Exactly one year ago, not long after I deleted two years and half a million words worth of blog, I posted this, and I must say... I'm very proud of it.
HAVE A NICE WEEKEND, ALL!!!
Friday, September 30, 2005
so, how fucked up am i?
| Disorder | Rating |
| Paranoid Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Schizoid Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Schizotypal Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Antisocial Personality Disorder: | Moderate |
| Borderline Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Histrionic Personality Disorder: | Very High |
| Narcissistic Personality Disorder: | High |
| Avoidant Personality Disorder: | High |
| Dependent Personality Disorder: | Low |
| Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: | Moderate |
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info -- | |
what writing has done for me
It gave voice to the demons, the supernatural voices wisping between my ears and whispering, the self-defeating tongues spoken with various sources few and far-flung...
It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...
It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...
It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...
Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...
I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...
It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...
It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...
It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...
Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...
I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
XYZ INC.
To Read Part One, Click Here...
Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.
The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.
Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.
Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.
Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...
He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.
He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.
Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.
"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.
"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.
"Name's Joe," the man said.
"Matthew."
"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"
"First day."
"Mine too."
Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"
"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"
Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.
"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."
"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"
"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."
"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.
"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.
"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.
"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."
"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."
"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.
"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."
*/*
Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.
"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."
Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...
Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:
"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"
The crowd of men agreed vocally.
"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"
The men got louder, more riled up.
"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"
The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.
"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"
This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.
"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"
They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.
Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.
"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"
Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"
"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"
Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.
Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.
"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"
"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.
"Excuse me, sir--"
Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".
"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."
Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.
"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."
Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."
"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.
"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"
"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."
"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."
Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"
"Words like that?"
"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"
"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.
"Is this your first day, kid?"
"Yeah, first day."
"Hold on for a minute."
Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.
"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."
"Ugly Greg?"
"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"
Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.
*/*
Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.
He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.
Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.
"Yes?"
"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."
Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.
"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."
"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.
"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."
"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"
"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.
"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.
"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"
"How old are you, Matt?"
"Nineteen."
"No shit? Are you in school?"
"No sir."
"Did you graduate from high school?"
"Yes, I did."
"I bet you like to read."
"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."
Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"
Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."
Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"
"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."
"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"
Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.
"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"
The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.
After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.
"What happened to your car, Greg?"
"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."
"No shit!"
"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"
"That's crazy."
"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"
Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.
"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."
They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.
"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"
Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."
Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."
Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.
After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.
He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.
"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.
"I sold three cameras."
Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"
"Five each."
Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.
"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.
"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."
Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"
Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."
"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."
"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."
"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"
"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."
This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.
Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...
He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.
"Hey, Joe!"
"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.
"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"
Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."
"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.
"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."
"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."
"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."
"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."
"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"
"I dig."
Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.
This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.
Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.
The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.
Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.
Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.
Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...
He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.
He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.
Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.
"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.
"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.
"Name's Joe," the man said.
"Matthew."
"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"
"First day."
"Mine too."
Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"
"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"
Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.
"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."
"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"
"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."
"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.
"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.
"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.
"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."
"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."
"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.
"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."
*/*
Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.
"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."
Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...
Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:
"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"
The crowd of men agreed vocally.
"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"
The men got louder, more riled up.
"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"
The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.
"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"
This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.
"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"
They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.
Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.
"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"
Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"
"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"
Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.
Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.
"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"
"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.
"Excuse me, sir--"
Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".
"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."
Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.
"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."
Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."
"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.
"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"
"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."
"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."
Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"
"Words like that?"
"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"
"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.
"Is this your first day, kid?"
"Yeah, first day."
"Hold on for a minute."
Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.
"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."
"Ugly Greg?"
"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"
Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.
*/*
Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.
He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.
Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.
"Yes?"
"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."
Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.
"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."
"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.
"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.
"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."
"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"
"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.
"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.
"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"
"How old are you, Matt?"
"Nineteen."
"No shit? Are you in school?"
"No sir."
"Did you graduate from high school?"
"Yes, I did."
"I bet you like to read."
"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."
Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"
Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."
Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"
"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."
"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"
Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.
"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"
The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.
After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.
"What happened to your car, Greg?"
"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."
"No shit!"
"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"
"That's crazy."
"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"
Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.
"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."
They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.
"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"
Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."
Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."
Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.
After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.
He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.
"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.
"I sold three cameras."
Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"
"Five each."
Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.
"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.
"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."
Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"
Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."
"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."
"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."
"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"
"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."
This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.
Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...
He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.
"Hey, Joe!"
"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.
"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"
Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."
"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.
"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."
"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."
"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."
"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."
"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"
"I dig."
Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.
This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
late bloomer
My homie Down Low is having female troubles.
A little background on Down Low: In his sophomore year of high school his parents, newly divorced, decided that it would be in his best interest if he was shipped off to a reform school. They tricked him into going, using the old "we're taking a day trip" scenario.
