Sorry for squealing like a kid, but I wrote up a quick story for a comic anthology my friend Francis and I are SLOOOOWWWWLY working on. It's been a while since I've come up with anything creative, and it felt pretty good. I was typing it into my phone today on the way to work. I need to finalize the script, lay it out, take some photo reference, and maybe...just maybe I'll DRAW this mother fucker.
Also, I'm buzzing from some chocolate chip cookies my mom sent in the mail yesterday. Fucking AWESOME!
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Rant Bomb, part 5
Last year, I went upstate for Christmas and visited my family. I don't really fit in with any of them. I'm either a few years older or a few years younger than everyone else in my generation. And we all know how I feel about my sister, who's only three years younger than I am.
I have family scattered across the country, mostly in the west. Those I would feel most comfortable with live in Minnesota, Arizona, and California. However, I have two cousins in New York that I don't feel terribly out of place with, so the 200-mile annual guilt trip isn't a total wash. Logan and Danielle are roughly the same age (19), just five months apart. They both have skills and/or natural talents, A PURPOSE, outside of being 1/2 of a baby factory. Logan's becoming a computer scientist or something like that. Danielle, aside from myself, is the only person in our generation with artistic talent. It's only developed in the past four years, but she knew she had something that could grow. Danielle is an only child. When she was younger, she was more of the girly princess type. In her mid to late teens, she became more tomboyish, with a hint of gothness. I guess all that came out with her artistic abilities.
Last Christmas marked the end of their first semesters in college. Danielle came home with her boyfriend, a guy from Canada, who's my age. He seemed decent enough at the time, but I got a vibe from him I didn't like. I left it alone, though. Danielle made a decision to drop out of college and live with the guy and his mom across the border. I put on the façade of "hey, fine, whatever," but my brain was screaming, "are you out of your fucking mind?! Go back to school, stupid!"
A few weeks later, Danielle moved back with her parents. Her boyfriends' mother said there was no more room at the inn. Oh, and by the way, she's pregnant. Imagine that. Little Noah was born last week, premature, weighing just under five pounds. He's in an incubator in Albany right now. Meanwhile, Fuckstick McDouchebag is in Canada, with his mom, his girlfriend, and their kid.
Now, she's yet another single mom, another sad statistic, without much of a future other than raising her son. Her hopes and dreams died the day she gave birth. She argues with her parents a lot. She's unemployed, stuck in a small, shitty town. My family has a Catholic background; abortion was never considered. One sentiment that got passed around by some family members was hope for a miscarriage. It's an extremely sad idea, and you can't even think it without feeling like a monster, but when you look at the situation everyone's in, you start thinking about alternatives. Who knows, maybe she'll decide on adoption?
With all of that in consideration, actually going forth with the pregnancy and deciding to care for the child and taking responsibility for her actions is a pretty brave and noble thing. I'm not about to fault her for that.
I have family scattered across the country, mostly in the west. Those I would feel most comfortable with live in Minnesota, Arizona, and California. However, I have two cousins in New York that I don't feel terribly out of place with, so the 200-mile annual guilt trip isn't a total wash. Logan and Danielle are roughly the same age (19), just five months apart. They both have skills and/or natural talents, A PURPOSE, outside of being 1/2 of a baby factory. Logan's becoming a computer scientist or something like that. Danielle, aside from myself, is the only person in our generation with artistic talent. It's only developed in the past four years, but she knew she had something that could grow. Danielle is an only child. When she was younger, she was more of the girly princess type. In her mid to late teens, she became more tomboyish, with a hint of gothness. I guess all that came out with her artistic abilities.
Last Christmas marked the end of their first semesters in college. Danielle came home with her boyfriend, a guy from Canada, who's my age. He seemed decent enough at the time, but I got a vibe from him I didn't like. I left it alone, though. Danielle made a decision to drop out of college and live with the guy and his mom across the border. I put on the façade of "hey, fine, whatever," but my brain was screaming, "are you out of your fucking mind?! Go back to school, stupid!"
A few weeks later, Danielle moved back with her parents. Her boyfriends' mother said there was no more room at the inn. Oh, and by the way, she's pregnant. Imagine that. Little Noah was born last week, premature, weighing just under five pounds. He's in an incubator in Albany right now. Meanwhile, Fuckstick McDouchebag is in Canada, with his mom, his girlfriend, and their kid.
Now, she's yet another single mom, another sad statistic, without much of a future other than raising her son. Her hopes and dreams died the day she gave birth. She argues with her parents a lot. She's unemployed, stuck in a small, shitty town. My family has a Catholic background; abortion was never considered. One sentiment that got passed around by some family members was hope for a miscarriage. It's an extremely sad idea, and you can't even think it without feeling like a monster, but when you look at the situation everyone's in, you start thinking about alternatives. Who knows, maybe she'll decide on adoption?
With all of that in consideration, actually going forth with the pregnancy and deciding to care for the child and taking responsibility for her actions is a pretty brave and noble thing. I'm not about to fault her for that.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Rant Bomb, part 3
The view from my old house in Brooklyn. One month before on the left, two weeks after on the right.
I'd been living in Brooklyn since April of 2001. I was still getting used to the city after being away for so long, and I'd NEVER been used to lower Manhattan. The street layout never made any sense to me. And since that day, I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
I got off the train at 9:03 AM, as I was running a little late for work that day. I came up out of the Franklin Street Station on the 1/9 line, and saw lots of people on the sidewalk, looking up and pointing. I looked up.
“Well. This will be an interesting day.” I plugged into my radio to find out what was going on as I walked three blocks to work.
A month previous, the production supervisor had left for greener pastures. We needed all the help we could get. So I put in a good word for Carlos. He used to be a messenger in the financial district, running back and forth between Wall Street and Jersey City via the PATH train. When I got to work, he was there holding down the fort. Everyone was making phone calls. People walked in off the street to use the phones.
I called my parents house upstate and left a message; mom was out walking Tasha, our adorable black lab.
"Hey, Mom, you might have heard something about the WTC blowing up or something. I'm 15 blocks away from it, so I'm fine. I'll check in later. Love you."
Then she called my dad at work; he was out of the building at the time, so he was out of the loop. When he got back, he saw the news. One of the secretaries said, “Some lady called and said that ‘Jeff was okay,’ whatever that means.” My dad, who was already a wreck from his father dying a few weeks previous, was relieved.
