Stream of consciousness.
I haven’t gone stream-of-consciousness on your asses for quite a while, so here goes…
TELEVISION
My pal Leab over at Ironic Teachings blogged about Arrested Development last night and there’s not much I can add. Last night’s program was nothing short of brilliant, as is the show as a whole. It breaks my heart that it might be leaving network television for a couple of reasons. First, my wife and I have a cable-free household and therefore wouldn’t be able to watch it if and when it makes the move to HBO or Showtime. Second, I’m afraid that the show would lose what makes it special if it moved to cable. Half the pleasure of the show is the fact that they push the envelope, bleep obvious obscenities, etc. etc. It reminds me of Howard Stern moving to satellite radio; his show was only popular because of the controversy. In a forum where there are no limits and thus no controversy, I’m afraid the charm may be lost forever.
WRITING
Anyone vaguely familiar with this blog knows I hope to be a professional writer someday, though in what capacity I’m not yet sure. I think I’ve blogged before about a book called “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. Much as angry loners are stereotyped as having dog-eared copies of “Catcher in the Rye” in their pockets, so should no aspiring writer be without a copy of Lamott’s book.
I was reading “1984” by George Orwell in the tub tonight, and I’d like to paraphrase something the main character said about trying to write:
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him…the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish.
That about sums up writing for me in a nutshell.
WHO’S NEWS
Someone commented after Sunday’s Who’s News post that they weren’t exactly sure what they had just read, or something like that.
Who’s News is my weekly opportunity to express my utter disdain for pop culture. It’s my favorite part of this blog, and if people don’t like or don’t get it, I can live with that.
COLUMN
The following is this week’s column from the Gazette. I continue to work as an editorial assistant there. My life is a series of constant change, as is everyone’s, I suppose. However, why do none of the changes ever seem to be for the better? Not that the job is awful, but I am really, truly, completely, unabashedly broke. Tomorrow will be a watershed day in my life; I have several important decisions to make in a single day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I fear I’ll be flying blind as I make them.
The only thing worse than being the new guy at work is being a middle-aged new guy.
I’m what’s diplomatically called a late bloomer which in layman’s terms means I wasted the first 20 years after high school trying to become a rock star. As a result I worked a series of jobs that while not quite humiliating were nonetheless completely unfulfilling. Accentuating my social and financial insecurity is the fact that I’ve been back in college for a year, a balding 40-ish sophomore amidst kids who despite not being of legal drinking age somehow manage to show up to class hung over each morning.
I mistakenly thought that my most recent administrative position was my last “job” before earning a degree and embarking on a bona fide career. However, word came down that the company I worked for was up for sale and yours truly, the part-time office assistant—whose most notable accomplishment was negotiating two-ply toilet tissue for the price of one-ply—was not part of the deal.
Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab enough office supplies to get me through the remaining three years of school.
Serendipitously, I received a tantalizing entry-level job in an actual career. It could well prove to be a gateway to bigger and better things, but for the time being it’s a trifle humbling. To begin with, my computer is comprised of cast-off parts from other machines—my mouse is actually an old Atari joystick—and adding to my feelings of inadequacy is the fact that my co-workers and boss are all nearly 20 years my junior.
Not that they haven’t been amazingly gracious, mind you. I often find that my self-consciousness about my age is unfounded. People don’t look at me as an old, directionless failure, but simply as a directionless failure. Still, when my co-workers excitedly discuss the latest hip-hop artists while my musical knowledge hits the ceiling at Dexy’s Midnight Runners, it’s quite easy to feel conspicuously ancient.
Exacerbating matters is the bathroom mirror. The lighting in the restroom at my new job is such that the mirror provides not just a reflection of one’s face but a window into the soul; it’s a State Fair funhouse mirror sans levity. The evil mirror exaggerates every wrinkle, magnifies the bald spot expanding like the hole in the ozone layer, reveals graying temples which would be distinguished if they reflected accomplishment and exposes four decades of mediocrity manifested in a slight but telling slouch.
The mirror taunts me: “You may be fooling them,” it hisses, “but I know the truth: You’re on the brink of tears from long-term worries such as having no retirement and short-term woes like the fact that the ‘w’ on your second-hand keyboard doesn’t work so you have to use an upside-down ‘m’ just to type ‘woes.’”
Mirror, mirror on the wall, how much further can I fall?
My dad died recently and if there can be said to be an up side it’s that he no longer has to recount my professional retardation to his family. Dad’s siblings incessantly regaled him with tales of their children’s unbridled success while his own kid stagnated. Thankfully dad is spared reporting that his son is earning a six-figure salary but that two of the six figures are after the decimal point.
My family hails from West Virginia which is coal mining country. Many of my predecessors toiled deep underground for nominal wages, breathed soot, were deprived of daylight for days at a time and grieved canary after canary that always passed just when they started bonding. They faced hardships I can’t begin to fathom.
What drove these people? Perhaps the fact that they were literally living hand-to-mouth, something I often claim but have never actually suffered. Or maybe the light from their mining caps made them look really good in the bathroom mirror belying the physical toll the job took on them.
Regardless of their motivation, the fact that I have a second (or third, or fourth) chance at success at an age when many of my ancestors were painfully wasting away from Black Lung Disease is humbling. My computer “problems” suddenly seem very manageable if not embarrassingly trivial.
So I will continue to walk into work every day with my head held high, greeting everyone with a firm handshake and holding their gaze confidently. Well, everyone except for that guy in the bathroom mirror; he’s the one person who can shake my confidence. I’ll avoid eye contact with him ‘til I’m a little closer to my degree, until I’m more comfortable in my new surroundings or at least until the custodial staff replaces the bulb over the sink.
