Boy, today was awful on the bus. It was raining so all the windows were closed and it was kind of warm also. There was all kinds of stale funk going on. I have a few nuggets from the last week.
A few days ago I was waiting for a transfer downtown. I feel like I should point something out for those who don't know Columbus and for those who do but don't ride the bus. The main hub of COTA, where (I think) every single bus stops is the corner of Broad St and High St downtown. This is also ostensibly the hub of Ohio, because it is the location of the statehouse. It makes it interesting because the knee-height stone wall that rings the statehouse serves mostly as a bench for a bus-stop along one whole block. Ohio: The Heart of it All!
Anyway, I was waiting for a transfer, sitting on this wall and rolling a cigarette. A man asked me for one and I just couldn't get over his appearance. He was in all denim, jacket and jeans. He looked to be about a once-a-month shaver. What really blew my mind though was that he had an honest-to-god personal cassette player. It was tucked into the breast pocket of his jean jacket. Also the headphones were taped together. With masking tape. It was like he crawled out of a dumpster from 1986.
The next day I was approached by a man on a bus. Whenever this happens you know its gonna be good and, dear reader, you know its gonna make it on COTA Chatter. He was very-well dressed in a stylish suit and shoes with a high polish. He also wore a skull cap and had longish, straightened hair (he was black). He smelled nice too, now that I think of it. I also have to mention that he was missing many teeth. The ones that remained were obviously enjoying their freedom and independence, lounging in any direction they pleased.
He introduced himself as James and then he kind of looked me over quickly.
"You're a tall guy, right?" he said.
"Um, sure," I shrugged. I'm 6'1" with shoes on. I don't actually consider myself to be tall, though I am taller than the average person.
James continued, saying that he was a recruiter for a modeling agency. He handed me a card. Not his card, but rather a card from the agency inviting me for an interview. I must admit I was a little flattered. He took my name and number, the card made it seem legitimate enough to give them out. He told me that someone would give me a call to set up an interview. Before he got off the bus he told me to dress nice for the interview. Oh, yeah. He also mentioned that some models make $1,000 a day.
"You be walking down the runway in Italian suits," is how he described it.
Like I said, I was flattered. Even more so when I learned from my friend Nick that it is, in fact, a legitimate outfit. If they call me I will go in for an interview. I don't think I have any chance of working as a model. I'm certainly not ugly but I am equally certain that I am not model material. But then, who knows? I would probably have to borrow some clothes and maybe use a little product in my hair. I have a friend who could probably help me out in that department. If I go for an interview my loyal TRJ readers will be the first to know.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
We Treat You Right (Redux)
Sorry that I haven't added a new post in a while. I haven't had much time in front of my computer lately. From talking to people in the flesh world it seems like I have gained a few readers. Thanks! Keep checking in; I'll keep on blogging, as bloggers do.
The reason I haven't been able to post lately is because I have a new job. Well, it isn't really new to me. I am working at the same place I worked in high school and the summer of my freshmen year of college. It is at the local Dairy Queen in the suburb I grew up in. My decision to make the switch was abrupt. Having the knowledge that I am going back to school in the fall my former job seems even more menial and its tangential relation to my career plans are further highlighted. A few weeks ago I paid a visit to my friend who is now the top-man at this Dairy Queen. He casually mentioned that he could pay me more and I casually began to think about it. Once I knew for sure I would be going back to school it seemed the thing to do this summer is make some money. I started last week.
A week of working at Dairy Queen for the first time in six years has spawned a conflict with both personal and interpersonal dimensions. I have a BA and my new job doesn't even require a high school diploma (obviously, I worked there in high school). So how far have I come in six years, after earning a college diploma? I have come full-circle, right back to where I started.
The personal conflict is pretty minimal. I know that I am moving on in the fall and continuing my education and taking it to a higher level. But to anyone who comes to the Dairy Queen drive-thru for a coney dog I am just some Joe who looks a little bit old to be working there. I want to be a person who absolutely, 100% does-not-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks-of-me, and I think I am closer to that than most people, but I am not all the way there. But I certainly don't care what random anonymous people think of me, 100% on that one for sure.
The tricky thing is, this Dairy Queen is a block from my high school and is still frequented by my former teachers, parents of friends, friends of parents, and local grandees. I do care about what some of these people think of me. And if these people come through the drive-thru, I worry that all they will see is a once promising lad fallen on hard and pathetic times. Now, I know they would understand why I might be there if they knew my situation -- starting grad school in the fall, this is a throw-away summer, career wise. But there isn't a lot of time between when they see me and when they drive off with their Dilly Bar for me to lay out my five-year plan. I have to give them napkins, also.
