Throwing Poo

One of my favorite movie quotes is from "Fight Club."  Edward Norton is sitting on a plane talking to Brad Pitt.   Norton says something pithy and Pitt responds dryly,

"Yeah, that's clever."

"Thanks," Norton replies, clearly pleased.

Pitt grins knowingly, "How's that working out for you?  Being clever?"

These posts have walked the line between trying to be clever (I said "trying," you bastards) and attempting to accomplish something personally meaningful.  So far, it has been easy.  I sit back with arms folded and grumble about not being happy, looking for something to blame.  I waste time spinning around the eternal philosophical questions until it creates a tornado of confusion and vicious circularity.  But this is just cowardice.  I'm a pansy-ass punk hiding behind a wall of existential bullshit, occasionally peeking around just long enough to stick out my tongue.

This all became clear to me with my last post in which I posed an important question and then proceeded to fluff around it.  The same way I've fluffed around it for years.  Clearly, I am not yet prepared to assume responsibility for my lot in life. 

If I'm serious about finding happiness - some pursuit I deem worthy of allocating the shrinking remainder of my life - then I need to wipe the slate clean.  Clear out the closets and deal with the fear or whatever it is that keeps me from taking control.  I need to get deeply personal (that means increasingly remote and boring for you, the reluctant reader) and be willing to pull down my pants (probably a bad choice of metaphors given my long and illustrious history of showing people my naked ass - which, by the way, is always hilarious).

According to Janice Joplin, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."  I agree, only I don't see it as a bad thing (To be fair, I'm on antioxidant tea and megavitamins, and Janice was on LSD and KFC).  Having "nothing left to lose" can simply mean that you do not fear loss.  In order to be truly free to choose a new path (I've been watching a lot of "Kung Fu" lately) I need to shed the fear I've been lugging around for years.  Fear that is based in materialism, insecurity, ambition, social acceptance and pride.  How can I even consider the potentially rocky path while dragging a sled stacked high with emotional baggage, not to mention all that of beef jerky? 

There is an old friend of mine who absolutely hates his life.  Not in the whiny " I want more" kind of way that I'm complaining about here.  I mean in the don't-be-surprised-if-you-get-a-phone-call-in-the-middle-of-the-night-to-identify-the-body kind of way.  On one occasion when we were talking about his situation, I asked him about making a dramatic change.  He replied, "And what, start over?  Risk losing my house?"

Another friend is miserable because he's lonely.  When it was suggested that he try an online dating service, he replied, "What kind of loser do you think I am?"    

In boxing, a knowledgeable fan knows that the match is over when one of the fighters stops throwing punches (except for Ali's rope-a-dope tactic, which was effective but physically brutal on him, and likely responsible for the Parkinson's).  Once a boxer has taken too many hits, all he is capable of doing is covering up.  Even though he might still be able to move around and deflect incoming blows, it is only a matter of time before he's ultimately beaten. 

Over time, we all take a lot of emotional punches and the effect is cumulative.  Some people, like the friends I mentioned, have been absolutely pounded.  Their ribs are broken and they just want the protect themselves.  But it won't work.  The punches will keep coming.  Unless you get over the fear, open up and take some swings, you'll be at someone else's mercy.  You have no control and no chance to win. 

Fear is a bully and ego the weakling it feeds off.

I've got no more time for fear of loss and pointless pride.  No time to be distracted by material things (except, of course, my iPod).  No time to care what you think. 

At best, I'll be lucky if I get another 20 good years.  That's it.  Game over.  Not to get all grampa 'n shit on you, but until you hit the age of 40, 20 years seems like a lot of time.  It's not.  The first 20 years of your life take forever.  It's full of milestones: childhood, puberty (remember how much fun that was?), adolescence, young adulthood, high school graduation, maybe college, maybe marriage, maybe kids (or maybe kids and then marriage, you dirty girl), your first career.  The next twenty is relatively milestone free:  work, buy a house, work, raise your kids, work, bury your parents and more work.  It screams by at a blinding pace.

I'm very serious about trying to figure this out for myself.  Unfortunately, like a poor economist, I initially made too many assumptions (Favorite MBA joke: How does an economist get out of a hole?  He assumes a ladder.).   For me, finding happiness is not going to be a linear process.  Hell, simply attempting to define happiness sends my head spinning.  Point being, the content in these posts is probably going to drift and spin in circles a bit as I try to fit it all in my tiny brain.  Still, the public aspect of doing this (it only takes two people to consider something public, smart guy) has really forced me to maintain focus.  That is something I have not been able to do in the past. 

