I am watching the winless at my new standalone blog called, oddly enough, Winless Watch. For Indiana high school basketball junkies only, unless you need a cure for your insomnia.

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Now playing: The Shins - The Past and Pending
via FoxyTunes

What I Did Over My Winter Vacation, Pt. I:

Digging out from all of the crap Wife and I have accumulated in our lives, both separately and together, I realize:

God, I don't want to be like these people. And I'm a hoarder at heart. Obsessively? Compulsively? My amateur diagnosis says "yes."

However, I did find one thing that was worth keeping all of these years. In one of the myriad notebooks of lyrics, bad poetry and other written detritus that I still can't bear to part with, I found scribbled on a page - and Captain, give me a shout if you remember this one:

Fresh Moog Sound

What does it mean? Fuck if I know.

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Now playing: Grandaddy - Miner at the Dial-A-View
via FoxyTunes

At the suggestion of the Captain, I went to glassbooth.org the other day to see which of the presidential candidates most closely align with my beliefs. Tom Tancredo apparently got wind of my results, said "Oh no - not *that* guy!" and promptly dropped out of the race.

The cuddly Dennis Kucinich, by the way, was dead last among the candidates as far as my views versus his.

Not that any of this matters. I'm so burned out on politics - mostly due to our current commander-in-chief as well as all of those who wish him dead. I wrote a long time ago, in the nascent days of this blog, that I was off the Bush bus, and I still am.

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Now playing: Tori Amos - Tear in Your Hand
via FoxyTunes

Went to a Christmas party the other day for one side of my family. My favorite part of the holidays is wondering how many illegitimate children my cousin Kevin (not his real name) would show up with and taking bets on the over/under of said proposition.

About an hour later, Kevin had left to go father more illegitimate children, and another cousin arrived. We'll call him Rick.

We were standing outside the building that my grandma had rented for the Christmas gathering, and I said matter-of-factly to Rick, "Yeah, you just missed Kevin by about 15 minutes."

Rick rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh, I really missed him."

I laughed. Kevin is sort of a black sheep these days, so I thought Rick's to be a completely natural reaction. I wasn't aware of there being any real drama between Rick and Kevin – we were all pretty close as kids, but people do grow apart and go off to father illegitimate children and whatnot. Happens.

I didn't think anything of it, and I probably would have had the same reaction if I'd missed out on seeing Kevin.

A couple of cigarette breaks later, I recounted the conversation to my dad.

"Yeah, there's some tension there," Dad said. "I don't remember who did what, but a long time ago, one of them was throwing the dick to the other's girlfriend or something like that. I can't remember which one was doing it, though."

Throwing the dick!!!

Damn, I love the holidays.

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Now playing: The Postal Service - Such Great Heights
via FoxyTunes

In the span of 10 minutes the other day on the radio, I heard Led Zeppelin's "All My Love," and Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing" – a nice back-to-back, for sure. The Zep song came out in '79, a little while before I started really paying attention to music, but "Money for Nothing" was a staple of my youth, and it pains me to hear it on THE Classic Rock Station™.

I hadn't heard the song for years, and it'd been even longer since I'd heard the uncut album version of it (the version played yesterday on THE Classic Rock Station™). After it was over, I pondered for a minute all of the ways that the song – a paean to rock 'n roll excess - wouldn't make it at radio today:

1. The intro. Yeah, I know that the radio-friendly version shed about a minute off the buildup to the Knopfler riff. But you still can't dance to it. Believe me, I tried, back in the day.

2. The riff. Say what you will about the remainder of the Dire Straits catalogue, but that riff rocks too hard. It rocks too hard!

3. Would kids today understand the significance of "I want my MTV"? No!

4. Sting.

5. Radio chopped the "that little faggot" verse in 1986, but it was restored in all its glory on THE Classic Rock Station™ the other day. Can you imagine, if the song came out today, the firestorm that would ensue?

Anyway, it's a song that's held up well for the last 20 years. Even if I'm not ready for it to be played on THE Classic Rock Station™.

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Now playing: The Pernice Brothers - Somerville
via FoxyTunes

More favorite GbV/Bob lyrics.

Service time is lonely
Live it up before you pass away

I feel life passing on by us

*****

Disregard injury
And race madly
Out of the universe by sundown

And I will stay to help you prepare for
What it was you said
I could not afford to miss

*****

Make yourself happy to know
It's going to be a scream

*****

Time's wasting and you're not gonna live forever
And if you do
I'll come back and marry you
No use changing now
You couldn't anyhow and ever

It's not the way that I fear that I feel
It's the way you act
It's the way you look when you're near me
It's not so hard to conceal to conceal
It's the things you say
It's the things you do go right through me

*****

And now no great philosophy prevails
May the cold wind always ripple through your sails
Good luck sailor

*****

It's been a long ugly winter
I need a sunbath

*****

Take a break from this year's bungle
Same country, different jungle

*****

I am quail and quasar
I've picked you up on radar
I do my job each day
Empties crushed and fired away
And there is nothing worse than
An undetermined person
Can I abuse you, please,
In my subspace biographies

*****

Yeah we did it
We brought you in this ready
Takes a quick one to find the light
High speed child in motion
And you can't come along for the ride
Yeah we made it
With a pitchfork and machete
Wow, that's amazing, can I try?
No, dangerous weather is approaching
and we wouldn't want you to slide

*****

Why can't you find time in your schedule to pick up?

*****

Believe in me as I see you!

*****

Got a brand new car with hideaway lights
and a blue racing stripe
Cost a little extra but it's worth it to me
When it burns through the exhaust pipe
I'd like to take you on a quick spin sometime
Show you what its got
I can't believe you chose to work in the line
I'm so glad that I'm not

*****

I hear you crying
You're only
A lifetime away
I feel you dying
Relying
On what the people say

*****

My life is dirt but you seem to make it cleaner
Reduce my felony to a misdemeanor
When I feel sick you're an antibiotic
Organize my world that was pointless and chaotic

*****

In the early days
He was bursting with confidence
I saw the light
The shiny dream
Over the years
He began to submerge
The nervous wreck
We know him to be
The nervous, twisted wreck

So watch out for Joker Bob
I wish he were just a distant relative
But he's razor close, like blue-green gelatin
Icy cold, acid in his heart

And with this we shall draw the electrifying conclusion

They strapped him in
Still chewing his bubblegum
They did the Jesus-shock
As the reporters watched
Finally, his ticker stopped
And they buried him with a smile on his puss

And that's the electrifying conclusion

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Now playing: Robert Pollard - Psychic Pilot Clocks Out
via FoxyTunes

Kwyet Ryet seenger iz ded

A couple of irrelevant Quiet Riot memories in honor of the passing of singer Kevin DuBrow:

1. I recall the beating that 1986's Quiet Riot III got in Rolling Stone magazine when it came out and being flabbergasted because they were so popular at the time, what with two international megahits off of Metal Health. I didn't understand at the time, being only 11 or 12 or so, that Rolling Stone's opinions didn't mean shit because the magazine was for hippies.

