Friday, July 30, 2010

Word Addiction: A Brief History of My One True Love

Even if she wasn’t a huge reader herself, my mother knew the importance of making me fall in love with books. At an early age I was given a handful of little plastic-bound tomes to sift through so that I might learn the building blocks of what would eventually become my first real addiction. Had the doctors allowed such a thing, she might have brought some into the delivery room and put them in my tiny, placenta-covered hands to jumpstart the process. But, as was her fashion, she stuck to the rules and waited until we got home.



By the time I was in kindergarten, I knew the alphabet, and thus was bored to death as my teacher, Mrs. Young, showed videotapes of little cartoon consonants and vowels acting as though they were people. Instead of watching to figure out how a group of sans-serif individuals could befriend one another to make simple words, I resorted to looking out windows and staring at walls, wishing that I were at home.



That next year, during a parent-teacher conference, my teacher refused to believe that I could read a storybook deemed beyond what a first-grader was able to do. My parents disagreed, and so in a battle of wills, it was agreed upon that I would be forced to read the book in class. Aloud. In front of everyone. All in all, the book was pretty easy. It had to do with a star or a baby lion or something along those lines. Nothing beyond Charlotte’s Web or anything by Judith Viorst or even a James Patterson novel, for that matter. Still, I got up in front of my class and got about five pages in, a little more than halfway through the book, when my teacher told me that that was enough. “That’s all we have time for today,” she said, sending me back to my seat.



Throughout the rest of my grade school years I took an insane pleasure from copying down words and learning to spell, and on our visits to the school library my friends would find me salivating like a dog waiting on the promise of a treat. Every few months when my teachers would hand out the leaflets for a new Scholastic Book Fair, I would treasure it, worrying the edges with my fingers and taking in each title’s little synopsis with what amounted, back then, to ecstasy.



It wasn’t until middle school that I began to learn the joys of writing myself. Before then, my knowledge of composition had been limited to basic school reports, which were cookie-cut and had all the flexibility of a back brace. My first attempts at writing for fun were transcriptions of video games I’d played, scribbled in pencil in my school notebooks. Then came fantasies about spaceships from television shows like Star Trek scouring the galaxy for adventure. No one saw these. Not even my mother, who tried peering over my shoulder to see what I was up to, sitting at my desk, my back to my bedroom door, hunched over with one hand hidden and working furiously at something. Looking back, I suppose the concern she displayed might have been at the mistaken notion that I, at twelve years old, had prematurely discovered the fun that is masturbation.



From my space-bound adventures, I transitioned into more humorous fare. Namely, a collection of stories that concerned my friend and classmate Tiffany, who would make me laugh with her made-up recollections about living in a Mexican hut with a feline named HeyCat. The stories came out in a frenzy of excitement that was ushered in when I showed the first one to my language arts teacher, Mrs. Althoff, who would sit at her desk and read them, laughing occasionally against the hush of the classroom. The sound of her laughing was like a drug, and so I set out like a junkie looking for my fix.



At this time, books too became more adventurous, as I reached beyond the children’s fare of Judy Blume and Louis Sachar and into the deeper waters of Lowis Lowry and Rodman Philbrick, both of whom demonstrated a fascinating ability to achieve in me an emotional reaction. I read my first Stephen King novel my last year of eighth grade.



Throughout the rest of middle school and into high school, writing became more than just a hobby. I felt as though I had been called to write, and I took the mantle of doing so with all the seriousness and gravitas capable of a slightly overweight teenage boy into writing stories about talking Mexican cats and intergalactic spaceships. Stories stretched and reached for things which they had never attempted before. Characters grew larger as explosions diminished; humor took a backseat to my crazy, wild-eyed attempts at lassoing the same emotional power that I could see authors wielding in their works.



College brought on courses in creative writing, which introduced me to people who had the same desires as me. It felt refreshing to be in a room full of people who I imagined got the same thrill out of crating a well-worded sentence as me, even if in reality few of them actually enjoyed writing as much as they enjoyed having one less elective course to add to next semester’s schedule.



