Happy 65th

So 65 years old is a big year - but I think back to 37 years ago, and 28 must have been a pretty big year for him too. Four kids. Hot blue Mustang. Flash Gordan. Trampola. Big year. I remember when I was 28, and Gabe was coming into our world as a bright addition to our lives, a little piece of the future that I had to mold, shape, love, but I never had to save him.  He landed fine, smooth, and made his way.  We, on the other hand, needed a little saving.

Today, my Stepdad turned 65, and I got a little reflective about the things I never have said to him, the things that he should know, the things that are tough when men stand in a room and look at each other in awkward silence.  So, I took to what I do best, I wrote them down.  Then I read them, and realized what a short list of life changing times and what a wonderful deep love I have for him, and more importantly, what a wonderful love he has shown for us.  So, here is the list:

1. I thank him for buying the station wagon.  I had never ridden in a new car.  I remember the 8 Track cassette that we wore out on the trip to Chicago.  I remember the four headlights and the baby blue paint.  It was unbelievable that someone would buy something that nice for us to share.

2. I thank him for Tugaloo Gorge and Bass Fishing and Boats and Camping.  It was hot when we went to see the Atlanta Game, but it was cool to sleep in the blue station wagon at Tugaloo Gorge.  The barrel was fun - the scab was fun, the trip was my first real taste that I can remember of what families are supposed to do together. 

3.  I thank him for teaching me respect for my Mom.  I remember when I was 16 going on know it all, and he stepped in, stepped up, and let me know the rules.  That lesson sticks with me today - not just with my Mom- an ounce of humility goes a long way.

4.  I thank him for San Diego. Support, whether I deserved it or not, was there.  It was never conditional, and never has been.  Going to college was one of the best things that could of happened to me, and when I needed a hand up, I got it. 

5. I thank him for Waylon Jennings and Alice Cooper.  I thank him for big Tandy Speakers and a Realistic Turntable.  His love for music and sound and life quietly came through in his record collection - and he let me listen to those records, and loved it when I did.

6.  I thank him for standing behind the batters cage when I was pitching.  I always seemed to throw harder and faster and straighter when he stood there.  I want him to know that.  His presence always comforted me, and still does.

7.  I want to thank him for his family.  They accepted us.  They did not have to, but they did.  Uncle Mike and his displays of wrestling prowess, Granddad and Old Walter, Grandma always had Ice Cream, Uncle Ann and Bob always had a hug and kind words and could save a kid from himself, Uncle Bill had a joke to make you smile, Aunt Amy and Greg are the best cooks (and fishermen) east of the Mississippi, and Uncle Jim and Aunt Susan were engaged and conversationalists that always brought up something that made me think.  Most of all, they showed me what families do. 

8.  I want to thank him for his patience.  I don't need to say much about this, just look at me - I don't think there are very many Old or New Testament folks who are as patient as he is.


I just realized I could write these down all day long.  It is simple, I am glad my Dad is 65 years old.  I am glad that he taught me a curve ball and how to push a lawn mower, and how to treat a woman.  I am glad he taught me silent comfort and some patience.  I am glad that his temperance and solid character is a part of my life.

On his 65 birthday, I hope that he knows that he changed our lives, and for that, there is no gift that I can wrap and mail other than to say thank you (and a gift card to the bait shop).  The difference you have made in my life, and the comfort that you are a part of us is something that I cherish and try to live up to every day. Happy Birthday.

Somewhere over Nowhere...

Right about now, I would imagine that I am somewhere over The Badlands - I cannot be really sure - I mean the airplane has this map - but I find it more entertaining to just guess where I am at - and from looking out the window, the muted browns, grayish greens, and square orange fields plowed over for a winters rest - yep - The Badlands.  It looks like just about everything else from past the Blue Ridge to the Cascades - flat - orange - the only thing that really changes are the colors - with the seasons - but the shapes are all the same - big industrial sprinkler circles, rectangles, and every once in a while some out of place landscape that makes me think some God had a good time dripping hot wax on a cold surface - I mean, he or she has plenty of time fuck around with things like that right?

It really doesn't matter where I am, the plane is vaulting along at 548 miles per hour, I know I left Atlanta and I am pretty sure that I am going to land in Seattle - all of the miles in between - on airplanes anyway, become pretty insignificant.  If this is what they mean by jet setting, it seems a pretty shallow way to live - but none the less - a necessity for those of us who want to skip a few miles along the way.   If I am doing the math correctly this is somewhere around mile 228,000 in this calendar year - and being somewhere over nowhere - well that makes me think a bit of all of the miles in between, and those that I missed that really should have mattered.

Back in 1990 I sang in a rock band in Southern California - what a great time to be a 19 year old kid - the era of some revitalized youth movement that took from the success of the hippie generation and turned it into some sort of cynical activism - at least at seemed cool at the time - it wasn't as kitchsy as disco and it wasn't as heavy as that freedom rock stuff you catch on PBS late at night - but it was something different - now I am not quite sure what it was, other than an opportunity to get laid every once in a while, and to take a break and ignore the things that were really pressing (at least what we thought were really pressing)...

At 19 years old, freshly flunked out of college, heading to somewhere to start over - I touched every mile along the way during a 7 day $49 Greyhound bus ride across I-10 - that's what I could afford, that's what I did.  I knew where I was leaving from, and I thought I knew where I was going - but the things that I remember are the miles in between.  The old stale cigarette smelling cowboy - probably the age I am now, riding out to see his daughter somewhere in Texas, he got on in Mobile, and left somewhere in East Texas.  His stories were sad, lonely, and funny - but his hope was evident - he was excited about seeing his daughter.  The single mom traveling to San Diego to try to rekindle the flame with her sailor husband - she got left somewhere in Arizona, we staged a mini-protest and forced the driver to turn back and pick up the lady at the combination McDonald's/Bus Stop in the middle of desert.  The hooker that smelled of weed and liquor - she rode the bus from Jacksonville to Los Angeles - there were only three of us - some sort of modern day Grapes of Wrath like trip - misfits who knew they had a purpose, and we were going to find it in the land of milk and honey in Southern California. 

I remember stopping at the New Orleans bus terminal.  I thought about getting off the ride and going to see my PaPa and MaMa in St. Bernard - but I had things to get to, and a bus ticket, and didn't think much about the stops along the way.  That was stop I should have made, if nothing else, just to say hello - get a free cab ride, enjoy a warm meal, who knows, maybe stop for a day or two.

I can remember stepping off that bus in San Diego. I didn't know where I was going, I had gotten there, I still remember the stink that I carried with me - the bag of things I owned, the hopes that I had - and for the most part, that trip made things happen - I didn't flunk out, I didn't fall down, I didn't fail - and somehow, I still remember the miles along the way.

Twenty or so years later - here I am - on a plane every week wondering when I can stop and feel a few of the miles in between - the people in those small towns, the smell of dry brown fall grass, a cool winter breeze pushing through the warmth.  Stopping and having a piece of toast and some hot scrambled eggs in some greasy spoon on some road that was named after a local hero that gave their life in service of something.  Something a little less canned, a little more comfortable, a little slower than a five hour bounce on a big old jet airliner.  Something where the airline attendants don't thank you for your service, but where a gas station attendant asks you where you are headed, and then tells you the story about their cousin who moved out west to take a job on a fishing vessel, but lost their hand in some terrible accident, and ended up working for a circus down that spends the winters down in Florida.  A little more grounded, connected, less parsed out in routines of meal service, piss breaks, and shifting weight to keep the ass from going numb.

Knowing that I am heading somewhere feels good - knowing that there is something waiting on me gives me some zen like satisfaction - but missing all of the miles in between, it just makes me fell like I am missing the somewhere over nowhere.

And the best annual review process goes to...

So I am nearing the annual review process again, and as always, am interested in seeing the black box that everything gets pumped out of. For years, my Dad has been saying to me, "The only way to control how much you make is to make it for yourself", i.e. - open your own business - and I cannot say he doesn't know what he is talking about - because he did just that - he started his own business, leveraged his experience, ethics, and knowledge, and now is pretty damn successful - and can determine what his annual review is going to look like - I guess a quick look in the mirror, and Voila! For me, on the other hand, a cacophony of somewhat bad, good, and indifferent decisions - and here I am looking towards the annual review process at a mid-tier consulting firm as a Manager. (Mid-tier, top tier, middle market, yadda yadda - I don't know the difference, except to say that I am stealing what everyone else says)Last year, my review process was about as shocking as one could expect, it was my first in a professional consulting environment, and with some dumb luck, didn't end up being my last (more on that later) - Needless to say, I wanted to share a few of the lowlights from my stellar 2013 (we are in FY 2014 now) review. I strongly recommend that you, if you are actually reading this, do exactly the opposite, and suck a little partner ass and hope the black box shits out a great bonus. My opening comments:


Dear Sirs: Please preface my comments on this performance and self-assessment with the knowledge that traditional review processes are somewhat difficult for me to ascertain; we all crave direction and opportunity, but much like the current crises in adapting new forms of energy on a national framework, we are all limited by those resources that are available to us.


