Traveller's Tales

I had no idea that the latest versions of WordPress were usable through my crummy little BlackBerry* (yes I have one, yes I hate having one, or at least one where people who are not my friends know its number, and no I can’t throw it into the East River without having to pay for a new one, so I may as well just get used to the leash instead of trying to gnaw it off).

So this means that, one, I have no more excuses for not making dumb entries here. Check.

And two, I’m betting that I can even use this little trick to get Real, Actual Writing (in the context of the novels, that is) done.

And yeah, it’s been since, what, July? For what it’s worth, that’s kind of how life in general feels right now: autopilot to survive the bullshit that seems to have suddenly become the norm and not the exception. Work-life is hugely imbalanced and weighing in at totally the wrong end of the scale, but for a wageslave like myself this isn’t a smart time to start getting overly precious about being overworked.

Anyway, done bitching. Here’s to using my new discovery for evil purposes!

* and no, the default browser can’t handle it. Thank you, copy and paste, and thank you Opera Mini.

Spent a bit of time this weekend putting parts of the house into a semblance of, if not actually ‘order,’ then at least ‘less entropy.’  Boxes went to the loft, so now I can actually get to my exercise equipment again, though I didn’t really need to use it this weekend after moving all those bloody boxes up to the loft.  Funny how that worked.  Now, at some point I’ll actually have to open the boxes to see what’s in them and where they should be going, but in the meantime just having them out of the way is a big plus.

Found myself a new local karate school; they sound like they’re the kind of place I like (Okinawan derivant, triple-focus on kata, kumite and waza, tonfa is one of their weapons forms), so once I’m back in some kind of shape I’ll be visiting to see whether it’s a fit.

No writing done.  Bad me.  So much stress and involvement from work, the brain’s just empty. Blood, rock, stone, same thing.  I’m going to need to set up better ground rules for engaging the muse, because I’ve been blowing her off a lot lately.

And that’s why this post is about rearranging.  That time thing, there’s just not enough of it to screw around and do things on the fly anymore.  Time to set aside actual chunks To Do Things With.  Dunno how that’s going to net out yet, but it’s something I’m thinking about.

Meh.  I want a summer vacation.  June to September, remember what that was like?

Yeah.  Me too.

Huge, catastrophic change tends to disrupt habits, whether they’re long-established, like finding a way to always slack at work, or whether they’re developing, like attempting to make a regular go at blogging.

As it happens, huge, catastrophic change has been going on at work for me.  Mainly good things — you’ll notice that my last blog entry had to do with intense dissatisfaction as regards the workplace, so in theory we’re going to stop making muffins soon and start supporting the business in meaningful ways.  I’ve learned so much in the last six months that the proper term to describe my progression is more “evolved” than”graduated,” and I’m not entirely sure I’m happy about all of it, but by and large I’m now being asked to help fix everything that’s broken, and on the whole this is a far better situation than smugly watching it devolve into chaos from my hidey-hole in the corner of the building.

There are writing things afoot, now, as I begin to adjust to both the new work environment and the new house, which I’ve written pathetically little about but love dearly, despite the unmeasurable multitude of Things That Must Be Done to the place.  I’ll mumble more about those writing things later, but for now suffice it to say that I’ve been taken by creative development fits twice now, both as regards the first book, and I’m pleased with the direction they’ve gone — pleased enough that I’m writing them in now.  I’m also seriously stinking tired of the lack of forward momentum, and something is going to happen, soon, to rectify that situation.  I don’t know what, yet, but I know what my options are, and I’m getting ready to exercise them.

It’s been one seriously strange year so far, but I think the fodder I’ve waded through in the first half is going to make for a very interesting second half.

By the way.  Art, if you’re out there, when the hell is the next game and why the hell haven’t you told me about it?

I’m not sure who the hell fired all the competent HR people I used to work with back in the day and hired smarmy buffoons in their place, but I want to find that person and turn him into a teambuilding exercise by placing him in front of a large bullseye and letting people throw things at him.

