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Ten days without a post. My God my brain's about to pop!
It's the day after Christmas, well into the Kwanzaa season by now I guess and I've got a bunch of catching up to do. I'm actually having a pretty tough time writing tonight. I made a pot of coffee earlier this evening and I've since downed 10 (yep 10) cups in the past couple of hours. Now I'm caught in this disasterous loop of write, backspace, delete, ponder, write, backspace, delete, ponder, write, backspace, delete, ponderwritebackspacedelete. To give you an idea of what I'm going through, the last sentence took 15 minutes. I'm not trying for perfection or anything I'm just trying to get in gear. I just hope (with all of the caffeine) I don't write one long sentence.
The past ten days have been somewhat eventful, Of course there has been the holidays, getting together with the fam, and all of the trauma associated with that(*note to family members, it was good trauma, FUN FUN FUN trauma). For some reason I've been extremely appreciative of everthing. Normally I'm like "oh, a white shirt. oh thanks. just what i needed. no really. i love it." But this year I was doing little happy dances over every gift. HOT DAMN!!! AXE DEODERANT! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! It could have something to do with my "deadline". My deadline (in a nutshell) is a premonition thing I have. Basically, I meet my mortal end sometimes next year. Not that I'm worried about it, it's just been one of those things in the back of my mind since I was a teenager. My deadline is 39. I'm now 38. I'll turn 39 in February. In reality I'm sure it's bullshit. My dad had a "deadline", his was age 42, he's now 67. I found out a few months ago that my grandmother had a "deadline" too. Her's was age 45. She turned 90 back in November. Besides I went to a psychic five years ago and she said I'd live to see 82. If you can't believe a psychic named Rita, who can you believe? Right? But, if R80o goes several months without a post next year you'll think back to this post and wonder if I'm "cold and blue" or just lazy. No matter how "it" happens, I just hope it's not because of something stupid. When I die I hope it's because I was rescuing a herd of kindergartners from the clutches of a runaway bus and not because a gulp of Listerine went down the wrong pipe or anything like that. I've got this mental picture of a Buddhist monk and Elvis hanging out in front of the Pearly Gates:
Monk: "Self-immolation. I took my life to protest of the wrongs of humanity. You?"
Elvis: "Well, I... I uh.... I... I was on the crapper see, and..."
Monk (starts tearing up from laughter): "hold on.... YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME! Hey, Saint Thomas come over and get a load of this one! HHHAAAAAHHHAAAHHHHH LOAD!!!! Get it!!! LOAD!!! Now do that lip thing again. Come on, do it again."
What I'm saying here is I'd rather be the monk, definitely not Elvis.
Anyway back to the post, in addition to the holiday joy, my mortality and Elvis on the john. I've grown quite the bubba-esque goatee. First time I've had facial hair in 15 years. Back then I had a hint of a moustache, everybody said I looked like a migrant farm worker. "Got Crud." could've been my slogan. I lost the 'stache at a wedding reception...Imagine if you will, "uh could you pass the scotch, oh and what th' hell, hand me that Schick Triple Blade while you're at it".
I'm lucky my nipples didn't get shaved off.
Now with the goatee, I kinda look like Michael Keaton with an elderly gerbil stapled to his chin.
With the exception of the few gray spots I think I like it, Leslie does.
In other news, the roadwork that has been going on in front of my neighborhood for the past THREE YEARS is finally complete. This may not sound like much to you, but I feel that the Georgia Department of Transportation actually read my letter to Santa. HOT DAMN!!! A TURNING LANE! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!
12/26/2003 11:32:26 PM
ididit, idiot.
I just got through "helping" my kid with a diorama.
You know the drill... a shoebox, crayons, craft paper, tears, safety scissors, pipe cleaners, a book report, screaming, paste, modeling clay, tape, cotton balls, a shoe thrown against the wall. All the makings of a fine time to be had with dad, right? When monkeys smoke crack-- right. My daughter has the classic trademark of her dad. Procrastination. The assignment was handed out with a four week deadline, and the night before it 's due she springs into ready action. She's barking orders like... well... like a woman. She's the taskmaster, and I, her lowly slave. She's actually got it made though, no other kid in her grade has an "ex-comm"-(reformed commercial artist) in their family.
