Throwing Poo

My task this week was to compile all the critical points from the previous ten Now What? posts and try to piece together my purpose in life.   My thought was that I'd paste together this collage of ideas and then stare at it until I had a Keyser Soze moment.

Yeah, well, that didn't really work.  Even though I gave it the old college try - probably a poor choice of clichés because, for me, "the old college try" simply means subsisting on Cream of Wheat while getting high and watching daytime television -  I just couldn't concentrate.  Maybe my focus was blurry because of Valentine's Day and the accompanying marital duties I would be expected to vigorously perform; the relentless blizzard conditions; or the fact that I've got to spend two of the next three weeks at work conferences. 

If you have read this blog before, you know that I fucking HATE work conferences.  I'd rather spend a day mopping up on the set of a German porno production than in meetings with my boss.  Attempting to conjure the limits of what I'd rather do than spend two weeks in meetings with my boss takes me to a place so dark and frightening that only the word "REDRUM" can describe it.

So, with all this weighing on my mind, I was unable to get anything significant accomplished this week.   It's probably for the best, though.  Since so much of my anxiety is work related, it would have likely skewed the results.  

Never go grocery shopping when you're hungry.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Well, it's finally happened: I've begun to bore myself.  That means it's time to finish this business of figuring out my life and actually start living it.  As Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. likes to say, "Not deciding is still a decision."  She's a smartypants.

The bad news is that there are still a number of things on my list - things I want to do before I die - which need to be addressed.  The good news is that they can be lumped into two general categories: music and writing. 

Take guitar and drum lessons
Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
Write and record a song
Perform in front of an audience
Music is the one thing that has always affected me on a fundamental level.  Some people lives are changed when they discover Jesus; mine changed when I discovered Queen's "News Of the World" (which I still own on LP).  The songs were visceral and the cover art both excited and frightened me.  A year later, during eighth grade, I experienced two firsts at once: getting high and listening to The Cars debut album.  It was truly the weirdest, coolest thing I had ever heard. I was hooked. 

To this day, music alone has the power to change my mood and make me happy (the Prozac and electro-shock therapy are just for fun).  At 42, I still dance around the house, play air guitar, thrash my skull (these days I stretch a little first) and test every surface in the house for its drumming potential.  My iPod is as essential to my well-being as a pacemaker (hopefully, by the time I actually need a pacemaker, Apple will have incorporated one into their iPhone). 

But this all just relates to me being a fan of music. 

While I've been blessed with a good ear for music, I've also been cursed with the finger dexterity of an arthritic camel.  Even though I have owned various guitars for over 15 years, it would be misleading to say that I've played the instrument for that long...because I stink.  A more accurate statement is that I've played with a guitar for 15 years. 

If I ever want to perform at an open mic night or infiltrate a high school talent show, let alone record a song, I'm going to need a shitload of lessons and maybe that Milli Vanilli producer guy.

Taking music classes seems easy enough.  It is something I would enjoy and is not cost-prohibitive.  It would also likely expose me to other unrealistic, talentless people who might enjoy making some collective noise.  However, given that I spend an average of 50% of my week traveling, it is damn near impossible to maintain any sort of regularly scheduled classes or activities.  I end up missing sessions, falling behind, growing discouraged and quitting.  Even when I do get some free time on the road - which is rare; it's not like the hotel porn is going to watch itself - I don't have a guitar with me to practice. 

Bottom line: If I want to experiment with music, I need a career that affords me the ability to schedule classes and utilize my free time for those activities that I choose to pursue.  

Write my blog
Complete and publish some form of writing
Write and film a short movie
While these Now What? posts have been particularly difficult and not very much fun, nearly everything else I write for this blog is a blast.  I love scribbling this drivel.  

When I first started Throwing Poo last spring (April 9th for all you potential gift-givers/anniversary-obsessed terrorists out there), I was worried that I might run out of ideas.  The exact opposite is true.  The list of topics that I want to write about just keeps growing, as does my desire to write about them.  In addition to this blog, I want to begin working on ideas for two screenplays, a children's book, two additional blogs, a book of topical essays, a fundraising book and a truckload of dirty limericks. 

Now, for a guy who is barely able to form a complete sentence, I realize I'm getting out in front of my skis a little here.  While my writing skills are improving every day, I recognize that I'm like a 300lb. woman who goes shopping for a new bikini because she recently lost 25 lbs.   There is a bit more work to be done here.

