What's in a face?

What's in a face? Everyone has one but why do we respond to some and not others? Is a face just a shape? I don't think so. A face is at the center of what we consider to be attractive. It is the heart of attraction. What all effects the faces we like? Gender for sure, men in general like round, women like angles, but not always. The frame of an athletic woman is not so very different than an athletic man. Size plays a role sure. Men like to feel big, women like to feel small. But back to the face. It is not surprising that a face can launch a thousand ships. Humans more often than not make the hasty decision that a face represents the heart inside. Is the face just part of the total package? Lots of big girls have pretty faces and big bodies. The odd thing is that big women, don't like big guys. A fat boy, don't have a chance. Are the faces we are attracted to some assimilation of the people that were kind to us as children. I like my grandmothers nose, my aunt Sara's red hair, and my mother's beautiful brown eyes. Do all of these features fuse together and form the face for which we are looking? Or do we go for the opposite of things that we know. The unknown draws us with its mystery, what fun is knowing something? The fun is in finding out. Or is it something completely unpredictable and who we like is the sum of our experiences: the girl that sat next to us on the bus, the women who showed us interest and kindness as children, the hippy chick neighbor, or the hot nerd girl that you secretly lusted over. Do all of us lean toward a certain "look" or do we just like people who are nice to us. I think the answer is even more complicated than I could ever imagine.

How did I get so lost?

At 43, one would assume to know his/her self pretty well. I am always amazed that upon occasion I discover something new. Somethings are simple like finally aquiring the taste for a hated vegetable or stumbling upon a new hobby. Other things are more complicated and weird like developing a taste for unusual sex or finding out that you don't really like people. I am talking hypothetically of course..wink. Are these things that present themselves as new, ...really new? Or are they just the sum of my experiences catching up with me? 99.9% percent of the time, I know how I will act in most situations. I know what makes me mad. I know what makes me cry. I can recognize situations that will induce certain emotions and choose to avoid or embrace them. More often than not, I am surprised at how little I have really changed in my core. I have always been hyper-sensitive, prone to bouts of depression, and had a penchant for silly humor. I think by the time I turned 15 (or more likely even earlier) my die had been cast and my mold set hard. Is it even possible to change a life set in stone? I guess the whole psycology industry is based on the premise that you can change and I agree...with a caveat. Changing is a lifetime battle. You have to recognize your triggers, avoid and learn to bail out of certain situations and probably most importantly learn to forgive yourself when you fail...and you will fail a lot. I still love, hurt and laugh much the same as I did in High School. I like to think that I have had time to polish off a rough edge or two but I know there are still bristles in the places where I do not want to look. I really could not tell you if I am a better person now or was a better person then. I guess it all depends on what facet of myself we happen to be talking about. Can we ever really grow up and what in the hell does that mean anyway? Is it paying bills, raising babies and TCB baby (taking care of business)? Maybe it is taking responsibility for your own happiness without treading on the happiness of others. All I know is that in a few minutes I will be driving home in the dark with a head full of worries and wondering how I got to this very moment. How did I get so lost?

A new atheist's lament

I spent an hour this morning walking around the Bethesda Church Cemetery. I wandered around in no particular pattern snapping pics with my iPhone: a little Angel, a Holly branch with red berries, Acorns and Walnuts, some mushrooms, a weathered tree stump...anything that caught my eye. Between my pictures I would glance at the dates on the stones and do some mental math to calculate the life span. Young children, middle-aged men, elderly couples and no one any more dead than the other. After reading some of the epitaphs I could not help but wonder which is better: to go young and innocent or old and full of life? There are some people that are brought into this world that do not have enough time to cause any harm whether intentionally or not. Lets face it, the older you are the more time you've had to F' things up. A bitter lesson of my life is that the nature of life is hurting others and being hurt. It is damn hard to live in this world without your life touching others. It seems sad to say but selfish people are happy people. Put the oxygen mask on yourself before you help others... It makes sense but why do I feel that there is some detail missing that would negate this generality? Lately my life seems bombarded by similar sayings of the kind: it's all good, the heart wants what the heart wants, I don't know what people say but I know what they do, wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first...sorry that last one was just for fun. I look around and I see people taking themselves out of the big world and entering the 'me' world. Maybe this is just growing up and I am not ready to do it yet. Maybe I will never be happy until I put my happiness about others. Maybe all we can ever be is alone, no matter how many people you have milling about. A brain trapped in a skull, trapped on a body, trapped on this earth, trapped by time. I sure picked a bad time to not believe in God.