What was boneheaded about this decision was that Low was 17 at the time, and after a year he would be able to leave the reform school on his own. In order for that particular reform program to work, a teenager would have to have been there for at least two to three years.
His parents basically threw money away by sending him off. The program had no effect upon him in terms of rehabilitation: his only vice was smoking marijuana, although Low himself has speculated that his stay at the reform school might have saved him from getting into methamphetamines, a phenomenon that rushed in and took over his former classmates nearly overnight.
But the real effect the program had on Low was that it alienated him from his family and also set back his maturation greatly. He missed out on a lot of things because of this "time out" that he was grudgingly handed.
One of those things was the normal rites and passages of horny high school kids who are beginning to date and have intimate relationships. Low never had a real girlfriend, and reform school only thwarted this goal.
So now, he has female troubles-- specifically, he is dealing with a girl who is just as immature and melodramatic as he is. And because he cares about her, he finds that he cannot simply write her off and go onto the next conquest...
*/*
I frequently talk with Low over breakfast at Andre's, and most of the time I am chewing his ear off about my various love interests. He has always been a good listener and gave me valuable feedback many times. Now it is my turn to return the favor.
This is not as easy as it seems. Low has never pontificated at length on any girls in the past, so it is surprising to hear him express profound emotions for someone. He talks so much about her that we don't talk about anything else. I get annoyed by this, but then I remember all the times I vented about Amy Coates or Eve or Monique or even Mary Jane, and I take a deep breath and open up my ears.
He quit smoking pot and cut down on cigarettes; he has started writing love songs on his 12-string guitar-- Low is a brilliant guitarist but has never been able to write a decent song... until now.
He is a late bloomer, and this is the first true love he has ever found. He met this girl online, and their initial relationship was far from romantic: they collaborated on an X-rated webcam site and made a lot of money getting credit card charges from lonely rich men who paid to masturbate to pretty girls on the Internet.
Somewhere along the line, Low and this girl became friends, then lovers, and now... now they have that love-hate ambivalence that passes for passion in this day and age.
*/*
I don't know how helpful I have been, but suffice it to say that I've had my share of crazy girls wrecking my world, and so I speak to him from experience and not just macho posturing.
He felt like a "pussy" for calling her after he said he wouldn't. I reminded him of my troubles with Eve earlier this year, how she wasn't talking to me for weeks and I still kept leaving messages on her answering machine, letting her know that (whenever she was ready to talk) I was sorry for being an ass and I wanted to make sure she was OK.
Low's girl is taunting him with threats of another guy who will treat her right. All this means is that she found a simp who has a lot of money and will spend it on her. But she knows that this guy doesn't love her the way Low does, and Low knows that she is using this sucker to make him mad.
Meanwhile, Low is still seeing other girls, who are less drama but don't compare to the feelings he has for this one girl. It's like a Smokey Robinson song come to life.
It seems so simple, doesn't it? All they have to do is lay down their respective arms and embrace each other. But it's never that simple, and that's because human emotions cloud our reasoning. It becomes a power trip with both sides refusing to roll over.
I told him he needs some time away from her, that he will know her for a long time and they will never be too far from each other. I think of how Eve spent nine years with a guy that she fell out of love with two years into it; I think of Amy Coates, who is married with a child but who will never forget the impact I had on her; I think of all these women that I have known and loved, and how I never really stopped loving them-- I just moved on to other people when the romance ran out.
Low hasn't had the opportunities to explore a meaningful relationship and its attendant baggage. But if you ask me, he's actually growing up a bit. A year ago, Low wouldn't have shed a tear over any girl. I don't see his soul-searching as a negative thing at all.
Painful, yes, but negative? Hardly.
In fact, it confirms what I've always suspected about him: that underneath all the bluster and braggadoccio, Down Low (like me, like many of my friends) has a heart, and hides it to protect it from the slings and arrows of this heartless era. But ultimately, he is an old-fashioned Romantic, and he is an artist, and he has deeper feelings than just the standard "Findum Fuckem And Flee" mentality that pervades the landscape of the male psyche these days.
They'll be OK, because they are decent people, despite their taste for the lowlife and all that entails. Who says pornographers and drug dealers don't have soft sides? They're human beings too, and their plights are no different than that of a respectable young married couple or the affairs of the upper-class power elite.
We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel joy when the person we love is in our arms... we all wear different uniforms and march to the individual beats of various drummers, but we all share that longing for love, that yearning for something that feels real, something that transcends the present, something that lasts forever and burns eternally...
Today is the first day of Autumn. It is the beginning of The Fall...
A little background on Down Low: In his sophomore year of high school his parents, newly divorced, decided that it would be in his best interest if he was shipped off to a reform school. They tricked him into going, using the old "we're taking a day trip" scenario.