Now, if I could just get this zipper unstuck...

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Let's bring everyone up to speed with one of my wise, little analogies, or parables, as I like to call them:

A large, filthy Neanderthal man is tapping a sizeable bone on the dirt floor of a cave as he stares into a fire.  As the flame crackles, we see flickering images on the cave wall: a number of crude drawings depicting the man having sex with various animals.  Another smaller Neanderthal man is sitting next to him, looking skittish.  Both are wearing a loincloths made of animal skin.  The larger man speaks:

Large Caveman:  Me unhappy
Small Cavemen:  (Grunt)
Large Caveman:  Me want new life
Small Cavemen:  (Grunt)
Large Caveman:  Me need life to have big purpose
Small Cavemen:  (Grunt)
Large Caveman:  (Gesturing with his hands) Big purpose = big happy
Small Cavemen:  (Grunts and turns his head, noticing the wall behind him) Whoa. What the fuck, dude?
Large Caveman:  Me no give a shit about you

The large caveman suddenly swings the bone in a backhand motion and smashes the smaller man across the skull, knocking him unconscious.  Dropping the bone, the large cavemen stands up and pulls down his loincloth.

Large Cavemen:  Me need new drawing for wall.

EXPLANATION:  The large caveman represents me.  The small caveman represents me.  The bone symbolizes me.  The wall symbolizes this blog.  The loincloth denotes society.  The cave, of course, symbolizes the birth canal.  You are represented by the bookish, virginal archeologists who dig up my remains millions of years later.  The beastiality images don't represent anything. They're just for fun. 

Well-conceived and thoughtful analogies notwithstanding, I think it might be useful to list the things I've learned so far in order to move forward.  Here goes:

1. I want to feel happy and content.
2. I do not want to die with lots of regret.

Jeez, that didn't take very long.  Disappointingly obvious, too, don't you think?  By the way, now that I've considered it, I do not want to die at all, with or without the regret.  However, I promised myself that I would not digress this week.  I also promised my wife I would stop peeing in the shower.   She really hates that, especially when she happens to be the one taking a shower at the time.  But I digress.

On to the pursuit of happiness and contentedness.  Approaching this topic, a thoughtful person might find it prudent to reference the number one movie in America, appropriately titled: "The Pursuit of Happyness."  Not me.  I absolutely hate the fact that they misspelled happiness to try to be cute.  Let me tell you something, mister, there is nothing cute about illiteracy.  Besides, Will Smith stinks.  And Will Smith with a creepy, 70's porno mustache is utterly unwatchable. 

Instead, let me quote one of my favorite movie lines from the cinematic version of Douglas Adams' "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy."  Two characters are discussing the merits of pursuing truth:

Slartibartfast: Perhaps I'm old and tired, but I think that the chances of finding out what's actually going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say, "Hang the sense of it," and keep yourself busy. I'd much rather be happy than right any day.

Arthur Dent: And are you?

Slartibartfast: Ah, no. [laughs, snorts] Well, that's where it all falls down, of course.  

So, what makes a person happy?  At this point, it would be nice for you, the reader, if I could just answer a simple goddamn question without getting all meaning-of-life and shit.  But I can't.  Please remember, this is about me, not you.  You need to figure out your own horrible existence. 

The first problem with the question is that there is a big difference between what will make me happy and content today and what will make me happy and content in the long run.  It is the difference between finding Mr. Right and Mr. Right Now.  For example, today I want to play poker and watch porn. However, in the long run, I will not be happy if the sum of my life is two large piles: one of debt and the other of dirty tissue. 

Lasting happiness comes from finding a balance between immediate gratification and life-long contentedness (unless you are one of the truly fortunate people for whom one naturally leads to the other).  In other words, while I want to strive to reach my final destination, I'm not willing to sacrifice an enjoyable ride in order to get there.

As a matter of process, the next logical thing to do is determine my "destination."  That is, I need to decide what it is that I want to accomplish with my life.  Once that is set, I can then work on mapping out a course.

THIS WEEKEND - Happy-er-ness: Part II (of at least two if not more)

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:08 PM | Permalink

At Work:
Stare blankly at your computer screen all morning and keep promising yourself that next year you will take the whole week off work like everyone else did

Go to Starbuck's for coffee and add a little Bailey's Irish Cream

Go to Starbuck's for latte and add a little Bailey's Irish Cream

Steal stamps

Go to Starbuck's for a triple espresso and add a little Bailey's Irish Cream

Look for a new job and get depressed by the lack of prospects

Drink Bailey's straight from the bottle

At Home:
For breakfast, pour a bowl of Christmas cookies, add Bailey's and eat with a spoon

Drink massive amounts of Great Lakes Brewery's Christmas Ale because, like your wife, it only comes once a year.