To improve my skills, I need to read at least one book a week, write an average of two hours a day, take classes and attend workshops.  It would also help if I learned the difference between a colon and a hole in the ground.  In other words, I need to resolutely commit to the process of improving my writing skills - something that is definitely going to cut into my drinking time. (To Mavis's recent comment, unlike Bukowski, Chandler, Hemingway, and all the others, I drink because of my lack of talent, not in spite of it.  Wait, did I basically just quote Dudley Moore from Arthur?!  *sigh* I fucking hate myself.)

By the way, in case you are wondering, I am not totally deluded.  I realize I will never write a sentence that could be confused with the work of the authors mentioned above.  My aspirations are nowhere near that lofty.  To publish a silly little book that sells a few thousand copies, contribute an article to a national magazine, or write a play that is produced by a local playhouse (which isn't summarily burned to the ground by an angry, literate mob.  Hmm, then again...) would, in my eyes, be considered wildly successful. 

So, the challenge is to figure out a way to earn an income by writing or some activity that enhances my ability to write. 

fin 

Whew!  That's it.  End of list.  For anyone who is still with me at this point (and, really, why would you be?), the next step is to review these ten posts, summarize the critical issues and identify some career options that fit within the final framework.  That is my task for next week. 

Where is my high school guidance counselor when I really need him? 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

It was John Lennon who said, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."  He also said, "Holy shit, some asshole just shot me!"  Kind of screamed it, actually.  He was a Beatle, you know. 

Anyway, it is one thing to not have any direction in your life (i.e., it just happens).  It is an entirely different and altogether worse thing to have a sense of direction yet feel powerless to pursue it. 

For the past two and a half weeks, I have been consumed by work.  By work, I mean the unsatisfying, nomadic, badly managed, blackhole of a fucking job that I waste all my free time bitching about.  As a result, this very internal analysis (the adjective form of "very", as to emphasize importance; not the adverb form which would sound invasive and require lubricant) that is supposed to lead me down the path of enlightenment - or at least to a better gig - has been put on hold.  This leads me to an all-important question:  Am I totally fucking retarded?

Despite KNOWING what is important to me, I'm easily and constantly distracted with insignificant or irrelevant tasks.  Some are piled on by my worthless, do-nothing boss.  Others I pile on myself - like remodeling the bathroom, paying the bills and bathing.  Regardless of where these tasks come from, I feel compelled to complete them - and not necessarily begrudgingly. The immediate gratification I get from shaving the cats or reorganizing my porno collection chronologically is, well, gratifying.  But it's just life candy (OK, I was trying to come up with the equivalent of eye candy or ear candy, but couldn't quite put my finger on it.  Sue me).  The satisfaction is short-lived and soon I need another fix.

While I can, with some effort, avoid doing this work, I'm incapable of ignoring it.  These tasks build up and compound; each one another nagging little splinter in my brain.  Increasingly, it begins to feel like everything is spinning out of control.  Then I implode and go on a to-do list bender that lasts for two weeks straight. 

And here we are.  Point being, I guess, is that this is an inherent problem; part of my make-up.  Call it O.C.D. or anal retentiveness; it doesn't matter.  Anything short of prescription medication means I'm going to spend valuable time digging out these splinters.  Hopefully I can figure out a way to dig enough to relieve the pressure but not so much as to cause infection. 

Whew.  That hurt me more than it did you - and you know how much I enjoy getting spanked.

Anyway, back to the topic: Things I want to do before I die.  Here are the items on the list that I still haven't addressed:

Study philosophy and religion
Write my blog
Complete and publish some form of writing
Write and film a short movie
Take guitar and drum lessons
Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
Write and record a song
Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
Learn about digital audio production

Study philosophy and religion
If I'm truly serious about pursuing purpose and meaning in life, then this is how to do it.  Using the *ahem* Socratic method, one can easily deduce that nothing is more important in life than the study of philosophy.  Unfortunately, you can also easily deduce what a completely boring tool I am. 

