Rex the Trapper

Here is an interview I did with Rex the Trapper a couple months back. My parents hired him to trap some moles at their house in Olympia. Rex is quite a guy, I hope you enjoy it.

ME: Thanks for coming out Rex. Did you get him?

REX: Yeah, I got one. Little guy was pretty tricky. I’m guessing you got about two or three more moles in your yard, judging by the look of things.

ME: How can you tell?

REX: Just a feeling, I guess. You got a lot of molehills on your property. Moles are territorial, but you got enough room out here for a couple of guys to get around. Maybe your parents will hire me to catch the other ones.

How does a guy like you get into trapping moles?

Funny story. I took one of those tests in high school. What are they called? One of those tests that tell you what you should do with your life.

Aptitude tests?

Yeah. I took an aptitude test. The test was hundred and hundred of math problems. I hated math. I didn’t do so well on the test I guess, so one of the suggestions was that I be a hunter-gatherer. It thought I should hunt and gather for a living. I was kinda mad and I threw the sheet away. But after a couple days I started to think about it and thought maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. I liked to be outside, you know? 6 years later, here I am.

Rex with his catch

Me and you are the same age. I can safely say we’ve lived a completely different life.

To each his own, I guess.

Do you specialize in moles, or do you trap other animals too?

Moles, mostly. I do some live trapping of small pests; like possums or raccoons. Some of those bitches get ornery, so I got to wear gloves. One time a raccoon pissed all over me from the live trap. Piss sprayed everywhere. He was a real mean son of a bitch, doing it just to screw with me. You gotta wear thick overalls, too.

Live trapping? What do you do with the animal once you’ve trapped them?

Drive um up into the forest and dump um off. You gotta drive deep, or else they find their way back. Hell, they probably find their way back no matter what.

Repeat business.

Ha. I guess, I never thought of it like that.

The enemy

Do you ever get hired by any kooks?

Not really. Most people are pretty normal. A couple times people try to haggle over the cost and I have to threaten to call the cops on them. But that has only happened a couple of times.

I noticed you said a little prayer before you threw the mole carcass into the forest. What was that about? Are you a spiritual guy?

Not really. Well, maybe I guess. I say I’m sorry to the mole, and make my amends with the mother earth sprit before I dispose of the animal. You gotta make amends. Poor little moles don’t do nothing to nobody. People hire me to kill them because they screw up the look of their yard. Shallow shit to kill another living creature. I have guilt for all that killing. I guess I just say I’m sorry to the mole and I wish I didn’t have to take their life. They’re blind and small, you know? A little prayer to the earth spirit, too, asking her to keep everything in harmony and keep producing moles so I don’t wipe um out of Washington. I feel bad for the suckers, I really do. I wanted to make a coat so all these moles didn’t have to go to waste, but I don’t know if I have it in me to skin an animal. I could take them to a taxidermist, I guess.

Earth spirit, huh? Some might say you’re a little crazy, Rex.

You gotta be a little crazy with what you do to be any good at it. All the great ones were a little crazy. Babe Ruth, Winston Churchill, Dennis Rodman, all dominated what they did but ain’t no one gonna argue with me that they weren’t crazy. I gotta be a little crazy to be any good at trappin.

Well said, my man. Hope to see you again. Good luck with the earth spirit and all that.

Thanks man. Hope your parents hire me again.

Mr. Newspaper

I wrote this last night, fully intending to send it to a newspaper today. What was I thinking?

Dear Mr. Newspaper,

In the name of the Good and the Holy, Mr. Newspaper, I suggest you print this article as soon as possible, tomorrow in fact, before time runs out and I blog this instead. See, I request no payment for my writing, only the dwindling notoriety of seeing my name in print. To witness the ink from my name rub off on my thumb, you know, the stuff dreams are all about. The stuff dreams used to be about, at least. Now my brain is filled with www.mynamehere.com, and a Tumbler with a Google Analytics reading of more than one hundred hits a day. What dreams are these Mr. Newspaper?

But look who I’m talking to. You, Mr. Newspaper, you know pain more than anyone. You watched your sturdy stature shrink to nothing. You watched colored pages and investigative reports disappear. You watched your insides poisoned with fluff hardly worthy of high school quarterlies. You heard talk of advertisements on your front page. You sir, know the disease of the internet all too well. How can I complain about the lack of newsprint on my thumb when you, Mr. Newspaper, are the new California Condor? Wait, no, that’s not right, their population is on the rise.

You have fought a valiant battle. Your odds were slim; slimmer with passing days, but you fought anyway. And now it’s over. It’s clear who has one. Let us not forget the better times. When Dial-up was the norm and domain names were still ripe for the taking. The Lewinski days, Mr. Newspaper. The better times. When people sat in a chair to read, not behind an electric box.

So print this while you can, Mr. Newspaper. For I want to see my name rub off on my thumb.

Always yours,

Brett

Thumbs Up

Most travel guidebooks I’ve read maintain the same disclaimer:

The writers of this here guidebook urge you to consider the risks involved with hitchhiking. You put yourself at risk for assault, theft, and unsafe driving. Us writers never recommend hitchhiking as a safe means of transportation. Besides, it’s hardly done in this country anyways.

For the reasons mentioned I avoid hitchhiking. It’s dangerous right? All sorts of chi-mo psychopath killers cruising the roads waiting for a mark like me to come along. Nope, I’ll take the bus.

But that’s not to say that I don’t frequently romanticize on hitching a ride. Imagine me, trail-beaten and musky, golden locks flowing at my neck and a dirtied thumb pointed to the sky.

A gorgeous blond driving a red F-150 pulls over. I throw my bag in the back and hop in.

“Where you headin’?”

Me: “No place in particular. Just away from here I guess.”

“Sounds to me like you’re running from something.”

“Nope. If I was running I wouldn’t be thumbin’ a ride, would I? I’d be running instead.”

My wit would undoubtedly be more refined if this fantastical situation ever became a reality, but you get the picture. The rough nature of hitchhiking has always appealed to me. I’m torn between my rational mind and my adventurous self. Usually my rational side ekes out the victory.

Until the other day. Our car broke down and I was faced with a long hike into town. My feet were tired from three days of walking. The mid-afternoon sun burned my shoulders and a small hole wore fuller in my sneakers.

You know what, let’s give my adventurous side a chance, I thought. I felt my thumb drift out to my side.

A handful of cars passed me by before a Toyota 4-runner pulled to the side and motioned for me to hop in. My heart leapt. Jogging to the car, a myriad of problems raced to my mind.

