“Dr. Natural”

I.

I started two weeks ago. My life hasn’t been the same since. I’d like to start this story from a later point, when I’ve already become “brainwashed” but I’m afraid that I will forget to pen anything at all and be cast into the sales world to forget who I truly am. Read this when you can, make sure to read this and learn from my lessons, just please read this so you don’t have to go through what I am going through.

A cautionary tale of lies and deception as told by a liar and deceiver.

Spoiler Alert: The fat lady will sing…

The ad was on Craigslist and JobsinME, so frequently posted that even the newest of web job-surfers were getting sick of looking at the dumb graphics and annoying mainstream-green header, the color of an unentertaining cartoon frog. The job title was either “outbound sales” or “inbound sales”, the gamblers choice.  Not knowing dick about the sales world, I chose to subscribe my email to the outbound demon, trying to find twelve other jobs and feeling assured that this one would be like the others, just another application to be left dusty on the internet windowsill, never loved, never returned, never cared for.

I had to get a goddamn job. I wasn’t piss-broke but I was breaking, and not only was the entire money situation getting too tight to rent in Portland, but it was breaking the relationship that I came up here to nourish in the first place…

II.

Update: It’s been three weeks since I have had a chance to pen anything about the new job. Let me take you back.

My resume which accompanied the application email must have been received, processed, folded, unfolded, and approved within a day by HR because Dr. Natural called requesting an in-person interview a few days later. When I arrived at the office, I was greeted by a friendly receptionist sitting behind a pod of a desk, only the top half of her face showing over the high front as I took my first steps into the dungeon. Signing in and waiting, I took in the initial hum of the florescent lighting like high school, college, and the dentist. A drop ceiling, of course, short wall to wall carpet, the just-noticeable voice of a talk-radio personality somewhere above.  I waited for Andrea, apparently, who would be interviewing me in a few moments.

She stood short and plump, a happy older woman whom I would be glad to talk with and laugh next to any day, which is exactly what we did. After she unfolded my resume to ask about each job and my qualifications, she then handed me a pen and asked me to sell it to her.  I improvised high-tech names for the features (stainless, shatter resistant, polyurethane coated, gravity loaded, spring action released), she was happy to buy it back, but mentioned that I never asked why she would even want a pen in the first place.

I was now here at Dr. Naturals to sell vitamins and supplements, and shouldn’t I know why people would like to purchase our products? Shouldn’t I ask them what the main health concern in their life is? Wouldn’t it be great if they didn’t have to deal with that sore shoulder anymore? Wouldn’t it be nice to get outside and play with their grandchildren again, and not have to worry about getting out of bed the next day because of that bad back? (yes, Yes, YES, YESS!!!)

Training started immediately and for two weeks I learned about tie-downs (see previous paragraph), cross-sells, greetings, messages, products, and the sales process, including but not limited to disputing rebuttals, omitting unnecessary details, pretending to care, showing enthusiasm, and eventually becoming a believer.

After the two weeks, one of which included the great blizzard of 2013, Nemo, I was given a desk, a chair, a headset, and an inch thick stack of phone numbers. They told me to dial and dial I did. I think the initial week I was averaging about 35 dials an hour, then they told me to talk more, so talk more I did. It all became so serious and absorbing in such a short time. With metrics and new policies came more paperwork and meetings, through which I surfaced, finally on the other side of my first sale.  It was for a three-month supply of a top-selling oil capsule, a body lube of sorts that makes burps taste like the fish market. I had fallen into rank and I didn’t blink.  The rush of the sale is something I’ve felt a few times since, and it always mixes with adrenalin and embarrassment. I know I can be a good salesman but the environment is so sticky with greed and dream-bubbles of commission that my conscience questions my motives, if you know what I mean.

Sparing the details, I am still working here and do not rely on commission just yet.  The first three months after training is a trial period with an hourly wage and a little hazing from the management. I suppose I am nearing the end of month one and feel no strong pull towards telesales. The secret now is to build a client base and sell them only three-month supplies as to have another sale in three months, because now they’re hooked. Then the next time they buy their favorite product, you sell a different one too, and now they love two products. Then the cars, the parties, the nice shoes, and the will of man will all be within reach.

So glad to know I made a difference.