I will have to just get over my waning notions of honorable employment. (I hate honor as an ethos, it is based entirely on how you look to others, I find the idea of it despicable.) Maybe I will also put out some sort of bulletin, just so everyone knows -- not that I am working at DQ but that I am going to grad school. Hell, I'm already telling pretty much anyone who will listen; it's all I can think about anyway.
I am under-employed, contributing less to society than my full-potential would allow. This doesn't bother me too much, because I hope to do so in the future once my potential has expanded greatly. DQ does not utilize my formal education or more than an iota of my intelligence, but that doesn't mean it is beneath me. By that I mean that I don't feel that I have earned the right to not get dirty at work, handle money, and deal with assholes. (Almost everyone is an asshole, in case you didn't know.) I may have gained the ability to do something that society considers more noteworthy or distinguished but I hope that I will never believe that hard work for marginal pay is something inherently beneath me. Anyone who believes that any job is beneath them believes that the person occupying that job is beneath them as well. This is how arrogance, elitism, and exploitation are bred. I have a college degree. So what? I am not above taking out the trash. One day I hope to guide other people to the understanding that they aren't either. More in the metaphorical sense, I mean. But Dairy Queen does still ask me to take out the trash.
The reason I haven't been able to post lately is because I have a new job. Well, it isn't really new to me. I am working at the same place I worked in high school and the summer of my freshmen year of college. It is at the local Dairy Queen in the suburb I grew up in. My decision to make the switch was abrupt. Having the knowledge that I am going back to school in the fall my former job seems even more menial and its tangential relation to my career plans are further highlighted. A few weeks ago I paid a visit to my friend who is now the top-man at this Dairy Queen. He casually mentioned that he could pay me more and I casually began to think about it. Once I knew for sure I would be going back to school it seemed the thing to do this summer is make some money. I started last week.
A week of working at Dairy Queen for the first time in six years has spawned a conflict with both personal and interpersonal dimensions. I have a BA and my new job doesn't even require a high school diploma (obviously, I worked there in high school). So how far have I come in six years, after earning a college diploma? I have come full-circle, right back to where I started.
The personal conflict is pretty minimal. I know that I am moving on in the fall and continuing my education and taking it to a higher level. But to anyone who comes to the Dairy Queen drive-thru for a coney dog I am just some Joe who looks a little bit old to be working there. I want to be a person who absolutely, 100% does-not-give-a-fuck-what-anyone-thinks-of-me, and I think I am closer to that than most people, but I am not all the way there. But I certainly don't care what random anonymous people think of me, 100% on that one for sure.
The tricky thing is, this Dairy Queen is a block from my high school and is still frequented by my former teachers, parents of friends, friends of parents, and local grandees. I do care about what some of these people think of me. And if these people come through the drive-thru, I worry that all they will see is a once promising lad fallen on hard and pathetic times. Now, I know they would understand why I might be there if they knew my situation -- starting grad school in the fall, this is a throw-away summer, career wise. But there isn't a lot of time between when they see me and when they drive off with their Dilly Bar for me to lay out my five-year plan. I have to give them napkins, also.
I will have to just get over my waning notions of honorable employment. (I hate honor as an ethos, it is based entirely on how you look to others, I find the idea of it despicable.) Maybe I will also put out some sort of bulletin, just so everyone knows -- not that I am working at DQ but that I am going to grad school. Hell, I'm already telling pretty much anyone who will listen; it's all I can think about anyway.
I am under-employed, contributing less to society than my full-potential would allow. This doesn't bother me too much, because I hope to do so in the future once my potential has expanded greatly. DQ does not utilize my formal education or more than an iota of my intelligence, but that doesn't mean it is beneath me. By that I mean that I don't feel that I have earned the right to not get dirty at work, handle money, and deal with assholes. (Almost everyone is an asshole, in case you didn't know.) I may have gained the ability to do something that society considers more noteworthy or distinguished but I hope that I will never believe that hard work for marginal pay is something inherently beneath me. Anyone who believes that any job is beneath them believes that the person occupying that job is beneath them as well. This is how arrogance, elitism, and exploitation are bred. I have a college degree. So what? I am not above taking out the trash. One day I hope to guide other people to the understanding that they aren't either. More in the metaphorical sense, I mean. But Dairy Queen does still ask me to take out the trash.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A haiku by Richard Wright
Keep straight down this block,
Then turn right where you will see
A peach tree blooming
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Grad School
I am trying to create in TRJ both a updated journal and a chronicling of salient events in my recent life. I've been kind of dwelling in the past recently, so here is what I have been up to lately and where I am looking down the road. The road of life.
I am going to graduate school in the fall. It is definitely semi-official. I tell people this. I just don't know where exactly. I have been accepted to Master's Degree programs in history at University of Cincinnati and Miami University (that's Ohio, as opposed to University of Miami, in FL). It looks like those are my choices. Miami has offered me free tuition and a paid assistantship, which is pretty much balls. Cincinnati has not, as of yet, offered me any kind of package. They did offer me an all-expense paid trip to the Nati for their graduate recruitment weekend, which I attended last weekend.
