Tis The Season...

Well, I've finally gotten around to sitting down and adding to my pathetically-thin blog. The Holidays are looming like a big ... giant ... looming thing and I find myself mixed on how I feel about their imminent approach. Mainly: do I try and savor them or merely survive them?

I mean, it's all fine and dandy to wax nostalgic about how the Holidays were magical and sacrosanct when I was a little kid, and how we don't have the time to truly appreciate them in today's society, but is this fair? Is it even accurate? In the larger picture, is it Christmas time that's changed, or simply me? It seems quite obvious to me that I'm the one who's changed, but a lot of my mixed view of this time of year is due to growing up and seeing the world from a different perspective: I didn't have bills to pay when I was a boy, or the debts and obligations that came, unbidden, on the coat tails of adulthood. I could afford to sit home on December nights during high school, sip hot chocolate by the tree as "The Nutcracker" played quietly on my cassette player nearby. I cherished those nights of quiet contemplation: the smell of the fir tree, the aromas coming from the kitchen as Mom baked all manner of delicious and, ultimately, fattening confectionery delights. Wonderful times I'll never forget.

I humbly thank my parents for working so hard to make Christmas so very magical for my sister and me. From my father tossing gravel up on the roof of my first house and telling us it was Santa's reindeer and that Julie and I had better be asleep or else we'd get passed by or worse: coal in the stockings, to delivering our letters to Santa. My Dad even went so far as to hire the wonderfully accurate Santa from the nearby G.C. Murphy's department store to come to our house in full regalia to visit with my sister and me. Julie and I were sleeping in my room since our Grandmother had come to visit and was holed up in Julie's room. Dad had separated my bunk beds for us and, despite being about three years old, I can recall some kind of quiet commotion coming from downstairs. Then Dad came into our room and told us that Santa was downstairs and if we wanted to come see him that this was our golden chance.

I immediately hopped out of bed, flush with the prospect of seeing Santa Claus himself, but Julie pulled her sheets up over her head and, vigorously shaking her head, informed Dad (sotto voce) that naughty children got coal in their stockings. It all came down to the rudimentary math for my sister and it simply was NOT worth the risk. However, I clearly remember taking my father's hand, and, taking our winding staircase one step at a time in my feety pajamas, headed downstairs to confront the legend. (I should note that I wasn't completely full of bravado however, I did have my security blanket with me.)

Hitting the last step I will always remember giving a huge gasp as I actually saw Santa Claus filling my stockings with goodies. I. Saw. Santa. In that glorious instant, I knew beyond doubt that all the magic was true and that no, NO ONE, could ever tell me that Santa Claus didn't exist. I exclaimed, "SANTA!!" and ran to where he was. Whether I hugged him, I can't recall, but I probably did. He explained that I'd caught him in the act and that, while he was very busy, he could probably spare a few minutes to visit with me, and didn't I have an older sister? Where was she? A minute or so later, Julie appeared in her bathrobe, eyes huge in wonder. Santa sang carols with us on the piano, had a cookie or two and talked with us for a bit. There are Polaroids to back up this claim too. (In fact, I remember Julie asking him how he got into our house since our chimney was too small, and I asked him about the band-aide on his finger. He explained that our Dad had to leave one door open for Santa to get in and deliver presents and that one of the reindeer [Julie thinks it might been Blitzen?] nipped his finger while he was harnessing them.) Despite my coming home from grade school in later years with a split lip or bloody nose from defending my belief that Santa Claus DID exist, it was all totally worth the memories.

But, Christmas time wasn't always 100% for the kids. Dad got his enjoyment from the Holidays now and again. Sometime before my third Christmas, Dad went down to the aforementioned G.C. Murphy's to talk with the very same Santa I just pontificated about. He told that Santa some of the naughty things I'd done throughout the year, and then brought me down to visit said Saint Nicholas. Dad sat me on the hallowed knee and Santa evidently (I don't recall this but Dad swears by it) asked me if I'd been a good boy since last Christmas. According to the story, I quite confidently assured Mr. Claus that I'd been the poster boy for good and sat back waiting to hit him up with list of highly-deserved presents.

I like to imagine my father having to physically try not to wet himself from laughter as Santa proceeded to tell me of all the naughty things he'd seen me do (sticking my tongue out at Julie, not eating vegetables, etc.) Evidently, my mouth dropped open and my eyes bugged out in a mixture of awe and horror as I tried to both shake my head in denial and nod in a guilty acceptance of the facts. (Oh my God! He really does know when you've been bad or good!) Yep, Dad loves to tell that story ... and I guess he's earned it.