It’s really not a big deal. It’s just another job, though i’m not sure I always felt this way. I remember at the beginning feeling odd and rebellious, wanting to infiltrate and spy on the hot shits who ripped off the elderly, stripping the social security check from their decrepit claw before it could start to get oily (the check).

The break room is a depressing pit; no windows, long, thin in shape and desirability. When they gave us our first tour, the woman made sure to point out a Wii. Haven’t seen it since. In the later part of the evenings, when one or two managers have left for the night, we like to sneak in there anyways, me and the other greenhorns, eyes glistening with computer screen torture. We crack jokes and try to squeeze one last little bit of enjoyment and relaxation into the slaved-away day.

K-Cups are only seventy-five cents, there’s a continual supply of coffee cups, creamer, and sugar, and I’ve hung up photos of waves that a coworker gave me…

III.

I’ve been on commission for a couple weeks now.  Health insurance is about to kick in. I still just sit in the cubicle all day, calling and selling, sitting and dialing, typing and staring, screaming and soothing, crying and dying. Well, I’m not dying, but some people on the other end of the line have passed away. It makes for awkward conversation when you ask a grieving man or woman if the deceased parent is available to chat about their health.

The turn-over rate of employees isn’t surprising. There are a few veterans and even a relatively new hire who are just built for sales. Built like brick shit-houses. They toil with the lives of others; innocent-elderly and enthusiastic-youth. A new drink came out of Silicon Valley called soylent. It has everything you need to survive and your farts won’t smell anymore.  Some customers of mine would jump at the idea of a fully supplemented diet. A sleek-slick lifestyle fully optimized for efficiency. I also know some people against supplements in general, believing in and practicing local sustainable nutrition. Farm-to-table people are awesome, nutritionists are awesome, supplement-hounds are great, skeptics are awesome, and to each his own.

This job sucks toast.  The atmosphere is bleak and full of hot air. The computer screen is burning my brain and the chair is bending my back but it’s putting food on my table. It’s about to be less lousy because with time comes one of two things: power or weakness. I choose power. I’m going to quit! I just need to get a physical and visit the dentist with my new insurance plan first.

Tricking customers from the shadows.

IV.

I went to the doctor and got my physical three days ago and went to the dentist for my initial visit today. The blood work cam back from my physical and I’m clean as a whistle, the dentist scheduled my cleaning for this Monday coming up. Seeing how everything is well with my body I see no need to keep this job for the insurance.  For this most recent week I have only tricked a few helpless elders in re-upping their supplies. My apologies, unless the supplements I sold you are actually working to your benefit. I hope they are.

Since my appointments with the doc and dentist I have really been slacking off and looking for a reason to quit. There isn’t much else to do for me seeing how I’ve already made the conscious decision to move on. I asked HR about the insurance policies and, through subtle hinting and ambiguous wording, found out that insurance will last until the end of the month in which I quit. That puts my two week notice at next wednesday to get the full free month of benefits. It feels weird to have a death date on my present paycheck, especially since I don’t have another job lined up, but that proves how much I really can’t stand this place. I’ll be ending my employment on July 1st and moving back in to the world of uncertainties which thrills me to no end. I haven’t spied, I haven’t found anything out about myself that I didn’t already know, and I haven’t accomplished anything except paying the rent.

Important, but not what I seek. Not even close. Next time we talk I may have already put in the notice.

V.

I put in my two week notice two weeks ago tomorrow, that it to say, tomorrow is my last day. Time really slowed down at the old phone-trough. It really surprised me how much I hated dragging my ass there Monday through Friday. I was working for the weekend. I lost sight of the assignment.

When the alarm goes off at noon and you don’t want to wake up yet, that’s a low point. When you think of an excuse to leave early, then make a checklist of excuses so you don’t use the same one twice, that’s a low point also. As frivolous as our life becomes, our life becomes, our life becomes, be comes, B. Combs. The list of funny names I walked away with is priceless. People payed with a credit card bearing names so unfathomably disrespectful for the bearer that it requires questioning the sanity of the parent. I’ll say no more.

VI.

One week later, full freedom, not a weak week, not an indoor communication hub where you never see the eyes of the sucker on the other line, not a prison, not a hard week. The easiest stretch of the year. 8 days of freedom to be exact and on every one I have gone swimming. Beat that, office job!

