No time for revolution

The three of you who read this blog may get the reference for the title, but I don't think it's likely. It's very Andy Kaufman in that it's so inside, I'm probably the only one who thinks it's funny.

Alright, to the real deal. I've started a new job and spend more time on the public transit system than I did. That's time I'm using right now to update you. Also, I've jumped right in to get going on the big project I'm now working on and don't have the same time to devote to keeping up on this blog. But I'll do my best.

Can I tell you how excited I am to see Iron Man? I think Robert Downey Jr. Will be the perfect Tony Stark. For him to play an arrogant alcoholic douchebag is like Rob Lowe playing Benjamin (I hope you heard that the way Mike Myers pronounced it) in Wayne's World. In both cases, I see them playing a caricature of themselves. A bold move, I think, in both cases. On top of which Iron Man is just a freaking sweet superhero.

I mean, who wouldn't want to fly around in a bulletproof, state-of-the-art suit of red and gold armor? Show me where to sign up for that and I'll totally be there.

In other fluffy news, I got invited to the Metal Gear Online beta and am looking forward to playing with that.

To something you're a little more used to in this blog, I sat on the bus with two idiots. The public transportation system is a great place to observe interesting characters. Anyway, these two idiots were sitting at the back of the bus with me, having a very loud discussion about drugs. And not the kind you usually get at the pharmacy. The kind you buy because you know somebody and know the secret handshake. I could hear it over the sounds of the movie I was watching on one of my nifty electronic toys. The volume of the conversation combined with the topic heavily influenced my perception of these two. One of them practically yelled, I kid you not, this is a direct quote, "My girlfriend sells weed!" and then yelled his phone number out for the whole bus to hear and write down. Even over the sounds of the fighting in my movie.

The other idiot carries around a very realistic-looking airsoft gun which can apparently shoot steel BBs as well. And he had a dumb name. I remeber what it was, but I'm not going to share, just in case... I don't know. Just in case something. But it was something like Micci, which is pronounced just like the name of a beloved cartoon mouse. And then he yelled out his phone number too.

I just got off the bus in Orem and it's cold today. What's with this dumb weather? It's almost May and I'm concerned that my poor frostbitten ear is going to be in pain from the cold before my next bus comes. This is unacceptable, Mother Nature. The unfortunate thing about the previous statement is that I'm pretty sure Mother Nature doesn't keep up with my blog. Moral of that story is: don't get frostbite. It gives you a cool story, but it sucks pretty much the
rest of your life. Sure, the nerves in my head can put themselves back together after I chop them on my wakeboard, but my ear hurts for a decade afterwards and maybe longer. I'll let you know.

p.s. Tomorrow is one of my favorite holidays. I wonder how we should stick it to The Man tomorrow.

Busy busy

I'm currently sitting in a commencement ceremony for a school I was part of in college, before I switched to the monstrous horde of people who studies English. Maybe it's just me being sentimental or snotty (my money would be on the second option, but they're both possible), but I seem to remember the opening remarks for the humanities college as being funnier, more candid and more fluid than the comments in this college of sciences.

We'll get back to that topic a little later, but let's take a short detour for a moment. I want to take a moment to talk about college for some of you who may be in it or thinking about college for your near future. I have had so many experiences recently that have reaffirmed for me that you should do what you love rather than what will make you more money right out of school. Don't get me wrong, it's important to earn enough to live on and pay off your schooling, but it's not the most important thing. The most important thing is to enjoy what you do. I felt like I fit in so much better as an English student than I did as a physics student. And this event is another affirmation of that for me.

So let's go back to the section before on why it's not surprising that the speeches in the humanities school were more engaging. When you spend all of your time answering the question "so what?", all of your statements have a purpose based on answering that question. Scientists, on the other hand, are concerned with collecting all the information they can, sifting out what seems most relevant, and drawing the most probable conclusions based on the information at hand. Both approaches are important in their own realms, but when one of the fields is more involved in the less tangible points, the finer points of the human experience, those points seem more relatable. They tend to hit people 'where they live'.

Putting those points together in a way that constantly emphasizes how that applies to us has more impact than a catalog of important things.