Take a shower every three days or so

Try to collect dog turds that feature every color of ribbon from your tree

Stare at your naked body in the mirror while eating an entire box of chocolates and crying

Watch "A Christmas Story" on mute and recite the dialogue word-for-word

Fall asleep on the couch with unchewed pieces of Christmas cookies still in your mouth

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

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On the day after Christmas, one should treat retail stores like homeless men with fresh pee stains flailing blunt instruments: avoid at all costs.  (TELEVISION SHOW IDEA:  Crocodile Hunter-type format but instead of the wild, the khaki-clad host explores the decrepit underbelly of decaying city dwellers.  Also, he doesn't just investigate stuff and then go home.  He must survive on the streets like his subjects. Possible titles: "Tarzan: Lord of the Concrete," "Pimp My Cardboard Box" or "Stench Busters.")

Anyway, my practice of steering clear of all things shopping on December 26th has served me well.  Yet, this morning, I found myself feeling hopeful and emboldened by the holiday and the few extra days off work.  So I decided to take a chance and call Sprint to change my current wireless plan.

Here's an edited yet unembellished account of what transpired:

I was asked by the automated attendant to enter my phone number on at least three different occasions.

I was asked to enter my social security number to confirm my account.

A customer service representative (CSR) picked up the line and asked me my phone number.  I told her I'd have to check, but I didn't think it had changed since the last three times I entered it during this call.  She said she'd wait.

The CSR asked me if I had Nextel or Sprint service (as the two have apparently merged).

The CSR said that to reach Sprint, I needed to call the exact same 800 number that I initially dialed.

I explained this to the CSR, who then put me on hold.   After several minutes she returned and gave me a different phone number to contact.

I asked the CSR why they needed to collect duplicate copies of my account information before asking the most basic of questions: Which service do you use?  She advised me to call the different phone number for assistance.

I dialed the new phone number.  It was not in service.

I redialed this initial Sprint 800 number and pounded "0" until I was transferred to customer service agent, all the while screaming obscenities into the phone (which felt surprisingly good, I must admit). 

For the next five minutes, I listened to the following message repeat every 15 seconds (9 seconds for the message, 6 seconds of pause in between repeats): "All of our agents are currently helping other customers.  Your call will be answered shortly, so please stay on the line.  Thank you for your patience." 

After five minutes the message abruptly (and mercifully) stopped.  It was followed by 9 minutes of complete silence.  It probably would've been more than 9 minutes, but I had to take a piss.  Nothing is worse that being mid-stream and hearing the operator pick-up on your speakerphone.  Best case, you beat yourself up for not waiting just a few more seconds.  Worst case, your try to cut it off, rupture your bladder, make a mad, semi-pantsed shuffle to the phone, trip over the cat, smash headfirst into the corner of the desk, thrust out for the receiver and recoil it to your ear only to hear *click*.  So I just hung up.

I now feel like this wasted time must be made up.  As we speak, I'm preparing to discard my well-serving philosophy and go run errands.   Like the compulsive loser who attempts to gamble his way out of debt, I will risk further ruin by casting aside all logic and assuming my luck will change.

Keep your eyes peeled for me on a new show coming soon to the Discovery Channel.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 02:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Pop music lyrics still apply to me

Air guitar is going to make a comeback and, when it does, I'll be ready!

The reason young girls giggle when I wear my ultra-tight Jordache jeans is because the radiating sexiness makes them nervous 

Anything that is required to avoid a colonoscopy

Maybe comb-overs don't look so bad after all

Kids think I'm hip because I know the cool bands like Nickelback and M&M.

I'm only one big crap away from fitting into my my size 34 Levi's again.

There is still plenty of time to get my shit together

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

The past week is a fog.  After coming down with flu at a work conference in Tampa last Thursday, I spent the weekend in bed (not in a fun, John & Yoko kind of way, either).  I was definitely on the road to recovery.  Unfortunately I had to make an urgent business trip on Monday and Tuesday that I could not cancel (I'm very important, you know).  Let it be known that, despite my incessant job-related whining, I'm a good goddamn soldier.

Upon boarding the tubular petri dish we call an airplane, my already compromised immune system (ACIS) had this to say to me:

ACIS:  You're a retard.  You know that, right?  A total fucking retard.