What was boneheaded about this decision was that Low was 17 at the time, and after a year he would be able to leave the reform school on his own. In order for that particular reform program to work, a teenager would have to have been there for at least two to three years.
His parents basically threw money away by sending him off. The program had no effect upon him in terms of rehabilitation: his only vice was smoking marijuana, although Low himself has speculated that his stay at the reform school might have saved him from getting into methamphetamines, a phenomenon that rushed in and took over his former classmates nearly overnight.
But the real effect the program had on Low was that it alienated him from his family and also set back his maturation greatly. He missed out on a lot of things because of this "time out" that he was grudgingly handed.
One of those things was the normal rites and passages of horny high school kids who are beginning to date and have intimate relationships. Low never had a real girlfriend, and reform school only thwarted this goal.
So now, he has female troubles-- specifically, he is dealing with a girl who is just as immature and melodramatic as he is. And because he cares about her, he finds that he cannot simply write her off and go onto the next conquest...
*/*
I frequently talk with Low over breakfast at Andre's, and most of the time I am chewing his ear off about my various love interests. He has always been a good listener and gave me valuable feedback many times. Now it is my turn to return the favor.
This is not as easy as it seems. Low has never pontificated at length on any girls in the past, so it is surprising to hear him express profound emotions for someone. He talks so much about her that we don't talk about anything else. I get annoyed by this, but then I remember all the times I vented about Amy Coates or Eve or Monique or even Mary Jane, and I take a deep breath and open up my ears.
He quit smoking pot and cut down on cigarettes; he has started writing love songs on his 12-string guitar-- Low is a brilliant guitarist but has never been able to write a decent song... until now.
He is a late bloomer, and this is the first true love he has ever found. He met this girl online, and their initial relationship was far from romantic: they collaborated on an X-rated webcam site and made a lot of money getting credit card charges from lonely rich men who paid to masturbate to pretty girls on the Internet.
Somewhere along the line, Low and this girl became friends, then lovers, and now... now they have that love-hate ambivalence that passes for passion in this day and age.
*/*
I don't know how helpful I have been, but suffice it to say that I've had my share of crazy girls wrecking my world, and so I speak to him from experience and not just macho posturing.
He felt like a "pussy" for calling her after he said he wouldn't. I reminded him of my troubles with Eve earlier this year, how she wasn't talking to me for weeks and I still kept leaving messages on her answering machine, letting her know that (whenever she was ready to talk) I was sorry for being an ass and I wanted to make sure she was OK.
Low's girl is taunting him with threats of another guy who will treat her right. All this means is that she found a simp who has a lot of money and will spend it on her. But she knows that this guy doesn't love her the way Low does, and Low knows that she is using this sucker to make him mad.
Meanwhile, Low is still seeing other girls, who are less drama but don't compare to the feelings he has for this one girl. It's like a Smokey Robinson song come to life.
It seems so simple, doesn't it? All they have to do is lay down their respective arms and embrace each other. But it's never that simple, and that's because human emotions cloud our reasoning. It becomes a power trip with both sides refusing to roll over.
I told him he needs some time away from her, that he will know her for a long time and they will never be too far from each other. I think of how Eve spent nine years with a guy that she fell out of love with two years into it; I think of Amy Coates, who is married with a child but who will never forget the impact I had on her; I think of all these women that I have known and loved, and how I never really stopped loving them-- I just moved on to other people when the romance ran out.
Low hasn't had the opportunities to explore a meaningful relationship and its attendant baggage. But if you ask me, he's actually growing up a bit. A year ago, Low wouldn't have shed a tear over any girl. I don't see his soul-searching as a negative thing at all.
Painful, yes, but negative? Hardly.
In fact, it confirms what I've always suspected about him: that underneath all the bluster and braggadoccio, Down Low (like me, like many of my friends) has a heart, and hides it to protect it from the slings and arrows of this heartless era. But ultimately, he is an old-fashioned Romantic, and he is an artist, and he has deeper feelings than just the standard "Findum Fuckem And Flee" mentality that pervades the landscape of the male psyche these days.
They'll be OK, because they are decent people, despite their taste for the lowlife and all that entails. Who says pornographers and drug dealers don't have soft sides? They're human beings too, and their plights are no different than that of a respectable young married couple or the affairs of the upper-class power elite.
We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel joy when the person we love is in our arms... we all wear different uniforms and march to the individual beats of various drummers, but we all share that longing for love, that yearning for something that feels real, something that transcends the present, something that lasts forever and burns eternally...
Today is the first day of Autumn. It is the beginning of The Fall...
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
clickety-clack
According to this link, the sounds of fingers typing on a keyboard can be transposed and "decoded", for lack of a better term.