Again, this is nothing against scientists and mathematicians. I was one and am close friends with others; I'm just saying that the specialties fit differently and have different skills, making one of them better suited to make speeches more widely applicable. I'm going to end this here and enjoy the rest of the ceremony.

sitting at home

There's something decadent about spending the day at home during the week. So I've been enjoying my time here. Playing at the park, napping, writing a little, having a nice sit-down lunch not at my desk. It was leftovers, but still nice because as I mentioned before, it didn't involve my desk.

I don't have any interesting thoughts in my head at the moment because I haven't done anything particularly unique today. But yesterday on the train, I sat across from a guy who had a manila envelope full of papers. He pulled one of them out, which had a photocopy of his driver's license on it and a little form below that, titled Salt Lake County Jail and then a bunch of titled lines.

It looked like an inventory of personal effects, but I'm not sure. He was counting things on his fingers. He almost missed getting off at his stop. 

The end

I'm sitting at my desk, contemplating the lyrics to The Doors' song "The End".

I realize that there are a couple of things about that statement that point out just how odd I am. First of all, I like The Doors, who are not particularly well-known for appealing to the general masses, but which of my favorites are? Then there's the fact that I'm sitting at my desk, contemplating lyrics. Put those two things together and prepare yourself for a strange trip. Even if you don't like The Doors, this'll be an interesting point, I promise.

Alright, so the song starts with this section:

This is the end, beautiful friend
This is the end, my only friend
The end of our elaborate plans
The end of everything that stands
The end

What I'm contemplating here is the difference in meaning, but remaining truth in the words if you just grouped them in a different way. The way that Jim Morrison sings them points out the ambiguity in the line breaks. If you haven't heard the song, it sounds kind of like this:

This is the end, beautiful friend
This is the end,
my only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans . . .

The line "my only friend, the end" is the one that's really got me thinking. It could be taken to be a very dark line, especially with the later part of the song with the killer who puts his boots on and then takes a walk through the house. Against the obvious approach to take the whole song as a single text to gather information on the theme and the tone of the song, I want to take a very focused look at this single section as if it were isolated from the rest of the song.

Since life is a constantly-changing stream of events, there's always an end around the corner and a corresponding beginning of something else. I know what you're thinking and I'll totally admit to being an optimist. I think I've even heard the term 'Pollyanna' used in reference to me.

Lately, things have been pretty rough, but in the very recent past, it's starting to look up. For me, then, saying that my only friend is the end is not a cry of desperation or some dark, depressed declaration. I feel like it's more a statement that change is coming, leading to a new beginning. A fresh start.

Now I'll put the question to you for your own introspection. What is coming to an end in your life? An end to putting off writing someone a note about how much you care? Are you going to quit smoking or put an end to the frozen meals you just heat up? There's a new beginning behind each of those ends and I'm sure you can find something else to change. This is your big chance! You can pick whatever you want to change rather than just waiting for life to roll the dice and pick your change for you.

Recurring fight

There's a recurring fight at my house about aliens. It flares up every now and then like those trick birthday candles you can't blow out. It centers on the stasis beam that aliens use when they abduct people.

Having seen most of the episodes of the X-Files and Star Trek and a whole bunch of B-movies, I consider myself something of an authority on alien operations and tactics. Obviously, it doesn't take much to become an expert. Anyway, I get yelled at for not being willing to 'protect' my wife from lights that she claimed were aliens, coming to get her. My argument is that the stasis beam they use immobilizes everyone and everything besides the person or cow they want to suck up to study. So even if I wanted to, I couldn't do anything to prevent her being taken.

I wonder if she'll believe me now, since they took her last night. And aliens, if you're reading this, I'd like her back soon.

The sun rises again

Really, I have no idea what I want to say today. I feel like Mike Fallopian, sending letters that don't say anything substantive through the WASTE system, just so that the system doesn't go unused.

"Hi, reading public. How are you? I am fine. Hope you are having fun. Rob"

I've had some pretty great things come up recently and some more coming soon.

Boring post, I know, but I figure crappy is better than silence.

"I'm waiting for the universe to provide a path . . ."

Many of you reading this blog (that would be, what? 3 people?) know that one of my favorite TV shows is Arrested Development. For the benefit of those of you who may not be as familiar with the show as you probably should be, I'll summarize one of the characters so you don't miss out on what this post is about.