Apparently, we have somehow gone from the logical approach of ‘hey, people aren’t happy, let’s tie performance to pay so they’re motivated to excel’ to ‘hey, nobody’s happy, let’s make muffins!’ while I wasn’t looking. By which I don’t mean actual, literal muffins (though I’m sure, in some sad circumstances, this does actually happen), but figurative muffins, bizarre little activities or items intended to distract one from one’s actual work issues by creating and promoting a false sense of misdirected satisfaction via chotchkies, stupid games, and, occasionally, free booze. I don’t mind the free booze, but don’t for a second expect that it’s working as a distraction.

I’ll give you an example. The place I work just had a celebration of their re-branding. Never mind that they originally promised that everyone would have off to reflect on the brand and their business (a lovely idea that lasted an entire year before someone cut it off at the knees — naturally, because it had a chance of promoting actual good will towards the brand) and instead now we’re in for a day of business as usual. Never mind that nobody’s had a raise in as many years as I’ve worked here, and the word ‘bonus’ is used to describe hitting the urinal instead of extra money at the end of the year. Never mind all that: they gave us heavy metal cubes with clever sayings, attached to roach clips on springs. Three of them. Because suddenly management is terribly concerned about the quality of life of their employees, and motivational sayings on roach clips will surely do a better job of that than oh, I don’t know, letting people leave at a reasonable hour.

These cubes are muffins. Not as tasty or good-smelling, but with the same desired effect: they attempt to generate good-will with a minimum of financial outlay, while avoiding the core issues of employee dissatisfaction (and they wonder why places like despair.com make so much money). Sadly, their effect is similarly transient: even the most credulous consumer of these goods will find themselves over the experience in eight hours or thereabouts, and those of us who are more cynical bastards won’t even bother partaking.

Naturally, I fall into neither the group of poor credulous innocents nor into the cult of cynical bastards, but actually into an elite force of ultra-cynical subversionaries; not only do I not fall for this shit, but in fact I quite enjoy figuring out how to use these wretchedly conceived toys contrary to their intended use. Perhaps I’m overly optimistic, but I do carry a hope that someday, someone else may also realize how utterly full of horseshit this crap is, and wonder aloud, “Why are the people nominally in charge wasting money on crap like this when they could be giving people things they actually want, like, you know, raises, promotions, bonuses and days off.”

I know, I’m really hoping way too much, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.

Anyway, while I do have plans for these specific muffins, the point of this rant isn’t to share those plans, but to remind anyone who might be reading this that no: muffin-making as a HR policy is not, in fact, an HR policy. There are real ways to motivate people and retain talent, and they have nothing to do with muffins. And, if you find yourself eating a muffin today, for crying out loud make sure it’s a chocolate one.

Damn, now I’m hungry.

I’m not going to post my evil plan. Silly me, I forgot the seventh rule of evil overlords:

‘When I’ve captured my adversary and he says, “Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?” I’ll say, “No.” and shoot him. No, on second thought I’ll shoot him then say “No.”‘

So I’m not giving away my evil plan. Rest assured, though, that there is one, and that even though it does not involve laser beams (although it should), it will kick buttock. At least one of them, and possibly both.

I’ve just been accused by one of my more colorful, honest and direct friends of spending way too much time playing that nasty online game (World of Warcrack, in case anyone who doesn’t know me stumbles over this blog at some point) and not enough writing! Sadly, even feigned indignation was impossible in response, because at the time I was reading that email, I had just tabbed out of the game client because I was flying somewhere…

Well! The NERVE of exposing my weaknesses! The GALL, the CHUTZPAH! ZOMGLOLWTF!!!11111one.

Yeah, she’s right. So now that I’ve been properly shamed, I think I have a plan to find that lovely middle ground between playing too much and going cold turkey. The simple fact is, I do like the silly game, I enjoy the time I spend with actual, real life friends there, and will still play it… but… yeah… balance.

