The Joys of Underemployment
The 'Net connection over here is acting like a bitch, making my job (no, my *actual* job) even more difficult than usual. Which isn't hard. Not the job, I mean. Well, that's not hard either, but what I meant was it's not hard to make my job harder than it is, because it's really, really easy.
I'm a very conscientious worker. That may have something to do with growing up in New England, where the Protestant Work Ethic still reigns, and is spelled with capital letters, just so. I simply cannot do things in a half-assed fashion. I can't phone it in. God knows I've tried, but my upbringing, along with my borderline obsessive-compulsive disorder, just won't let me. Housepainting, washing dishes, playing music, it doesn't matter. I've just got to be perfect. (Is it any wonder how or why I ended up as a copy editor? I make a living out of correcting other people. Hell, I'd do that for free!)
Bottom line: I will continue to work as long as there is work to do. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm an idiot, but that's how I operate. In my two-year-plus stint at my web job, I was often the first one there and the last one to leave. Not something that I'm proud of, mind; it didn't actually do me any good, and I'd love to have all those hours of my life back, please and thank you. Again, that's just how I work ... errr, function.
So imagine my shock and surprise when I took a job at a gigantic nonprofit only to find that there is really only *gasp* a good couple of hours of work a day. I mean, maybe it's a full day's work for some, but given my unique blend of intelligence, laziness, and workaholism, I generally turn stuff around way ahead of schedule. That makes my coworkers happy. It seems to confuse them, though, when I ask if there's more stuff to do. "No," they say, looking at me like they're Jon Lovitz and I'm Tom Hanks and this is Macmillan Toys from Big instead of a giant health care concern.
Initially I assumed it was a seasonal slowdown of some sort, and that things would pick up and I'd be merrily busy again. Turns out that the opposite was true: I came on during a busier time, when we were editing our quarterly member magazine. So no, it seems that there is only so much work to go around, and that I should just do what they give me, and do it well, but then do other stuff. Which is quite all right by me.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go learn how to build some effects pedals, teach myself Italian, read the newspaper and some weblogs, and, oh yeah, do some work. Over, out. ßßß
The Recording Session That (Almost) Wasn't
So as I told y'all the other day, one of me bands was scheduled to record on Tuesday evening. And record we did, but just barely. Lemme break it down to ya.
Tuesday AM, day of recording: I am struck stupid with incredible stomach flu, courtesy of otherwise lovely wife Tracy. I am rendered worthless (yes, even moreso than usual) at about 11 with ungodly nausea, chills, aches, and a 103-degree fever. I go home sick in the hopes of eventually making it to the studio.
Tuesday PM: It's clear that I won't make it anywhere near the studio. I can't even form coherent senteces or stop shivering, much less play bass or sing. Hell, I can't even dial the phone to tell my bandmates that I won't be coming in. Tracy (who is still sick, mind you, but less so than me) has to do it for me. Not good.
Since we're already on a really tight schedule, the band tries to soldier on. They begin tracking drums and guitar. Somewhere in the second song, drummer Matt tries to tighten the snares on his snare drum and promptly shears off a screw, rendering said snare useless. I wasn't there, but I assume there was much cursing at this point. Luckily studio has nice old Slingerland snare laying around. Matt begins playing with that. The snares fall off that drum in the middle of a take.
Matt rigs the snares back on the Slingerland. Recording continues apace. Until he shatters his kick-drum pedal. Apparently the part of the pedal that holds the beater in place (click here for a handy visual aid) imploded, rendering pedal and, by extension, kick drum, unusable. So far we have no bassist, no kick drum, and a dodgy snare drum.
But we didn't let that deter us. Somehow the boys managed to lay down rhythm tracks for two songs, and my fever broke around 10 PM that night.
I awoke the next morning in a literal pool of my own sweat the next morning, which was really gross (our bed looked like someone had doused it with Dr. Pepper), but I was sturdy enough to get in the shower and force down half a bowl of corn flakes. Loading my equipment from the rehearsal space to the car to the studio was an adventure, but I made it.
The rest of the process went surprisingly smoothly. Working with Bart was a treat (I recorded with him once 12 years ago at the original House of Faith in Palo Alto), and the tracks actually came out halfway decently. See for yourself. Please feel free to download, play, enjoy, duplicate, burn, sell, hawk, trade, reproduce, propogate, or otherwise proselytize the following MPEG-1 Audio Layer-3 files.