After the north tower fell, we locked up the store and walked uptown. We ran into one of Lynne’s (and mine) freelance clients, and walked with them for a little while until they found their friends house. Carlos & I were worried about Bowie. He worked on the floor of the stock exchange. But there wasn’t much we could do. After I had worn a hole through the cuff of my left pant leg, we entered SVA’s main building at 23rd street. We sat in the cafeteria, listening to the radio, eating junk food, trying to make sense of what was going on, trying to put together a narrative for the events. After all, that's what Cartoonists do: construct a sensible story. After a while, we needed some real food. I offered to buy Carlos lunch; I had a hunch that the “last hired-first fired” rule was going to happen (and it did). But Carlos told me, “If you hadn’t got me that job, I’d be goo right now. I’m buying you lunch.” As the minutes passed, we called just about everyone we knew. It was a relief to hear everyone’s voice. Lynne, who had immediate Internet access, kept everyone else in our Cartoonists community updated on who has checked in and was okay.
By three o’clock, the subways had resumed service. We sat on the R, shell shocked just like everyone else. I got home and sat with my roommates, just trying to make sense of everything. Every so often, I’d call Bowie’s house and leave a message. By 7:30, I went up to my roof. The pillar of smoke extended from the pit all the way up, over and behind Brooklyn. I was bending over backwards, Matrix-style, trying to take it all in. The smell of the barbecue was setting in. And I was ready to give up on ever hearing Bowie’s voice again.
Naturally, that’s when my caller ID lit up with his name. He had walked from Wall Street to 125th street. There, he found one of his friends, who gave him a ride home to the Bronx. After he called his mom in St. Croix, he called me. The 25+ times I called him had registered on his caller ID, so he could tell I was freaking out. The next couple days, Bowie couldn’t walk; the blisters on his feet were numerous and excruciating.
Everyone I knew was okay, but not everyone was untouched. Chris’ dad knew two people that died.
I didn’t know it at the time, but one of Francis’ friends, Evan Forsch, was on the 89th floor of the north tower. A few minutes after the second plane hit, his floor was being evacuated. He and his co-workers made it out moments before it collapsed. Evan, a fellow Cartoonist (go figure), wrote a short story about his day called “Down and Out” for the 9-11: Emergency Relief comic, from Alternative Comics.
I'd been living in Brooklyn since April of 2001. I was still getting used to the city after being away for so long, and I'd NEVER been used to lower Manhattan. The street layout never made any sense to me. And since that day, I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
I got off the train at 9:03 AM, as I was running a little late for work that day. I came up out of the Franklin Street Station on the 1/9 line, and saw lots of people on the sidewalk, looking up and pointing. I looked up.
“Well. This will be an interesting day.” I plugged into my radio to find out what was going on as I walked three blocks to work.
A month previous, the production supervisor had left for greener pastures. We needed all the help we could get. So I put in a good word for Carlos. He used to be a messenger in the financial district, running back and forth between Wall Street and Jersey City via the PATH train. When I got to work, he was there holding down the fort. Everyone was making phone calls. People walked in off the street to use the phones.
I called my parents house upstate and left a message; mom was out walking Tasha, our adorable black lab.
"Hey, Mom, you might have heard something about the WTC blowing up or something. I'm 15 blocks away from it, so I'm fine. I'll check in later. Love you."
Then she called my dad at work; he was out of the building at the time, so he was out of the loop. When he got back, he saw the news. One of the secretaries said, “Some lady called and said that ‘Jeff was okay,’ whatever that means.” My dad, who was already a wreck from his father dying a few weeks previous, was relieved.
After the north tower fell, we locked up the store and walked uptown. We ran into one of Lynne’s (and mine) freelance clients, and walked with them for a little while until they found their friends house. Carlos & I were worried about Bowie. He worked on the floor of the stock exchange. But there wasn’t much we could do. After I had worn a hole through the cuff of my left pant leg, we entered SVA’s main building at 23rd street. We sat in the cafeteria, listening to the radio, eating junk food, trying to make sense of what was going on, trying to put together a narrative for the events. After all, that's what Cartoonists do: construct a sensible story. After a while, we needed some real food. I offered to buy Carlos lunch; I had a hunch that the “last hired-first fired” rule was going to happen (and it did). But Carlos told me, “If you hadn’t got me that job, I’d be goo right now. I’m buying you lunch.” As the minutes passed, we called just about everyone we knew. It was a relief to hear everyone’s voice. Lynne, who had immediate Internet access, kept everyone else in our Cartoonists community updated on who has checked in and was okay.
By three o’clock, the subways had resumed service. We sat on the R, shell shocked just like everyone else. I got home and sat with my roommates, just trying to make sense of everything. Every so often, I’d call Bowie’s house and leave a message. By 7:30, I went up to my roof. The pillar of smoke extended from the pit all the way up, over and behind Brooklyn. I was bending over backwards, Matrix-style, trying to take it all in. The smell of the barbecue was setting in. And I was ready to give up on ever hearing Bowie’s voice again.
Naturally, that’s when my caller ID lit up with his name. He had walked from Wall Street to 125th street. There, he found one of his friends, who gave him a ride home to the Bronx. After he called his mom in St. Croix, he called me. The 25+ times I called him had registered on his caller ID, so he could tell I was freaking out. The next couple days, Bowie couldn’t walk; the blisters on his feet were numerous and excruciating.
Everyone I knew was okay, but not everyone was untouched. Chris’ dad knew two people that died.
I didn’t know it at the time, but one of Francis’ friends, Evan Forsch, was on the 89th floor of the north tower. A few minutes after the second plane hit, his floor was being evacuated. He and his co-workers made it out moments before it collapsed. Evan, a fellow Cartoonist (go figure), wrote a short story about his day called “Down and Out” for the 9-11: Emergency Relief comic, from Alternative Comics.
Rant Bomb, part 2
Let me tell you about my friend Inger.
I had been living in Brooklyn for a month. My good friend Francis, who had already hooked me up with a decent place to live, also had some artistic friends in the city who could help me out with getting a job. He gave me Inger’s home and work numbers, and her email address. I called her up eventually.
“God, I’m so sick of helping people. I’m just fucking tired of it, you know? But Fran & Mickey [Francis' wife] said you were a good kid, so it’s probably the last favor I’ll do for them.”
That was one of the first things she said to me. So, I was a little uncomfortable. Inger was able to get a few of her & Fran's friends, to meet us at a bar downtown. I was to bring my portfolio and sketchbook. I met her just after 5 on a Friday at her company. She took one look at me and froze for a second. And so did I. “If she and Fran had a kid…”
So we walked over to the bar and I was introduced to everyone. Cary, a very cool cartoonist & illustrator, was the first one to ask how I met Francis. I explained to him about the printing company I worked at upstate, where I met Francis, and the Kids in the Hall & South Park quotes. Cary’s response was, “Ohhhhhhh, you’re that guy. I get it now. I was wondering how Fran would meet a 21-year-old upstate. I mean, you’re a bit out of his age range.” All these people are in their early thirties.
