how the heart lays desire to rest. It's just been a long time since my brain and heart were so diametrically opposed. Funny how easily one forgets. A little twisted, actually.

It's the longing that I hate the most. I never long when I'm in the relationship (or at least, I try to only be in relationships where longing doesn't come into play) because every moment is full of the potential of some sort of interaction with the object of my affection. My phone, for example, was once this magical pixie of possibility. A could have been calling at any time. That potential transformed it into a perpetual gift bearer of sorts. "Did he call?" [Hours later.] "Oooooh! How 'bout now?!" [Hours later.] "What about...NOW?!?" And the thing is, he always did. My excited impatient patience was always rewarded. No longer.

But I know that I did the right thing, even if it is a sad way to close a chapter. Regardless of how much it sucks. And suck it does.

Monday, April 11, 2005

"It never ends the way we had it planned"

So, I put it to rest yesterday, much to my dismay. I'm sad and feel bruised on the inside. I dig him something fierce; I genuinely respect him; he feels like home in that we often share such similar perspectives and, dear God, does he make me laugh. But I feel as though I'm in the process of resetting the standard for the term 'loose cannon'. I remain grossly out of range of my goal of 'controlled chaos' and have so very little in the areas of support and groundedness to offer anyone. Unfortunately, his world makes mine look like an after school special, thus creating a situation that's nothing but trouble waiting to come down.

I'll be the first to admit that I have studiously avoided romantic, emotional entanglements for a number of years and remain dubious at best when it comes to certain aspects of relationships, but this is basic math. Two unstable environments don't miraculously have a symbiotically stabilizing effect on one another. To think otherwise is complete and reckless foolishness. And, Lord knows, the let's-just-have-fun tack is a near perfect recipe for disaster; a live action Pepe Le Peu sequence, at best. If I never have to sit throught another 'talk' wherein I find out that the rules have changed and then have to endure several weeks/months of uncomfortable situations, awkward conversations and conduct countless sessions of ego massage, it will not be a day too soon.

This probably gets even closer to the heart of the matter (pun apt, but unintended) on two separate issues. The first being that I really like him and could like him more - not something I encounter often - but I'm not so sure I want to find myself up an emotional creek without a paddle, or a canoe, for that matter. Hell, it's hard enough to envision being up the creek with a paddle, on a sternwheeler, carrying a cargo of safety vests and not experience mild to moderate anxiety attacks. And given the law of averages, my number has got to be pretty close to being up.

The second ties in with the first in that one of the things that I value most highly is freedom. Freedom to go, be, do, experience. It seems counterintuitive or downright oxymoronic, but I equate freedom with real love. I realize that this has and continues to cause a great deal of confusion and frustration with the people that I care about most dearly and I have yet to suitably reconcile the idea with damned near anyone, but the more that I love someone, the more I wish for them to be unencumbered by everything. Most of all me.

It's likely juvenile of me to think this way, but I hate the idea of someone acting out of duty toward me; I want actions that are the result of desire. I mean this within reason and on the larger scale: no one's happy to do anything everyday for years on end, but it's the idea of 'I prefer to do this in the interest of the entire situation, which I value' vs. 'this is what I have to do because I'm a partner/spouse/mate'. If I can't have the former, I don't want it at all; the latter is deeply humiliating, a reduction of me to little more than the source of precious and self-interested demands and social hoops. What I see this evolve into with alarming frequency is a sort of exchange of psychological currency: I did this, so you have to do that.

No thanks, pumpkin, I'll get a dog instead.

But back to the positive, healthy loved ones. This is not to say that I want them to go away, however, if that's what would best for them and make them happiest, so be it. This gets trickiest with romantic involvements, because it's always possible for me to envision a better partner for the people that I adore. And while this could sound morbid and perhaps even defeatist, I find it somehow comforting.

Which brings us back to my favorite wingnut. And bad timing. And perhaps a bit of arrested development. But the thinking is pretty sound and not entirely reactionary, though it probably could have been handled with more grace and for that I do apologize.

Staying and going. We'll get it figured out someday, I'm sure, and that'll be a fine day, indeed.


I took a river and it wouldn't let go
I want you to stay and I want you to go
I took a river and the river was long and it goes on

I want to be there tonight
I want to get there but it's just out of sight
I took a river and felt so slight so hold on

So hold on
And hold on
It goes on

I took a river and the river was long
I want you to stay, 'course I want you to go
I took a river and the river was long and goes on

It goes on
Ooh it goes on
It goes on

'Vittorio E.'
Spoon

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Clarification

Yesterday's post was little more than an open statement about my inner Frisbee's phenomenal talent for being a complete knucklehead and brat. Not the most charming of combinations.

You know, there are days when I would pay a pretty penny to be able to meet up with myself for drinks and bitch about me over a round or five. We'd have a
grand time, I'm certain. That would be most excellent. I realize that this sounds fully disassociative, but there are times when I'm being difficult and I can see the frustration in someone's eyes and I want to roll mine and say, "I know, huh?! She's a handful, isn't she? Trust me, you don't know the half of it."

Some people's children, I'll tell you what.

Friday, April 08, 2005

A paraphrase and an apology

But what's the point if it's not enough to make me change my wicked ways? (Thanks, Heather!)

I've long held fast to the concept that intellect can, in fact, outweigh instinct. Intellect having the advantage of discernment. However, instinct is a powerful force. In some ways, a literal force of nature. I felt a certain confidence that I could outwit instinct in this case, but it has instead, reared the head of its not so pretty side: "When push comes to shove, you just forget about it - it's just not worth the heartache."

Soooo, yeah. The votes are in and I'm
yet and still the left of center, conservative, unyeilding, charismatic, distant, inviting, self absorbed, elusive conundrum. I dunno, I doubt I'll ever be able to reconcile that list and litany of compliments and complaints, even if either were meant as such. Hope, though, does spring eternal, no?
_______________________________________________________________

Special to A: I'm sorry. I thought it/I could be different this time. But you don't know unless you try, right? Besides, instinct tells me that you have a talent for landing on your feet, so go get 'em, Tiger!

And please know that I will always be one of your biggest fans.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Elvis Costello said it best:

With all the will in the world
Diving for dear life
When we could be diving for pearls

-"Shipbuilding"