ME:  It's my job. 

ACIS:  You're sick. You even got your wife sick.  Stay home.

ME: I've got to go.  It's important work.

ACIS:  We all know you don't believe that.  Christ, don't you read your own piece of shit blog? 

ME:  People are counting on me.

ACIS:  Bullshit.  This is all about you martyring yourself.   You make an unpleasant choice, back it up with pre-fabricated rationalizations about personal responsibility, then look for someone to blame for your misery. 

ME:  Shouldn't you be busy working on those lingering anal warts?

ACIS:  Shut up, asshole. You know you couldn't wait to write this shit.  Tell everyone what a good person you are; how you took one for the team when you were sick.   

ME:  Not true. 

ACIS:  You know, denial without details is no defense.

ME:  Nuh uh.

ACIS: Jesus, why am I wasting my time talking to you?

ME:  'Cause you're stupid.

ACIS:  (pointing) Look! (bends over and punches me squarely in the nuts).

Anyway, I arrived home on Tuesday night and have been feeling pretty crappy ever since.  Fortunately, I had requested today and tomorrow off as vacation days, so I can finally get some rest and fully recover.   Hopefully nothing urgent will come up at work.   Those worthless idiots can't get anything done without me.

***A sudden, sharp pain in the groin sends me crumbling to the floor***

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Last night was bad.  It started with a case of chills and turned into one of the worst cases of night sweats I've ever had.  It was so intense that I had to get up at three in the morning just to shower off.   I haven't perspired that much since working as a heroin mule.  Thank God I get to go home today.  

Whenever I spend more that a few days at a work conference or training, I find myself getting sucked back into the fanatical idealism that permeates charitable work.  At best, it's like mass hysteria. At worst, it's a cult of self-important do-gooders minus the cool jumpsuits.

This leads me to a difficult admission: I'm far more susceptible to outside influence than I'd like to believe.   That sucks.

As a result of the Kool-Aid, all I kept thinking about during the night was whether or not I'd be well enough to make my business trip on Monday morning.  Didn't I used to have a life, like just last week? 

******

In between sweating though pillows, last night I dreamt that I crapped my pants on the plane ride home.  I've been constipated all week and now with this flu bug or whatever, my subconscious decided to concoct a horrible (yet very logical) scenario.

I am not someone who believes in omens or premonitions.  Still, I find myself getting nervous as we wait to board the aircraft. 

******

Sweet.  Coming to you live from First Class.  I got bumped for my flight home and am currently sitting in a spacious leather seat, enjoying all the amenities.  In FC (as us tasteful and discriminating travelers like to call it), you get individual salt and pepper shakers with your meal and unlimited drinks.  I have all the space I need to comfortably type dirty words and sip hot tea.  It is lovely.  

The best part is this: If you shit yourself in FC, a stewardess will wipe you.  Sweet.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

It's finally here.  Today is the last of my four days of training (even though I don't actually get to leave until tomorrow).  I expected to wake up in my protozoa-coated hotel room elated - confident of my ability to fake it through one more day without flipping out and skull-fucking someone (I mean that in a bad way).

Instead, I woke up feeling like Mike Tyson had raped me.  Everything hurt.  The glands in my armpits are the size of Kiwis and I'm hacking up a putrid substance the texture of space shuttle glue. 

Someone is to blame for this.  Bastards.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Holy shit, do I haaaaaaate work conferences.   To me, sitting in homogeneous hotel meeting rooms listening to "experts" blather on about barely relevant topics is an unforgivable waste of life.  This week I'll be flushing four days of mine down the toilet.  Four days of being force-fed clichés, drinking company Kool-Aid and overpaying for hookers.  Fuck!

I'm not really sure if I'm going to make it this time.  It's only one day into the four-day workshop and I'm already hungrily eyeing a bottle of sleeping pills.  Not to mention the fact that I've got two more of these goddamn things in January and February. 

Time to pick up the pace on the whole figuring out my life thing.

***********

Here is a list of things a speaker said today that provoked inappropriate laughter on my part and evil stares from my colleagues (those humorless cunts):

"Have I got a great tool for you!"

"If you can't measure it, you can't manage it."

"The tool only works if you work the tool."

Every mention of the word "tool" thereafter

"I hope you found this session useful."

***********

I've called Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. twice tonight to complain about how much I'm hating this.  We actually had a serious discussion about me faking illness in order to get out of here. The mere mention of such a lame idea embarrasses the shit out of me. 

