My dear people, this weekend has been one of serious and intense laziness. But before I go into the highly interesting details of all that: the food I ate today.
Firstly, half of a homemade chocolate-chip cookie. Excellent and cakey. Second, much later in the day and comprising of both my breakfast and lunch, an onion bagel with regular spread cream cheese and half an avocado. Pretty freaking delicious. Thirdly, a dinner of Farfalle pasta, grilled chicken, and pesto. All combined and lathered with healthy amounts of olive oil. Finger licking good. (Which is odd because we didn't eat it with our hands...)
Just trying to live up to my previous post.
So a week has gone by and I've thought of precisely one good topic to blog about, which I'm not actually going to do here. That idea was Oprah--her life, her legacy, her inexplicable ego and buildup of final shows, and the giant hole she is going to bury all her money in. I'll do that soon, after some extensive Wikipedia research.
For now, I think I am going to ease right back into this. I got a pretty radical sunburn on Friday and have since then commenced the lazing about. I am waiting to hear back from a job, and have taken the hopefully pleasant news of no more free time to heart, utilizing the last of my aimless hours watching Lost and strumming my acoustic. Now, don't get me wrong, this is not entirely different from what I have been doing all week, but somehow, in the sight of a possible new life, it seems all the more sacred and important now.
I will say this about Lost. Just finished it. The whole thing. And man am I a sucker. Loved it, hated it, whatever you feel about the legacy of Lost, you have to admit it was ballsy. To cover such universal and contemplative topics so openly, with the intention of subliminally inching the masses of America towards true realization of the meaning of existence, is quite something. Most may have missed these obvious motifs: good versus evil at the core does not work because human beings have free will; we all really need to let go; a fat man stranded on an island can retain his weight if motivated to do so; and we all have a choice.
Now, I realize I'm about a year off from all the hype that this show ended with. Oh well.
This is all for now, I am a little lost myself. Slowly heating up the fog that surrounds.
p.s. I have to wear glasses at night to read the computer screen these days. Old man come and take me away.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
New Innovations
So, people, in continuing my blog-nation I have decided to amp it up just a little bit. I know I just vowed to beat the semi-dead horse back to life, but these changes are pertinent and will both of us happy. My previous post entitled "Innovations" contained both new ideas and a long, winding-road post about connectivity (illustrating one of those new ideas). It was boring, and a long time ago, a lot like George Bush's presidency. Zing. This will be snappy and hilarious.
Entroducing (yes that's a DJShadow reference) my New Innovations!
(NOTE: I actually wrote this some time ago, so some things are really new, while other things are more like, hey, brosef, check this out if you haven't...ok?)
--Firstly, book reviews. (Like this.) I do a lot of reading, and I think it is high time I wrote reviews. This helps me and you: it helps me because I will have a catalogue of book reviews in case some awesome company wants to hire me for just that; it helps you because, well, if you like my style and my taste, maybe you'll like the books I read too. Here's the catch: most people review books from a reader's standpoint, or for the mass populace; I am going to review it from a writer's standpoint, first and foremost. Other things will go in there, but these reviews will detail the style of writing, the prose and punctuation (not really but the alliteration is solid)- character theme plot and transitions. (You have examples in the two I have up. More to come.) Anyway, book reviews!! yay. (still yay.)
--Secondly, I am starting a quote of the day. This will be on my page somewhere when I can figure out how to have it come up alongside my main post (anyone want to help me with this?). Hopefully this will act quite like small pieces of chocolate or hard candy, whichever you prefer, and will either lift your day along or sympathize with the drag that life can be. Look for these quotes, they will be better than your fortune cookie formula, I promise. (Now I have tried for a couple weeks to figure this out, but seriously does anyone know how to do this? A bit of text alongside my latest post that can be changed and yet archived? Lemme know.)
Example quote:
"Since when did forgiveness become a better quality than loyalty."- Mad Men
--Thirdly, I am, in the coming days or weeks, going to start cataloguing my posts under different sub-headings. This will help newcomers find topics that are more interesting to themselves, as well as allow me to see what I write about more often. For instance, one category will be Book Reviews.
