PooShoe

A coworker stepped in shit this morning. On this foggy, Christmas Eve morning he stepped in a big pile of shit. (Hopefully, dog.) He handled it well. Grace under pressure and stuff, we're kind of trained to be cool in this job. We're investigators at a psychiatric hospital. Anyway, the shoe. It's too bad we're at work, because this is a job for a water hose. He's outside now looking for a stick.

Like I said, it's Christmas Eve. I'm at work. When I was a kid today was The Day. Our family always opened presents on Christmas Eve after a fancy dinner. Now that I have my own family presents get opened on Christmas morning. Rightfully so. Santa's coming. My son is going to wake up to a wonderland of toys and wrapping paper and joy. Looking back, I feel a bit gypped that my Christmas was over before it even began. I don't know why my parents chose to celebrate that way. They also forced me to go to church at midnight. And even though I didn't believe any of what the church was selling, the gravity of spending midnight on Christmas in a church singing Silent Night holding a candle in a darkened sanctuary was always humbling and sobering. Myths and legends aside, there's a power in those churches that's hard to deny. Perhaps it's the collective strength of numerous people praying their faithful prayers to an entity far more powerful than anything they can imagine. There's magic in a belief that strong.

So, tomorrow morning my son will wake up and see what Santa Claus has left behind. It's going to be exciting and magical.

Music Appreciation: Best of 2014

I have a cynical outlook on time. How humans have manipulated the concept of time from an actual unit of measurement to a constraint or barrier that we use either as a way to label or identify arbitrary things in our lives. Or, how we have turned time into fences that surround our trivial moments. For example, yes, I get very caught up in holidays and certain dates of commemoration. But these are just numbers on a calendar. Days of the week and months and years are cute and pretty, but they're meaningless on a celestial plane. There's really only two time-related events humans should concern themselves with: Summer and Winter. Everything else is minutia. With that said, I would like to present my favorite album of the year Two-Thousand Fourteen...



I purchased this album with no knowledge of their previous offerings. I don't know if or how the band has evolved over the years blah blah blah. What I can tell you is that I have it on vinyl and it has consistently gotten heavy rotation on our living room record player. Atlas has a transformative, ethereal beauty to it. It conjures up in me feeling of nostalgia and care-free moods of years long gone. Listening to Altas gives me a sense that some day, if I try hard enough, I can get those years back. I can move myself mentally and emotionally back into the mindset of my college years when music meant everything and love was the only thing I lived for.

I fix things

There is a certain satisfaction in fixing something above my educational standing in this world. Granted, the fix was merely the acquisition of a new cord, but still! I fixed it. I tried fixing a door, too, but that didn't turn out so well.

If only life's quirky problems could be fixed with new cords. Because if its a new cord you need, look no further. I'll get you that cord.

O Captain! My Captain!

By Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            The arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

Spelling Bee

by Faith Shearin

In the spelling bee my daughter wore a good
brown dress and kept her hands folded.
There were twelve children speaking

into a microphone that was taller than
they were. Each time it was her turn
I could barely look. It wasn't that I wanted

her to win but I hoped she would be
happy with herself. The words were too hard
for me; I would have missed chemical,

thermos, and dessert. Each time she spelled
one correctly my heart became a bird.
She once fluttered so restlessly beneath

my skin and, on the morning of her arrival,
her little red hands held nothing.
Her life since has been a surprise: she can

sew; she can draw; she can read. She hates
raisins but loves science. All the parents
must feel this, watching from the cheap

folding chairs. Somewhere inside them
love took shape and now
it stands at the microphone, spelling.

How To Regain Your Soul

by William Stafford

Come down Canyon Creek trail on a summer afternoon
that one place where the valley floor opens out. You will see
the white butterflies. Because of the way shadows
come off those vertical rocks in the west, there are
shafts of sunlight hitting the river and a deep
long purple gorge straight ahead. Put down your pack.

Above, air sighs the pines. It was this way
when Rome was clanging, when Troy was being built,
when campfires lighted caves. The white butterflies dance
by the thousands in the still sunshine. Suddenly, anything
could happen to you. Your soul pulls toward the canyon
and then shines back through the white wings to be you
     again.

French Chocolates

by Ellen Bass

If you have your health, you have everything
is something that's said to cheer you up
when you come home early and find your lover
arched over a stranger in a scarlet thong.

Or it could be you lose your job at Happy Nails
because you can't stop smudging the stars
on those ten teeny American flags.

I don't begrudge you your extravagant vitality.
May it blossom like a cherry tree. May the petals
of your cardiovascular excellence
and the accordion polka of your lungs
sweeten the mornings of your loneliness.

But for the ill, for you with nerves that fire
like a rusted-out burner on an old barbecue,
with bones brittle as spun sugar,
with a migraine hammering like a blacksmith

in the flaming forge of your skull,
may you be spared from friends who say,
God doesn't give you more than you can handle
and ask what gifts being sick has brought you.

May they just keep their mouths shut
and give you French chocolates and daffodils
and maybe a small, original Matisse,
say, Open Window, Collioure, so you can look out
at the boats floating on the dappled pink water.

