Blues and the Non Abstract Truth
I should be on top of the world today. I am gainfully employed and am appreciated in my position. My wife has been reading 50 Shades of Gray and I assure you, for that, I am quite grateful. My children are happy and healthy. My grandchildren are happy and healthy. We have a lively, intelligent wide sweeping circle of interesting and involved family and friends. The bills are, more or less, paid. I pursue my interests unabated. The news regarding technological developments is fascinating. Yet I find myself feeling saddened.
No. I’ve been taking my meds. Aside from the usual aches and pains of your average sexagenarian, I suppose I’m ok.
What saddens me so is the recent flare up of raw ignorance and hatred.
In one instance I was the recipient of some racist bile through the web where one individual compared media attention given to the Trayvon Martin case to the 2007 Tennessee Christian/Newsom torture killings. The individual who submitted this email proposed that the media is racist and is best exemplified over the fact that the Martin case is getting more media focus than the Tennessee case had. He expounded further explaining that the biased media is more enamored of the black victim than the 2007 white victims.
The racist, of course, fails to point to the fact that the Tennessee case is five years old and received a pretty sizeable amount of coverage surrounding the incident, the trial and the sentencing of the defendants. The racist had conveniently forgotten the coverage the judge in the case received. He had a few drug and sex related problems he had attempted to satisfy during the course and conduct of the ongoing trial. The local bar felt that these extra curricular activities might have played a part in influencing or dulling the good judge’s capacities. And so the judge was summarily removed. Oh no. We remember this horrific animalistic case all too well.
Of course the racist conveniently forgets the news coverage of the abduction and/or disappearance of blonde haired blued eyed young ladies and yet nary a word is spoken for those abducted individuals of color.
I had half a mind to pounce upon this vapid slug. But this is but one instance of this. There is, of course, the undercurrent subtext of racism throughout the land and Congress, where every opportunity to vilify our President is jumped upon with fervor and relish in the guise of economic or legislative prudence.
Nonsense. There has never been this level of this type of blatant congressional stonewalling. It is clear there can be only one underlying motive behind this.
And while we’re on the subject of racism, let us focus our attention on the state of the union’s attitude towards those who live amongst us with sexual leanings, orientations they call it these days, steering away from heterosexual persuasions.
We have men of the cloth advocating a variety of non allegorical and non metaphorical allusions to physical acrimony leveled against those so inclined. Upon further questioning, the good minister softened his approach from that of punching to that of shoving. Nice touch. We have a Presidential candidate who has been connected to anti-gay physical abuse of a grotesque order. Granted, this happened quite a while ago, and he gave a half assed apology, but his past conduct is clearly being casually shrugged off.
And now we have the rubes of North Carolina voting to institute a blatantly unconstitutional law defining marriage.
In today’s headlines we have a rube Baptist minister, in Pastor Charles L. Worley and his Providence Road Baptist Church and aluminum siding company, suggesting to his flock, a ‘final solution’ if you will: the equivalent of concentration camps for gay men and women. He suggested the building of a 50 or 100 mile long electric fence to house gay men and women. Oh, but remember! He’s a Christian, we would drop feed these people. “Feed them. And you know in a few years, they'll die out. You know why? They can't reproduce.”
Just think! A steel trap mind such as that figured this out all by himself. A real leader amongst men.
I know full well that attempting to talk logic to the ignorant and under-informed is roughly about as useful as tits on a tomcat. There will always be some sort of twisted moral authority supported by either some equally twisted interpretation of some bible or another or a historical quotation of one form or another.
An individual harboring this much ignorance and / or this much hatred is simply not going to be persuaded by anything persuasive including logic.
Never mind the fact that you have this animal in Ratko (gotta love that name) Mladic who is on trial for genocide conducted in Srebrenica and Sarajevo and elsewhere. During the 90s he had taken it upon himself to ethnically cleanse the area of Muslim men, women and children.
In his mind he is a patriot just like that nut job Anders Behring Breivik in Norway who smilingly wiped out 69 people in a spree of, what he has self defined as, nationalism.
You see on the one hand you have ignorance enabling the uneducated vote. On the other hand you have people who just harbor and live by ugly hatred and genuinely wish to see evil befall others.
Ignorant people who have decided to remain, or just plain enjoy being, ignorant have intentionally made a choice to play in the mud.
The question I have is whether hatred breeds madness or madness breeds hatred.