After an hour of talking, Inger understood exactly why Francis told her that I was a younger version of her. We both have similar relationships with our fathers, and while she was at Pratt, Inger used to dress a lot like I do now (all black clothes). As our ranks thinned, and as she became a little drunk (well, only three or four beers, but she barely weighs 100 pounds), we found ourselves holding hands, like we’d known each other for ages. Inger exclaimed "You're so touchy, too!" I'm very physically affectionate to those who are open to it. She began to talk about her problems with family. It wasn’t long before she was crying in my arms, kissing me on the cheek, and thanking me for listening. “I don’t even know why I’m trusting you with all of this…I just met you two hours ago. I’ve never met anyone that I’ve been able to open up to like this.” She looked into my eyes, and it felt like she was begging for an answer.
After a moment, I told her, “Some time ago, one of my more thoughtful teachers [who was also a psychologist] suggested that maybe it was my purpose to bear witness, and to help whenever I could. Maybe it’s true. I mean, look at us. Look at our friends. Maybe it was fate that I met Francis. I know I certainly wouldn’t be here without him. If I had never met him, I would still be trapped in Bumblefuck, losing my mind. Francis helped me, and he made it possible for me to help you now, even though he doesn’t know you need it.”
After she had recovered, she told me that there was a spare computer in her office, and that I could come in whenever I wanted to use it in my quest for employment, and to practice with programs. Inger would give me some practice assignments to put in my portfolio, and helped me write my resume.
We had come in on a Saturday. She had to work on a project that needed to be done by Monday, and Inger didn’t have the time to work on it the previous night. When she came to the door to let me in the office, I could see that she was a wreck. I asked her what was wrong. One of her friends had done something particularly nasty. I held her for hours as she cried, her tears soaking through my shirt. “God, I’m sorry, I’m getting you wet,” she said between sobs. “Inger, I don’t care. Just let it all out. I’m here for you, remember?” She held me so tightly, I could feel her abs flex against mine, wrought with fear. All I could do was pull her closer. I didn’t want to…no, I wouldn’t let her feel alone. Not in the shape she was in. At one point, I almost cried. Seeing her in so much pain was taking its toll on me. I suggested that we go get lunch. We walked along, holding hands, to the South Street Seaport. We each got a slice of pizza and a soda, and sat on a bench looking out at the river, our arms around each other. That was when she told me about Mickey calling her up. “She said, ‘I saw Jeff; when the hell did you and Francis have a kid?’”
That became a running gag. At a birthday party later that year, Fran & Inger were sitting across the table from me. I pulled out my camera to get a shot of them. Cary commented, “It’s only fitting that Jeff gets a picture of his parents.” Some people looked at Cary like he was nuts. He said, “What? Look at Fran & Inger, then look at Jeff.” They looked at the couple, then at me. “Holy shit!” was the most common response.
A couple weeks ago, Inger wasn't feeling well. Headaches, dizziness, puking, fever, trouble standing up; your basic flu symptoms. Inger's about 5'9" tall, and maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. With that kind of build, the flu is going to knock you down a few pegs. What was odd, though, was she didn't get better after a week. Her fiancée Michael, with whom she bought a house with last year, was getting worried. He drove her to the hospital to find out what was wrong. The doctors ran some tests, and found there was too much pressure on her brain. So they cut her open and drained some fluids, and got a bit of a surprise:
A sizeable tumor. Phase 3 Astrocytoma, to be precise. They took out half of it, but not enough to leave her a vegetable. She was in a coma for a few days. Right now, she's being treated at a very reputable hospital in the city. She's on chemotherapy, steroids, and blood thinners to prevent clots forming in her brain…although she's probably off those by now.
She's kind of weak on her right side, so they gave her a cane. Of course, she tries to beat people with it, but she's too weak to do any damage…for now.
I just found out all this stuff, and still in a bit of shock. I've been getting most of my information through Cary, who's one of her best friends. Because of a bad relationship with her parents, they're trying to give Michael Power of Attorney over her in case something happens.
I can never get in touch with her, but letting her rest is probably best. Cary will be up in mid-October. Hopefully I can squeeze in a visit then.
While everyone else in our circle of friends is being optimistic, I have to stick with my pessimistic nature. I actually PRAYED for Inger. If you know me, you know how much she means to me. She taught me it's possible to be massively fucked up and still find happiness. She is very dear to me, and I can't help but worry.
I had been living in Brooklyn for a month. My good friend Francis, who had already hooked me up with a decent place to live, also had some artistic friends in the city who could help me out with getting a job. He gave me Inger’s home and work numbers, and her email address. I called her up eventually.
“God, I’m so sick of helping people. I’m just fucking tired of it, you know? But Fran & Mickey [Francis' wife] said you were a good kid, so it’s probably the last favor I’ll do for them.”
That was one of the first things she said to me. So, I was a little uncomfortable. Inger was able to get a few of her & Fran's friends, to meet us at a bar downtown. I was to bring my portfolio and sketchbook. I met her just after 5 on a Friday at her company. She took one look at me and froze for a second. And so did I. “If she and Fran had a kid…”
So we walked over to the bar and I was introduced to everyone. Cary, a very cool cartoonist & illustrator, was the first one to ask how I met Francis. I explained to him about the printing company I worked at upstate, where I met Francis, and the Kids in the Hall & South Park quotes. Cary’s response was, “Ohhhhhhh, you’re that guy. I get it now. I was wondering how Fran would meet a 21-year-old upstate. I mean, you’re a bit out of his age range.” All these people are in their early thirties.
After an hour of talking, Inger understood exactly why Francis told her that I was a younger version of her. We both have similar relationships with our fathers, and while she was at Pratt, Inger used to dress a lot like I do now (all black clothes). As our ranks thinned, and as she became a little drunk (well, only three or four beers, but she barely weighs 100 pounds), we found ourselves holding hands, like we’d known each other for ages. Inger exclaimed "You're so touchy, too!" I'm very physically affectionate to those who are open to it. She began to talk about her problems with family. It wasn’t long before she was crying in my arms, kissing me on the cheek, and thanking me for listening. “I don’t even know why I’m trusting you with all of this…I just met you two hours ago. I’ve never met anyone that I’ve been able to open up to like this.” She looked into my eyes, and it felt like she was begging for an answer.
After a moment, I told her, “Some time ago, one of my more thoughtful teachers [who was also a psychologist] suggested that maybe it was my purpose to bear witness, and to help whenever I could. Maybe it’s true. I mean, look at us. Look at our friends. Maybe it was fate that I met Francis. I know I certainly wouldn’t be here without him. If I had never met him, I would still be trapped in Bumblefuck, losing my mind. Francis helped me, and he made it possible for me to help you now, even though he doesn’t know you need it.”
After she had recovered, she told me that there was a spare computer in her office, and that I could come in whenever I wanted to use it in my quest for employment, and to practice with programs. Inger would give me some practice assignments to put in my portfolio, and helped me write my resume.