But, it's different nowadays. I won't bore you by cranking out a laundry list of complaints about how times goes by so quickly these days. I think we can all relate though. Maybe the magic is different?

Okay, that's enough for now. Possibly more later as Christmas Eve draws nigh.

10/10/10

Didn't really have much to say this outing, just wanted to have officially written something on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year this millenium.

Next blog's topic: cartoons from childhood as seen as an adult...

'Bout That Time Again...

After a year or two of reflective study, I've reached an inescapable conclusion: Howard and Raj from "The Big Bang Theory" are this generation's Lenny and Squiggy. It doesn't make Howard and Raj any less funny as characters. To me, they're head and shoulders above the aforementioned secondary characters.

Okay, not the strongest opening I could have made on this blog, especially when you consider I haven't written in many months. It's just that I've decided to stop flogging myself for my inherit lack of self-discipline in keeping up with my writing. Saying that I'm a slacker for not writing doesn't exactly fill me with the need to prove myself wrong. So enough mea culpas.

Despite a large amount of time having passed, I really don't have a lot to say. I'm glad that Fall is imminent and that NCAA football starts tomorrow. I have high hopes for my alma mater this year; I think UNA making it to the second round of the playoffs last year will make them hungry to win it all this year. At least, I hope so. My expectations for Auburn are somewhat less lofty: I'll be glad to see them NOT have a losing season. (For me, that would entail them winning more games than they lose.) But we'll see what happens to both teams.

I'm still emphatically unemployed and looking at the last two paychecks from the state to sustain me if my job hunting remains unsuccessful. So, I've stepped up my game and am sending out 10+ resumes/applications a week now. Also, as much as I loathe retail, I have to face the fact that Christmas hiring is about to start and that could afford me a paycheck until the Holidays. Oh well, one step at a time.

Okay, that's all for now.

Long Forgotten Musings...

I rediscovered some of my entries in Live Journal and thought I'd post them here. This one is from April 26, 2005 and involves pleasant memories of my three very cute study partners from my two semesters of graduate classes at UAH:

So, its like ... 10 minutes until 9 pm, I have scholastic deadlines hanging off me like the media on Michael Jackson, and I have to stop and breathe mentally. S'funny how when the brain is overwhelmed it'll conjure up the most bizarre shit to act as a stress relief valve. Long forgotten, funny moments that occurred in places where, by definition, they should not have. Tiny metaphorical "flowers" that one can pick up and smell decades later. Which, on the whole, is nice because (as my companions in educational crime: Heather, Mandy and Kelly will tell you) life is focused to the point nowadays where you only have time to try and ride that bull the requisite eight seconds and then wonder how badly your ass is going to hurt when you land.

Some, in the not-too-distant past even make me smile to think of them: riding with Mandy in Heather's too-yellow-to-be-a-real-color VW beetle. Listening to the almost subliminal "oosh oosh oosh" seeping up from the floorboards as she turns up the cd player, steps on the gas, and essentially dares any poor dumb bastard to try and get in front of her. Sitting alone in the silent bug now, awaiting their return from a shell station with drinks and nutritious snacks to help keep them going while they ransack the library. Feeling almost like I was back at UNA for a minute, and the only concern after the papers were due was "what are we going to do to celebrate?"

But, I'm on the "what's colorectal cancer mean?" side of my 30's and have already spent my 20's. All I can do now is share in the fun of these girls and thank them for taking me with them. Not for the snacks, but for the metaphysical "flower" I'll still have to smell and enjoy when I'm on the "what's Medicaid for?" side of my 60's.

Here endeth the lesson.

Curious Dichotomy...

So its late and I'm watching "The Big Bang Theory" while waiting for my pain medication to take effect so I can resume my attempts at sleep, and I had a minor epiphany. Nothing overly profound, mind you, just one of those realizations that's been lurking in the subconscious and finally had a moment of crystallization:

My life seems to be strongly demarcated between being a geek and aspiring to be a sophisticated Renaissance Man. Seriously, very little middle ground here. Growing up, I wanted to be Batman (or, failing that, James Bond) because they were both men of decidedly iron-like resolve, self confidence and sense of purpose. More importantly, I felt, they were the perfect blend of sophistication and brawn. To that end, I decided to try and learn as much about many different subjects as I possibly could in order to achieve that level of self reliance and maturity. Art, literature, music, history, philosophy, martial arts, theatre, Latin etc. (Well, to be honest, I'm only starting to try and teach myself Latin but its something I've wanted to master for many years now.)