I liken the review process to putting on a tuxedo and getting in the bread line, and once the bread is finished, passed out, supply exhausted, you are left wearing a tuxedo with the ration of bread that you have been given. I take no great pleasure in describing why I deserve a larger slice of bread than others; I have no insight into their performance, the standards by which they are measured, the requirements of their tasks, or their personal needs. I do know that I am in line with them; however, in most cases, I choose not to put on a tuxedo, and realize that my financial and professional futures with the firm are in your hands. 


 My style may be misinterpreted as irreverence or an aloof assessment; please take my commentary on my performance, and my questions to the firm as just that – there is no ill will or indifference towards your knowledge, skills, and valued positions within our firm. I have organized this assessment into distinct sections, and would like to apologize for any sarcasm, irony, brevity, or facts that are contained in this assessment. As mentioned in prior verbiage, I take no pleasure in self-assessments, they generally contain information that does little to answer those biting questions that the members of the panel might have, and more overwhelmingly, become a recorded observation as the slices are doled out from the back of the bread truck. I can only hope to ask that my bread comes with a ladle of stew, a few chunks of meat, and maybe a carrot for color. Otherwise, perhaps you will find this assessment in its entirety slightly entertaining, and a break from the more serious discussions of who deserves how much and the why behind it. Performance assessments contain very simple and explicit facts:

1. There is a hierarchy and that must be followed.
2. Performance is greatly subjective; however, can be isolated, in a professional services environment to knowledge, revenue, and client base.
3. There is no player on any team that is not expendable.
4. Not everyone will get a trophy. Sometimes, the pat on the ass and “good game Champ” are about all some players should expect.


Okay, first lesson - my schmarmy and editorialized diatribe oozes "kiss my ass" - perhaps that was mistake. My passive aggressiveness in this last review round - I would score it a 10, my ability to write a great sentence about raises being like standing in the breadline - 10, my ability to actually turn this creative spurt into a raise - 2.


Some more snippets....


Section 1 – Work Life Balance Although it is ironic that this is actually a performance measure, I will delve into my uberhuman nature and try to expand upon my successes and failures throughout the past 8 months. Below, I highlight both:


Family – I have failed miserably as a parent and mentor to my children this past eight months. I have dedicated the overwhelming majority of my free time to flying to engagements. I have not taken much, if any, PTO. I have missed all but one of my daughter’s and son’s soccer games. I was unable to assist both my ex-wife and fiancé in child rearing activities. Therefore on this grade, I will openly admit that my 65 hour weeks have not been beneficial to a work life balance.


Personal Time/Development – I did go to Las Vegas for three days, and spent two days in Jacksonville over Christmas. In both cases, I had an engagement letter to write, whilst in Vegas, I was an interim CFO providing management discussion and analysis, but in both instances, I did make sure to put my phone on vibrate so as not to disturb any of the festivities. On this point, I will grade myself a “C+” or “B-“, my body was there, and in some cases, that is all that is necessary (like organ donation), and managed to deliver all of my assignments on time.


Location – I, with the consideration and grace of the firm, was able to apply for and have approved the flexible work option to be based out of Seattle. This was an “A+”. As far as I can tell, it will make little difference where I am based, my travel, and apparently utilization and billability have required Sunday through Friday travel, with the general exception being when I ask for forgiveness and forego permission. This is a positive, because I am told when things slow down, I will be able to spend that time in Seattle.


Personal Development – I have enjoyed reading multiple books, three on the history of Chicago, I highly recommend Eric Larson’s Devil in the White City, it is a wonderful book on both mass murder and the Chicago World’s Fair. Many of the beautiful things about Chicago came about because of the World’s Fair. I have finished a book on the Rape of Nanking, studied the migration of Midwesterners during the dust bowl, and delved into the transition (and associated difficulties) from the apartheid government in South Africa to the current democratic state. I have expanded my banjo playing capability, and now can play at least two songs off of the most recent Avett Brothers album whether sober or intoxicated. • Developing into the Nietzsche Superhuman – I am working on this, but find myself stifled at times by a more Machiavellian principle as outlined in some of his works. 


Personal Development Goals for the 2013 – 2014 year:


Family – Continue to strive to spend time with my future wife and children. 

Location – I will maximize my time in Seattle. I will maximize my time in Jacksonville. I will maximize my time at the client location. I will not have to pay rent for an apartment in Chicago.


Personal Development – I am going to take a course in the steel guitar, and have my drum kit shipped to Seattle. I would really like to get that nifty Detroit rift down that is so prevalent in 1970’s funkadelic, I am still having some trouble coordinating my base down beat with my high hat. I believe I am going to continue reading books that help me expand upon my vision of the world that surrounds me. By reading, I feel a smaller part of a much larger world, and am sensing a need or desire to explore eastern religions. I will continue to plan for a summit of Mt. Rainier in 2014, and use the elliptical at the hotel as a way to prepare. (I have found that placing ziplock bags of ice in my shorts and workout shirt mimic cold air).


Personal Work Balance Questions for Exploration with the Firm: • Compensatory Time – I am unclear or have not been able to find a policy regarding compensatory time. I have googled policies, and have only been able to find those at the larger consulting firms, and have yet to ask how one requests or balances time that is spent over and above general expectations. I am on track to hit between 2600-3000 hours in the 2013 – 2014 year, and the only way to make my hourly salary go up is to work less hours, or go through this review process with flying colors. • Travel requirement policies – I have been able to find policies regarding Saturday and Sunday work hours for the audit functions “during the busy season”, but as of yet have not found a policy regarding travel requirements/incentives for the firm consulting staff. I have found some that are fairly progressive (DeLoitte’s 3-4-5 policy), and have found the firm's overnight bonus program enlightening. I would like to see established boundaries for work travel requirements and am aware that clients pay my bills, and without proper service, I will be in an actual breadline. In my line of work, assignments will typically last longer than 4 days on the road, they are more likely to last 4 months, and, based on what I have seen from our current marketing program, will be located in every corner of the United States. For this year, I will discuss with my supervisor a Sunday – Thursday evening or Monday travel through Friday evening policy, and as always, will display a large degree of flexibility for the occasional one-off. • Education – I have seen a large number of policies regarding certifications for audit and tax professionals, but need to explore the availability of remuneration/reimbursement for other certifications. Overall, I would grade my work life balance, at best, a B-, C+. Mediocrity has its benefits, and time has its limits.


You get the idea - this was not a good idea, and it only gets worse from here... I will post more in the next post - for now, I think that's enough, and a good way for me to revisit how I approach my annual review process for 2014.  Maybe I use an excel spreadsheet with numbers and stuff....and save the editorial for the 7 people who actually read my blog...


Until next time...


George

Income

So I let 2013 roll by without a single post - probably had something to do with my lasting motivation, and the other areas of my life that I was focused on - none the less, all of them are pretty shitty excuses for the best therapy that I know - 300 words a day, or a week, or a month, of somewhat meaningless scribble out here in the land of the blogosphere (I think that is a word...) So the new year, new posts, new thoughts, new directions - same news stories, just different flavors - right now, the entire income inequality debate is raging in full force - the Pope is even chiming in, to the dire responses of the Republican Party, and the somewhat deaf ears of the establishment Dems. I cannot help but think if the thought does not fit into a 30 second commercial, that US politicians really don't want to bother with it. I sit and watch CSPAN (I work from home quite a bit) and listen to the former attorneys, who now make more than 97% of the population place blame and throw caustic speeches - and we still wonder why nothing ever gets done. I have a fail safe plan, and albeit simple - it should work for the purposes of income distribution, how about rolling back the Bush Tax Cuts, and really defining the food stamp program for what it is - it is a national price support program for farmers and mega-agricultural companies...you can argue all that you want with those two definitions, but plain and simple, the tax cuts were temporary, the food stamp program is not. I read the articles from Wall Street mavens screaming that capitalism drives the system - but I cry back - bullshit - if that were the case, then I would have access to the lobbyist, and then have access to the congress person - trust me, I have written a few letters, and the responses I get are nothing more than hand job form letters that ask me to donate more - donate to what? Capitalism does not drive the system - greed drives the system - when you get fined $13 billion from the DOJ, cry unfairness, and get a $20 million dollar raise, what are the rest of us to think? When the average CEO pay is 200 times the line worker - income distribution does not exist - and no one is worth that much money - I don't care how brilliant they are - no one is worth that paycheck. Now granted, they give a large sum to charity - but to hear folks cry about tax rates for the highest 5% of earners - is is just bullshit. It is reverse entitlement - so next time I hear someone say the government does not need to be involved in income distribution, I return the challenge - then what is the tax code for? What is the military for? What is equality then? I challenge each of them to drive through some of the poorest communities, with their windows down and the doors unlocked, and see what opportunity those folks have. What access do they have? I can answer that question, but I am afraid it will never make it to the boardrooms and golf courses and private jets. I don't know the answer to the question, I do know what has not worked - endless tax cuts, war in the middle east, and making special interest groups people - but hopefully we can all figure it out together.

