reju

So much going on lately. The government cannot agree on whether the sky is blue, azure, or cerulean to save its life or the country's global credit rating, it's humid enough that I've noticed people growing gills so they can breathe and I have entered into a bet that is forcing me to stick with and push through the soreness of shrugging off a lead blanket of stress and sadness. Full plate, I say!

I'm feeling lighter though, generally and I think the ascent is worth chronicling, because everyone loves a phoenix from the ashes story. Plus it's cathartic and no one reads this anyway. Right then. I think the greater point here has something to do with dealing with reality and knowing that what you may want, is not necessarily what is best for you. I have never been afraid of change, but in recent years, I have been increasingly reluctant to make positive changes because I was a little beat down by the scourge of physical injury, wanting to be there for other people who then took advantage of me, and a general loss of perspective. I have carried myself for most of my life as if none of that could happen to me, what with my invincibility and all. Turns out, it can happen to anyone. What matters is how you get out from under it all and how you pick up the pieces and carry on.

I chose to make a pretty aggressive bet with a pretty aggressive person. I will not lose anything except for bodyweight and bad feelings however, so with my spoils I intend to buy myself something fancy. It's amazing. I'm down about ten pounds in the last two weeks and I truly think that getting out from under the weight of the things that were keeping me depressed, calling myself chicken and publicizing my goals to people who will give me shit if I don't reach them are three of the best things I have done for myself lately.

And it all starts with the mirror. You don't like what's in it, or what is going on behind your own eyes when you look at them.....make a change. One foot in front of the other, even if one of those feet is sore, numb and looks like shit.

Don't worry, my posts won't all be like this....this is just a good starting point.

filter

I was sitting on my stoop on a lovely evening, listening to music. I had just gotten off the phone and thought I might just stay out a bit longer and enjoy the breeze in relative peace, when a cute, little, twenty-something blonde walked up and asked me if I had a light. I told her no and then without taking a step away, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a lighter, herself. Magical. I waited for her to walk away.

She did not walk away however, but stood uncomfortably close to me and started asking me questions. Do I live in the building? Well yes, yes I do. Does she live in the building? Well she used to but now she’s moving out to go to 49^th and 9^th. How nice for her. What do I do for work, she continues. I work in finance. With a bunch of men? Well yes, there are a bunch of men in finance. What kind of firm? Is it just a couple of guys ‘doing whatever’ and yelling at me to go get their coffee? Aren’t all of the women who work for hedge funds total bitches?

Important to note here, that I am a woman who works for a hedge fund. Also important to note, is the fact that I am not a bitch and do not work for a couple of guys who do whatever and yell at me to get their coffee. She was completely and happily oblivious to how offensive she was starting to become. As she went on sucking the air out of my dance area, she tried to light her cigarette.

Click went the lighter and I watched her cheeks cave in as she took the first drag. O no, wait…there was no first drag.

“I must have packed these really well”, she says.

I noticed she was lighting the filter and attempted to draw this to her attention. She ignored me and began a second attempt at igniting her nicotine filled implement. “You’re lighting the filter”, I said again. “Wow, I really packed these tight!” she replied, ignoring my advice that she turn it around and light the correct end. As she went in for the third attempt – without bothering to step back even an inch from her encroaching position – I became more forceful in telling her that she was, in fact, lighting the wrong end of the cigarette while simultaneously running over with stupid, uninformed comments.

By the time she listened to me, she had tobacco in her teeth from all of the fake inhaling. She threw the cancer stick on the ground and proceeded to get another and then began the same routine again.

“I would never, ever want to work for a hedge fund with a bunch of guys and bitchy girls.”

I retorted that she had obviously made some extremely wise career decisions. Turns out she’s a pharmaceutical rep. The kind that was most likely a cheerleader in high school and who was recruited to look cute and perky, show a lot of skin, flirt with drab, wrinkled, bespectacled doctors and whose main instruction is to try not to fuck things up too much.

At this point, I was more amused than annoyed as she maintained that she “wasn’t that drunk, for real” and continued her idiotic criticism of a world she knows nothing about. However the wind was stolen from my sails as she interrupted herself in mid-sentence and trotted off to tell a girl who had just walked out of the building that she loooooooved her. Good talk.

And then

Nothing like being awake for days on end....while listening to someone speak a random foreign language at high volume.

Im searching for motivation in a pool of shit. Its lining up for me to step forward and I'm so fucking shot that I cant even stick my foot out to take the step. How to proceed, how to proceed. It's a truly strange sensation to have no idea how things are going to go in any area of my life, at this age. I guess the anxiety, the lack of sleep, lack of exercise and disappearance of any discernable drive at work are a waste of time, but the quandary seems to be how to get out of a six foot hole with no ladder?