A short piece from Maia's Well

Little stepping stones of joy

I’m crossing the river and that’s what it is

But I get some choice as to where to put my feet.

There’s a gem of a rock, the taste of sweet cereal carried by a lover’s hand.

The next stone rings, and I step and answer and I hear the voice of a friend who is on his way.

This next one is big enough to sit on and rest a moment, and the little dog upon it puts her face next to mine because she knows I can’t reach for her right now.

And the noseeums dance and laugh and the river flows and

Really

There is nothing wrong here.

A Flower for my Hoe

Morning glories... they use to invade my fathers garden and wrap tiny finger-like vines around the squash and corn stalks. Many of these grabby little lifeforms fell victim to my hoe on hazy hot Saturday mornings when the rest of my friends were basking in the AC, eating cornflakes and watching the Super Friends. It is funny how only recently I noticed that morning glories are... flowers. Last Saturday I even felt compelled to take a few pictures of some vines clinging to a chain link fence that surrounded a vacant lot. The flowers were the color of Nerd's candy: glowing purple and pink and seeming to pop out against the dull green backdrop of barren, dusty honeysuckle. I am not sure what made me walk over and take notice of them. I think it may have been because somehow I knew that this little patch of morning glories was blooming for the last time. The thought of the summer ending made me feel both sad and relieved. All of my friends know me as an Autumn person, however if you were to ask me today I could not give you an answer. I am afraid to let go of the heat and the sunshine this year. Time seems to be flying and who knows where I will be the next time I blink. Morning glories do not care about such things. They are just as beautiful on the last day of summer as the first. I know they will be climbing up that fence again next year unless some kid like me whacks them with a hoe. I hope he doesn't.

A Breach of Trust

In relationships there seems to come a pivotal moment. More than likely it is un-noticeable. It is as slight as a mosquito landing on your wrist or an autumn leaf getting tangled in your hair. It is the moment that everything changes. I can't help but wonder if change befalls us whether we are ready or not or somehow we bring it about with a troubled heart. Let's take friends. We all start off as friends and if we are lucky ( or not ) we blossom into something more. At this stage, we trust or associate with no ill intent the words, facial gestures, and intentions of our potential partner. We are in fact EVEN at this point. In short it can be said that I have determined that you wish me no ill and you do not perceive that I wish anything evil on you. So, even the most questionable response, the oddest twink of the eye, even the out of place comment are taken...innocently. This is crucial to our foundation...our friendship...this most important assumption. After the years pile up on your relationship and hardships wax and wane, this fundamental base "that I wish you no harm" can become blurred. It is like a little worm ate it's way into our hearts. Once the foundation is compromised, it is doubtful that the best construction work will repair the damage of the infestation. I don't like to think that this corruption is inevidible. I like to think that the most compatible of us are immune to this disease...however I really don't fucking know. You hear things like, "don't go to bed mad" and it seems like such a simple thing to maintain a trust. However, it is as fragile as a pink antique ballerina rose. Relationships are friendships but at their heart they are more than that... they are friendships that aspired to "go to the moon"... they are friendships turned up to "11", they are friendships on acid at a Grateful Dead Concert...At least that is the way I see it.

Wildflower Blues

I once pulled up a dying man’s flowers and lied about it. I was living in Tigard, Oregon (which is not too far from Beaverton and the Nike’s headquarters), and working for a landscape maintenance company. Actually, it was a company that took care of the grounds of low-income properties. There was really not much landscaping to it. Pretty much you just cut miles of grass and walked around with a backpack blower all day long. Oh yes, and there was lots of raking and filling trash cans with the result. Funny, I can’t even remember the name of that fucking place, which is poetic in it’s own way. Anyway, the day I pulled up the flowers was my last day at the job and three days away from my flight out of the great, rainy, shitty North West. My work crew had been assigned to cleanup the construction debris at a new apartment complex. The grass was knee high and the land swampy in places as well as there being lots of dirt every fucking where. I was the leader of my crew… after all I was highly qualified: I could speak English and had a valid drivers license. I also had managed to get certified in tree identification and I prided myself in being learn-ed of plant knowledge in general. Notice the word pride in the last sentence…we all know what comes next. Well, my band of vagabond bushwhackers and I were sentenced to walk the grounds and whack the tall weeds that infested the place. My crew followed me obediently and sentenced to death any and all living things to which I pointed my boney Grim Reaper like finger. All was going along swimmingly until I came to a small front porch stoop and a patch of what I assumed looked like weeds. Notice the word assumed in the last sentence. Now really, there is no such thing as a weed. A weed is in the eye of the beholder. I reached down and gave one a tug but it held more firmly than its predecessors that day. I searched my plant lexicon for the appropriate name and species but came up empty. I had to make a decision…to deal death and destruction to this little patch of greenery or pass it by on my way out of Oregon. I made the call…not my best. My crew descended upon those wildflowers like Spartans against Persians. In no time flat, what must have taken months to grow was withering in a cheap plastic garbage can. Luckily for the other innocent flowers in the neighborhood, the owner of the newly renovated dirt patch called my boss and dispatched what we used to call the straw boss to the property. I lied, my men lied and we hid the corpses of not yet bloomed flowers on a truck loaded with dirt and trash. I can still remember that poor mans face when he looked me in the face and asked me, “Why did you do it”. As if that was not bad enough, I found out later that the man was ill and planted that flowerbed as part of his healing process. If my life is every reviewed upon its completion, I will have to look away when the record of that day is read back to me. The truth is that I know why I did it. I had been trained to bust ass and leave the thinking up to my boss. To me the repercussions of not pulling those weeds was more severe than pulling them. Me working man…you give me task…me finish…real simple…no too much talky-talky. I was 23 years old. Three days after I killed a dying mans flowers I was on a plane back Georgia and hoping that three thousand miles was far enough to put my shame behind me. Evidentially, not.