For the strong women...

Riding the Loop every morning, I get the opportunity to see some common sites, and then the not so common ones, the brightly colored business men in their expensive suits, the massive amount of life through texting, the strangely adjusted college kids off to their big city jobs – all of us swaying, or just falling, to the movement of the not so smooth Brown Line. We all compete for our little private space on the train, we all want our little uninterrupted corner with no one’s armpit in our face, or ass on our cheek (if you get a seat) – we just want to make it to work, and do our job, and very rarely do we ever say hello or exchange smiles – we just look for that extraordinary sight, knowing that there is something of interest beyond our iPod or iPad or The Red Eye… This morning, and just about every morning and evening commute, I see the strong women boarding the train – the confident mothers carrying loads of groceries and pushing a stroller, the daily workers reading and writing emails, the high powered money brokers talking silently on their phones – all of them focused on the task at hand, not so distracted, some perfectly in order, others in the process of getting there, some, just there – The strong women are there – you see it and sense it in their eyes and the way they hold their shoulders high, and take command of their surroundings – you see the confidence they have- almost an aura of simple ease about them – and most of them are strong women – they move, like the train, along the tracks, but more gracefully, more aware, more ready to change directions when needed to do what needs to be done. Being blessed with a strong mother, sister, partner, makes me take note of all of the strong women. There is some hesitation when I notice them – I know that someone is counting on them, and you can see that they understand the responsibility – they know the price to pay for failure. I am not sure if this is something that women share, their joint responsibility and awareness that they bring life to the world – they can raise and feed their children, they can comfort the tired, they can make sense out of the driving confusion of a testosterone infused conference room. They don’t need to strap on their helmets, their sensibility is that of a cautious predator, and a subtle musician – the work is not work, it is another facet that they accomplish – whether that be parenting, coaching, comforting, leading, or driving the machine of business, and they gracefully attack and make simple work of those things. I cannot speak for all men, only this one, and I envy that ability to put the process in context. Perhaps that is something that the responsibility of motherhood creates, or something that the way men are raised or built or chemically made up, that separates us from them. There is grace in their actions and words. There is spirit in their touch and approach. There is fire in their eyes. There is soul in their embrace. They are the strong women. No matter what. They approach the diaper changes and mass layoffs with a vision, and for them, I am grateful, because there is comfort in their presence. Until next time… G

Managing backwards...

Winter in Chicago is probably not the best time to start dreaming of a vacation in the Bahamas, in fact, it is probably the worst time to start dreaming of anything, with the exception of making through the winter. Every step of my walk to the elevated stop at Damen is usually magically transformed into a step closer to making it to a heated train car, making it to the CVS for some gum and cigarettes, making it to the coffee shop where the barista doesn’t know my name, but knows I travel back and forth to Seattle or Florida at every chance I get. I always wanted to try the big city, and always thought that I would make it in the big city – and making it has different levels of complexity and accomplishment – but right now, that’s about the extent of what I am doing – I am making it because that’s all I really have as an option right now. Having a fourteen year old son puts things in perspective. Having a fourteen year old brain makes that even closer to the truth. Outwardly, folks would think that I am living the dream, and if I could see through my somewhat distorted lenses, I probably would think the same thing. Unfortunately, clarity of vision was never really one of my strong points – it was more or less a challenge to manage myself effectively enough to make forward progress without inevitably cracking under the weight of my past decisions. I constantly reinforce that to my son – but have a difficult time reinforcing to myself that those decisions are no longer there – they have been made, the actions have been done, and that I should not make those again. I make them again – just like a crackhead to a pipe – you can bet that odds are I am going to choose to not manage forwards, and manage backwards. Self help books are not useful when you don’t pay attention to what you read – neither or doctors, or counselors, or programs, or thinking about it – none of those are any good unless you actually choose to manage things around you. It’s really easy to give up – exceptionally easy to give up – trust me on that one – I have always found a way to give up, and just manage from crisis to crisis – instead of taking the route of the most resistance – and managing the way I look forward. There are beautiful things about Chicago – where I live, it is a quiet street, not too busy, with single family homes – they are decorated in the seasonal finery – summer decorations for summer, Chicago Bears flags on Sunday, Christmas lights shortly after Thanksgiving. There is a little grocery down the street where they know I want milk and two packs of cigarettes, there is Bobbie’s Runaway on the corner where I know I can go to hide, and not be a part of anything other than a cold Miller beer and some conversation about the weather – there are a million things to do, and a million places to see, and a world of history at every stop on the Brown Line. The truth is that Chicago is an open and friendly city – and as much as I try to take advantage of it, I also seem to be falling behind on taking advantage of it. I get plenty of time to think about it – and plenty of time to do something about it – but so far – not so good. Until next time.

Wow, it's been a while since I have posted anything, but I figure that this letter to my Chicago crash pad (I live in Seattle now, own a home in Florida, and work in Chicago...go figure, so much for simplicity)landlord warrants a post. I really need to get better about this posting thing... Good morning, We are coming up on month two in the apartment, and I want to share a few things with each of you. Feel free to come to the coffee shop (where I have to go to get internet, more on that later) and join me, or just pull up a chair and relax, and enjoy this Monday morning diatribe. So how was your weekend? Mine was exciting! Let me start by saying that I am glad I am no longer of child bearing age, because the amount of bug spray that I used this morning would assuredly provide a high degree of certainty that something wrong would occur. The centipedes and spiders that are coming through the floor bite, and, after spending yesterday afternoon in a Benadryl and whiskey induced haze from the two bites on Friday, I decided that I liked having smooth soft skin, unmarked by bite marks from bugs. Fixed. The apartment has a fresh clean smell of bug spray and Lysol, almost sterile. I did not complain about this, I figured your hands were full getting tenants into newly rehabbed units. Anyway, I thought about making lasagna again today. You know, the thick cheesy kind with fresh mushrooms and fresh stewed tomato sauce, topped with grated Parmesan that I picked up at the cheesemonger. Alas, the oven is not working. So I thought about a steak, with the center just perfectly pink and fresh garlic and butter broiled over the top of it to go with the baked potato. Crap. The stove is broken. So I settled on a hot pocket. A ham and cheese hot pocket, and when I opened the freezer, it was once again a beautiful rendition of the stalactites and stalagmites in the great Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. It took me back to the summer of 2009 when my children and I journeyed there, but was not quite as thrilling. It sucks to have to chip an inch of ice off of the hot pockets. It sucks to want a bowl of ice cream, and know that odds are, it will be infiltrated by chunks of ice crystals. I like surprises, they are fun. I prefer them be balloons or chocolate or flowers or money...not the chip the ice off the hot pockets kind because the freezer is broken. The folks at CVS know me by name, because that is where I shop, freedom is not microwaving your dinner every night or buying single serve meals because the first 180$ of frozen stuff you bought is either sealed in an ice shell for the armageddon or has been ruined by the broken freezer. So then I said to myself,"Self, be thankful, you have a roof over your head, a television,an iPad,and your choice of four channels from which to enjoy.". That's right, I get four channels. Two of them are religious channels, and I am pretty sure that spirit of gratitude comes from knowing that the second coming is inevitable, and since I have moved in, have learned that the God of the old testament is not the god of the new testament. I also get public television, and if I hold the digital antenna just right, have learned a lot about cooking from Americas Test Kitchen, and to not throw away clay jugs from Antiques Road Show. These are all important things. I would like to sit and watch a movie from time to time, or even those new sitcoms I see posted on the billboards when I ride the train into the 21st century. Alas, Comcast cannot figure out where I live, if I live, and when I will be acknowledged as physically being in Apartment 2N. I thought I could live without cable, but apparently, I cannot. It has added a level of deep thought and newfound creativity to my repertoire that I previously did not possess, as reflected in this email to each of you. This goes to another point. I would love to know if I live in 2N. I have no document that says I live here, no contract that gives me the security of knowing that I exist. You may ask yourself, where is my beautiful house, and you may ask yourself, where is my beautiful mail...I do ask myself that. I don't have a lease. I am scared. My mail is sitting in the post office somewhere in Chicago, because the mail person cannot buzz the door to get in. Takeout delivery folks randomly knock on the back door to find out if I ordered the Kung Pao chicken. Sometimes, I tell them no. Other times, I eat my neighbors dinner because the thought of another grilled cheese sandwich makes me want to crawl into a corner and cry. I am 41 years old, and sitting in the middle of a coffee shop filled with twenty something artsy types who smoked way too much weed last night, are trying to remember the name of the girl or guy they had random sex with, and just in general looking like that creepy lonely guy your parents taught you to stay away from when you went to the coffee shop. Why, because this is the only way I can send you an email. I could have texted this to you, but that would take way too long. The apartment is still a half rehab. I finally (after two visits from Merry Maids and some high powered scrubbing of my own), was able to get the remaining grease and bodily stuff out of the bathtub, the sinks, the dishwasher, and can comfortably assume that any hair now is mine. I cleaned the microwave, and am thankful that when I use it now, the apartment does not smell like I bought a can of burrito scented febreeze. I am happy that I have utilities, but nervous that at any point, these could be turned off because I have no earthly idea if I am actually supposed to be doing anything with them. I don't want to move. I like it here. I do have a hard time paying 1100$ per month for a property that I get to manage. I own two homes in Florida, and when my tenant calls and says things are broken, I fix them. It is a pain in the butt to get those calls, but I want them to know that I am taking care of the problem. I value their tenancy. Those two homes are complete. They can roast a Cornish game hen, watch football, and get in the tub knowing that there are no bugs and that all remnants of the last tenant have been removed. Everyone has been easy to work with, but I suspect that until the last unit downstairs gets rehabbed, that I will overpay for a half finished unit that was closer to move in ready than 2S. So you see, I am not upset. I am taking things in stride. I just want to get the value of paying a high amount of rent. This is my home for now. You are my business partners. I am your tenant, and to some degree at your mercy. I appreciate your patience and kindness noted below, but would like some consideration, be it a temporary reduction until the unit is completely rehabbed, or an occasional invite to cook lasagna in your oven and watch football. Let me know, I have to go now, the girl next to me (apparently named Sequoia) has sucked me into her conversation with another girl ( apparently named Trish) about some jerk named Eric that had sex with another friend (Jennifer), and I am finding it hard to eavesdrop and type at the same time. George Sent from my