What if they don’t speak English (a high probability since I’m in Puerto Rico)? What if they are waiting to kick the shit out of me (my face, my beautiful face)? What if they take me on some crazy, drug fueled adventure to San Juan (I told Molly I’d be back in a couple hours)? And finally, what if they try to rape me (Being raped is an odd fear of mine, stemming from the ultra-p.c. fear mongering 90’s that I grew up in)?

Suddenly my gorgeous blond ride-giver fantasy shot out the window. I opened the passenger side door, hardly able to face my attacker.

“Hey man, what’s up.” A single, tanned 30 something surfer dude asked.

“Nothing,” I responded, happy he looked like one of my own. I scanned him up and down and immediately noticed, with quite a bit of delight, he is just as scared as I am. I sighed.

Remembering back to all the times I picked up hitchhikers, I’m always the scared one. I’ve fumbled with the keys, my voice has cracked, and I’ve had any number of near misses while a hitchhiker has sat in the passenger seat. Like the surfer dude, I figure it’s the hitcher, not the ride-giver, who is the crazy one. The hitchhiker has an aura of hardened badass. The ride-giver is nothing more than a nerd with a car.

The hitchhiker is the one in the driver’s seat.

“Town,” I mumbled, brushing my golden locks back behind my ears.

For the entirety of the ride, he did most of the talking. A family man who owned a business in town. I didn’t say much, hoping to add to my enormous badass persona. When he pulled over to let me out, I shook his hand coolly, said ‘gracias,’ and hopped out as casually as I possible could, headed to wherever the wind took me (the skatepark).

It’s nice to be a badass for once- the Brett I fantasize about. The romantic wanderer without fear or reservation.

How long will this feeling last? Probably until a creeper in a Jeeper pulls over the next time my thumb floats into the air. But until then: Badass Out.

Drinkin'

Not far from where I live rests a local watering hole where I occasionally sit for a mid-day drink. The bar is called Club Nautica. Translated roughly: Boat Club. But the last place any of Club Nautica’s clientele have ventured lately is onto the deck of a yacht.

Club Nautica is where dreams go to die. Or where dreams long dead have washed up onto the shore of the Black Marina, picked their pockets, and moseyed into the open-air Club for a Dewar’s and coconut juice.

About once every week I walk the two blocks to the Club. I stroll in with a book. The idea that I can read in a bar is as ridiculous to me as it is to the clientele of Club Nautica, who stare at my book with wonderment. See, I need the book to justify getting a beer at 3:30 in the afternoon. Going to get some reading done, I tell myself. I never open the book in the bar, but it’s a perfect beard. I’m out of place at the Club with a book in my hand. Just a stranger to them. Perhaps a studious youngin’ who is studying barflies for his latest academic pursuits.

“One Heineken please.” I say to the ancient Puerto Rican bartender. Two dollars are exchanged. I leave silver for a tip.

Taking a seat in the corner, book situated under my arm, I proceed with my true reason for coming to Club Nautica: the people watching. Like no other bar I’ve ever been, this place stinks of despair. A handful of expats circle the lone pool table. Others line the bar ordering drinks in thick mid-western accents. All wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Some don’t don shoes. They talk, but none have a conversation. I listen closer.

“Hell of a stick you got there kid,” a grayed, grizzly-voiced man says to one of the bar’s younger patrons playing pool.

Another patron quickly jumps in:

“John, you ain’t an Idaho tatter or even a California tatter. John, You’re a COMMON-TATER!”

Nobody laughs. The pool balls knock against the rail.

The younger player looks at the lone TV in the bar. “Is this shit CSI or something,” he wonders aloud. Again, nobody answers.

It’s Law and Order, I think to myself.

The afternoon continues like this. I sip through two Heinekens and listen to a skinny, leathered man talk about leaving his wife. The man at the stool next to him nods often but doesn’t take his eyes off the pool game. The Puerto Rican bartender stands in the corner of the bar and surveys the scene from a chair.

There’s a line in Nelson Algren’s, “The Man with the Golden Arm” that talks about a cat that lives in a bar. The owner knows that once the cat has purred around someone, that someone is gone, no longer a part time drinker but a full-blown booze junkie, their life lost to the drink.

“’N when you hear that one purr you’re through,” the bartender explains. “That one keeps track of how many shots you put down every day. So long as you’re just a sociable drinker he don’t purr. But when you take the one that puts you on the lush for keeps, then he knows you’ll never get off the bottle your whole life. N’ he purrs once. And he purred at me and he will purr at you.”

“When I was twelve my stepmom took me in the shower and started workin’ real fast,” the grizzly-voiced common-tater jokes. “And I said, ‘Damn mommy, slow down and romance it a bit.’” He chuckles heavily and looks around. People laugh, but not at his joke.

The cat purred in Club Nautica years ago. They all know it. And they probably know there’s no use in fighting the cat’s purr. Who’s to blame um’? We’ll all hear a cat purr someday, and the warm, drunken air of Club Nautica seems as good a place as any. What makes our cat’s purr any holier than theirs?

Another one, I say to the bartender. At least that’s what I wanted to say, but left the Club instead. I can't exactly remember what happened. My memory's a little fuzzy in this heat.

Christmas Gifts

EDIT: THE FIRST PARAGRAPH OF THIS POST WAS CUT OUT ACCIDENTLY. REWRITE ENSUED.

For years I'd respond to my parents query of "What do you want for Christmas" with one word: money. That's what I wanted. That's what I needed. Money for gas, skateboards, dates, beer, and whatever else. Money made my world go round. Extra skrilla in my pocket meant less time at work. And besides, why leave something as important as what I got for Christmas up to chance. Couldn't go wrong with a fat check at Christmas time, right? No. Wrong. Opening up a single envelope with your name on it while your brother tries on a fresh t-shirt and shuffles new Pokemon cards is enough to make a boy's blood boil. Where were my mounds of gifts? You asked for money, remember, my mom would always remind me, noticing the disappointment on my face. Every Christmas morning left me feeling, I don't know, unsatisfied.

So this year I skipped the annual envelope under the tree and left the gift giving process up to Santa. Santa and Molly. Because one of the perks of a relationship is that extra Christmas gift coming to you with a big kiss from the girlfriend. Coincidently, I asked for a swap like situation so that kiss came from Molly and some Puerto Rican hoochie mama we picked up in the bar.... Just kidding. Molly kisses well enough that we never need to spice things up.