Send all thoughts, comments, hate mail, marriage proposals, pictures of your cat, etc., here. Oh, and don't forget to represent tomorrow night at the Stork. Thankee. ßßß
Grrrls Gone Wild
Another day, another quality rock show, and another unbelievable Bush assault on the English language. [mp3 audio | video (hope this works — it's fucking priceless.)]
The rock show was Bangs and Sleater-Kinney at the Fillmore. If there are any there among you who think that chicks can't rock, you're sadly, sorely fucking mistaken, my ex-friend. Bangs, which contains Tobi Vail's (ex-Bikini Kill) sister Maggie (whose birthday is August 23rd, just like me, and was a cheerleader, entirely unlike me) on bass, won me over early with their anarchic cover of Cheap Trick's "Southern Girls" and their post-post-feminist sexy grrrl rock vibe.
But Sleater-Kinney practically made me forget all about that other band — or any other band, for that matter. For the next hour-plus they treated us to an undulating set of alternately explosive, plaintive, and cathartic rock 'n roll. Now I don't want to open up a whole can of gender-politics worms, but I was struck by how S-K's songs ebbed and flowed, rose and fell, in waves, whereas the typical pop-music form (mostly written by typical males) is all about getting from Point A to Point B: verse, chorus, bridge, etc. Not unlike, you know, the discrepancies between male and female climax. I know when I'm writing with my bands, we're always concerned about songs "losing momentum." This apparently doesn't concern the members of Sleater-Kinney, and their music and their performances are all the more intense for it.
Anyhow. Long and short? They rocked. Don't miss 'em if they come to your town. ßßß
Behold!
So Friday night I got home and spent the whole rest of the evening retrofitting the computer to accommodate my fabulous new iPod. Piece of cake, and couldn't have gone more smoother. Upgrade decrepit OS (Win98) to slightly less decrepit OS (Win2K) and install FireWire card ($33 for the CompUSA house-brand slave-labor-produced Saipanese model), and install the iPod stuff. It took less time to perform those three operations than it did to upload my mp3 library to the damn thing (1,128 songs as of this writing).
Now my disdain for Bill Gates and all his minions is well known, and I am certainly no PC proselytizer. I'm a PC user by necessity, because I've never had occasion to use anything else, either at home or at work. But I think I may end up on a Mac someday.
I mean, just look at that thing! Is it not just pure, unadulterated sex? It's got the best industrial/product design of any device I've ever seen, and the user interface is so intuitive as to render a user manual unnecessary. (Side note: I was having trouble with one element of the thing, i.e., getting the inline remote control deal to work. I went to the Apple.com iPod support site and had the problem troubleshot and fixed within about 90 seconds.)
It's gorgeous, it's dead easy to use, and it's exceeded every expectation I had for it. I can't remember the last time I said that about anything. Like, ever. Yep, switching teams is looking awful good right now. ßßß
This Is Why I'm Not a Statistician
So roughly three-fifths of you use toilet seat covers before you sit down on the john, and two-fifths of you don't. Also, about three-quarters of those surveyed are (or at least claim to be) male, and one-quarter female. That data is vaguely helpful, insofar as we can infer some stuff from it, but since I couldn't do a branched poll, I can't exactly say "Women are x percent more likely than men to use those ineffectual covers." But still, thanks for playing. It was fun, and we have some lovely parting gifts for you.
I'm getting an iPod today. I am the happiest boy alive.
The Hills Have Eyes go into the studio this Tuesday to record some more demo's. This time we're doing it at a real studio (House of Faith) with a real engineer (Bart Thurber), and hopefully we'll really release it. Two and a half days, five songs, punk rock. Hell yeah.
Also, we're playing at the Stork Club next Saturday, September 28th , so come out. We desperately need warm bodies. Thankew. ßßß
Protecto or Not?
I've always wondered about those Protecto-brand paper toilet seat covers in the can. I know people use them, because sometimes I hear them installing said covers. (You've probably already sorted out that I am not a Protecto patron.)
So I wanna know how many blawg readers actually use them, and if there is any gender bias in their use. Ummm ... thanks for playing.
After Much Ado ...
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Sitting the Sixth on my backpiece (click a number ^up there^ for words and pitchers of the previous ones). The work was done on my birthday, August 23rd, but we just got around to taking the pictures last night. What can I say? I lead a full life.
