I’ve been spending time fucking with computers, also known as installing Windows on some poor defenseless boxes, in order to give my brain some space. I had lunch the other day with the very kind and tolerant gentleman, who has read some of my feeble attempts at “writing.”

He suggested giving myself a break and writing organically rather than setting up the phantom goal of a “book.” Clearly, the whole “book” thang is too much for my pea brain on dark days. It’s like basing a hike on a stony, harsh, impenetrable outcropping, when right behind it there’s a beautiful switchback with a gentle rise and lovely vistas. In other words, I think the point is I have to stop making writing a horrible bit of work.

It’s not like it ain’t something I do anyway. Come to think of it, to me it’s like shitting. I can’t really plan for it, I don’t have a strict schedule, and if I try to hard it’s fucking painful. No more squatting in the corner while forcing fluids and praying for movement. I’m gonnna get off the pot, and see where that gets me.

I am going to create one giant pile of notes, jottings and bullshit from this here weblog and take some honest stock. Whipping my metaphor, I guess that means I’ll turn around and peek before flushing.

Meanwhile, back at the paycheck, I had one of those reality checks that the cosmos likes to sprinkle. In the midst of aggravating dealing with people and batting clean up, someone else has to cope with a death in the family. The frailty of human mortality as always adds a little focus to your perspective. I’m not sure I’ll have a singing time getting through the piles of work I have to mount to leave town. But, likely, shit will work out. Or it won’t and it will matter less than anyone thinks.

I’m meant to finalize tickets to Uganda by this week, and that’s freaking me the fuck out. In theory, I’ll be jetting to Kampala by way of our nation’s capital on May 3. Fucking Yikes. In addition to Lake Victoria, some forest land that’s supposed to home to chimps and other exotic flora and fauna, I will also perchance get to be in a room with their president. This opportunity seems quiet pleasant, unlike if I was to meet our U.S. president, whom I hate.

The danger I feel, apart from that I’ll need malaria medication and a yellow fever vaccination, is my making a fool of myself from my electronic obsessions. I’ll be among what crazies, the right wing fringe and bloggers call the MSM, aka actual people who are paid to write or broadcast things in which there are laws and codes of ethics and business practices.

It will take restraint for me not to ask real-live, fact checked journalists what they think about the massively crazy or phenomenally, deludedly, audaciously idiotic Larry Sinclair juggernaut. And, by juggernaut, I mean leaky dinghy with a sensationalistic youtube video, a loose grasp of court proceedings and cajones. (I’d link to his weblog, but he freakishly jumps on all web activity, and I don’t have retard propellant. Also, this way, if someone Googles him, there’s a chance they’ll algorithmically be drawn here rather than to his site of obnoxiously skewed truth.)

You can look it up.

Technorati Tags: campaign, guilt, Larry_Sinclair, life, lies, MSM, work, writing

Apart from the ball game, it was kind of a long and shitty week. I went to bed last night angry at a coworker, tired and dreading the toil, toil, toil, daily misery.

I bucked up a bit during the day with the realization I’d be getting a reprieve of two days. Better yet, I had agreed to meet with someone at lunch who’s considering a career change to live more like me. Yeah, I had to come up with nice, professional, networking ways to not scream, “DON’T FUCKING DO IT,” and then show her the razor-thin lines on my arm from where I secretly cut at my desk in order to feel.

At the end of today, I ran out of the building like when the final bell rings and class is dismissed and it’s late in June and you don’t fucking have to go back.

Upon coming home there was a package for me. Ah, that special joy of mail that isn’t bills or the expected. Hand-addressed and clearly hand packed. What? For me?

I ripped open a true mystery from the inimitable, go see her and her Saab, not together, in the newly released 21, Dorothy Dwyer.

TA DA!

It’s awesomeness includes shiny, sequined cardinals, shiny silver snowflakes (or maybe stars), a removable fake fur collar, a zipper (the hallmark of the finest cardigans) and pom poms on the zipper pull. Check out the details on this puppy.

It’s the paragon of sweaterdom. It is the uber-cardigan. The Alpha and Omega of adorable and knitted.

It is also the agreed on reminder of the women Dot and I don’t want to become (or I guess look like). Its the cutesy, middle-aged woman look that says, “Hey world, I may not be using my vagina for anything anymore and don’t plan to try, and really, if rags and Kleenex boxes were comfortable outerwear, it would by my in look for this season (and until I die).” I plan to wear the new sweater with my new jeans.

(I honestly want to wear the sweater to work. I want to see the reactions, especially here in the Golden West where irony was lost somewhere on the route of manifest destiny and never made it to the coast.)

Technorati Tags: aging, blues, California, comedy, Dorothy_Dwyer, Dot_Dwyer, women, work

I had fun at the ball game yesterday. The special good fun was taunting the old man two rows up with the 1989 As earthquake rocking series jacket.

What you can’t see in this pic is his handlebar mustache or the row of Sox fans behind me, the mixed couple (he in Oakland green, she sadly in Red Sox pink (but looking well worn)) or, of course, M. and me in our navy and red, including my 2007 championship shirt courtesy of M.’s colleague from their Boston office (actually make that Canton). What I missed, because we were a wee bit tardy, was David Ortiz’ first at bat, where the old man pointed out his batting average for the season, a big goose egg at the beginning of the second game of the regular season.