And yet, I'm far more at home with comic book fans, videophiles and people who gravitate towards the weird and obscure. I have no idea what this means beyond some kind of Jungian childhood-related thing. My friend, Laura, is getting her PhD in Psychology and besides having an encyclopedic knowledge of both sides of my self realized demarcation is probably ideally suited to be able to shed light on what drives these two sides of my personality.

I have no interest in politics or religion and world events in general tend to escape my notice, but I'm almost always up to speed on which well known actor just joined the cast of the movie "Thor." I have no definitive idea of how many lives were lost recently in Haiti, but I can tell you the name of the only actor to portray James Bond onscreen once. *

On the other hand, I can quote Shakespeare, have a passing understanding of quantum mechanics, and for a hobby, enjoy trying to tie the murder of Christopher Marlowe to the Shakespeare authorship question. Not that I hold these examples up as a definition of smart, merely to differentiate between the two sides that I'm droning on about.

Realizing that "normal" is entirely relative, I still have to ask, "is this behavior/interest normal?" Is this merely an example of the Yin/Yang that exists in all of us? Taking that question to the next level I have to honestly look at another aspect of myself and say that despite what people might think, I do not care for violence. Yet I've discovered in years gone by that I'm good at it. I don't mean that I'm a fighting machine, only that I have the propensity to, when pushed over an acceptable line to having no qualms about inflicting violence in short and sometimes random order.

So this raises another Yin/Yang perspective: the inherent violence in all of us. Most people that know me will say that they think I'm an extremely nice (or at least affable) person and I try very hard to be so at all times. To be cordial at the very least. However, those who know me best know that I have a dormant temper. Not to say that its remarkably short, just a deeply-rooted capability to plan and follow through with various degrees of violent behavior, depending on the circumstance. I assure you I'm NOT boasting when I say that most people will tell you they have a temper, but they do NOT compare with my darker nature.

Is this normal?

Very probably, this is a direct result of my being beaten up as a child and developing a pathological hatred of bullies. I'm quite sure that Freud would say that my behavior is textbook overcompensation. But growing up I found myself, time and again being the only one to stand up to bullies either singly or in groups. As I grew older and, hopefully, matured, I learned to control my temper and to either walk away from a confrontation or follow it through verbally. This would be a nod toward my trying to exert my "sophisticated" side to win an argument or diffuse a potentially dangerous situation.

Maybe its the geek in me that ties directly into the darker aspect of my personality. Since I could relate far easier with other "geeks" growing up, I let my hatred of their natural antagonists really become a focal point for my temper. I had a friend in high school named Terry Jordan who had a very mild form of Downs syndrome (or something similar) and he was naturally a prime target of jocks and bullies. Terry and I became friends when were both teachers aides our sophomore year. After he got over his initial shyness, I soon discovered that Terry had an insatiable appetite for science and in particular how it behaved in science fiction. I will never forget him using his number one pencil (remember those from kindergarten?) to shakily draw schematics of how he felt the transporters worked on "Star Trek." This was not a dumb person, merely one with learning disabilities. I felt a kinship with Terry in very short order and joined one or two others who liked and protected Terry from roving gangs of football players who sought him out for sport and entertainment.

I wound up in the school clinic (and more often, Principal's office) a fair number of times with bruises and blood on my face. But I was content. I'd not only stood up for a friend, I stood up for someone who couldn't fight back. THAT was what mattered. That's how I was raised: the fight had to be fought, win or lose. (When trying to describe this aspect of my personality I often quote the scene in "Witness," where Alexander Godunov, playing an Amish man tells a bully that violence isn't his way. Then Harrison Ford's character walks up to the bully and says that it's "his way," and drops him.) It wasn't that I enjoyed the violence, I was just PREPARED to commit myself to what needed to be done.

Yet, I frown on that side of my personality and MUCH prefer to strive towards the aforementioned Renaissance Man. But who knows? Maybe I'm still trying to emulate James Bond's ability to be ultra suave and yet still be the two-fisted, SAS-trained assassin. I guess there's worse things to aspire to. ;-)

Okay, its amazingly late and as usual I'm trying to determine what the purpose of this entry was. Oh well, I'll crawl into bed and that'll put things into perspective for me.

(* George Lazenby)

Somewhere in the ether...