This sitting, like the last one, was a piece of cake. Literally, or something. Tracy surprised me with an impromptu birthday party at the tattoo shop, inviting some of our best friends over to point and laugh at me in my agony, and to eat birthday cake. I'm convinced it was the absurd amounts of sugar in the various vegan birthday cakes Tracy procured that made it all bearable.
See, when I get tattooed, it generally goes something like this:
So I'm pretty sure it was the cake (and the company) that kept up my blood sugar (and my spirits) and made the unbearable, well, bearable. That and the fistful of Extra-Strength Tylenol I took beforehand. Thanks, baby. You rock. ßßß
I Love You, Potato
Me and the red hott lady went to check out The Chateau on Saturday, because it looked funny and we both kinda have a thing for Paul Rudd. (My thing for Mr. Rudd is entirely platonic and is based solely on his acting prowess. Honest.)
"The Chateau" fucking rocked. We went there expecting a fluffy, funny vanity-type piece (Hey! I'm a semifamous actor! Let's go to the south of France and, I dunno, shoot a movie!!), but we were both surprised at the emotional depth and power of the flick. And besides, how could you NOT love a movie subtitled "Je T'aime, Patate"?
Season Four of the Sopranos also debuted over the weekend, and was also amazing. Season Three was a little uneven (usually trying to do too much rather than trying to do too little — take a hint, Big Four TV Network fuckers, and give your ever-dwindling audience a little credit instead of producing shit like this), but if Four's debut episode is anything to go on, shit is gonna get ill. Word.
Is "Geek" Still Chic?
I fucking hope so, because you'd be hard pressed to find a bigger dork than me. My latest geek-out is in the electronics realm; more specifically, soldering stuff.
Even though I grew up as the son of a HAM radio operator and tireless builder of Heathkit radio stuff, I never got bitten by the electronics bug until now. Once I realized I could build some of the vintage effects I wanted instead of paying hundreds of dollars for them to greedy fuckers on eBay, I was hooked. I busted my proverbial cherry over the weekend making several patch cords, thereby saving myself about 10 bucks each over what it would cost to buy them new. So I'm pretty pleased with myself.
Making stuff is cool. I mean, whod'a ever thought making a stupid guitar cable could be so satisfying? I created something out of nothing. I felt like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods. Besides, as the old man would say, a man who can solder is worth 25 cents more an hour.
Je T'aime Evil Knievel
These bad boys are currently on there way to me. Awwwwww, yeah. Now if I could only find a Stunt Cycle to go with the kicks, I'd be all set. ßßß
Happy Friday the 13th, You Bastards
Pay your repects to the man.
At Least I've Got My Health
You know how you never know what you've got 'til it's gone? Well, nowhere is this more true than in the physical health department. I've been under some weather of one kind or another for going on three weeks now, and I'm finally — finally returning to the full blush of health. Not exhausted all the time, no longer depressed/depressive (any more than usual, I mean), throat not feeling like I've just gargled with hot asphalt ... man, life is good.
Sisyphus Got Nuthin' on Me
Dear coworkers:
May I make a gentle suggestion? In addition to brushing up on your water-cooler-refill skills, I suggest you learn how to make a fucking decision. Is there anything as infuriating as sitting in a meeting wherein someone poses a question only to have people respond by sighing or moaning or doing nothing at all?
I mean, sure, right, there are plenty of more aggravating things, but this one can be prevented, and that's what catapults it into the upper echelons of annoyance. (Assonance is cool.) (I said "ass.")
Against my will and better judgment, I'm becoming the voice of reason in my department meetings (a terrifying thought, believe you me). I'm turning into the hammer, making the snap decision only because no one else will, and if I don't these meetings will drag on for all eternity. Me, the guy who's been at this job all of three months.
Pushing a rock up a hill all day for all eternity? Ha. Try sitting in my editorial meeting someday. You'll be sticking pens in your own eyes within 12 minutes.
Disaster ... Narrowly ... Averted!
Well, i turns out yesterday's Amazon email was a cruel, cruel hoax. Thank God. Read on, O seeker of knowledge:
Subject: Update: Segway Human Transporter (also known as "Ginger" or "IT")
From: "Amazon.com"
Date: Thu, September 12, 2002 6:57 pm
To: ian@blawg.com
Greetings from Amazon.com.
You recently received an e-mail from us regarding the Segway Human Transporter (also known as "Ginger" or "IT"). This e-mail was sent accidentally by an automated system and the information in it is incorrect.