They really showed me a good time -- dinners, drinks, I never paid for anything. That was very nice, but what was especially gratifying for me was having a chance to hang out with and talk to the current grad students. On the whole they were much more down to earth then I expected. I imagined a dedicated group of hard-nosed, bookish scholars. They all seemed serious about their research, but they were real people with social lives and senses of humor. They were all friends and had great rapport with each other. I can't deny that I was surprised and rather elated that there were a good number of attractive and intelligent women in the department. The last event of the weekend was a party at one of their apartments. One of the female students told me, with worn-over frustration, that the go-to talking points of the men in the program are often baseball and the Civil War. These are perhaps my two favorite things to talk about in the history of things.
Also, the faculty were very approachable and answered a lot of my questions, namely: what is grad school like? There is one professor whose interests jive very much with mine. There are a lot of opportunities for inter-disciplinary study, which is of great interest to me. The department also gets a lot of funding, which grad students can receive for research trips and the like. But they haven't yet offered me any of this money, and I am very much hoping they will.
Cincinnati is an interesting town. The are of the UC campus is pretty much right on the edge of a seriously depressed and somewhat dangerous (and large) neigborhood. There are other distinct and cool neighborhoods around the school. The UC campus is very nice, highly concentrated. The architecture is really cool. Its a beer town, they say, and I am a beer guy. My baseball team is there and my football team plays there once a year. They have a world-class library. I think I would like living and studying in Cincinnati. Unfortunately, I won't be able to do that unless they offer to pay me, which they haven't, yet. I have two more weeks of holding my hope.
Miami has offered me money. Money that I could live on. Not live high, but live. That is probably good, because I don't think high living would go well with grad school. Especially since I have my sights set high for schools to move up to for the ol' Ph.D. I visited Miami on my way back to Columbus. It is about 40 miles north-northeast of Cincinnati -- middle of nowhere. The campus is beautiful. It is full of beauty. It is the kind of campus that would be a great movie setting: bricks, quads, bells, trees. It is a good school too. The program is not quite on par with UC, but both schools are far from elite so it doesn't matter too much.
Miami is in Oxford, but really Miami is Oxford. Its a small place. I don't think I will say quaint, though others may. Its easy to imagine a scholarly existence there. I think I would like it. And I must follow the money, which they are currently dangling.
At the end of all this coffee charged rambling, here are some firm declarative statements.
1)I am going to grad school. That is awesome.
2)I will receive a full-ride from whichever school I attend. I will assist in teaching actual college courses. I will grade tests, write papers, and probably read an elephants weight in books.
3)I will attend UC if they offer me a comparable package.
4)Failing that, I will attend Miami and be very satisfied with that.
5)I am going to graduate school. Its gonna happen. For serious.
I am going to graduate school in the fall. It is definitely semi-official. I tell people this. I just don't know where exactly. I have been accepted to Master's Degree programs in history at University of Cincinnati and Miami University (that's Ohio, as opposed to University of Miami, in FL). It looks like those are my choices. Miami has offered me free tuition and a paid assistantship, which is pretty much balls. Cincinnati has not, as of yet, offered me any kind of package. They did offer me an all-expense paid trip to the Nati for their graduate recruitment weekend, which I attended last weekend.
They really showed me a good time -- dinners, drinks, I never paid for anything. That was very nice, but what was especially gratifying for me was having a chance to hang out with and talk to the current grad students. On the whole they were much more down to earth then I expected. I imagined a dedicated group of hard-nosed, bookish scholars. They all seemed serious about their research, but they were real people with social lives and senses of humor. They were all friends and had great rapport with each other. I can't deny that I was surprised and rather elated that there were a good number of attractive and intelligent women in the department. The last event of the weekend was a party at one of their apartments. One of the female students told me, with worn-over frustration, that the go-to talking points of the men in the program are often baseball and the Civil War. These are perhaps my two favorite things to talk about in the history of things.
Also, the faculty were very approachable and answered a lot of my questions, namely: what is grad school like? There is one professor whose interests jive very much with mine. There are a lot of opportunities for inter-disciplinary study, which is of great interest to me. The department also gets a lot of funding, which grad students can receive for research trips and the like. But they haven't yet offered me any of this money, and I am very much hoping they will.
Cincinnati is an interesting town. The are of the UC campus is pretty much right on the edge of a seriously depressed and somewhat dangerous (and large) neigborhood. There are other distinct and cool neighborhoods around the school. The UC campus is very nice, highly concentrated. The architecture is really cool. Its a beer town, they say, and I am a beer guy. My baseball team is there and my football team plays there once a year. They have a world-class library. I think I would like living and studying in Cincinnati. Unfortunately, I won't be able to do that unless they offer to pay me, which they haven't, yet. I have two more weeks of holding my hope.