What lay under the tree (and handed from Molly) this year? Books. Two of them. Two fantastic books of unbelievable quality. One of them alone has enough material to keep a man like myself mentally occupied for a lifetime. But two? On top of the already impossible pile of reading material I'm confident I won't finish in this lifetime? Well people, I got some reading to do.

Book 1 from the parents: Carl Jung's Red Book

I know absolutely nothing about psychology, even less about the history of the field. And I went around for six months calling the author of my first gorgeous Christmas gift by the wrong name. It's 'young', some fellow corrected me, not 'Ju-ng'. Sounds like a 'Y'. Why then, would I want the definitive work of Jung's career, the essence of his oeuvre, especially if Jung scholars can't even fully comprehend the recently published work? I must like a challenge? Yes, but that's not why I hinted heavily at my dad while shopping in Powell's Bookstore that the heavy book would be a perfect gift for his favorite son. I wanted to own the Red Book because I consider Mr. Jung something of a compadre. A comrade, actually.

A New York Times Article several months ago piqued my interest on the Red Book. This book, this long held private book, is all about Dr. Jung's purposeful, calculated descent into madness. He believed he could further his psychological understanding by inducing dream-like hallucinations that unveiled his unconscious mind. Nightly for sixteen years he gave in to anxiety, to fear, and to otherworldliness, in hopes of achieving a deeper knowledge of himself. To wade through the horrible swamp and to come out the other side with all its riches. All joking in this blog aside, this is what interests me. To know oneself and one's psyche is of the upmost importance.

Have I positioned myself in my living room, induced psychosis, and woken up 3 hours later, all the much better like Jung did? No. But maybe something in this book will speak to me.

On a lighter note, this book wasn't casually placed under the xmas tree for me to unwrap with glee. This puppy was hauled in. At 20 pounds, its the largest book I've ever seen. This book has a psyche of its own.

Book 2 from Molly: Autographed Copy of John Cheever's Short Stories

This book taunted me from behind a glass case for the entirety of my time in NYC. Should I purchase the simply autographed book (by the hand of a God, albeit) for an almost palatable price. Or, should I wait to start my fancy book collection until I have one of the following: money, career, permanent residence, bookcase? Molly answered that question for me. Now I have Mr. Cheever's shaky penmanship to stare at for inspiration whenever I need it. Sweet. Too bad the autographs from after he sobered up and not pre-Alcoholics Anonymous Cheever, where the real crazy was still in him (Bullet Park). But I guess then his autograph would have been too shaky to be read or authenticated.

Another plus, I get to wonder about Iva Bowes. Who was this woman who sought out the autograph of Cheever? Was she smart, funny, pretty? I smell a short storrrryyyyy.

That's it. I got other things, but these were two of the sweetest xmas gifts ever. What a wonderful Christmas.

The 1st

Hey ho, let's go.

Is he back? Is he fo' real? What's the deal yo? Only time will tell my little buddies. Only time will tell. Before we discuss anything juicy (like what I got for Xmas), let me answer some FAQs.

Why don't you post anymore?

Over it. So over it. Blogging took time away from my true passion: writing 3 pages of a short story, telling myself I'm the next Chekhov, and then never-ever touching the story again. That's what I do. That's why I stopped blogging. Well, kinda. Blogging is hard. You think genius like this just flows? No. For the oh so few of you privileged individuals who have seen my stand-up routine, you know how much time and work goes into my um... creative, uh... projects. I didn't want to put in the time. And the subject matter bores me. That Brett guy is a doofus.

What are you up to, brah?

I currently live in Rincon, Puerto Rico. But chances are if you check this blog (i.e. a member of my immediate family), you already knew that. Just in case you didn't know: I live on da beach man.

What do you, like, do there?

The short answer is nothing. The longer, more uppity kind of answer is I'm trying to write a book. Yes, a novel. With a protagonist, a setting, a conflict, and all that. Really though, I just ponder how great this book is going to be without ever actually writing much. I have about 30,000 words(brag), but they don't work. They're useless. You couldn't make sense of them if you tried. And it's stressing me out. How will I ever win that Pulitzer with a book that starts with the line, "Throw the ball. Pussy." Yep, that's the first line. The all-important intro. Some real "Call me Ishmael" type shit.

What is the book about?

I already said: it has a protagonist, a setting, and some sort of conflict. Outside of that your guess is as good as mine. Well, that's not totally true. It's about a teenage boy. Frankly I don't know if I want to talk about it. I can't decide if blogging about my writing takes away from it somehow. But I've also learned I can't take this book thing too seriously. You see, it seems like every time I think I've written some great lines, some real gems, I get sections like this, where the main character talks about going to college:

"I take some advanced classes and think about college but more for the girls and the parties than anything else. I can't think much past getting laid in my dorm room. This is, of course, after we listen to two-thirds of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band- or some shit like that-and smoke pounds of pot. And people in this town say it's very adult of me to want to go to college."

Actually, damn. That is a gem. Keep it up kid. By the way, the main character has absolutely nothing to do with me. Nothing. I went to college for the courses.

Can I visit you in Puerto Rico?

Pssh, I'll believe it when I see it mom, dad, Ana, Lindsey, Liv, Tripp, Aaron etc....

What'd you get for Xmas?

I think I will write about this tomorrow. Bottom line is I'm back. Maybe. Get sum.

The Swimmer

The Swimmer is one of the best short stories I have ever read. Here is a trailer for a movie made in 1968 based on the story. The movie has a haunting feel, much like the story. When you talk about The Swimmer, will you talk about yourself?

Facebook, take me back?

Facebook, what can I say? I’m sorry. I made a mistake. That’s what it comes down to. I don’t know why I thought I could ever leave you. You’re beautiful Facebook. You’re gorgeous. And we work so well together. I beg you, Facebook. Please take me back. Oh God Facebook, please. Take me back. I can’t live without you.

We’ve been talking every night since I left. Hell, it’s not like I ever left you. I’d log on at least once a day. After that first night I knew it was a mistake to break up with you. I knew from the way you graciously accepted my log in, allowed me to view whoever I pleased, let me creep on profiles, even after I said I was done. You could have ignored me. And you had every right to. But you were the bigger person Facebook. You graciously let into your world even after I wanted to break it off with you. You’re so giving Facebook. So loving.

