In the ultimate irony that proves I actuall dig my life, my friends, my soulmates, my brothers from another mother, they come up with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUIucrPx-NAhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUIucrPx-NA
Pretty much, it’s all about the tanning room for me. But, here I am, actually, having planned a hotel-based offsite. Spa and fruit platter in my suite. I ain’t know Ramada Boy, but I’ve been to hotels.
Now, for me, if I don’t bludgeon anyone in a “redrum” hallway, life is fucking good.
As the song goes, “everybody’s working for the weekend.” I never wanted to be the person that song suggests. I wanted to be the person who lived the weekend 7 days a week. Yet, here I am, and I never even particularly liked Loverboy.
Work has just sucked whatever teeny weeny little miniature bit of soul I might have ever had. Just too much and never ending. (Of course, there’s more than that, but, ya, the web, public, yada, yada, need a job, blah.) Suffice it to say, I don’t feel like I can keep up, and every nerve just feels rubbed raw.
In the middle, though, there was a jet-setting trip to Cape Code for practically just hours not days. It was worth it to see two really great people start a new adventure. It was worth it to see old friends from along the way. It was worth it to dive back into the Atlantic Ocean and recapture that feeling from so many Julys of my past.
In the old friends vein, I kind of had one positive epiphany. I like performing stand up, but I don’t love it with the brutal love that makes you go out night after night after night, like many folks do. Even when I was someone out night after night after night myself, it wasn’t for a pure love of standup. It was complicated. My passion was there, but it wasn’t single-minded. I kind of envy those people I know with that single-minded focus.
I’m more diffuse in my focusing ability. Soft lighting with vaseline gel on the filter spreading the beam. No laser pointed, narrow spot am I. I suspect the equation of my success, or lack thereof, is directly in proportion to the diffusion of that focus, to the reality that I don’t share that single-mindedness.
That’s not my epiphany, though. My epiphany is that had I never tried, had I never worked to release a little bit of that inner voice that had previously only sounded in my head not out a microphone, I would never have met some people I now call friends. Our paths would never have crossed. Ever. Or, given Boston’s and Cambridge’s diminutive size, our paths may well have crossed, but we never would have bumped into each other.
If for no other reason, if I never achieve any success personal or professional in writing or in performance, I have that to show, and it was worth it to get on stage.
I wonder if it was that same progression that has me sitting waiting for a man nicer than any I had previously dated. I might never had my own lemon tree had I not ventured out to the adventure of getting on stage. On the down side, I might never have grown the saddest tomato plant ever either. My fantasy of quitting my job and living organically from our backyard is shattered at the sight of this dime-sized crop.
Yes, literally dime-sized. Harvesting my vast crop isn’t on this weekend’s agenda.
I like my friends, and I like my weekends. But, for fuck’s sake, why was I not born rich enough to have the adventures all week long? Why wasn’t I born rich enough to never, ever, ever experience the gritted teeth and swallowed pride of not yelling out “Take this job and shove it, I ain’t working here no more.”
Tomorrow, we shall kayak. At least M. made reservations to take a lesson and rent. Back in Boston, I may have tried to drown my sorrows metaphorically after a bad month’s work. On this coast, it will be a more buoyant sorrow drowning, with all of the Pacific to help me out.
Tonight’s adventure was trying to catch up on a spreadsheet that I kept getting interrupted while trying to understand while chained to my cubicle walls. Meanwhile, M. got a night call from his manager with some out of office strategizing.
Is it any surprise that all I want to do is go to the beach near our house. Sadly, it’s the house we must pay for every month with our meager, or at least not nearly enough zeroes on the checks, earnings. If I can’t have a life of leisure, I’ll grab the leisure I can get.
It would all be so much less painful if I were filthy, fucking rich. The kind of money in which scandals and embarrassments abound and countless generations of stupid and degenerate. I want that kind of dough. I want to douche with Chateau Neuf du Pape. OK, maybe I’d just drink that.
Right now, my vacation from this level of workaday horror is more Ripple and less Biarritz. Shit.
Nothing I hate more than having so much work that I don’t have time to think. Pretty much it’s been a thought-less week so far.
I did, however, manage to stay out far too late after our softball team scored a perfect season record — not one win. The upside is we had the best (i.e. only) barbecue running before the came. Carne asada hot off the grill and a cold beer is a pretty good trade off to losing.
(The best thing about this picture is the complete absence of anyone one on the field near me. Apparently, no one feared my Jacoby Ellsbury-like “need for speed.”
After getting pulled over going 45 in a 25-30 zone, and happily avoiding a ticket, I have wimped out on the post-game draining of beer cans. However, with that scare in my head as I cruise through suburbia to the highway home, I feel illicit and dangerous. This rebel sense is heightened knowing that M. is waiting up for me at home.