Family Jobs and Muscle Pain...

First, let me say that my blog has officially been turned down by just about every advertiser on the Google network. I am not good enough for Target, Alaska Airlines, the Home Shopping Network, and some online venture that sells dildos. Pretty damn disappointing, but in retrospect, who would really want to advertise on a site chock full or cynicism and irony, top ten lists of things to do (but do very carefully) and with a readership of six. Perhaps those folks just do not know how powerful six people can be. I am making a personal stand to boycott all of the above unless they offer me free stuff - including dildos. I will proudly display them right next to my baseball cards.

You really have to be careful about the jobs you take on. My best friend, albeit a twisted and strange relationship, has bailed my ass out on many occassions- not literally bailed me out of jail - that has yet to happen, but has saved my rear from financial ruin, poor decisions, and doing really stupid things - so I owed him. Big time. What was the job - fix a minor plumbing problem in one of the rentals. A small problem - no big deal - well, it was a big deal. It was a basement apartment - in Florida - (for those of you who do not know, Florida is swamp, sand, and limestone - the first two were what the foundation of this home was built on - and for an unknown reason, the damn thing had sunk) - and basement apartments are filled with little problems - like settling - that cause plumbing issues. I walk in - and in front of me is a bipolar tenant, a tub filled with three days of human shit, and a toilet, proudly displaying its inability to flush without running into the tub. Brilliant. I was looking forward to catching hepatitis, and every other itis there was, but most of all, I was looking forward to figuring out a way to fix the damn problem. A tub full of shit and a toilet that too easily refilled the tub with shit. Hmm, sounded like a problem that my Dad could help me with. well, a week later, 60 hours of labor, I can proudly say that the tub has officially been raised four inches, there is a city sewer attached to the house now, a lift station has been designed and installed, the sewer to the house has been repiped, and I still smell like shit.

Good news, the problem is fixed, the place is rented, and I was able to get the crap out from under my nails. Bad news, that is the last family project I ever undertake again. My little brother, a hard worker, was there for four or five days, Dad was there forever for a couple of days, I spent endless nights digging, filling, gluing, cutting, cleaning, regluing, recleaning, and running to Home Depot for every imaginable plumbing fixture under the sun. I am happy that it is over. I am glad that we did it together. I am pleased with the work, but the experience was not one I care to remember....

It has been a while since I have posted a top ten list - but I am going to give it a try - we shall see how humerous this is...

TOP TEN FAMILY PROJECTS AND EXCUSES TO AVOID THEM

1. Clean out and replumb a tub full of shit together. Your Mom always told you to eat your greens - now you have the opportunity to show her how well you have been doing. EXCUSE TO AVOID IT - Plumbers get paid $175 per hour for a reason.

2. Grading a slope for drainage problems. There is nothing more serious than a one-legged man with a shovel. There is also nothing quite as funny as a one-legged man with a shovel. Think about it. EXCUSE TO AVOID IT - Think Bob Cat.

3. Any project that requires your children to use a wheelbarrow and a shovel over spring break. Sure, all of the other kids went to the Bahamas or to Disney - you will be providing them with a life long lesson - stay in school, or every spring break will be filled with wheelbarrows and shovels. THERE IS NO EXCUSE TO AVOID PUTTING YOUR CHILDREN TO WORK - IT IS A CHARACTER BUILDER.

4. Any Home Depot DIY project. The reason they call it DIY - is because you first try to do it yourself, and buy parts from them. You screw up, break things, and have to call a professional who does it for you, and buys the parts from Home Depot. They get twice the money, just for blowing sunshine up your ass about your skills with a drill and a screwdriver. Note - if you are good with a drill and a screwdriver, that does not mean you can install siding on your house. EXCUSE TO AVOID IT - Since they installed self checkout lines in Home Depot - you now have people who are looking for something they don't understand, paying for it at a machine they cannot figure out, and returning it to a lady who could care less what their problems are. Avoid this.

5. Paint a room using a highly toxic scented paint. There is nothing better than three or four family members in the same confined space, high off of fumes, yelling at each other about who ate the last bowl of Lucky Charms when you were in the tenth grade. By the end of the evening, after your buzz has warn off, things will seem much clearer as to why your life went in the direction it did. EXCUSE TO AVOID - Beer and wine at Thanksgiving have the same affect. Use this to your advantage.

6. Build a swingset kit together, preferably one of the ones that is manufactured in China using some rare lead based stain with screws that fit no standard set, and instructions written by an english second language student somewhere in Xiang Dao province. I did this once - sure it leaned six inches, and there were a ton of left over parts - but the speed and efficiency that I displayed trying to get the hell away from the "helpers" led to a 427 part swingset being installed in less than an hour. Neat thing is that there have been no lawsuits or untimely collapses....yet. EXCUSE TO AVOID - Sixty minutes a day is the new slogan for kids - just so happens the park is a thirty minute walk away. Perfect.

7. Repair a new car with anyone over or approaching 65. Remember when cars were engines and there was room to get your hands around parts - good. That does not exist anymore. Under the hood is a sheer block of aluminum surrounded by neatly packaged blocks of aluminum, all bolted together with the same bolts that were used for the swingset above. Send your grandfather in search of the oil filter. Two hours later, go outside and see if he has found it, or if his hand is stuck somewhere in between two blocks of aluminum. EXCUSE TO AVOID - Oil changes are 19.99 for most makes and models.

8. Help your folks move from a 4,000 square foot home to a 1,600 square foot home. Turn the two car garage into a storage and stack everything that they may really need all the way in the back on top of sixteen underpacked boxes. That way, you can count on a phone call every two weeks or so wondering where all of the underwear or towels went. Make sure to put things like outlet testers, or fertilizer, or tupperware in front. This will ensure a phone call. EXCUSE TO AVOID - Listen, I have moved more crap in the past six months than I care to mention. I am 40. My back problems are just as real as their back problems.

9. Install a surround sound system and wire in every device known to man, including a tape recorder, a reel to reel system, an eight track cassette player, a solid state turntable, and don't forget an X-Box 360 and a 72" TV set. Then, get a 170 button remote. Leave. Just let them figure it out. EXCUSE TO AVOID = Much like the furniture moving, the remote will garner a large number of phone calls. Best thing to do - plug everything in so that the time is blinking, but only hook up the cable box. Easy fix.

10. Build something without directions or guidance. Just go to Home Depot, buy a shitpot of odd items, get some nails, and glue and tape, and invite everyone over and tell them to start working on your platform garden or your left handed deck or your additional built in bookshelves. Just be prepared to hear the right way, the wrong way, the cheap way, the fast way, the hard way, the old way the easy way, the new way, the creative way, the best way, and the only way to do it. By the time you are finished - if you finish, the new found respect you have for each other is profound.

All in all, the project was fun. I was able to pay things back and forward and help out a friend. Next time, I am going to help him find a phone book, and just go to lunch or dinner with my family.

Until next time...

George

I ain't no Matt McConaughey...