I was just trying to get out on my own; to live without you. But I was wrong. It’s a bitter, lonely world without you. I don’t have any friends. I don’t get along with people in the real world. You want to know the cold hard truth Facebook? People are ugly in real life. Your photo albums show the great side of people, the bright and sunny side. With you everyone looks tan and sculpted. Some people say it’s deceiving, that people only put their best pictures up, but who cares? So what if Donna Noles is 25 pounds heavier in real life. Who cares if Dan Bryant hasn’t uploaded a photo in the 3 years because he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s balding? Reality is harsh and ugly Facebook. You are my reality. You are my lifeline Facebook.

You want to know what I did without you? I watched Frasier, ate ice cream and cried, Facebook. I had whole hours with nothing to do. I resorted to watching “Failed Marriage Proposals” on YouTube to pass the time. I was distraught. I missed our nights together. Your tender soft caress. The way you always know just what to say to cheer me up.

“Come in Brett,” you would say. “Stay as long as you want. Feeling blue? Don’t worry, I got just the thing. That’s right, 125 new pictures of Jenny Crowley. She’s in a bikini for most of the album. You know something else, Brett? Guess who from your highschool got fat and lost their job. Come take a look, it might surprise you. I know just the thing to raise your spirits Brett.”

I missed those nights Facebook. I missed you and I missed those nights.

I know things have changed. I’m cool with it. I understand that you are a networking tool. I understand that I will get less and less invitations to events like, “John’s Jammin Triple Kegger Bash,” and more invites to“Tina and Tony’s Baby Shower”. Life changes. Our relationship is progressing. It’s not sad, it’s life. I was scared to grow so I thought I had to break it off. I thought I could shelter myself from change. You’re right Facebook, I was selfish. I know you don’t have to take me back. But what would I do without you? Where would I be? Would I have 386 friends? I think not. I’d have 6 friends. Maybe. Take me back. I need you Facebook. I need you.

The Perfect Storm

Today, on a cool, breezy day late in the clean-clothes cycle, I face a dreaded perfect storm. Let me explain.

I have enough articles of clothing to last me two weeks without doing laundry. That means I have about 16 pairs of boxer shorts and about the same number of socks. Running out of boxers or socks is typically the only catalyst to for me to go to the laundry mat, since these are the only two critical elements of my wardrobe. I can wear the same pair of jeans until the cows come home, but god help me if I try to wear the same pair of boxers two days in a row.

As I am coming towards the end of my clean-clothes cycle, today I had to choose between the last two pairs of boxer shorts. It was a choice between the old pair, with the elastic worn and tattered, or the pair with the liberal fly opening. I chose the pair with the big opening. Now, boxers with a huge hole for peeing are all well and good, except for the fact that my member pops out of the fly on an average of five times a day. My penis comes out of my boxers and enters the land between boxers and jeans. Frankly, this occurrence is usually more exciting than anything. Nothing like a good ‘penis rubbing up against the cold inside of my zipper’ to put an extra kick in my step. No, I don’t walk around like this all day (I always remedy the situation in the bathroom post-haste), but hey, it’s fun, OK?

But not today. No my friends, not today. Because of a jeans mix up that happened earlier in the week, I’m also stuck wearing a pair of back up jeans. Jeans that are usually out of the rotation because of various technical problems. The jeans with a loose fly that always falls down. I have underwear with a huge opening and pants with a zipper that comes down on its own accord. My penis will breach the surface of both my boxers and my jeans. The perfect storm. I’m not talking about that movie with George Clooney. I’m talking about a potential situation in which my Johnson sees the light of day in a public setting.

“Look at the latest models, sir. We’ve got an underwear pee-hole moving from West to East at an alarming rate. Coincidentally, we have a jean zipper that is coming down from the North. Should these two intersect, well…”

“The perfect storm,” I say. “Utter catastrophe.”

I first noticed it on the train this morning. A shiver went down my back as a larger than normal draft came in through my zipper. Boom. There I sat, my zipper mere inches away from labeling me as a sex offender.

“NO OFFICER. NO. I swear it was the perfect storm. I didn’t mean to expose myself to an entire train car.”

“Tell it to the judge, freak.”

There are certain contingency plans set in place once the potential for a perfect storm has been realized. First, I un-tuck my shirt. This looks mangy in the workplace, but gives me just enough coverage. However, this defense is about as affective as a New Orleans’ levee wall. Second, I tug at my jeans zipper, making sure its up, about every 15 seconds. This action causes me to look weird, and draws attention to my crotch area. Both of these methods are stop gap measures, and there is no fool-proof way to prevent the perfect storm.

So I am in it people. The eye of the beast. Pray for me.

And should it come out, I promise you it won't make a good showing. It's frigid out.

Um, listen Facebook, we need to talk.

I’m sorry I haven’t been the same lately. It’s just… I don’t really know how to say this, but, well here goes: It’s over.

No no, it’s not you, it’s me. No, stop crying, it’s not you. That’s right, it’s me. We spend way too much time together, that’s all. I need some time alone. I need some time to think.

Like when? Calm down, stop crying. I will tell you when, Facebook.

Last night instead of reading or writing or listening to music or even hanging out with friends, I was with you. I was looking at picture number 344 of Jenny Crowly’s 1,234 pictures. Actually, I looked at picture numbers 1 through number 456. What’s wrong with that, Facebook? The problem with that is I don’t even know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is.

What do you mean I don’t know who Jenny Crowly is? I mean I literally don’t know who the fuck Jenny Crowly is. Yes, I deduced that too. She is the friend of some girl I made out with my freshman year of college.

Yeah, I remember. Yeah, I liked the girl; she was a good kisser. Yeah, she was way too hot for me. Yes Facebook, I know you’ve helped me stalk girls all these years. Hmm? The girl I made out with? Her name is Jenny McCowen. She loves Fleetwood Mac and likes F. Scott Fitzgerald. Is she religious? Well, that’s not listed. And frankly, judging by her pictures, I wasn’t the first guy she sucked face with at Brandon Cooper’s house. Yes Facebook, you helped me figure out all this stuff. No, I didn’t actually have to talk to her at all. BUT THAT’S THE POINT. I don’t want to know any of this shit. I’m a changed man, I have a girlfriend now. I’m tired of looking at hot friends-of-friends I will never meet. Tired of it, Facebook.