This is the way it usually works:
a. "K" (my daughter)will read/skim/flip pages through the book that she's to "report" on.
b. a week before the project is due, Leslie (my wife, her mom) will remind her about the project.
c. three days before the project is due Leslie will raise hell about the deadline and the fact that "nothing's been done."
d. two days before the project is due I get the "you know you're gonna have to help her with that" speech. Followed by the "that's not what I do that's what you do" or the "you're so talented in that area" routine.
e. the day before it's due I have to rearrange my day, or call in sick to have enough time to work on it--
THE NIGHT BEFORE IT'S DUE.
f. the night before it's due. The night before the project is due is a car wreck. A total household meltdown.
I'm sure "the night before" will wind up as a topic for a therapy session in her later life.
After all of that, the project is turned in on time, usually to recieve an A+, or the ocassional A+++, she's even been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize for her Excellence in Diorama. Of course she makes sure the teacher and all of her friends know who pulled off this masterpiece with a terse little... "ididit."
I, on the other hand, want to find a little "spider-hole" in the desert just south of Tikrit and crawl in it and sleep until the nervous tremors/ticks/convulsions stop or at least until the Thorazine kicks in. I just want to find my comfortable spot. My safety zone.
It's not all bad though. Out of all the blood, sweat and name calling, I got a "th'nks, dad." for the effort. That's almost as good as her buying me a Tivo and wrapping it up with a big red bow.
"Almost" being the operative term!
12/16/2003 05:04:01 PM
The Narcoleptic Van Luge
The Narcoleptic Van Luge
I've mentioned my annual Mantrip before (see the Thursday, October 09, 2003 | Exhibit A post). The Mantrip is a testosterone laden/alcohol soaked long weekend where a bunch of friends (up to 12 one year) corral our lazy asses into a "sooped-up" circa 1988 custom Chevy van and travel, headfirst, into a frat-type weekend.
Each one of us are known by our individual personas, most of us have appropriate nicknames. There's "Mitch the Bitch" aka "Mitch the Mooch", Tom "the Woman", I'm known as "Batman", Joe's the "Narcoleptic". Todd is "Big-Funny". The list goes on, I won't bore the crap out of you with all of the names, but none-the-less they fit.
Each trip is marked by, and later named by an event that happened on said trip.
The 1998 Mantrip was dubbed: "The Narcoleptic Van Luge".
Why Narcoleptic Van Luge, you ask?
It had something to do with "Joe the Narcoleptic" being elected, appointed , deputized , czared designated driver since he couldn't drink because of the meds regime he was on. We're all smart, somewhat educated grown men. It made all the sense in the world to have Joe drive us through the severely, mountainous terrain of north Georgia, at night, late night, in a van the had the suspension of a covered wagon and the steering of a rowboat.
After the hick-bars had closed and we were still in one piece and not in jail, but ugly (this actually should read butt-ugly) with drunkeness and debauchery. We finally decide to head back to the hills, off to the cabin. Joe at the wheel.
THAT WAS THE MOST T-E-R-R-I-F-Y-I-N-G RIDE OF MY ENTIRE... DAMNED... LIFE!
I'll admit it. I was scared. I almost cried(scratch that) shrieked like "a little girl". At one point, I... I... I almost poo'd (I ain't too proud). Joe would do, like 30 miles an hour on the straight-aways (all five of them), then careen through the curves doin' 80. We'd be pulling 4-g's by the time we hit the apex of the curve. The van's doors would be practically scraping the asphalt due to the speed and lack of suspension combination. He fell asleep a few times. I'd see him nodding, them BAM, he'd be out. REM sleep! Only to come back "to" when we all would squeal in terror.
We made it back to the cabin. How? I was riding shotgun so I was on consciousness alert, whenever I thought I saw the sandman getting ready to slam it to Sleepy Joe I'd let everybody else know. If I remember correctly I think Tom would go for the wheel. Anyway, we made it back. (In my best Jimmy Swaggart voice) THANK GAAAWWD AW-MIGHT-EH UH-BUV we made it!
Thus, 1998...The Year of "The Narcoleptic Van Luge".
In 1999, Todd and I were trying to come up for concepts for that year's tshirt (I do a tshirt design for the trip). I came up with "Narcoleptic Van Luge" and we went with that. But our pile of rejected concepts were worth noting.
1999 Mantrip T-shirt Idea Rejects
1. eeeeeewwwwwww, was that you?