When I came into a class called Practical Criticism — a course dedicated to the routine dissection of stories, as if they were frogs — I first met Jason Wendleton, the coauthor of this blog. By the end of the semester we had struck up a friendship, one that I’m 98.6 percent certain remains to this day. Part of the draw was the mutual attraction to the limitless possibilities of writing. The magic of creation. The power of good prose. And, of course, our strong aversion to looking for real jobs.



After college was finished for Jason and myself — he with his genuine UM-St. Louis English degree and me with my still-in-progress dual major in Laziness and Procrastination — we started talking about our mutual desire to start putting our works out into the world. Seeing as neither of us had any major publications aside from some of Jason’s columns for The Current, the college newspaper, and a short story I’m managed to weasel into the UM-St. Louis LitMag, we decided to start a blog: this very one.



It is hard to believe how quickly time can pass. As most people do, I think the process gets quicker each year. It was approximately 365 days ago that Jason and I founded this little blog, this scattershot collection of random trinkets and pieces of work that remind us (or remind me, anyway) of why it is that writing draws us in like it does. It takes me beyond the ordinary, and it fills in the little gaps in life with things that I would never hope to accomplish. Through writing, both my own and others’, I have seen this world and more, lived years in other people’s lives.



My crazes for caffeine, candy, and fast food have all come and gone with relative ease, but the one thing that always draws me back, even when I try my hardest to ignore it, is the written word. When I sit down to write, I am reminded of the sheer power of imagination, and the everyday magic of creation. That, and it gives me the hope that, one day, I won’t have to have a real job.






Happy birthday, Scattershot.

Happy Birthday SCATTERSHOT, You Bitch...

Believe it or not, but this blog hasn't been as much work as I thought it would be. One post a week, every week for a year sounds like it might be a lot but its been quite manageable.

Of course there have been a lot of goofy ass pictures.

On this historic occasion, the one year anniversary of SCATTERSHOT, I want to first off congratulate my co-author Mike. Not only has Mike delivered each and every week (for a whole year!) but some of those posts were actually pretty good!

I kid. I kid.

Thought provoking? Hilarious? Insightful?

Check. Check. And Check.

I couldn't ask for a better co-author. Look, Mike's as busy as I am okay? He's got a lot of toenails to clip and salsa to make (with his feet) so the fact that he's hung in there for a whole year is really to be commended. I knew that we could PHYSICALLY do the blog, but I wasn't sure if we could do it MENTALLY.

Does that make sense?

Writing is my one great love (after Leah of course). I liken it to mowing the lawn. I don't like mowing the lawn, but I LOVE getting to relax after I've gone out and worked in the heat. Nothing tastes better than that first cold drink. Nothing feels better than that icy shower. Writing, for me, is like that. The act of writing is hard--it's a struggle that if I had my druthers, I'd just go ahead and skip. But without writing, I couldn't taste that cool, delicious victory. I wouldn't be able to savor that inner warmth that comes from completing a post (or a novel, which by the way, not to toot my own horn, but I finished my third a few weeks ago).

Loyal Wendleton-ites will no doubt know the story behind SCATTERSHOT. How I had another blog, where I bitched about so much personal shit that I ended up pissing off a bunch of people. This blog only pisses off the Westboro people, and honestly...what doesn't piss them off???

What does the future hold for SCATTERSHOT? Probably another year of semi-intelligent personal narratives and slightly humorous cartoons. I've always wanted to do a podcast and two weekends ago I brought it up with Mike (over really greasy hamburgers). He seemed excited by the idea, but it could have just been gas. I'm too stupid to figure it out...but if someone wants to call Mike and tell him how to set up a podcast I WILL BE THERE with my viking hat on!!!