A Rainy Morning

by Ted Kooser

A young woman in a wheelchair,
wearing a black nylon poncho spattered with rain,
is pushing herself through the morning.
You have seen how pianists
sometimes bend forward to strike the keys,
then lift their hands, draw back to rest,
then lean again to strike just as the chord fades.
Such is the way this woman
strikes at the wheels, then lifts her long white fingers,
letting them float, then bends again to strike
just as the chair slows, as if into a silence.
So expertly she plays the chords
of this difficult music she has mastered,
her wet face beautiful in its concentration,
while the wind turns the pages of rain.

The New Song

by W. S. Merwin

For some time I thought there was time
and that there would always be time
for what I had a mind to do
and what I could imagine
going back to and finding it
as I had found it the first time
but by this time I do not know
what I thought when I thought back then

there is no time yet it grows less
there is the sound of rain at night
arriving unknown in the leaves
once without before or after
then I hear the thrush waking
at daybreak singing the new song

Your interest in my interests; Or, Pew! Pew! Pew!

Here is a list of the video games I am currently playing:

• inFamous: Second Son on PS4
• Tearaway on PS Vita
• Animal Crossing on Nintendo 3DS

I highly recommend inFamous: Second Son for anyone who owns a PS4. Not that the PS4 has much to pick from, but this one should be a must-buy. The others are standards for their respective consoles. Animal Crossing isn't as much a game as it is a daily dose of escapism. (Gotta dig up my fossils and check the turnip prices!)

Poeme

It's 2014. Your electronical devices and automagically programmed computer zip-zaps can wait. for the next ten minutes while you play this brilliant, old piece of music. Close your eyes. Listen to it. Let it enter your mind. Seriously, don't just "play" it. Listen to it. Envision the masterful violinist David Oistrakh losing himself in music. Be the witness to a man opening his soul for you. He's sacrificing all his vulnerabilities and insecurities so that you dear web surfer can for ten minutes also fly over and scrape the surface of his heavenly dome. At its center, perfection.

Aside from sex, this is the best representations of perfection humans can devise. This is how we can stare into the face of God and know that nothing matters and everything is going to be okay.

The song ends abruptly. So go find a lover and kiss him. Continue the song.

Cereal Business

The grocery store had no Cocoa Krispies to sell, so the fight has been postponed. I'm in Cocoa Pebbles' corner on this one. My wife has decided to side with Clubber Lang (AKA Cocoa Krispies).

Tasty

Arguing with a coworker about where to get the better hamburger. We nearly came to blows. Not really, but I did give them my patented WTF face. Like I'm about to let someone from New England tell me what constitutes good food. (They drink this crap called Coffeemilk that looks like that frothy white shit that gathers at the corners of old men's mouths.) It's pretty much a fact that most of the East coast is clueless about good food, with the exception of Carolina region (they make some wonderful bbq). The thin New York style pizza is a joke, and cheese steaks are disgusting. Here in the DC area the food styles are so homogenized that there's no real taste that stands out. (A "half smoke"? It's called a Polish sausage and Chicago has perfected it.)

Is this rant ironic? Yep. Am I perpetuating the us vs. them foodie war? Yep. Do I care? Nope.

A Virtual Snow Day

I spent an entire day playing Animal Crossing. Monday was Festivale in my little virtual town of Pinetree and the goal was to track down and capture differently colored virtual feathers so that the Festivale virtual peacock, Pave, would give me special rare virtual furniture for my virtual house. I was virtually happy when I obtained the entire virtual furniture set. 

 

Why

My life as a big time Hollywood Extra began and ended with one major motion picture. That movie was directed by Harold Ramis. I just found out that he died today. Harold Ramis is dead and it fucking sucks. 

The part about life that I'm not ready for is death. I'm not ready. Whether it's my favorite actors or my mother in law. I don't know how to handle it. I just don't know. Writing a pointless blog post about it is trivial. 

Life According to Gulp!

Remind to never put almond milk in my coffee again. That's a mistake I won't make twice in my life. Like the time I accidentally thought a little bowl of horseradish was ranch dressing. Or when I failed to put oil in my old Buick. There's something to be said for having your car engine explode while you're driving down an interstate highway in the middle of the night in a time before cell phones. 

I'm glad my son will never know a life without the immediate response a cell phone affords us, or a life without the infinite wealth of knowledge at our fingertips via the internet. But I do wonder where James will attain the proper amount of character that makes a true, good man. 

He will make mistakes, however. And that's an important part of growing up. (I still make plenty, so I guess I'm still growing!) He'll get stranded somewhere. He'll say the wrong thing to a girl. He'll lose something important and never find it. These are the moments in life that make us who we are. 

Technology is good. Convenience is good. Perhaps the next generation's mistake will be much different than mine. I can appreciate that. Heck, almond milk didn't even exist when I was wading my way through my young life. 

Let's recap:

1. Make sure there's oil in your car.

2. Don't ask your girlfriend if it's okay to date a different girl while you're temporarily living on the other side of the country.

