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Wednesday, December 19th, 2001
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2:42 pm
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| Tuesday, December 18th, 2001
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3:15 pm
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IF I was making a list of things that bothered me. Pretension. Would be at the TOP of that list.
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2:34 pm
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Grr! I have so much to do. Why am I wasting 8 hours of my day sitting at this desk, doing absolutely nothing? Huh? Huh?
Oh yeah. I do need a paycheck.
There's too much food. I'm too much eating.
At some point over the next two days I will have to shop.
Shit. My mom is having surgery Thursday morning and I can't even go over there. Because I'll be here. And then at the bar. I should just walk in and tell them "um, tomorrow will be my last day. I just really have too much other stuff to do. Sorry." Bet they'd get a kick out of that.
My friend C. asked if I wanted a going away party. We used to have these super cool going away parties (before there started to be 10 people going away each week). The bosses would pick up everything, everyone would get all schnockered and then we'd laugh about it the next day. NO MORE! The bosses don't pick up anything anymore and nobody shows up and it's just lame. So I said, no, but me and a couple people that I actually do LIKE are gonna go out for a bit next wednesday. Whoopee.
Damn. I'm pathetic. Send money.
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| Wednesday, December 12th, 2001
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12:31 pm
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"Stop in and get some warm coffee while your visiting."
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!! Learn english!!! Especially those of you who make signs. Please? PRETTY FUCKING PLEASE? The above line was on one of those little placards on the gas pump this morning when I was getting gas. Over ALL of the pumps at this gas station. With "your" spelled wrong on each and every one of them! Maybe I'm a complete idiot but I just think this represents how lazy humanity has become.
It's just hit me recently that I'll no longer have health insurance in just a little bit here. That's pretty scary. I've never had anything wrong with me, but, you just never know when something terrible could happen. PLUS, I always get sick right around the first of the year for some reason. For about 15 years running. Granted it's usually just your run of the mill flu type stuff, but it's nice to be able to go to a doctor if you want to. Blech, I hate doctors.
Hm. There's a dentist that's a regular at the bar. Wonder if he could help? I'm sure that Nitrous Oxide would cure whatever it is I will have.
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| Tuesday, December 11th, 2001
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12:44 pm
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Well, T minus 10 days until I officially join the ranks of the unprofessionally employed. Or something like that. See technically I won't be unemployed because of the bar job. I feel really super worthless. I mean ... someone said to me earlier that now is the worst time in the history of the world to be looking for a job. I'm not sure if that's true or not. But it sure seems like it. A certain person has every confidence that I'll find a job. But I sure as hell don't. I guess I can pay the bills with the bar job. But ... wow, it just makes me really sad. Not that my potential was being put to good use here, either. But shit. Slinging drinks. Wow. What a fucking challenge.
Everyone feels sorry for me. Or so they say, but I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. It's all my own fault. I should have obtained some real job skills while I had the chance. I mean - there just aren't that many jobs in what I do. Not that I don't have real skills, I do.
The first little while is going to be really hard. What the hell will I do all day with nowhere to go? Matinees are cheap, that's a good thing. I can finally catch up on all those movies I want to see. My luck they'll be out of the theatres by the time D-day comes.
I don't know that it's even practical to move right now. The job market everywhere is bad. What makes me think that somewhere else, where I don't know anybody (unless it was LA or NY, and NO THANK YOU on either count) I'll be able to find a job, when here, where I know just about everybody in the local media, I can't find a job? Not much logic to that.
I guess I will just survive on the moments when I can convince myself that something good will come of this. Which are few and far between.
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| Thursday, December 6th, 2001
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10:47 am
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My dog was throwing up yellow phlegm (flem? flim? flam) this morning. Is that something I should worry about?
In two weeks I won't have a job. Is THAT something I should worry about? Well I'll have a job it just won't be " " professional employment. Gergle.
There seems to be this cult of the unemployed. It has not yet taken on an organic nature, so I get to get in on the ground floor. For evidence go here and watch the cartoon. It's worth it. Getting up whenever the hell I want certainly appeals to me. Having time during the day to do laundry, write, clean, do whatever, really sounds great. I'll take the dogs to the park everyday, I'll be able to go and do rescues when they're needed. Yesterday when I was at the park I was thinking, I'll be here in the middle of the day with all the other unemployed people with dogs. We'll start some sort of an intellectual collective (me, four programmers, a handful of graphic designers who thought that start-up was their one way bus ticket to easy street, a couple laid off auto workers, hah!). Then I'll be the Dorothy Parker of the modern day ennui. Oh joi.