2. When The Captain was spinning tunes once a week at the local community radio station (motto: "Please give us money"), he would invite me to sit in with him on the air about once a year for a Very Special Episode of general shenanigans and tomfoolery (sample bumper: "Playing more music in an hour ... than other stations play in an hour.").

One night, we thought it would be hilarious to play QR's "Metal Health (Bang Your Head)" because 1) it was manly and the music played on the station was, by and large, faggy, and 2) it was 12:30 in the morning. This was a fabulous idea, save for the fact that we started talking over the song a full 2 minutes before it ended, and I called it "the extended dance version" on the air.

One note about "Bang Your Head": Isn't that riff awesome, though, and isn't it stuck in your head now?

(Completely irrelevant to this irrelevant post: While searching Rolling Stone's archives to find the Quiet Riot III review to link in this post, I noted that on their current reviews, an album called V is for Vagina by something called Puscifier received two and a half stars, while Celine Dion's Taking Chances received one star. I don't know why this is funny.)

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Now playing: Sloan - HFXNSHC
via FoxyTunes

I did something today that was unforeseeable as little as 3 years ago.

I took down all of the NASCAR memorabilia from my office wall and put it in upstairs storage. Not much use for it anymore, since the bulk of my collecting focused on Ricky Rudd and Dale Jarrett. Ricky's not won a race since 2002, and today is the final start of his career (allegedly). Dale hasn't ran well since my fanhood of him started, then he made an ill-advised jump to Toyota and hasn't even made the show half the time this year.

I don't have the time or the interest to detail how I've fallen out of love with NASCAR the last couple of years, but all of the arguments have been made in other blogs, fan sites, and message boards; I don't need to rehash them here.

I am grateful for one thing, though, in light of the closing of this chapter of my life: I am so very thankful that I didn't name my son Dale Ricky or Dale Richard or Ricky Dale. Believe it or not, it was considered.

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Now playing: Sloan - Set in Motion
via FoxyTunes


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Now playing: Sloan - Ill Placed Trust
http://foxytunes.com/artist/sloan/track/ill+placed+trust

You wouldn't think that an album whose closing song is a beautiful tune paradoxically titled "Grudge F***" would be a candidate for album of the year, yet The Pernice Brothers' Live A Little is, from where I sit, a gorgeous album that deserves all the accolades it likely hasn't gotten (I don't know; I dropped out of reading the music press some time back).

Joe Pernice isn't going to save rock and roll - if necessary, that would be a task best left to Sloan and Drive-By Truckers - but Live A Little's unexpected and sudden place in my heavy rotation is a well-deserved one, and where the hell has he been the last 10 years, anyway?

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Now playing: The Pernice Brothers - Conscience Clean (I Went to Spain)
via FoxyTunes

A random observation:

"Sunny San Diego," my ass. I haven't seen the sun since Indiana.

Before I left for California, my wife said, "Honey, it's OK if you end up with a cheap floozy out there; just be sure and divorce me first."

Me: "OK."

I think she was kidding. I think I was, too.

So, I'm out here, and she sends me an e-mail today that included this info:

"So, have you found a cheap hussy yet?"

Me: "Nothing is cheap out here."

I'm still waiting on her reply.

Things I have learned the last couple of days during my sojourn to crispy SoCal, and other random thoughts:

1. A bunch of Marines got laid last night in my hotel. Good for them!

Actually, it was the annual Marines' birthday ball. I had the opportunity to talk to a few of them last night; we had some common interests, since I work for a defense contractor. One of them actually thanked me for my work.

I laughed. Heartily.

"No, no, you don't understand," I replied. "Thank *you* for your service to this country. I go to work in a small, rural setting every day and don't have to worry about snipers, IEDs or sand in my ass. Thank *you*."

On my flight from Denver to San Diego, I sat next to a kid from Missouri who was coming out to California to go to basic training. I was a bit uncomfortable in my seat, getting a cramp in my leg, my back a little sore from not finding the right position to sit in, my foot occasionally falling asleep. I figured I'd keep my complaints to myself, in light of the company I was in.

Anyway, back to last night: It was a Marine birthday ball, and while my buddies and I were closing down the hotel bar, I saw a bunch of Marines going back up to their rooms with their gussied-up companions. God bless America.

2. California is different. It's not weird, though I had envisioned San Diego being a lot more relaxed than what it is.

But one of my colleagues last night said something about how something in particular "reminded him of home." I said, "This is nothing like home. This is actually the precise opposite of home. It's bizarro home."

Just as a point of reference, I haven't had a beer that was less expensive than $4.50, gas is $3.40 a gallon along the freeway, and people drive 90 miles an hour here all the time, even in the drive-thru. We have had several near-accidents as "taking our lives in our own hands" takes on a whole new meaning. I wonder what the rush is, or where the fire is (hee).

3. The gougery is ongoing at our hotel. High-speed internet is $10 a day, the 1-liter bottles of Evian that they put in your room are $4.50 apiece, and if you smoke in your room or the balcony, they will supposedly charge you a $250 "room recovery fee". As I smoked on my balcony before noticing this vital piece of information yesterday morning, I put my hand on the exterior of the building, pulled it back and had a fine dusting of ash covering my fingers. Regular building dust or wildfire remnants? I vote for the latter.

Everything here is stucco, by the way.

4. On our way from the airport to the hotel, we tried desperately to find an English-speaking radio station. We thought we had finally found one when we scanned to a Neil Young song. But then the DJ came on speaking Spanish. "(spanish spanish spanish spanish) Neil Young y 'Cortez de Keeler.'"

5. I am ready to come home.

"We're not going to beat them with field goals," I told Mrs. Tamble as the Colts' Adam Vinatieri knocked through another chip-shot to cut the New England lead to 7-6 in the first half.

And we didn't. Rats.

Sad how the Colts dominated the best team in football, the unstoppable New England juggernaut, for the better part of three quarters before petering out in the 4th. A 10-point lead with 9 minutes left in the game? How many times have we seen Manning and company chew up the clock in this situation?

Yet last night, with so much on the line (homefield advantage when these two teams surely meet again in the playoffs, continued dominance over their main nemesis, restaking their claim as the best in football after so much attention had been given to the Patriots through the first half of the season), the Colts withered. And now they'll probably have to make plans to go to that shithole New England in January.

Oh well. It was a great game, for sure - the outcome just wasn't the preferred one for this Colts fan.

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Now playing: Sloan - On the Horizon
via FoxyTunes

A handful of random thoughts on a beer-sodden Saturday night:

* Question for the Bramble Tamble audience: on a scale of 1-10, 1 being least and 10 being most, how tacky is it to make a birthday card on your computer for someone?

* My last vestige of interest in the Indiana high school football playoffs fell by the wayside last night, as Indiana School for the Deaf's dream season came to an end in the sectional final against small-school powerhouse Indianapolis Ritter. If you're interested in what I had started to write last week about the Deaf School's 9-win season before its loss last night, here's a draft.