--Fourthly, I have updated the look of this blog. The text is now white and in a different font (for your reading pleasure). The title simply reads Unpublished, as I have actually stopped my longstanding contract as a construction overseer and am now just an unpublished writer. I would like to ad a by-line, a mini-what-is-the-what-is-this-blog-about, but can't seem to get it to line up right. Maybe a photoshop is in order. Help on that, too? Thanks? Thanks.
--Fifthly, I added a feature, much like that of my "p.s." in which all italicized parentheses, and the contents therein, unless otherwise specified, are editor's notes. This is to make sure I voice my edits, but also to hopefully greatly increase the humor and depth that this blog is so well known for.
--Sixthly (a word, for sure), there is no sixthly. These are all my additions. If you can think of anything you'd like to see, please call 1-800-HARGENSHNARGEN and a volunteer answering a phone I set up in Deleware will be with you. But really, if you think of things you'd like me to do (look at these for examples) just leave a comment. Keep in mind this is about writing, life, and the pursuit of inspiration.
Much love.
p.s. I'm really into 30 Rock at the moment. For like, the fourth time. Word.
Entroducing (yes that's a DJShadow reference) my New Innovations!
(NOTE: I actually wrote this some time ago, so some things are really new, while other things are more like, hey, brosef, check this out if you haven't...ok?)
--Firstly, book reviews. (Like this.) I do a lot of reading, and I think it is high time I wrote reviews. This helps me and you: it helps me because I will have a catalogue of book reviews in case some awesome company wants to hire me for just that; it helps you because, well, if you like my style and my taste, maybe you'll like the books I read too. Here's the catch: most people review books from a reader's standpoint, or for the mass populace; I am going to review it from a writer's standpoint, first and foremost. Other things will go in there, but these reviews will detail the style of writing, the prose and punctuation (not really but the alliteration is solid)- character theme plot and transitions. (You have examples in the two I have up. More to come.) Anyway, book reviews!! yay. (still yay.)
--Secondly, I am starting a quote of the day. This will be on my page somewhere when I can figure out how to have it come up alongside my main post (anyone want to help me with this?). Hopefully this will act quite like small pieces of chocolate or hard candy, whichever you prefer, and will either lift your day along or sympathize with the drag that life can be. Look for these quotes, they will be better than your fortune cookie formula, I promise. (Now I have tried for a couple weeks to figure this out, but seriously does anyone know how to do this? A bit of text alongside my latest post that can be changed and yet archived? Lemme know.)
Example quote:
"Since when did forgiveness become a better quality than loyalty."- Mad Men
--Thirdly, I am, in the coming days or weeks, going to start cataloguing my posts under different sub-headings. This will help newcomers find topics that are more interesting to themselves, as well as allow me to see what I write about more often. For instance, one category will be Book Reviews.
--Fourthly, I have updated the look of this blog. The text is now white and in a different font (for your reading pleasure). The title simply reads Unpublished, as I have actually stopped my longstanding contract as a construction overseer and am now just an unpublished writer. I would like to ad a by-line, a mini-what-is-the-what-is-this-blog-about, but can't seem to get it to line up right. Maybe a photoshop is in order. Help on that, too? Thanks? Thanks.
--Fifthly, I added a feature, much like that of my "p.s." in which all italicized parentheses, and the contents therein, unless otherwise specified, are editor's notes. This is to make sure I voice my edits, but also to hopefully greatly increase the humor and depth that this blog is so well known for.
--Sixthly (a word, for sure), there is no sixthly. These are all my additions. If you can think of anything you'd like to see, please call 1-800-HARGENSHNARGEN and a volunteer answering a phone I set up in Deleware will be with you. But really, if you think of things you'd like me to do (look at these for examples) just leave a comment. Keep in mind this is about writing, life, and the pursuit of inspiration.
Much love.
p.s. I'm really into 30 Rock at the moment. For like, the fourth time. Word.