Tobias Fünke stops working as a psychiatrist to become an actor. A bad actor. In a family meeting to figure out how to make them seem like less of a disaster, the family's publicist says that he needs to give up the ridiculous quest to become an actor and get his medical license back. Tobias says, "I'm just waiting for the universe to give me a sign", at which point, Michael drops airplane tickets in Tobias' lap so he can appeal his suspension from medical practice in Boston. Tobias says, "Any sign." He totally missed the sign that didn't match with the one he was looking for.

I'm afraid I may not notice a sign like that in my quest to be more employed than I currently am. You'll let me know if I miss it, won't you?

But while we're on the subject, Saturday was interesting for me. I dropped off the girls and thought I'd like to go somewhere and write. So I drove around, stopping at places I thought would have internet access. I didn't feel like paying for it and I didn't feel like jumping through a bunch of hoops to log in, so I drove back to the mall to wait. And then I felt really stupid.

Since when does writing require an internet connection? Or even electricity?

I pulled out my notebook and pen and took some notes on what I saw at the mall. There was a girl in full ballet gear, walking slowly around the mall to practice her deportment. Sparkly costume, slippers, tights, hair in a bun, arms and feet in position. The whole 9 yards. Brave kid and mean teacher. That's what I thought about that. Had it been less obvious what I was doing, I would have taken a picture of it for you, gentle reader. (I always thought that was an obnoxious phrase to read. I don't like to think of myself as a gentle reader. I like to imagine that I'm mentally tearing through the book, but whatever. It was from a different time.)

And there was a couple who looked like they belonged more at an airport or a train station than the mall. Matching outfits, matching fanny packs and baseball caps, matching rolling suitcases, matching Walkman cassette players. It was a little disorienting, remembering I was at the mall, not an airport terminal and that it was actually 2008 instead of 1992. With the ubiquity of iPods and other mp3 players, it's totally anachronous to see someone walking around with even a portable CD player. And those aren't that old, comparatively, to say nothing of seeing someone walk around with a tape player. Anyway, those were just a couple of the interesting people I saw.

I've noticed that I don't usually take notes on those people who are trying to get noticed. For example, the kids who hang around Hot Topic with their spikes and black makeup don't get a second glance from me. I'm more interested with the people who are the real nonconformists. The people who look like they could blend right in if they didn't wear matching t-shirts and cargo pants to the mall, dragging their luggage behind them. The people who've just got that one thing that obviously sets them apart just a little bit and they don't fit in with the group of people who think they're different, when they are just part of another big group of people who wear black makeup and spiked belts and dog collars. The real nonconformists make more interesting characters because they're more likely to have some hidden talent or secret to keep than others. Of course, there could be some great secrets in anyone. That's what makes it so much fun to learn about other people.

In the salon

I'm writing this in the salon, which is kind of fun. I love haircut day!

But today has felt like kind of like a waste. I haven't done much.

Which is how I feel about this blog post so far. It's not revealing or even interesting, I don't think. Probably because I haven't been able to just sit and write it. I haven't been in a coherent frame of mind, since I've been at the salon, crawling the mall, and then at a restaurant during the course of the last few sentences. The next blog post will be more useful, I think. I hope.

Characters

Lately, on the train, I've been doing things other than watching people, which cuts down on noticing other people. That leads to not finding interesting characteristics of those people. It would probably be a good idea to look up from my book every now and then. Had I not done that last week, I would have completely missed the kid who was dressed like Carmen Sandiego.

I'm not kidding. Big red fedora, jacket, but he was obviously not elusive enough to be everyone's favorite globe-trotting thief. I mean, I could have bounded over there and grabbed him until the police came, no problem. Which makes you wonder why did she wear such a conspicuous outfit all the time? Wouldn't it make more sense to be like The Saint in the movie version, where he's constantly changing his look? Or at least not standing out so much. She ought to dress up like a suburban housewife (sweatpants, no makeup, t-shirt, running shoes that have never gone faster than 3 mph besides that one time she had to chase down her kid before the kid jumped into the fountain at the mall, hair in a quick ponytail) because who's going to think that she's a famous thief then?