It's time for basketball now. My alma mater has a new coach with a vanilla name, and have replaced Linton with Trinity Lutheran on its schedule, adding a likely win to its ledger. Plus, with powerhouse Forest Park out of the conference, Bramble Tamble guarantees at least a 9th-place finish in the Blue Chip for his alma mater!

Without knowing the personnel on my old high school's team, I still like them to beat Trinity Lutheran, Medora, Dugger, Cannelton, and New Harmony, plus maybe a conference win against Washington Catholic. (And this is for no other reason other than the fact that they are Trinity Lutheran, Medora, Dugger, Cannelton, New Harmony and Washington Catholic. Who knows - one of them could have a Dugger-in-1999 type of season where they win 24 games.) You read it here first.

* Speaking of Indiana high school basketball, I was a little lax in keeping up with Winless Watch last year. I vow to you that I will at least consider updating it regularly, after the first of the year. I am also considering putting the whole Winless Watch concept on a different blog, and have reserved a site just in case.

* Tomorrow is Colts-Patriots. I don't really share the world's righteous indignation at Belichick's SpyGate scandal, though I do have at least a tiny issue with the fact that they are running up the score against their opponents. A lot of pundits are framing tomorrow's AFC Championship preview as "good versus evil," and I think that's a bit over the top, even as a Colts fan. Really, I think it's great for both teams to have a foil to play off of, and I think it's fantastic that the Patriots have retooled their team specifically with the Colts in mind.

My biggest fear is that tomorrow's game is just going to be a turkey, that one of them won't show up and that it will end up being a 49-14 blowout. With all of the attention focused on this game, that would be truly sad. I don't even care if the Colts lose by a field goal at the end (at least, it wouldn't be the end of my world, though I would be temporarily saddened by it) - as long as the game is near-classic, that's fine by me.

* Replica jerseys are expensive, and as such, I only have one Colts jersey in my wardrobe. And it's for someone who is no longer with the team.

So, my question to you is - is it tacky to continue wearing said jersey?

(The player in question is the tastefully named Brandon Stokley.)

* I've changed the front wallpaper on my cell phone from the clock to where it reads "fuck off." I think this is the funniest thing in the world. I look to see if anyone has called, and it says, "fuck off." God, I love this.

* Even though it says that Grant Lee's version of "Burning Love" is playing right now, it was only playing at the start of my writing this post. The Faces' version of "Maggie May" is playing now, and it reminds me of a particularly wine-soaked night in IU's Teter Quad where the Captain and myself tried to cover it.

The wine in question was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. I believe that the night in question was the night that Mike Tyson was released from jail. I remember this only because the Captain passed out on my bed and I ended up sleeping on the floor. Later, I learned that he only pretended to be asleep.

Fascinatingly, I'm finally not pissed about this particular point anymore.

Although I do wonder if he's still pissed about waking every 50 minutes and hearing Nirvana's cover of "Where Did You Sleep Last Night?" playing on my stereo.

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Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Burning Love
via FoxyTunes

Naturally, I'm overthinking this flying thing. Cause hundreds of flights take off every day and land safely without incident, and it's safer than driving a car, so they say. Which, I still don't buy, only because I have to have that modicum of control, and putting your life into a pilot's hands takes a small leap of faith.

Of course, my brother-in-law, upon learning about my upcoming trip to San Diego (or, as Son says, "Sandy"), just has to tell me about this thing he saw on YouTube, this video collage of crosswinds blowing planes everywhere upon landing.

And, of course, Wife still regales me with the story about the time she was in a plane and they hit an air pocket.

And, of course, somewhere, "Snakes on a Plane" is playing. Which, right now, would combine my two worst fears.

I only have a window seat for one leg of the trip - the overnight portion from "Sandy" to Chicago on my return trip. I had a bit of a panic attack earlier this week, thinking of being 30,000 feet up in a steel tube with it being pitch black outside. I do not give a shit that I will likely be sleeping. It's just the thought of it, and I felt really claustrophobic for a moment. I can't imagine that that thought process won't re-rear its ugly head sometime between now and then.

Really, I don't know that it would be better or worse than seeing the ground from that height. I don't have a problem with heights once I get up there ... again, I think it's just the "giving up control" thing. Even if it is to a trained professional.

So, ummmmm .... please, no horror stories about planes, and it'd be good if you didn't remind me of 9/11 until after the fact as well.

****

Broke the news to Son tonight that Daddy was going away for about 4 days next week. I tried and failed to explain California to him; here's the best I could do:

"Ummmmm .... OK. You know where Lightning McQueen and The King and Chick Hicks had their race at?"

"You're going to Sandy to watch race cars?"

"Son, say 'San Diego.'"

So, that was a fiasco.

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Now playing: Robbie Fulks - I Never Did Like Planes
via FoxyTunes

"Hey buddy, you need a ride? I was just on my way to the big doofus convention!"

On the front page of MSN.com yesterday was a subhead that read "8 hot new Canadian pop acts."

And, lo and behold, one of the "hot new ... pop acts" from Canada was Bramble Tamble's favorite active band, Sloan.

I don't have to tell you that that entire subhead, save for the "Canadian act" part, was wrong.

Funny nonetheless. (Another note about the article: isn't Ron Sexsmith, like, 70? Seems like he's been around forever too.)

Here's the article. Of course, it doesn't have the headline that I referenced above, making me look delusional. But I swear that MSN.com had that subhead on its front page.

****

Hair.

I used to have it down to my ass till I started losing it on top, and there's nothing tackier, save for wet paint. So I got it cut, short. (It didn't help that people who saw me from back in a store kept calling me "ma'am," and the security sweeps in stores when I'd come through were also a blow to my fragile self-esteem.) Now I try to keep it shaved clean, a dodgy proposition at times thanks to my laziness; when it grows back in, I have what I like to call "pedophile hair."

Mrs. Tamble had long stringy sloppy dark brown hair when I met her. After we had Son, she decided that long hair was for pain junkies, since Son treated her hair as a handle for pulling himself up. So she got "mom hair" – short, off the shoulders. Not bad.

She's taken the next step in her hair evolution, getting it colored a deep red/burgundy. I believe the proper term is "cinnamon." I dig it.

I still have pedophile hair because I haven't shaved my head in a month or so.

****

Speaking of my favorite Canadian popsters (ha), Ruby Tuesday's has got to be the coolest restaurant chain in the world because I was there the other night and – what the hell? – heard a Sloan song there. I checked outside to see if I saw pigs flying or other signs of the world ending.

The song in question was "False Alarm," from their sadly lackluster Action Pact album. Well, "sadly lackluster" was my initial and ongoing reaction to it. I revisited the album after hearing "False Alarm" at Ruby Tuesday's, and I have to say: It strikes a different vibe from other Sloan albums; the songcraft is still a little weaker, but the vibe it strikes is what I like to call a "homemade highballs/Very Best of Foghat/getting drunk at a party and giving blowjobs to complete strangers on a burgundy vinyl couch" vibe.