The Times
So, awesome blogees, this is the first post of mine in a little over a month. I dropped out for a bit. Never did that in college...thought I'd give it a try while enrolled in blog-school. No, but really, I just haven't felt the urge to write. Part of this assignment was to train myself to write even when I don't feel the urge, so I guess I failed a bit on that account. More than a bit (Italics will now be code for my witty editing process), I failed hardcore. WRITE DAMNIT!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
But, I am here to blog (is it a verb? To blog? To blaave?) that this is not over. My girlfriend said to me today or yesterday (the times, they blur so pearly pink these days), "you know, you are just about over the line." Meaning, unlike Johnny Cash who famously tried to walk the line, and who infamously fell on his ass (actually I don't remember the end of that movie...is he ok?), I am on the verge of no more blog. But before such a large scale (yes the internet will reel with loss) decision can be made, I wanted to test the waters again.
My original goal was about four posts a month, at minimum, once a week, with a real preference of twice a week. I was branching out with book reviews, comments on the times and the like, and just got, well, lazy. It's a serious flaw.
So I wanted to write and say that I am doing the once a week thing. I'll fret and worry and put it off so most likely there will be a new post every Sunday. (Which brings up the interesting point of how one gauges the beginning and end of a week with no work or schedule in sight) Hopefully it will be like school and I'll bust out gnarly epic posts with multiple interlocking thesi (plural words that end in i make my day!) and at least ten academic resources. Worst case scenario: you'll get a play by play of the foods I eat on Sundays. I'm looking forward to it. Are you?
p.s. I have had numerous complaints (which is really good because it means I have numerous readers) that the color scheme on this website will in fact make you legally blind. I am changing it. Peer pressure sucks. I like black on green!
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The American Dream-Part II
So, Part II is here. I left you with the lies we all tell, our half-white-truths that get us a couple grand closer to the richness each one of us deserves. This second post will cover a couple topics: the used car salesman, his comparative glory days during the recession, his death via Arthur Miller, etc; my own covering of the two cars that define America is today (hint, only one is American...); finally, the definition of the American Dream and how and why it currently resides in a small bunker 10 feet under the desert of Arizona.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
A brief sidenote. The Toyota Matrix (the black beast of beauty I recently acquired) neither defines the American Dream nor stands out in any specific way, other than to incite this post. It is doing well. It now reps cat paws along the hood and a dust heart in the back window. I can also drive it through the ocean like a navy vehicle. Brief sidenote concludeth...
So, the used car salesman. Boy is he peachy. I'm sure now that some character at some point in something I write (yes, vagueness is the mother of some sort of invention...) will have this job title. My childhood memories of the used car salesman only point in one direction: The Simpsons. Our dear Gil Gunderson, the yellow (not asian) man with graying hair and a perpetually "fucked by fate" look on his face, is the image that comes to my mind. I think many of you know him. Maybe not consciously, maybe not even after this post, but you know him, deep in your core. As all Simpsons characters, he exemplifies his profession with simplicity and pain. Thus all mention of such a man, for me, have included those characteristics. Then I read Death of a Salesman (the previous A. Miller joke was not a one-off) and realized the writers of The Simpsons are geniuses! They got the point with a cartoon man that rubs his three-pencil-line brow as he whines...which is essentially what that play entails. I don't think Gil ever dies, but I could be wrong.
Now I said in the intro paragraph (notice that these are classic thesis based papers) that I would speak of the rise of the used car salesman during the recession. This view is based on absolutely no facts. I just would think, as logic obviously implies, that during a recession people are not buying cars, but, if they are, it would be a used car. So here is the salesman, real-life Gil, broke, per usual. Now even more so because his stock options in Pet Smart and American Airlines just plummeted. He comes to work, gets dirty looks as he walks to his corner office, the one that is missing a chair and doesn't actually have any walls, and he sees a line. These people, they can all only afford used cars. They are young couples trying to grab while the going is good, they are men in expensive suits they can no longer afford. They have come for his expertise. His passion for their hand-me-down needs. Ronald Reagan at its best. Gil's wife loses her job, which is a shame, but he can finally come home and say, honey, I sold some cars today. They hi-five and sit down to American Idol. This is my factless story about the rise of the used car salesman during our nation's biggest economic disaster since the Depression. Hope it holds up to all our concepts of a trying time in America's quest for the conquering of a Dream.