The loud, hardcore, naming Pedroia’s stats and calling every player by name, chick behind me told me of the old guy’s taunt at the end of the game. What she had missed was the old dude said the same thing for the second at bat. On the third, I think, in the seventh inning, the fans among us cheered for “Big Papi.” The old man called to me, “What’s that ‘Big Pop Up,’ you know that’s what he’s hitting.” Something like that, as Ortiz taps it out of the park for a two-run homer. Shortly thereafter, the Oakland fan closed up his rallying smack talk and went home.

I likes a good nemesis at the old ball game. He was a worthy loudmouth. I almost wanted Oakland to get a run or two just to keep up spirits.

With the threat of rain not materializing, a little bit of sun warming the seats and a 5-0 win, it was a fine day of not going into work.

Better yet, we weren’t at work. I don’t exactly hate my job, but every now and again I get exhausted by having to deal with a team of folks who pride themselves on their own brilliance and individuality. Fabulous in creatively getting some work done, but just fucking tiring as one of the lynchpins trying to keep the flow ACROSS the fucking group. I’m one of the folks who everyone expects will help out with their shit, provide back up and what not and don’t fucking mind at all bending your ear for all their problems.

On a great day, it feels not completely sucky, and I get a paycheck for being a reliable “problem solver.” Then, there’s the opposite days, like today. I’m just fucking tired and can’t help but wonder why human nature means folks like me don’t get the benefit of the doubt as often as we’re asked to cut other folks slack. It’s a quality that keeps me employable AND always a little blue.

In the ultimate cosmic what-the-fuck of prioritizing working on the little fire started at my work meant I had to cancel a dentist appointment. An appointment I fucking need mind you, since the temporary crown currently residing orally is making me apeshit. So, I was relatively looking FORWARD to Novocaine and drilling, because it sure as fucking hell beat someone needing to talk to let me know about some potential backstabbing I was maybe going to be feeling between my shoulder blades. Awesome.

Worse yet, this whole gig that’s giving me heartburn is meant to be a “day job.” I’m supposed to be performing and writing a book and creating shit. I’m doing none of that. I’m determined to sort out some block or something that keeps me from picking up what I want, what I mean to for writing. Determination isn’t really making the fucking grade, though. In that feedback loop it turns out telling myself how much I suck doesn’t really get the creative juice streaming.

So, tonight, I’m going to bed, mad at myself for failing, and hating what pays my bills. Nothing like loathing from within and without to keep you moving. Or standing still.

Technorati Tags: baseball, blues, guilt, Red_Sox, work, writing

M. is all up in the American history. Has been since I met him. He likes to talk about James Madison, Madisonian ideals (whatever the hell they are, although I hear tell that once upon a time there was such a thing as “checks and balances”) and mention the Federalist Papers in normal (well kind of) conversation.

He knows who was hanging at the first Continental Congress and even without the citizenship exam, he knew his Articles and Amendments to the Constitution of these United States. I myself have a vague notion about each of them, could probably nail the Bill of Rights, but I’m shitty on the number keeping. Like I know about prohibition, but number was that 57 maybe give or take 39.

So imagine the joy, when HBO started rocking the John Adams show, based on David McCullough’s stuff. I think maybe M.’s desire for a traditional Sunday dinner is his way to ease into a night’s history watching. Nothing like a 1950s America callback to lead into the 1700s.

I do realize the history of contention and speaking out for which J.A. was famous is what they are portraying. It ain’t everyone who could pull off defending the Brits after the Boston Massacre and then end up not to long after fighting with Quakers in Philly. But, personally, still and all, I think Paul Giamatti’s J.A. is a bit too douche-y.

In Paris, you’re kind of routing for Ben Franklin to get John the hooker hook up, syphilis and all, just to lighten the mood a bit.

Sure, French royalty was creepy, dirty and more interested in food, tits, wine and fucking over the Brits compared to helping the U.S. war effort, and J.A. was bummed. On the feminist side of the family values ticket, you got Adams loving his wife, respecting her, swapping letters like emails, compared to Franklin leaving his wife and daughter in relative poverty while he galavanted around Europe. You just know Adams is the better, more righteous man, who you’d be better off living with and calling a friend. Insufferably prudish, though, and kind of annoying. I keep wanting to slug him.

Although, in this week’s episode, I got to call back to my roots. I grew up a few miles from the Adams Homestead. It’s not a farm any more. My childhood dentist’s office was literally a few short blocks away. I had a friend from out of town who got in trouble with National Park personnel by picnicking on the historic Adams lawn.

I’ve even been to the family’s church and gone down in the basement, leastways I think it was the basement, and saw John’s and Abigail’s side by side tombs. Sure all the history is in Quincy now, but back in the day that was Braintree, damn-it.

So, in episode 4, Abby and John are back together again after he’s been to Paris and the Netherlands, pissed people off and coughed up a lot of phlegm, while she worked the farm, raised the kids and let a doctor stab her with a quill full of chicken pox. Naturally, he bangs her like the Braintree chick she was. Rock on suburban, proto-feminist Abigail, hooking up way, way, way, way before the South Shore Plaza Shopping Mall was even thought up.

Technorati Tags: John_Adams, family, Abigail_Adams, history, United_States, women