When did I turn into the fat kid at summer camp?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Introduction
Career vs. Careerism
Road To Hell

Welcome back to my now epic attempt to find a new career.  To quote the relentless Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride, "Let me s'plain. No, there is too much.  Let me sum up."

Here's what I've learned so far:  I hate my job. Time is short.  America: we're #1!  My career must have purpose.  I have no purpose.

So, the next step is to find purpose in my life. How hard can it be?  More importantly, how many times can I use the word "purpose" before it loses all meaning?

But first, please enjoy this lengthy digression.

Without wanting to step into the conversational tar pit that is the topic of religion, it is difficult to examine purpose without briefly addressing it.  Being a person of faith is like being the star football player in the classroom; you do not have to answer the hard questions.  "Why are we here?"  "What should I do with my life?"  "What does it all mean?"  "Should I sexually experiment with my male secretary?"   If you are a believer, the answers to these questions are already pre-packaged and ready-to-eat.   Religion is the Snack Pak Pudding of purpose-seekers. ("Excuse me, ma'am, you seem to have dribbled a little bit of Lutheranism on your blouse.")  I'm not saying religion is bad or good.  I'm thinking it, but I'm not saying it.  Let's just assume that, for this particular discussion, faith in a higher power is not a factor.   

Religion is not without accomplice in this regard.  In the mid-90's, I left a very lucrative (and getting lucrative-er by the day) position in the import/export business to pursue a career in non-profits.   The rationale behind my decision was that, because I was unhappy but didn't really know what I wanted to do, I should try to make the world a better place.  Like religion, this idealism offered me a ready-made solution to a complex puzzle.  All it took was having faith in myself that I could make a difference.

What an arrogant douche I was.  Am.  Fuck you.

The charitable world stands on sugary phrases like "make a difference," "positive change," and "make the world a better place" as if they are tangibles.  Having once willingly consumed these chocolate-covered notions, they have now come out the other end as ideological crap. 

Despite the best of intentions, I do not believe that anyone can make the world a better place.  Except maybe sexy celeb George Clooney when he flashes that million dollar smile.

See what I mean?  I feel better already.

One reason is that it is impossible to define what "better" means.  I can work diligently to make life easier, longer, and/or more convenient for other person.  But better?  To say that assumes: 1) I know how the person affected by my action determines his/her quality of life; 2) that person has thoroughly examined his/herself (intellectually or philosophically examine, that is.  I'm fairly certain most of you have ample experience examining yourselves physically.  Creeps.); and 3) I have clearly identified the effect and, more importantly, the ripple effect of my actions.

With the exception of cable television, what is better for one is not necessarily better for another.  To assume you know what is best for everyone makes you an ethnocentric, condescending buttinski (or my mother-in-law). 

Most importantly, though, is that you can never know the total consequences of your action or inaction.  Before the Butterfly Effect became the crappy attempt to legitimize Ashton Kutcher's career, it was a really cool concept.  Like sun-dried tomatoes, it got overused and discarded as passé.  Too bad. I really liked sun-dried tomatoes.

For example, I work with an incurable disease that kills its victims within a couple of years.  It is a horrible affliction that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy (that's not really true, but I didn't want to skimp on the clichés this week).  Yet many of the individuals who are diagnosed with the disease and their families go through a transformation that I would subjectively characterize as positive and life changing.  If I were completely presumptuous...and I am... I might even go as far to say that their lives became more meaningful.  So, would the world be a better place without this disease?  It's impossible to say.

Another example of is antibiotics. They are great for treating, oh, I don't know, let's say a nagging case of syphilis.  Maybe it's your third or fourth in the past couple of years.  You just have a knack for picking the wrong public toilet seat.  Whatever.  The point is, the use of antibiotics has inadvertently advanced the strains of the diseases it is/was used to cure.   Antibiotics may be great for your drippy dick today, but what about the super syphilis of tomorrow that they help to create?  Will life be better for future sexual deviants?

Anyway, all of this is not to say people shouldn't have good intentions.  And it is not to say that we shouldn't at least try.  But given what I believe, it would be irrational to seek purpose in attempting to help others when it is impossible determine whether or not the world will ultimately be better or worse for it.

Of course, I will miss some of the perks of working for a charity.  For one, being able to throw my career choice in someone's face when I wanted to feel superior or win an argument.  It was like having a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card for assholes.