Now, all that was fictional. The distorted thoughts of my mind. My own real encounter with the used-car salesman was pretty much boring. One thoughtfully said as I drove a silver Matrix about 10 blocks, "If you buy the car I'll wash it for you." Thanks, man. The guy I did end up buying the car from was nice, small, and pretty quiet. He knew a lot about cars. Go figure.
-----
And now, for the current car that defines America. I have two. This is, of course, in honor of Hunter S. and his willful way of defining a generation. Car number 1: The Prius. Yeah, I said it. Car numer 2: The Lincoln Navigator. Now I'm going to do a bit of compare and contrast, a little this a little that, and show you why these two define American pretty completely.
The Prius is the hippest shit to his this country since the Beatles, which are, much like the Prius, NOT American. Toyota, Japan, made this car. It is small and futuristic looking, it can hold more than your average four door sedan, and, mostly importantly, it doesn't sound like a car. Oh it also is the gets pretty good gas mileage because of the innovative technology that introduced the "hybrid" as a popular and reasonable model of the new and future car. You all know this. What you don't realize, maybe, is that old people like Priui (plural Priuses), middle-aged people like Priui, college students like Priui, and kids like Priui. Also, celebrities like Priui. Everyone, in fact, digs this car and wants one. Every category I mentioned, most every person there, is a Democrat. This is the first big point. The liberal America likes and wants the Prius because of it's claim to energy efficiency, its apparent beneficial effects on the environment, and its snazzy technology dashboard thing.
But, BUT, this is definitive of an American that wishes for change, and does what someone else tells them to do to inact that change. The hybrid battery that Toyota puts in the Prius causes almost as much emissions as the life of driving a normal car, and it can't be destroyed easily. It is, yes, maybe more effecient than a normal car, but it's still a car. The middle east is still be screwed by us, and therefore pissed at the world, and therefore bombing stuff. The new Prius billboards read, in huge letters that dominate the land we live in, 50 MPG!!!!! Why don't they say, "STOP DRIVING SO MUCH, you are killing your world"? Just a thought. Lastly, the Prius doesn't sound like a car. The engine is quiet and appears dead when stopped. The interface is like an Enterprise Starship. There are no seats, just gravitron suspenders. The liberal mindset of America would seem to imply that we don't even want to be driving a car, we want to be involved in some sort of foux-automobile revolution that is fully supported by Al Gore. But remember, it is a car, it still takes a tank full of gas and implies that you need at least 50 miles of sturdy highway out there for you to enjoy it.
Now the Navigator. This is a cheap shot, Republicans (or non-Republican Navigator owners). Just a heads up. As I mentioned, I drove a silver Matrix that the salesman offered to wash if I bought. To get to this car, we took a Lincoln Navigator about ten blocks. I inquired. It gets 9 MPG, a truly revolutionary low number (low is good, right?) in today's world. It starts at about $42,000. They were selling it for $4000. Leave it to America to build something nobody wants to use anymore(except for Facebook I guess). But who bought it at that price, who shelled out almost 50 grand on a hulking 7 seater that will probably be used as a light military vehicle pretty soon if Obama doesn't figure out a way to ban them from this country? It is you, the American man that WILL NOT OWN a Prius. Damn foreign boxes of death. The Navigator had complimentary beer cozies. It had TV's in the back of seats because it turns out the wasteland beyond our windows (still the land of the free and brave) should really not be looked upon by innocents. It had a step-in platform and transformed into Optimus Prime if you clicked the big red LAUNCH pad on the ceiling. The hulking beast, a new nickname for the Republican party and it's mass of die-hard fans, is who buys this thing. Who shells out years and years of savings. Who gets another car, because they all have 5, in a couple years.