The thing is, smarter people than me - brilliant men and women (mostly men, though.  Hey, I'm just saying!) - have spent centuries configuring, analyzing and debating the eternal questions.  What do I, with my business degree from a mediocre college and a bookshelf full of Christopher Moore novels, seriously think I have to offer?  I'm the clod who shows up to a black-tie event wearing sneakers and eating fistfuls of Fritos right from the bag.     

To be honest, it is also just one of those things that I think I should do, but don't ever get around to because I don't actually enjoy it.  It's like Netflix.  Our Netflix queue is chock full of documentaries and foreign films we think we ought to see.  But then when Friday night rolls around, we set "An Inconvenient Truth" off to the side and go rent "The Dukes of Hazzard" from Blockbuster.

For the record, let me also say that I'm not dumping on religion, either.  It just doesn't interest me.  If someone feels the presence of God, then I can understand it.  That has never happened to me.  I thought I did once, but turns out it was just a bad burrito.

That's it for today.  It's Super Bowl (Stupid Bowl, Super Bore, We Don't Like Football But We've Become So Desensitized To Commercialism That We Think It's OK To Sit In Front of the Television for Four Hours to Watch "Cool" Advertisements) Sunday, so I need to cut it off there.  However, I promise to finally finish this list by the end of the week.  Lucky you.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

We interrupt this message to bring you the following minor meltdown.

Things have been going badly at work lately.  I won't bore you with the details, but basically, I work with total fucking morons who are horrible stewards of my time.  Imagine that.

Since I had to travel for work on Friday and Saturday, and had a family thing on Sunday, there wasn't much quality time to work on my post for "Now What".  The later it got Sunday evening, the more I started feeling panicked.  Apparently I had underestimated both the cathartic and therapeutic value of these posts.  As a result, late Sunday night I slipped into freakout mode and spent several frantic hours searching job sites and emailing resumes.   

Now I've got a phone interview today for a new job that, deep down, I know I don't want.  (Dammit!  Why do I always have to be such an attractive, well-qualified job candidate?  I suppose it serves me right for being success-oriented with outstanding people skills).  It seems like a little better gig than the one I've got now, but is it really worth the trouble to trade a turd for a turd with sprinkles? 

From another perspective, having an offer on the table would be like soaking my balls in Miracle-Gro (and not just because it turns them a lovely shade of purple).   It would give me the courage to demand certain changes in my current position that otherwise I'm not prepared to make. 

Still, I kind of feel like a job-aholic who just fell off the wagon and is looking for a way to justify his latest bender.  I know this new job isn't what I truly want to do and I just need to focus on the important...Hey, look!  A shiny paperclip.  Cool.

To make matters worse, I've got to fly to California tomorrow to spend six days at a work conference.  So instead of spending time working on these issues, I'll be wasting six days drinking Kool-Aid, chanting mantras and hugging people I detest (There's this thing in the non-profit world where people always feel the need to hug each other.  Imagine for a moment, if you will, a job where your boss is always trying to hug you.  Kind of makes you want to open a vein, doesn't it?).  There's an inevitable downward spiral here that I see coming but cannot avoid. 

Oh, well.  At least it'll be a change of weather.  Forecast for the week: Partly crazy with a likelihood of uninvited hugs.  High pressure will begin to move the hugs out, making way for a storm front of depression and rage this weekend. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

The tray tables are up and the emotional baggage has been stored in the overhead bins (see posts I thru VII).  It is time to take-off; "wheels up," as we like to say in the travel business.  It's about damn time.

Here is last week's list of things I would do with one year to live:

1. Quit my job and rid my life of all unnecessary burdens (you know who you are)
2. Spend lots of time with family & friends (well, maybe not "lots")
3. Reconnect with old friends to express what they meant to me
4. Write my blog
5. Take guitar and drum lessons
6. Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
7. Write and record a song
8. Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
9. Visit the pyramids (OK, now size matters)
10. Travel around Ireland
11. Study & debate philosophy and religion
12. Get into a fistfight (#10 or #11 should take care of this)
13. Learn to fence (sword fighting, not liquidating stolen goods)
14. Always eat good food and drink good wine
15. Be kind, generous and reliable

With only a year, there would obviously be some things I could not do and/or reconcile.  Those are:
1. Complete and publish some form of writing
2. Write and film a short movie
3. Learn about digital audio production
4. Having spent too much time looking ahead and not enough time enjoying the moment

In order to try to glean some meaningful information from this hobo soup of a list, I'm going to flesh out each one and then attempt to identify commonalities (and you thought this was going to get dull.  Ha!).   Since I am making this shit up as I go along and don't really know what the fuck I'm doing, it would probably be best to start with the easy ones first. 