And if that is who you are looking for - go here:

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000190/mediaindex?page=2

Otherwise, just stick around and let me, covered in shit, be your guide through this wonderful afternoon. Everything was pretty peaceful - Gabe cooked some chicken with jerk sauce, Gray rested from a long afternoon at the swimming pool with her friend, and I decided to change and wash sheets (a rare occassion at the Bennett Household, one worthy of a glass of red wine, and perhaps a couple of beers) - all fine until on this wonderful spring day, the sounds of bickering children cut through my screen like a fart on an elevator. I live in the low rent district (comparatively speaking) of this part of town - it is a new townhome subdivision, and it has a gate, and a pool, and we have walking trails and security gaurds and all of that planned community bullshit that us middle class folks like. My view happens to be of the next step up home - the single family homes, in another planned community - and my luck just so has it that immediatly behind me within 50 yards - is a pool inhabited by two of the most spoiled, poorly behaved, and regularly beaten children I have ever witnessed. When I say beaten, I do not mean in the clothes hanger and wooden board sense, but I am pretty sure those kids get a swat at least once a day for some unknown reason - and based on what I have to listen to right now, I am pretty sure that there is a good one coming. I imagine their names - the two little ones - to be Cedar and Sequoia, and with their haircuts, and their generally metrosexual swim shirts and trunks, I cannot really tell if they are boys or girls. I can tell that:

1. They are apparently related.
2. They are also related to Cain and Abel.
3. One of them or both of them will end up in prison.

How do I know this - because drowning is not a sport. Hitting your sibling with the garden sprinkler square in the face is not a tradition. Standing on the edge of the pool and telling your parents that you are going to pee pee in the water near Cedar is not something most normal children would do. My guess is that they are hopped up on adderall, or it's nearest pediatric friendly cousin, have just downed a half dozen Capri Suns and Fruit Rollups, and are raring to have a good knock down drag out fight. Just so you know, you cannot see my view, but at least you can see the windows that act as Bose Wave Radios throughout the backside of my house.

Note the "air conditioning" unit in the window. I find that to be a nice touch, one of these days, I will get around to nailing sheets over the windows, but for now, the wooden blinds and the box fan are all the accoutrement that I need for my palace. Besides, the box fan keeps air circulating throughout the house, particularly when I have the other two fans in my son's window and daughter's window. I have recieved one letter concerning the use of them from the HOA, but I am guessing they have since relinquished the rule on "no box fans that make your townhome look like a trailer park residence shall be used to cool or circulate air throughout the home" attitude. As far as nailing sheets to the windows goes - I don't really have any extra sheets, so that would be a total waste. I guess I could tape aluminum foil to them, and give my house that "I am a fucknut crazy lunatic" look...

Anyway, back to the kids in the backyard. They have been silenced by the enforcer, which I imagine is an au pair from some small eastern european country that sounds like you are spitting when you pronounce it properly. I don't think I have ever seen their Dad, and based on what I hear from the two angels, have to think that there is a large amount of golf being played on the weekends.

I digress. Digging ditches is a tough line of work. This may sound a bit bitchy, but my hands are intended to work on spreadsheets and such. My back is not quite the manual backhoe operator that it once was. My palate is easily tainted by the smell of septic waste and black water. Note the picture below:

That is what is left of the two inch blister I worked into my hand last weekend. It hurts like a son of a bitch, and aside from the lidocaine cream, really makes it difficult to eat anything with salt or vinegar in it. Nope, these hands were not properly conditioned for the task that I was ill prepared to tackle - we did get it done - and as you can see from the picture above, I carried with me not only the pride of being covered from head to toe in bodily fluids and having a Squiggy hairstyle naturally appearing after the first fourteen hours - but by the proof positive in my hands.

Anyway, back to the Matt McConawhatever thing. How in the hell does he do that? I have to think that all of us have ample opportunity to work out, eat right, you know, the things that we are supposed to do - but it just seems unnatural to me to be able to do that - but perhaps that is all he does. Maybe he does not have to get up with an alarm clock, or go to work, or even think about the next sheet washing cycle - I am sure he has concerns, but most of them are probably related to what white linen shirt and tight blue jeans he is going to pick out, or what catalog he is going to scan through when he takes his next constitutional to buy matching outfits for his children (I am not sure that he has children, just guessing, because for a while there, everyone in the movies had to have some kids to make it on to the cover of People). It is almost surreal to me that there are folks who don't really have to worry about much - they pay people to do that for them.

To hell with it, I am becoming a scientologist. I am guessing that is what does the trick...

G

Rebirth and Shit Pipes...

Wow. Seven months or so since I posted. Guess that is about the time I started ignoring what I needed to pay attention to, and seeking at least some monthly or bi-weekly assistance in the form of a blog. Great thing about blogs - they are the best kind of doctor - I don't know who is reading this, I don't particularly pay attention to the number of hits, and I certainly don't consider it private - but I do consider it enough of a way to get the garbage out without co-pays and hours on the couch...so welcome to my therapy session (image of crush red velvet couch, german philosopher smoking a pipe thr
ough his large white beard, and walls lined with books comes to mind) - feel free to interject your opinions on these wonderful subjects..,

There is no point in me even trying to explain what has transpired over the past seven months - a torrential downpour of water under the bridge, and I cannot remember most of it anyway - I guess what matters is what is happening now - I do know that P Diddy and Justin Bieber are popular, I think, and that the fucking Friday song is no longer available on YouTube - I know that the baseball season is back, and that, even without cable television, I can enjoy the entire Masters and listen to the commentators for each group or pairing. I know that I have been on a vacation, have been working, and have been spending time with my kids - but other than that, the rest of the details are pretty much the same boring shit all of us deal with on a daily basis - the Soft Parade that Jim Morrison talks about so eloquently - the escapism that we are all prone to divert our attention to. Sometimes, you just have to reel that weight in, and so for now, that is what I am doing. Reeling in the escapism, and throwing a bunch of idioms and (damn, I forget what you call those things that everyone says) those things that everybody says that make absolutely no sense. Gabe and I were discussing one the other day - "What is good for the goose is good for the gander" - and we pretty much agreed that any of those quotes can be taken the wrong way - depending on which way you look at it. Consider if all of the folks in the world who had a drinking problem suddenly stopped drinking. The alcohol sales would plummet, the distillers would go broke, the tax coffers would be empty, and high school gyms everywhere would be filled with folks at AA meetings - but then, because of the strain placed on the folks who lost their jobs because street projects could not get completed or the distillery laid them off, or the liquor store no longer needed a clerk, or the marketing department did not have the money for that ad campaign, or the football team could not get enough sponsorships, you get what I am saying - they all pick up the bottle because of their problems...nature hates a vacuum - but what is good for the goose is not always good for the gander - so in a way, even though I ramble, those platitudes are mostly bullshit once you scrape through the veneer of it all.

Easter weekend - the easter bunny and eggs are signs of fertility for those of you who are Christian, and who have easter bunny baskets and egg hunts - and they are based in Pagan and Roman traditions of celebrating the spring equinox, but I guess it would be a bad idea to sell chocolate crucifix Jesus, or have a "find the resurrected Jesus" hunt - anyway, Easter weekend is about rebirth. Plain and simple. Passover dinner, spring equinox, flowers blooming, women running around in bathing suits, nine months until the birth of christ - conception - that is what this weekend is all about. A celebration of life. For those of us who attach ourselves to no particular god or religion, we celebrate this weekend as well - it is good to celebrate the rebirth of things - all things are cyclical, and many things are reborn every day - I see it in my children - their quirks and smiles and traits - I have been reborn in them, and they will be reborn in their children. That is a celebration. I can celebrate that my grandmother and grandfather live on in me, good and bad, I can celebrate that how ever many generations from now, somewhere, there is a little teensy tiny piece of me floating around in the gene pool....

That is what Easter is about to me. Looking out my window right now, it is clear, sunny, the trees have leaves on them again, the maginolia trees have blooms, and I can hear laughter from the swimming pool. All good things that remind me there are always seasons for rebirth.

Shit pipes. Now my kids have always had the luxury of big spring break trips. This year, due to unforeseen but predictable financial circumstances, their trip this year consisted of a two day excursion to Uncle Aaron's place down in St. Augustine to install a lift station and some drainage pipes. I have to say, this has been one of the most rewarding spring breaks for me - I got to see my two kids work their asses off and laugh and smile, even though their spring break, literally, was a world of shit.

They were about as dirty as they had ever been in their lives, covered from head to toe in dirt, dust, and particles of whatever had flowed out of the septic tank - and they were happy. They had blisters on their hands, tired sore feet, and smelled like they had been feeding hogs all day long - but they were smiling and laughing and joking - most of all - and I mean this - they were helping. Watching a ten year old girl lift a shovel full of gravel or a soon to be fourteen year old boy tear off the rubber gloves, grab a sewer pump, and man handle the damn thing into place - it was amazing to see them as young people be so responsive and tough - they liked what they were doing, and were proud to be a part of it. I have to admit, I was proud of them for their toughness - I was proud of them for everything that they were doing - they did not have any idea of what they were doing - but they kept going - digging, hauling, moving, working - and the entire time - they laughed about it. Sewer pipes and french drains are no fun. Putting them in as a family, now that is rewarding. I encourage those of you who think that you need to escape to a resort or a weekend warrior challenge - replace a sewer line or dig up a backyard. If your family does not get closer through all of that, then seek counseling. The week has flown by - the day job coupled with the other work, 40 hours here, 40 hours there, things just went by quickly. Each night at dinner, Gabe would step up and cook, Gray would step up and help me clean, and all of us would sit down and laugh - about how bad we smelled, about how crazy Uncle Ronnie was, about how Poppy would randomly yell "Shit" like someone stricken with Turrets - and I could see in their faces how proud they were of their work - and I hope they felt how proud I was of them.