The Navigator is the simple American man. He does not want change. He wants to be big and slow. I mean, lets be honest, head on collision of Prius and Navigator? No contest.
And that's just it, America is a contest. One side wants innovation to the umpth degree and moves a little bit while the other doesn't want it and usually moves backward just to make a point. Our Dream is to be on one side of this equation, defined by arguably our greatest invention (internet has not quite proven itself to me yet). We are at odds, people. Our lives and cars and shows and attitudes illustrate it simply and eloquently. A love story with two a-sexual partner's and a serious communication problem.
Hunter S. defined a Dream with pain and a bad-ass car, a could have been almost maybe moment that lived up to at least the fever of passion and emotion. I don't see that here, in all of us. I see Congress stalling. I see an idea that has not been realized, has not connected to our bodily needs. I see our country failing to live up to it's own Dream, but trying, nontheless.
-------
A final part and piece, maybe a good larger topic at some point, but just a bit now. This turned a tad negative. I have some spite in me. I travelled around for a long time and saw that we are not all we claim to be, this big country with its greenbacks and commercials. I have faith in the world, but faith in America is hard to come by these days. I can't find our priests.
p.s. there is no bunker, there is no Arizonian conspiracy. The Dream is out there, walking around. Go find it.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The American Dream- Part I
It was said by someone very dear to my heart and mind that you can't cover the American Dream in an un-American car. The American Dream is a noholdsbar grab on life, hands on the throat and groin, a steady sure climb to the top. This can't be said with a Nissan. It has to be a Cadillac. It has to be bold, it has to be manufactured right here, and it has to break down frequently. This person (Hunter S. Thompson) said something like this in his infamous book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I can't find the exact quote on the great black void of the internet right now). No, this is not a book review, just some parallell lines to get my point rolling.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Middlesex- Jeffrey Eugenides
Now here's a modern classic. For those that haven't read, this is essentially the story of a hermaphrodite telling the story of him/her-self from a gleam in the grandparental eye up until his/her late forties. So that I can stop doing the him/her thing, I'll let you wonderful readers know that the name of the protagonist in Middlesex is Cal. Or Calliope. Or Calli. Identity, I think, becomes quite complicated when you have a penis and a vagina. That, in basic terms, is what the book is about. Who we are, and why we are, and how all parts of ourselves merge together over time to create an individual that has some semblance of a modern man or woman.
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Now, there are a number of points this book touches on, so I'll take them one at a time. First:
History- Eugenides, with his strong voice and straight-forward style, is a historian. He takes the fictional (albeit seriously realistic) life of a confused young person in the 70's, fast-fowards to their forties in the 00's (this is my denomination for the beautiful age of no-time we just spent a decade in), and has that person tell the story of their grandparents and parents, starting in a small town in Turkish Empire (see Ottoman...) Sounds complicated right? Like, whoa man, can you hold all the threads together? Nope. Eugenides is concise and detailed; Cal as a narrator is unfaltering in both his (I'll explain the masculine later) omniscient reproduction of a life he admits to only sort of know, and in the engaging way in which he tells it. The book really starts in war-torn Turkey/Greece. It describes the horrible conquering and massacre of the war of Smyrna (something that actually happened and we as Americans, at least me, have literally no idea about), the lives of a silk-weaver and her brother that become lovers on a refugee ship to the U.S.A, and then their blossoming as a married couple in pre-depression emerging auto industry Detroit. Zuitsuits, speakeasies, prohibition, the invention of the Cadillac, the riots in Detroit, the slow deterioration of a once great nation. I'm telling you guys, Eugenides really knows his shit. It is always, always a pleasure to enjoy the narrative of a story and then learn about real parts of this world without having to do two things at once.
There is some more to history, but this book is dense so that's it for now...on we go.