(Funny how my spellchecker didn't alert me about "blowjobs" there, but it complained about "handjobs" in my original edit of this piece.)

But you know exactly what I mean. Don't pretend that you don't.

(Editor's note: Isn't it funny how I've abandoned every pretense of this being a family-friendly blog?)

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Now playing: Sloan - False Alarm
via FoxyTunes

"But from now on, I'd like you to be more careful. One more injury like that, and you could wind up like that poor creature there: in the Iron Butt."


"Oh man. It itches."

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Now playing: Belly - Super-Connected
via FoxyTunes

In which I don't use the term "handi-capable."

Here's something that's kind of cool, if you like inspirational sports stories.

The smallest of Indiana's 317 football-playing high schools is the Indiana School for the Deaf. With only 97 students in grades 9-12, including 55 boys (according to the IHSAA's most recent numbers), Indiana Deaf typically faces an uphill battle on the field of play.

Indiana Deaf usually schedules a mix of deaf schools from other states and smaller, independent high schools from both inside and outside of Indiana that sometimes need a game to fill out their schedule, and have tasted little gridiron success in the past, mustering no better than a handful of 4-6 seasons over the last 12 years. While they typically acquitted themselves well against other deaf schools, wins against other "hearing" high schools (for lack of a better term) have been few and far between (going 8-44 against those schools since 1995).

Until this season.

The Deaf Hoosiers find themselves in rarefied air these days, having built a 9-2 record this season. They avenged one of their two regular-season losses this evening, destroying Indianapolis Lutheran by 33 points.

Next Friday, they play Class A's #9 Indianapolis Ritter, which is the second-largest school in Class A. A win would bring the Deaf Hoosiers their first sectional championship (consider that, before this season, they had exactly one postseason win in their history).

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Now playing: Arson Garden - Drink a Drink of You
via FoxyTunes

Flying is the second biggest thrill known to man, and landing is the first.

In a classic case of making things out in my head to be much bigger than they need to be, I am going to San Diego in a couple of weeks and already dreading it.

It's not the being away from my family that's eating at me. I'm not thrilled about being away from them, but I'm going to make the best of it and have a good time, and enjoy my "alone time." I've already decided this much.

It's not that I'm going to be out of my routine - cause I love my routines and love things to be "just so" - but you can't spell "routine" without "rut." And sometimes I feel myself slipping into that in my day-to-day, so charbroiled southern California might be a nice remedy.

It's just that ... well, as cosmopolitan and urbane and worldly as I am (ha), I've never flown. And not only that, but the red-eye back is going to involve two different layovers, which means three takeoffs and landings.

It'll be fine, right?

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Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Stars N' Stripes
via FoxyTunes

So, I see where the Rubik's Cube, that iconic puzzle toy of the early '80s, is making a bit of a comeback.

In its heyday, my solution for the Rubik's Cube involved peeling off the stickers and repositioning them.

Cause I was gifted.

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Now playing: Grant Lee Buffalo - Wish You Well
via FoxyTunes

I made a very important life decision the other day.

I decided that "Be All End All" is my favorite Anthrax song. Followed closely by "Belly of the Beast."

Also: fucking Red Sox.

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Now playing: Morcheeba - Get Along
via FoxyTunes

FTA: Bramble Tamble Poetry Slamble, pp. 13-17

I had lost the notebook, but found it again the other day. Here are more selections from the "Love's Going To Live Somewhere Else For Awhile, OK?" collection, c. 1998. (And here is a link to the remainder of the collection.)

Incidentally: these poems now mean even less to me, the writer, than they do to you, the reader. Still, thank you for reading them, for looking at this snapshot of my psyche from 10 years ago and laughing at my psyche's long hair, peach-fuzz mustache and Camaro.

****

He doesn't get high anymore.
He just is.
How sad is that?

****

I talked to my dad the other day.
It's been about 9 months, I guess.
He didn't recognize my voice, so
we hung up without really talking.

*****

His story doesn't begin or end here.
Rather it's a collection of pieces scattered
across cities, under the blackjack table,
in the seat cushions of various taverns.

(Note: And *that* is how you subconsciously plagiarize a late-80s Tennis magazine story about Bjorn Borg's ill-fated, star-crossed comeback. If that wasn't verbatim, it was damn close.)

*****

Settling in for a nice round of
menáge-á-moi - I couldn't get your
face out of my head.

*****

I keep opening the cabinet next to me,
almost obsessively,
as if I were expecting a random portal
to appear and whisk me away

*****

9-9-98 - 3:30 am

I.

Feeling like a total and complete amateur

II.

I know in my heart that I won't be forgotten
It's just that the things I'll be remembered for
aren't the ones I'd prefer

III.

I'm sorry for fucking things up and
making you believe things that I, too, believed

IV.

I wish I still held the magic over you that
you still do over me, but I have a hard
enough time turning water into ice - wine
is out of the question.

V.

What I wouldn't give for another crisis to take
my mind off this one
What I wouldn't give to put it all behind us now

VI.

I feel like I've died and gone to hell ...

****

Fuck You, Thornton Wilder

This town is like a pair of bikini briefs that are two sizes too small.

*****

I miss Lisa.
She'd get high with me and think I was Rosie the Robot.

*****

Prom.

*****

In the 18 minutes since I last looked at the clock,
I have:

*****

They've Got The Bomb Now

I think we'd look good together
You know me - I'm the dork in the glasses
Holding a couple of beers
And you're the gorgeous one with the sunglasses on your head
Nonchalant, like you couldn't give a shit about Pakistan


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Now playing: Sloan - If It Feels Good Do It
via FoxyTunes

Some nights, I end my day with a couple of hours of Scrabble online (scrabulous.com). Last night was one of those nights, but this post isn’t about Scrabble. Rather, remember back about one post ago when I said that I didn’t feel like discussing, debating or defending much of anything anymore?

So, I’m playing Scrabble last night, minding my own business, working to find a place to use “sonatas” (and, ultimately, failing), when someone in the lobby makes mention of Canada’s Thanksgiving, which I guess is today. No biggie, happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian friends and all that. Warm fuzzies abounded for a moment, and made me look forward to the American Thanksgiving in November.

Until, that is, some woman chimes in, “Thanksgiving symbolizes our ancestors’ mass slaughter of cultures.”

Sigh.

That pressed just the right buttons on my psyche. Fully aware of what I was stepping into, I replied, “I thought that Thanksgiving symbolized, you know, the giving of thanks.”

Oh no. It symbolizes the white man’s oppression and slaughter of other cultures that they deemed inferior. We need to think about this and not celebrate that holiday, because we’re all in this together, white, black, red, yellow. According to her, anyway. Me – trying to live day-to-day, paycheck-to-paycheck – it doesn’t warm my cockles any to think that we’re all trying to make it on this big blue ball floating in space. I have bigger fish to fry than “I’d Like To Buy The World A Coke.”

