Category: self

Introspective thought on my own behavior or actions.

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fathering gold


What’s that they say about a man’s home being his castle? It’s true – I’ll tell you now. As I sit here, the final bits of daylight streaking Wednesday’s cloudy sky, I’m all alone (save for the cat and the pasta on the stove, if they count). Sharaun’s with Keaton at church. I, an occasional heathen, chose not to go. I know, I know, I shouldn’t forgo it, but… I did. So I sit here once again, with the windows open wide to catch the failing sun before it’s gone, Radiohead’s new LP loud on the speakers, and some bachelor-style pasta aboil on the stove. I can put an ‘a’ before “boil” and make it a fancier verb, right? I think you can do that with any verb, technically, if archaically at that. Anyway, I’m’a do it and you’re’a read it… and that’s about it, K? Let’s do this thang.

Seriously though, I’ve explored the theme of how much I love my “home” before on this blog, but moreso lately the whole theme keeps replaying in my head. Pretty sure it has to do with the fact that, during these last few days of sabbatical “downtime,” I’ve not strayed far from the comforts of the place. Cloistered tight within the walls, satisfied to waste the wonderful days reading and listening to music and lounging. I know, you’re saying, how many dang times can I write about “being lazy and listening to music?” A lot, apparently. For reals, though, I am having a truly good time… even if I do have a slight tinge of guilt about wasting so many fine outdoor hours. I feel I’ve earned some time to atrophy and watch the dust motes drift, I just do. In fact, the way I feel right about now, nothing could pry the smile from the corners of my mouth – I just feel good; happy; contented; in clover.

Speaking of Radiohead’s new album… What? Oh, I wasn’t? Hmmm…. well, shutup then. Speaking of Radiohead’s new album, I find it fantastic. And I’m confident that, with the two-plus hours of unadulterated listening time I have before me now, of which, by the way, I’m already taking full advantage, the thing will continue to grow on me. Man, I hope the comma/clause thing I have going on in that sentence is valid. You should get this album. It’s free, what do you care? Seriously… go and download it from anywhere… it’s all over the internetsites out there. If you have trouble finding it, this link should help. Good listening to ya.

Before I leave the subject, though, and because the message boards I frequently lurk on are alive with Radiohead chatter this day, I wanted to just pass along a hilarious quote from a looong thread about In Rainbows. This quote, I’m afraid, holds Nostradamus-esque signs and portents for how my own listening party will likely tonight, mere minutes from now, I’ll wager:

Well, after an evening of Radiohead holiday, reality slaps me in the face as my girlfriend walks in, politely listens to “15 Step” and “Bodysnatchers,” and then asks me to turn it off so she can watch that reality show about the restaurants that suck until the one guy comes in and makes them not suck, while making people cry.

Seeya tomorrow, Radiohead.

Moving on.

One of the fondest memories I have from my days as a kid is throwing a bottle to sea. A note I’d written, with help from dad, rolled tight and tucked inside, I can remember rearing back and tossing it off the end of the pier with all my might into the breakwater. My dad suggested both my brother and I do it, something to do together for fun. I don’t know what it is, but there is something distinctly “manly” feeling about throwing a message in a bottle into the surf. I suppose it evokes the survivalist archetype ingrained in the male psyche, or somesuch Jungian nonsense… Regardless, as activities for young boys to do with their dads go, it ranks up near the top to me. We used the resealable clamp/stopper-type bottles, you know, the ones with the ceramic/rubber stopper on the metal hinge thing you push down against the neck for the tension seal.

Even though I don’t remember the exact contents of the notes us young castaways tossed asea that day, I do remember including our addresses and an admonishment to any potential finders that we’d love to hear from them. I remember walking to the very tippy-top of the pier and chucking the thing into the coming waves, watching them bob in place for a bit before losing sight of them in the wash, hoping they’d make their way out to the deeper waters and maybe catch a swell that’d carry them to some foreign land. Man, what a great “bonding” thing to do with your kids, eh? Kudos, pop – that was fathering gold right there. Never did get a response from those bottles, I suppose. Likely they ended up in tidepool on the beach near the pier, never really going anywhere – but, that didn’t matter to me. I’m gonna do that with my own kid(s) one day… I promise. Way cool.

Awww crap, I thought it sounded familiar… last paragraph here. Three and a half years ago… must be running out of memories.

‘Fore I go, I was randomly reading posts again… here’s another bit I found funny and had forgotten writing altogether. Third paragraph into this one. A piece of string… still laughing.

Goodnight.

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poof! i’m in texas


Poof! I’m in Texas.