We had come in on a Saturday. She had to work on a project that needed to be done by Monday, and Inger didn’t have the time to work on it the previous night. When she came to the door to let me in the office, I could see that she was a wreck. I asked her what was wrong. One of her friends had done something particularly nasty. I held her for hours as she cried, her tears soaking through my shirt. “God, I’m sorry, I’m getting you wet,” she said between sobs. “Inger, I don’t care. Just let it all out. I’m here for you, remember?” She held me so tightly, I could feel her abs flex against mine, wrought with fear. All I could do was pull her closer. I didn’t want to…no, I wouldn’t let her feel alone. Not in the shape she was in. At one point, I almost cried. Seeing her in so much pain was taking its toll on me. I suggested that we go get lunch. We walked along, holding hands, to the South Street Seaport. We each got a slice of pizza and a soda, and sat on a bench looking out at the river, our arms around each other. That was when she told me about Mickey calling her up. “She said, ‘I saw Jeff; when the hell did you and Francis have a kid?’”
That became a running gag. At a birthday party later that year, Fran & Inger were sitting across the table from me. I pulled out my camera to get a shot of them. Cary commented, “It’s only fitting that Jeff gets a picture of his parents.” Some people looked at Cary like he was nuts. He said, “What? Look at Fran & Inger, then look at Jeff.” They looked at the couple, then at me. “Holy shit!” was the most common response.
A couple weeks ago, Inger wasn't feeling well. Headaches, dizziness, puking, fever, trouble standing up; your basic flu symptoms. Inger's about 5'9" tall, and maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. With that kind of build, the flu is going to knock you down a few pegs. What was odd, though, was she didn't get better after a week. Her fiancée Michael, with whom she bought a house with last year, was getting worried. He drove her to the hospital to find out what was wrong. The doctors ran some tests, and found there was too much pressure on her brain. So they cut her open and drained some fluids, and got a bit of a surprise:
A sizeable tumor. Phase 3 Astrocytoma, to be precise. They took out half of it, but not enough to leave her a vegetable. She was in a coma for a few days. Right now, she's being treated at a very reputable hospital in the city. She's on chemotherapy, steroids, and blood thinners to prevent clots forming in her brain…although she's probably off those by now.
She's kind of weak on her right side, so they gave her a cane. Of course, she tries to beat people with it, but she's too weak to do any damage…for now.
I just found out all this stuff, and still in a bit of shock. I've been getting most of my information through Cary, who's one of her best friends. Because of a bad relationship with her parents, they're trying to give Michael Power of Attorney over her in case something happens.
I can never get in touch with her, but letting her rest is probably best. Cary will be up in mid-October. Hopefully I can squeeze in a visit then.
While everyone else in our circle of friends is being optimistic, I have to stick with my pessimistic nature. I actually PRAYED for Inger. If you know me, you know how much she means to me. She taught me it's possible to be massively fucked up and still find happiness. She is very dear to me, and I can't help but worry.
Monday, August 22, 2005
BlogThings, because I can't help myself
Ugh. So sorry. Most of these will come as no surprise to you (heh. Scroll down to the Logic one). In fact, you'll most likely be yelling "DUUUUUUUH!" at the screen as you read this crap. I know it's a lot, but it's probably the only time I'll do this.
Also, I've procrastinated on my entry about college. I'm a lazy, lazy bastard. If any of this is hard to read, just highlight the damned thing. I'll re-format it later (mother-bloody-fucking HTML code!).
What's Your Ideal Relationship?
According to a few different IQ tests, it always turns out to be 123. Genius level IQ is 140 & above.
How Logical Are You?
Go ahead, Alex. Say it. You know you want to.
(If only there was a number between 2 and 4...)
Also, I've procrastinated on my entry about college. I'm a lazy, lazy bastard. If any of this is hard to read, just highlight the damned thing. I'll re-format it later (mother-bloody-fucking HTML code!).
Your Dominant Thinking Style: |
| Exploring You thrive on the unknown and unpredictable. Novelty is your middle name. You are a challenger. You tend to challenge common assumptions and beliefs. An expert inventor and problem solver, you approach everything from new angles. You show people how to question their models of the world. |
Your Secondary Thinking Style: |
| Modifying Super logical and rational, you consider every fact available to you. You don't make rash decisions and are rarely moved by emotion. You prefer what's known and proven - to the new and untested. You tend to ground those around you and add stability. |
Your Ideal Relationship Style is Serious Dating |
 You're not ready to go walking down the aisle. But you may be ready in a couple of years. You prefer to date one on one, with a commitment. And while chemistry is important, so is compatibility. |
What's Your Ideal Relationship?
| How You Live Your Life |
 You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside. You're laid back and chill, but sometimes you care too much about what others think. You're open to new people and friends, which makes you a pretty popular person. Some of your past dreams have disappointed you, but you don't let it get you down. |
| Your Hidden Talent |
 And while this may not seem big, it can be. It's people like you who serve as the catalysts to major cultural changes. You're just a bit behind the scenes, so no one really notices. |
| Your Power Color Is Red-Orange |
 At Your Highest: You are warm, sensitive, and focused on your personal growth. At Your Lowest: You become defensive and critical if you feel attacked. In Love: You are loyal - but you demand the respect you deserve. How You're Attractive: You are very affectionate and inspire trust. Your Eternal Question: "Am I Respected?" |
| Overall, Your Observation Skills Get: B+ |
 And it takes something big to distract you! |
| Your IQ Is 120 |
 Your Logical Intelligence is Exceptional Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Exceptional Your General Knowledge is Above Average |
According to a few different IQ tests, it always turns out to be 123. Genius level IQ is 140 & above.