Authorial Style- Let's just say that I checked numerous times to see if Eugenides was a hermaphrodite, to see if this was based on a true story; I parsed the pages to see what was real and what was fiction. Cal gave life to a sexual and identity struggle through humor and history, and Eugenides gave life to Cal. It is like reading the diary of some brilliant person (this blog...perhaps..eh, eh??), seeing the inner workings of a complicated mysterioso that seems to have some cool business going on. Cal takes you in and makes you feel like you've known him for ages and finally, finally get to hear what he thinks. My only comparison is that of Garp, in The World According to Garp by John Irving, in which after reading the book I realized how much I had thought was true, true to this political fact recording world, that he simply made up. The style is not flashy or presumptous, it uses long sentences and short ones, correct commas and semicolons, but it brings with it the force of authority and some degree of labor.
Genetics- Now a big part of the hooplah about this book was its genetic bent. Eugenides writes often like a scientist (another profession?) in describing the physical and genetic disposition that Cal has. This makes little sense to me. He explains it well, as you would read in a journal on modern science, and I tend to blow by this. I'm sure (the back cover tells me so) that many people enjoyed this aspect immensely (I think Eugenides covered his bases by being a historian, a scientist, and a novelist; we all had to love it). I did not connect scientifically, but rather Biblically. I felt his categorizing and serious use of genetic history to mirror the awfully long sections of our beloved Western dominant paradigm: the lists and lists of genealogy. Blank begat blank begat blank. Now, yes, dull it seems, but I feel Eugenides used an old idea and brought it to life. He traced the life of his narrator back before his narrator was born, and in doing so, much like the Bible, gave us all little lessons from a multitude of times, helping us along our own way.
Identity- Now this is the nitty-gritty of the book. The stuff that is past words and past plot. This book won a pullizter and is read by Oprah, people have talked about it and an impact has been felt. Why? Because we are all somebody. We all look at ourselves at some point and wonder, who am I? Who do the eyes in the mirror reflect, there is light there and we know it means life, but what are the details? Eugenides supplies the details of an intensely complicated person, and makes you feel connected. Identity is the core of this book in two ways: it is a definition of self through ones literal history, who our ancestors were and how their lives will forever shape our own. It is also identity through the chance of fate, in this case, the blending of sexes to create a confused, beautiful, puberty-wrought girl that turns into a boy at the age of 14 and spends the rest of their life becoming comfortable. I think the power in this book lies in the fact that we all struggle with these things. Everyone hates puberty, everyone wonders at some point how they look in the eyes of their peers and sexual equals; it hits the issues head on but from a seemingly more complicated and confused perspective than our own, and in doing so gives us hope. Because, well, Cal found hope. We can all breathe again knowing that someone so predispositioned to confusion can come out ok. Eugenides teaches us that all skin crawls, all locker-room situations are less than satisfactory, and that, most important, we decide who we want to be.
Getting pretty deep here. Book review, for real yall. Also, this is starting to look like an academic paper. Sorry about that, I haven't written a paper in so long I must be craving it or something. This was an incredible book. Read it, please.
p.s. after the age of 14 Cal decides to be a man, and therefore is a "he" for a large portion of the book and that is why I use "him" to describe him in most of this post.
p.p.s I love reading!!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Oh the places you'll go...
Bloggers! Hola. Sawadee-kap. Oy. Sup. I am greeting you more than once because I have been away too long, and also because languages are interesting when transliterated. So, my internet is finally up. Huzzah! I can, again, waste hours a day looking up random facts and, well, blogging. I took too long of a break. I should have gone to a coffee house and ordered a tea with little bits of milk and honey, sipped and typed and let you all in. But I didn't. I've actually been a little bit out of the writing habit, which is a shame because I was doing a pretty good job for me. So this is the first step (again) of getting into a habit. Hit me with your literary nicotine patches, cover me like that pretty man from that smoking movie, give my blood something to scream about.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
Because I have been absent for longer than I'd like this particular post is a little post-dated. I had the idea about a week ago and couldn't get out of my sweatpants long enough to type (in jeans now!), so here we go.