Anyway, I would have quit a long time ago, were it not for Mike's perseverance. I actually thought about pulling a press conference "I am IRON MAN!" and announce in this post that I was done. But I can't quit, can I?

I love it too much.

Happy Birthday SCATTERSHOT. You bitch.

HappyB-DaySCATTERSHOT

Friday, July 23, 2010

Can We Stop For Tacos On Our March On Washington?

Never in my life have I been much of an activist. I've always been fascinated by the dedication and drive protesters bring to their beliefs, but for the most part I just can't summon up the energy to rail against the status quo. Things have come and gone for which I've had one feeling or another, but something that would spur me to get up out of my chair would have to be a rally for free tacos or a demonstration involving drinking pina coladas. Indoors. On lounge chairs.



To say that I am a lazy person, I feel, is a bit unfair. True, I don't march on Washington or take part in sit-ins. Whereas some people organize their next rally against homophobic politicians or a war taking place in a far-off land, I take pill bottles and outfit them with construction paper and googly eyes, transforming them into cartoon characters. To me, this is a productive use of my time.



Still, that's not to say that I've never been involved with demonstrations.



My friend Amber is more politically inclined than I am. She and her boyfriend Andy display a motivation that would inspire those looking to make changes in the world. Their level of commitment is such that I can only describe it as "overwhelming," something I can attest to since I was with the two of them for the first rally I ever attended.



Together we were protesting the suspension of a former English teacher of ours for his classroom use of an article exploring the element of homosexuality in the animal kingdom. The article at its worst was timid (nothing more than what a person might read in National Geographic), but from the furor that a single parent raised after reading it, one might have believed the article was an excerpt from a Jackie Collins novel. And so our teacher, Mr. DeLong, had been suspended, and on the night on the school board meeting to determine whether or not he would keep his job, a small army of protesters gathered outside the building to show their support.



My decision to go was based on the emotional connection I had with Mr. DeLong. As a former student and someone who had once imagined himself becoming an English teacher, it felt even more unfair that he should be chastised for encouraging his students to think outside the normal bounds of small-town Midwestern life. As a homosexual the fact that someone would make a fuss over her child having to learn about the inevitabilities of gayness among peacocks and turtles made me angry.



While the motivations behind my going were sizable, the protest itself felt a bit underwhelming. In my head I'd conjured up scenes of people boasting signs and making catchy chants. People would throw bottles in fits of rage. And might it be too much to ask that someone set themselves on fire, like in those schoolbook pictures of Buddhist monks during the Vietnam War? What I got instead was a crowd of maybe seventy people, all of whom were in favor of Mr. DeLong's reinstatement. There were no angry counter-protesters. No screaming mobs. Nothing but a group of students and middle-aged parents standing outside a converted house in the middle of a field.



I guess, in a way, it's good that nothing got out of hand. But a part of me had to wonder, where's the fun in this? If I'm giving up my free evening, can't I get a little excitement in return? After all, the November air was chilly, and my feet were on the edge of a mild discomfort from standing for an hour and a half.



The more professional protesters, the ones who do this kind of thing all the time, might vilify me for that kind of a statement, and so it seems like a fair thing to say that it's a good thing I am not involved in many demonstrations. All in all, I make for a pretty poor protester. This being no more evident than when, at seven-thirty, I told my friend Amber that I was leaving to go to a birthday party. In all fairness, I'd made the commitment long before I agreed to come to the rally, but I did feel slightly guilty when I learned later that Amber and Andy and a good group of the protesters were there, showing their silent support, until a little after midnight.



So maybe it's a good thing that I don't make it a priority to involve myself in political demonstrations or rallies against injustices. After an initial bout of shame, I'm coming to terms with the knowledge of my place in the grand scheme of things. When I imagine myself at any of the great movements in history – Vietnam, D.C.'s civil rights marches, the 1969 Miss America Protest – I cannot help but hear my voice among the chants of civil disobedience, dampening their power, saying, "Hey, I thought there were going to be pina coladas! And where are the lounge chairs? Well, can we at least stop for some tacos?"

