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The planets are lining up...
You know things are going to be good when, on your drive to work you catch greenlights at every traffic signal. EVERY ONE! I'm talking 14 lights! ALL GREEN!!!
Reginald--The God of Vacation, is smiling down on me today!
I haven't mentioned it before now 'cause I didn't want to jinx it, but we're on a real vacation starting tomorrow!
Real vacation... As in, "not a mamby-pamby long weekend"!
Real vacation... As in, getting on a plane and flying to Denver!
Real vacation... As in, something we haven't done in years!
Real vacation... As in, we've been planning this for months!
Real vacation... As in, we'll be practicing the art of vacating!
Can I get an Amen?
...
...
...
I SAID...CAN I GET AN AMEN!?!?!
7/23/2004 04:27:08 PM
Idiodyssey
Have you ever started a conversation only to realize once the other person you're talking to is actually engaged and listen to you-- you find yourself wanting to bail from the interaction and go crawl under a bus? If the conversation continues you realize you'll need cue cards. You pray for the other person to get a violent case of diarrhea so the encounter will end.
Do you ever find yourself formulating the best speech, rebuttal, argument, blog post, or response while you're in the shower (forgetting to wash your hair) only to forget the speech, rebuttal, argument, blog post, or response minutes after you get out of the shower?
Have you ever had a fresh perspective to contribute, only to realize when you open your mouth to make said contribution: a.) you are in the fit of a full-blown rage, b.) your mind drifts off to Cuba and you are wondering if the Dali Lama surfs the net for porn, or c.) you talk in shapes and colors**.
Or have you ever realized that your thoughts are about as cohesive as smoke?
I hate to bring these things up because when Leslie reads this post she will automatically assume (she's not a doctor but she plays one on the Internet) I need therapy, drugs, electro-shock, and a colonoscope just for good measure.
I don't think I'm depressed, I just feel "out of joint". Getting through my day is like driving a car with bad steering... I'm having to concentrate on things I normally wouldn't-- like conversations.
It hasn't been anything prolonged either, just noticable.
God knows there are plenty of reasons why my head is up my ass. Work would have to be HIGH up on that list-- if not tops!
Spirit or Serotonin? Emotions are chemicals, right?
Thank you for letting me use your couch Dr. Internet. Will you file my insurance or do I need to pay as I leave?
**It's true. I've made chili that tasted square.
7/20/2004 08:56:01 PM
Maybe it's an introspective type of thing...
I'm here. Quiet, but here all the same. While I'm on mute, look around in the My Pictures gallery, I've just uploaded a bunch of new images.
7/19/2004 11:35:25 PM
The Chief
It's hot. "Cambodia-hot." And sticky... "I just hate it when it's sticky."
We're sitting on the balcony of "The Fiddler" eating seafood overlooking the Savannah River Sunday evening. We're on the balcony flop-sweating because BH wants to smoke cigars while we dine. I've always thought cigars to be as pretentious as tiaras, but anyway. We're outside eating, sweating, smoking, and talking when BH mentions that he wants to "find some live music".
This is a bad idea.
Inside my head red-flags are waving and warning bells are going off. I could have counted seventy-five reasons on one hand why we should've finished our meal and headed back to the hotel. One of the biggest reasons being it's Sunday evening and we have to have our "game-on" the next day for the show.
I think about it for a minute, then decide to do the right thing. In my most sane and responsible voice I say "Wha' hell yeah!"
Screw responsibility.
So as we're finishing our meal, BH asks our server if he knows of any bands playing tonight? He mentions that he thinks there's somebody playing at The Bayou, but he's not real sure-- "it's Sunday night, not gonna be much goin' on" he says. That little voice in my head is saying "Mark, don't be a dick. go to the hotel. don't be a dick. go to..." As we're walking down River Street trying to find The Bayou, I'm ignoring that little voice.
There's the sign, the door is up a flight of stairs. We make our way up, then inside to the bar. Saying it is a bar is a bit of an overstatement. Yes there was a bar there and a stage as well as a few tables but the place was tiny. Closet tiny. No big deal though, cause "it's Sunday night, not gonna be much goin' on" right? We order up a round of drinks, BH lights up a cigar and we settle in.