3. Don't put almond milk in your coffee.

Sizable and Significant

There's a storm comin.' In this part of the world that means we're doomed to be trapped in our homes forced to break apart the wooden furniture for firewood and stockpile toilet paper, which will most likely be used as our new form of apocalyptic currency, hence the perforations. It means the masses will flood the grocery stores and empty the shelves of milk and bread. It means people like me will once again post smart ass observations in an attempt to be humorous. I'm trendy.

I love these looming snow predictions. The weather here in the DC region is usually quite mild and dull. But for a few brief days in the winter we can get excited with anticipation of heavy snow. Bring on trivial conversations with strangers on the elevator!  Also, I work for the government, so I'll most likely get the day off.

This town seems particularly preoccupied with getting ahead and winning the game of work. It's a hustle bustle city and far too often its residents forget to relax and take time to appreciate life. A snow day forces us to stay home and do nothing. It's a power we have no control over. Embracing our lack of control is the key to happiness.

WORKING FROM HOME

I feel like one of those people in those commercials where people are sitting at their kitchen tables, usually with one leg propped up, in sweatpants, holding an over-sized cup of coffee, with both hands, while they "work" and smile like they have a secret that the people on the other end of their web cam can't see. I'm not participating in any electronic meetings today, but I am WORKING FROM HOME. (Echo, echo, echo)

I also don't have sweatpants on either. In fact, I should be working instead of writing this post.

Motivation. That's how WORKING FROM HOME finds its way. Here I am sitting at my kitchen table amongst a plethora of household chores that yearn to be done, but I'm being responsible (aside from taking time to write this) and choosing not to clean the things that need cleaning.  I'm also not watching TV. The TV's not even on, which it usual is if I'm home. Like I said, I'm actually WORKING FROM HOME.

So, like I was saying, it's important to stay motivated when you're trusted with WORKING FROM HOME. Maybe I should put some sweatpants on. It's not like I'm going anywhere. Maybe I should make a giant cup of coffee, too. One so heavy I need to use both hands to lift it to my thirsty lips. And later, if I'm up for it, I might prop my leg up and nod approvingly at my WORK.

Oral

It is my sad duty to inform you that I have to get a root canal. But don't worry about me, I will be okay. I have endured much pain and agony throughout my life. I am a strong man. When I cry, I deny that I'm crying and blame it on my allergies. ("Fucking cats.") When I stub my toe I grunt like a bad ass and then move on with my day. When I drink NyQuil, my face twists into terrible shapes, but then I carry on with nary a complaint.

So take comfort, my friends. I shall overcome this minor, oral setback and bounce back into this toothy world with bright eyes and a positive outlook on life. Right now mere contact with cold liquid in my mouth nearly drops me to my knees, but in the end I will emerge victorious.

I love this commercial

I saw this while watching Sports! over the weekend. It's dialog taken directly from the wonderful movie Dead Poets Society.

Gov't Sanctioned Nano-robots up in ya!

My left shoulder is aching from the flu shot I received a few days ago. My employer made it mandatory. I'm not sure if they can do that, but I'm choosy when I shop for battles. At least this puncture is literal. A coworker refuses to get a flu shot because he believes it's our government's best way to insert... something. He never really gets specific about what exactly he fears is getting injected to the American peoples bodies. That's some Illuminati shit right there and in case they just flagged this blog because I mentioned their name, I for one welcome our mysterious, faceless overlords.

Maybe someday they'll accidentally inject a strange superpower into me. Or at least a new sense. I want the flu shot reserved for Peyton Manning or Leonardo DiCaprio or Paul McCartney. I'd even settle for a flu shot that allows me to be able to eat pickles. That way I wouldn't have to inspect every hamburger for randomly placed, meal-ruining pickle slices.

I don't like pickles. Wanna fight about it?

New Wears Yarning

This is my obligatory New Years post.

In case you missed it because you were too busy catching up on AMC's hit television show The Walking Dead, or trying to find all the green stars in Nintendo's fantastic video game Super Mario 3D World, it is now the year 2014. Considering this planet has been revolving around the Sun for billions of years, I couldn't care less about arbitrary, man-made calendar labels, but I am looking forward to this fresh new year.

I'm not planning any bachelor parties, or traveling to any weddings, or being launched into space to repair any satellites. This year, I am not your man. This is my 41st year and it's time to unveil my plans for world domination. I will become more powerful than you can ever imagine. I will destroy all obstacles in my path. I will become the boss of you.

You won't see it coming. Suddenly, there you'll be, sitting on your uncomfortable couch watching another rerun of Seth MacFarlane's wildly underrated television show American Dad and the realization will bust into the room like the cops interrupting an awkward sex position your mate talked you into performing. You'll ask yourself, "When did Jason get here?" Or, "When did Jason start kicking ass?" Or, "Honey, I'm leaving you for Jason, because I can no longer resist his awesomeness." Like an asteroid headed for Earth, it's only a matter of time before Michael Bay and Ben Affleck team up to make a movie about me.

Also, I still have all my hair, so I got that going for me, which is nice.