The article states that this can be construed as a "security risk"...
This spells trouble for me: I type extremely loud, and have been reprimanded for my noisiness whilst typing.
In my old blog, I had a piece about being at the library and having a neighboring computer user complain about my typing. This is not an isolated incident by any means.
I think I type louder than the average typist because I only use my index fingers. I don't use that high school typing class method... and it's a good thing, because I NEVER get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, even as I type for hours upon hours...
That's all for now. Maybe more later...
The article states that this can be construed as a "security risk"...
This spells trouble for me: I type extremely loud, and have been reprimanded for my noisiness whilst typing.
In my old blog, I had a piece about being at the library and having a neighboring computer user complain about my typing. This is not an isolated incident by any means.
I think I type louder than the average typist because I only use my index fingers. I don't use that high school typing class method... and it's a good thing, because I NEVER get Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, even as I type for hours upon hours...
That's all for now. Maybe more later...
Monday, September 19, 2005
scabs
As a kid I was constantly in the dirt, kicking it up, getting it on the tip of my nose, cutting and bruising myself in the relentless pursuit of good times and high adventure.
I did a lot of stupid things: jumping off of rooftops, climbing trees and falling to the ground, jettisoning from swingsets at the park while in mid-air, riding my bike down trails that were not meant for cyclists, hiking in the park, playing Flag Football (or Touch Football in the streets, with plays interrupted by the passing of traffic) and generally covering my skin with scabs and scrapes.
I never broke any limbs or got seriously hurt. No hospital visits, no trips in the ambulance. My physical feats were actually run-of-the-mill childhood rituals. Taking the falls and tumbles toughened me up.
One thing I used to do, however, was pick my scabs. I had a lot of them on me, and they were always irritating. The way the skin stretched as the black, shapeless mass of coagulated blood held to the surface caused me to scratch my scabs before they were fully formed.
Of course, this did nothing to facillitate the healing process-- it only delayed it further.
There's something in the back of a young boy's mind, where he actually would like to see the scab come apart while picking at it, so as to discover that the wound is fully healed underneath and that there is no need to pick anymore because the scab is gone. My impatience, however, would lead me to pick away when the scab was 90% ready. What would be left after the unsightly spot was cleared away would be a small, infection-prone red spot, a pinpoint in comparison to the original wound but still open to all sorts of discomfort and irritability. That little red spot would end up scabbing over itself, and then I'd have to wait until that tiny little scab fully formed and was able to be stripped away...
Now, let's speak metaphorically for a second...
Suppose that all the past pain and tragedy that I have had in my life is a scab. If this is the case, then it can be argued that (like my younger self) I am still picking away at the scabs before they can do their work.
Only recently have I seen the results of letting them fall off on their own. The healing process, when unfettered by my prying fingers, is much more efficient. The scabs disappear and after a while I forget that I even had a cut or a scrape.
I have been holding myself to this thought: From now on, no more scab-picking.
Let the healing process take as long as it needs to take. I am in no hurry. I would rather have it done and over with than to prolong the painful interim of dealing with newer and fresher scabs born from my obsessions with the old ones.
See what I'm getting at?
btw: I won $90 at a craps table in Primm Valley on Saturday. I quit while I was ahead. I was too tired to press my luck and raise my bets. I was content to have had a decent run, which helped me to understand the game and grasp some concepts I'd been unsure about prior to this weekend.
This week looks like it's going to be pretty interesting. Don't ask me how I know-- I don't have the slightest explanation for this gut feeling.
I did a lot of stupid things: jumping off of rooftops, climbing trees and falling to the ground, jettisoning from swingsets at the park while in mid-air, riding my bike down trails that were not meant for cyclists, hiking in the park, playing Flag Football (or Touch Football in the streets, with plays interrupted by the passing of traffic) and generally covering my skin with scabs and scrapes.
I never broke any limbs or got seriously hurt. No hospital visits, no trips in the ambulance. My physical feats were actually run-of-the-mill childhood rituals. Taking the falls and tumbles toughened me up.
One thing I used to do, however, was pick my scabs. I had a lot of them on me, and they were always irritating. The way the skin stretched as the black, shapeless mass of coagulated blood held to the surface caused me to scratch my scabs before they were fully formed.
Of course, this did nothing to facillitate the healing process-- it only delayed it further.
There's something in the back of a young boy's mind, where he actually would like to see the scab come apart while picking at it, so as to discover that the wound is fully healed underneath and that there is no need to pick anymore because the scab is gone. My impatience, however, would lead me to pick away when the scab was 90% ready. What would be left after the unsightly spot was cleared away would be a small, infection-prone red spot, a pinpoint in comparison to the original wound but still open to all sorts of discomfort and irritability. That little red spot would end up scabbing over itself, and then I'd have to wait until that tiny little scab fully formed and was able to be stripped away...