This past week I worked outside and I played outside. Reading back on my journey through Dr. Naturals made me realize how much I learned “inside”. Mostly that I prefer outside. That sales job really ate me up. It changed me in a negative way with little positive outcome. Inspiration for writing can come in an uncountable number of ways. I heard that thousands of years ago humans attributed creativity to a spirit that passes through the creator and hands off an idea. This time I forced it and used writing as medicine to get me through the journey. Writing, beer, coffee, weed, and even a little tobacco. Not to mention the…

Anyway, I am so much happier now. I picked the hottest week in a Maine summer to start working outside, doing my landscaping thing. A seasonal gig, no doubt, but I have enough money to hold me over through the summer on top of a designated driver job that I may have to write about as well. There’s a book’s worth of stories when you drive drunk people home in their own car. The point is that I’m happier now. Here’s to that. Here’s to writing and going to the beach to drink beers! Here’s to cheer’s-ing through the internet!

This drink goes out to all the suckers and the sucked. The world wouldn’t be what it is without you. Sláinte!

This one

Today like a grey Jay grown great and big brained but hazed by mist. Missed.
The best kind of weather, or not. I’m inside looking through a stained plastic window in my pained plastic chair wondering where that grey Jay is headed.
Off in the distance I hear music; “Down by the boardwalk, we’ll be having fun” and I sing along. Nobody else hears it, but they hear me singing. They don’t see the great grey Jay out in my missed mist either. These things are for me and you reading.
Ready to head home and finish Reservation Blues by Sherman Alexie, crank Dose One on the drive.

Summer Starts with Skateboards

It’s the best feeling getting back into skating. I didn’t have health insurance for a while, a vague amount of time somewhere around the oneyearthreemonthfiveday mark, but who’s counting? Inspired by a thrift shop complete that ran me $3.99, I still waited patiently for the day (which one was it now? I can hardly recall…) that my benefits kicked in. Then they did. One week after I took a trip to the ER, unrelated, I went Westbrook Skatepark to relight the fire.

First thoughts? It’s hard to remember what exactly I was thinking, but I’d only seen the mini-ramp from afar and I do recall it thinking it seemed smaller. The chunky transitions were spent, no cheap gasket to keep cinderblocks of quarter-pipes together. Patrick was there with his camera so the pressure was high. The sun was setting after a cloudless day, a big front rolling in from the west to disrupt the color-changing canopy. I dripped sweat after dropping in and my fifty-fifties were shaky quake cakes. Time to get air for the camera so I pull out an old school stand-by, the frontside fast-plant, bringing my feet to the board the first time but bailing. Patrick had the timing down so the second try I had to stomp it. I wasn’t leaning back in to the tranny enough on the last one and would’ve slipped out onto my ass, so what do you think I did on the next one? The same thing. I really committed to rolling away and the board did just that, only I wasn’t on it. I took a little chunk out of my hand and elbows and sprained my wrist. The photo is worth it.

Seconds before impact.

Then I went to R.I. and hit up OMF. Sunday afternoon solo sesh. The park got a new flow. The custom floated craftsmanship made it a memorable skate just because it was basicaly a virgin session at a new park, only I learned to skate there pre-Jus, when the men were men and the graffiti was penises. Now the hubba and the corner bowls, like we dreamed of on hot summer days, looking out over the rink, past the field and the court, across the street and the parking lot at the bowling alley. Knowing Benny’s and the Heritage Mall were close by.

We were so young when we put our first set of trucks on triple-layered risers, squishing the hardware tight so the screw-head pierces the grip tape. The rails were 4×4’s with PVC screwed down, get good and slide some bricks under that sonofabitch. Who can boardslide the whole thing now?

I dropped in on the customary entrance qp, over the spine and funbox, around the corner bowl to the smaller funbox, over that one to the smaller corner pit-of-a-bowl, zzooomm over the gap behind the wallride and boom, I was back at the entrance quarter-pipe. Got my first good flips on the bank ramp, kick and heel. The miniramp session was the best, always my go-to; long gliding 50-50’s and blunt-rocks, one blunt-fakie on the minimini, ten good laps around the park and I was back in the game.

Now I’m hooked again. Feels good. Always miss it. Adrenalin. Fast-plants and pre-grabs. Smiths and feebles. Nose stalls, cab blunts, the coveted 5-0.