SCATTERSHOT Blog VS. The Westboro Baptist Church

Back in March, I first actually saw the nutcases from the Westboro Baptist Church live and in person. My wife and I were attending An Evening With Kevin Smith out in Kansas City. Unfortunately for Smith (and us) K.C. Missouri is much too close to Kansas, which is where these vermin hail from.

There were quite a few of them, as I recall, holding their "God Hates America" and "God Hates Fags" signs. They were protesting Smith because of his film DOGMA I guess.

See, that's the first problem I have with these people at the Westboro Baptist Church--their message is so random. It's almost like a child, or someone with a child-like mind, put their whole message together.

For example, they've recently added a sign to their protests that feature a drawing of the Gulf of Mexico with a giant oil blot on it that reads "Gods Wrath" or "Thank God for His Wrath." I don't recall exactly what it says, but the point is this: the BP oil spill is God's way of punishing us.

Yikes. And what is "He" punishing us for? Well the gays of course. Don't you see? Doesn't that make complete sense?

Yeah, I don't get it either. I don't get the whole "Thank God for dead soldiers" either. So, our boys in the military are dead...and it's all because we're not locking people for being gay? I mean, last I checked, this country isn't exactly the most open-minded/progressive when it comes to sexual orientation.

OH MAN!!! Imagine the oil spill we'd get if DID legalize gay marriage! I bet God would make it RAIN oil. Hmm...maybe we should do it just to solve this pesky energy crisis. But I digress...

So I'm a closet Lady Gaga fan. Even though I freely admit to liking a wide variety of music, Gaga (when she first came out) was a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. Now that she continues to put out interesting music and music videos (not to mention have wacky-ass fashion sense) I can be a bit more open about my feels for Gaga. She's not a one-hit-wonder but more of a cultural force of nature.

Lady Gaga, however, made one fatal mistake--she doesn't hate the gays. So Fred Phelps and his hate mongers decided to stage a protest at her July 17 St. Louis show. Because I didn't have a job for so long, we couldn't go to the show...but my wife found out about a counter-protest that sounded interesting.

I've never been one to shy away from confrontation, so of course I wanted to go. One thing that really bums me out about the Westboro nuts (or any nuts really) is that they ARE A VERY VOCAL MINORITY. I truly believe that most people are inherently good, and are repulsed by their "God hates Fags" rhetoric. Which is why a counter-protest is actually very important: it lets everyone know (for sure) that there are more decent people in the world.

I contacted my co-author, Mike, who agreed to join us outside the Scotttrade Center to protest the protesters. Early in the afternoon, Mike and I went to Walgreens where his "freedom debit card" purchased four pieces of "free speech poster board." Two neon green. Two neon pink. Then we went over to one of Leah's social work friend's house to make our sign. I initially wanted to just let Leah make my sign...but then I thought about and decided to do the right thing and put my creative mind to good use.

I needed a gimmick, something that would startle people into reading my sign, but at the same time parody the religious idiocy the Phelps crew use to justify their hate. I knew I was wearing my Viking hat to the protest, because Leah said I could (and she never lets me wear it in public). And thus, after a few minutes of thinking...and protest sign was born:

My sign

We drove downtown and found the streets choked with people. A Cardinals game and just let out (which the Phelps people also protested, apparently). By the time we got to the arena, we were sure both protests would be well under way. Gaga's fans (dubbed "little monsters") were out in droves.

But where were the Phelps protesters? We actually walked all the way around the arena before finding them. There were, just as I thought, more counter-protesters than Phelps-people. Now here is what pisses me off--leading up to the show there were many stories written online in the local media about the "Planned Westboro Protest." The media are more than happy to give these fuckers a platform to stand on. What is NEVER reported is how few of these people actually show up (unless the event is nearer to Kansas). There were only SIX people holding signs across the street, behind a little police barricade.



Leah's sign was simpler and more to the point.