Bootstraps, baby, 'cause no one else is losing sleep over your trials. Its every man for himself in this bitch, so either sink or swim...your choice. No one's looking out for your ass, so figure it out comme toujours. Et vous pret? Partez.

today's lesson

Today's lesson, which really should have been learned about four years ago is, when someone tells you they are an asshole, take their word for it and head for the hills. Otherwise, you will find yourself having wasted an incredible amount of time trying to prove that statement false, and the asshole will carry on being assholey for the tenure of your interaction.

People will tell you who they are. All you have to do is listen.

beat

tonight for the first time in a long time, i sat and listened to music. all night. i used to do that all the time. i used to have a better rhythm. i guess it's time to get music back in and see if that's the missing ingredient.

i need a beat.

things i remember about the things that lit me up for most of my life.....
music. singing. dancing. a lot. playing it, listening to it, watching it, singing it, creating it. music was all around me at all times. rarely a day went by without it. it was an outlet, a way to go somewhere else, a way to channel, a way to express, a way to feel.

i'm going for more things this year than in a long time, so i need to get the groove and learn how to move my feet again. i used to be good. i will be again.

to sarah

Sarah Palin:

Not only is your rhetoric nonsensical and your voice intensely grating, you are helping to galvanize a lunatic fringe of violent extremists who can do nothing but take our great country backward.

I feel you should shut your trap, maybe go to school or travel the world and learn something about anything other than rifles, and maybe focus on parenting your children, who are careening off the "good republican" path at a record pace, lest there end up a gun sight on someone's map over your name. You are exceedingly reckless, uninformed and drunk on the sound of your own voice.

While I don't condone violence of any kind, it would not shock me to know that in your fostering of violence and outrage, that the sight ended up pointed back toward you.

You're a moron, shut up.

thank you.

hny

Happy New Years, fuckers.

turns out this is the year that gives right from the get. i'm stoked. there will be no wasting of time this year. the moratorium on bullshit and useless, wasted energy is in effect and the necessary persons or person is on notice.

man does it feel good to be alive right now. to know the worst is behind you, the best is ahead of you, and the end of a fucked up, shitty situation is as predictable as it is hilarious.


this year.....decade....are so mine.

holiday

I am seeing all over the social networks, texts, emails, etc, how thankful everyone is for their lives and how this time of year they can't help but be reminded of all of the wonderful things and people for which they are grateful.

During this time of year, I can't help but remember why I hate the holidays.


I don't care if this makes me a curmudgeon. The holidays can suck it.

!!

I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!

....made simple

First, I'm not surprised that the message didn't make it to the intended recipient of my post a couple back. I still however, do not understand it.


Anywho....I just made the acquaintance of this man:

You may know him as John Basedow, fitness celebrity. This is the crowning achievement in my jobless career, to date. And by the way, it's all true.....he seems to defy age. There is absolutely no way to inspect this man and guess his true years on this earth. He is, as they say, an ageless enigma.

for Andy

Andy Irons was an amazing and graceful surfer who died yesterday. I love the tradition of surfers going out past the break with a lei and honoring their fellow watermen.
Andy, you were a badass surfer and you will be missed.

read (read red)

I don't have many readers for this blog. I don't really care about that, either.

There are a select few people who know this is in existence - despite its being searchable, but nevertheless, my enormous vocabulary and irresistible wit have drawn a few readers along the way.....one of whom I don't necessarily understand or want in my vast fan base.

Now the funny thing here is, the person to whom I refer, shows up on my stats with startling regularity. Sometimes three or four times in a single day. Why? We don't speak, nor do I have the desire to, and it skeeves me out every time I see the path name. So why, I wonder, does said person still check in several times a week, to see what I've written?

Perhaps this is the occupational hazard of the burgeoning author. I don't know, I've never penned anything of significance to anyone. I suppose that along the way in an author's life - or any person putting something out for general consumption, there will be people with whom your path has crossed at some point, who found your platform either by invitation, resourcefulness, or chance, and from whose eyes your words cannot escape. 'Cause once it's out there, it's like a fart in the wind. Gone. You can never really keep people from feeling like they know you, or trying to maintain some sort of loose tether to your life.

The saddest part about this is, there is probably someone for whom this is not intended, who will take it personally, by mistake. The actual message however, despite the number of times the blog is checked, today, tomorrow, or next week, will probably not get through for various reasons.