There are no bad dogs...just bad dog owners

It is funny how you can understand something intellectually but that it does not mean anything until you experience it. Kinda like being told the stove is hot verses putting your hand on it. Burning the fuck outta your hand is real knowledge, being told that the stove is hot is mearly information.

I am a walking hunk of heart meat. I cry until my eyes sting and I can't see the road. I reveal all of my secrets and bare my soul in the hopes that it will have some effect on whatever is happening to me. I lay in bed and stare at the ceiling and sweat under the covers. I sneak shots of tequila in the middle of the night. I write emails that I can not even remember. I stare out my bedroom window onto the rainy streets and into windy nights. I will do anything to distract myself from what the pain wants... It begs me to acknowledge it. And of course, I do...I want it take over management. The pain awakens some kind of primitive force within me and it is so glad to get out... the primordial monster I keep locked tight in my medula oblongata. It wants to break out and howl and the moon, and chase gazelles and eat them with its face buried in the bloody meat.

It is no puffer fish. It wants to protect the outer,softer me from the world and even myself. Sometimes I will let it bark a few times and then with all my might kick it's snarling drooling mouth back into it's spongy cage. It feels good to hurt people when you hurt, just like it feels good to listen to sad sounds when you are sad...but the joy is sour, short and totally sick. How quickly remorse and sense take back control of the brain reigns and the boys at corporate are back in charge of things. If there is one rule about being a human, it is to keep that inner dog under control. One of the few arguments that help me to believe in God is that we seem to be the only animal that is unhappy being himself. A dog loves being a dog, and if you want to see contentment look at a cat basking in the heat of a summer's day. Humans, however...no way, no how. For some wonderful reason we want to rise above our animal. I have no doubt that the inner dog would consume us if we give it an inch. But we are not evolved enough to let it go either. Your dog is there to save your ass. I wonder which half is the greater: the dog or the person holding the lease. And I wonder if there is no such thing as a bad dog, just a bad dog owner.

The Weight

We all walk around with an invisible weight. We smile at each other, go about our days and draw no attention to the little bird on our shoulder that is pecking at our jugular vein. We are all waiting on the proverbial shoe to drop. Some of us are waiting on a fucking boot. We are all waiting to loose our jobs, our relationships, our health. We wait because we know that it is coming like a fast train out of hell. To say that our lives are fragile is to indulge in the understatement of the year. The tiniest little germ will fuck us up. A minute of bad timing and BOOM you are crushed by a tractor trailer. In fact, even if you are the healthiest mother fucker alive, you can die. Flo Jo died of a fucking heart attack! I will never be as healthy as her...EVER! I don't really want this blog entry to be another death rant, because LORD knows I have enough of them...see my collected works. However, whoever said that we all live quiet lives of desperation was fucking right. We label people assholes to the left and right of us, and maybe more than a few are...but the truth is life will make you an asshole or at least seem like one. Weight...there is no escaping it. To live on this planet at this time is to take on weight. Gravity is a constant pressure pushing you down until you collapse under the pressure. Of course some of our weight is imaginary. If we loose our jobs, the sun will still come up in the morning. If our partners leave us the sun will still come in the morning. Even if we die, the fucking sun comes up in the morning. I just hate the fact that we are aware on some level of the weight leveled by all human beings and we choose to ignore our community pain. How quick the old bird finger pops up when someone breaks traffic manners. How quick are we to judge those who do not follow our particular slice of life. Republicans are hate mongers, Democrats are out of touch with reality, why do we have to label ourselves. Why can't we all just be human beings diagnosed with the terminal illness of life? Why don't we look at each other and go, "that mother fucker is going to die, give him a fucking break". I know life is messy. It is impossible to wrap things up in a neat little blog entry. I just wish we had the common courteousy to acknowledge and respect someone for their humanity. I am afraid the truth is that we secretly like to be ugly. We are more animal that we ever had the courage to acknowledge.