Quit my job. 
Yeah, well, that's the whole point, isn't it?  I'll come back to that one...eventually.

Rid my life of unnecessary burdens. 
For most of my life, I've felt compelled to personally take on every mundane task that I could reasonable expect to complete.   This included everything from laundry, ironing and cleaning to automobile maintenance and home renovation.  The logic being: Why pay someone to do something you can do yourself?  

This is a wonderful philosophy if I want my grave stone to say, "Here lies CBC: His house was freshly painted and his car always nice and clean.  What a bore." 

Stupid Protestant work ethic.

Fortunately, as of late, I've come to realize the pure, liberating joy in outsourcing jobs (screw you, Teamsters).  Having spent years ironing dress shirts every morning before work, the simple act of picking up a load of crisp, laundered dress shirts from the cleaners makes me giddy.  Knowing that someone will arrive to clean my house every other week grants me the freedom to ignore the tumbleweeds of cat hair blowing across the floor (and prevents me from straight-up murdering my wife).  

I used to think that these services were luxuries I couldn't or shouldn't afford.  No more.  Cable television, cell phone service, Netflix and Syrup-Of-The-Month Club memberships are things that I can do without.  Spending my Saturday afternoon typing drivel or touching myself in inappropriate ways instead of changing spark plugs is an absolute necessity.  Besides, the money I spend is easily covered by my reduced consumption of Zoloft and Johnny Walker. 

Simply put: Spend less time on mundane shit and more time on important shit.  Mind-blowing, isn't it?  Still, to me it always seems like the simplest ideas are the hardest ones to actually put into practice.

Spend lots of time with family & friends
Reconnect with old friends
Right.  This is the important shit.  I get it.  Blah, blah, blah.   

From a work perspective, this simply means finding a career that allows for more free time with minimal travel.  Also, something that doesn't leave me in such a foul fucking mood all the time making everyone think I'm just an asshole.  

Learn to fence
My health insurance is paid up, so there's no reason to delay on this one.  Besides, the earlier I start learning, the sooner people will think twice about making fun of my pirate costume.

Always eat good food and drink good wine
I love food and wine. (And romantic sunsets, and walking on the beach, and adorable little puppies.  Aren't I interesting?) Looking back on my life, I can't ever imagine feeling good about having saved $10 by drinking a lousy bottle of wine.  Yet, whenever I'm in the moment of decision, my penny-pinchiness takes over and mucks things up. 

Like some sort of depression baby, I have never been able to order something off a menu without first looking at the price.  Regardless of the restaurant quality, I always feel compelled to make a compromise between what I want and what things cost.

This is just stupid and I need to stop. 

Visit the pyramids
Travel around Ireland
This one is easy.  Because I book a lot of travel for my job, I've become pretty adept at finding great deals.  In fact, I've gotten so good at it that it's become one of my conversational cornerstones.  Nary a party or social gathering goes by where I don't flaunt a travel triumph or two.  It really livens things up.  By the way, I'm still waiting for invitations from some of you. 

Anyway, we'll plan a trip to Ireland in the next two years.  Egypt, I'm afraid, will at least have to until after the 2008 elections or until they re-open the Stargate. 

Let me pause here for a moment. You may have noticed that everything I've talked about so far requires disposable income.  There are two ways to increase disposable income: make more money or spend less (if you guessed that I minored in economics at college, you guessed right!).  Since I'm probably unlikely to increase my revenue in the short term, this means I need to minimize expenses.  This is where not caring about "stuff" comes in handy.

For example, I own an old Saturn that runs fine.  A new car would be nice, but it's not a necessity.  Let's assume the cost of a new car payment is $350 per month, $4200 a year.  If I keep my Saturn - even assuming a whopping $1000 a year in repairs - I'm still netting over $3200 a year.  Plus I'm saving money on insurance.  Sweet.   

OK, back to the list.

Get into a fistfight
As Brad Pitt said in Fight Club, "How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?"  Even though I've spent a lot of years sparring, I've never been in a real fight.  Whenever I've tried to start something, my potential opponents have either rolled away in their chairs or ran and hid behind their "mommies."  Pussies. 