Next week:  Finding Happiness OR Mr. Right vs. Mr. Right Now

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I just put the finishing touches on a version of White Christmas as sung by Michael Richards.  However, I am way too much of a pussy to post it.  Last thing I need this holiday season is Al Sharpton jumping up and down on my balls.

So instead, here is an email I received from a friend of a friend.  Apparently it was supposed to be a confidential, girl-to-girl thing.  Fortunately for us, one friend had no problem throwing the other friend under the bus.  Sometimes women are from Mars, too.

(Editorial note: Curse words in the original email were censored.  I'll have none of that.)

Okay, so here's what happened a few days ago:
I'm at work, and it's the lunch hour, and an EMERGENCY bathroom trip is in order (damn all that fiber!).  Because it's the lunch hour, it's a good time to lay a stinker since everyone goes out for lunch.

I go into the empty (hallelujah!) bathroom, and proceed to unload.  Mere seconds into it, someone lumbers in -- sloooooowly -- and enters a stall.  And yeah, I've stunk up the place, but I'm now being quiet as a mouse, hoping this person does her bizness and leaves quickly.

Silence.  And then this from the other stall:

"You know, that COULD be a virus."

Uhhhhhhh...WTF???????????  EXCUSE ME??????  ARE YOU COMMENTING ON MY POOP?????
 
I'm seriously dumbfounded at this moment.  I don't say a word though, because what do you SAY to that?  I just sit there with my mouth open for about 20 seconds.

Then she says, "Yeah, well, call the doctor and be sure to call me back."

Stupid, motherfucking bee-otch is on the PHONE.  In the BATHROOM.  While she's on the CRAPPER.  While I'm trying to take a shit. 

So, he-llo?
I ripped a huge fart, just for her.  Hope her phone buddy heard it, too

Girls are stinky.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

At the risk of being labeled a maverick and escalating my status as a media darling, I'm going to make a shockingly bold statement that will surely cause outrage.  Are you ready?  Do you have your aluminum testicle-protector in place? 

Here it is: I hate cigarette smoke.   I'll give you a second to let that sink in...

(Not to overwhelm you with my principled intellect, but I also think that strong families are good, education is important and terrorism is bad.  And please, don't let my cutting-edge viewpoints and stoic judgment intimidate you.  I'm sure you have plenty of other good reasons to feel bad about yourself.)
 
In Ohio, today marks the beginning of a new statewide ban on smoking in all workplaces.  For me this is truly a cause for celebration (Speaking of celebrating, do you know where I can score some pot?).  Now when I need to dull my pain with massive amounts of alcohol, I won't have to do it in a smoke-fogged bar.  At restaurants, no longer will my crème brulee with chocolate strawberry slices and walnut reduction sauce be ruined by nearby fat cats with fake Cuban cigars.  Relaxing in a seedy motel room, I will no longer have to tolerate the transvestite hooker who feels the need for a post-coital drag. 

Thank God the government finally realized that people who choose to engage in risky behavior do not have the right to expose the rest of us to unnecessary health risks.

For me, nothing is worse that being around someone who is sucking a butt (any way you interpret it).  The smoke gives me sinus headaches and the stink of seems to permeate my every fiber.  It irritates me to the point where I've stopped doing some of my favorite things, like watching live music in clubs and collecting chewed gum from dirty ashtrays.

That said, I voted against the smoking ban.

I've never been a Branch Davidian (although I wouldn't mind to getting my hands on some grenades and nubile hayseed chicks), but the idea of the government telling me what I can and cannot do makes my asshole pucker. 

For me, legally prohibiting personal choices is a very slippery slope. What's next?  What one thing do I like to do that bugs someone else?  Using the word "fuck?" Farting in public and blaming my wife (it usually is her, to be perfectly honest)?  Performing the word "fuck" (they'd have to be really quick to catch me on this one)?  If it is something the majority of people don't approve of it, then, I fear, mob justice will once again prevail.

And don't give me this shit that smoking affects non-smokers.  Everything anybody does affects other people.  Your cell phone is giving me brain cancer.  Your SUV causes global warming.  Your fat ass makes my health insurance rates go up. 

Face it.  We don't like smokers, so we bullied them.  Hurray for democracy.   

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. has the Sunday New York Times delivered every week.  As far as she is concerned, a house is not a home unless there is newspaper scattered all over the place.  I'm suffocating in homeyness.

Last week the NYT came with a little flyer from our delivery person.  (By the way, the UPS leaves packages on the porch, the pizza guy rings the bell, and the newspaper guy throws his product at the front of the house.  Maybe it's time we started qualifying the word "delivery.")  The flyer began as follows:

Happy Holidays!
Seasons Greetings!
Merry Christmas!
Peace On Earth!