(Hey, check it out. I said “cockles” and “big blue ball” in the same sentence without meaning it dirty.)

“Oh geez,” I said. “Off your high horse. I never should have opened my mouth.”

“Sad atitude,” (sic) she said. “I wrote a book about it seven years ago. It was a best-seller.”

Yeah, I bet it was a real page-turner. I love me some light summer reading. (Although, if she can’t spell “attitude,” it surprises me that she was still able to poop out a book. She must have had a very forgiving editor, or is a fucking liar - what are the odds?)

(This would have been the perfect time to whip out the old Bob Knight quote about journalists. “Most of us learn to write in the 2nd grade and then move on to bigger and better things.” I love that.)

Then some other dude asked her where she lived, and she said that while she lived in St. Pete, FL now, she just moved back from Spain, and prior to that, she lived in Paris. And then came the topper:

“I like to live in a country for about 6-12 months. You know, really absorb the culture.”

I had dropped out of the conversation, because I don’t take part in stupid dumbass debates with some numbnutted animal-humping liberal halfwit who feels our dead relatives’ pain – as I said in my previous post, it’s just a bunch of wasted breath. But this was too delicious.

“*sniff*,” I wrote mockingly. “I like to move about every 6-12 months to hide from creditors and annoy the neighbors. You know, really absorb the trailer park.”

I think she had already gone to bed by that point, but my comment garnered giggles from other folks in the room, including the Canadian folks who were equally offended by her dumbassery.

But my God, that’s just ridiculous. I guess it’s a matter of priorities, though. Some normal, sane people like to take the time to celebrate holidays with their families and enjoy the turkey and watch some football and enjoy one another’s company to an extent. And other functionally retarded people feel survivor’s remorse for things that happened 500 years ago. Doesn’t make you a deeper, more thoughtful person if you feel that way. In fact, it makes you pretty shallow, cause dead people don’t give a shit if you feel their pain.

Dayton, Ohio - Birthplace of Flight, Home of Hive of Temptation

Went to Dayton over the weekend to visit the National Air Force Museum at Wright-Patterson AFB. Full trip report/travelogue forthcoming, with pics, but in the meantime, wanted to share this tale:

I was sitting by myself outside on the patio at a bar in Dayton when my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law came back outside to rejoin me. He had gone inside to continue hitting on a girl who had sat and talked to him earlier. Girl #1 had come and gone (and I love women – I admire and respect them and put them on a pedestal whenever I can, and I don't think you ought to beat on them, ever, but if there were ever a girl who needed a punch in the nose, it was her), but girl #2 – who was a friend of girl #1 - was still on the premises, and my redneck shitkickin' hard-partyin' brother-in-law started working it with her. It was quite a sight.

So he sat back down after an absence of about 10 minutes while I sat and watched the one-man band on the stage play a Jimmy Buffett cover and then a Lynyrd Skynyrd cover. Diverse, that guy was.

"Where the hell were *you* at?"

"Hmmm?" I asked.

"I needed you in there to back me up."

(pause)

"Hmmmm?"

"I found Brittany in there and asked her to come back out. She had a guy with her who said, 'That's my girl you're talking to.'"

"Hmmmm. How'd that go?"

"How the *fuck* do you think it went?" (He looked unscathed, actually, but I imagine he was hurting inside, as much as a redneck, shitkickin' hard partyer can hurt inside.)

"I bought you another beer while you were inside," I replied. I can never tell if he's kidding or not, so I'm not certain there was really a fight or a disagreement, but I like buying beer for people. Better still, I like it when people buy beer for me, which he did many times over the course of the night.

"You must have been in pretty sad shape for *me* to come back you up," I added.

***

Which leads me to my bigger point, the ultimate point of this post:

When I recounted the above the following morning at breakfast, my other brother-in-law said, "I'm glad I didn't go out with you guys. That hive of temptation is something I prefer to avoid." (He's a bit of a Jesus freak.)

I looked down at my bacon and thought, "'Hive of temptation?' What the fucking fuck, man? I mean, we're at a friggin' buffet – isn't gluttony one of your seven deadlies? 'Hive of temptation.' Fuck. That bar I was at has nothing on the Golden Corral. Look around you!

"'Hive of temptation.' Christ."

***

In the car on the way back home, this conversation happened:

Wife: "Hey, I saw that you and my brother-in-law were wearing the same shorts today!"

Me: "Yeah, they were selling them 2-for-1 at the Hive of Temptation, so I picked him up a pair."

Wife: "… …"

(Because she doesn't like it when I make fun. Especially of people, regardless of whether they are not related by blood, as my Jesus freak brother-in-law isn't.)

Me: "'Hive of temptation.' Pfffft. What the fuck was *that*? It was just 15 beers. The Bible doesn't say anything about beer or peeing in a public parking lot at 1 in the morning."

Wife: "… …"

Me: "Is that next to the Den of Iniquity?"

Wife: "… …"

(Because I'm still poking fun, and she doesn't like it when I poke fun at anything God-related, not understanding that I'm not poking fun at God - because wouldn't that be pretty fucking retarded?

(I mean, she got pissed when I poked fun at that Josh Turner song about "Me and God." ["Like two peas in a pod, me and God – cause He's the omnipotent creator of the universe and all that inhabit it, and I'm a country and western singer with kind of a bitchin' baritone but no songs to back it up."] And she got even more pissed when I made fun of Josh Turner's follow-up to "Me and God," a song about a girl called "Firecracker" or something like that. ["Me and God, we like to throw firecrackers at girls."]

(Anyway, the ellipses above represent the steam pouring out of her ears.)

Listen. I believe. And this post is the only time you'll ever hear me reference my faith in this or any other forum, but I've never been accused of being a man of faith. And it's just as well; once you start proclaiming your Jesus love, then you open yourself up to derision from small-minded individuals who think there's no way that there is something bigger than us out there, debate from the same folks who are insistent that a God of love would never send someone to hell, and I just don’t the time or energy or, frankly, the interest to put up with any of it.

And not only that, but once you tip your hand, you open yourself up to being called a hypocrite. And who the fuck needs that? It all makes me tired, so I keep quiet about it anymore. Does that make me wrong? Yeah, probably.

Really - faith is a very personal private thing, between you and your chosen Savior, who is the only one who knows if you believe or not. All of the shouting from the rooftops doesn't make it so! And whether you do or you don't believe, that's fine with me; I'm not going to judge, but that semicolon back there is the end of the conversation as far as that is concerned. I don't want to discuss it or debate it or defend it.

(In fact, I don't want to discuss, debate or defend much of *anything* anymore, which is sad, I guess – is it that the passion is gone at 32, or is that I've finally become convinced that you're not going to change my mind any easier than I'm going to change yours and it's ultimately a bunch of wasted breath? I dunno.)

Anyway, my wife said, "Be nice."

"Fuck," I said.