The Wreck of The Endless Summer

The legend lives on from the Chattooga on down
Of the big lake they call Lake Lanier'ee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead.
When the Bass Fisherman of June they come Early.

With a load of beer n bread,whiskey and hotdogs 24 or more.
Than the "The Endless Summer" weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the hicks of June they came early

The ship was the pride of the Chestatee side
Coming back from some beach party an hot son.
As the big cruisers go it was bigger than most
With a girl crew and the Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of tequila worms.
When they left fully loaded for Lanier land
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the tequila buzz they'd been feeling.

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a beer bottle broke over the railing
And every girl knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the Bitch of a Hangover come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the bitch of a hangover came slashing
When afternoon came it was a throbbin headache pain
In the face of a Hurricane and Bacardi dry heavin

When supper time came the old nausea came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main player caved in
She said girls it's been a bitch to know ya.

The Captain wired in he had bottled water coming in
As the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the "Endless Summer".

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the dry heaves turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Chattahoochee Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have spit up or they might have vomitized
They may have broke deep and drank more water
And all that remains is the mess and the names
Of the girls and the guys and the daughters.

Lake Oconee rolls, Sinclair sings
In the ruins of her mixed drink shore mansions.
Old Hartwell steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for Bass Bastards.

And farther below Lake West Point
Takes in what Lake Lanier can send her
And the Pontoon boats go as the mariners all know
With the hicks of June remembered.

In a musty old Walgreen's in Gainesville they prayed
In the aisle of stomach discomfort.
Their heads they chimed,, 'til it throbbed 6 times
For each one on the "Endless Summer".

The legend lives on from the Chestatee on down
Of the big lake they call Lake Lanier'ee
Lanier, they say, never gives up her dead
When the hicks of June come early.

Dead, Dead, Dead

This is just a short rant about life and death. There is a lot we don't know about life. There is less we know about death. Shakespeare referred to death as "the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns."

Having recently seen the DVD of Bill Maher's "Religulous," I am more certain than ever that we can't be certain of anything. Actually, we can be certain of one thing. If a slick looking dude in a $1,500 suit tells you that he's certain about what happens after you die, and that you can have the same amount of certainty if you just send him a fat check, you can be certain he's full of crap.

Here's something else I'm fairly certain of: the book "90 Minutes in Heaven" is a malodorous load.

Which brings me to a more specific point. You know how people who claim to have had so-called near death experiences talk about how they floated up out of their bodies and looked down at their recently vacated corpses? And then they talk about seeing a bright white light which they feel strangely drawn to as Enya sings in the background?

Well, as it turns out, there is -- surprise, surprise! -- a perfectly reasonable scientific explanation for this phenomenon. These are the illusions brought on by an oxegyn deprived brain.

Check this out. This is an except from Radio Lab -- www.radiolab.org.

Out of Body, Roger

I was there. But I, like, wasn't there. I was floating. I was looking at myself from outside of myself.

If it hasn't happened to you, it's likely happened to somebody you know. And whether or not you believe it, about one in ten people report having had one. "Out of body" experience, it's a dirty word in many circles. Which is perhaps why pilots call it "G-LOC" (gravity-induced loss of consciousness, pronounced "G-lock" not "glok"). Turns out this kind of experience (call it what you want) occurs quite frequently among fighter pilots. Producers Ann Heppermann and Kara Oehler bring us the story. We'll hear from pilots Tim Sestak, and Col. Dan Fulgham on what it's like to lose yourself, unfortunately for us skiddish passenger-types, while flying a plane. Finally we'll hear from Dr. James Whinnery, who simulates G-LOC by placing pilots in giant centrifuges. His research monitors their brain activity as they accelerate to speeds inducing this loss of consciousness. But Doc Whinnery isn't just a scientist, he's a subject. And his research has taken him to some surprising places.

This is a very interesting podcast.

And with that, pleasant dreams...