Miami has offered me money. Money that I could live on. Not live high, but live. That is probably good, because I don't think high living would go well with grad school. Especially since I have my sights set high for schools to move up to for the ol' Ph.D. I visited Miami on my way back to Columbus. It is about 40 miles north-northeast of Cincinnati -- middle of nowhere. The campus is beautiful. It is full of beauty. It is the kind of campus that would be a great movie setting: bricks, quads, bells, trees. It is a good school too. The program is not quite on par with UC, but both schools are far from elite so it doesn't matter too much.
Miami is in Oxford, but really Miami is Oxford. Its a small place. I don't think I will say quaint, though others may. Its easy to imagine a scholarly existence there. I think I would like it. And I must follow the money, which they are currently dangling.
At the end of all this coffee charged rambling, here are some firm declarative statements.
1)I am going to grad school. That is awesome.
2)I will receive a full-ride from whichever school I attend. I will assist in teaching actual college courses. I will grade tests, write papers, and probably read an elephants weight in books.
3)I will attend UC if they offer me a comparable package.
4)Failing that, I will attend Miami and be very satisfied with that.
5)I am going to graduate school. Its gonna happen. For serious.
Little Boy Blue and The Man In The Moon
Now I would like to relate a little vignette about my father. Living with my Dad has been quite inspirational, in a backward sort of way. I've mentioned that before and I think this story illustrates it.
My dad works 2nd shift at a local hospital, 2-11 pm. When the weather is nice he rides his bike. One evening in the late summer of 2008 I heard him outside of my room after arriving home from work, and I went out to say hi. I usually seclude myself in my room, but I try to come out to hang with the pops every so often. Its the least I can do considering he gives me a place to live, and I know I am the only sane and intelligent person in his life.
I went out into the hallway and Dad was there, standing at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Dad," I said. "How's it going?"
"Oh, Ben," he said, deeply depressed. "I just don't know."
He sat down on the stairs, obviously very distressed. I remember feeling like my chest was compressing, being sucked inside itself. The only thing that jumped to my mind that bring my father to this precise level of despondency was losing his job. This was the Meltdown Era and it seemed like a plausible thing to happen. At the time I was totally dependent on his support and if he lost his job it would be a disaster for me, not to mention my father and the rest of his family. These thoughts scorched in my mind in the moments before he related what happened.
"My bike was stolen," he said.
I was relieved. But my Dad in a rough place because of it. I asked him, and he told me what happened. He had stopped by the local convenience store on his way back from work to buy some beer. He had left the bike outside, unlocked, but never out of his sight. Because it was never out of his sight he was able to see it stolen. I should mention that he, and I, live in a fairly depressed region (it is far too large and decentralized to really qualify as a neighborhood) of West Columbus. Neither one of us needed to mention that leaving his bike unlocked was an invitation for theft.
I gave him what support I could, knowing that his foolish actions had led to this inevitable result. I told him he just needed to pick himself up, learn from this, and generally live his life with more vigilance and foresight. And, after all, it was only a bike.
But, the shitty things of it is, it wasn't just a bike. Well, it was, but to tell the story right I have to bring up so many other things, which is why having this bike stolen made my Dad so upset. It called to mind larger failures and mistakes. Put on a pot of coffee, reader.
He rode the bike to work because he did not have a driver's license. It was revoked as a result of a careless DUI. This was a source of shame to him. The bike had been a gift from his sister-in-law, and by all accounts it was very nice. (I never saw it, myself)
Earlier that summer, I noticed that my Dad had a bruise on his face one morning. I asked him about it.
"Ben," he said, "I'm gonna tell you about this and then I don't want to talk about it. I got beat up, and my bike got stolen."
The story goes as follows: He had been out riding in our decrepit neighborhood. A car of young hoods had driven by him on the road and a girl in the passenger seat had screeched at him. This startled him and more importantly it apparently pissed him off to no small degree. Deciding to take his measure of revenge, he trailed the car to a local eatery (KFC). While the car idled in the drive-thru Pops rolled past the passenger side, strafing it with his own scream. Apparently he really startled the girl. People in this neighborhood take such petty slights seriously. Hell, you might as well when everything and everyone around you is poor and run-down -- but I digress. The men, or boys, in turn followed my Dad on his bike, eventually running him off the road somehow.
"I tried to stop them," Dad related, "but there were two of them, and they beat me up and took my bike."
I have seldom heard anything more pathetically asinine. This was my father, too, a 50+ year-0ld man, roughed up, with his bike stolen in broad daylight. Emasculating to say the least.