Out of Touch
A case has recently been attempted at painting a picture of Barack Obama as out of touch with the voting public, particularly when it comes to women. This was due largely to the comments effected by Ms. Hilary Rosen referencing Mitt Romney’s wife, Ann Romney as “... not having worked a day in her life.” The cut made by Rosen was actually a jab at Romney depicting his wife as representative of the American working woman. And while it’s true that Mrs. Romney was never a cashier at WalMart, a mechanic at Jiffy Lube or a sales clerk at Lord & Taylor she was, and remains the mother of five children. As a father of three, let me tell you. There’s no harder work in the world. Rosen’s remarks were not particularly well thought through and she subsequently apologized for the mean spirited, albeit unintentionally so, remarks. To this end, there are those attempting to directly align Rosen’s remarks to a wholesale policy of Barack Obama’s misalignment to the plight of the average American.
In all honesty, I cannot help but consider that one consider the general state of the President of the United States regardless of who warms a chair in the oval office. I can hardly imagine a more insular existence. He only travels above and beyond first class with no waiting involved. His health and welfare are tended every second (yes, even when his secret service are busily playing several rousing rounds of hide the salami). The company he keeps consists all but exclusively of heads of state and industry. Plus, as busy as he is, he doesn’t commute.
But in no way can he reach the astonishing levels of out-of-touchedness Mitt Romney continuously exhibits. Remember that debate where he cavalierly threw out a $10,000 bet? Do you remember another reference about a $374,000 speaker’s fee as not being all that much?
There was yet a recent display of forehead slapping public detachment. A few weeks ago Mitt Romney gave a speech at Otterbein University in Ohio. In the middle of his speech in what can only be described as being impossibly out touch with his potential voting constituency, Romney advised that if college bound kiddies wanted to buy a business, they should borrow the money from their parents.
Let’s be a fly on the wall for that particular conversation.
In walks Junior, replete with jeans, t-shirt and sneakers as he confronts Mom and Dad in the living room as they unsmilingly watch the television spit out canned laughter within the situation comedies, indicating something is supposed to be funny.
“Hey Mom. Hey Dad. How’s it goin’?”
“Oh all right, I guess, Billy. How are you? How’s school?”
“Gee Dad. School is just swell. Bobby and me, we were just talking with Coach and he says this year we might have a chance at the cup. Pretty neat, huh?”
“Gosh Billy, that’s just great. Hope it works out.”
“Yeah. Me too. Say. Did you guys notice that the comic book store is going out of business?”
“Not really. But can’t be too surprised. Not a lot of left over money these days. I’ll tell ya Between the mortgage, car payments, gas prices, food, utilities and clothes, who has money for comic books?”
“Yeah. I know. But Bobby and me. We were talking, see? The Comic Cave only sold paper comics, What about if we were to sell electronic comic books? You know? Where people can sit and pay to watch for a period of time on special comic book readers? Wouldn’t that be a great idea?”
“... Uh ... I don’t know. I’m not so ....”
“So we were talking to the owner, Joe. Joe is going to close up shop and move back with his folks in Chippewa Falls. He says that if we want it, all we need to do is buy it from him. And all he needs is $50,000!”
“What? 50 large for that joint? Good luck. And not that this is such a great idea in the first place, but where are you two kids going to scrape together fifty grand?”
“Ah. I’m glad you asked that. You see, the reason I wanted to speak to you guys is .... “
Well you can see where this one is going. Sure thing, Mitt. Just hit up the folks for a business loan. Take out a second on the farm.
My dear friend John disagree as to the underlying rationale behind Mitt wanting the Presidency. He says Mitt lusts after the Presidency because he wants to be the first Mormon President. I say, that he’s just exhibiting the natural extension of possessing wealth: possessing power.
These are the two basic areas with which the constituency has little contact, save for media attention: wealth and the average man’s lack of it, and power, which is simply beyond the comprehension of the working man.
One's Own Reality
In 1922, F. Scott Fitzgerald had published his short story entitled “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” The story involves a person, Benjamin Button, born as an older man and as time moves forward, grows younger.
A movie was made out of this short story. As usual, instead of sticking to the intent of the writer, the producers of the film turned it into a ridiculous love story. The story was not a love story. The story was not about an old man turning into an infant. The story was a long winded way (longer than this, even) of saying that everyone’s reality is normal to them.
This is particularly true of children.
Over the weekend, I had the absolute pleasure of spending time with my grandsons. One is currently 2 years some odd and the younger one is just a few months old. The younger one likes being fed and likes being held. He smiles when he’s comfortable. The older one has a fully developed little personality.