No matter how you say it, they all convey the same message for this time of year.

Not exactly, professor.  They all convey the same message for this time of year if you're a Christian.  If you are Jewish, "Merry Christmas" is a just another reminder that you are an outnumbered outcast in Jesusland. 

Now that I think about it, the statement isn't even true for all Christians.  Last year the conservative pundits decided to manufacture outrage over the sayings "Happy Holidays" and "Seasons Greetings." The accusation was that these sayings constituted a "War on Christmas."  Remember that? When I close my eyes, I can still see the bodies of all those insurgent elves and dead reindeer strewn around the burning nativity scene.  War is hell. 

Finally, and not to put too fine a point on it, "Happy Holidays" is to "Peace On Earth" what "Have a slice of fruitcake" is to "Please stop butchering your inhabitants, you fucking savages."  (OK, now my fingers are starting to hurt.)

So, in truth, it actually does matter how you say it, and they all do convey different messages. 

The question you are probably asking yourself right now is: Why would a grown man pick a semantic fight with a paperboy?  For starters, it's fun and it distracts me from the inevitable drinking and self-loathing.  More importantly, though, it's because the flyer also contained this passage:

We also hope that you will consider a Christmas Gratuity.  This gratuity will be used to help offset the high cost of gas and the increase in the cost of supplies (plastic bags for your paper, etc.) throughout the year.

First, the best way to NOT get a gratuity from me is to ask for one.  The only person that can get away with this is our garbage collector.  I want him kept happy for obvious reasons.  

Second, he didn't ask for a "Holiday Gratuity," he asked for a "Christmas Gratuity."  What if I don't celebrate Christmas? Am I exempt from your crass, ham-fisted attempt to separate me from the contents of my coin purse?  I don't want to make any wild assumptions, but there just might be a few Jewish people around who read the New York Times.

The third problem I have is the line, "cost of supplies (plastic bags for your paper, etc.)."  Granted, my paper comes in a plastic bag that keeps in dry when flung into the bushes.  But what is the fucking "etcetera?"  What other supplies are there?  Icy Hot for your throwing arm?  Toilet paper for the people who don't give you tips?  Scotchguard?  What? 

Clearly, this is a gratuitous attempt to construct the perception that delivering newspapers is a complicated, highly processed, labor intensive endeavor with countless moving parts. 
Come to think of it, I seriously doubt they make the paperboy supply the plastic bags on his own dime. 

In the end, I'm sure we will tip the paper delivery guy just like we do everyone else.  However, the constant assault of subtle and not-so-subtle requests for gratuities is beginning to wear me down.  Even Subway has a tip jar.  Gratuitious as that may seem (how's that for clever word choice?  OK, I need to go get a drink now), at least it makes more sense than tipping the cashier at Starbucks. 

Thus, I will begin my campaign to create a tip-less society.  A utopian world where every expense is built into the cost of a thing and no math is required. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Week 1: Introduction

Week 2: Career vs. Careerism

Last week I think I got ahead of myself a little bit.  If you're a fan of "Lost," you are probably used to being teased with promises of plot development only to be rewarded with more mundane back story.  Welcome.  

For me, this is a very important process. I figure I've got one last good shot at a career change before robots take over the world and use us as batteries/food/Christmas gifts for their spoiled, shitty little robot children.   Therefore, I do not want to miss any steps.  From time to time, that is going to mean doing some backtracking.  Granted, having to backtrack after the first post is a bad omen, but not nearly as bad an omen as this damnable abomination.

Sure, everyone is happy and smiling.  Then the killing starts.

Anyway, the question I posed last week was this: "If I have one year to live, how will I spend it, and what will I regret not having tried?"  On the surface, this sounds like a cheap parlor game (Yes, I said "parlor."  Sometimes I fancy myself as Mr. Darcy, wearing fluffy shirts and pursuing venerable women in Victorian England).  Knowing that, last Monday I made a serious and somewhat successful effort to imprint my brain with the idea that I was actually going to die within the year.  After several hours of weeping uncontrollably in the fetal position and screaming "Why Me?" at anyone who passed within earshot, I began writing.  What I quickly realized is that it is very difficult to parse career goals and life goals. 

This leads to an important first question:  Are we defined by what we do?  It depends.  If what you do is drill holes in people's heads and store their body parts in your freezer, no one will care about your other hobbies.  That is what you are.  Period. You will never be considered the cannibalistic psychopath who plays a mean tambourine.