I wasn’t planning on coming here, but here I am. Work’s monopolized my time the past few evenings, leaving me with zero time to do the things my nights are normally for: playing with Keaton, talking with Sharaun, and writing. And now, thumb-typing this entry into my BlackBerry as we fly over the desert, I can’t help but feel an acute sense of lost time and anxiety.

I’ve been getting steadily worse over the last couple days. My mind swimming with this thing and that thing which need to get done before my sabbatical officially starts next Friday. Most of it is loose ends at the sawmill which need to be wrangled before I check out, but a good bit is simple stuff like, “How’m I gonna get the lawn mowed in the few random days I’m at home between trip X and trip Y?”

More than anything, though, I feel this strange sadness. This awful sensation that I’ve been forsaking Sharaun and Keaton by being so utterly consumed with work. The early mornings and late nights stealing their portion of me.

Being me, and knowing me, I recognize this weird homesick feeling as one of my natural responses to stress. My gut tells me to run, to hide, to lock myself away with only the things I need and love: it’s my desert island flight response. I still look for that womb when things get a little hectic.

I guess, despite all my planning, everything still somehow managed to get the drop on me, and I’m in a preparation tailspin. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever achieve the sense of “readiness” I’m sprinting after, and I’m just a little bit worried I’m going to have a hard time breaking away. I mean, I know that come Friday, I’ll have no problems washing my hands of it all for nine weeks – I guess I’m just wanting a “cleaner” break… Or something.

This is it. Too hard to write on this thing with my thumbs. Barebones tonight, no flourish, no flare. Goodnight.

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weekend writing


Sunday night. On Friday, I went to the doctor at 11am and came home for the rest of the day, loosely monitoring e-mail while I rested on the couch. The doc’s word: an ear-infection for each ear, and a sinus infection to boot. The last time I was in in late January, they’d given me a standard course of amoxicillin to knock it out. This time, she said, she’d give me something that packed a little more wallop. Seems to be working, although I did expressly disobey the “make sure and stay well hydrated” orders in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, and it really did set me back. Hopefully though, my health will continue its drug-assisted upward trend. Well, before we go on then, here’s a link to an updated Keaton’s gallery – with some long-overdue moving pictures as well as the standard static stuff. Enjoy.

Keaton, being only a little more than a year old, has probably heard a wider variety of music than most average twenty year-olds. I love this. Today, I played with her on the carpet for hours while the iPod shuffled up tunes fro its well-stocked hard drive. “This is Emitt Rhodes,” I’d say to her, “He sounds a lot like McCartney, before McCartney went soft.” “Gah…” she’d affirm. “Now, this is Taj Mahal, and this song should always make you feel good inside, even tho they call it ‘the blues,’ OK?” “Bah,” she replies. Between her mom’s hip-hop and R&B leanings and my own rock-founded eclectic tastes – by the time she’s in high school she should be a walking encyclopedia of music history. She’ll be able to pick apart the latest flavor-of-the-week in seconds: “These guys are just ripping off Zeppelin riffs with Clash-style bass and saccharine harmonies like wanna-be Zombies.” Oh man, if she ever really says anything like that… I might faint of pride. Anyway, I do revel in the fact that she’s already heard so much, and truly do wonder if anything is getting soaked-up: the beats, the sound, the rhythms, anything… guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

Having been sole-parent to Keaton now for the better part of each past Saturday, I have a better understanding of the difficulty Sharaun must face every day. When Keaton’s awake (anytime that’s not about 1pm to about 4pm), you are wholly absorbed caring for and playing with her, and in your mind you think about all the “real” things you’ll be able to get done once she’s down for her nap. The things you want to do, like pick up the living room or put away the laundry or finish the dishes – the things you can’t get done when she’s awake. But, come that blessed time, the afternoon nap, you just want to stop more than anything. Stop everything and do nothing. Motivation to do more work is hard to come by when the moment of solace you’ve been watching minutes for finally arrives. I suppose it’s a whole new mindset, as work-schedule adjustment is all – but I can see, in my brief coverage as mom, that it’d sure take me a while to find the cadence. Maybe that’s why I come home to the house messier than when I left it each day…

You know, despite, about 90% of the time, loving this beard-thing I’m cultivating on my face – I’m still extremely self-conscious about it. I like it; I like most everything about it – but I’m just not sure it looks right. Sometimes, rare times, but sometimes, I’ll catch myself in the mirror and the thing looks horribly out of place. Other times, I’ll catch a glimpse and think about how much I like it. And, as much as I want to continue to grow it out, I have this little voice in my that’s coming up with nonchalant comebacks to the Amish jokes, to the rabbi jokes. I dunno, I read online that guys who experimenting with beards should wear them for at least six months to really get an idea if they like themselves in them. I think that would put me sometime in August, maybe I’ll use Sharaun’s birthday as a decision point. I’ve also thought about going to a “real” barber (not Fantastic Sams or Great Clips, but that place near downtown with a real barber’s pole and the guy who sits outside smoking his pipe when he’s not cutting hair) and asking them to give me a pro-style trim and “line adjustment.” I would think a “real” barber might be able to give me some tips on shape and whatnot. See the things I labor over?