He and I went hand in hand into his parents’ back yard where he proudly demonstrated his roller coaster. This is a three piece plastic thing a majig standing at its highest point at about a foot and a half off the ground. A toddler sized car with toddler sized wheels is placed on these interlocking plastic toddler sized tracks. The thing is about eight feet long, maybe. The car is placed at the top. He pushes off and the car travels downward at a speed and manner sufficient to raise a smile on the participant toddler and any adult observer. When the ride is complete, the youngster takes his toddler sized car to the top of the track, climbs atop the car, courtesy of two toddler sized steps and repeats the process until that time frame’s roller coaster requirements have been fulfilled.
After this bit of amusement, my grandson enjoyed the weather and the yard by running around in abandon, playing with the family’s two chocolate Labrador retrievers and throwing stones.
He had no idea he was in heaven. Not a care in the world. Playing. Healthy. Happy. Innocent. Oblivious. Pure. It was absolute heaven for me to just have the privilege of standing there passively observing the definitive essence of life.
It was only after a scant few minutes of this when the insistence of thought had to creep its miserable way into the moment.
It seemed to me that, to my grandson, all the world was in perfect harmony and all was where it should be. I, on the other hand, did not grow up in a bucolic suburban back yard setting. Rather I grew up in New York City. A Labrador retriever was not a pet one kept in high rise apartments. One kept guppies. One did not prance merrily about in fields of green. As a two year old, while my daily routine did include its fair share of prancing, said prancing was reserved to either the internals of a two bedroom apartment or the echoing marble like halls leading immediately up to the single door entry of my family’s abode just as this hallway led one to the six other similarly positioned doorways of that floor.
Those days were quite a long time ago. And while I am quite certain I cannot remember the thoughts weaving through my two year old consciousness at the time, I am equally certain there were no thoughts of chocolate Labradors or plastic roller coaster cars or even grassy expanses of suburban back yards. In fact I am quite convinced my romping and dancing were left unimpeded by the limited square footage of a second floor New York City apartment. I am quite sure, that despite the lack of Labrador retrievers and broad expanses of back yard, I too felt the world absolutely in tune at that stage of my life.
And so I found myself wondering. What did I do when I was two? Was I a happy kid? Did I realize what I didn’t have? Were the walls and halls normal to me?
If my grandson were being raised in an urban apartment building, would he be as carefree and happy? Probably.
And to this end, during my usual evening conversations with my mother the question was posed as follows, “Did I enjoy being two?”
Stupid question. The immediate response was issued in profound affirmatives. “We took you to the park,” insisted my mother. I steered her to the day to day as opposed to those once in while moments where an effort was made to secure a child’s divertissement. “You had a little blue car.” I remember seeing pictures of this little metal thing designed to receive a child’s posterior, maneuvered courtesy of moving feet. I suppose this was one toy amidst a small arsenal of other artifacts designed and acquired to satisfy my short lived amusement requirements.
But yes. This was my reality. This was my normal. Different than another’s. Where some are in deserts others are in rain forests. Where some have sub zero temperatures other swelter. Where some have only one parent others have parents who are grandparents or relatives and some are raised in institutions. Suburban homes, apartments, mansions, duplexes, brownstones, huts, igloos, lean-tos and teepees. Our physical attributes are wildly divergent. Yet, and to us all, particularly at the tender age of two, all is normal. All events spinning around us are normal, and all experiences are new.
Why Aren't Minivans cool?
It’s strange to me what becomes ‘in’ and what becomes ‘uncool’. I’ve been sharing repartee with my eldest daughter. She has two young boys now and it has become painfully obvious to her now that she is a mother. In a good way. But her sleek and sporty Infiniti will no longer cut the mustard in the wonderful world of toddler and infant transport.
The advice I so caringly administered was received with abject scorn and derision. I simply advised to check into a minivan.
Her lips curled downward and for a scant second there, I was convinced she was going to regurgitate all over the new moccasins my wife unearthed for me at Costco.
“All right! All right! No minivans. I get it! Sheesh.”
You see, to me this line of thought comes from left field. I am not so out of touch that I did not realize that minivans would not exactly turn the heads of bikini clad blonde beach crawlers. Nevertheless, it seems to me that this type of vehicle has much to offer.
Cue the organ music and leave us return to those thrilling days of yester year. Way back in the deepest darkest bowels of the 60s. In those days, the hippest, coolest, most out of sight, and groovy set of wheels you could ever hope for was the progenitor of today’s forlorn minivan, to wit: the prized VW Microbus. Whether it was psychedelized with grotesque paisley day glo patterns or left to its two toned turquoise and white roots, the VW Microbus was coveted in younger circles possessing decided left leanings.