I'm not sure why it is, but lately I've been feeling more productive while I'm taking my heavy duty muscle relaxers. Or maybe productive isn't the right word; perhaps I'm fooling myself that I'm simply more inclined to create. I don't know whether its my subconscious coming out to drive or merely the "taking the edge off" effect of the medication, but I feel more conducive to sitting down and not only writing, but analyzing the ambient universe around me.

Maybe that's the sign the intrinsic creative well is dammed up: when you write about whatever is hopscotching its way across your neural pathways. Sort of a first-person travelogue of whatever the hell crosses your mind at that precise moment. Of course, give the fact that, ultimately, I'm using this blogging source as a cathartic outlet, it does rather render the point moot. Maybe its nothing more than flexing the synapses and trying not to let the mind atrophy. So, to that end, I hit the random button on not only my thought processes but on the "Ambient Music" folder on my iTunes and write about everything and nothing as I listen to things like Tangerine Dream, Tubular Bells, and Patrick O'Hearn.

So, in an effort to have a better grasp on the Lovecraftian horror that I'm intending on weaving throughout the pulp serial that I'm working on I've started reading "Supernatural Horror in Literature," by H.P. Lovecraft himself as well as "Danse Macabre" by Stephen King. Admittedly, Lovecraft's work is much more scholarly in its approach: what does mortal man fear and why? He conjectures that mankind is born with a pathological fear of what it cannot understand or "what lies beyond our ken." In a juxtaposition, King postulates that man is inherently attracted to that which scares us for the sheer, primordial rush that it gives us. He even goes on to delve into the personifications of monsters, (i.e. Vampires, Werewolves, the undead, etc.) and why we're so attracted to them. While I find this a very interesting topic, it is not as helpful as Lovecraft actually letting the studious reader understand where his head was at when he created the Cthulhu Mythos. Still I think its good to have a balanced perspective when trying to blend really scary scenarios with a good, compelling action story. I hope I can do it justice.

Okay, in the swirling Brownian motion of what's passing for coherent thought in my mind at present, I find that, toddler like, I'm already bored with my last train of thought and am waiting for something new to emerge from the wispy ether of my subconscious. Once again, I find that I'm inadvertently bastardizing Socrates' "Euthyphro," by wondering if I'm writing all this stuff down because it has value or does it have value because I'm choosing to write it down. (Were I not pretty high on 800 Mg's of pharmaceutical grade ibuprofen and Hydrocodone, I would be ashamed to admit that, for a fleeting moment, I viewed the aforementioned thought as a legitimate "conundrum.")

Damn. Has it come to this? Getting pleasantly ripped on pain medications and then jotting down whatever enters my mind?? Sad. Really. I need a girlfriend or a job. Right now, the latter is the more reasonable goal so I'll focus on it.

And, on that note, I can see that my consciousness still has enough hold over my brain to tell me that its time to sign off, and read until I fall asleep.

Tomorrow, I'll most likely print an apology for the vacuousness of this whole entry...

Good Riddance 2009!

Well, I'm back and its damn well time I was. I've let this thing slide for a few months now; something I promised myself I wouldn't do. Its now 2010, and I, for one, am glad to see 2009 slip away. With the exception of a handful of things that happened at the very end of the year, I would write 2009 off as a colossal waste.

Christmas was okay. I spent far too much time in Huntsville, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Mom was a delight, but Dad's temper is fraying badly and I'm not going through that by myself again. Next year they can come to Seattle. From a strictly material sense, I made out like a bandit this Christmas. Julie, Scott, and the folks were amazingly indulgent this year. I look forward to getting a job to where I can once again afford nice gifts for them as well.

Yes, its nice to be back in Seattle. I referred to it as "home" to my Dad and I think it made him somewhat sad. Admittedly, without Julie and Scott, I wouldn't be here, but I am feeling more and more at home here each year.

It was nice to see some old friends in Alabama though. I had a particularly lovely visit with my old college friends, Jay and Anissa Webb. Jay has started his own voice over business and so he and I compared notes and he very kindly gave me a ton of information. More over, he's inspired me to try again with dialects on demand and stay in touch with him as a sort of life line for the two of us. He's a very giving person and I'm greatly appreciative.

Next to getting the company back up and productive is getting myself back up and running. I have got to hit the gym once more despite the daunting knowledge that I'm basically starting over. Again. Oh well, they tell me life is a journey and not a goal.

Okay, that's enough to satisfy the demons of inactivity. Time for bed.