(And then as if on cue, we drove past the 62-foot Jesus.)

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Now playing: Guided by Voices - The Best of Jill Hives
via FoxyTunes

I wish this concerned me more than it does, but:

I have a 3-year-old who says "dammit" all the time now.

Chalk one up to bad parenting!

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Now playing: Guided by Voices - Always Crush Me
via FoxyTunes

Today, the coolest thing to happen to me in a good long while left me momentarily awestruck.

I was sitting outside with Mrs. Tamble and Son, talking with my mom, who'd paid us a short visit. Son was playing happily in the yard, showing off his talents on his tricycle for his grandma. I noted that a car was traveling very slowly up the road, and slowing even further as it came by the house. I didn't recognize the vehicle, but paid it no mind.

The car stopped in front of the mailbox, then backed toward the driveway. I assumed that the driver was lost or just out for a Sunday drive. The car backed past the driveway, then pulled into the drive up the hill and came to a stop.

I rose from my chair. "Hi - what can I do for you?"

"Hello." He introduced himself and the other occupant in the car, his mother, who looked to be in her 80s or 90s. "My mother lived here when she was a child."

"Oh yeah?" How cool is that?

"Yes - would you like to see a picture?"

I waved my wife over. "Wanna check out this old picture of the house?" Of course she did.

"This picture is 85 years old," the driver told me.

"Wow. Can I take this picture in and make a copy of it?" I asked.

"Sure, absolutely," he told me.

****

Our house was built, best anyone at the county records office can figure, in 1900. Here's how it looked circa 1922.


And, for sake of comparison, here's how it looks today:



That porch on the front of the house 85 years ago apparently wrapped around the north side of the house (to the right), though I admittedly can't really tell in the picture. It's a shame it's not still there, but knowing it once had a covered porch it makes me want to rearrange my priorities re: remodeling.

Anyway, the lady was one of 10 kids born and raised in this house, and they all slept in the upstairs! (Again, for comparison's sake, today the upstairs is used for Crap Storage, and only two of the three rooms up there has electricity.)

Apparently, the driver of the car brings his mom past the house every Sunday after church to look at it from the road. (!!!)

I feel like the current state of the house doesn't really do justice to its previous occupants (namely, the person I met today). But you can bet that I'll think twice before wishing for a good strong storm to pick it up and blow it away.

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Now playing: Guided by Voices - I Am a Scientist
via FoxyTunes

some favorite GbV/Bob lyrics

She says "good morning" to you, and you look away
She asks you just what to do
You don't know what to say
But what could be done, what could be done for you?
I tell you now
Where will you go when nothing's laid out for you?

*****

But I believed you
No need for further questioning
And I'm gonna leave with you
You can teach me all you know
Which way will we go now?
On our trip to taller windows
I really don't know now
I really don't know

*****

We are having the time of our lives
We are having the time of your lives

...

And if it all goes well, we can start a new life
Cause dear Mr. Jesus, I need me a wife

*****

Black without warning,
the sky and the morning star
It's "look!" we are angels and wires
Under a pregnant sky

...

And now I've come back, translucent and peeled
At Huffman Prairie Flying Field

*****

It's so fine to see you
Delicious and thank you for coming
There is nowhere to go but up
You know that, for I tell you

All of our friends
Are thinking about us
The cup is running over

*****

And down will go back up forevermore
I must try to believe this
Forevermore
I must try and believe this

*****

Gumming the fun tunnel
And answer to no one
And not knowing this
So God bless you

*****

Cover your eyes
The light is too bright
The wise men, they tell you lies

And what's worse
They curse (that's a bad thing to do)
But still
I love the fight

And flies are maybe marked men
Cause they're attracted to the light
They realize
The night has come to baptize
And they will finally realize

And what's worse
It hurts
But still
They love the bite

And I would like to die with you
I'd like to try, but I'm not suicide
And I would like to kill you, but that would suit you fine, I realize
And I will not disgrace myself by chasing
You around to pull you back
And I will not give in and hit you when
Before the fight begins
And it's OK
I'm over you
I'm over you

*****

I have entered a shiny new realm
A very different, very spoiled world
It's with great pleasure
I introduce myself
To call and thank you for such delicious pie

Pass the word, the chicks are back

*****

How, you ask, will I know you?
Especially when I can't see you in my sleep?
And I'm afraid to be with you
Only when you are gone then shall I weep

Take my shape and then
Follow me, my childhood friend

Would I lie?
I would die
If you walked into my room
Someday cry
Someday smile
And say "it's great to be alive!"
Should I stay?
Should I go?
Indecision rules my mind
My heart cries

*****

Loads of creamy music
And lots of time to make it
Behind the steamy newsroom
They wouldn't dare to fake it

Lasting forever
Through radioactive weather
Do what you do
Shake what it is
Add 'em up - yeah!
158 years of beautiful sex

*****

"I'm a believer," she tells me.

*****

Let me tell you a story
Conclusive, based on fact
Long ago, in the morning
She left, did not come back

I don't really care anymore
I don't really care

Change the days into nights
And you will know when the feeling is right
This tale is too long
The plot is weak and the characters wrong

I don't really care anymore
I don't really care

*****

While crossing the parking lot
A stranger approached me
Handed me a gun
Said "meet me in the ashes
of the old city,
and we're bound to have some fun"

*****

Come on over tonight
We'll put on some Cat Butt and do it up right

*****

I'm planning to see
I'm planning to feel you all over me
So climb on my trunk
And build on your nest
Come get the sap out of me

*****

I'm a widow and I'm hot to do you

*****

I'm really out there, but I like the view
So baby hold on
Baby hold on

*****

You aren't happy with me
But you are the world to me
But it's all over now
It's all gone now

*****

It would change my life
Staring out my window
Coming into sight
It would change my life

But then you went away
And then
You dicked my life

Staring out my window
I can't see past it
You brought me down that night

*****

Arouse me to ultramaroon!

*****

There was a band from Beantown
They drove the now sound
With a girl at the top of her lungs now
Yeah a girl at the top of her lungs

She tells the people, "Baby,
the world will settle down for no one"
I will deliver to you
I will deliver to you

*****

When she calls you
You'll be crying
Inside dying alone

When she keeps you
You can't kiss her
You will miss her when she's gone

*****

We hope these cables will serve you well
We hold these truths and they're not to sell
I'm not up there!
Approach me now!

*****

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Now playing: Guided by Voices - Crocker's Favorite Song
via FoxyTunes

So, with the new position, I'll be doing some traveling for training in such far-flung locales as Not Here, and as such, am required to apply for a corporate charge card. The prospect of this has caused me great consternation, as you subject yourself to your employer's bank looking at your creditworthiness, and when you click on "submit" on the app, you give permission for the bank to discuss your credit with your employer.

Have I mentioned that my credit score is pi?

Nemesis and I applied for a corporate charge card on the same day last week – it's likely that we'll end up as travel buddies when there's project controller training somewhere - and I knew full well what the end result would be. This knowledge was reinforced when, today, the mail was handed out, and Nemesis received his card in the mail.