Goodnight.

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one day though, things could change


Today, my heart is sad. I’m sitting here listening to Built to Spill’s classic Ancient Melodies of the Future, and feeling pitiful. No particular reason (a lie, to be sure), but still I do. Maybe it’s because I came home from work (well, the bar post-work, to be sure) and Sharaun and Keaton weren’t here. No, not it. Maybe it’s because I feel like I haven’t had a decent amount of quality time with Keaton lately, like her mom gets to spend so much time watching her change every day and like I’m missing something, missing her growing. No, that’s not it either. Whatever it is (I know what it is), it sucks. I’m just not much for talking tonight, was tight-lipped (for the most part) at the bar with my cronies, and now I’m here spilling words into this text box on a webpage… it’s a function of my being. One day though, things could change (you never know when). Ahhh… how splendidly juvenile. Let’s on with it then.

I keep having this recurring dream: I’m in someone’s house, I don’t know the person and it’s clear to me that I’m there without their knowledge, i.e. I’ve broken in. No one’s home, and I’m busy stealing foodstuffs and essentials. I’m scruffy and unkempt, and the clothes I’m wearing are dirty and worn. It’s at this point I realize I’m ravenously hungry, and furthermore that I’m here because I’m desparate. I’ve been hiding out somewhere; outside, by the looks of me, and I’m here breaking and entering on an urgent mission to restock my necessities. The house and the stuff I’m stealing changes, but the theme doesn’t – I always end up having to make a hasty exit as the home’s inhabitants return while I’m busy pilfering. Last night, for instance, I was filling a sack with bags of dried split-pea soup mix, and I was ecstatic to have found it. I was also stealing a large pot from under the kitchen counter, and was filling it with rolls of toilet paper from the bathroom when I heard the front door open. It’s funny how clearly the sense of fear and urgency comes though in a dream, entirely mind-generated. I hit the backyard and was out the gate in the fence as the owner was discovering their loss, fleeing back into the woods somewhere. An easy-guess interpretation: I’m hiding from something, or scared to face something. Not sure what that may be though…

Helped a friend make a website this weekend, and, while I’d never misrepresent myself as a web-design guru, the exercise did give me a chance to learn some new GIMP/Inkscape techniques. Working from a template, we created a similar layout from scratch (admittedly, it’s a dead-simple design with no frills, and I used deprecated table-based layout techniques), and I think it came out pretty nice. Simple, clean, but gets the job done without going too crazy. Yeah, I know, it’s laughable in terms of “real” design, but as long as it books rooms and makes money – I’m happy. So anyway, if you’re into fly-fishing or just an outdoor escapist like me, go give them some trade.

Goodnight.

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reevaluating invincibility


Tuesday evening and Sharaun’s at a volleyball game. I put Keaton down to bed about 15min ago, and am now enjoying some Malajube whilst writing up tonight’s blog.

Before tonight, I was off to a slow start on Kerouac’s On The Road. The long introduction was interesting, but stole some of the immediate thunder I had expected. But, oh man, once I got into the book proper I was spellbound. Kerouac’s writing seems just barely strung-together enough to tell a story, like it was written in some mad fit (I know, it was) as if he was afraid it all had to come out at once or else be lost (I know, he did); but at the same time it’s so beautifully detailed and descriptive that I’m almost there with him, belting back whiskey on a flatbed racing across the west. I’m only six chapters in but I can barely put the thing down. I can’t wait until he gets to San Francisco. That said, then, I’ll go ahead and write this up snap-quick so I can get to reading, maybe get my voracious on. Here we go.

I think it’s time for me to reevaluate my invincibility. Over the past couple years, the number of times my body has succumbed to sickness or ailment has risen sharply. I used to be untouchable, completely impenetrable to disease. Recently, though, I’ve had to take a day off work here, another there, and have lost a few good weekend days to sleeping and sniffling. Is this what happens when you get old? Instead of ignoring the signals my body gives me, should I now pay attention to them and react accordingly? What crap. When did I become weak? This morning, I woke up with a sore shoulder, apparently my body didn’t like the way I slept on it, it ailed me all day, pins and needles. I remember when I could sleep in the reclined front seat of a Nissan Sentra and wakeup no worse for wear. Then, my mouse-hand has been protesting some movements lately, almost like the years of totally un-ergonomic use I’ve forced it to endure are coming to bear. Sometimes, I even get heartburn after eating a burrito (extra large, extra-extra spicy, please). What’s worse, I get super sleepy around 4pm every day. Oh Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?