Now, let's speak metaphorically for a second...
Suppose that all the past pain and tragedy that I have had in my life is a scab. If this is the case, then it can be argued that (like my younger self) I am still picking away at the scabs before they can do their work.
Only recently have I seen the results of letting them fall off on their own. The healing process, when unfettered by my prying fingers, is much more efficient. The scabs disappear and after a while I forget that I even had a cut or a scrape.
I have been holding myself to this thought: From now on, no more scab-picking.
Let the healing process take as long as it needs to take. I am in no hurry. I would rather have it done and over with than to prolong the painful interim of dealing with newer and fresher scabs born from my obsessions with the old ones.
See what I'm getting at?
btw: I won $90 at a craps table in Primm Valley on Saturday. I quit while I was ahead. I was too tired to press my luck and raise my bets. I was content to have had a decent run, which helped me to understand the game and grasp some concepts I'd been unsure about prior to this weekend.
This week looks like it's going to be pretty interesting. Don't ask me how I know-- I don't have the slightest explanation for this gut feeling.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
thoughts on sorrow
Kurt Vonnegut was on The Daily Show earlier this week. Here's a website that has a video of his appearance.
Vonnegut's books saved my life. Reading Breakfast Of Champions at age 15 made me realize that I wasn't the only person in the world who was suffering. Rather, it seemed like the entire universe was suffering, along with me, and Vonnegut's prose provided me with a release, a way of easing the pain of existence.
I can tell you this with no trace of irony or pathos: sometimes I feel like I've had enough. Sometimes I see the news and can't watch what's going on in Iraq, in New Orleans, or anywhere else; sometimes I wish that someone would put bullets through the heads of some of our world leaders;and often times I feel like I could put a bullet in my own temple.
But I never get around to it, and it's because I've found a way to keep my balance in this world. Reading people like Kurt Vonnegut is one way.
Another way is to open my heart to another living creature. Last night a friend dropped off a six week-old kitty cat at my apartment. Eve and I named him 'Marvin'. I instantly fell in love with this tiny creature, this mewing, jumping, furry ball of energy that scampers around my humble abode, innocent and wide-eyed.
My cat Otis is, of course, jealous. But I raised Otis to be a lover, not a fighter, and in due time he will accept Marvin as his buddy. It helps that I am being fair and showing both of them equal amounts of love, because Otis has been with me through lean times in the past six years, and I figured I owe it to him to give him a companion for those times when I'm not home.
The company of another human being makes the sorrow in my heart fade momentarily. Eve made dinner last night, and we watched a bunch of X-Files episodes that I have not yet seen. She also fell in love with Marvin-- in fact, she suggested the name after seeing him scuttle across the carpet like Marvin the Martian from the old Warner Bros. cartoons --and for an elongated moment there was peace in my mind.
*/*
Today is Monique's birthday. I called her to wish her a happy 27th. She is 3,000 miles away, somewhere in the southeast United States. The last time I saw her was in May, when she and I were together. I never mentioned her in this blog because it is a complicated story, one compounded by the fact that she and I were only friends until her last visit to town.
We shared a passionate interlude that lasted the entire two weeks she was in town. I'd never known that she felt this way for me, even though I knew that I had a big crush on her. She was housesitting for her former boss while he was away on vacation, and so I found myself spending almost every night of that two week period with her.
When she left, she promised that she would return, but now she has misgivings because her five year-old brother will miss her if she leaves. Monique wants to move her family out here because she cannot stand it where she is at.
Since she left, I have bedded down with a few girls here and there, but I keep thinking of her. If she came back, I think I would make an effort to be with her... that is, if she wanted me in the same way. I am pretty sure she has had a few lovers out on her end-- she is very beautiful and desirable. I don't mind it, because I understand-- even if your heart belongs to one person, your body might want to wander somewhere else.
And so I have neglected to mention it in these blog pages because it is perplexing to think of what I am doing: for the first time in my life I have a wealth of options when it comes to love. I haven't committed to anyone so I am not cheating, and I am careful in my affairs (protection and whatnot). No one has made any demands upon me to be their one and only, so I am treading softly in this alien terrain, trying to figure out where I fit in.
I haven't had any kind of romantic relationship with Eve, because we already went through that earlier this year. Eve made the holidays bearable, and lately she and I have been really connecting on an amazing level of friendship. I will always love her, no matter what, but I owe it to myself to explore other options. Likewise, I don't expect Eve to put her life on hold for me-- I am sure she has had a few flings on the side, and I am mindful to not ask about them. Frankly, I don't want to know, and I'm sure she doesn't want to know about my dalliances either.