A Poem

This is a poem I wrote my wife as a Valentine's day gift in 2008.

20 years might as well be 200

The other night my sister and I were rummaging through the squirrels nest that is my childhood home. Over the years my father has used it as head quarters for his tree removal business and temporary home to crack smoking vagrants and big bootied hoochie mamas. Among the beer cans, wiry brillo pad threads (used in crack pipes) and piles of dirty clothes are the crumbs of my childhood. A baseball trophy with a broken bat, little books on UFO's and "How To" Magic Tricks, forgotten photographs and yellowed opened mail. My grandmother, Mama Ruby's antique furniture is also there, as well as her sewing cabinet (still full of buttons and thimbles). My father holds onto all this stuff like he wants it but he treats it like garbage. Worse...he lets other people treat it like garbage. I ended up sneaking away with my father's old drag racing trophies, and a faded picture of my great grandmother. I may go back for the buttons and books, but the place feels like a mausoleum. It is hard for me to believe that I had my Christmas's in that trash strewn living room, did my homework, daydreamed, read my little books, listened to my music, and played with my brother in sister in that dark creepy basement apartment. It is hard to convince people that it use to be a nice place. I fantasize about fixing it up one day. I hate leaving my childhood in that state of disrepair, although it is probably appropriate.

Letter to my nephew upon his high school graduation

Dear Nephew,

I remember the day that you were born. Nanna and I drove down to Crawford Long Hospital on a beautiful summer day to see you. I had just gotten back from Oregon, where I had lived for a year in the hopes my girlfriend at the time would start a life with me. I will tell you about it one day if you are interested but long story short, it never happened. I was 24 years old. We met your Dad in the maternity ward, and a nurse held you up to the window so we could see you. Your Dad had tears in his eyes and was already calling you his little fishing buddy. I remember Nanna telling me that the moment you popped your little head out that “my brother grew into a man right before her eyes”.

I don't know if you remember your first house. It was a tiny little bungalow in Mountain Park near Roswell. I went to one of your birthday parties there. You could only have been 2 years old. I bought you a little inflatable car that you could hop on and pretend to drive. So I guess you can tell everyone that I bought you your first car...ha ha. You graduation tonight makes me remember how I felt when I graduated from Milton in 1984. I just felt lost. I was not a kid anymore, but I did not feel like I was an adult. I found myself in some weird no man's land between two worlds. Just in case you are wondering, most everyone always feels like a kid inside no matter what their age. Just because you are older doesn't mean that you know everything and just because you are young doesn't mean you don't know anything...you just don't have the experience to back it up. You have heard the saying, "there is no fool like an old fool", well that is damn true. I am 42 now and just starting to appreciate some of advice that was given to me twenty years ago. We all have this need to do things our own way, and the best advice in the world can't penetrate that desire. You may not know it but you have just embarked on a journey to discover yourself. You may find that the 30 year old you is not quite the same as the 20 year old you, and so on. It may take some time to settle into “yourself” and that is okay. All of your life experience will color you. It is a journey that only you can walk although everyone will try to show you the way. One day you will find comfort in knowing who you are and everything else will fall in place. So, although this may not mean anything to you now, here is some advice:

 This is YOUR time, do what makes YOU happy as long as it does not harm anyone else.

 If you fail, so what, try to find something positive about the experience and move forward.

 Don't confuse who you are with what you do to make money, the two are exclusive.

 The only dreams and expectations that you can fail to live up to are your own. Don't be too hard on yourself.

 Don't underestimate the kindness, understanding, and intelligence of the people who love you. They are living the human experience and are touched by the complexities of life just as you.

 Life does not owe you anything. Make your own luck and you will never be disappointed.


That is all...end of lecture. The rest I guess you will have to figure out yourself. That is the whole point of life and therein lays the fun. Remember that we love you and will always help you. Just don't be afraid to ask.