I received nothing except a look.

I fretted about this all day, imagining that the next voice to come over the intercom would say, "Mr. Tamble, please report to the division manager's office." And then there would be a discussion about my failure to receive a card due to the fact that my credit history is … ahem … spotty at best, and downright treacherous at worst.

So I spent more time outside smoking today than I would have liked, just to prevent the inevitable discussion from ever starting. I left work without working over this afternoon and went home, relieved that the discussion never took place.

I picked up Son from daycare, went home, pulled up to the mailbox … and the bank had mailed the charge card to my house. I gasped for a moment, then sat in my car next to the mailbox, laughing:

The fools!!!

Because, really, I don't think they know who they're dealing with.

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Now playing: Belle & Sebastian - Asleep on a Sunbeam
via FoxyTunes

On the occasion of receiving two more contracts today to track, bringing my total to four, it was the first day I got to whip out that old Beavis & Butt-Head line:

“I’m angry at numbers. There’s, like, too many of them and stuff.”

Feels good to be able to quote B&B again.

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Now playing: Belle & Sebastian - There's Too Much Love
via FoxyTunes

After 3+ weeks there, here's the most annoying thing about my new job.

(Christ. Is that all you talk about anymore?) Yes.

Anyway - the most annoying thing about my job isn't Nemesis (a genuinely nice guy if you can get past the Boston fandom), or the fact that I don't know what I'm doing yet. (Which isn't nearly so annoying as much as it is frustrating - from the get-go, I've been a high performer/achiever in almost every position I've taken in the past, and to be crippled constantly by bouts of ignorant dumbassery is really a tough pill to swallow.)

Rather, it's the proliferation of these posters:


The sentiment is all well and good, and if they stopped there, that'd be fine. I like my Uncle Sam almost as much as Yosemite Sam.

But.

They then go on to attach any number of commands on the end of it:

(at the security manager's desk) I WANT YOU to wear your badge!

(on one of the exit doors) I WANT YOU to make sure this door latches shut behind you!

(above the can repository) I WANT YOU to recycle your aluminum cans!

And so on and so forth. And they're all over the fucking building.

Gawd.

On the other hand, if this is all I have to bitch about, then it must be going pretty well so far. And it is, if I weren't beholden to ignorant dumbassery. They tell me that the magic number is 6 months - at 6 months, a switch flips on, and I'll go, "Ahhhhh! I get it now!" Or not. We'll see.

(not yet at my desk) I WANT YOU to learn about the exciting world of project control!

I just want me not to suck.

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Now playing: Robert Pollard - Island Crimes
via FoxyTunes

My phone rang Sunday morning while I was in the grocery store looking for cappuccino mix for my wife. It was my dad.

“You up and about?” he asked me.

“Yeah, I’m just at the grocery store.”

“Well, we overlooked something when we had the boy yesterday. His little red jacket is still on the couch in the living room.”

“OK – well, as soon as I take the groceries home,” I said, “I’ll have to go back out anyway. I can just come over and get it, since it’s still supposed to be in the 40s or so when I take him to daycare in the morning, and that’s the only light jacket he’s got that still fits him.”

“Actually, we were on our way over to eat at the Chinese restaurant,” he told me.

“The one here in town?”

“Yeah, that’s the one we prefer anymore. The last time we were at Jumbo Dragon, we were actually pretty disappointed.”

“Ahhhh, I hate to hear that,” I said, making a mental note not to buy any more gift certificates to Jumbo Dragon for Dad’s birthday or anniversary or Christmas.

“So we’ll be over there around quarter till,” he said. “You want to meet us there?”

“I’d love to,” I said. “It may be a few minutes past that, since I’m not quite halfway through the store yet and I’ll have to run home and unload them and then come back.”

“OK – see you then.”

“By the way, Dad – how’s your arm?”

“Oh, it’s fine, fine. Yours?”

“Hurts like a bitch,” I said with a smile in my voice.

The day before, Dad and his wife had spent the day with my son, as they usually do every other Saturday. Because my wife and I had not visited with them since the 4^th of July, we decided to pay them a visit on Saturday afternoon.

We all went for a walk, the whole passel of us – Dad, my stepmom, my wife, my stepsister, her daughter, my son and I. The two kids rode their bikes up the road, while Dad lagged behind us because he took his time getting his basset hound out of his pen and hooking him up to his lead.

(By the way: I’ll go on the record right now with this observation: anyone who thinks that a dog is a great gift for an older, active person is full of shit. There have been several occasions where my stepmom has asked me to try and find someone who’ll take the dog off Dad’s hands, but then Dad feels guilty about getting rid of him and changes his mind.

(Naturally – although my stepmom, stepsister and I pitched in equally on the purchase of the dog – the idea of “dog as gift” was, regrettably, mine. It stemmed from a half-drunk conversation we had the previous Christmas Eve. And, really, a dog would have been a great idea if Dad didn’t do anything. But because of the dog, he really can’t do anything.

(So, I have a hard time sleeping at night sometimes when I think of how I’ve ruined his retirement, or at least the last six years of it.)

We walked about 3/4 of a mile up the road, taking our time so that Dad would eventually catch up with us, then walked back down toward the house. I strolled slowly behind with Dad and the dog while the women and children went on ahead. We stopped off to chat for about 15 minutes with one of his neighbors who just put in a prefab outbuilding the day before, then continued on to the house.

Dad tied the dog up in the front yard, and the kids played in the yard while the adults just sat and commiserated for about a half-hour before my stepsister and her daughter eventually left, so it was just me, my wife, Son, Dad and my stepmom sitting outside. Dad goes into the house, and after about 5 minutes, brings out a couple of baseball gloves and a ball. “Wanna throw the ball for a little bit?” (Me: “Does a bear shit in the woods?” I didn’t say that, though, but wild boars couldn’t have kept me from putting on a glove.)

The ensuing half-hour was the stuff of movies and Mitch Albom books. We tossed the ball back and forth, he recounted how he’d had those gloves for about 20+ years, and we talked about nothing in particular.

And, quite frankly, it was the happiest moment I’ve had with him in a long time. We’ve had good times before, sure - swimming or shooting guns or drinking ourselves silly on beer or his homemade wine or some moonshine that he got from a lady in West Virginia – but this was different. Pitching a baseball back and forth in the yard, and even though our wives and my son were about 30 feet away, it felt like it was just me and him, on a perfect, nondescript summer day in 1987.

Odd, really, how the simple act of throwing and catching a ball brings fathers and sons closer together. And sad how I can’t write about it without sounding like a cliché.

“I really, really loved doing throwing the baseball with you yesterday,” I told him on the phone in the cappuccino aisle.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, me too. Have to do it again sometime.”

“Definitely,” I said.

Even though his words didn’t express it, I would like to think that the day meant as much to him as it did to me.

This conversation happened.

Me: I found out a little more about my training today ...