Think of it. It was small enough to scoot around town and park in regular sized spaces, but it was spacious enough to house a Cheech and Chong sized gaggle of hangers on. And, if in the unlikely event, you found yourself in no reasonable condition to transact you and your fellow observers of the passing parade to a place of more traditional safe haven, you could afford the utility of the microbus’ interior and sleep it off in your makeshift mobile home.
And speaking of mobile, if you were so possessed of such a vehicle, there were no considerations made towards logistics when it came to hauling larger stuff around. From surfboards and televisions to hauling post Thanksgiving day garbage to Massachusetts dump sites. The VW Microbus was your gal!
My wife and I needed a larger vehicle at one point earlier in our marriage. We had kids and my parents were coming to town. Cramming that particular herd into a Toyota Corolla was just not going to work out.
At the time, there was (and still remains) a company called Rent-a-Wreck. Although they provided new vehicles for rental, their claim to fame was discounted rates for used vehicles. They maintained a facility not terribly far from us. And so with thrift and utility in mind we received a terrific rate for a few days worth of minivan. It worked out wonderfully! We carted and hauled visitors, residents and stuff from hither to thither and yon. This was great! Not only that, but the thing handled pretty much like a car. So sold were we on the versatility of this new found category of ride, that we went out and procured one not terribly long after having returned this rental.
Since that time we acquired several others. They serviced us all and quite handily at that. In fact, I daresay, in retrospect I would make the same decision.
And it is with a certain degree of dismay I find that a) those younger than my wife and me have collectively turned up their collective noses at the downright unhipness of the minivan and b) advertising agencies from coast to coast are tying themselves into knots trying to sell campaigns to convince the gen X crowds that minivans are totally cool.
Not only do they haul personnel and cargo, but they have DVD players and gaming consoles built into the seats. Virtually all of these things have three rows of seats. You have to hunt and peck to get the same versatility in an SUV.
The new crop of minivans get decent gas mileage, they sport horsepower to spare and to top it all off, they’re not unreasonably priced when compared to SUVs. Something else to consider ... the minivan has a lower center of gravity than an SUV therefore making the driving experience more stable and safer.
What I have long since learned in attempting to reason logically with an individual whose mind has been locked in, is that such a venture is ultimately without merit.
My eldest daughter is a particularly bright, insightful and savvy business woman who can receive logic and assimilate the intelligence in order to derive sound conclusions. I talked with her about the potential of a minivan.
She was forthright in her recognition. The minivan offers utility. The price points are more attractive than alternative solutions. She also recognized that a big buck expenditure in the realm of the suburban kid hauling business was not particularly wise considering the two fold wear and tear a child will bring to a vehicle. Nevertheless her response was plain. “I’m not ready to cross into minivan territory.”
Just as in my mind, where I still believe I can strut and carry on as though I was 21, she is still in denial of her status as a suburban wife, and mom of two, as opposed to the sophisticated urbanite party-til-dawn personae she carried less than ten years earlier. In her mind, apparently, the acquisition of an SUV still provides a certain level of street cred, where the acquisition of a minivan is a proverbial albatross around one’s neck announcing to the immediate environs and, more importantly, to herself, that she and her husband have thrown off all illusions of glamour and hipness and have acquiesced their knuckle dragging selves into the ecru world of society’s mid parabola. The irony here, and lost upon many, is that the SUV has become as common as the ground upon which we all traverse and have themselves become the new vanilla.
Bear in mind this was the same one who, while heavily pregnant with her first one, shrugged to me and my wife. “What’s the big deal in having a baby? You feed it. You change it. Big deal.” My wife and I barely exchanged glances in mutually acknowledging the wholesale ignorance and naiveté contained within such a remark. The barely exchanged glance also advised each other that it was best to keep quiet on this one in that all would be revealed shortly enough.
And so, I have spoken my vehicular peace. She’ll learn about minivans soon enough. And mom’s taxis ... and PTA meetings ... and homework nagging ... and the influence of friends ... and soccer ... and McDonalds ... and ...
Why No Good News
And what is in the news today? We have tornados ripping up the midwest. We have some nutcase claiming self defense in his bombing and shooting in Norway last year. There are four missing sailors and we’ve given up searching for them. There are civil atrocities in Syria. Seems that our proud Secret Service have been busying themselves with hookers when they should have been pre-canvassing. Overspending our tax dollars at the General Services Administration. The Taliban just freed 384 prisoners in Pakistan. North Korea rattling sabers. That Florida shooting business. Now there are Brazilian cannibals.