Yep, shit pipes and rebirth - they seem to go hand in hand - no fancy cruise, no trip to times square, no easter egg hunt, none of that stuff this year - just work - plain and simple - and through that work, sort of a rebirth of my vision for our family - that simple things and a little bit of focus on the right things can make all of the difference.

Happy Weekend....

Bill Collectors and Tuesdays....

Now there's a job that I would love to stand in line for, an automated call center pumping out deadbeats like myself, to call and dun me for a $38.00 medical bill that was supposed to go through insurance, but for some reason never did. I know, that someday, that $38.00 bill is going to come back and haunt me, and I am pretty sure that I will be required to write a check, and make "Ted" happy, and they will stop calling me. I have actually made it a pretty entertaining event when they call. I mean, you actually should ask how their day is going, and if they have plans for the holidays, I do everything possible to keep them on the phone as long as possible, inevitably just to let them down at the end of the call. Kind of like a tease at a nightclub - get them all hot and bothered, then tell them I have a terminal disease, and that they should call the doctor that treated me incorrectly to get the $38.00. Some of you might say that it is horrible - but really, I have counted no less than 114 calls from these folks about $38.00. How many people must they be calling to actually make money on $38.00? I have come up with a myriad of excuses when they call...and typically you know when they call because they use those funky masked numbers that mysteriously have my area code on it, but it changes every single time...

It got a little boring to tell them I was dead, so I came up with more creative ways, let me list a few to the typical question that comes up (Mr. Bennett when do you think you will be able to help yourself by paying this bill, we can take a payment right now over the phone....)

1. "Well, you see, every since I fell off the truck and got my balance all discombobulated, I cannot seem to remember things real good. I got the money and all, and I could pay it, but I cannot find my wallet. Can you hang on for a minute and I will go get my wallet?" (Then put the phone on speaker, mute it, and set it next to you and see how long it takes for them to hang up).

2. Graduating from the "He died" - I have moved on to other things. Just last week, I told them I was in mourning over the death of the greatest musician that ever lived, and was holding vigil until the Jackson 4 did a come back tour with a remake. They did mention that they would have to put a mark on my credit report, I told them to make sure that it was due to religious reasons.

3. Talking about odd medical conditions always seems to occupy a little bit of my time - I have gone so far to explain to them that a hotel ice maker can rip off a testicle if you use it incorrectly. (I know that makes no fucking sense, but for $38.00 where else can you get that kind of response).

4. I pick up the phone book, go the lawyer section, and refer them to a counselor. Note, I do not say my counselor, I say a counselor. I don't mention bankruptcy, I don't mention lawsuit, I tell them that they should talk to a lawyer. I am about one.eighth of the way through the A's. Sorry to all of the receptionists and paralegals out there who may have gotten random phone calls.

5. One of my favorites is still the repeat every word they say, but just in a different way - so they say "Can I speak with G Bennett" - I reply with "Hmmm, can you speak with G Bennett" - their reply "Is this G Bennett" - my reply - "IS THIS G Bennett" - you do that for about three minutes, they get sick of the call, and they just hang up.

6. The Pay by the minute phone - this is a pretty good one - ask for a credit on your bill so that you can afford to add more minutes to your phone, because if your wife sees that you used up all of your minutes you are going to have to go back to counseling because the last time you did that you were screwing the neighbor lady. (Notice the lack of punctuation in that sentence, you actually have to say that sentence without punctuation, in a very tense and nervous way).

7. Start saying "I dispute you". Say it several times. It does not stop them from calling, but the response you typically get is pretty interestng - all the way from, "We can send you a record of service" (I dispute you) to "Our records indicate that you were seen on XX/XX/XXXX" (I dispute you) - I have had a collections caller on the phone for seventeen minutes disputing him to the point the actual word started to make no sense to me.

8. Alot of folks have old credit cards laying around, and since I have closed several accounts, I like to run the bill collectors through about six different card numbers that have not existed since 1998. They give up after usually three different numbers, but I actually was able to get one guy to run each account - twice. Now that may sound like a waste of time to you, but to me, it beats the shit out of watching the real housewives of whatever town bitch at each other.

9. Tell them you are broke. Tell them that you got turned down for food stamps, you are eating scraps out of the dumpster behind the grocery store, but you refuse to declare bankruptcy, and when you find enough pennies in the gas station parking lot, and then enough postage to mail them, that you are going to send the payment. I have only tried this once, and the poor girl actually made me feel bad for making her feel so bad.

10. Finally, use words like the convexity theory and time value of money and discounted cash flows - and then end it with, "I am going to beat that bitch again. I told them to take care of this shit and here I am having to take care of it. You hire domestic help who can barely speak a lick of fucking english, you pay them cash to make a few phone calls, and this is the bullshit you get. They are fired. I mean fired. I will make sure they will work for no one else at the club again. Worthless piece of shit. Let me see if I can get them to call you back." Entertainment.

So, you ask, why not just pay the $38.00. Because. It is a mistake. I could pay the $38.00 but then I would have to go to the movies and spend $60.00 to laugh. I take my credit rating about as seriously as I take my physical fitness - in other words, every once in a while, I am really really good for a week or so, and try to keep up with everything and make sure everything is paid off - and occassionally I worry about, but much like that gym membership, that usually lasts for about six months, and I worry about other things - (and in both cases, it is usually eating).

Now some women find forty year old men who are irresponsible terribly unattractive - but what's not to love - I have two homes, a car, a job, and occassionally, have a little bit of cash that I use to pay back the folks I have borrowed money from. I have a $2,400 per month child support payment, but that does not stop me from having generic pop tarts in the pantry, or splurging on good beer every once in a while - really, at this point in my life, I am pretty much worth more dead than I am alive, and of course, no one wants to die, but hell, when you look at what the insurance company did pay for the service, and then look at what they are calling you about - it almost seems a wee bit ridiculous. I am sure, that sometime today, I will get another call, and I am sure that they are going to describe the dire consequences I will suffer, and I am sure that I am the reason that the US economy sucks ass (I did pay more taxes than Boeing last year, and probably this year as well) - but $38.00?

That's a Tuesday type of conversation - sitting down, looking at the list of bills, realizing I need to pack, clean the house, take three conference calls, go to the doctor to have a finger shoved up my ass, and breaking the routine with a $38.00 collections call.

Tuesday. All day.

George

Left Turns...

The plane is slowing down somewhere over Kansas - that must mean that somewhere about 37,000 feet in the middle of nowhere, there are a few cows undisturbed in their feedlots, a few farmers emptying out their dryers from the summer, and the last of the rainstorms coming through before it gets cold enough to make popsicles on the farm house porch - when you look out the window this far up at those isolated places (yes, I hate to admit this, but most of Kansas is isolated) - it gets fun to wonder what part of American Gothic is taking place - whether Grandpa is using the pitchfork and the daughter is just wondering when she can get the fuck out of Kansas. I am sure that still happens more often than not - instead now, it is American MethLab, and Grandpa is hopped up on Budweiser and drugs from the VA, and the daughter is wondering when Billy is going to fix the truck so they can drive into KCK (Kansas City, Kansas) and get away from the corn rows...not quite the same place - unless of course you are the Duggar family - they seem to have preserved some simplicity in their lives, hell, they even have a blog - their blog offers very little consolation to me, but apparently, based on the comments - there sure are a gaggle of folks who want to know how much they make for parading their clean cut army around television handling chores such as cleaning out the RV shitter, or watching the boys enter into courtship...(what the hell is courtship anyway - it seems a bit midevil to me, but I suppose if that is the rules in the Duggar family, then those are the rules that you follow...)

I did learn this week that the best way for me to not think in a sexual manner is to think of the Duggar family. I don't think it has anything to do with the number of kids - I know at least two folks who have learned how to use birth control, and I don't think it has anything to do with being chaste or pure or even clean for my partner, because I know that I can buy soap, and if I feel really dirty, find a counselor or self help group that will smoke lodge my ass into blissful ignorance and meditation. (I think they call that self-actualization - sort of the Stumbling on Happiness book direction of how to make things better without making things worse even though our brains are designed to create enough distance between the bad things)...I am guessing the worst things you can do at the Duggar house consist of lying, sleeping through church, saying God without saying a prayer or Amen after it - you know the stuff that gets folks throwed into purgatory and shit....

Anyway - try it sometime, when you find yourself completely turned on by some internet smut - think of the Duggars. That will totally work. If it does, let me know, I am sure I can find a way to bill your insurance for curing your sickness and debauchery. If the thought of them actually gets you off - then please, don't read my blog anymore, I don't think I want to be connected to your sick sick mind.