Moving forward a few weeks later, my Dad was in a more jubilant mood. Fortune had returned his bike to him! Outside a different local convenience store he had seen it, lying outside the door. The shopkeep pointed out the bike's "owner" who had apparently got a "great deal" on it from someone. My Dad had called the police and this man, not wishing to violate his probation, had acquiesced to Dad. The bike was his again. He had been granted a second chance. His foolish behavior had been reprieved and he had his bike again.
But then, of course, he lost it once more through foolishness. That evening on the stairs what depressed him the most was not the loss of transportation but the realization that he had failed to learn from his mistake. Knowing that his bike could be taken from him he let it happen again. This time he wouldn't get it back. I wish I could say that the events of this story made him revise, even slightly, the way he goes about his life. I wish I could but I can't, because that would not be the Truth.
We only get so many second chances. I have had more than my fair share and I don't want to get myself into situations where I need any more. I don't want to leave my bike untended while I buy beer. I want to ride my bike home, save my money and my time for productive activities. Because someday I want to have a car and I don't want my life to be more, much more, than a series of cautionary tales such as this.
My dad works 2nd shift at a local hospital, 2-11 pm. When the weather is nice he rides his bike. One evening in the late summer of 2008 I heard him outside of my room after arriving home from work, and I went out to say hi. I usually seclude myself in my room, but I try to come out to hang with the pops every so often. Its the least I can do considering he gives me a place to live, and I know I am the only sane and intelligent person in his life.
I went out into the hallway and Dad was there, standing at the top of the stairs.
"Hey Dad," I said. "How's it going?"
"Oh, Ben," he said, deeply depressed. "I just don't know."
He sat down on the stairs, obviously very distressed. I remember feeling like my chest was compressing, being sucked inside itself. The only thing that jumped to my mind that bring my father to this precise level of despondency was losing his job. This was the Meltdown Era and it seemed like a plausible thing to happen. At the time I was totally dependent on his support and if he lost his job it would be a disaster for me, not to mention my father and the rest of his family. These thoughts scorched in my mind in the moments before he related what happened.
"My bike was stolen," he said.
I was relieved. But my Dad in a rough place because of it. I asked him, and he told me what happened. He had stopped by the local convenience store on his way back from work to buy some beer. He had left the bike outside, unlocked, but never out of his sight. Because it was never out of his sight he was able to see it stolen. I should mention that he, and I, live in a fairly depressed region (it is far too large and decentralized to really qualify as a neighborhood) of West Columbus. Neither one of us needed to mention that leaving his bike unlocked was an invitation for theft.
I gave him what support I could, knowing that his foolish actions had led to this inevitable result. I told him he just needed to pick himself up, learn from this, and generally live his life with more vigilance and foresight. And, after all, it was only a bike.
But, the shitty things of it is, it wasn't just a bike. Well, it was, but to tell the story right I have to bring up so many other things, which is why having this bike stolen made my Dad so upset. It called to mind larger failures and mistakes. Put on a pot of coffee, reader.
He rode the bike to work because he did not have a driver's license. It was revoked as a result of a careless DUI. This was a source of shame to him. The bike had been a gift from his sister-in-law, and by all accounts it was very nice. (I never saw it, myself)
Earlier that summer, I noticed that my Dad had a bruise on his face one morning. I asked him about it.
"Ben," he said, "I'm gonna tell you about this and then I don't want to talk about it. I got beat up, and my bike got stolen."
The story goes as follows: He had been out riding in our decrepit neighborhood. A car of young hoods had driven by him on the road and a girl in the passenger seat had screeched at him. This startled him and more importantly it apparently pissed him off to no small degree. Deciding to take his measure of revenge, he trailed the car to a local eatery (KFC). While the car idled in the drive-thru Pops rolled past the passenger side, strafing it with his own scream. Apparently he really startled the girl. People in this neighborhood take such petty slights seriously. Hell, you might as well when everything and everyone around you is poor and run-down -- but I digress. The men, or boys, in turn followed my Dad on his bike, eventually running him off the road somehow.
"I tried to stop them," Dad related, "but there were two of them, and they beat me up and took my bike."
I have seldom heard anything more pathetically asinine. This was my father, too, a 50+ year-0ld man, roughed up, with his bike stolen in broad daylight. Emasculating to say the least.
Moving forward a few weeks later, my Dad was in a more jubilant mood. Fortune had returned his bike to him! Outside a different local convenience store he had seen it, lying outside the door. The shopkeep pointed out the bike's "owner" who had apparently got a "great deal" on it from someone. My Dad had called the police and this man, not wishing to violate his probation, had acquiesced to Dad. The bike was his again. He had been granted a second chance. His foolish behavior had been reprieved and he had his bike again.