No Facebook, it’s not that. What else? Well for starters, you’re status updates are starting to depress me. They’ve changed; you’ve changed. I’m starting to get older now, and I don’t like change. Instead of people posting, “Helen Thompson is on the boat, getting her drank on! Hit me up,” they’re now posting things like, “Helen Thompson is due in six months,” or “Scott Peterson got his book deal!” This is all well and good, Facebook, but it scares me. Here I am, still getting my drank on, and you have to remind me on a daily basis of how I’m wasting my life. What am I supposed to post, huh? “Brett Cihon is killing cockroaches in his dungeon-like apartment.” How would that look to others? What would the cool kids think?

Wait, what am I talking about? What cool kids? Sometimes Facebook, I think I’m the only one that ever looks at my profile. What do you mean I get messages? That was from my grandma, Facebook. My fucking grandma. You know the last event invite I got, Facebook? It was for a Christian charity event. Some rager that would have been. Ohh wait, I guess my Uncle did invite me to his work’s Christmas party….


Yes, I know I should start using you to network. But frankly, Facebook, I don’t want to network with you. In fact, I don’t want to network at all. Just to be one more kid suckling at the tit of some publishing firm where I’m applying for a, “Competetive Internship (i.e. No Pay). No Facebook, I will never network again. I’m just going to get my drank on.

Hey Facebook, don’t start to yell. OK, fine. I’m sorry I’m being mean, I’m just telling you how I feel. Yeah, I know we’ve had some good times. That time Linda Sampson from Psych 101 messaged me out of the blue. Yeah, we sat next to each other for weeks after that. Or the time someone tagged a picture of my balls and I used it as my profile picture. Great times.

But I’m sorry to tell you this: those times are gone. And they’re never coming back. We’ve just grown apart, that’s all.

Oh no Facebook, don’t be like this. No, I will not have one last romp through Jenny McCowen’s pictures. Those times are dead. Don’t worry, you still have plenty of other users.

Ok well, I think I should get going. Thanks for everything, Facebook. Stop crying, or else I’m going to start. I just… I just have to go. Bye bye, Facebook.

The Ghost Crapper

I was on the pot thinking about yesterday’s post, and it hit me. “Damn Brett,” I thought, “you might have jumped the gun.” No, I didn’t start to wipe before the last fallen comrade was shot out to sea (isn’t that what they do in the navy, or StarTrek?). I made an assumption about Philip Roth’s novel, The Ghost Writer, based purely on the book’s title.

I guessed that the elder novelist in Roth’s book will get called out for plagiarizing his work. I deduced this solely from the title. Sitting there on my ivory thrown, I speculated how a prediction based solely on the title has a strong probability of turning out wrong.

A title can have everything, or nothing, to do with the book’s happenings. Take, for instance, Sophie’s Choice. This complex and dark National Book Award Winner has a plot so packed with interaction and story, one could hardly imagine being able to summarize the plot with two ‘choice’ words. But the title does just that. People who haven’t read the book (or seen the movie) are still able to pinpoint the pinnacle of the story. This is in part due to the iconic nature of the novel and film, but also because of the book’s title. Sophie has to make a choice. In fact, she has to make perhaps the ultimate choice: deciding which one of her kids lives. The tile has helped us remember the crux of the story, and vis-versa. The simple title goes even beyond her hard choice; it tells about the depressing, realistic, overpowering nature of the book as a whole. If Sophie’s Choice was named Krakow 1944, would the book be so memorable?

Then you have a book like Revolutionary Road. The book focuses on the dysfunctional Wheeler family, who unsuccessfully make their way through the anxious decade that was the 1950’s. Totally a ‘rip your heart out and feed it to the dogs after you watch me have sex with somebody else’ kind of story. But the title Revolutionary Road does little to hint at the heartbreak that lies within. In fact, Revolutionary Road is just the street that Frank and April Wheeler live on. Barely used, hardly mentioned. Thus, the title has a more ambiguous, metaphorical meaning. I, the reader, concluded that Richard Yates named the book Revolutionary Road because it represented the antithesis of what Frank and April where capable of. As much as they liked to envision themselves as revolutionaries, tossing away the shackles of the work-a-day world, they were nothing more than conformists. But if I was a betting man, I would have been wrong. In an interview with the author, Yates claimed he named the book Revolutionary Road because the Wheelers represented the end of revolution in America. 1950’s America, with its highballs and cul-de-sacs, meant the death of America’s progression to Yates. The title has little to do with the Wheelers or even the book, but this certainly doesn’t make the title any less meaningful.

Then you have titles that have nothing to do with a book on a literal level, and their metaphorical meaning is so convoluted, one wonders if the title has anything to do with the book at all. Take Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Gravity’s Rainbow. These titles are mentioned within each novel and ostensibly have something to do with the book; nothing more than a very simple plot advancement or character characteristic. As the book progresses and the title becomes less and less meaningful, you begin to wonder if the title really has anything substantial to do with the book at all. It feels like Thomas is pulling a fast one over you, trying to get you to read more into the title than you should. Then even later, as you start to grasp the ingenuity in Pynchon’s novels, you wonder if he hasn’t named the book to trick the reader on purpose. Getting them to read meaning in things devoid of meaning. This trick lends itself to his obscure and satirical writing and conversely has everything to do with the book. If Pynchon’s book cleverly manipulates the reader, doesn’t it only make sense that the title would too?

There may be a few book titles out there that have absolutely nothing to do with the book, but I can’t think of any off the top of my head. The important fact that I forgot though is this: one isn’t able to predict plot advancements based on the title alone. For all I know, a ghost could come into Roth’s story at any moment, turning the title into a truthful, literal prediction of the plot. Or, the novel will never mention a “ghost writer”, and I will be left to hypothesis about the title’s meaning. I jumped the gun in guessing conclusions from Roth’s book yesterday, and for that, I am sorry.

See all the thinking I get done on the pot? I was so totally engrossed in my thoughts that I forgot to wipe and had to throw out a perfectly fine pair of underwear.

Just kidding.

Shalom

I’ve started to read a novel by Philip Roth. The Ghost Writer focuses on a budding young writer who meets his hero- one of the premiere novelists of the 20th century. Very good stuff here, people.

I should alert you to the fact that this is a fictional tale, but it’s obvious the two characters represent phases in Roth’s life. The rosy-cheeked young’n, fantasizing about spending life in Thoroeauvian solitude, and the older, curmudgeoned writer who argues against waisting life immersed in a fictional world. These characters are likely the personification of feelings Roth holds towards writing. A prolific writer such as Roth must love and hate writing at the same time. The book is a window into the mind of a career writer, and all the successes and failures that come with this sought after title.