Happy Graduation

The Big Dirt Nap

Maybe it is because I turned 42 last week, or maybe I am regretting some of the choices I have made over the years, whatever the cause of my reflection maybe, my thoughts have recently turned toward the big dirt nap. I am scared and would rather skip the whole thing. Now this fear is coming from a man that ironically loves graveyards; big ole spooky ones with mausoleums and statues of angels. I was talking about my anxiety with a friend this morning, and being a programmer he gave me the logical answers: you can't stop it, you won't be conscience, why worry. I guess that he is right...technically. However, I want to believe that I continue to be. Being is all I know, or at least all I remember. As human beings we are all given such a short little time on this planet and that is if we manage to stay healthy among the millions of little and big things that try to kill us everyday. For some people, it is not in their DNA to live very long. Let's face it, some giant fat asses live to be old giant fat asses and some don't. Whenever you hear about someone living to be 120 years old, it is always someone that smoked and drank all of their lives. Now out of the limited time we are given, let's say 76 years give or take a decade, how many of those are quality years? Our bodies are steadily meant to fall apart; that is how they are designed. I have actually read that scientist have discovered the trigger that makes our bodies grow old. We are actually coded to deteriorate. So regardless of whether you do your cardio everyday, eats lots of broccoli, and keep your system flowing with lots of fiber, we all have a one way ticket to garden. Also, dying has nothing to do with good and evil. Good people die, bad people die, the two are not related. Everyday there are such sad stories in the daily news about all of the sick children and innocent people whose clock ran out. One minute you are there, the next, who knows where the fuck you are? The only thing that I sense from a logical point of view, and that is with the illogical point that life has a point, is what happens to all that information. The information that we have been collecting every second of our lives until now. I do not even think that nature could be that cruel. Maybe we all are a bunch of little nano-bots collecting info about this world through each of our unique perspectives. Maybe we have to die, so we can do a big data dump back to the mother ship. But is the mother ship still waiting, or did it high tail it's ass out of this universe a long time ago? Everyday, millions of people beg the mother ship for a little info, a little intervention...something to take away the pain. But all I hear is silence. As much as I want to hear, I am not even getting a little white noise, or the sound of putting a shell to your ear. Once again, I am scared. When it is my turn will it be so quick that the blackness will be instant, or will I hold onto the cliff for as long as I can then fall back into the ocean? I think some people let go of this world because they need relief from it, and others let go because they can not hold on any longer. What a mixed blessing to be alive. It seems that the only reason worth existing is the chance to meet other wonderful little information collecting bits of electricity and to share. Having to die seems like it is almost worth the price of living. Maybe that is what I need to decide.

Office Crap

I worked at a German faucet compnay for 8 yrs. until just a couple of monts ago when I decided to stay home with my new baby. For 4 1/2 yrs. I did Cust Svc/Inside Sales. After that I was promoted to a Supervisor of my dept. by my new Manager & acted in that role for the remaining 3 1/2 yrs. When the position became open, I applied for it along with a few other people in my dept. I won out because I was able to convince my new boss that I had the most knowledge and could help him manage the team the best (which really was true). I did, however tell him that I really did not think of myself as the "supervisor type" that I really just wanted to help my team gain the tools that they needed to do their jobs successfully. He choose me anyway. My team mates accepted my new role pretty well, even a couple of people that I thought would not.

My manager (Roy) ended up heaping a lot responsibility on me -some good, some bad. I was responsible for keeping up with everyone's time punches, vacation, tardiness, training, monitoring phone calls, conducting team meetings & a whole slew of other things. It became so overwhelming that I wanted to ask Roy so many times "And what exactly do you do?" It seemed like all he did was sit in his office & try to sound like he knew what he was talking about. He decided that instead of learning anything about the product or our customers, he would just ask me. Then, he would take the info that I gave him & use it to make his dumbass look good. Do I sound a tiny bit resentful?

Eventually, he even had me going through the applications & resumes for potential new hires & picking out which ones "we" should interview. At first he was conducting the interviews & then later he decided we should do them together. The fun thing was discussing the candidates after they left. Sometimes Roy & I were on the same page and we were like "what the heck was that? Who would say that? or who would come to a job interview looking like that?" Other times it was like my boss was completely oblivious that a person had been through 6 jobs in 2 yrs. and had a criminal record, missing teeth, had never used a computer & didn't have a car. Somehow this person seemed "trainable and worthy of giving them a shot" -Roys words. Of course whenever he hired someone against my wishes, inevitably the shit would hit the fan. They wouldn't show up for work or they were totally incapable of doing the work or they just plain didn't work while they were there. Meanwhile, there I was having to deal with it because my boss was too nice & didn't want to fire anyone and he was too afraid to come out & actually manage the dept. It was like a big friendly Gorilla had taken over the department & locked himself in an office leaving me to clean up the mess.
It's not like I really like the idea of firing people, it's just that I wouldn't have hired those imbeciles in the first place. And what's the point of me having to supervise them if I don't have the right to hire or fire them? I swear, I get frustrated just thinking back on it. I decided I didn't like being in that position in the long run. Roy was eventually shifted to another position in the company & was let go shortly after that. Hmh, go figure.