In fact, there is no new information on Segway's availability. Consumer versions of Segway Human Transporters are currently being piloted in various communities throughout the U.S. The Segway HT is expected to be released to the general consumer market in 2003.
We apologize for the confusion. We will keep your e-mail address on our list of customers who wish to be notified about this item.
Sincerely,
Amazon.com Customer Service ßßß
Turning Tricks for the Betterment of Humankind
A special shout-out to the one and only Jason Shellen for putting his money where his mouth is and bribing me to continue to blog. Thanks, bro. There were also a number of emotional blackmailers who emailed and thanked me for continuing to write. Thanks, cheapskates. Oh, and by the way? As it turns out, it's not the thought that counts. It's the scrilla. So dig deep!
Best Random Email of the Day, 1st Runner-Up
Subject: Segway Human Transporter (also known as "Ginger" or "IT") Sadly, the winner of today's contest is just too poignant to post. ßßß Want Memories of 9/11/01? Look Elsewhere. I'm Keeping Mine to Myself.
I'm writing this entry under duress.
How Sick Is Sick as a Dog, Exactly?
How sick does one have to be before being considered "sick as a dog?" A Google search turned up some results, none of which contained especially edifying information on either etymology or quantitative information for determining sick-as-a-dog-ness. But I'm sick, get it?
Speaking of dogs, we test-drove a dog on Saturday.
The Dream Team Nightmare Is Over
This morning I am the happiest little sports fan you could ever imagine. Not only because the Amazin' A's reeled off their 20th victory in a row in typically dramatic fashion, but also because the U.S. basketball Dream Team had their collective head handed to them by Argentina. Argentina!! Not exactly a world basketball powerhouse.
Surly
Too much heat, not enough sleep, and a poor diet are all conspiring to make me a cranky fucker of late. Endless, interminable meetings and trainings and parking tickets aren't helping either. There's nothing really wrong, per se, but I'm just funky. Not in the disco sense, and not in the stanky sense, but in the "in a funk" sense.
Don't miss last month's brilliant insight.
From: "Amazon.com"
Date: Thu, September 12, 2002 8:38 am
To: ian@blawg.com
Greetings from Amazon.com.
We've recently learned from our supplier that the item you requested to be notified about, Segway Human Transporter (also known as "Ginger" or "IT"), will not be available in the foreseeable future.
It's possible that someone may be selling this item through Amazon.com Auctions or zShops. We encourage you to search for it there if you're still interested in purchasing this item.
We're sorry not to have better news for you.
Sincerely,
Amazon.com Customer Service
11 september 02
You know, duress: compulsion by threat. I feel like if I don't write something, anything, today, that that whole inertia thing will kick in and this weblog will sputter and slow and stop and die.
I've been writing something about nothing for going on two years now. Since the middle of January, 2000, way back in the 20th century (good times), to be precise. I've scraped the bottom of the proverbial barrel for obscure facts about me, made bold pronouncements about stuff I know nothing about, proffered my unsolicited opinions about any- and everything, and even made some stuff up. And I don't know about you, but I am SO TIRED of the sound of my own voice that I could projectile vomit.
All of which makes it damned difficult to find compelling things to write about each day. Or even every other day, for that matter. It's still fun on some level, good at least for making me flex the verbal muscle. And effective for imposing a little discipline on my decidedly undisciplined life. And satisfying, I guess, that a few people read and allegedly enjoy what I type here.
God, I sound pathetic. I swear I'm not fishing for compliments or begging for attention or saying God will strike me dead if you don't all send me all your money via Paypal (although, quite frankly, that would be pretty sweet if you did). Just saying I'm bored is all.
But you know what's good for breaking up boredom? Getting free money. So send me some, whydontcha! Satisfaction guaranteed. ßßß
9 september 02
And of course I did what I always do when I'm sick: the premature recovery self-diagnosis. I could tell for at least a week that I was battling some bug or other; I was overtired, overemotional, and even more surly than usual (as documented here). It finally caught up with me on Friday, so I stayed home from work to recuperate. I felt fine on Saturday, and I deemed myself cured. I went about my normal weekend business, and by Saturday night I could tell all was not, in fact, well. But, bolstered with a huge bowl of noodle soup with chili oil and a quad cappuccino (don't try this at home, folks), we went out anyway.