But then, of course, he lost it once more through foolishness. That evening on the stairs what depressed him the most was not the loss of transportation but the realization that he had failed to learn from his mistake. Knowing that his bike could be taken from him he let it happen again. This time he wouldn't get it back. I wish I could say that the events of this story made him revise, even slightly, the way he goes about his life. I wish I could but I can't, because that would not be the Truth.
We only get so many second chances. I have had more than my fair share and I don't want to get myself into situations where I need any more. I don't want to leave my bike untended while I buy beer. I want to ride my bike home, save my money and my time for productive activities. Because someday I want to have a car and I don't want my life to be more, much more, than a series of cautionary tales such as this.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Signs I Am Getting Older
Last summer I went running on the street for the first time in years. After that my left knee was swollen and sometimes in great pain for almost two months. Now it clicks every time I bend it all the way back.
Specific music reminds me of specific times in my life, they way my Dad might feel about Steve Miller or Black Sabbath. For example, music including Modest Mouse "Good News . . ." Cake "Prolonging the Magic" and The Walkmen "Bows & Arrows" all remind me of the spring of 2004 when I lived in Maryland and commuted to school everyday. That music reminds of that very distinctive drive and also the emotions and concerns that were foremost in my mind at that time.
I begin to wonder if there is even a chance that I will ever give up some of my nagging bad habits. Is there a point we reach when we can no longer say that the things we do are symptoms of youth or lack of responsibility, but rather these things are just one aspect of our personality? I think I'm a pretty insensitive person, and I used to think I would grow out of this as I had more diverse relationships and experiences, but that doesn't seem to be the case. That is just one example. I do think there is something to the adage that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but can you break an old dog of bad habits?
I am putting serious thought to where I will be when I am 40. God damn.
I am much more responsible than both of my parents. Although I could have crossed that threshold awhile ago. But then of course, I still live with one of them, so I guess that is a wash at best.
I definitely cannot handle hard liquor like I used to. There were a couple of years in college where I could and did pound the stuff. Now it is pretty much a guaranteed hangover if I have more than one drink of liquor in a night. I had a couple of friends in college who were a few years older who said they were too old to drink liquor. I don't know if I am there yet, but I can see it coming.
This is not another sign of my own aging, but just a related incident that happened to me today. At work I lost my patience with an elderly woman who kept asking me the same question, apparently not realizing that I had answered that question several times. She noticed that I lost my patience with her (most of the geriatrics I deal with on a daily basis do not) and got very indignant.
"If you are lucky enough to live as old as I am you will need people to have patience with you."
I hope I am lucky enough not to live to the age when I need people to cater to my physical and mental infirmities. I hope I am lucky enough to never become an anchor to society and a grizzled clog in the mechanisms by which useful people function. I hope I am lucky and bright enough to keep my mind sharp and adaptable so that I can remain vital as the world revolves throughout my lifetime.
Specific music reminds me of specific times in my life, they way my Dad might feel about Steve Miller or Black Sabbath. For example, music including Modest Mouse "Good News . . ." Cake "Prolonging the Magic" and The Walkmen "Bows & Arrows" all remind me of the spring of 2004 when I lived in Maryland and commuted to school everyday. That music reminds of that very distinctive drive and also the emotions and concerns that were foremost in my mind at that time.
I begin to wonder if there is even a chance that I will ever give up some of my nagging bad habits. Is there a point we reach when we can no longer say that the things we do are symptoms of youth or lack of responsibility, but rather these things are just one aspect of our personality? I think I'm a pretty insensitive person, and I used to think I would grow out of this as I had more diverse relationships and experiences, but that doesn't seem to be the case. That is just one example. I do think there is something to the adage that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but can you break an old dog of bad habits?
I am putting serious thought to where I will be when I am 40. God damn.
I am much more responsible than both of my parents. Although I could have crossed that threshold awhile ago. But then of course, I still live with one of them, so I guess that is a wash at best.
I definitely cannot handle hard liquor like I used to. There were a couple of years in college where I could and did pound the stuff. Now it is pretty much a guaranteed hangover if I have more than one drink of liquor in a night. I had a couple of friends in college who were a few years older who said they were too old to drink liquor. I don't know if I am there yet, but I can see it coming.
This is not another sign of my own aging, but just a related incident that happened to me today. At work I lost my patience with an elderly woman who kept asking me the same question, apparently not realizing that I had answered that question several times. She noticed that I lost my patience with her (most of the geriatrics I deal with on a daily basis do not) and got very indignant.
"If you are lucky enough to live as old as I am you will need people to have patience with you."
I hope I am lucky enough not to live to the age when I need people to cater to my physical and mental infirmities. I hope I am lucky enough to never become an anchor to society and a grizzled clog in the mechanisms by which useful people function. I hope I am lucky and bright enough to keep my mind sharp and adaptable so that I can remain vital as the world revolves throughout my lifetime.
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright
Yesterday I watched my little sister playing with a dead rat. Her mother, my step-mom, watched on. This seems like a good segway into the next chapter of my story.