What was also cool--Mike and I ran into our old friend Colin who was running one of what turned out to be two counter-protests:


Two protests? And only six people on the other side? It was pathetic. It was basically no contest, Westboro was out gunned (there were around 100 on our side). My sign got the reaction I wanted (a few head shakes, many requests for pictures) which made me happy, but the fact that so few people actually showed up to protest a pop-singer made me happier.

Can you even see them?

This man's sign beat mine in the "WTF?" category. But I still won for best headgear.


Here's a video that you HAVE to watch covering the event. We all made "the cut" as it were...and so did my little SCATTERSHOT advertisement (special thanks to Mike for finding this one online):



I was also filmed from afar (with Mike) in this random clip Leah found on YouTube:


Friday, July 16, 2010

A Day In The Life...

A Day In The Life...

Cartoons

My favorite historical figure, of all time, is Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was a true "Renaissance Man. " He did everything--he was a scientist, a historian, author, publisher, postman, inventor, politician, diplomat, etc. Nowadays people will tell you to "specialize" and focus on one thing...but I've always thought there was a place for the "jack-of-all-trades."

I'm a jack-of-all-trades.

One of the many interests I have is animation and comic books. I recently saw TOY STORY 3 with Mike, the other writer at this blog, and I loved it. I visit the local comic book shop at least one a month, and I watch cartoons. I'm not ashamed of it.

On my birthday I watched a Hayao Miyazaki film.

I'm kinda artistic, but I'm limited when it comes to drawing. That said, I've penned three different, multi-issued, comic books. The first was my "Tiny Batman" comic strip, which I created after my sister Amber got her first (yes, I said "first") Chihuahua. For some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to make a comic book about her dog dressing up as Batman. I did a couple of these. Sadly, none survive.

The second comic book I did a few years later. It was about a slacker-dude that looked like me (except he wore a viking hat) named George and a dinosaur named Timmy. The George and Timmy comic book was over 20 pages long, it was hand drawn by myself and had a pretty damn good plot (considering I was 19). I wrote it when the Olympics were in Australia (go look it up, I'm too lazy to do it) and the plot was that Timmy received a letter saying he was on the US Olympic team (but not which team) and he wanted to get to Sydney. I had another story idea where George and Timmy became ghost hunters, but my hand began to hurt from all the drawing so I gave up on it.

I would DO ANYTHING to see this comic book again. I have no idea what I did with it. I'm fairly certain that it's in a dump somewhere, because I threw it away in a fit of melancholy (yes, that happens to me sometime). But it's a crying shame, because I would love to scan it in and post it online. It was very funny and I spent several weeks on the drawings (which were some of the best I've ever done). Sadly, it is lost to the ages...much like the Holy Grail.

I did try and write a sequel a few years ago, though I only got the cover finished before running out of steam:

drawing 019

The third comic I've done is the SHEEPLE comic strip. I was at work, very bored and I had a bit of scrap paper in front of me. I was filled with political angst and no outlet--thus SHEEPLE was born. After I did the first post, I decided to turn it into it's own blog. I put out a few strips, then forgot about it/gave-up on it for a while. However when times get tough, or when the mood strikes me, I put out another one. If I tried to do this blog and the SHEEPLE blog I would HAVE NO LIFE. As sad at it sounds, coming up with one post a week is too hard--there is no way I could do both blogs. But damn if I don't try.

SheepleBLOGroll

Since I've been a reader I've read cartoons (or "the funnies"). CALVIN AND HOBBES and THE FAR SIDE are my two all-time favorite comic strips. There couldn't be two different strips, one is very warm and loving--the other sly and cynical. I love the philosophy and the art of CALVIN AND HOBBES, it's almost like comfort food for your soul. THE FAR SIDE, on the other hand, is (usually) one perfect panel. I'm also partial to a really old strip called KRAZY KAT, which is a little like both CALVIN and FAR SIDE.