However, if what you do is less extreme, the answer gets a little fuzzier.  But this relates to how other people perceive us.  And we all know what dim-witted douchebags other people are.  Let's just hope the robots kill them first.

The better question is this: Should our careers be the pursuit of our life's ultimate goal or purpose? 

Europeans generally consider it small-minded to ask new acquaintances what they do for a living - a social crime that Americans are notoriously known to commit. (An Italian explained this to us last summer in Tuscany.  He then went on to explain how Americans are crass idiots and the Jews control the media.  These other topics are, apparently, not even social misdemeanors).  To them, the question is one-dimensional and reeks of ambition. 

Their disdain indicates two things to me.  First, most Europeans are arrogant assholes that think anything Americans do is beneath them, like win a war or bathe.

Second, most Europeans have probably never experienced the degree of freedom and prospect we have at our fingertips (and which has been ubiquitously pounded into our heads since the day we first had our asses slapped).  To them, a job is simply a way to earn money or respectability.  The very idea that you can pursue your dream as a career is predominantly an American one.  The level to which an individual chooses to embrace this idea actually tells quite a bit about them as a person. 

So, as Americans, we have a uniquely abundant ability to develop personally rewarding careers.  But why bother?  Isn't it OK to just do your crappy job, pursue your interests outside of work and shut the fuck up about it?   Why write agonizing blogs on the topic, torturing yourself and others? (OK, I'll admit the torturous nature of this blog has little to do with the specific topic if you'll admit you're a disparaging twat.  Agreed?)

A more practical approach to this question is a quick time study.  There are 168 hours in a week.  Let's assume you:

1. Sleep an average of 7 hours a night
2. Spend 3 hours a day eating meals and practicing good hygiene (a hopeful assumption for some of you)
3. Spend approximately 1.5 hours a day on basic necessities like laundry, dishes, shopping, cleaning up hairballs, thinking about getting a pet cat, etc.
4. Exercise 1 hour a day

This leaves you with 11.5 hours a day, 80.5 hours per week.  If you work 50 hours per week (including drive time), you're left with roughly 30 hours of disposable time.  That's 17.8% of your life available to pursue your interests, assuming you do not own a television or, god forbid, a Playstation.  By the way, if you have kids, it actually becomes a negative number, requiring the kind of advanced mathematics that would literally cause my mouthbreathing skull to implode. 

Given the sheer numbers, I cannot accept spending nearly two thirds of my available time doing something that is not personally meaningful.  If I lived in the sub Sahara and was barely able to feed my family, then this wouldn't matter.  But I don't.  (Let's not drag Maslow into this, OK?  I'm already feeling way too pretentious). 

(Cue the John Philip Sousa) As Americans, we have a gratuitous amount of opportunity that comes with very little risk of starving or being executed (unless, of course, you live in Detroit).  Whether we asked for it or not, merely having this opportunity creates an obligation to pursue it.  We are obligated to all those who built this country and all those on the outside looking in. 

I'm going to stop with all the jingoism now before Fox gives me a TV show.

The conclusion I guess I'm reaching here is that, for me, a good job is not enough.  In order to not feel like I'm bartering large chunks of my life for legal tender, I need to pursue a career that reflects my lifelong personal objective(s).  Anything else will simply feel like a waste of time.  Unfortunately for you, this means that I'm going to need to dig a little deeper and try to find purpose. 

Damn.  Sometimes being an existentialist is really inconvenient.  
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 03:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

When it rains, it pours.  It pours right on through my roof, soaking the second story window cripple studs and dripping down into the first floor porch. 

Not more than a week ago, I informed Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. that in a few short months, we would have our roof loan paid off.  Three years ago we paid a small fortune to have our old, four-layer roof completely torn off and a new one put on - a brand new, 30-year roof that we had to borrow money to afford.

Now it is leaking and someone must die.

I called the company and they are sending someone over to look at it.  However, I can tell you right now how this is going to turn out: 

The roof guy blames the window guy.
The window guy blames the roof guy.
They both blame the gutter guy (who deserves it because he's a bottom-feeding scumbag with poor hygiene).
The gutter guy blames Al Qaeda.
Everybody tries to sell me something.
I borrow more money to pay for roof/window/gutter repairs.
Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. divorces me for shoddy home maintenance and financial mismanagement.
I turn to drugs and cheap hookers for solace (well, I turn more often).
Everything is lost.
I end up living in a cardboard box...that leaks.

Other than that, my day sucked.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)