*/*
So can you see why I have been hush about it all? Can you see why I have been hesitant to report on my activities throughout the summer?
I am not even sure I know what it all means. But what I do know is:
--This has been an extraordinary summer, filled with new friends, old acquaintances, and lots of creative synergy...
--I am entering my thirties with a renewed sense of the purpose of my life...
--This year has more than made up for the love drought I experienced after breaking up with Jeanie in 2000. The spell was broken late last year...
After Monique left, I met Dotty, a blues singer; Dharma, a former lawyer and now aspiring actress; and then I recently ran into Nicole, a girl who used to go to my high school... who now teaches at the very same high school!
This is all new to me. I've never been a "player" but I've always had female companionship, and now... now I seem to be reaping the benefits of my unorthodox lifestyle. I really don't know where this road is going to take me, but at least I understand why I am in the middle of this.
I am avoiding sorrow.
I have spent almost two decades of my life courting it, and now it is time to leave it alone. Sorrow needs no help from me to invoke it-- look around you, it comes about on its own, motivated by millions of external factors.
We cause our own sorrows and need no help from outside forces. Sometimes we bring sadness and despair upon ourselves as we are pursuing what we think is "happiness". I think the reason why my summer has been loving and exciting is because I finally made up my mind to go where I'm wanted... No more chasing after elusive prey-- from now on, I only keep company with the ones who seek me out, the ones who like what I have to say and don't want me to change.
This has reduced the Drama Quotient in my lovelife drastically.
Ten years ago, I ran after the ones who didn't want me, the ones I felt like I could never have. That was bunk. If I'd known then what I know now-- that there's a reason why those kinds of relationships never pan out --then I think my twenties would've been an epic love session for me. Not that my twenties were bad... I've been very fortunate to have loved and been loved in return... but now that I know what I want, I think I can keep up the momentum of this summer as the season fades into the Fall and its attendant weather.
*/*
Today also happens to be Peter's birthday. His brother Purple Paulie is taking him out to Hooters and we're all invited, but before I join them I have to drive home and check up on Marvin and Otis.
I suspect that I'll be spending more time at home with the cats, reading and writing and painting and playing music and working on the computer.
And that's good, because it's cold outside.
I have a side job making graphic designs for a print shop. I also played a gig with Metalhead, the cover band, on Sunday. It went OK. Friday night, another Ninefinger show will cap off my week, and then this Saturday I travel with my family to State Line, on the outskirts of Vegas.
I am busy, but I don't feel tired.
Vonnegut's books saved my life. Reading Breakfast Of Champions at age 15 made me realize that I wasn't the only person in the world who was suffering. Rather, it seemed like the entire universe was suffering, along with me, and Vonnegut's prose provided me with a release, a way of easing the pain of existence.
I can tell you this with no trace of irony or pathos: sometimes I feel like I've had enough. Sometimes I see the news and can't watch what's going on in Iraq, in New Orleans, or anywhere else; sometimes I wish that someone would put bullets through the heads of some of our world leaders;and often times I feel like I could put a bullet in my own temple.
But I never get around to it, and it's because I've found a way to keep my balance in this world. Reading people like Kurt Vonnegut is one way.
Another way is to open my heart to another living creature. Last night a friend dropped off a six week-old kitty cat at my apartment. Eve and I named him 'Marvin'. I instantly fell in love with this tiny creature, this mewing, jumping, furry ball of energy that scampers around my humble abode, innocent and wide-eyed.
My cat Otis is, of course, jealous. But I raised Otis to be a lover, not a fighter, and in due time he will accept Marvin as his buddy. It helps that I am being fair and showing both of them equal amounts of love, because Otis has been with me through lean times in the past six years, and I figured I owe it to him to give him a companion for those times when I'm not home.
The company of another human being makes the sorrow in my heart fade momentarily. Eve made dinner last night, and we watched a bunch of X-Files episodes that I have not yet seen. She also fell in love with Marvin-- in fact, she suggested the name after seeing him scuttle across the carpet like Marvin the Martian from the old Warner Bros. cartoons --and for an elongated moment there was peace in my mind.
*/*
Today is Monique's birthday. I called her to wish her a happy 27th. She is 3,000 miles away, somewhere in the southeast United States. The last time I saw her was in May, when she and I were together. I never mentioned her in this blog because it is a complicated story, one compounded by the fact that she and I were only friends until her last visit to town.
We shared a passionate interlude that lasted the entire two weeks she was in town. I'd never known that she felt this way for me, even though I knew that I had a big crush on her. She was housesitting for her former boss while he was away on vacation, and so I found myself spending almost every night of that two week period with her.
When she left, she promised that she would return, but now she has misgivings because her five year-old brother will miss her if she leaves. Monique wants to move her family out here because she cannot stand it where she is at.