I'm was an English major. I love Dickens and Fitzgerald--but I also love Watterson and Herriman. I think it takes a special person to convey story and emotion through both text and pictures.

My favorite American Cartoon is THE SIMPSONS which had been a litmus of friendship for me for over 10 years (Mike and I are friends because he knows the episodes by heart). I think that's the cartoon that really made it okay for grown-ups to like 'toons. Though I don't think it would have made it onto the air had there not been shows like THE FLINTSTONES (which was also "for adults").

Oh, that reminds me of CARTOON NETWORK!

When I was in Junior College (back in '02) every Sunday night was "Adult Swim" night. Me and my then-girlfriend would eat doughnuts and watch cartoons like AQUA TEEN HUNGER FORCE and SEALAB on the cable channel Cartoon Network. Vulgar, violent, and bloody, ADULT SWIM was funny as hell and a great way to start the week. Eventually, the night's popularity bled over to all the days of the week and the novelty wore a bit thin. I was shocked to find none of the guys in the dorm watched ADULT SWIM on Sunday nights after I moved to St. Louis...but so it goes. I still love subversive cartoons. There's something about a "naughty" cartoon that gets me all hot and bothered.

Ultimately, cartoons are like those cave drawings they found in France...in that cave...

You know the one. Anyway, I'm not ashamed to say that I fucking love cartoons.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Parfait

I've never been very coordinated. I don't know if it's my clown-sized feet or the fact that my legs are abnormally long (two details which make me think that, should I ever be shipwrecked, I could find a sizable piece of driftwood, cut off my legs, and use my oar-sized feet to row myself to safety).



From grade school games of kickball to high school requisite dance classes, I've always been the one to demonstrate his complete inability to be graceful. The latest in my ever-growing list of examples comes from a experience I had while working.



It was time for my lunch and so I opted for a drink and one of the fruit and yogurt parfaits sold at the little snack bar. After purchasing my items I headed upstairs, where our break room is. In less than five minutes, I would no longer be wearing my shirt, and I would have nothing to eat besides the basket of free Jolly Ranchers sitting next to the communal toaster oven.



As I made my way upstairs, I was moving quickly, practically skipping up the stairs, when my foot caught the lip of one of the steps. As I reached out for the railing to catch myself with the three available fingers holding my parfait, the two holding the little plastic cup squeezed, sending yogurt and mixed berries all over my shirt and face and covering the stairwell in a sticky red, white, and purple mess.



I stood there for a moment after it happened, wishing and hoping that, somehow, this was all a huge misunderstanding, as if I were dreaming or I'd somehow ingested some bad mushrooms and was now hallucinating one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. Unfortunately, as the yogurt dripped down my face in fat little globules, I realized that this was no dream. No bad shroom trip.



My first instinct was to try and cover up what had happened. I'd been alone in the stairwell, and so I thought that if I could just find some paper towels, everything might be fine. But as I searched my bosses' offices, I could find nothing. And so I had to swallow my pride and walk into the break room, where three of my coworkers were sitting.



It took them a second to realize that, despite my usual shabby appearance, I looked a little more shabby today, seeing as I was wearing a food item like one of those rejuvenating masks often seen on women in television shows. Their reactions ran the gamut from compassionate ("Oh no! What happened?") to crushing (a bark of laughter), and finally to the outright cruel (the camera shutter sounds of a cell phone taking pictures).



I cleaned myself off, and thanks to the ingenious invention of the undershirt was able to go downstairs, past the scene by the stairs that looked like a deleted clip from a homemade horror movie, and go buy another shirt for work.



So, I am clumsy. I am uncoordinated. I am never eating one of those damned parfaits again.

"Horseboy" & The Scariest Part of THE SHINING

There's something creepy about seeing a thing incredibly out of place unexpectedly. I used to sit in a guard shack all alone at night and imagine all sorts of terrible things--but my favorite "let's freak myself out" activity was a sort of what-if game.