2. I don't like to talk about it.
3. The midnight methane glow. Did you see it TOO!
4. If my wife asks, I was never here.
5. They call this fun?
6. Why Yes, We Are Astronauts
7. Team Mantrip, Winner 1999 Discovery Eco-Challenge
8. It's a Bee-Gees Bonanza
9. Slobapalooza
10. Hey BigMan, Lemme Hol' a Dahlah (...long story...)
11. Mantrip '99, Featuring IMAX, now with Senso-Rumble (fart reference)
12. Ya know yer drunk when you let the narcoleptic drive home.
13. My only weekend that doesn't suck.
14. Le' Miseruns (poo reference)
15. It's the Pressure, The Strain of It All.
16. Batman vs. the Ritalin (illicit drug use reference)
17. The Good, The Bad, The Sleepy.
18. Hey Mitch, Can I Have One of My Beers. (reference to Mitch drinking everyone else's beer)
19. Down Home at the Stabbin' Cabin.
If I can find the tshirt I'll post an image of it soon.
12/11/2003 12:04:46 AM
Maybe
Maybe?
sidebar: This post is stupid, irrevelant and has little if any literary/journalistic value. AS IF it's any different than any other post?
I got into blogging back in September. I really didn't think I'd be writing very much at all and frankly I thought I would have ditched the whole thing within the first two weeks or after the third post, whichever came first.
Initially I was terrified (in a stupid, sweaty, stage fright sort of way). I sure as hell didn't think I could've come up with some of the crap that I have.
Now, I look at everything in my day in a "blogworthy/not blogworthy" way. I edit my conversations, like I would a post. During the day I sneak over to the sitemeter to see if somebody's been by to read anything. I try and figure out who's who on the sitemeter report (by the way, "co.uk" who are you?). My friends and family rate my posts, and give me pointers on what I should write about. I pray for comments (had to slip that one in). I've even found myself getting really caught up in other's stories, your stories.
Point here? I dig it! (God I can't believe I used that term, but it fit.)
Question? Can blogging be compulsive? Maybe? Should I consider therapy/medication? Maybe? Should I get a life? Definitely. Now, that I've come clean I'll just summarize with a big ol' drunken, "I luhv ya man!...nah really...Iuh...I mea-uhn it.... I luhv ya man!" (quit rolling your eyes, that was totally tongue-in-cheek.)
12/10/2003 10:33:35 PM
How Do You Recover?
I'm not sure if you've gathered from my previous post, but I'm fairly conversational. I'm usually not nosey, I try not to pry and I'm definitely not invasive or anything, but usually if there is an opportunity for conversation I'll gladly pipe up. A while back I was at a shopping center in another town roughly a hundred miles or so from my home. I'm out in the mall area sitting on one of the benches, watching people, you know just hanging. Occasionally an old man would come by sit down on the other end of the bench and nod, I'd nod back. From time to time there would be other dad/husband types come and plot down on the bench, they would deflate for a few minutes until their significant other stressor would show up and off they would go in search of another respite.
I'd been there for a good thirty- maybe forty minutes, when this attractive, 20 something, lady (to be pc- woman, female, girl, human with estrogen dominance whatever calms your waters... to me she was a lady, anyway) comes and sits on the bench. I initially evade eye contact, I don't want to seem like I'm sitting there as some sort of perv or anything.
After a minute or so she says "hey, how are you?", "I'm fine, how are you?" I respond. The makings of a wonderful conversation on a great Saturday at the mall, right? Right, we strike up a conversation. I'm generally rather reserve in situations like this, I figure if I don't know a person, but the situation is allowing for "good talk" then I'll let the other person have the floor. The way I see it other people have a story to tell (that's probably why blogging is so popular) I'll get out of their way and let them tell it. Anyway, she tells me about her old (EX) boyfriend, sports, restaurants and bars she likes, her pet, her job, her apartment, varied opinions on politics. It's not entirely a one sided conversation I'm asking questions, but clearly she's steering the conversation-- the topics of discussion are hers and I'm cool with that, I listen. Then she starts asking about me. I tell her all of the general/perfunctory information. Always conscience of the PPP (possible perv perception) I'm usually quick to point out that I'm married and I have a daughter, I'm not on the make. Then I cover other topics like off-the-wall stuff I like to do, what I do for a living, general stuff about my kid, just basic info. Light and cordial stuff.
I'm sure I was starting to dominate the conversation.
After a while she figures out that I'm not from around there, so she asks me "where ya from?" (Here's how the conversation went from that point)
Me: "Macon."