TELEVISIONMy pal Leab over at Ironic Teachings blogged about Arrested Development last night and there’s not much I can add. Last night’s program was nothing short of brilliant, as is the show as a whole. It breaks my heart that it might be leaving network television for a couple of reasons. First, my wife and I have a cable-free household and therefore wouldn’t be able to watch it if and when it makes the move to HBO or Showtime. Second, I’m afraid that the show would lose what makes it special if it moved to cable. Half the pleasure of the show is the fact that they push the envelope, bleep obvious obscenities, etc. etc. It reminds me of Howard Stern moving to satellite radio; his show was only popular because of the controversy. In a forum where there are no limits and thus no controversy, I’m afraid the charm may be lost forever.
WRITING
Anyone vaguely familiar with this blog knows I hope to be a professional writer someday, though in what capacity I’m not yet sure. I think I’ve blogged before about a book called “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott. Much as angry loners are stereotyped as having dog-eared copies of “Catcher in the Rye” in their pockets, so should no aspiring writer be without a copy of Lamott’s book.
I was reading “1984” by George Orwell in the tub tonight, and I’d like to paraphrase something the main character said about trying to write:
For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him…the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin. Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish.
That about sums up writing for me in a nutshell.
WHO’S NEWS
Someone commented after Sunday’s Who’s News post that they weren’t exactly sure what they had just read, or something like that.
Who’s News is my weekly opportunity to express my utter disdain for pop culture. It’s my favorite part of this blog, and if people don’t like or don’t get it, I can live with that.
COLUMNThe following is this week’s column from the Gazette. I continue to work as an editorial assistant there. My life is a series of constant change, as is everyone’s, I suppose. However, why do none of the changes ever seem to be for the better? Not that the job is awful, but I am really, truly, completely, unabashedly broke. Tomorrow will be a watershed day in my life; I have several important decisions to make in a single day, and I’m so tired and stressed that I fear I’ll be flying blind as I make them.
The only thing worse than being the new guy at work is being a middle-aged new guy.
I’m what’s diplomatically called a late bloomer which in layman’s terms means I wasted the first 20 years after high school trying to become a rock star. As a result I worked a series of jobs that while not quite humiliating were nonetheless completely unfulfilling. Accentuating my social and financial insecurity is the fact that I’ve been back in college for a year, a balding 40-ish sophomore amidst kids who despite not being of legal drinking age somehow manage to show up to class hung over each morning.
I mistakenly thought that my most recent administrative position was my last “job” before earning a degree and embarking on a bona fide career. However, word came down that the company I worked for was up for sale and yours truly, the part-time office assistant—whose most notable accomplishment was negotiating two-ply toilet tissue for the price of one-ply—was not part of the deal.
Thankfully I had the presence of mind to grab enough office supplies to get me through the remaining three years of school.
Serendipitously, I received a tantalizing entry-level job in an actual career. It could well prove to be a gateway to bigger and better things, but for the time being it’s a trifle humbling. To begin with, my computer is comprised of cast-off parts from other machines—my mouse is actually an old Atari joystick—and adding to my feelings of inadequacy is the fact that my co-workers and boss are all nearly 20 years my junior.
Not that they haven’t been amazingly gracious, mind you. I often find that my self-consciousness about my age is unfounded. People don’t look at me as an old, directionless failure, but simply as a directionless failure. Still, when my co-workers excitedly discuss the latest hip-hop artists while my musical knowledge hits the ceiling at Dexy’s Midnight Runners, it’s quite easy to feel conspicuously ancient.
Exacerbating matters is the bathroom mirror. The lighting in the restroom at my new job is such that the mirror provides not just a reflection of one’s face but a window into the soul; it’s a State Fair funhouse mirror sans levity. The evil mirror exaggerates every wrinkle, magnifies the bald spot expanding like the hole in the ozone layer, reveals graying temples which would be distinguished if they reflected accomplishment and exposes four decades of mediocrity manifested in a slight but telling slouch.The mirror taunts me: “You may be fooling them,” it hisses, “but I know the truth: You’re on the brink of tears from long-term worries such as having no retirement and short-term woes like the fact that the ‘w’ on your second-hand keyboard doesn’t work so you have to use an upside-down ‘m’ just to type ‘woes.’”
Mirror, mirror on the wall, how much further can I fall?
My dad died recently and if there can be said to be an up side it’s that he no longer has to recount my professional retardation to his family. Dad’s siblings incessantly regaled him with tales of their children’s unbridled success while his own kid stagnated. Thankfully dad is spared reporting that his son is earning a six-figure salary but that two of the six figures are after the decimal point.
My family hails from West Virginia which is coal mining country. Many of my predecessors toiled deep underground for nominal wages, breathed soot, were deprived of daylight for days at a time and grieved canary after canary that always passed just when they started bonding. They faced hardships I can’t begin to fathom.
What drove these people? Perhaps the fact that they were literally living hand-to-mouth, something I often claim but have never actually suffered. Or maybe the light from their mining caps made them look really good in the bathroom mirror belying the physical toll the job took on them.
Regardless of their motivation, the fact that I have a second (or third, or fourth) chance at success at an age when many of my ancestors were painfully wasting away from Black Lung Disease is humbling. My computer “problems” suddenly seem very manageable if not embarrassingly trivial.
So I will continue to walk into work every day with my head held high, greeting everyone with a firm handshake and holding their gaze confidently. Well, everyone except for that guy in the bathroom mirror; he’s the one person who can shake my confidence. I’ll avoid eye contact with him ‘til I’m a little closer to my degree, until I’m more comfortable in my new surroundings or at least until the custodial staff replaces the bulb over the sink.
posted by Admin Worm at 7:04 PM
<< Home