I'm nothing if not an extremist.
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| Wednesday, December 5th, 2001
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1:36 pm
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She has it right. It's true, this really is an addiction. It's horrible, in a way. I spend HOURS reading people's journals on-line. People that I don't know, people that I do know, etc. Sometimes I read 'em just because I think the people are idiots. Sometimes I read 'em just because I think the people are brilliant. Well really there's only one person's journal I've come across that I think is an original thinker. That's something I sometimes tell myself I am but who am I kidding, nobody really so pOOh. Well if I'm only telling myself than who could I be kidding but REGARDLESS.
ANYBODY has a right to post ANYTHING in their journal that they want to! If you don't wanna read the quizzes and stuff like that well then STOP READING. Duh. Heck I think they're stupid anyway. But it doesn't matter what I think. At least not to anybody but me! It truly does not. Really I don't care what transformer/tori amos song/brand of hemorrhoidal cream you are, but if you have the desire to find out and post it, that's your choice!
I mean ... right nobody is interested in my stupid life. Unless - they are really, really bored! There's all sorts of "arguments" to be made about the validity/non-validity of keeping an on-line journal. But we are ALL, each and every one of us, ego driven beings. We all want people to comment on our journal, to read it, to tell us we're pretty, or smart, or funny, or that we write well. I know that at some times I am all of those things and some times I am none of them. Nobody is different.
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| Monday, November 26th, 2001
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1:54 pm
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God damn it, I just fucking hate life right now. Feh. Bye-bye.
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| Tuesday, November 20th, 2001
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3:39 pm
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I know I said that nothing was going to be about me (of course everything is) but there's something tearing my heart out right now.
These dogs, all of them, are going to either be gassed to death in a barrel or sold to research labs (which fate is worse?) if we don't find them somewhere else to go within the next 24 hours. I can't take any of them in because we already have one more dog than we're supposed to have. If the one would get adopted already we'd have more room! Argh. I know I can't save them all but it's still so hard. Those poor defenseless creatures. Ending their lives being shoved, alone, into a barrel by an uncaring person. I can't even think about it. I've told everyone I know about them. Trying to get them a temporary home but to no avail.
Here they are. Josie, Rodney, Rose,Lassie, Rascal.
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| Friday, November 16th, 2001
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11:18 am - I is for Irreverant
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Well, there's just way too much interesting stuff to say about Dorothy Parker. So here is one that's much better than ol' Ernie pining for his dead cat.
Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acid stains you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful; You might as well live.
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| Thursday, November 15th, 2001
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3:25 pm - Illusions
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Harry Houdini's real name was Erich Weiss (spelling varies, but it was a German name, y'know). He chose the name "Houdini" after the famous french magician Jean Roubert-Houdin. He added the "i" to mean "like", so he was "houdin"-like. He was once under water in a sealed casket for 90 minutes. Take that David Blane. Feh. Although I know he cheated on some of his tricks. His wife, Bess, would help him. A lot of other people knew it, too.
He very much disliked so called spiritualists. Isn't it ironic that his wife held a seance for 10 years running after he died to try and contact him and that people still do that? Ha. He probably doesn't come around just on principle.
He died of appendicitis. On Halloween. He was only 52. Some kid punched him in the stomach three times and it burst his darn appendix. Ain't life a bitch.
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| Wednesday, November 14th, 2001
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2:36 pm
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Okay here's something not easily understood: Hemingway had this way with animals. I mean this amazing rapport. Several sources have documented different cases of him communicating with various species (from bears to kittens) in different ways. Right and even if this isn't true, well at least others thought it was true so the confusing part still remains.
Bullfighting was one of his favorite past times. Hunting and fishing of course were things that he thrived on. So? That I don't get. If he had this "link" with these animals ... especially on the bullfighting thing, wouldn't it be logical to assume that he somehow would have experienced some of their pain, or at least felt some sort of greater empathy for these animals in their deaths?