It's probably for the best, though.  I'm sure fighting is like going to Epcot Center with a friend; it sounds like fun, but within the first minute of arriving, you realize it is going to totally suck and you can't leave until the other guy is ready.

Be kind, generous and reliable
Huh?  If I wrote this, I was probably just trying to impress the ladies. 

To be continued...

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Last week I tried to list the things I would do if I only had one year left to live.  Even though I left out 365 days of dressing like a pirate (and, of course, the obligatory raping and pillaging that would follow), the exercise was very helpful. 

At this point, an idealist would probably say that I should "Just Do It." Then that idealist would get sued for copyright infringement; be stripped of all his assets; lose his wife and family; attempt to ease the pain by injecting heroin; develop an addiction and be forced to turn tricks at a highway rest stop to support his habit; suffer from TMJ; meet a wizened, old "street" priest who teaches him about Jesus; catch AIDs, hepatitis B, chlamydia and, oddly, osteoporosis from the priest; be happily reunited with his dog Shithead and his long lost black family who invested his money-sent-home wisely; fall into a coma and get cryogenically frozen by a rogue doctor;  be revived in the year 2156 by the ruling robot race which, having obliterated humans a century ago, promise to treat him as a king; have his diseases cured and his atrophied muscles quickly restored by some really cool, advanced medical procedure like in The Matrix;  ironically, get custom-fitted for a new pair of Nike shoes and a sweatsuit; take his first step outside of the hospital/robot repair shop;  close his eyes, look up into the sun and smile; get flattened by a speeding commuter bus. 

Stupid idealist.

In order to avoid such a fate, I need to fully consider the financial, familial and Freudian costs of pursuing this list.  (By Freudian, I mean my ego.  Sorry, I just wanted to crowbar some alliteration into this post). 

Financially speaking, the market for change is bullish.  Other than a modest mortgage and gagillion dollars in student loans, Nerdy Squirrel Esq. and I are nearly debt-free.  We do have expenses, but there's no need to get into a full-blown accounting of the cost of hookers, defense attorneys, poker debts and political hush money.  That seems gratuitous...and my lawyer has advised me against it.

Regarding the need for new acquisitions (i.e., stuff), I don't have any significant material wants.  Fortunately, I married a woman who does not require a constant influx of fresh buttons and bows (though she does appreciate a fresh butt on her beau).  We generally don't give a rat's ass about cars, jewelry, clothes, or collectible ceramic rats' asses.  As long as we have a few bucks to eat, buy booze, watch movies, and travel twice a year, we are happy (read: fat, drunk, entertained, and exhausted from an embarrassing amount of hotel sex). 

Oh, yeah, we also need enough money left over to replace Nerdy Squirrel Esq.'s gloves every other week.  I swear to God, the next pair I buy this woman are going to clip right onto her suit sleeves.

Ego, not surprisingly, is more of a problem. 

We often hear about the tremendous social pressure young women feel to meet unattainable standards of beauty.  It can lead to low self-esteem, anorexia, bulimia, and, in cases where the parents are total fucking retards, unnecessary plastic surgery. 

What we don't hear as often is the social pressure on young men (not that it's a contest).  From a young age, American boys are socialized to become wealthy and successful - and easily convinced that they are one and the same.  Competitive behavior is highly encouraged and celebrated.  We're taught to be number one.  To win at any cost.  For example, the mantra in my high school track locker room was, "Second place just means you're the first one to lose." 

This one plagues me. Even though I'm absolutely certain that I don't need wealth - not to mention that I don't even consider it a suitable measure of success - I still get these prosperity pangs.  A surge of blind ambition will course through me, creating an urgent need to go out and strike it rich.  It isn't a conscious thought; it's just one of those places where my brain goes when I'm not paying attention.   The best I can seem to do is rationalize it away when it hits. 

OK, let's bottom line this fucker. 

My ego requires regular maintenance.  Knowing this, having a ready-made supply of juicy rationalizations to subdue it when it runs off should suffice.  And while I do need to generate a humble amount of income, my family's needs are modest. 

This, my weary friends, marks the end of all the collateral pyscho-babble.  Time for the raping and pillaging to begin...baby needs a new pair of gloves.