Since she left, I have bedded down with a few girls here and there, but I keep thinking of her. If she came back, I think I would make an effort to be with her... that is, if she wanted me in the same way. I am pretty sure she has had a few lovers out on her end-- she is very beautiful and desirable. I don't mind it, because I understand-- even if your heart belongs to one person, your body might want to wander somewhere else.
And so I have neglected to mention it in these blog pages because it is perplexing to think of what I am doing: for the first time in my life I have a wealth of options when it comes to love. I haven't committed to anyone so I am not cheating, and I am careful in my affairs (protection and whatnot). No one has made any demands upon me to be their one and only, so I am treading softly in this alien terrain, trying to figure out where I fit in.
I haven't had any kind of romantic relationship with Eve, because we already went through that earlier this year. Eve made the holidays bearable, and lately she and I have been really connecting on an amazing level of friendship. I will always love her, no matter what, but I owe it to myself to explore other options. Likewise, I don't expect Eve to put her life on hold for me-- I am sure she has had a few flings on the side, and I am mindful to not ask about them. Frankly, I don't want to know, and I'm sure she doesn't want to know about my dalliances either.
*/*
So can you see why I have been hush about it all? Can you see why I have been hesitant to report on my activities throughout the summer?
I am not even sure I know what it all means. But what I do know is:
--This has been an extraordinary summer, filled with new friends, old acquaintances, and lots of creative synergy...
--I am entering my thirties with a renewed sense of the purpose of my life...
--This year has more than made up for the love drought I experienced after breaking up with Jeanie in 2000. The spell was broken late last year...
After Monique left, I met Dotty, a blues singer; Dharma, a former lawyer and now aspiring actress; and then I recently ran into Nicole, a girl who used to go to my high school... who now teaches at the very same high school!
This is all new to me. I've never been a "player" but I've always had female companionship, and now... now I seem to be reaping the benefits of my unorthodox lifestyle. I really don't know where this road is going to take me, but at least I understand why I am in the middle of this.
I am avoiding sorrow.
I have spent almost two decades of my life courting it, and now it is time to leave it alone. Sorrow needs no help from me to invoke it-- look around you, it comes about on its own, motivated by millions of external factors.
We cause our own sorrows and need no help from outside forces. Sometimes we bring sadness and despair upon ourselves as we are pursuing what we think is "happiness". I think the reason why my summer has been loving and exciting is because I finally made up my mind to go where I'm wanted... No more chasing after elusive prey-- from now on, I only keep company with the ones who seek me out, the ones who like what I have to say and don't want me to change.
This has reduced the Drama Quotient in my lovelife drastically.
Ten years ago, I ran after the ones who didn't want me, the ones I felt like I could never have. That was bunk. If I'd known then what I know now-- that there's a reason why those kinds of relationships never pan out --then I think my twenties would've been an epic love session for me. Not that my twenties were bad... I've been very fortunate to have loved and been loved in return... but now that I know what I want, I think I can keep up the momentum of this summer as the season fades into the Fall and its attendant weather.
*/*
Today also happens to be Peter's birthday. His brother Purple Paulie is taking him out to Hooters and we're all invited, but before I join them I have to drive home and check up on Marvin and Otis.
I suspect that I'll be spending more time at home with the cats, reading and writing and painting and playing music and working on the computer.
And that's good, because it's cold outside.
I have a side job making graphic designs for a print shop. I also played a gig with Metalhead, the cover band, on Sunday. It went OK. Friday night, another Ninefinger show will cap off my week, and then this Saturday I travel with my family to State Line, on the outskirts of Vegas.
I am busy, but I don't feel tired.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
more scientific quizzes
I just can't get enough of these...
| Your Hidden Talent |
 Your natural talent is interpersonal relations and dealing with people. You communicate well and are able to bring disparate groups together. Your calming presence helps everything go more smoothly. People crave your praise and complements. |
Monday, September 12, 2005
power outage
At first I thought it was the faulty circuit breaker, since my apartment was built in the '40's and similar instances have occurred in my short time living there.
But, I didn't have a lot of electrical appliances on, and everyone else's power was out too.
I decided to drive to work, because we have a back-up generator. Radio keeps on moving forward, no matter what. Short of an electro-magnetic pulse, nothing stops our broadcasts.
My commute was a lawless cruise through a Valley with no working traffic lights, a paucity of traffic cops, and people talking on their cel phones as the lanes piled up.
I drove on the median, in the left turn lanes, down side streets and alley ways. I started to like it.
By the time I got here, things were returning to normal. But I feel like I was in the right place at the right time, and I didn't panic.
I am not afraid of anything.
But, I didn't have a lot of electrical appliances on, and everyone else's power was out too.