Either way, welcome to the discomfort of abject popularity and rising stardom.

O man, that just cracked me up.

eat, ate, ought

I just returned from London. It was my first trip to the UK, as when I resided in Europe, I always chose to take myself south, to warmer climes, than up to the rain and dreariness that England is known for. Of course this trip was scheduled for October....a month notorious for its sunshine and gentle, embracing breezes.

No matter though. I vini'd, I vidi'd, I vici'd. One thing struck me as insanely curious however. I thought this sort of phenomenon was indigenous to the red states of middle America, but I was stunned to learn, that even though the Brits have a reputation for bad food, the problem is far, far worse than I had originally estimated.

As I have come to understand, the whole of England is fed primarily from two staple ingredients: mayonnaise and bacon. Sometimes together. I cringe even thinking of the food I saw there. Mind you, I did have a few very good meals during my time abroad, however they were meticulously selected from a menu that had been sifted through slowly and carefully. Otherwise, I pretty much just didn't eat. You want a breakfast sandwich? Bacon or Bacon, miss? Lunch? How about a large vat of mayonnaise with some scarcely identifiable bits of "other things" (laced with bacon) in it on a "flaky", butter-soaked roll of some sort? Dinner? Well we've got a nice big pork sausage wrapped in bacon and served with some mayo on the side, with a side of coleslaw topped with bacon bits. Mmmmmmm.

I seriously think this must have been why the whole 'models not eating' thing started with Kate Moss (who is British). She didn't eat because she couldn't, lest she wind up looking like a portly, red-faced tube worker. Adds a whole new spin to how that whole problem started. Between the beer, the mayo and the bacon, the slightest frame could pack on fifteen pounds in a week! No good.

I'm considering changing course completely and moving to London to open up something like a Mexican restaurant. Or maybe just a catch-all kind of place, but with prominent placement of a "no bacon, no mayo, no problem" sign. Yum.

it's the pants

I realize that I am in my thirties and am nearing the age where it becomes an effort to relate to the teenage contingent of America. That said, I have always been pretty in touch with the goings on of the MTV Generation, since technically, I am still a part of it. There are however, some things that I don't now and may not ever understand. Pants below the ass is one of these things.

I need to clarify that I am a fan of baggy jeans. I am both old enough and young enough to remember a time when jeans had the look of being painted on, and guys went so far as to insert a sock into the buttonfly region in order to appear more, ahem, endowed. I also remember the happy realization that that look was beat, which then prompted the relaxing of the fit and the baggifying of pantaloons for gents across the world. It was a happy time. I don't know where we went wrong though, or why the jeans continued to get baggy to the point of not even really being on.

I have to ask why the hell youngsters these days feel they should even bother with wearing pants at all. They are only pulled up to mid-thigh, secured with some sort of sparkly belt, and their stanky boxers are bunched up above the "waistband" (I use that term loosely since it never has a chance to actually get near the waist), thinly veiling the pair of ass cheeks that sit on the subway, park benches and restaurant chairs, before coming to eventually rest on an unsuspecting couch or bed.

I suppose you could say that about any item of clothing that has touched the dirty world we all live in, but it seems just a hair shy of grotesque to think that the grundle of a teen wonder has been so poorly protected, due to a ridiculous fashion choice. It's also disgusting to think that the underwear of a teenage boy - who may or may not get the wiping job done - have been rubbed all over places where you or I rest our weary, well-covered bones for a few moments. I mean, with pants that low, dude's balls are practically resting on the chair. I mean think about this.....dude can actually whip it out without even unbuckling the belt. Ew. And ew.

In addition to the various health public health risks this trend has potential to cause, there is the part of the equation that makes absolutely no logical sense to me whatsoever: walking. If you have ever seen one of the low-pants tots out and about, you notice that they take strange steps - doing a sort of waddle-shuffle, since they appear not to have learned to pick their feet up, either. This walking style takes up an unusual amount of sidewalk space. In an effort to keep up the pants - which are normally held up by the ass actually occupying the ass space in the britches - lads are basically shoving their thighs outward in an effort to create enough tension to keep their pants from falling down completely. The gravitational pull of the yards of fabric pooling around their ankles must make it quite a struggle.

The only thing I can think of to combat this faux-pas is shame. However that only works if the shamer is within about five years in age, from the shamee, so I'm out. Rest assured though, I will continue to ponder potential solutions. For now, keep your clorox wipes at the ready.

awake

there is a quote I like that has come to mind a lot lately.

it begins with: "It's not how much more you can take, it's how much more you can give.