Today I went to the Portland park and got some speed in the peanut bowl, over head high in the deep end. A smooth 5-0 grind around a corner in a well-shaped pool is soul food.

Stamps From the Market

It’s been pretty quiet around here lately.  Seems like a huge chunk of my life is missing.  I published a self help book but it turns out I’m the one who needs to read it. I can’t seem to get past chapter one: “Get off the Internet”. 

The best part of today was going to the market for stamps.  I got a book of the liberty persuasion; the kind that lasts forever or until the post succumbs to the fate of the obsolete which should have been last year.  

There are always other things happening in the customer service line at the market.  

I just wanted stamps but it seemed like the people in front of me wanted much more important things.  I’m not sure what, but it was important enough that they completely disrespected the cashier when she apologized for not being able to provide said mystery. The young couple turned their backs on the woman behind the counter when she was still apologizing to them, at which point they both brushed past me with scowls on their icy faces and mumbles squeezing through clenched teeth.  This left me with the illusion that they were mumbling to me, whispering some secret code of distaste and unhappiness into my ignorantly happy ears.  At the same time, it seemed that the cashier was now apologizing to me. For what I do not know, but she didn’t seem sincere.

 

How to make a Jacob’s Ladder in less than 100 confusing steps

Where there is a will, there is a toy to be made.  If you have never heard of a Jacob’s Ladder, you suck.  If you had one as a child, you should have one again.  The only difference this time around will be that you might come close to understanding how it works because, that’s right, you’re making this thing.

Step 1: Gather yourself.

Step 2: Gather all this stuff:

(The wood is balsa. It’s easy to cut, non-toxic, and available at your nearest rain forest.  These pieces are 12″ x 2″ x 3/16″)

Step 3: Mark off 2″ sections. I marked off both sides of the wood so I could cut from each side and come close to meeting up in the middle like Malcom. You will need 12 of these to beat this level and carry on with your life.

Step 4: Cut them with your razor blade.  Keep your blood out of it.  Bloody toys are for freaks and aliens. And the English.

Step 5: Make em curved.  Just two sides on each.  A mellow curve from the top on down to the bottom, like so.

Going with the grain when you’re shaping them makes way more sense than anything else, so that’s how I recommend you do it.

You may make a mess.  That’s awesome. I love a good mess.

You may get a little tired. Don’t.  This will definitely be worth it, I bet.

Congratulations! You have completed the first hard part of creating a Jacob’s Ladder! Go outside for a while, have a smoke or a martini.  We aren’t kids anymore so why not?

Step 6: Paint them. Or don’t. I did. It was pretty fun.  The balsa wood absorbed the acrylic paint I used very quickly so i wasn’t waiting around for them to dry.  That was a cool thing, though you may not mind waiting in which case you should consider planting grass upon each piece and letting it grow a little before moving forward with the project. Or just paint them.

Step 7: Learn about color theory while painting.

Everything’s better in color!

Step 8: Cut a bunch of strips of ribbon in 7″ pieces and get your glue out.  This is the hardest part to translate with photos but try your best not to fuck it up dude. I’m not going to put into words what I did here, just to make you try harder. Go get ’em tiger(ess)

Step 9:

Step 10: Run to the store and get some clothes pins.  It makes not being an elf a lot easier.

Step 11:

Step 12: Fold that green one under (or whatever color ribbon you used, dummy)

Step 13:

Step 14:

Step 15: Clothes Pins!!!!!!

Step 16:

Step 17:

Step 18: Holy shit! This is nuts!

Step 19:

Step 20:

Step 21:

Step 22:

Step 22 1/2:

Step 33 1/3:

Step 88: Stick that last piece on there and hope to god or ABBA that you didn’t glue your goddamn finger to your head while scratching and thinking.

Oh shit:

Well, I suppose you did it.  Now play with it, share it with your enemies, make it for your friends, throw it at the wall and see if it breaks.  Don’t use it to climb up things unless you’re ascending the tower of pride.