What I’m saying is this: this book is essentially metaphorical masturbatory materiel for my non-sexual fantasies. I think of myself as the young writer, struggling to make it. I imagine a future me as the accomplished older writer, distraught with my years of slaving away behind a keyboard. Ohhhhh yeah, baby. Ohhhhh, how many book awards have I won? Six? Ohhh yeah, right there.

There are two problems with the book. First, the title implies that the older writer has plagiarized his work or stolen the bulk of his material from someone else. This isn’t too troubling, just a nice twist in a fun novel.

The second issue: I’m not a Jew. Roth’s writing is riddled with Jewish history and important Jewish names. He uses Yiddish words. Both main characters emphasize their Jewish heritage in their writing. All of this leaves me in the dark. No, I don’t know the name of most early 20th century Zionists. No, I don’t really understand what the word 'Goyish' means. For such a good book, I’m frustrated with my lack of knowledge on Judaism.

God knows I’m almost a Jew. I date a Jewish girl. I enjoy the company of self-effacing individuals. I am circumcised. Certain philistines claim I look like Jerry Seinfeld (younger and sexier, of course). So, I have decided to pretend I’m Jewish for awhile.

That is all, I guess. Mazal tov.

Malware

My computer is crapping out. Finished. Donzo. It was on the fritz for a long time, but now it's near worthless. Like The Dude says about his flame soaked car in the parking lot of the bowling alley, "Well, they finally did it, man. They finally killed my fucking car." It wasn't nihilists burning my 1973 Ford Torino , complete with my Creedence, but viruses reeking havoc on my software. Viruses and Malware.

Am I the only person of my generation never to hear of malware? My technological knowledge is antiquated. I thought I was cutting edge when I could describe the function of spyware, or adware. "I think it just gets into your computer, fucks things up," I would say. Boom. Definition dolled out. But malware? Hottopic and Mr. Rags clothing? Like those post-gothic/rave pants with chains connecting the pant legs, alluding to masochism and reeking of daddy issues? I thought that was malware. Not something that slows down your computer and steals credit card information. Who has time to keep up with all this stuff? Malware, spyware, adware; everything and the kitchen sink.

I tell you what, as technologically unsavvy as I am for a member of my generation, I fixed my computer. Well, only sort of. But at least I can once again access the internet. You know, check my Facebook and watch illegally streamed episodes of The Simpsons. All the things the internet is good for. Without going into the gritty, curse-heavy details of how many hours and the amount of blood, sweat, and tears I pored into fixing my computer, it came down to this: I downloaded a program. I used software to fix my software problem. I found the solution to my computer's internet inability on the internet. The problem and the answer came from the very same place. I mindlessly infected my computer with malware, and I mindlessly downloaded a program that got rid of it. No brain power necessary.

So, I'm back. At least for a little while, until my computer is too crowded with stripjointware to work properly.

In other news:
1. I miss Louis G.
2. I miss my house/cat/family in Olympia.
3. I hate NYC when I'm away from it, but I like it when I'm here.

EDIT: Malware might be pronounced mal, as in malicious software. But who cares? I pronounce it mall, as in "I got to second base with my girlfriend at the mall."

Hopefully more updates soon. Message me if you want to read any of my stories. As per usual, here is the first bit to a new story I'm writing. Rough draft. Click this link.

Lyon

Want to learn about Lyon's hidden spots? I got you covered.

FEET

I’m sitting at my desk at work right now and I can literally smell my feet. With my shoes on. Does this ever happen to you? I mean, I don’t mind, I kind of like the smell of my own feet. But it is unsettling when someone comes over to talk to me and the whole time I’m thinking, “can they smell my feet too?” I knew I shouldn’t have worn my skate shoes. The sad part is: the stench is only going to get worse throughout the day. It’s only ten, and my thick, black cotton socks are only going to get wetter as my feet get sweatier.

What should I do when someone comes over to talk to me? Do I make light of the smell by joking? Something inappropriate like, “Hey co-worker, your feet stink. Just kidding, those are mine.” Is that funny? Would other people respect that?

Three people taken the poll. Don’t forget to vote.

When I arrived at work,
I noticed with a smirk,
That the feet underneath my belly,
Are really quite smelly.

I shouldn’t have worn these shoes,
They are too yellow in hues.
I might have worn my vans,

But I'm not much of a fan.

As coworkers approach,
It’s like they see a roach.
Because the smell from my feet,
Has been likened to rotting meet.

When we talk I am worried,
My speech with them is hurried.

I try to laugh and smile,

Using all my guile.

I say It doesn’t matter,
It’s only mindless chatter.
But the truth is present,
The smell isn’t pleasant.

Depression session

I finished my story about John and Steve. It’s currently 8 pages long and, per your request, quite depressing. I will post it as soon as I’m finished revising.

Sadness and depression is relative. What I find depressing, you probably find cheery (i.e. the suburbs, high paying corporate jobs, most Bob Dylan). I also think true and genuine pity is the most gut-wrenching of all emotions.

Waiting for a subway in Boston this past weekend, my friend Jake commented on how sad and horrible he felt for a blind man singing for spare change. I, on the other hand, thought the scene was quite relaxing. The blind man didn’t look sad (he looked drunk, which at 1:00pm on a Sunday is pretty sad, I guess). His voice was pleasant and heartfelt as he belted some Motown hits. What is depressing about that, I asked Jake. Jake claimed the man’s life was probably riddled with alcoholism and lost loves. Jake looked at the blind man through a different lens. What caused Jake to feel sadness?

What we find sad is based on something innate that isn’t necessarily universal. Jake has a tendency to see blind people as tragic figures, while I do not.

I get pangs of guilt and depression when I witness severely mentally handicapped people enjoying simple pleasures. In Boston we sat and played in a fountain. I watched a mother happily wheel her handicapped child to the edge of the fountain, and although his facial expressions were hard to distinguish, the boy laughed and clapped with joy. Other children were running and jumping in the fountain, but the boy was content just watching the fountain work and the other kids play. The mother stood by her son and pointed at the high streams of water with a smile on her face. I thought of how that boy would never run from water, never scream with the other kids. I thought of how the mother, who knows more about unconditional love, perseverance, and tragedy than I could ever fathom, enjoyed watching her son feel good. I realize that the mother would probably take offense to fact that I felt pity for their situation, but this is the reality of my emotion. The scene was heartwarming and excruciating at the same time.

Why did I find this particularly sad and Jake didn’t? I don’t know. What makes us sad is complex and powerful. Also, why do we sometimes like sadness? Why did more people want a depressing ending than a happy one? Do we find pleasure in pain? Of course.