But after only the most fleeting flash in the pan was there word one about Cory Booker.
Cory Booker? Who is Cory Booker? I’m glad you asked. Cory Booker is the honorable Mayor of the fair city of Newark, New Jersey. I remember a cartoon of Christmas past. Santa’s sleigh is in the air. He’s standing and obviously urinating over the side. One of the reindeer turns to the other and says, “He always does that when we fly over Newark.” There’s no getting around it. Newark is not pretty. Near the airport. Near the ports. Heavily industrialized. Full of dangerous neighborhoods. Another old dilapidated garbage strewn graffiti walled abandoned tenement building chain linked noisy traffic congested city.
Once the center of ghetto central, just like Harlem, it is slowly becoming gentrified. Slowly.
So here’s the scenario. It was a long hard day of political and administering slugging and teeth pulling for hizoner. There he was flanked by his security types, when The Right Honorable Mayor Booker senses that something is amiss. Something is amiss. There’s a fire in a house situated not terribly far from Booker’s home. Pulling away from his security force, Booker rushed into the inferno and eventually pulled out a terrified woman who was just that shy of being burned alive. Booker himself received some second degree burns for his troubles and was treated at the local hospital.
Instead of shouting his heroism from the nearest available rooftop or summoning news conferences to air his braggadocio, Booker never mentioned it. The story was picked up, made a minor splash and was then relegated to page 15 following news about breast implants and funny dog tricks.
On Saturday evening, we were invited over to a friend’s house where friends and family enjoyed the unseasonably warm evening and had your basic backyard barbecue. And a wonderful time was had by all. Most of the conversation revolved around good natured teasing and family events. At one point I had raised the following issue, “Hey. How come there’s no news about Cory Booker? Why isn’t this making more of a splash?”
The 36 year old son of our friend offered the following insight, “Good news doesn’t sell.”
My first instinct was to respond that the issue is not as simple as that. Good news sells. They even have a name for it in the business. They’re called ‘fluff pieces’. These are stories about Puxatawny Phil or the friendship between a dog and deer or some little kid pulling off some sort of cutesy little kid type of thing. People love to see this stuff.
But the difference is that these types of stories have no staying power. They raise a brief smile. The story might get a mention at the water cooler. But the story quickly dissipates and dissolves. The story of Mr. Booker needs to survive.
I have no doubt his PR types will be making a lot of hay out of this when it comes time for Mr. Booker to run for Governor in 2017. Should be an interesting comparison when you consider one candidate saves people from burning houses and shovels people out of their driveways after snow storms when the other guy is too busy vacationing to tend to business.
But what is Booker’s press today? There’s bad blood between him and the hockey team.
Maybe our young friend was right. Happy stories don’t sell.
Another Abnormal Weekend
For a brief while, I had all the time in the world. There was not a whole lot of distinction between a Saturday and a Wednesday. Now that I must render my physical shell unceremoniously depositing it within another physical shell from Monday to Friday inclusive, the weekends take on a disproportionately higher level of significance.
Weekends now afford one the opportunity to laze around the shanty and get a good buzz on. Or if you’re married, to do chores. My opportunities hover somewhere at midpoint. First of all, I give guitar lessons and my time in preparation and delivery occupies a certain portion of this particular dance. Then we have the issue of preparing the house in order to eventually sell it. There’s old useless stuff that needs to either get hauled away or repaired. We have a front and back yard (garden if you happen to be of British leanings) that desperately need desperate tending.
But Saturday evening we visited relatives to celebrate Charlton Heston day. I mean Moses Day. I mean Passover. You know what I mean. Story has it that the chosen people were not so chosen in those days. Egyptian pharaoh types, legend has it, viewed Jews as little more than labor producing meat. Boy. I’m sure glad times have changed. Moses, played by Charlton Heston, got the word and he went to his excellency Pharaoh Ramses II, no relation to today’s manufacturer of prophylactics, played by bald guy Yul Brynner, to wag a finger and pronounce him and his an evil fate if he didn’t straighten up and fly right. After a rather protracted and nasty period of negotiation, Ram baby finally caved but still wound up paying through the nose. So Jewish types celebrate on the supposed annual anniversary of this occasion and share a meal with each other called a seder. To those of you who either don’t know or care, this is pronounced SAY-der. My grandfather treated this very solemnly and we endured a three hour marathon of prayer and devotion. My family gets together annually at this time and swap jokes and let the festivities degrade to something out of a scene from Animal House. And this was my Saturday.