A half hour passes.
Then, as if on cue, the bar goes quiet. You know like one of those pregnant pauses in a conversation when it's so quiet you can hear a rabbit fart. But it happens across the bar at the same time. Silent.
In hind-sight I guess it was the quiet before the storm...
WHAMMM!!!
This huge guy* in a football jersey slams through the door carrying an guitar case and a speaker-- on a mission, steamrolls his way over to the stage. He cussing like he has tourettes and he's amped up on meth. "You." he says as he points at me, "move that table and those chairs back!" That big son-of-a-bitch got my attention... I wasn't going to argue. So I moved what he told me to move. Then he turns around and heads back outside to grab more of his gear. Before he walks out he points to another guy in the bar. "You! Help me bring in my shit!". Needless to say the guy jumps up and helps out.
I've just had my first encounter with...
The Chief.
---To be continued---
*seemed to be around 6'5" maybe 340 lbs.
7/16/2004 09:22:51 PM
This pretty much sums it up....
I made it back from Savannah a couple of days ago. Stories to follow.
Right now... Well right now is not a good time to write.
7/15/2004 09:02:40 PM
A couple of comments about comments...
I'm heading off to the "tarde" show in the morning. I figured I would try to get in another post before I go away for the next few days.
I don't know where this will go... I'm just rambling.
I was going through my Blogroll today, trying to catch up. I checked in on a site I regularly visit and left a comment. Then clicked over to another site, left another comment. Then to another. And another. In all I left three or four comments out of the 20+ sites that I visited. There were several times that I clicked the comment button only to sit and stare blankly at the screen trying to come up with something useful to say. Only to chicken out and click the close button, saying nothing.
Later in the day as I was driving home from the office I started thinking about the ubiquitous "comment" hyperlink and what it represents. There are many sites I visit that don't offer comments, there are a few sites that I regular that opens comments on selected posts, but mostly the comment link is on most sites I see. I pondered as to the signigance of "comments" vs "no comments" vs "comments sometimes". I can't say I came up with any light to shed on this, I'm just throwing it out there.
Then I thought the number of comments some blogs get. I've seen sites that get hundreds on a single post. I watched the other day as dooce.com got over 300 comments within a two day period! Due to my nature... I used to think of the comment count as a score. Kind of the way I remember the Baptist preacher at the church I grew up in would do, "We had 321 smiling faces in Sunday School today! We're doing the Lord's work better than that other church across the street... They only had 29 show up! HEATHENS."
Now that I think about it, the count has nothing to do with score. I think it has more to do with the reader, and how well he/she identifies with the writer. As well as site traffic.
Further into this "thought train" I tried to figure out why I sometimes am able to freely comment on some sites, while other sites I completely "nut-up". Actually I "nut-up" on every comment I post for some reason. I'm sure it has something to do with my stagefright. If I've ever posted a comment on your site, you can rest assured that I sweated my ass off before I hit the submit button. You can also rest assured that if you're on my Blogroll, I've tried-- and maybe failed-- but tried all the same to post a comment or offer up a kind word or a thought on your site.
I finally realized that above all else the comment thing is about community. Somebody emailed me today and mentioned a comment I left on their blog, and how all of the responses (read comments) that she's been receiving has been helping her through a tough time in her life. I think that illustrates my point well enough.
The transmission of ideas, the feedback, the connection, whatever you want to call it, it makes the blog thing work. Otherwise I might as well be talking to a volleyball named "Wilson".
Anyway, I've got to get some sleep. But before I go I've got to set RZ up her own blog. More on that as the story evolves.
7/10/2004 11:10:57 PM
file this under work stuff:
I've been on Earth for 14393 days. This is what I've done the last nine of those 14393...
I've:
Written copy for*, and re-designed a website and the demo and tour.
Layed-out, designed, wrote*, edited and handled the last minute printing of a newsletter from scratch.
Designed an 8 foot x 8 foot, photographic, trade (freudian slip, I typed "tarde" 3 times in a row-- hee, hee.) show display. Can you say 96"x96"x250DPI, no? Well can you say huh-youge, beast of a Photoshop file?
Developed a Google Adwords campaign for said website.