What-if a pumpkin-headed demon eating an ice cream cone came quietly walking down the middle of Southwest Boulevard? What-if a man in a bowler hat walked by with a junkie on a leash?

If I wasn't too tired, sometimes my mind could conjure up some quiet horror better than any F/X house on the planet. I think for me, there's nothing more unsettling than a subtle horror--or a "pedestrian" one. The idea of a mutant hillbilly with chainsaw hands is scary, no doubt. I mean, I don't want to run into him--but the idea of him pushing a flower cart calmly through a deserted street is scarier to me than if he were trying to chop my head off.

This concept is best exemplified in Stanley Kubrick's THE SHINING. There's all sorts of scary stuff in THE SHINING, but the part that freaks me out the most (to this day) is when one of the characters is running around the Overlook hotel and they catch a glimpse of this fucked-out scene:


These two "ghosts" (or whatever) are on screen for less than 5 seconds, but they're way scarier than anything else in the movie. Why? Because they don't run out and try to kill anyone. They act as though they're spending a typical evening alone together...you know, just wearing the dog costume in the abandoned hotel.

What? Like you've never done that.

The hotel is a normal setting, and suddenly in the midst of this normal setting there is this bizarre couple. Who they are and what they're doing are a mystery. They are gone as quickly as they arrive. There is no explanation. There is nothing particularly threatening about them--except that they exist.

I bring ALL of this up because I read a story over at the Daily Mail's website about a guy who was using the street view of Google Maps to find his local optometrist. Instead of his doctor's office, however, this is what he saw:

horseboy2

They're calling this whacked-out fellow "horseboy."

If I was driving along in the UK, and I saw that thing on the side of the road I WOULD PLOW MY CAR RIGHT INTO THE NEAREST TREE. That would be it for me, game over man. What I love about it is the freakish absurdity of the whole situation:

Man either builds or buys a horse head mask. Man waits for Google car to come zooming by. And then what?

Surely he didn't expect to get rich or famous by doing this. I'm talking about it and the British papers are as well, but this person hasn't come forward. He hasn't sought the spotlight.

This was the act of a very strange mind.

So while the identity of the so-called "horseboy" is not known, here's what I do know: if I'd seen that thing during one of my overnight shifts I'd have crapped my pants. 100% guaranteed.

Friday, July 2, 2010

The Working Life

The other day I was thinking about how great it would be not to have to work. This sentiment is a pretty common one, I'm sure, but the more I thought about it, the more invested in the idea I became. In my head I envisioned a scenario in which I lay on a chaise lounge, sipping Mai Tais somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven in the morning, maybe reading a book or just catching up on the latest cases in Judge Judy's courtroom. As it stands, I'm currently employed in the retail field, which is to say that I get yelled at by people who want important things like toasters and "That one bedspread; my daughter said it's called 'Jasmine' " that happen to be out of stock or, more often than one might believe, completely nonexistent. For the past five years I've worked for a major department store, and for three years prior to that, I spend my after-school hours stocking shelves and ringing up tubs of potato salad at a small-town grocery store.



Eight years of working with the public has taught me one thing about myself: that I hate people.



That might not be entirely true. For every ten middle-aged women trying too hard to pull off the sophisticated demeanor of upper-middle class status by claiming that the pillow I have shown them "does NOT go with their theme," there's always one or two friendly folks who will smile back at me and offer a genuine thank-you. An elderly woman in tight, leopard-print lycra will tell me her preference for fullscreen DVDs, and when I tell her that her chosen movie only comes in widescreen, she shrugs it off and says, "Okay. Thanks, hon." Then, ten minutes later, I'm attacked by a man whose child, it seems, has been taken hostage, and the only way he can save him is to buy ammo for his staple gun, here in the home improvement section the size of a Smart car rather than, say, at the Home Depot across the street.