Sunday we had a slightly different agenda. Seems daughter number two and boyfriend of daughter number two have decided to take their blossoming romance to a higher level. While I am certain that marriage has entered many dialogs and subtexts, it is obvious to even the casual observer that this eventuality needs to weather the storm of cohabitation. Is this wise? Probably. Am I am the biggest hypocrite to have befouled these fair shores this side of Benedict Arnold for feeling that cohabitation flies in the face of convention? Absolutely. But I must put these societal reproachments aside with the realization that my baby is not a baby but a grown woman in charge of her life. And my bride and I have been called upon to assist in a portion of the moving festivities.
There’s an IKEA store in Brooklyn. Daughter and boyfriend spent more than a few hours and more than a few dollars there last week where they plunked down said fair amount of hard earned coin in order to procure household goodies and stuff. The bulk of this was boxed put-it-together-your-own-damn-self furniture. My daughter, young lady that she is, decided that in addition to the items to occupy the moving van she so efficiently utilized, she was most desirous of procuring certain boxed put-it-together-your-own-damn-self chairs. However, the local IKEA establishment was not populated with such stuff. They could order it and deliver it (for a small fee) and this would only take a few weeks or so. On the other hand, you have five fingers. No. On the other hand if you absolutely had to have the damn thing right this very friggin’ minute, you could cross the river to Jersey and get that stuff over in the IKEA store over there. They have those chairs over there. Go get it and begone with you and your reeking carcasses.
Perhaps they did not wish to lower themselves and condescend into delving into the Jersey muck and mire. Perhaps they were too tired of schlepping stuff. But for whatever reason, they decided that a Jersey road trip was not in the weekend calendar. Wait a minute! I can see it now. The two love birds simultaneously stood, raised their collective fingers heavenwards and declared to each other, “Let’s hassle the folks!” And so descriptions of the chairs were accordingly forwarded. My bride received the information, internalized it and conveyed to overly tall overly muscled troglodyte husband type. Husband type acknowledged. “Ugh. Me drive. Ugh. Me haul stuff. Ugh. Me put together stuff. Ugh. Got it.” I was also called upon to bring a drill, a level and a measuring tape. Ugh. Tonto get.
After folding the rear set of my trustworthy 2005 Honda with nearly 140,000 miles on it, my lovely wife and I set off on Easter morning in order to visit IKEA in beautiful downtown Elizabeth New Jersey. All home dwellers visit IKEA at one point or another. It’s a law, I think. At any rate the reason for our sojourn was that Katie found some chairs she wanted for her new place. In case you didn’t know, IKEAs are blessed with a first rate relatively inexpensive cafeteria. My wife decided we were hungry and so we made our way to this cafeteria and stuffed our faces for about six bucks. We were advised that if we spent over $100 in the store that day, the price of our breakfast would be discounted from the bill. We found our way to the aisle housing the boxes containing the materials that would, in time, become chair like objects and made our way to the check out where they did, in fact, discount our breakfast. The four slim boxes fit into the folded down rear receptacle of my gracefully aging vehicle and off we went to Brooklyn.
Thanks in no small part to my wife’s birthday present of a GPS system we arrived at our destination with relative ease. We were greeted with a lovely tree lined street with beautiful brownstones. My daughter’s new apartment in contained within the confines of such a a brownstone.
Cute place. But it’s as big as a minute. You walk in and you find yourself in the slightly left of center portion of a rectangle which is the entirety of the apartment of about 600 square feet. French doors separate the single bedroom from the rest of the apartment.
An extremely compact kitchen occupies the far wall with the bathroom located directly across from the stove. There’s a window in between the bathroom and the stove looking out into a fair sized paved back yard. They can use the outside when the landlord is away. From the entry door and straight ahead is a table. Looking slightly to the right is a living room area. Looking directly to the right is the bedroom about the size of your old room. There are windows to the street. Cute place. But little.
Courtesy of Mr. Drill, I completed the table they bought from IKEA the day before. Boyfriend and I occupied our time by putting together the chairs from the IKEA boxes of the morning. Katie busied herself by making a quiche and a fruit salad. Then Boyfriend’s family arrived. His sister, father and grandfather. Lovely people
We had a brunch sort of thing at my daughter’s new table and sitting on daughter’s new chairs where we chowed down the quiche over which my baby slaved. After this, us manly men types put together a bright green IKEA bookcase. Speaking of manly, my daughter expertly used a drill and a level to hang a magnetic wall knife hanging thing a mig jigger. Time was running out because boyfriend’s family had to visit some aunt in Queens and so we couldn’t finish the doors to the bookcase. Matching glass doors. Very nice. Before our arrival, the bulk of an IKEA dresser was assembled. But the dresser drawers were not completed in that the side roller assemblies proved to be complicated little affairs. Again, the party had to be called because of the festivities at auntie’s house. My daughter is on spring break from teaching this week. I’ll let the completion of these tasks be her problem.