Off to work. Posting my evil plan when I get there.

Wow. Yeah. That’s a long time in between posts. In my defense, I had the house I was renting sold out from under me and had to both find a new place to live and to move in there; my boss of 6 years flew the coop and left utter chaos in his wake; and, lastly, I’m a lazy negligent bastard anyway and have a hard time writing blog posts regularly even under the best of circumstances.

It’s a lovely 2-story converted log cabin complete with fireplace, spiral staircase, a loft for sunbeams, a balcony for drinking coffee (or scotch) and watching the sun rise (or set).

(Pictures courtesy of my wife, who’s much better at blogging than I am.)

It’s in a great place, not far from friends and very far from the things I didn’t like about my previous home, specifically the ‘urban environment’ thing and the ‘zomg my house is seriously old lol’ thing. There are still way too many boxes to unpack, but it’s starting to shape up. Yes, my desk is already a mess. No, I’m not posting a picture of it.

Speaking of messes, the job has entered a bit of an interesting period. I work at an ad firm, and the part of the agency I belong to is undergoing catastrophic change at roughly double the rate that the agency at large is undergoing catastrophic change, which is to say, quite quickly. Strangely, my job is not at risk; in fact, I’m more in demand now than I ever have been as people struggle to rebuild the organization and realize that not only do I have a clue or two between my ears, but I actually have a metric crapton of well-considered clues to offer. Add to this there are several outside influences who are, purportedly, interested in my roughshod, bum-rush methods of creative management, and suddenly it’s nice to be an ad man again. Go figure. I’ll post more once I have actual details I can share, but it looks as though I’m going to get to work with one of my favorite people again, and that makes me excited to go to work again. Hey, it beats waking up and having a hard time figuring out which excuse I haven’t used for a while to play hookie with.

Lastly, and this is quite exciting, there may be exciting news on the very near horizon with regards to the book. Now I have to figure out where the hell the latest manuscript is — more specifically, which box the laptop is hiding in.

Boxes. Ugh.

Not many posts lately, I note! What the hell? I’m supposed to be a writer, for crying out loud, what gives?

Life. Stuff. Crap. “How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.” That kind of stuff. I’ve stared at the new book every week, I’ve gazed at my list of target agents for the first book, and then stuff like my wife’s green card (which she finally has!), or our living situation (which desperately needs to change), or work gets a little batty, or various and sundry government agencies start commanding personal documentation from twelve years ago (which is as likely to surface from my horrid files as a giant squid is from Lake Hopatcong), and the energy must flow in a direction that’s not creative, that’s not where I want it to go, but it’s where it has to go.

I wish I were better at multitasking, but it’s tough for me to give the proper amount of focus to one thing when the others are cooking my brain into an omelet. It’s been a rough year for large-scale disturbances. I think I may need to re-think how I write, because ultimately I know that a lot of folks write and deal with this kind of stuff. Vacation would be good to re-center myself, but I’m screwed there until I can suss some of the work stuff — so for now it’s a holding pattern while I deal with everything except the writing.

TLDR version: Bah.

1995 is ancient history for me, but one good thing came of that year: it’s the year mom adopted Kodi.

Kodi was a “troubled dog,” a year-old brown Husky who, according to sources, was uncontrollable, untameable, and destined for the pound unless someone could take him in and manage him. And mom, in her usual way, took him in, couldn’t see a damned thing wrong with him that couldn’t be fixed, and in helping him feel loved and appreciated, he became a great, expressive, loyal and loving companion. It wasn’t long before he was running wildly in the yard, helping mom feed the horses, keeping the local groundhog population in check and shedding all over, well, everything, and with gusto. With even greater speed he became a permanent part of the family.