Designed, had printed and implemented a 2300 piece direct-mail postcard campaign for said website and said "tarde" show.
And handled all of the crap that occurs on any other normal day.
All of this is shadowed by what this guy did. He managed to put our entire Unix-based server setup, and all of our client's websites on a laptop--that will be sans Internet connection-- so that we'll be able to strut our stuff at the "tarde" show Sunday in Savannah.
Scott, you rock!
Bryan and Chris you rock too!
*Bryan wrote too.
7/9/2004 11:03:55 PM
Just finishing lunch, what can I write about in thirty seconds?
Hmmmm, Let's see...
Iamuptomyeyeballsinwork!
Yep, that'll do it.
"Buried" would be a gross understatement.
'Back shortly.
7/8/2004 02:12:30 PM
...and Brooke Shields stars as Emmeline in The Blue Lagoon, and...
Richard and Em are children when shipwrecked and marooned alone on a lush tropical island. By the time they are rescued...
Oops, sorry.
I've put away the Harlequin Romance/Teen Love bullshit that I coughed up last night. I guess that's what happens when you drink Mike's Hard Lemonade on an empty stomach. My apologies if you read it and threw up a little bit.
I was trying to come up with a Fourth of July memory that would be worth reading, then bim-bam before I knew it I was scribing the hurl that you see below. I thought about deleting it, I even asked Leslie if I should, then I figured what the hell keep it anyway. It'll serve as a reminder to stay away from froo-froo drinks! Bourbon or scotch from now on, I'm swearing off the frilly stuff.
I hope you're having a great fourth! I am. I've decided to try my hand at method acting. My acting lesson for today is learning to act like a sloth. I'm getting pretty good at it too! For the past seven hours I have hardly moved a muscle, save for my thumb. Seems sloths are highly skilled with the television remote. I've also found out that sloths dietary mainstay is nacho flavored Doritos. Who'd a thought?
Anyway, as hard as it is, I'm willing to sacrifice my day off for my craft.
Now on a totally unrelated note, what would you do if you had to go without running water for 23 days? More on this later.
7/4/2004 10:13:02 AM
4th of July, 1978
Lynn. She was my first love.
It was the summer between eighth and ninth grade. It was hot.
Her parents had invited me to go to Toomsboro with them to some sort of country music festival. I hated country music. I still do, I've always said "it makes my ears bleed."
Country music festival, Southern Baptist Convention, or to the vet to euthanize my dog-- I didn't care, I would've gone anywhere to be in the same room as her, to breathe the same air. Every time I saw her I trembled, I didn't understand what I was feeling, but I was liking that new feeling all the same.
She and her parents picked me up early in the afternoon in THE VAN. THE VAN was one of those souped-up custom vans, the interior was covered in that multi-hued, orange shag carpet-- the carpet of the seventies. THE van had a definite seventies porn vibe to it.
We get to Toomsboro, then to the festival. As we walk into the arena some gospel group is onstage twanging their hearts out. I remember walking by an old man with no teeth, bouncing his leg, clapping to the music-- off beat. I felt like I was in another world. A strange otherworld. Seriously, I was in the shallow end of the gene pool! It was freakish.
We sat with her parents for around a half hour when she asked if I wanted to go outside and get a Coke. After we got the drinks and were walking back, we walked past by the van. A few steps later she grabbed my hand and turned us around and we were headed back to the van.
Once inside she turned on the stereo. Rod Stewart's "Tonight's The Night" started playing. Then she turned to me and we started kissing. We spent the next few hot hours teaching each other how to makeout, just "first base" kind of stuff. I had kissed other girls before. But never had I kissed anyone with passion. Lynn taught me that passion, or at least she helped me find it in myself.
The afternoon had settled into night when we finally decided that we had to slow things down a bit.
The kissing stopped and then we talked...
"I wish this could last forever."
"Me too."
"I love you."
"I... I love you too."
"I've always loved you... Even before I met you. No matter what happens, I'll remember this the rest of my life."
"Me too. The rest of my life."
We broke up a few weeks later, such as the way of young love I guess. But that one night will pleasantly haunt me "the rest of my life."
Lynn. She was my first love.
7/3/2004 09:13:25 PM
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