A thought occurred to me the other day whilst pondering some work stuffs. I’m sure you’ve all heard the phrase “good old boy” used in reference to the way some organizations are run. Usually what’s meant by this is that a small network of back-slappin’ buddies run the company, promoting and demoting according to how well others fit into their “good ol’ boy” mold. So that regular Joes sometimes feel like their chances of being favored or given the big job or being promoted are hindered because they didn’t go duck hunting with the clique on the weekend, or some other such nonsense. Anyway, what I was thinking was, that this whole notion of a “good old boy network” probably isn’t that wrong, and furthermore shouldn’t be that surprising.

Dealing with people is tough, there are so many assholes, so many who are ungrateful, so many who are under-appreciative and over-demanding, so many who are abrasive, impossible to relate to, unpredictable, unprofessional, abstract, difficult. The old adage rings true, you know, “birds of a feather…” I wonder, though, if this “flock together” pack-mentality may be the subconscious (and sometimes all-too conscious) reason behind the classic “good ol’ boy network?” By surrounding yourself with an army of like-yous, you have to deal with a lot less. You know a lot better where the lines are, know what’ll motivate and what’ll correct. It makes me think, however, that the school of “relationship based management” may have hit on something. Developing relationships with the people you work with and who work for you is probably a good way to avoid the “easy out” tendency to populate the ranks with you-clones. Whatever, all I was trying to say is that maybe those folks who look at the good ol’ boy network with envy are just the square pegs…

It’s been well-established now that I love ARGs (Alternate Reality Games). I think my first real experience with the genre was the with the whole Lost Experience thing, which seems late when you consider the “I Love Bees” stuff and many of the other “armchair treasure hunts” which have gone on, but arguably I was smitten all the way back when the Smashing Pumpkins did something very similar with their album Machina, and I was way into that. I also got into the whole Lonelygirl15 thing for much of the same reasons. The idea that you can participate with others in a real-life Hardy Boys type mystery adventure is awesome to me. So, when I found out that the Nine Inch Nails, a collective of whom I’ve been a casual fan since high school, are slowly “leaking” tracks from the new album “Year Zero” as part of a viral marketing slash ARG thing, I was thrilled. Not only do I get awesome tunes, I get to follow a neat post-apocalyptic storyline to boot.

Goodnight.

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workforce of me


It’s now about twenty till eight on Tuesday night, and the message boards are once again alive with rumors of a Neon Bible leak before 11pm Eastern (about 40min from now, my time). These days though, with anticipation running higher than Paula Abdul on a Monday morning, everyone’s pulling the old “zOMG it leaked!!!” gag – so I remain cautiously optimistic. Ehhh… the waiting. I should know for sure by the denouement here, so let’s get down to brass tacks (what the hell does that mean?).

In the coming days you may be surprised to see some newish looking content on the Sounds Familiar frontpage. That’s right, I’ve integrated some minimal Google AdSense text-advertisements into the entry loop near the bottom. Hopefully, these won’t detract much from the glory of my writing, or pigeonhole my blog as a simple front to make ducats. I just figured, why not try and make some cash from page impressions… if I’m getting them and all, the ads are pretty non-intrusive to me, and really don’t bother me much (especially if I get a check every month). Pat joked that I’d get a whopping $2.53 a month, and he’s probably right – but I want to at least give a shot and see what happens. So, in short – I’m selling out and I don’t care. Maybe the ads’ll stay, maybe they won’t. But for now, watch for ’em.

Sometimes, at work, I wonder what it would be like if all the people I managed were me. I mean, if they were all clones of me. At first the idea seems sort of good, all moral aspects of cloning aside, because I know and trust myself to do things right. You know what they say, “If you want something done right…” Unfortunately, that’s largely true for me – I really do think I do a good job on most things, so why wouldn’t my me-cloned workforce do just as good? Maybe they would. Often times I catch myself thinking that I could do things faster and better if I just did them myself. This notion is one part asshole, one part bravado, and one part truth. That’s not to say that I’ve been unsatisfied with things I’ve owned at work before, but I knew as I was working on them that I’d ultimately be less-than beaming with pride over them in the end. I also knew I could change that, but deemed the means unjustifiable based on the ends. But, back to the workforce-of-me…