I decided to drive to work, because we have a back-up generator. Radio keeps on moving forward, no matter what. Short of an electro-magnetic pulse, nothing stops our broadcasts.
My commute was a lawless cruise through a Valley with no working traffic lights, a paucity of traffic cops, and people talking on their cel phones as the lanes piled up.
I drove on the median, in the left turn lanes, down side streets and alley ways. I started to like it.
By the time I got here, things were returning to normal. But I feel like I was in the right place at the right time, and I didn't panic.
I am not afraid of anything.
Friday, September 09, 2005
KATRINA
I've been holding off on commenting on New Orleans, because it is really crazy. Crazier than 9/11. Crazier than anything I've ever seen in my life.
I never went to New Orleans. I had a friend who went to school in Tulane and she always invited me to go down and visit. I never did. I regret it now.
New Orleans-- I never knew you, your beauty, your ugliness, your music and your food, your zydeco music and Cajun culture, your vampires and your shallow graveyards, your voodoo vibe...
Goodbye. It ended before it ever began for me and you...
Oh, and impeach President Bush NOW...
(for all you hip-hop heads: Mos Def has a track in response to what he sees going on down there)
TRY to have a nice weekend...
I never went to New Orleans. I had a friend who went to school in Tulane and she always invited me to go down and visit. I never did. I regret it now.
New Orleans-- I never knew you, your beauty, your ugliness, your music and your food, your zydeco music and Cajun culture, your vampires and your shallow graveyards, your voodoo vibe...
Goodbye. It ended before it ever began for me and you...
Oh, and impeach President Bush NOW...
(for all you hip-hop heads: Mos Def has a track in response to what he sees going on down there)
TRY to have a nice weekend...
Thursday, September 08, 2005
my inner european
Your Inner European is Dutch! |
 Open minded and tolerant. You're up for just about anything. |
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
serendipity
I started the XYZ story out of bordeom and whether or not I will actually finish it largely depends on my linearity, but suffice it to say it is based upon true memories and therefore will not go anywhere or become anything outside of me, so I have time...
I have been busy investigating serendipities aloud to the bemused chagrin of my peers and friends, disordering my mind in preparation for the New Routine and Subtle Changes I am undergoing currently.
I am bored with commercial music. I play it for hire but unlike a whore I still derive pleasure from the act. However, I am itching to give birth to something wholly new and unattainable, the kind of monument that notetakers crib for posterity, unable to process it until their thievery skills are up to par...
A new painting was begun over the weekend. I was in an in-between moment and shed my clothes to keep the paint from tainting them, and I brushed in my boxer briefs until I was seeing visions, withdrawing and extracting images from my brain using Dali's "paranoiac-critical method", and before me the countenace of a grimacing clown surfaced from the canvas and gave way to the rush of comic-book apparitions and iconic heroes in blurry outline sketches...
With the cruel wind whipping mercilessly across the desert plains, I tuned in to frequencies atop a mansion in the hills, the smell of barbecue smoke wafting over the city and its haze, songs reverberating in the crawlspace between my ears, the abstract rehearsal space where ghosts convene to compose the songs that serenade my heart.
I am breaking down my rational barriers. They have handicapped me for far too long. The only mistake I have been making is not one of going too far, but not going far enough. Embracing shallow depths and surface pretensions to unmask their lures, it has been a rejuvenating adventure into avant-garde horse radish.
More to come, for sure..
I have been busy investigating serendipities aloud to the bemused chagrin of my peers and friends, disordering my mind in preparation for the New Routine and Subtle Changes I am undergoing currently.
I am bored with commercial music. I play it for hire but unlike a whore I still derive pleasure from the act. However, I am itching to give birth to something wholly new and unattainable, the kind of monument that notetakers crib for posterity, unable to process it until their thievery skills are up to par...
A new painting was begun over the weekend. I was in an in-between moment and shed my clothes to keep the paint from tainting them, and I brushed in my boxer briefs until I was seeing visions, withdrawing and extracting images from my brain using Dali's "paranoiac-critical method", and before me the countenace of a grimacing clown surfaced from the canvas and gave way to the rush of comic-book apparitions and iconic heroes in blurry outline sketches...
With the cruel wind whipping mercilessly across the desert plains, I tuned in to frequencies atop a mansion in the hills, the smell of barbecue smoke wafting over the city and its haze, songs reverberating in the crawlspace between my ears, the abstract rehearsal space where ghosts convene to compose the songs that serenade my heart.
I am breaking down my rational barriers. They have handicapped me for far too long. The only mistake I have been making is not one of going too far, but not going far enough. Embracing shallow depths and surface pretensions to unmask their lures, it has been a rejuvenating adventure into avant-garde horse radish.
More to come, for sure..
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