I left Savannah and returned to my hometown, Columbus, Ohio. I would be living with my father, who rents a house in a neighborhood on the west side of town known as Hilltop. My parents divorced when I was four and my father remarried about 10 years ago. He has two young children now, Maggie (8) and Zach (6), my half-brother and half-sister.
I looked forward to this new chapter in my life. I would get to reconnect with those of my friends who still lived in town, spend some time with Zach and Maggie, as well as my grandmother, who was very old and very sick (also known as dying). I hadn't lived in Columbus since the summer of 2003, after my freshman year of college.
My dad has been a very graceous and grateful host, but living at his house has been a constant cycle of revulsion and frustration. It's kind of been a source of reverse inspiration, creating an impulse to be the only one in this house that has even of whiff of having my shit together. Living with four other people who are either stumbling or screeching through their lives makes me the calm center of the universe, but I have to shut myself in my room to keep my sanity.
Let's see where to I begin. OK, Kendra, my step-mother. She is a nurse and addicted to the internet. All of her time outside of work (the word "all" is really not being misused here) is spent on a chair in front of her computer, where she toils away at an online, text-based, role-playing game. Kendra picks up the kids from school and they all come home to play their games without a care. Zach and Maggie play video games or silly kid games and Kendra tries her best to ignore them. The only time she shows much interest in them is when they make a lot of noise or get into a fight. Then she yells at them from her computer, often without averting her eyes from the screen.
Now, you might ask yourself who maintains this house? The answer I must give is no one, although my Dad tries very hard. Kendra, Zach, and Maggie produce mountains of trash and debris every day, leaving it strewn in their wake or, in Kendra's case, in various deposits around her computer monitor. This includes toys, sloppy kids drawing, food debris, and really anything else that you can imagine. The house is often what I would call "wrecked," although living here has forced me to redefine the kind of house I consider wrecked. Dishes pile up daily and often sit for some days. Food is left about the house: half-eaten, untouched, dropped, ignored, and left to thaw out on the counter overnight. There is a serious fly problem. Infestation is the proper word and the word "swarm" would not be at all inappropriate.
My dad words the second shift (2-11 PM) at a hospital. When he gets home the kids are up waiting for him, either running around screaming, like you do, or in their "beds." As you might have guessed their "beds" are not beds at all, although they do actually have their own room with bunk beds in it. Their beds are on the living room floor. They consist of two mats, the kind that are sold very cheap at Wal-Mart for large dogs to sleep and lounge on. These are set on the living room floor, topped with a sheet, some pillows, the TV is turned on (or rather, never turned off) right in front of them and voila! Bed-time! I have never really figured out why this is the sleeping arrangement, but there it is. What's worse is that Maggie usually won't sleep unless my father lays down on their little nest and watches TV with them. He often falls asleep there himself. Its a fucked situation.
The house is in all stages of neglect: laundry un-cleaned, everything misplaced, a fair amount of pack-ratting. Also, actual rats! It's not bad they are pet rats, but its still pretty bad. Since everyone in this house pretty much lives like an animal Kendra seems to think its a good idea to accent these with some more animals. In fact since I have lived here the menagerie has grown from a fish tank and two cats (actually three, there used to be a stray that the kids would feed and play with, those darling children) and now includes a python, chinchilla, some frogs, and a turtle. But the turtle may have died -- its hard to keep track. Also the rats.
Now, I believe the rats started out as food for the python. But the most important decisions in this house are made by the eight-year old. This requires a little back story. Maggie was born with a serious heart-defect and was very as a baby, nearly dying when she was two. Since then she has been hopelessly indulged and spoiled. I believe that, in fact, in many ways she has never grown out of her infancy. Anyway, the rats. I think one day Maggie must have named a rat that was destined for the snake cage and he became a pet. Then, somehow, another rat was added to the clan. Stop me if you know where this is headed . . .baby rats! This is actually a perfect set-up if you have a snake; you just breed the food for it. But no, these are pets, apparently. Kendra took the male rat and put it in another cage. Then it died, so sad. Then it was a toy for Maggie.
I saw her playing with it and I thought "That rat looks dead." But I also thought that couldn't be because that is obviously disgusting and Kendra was right there. As I walked away Kendra said "She's playing with a dead rat." She said it with a marveling chuckle. As if to say "That crazy Maggie, playing with a dead rat again. She really marches to the beat of her own drummer!" It almost seemed like Kendra knew that this was not appropriate or sanitary, but then again Maggie was ten feet away, Kendra was engrossed in her computer, and, well, in the context of everything else it wasn't that extraordinary.