TOMORROW: Now What? Part VIII

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:02 AM | Permalink

Um, yeah.  So, I guess I've kinda been a drag lately.  Maybe a bit sloppy, too.  Seems that all this agonizing over finding happiness is making me miserable (the incoherent writing is all me, though).  Some people might say that's ironic.  I prefer to say that it's me being a silly, self-absorbed and just a bit schizophrenic.  What kind of affected twat takes nothing seriously except his own damn self?

What I'm trying to say is, well, I'm sorry.  I really like you and I hope you still like me.  So, how about we put the past behind us and give it another shot?  Start all over.  Just the two of us.  Can you find it in your heart to give me one more chance?  If nothing else, will you at least do it for the children?  Really?  Great.  I'm so happy and relieved.  Now, go get me a beer, bitch!

Just kidding (but two for flinching). 

Given our fresh start (you're not regretting it already, are you?), let's go back to the question raised in the first post:  What would I do if I have only one year to live?

In no specific order, here is my Dead Man Walking to-do list:

1. Quit my job and rid my life of all unnecessary burdens (you know who you are)
2. Spend lots of time with family & friends (well, maybe not "lots")
3. Reconnect with old friends
4. Write my blog
5. Take guitar and drum lessons
6. Find a group of untalented wannabes like me to play "music" with
7. Write and record a song
8. Perform in front of an audience (unlike my ex-girlfriends, size would not matter)
9. Visit the pyramids (OK, now size matters)
10. Travel around Ireland
11. Study & debate philosophy and religion
12. Get into a fistfight (#10 or #11 should take care of this)
13. Learn to fence (sword fighting, not liquidating stolen goods)
14. Always eat good food and drink good wine
15. Be kind, generous and reliable

With only a year, there would obviously be some things I could not do and/or reconcile.  Those are:
1. Complete and publish some form of writing
2. Write and film a short movie
3. Learn about digital audio production
4. Having spent too much time looking ahead and not enough time enjoying the moment

Not an unreasonable list, I think.  So, if you're like my wife, you're saying, "OK, you've got your answer.  Now get to shitting or get off your narcissistic pot.  And stop peeing in the shower, dammit!" 

Not so fast, sugar tits.  There are a couple of inherent problems with the initial question posed.  First, it assumes I can quit my job and still afford to travel, drink Brunello and keep a roof over my head while randomly punching people in the face.  For me, this is true because I have a smoking piece-of-ass wife who brings home the bacon (actually, she brings home the Facon, a soy-based, pseudo-pork product that will bind your intestines like a Geisha's feet).  Still, my ego will not allow me to parasitically feed off her labor like a drunken pilot fish who "needs to be creative" (*retch*).  I need to earn my keep.

Also, defining the term as a year allows me to summarily dismiss other practical concerns, such as long-term health and retirement.  If I want to live well, I need to stay fit and plan for the day I'm no longer able to work.  These things need to be taken into account when making a decision. 

Finally, I need to consider the quality of life and goals of my wife.  She has certain things she would like to accomplish besides making her man happy (I blame the militant feminists).  Where our goals diverge, we will need to find some compromise that we both can live with. 

It seems like a good next step would be to look at all the practical implications of these goals to determine: 1) how much time and money is required; 2) how must my behavior change, and 3) how can I integrate these goals into some type of career.

In the mean time, what's on your Dead Man Walking list?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

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

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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)

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)

Introduction

For as long as I can remember, I've been looking for a better job.  Countless hours over many years have been spent searching for a good opportunity where the salary is higher, the hours shorter and the boss not quite such a flaming asshole. 

One problem is that I always accepted phrases like "better job" and "good opportunity" as if they were absolute truths - career commandments handed down from Fringes, the Greek God of Ladder Climbing.  Usually all these phrases amounted to were, well, amounts.  More money.  More money to buy more shit to distract me from the soul-crushing work I had to do to make money. 

It reminds me of a saying: "Experience is what you get when you don't get what you want."  Similarly, I think that opportunity is what you pursue when you don't know where you want to go.  There is another saying that goes: "Hermaphrodites with chlamydia are what you get when you order hookers through Craigslist."  I'm not really sure if that one fits the topic at hand, but it is still good advice.