The Lady: "Macon?"
Me: "Yeah, it's a pit"
The Lady: "Yeah, I hate that fucking place... My father was murdered there!"
Me: "___________~ speechless, mouth ajar ~_________"
Me: still I'm "___________~ speechless, mouth ajar ~_________"
Me: still "___________~ speechless, mouth ajar ~_________"
The Lady: she shrugs " ' Sucks." she starts welling up with tears " ' gotta go, good to talk with you."
Me: "My God, I'm so sorry!", as she's walking off I tell her to "take care."
Later I figure that:
(a.) her dad really did lose his life in my hometown, for which I really did I really did fell sorry for her.
or
(b.) I was boring the ever-living shit out of her and she need an out.
or
(c.) She was a hooker and I was wasting her time.
There's a lesson here: If you find yourself in the need to shut down somebody completely mention to them about a murdered relative--- I was speechless and I totally gave her an out.
12/9/2003 08:40:30 PM
Camera shy.
Did I ever mention to you that I'm camera shy. Not only camera shy but morbidly afraid to open my mouth in front of a crowd. Sure it's a common fact that what most people fear most is public speaking. But my "fear" is more like a coma inducing psychosis. If I've got a speaking situation coming up I will actually lose sleep, weeks before the event.
There have been occasions of which I was due to give a presentation that actually had to be blasted on beta-blockers and Xanax just to get me to the meeting.
Point here is it's bad, real bad.
Several years ago (back when I was in advertising) my firm had moved into and renovated an old loft in downtown. Due to the work we were doing and the revitalization effort that our downtown was going through at the time the local television station came by our office to do a story about our business and to highlight the work that was being done on our building. I was chosen to talk to the reporter "on camera", and swoon about how much we "love the beautiful, historic...blah blah blah". Anyway, I'm prepped. I know what I'm going to say. I'm confident. Noooo problem! The reporter and I discuss the "flow" of our "candid on-air conversation". All's good, I'm ready to go.
Lights. Camera. Action.
Nothing. I'm standing in front of the camera, the reporter is talking to me and I can't open my mouth. My mind takes off on a sensory overload trip to Cuba. I am totally immobile. Squirrel on a transformer so to speak.
Cut. Cut.
Soon as the light goes off *blink* I'm fine. Embarrassed, but fine. I apologize to the reporter, she laughs and brushes it off. She goes over with me again what we're going to discuss. She ask one last time if I'm ok and I give her a thumbs up.
Lights. Camera. Action.
My God, I've turned to stone. The reporter asks me a question, I don't respond. I am catotonic at this stage. I know everything that's going on around me, but I cannot respond. Finally my partner steps in and she is able to continue on with the interview. I'm finally able to regain my composure, I go to the restroom and sob like "a little girl". It really messed with my head.
Then there was the time I was in a 8 foot by 8 foot room with five attorneys trying to train them on a program that I developed for their firm. Everything was fine for the first thirty seconds, then the attorneys started acting like... well.. lawyers. Instead of me trying to impart a bit of knowledge to them, they decided that would try to "one-up" each other. The "one-upsmanship" took the form of questioning me and drilling me about every infinitesimal detail about the program. In a training situation I'm usually prepared for these types, but these guys were beyond... well they were just beyond! Don't get me wrong I don't mind someone questioning me but, when the questions are coming at me in an adversarial way I get frustrated. Well I got frustrated. I got frustrated and I started sweating. The room was probably 74 degrees and I break-out into this musky body storm. I'm getting sweat on the chair, sweat is puddling on the table, I even have a sweat pool in my navel. My socks are soaked, hell I even have sweat coming out of my shoes, I squish when I walk. I'm not sure if this fits the camera shy thing, but it was one heck of an embarrasing para-sympathetic nervous reaction. I finally wade through (excuse the pun) the training session. As I'm finishing up I let them know in no uncertain terms that it would be in their best interest NEVER to get me up on the stand. I would rain on their parade.
I'm writing all this because tomorrow at 11 am, I've got a presentation to give to the board of directors of a fairly large company. We're trying to persuade them to use our program and let us do a lot of work for them. The problem I have now is I have no idea what I'm going to be talking about after the first hand-shake.
I wonder if I can stitch Maxi-Pads into my t-shirt?
Suggestions? Uh, can you spare a hit of Xanax?
12/2/2003 10:53:49 PM
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