The undone cardboard boxes for everything were shoved into the back of my poor unsuspecting car. Our local recycle Township’s cardboard bin will be the proud recipient of that stuff next weekend. Of course, and in our haste, we had inadvertently left behind Mr. Drill, Mr. Level and Mr. Tape Measure.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, daughter number one and family celebrated Easter festivities at another relative’s house. In the process of jumping and playing and otherwise behaving live your basic normal demented two year old, the eldest grandson clobbered the living bejeesus out of his head pretty well, get this, chasing a sunbeam’s lint. Now he has adorned himself with a nicely discolored forehead. We were advised that people were jumping up and down talking about concussions and death and other delightful childhood topics. As of this writing, the kid seems okay.
I find it strange. In retrospect, and for the most part, I spent the weekend driving and eating. Yes there was shopping, Yes there were relatives. Yes I helped put a bunch of furniture together. But when the rubber meets the road, I spent the weekend primarily driving and eating.
Why am I so tired?
The Merry Month of March
Ok. Ok. I know I’ve been remiss. This one’s for you David! But in my defense, my attention has been sorely distracted. For those of you who don’t know, or for those of you who couldn’t possibly care less, I’ll tell you anyway because your curiosity is eating away at you so violently ... admit it!
I was summarily booted out of my place of gainful employ after nearly eight years of near bliss. Was it my fault? Partially, I suppose. Was I backstabbed? Absolutely. Was I misunderstood? Absolutely. But no matter. It was a good gig, a good company, I made good friends, made a difference and had a good time doing it. All in all, and in retrospect, not a bad situation.
But the loss of a job imposes new demands on a body doesn’t it? During this period, all predispositions towards self pity, moroseness, depression and general malaise must take back seat to the imposed mission at hand, to wit: get the next gig.
To those few of my dear readers who have not found themselves in this rather unenviable position, allow me the privilege to wax wise upon you. If ever there is a time that befalls you where you are entitled towards inclinations of self pity, moroseness, depression and general malaise, in that you have found yourself in a sudden position where you are without. and should you find yourself in such a position, and make no mistake, I certainly hope that none of you should ever go through this, I will give you a word to the more or less wise. Postpone your feelings of negativity until after you have righted yourself.
I have no techniques to offer. No magical brass rings. There is one tact and one tact only. The way you find a new job is to work hard twelve hours a day to find a new job. How is this done? Not so easy. You call upon old friends, acquaintances and colleagues. Write several different resumes (don’t lie) with emphasis placed on the field at issue. I’ve never used a resume review service. I’ve never used an interviewing technique service. For all I know, these are very valuable resources. On the other hand these might just be exploitive bottom feeding blood suckers. I have talked to those who have used these services. Half of them say they are graced with Heaven’s sonatas. The other half feel as though they’ve shared a bunk bed with Nosferatu. You’re on your own. What I can tell you is that I have never spent a nickel on services such as these. Post your final resumes on every single career search engine you can possibly unearth. The process of completing these scores of personal information sheets are beyond mercilessly boring. Sally forth. Carry on. Forget that it is boring and painful. Do it. One of these, and when you least expect it, will invariably bear fruit. You know those mass mailers you receive in the mail and immediately toss either in a circular receptacle or a recycling bin? Well believe it or not, 2% of these things develop into legitimate leads. You have the same objective. If you want to tap 10 people out there expect nothing. You want to get a response from 2 sources? Send out at least 100 contacts. Will these 2 hit? Probably not. This means you’ll have to tap thousands of resources.
The good thing is, we are living in the age of the internet where email turnaround can be measured in terms of minutes. Therefore, the forms you complete need to be completed on line. Just as you hope to land a 2% return, these on line searchers are hoping to generate 2% of viable and quasi trustworthy meat. The more you complete, the more you get to follow. And that’s where the real work lies. Your returns can be generated from a host of varying sources including, but not limited to, more search sites, recruiters (we affectionately have dubbed them as headhunters) actual companies and/or body shops. A body shop is an organization that hires you but farms you out to the companies for whom you will eventually work. For the privilege of this association, they charge the company a substantial overhead for your services where you are paid a mere fraction of that billable rate.