Left turns - that's what life is a series of (no segue just straight into it) - I was given some advice by some guy I was probably gambling with, or drinking with, or whatever - and he pretty much said - "People, they are good at adapting - they are not good at changing. In fact, most of the time, they just don't change, they just get used to dealing with the new bullshit, and eventually forget about the old bullshit." - Now I am sure that this is not going to make it into the annals of behavioral psychology or team dynamics or sociological interactions of adult workers - but I am pretty sure, that once you get to the bottom of most of the Harvard Business Review Articles and those wonderful networking articles that McKinsey pumps out, that somewhere - this is going to be pretty much the bottom line. Why do I think large ERP systems and mega-mainframes and databases work? I think they work because they completely ignore that people actually give a shit about the weather - and tell you to fill in the blanks. Then, when enough folks are taught how to fill in the blanks in an 80% correct manner, someone in the "data warehouse", goes out and runs a bunch of queries and voila! They have the information on how the business is behaving - not how the organization is behaving, reacting, working. There is no real feedback on where the organization is going - (I would like to visit the data warehouse - and no, I am not that stupid, but if I ever open a bar, I am going to call it the Data Warehouse, just so all of the burned out linear thinking IT programmers have a place to drink large quantities of strong drink...)

You see right now, I am a policy writer. Just a guy who is taking an existing policy, and putting it into another policy and determining what procedures need to be taken out of a policy and moved to a procedure and then flowcharted to make sure that we have pictures so everyone can understand the decision tree and how things are supposed to go. I forgot how to wipe my ass until I looked at the flowchart on the back of the Charmin wrapper - and thank god for that, otherwise I would have choked on the cardboard roll in the center trying to get the freshest paper out of the middle of the roll. So that is my angst about left turns. Everything in life is pretty much a bigger and bigger left turn. Let me go a little further with that, and maybe, it will all start to make sense...

Go stand outside a playground, and watch the little kids spin themselves around in circle after cirle - those tight left turns and spinning until they get dizzy...then go to an amusement park, and watch the ten year olds on the carousel, larger left turns, but left turns none the less, bigger left turns, as you get older - watching the kids run track, then the left turns get larger as you sit on the outer loop stuck in traffic...slower, bigger left turns, but left turns...

So you start the spiral as a kid - tight fast left turns, then as you get a little older the left turns get a little wider...then you end up where you are - a series of larger and larger left turns - granted they do move slower when you start talking about making good money and having a career and having a family - but really - draw a straight line back to the center, and pretty much, you have not changed all too much - you are just alot of years away, have made several spirals outward - and continue to make left turns. I don't know why I am fascinated by that right now - maybe it is the economy, maybe it is the circular nature of having to deal with policy, maybe it is the reality that the farther we get away from a point, the closer we really are - no one really heads straight anywhere - we all get caught up in the dizziness of the left turns - and then, occassionally, we do get the chance to drink half a bottle of eighteen year old scotch, and either slow the spinning down enough to watch the rest of the world spin around us - or we just keep walking in left turns.

I know that is batshit crazy. But hell, I just figure it gave me something to write about for a few hours - other than policy and procedure. My new policy and procedure - keep turning left.

George

Pinky Blue and Being 40...

Kermit The Frog...gotta love this song. Makes me want to do something. Anything. Something other than listen to this song.

A common theme that runs through all of my blogs is a sense of humor, at least in my mind, a slight sense of humor, tinged with the fact that I think I am becoming more and more human everyday - and less and less adult about things - no really, if you thought I could not fall any deeper into a sense of childishness, I have, in more ways than one...I am trying like hell to keep my composure these days - mostly by ignoring the wantoness to critique myself, and to actually listen to those SparkPeople blog reminders that I get sent via emaill - it is ironic that it has been a month since I posted, well, not that ironic, I have been pretty lazy about writing, I do write a greeting card once a week - but I don't think that is going to strengthen my chances any of becoming a better writer - but the fact that I actually write - well, I suppose that makes me a writer in the slackest sense of the term - I don't particularly like the term "blogger" just as much as I don't like the term "mergers and acquisitions guy" - but I guess they both go hand in hand. I really do wonder how folks like Hemingway and Kerouac and Hunter Thompson, and Burroughs were able to make a living whilst they wrote and created new things on paper - (not so much Burroughs, I think he was set by his adding machine company - I don't really know the history of that one all that much, other than to know that I liked his stark and realistic view on the world)...did they ever have real jobs that kept them occupied or did they just figure out a way to stay cutting edge enough to deal with the era equivalent of Ramen Noodle. Don't know. Probably worth reading about someday. Anyway, I am locked out of my work computer, it appears that I tried to type the password eleven too many times, so that limits my ability to do anymore financially viable work, and now I can let the synapses fire on putting this stuff together. Lucky you!

Pinky Blue - that is the way would describe the sky tonight - I am pretty sure that I am somewhere over Arizona or New Mexico - I can see the canyons down below and the sky runs pink right into the orange of the desert floor, and slowly transitions into a light blue - the sun is setting - so I know it must be around six or seven on the west coast, and I just hope the traffic is caml before I hit the Los Angeles freeways for an hour long (with any luck) drive into the beautiful republican suburb of Claremont - for a stop at the Trader Joe's for a six pack of all natural diet soda and some toasted flax spread....boy I can really ruin a half way decent description - so back to Pinky Blue - I am 100% sure where I learned that term. I am 100% sure who I learned it from. When the sky is that color, the world is a better place - granted the pinky part is pollution, but a slight combination of both is nice - it is calming, soft like the few clouds that are out there, relaxing, and makes the sunset that much better to enjoy. It makes the flight pleasnt as well - sitting at my window seat looking for shapes in the clouds, imagining, not worrying for just a few minutes, actually forced to take a break and just look out the window - it is a nice break. Not quite as nice as sitting on the deck at Rory's in Edmonds having a cold beer watching the sun go down over the Kingston Ferry, but a nice break just the same. I read somewhere that the strongest sense of memory is smell, but I think visually watching something brings deja vu - I can still feel the cold air of the first pinky blue sky, and can smell the salt air off of the Puget Sound - just by looking out of a 12" x 6" airplane window hurling through the air at 500 miles per hour.

I turned 40 a few weeks ago - and ended up in New Orleans with my best friends - and great memories were created, and a few not so great ones - but for the most part, I think I was on pretty good behavior 70% of the time, and only managed to piss off everyone around me once, my girlfriend twice, and only borrow money once. For me, that's pretty damn good. Not great, not anything that I am proud of, but it looks like it could have been worse - I have a photo of me with a plastic penis from a set of beads resting peacefully in my intoxicated mouth - and that about sums up me welcoming forty into my reality - the funny thing is that I don't feel the forty that I hear about all of the time - I know that men are supposed to be great by this time in their lives, and if they have not accomplished anything by now, they probably will not accomplish anything going forward, that your thirties are the time to establish yourself in this world as one of the ones on top, or just the guy who tried really really hard, or who did not try at all - good thing is that I tried really really hard - so if trying is worth anything, then I should get a consolation prize. There is nothing different about being 40 - it is the same as being 39 - I cannot say if it is the same as being 41, have not gone that route yet, but I can say that over time, my outlook has slowly changed - some by necessity, some by reality, some by sheer force of will - I mean I can no longer go out until six am and expect to be at work on time. I can no longer just decide to run a 5K or 10K after two weeks of training without some severe physical consequences. I cannot say "fuck it" and walk off of a job knowing that there is probably a future out there with someone else. I worry about enough money to retire, and not have to live with my children. I guess those are mature thoughts - more mature than I would chalk my average thought pattern over the course of my life to be, but that seems to be the only thing that has really changed. I mean now, I can get Testosterone treatment and use Rogaine, and if necessary, can go in a get one of those miracle lift facelifts that only require five days of healing - and then have that followed up by a rousing microdermabrasion session and a little liposuction. Hell, why should I look 40 when I feel 30? Someone asked me if I had the chance to go it again - what would I redo? Gamble less, save more, drink more, travel more, spend more time with my kids, never start smoking, go to a top twenty B-school. Sure, there are lots of things I would change, but seeing on average that I have about 25 to 41 years left to live, I still have a pretty good chance that I can get that stuff done (knock on wood) - I thought 40 would be this monumental achievement, and really, for those of you about to hit it, or worried about it - don't - the only thing that really happened for me is now I am in a protected class and can claim age discrimination - that's about it. I also can go to the doctor and realistically ask him to stick his finger up my ass to see if I am okay. That's a big thing, some would think a bonus. Really, the changes are more gradual - over the course of the past ten years, things changed really slowly, with exception to the kids, things just kind of stroll along - the body changes, the mind changes, the situation changes, the job changes, the pay changes, but it all happens over the course of the past ten years- not much else to say about turning 40. It happened. Voila. I made it. Am I where I want to be? I am where I am - and I got here by being who I am - that can be good, or mediocre, or just plain bad, but I am here. So that is pretty heavy - done thinking on that one...without further adieu and no segway I introduce to you the top ten things about being 40...