Hemingway's favorite cat's name was Crazy Christian. His cats (the famous hemingway polydactyls) were housed in the barn of his farm in Cuba. He had separate areas for the preggers and the infirm, too. Well one day he heard a great commotion and went out to the barn, to find Crazy Christian had been mauled and was indeed dead, killed by his brethren, the other cats. Ernie always believed that they killed him out of jealousy. Here's the poem that Ol' Ernie wrote for Crazy Christian the cat:
To Crazy Christian
There was a cat named Crazy Christian
Who never lived long enough to screw
He was gay hearted, young and handsome
And all the secrets of life he knew
He would always arrive on time for breakfast
Scamper on your feet and chase the ball
He was faster than any polo pony
He never worried a minute at all
His tail was a plume that scampered with him
He was black as night and as fast as light.
So the bad cats killed him in the fall.
Hehe. Well, they can't all be winners. I love ya anyway, Ernie.
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9:59 am - Exploration
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So I've made a decision about this journal. It is not going to contain boring, useless information about MY life. Instead it will contain (sometimes) boring, (often) useless information about OTHER people's lives. Not people that I know from work or my family, but well-known, or less well-known, interesting people. AND, since today is Claude Monet's birthday, I fgure I could start with him:
"When you go out to paint, try to forget what objects you have before you, a tree, a house, a field or whatever... merely think here is a little square of blue, here an oblong of pink, here a streak of yellow, and paint it just as it looks to you, the exact color and shape, until it gives you your own naive impression of the scene before you." Claude Monet
Monet was in the army. He tried to commit suicide. He was blind at the end of his life. He's not TRULY the father of impressionism, really. But was he ever brilliant. Imagine a notebook (or wherever you write) as the same. I think Joyce, e.e. cummings, and other post-modern writers had this down from a verbal standpoint. I'm not much for subjectivism - at least not in the form it tends to take in the anals of academia - but, I'll say the frenchman was on to something. Honesty.
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| Tuesday, November 13th, 2001
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4:43 pm - From Damned If I know to Diddle-Eye Joe
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Not because everyone is afraid of the same things mind you, although in a way we are. We are all afraid that nobody will love us. No matter how high your self-esteem at some level you are afraid of this. Some more than others of course. You may not know it and you may ... but you are. I am. IMO that is why the idea of Jesus is so attractive to so many people, because he's a good daddy. From your grandmother to your baby sister we are all afraid. Our fears take on many faces and we allow them to force us to do many different things. My heart is sorrowful to think of those whose lives are ruled by their fears (and I'm not referring to people who are afraid to fly or are afraid to sky dive; I'm referring to people who are afraid to let people know who they really are, and so on).
No not because we are all afraid of the same things but because we are all afraid. There's too much emphasis on value judgements. This is bad. We are afraid. It is not bad. There is no bad. We are just. Afraid. We are organic. Is that "bad"? No, it just is.
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3:02 pm - Well, Anyway
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James Joyce is terrific. I have a friend who tells me his grandmother learned english from James Joyce. That's sort of like taking paint by number lessons from Picasso if you ask me. I don't know if anything ever really truly scared me as much as the description of hell from "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man." I don't remember it exactly but the part that always sticks out to me is the description of eternity. Something like - imagine a mound of sand 100 times the size of the earth. Then imagine that once every 100 years a bird comes and takes away ONE SINGLE grain of sand. Imagine how long it would take for that entire mound of sand to be gone. That amount of time is equal to one instant in eternity. Gawd. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. I'm glad I didn't grow up Catholic.
The funny thing is, that the first time I read this book, right after reading this part I wanted to go out and confess my sins and stuff. All that Catholic gobbledy-gook. THAT is some powerful writing. I'm in awe of him always.
I don't think it's right to believe in one thing because you fear something else. If you're going to believe in something, believe in it because you agree with its basic prinicples, not because the alternative is too scary. I think that's a large part of Joyce's beef with catholicism - that's basically the dilemma that Stephen Daedulus faces throughout "Artist."
I really truly believe that the reason we can't all write like that is because we haven't learned how to be honest. With ourselves, first and foremost. If I could write honestly about my deepest fears, everyone who read it would be scared, too. And etc.
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