The True You |
| You want your girlfriend or boyfriend to be more relaxed, calm, and composed. |
| With respect to money, you spend carefully and save your pennies. |
| You think good luck doesn't exist - reality is built on practicalities. |
| The hidden side of your personality tends to be methodical in your ways - with trouble adapting to the rules of society. |
| You are tend to think about others' feelings a lot, perhaps because you are so eager to be liked. |
| When it comes to finding a romantic partner, you don't have any particular type in mind, but you are inclined to look for someone who will say yes when you ask him / her out. |
Your #1 Love Type: INFJ |
| The Protector In love, you strive to have the perfect relationship. For you, sex is nearly a spiritual experience, a bonding of souls. Overall, you have high expectations for any relationship you're in. However, you tend to hold back a part of yourself. Best matches: ENTP and ENFP |
Your #2 Love Type: INFP |
| The Idealist In love, you crave a long term, harmonious relationship. For you, sex doesn't come quickly - it takes time for you to open up. Overall, you are supportive, nurturing, and expressive. However, you tend to be shy and protective of your personal space. Best matches: ENFJ and ESFJ |
Your #3 Love Type: INTJ |
| The Scientist In love, you tend to be very private and withdrawn - even when things are going well. For you, sex is important in a happy relationship. Less important when things aren't going well. Overall, you are confident, intelligent, and serious about commitment. However, you tend to hold back and not show your emotions. Best matches: ENFP and ENTP |
Your #4 Love Type: ISFJ |
| The Nurturer In love, you are quietly intense, devoted, and tend too hold on too long. For you, sex is a way to get closer - and a way to take care of your partner. Overall, you are altruistic and eager to please your sweetie. However, you tend to also be non-confrontational and secretly frustrated with relationship issues. Best matches: ESTP or ESFP |
Your #5 Love Type: INTP |
| The Thinker In love, you are honest and serious about commitment. For you, sex is something you think about and desire a lot of the time. Overall, you are pure in your affection and feelings. However, you tend to be suspicious and distrusting at times. Best matches: ENTJ and ESTJ |
Your Birthdate: November 22 |
While sometimes employing unorthodox approaches, you are capable of handling large scale undertakings. You assume great responsibility and work long and hard toward completion. Often, especially in the early part of life, there is rigidity or stubbornness, and a tendency to repress feelings. Idealistic, you work for the greater good with a good deal of inner strength and charisma. An extremely capable organizer, but likely to paint with broad strokes rather than detail. You are very aware and intuitive. You are subject to a good deal of nervous tension. |
What Your Dreams Mean... |
 Your dreams seem to show that you're a bit disturbed... but nothing serious. You may have a problem you're trying to work out in your sleep. You have a very vivid imagination and a rich creative mind. You secretly want to hide your dreams from your waking mind. |
The Keys to Your Heart |
You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free. |
In love, you feel the most alive when things are straight-forward, and you're told that you're loved. |
You'd like to your lover to think you are loyal and faithful... that you'll never change. |
You would be forced to break up with someone who was ruthless, cold-blooded, and sarcastic. |
Your ideal relationship is lasting. You want a relationship that looks to the future... one you can grow with. |
Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment. |
You think of marriage as something precious. You'll treasure marriage and treat it as sacred. |
In this moment, you think of love as commitment. Love only works when both people are totally devoted. |
You Are 10% Extrovert, 90% Introvert |
You avoid people at all costs You aren't one for social interaction And you limit your interaction to a select few Thank God for self checkout! |
You Are 90% Psychic |
You are so very psychic. But you already predicted that, didn't you? You have "the gift" - and you use it daily to connect with others. You're very tapped into the world around you... Just make sure to use your powers for good! |
You Are 22 Years Old |
22 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax. |
| Your EQ is |
50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick! 51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you'd have better luck understanding Chinese. 71-90: You've got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely. 91-110: You're average. It's easy to predict how you'll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that. 111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt. 131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin. 150+: Two possibilities - you've either out "Dr. Phil-ed" Dr. Phil... or you're a dirty liar. |
You Were Nice This Year! |
 You're an uber-perfect person who is on the top of Santa's list. You probably didn't even *think* any naughty thoughts this year. Unless you're a Mormon, you've probably been a little too good. Is that extra candy cane worth being a sweetheart for 365 days straight? |
| You are an Atheist |
 When it comes to religion, you're a non-believer (simple as that). You prefer to think about what's known and proven. You don't need religion to solve life's problems. Instead, you tend to work things out with logic and philosophy. |
| You Are 60% Weird |
 You're so weird, you think you're *totally* normal. Right? But you wig out even the biggest of circus freaks! |
| Your Career Type: Artistic |
 You are expressive, original, and independent. Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art. You would make an excellent: Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary. |
| You Are Strawberry Ice Cream |
 You often find yourself on the outside looking in. Insightful and pensive, you really understand how the world works. You are most compatible with chocolate chip ice cream. |
 You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong. |
The World's Shortest Personality Test
There were three other options for the short personality test that were very accurate. If you guess which ones, I'll give you a cookie.
There were three other options for the short personality test that were very accurate. If you guess which ones, I'll give you a cookie.
Your Political Profile |
Overall: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal |
Social Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal |
Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal |
Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal |
Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal |
Defense and Crime: 50% Conservative, 50% Liberal |
You Are A Good Friend |
 You're always willing to listen Or lend a shoulder to cry on You're there through thick and thin Many people consider you their "best friend"! |
You Are Incredibly Logical |
 (You got 100% of the questions right) Move over Spock - you're the new master of logic You think rationally, clearly, and quickly. A seasoned problem solver, your mind is like a computer! |
How Logical Are You?
Go ahead, Alex. Say it. You know you want to.
(If only there was a number between 2 and 4...)
You Are In a Decent Mood |
 You aren't turning cartwheels, but you're having a pretty good day. Some ups, some downs, but overall you're coming out ahead. And who knows? Tomorrow could be even better! |
You Are A Romantic Realist |
You are more romantic than 30% of the population.  You tend to be grounded when it comes to romance. Sure, you can fall hard... but only for someone you've gotten to know. And once you're in love, you can be a total romantic goofball... But you'd never admit it to your friends! |
Your Dominant Intelligence is Spatial Intelligence |
 You've got a good sense of space and how the world around you looks. You can close your eyes and "see" images. You have innate artistic talent. An eye for color and shapes, you're also a natural designer. Since you think in pictures, visual aids and demonstartions help you learn best. You would make a good navigator, sculptor, visual artist, inventor, architect, interior designer, or engineer. |
You Are a Seeker Soul |
 You are on a quest for knowledge and life challenges. You love to be curious and ask a ton of questions. Since you know so much, you make for an interesting conversationalist. Mentally alert, you can outwit almost anyone (and have fun doing it!). Very introspective, you can be silently critical of others. And your quiet nature makes it difficult for people to get to know you. You see yourself as a philosopher, and you take everything philosophically. Your main talent is expressing and communicating ideas. Souls you are most compatible with: Hunter Soul and Visionary Soul |
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Now, for some good news...
Congratulations to Carlos & Tara on their engagement! The date is set for sometime in June 2006.
When I met Tara for the first time, I knew they were going to get married. It may as well have been tattooed on their foreheads. It's tough to get more obvious than that.
(I'll be back later this week with a story about college. Hopefully it'll make up for the lack of posting.)
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Dooced*
* - To be fired from your job because of the contents of your web log. Originated at http://www.dooce.com/archives/dooced/index.html
No, not me. I haven't mentioned where I work, names of any employer/employees or clients. I haven't had any "when keeping it real goes wrong" moments in a LONG time.
And shit, no one reads this anyway.
This goes WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY the hell back to spring 2002. First, there were Heather B. Armstrong's posts about basically being the first person to be fired for complaining about her job on the Internet (see above link).
Very shortly afterwards, a New York Post "Page Six" article, by Richard Johnson -
Forgive me for the terribly juvenile remark, but it needs to be said: Dick Johnson? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
- with Paula Froelich and Chris Wilson, was published on Thursday, May 23, 2002. I clipped this article out of the paper and held onto it ever since, and I'm going to share it with you all now.