It's true in team sports, and it's true in life. I spent tonight with a group of people who talked extensively about achieving happiness and success in life by sending good out into the world and giving your best to others as a means to attaining the successes you want. novel.

i totally buy it.

j.o.buh

Apparently people are going annonymous these days. Must have been an exchange to that effect, but enough o that.

Everyone wishes for a week off here and there. It's a chance to rejuvenate, to stop stressing about the daily grind, and to do things you really want to do, but never seem to have the time for. Of course, this is only enjoyable and stolen time, if you have gainful employment.

I am now, for pretty much the first time in my life, unemployed. The time off is not fun. But this is where I hit a snag.....how are there so many people in the world who just don't work. How does someone keep a gig like that up? I really can't wrap my mind around how a person can sit day in and day out, doing whatever, and not having gainful employment and a steady paycheck to rely on. I am five days into this process and I'm going out of my mind. The stress of NOT going to work is almost overwhelming.

Some people in this situation, would take advantage and go shopping mid-day, meet "people" (though I don't know who has mid-day time for this shit) out for coffee, see a Broadway matinee, or have a liquid lunch that turns into a liquid afternoon, evening and night. Here's where the logic of that enjoyment loses me though: if you are hemorrhaging money out, with nothing coming in, how do you reconcile those expenditures?

I realize this may seem a little dramatic, given that it has only been a week, but regardless, it's a week that doesn't have an end, because I haven't received the call for work until I head out of dodge in a few. I think the only thing to do at this point, is to flee the country and enter into self-imposed exile until things pick up. I'm not sure how that works out, but it seems counterintuitive to blow a bunch of money in a town that is sucking me dry, despite the relative ability of about a million people around me everyday to do it.

I think perhaps I should hit up the learning annex for classes on how to navigate unemployment properly. I need tips on how to while away in total unproductive and impoverished bliss, without caring where the next dime is coming from. Or perhaps I am missing a money making opportunity here. Perhaps I can use joblessness as a research experiment and then create my own class to teach others how to waste away properly.

Lesson one....in order to be properly useless, one must have the appropriate daytime television lineup. I shall commence on the morrow and will report back. But look at that....my industry has no bounds. I will make a business out of being without business. Stay tuned.....

gfy

See, the thing about dealing with assholes, is that by and large they don't actually believe that they ARE assholes. It's a tricky situation when someone believes that despite their bad behavior, obnoxious attacks and complete disregard for anyone around them, that they are indeed a "good person".

That phrase - good person - gets thrown around too much these days. Because there are a lot of not-good people out there, most of whom think they are good, loyal, honest, etc. But honesty and goodness seem to be quite subjective these days. One seems to be able to simply claim the title in order to have it. I think some of this has to do with the whole benefit of the doubt thing.

For instance....if someone is "nice" to another person, they automatically get a billing of good. If that same person is nice to a select few people, but an asshole to everyone else, said person seems to feel as though their decent behavior to the few, should wash away the many, when in fact, it does not. Once it is proven to someone that their benefit of the doubt was indeed erroneous, that benefit is expired and the true relationship - or lack thereof - begins, with the granter having the harsh realization that they have been had.

Generally when this happens, the asshole will scramble and try to make nice so that the ruse won't be exposed, but when the jig is up, the jig is up, because as we all know, leopards don't change their spots. They can put on a zebra costume, but then it's just a leopard in a zebra shell.....an asshole in nice's clothing.

My advice to assholes, is to stop acting like they are not something that they are. If you're an asshole, wear it. Own it. Assholes can be dealt with, but only if this trait is up front. If the recipient of assholery knows the deal up front, he or she can make allowances and plan escape routes, thereby minimizing contact and interaction and avoiding the pain and frustration of dealing with a shoddy, self-indulgent person.

So assholes of the world, I plead with you to take off your masks and stop parading around as legitimately nice people. It's confusing, annoying, and costly. Thank you.

rah rah oohh la laaaaa

I'm big in the big house. Not big enough to draw the attention of un-incarcerated wonders such as scruffyboots or Kayla, mind you, but I have a modest following with the jail / prison crowd, of which I'm quite proud. If I can break up the monotony of anyone's day by providing something to laugh or think about, I am honored to do so. Of course in truth, I'm the "writer" that everyone thinks they are. A respected author in my own mind. I don't get paid to write, don't do it consistently enough, have a following of about 3 (on a really heavy day) and don't put down anything of real substance or consequence about ninety five percent of the time.