As rosy as the me-workforce may look at first glance, the more I think about it the more I realize how much it would suck. For instance, if I were managing a bunch of mes, there’d be all sorts of limitations: I’d have an entire group working to only about 70% of their potential; I’d have no way to overcome the limitations of the group (like the long ramp-time before they possess enough self-confidence to be truly effective, and their on-again/off-again motivation); and their inherent laziness and favor of flight over fight when things get unpleasant. I’d always wonder if the tasks given to them ended up falling in the 80% “give my all” bucket or the 20% “half-ass it” bucket, and worse always know that division is purely arbitrary. See, I’m an opportunistic procrastinator who’s good at hand-waving and smoke and mirrors. But, maybe, when you get down to it, every workforce is a sometimes-motivated workforce. Hell, there’s even procrastination science, check it:

Desire to Complete Task (U) = Expectation of Success (E) x Value of Completion (V) / Immediacy of Task (I) x Personal Sensitivity to Delay (D), or U=ExV/IxD

Sooo… by that logic, my desire to complete the work I was doing this morning would stackup something like this (I have no idea how to use the equation, so I’m assigning everything a value between 0-10):

Desire to Complete Task (U) = (10 x 10) / (8 x 3) = 4.17

I guess that means I less than half-fully wanted to do the task. Hmmm….

Lot of news around the internet about Sen. Obama’s continuing lean towards casting his lot into the ’08 race, but it’s still just a “strong maybe” as far as I can tell. The hopes of the partisan-disenfranchised moderates are running high though, as Mr. Obama seems to exude some sort of middle-of-the-road intelligent sensibilities and charisma that draws folks in. Personally, my positive feelings for the guy were based pretty much solely on his patriotic, impassioned and eloquent public speaking – but I admittedly know little about his true “stance” on many things (funny how good public speaking can make you just want to “assume” that because he seems like a “nice, logical guy” he’s got sensible positions and ideas – the power of charisma). So, I took to the internets to see what the deal is. One of my favorite sites to visit for a quick idea on where a politician stands on the issues is onthissues.org. While their site design is craptacular, their Obama page is a good point of reference. It’ll be interesting to see if he can keep the warm fuzzy going through to when then herd really starts to thin – what a job for his PR guy(s).

I read this story on off-grid.net the other day (off-grid is a great place to keep up-to-date on the whole, well, off-grid movement – which I’ve fantasized about many times before). How cool would it it be to have a machine that just “makes” water from the air? Now, if I could only figure out how to run that machine hydro-power, and using its own water for the hydro part…hey, I just invented a perpetual motion machine! Please line up to my right for Nobel Prize votes.

Goodnight. (Oh, 11pm now and still no leak. Sharaun says I’m the only one who wakes up every two hours to check… I doubt that… right?…. Want in on the fun? This blog is surprisingly “tied in.” Enjoy.)

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my lungs were made of glass


Tuesday and it was another 8am-5pm blitz at work, but I’m home now and four beers better and ready to write a couple stupid paragraphs.

There used to be this commercial on TV where the subject was a guy stuck in traffic, and you could hear his thoughts. He was in a shirt and tie, obviously on his way to some office job with the others of the throng. Headed in the opposite direction, he spied a car with a kayak tethered to the top, going away from the place where all the other “suits” were headed. His thoughts went something like “Wonder where he’s going? Mountains? Ocean?.” The point being that he was questioning the routine, him dressed in a monkey suit headed in to push paper for the man, this other bloke in shorts and t-shirt headed out for a day of recreation.

Today on the way home from lunch I saw a gruff looking man in one of those smallish SUVs that are popular now – his vehicle covered with that ashen stuff that shouts of time spent having fun in the snow. That sheen of snow and salt and dirt that grays up the exterior made me wish that I was headed somewhere better than home for lunch and back to work (although since I’m not a big snowports guy, I imagined a hiking or camping outing instead). And speaking of camping and hiking, I’m getting pretty geared up for our first year of “with baby” outdoors activity. I’m excited to adapt, and get Keaton outside and in tune with the Mother.

Last night I had a dream that my lungs were made of glass. Eight-sided glass “cylinders,” like 3D stop-signs. They were made of square plates of glass, and the joints were made of the thick grey solder you see holding stained glass together. Each lung was an octagonal glass cylinder like this, and inside each one there were “floors” or separate chambers. When I would breathe, I could see the air fill each chamber sequentially, like it was tinted in some way. I have no idea what this means, but I thought it was one of the coolest dreams ever – re-imagining my internal organs as some Tiffany-esque artsy glass contraptions. I woke up and immediately went to the computer to write a note about it (“8-sided glass lung/chambers”) so I could recap it for today. And then…

Goodnight.