------------------
Media aide bitches too much.
A lowly assistant at Hearst magazines was fired yesterday after telling her high-maintenance bosses in an anonymous memo: "Buy your own candy, stop rifling through my desk, and yeah, guess what - I have to pee, too!"
The blistering harangue - which she posted on mediabistro.com's "Bitch Box" - begins: "Hey editors, get off your fucking high horses and come down and smell your trash. We are your editorial assistants - not your maids, your mothers or your personal assistants.
"1. Your dead plants, pigeons and other 'wildlife' in your office are not my problem. You've been around long enough to know plants need water and if they don't get it, they die…
"2. Duane Reade sells candy to ANYONE. Do not bitch if the candy jar is empty. Do not bitch if what's in there isn't your favorite candy. Haul it ONE BLOCK east and buy the stuff yourself…Plus, we're sick of fronting the cash.
"3. Pub Tech responds to everyone. It's really easy to call them. And odds are, the problem is something you could fix if you would just suck it up and take one training class.
"4. The refrigerator doesn't keep things forever. I'm tired of my one little yogurt being surrounded by your seven containers of three remaining bites of a $50 lunch that has been in there so long, it smells like sweat socks.
"5. Learn how things work around here. I'm half your age, make a third of your salary, and after baby-sitting you for over a year, could do your job and still have time for a manicure. The copier is push-button, occasionally the printer does need paper, and the production department is just down the hall. Chimps could do half this stuff.
"6. I will occasionally not be at my desk. No kidding. I have to pee, too. And I get a lunch hour. Respect it or buy yourself a slave. Kathie Lee's made a second career out of this.
"7. I do not have ESP. If you've told me to do something, it's done, if you didn't, it wasn't. I can't read your fucking mind…and if it's after 5:30, too late. Your forgetfulness and lack of organization is not my emergency. I'm going home to watch 'Survivor.'
"And finally, 8. My desk is not your playground. Quit going through the papers on it; not all of it pertains to you. Don't take things off it - if it was meant for you, I'd give it to you." The memo ends, "That is all - for now. The Assistant."
Hearst, known to partake in "manhunts" where it traces e-mails, phone calls and Web links that employees have made, quickly identified the offending assistant and fired her, sources said. Calls to Hearst were not returned. The memo has been removed from mediabistro.com.
------------------
Run this search in your Google toolbar: blog fired
Friday night I picked up a co-worker's copy of the NY Post and found another article about Nadine Haobsh, http://jolienyc.blogspot.com/ a magazine editor getting fired for office gossip. Her bosses "thought it displayed a lack of respect for the industry and a lack of professionalism."
I find that to be hilarious, considering the total lack of respect and professionalism found in ANY industry, usually displayed by managers & CEOs. They are petty, immature, grudge-holding, office-political players, spoiled, and close-minded. Their egos need constant stroking, and they'll belittle anyone who works below them if they feel the slightest bit vulnerable.
If you look at the business practices of the companies that have fired bloggers, (Microsoft, Google, Starbucks, Delta Air Lines, Friendster) you'll find that the phrase "business ethics" doesn't seem to apply most of the time. I'm WAITING for the day Wal-Mart employees start blogging; although, they probably have a no-blog clause in the contract.
Blogger David Pomeroy, at http://blogs.msdn.com, has this to say about firing employees for having a blog:
If employers are good employers, what do they have to fear? Most likely those who rant and rave are likely to be talking about former employers, or one who got them fired... rather than their current one.
Starbucks employee fired for blog: http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/09/04/141004.php
One anonymous commenter said: "That Starbucks would make anyone sign something stating not to bad mouth the company speaks volumes as to HOW BAD the Company really is."
IS ANYONE LISTENING TO THIS?
Allow me to bestow a few nuggets of wisdom to every single company out there, just to make things crystal clear. If you don't want your employees bitching about their job, there are a few things you can do.
1) Reward your employees properly. Let's say there are three people: the client, the sales representative, and the producer. The sales rep takes the client out for lunch, and gets a substantial commission for all the work the client brings in to the company. The producer does all the hard work of actually making sure the client's product is done efficiently, correctly, and on time. Although I've seen exceptions to the rule, this is generally the case. Why is it that people doing most of the work reaping the least of the benefits? The sales rep is rewarded simply for knowing the right people. There is a REASON why people at the bottom of the totem pole are the most bitter.
2) Make sure the people with responsibility know how to handle it with maturity. If anyone does the kind of shit that assistant at Hearst complained about, they should be fired. Being in charge doesn't mean you get to be a jerk about it. My supervisor is the BEST I've had since I was working upstate. He works to make things right in the office. It's really simple: if you're a good boss, you'll have relatively happy employees. The happier the employees, the less likely they'll need to bitch on the web and cause you great embarrassment.
3) To all the bitching employees out there who use their blogs to complain: Create a new blog, don't give any personal information - not your name, not the city you're in. Keep it simple. "Customer did this, boss did that." Don't say, "I work at Starbucks." Say, "I work for a North American coffee shop company." We are smart readers, and can figure out who you work for, but it leaves you with the deniability.
4) To employees with supervisors who suck: go over their heads. Go to Human Resources or the big(ger) boss and see what can be done. If nothing can be done, try to get another job. Once you leave, then you can complain all you want, as long as everything is HONEST. Don't slander.
No, not me. I haven't mentioned where I work, names of any employer/employees or clients. I haven't had any "when keeping it real goes wrong" moments in a LONG time.
And shit, no one reads this anyway.
This goes WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY the hell back to spring 2002. First, there were Heather B. Armstrong's posts about basically being the first person to be fired for complaining about her job on the Internet (see above link).
Very shortly afterwards, a New York Post "Page Six" article, by Richard Johnson -
Forgive me for the terribly juvenile remark, but it needs to be said: Dick Johnson? Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
- with Paula Froelich and Chris Wilson, was published on Thursday, May 23, 2002. I clipped this article out of the paper and held onto it ever since, and I'm going to share it with you all now.
------------------
Media aide bitches too much.
A lowly assistant at Hearst magazines was fired yesterday after telling her high-maintenance bosses in an anonymous memo: "Buy your own candy, stop rifling through my desk, and yeah, guess what - I have to pee, too!"
The blistering harangue - which she posted on mediabistro.com's "Bitch Box" - begins: "Hey editors, get off your fucking high horses and come down and smell your trash. We are your editorial assistants - not your maids, your mothers or your personal assistants.
"1. Your dead plants, pigeons and other 'wildlife' in your office are not my problem. You've been around long enough to know plants need water and if they don't get it, they die…
"2. Duane Reade sells candy to ANYONE. Do not bitch if the candy jar is empty. Do not bitch if what's in there isn't your favorite candy. Haul it ONE BLOCK east and buy the stuff yourself…Plus, we're sick of fronting the cash.