Kodi was smart, both rationally and emotionally. He was one of those rare ones who always knew what you were thinking, who always knew when it was okay to bend the rules for a few scritches, and who invariably knew just what to do when you were feeling down. He helped mom through some really rough patches — and me, too — and his empathy and affection were the perfect salve for any hurt.

I’m speaking in the past tense, which, plus the title, implies he is no longer with us. This is true: this Sunday he had a pressing engagement elsewhere and had to leave us behind. I will miss him terribly: his way of leaning with all his might against my leg during a good scratch, his icy blue eyes twinkling with mischief as I chased him around the yard, the way he had of resting his chin on your knee and peering up at you when he wanted your attention.

I can’t begin to describe how large a place in our lives he had, or how ragged the tears in our hearts are with his loss, but those wounds indicate more than simple regret or mourning: they indicate a life incredibly well-lived. Only a couple of weeks ago, Shadee, mom and Kodi shared a camping trip (which I joined near the end) of wonderful, clear, sunny days. He was cheerful, active, and playful, as he always was, and that is how I will remember him. He was healthy until the very end, so there was no lingering pain or discomfort for him; it was simply his time.

I hate it when beautiful things leave the world, and yet their loss doesn’t remove them from my life; my memories of him will live as long as I do, and his devotion and affection will be what I remember most. If ever there were a gentle, loving soul, it was his, and I was lucky to know him.

Safe travels and keep smilin’, you crazy mutt.

There are two especially good reasons I always write in ‘Bart Simpson’ come presidential election years.

One, I believe it’s important to exercise my right to vote. Republican democracy (note to the fast reader: I’m not talking Republican vs. Democrat, I’m talking Republican as in, the kind of country we live in) in this country is an astoundingly important part of our heritage, and the foundation on which everything else we hold dear is built upon, so to completely skip on the voting thing is just plain wrong.

Two, I can’t imagine being held responsible for letting any of the sycophants who’ve bought their way onto the ballot into office.

Thus, my vote is often wasted on a cartoon character with no prospects of winning, but at least as much of a grasp on foreign policy as our currently elected buffoon. In a way, I feel badly for throwing away a vote that my forefathers fought and died to give me. In another way, I think those eighteenth-century radical rabble-rousers would partly approve: it’s not quite civil disobedience, but it’s definitely a self-aware and honest personal evaluation of the current state of politics. In any event, something tells me they’ be even more disappointed in me if I voted for any of the real-life candidates.

This coming election, though, Bart will have to do without me.

I don’t intend for this to become a political blog, but I will say this: if you’re reading this, and you’ve had any concerns about not just the current executive branch of the United States, but about any or all of the current political process, then you need to give this guy a look:

http://www.gravel2008.us/

I’m not going to fly flags, link to youtubes, shout how he’s the best thing since sliced bread met peanut butter or cajole people into voting for him. All I’m going to say is this: he’s a plain speaker, he’s not bankrolled by any lobbies, he’s got wit, he’s angry about where we are now, he’s the guy that singlehandedly stopped the draft in the 70s, and there’s not a single issue he dances around. He was in the Carolina Democratic debates. I don’t know why I stopped to watch them, but I’m glad I did. He may be 77 years old, but he was the youngest, most energetic, most open person up there, and he ‘gets it’ more than any of those other bought-and-sold marionettes ever will, or care to.

I’m getting excited; I’m sorry. I’m not going to tell anyone how to vote. But here’s the bonus: if really you know what you want from a President, you’ll know immediately whether this guy is it or not. There’s no bullshit in his speech or in his platform. He says exactly what he wants, and he explains why he wants it. In a way, he reminds me just a bit of the remarkable story that’s told about Davy Crockett as a Senator (a long, but excellent read for those who want to know more about the country they live in — and no, I’m not shitting you, Davy Crockett was a Senator and a damned good one).

Sorry, Bart. If Mike loses in ‘08, I’ll vote for you again, but for now I think I’m gonna give this politics thing one more go.