Since you are operating from a position of abject weakness (be honest) you will receive your interested feedback with identical enthusiasm. The key, however, on all counts, is to follow up everything. Yes. Even that position situated 2000 miles away for a contract period paying no benefits. It will be yours to turn down or accept. If you choose not to run that down, it will never be available for you to refuse. This process takes hours upon hours upon hours every day. But finding a job is now your new job. So take it as seriously as you would the job you ultimately seek.
At any rate, this is how my time was spent. The 2% trickled in and that was rewarded with phone calls and interviews. Once you start landing phone calls and interviews you can expect another 2% will express real interest and ask for additional free face time.
And so it was, dear readers. And as much as I love your input, and I do, your input and about two bucks will get me on any subway. In other words, you guys wound up sucking hind tit while I attempted to pull my life back together. And so I did.
So I landed this new gig where I end my work life sans destitute. Now, finally, I have earned the right to wallow in self pity, moroseness, depression and general malaise.
During that time, at a Friday morning breakfast with my wife, prior to my son’s leaving for his day’s work, my son inquired as to the weekend festivities upon which we would forseeably embark. Our responses were as routine as the contents contained therein. We responded in kind. “Oh. I’m moving out this weekend.” Just like that. My wife greeted this input stoically and with reason. My heart dropped. This was the last of my babies flying the nest. I was not philosophical. Don’t get me wrong. It was about time. Overdue, in fact. Nice guy roommate, reasonable area, reasonable place, reasonable price. But my baby is gone. A little too much reality too fast perhaps?
But my nose holding drop into the abyss had to wait. During my first week working in the new job, ironically enough, a previously scheduled family event drew nigh upon us. As my children are remarkable, my brother’s children are remarkable as well. Seems that my brother’s youngest son is in an award winning high school orchestra. Recognition of their award winingness was their invitation to play at Carnegie Hall. They did, we went. My brother’s family visited. They stayed with us. While my wife and I could not take time away from work, they understood and occupied their time touristing their way through a portion of Manhattan island for a few days while our house became Visit HQ.
My wife and I struggled to get to the recital on time. There were other organizations that took the stage prior to my nephew’s collection and we missed those. Fortunately we arrived on time to see his performance. And a stellar thing it was at that. I mean really. Who among us can say that a 17 year old relative of ours played at Carnegie Hall?
And then came Saturday. And it is only at this time as I write this rather cathartic missive that I realize what had actually transpired within me. My wife, with neither my input nor counsel thought it would be a right fine idea to bring my family together at our place. This has never happened. My brother and my cousins gathering under my roof. And my wife delved into what I call the dreaded ‘company mode’. This life’s mode was made complicated and the depths were profoundly more severe given my wife’s hacking, phlegm throwing bouts of bronchitis. During the cleaning, preparing and cooking processes, my wife’s given predispositions towards the usual ‘company mode’ demands for negativity, abruptness, callousness, ill temper and abrasiveness rose to new heights.
As a mere and lowly male member of the species it is mine, during these occasions, to play stepnfetchit forbidding the presence of logic or reason to enter into any form of communication type of algorithm. It is mine to burden the slings and arrows of outrageous beratements, nagging, insulting remarks, rude implications and raised decibeled observations cast in my specific direction. Woe be unto me if one day, for whatever reason, I should ever deem fit to return this rather untoward favor. This strikes me as more than somewhat hypocritical. But as was implied above, it is mine alone to weather.
The guests arrived. There were hugs, good natured teasing, gossiping, pearls of wisdom, running, playing, screaming children. Boundless bounty to imbibe and drink. A splendid time was had by all.
But the deepest corners of your author’s psyche harbored the dark lord of woebegone. Having been weeks denied, he had come to claim his rightful throne at that place and time.
And so triggered by my brother’s leaving the next day and my wife’s misplaced darts, Sisyphus’ boulder returned upon my hair shirt.
Voldemort’s occupancy was tolerated for a few days and at this point he has since vacated recognizing he has overstayed his welcome.
During this time, the brook of blog was mired by misanthropy.
There are those times when one has what has been called in a gross over simplification as “writer’s block.” In this case, and during those busy days, there was much to write about. One day they will surface here. But, in my own mind, at least, while I suffered no loss of material, there simply was not time enough to accommodate this type of outlet.
Perhaps next time, we’ll focus on Republican candidates.