Maggie played with the rat all night. I don't know where it is now, but whether she treats it like a toy or a piece of trash or some food she is finished with there is still no way of guessing where it has ended up. Rest in peace little buddy
I left Savannah and returned to my hometown, Columbus, Ohio. I would be living with my father, who rents a house in a neighborhood on the west side of town known as Hilltop. My parents divorced when I was four and my father remarried about 10 years ago. He has two young children now, Maggie (8) and Zach (6), my half-brother and half-sister.
I looked forward to this new chapter in my life. I would get to reconnect with those of my friends who still lived in town, spend some time with Zach and Maggie, as well as my grandmother, who was very old and very sick (also known as dying). I hadn't lived in Columbus since the summer of 2003, after my freshman year of college.
My dad has been a very graceous and grateful host, but living at his house has been a constant cycle of revulsion and frustration. It's kind of been a source of reverse inspiration, creating an impulse to be the only one in this house that has even of whiff of having my shit together. Living with four other people who are either stumbling or screeching through their lives makes me the calm center of the universe, but I have to shut myself in my room to keep my sanity.
Let's see where to I begin. OK, Kendra, my step-mother. She is a nurse and addicted to the internet. All of her time outside of work (the word "all" is really not being misused here) is spent on a chair in front of her computer, where she toils away at an online, text-based, role-playing game. Kendra picks up the kids from school and they all come home to play their games without a care. Zach and Maggie play video games or silly kid games and Kendra tries her best to ignore them. The only time she shows much interest in them is when they make a lot of noise or get into a fight. Then she yells at them from her computer, often without averting her eyes from the screen.
Now, you might ask yourself who maintains this house? The answer I must give is no one, although my Dad tries very hard. Kendra, Zach, and Maggie produce mountains of trash and debris every day, leaving it strewn in their wake or, in Kendra's case, in various deposits around her computer monitor. This includes toys, sloppy kids drawing, food debris, and really anything else that you can imagine. The house is often what I would call "wrecked," although living here has forced me to redefine the kind of house I consider wrecked. Dishes pile up daily and often sit for some days. Food is left about the house: half-eaten, untouched, dropped, ignored, and left to thaw out on the counter overnight. There is a serious fly problem. Infestation is the proper word and the word "swarm" would not be at all inappropriate.
My dad words the second shift (2-11 PM) at a hospital. When he gets home the kids are up waiting for him, either running around screaming, like you do, or in their "beds." As you might have guessed their "beds" are not beds at all, although they do actually have their own room with bunk beds in it. Their beds are on the living room floor. They consist of two mats, the kind that are sold very cheap at Wal-Mart for large dogs to sleep and lounge on. These are set on the living room floor, topped with a sheet, some pillows, the TV is turned on (or rather, never turned off) right in front of them and voila! Bed-time! I have never really figured out why this is the sleeping arrangement, but there it is. What's worse is that Maggie usually won't sleep unless my father lays down on their little nest and watches TV with them. He often falls asleep there himself. Its a fucked situation.
The house is in all stages of neglect: laundry un-cleaned, everything misplaced, a fair amount of pack-ratting. Also, actual rats! It's not bad they are pet rats, but its still pretty bad. Since everyone in this house pretty much lives like an animal Kendra seems to think its a good idea to accent these with some more animals. In fact since I have lived here the menagerie has grown from a fish tank and two cats (actually three, there used to be a stray that the kids would feed and play with, those darling children) and now includes a python, chinchilla, some frogs, and a turtle. But the turtle may have died -- its hard to keep track. Also the rats.
Now, I believe the rats started out as food for the python. But the most important decisions in this house are made by the eight-year old. This requires a little back story. Maggie was born with a serious heart-defect and was very as a baby, nearly dying when she was two. Since then she has been hopelessly indulged and spoiled. I believe that, in fact, in many ways she has never grown out of her infancy. Anyway, the rats. I think one day Maggie must have named a rat that was destined for the snake cage and he became a pet. Then, somehow, another rat was added to the clan. Stop me if you know where this is headed . . .baby rats! This is actually a perfect set-up if you have a snake; you just breed the food for it. But no, these are pets, apparently. Kendra took the male rat and put it in another cage. Then it died, so sad. Then it was a toy for Maggie.
I saw her playing with it and I thought "That rat looks dead." But I also thought that couldn't be because that is obviously disgusting and Kendra was right there. As I walked away Kendra said "She's playing with a dead rat." She said it with a marveling chuckle. As if to say "That crazy Maggie, playing with a dead rat again. She really marches to the beat of her own drummer!" It almost seemed like Kendra knew that this was not appropriate or sanitary, but then again Maggie was ten feet away, Kendra was engrossed in her computer, and, well, in the context of everything else it wasn't that extraordinary.
Maggie played with the rat all night. I don't know where it is now, but whether she treats it like a toy or a piece of trash or some food she is finished with there is still no way of guessing where it has ended up. Rest in peace little buddy
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