(Note: In conjunction with my new position, my company will be sending me to project controller's training, the specifics of which were vaguely defined during my interview, so it's not like this was a surprise. Anyway:)

... it looks like I'll be going to San Diego.

Wife: Oh yeah? For a week?

Me: Two weeks.

Wife: Huh. Well, don't get out there and let someone do you up the butt.

Me: I think you're thinking of San Francisco.

(laughter ensues)

It's been 10 years since I ...

(Wait. I wrote a song that started like that once, and I'm not above plagiarizing myself, but this post would turn into a sad country song, and no one wants that. Let's try again.)

Ten years gone, and ....

(Oops, that's a Zeppelin song. Climbing mountains and slaying dragons and shit. Not in that mood. One more time:)

Ten years ago, I put the finishing touches on what I had hoped would propel me to at least local music stardom and underground adulation - a rough set of demos called Voluptuosity, recorded under the name Baby Doll Head. The songs themselves weren't too bad, but various glitches during the recording process and the blatant inexperience of my producer/mixer (me) made the whole proposition fairly hit-and-miss.

A year later, I began recording the followup, Nympholepsy, which never saw the light of day. The five songs I committed to tape on that one were a happy mess; the limitations of the equipment made it sound like I was singing in a well, but I thought the songs themselves were stronger than those on Voluptuosity (in particular, "Angora," which is probably the strongest song I've ever written, if I do say so myself).

It may or may not surprise you to learn that I still have visions of rocking everywhere from Bloomington to Scranton and all points in between. Not nearly so much anymore, mind you (though I do hear that Scranton is lovely in the fall), because we all need to grow up someday, but who doesn't want to be a rock star at least an eensy-teensy bit?

Anyway, I rediscovered both sets of demos last week and have been listening to them nonstop, imagining what I'd do different and finally getting used to their various idiosyncrasies, which I was quite embarrassed about at one point but have grown to love as part of the songs' various charms.

So I'm finding bits and pieces and scraps of paper of old lyrics I've written or started to write, and I'd like to do it all again someday - maybe to recapture that whole "best time of my life" vibe, or maybe because I've had these melodies and lyrics rattling in my head for 10 years and it's about time they came out.

(Personal note to The Captain: Whatever comes to pass, the first song on the new one will be "Ping Pong Pigeons Have Electric Vision," with your permission, of course.)

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Now playing: Baby Doll Head - Sometimes We Mean What We Say
via FoxyTunes

American Project Controller - airing this fall on the Narcolepsy Network!

So, how is the new job going, anyway, you ask?

The answer comes down to whether you are more comfortable with the devil you know or the devil you don’t know. It goes back to my comment last week about getting out of one’s comfort zone, expanding one’s boundaries. Anyway, taking the temperature of the new position:

Pro: I love the new working environment. I share an 8 x 15 cube (which is approximately 15 miles from Doom’s office) with another guy who they brought in from the outside; he seems pretty quiet thus far, but …

Con: … he is a fan of Boston-area sports. Which – well, wow, my God do I love Boston’s sports teams. The Red Sox, the Patriots … man, I just eat that shit up. (No, I don’t.) At least he’s not a dick about it. Regardless, my blog-ready pseudonym for him is especially apt: Hereafter, he will be known only as Nemesis.

Pro: I’ll be making more money!

Con: But I still haven’t received my offer letter yet. As far as I know, I’m still working at the same rate that I was previously, even though I know what I’m supposed to be making, and there’s quite the disparity between the two amounts. I guess it’s still tied up in HR or something, the bastards.

Pro: I’m learning new and exciting stuff!

Con: No, I’m not. The subject matter is about as dry as an Arizona summer, and I’ve only learned about 5 percent of what I need to know to succeed. Sigh. Still, it beats the hell out of whatever that was I working for before.

I’m not getting impatient, but I do still wonder what I’ve stepped into. Hey, did you know that project controllers can go to prison if they do their jobs incorrectly and they can't prove that they aren't idiots?

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Now playing: The Pernice Brothers - Somerville
via FoxyTunes

The thing that caused me the most consternation at work today, on the sixth anniversary of 9/11, wasn’t how I was going to learn about PM reports or A002 reports – large reports that are due tomorrow. It wasn’t my first shaky effort at reporting the accruals on the contracts I manage.

No, the thing that caused me the most concern and worry was the proper way to hold hands in a prayer circle.

About 40 of us gathered outside around the flagpole on a blustery day to commemorate Patriot Day. The speaker meandered off into talking about Hurricane Katrina, the tsunami and the need for friendship (not necessarily in the same sentence). Then he asked us to join hands for a moment of silence and a prayer. Awkwardly, I joined hands with a woman of about 50 on my right who I’d never seen before, and a kindly old grandfather type who looked to be about 70 on my left.

So, how to hold hands in a prayer circle? I went both ways, I guess, guaranteeing that I was right on at least one. The woman on my right and I joined hands, palm to palm (for lack of a better term), while the gentleman on my left and I locked fingers. Creepy, dude, in Jesus name, amen.

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Now playing: Matthew Sweet & Susanna Hoffs - She May Call You Up Tonight
via FoxyTunes

I'd be lying if I said that the Captain didn't know me at all. God, I love this.

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Now playing: The White Stripes - Effect And Cause
via FoxyTunes

For the uninitiated, my son spent the first 24 days of his life in the hospital's neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). Thankfully, his only issue was that he was about 8 weeks early; he's not had any developmental problems or things like that. (Though he is a bit scared of the dark, which was completely expected, since there was always at least some light on in the NICU.)

Anyway, today was the hospital's NICU reunion. Every year, the staff there puts together some sort of party for the graduates of the NICU and their parents. Last year, it was at the children's museum; the year before, at an area amusement park, and three years ago, at the zoo.

Today reunion was a circus in the parking lot of the hospital. I don't mean that it was haphazard and chaotic - it was, literally, a circus, at least on a smaller scale. They had games and face-painting and clowns and activities and those big concussion pits that I showed earlier in my post about the county fair. And it was a great time, as usual, but it was hot and muggy and generally uncomfortable, and we spent only about a half-hour there today. Still, it's a very important event on my jam-packed social calendar (ha), and we try to make it a point to go every year, if only to show our gratitude to the staff at the hospital for the excellent care that Son received during his stay there.

But here's my thing. I can't seem to make it through one of these things without getting something in my eye. I mean, it's a happy, joyous event, and it's awesome that they've been providing such wonderful care for 30 years (13,000 NICU graduates, said the banner there), yet I'm just on the verge of tears the entire time. I can't explain it. It could be due to any number of reasons - whether I'm recalling the fear and the anxiety of his early birth there, or remembering the poem that was on the wall in the memory of a tiny baby that didn't make it out of the NICU, or just the joy of becoming a daddy three years ago, or what. Whatever the case, I end up spending at least part of the event blinking away tears.

I think I just go every year to reassure myself that that part of my spirit isn't dead. I wonder sometimes.