"3. Pub Tech responds to everyone. It's really easy to call them. And odds are, the problem is something you could fix if you would just suck it up and take one training class.
"4. The refrigerator doesn't keep things forever. I'm tired of my one little yogurt being surrounded by your seven containers of three remaining bites of a $50 lunch that has been in there so long, it smells like sweat socks.
"5. Learn how things work around here. I'm half your age, make a third of your salary, and after baby-sitting you for over a year, could do your job and still have time for a manicure. The copier is push-button, occasionally the printer does need paper, and the production department is just down the hall. Chimps could do half this stuff.
"6. I will occasionally not be at my desk. No kidding. I have to pee, too. And I get a lunch hour. Respect it or buy yourself a slave. Kathie Lee's made a second career out of this.
"7. I do not have ESP. If you've told me to do something, it's done, if you didn't, it wasn't. I can't read your fucking mind…and if it's after 5:30, too late. Your forgetfulness and lack of organization is not my emergency. I'm going home to watch 'Survivor.'
"And finally, 8. My desk is not your playground. Quit going through the papers on it; not all of it pertains to you. Don't take things off it - if it was meant for you, I'd give it to you." The memo ends, "That is all - for now. The Assistant."
Hearst, known to partake in "manhunts" where it traces e-mails, phone calls and Web links that employees have made, quickly identified the offending assistant and fired her, sources said. Calls to Hearst were not returned. The memo has been removed from mediabistro.com.
------------------
Run this search in your Google toolbar: blog fired
Friday night I picked up a co-worker's copy of the NY Post and found another article about Nadine Haobsh, http://jolienyc.blogspot.com/ a magazine editor getting fired for office gossip. Her bosses "thought it displayed a lack of respect for the industry and a lack of professionalism."
I find that to be hilarious, considering the total lack of respect and professionalism found in ANY industry, usually displayed by managers & CEOs. They are petty, immature, grudge-holding, office-political players, spoiled, and close-minded. Their egos need constant stroking, and they'll belittle anyone who works below them if they feel the slightest bit vulnerable.
If you look at the business practices of the companies that have fired bloggers, (Microsoft, Google, Starbucks, Delta Air Lines, Friendster) you'll find that the phrase "business ethics" doesn't seem to apply most of the time. I'm WAITING for the day Wal-Mart employees start blogging; although, they probably have a no-blog clause in the contract.
Blogger David Pomeroy, at http://blogs.msdn.com, has this to say about firing employees for having a blog:
If employers are good employers, what do they have to fear? Most likely those who rant and rave are likely to be talking about former employers, or one who got them fired... rather than their current one.
Starbucks employee fired for blog: http://blogcritics.org/archives/2004/09/04/141004.php
One anonymous commenter said: "That Starbucks would make anyone sign something stating not to bad mouth the company speaks volumes as to HOW BAD the Company really is."
IS ANYONE LISTENING TO THIS?
Allow me to bestow a few nuggets of wisdom to every single company out there, just to make things crystal clear. If you don't want your employees bitching about their job, there are a few things you can do.
1) Reward your employees properly. Let's say there are three people: the client, the sales representative, and the producer. The sales rep takes the client out for lunch, and gets a substantial commission for all the work the client brings in to the company. The producer does all the hard work of actually making sure the client's product is done efficiently, correctly, and on time. Although I've seen exceptions to the rule, this is generally the case. Why is it that people doing most of the work reaping the least of the benefits? The sales rep is rewarded simply for knowing the right people. There is a REASON why people at the bottom of the totem pole are the most bitter.
2) Make sure the people with responsibility know how to handle it with maturity. If anyone does the kind of shit that assistant at Hearst complained about, they should be fired. Being in charge doesn't mean you get to be a jerk about it. My supervisor is the BEST I've had since I was working upstate. He works to make things right in the office. It's really simple: if you're a good boss, you'll have relatively happy employees. The happier the employees, the less likely they'll need to bitch on the web and cause you great embarrassment.
3) To all the bitching employees out there who use their blogs to complain: Create a new blog, don't give any personal information - not your name, not the city you're in. Keep it simple. "Customer did this, boss did that." Don't say, "I work at Starbucks." Say, "I work for a North American coffee shop company." We are smart readers, and can figure out who you work for, but it leaves you with the deniability.
4) To employees with supervisors who suck: go over their heads. Go to Human Resources or the big(ger) boss and see what can be done. If nothing can be done, try to get another job. Once you leave, then you can complain all you want, as long as everything is HONEST. Don't slander.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
What in the Hell is wrong with you people!?!
Scene One: A young woman leads her seven or eight year daughter up the stairs at a subway station. The little girl was proud of the clothes she had on, and was seeking attention as little kids are wont to do. The woman turns to the girl and says, "You look sexy!"
Let that sink in for a minute.
She called her EIGHT YEAR OLD DAUGHTER "SEXY."
Little girls are not sexy! They're princesses! They're angels!
NOT SEXY!
The very last thing any kid needs to worry about is if they're sexy or not. Jeebus H. Cripes, let kids be kids!
Scene Two: An office buildings' restroom. A guy walks in, talking on his cell phone. He finds a stall takes a seat. He conducted business while…conducting his business.
Ew.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!
"Hands free" was not invented for this. It is truly gross, and anyone who talks on their phone IN THE BATHROOM should be really ashamed of themselves. I hope it falls into the toilet and gets busted, and when you bring it to the store to get it replaced, you have to explain the shit stains all over it.
Get some fucking decency, you sick bastards.
Let that sink in for a minute.
She called her EIGHT YEAR OLD DAUGHTER "SEXY."
Little girls are not sexy! They're princesses! They're angels!
NOT SEXY!
The very last thing any kid needs to worry about is if they're sexy or not. Jeebus H. Cripes, let kids be kids!
Scene Two: An office buildings' restroom. A guy walks in, talking on his cell phone. He finds a stall takes a seat. He conducted business while…conducting his business.
Ew.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!
"Hands free" was not invented for this. It is truly gross, and anyone who talks on their phone IN THE BATHROOM should be really ashamed of themselves. I hope it falls into the toilet and gets busted, and when you bring it to the store to get it replaced, you have to explain the shit stains all over it.
Get some fucking decency, you sick bastards.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Sugar Mommy?
Just after graduating college, I had met one of Bowie’s co-workers from the coffee shop he worked at downtown. She was cute. As Bowie and I left, I told him so. “Yeah, she thought you were cute, too.” “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.” “She has a boyfriend…”
“Damn. Oh well.”
“She’s got two kids, too.”
“More info I didn’t need.”
“She, uh, she said that she wants to be locked in a room with you for five hours.”