What makes you saddest?
-a kitten who is the runt of the litter
-your parents selling your bed from childhood
-an industrial town that is dying
-watching someone botch a public speech
-none of the above
-these are examples of pity, not sadness

OK. Enough of that. I’m kind of interested to see if people vote. Next post will be about something happy, I promise.

The Fog is Thick on a Sunny Day

This weekend, I will brave a four hour barf bus to enjoy a weekend in Beantown. Me, Louis G, Eric, Rob, Jake, and maybe this kid Corey are taking somewhat of a dude weekend up in the Walking City. So, if anyone knows any spots we should hit up in the Hub, let me know because I w….

Phew, that paragraph was exhausting. I couldn’t think of much to say about Boston and instead tried to insert nicknames for the city in order to fill space.

In fact, lately I’ve been having difficulty thinking of much to write about. Anything blog worthy, at least. Blog worthy-yuk. Why is this? Where is my mind? What would atrophy a normally churning mind filled with half-cocked ideas and hardly thought out proclamations in a week? Could it be that seven days of boozing with Louis G has turned my mind into a pink margarita? Nah, that can’t be right. Have three months of work as a mindless city drone waiting to be devoured by the metaphorical queen bee of bureaucratic society gradually digressed my brain power to that of a third grader’s? Does that bee analogy even make sense? Obviously not. But what happened to my brain? Where did my ideas go?

For a long time, through most of college, my thoughts were clouded by fog. Everything I tried to wonder about exclusively, things I wanted on the tip of my conscious tongue, was behind opaque glass. I could only think in images, in general motions, in figures, not specific constructed thoughts. It’s difficult to explain the feeling, other than you know it when it’s there. It’s roughly like the side effect of the devil’s weed: never total awareness, even when you desire it.

The fog is a coupling of anxiety and general despair. John Cheever talks about the fog in Bullet Park. The fog pushes Hammer to drinking and madness. Although Hammer recognizes the fog, he never speculates on a specific cause, largely because there is no cause, no epicenter of haze. He lies and waits for a clearing, unable to sleep or eat. He changes his surroundings desperately but seems to know all active efforts to completely escape the fog are useless. He only hopes to escape through the minutia in life; living completely in a yellow room that brings him peace. What pains him most is the inability to leave. But Hammer fights, he knows it is a loosing battle, but he fights anyway.

Perhaps what Cheever misses in his consideration of the fog is the apathy. Apathy is a leading symptom. The knowledge that there is a pervasive nothingness, a falseness in life, and not caring to act against it.

I hated the fog at first, but slowly accepted it once I realized it was always present. It’s like someone pulled off my rose colored glasses and exposed me to the dullness of reality. I grew comfortable. I also recognized the importance in acknowledging the fog. Like Walker Percy quotes Soren Kierkeggard in The Moviegoer, “the specific quality in despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair.” Since I recognized the truth, I could finally work within the truth. Also, like The Moviegoer, I grew content in an existence within. The fog was there and after brief searches for escape, I accepted the damp, clouding blanket. The search for escape was exhausting, so I stayed inside.

And because I didn’t fight the fog, the fog cleared. Out of apathy and love and interest in various things, I seemed to see things again. I could think with complete mindfulness. In fact, it’s cleared so much I forget what it feels like. I have occasions of immersion in the haze, but I’ve generally lost the Fear, the Dread, malaise, or whatever you want to call it. And this has inspired a different kind of apathy. I’m happy tending to my garden.

Is this why I can’t think of anything to say? Because a life without fog is a life of happiness? I miss the edge of the fog; having a foot in both worlds. Anxiety and despair were, on some level, exciting.

But maybe, and perhaps the scariest thought, I’m back in the fog and don’t know it. Has the war against the malaise and routine been lost, and I didn’t even notice the white flag? Did I put on my rose colored glasses again? I don't feel passion about much this past bit, at least not enough to write about. Is this surely a false sun?

The Louis G and Me

The results of last week's poll are in! 9 people voted, about 8 more than I anticipated. And the winner...

Depressing fashion!

Ahh, good old depressing fiction, could you ever lose? And the more I read the story, the more excited I become. There is great potential for a depressing story, and I'm glad you chose this option. As for more good news, no one said the story sucked. That's promising.

I quickly abandoned posting on a daily basis because Louis G is here in NYC. The stinky-footed Frenchman is sleeping on my floor ( I don't have a couch big enough to support his ample frame). So, needless to say, instead of writing I have been drinking. Drinking and skating after work don't lend themselves to the writing process. Neither does having a 6'2 Frenchman sleeping on your floor. The little writing I have managed to do in the past week has occur ed while at work. It's well worth it though; Louis G is one of my best friends. I can actively say that unlike most foreign people I meet, I legitimately think he is funny. Usually with foreigners, there is such a language barrier that humor is demoted to a base level, where we resort to awkward gestures and quick, funny sounding sentences instead of real humor. But, Louis has mastered English on such a level that there is a perfect combination of wordy jokes as well as awkward sentence fragments. For instance, we were walking through the grocery store and he insisted I 'Drive' him to the beer aisle. See, instead of 'lead' him, he said 'drive me'. Funny stuff. Or maybe you had to be there?

We are going to Boston next weekend. And, as far as my break from writing, you know what my favorite dude Richard Yates had to say- "To be a serious writer you must be a serious drinker."

PS. I think of this when pondering a way to finish the story in a depressing fashion:

What a fate, to be condemned to work for a firm where the smallest
omission at once gave rise to the greatest suspicion! Were all employees in a body nothing but scoundrels, was there not among them one single loyal devoted man who, had he wasted only an hour or so of the firm's time in a morning, was so tormented by conscience as to be driven out of his mind and actually incapable of leaving his bed?

Help ME!!!

I'm in a writing group. Last week, I turned in 3 short stories, one of them was finished, and the others were not. The two other people in the group liked the one story I don't like at all, one that isn't finished. I think there are a lot of problems with this story. First, there is a tendency for new writers to fall into a Raymond Carveresque style of writing, one with a bare bones type of prose and very few, uh, stylized words. They (we) do this because they are afraid to lend too much for critiquing. By eliminating all but the absolutely necessary parts for your story, it is hard to criticize. Anyway, that is what this story does. And this is why I hate it.

But, they suggested I finish the story. And I need help. Should I finish the story? I'm not too attached to it, so in what way should I continue?