Having been at my job for several years, I've managed to weasel my way into a position of some responsibility. How I managed to convince anyone that I should be in charge of anything or anyone I'll never know, but having been given a supervisory role in my store means that I get the brunt of most people's aggression. A coworker will encounter an angry customer, and before anyone can get too fired up, they'll jump in and say, "Would you like to speak to my manager?" Basically, offering my head to them on a silver platter.



I can't really blame them, though. I did the exact same thing when I first started.



Often, after explaining to someone that a sign for laundry soap in one spot does not apply to another soap three spots away, I get the privilege of listening to any number of responses. These can range from the litigious "Well, this is FALSE ADVERTISING" to the malicious "You sonofabitch" to the comparatively friendly "This is why I do NOT shop here." On a given day, when I have to crush someone's dream of owning a thirty-dollar slow cooker or telling a grandchild not to climb on the shelves, I'm thought of by any number of people as an asshole.



I've developed a thicker skin, having a few years of insults, curse words, and angry glares under my belt. Still, every once in a while the inevitable confrontation will get to me. In the middle of a woman's rant, I'll sense my heartbeat quicken to something I can actually feel in my neck, the pounding so loud that I can barely make out which four-letter words she's basing her qualifiers on. Thanks to that damned fight or flight response, the part of my brain that would ordinarily make me sound not like an idiot diverts its resources, leaving my mouth numb and giving me a tendency to stumble, buffoon-like, over words a toddler could speak with ease.



In these cases, after I've been left standing victorious or wallowing in defeat, I'll conjure up the image of me resting comfortably, propped up against a mountain of cushions with a drink in my hand. The room around me sits silent with the first words of a novel. Or maybe the television offers its passing promise of more Judge Judy, coming up next. Either way, back in the real world I'll continue on, checking my watch and counting down the hours until my fantasy comes true. If not the one in which I'm free from the bonds of working life, then at least the one, more attainable, where I can clock out and call it a day until tomorrow.

I Want to Retire

So I'm employed once again, which has me dreaming of my retirement.

Hailing from a family of lower-middle class workaholics who laugh at the mere mention of the word "retirement," I'd never seriously considered doing it myself until recently. See, being unemployed sucked but it did show me that there can be more to life that chasing a paycheck. I got a TON of writing done, I became a better bread baker, and I started lifting weights.

Not so bad, right?

So Leah and I have a plan--okay, it's mostly my plan, but here it is:

I want to retire to Wyoming and raise Alpacas.

I know, I know...crazy right? But hear me out. The last summer vacation I took with my family (over 10 years ago) was to the American West. We went to South Dakota and Wyoming--and it was fantastic. Beautiful country, amazing animals, and most importantly FEW PEOPLE. Those of you who know me are aware that I'm a bit of a hermit, who would love nothing more than to just be left alone.

And friends, that's practically the State motto of Wyoming:

state-flag-wyoming copy

Now, the alpaca thing is bit more complicated. See, my wife and I love animals (okay, I like them--SHE loves them) and we've always wanted to live on a "farm." Well raising animals for meat is not something Leah is capable of doing. She knows it, I know it. There is no way she could ever part with a big 'ol friendly steer or chicken. Instead, our farm would quickly turn into a barnyard sanctuary. Alpacas are good because you don't raise them for meat (in this country) you raise them for their soft fur. They're cute and they're easy going animals. I can almost see us now: Grandma Leah shaving the Alpacas while I stand far back and tell her to be careful with the razor.

For my birthday last week, Leah took me to the Zoo where we pet an Alpaca. It was so soft and warm feeling. I like to call them "bunny-deer" because they a have rabbit heads. We saw one spit on this really annoying kid, it was an awesome birthday present (thanks Alpaca).

Anyway, now that I'm starting my new job, I'm going to be more responsible with my money. Instead of investing all my dough in CD's (music cd's) I'm going to start saving for my golden years. Down on the farm with Leah and the Alpacas.

BONUS: Check out this awesome business I found online. Maybe Leah and I can buy a franchise!