Although considering the absolutely audacious things she tended to take off with, I guess it wouldn't matter what she dressed as. And my other question is why steal something there's got to be absolutely no market for. It's not like Winona Ryder, stealing clothes for the thrill because she could wear the clothes. But absolutely no one's going to buy the Eiffel Tower because everyone knows where it came from and that there's nowhere else you could get it. Can't you just see the conversation?

"Hey, Ted. Nice life-size replica of the Taj Mahal in your backyard. I didn't even see any builders."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks, Bob. Heh heh. I hired a construction company that only employs elves. They built it completely silently in a single night."

"Hey, did you hear that the real Taj Mahal is missing? They say that Carmen Sandiego and her gang took it. I wonder what they do with those things. Better watch out so they don't take yours, it looks so realistic."

Anyway, I never actually caught Carmen Sandiego in the game, but I got damn close a number of times. As Maxwell Smart always said, "Missed it by that much."

Gray day

This is one of those gray days that make you just want to sit on the couch and read a book. Well, maybe not you, but that's how they make me feel. I've decided I'm going to do some fun things today with my girls and spend time where my laptop doesn't have a wireless signal. That's usually pretty fun. Disconnect for a little while, enjoy the company of the people I'm with. I realize the irony of saying that after my post yesterday, but there are people I generally enjoy spending time with, contrary to how it may have sounded yesterday.

I hit on something yesterday in my blog post that I don't think I'd really thought about before it came out in type. I need to delve into my character sketches a little deeper to figure out what really makes them tick, makes them unique and weak. Most of them are fairly superficial, dealing mostly with what they look like and what that says about their personalities. I need to figure out what makes them uncomfortable, how they deal with that, and what they would do in a situation where their coping mechanisms are unavailable.

If you want an example of good characterization in that regard, look at the first season of Lost, one of my new favorite shows. But the way the characters are depicted is fantastic! In each episode, you see what they're afraid of, what they're running from, and how they react when their typical coping mechanisms are taken away since they've crashed on a remote island. Okay, I'm off to play now. Until later . . .

Bring it on

I know that all one of you reading this blog are feeling left out since I haven't written in a few days. But I've been busy working on things. Looking for more writing work, working on a book with my brother, watching the NCAA basketball finals. Man, what a good game that was!

So currently, I'm sitting at my desk, listening to Mott the Hoople, working on some website content and thinking about the jobs I've applied for so far. It's a strange group of seemingly writing-oriented jobs, but who knows? Kind of like when you post a job and start interviewing, it's always interesting to see what kinds of people show up. Kind of like taking the train to my office; there are always interesting people on public transit. Even the normal ones seem interesting. I like to look at them through my mirrored sunglasses and imagine what kind of person they are. There's no way I know for sure, and I don't pretend that I'm right about it, but it's fun to imagine the things they're afraid of, what they hide from everyone else.

Back to the topic of thinking about the jobs I've applied for so far, I'm consoling myself thinking about how most of my favorite writers had strange jobs initially as well. That puts me in good company, the way I see it. Besides, it gives a more real-life perspective than sitting in your apartment and just dreaming things up. Like Marx did. While I don't typically consider myself a people person, I like studying people. I find them interesting from a safe distance, which means a distance at which I can instantly disconnect myself from the relationship when I want to. I'm very particular when it comes to people I actually enjoy spending time with. At least, that seems to be true.

You know, I think that one of these days, I should use my nifty phone and post a little photo tour of my trip to the office and back home. I really enjoy the trip and I think it might be informative. Or at the very least, illustrative. And who knows, maybe I'll be good at capturing things in a different medium than my usual method. You've got to try new things. See what this blog's doing for me?

Doubt

I'm not usually the kind to start second-guessing myself, but I've been pulled into a realm of self-doubt the last couple of days.

Do I have an overinflated sense of my abilities? Why does everyone around me seem so much more competent at what they do than I feel? Am I a writer, or am I a guy who's just literate and I need to quit kidding myself and cultivate a skill that's actually in demand? I mean, the market for people who have a skewed view of reality can't be a very large one. Especially the market for the kind of completely silly I tend to lean towards.