On The Cover

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of things I want to be when I finally figure out where I am and what I can do. I used to think the sky was the limit and then I learned from my family that the limit was even further away than that.
I know I like to think, I’m definitely a thinker. They may or may not be profound thoughts, but they are thoughts and I mostly enjoy them. I am really into fixing things as well. I like to think about different ways that the thing could be broken, then find the most efficient way to fix it, so I’m thinking as I’m working.
I like surfing, skateboarding, and snowboarding but those aren’t things I can actively partake in on a regular basis because of the ol’ body.
I would love to be a ninja turtle, but not nowadays. I’m more into the radical and witty sarcasm of the 90’s half-shell, not the intensely violent and soulless modern warrior-turtle.
I know that writing is really something I can do for hours and still be forced to think about.

These!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

not these!

The draw for me into advertising is weird because of the commercial nature of the industry. I used to be more nature nature.
The challenge that writing poses is infinite, which is cool and also daunting. I may really need to grab the turtle by the nuts and start writing ad copy like it’s my potential career.

Life Is Life, The Rest Is Just Details.

“We are only human” is an incorrect summation of our problem.  As far as I can tell (not very far), we do have problems.  Us homowhatevers have tons of issues ranging from blind faith and stagnation to the most extreme selfishness and overzealous greed, but being human is not the problem.

Only human

I think (seldom, really) almost all problems are self-centered.  Each one of us is the center of the universe.  You reading this believe, in some rarely-considered part of your brain, that you are the most important thing to ever read, think, or act.  You may not believe you’re the smartest or the fastest, but you know that when the singularity comes, or aliens invade our planet, or doomsday arrives in some manner, that you will be saved. You will be the hero who gets to punch King Kong in the face and start the clock spinning again.  Call it survival instincts or pre-programming or fantasy, but it’s there.

I’m not quiet sure if that’s the problem though.  I could probably start a community-list of all the problems that each individual may incur through his/her lifetime starting with:

Alcoholism

Banana Peel accidents

Cauliflower Ear

Diabetes

Eczema

Foot fungus

Gonorrhea

Hepatitis

Insomnia

Joint pain

Ketamine addiction

Lymphoma

Migraines

Neurosis

Ovulation

Parkinson’s

Questionable judgment

Ruin

Sexual anxiety

Tuberculosis

Ugg boots

Venereal disease

Wet socks

Xenophobia

Yankee candle allergies

and

Zebra stampedes

but none of those are even a problem in the grand scheme either.

The problem is that we don’t even know if there is a grand scheme so we pretend to know.  We replace the unknown with images of the known because we are terrified of mystery.  We argue with other humans even though we are not willing to change our minds, and neither are they.  We think the world spins for us and we speak for the world, so it doesn’t matter what all the other idiots think.  We are really scared and never content.  We hope and dream and honor and believe and pray, only to never know until the final-kick what really happens. Even then, we can’t warn our family or friends, because we are dead. We deny death in our lives like it’s not staring us in the face every day, from every paved road and skyscraper.  We still, as a human race, cannot embrace death.  That will have to change when each of us dies though, won’t it?

We all have our own time here to decide what we like to eat and what kind of music is our favorite.  We all get to change our minds if we want and we all get to learn, one way or another, about different things.  Then we get to decide whether or not to retain that knowledge or let it seep out of our heads.

We all get to smoke if we want.

We all get to sleep and eat and go to the bathroom.  We all get to be born. We all get to die.  We can make our own choices about the clothes that we put on our bodies.  We decide what kind of entertainment we want, and we pay for it.  Every one of us has to work.  Maybe not for money, but for goals.  We know that the words “health” and “age” are both relative.  We all have a voice and a mind’s eye and a beating heart inside of our chest which pumps our very own blood through our very own veins.  We all get to breathe, because we all have lungs and ribcages and brains.  We all have brains. Each one of us has their own brain that powers every sense and thought and action.

It must be how we feel, think, and act that makes up our life then.  Maybe the rest is just details.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Three Things

After much deliberation, I present to you…

THE THREE THINGS I REALLY HATE:

 

1. Learning to count.

2. Making lists.

10 Reasons Why I Like Portland Maine

I really love it here, and I think I will keep liking it, that is to say, I will continue to like it.