I've spent a lot of years pursuing opportunities, first in business, then in non-profits.  The non-profit work is particularly dangerous because it gives you a free pass on the intrinsic questions.  You convince yourself that you are "making a difference," and therefore it is a worthy pursuit.  Even if you get no pleasure from your work, you can take a certain amount of pride in your selfless martyrdom.  Plus, if you're an asshole, it is a lot easier to live with yourself if you do non-profit work.  Trust me on this one.

My basic problem is that I don't know what I want to do for a living.  I never have.  "What do I want to be when I grow up?" is a question that has tortured me since my first post-college paycheck.  Up to that point, I was entirely preoccupied with making money.  That's not to say I wanted to be rich.  I just wanted to have enough for pizza and car payments - the modest financial goals of a blue-collar kid who saw his father get laid off from the big factory in town (cue the Bruce Springsteen soundtrack).

Some people are lucky because they know what they want to do with their lives.  Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. is one of those people.  Since she was a kid, she has always known that she wanted to be a lawyer (She's lucky now, that is.  I imagine that milk money is easily parted from the bookish geek who wants to be a lawyer someday.) 

Unfortunately, I've never had that dream job.  There was a time when I wanted to drive Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to work at Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory.  But then I saw my first nudie magazine and the idea of unfettered access to candy lost out to the idea of unfettered access to Candy.  Since then, I've bounced around like a rubber ball that bounces from job to job with no real goal or destination (Note to self: work on your metaphors).

So here I am: a 42 year-old smart-ass who hates his job and uses the word "fuck" like he gets frequent flyer miles for it.  Now what?
 
First, I think I have to come to terms with the fact that I actually am a grown-up.  Hell, I'm nearly a senior citizen.  Still, I cannot seem to let go of the prospect of being discovered as a hot new actor, composing a top ten pop song or winning an Olympic event.  These are the daydreams of a child.  Clearly, I have the full-blown AIDs of Peter Pan Syndromes.  This one may take some work.

Second, I need to find the compromise between 1) what I want to be; and 2) what I want to spend my time doing.  For example, I might want to BE an astronaut.  However, I do not want to spend years studying physics, taking drug tests and not getting laid.  Another example is a musician.  While I would trample my grandmother for the chance to BE a rock star, standing on stage and playing the same twenty songs over and over again for the next twenty years seems like a special circle of hell. 

Maybe the best place to start is to look at what it is I would ultimately like to accomplish with my life.  In other words, on my deathbed, what is it that will I regret not having tried?  One thing is for sure, despite her insistence on Thanksgiving Day, it will not be my mother-in-law's baked turnip mash.  Ugh.

So, for next week's post, I'll begin pondering this idea: Assume I've got one year to live.  What will I spend it doing, and what will I regret not having done?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 12:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

For most of my adult life (it is just me, or has it gotten to the point where the mere word "adult" seems to evoke something seedy?), I have been agonizing over what I should do with my career.  Over the years I have read countless books, taken tests and written hundreds of journal pages on the subject.  Yet here I sit in an unfulfilling job that is slowly draining me of my will to life. 

I feel like a maple tree in that keeps getting tapped of all its syrup (metaphor hint: syrup = my will to live), leaving none of the good stuff for me to pour on my pancakes.  OK, maybe trees don't actually eat pancakes, but I think we can all agree that they would if they could.  Everyone likes pancakes.

Anyway, I've decided to take a new approach to figuring out my life.  I'm going to write about it on this blog.  Starting tomorrow, every Monday I'm going to peel back a layer and honestly try to get to the core of who I am and what I want to do with my life.  Kind of like my own personal "Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance," except I'll be replacing all that cumbersome analysis, philosophy and critical thinking with scatological jokes and filthy language. 

Now, I'm not really sure what this is going to read like.  Hopefully there will be some humor, even if it is of the unintentional, laughing-at-me-and-not-with-me sort.  However, if there is no entertainment value to these posts, at least you can take some satisfaction in knowing that I'm honestly attempting to sort out my life. If not, well, fuck you then.  

When discussing this idea with Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. at breakfast the other day, she replied that, if anything, I was certainly efficient - referring to combining my life-sorting-out process and blogging together.  There was a time when this would have been a source of pride for me.  Not any more.  If nothing else, I hope this process will produce a result that, when I'm finally dead and being eulogized, people don't think to sum the whole of my life as being "efficient." 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)