1. People call you sir alot. Not because you deserve it, or have earned it, just because you look fucking old, and that's what they are supposed to do when you look that fucking old.

2. Foods like Activia and Olives magically appear in your icebox. You don't necessarily like that shit, or even want to eat it, but occassionally your body needs active yogurt cultures, or craves nasty olives that have been in your icebox for a year.

3. Your medicine cabinet smells like a giant multivitamin. I have to hold my breath every time I open my medicine cabinet - I swear it is like sticking you nose in a Flintstones Chewable bottle and inhaling - maybe that would be better if you could huff your vitamins instead of taking the "Mens Multipack" - that consists of about 83 pills that are coated with adhesive so you can dry heave and hack like a cat struggling on a furball as you try to choke the damn things down. Of course, you do this right after you get out of the shower, so you will be found dead naked, wet, and with a mouth full of pills.

4. You cannot lift your children anymore. Not that you cannot physically lift them once - you probably can do it once - it is just that the rest of the day will be consumed by rubbing ben-gay and dosing up on flexoril trying to escape the fact that your lower spine was ground into dust in your thirties when you thought marathon running was really cool.

5. You lose the ability to be fashionable. How many 40 year olds do you see wearing those louvered sunglasses - very few - and those that you do see wearing those sunglasses are the ones you ask for extra weed from. I think the most fashionable thing in my wardrobe is my underwear - and that's because Michael Jordan pitches them, everything else just makes me look really white and really old.

6. Stairs in the dark are your enemy. No more night vision - I don't care if you have shoved carrots up your ass, drink a gallon of beta carotene juice a day, and have had cornea implants done just because - you can no longer see for shit in the dark. God forbid you are in the dark, and then someone turns the lights on - they might as well set off a flash grenade as you bounce around screaming expletives - same for the stairs - count the stairs, because you will need to know how many there are - it is a real bitch when you think there are 16 and there are actually 18 - those last two make a large amount of noise as your knees collapse underneath you.

7. You get hairy ears. Yup, It is true. If I were to let my ear and nose hair grow, I could mimic that chupacabra kid and become a professional wrestler or sideshow attraction. It is a cruel joke that is played on us - because you can try like hell to get hair to grow on your head - no dice - you are fucked, and it will grow on your ears and your nose. Sorry. So when your kids ask you why you are shaving your ears and sticking that thing in your nose, tell them because you have bad genes, and that since they dont have either type of hair, they are probably going to look like Uncle Joe who had three inch hair on his back.

8. Forget Dairy. Forget it completely. At 40, a magical switch goes off in your body that says you are way too old to have milk, ice cream, or anything else that may contain traces of milk byproducts. You don't have to listen to me now, but after three days of the shits, massive heartburn, and the desire to eat chalky substances to calm your stomach, you will listen. Yes young Skywalker, you will listen.

9. 9:00 PM bedtimes suddenly become AWESOME!!! - To hell with Jay Leno - you can TiVo that crap - you only watch it for the monologue anyway.

10. Every movie you watched when you were a kid has no applicability or draw for your children. In fact, most of them are classics. Put a ten year old and a 13 year old in front of Goonies - and you prove this point - better yet, try Karate Kid, or The Last Starfighter - and all I hear about are the crappy special effects and the funny hairstyles and the bright clothes people used to wear back then.

Those are my top ten. I think when you turn 50, you snore obnoxiously loud like the guy next to me on the airplane, but I already do that, so that is one less thing to keep on the list - Thanks everyone for making the first 40 what they were - without each of you, I would probaby be less bitter, slightly less cynical, more successful, and much better looking - but hell, I would have died twenty years ago.... Until next time, George

Room 508 and I...

For those of you who have only seen Omaha in the movie "Up in the Air", or who have ever dreamed of making it over to the World Series of College Baseball, you can always stop by Room 508 in the Doubletree Guest Suites - and chances are, that I may be there - then again, now that everyone knows my secret hideaway in the wonderful Hilton property, I may need to change locations...

I have been staying at this hotel for about eight years now. The exterior is a little tired, the interior has gone through two renovations, and I believe that they change the mattresses every two weeks, because everytime I am here, they seem new - maybe they haul them down to the parking lot and just beat the shit out of them - you know, like you used to see folks doing in the Westerns that they play on late night television - just pounding the hell out of the mattress, then dragging it back through the dusty walkway and threshold to throw down on the artfully and tastefully decorated early Americana furniture (tonight was Antiques Roadshow night on PBS, and I find it fascinating that there are actually furniture periods - my house would be considered "Poorly matched broke divorced guy eclectic roadside gathering period"). Perhaps this is why I feel so comfortable in hotels - they have shower curtains and a shower liner, albeit I don't like the shower liner touching me, it just amazes me that they have both. The chairs, with their cutesy little accent patterns actually match and contrast the carpet and the curtains at the same time! Walk into my house, and on any given day, and you will find the hurricane blinds that I pulled out of some trash bin (I cleaned them and they were the right size) and hung up in my windows - white matches the walls, even if they do a very ineffective job of keeping the Florida sunrise from waking everyone up at the ass crack of dawn. Everything in Room 508 is manageable. The shampoo bottle is manageable. The soap bar is manageable. The water bottles are manageable. All sized down to a convenient hand held single serving use. At home, I deal with the four gallon shampoo bottle from Costco, and have to have my son lug the 800 pack toilet paper up the stairs. Here, it is just room 508, and if I run out, someone from downstairs will bring up a new bottle. Pretty nice.

Room 508 does not get mail. I check my mail every three weeks, whether I really need to or not. Two escrow refund checks sat in my unread mail pile for six months, and both banks called and asked if I planned on cashing them. An automobile insurance refund got hidden somewhere between the penny saver and the invite to the local fundamental church now holding services in the middle school down the road. Numerous bills remain, and if Shirley McClain is right, each is feeling a little shitty about what they did in their past life to get reincarnated as one of George's unopened bills. With any luck, they will get thrown out in short order so they can graduate to the next level and become a bird or some other enlightening creature.

Room 508 can be dark in the middle of the afternoon. They have these sliding glass doors, but they also have these curtains that are heavy enough to be pieces of old carpet - but when you shut them - magically, the room is now the middle of the night, and you trip over shit on your way back to bed. I like that. Unfortunately, I sleep with the curtains open, and figure if anyone is wierd enough to be a peeping tom on a forty year old fat guy, then have at it. For a couple of extra dollars, I would pose (and probably not use that money to pay one of those bills awaiting death sitting on my kitchen counter).

Yes, Room 508 and I have been through some pretty good times together. Folks don't get it when I tell them these stories. I think they believe I am half nuts, half lying, and half drugged - and they are probably half right - but Room 508 has seen me through my kids first day of school, one divorce, three houses, numerous pounds shed and gained, one girlfriend, probably thirty hangovers, two presidents, one nervous issue, and at least six pairs of running shoes. I get to move every six months or so, into a new Room, but Room 508 definitely is first prize in memorable rooms...

Getting back into blogging is like getting back into working out - doing both at the same time is a real bitch. Four years ago, I was doing seven miles every three days along with the sit-up and push-up routine - today, I hit two miles and thirty sit ups and push ups and felt like I had just given birth to a full grown Fat Albert (not that I know what either feels like, I just think that me giving birth to a three hundred pound man would cause both my stomach muscles and leg muscles to spasm uncontrollably, shake, and hurt like they do now). Both writing and exercising require discipline - and as Nell says in the movie "Ta Ney Da Sooooooo" - and I think that means "George has no fucking discipline". I am pretty sure that is what it means, because everytime I Netflix that movie, I tear up at that line, and wonder what my life would be like if I was born a woman and left to fend for myself in the woods of West Virginia. I also wonder what my life would be like if I was born Jodie Foster, but I am pretty sure that besides the fame and the money, most of the other stuff we like is pretty similar...(come on, that is a good joke).

I think the difference between casual exercisers, writers, poker players, whatever and real folks who are good at those things, is that us casual dabblers don't have that need that makes it a necessary thing for them to feel right - for the folks who are good at it - they have to do whatever it is they do to feel good in the head - to make their right brain and left brain get along with each other and to make them tolerable at cocktail parties. I am not quite there yet. Cocktail parties are fun, but I do less and less of those, and I am pretty sure years of abuse and lack of proper training have forced my right brain and left brain into a singular being now known as "the gumball pink thing" - and are in constant struggle to control my reality. (I really hope folks who don't really know me too well don't take this too seriously - I can see it now, I run for public office, and have to explain, among other things, why I affectionately speak of my brain in the third person as "the gumball pink thing").

Your mind wanders when you have a favorite hotel room. I guess that is my point. There is a large amount of wandering when you are actually wandering in a familiar place - don't worry, that did not make much sense to me eight years ago, but now, the lust is gone from the wander - and I just enjoy Room 508.

Let's see what I have to write about tomorrow...

George