Anyway, I had a strange dream last night that I was at a park. Just a park with a playground and one of those pavilion things where people have little parties, like I did for my birthday for years. So there I was, having fun at the park, when the biggest fire engine drove up. It was huge. And a very shiny white. My friend John decided that he was going to open up the opaque cover over the driver's side of the windshield and drive the fire truck around the block while he held onto the front of it. Hanging onto the front, steering by reaching in through the windshield and turning the wheel. How he controlled the speed, I don't know, but this is a dream; just go with it. He took off, backing it up out of its parking space and then going for a drive around the block, all while hanging onto the front of the enormous fire truck.

The truck was an impervious white plastic, with locking covers that flipped up over the windows to protect the truck in particularly scary fires. And there was a lot of chrome. Chrome flames on the side. I know, chrome flames on a fire truck, but there they were. And they were beautiful. I don't know what that has to do with anything. I just felt like writing that down.

Long day

So today's going to be a long day at the office. We've got some people coming in so we can gauge the interest in a class on business writing. I won't get home until the time when I usually sit on the couch with my wife and we either read books or watch DVDs of one of our favorite TV comedies. While I'm excited about the prospect of teaching writing, I'm sad that it's at the expense of quality time at home. The price we pay, right?

Here's the kind of writing I envision taking up the introspective parts of this blog:

• kind of confessional, like Anne Sexton, who I think was hot. There's just something about crazy women that sucks men in like a tractor beam. The downside to me being all confessional is that there probably isn't anything juicy. But I don't plan on hiding things, which will be a rare thing for me. While I'm on the subject, what is it with people sharing things online that they wouldn't dare go to a party, stand on the table, and declare to everyone at the party? And yet, in essence, it's the same freaking thing! I realize the ridiculousness of me knocking that and then fully planning on declaring everything myself.
  
• self-focused, but not to the same degree as Marcel Proust. I do have other things to do besides sit here and write everything that comes into my head. But I want to get as much of it down as I can while I'm sitting here. And as someone with a healthy (perhaps unhealthily high) regard for himself, I have no problem talking about myself.
• as honest as possible. I get tired of couching things in glossy terms, like a Potemkin village, when things aren't as great as I'm describing. I don't expect to have to spare anyone's feelings, so I'm not going to. Having said that, I'm not going to go out of my way to write in order to offend someone. That's not who I am.

Think of this kind of like my diary. I'm writing it for me and you can stumble on it and read it if you want, get your voyeuristic little thrill out of poring over my pages and realize that your life isn't really that boring after all.

Do I really need this kind of explanation? Seriously, most authors just start with a story. Whatever. I've already written it and don't feel like deleting it all. Besides, it would also violate my rules. Maybe that's why I have them. As a reminder to leave it, since I have a tendency to edit and rewrite everything as I go. I've got to get a draft out and then go back to it. Which applies more to the book I want to write than to this blog.

I wonder if anyone besides my wife will read this. And if they don't, so what?

The Journey Begins

You're here and I'm here, so let's get started with introductions.

I'm Rob and I am, at this very moment, an underemployed writer, which shouldn't be surprising to anyone. "A writer looking for work?" and this is where you would fake an expression of astonishment at the prospect. But we'll get to that in just a little bit.

If you're reading this, you're either related to me, stalking me, looking for something else on the internet and are now lost, or you've stumbled onto this out of sheer boredom. Whatever the reason is, you're welcome to stay as long as you want.

But what I'm doing here, and the reason for this blog is that I wanted to have a place where I could work out my problems, which I do best in my writing. My personal journals are full of days where I was working through something I thought was rough. I'm not necessarily an organized person*, so I get things onto paper, where I can sift through the words later. My friend thinks best while he talks through them, which makes for very long conversations when he's stressed about something.

*When I lived in Ukraine, I got called "a miracle in feathers" on a regular basis. Apparently, that's the kind of forgetful person who has to write everything down or it's just gone. Like me.

In addition to soul-searching, this blog is intended to be a place where I can practice writing things that I enjoy writing. I get tired of writing the same boring technical documents after a little while and I've got ideas I want to work out. Again, with words. But I'm planning on writing some fictional something, which I'll do to some extent right before your very eyes. I think it'll be fun and, I'm hoping, informative for someone interested in what an underemployed writer does in their scads of free time.