It’s a very retro feel to glide back home and know a groggy person will be wondering where you’ve been. Pat was quite a bit more suspicious and judgmental on those late nights, and some of those nights went mighty late and she should have been suspicious. On the other hand, M. has a phone, and cellular technology was barely invented or in use in my youth. Right around midnight he called to ascertain that I was just winding my way through the winding roads that lead to home and told me he was headed to bed.
In completely unrelated news, I got to experience a little social alchemy at the workplace today. I had to take some newfangled, online assessment doohicky about my labor style. ‘Cuz who don’t want to labor in style? I’d say which tool and all, but, you know, I like that workplace firewall between the sane, sitting on the couch me and the check-earning, good, little worker bee or ant. No reason to let the man know I was talking up his toil-measuring tools.
The noteworthy part, though, is really about me. Pretty much the evaluation in some mysterious psycho-social way nailed some stuff based only on my picking the word pairs I liked. Click, click, click, you’re creative and shit like that there. For a minute, you believe in magic and have faith in the salt mines and the man.
M. kind of sank that mystical, magical feeling. His thoughts, with which I tend to agree, is work-style evaluations pretty much work, because none of us are really special unique snowflakes. We’re probably more like daisies in a field. With a bent petal or left-facing leaf or chubby stem, we’re different from the next daisy over in the pasture. Sure. But, in the final analysis a daisy is nonetheless just like all of the other white-petaled, yellow-middled throngs.
So, as we plod through the workaday world, assuming there’s some faith in actually get some minimal shit done, how many different ways can you really play it?
I’m the freak with the messy desk but preternatural organizational skills for other people. Someone else is the diligent and smart and careful colleague who keeps the ship afloat calmly and thoughtfully. Theme and variation. Same shit, different way to wank.
We’re meant to discuss it all at our offsite (the one for which I have the grave misfortune to be making all of the arrangements and rocking the planning) in some kind of uplifting group dynamics session.
The Buddhist lesson hidden in that little joyous exercise, i.e. “Buddha is a shit stick,” will come to its full joy when I get to listen to the folks literally in their first jobs (or first tough, “real” jobs) wax on about their work styles. But, that’s not the kicker, the moment of transcendence. Nope, that will come when simultaneous to listening, I’ll have to be sure lunch is ready and set up, the water glasses are full and any number of shitty little details that are the essence of meeting planning are handled.
I’m surprised my self-assessment didn’t throw me a line in tortured fortune-cookie philosophy. “You were born to serve others.” Maybe with some tips thrown in for better managing my suicide attempt, either life or career-wise.
Somewhere along the way of walking around our neighborhood I recorded a few seconds of the virtual war zone. Crank it up and feel the glory of the U.S. of A. when the “nanny state” isn’t peeing on your personal parade.
I think a Friday start to a long weekend is better than a Monday. I didn’t do much, but nonetheless I have a feeling of accomplishment. Maybe it was the walks back and forth to the beach three times or the stop at the surf shop that’s closest to our house or the rack of ribs I ended up baking/roasting when we realized our propane supply was gone.
There’s something about our newly adopted town that always makes me feel like we’ve traveled to another dimension. We are literally a 15 minute ride from SF (in fact dinner on Friday was burritos in the Mission), but it feels like sitcom, beach-town suburbia every damn day. Kids play in the streets and ditch their bikes on manicured front lawns like it’s 1952 and crime hasn’t been invented yet.
In the time warp town, it makes perfect fucking sense that fireworks would be legal. The neighbors assured us that despite the $1,000 fine for illegal fireworks and the very visible police presence, illegals would be shot off in abundance. And, hells ya, they were right.
I missed grabbing pictures but at one point there was a municipal-worthy splash of chrysanthemums lighting up the generally, although not so much in this photo, photogenic San Pedro Point.
When we got back to our house after strolling the battlefield-looking sight/site of our local beach, back behind our very own home were amazing, just about as good as professional light show bursts of color.
The thick smoke and essence of gunpowder was crazy on the beach.
I felt so bad for the one poor schmoe who seemed to be the only one in custody inside the police’s makeshift, chain-link holding tank, so I didn’t take his picture. A nervous-looking cluster from multi-generations peered at him through the fence. Tough ending for a family outing.
We had some fun lighting off our own. But I suspect we’re both just a tad bit on the cautious side to be pyromaniacs.
Here we are at the beach. M. is looking kind of Bay Watch, I’m not.
Meanwhile, the local constabulary was gearing up for the holiday. The neighbors say the chain-link fence is the annual tradition of a makeshift holding area for the drunks and ne’er-do-wells caught with illegal fireworks. I totally want a ride in the DUI commando vehicle (but not as a captured criminal).