Sunday, of course, I paid for it. I got out of bed only to go to the bathroom or get food and water. Slept 12 hours, and here I am, back at work (but only because the prospect of another day at home, in bed, with nothing but daytime TV to keep me company, was more than I could bear). Sick as a dog. I think.
We went to the humane society place under the pretense of looking at cats, but I ended up falling in love with Deja, a one-and-a-half-year-old, 100-plus-pound mastiff mix. The "mix" is questionable — she may be a Mastiff mixed with Bull Terrier (she's fawn and black, just like the Mastiff), but from certain angles she looks decidedly Bullmastiffish mixed with Lab or Shepherd. In any case, she's pretty much everything I could hope or in a dog: big, gorgeous, strong, slobbery, loving, active ... in other words, perfect.
Tracy and I have been dogless for almost two years now, ever since our beloved Anya, the curly-coat mix we raised from a pup, passed away at age 12. Two years is a long time to be dog-free for serious dog people like us, but the prospect of getting a new dog at this point is daunting at best. When we got Anya, Tracy and I were both in college and around a lot, and had tons of time for training, socializing, and just plain hanging out with our new puppy. And the thought of leaving a 100-pound Sherman tank of a dog alone in our house for eight hours, even with a dog door and a backyard, is pretty scary, for us, and for the dog.
Dogs are pack animals, and they want to kick it with other pack members. That's why leaving a dog cooped up inside the house all day (or worse, chained up in a yard), is so abhorrent to me. And that's why we were scoping out cats, after all. But now I don't know.
Dogs, cats, mysterious maladies of the throat, mass hysteria. I have no clever way to wrap this all up. Just like real life. ßßß5 september 02
Now I have nothing against the young men who represent our country in international basketball competition. But since the advent of the Dream Team in 1992, international basketball has become a nightmare.
Here's how it went down. In the Seoul Olympics in 1988, the U.S. got spanked by Russia, and we ended up with the bronze medal. The U.S. basketball powers that be just couldn't get over the fact that we, inventors of the game, were getting trounced by the rest of the world. So in 1990 they hatched the evil "Dream Team" plot, in which NBA players would represent our country in international competition.
Olympic basketball took on all the excitement of a boat race. Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, et al., beat the living shit out of all comers. It was too painful to watch, even for a rabid basketball fan like yours truly. There was no drama. Lopsided U.S. victories were a foregone conclusion. "We" won 58 games in a row. Until last night.
And Argentina's victory last night was no fluke. The U.S. never led, and after the first quarter, they never got closer than six points. Our complete and total world domination is over. And I couldn't be happier.
You see, I'm a begrudging sports fan. I mean, I don't like that I enjoy sports as much as I do. For the most part I don't like my fellow sports fans, nor do I care for the vast majority of athletes. To become a professional athlete, you have to be freakishly single-minded and selfish, which usually makes you not a really fabulous person to hang out with. Of course there are exceptions, but I bet an evening with Pete Sampras or Barry Bonds or Joe Montana would be an absolute yawnfest.
But I'm drawn to the drama. That's why I'll watch baseball over a sitcom any day of the week. Because I don't know what's gonna happen, and that intrigues me. That's why I always root for the underdog. Because I love being pleasantly surprised when they win. And that's why I couldn't be happier that Argentina stunned the U.S. last night.
The nightmare is over. The drama is back. And god bless Argentina. ßßß4 september 02
This happens to me from time to time, of course, as I imagine it does to everyone. Things that usually thrill me don't, my already-abbreviated attention span plunges preciptiously toward zero, and I just want to sleep. Whatever it is — depression, the tides, barometric pressure — I'm ready for "it" to be "over."
Maybe it's just the rut. And no, not the rut in the weasel sense, either. I'm talking doldrums. Ennui. Profound listlessness. Despondency. Exile in Dullsville. (What happened to Liz Phair, anyway? Did she just implode after the Gap commercial? Serves her right.)
I need a mental health day like nobody's business. Not that my job is so goddamned hard or anything — quite the opposite in fact — but it's the getting up, the commuting, the goddamn grind of it all that's killing me. I need a day to sit on the back porch and play with my favorite new toy, the Yamaha QY10 ($45 on eBay!). To learn how to really play "Hide Your Love Away," complete with the suspended chords that I fake. To record all the evil gothcore songs that play in my head all day long. Hell, I need to take a day off just to do the dishes and laundry I've let pile up over the last few weeks.
I need some Ian time. Like you wouldn't believe. ßßß