Jobs. Employment, position, co-worker, proletariat, hands over cash, the river of green and the lost treasures of paradise. I STILL need a job. But this isn't me complaining, this is me posting about all the various lives I could be living right at this very moment. Here we go (yes, again, keys in ignition, rev rev):
Ventura Theater Company- There's me, black AmerAper hoodie, checking the date on your ticket as you try and hide the little joint that sticks out of your shirt pocket. It's cool, dude, Snoop here encourages the puff puff. I set up the mics backstage and maybe wipe the floors clean after a show, sticky from beer and dropped thiz pills. I work weekends and have started a band, I'm stoked but obviously don't get paid enough (minimum plus pity tips) or get enough hours. My fun free time is eaten away by nights laid awake wondering if I should have given Pepper my demo or how that new chorus is starting to sound an awful lot like honkey tonk blues. But I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Nature's Grill- Do you want fries with that? Not really, I mean, they serve blue tortilla chips with salsa and are super hip low-fi class, but I am taking your order and wiping the tables after you leave. I've met the relatively few number of true hippies in Ventura; don't get me wrong they have punk tendencies like everyone else but they do enjoy the Grateful Dead a bit. I know where Lassens is and what is in that fake hamburger crap. No, I still won't eat it. But I'm pretty happy. No pity tips, but rather real change due to good friendly service and my awesome hair that did not manage to get into your food. I've met people my age and can bike to work, and slowly, yes slowly, I'm writing that quintessential novella that defines what it means to be an honest hard-working college graduated hippy bum spirit-life-seeker. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Paradise Pantry- No, no I don't work at a sex shop. I work at a wine and cheese shop. The people come here right before the sex shop down the street, get drunk and lactaided up, have a good night overall. I wear a nice black apron and my converse, but other than that I'm still lookin' like me. Maybe my not-yet-happenin' beard is a little long because in the dark small space that I make money, all those long bottles and mildewing cheese, I feel that the extra hair gives me an edge. I'm getting to know all the different varietals, how that particular brand of cow crap gives that particular year a little zest, a little nudge in the acidity. I begin to speak as if I've been to Italy three times (oh, wait, I have, culturelaugh) and as if I go to France bi-monthly to check on my small but reasonably well off vineyard estate. My parents home in Petaluma is actually now in Sonoma County, it kisses up against a long, stalwart Pinot traditional to the area. Cheese has taken on a whole new meaning. "Cheddar"? What do you mean by "cheddar," sir? ....Man, even I can't bullshit knowing about chesses, sorry guys. Look at me in the wine and cheese shop, I'm a little snooty and I know A LOT about cheese. Brie. Goat. String. I make a decent wage and feel that these skills will get me far in life. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
Patagonia- AHHHH this mountain is so gnarly bro! DUDE that wave almost ate your life. OH MY GOD that piece of paper was so recycled. Do you like this really cool shirt? Do you want it? Its twenty-five bucks. No we don't take cash, we don't use paper here. Credit card? Sorry, plastic hurts the environment pretty seriously. Have you seen the news about climate control? You can wear it in the store, I guess. We are organizing a Reiner hike to clean up the water-bottle trash near the summit. Want to come?? Um, will you be in sub-zero temperature zones? Go shop at REI then. -----So I'm using my pretty powerful tools of humor to humiliate a company I really want to work for. If, somehow someone from G.P reads this, I'm just jokin' around man. If I were there I'd be getting decent benefits, going hiking often, and wearing snazzy expensive American made clothes. I would also be part of the future young space explorers mission to Patagonia's semi-near planet called RUGGED. Sounds like fun, right? I'm healthy and fit and know how to not get killed by ice and poison oak. I have beefed up a tad. I'm good, see. I've got a job.
These are the potential lives I could be living people. Don't you want to know all of those dudes? Currently the front runner is a coffee shop that just opened, has no employees, and will hopefully need at least one in the next coming weeks. Working there I would just be, well, me.
Love peace and happy times, fellow bloggers. Till we meet again!
p.s. the only part of this that has to do with writing is that this post was pretty creative. Also, there was a job as a music journalist that I literally just remembered but don't want to doctor the post majorly to include, so....hargenshnargen as music journalist: super freaking happy.
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