Help me decide where this story goes. Read the story and then answer the poll on the right.

Here is the question:
How do you want my story to end?
-Depressing fashion
-Happy fashion
-Surprising fashion
-Dude, the story sucks, give it up
-I refuse to read this story

Here is the story:




“Would you do it over?”

“Do what over?”

“This,” said Steve, sweeping his palm around his head like he was holding a lasso. “This.”

“You mean the job? Would I take this job again? Well man, it was either this job or sit at Can…”

“No, not just the job,” Steve interrupted. “Everything; this.” Steve stuck out his arm and carefully pretended to scan John from a distance, waiting for some sort of extraordinary, telling light to stream from his hand.

“You know, your life, this, everything.”

“Everything?” questioned John.

Steve finished scanning and his eyes slowly moved from John to the office, searching for items or mementos, snippets representing John’s life. Steve’s eyes widened and he quickly pointed to a framed picture of John’s daughters that hung on the wall.

“That,” said Steve. “Or,” moving to a picture of John’s wife, “That”.

John said nothing, only watched. Steve carefully searched the room and came to John’s desk. He recklessly picked up a stack of papers and files. “These,” he said and carelessly dropped the pile back into place, some papers slipping out to the floor.

“Everything,” Steve said again.

Tiring of his explanation quickly, Steve carefully moved his hand to his chest. His mouth curled in a mischievous, dumb grin.

“Or maybe, even this,” Steve said coyly. Satisfied with his finale, he leaned back in his desk chair and sipped his bourbon with a loud slurp.

John laughed.

“Well,” said John. “There are some things,” he flicked his hand towards Steve, “I certainly wouldn’t miss.”

Steve smiled warmly. They sat in silence for a moment, examining the office, letting the smell of bourbon sink into the room. Rain pattered against the office window.

“But seriously,” Steve started again, “if you had the chance to do it all over, everything over, would you?”

John didn’t respond. He wanted to recline and lift his feet up to his desk in the ultimate position of corporate relaxation and superiority, but he knew his shoes were too filthy.

“Imagine,” said Steve, leaning close to John’s desk with excitement, “if you knew you could have a re-do. Start fresh from the beginning. New job, house, car, wife, all that shit. The kids. Not a semblance of similarity with your current life. You start different from the beginning. You fail grade school this time, or, better yet, you go to Harvard.”

“No job in sales?” asked John with mock concern. Steve didn’t hear him.

“You become a world class physicist,” said Steve, his eyes lost in a manner that suggested he was talking about himself, not John. “You travel the world giving lectures. You spend years discovering some complex equation and are renowned all over the world. You’re written up in books and scholarly journals.” Steve cradled his bourbon in both hands. “You don’t marry because you don’t have the time. Intellectual discussions and writing books. The occasional dinner, but that’s it.”

“Ha. Do you think you’re stupid, Steve?” asked John.

“No, nothing like that. I just think maybe I missed the boat with this sales stuff. I’m a smart guy and maybe I’m wasting my l … uh, talent, but that is neither here nor there.”

John’s eyes once again wandered around the room. This is a great office, he thought. I keep a decanter full of liquor in my bottom desk drawer and no one can tell me otherwise. Steve’s question was boring him. It was too mundane, too everyday. Who the fuck cared if he could do everything over again? It’s a pointless hypothetical question and the opportunity for doing things over will never occur, so why dwell on the subject?

Steve saw John was loosing interest. He tried to change topics.

“You taking the girls to the lake this weekend?” asked Steve.

Tom rolled his chair close to his desk and grabbed the decanter of bourbon.

The Bitch is Back

Sorry I have posted anything in awhile. Between working, interning, and writing short stories, my blog has slipped into the backseat. And I'm not talking about that sought after backseat, where my blog gets a metephorical rub down from some college co-ed with knockers, I'm talking about the backseat where it goes untouched and unnoticed. But, since we are in the throws of summer (although you would hardly know it around here, with all the rain), I would like to start posting again.

Not much has changed since the last time we spoke. I still live in NYC, where I have acquired a bizarre liking to the city.

Today, I was walking down the Columbus on my way to work and was comforted by the smell of garbage. Somehow, the scent of expired milk soothed my pre-work nerves. I stopped to wallow in the stench for some time before realizing the insanity in taking pleasure from the smell of trash, squinched my face at my own absurdity, and kept on. This leads me to ask, why do I like things that smell like shit? A part of my brain wants to agree with a Dostoyevsky quote from The Possessed, saying how human being's minds are so screwed that we actually find pleasure in pain and suffering; but no, that is too simple. There are only two reasons why I could possibly like the smell of garbage: It reminds me of the joy I feel living in a city filled with garbage, or it brings up childhood memories of running the garbage can down the end of the driveway for it to be picked up for the next day's trash service. Either of these associations with garbage is acceptable.

I do miss the outdoors, though. I haven't stepped foot in a wooded area that hasn't had the minimum amount of handicapped accessible routes in order for the city of New York to label it a 'park' in quite some time. The lure and romanticism found in large wooded areas with lakes and animals just isn't available in NYC. Since it is summer, I also want to swim, and there is something about the water near Coney Island that doesn’t lend itself to wonderful swimming daydreams. I want Greenlake, or better yet, The River.

In terms of my daydreams of becoming the next Walter Cronkite/Richard Yates, this quote from Chris Anderson's Free: The Future of Radical Price, sums my life up nicely (stolen from New Yorker):

“Out of the (current) bloodbath will come a new role for professional
journalists. There may be more of them, not fewer, as the ability to participate
in journalism extends beyond the credentialed halls of traditional media. But
they may be paid far less, and for many it won’t be a full time job at all.
Journalism as a profession will share the stage with journalism as an avocation.
Meanwhile, others may use their skills to teach and organize amateurs to do a
better job covering their own communities, becoming more editor/coach than
writer. If so, leveraging the Free—paying people to get other people to write
for non-monetary rewards—may not be the enemy of professional journalists.
Instead, it may be their salvation."

So If I ever do write or make anything worthwhile, the best I can hope for is a non-monetary reward. That's OK, I guess, it's all for the betterment of oneself. And I kinda get paid to write right now. I just sit at my work computer, look upset, write what I please, and get lost in the bureaucracy of a big-office type job.

My internship is going well, they were thinking about sending me to Canada. Money be damned, my own half cocked and stumbling brand of intellectual ideas is entertaining enough for me.

Enough for today, I will have to save some of this energy for when blogging gets boring again in about 3 hours.