Okay so anyway, there I was on my way to work this morning, when I rounded the corner on 73rd Street and was taken aback by some delightful pungentness. I don't even know if that's a word, but it was definitely a smell. Having been greeted so pleasantly, it took me a second to identify the owner, who as it turns out was a small-yet-portly homeless woman with a cheerleading sweater, raggedy pants and running shoes with holes the size of half-dollars. At the moment when I rounded the corner, she was fishing through several plastic bags tied to a New York seized supermarket shopping cart, but as soon as she saw me, she popped right up and I almost expected her to throw her arms up in a V, do a pike and say 'o-KAY!'.

I've seen homeless people wearing and doing all manner of things, to the point that I rarely take notice any longer. I could regale you with stories for days about my sidewalk and subway adventures with the downtrodden of our fair metropolis. In this case however, it was the alertness and crispness with which she jumped to attention that really got me. She looked to be at least in her late forties, but that moment really made me wonder about the past of this person. I mean at one time, she could have been the head cheerleader at Fillmore High in Topeka, circa 1981. Could have even bagged half the football team and thrown in a couple of baseball players or wrestlers for good measure, in her heyday.

I flashed forward to a new community outreach program featuring homeless football. Kind of like lingerie football, only more interesting. In this arena, the guy who has suffered the elements day in and day out, picking cans and sitting outside Starbucks begging latte-laden passersby for change, can really take out the aggression that has no doubt been building inside on - well another homeless guy who has the same mountain of anger and resentment. But still - this would be a golden opportunity for the above-mentioned lady, because no football team - except the Steelers - is complete without cheerleaders. She would get to launder and wear that relic of better days, though hopefully with those snazzy cheer pants instead of the skimpy catholic school getup on the lower half.

You know, I'm going to talk to someone about this. It could be my parting gift to New York....imagine the ratings......

facts of life

Some people die at thirty, but aren't buried until they are seventy five.


You can think on that one....I think that sentence stands by itself and doesn't really require a lot of additional commentary. Except....that isn't now and will not ever be me.

low down

We've all been low. No person alive hasn't gone through the regular troughs of existence that come with day to day breathing and existing and such. Some lows are lower than others, and some are just a part of the ebb and flow of the tides of life.

The amazing thing about hitting an all-time low however - in any category,- is that when you think you have come a decent climb up, you realize both how far you have yet to go to get to even, and then right after that - and perhaps more startlingly, just how far down you'd gone.


This is not necessarily a dumpy, woe-is-me sort of pontification here. It is however, a focused peek into the well.

First, and along these lines, let me say I would strongly caution anyone considering that wonderful and ethereal 'follow your dreams' category, educationally speaking. For fucks sakes, pick a collegiate major that can easily sustain you if you need it to, lest you find yourself switching gears and trying to learn a new career in the middle of a decade where you are supposed to (and your peers all do) have your shit together and the macro subject in which you will build your livelihood, sorted out and on track. Your passions will never go away - and for that matter, can continue to be cultivated while in school, and if you keep it all in the right order, you can do it all, have it all with much less pain.

Because then it's not backwards. then it's just about adapting to the set of circumstances before you and not just about weight and physical prowess and the elimination of debts. Then it's about a feeling of a job well-done. Of accomplishment and understanding and intellectual confidence. About being able to explain yourself in the middle of a subject on which you were previously and blissfully unawares and not about scrambling to keep ever so slighlty ahead of that 8balllll.

Trust me when I say it will make the matter of having thrown yourself headlong into an exceptionally challenging situation much smoother, and you'll have a better road of assuance in knowing that you have risen to the challenge and not had the challenge rise over and swallow you.


Simply put, it will be easier to achieve satisfaction.


In the mind of a relentless perfectionist, I don't know that this is ever achieved, however. I mean, it's so easy to sit and tally failures, isn't it? A million greats toppled by that one awesome falter. And when you sit with an awesome failure and own it, the way a real person should, it pretty much just sucks.

So there you are, with your big balls and big risk and your big brain and your big ideas and your one, big, throbbing, taunting failure. If only to put distance between the lows that come with the trials, and the exponential compounding of the fact that at one point in time, you fucked up, somewhere, somehow, to someone, on something. There's no do-over, no take-back.

Oh the scissors to the sweater, that one. All it takes is one thread.

Such gloom and doom, I know. But then comes the bottom - and the bottom is at a lot of different levels when you really map the undulation over time. But wherever the low is, then starts the climb and it all looks familiar on the way up. The velocity of climbing increases with confidence and resolve and soon, the fact that literally every single thing in your life is different doesn't matter anymore - you're climbing. Right?