Life on TV

Sometimes I pretend like my life is an ongoing sitcom & my friends & family are characters on the show. Sometimes I give them different names & stuff just to make it interesting. Sometimes I pretend that strangers I encounter are also characters. Like for instance, there's this old foreign guy who bags my groceries at Publix. His name is Vitaly & he can't speak good english. Like I said, he's old and this means he also moves at a snails pace. He has barely any expression on his face. He's not mean or anything, he just isn't happy or full of expression. He just sort of exists. One day I told my husband that I thought it would be funny to act like Vitaly is something totally different than that. I said it would be funny to describe him to someone & say "Oh, there's this guy named Vitaly & he's like this super cool old dude who bags groceries at Publix". It really got me laughing because he's anything but that. Maybe it's only me but, it gets me laughing every time I go there.
Sometimes I try imagine people I know in place of characters on actual tv shows. For instance, like Seinfeld. I try to think who I know that would be George & who's the equivalent of Kramer. I also try to imagine who I am in these shows. Like am I Laverne or am I Shirley? In most of the shows, I'm never the crazy one or the quirky one. I'm usually more of the mainstream sort of straight person. However, in someone else's sitcom, I probably am the quirky one. Go figure. By the way, I'm Shirley, not Laverne. I think it would be cooler to be Laverne but, I'm too much of a neurotic wuss so, I'll have to settle for Shirley.
I think doing things like this helps get me through life. It helps me see the humor in the world around me & helps me retain my imagination. It also helps me to deal with the jerks & dumbasses in my world.
I also think I've watched too much tv.

I like dreaming, cause dreaming can make you mine

One day at work someone had the radio playing and "Hotel California" came on. One co-worker who is about 40 said "oh, this brings back good memories" and another guy in his late twenties said "oh, yeah it brings back memories for me". The 40 yr. old turned to him & said "what, of the smell of your crib!?" I laughed but it made me think about how music is a soundtrack to your life. When I was a child my Dad played Elvis records & danced around the living room pretending to be Elvis. My Mom had a Seals & Crofts tape & I remember riding around in the car listening to "hummingbird don't fly away, fly away". As a kid, my sister had record albums of "The Monkees" but, I had more refined taste in rock n roll & bought a Beatles "Magical Mystery Tour" album at a neighbors garage sale for 25 cents. I'm sure then (in the 70's) those people had no idea what a collector's item that would become. I remember going to the rollerskating rink & skating to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" and feeling cool. In my teen years I enjoyed all types of music from New Wave to Hard rock to R&B. I remember riding around in the car with my sister & her friend listening to Duran Duran and feeling important because they let me hang out with them. I remember my first concert I went to was Hall & Oates at the Omni & I felt like "Wow, I've made it!" I finally knew what it's like to go to this magical thing called a concert. Music defined my life. When I was sad, I liked sad songs & when I was happy, I still sometimes liked sad songs. My wedding song was Paul McCartney's "My Love" & I never realized how long it was until I had to slow dance to it in front of 80 people. I like sappy & cheesy songs & songs that people probably think are dorky. So what if I like all of the BeeGees songs & Barry Manilow & Rod Stewart. And so what if I like Dolly Parton's "Hard Candy Christmas". And so what if I like all of the Rocky soundtracks & that I've seen all of the Rocky movies dozens of times. So go ahead & make fun of me because Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lange Syne" still makes me all sentimental or if I can bowl a spare or strike by playing "Brick House" or "dancing Queen" in my head. I like what I like. And music completes me.

And I really do think my infant son likes me singing Minnie Ripperton's "loving You" to him.
JLW

Who am I?

I am fed up with the IT business. Each time you change jobs, which is every two years or less, you have to requalify yourself with a technical interview. "But G, you have been programming eleven years, you should be able to pass that tech interview with flying colors." That is what one would think anyway. I have been fishing around in the Atlanta IT market for a few months now, and have had to take the dreaded tech phone interview. Phone interviews are bullshit anyway. It is so easy to say no, when you can't see the person or be effected by his or her humanity. I could say no to the Pope if he called me promising everlasting life. I could turn down a bj from Carmen Electra. I could deny a cripple kid selling raffle tickets for his next operation. Last week I went through a particularly embarassing tech ( as we call em in the biz ), with IBM. I answered a correct question here and there but soon fell into a big streak of wrong that I could not shake. I ended up feeling defensive and desperatly trying to convery my worthiness to the guy on the other end of the phone. I even began doubting that I had ever programmed. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I am still a landscaper. But wait maybe I was just a laborer who was dreaming that he was a landscaper. It pisses me off to no end, trying to pass the tech. Eleven years of programming must be worth something. Just the fact that I held the title of developer and was paid and was never fired should mean something. But hell no, someone wants to grill me on linked lists, the proponents of object oriented programming, and database theory. And that is another thing, why in the fuck do developers have to know about datbases but database people don't have to know about programming! Anyway, the whole process makes me want to puke, and it just seems to be getting worse, the older I get. The competition is cut throat. I have to compete with uber geeks from tech who stay up all night playing World of Warcraft and have photographic memories. Most of these freaking geeks don't even study, they are just quick to understand. I try not to confuse what I do for money with what I do for a living, but it is a hard mother fucking thing to do. I am a good programmer. I really am. You belive me don't you?