“Okay, I’m ready to castrate myself. You’re not helping, Bowie.”
The next day, Bowie called me from work, and then put her on the phone. I had no idea how to react. Small talk, followed by awkward silence, and I finally asked her to put Bowie back on. She was disappointed, and so were her co-workers. Everyone else at the store was asking Bowie if I was gay.
Sorry, but I won’t take any part in an affair. It’s simply wrong. My dad cheated on my mom. My sister had trailed him; it’s probably the smartest thing she has ever done in her life, figuring it out. Dad moved out, for a year, and then moved back in. I’ll never understand why Mom took him back. I’ll never cheat. NEVER. If I’m not happy in a relationship, I’ll have the balls to say so, and work to make it better. If that’s not possible, then it’ll have to end. Simple as that. (I know, nothing is ever that simple. But in a world full of greys, I’m a pretty black & white kind of guy.)
After that wonderful experience, my assistant manager tried to hook me up with one of his “sistas.” She seemed very sweet on the phone, but there was something in her voice I didn’t like. She sounded like she was 14 (actually 19 at the time. I was 21). And during our second conversation, I found out that she, too, had kids.
I asked Avery (a 35-y-o gay man), “Did I somehow neglect to mention that I don’t like kids? After all the rants you’ve heard me spout on about what I like and what I don’t, did that little piece of very important info slip through the cracks?”
My next encounter with flirtation that summer was three weeks before I moved back to Bumblefuck. The coffee shop was giving away a trip to San Francisco. An attractive woman in her early 30s had walked in and, after ordering her coffee, asked me if I had ever been to SF. “No, this job really doesn’t give me the opportunity to travel much.” A barrista working for less than six months makes $6.25/hour. At 35 hours a week (considered full time at Timothy’s World Coffee), I could barely pay my bills. I never had much money for comics. Airfare and a hotel were out of the question.
“Well, if you’d like to go there sometime, let me know.”
‘Waitjustagoddamnminute,’ I thought. ‘Did she just offer to be my sugar mommy?’
And before I could think of anything else, she left the building.
A few other thoughts floated in my head. When did I become this sex object? In college, no woman would give me the time of day, and now there are a couple of them, with kids, that want to fuck my brains out. Why is it that the ones you do want don’t want you, and the ones you don’t want do want you? Am I really that hot of a commodity?
Nahhhh, that’s just crazy talk. In a few hours, while you’re sleeping on the floor of Lynne’s living room (their “couch” was a 1 & ½ person love seat, about four feet wide. No way in hell was I gonna sleep on that twice), you’ll forget all about the surge of actual self-esteem, and get on with your usual everyday misery.
There are some people who say, “It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.” And some of those people who have loved and then lost are so hurt by it; they say that it is better to have never loved in the first place. Speaking as someone who has never been in love, I hope they’re wrong. I’ve seen what happens to people when they are with the person they love. I’ve seen the peace and freedom that it brings. I want to feel that sense of profound intimacy you can only get by completely giving yourself to someone who is doing the same for you, intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I’m tired of feeling numb and broken inside. Twenty-six years of solitude can wear you down.
“Damn. Oh well.”
“She’s got two kids, too.”
“More info I didn’t need.”
“She, uh, she said that she wants to be locked in a room with you for five hours.”
“Okay, I’m ready to castrate myself. You’re not helping, Bowie.”
The next day, Bowie called me from work, and then put her on the phone. I had no idea how to react. Small talk, followed by awkward silence, and I finally asked her to put Bowie back on. She was disappointed, and so were her co-workers. Everyone else at the store was asking Bowie if I was gay.
Sorry, but I won’t take any part in an affair. It’s simply wrong. My dad cheated on my mom. My sister had trailed him; it’s probably the smartest thing she has ever done in her life, figuring it out. Dad moved out, for a year, and then moved back in. I’ll never understand why Mom took him back. I’ll never cheat. NEVER. If I’m not happy in a relationship, I’ll have the balls to say so, and work to make it better. If that’s not possible, then it’ll have to end. Simple as that. (I know, nothing is ever that simple. But in a world full of greys, I’m a pretty black & white kind of guy.)
After that wonderful experience, my assistant manager tried to hook me up with one of his “sistas.” She seemed very sweet on the phone, but there was something in her voice I didn’t like. She sounded like she was 14 (actually 19 at the time. I was 21). And during our second conversation, I found out that she, too, had kids.
I asked Avery (a 35-y-o gay man), “Did I somehow neglect to mention that I don’t like kids? After all the rants you’ve heard me spout on about what I like and what I don’t, did that little piece of very important info slip through the cracks?”
My next encounter with flirtation that summer was three weeks before I moved back to Bumblefuck. The coffee shop was giving away a trip to San Francisco. An attractive woman in her early 30s had walked in and, after ordering her coffee, asked me if I had ever been to SF. “No, this job really doesn’t give me the opportunity to travel much.” A barrista working for less than six months makes $6.25/hour. At 35 hours a week (considered full time at Timothy’s World Coffee), I could barely pay my bills. I never had much money for comics. Airfare and a hotel were out of the question.
“Well, if you’d like to go there sometime, let me know.”
‘Waitjustagoddamnminute,’ I thought. ‘Did she just offer to be my sugar mommy?’
And before I could think of anything else, she left the building.
A few other thoughts floated in my head. When did I become this sex object? In college, no woman would give me the time of day, and now there are a couple of them, with kids, that want to fuck my brains out. Why is it that the ones you do want don’t want you, and the ones you don’t want do want you? Am I really that hot of a commodity?
Nahhhh, that’s just crazy talk. In a few hours, while you’re sleeping on the floor of Lynne’s living room (their “couch” was a 1 & ½ person love seat, about four feet wide. No way in hell was I gonna sleep on that twice), you’ll forget all about the surge of actual self-esteem, and get on with your usual everyday misery.
There are some people who say, “It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.” And some of those people who have loved and then lost are so hurt by it; they say that it is better to have never loved in the first place. Speaking as someone who has never been in love, I hope they’re wrong. I’ve seen what happens to people when they are with the person they love. I’ve seen the peace and freedom that it brings. I want to feel that sense of profound intimacy you can only get by completely giving yourself to someone who is doing the same for you, intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I’m tired of feeling numb and broken inside. Twenty-six years of solitude can wear you down.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Male vs. Female Roommates
As some of you know, I have two female roommates. Jack Tripper I ain't. In college, I had three male roommates each year. Believe it or not, there isn't a big difference.
Male roommates are too lazy to help clean the apartment.
Female roommates are never around to help clean the apartment.
Aside from a little more hair in the shower drain, that's really it. Nothing deep or profound.
Male roommates are too lazy to help clean the apartment.
Female roommates are never around to help clean the apartment.
Aside from a little more hair in the shower drain, that's really it. Nothing deep or profound.
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