Ghosts, shrimp and beer

Three days alone sounded good…REAL Good. I managed to wiggle out of going to Allentown, Pennsylvania with my significant other by the hair of my teeth. She even understood…”I am only going up to see my nephews and give them their Christmas presents.” Deep down inside of her, she knew and she did not want to give me a lot of shit about it. I just needed some ME time. I could have gone anywhere. Things were slow at work, people were taking vacation…projects were entering into a state of hibernation. It was a good time to disappear. I had actually never driven that far…five hours, plus or minus an hour, depending on your speed. RButler told me that he had driven there in 3 hours and 15 minutes one time…half the time normally allotted to the speeding impaired. I would be lucky if I made it in seven. Savannah. The name sounded complete without any verbs, adjectives, adverbs or direct objects. It could stand alone. A beautiful word…mysterious, sexy and as foreign to the Yankee tongue as a Varsity Chili dog, walking through the garden, painted red. Close enough to Atlanta, to be considered a neighbor but far enough away to be a complete stranger. I could go there and melt into the scenery. I could be just one more tourist on River Street. One more target for the pick pockets. I could be just like everyone else.
The drive down was not so bad. It had its boring moments. I stopped off in Macon, to let Duane Allman know that thirty-five years after he ate a peach, someone still thought his guitar work soared like an eagle. Rosehill Cemetery’s carriage sized roads is not exactly easy to traverse in a big old Lincoln Towncar. If H & H Soul Food had not been closed for Christmas, then my trip to Macon would have been complete. I however, had to content myself with a few Krystal burgers, and then I was on my way.
The drive down to Savannah is a boring one. Straight as hell, all the way there, although it crosses crooked across Georgia. I made a single turn into Reynolds’s Square, and jutted my lengthy automobile’s ass out into a side street, assuming a valet would jump to my service. You know what assuming does. The Planters Inn is a nice hotel… three and a half stars according to the Expedia website. However, I have been in cheaper hotels and felt richer. The room was nice and clean but a bit small. The water was hot and the towels clean, and there was no lingering cigarette smoke from 1966, so I guess that things were…suitable. I am not trying to be a snob but for…well as much as I paid for 3 nights…well, I thought I would get my ass kissed.
The hotel room turned out to be the worst part of the trip. I can’t remember anything that it did to harm me, or deliberately annoy me, but the room sucked. Maybe it was Reynolds’s Square sending up some of it’s ghosts. Maybe it was the rude, young Indian male hotel attendant. Whatever it was, nothing could wash the stench of loneliness off of the place. The best part of the room was the TV. I watched episode after episode of banal, Bob Saget crap TV, and loved it. My brain rested…my eyes had candy. I laughed at stupid shit. I was King of the Planter’s Inn trailer park, and I mucked about in my sty.
River Street is really the only reason to go to Savannah. It is not particularly great or special, but you can eat fat shrimp and drink cold beer. Bay Street runs perpendicular to it, and you can do the same…big freaking cargo ships, run as slow as sludge into the river from the sea. I actually saw one from China. It is easy to forget that Savannah is actually a port.
I tried earlier in the month to get some friends to meet me in Savannah, but December is not the best month to drag your buddies away from their families, so I spent my three days alone for the most part. I met a retired Major from the Navy, and a guy that looked like Jim Croce, and his partner, a lady that worked at Lady and Sons (the most popular restaurant in Savannah). She even gave me a box of salty country fried chicken and I did not even wait in line.
By the time that Saturday came around, I was glad to leave my haunted hotel room. It was not haunted because of ghosts; it just suffered from a bad vibe. I was glad to get the fuck out. Savannah is a beautiful place, on the outside. But like a friend of mine said of Edinburgh, Scotland: “underneath the surface, there is always something ugly.” Savannah, certainly felt like that too, but I figured that I would come back again anyway. A little evil can be tolerated if you have enough shrimp and beer.