1.  There is lots of fruit and fruity people.

2.  This city smells like ocean.

3.  The people.

4.  I once had a 6th floor apartment with a gorgeous view of Back Bay.

5.  There are bars and restaurants all over the place.

6.  Old Port.

7.  There is always wind to blow the sadness away.

8.  The homeless people make intriguing eye-contact.

9.  Always prime hipster watching.

10.  The mourning dove that landed on our window-sill last week.

10 Reasons to Make Things Up

Ever wonder why some people just seem to have more fun than everyone else?  Me too!  This list is for those of us who want to be like those lucky ones who lie, make believe, utilize their imagination, and trick everyone into thinking they know the reason for zebra stripes, among other things.

1. It’s more fun than guessing.

• I like to think.  Most people do.  When making things up is plausible given the circumstances, give it a try and you may find yourself actually having fun.  What can be more fun than having fun? Nothing! So next time the opportunity presents itself, make something up and see if you enjoy it.

2. Making things up makes you seem more interesting, therefore, more happy.

• When someone asks a question that may have a boring answer, simply think of something interesting that you know and substitute it into the otherwise boring answer. Eg: “The sky is blue because dolphins are the only mammals that have sex for pleasure besides humans, so they got the honor of choosing the hue.”

3. Pretending saves money.

Smart kid, cool ship

• Two words: Cardboard box.  In these tough economic times why not save some money by stretching your imagination to make a simple possession into a life altering treasure.  Change the scenario with your mind and your words, completely make it up, and stay entertained for hours without spending a dime.

4. Everybody makes things up; join the crowd.

• I’m making things up right now! Try it. When everyone jumps off a bridge, I don’t assume that you will follow, but making things up won’t hurt so you should just go for it.

5. Zebras don’t know why they have stripes either.

What?

6. If people believe you, it makes you seem smart to them.

• If people happen to question things that you make up, you are considered a liar.  This is mostly because you are lying.  If there are bad intentions involved in the process or delivery of making things up, I am not to be held responsible for the retribution sought from victims of said lies.  If they believe you though, you are a knowledge-house and a scholar of all abstract things outside their realm of understanding.

7. Brain exercise.

• The best part about making things up is the benefit to your cerebral muscles.  It has been proven that imagination and creativity are directly linked to the growth of knowledge and the prevention of Alzheimer’s.

8. Making things up can be interpreted as creative genius.

• Look at how many fiction writers have become renowned for the one thing that so many other people are afraid to do.  Poets, screenwriters, actors, and politicians are only the beginning of the list of people praised for their uncanny ability to create from thin-air.

9. Money is made up and so is time.

• We know that time and money both have a grand purpose.  We also know that they both came from nothing and will end up nowhere.  This makes them fantastic proof that making things up can be profitable and pure genius.

10. The zebra stripe is the only stripe not to be sponsored by a fortune 500 company during the 1993 exhibition games for “Animal of the Year” which was televised live on all major networks, not including ABC, CBS, NBC, or FOX.

Remember to make things up for any other reason that you can think of.  It doesn’t even have to be a reason if you just make things up for no reason.  Just make things up.

My first inkling, as a writer, is to shove the truth into your face.  Or maybe I could evaporate all truth from the surface of the earth, if even for just one moment.  I have inklings because I want you to read, I want you to enjoy.  I want you to feel as real as I do right now.  Feel as if you are actually sitting down next to me, no wait, in front of me.  I am right behind you while you are reading my blog.  Don’t turn around.  Even though you are sitting with your back against a wall, imagine I am there right now.  We are enjoying this time together aren’t we?

Sometimes we forget, as human beings do, that life is full of magic.  We all make magic and thrive off of it in times of desperation.  The magic of happiness and love is what brings us all together.  It feeds our positive emotions and outlook and actually becomes part of us. We become magical.  Cool.

On the road

When a journey begins, the best part is never knowing how it will end.  Let me try to be as poignant as possible when stating this: When I started my life, I had no idea where I would end up and I still don’t.  That being said, my life has taken many drastic turns in the past quarter-century and they have all been fantastic, leading me closer to the end of my path.  Don’t get me wrong, I am far from death.  I believe that I will live into my nineties and get to see what happens to the rest of you.  I also believe that there is no small coincidence, only gigantic leaps of faith that give us all power to keep moving forward.

 

I began as an infant.  I swallowed the milk and grew to a boy.  I ate the vegetables and grew to a teenager.  I ingested all sorts of things not limited to high fructose corn syrup and still bled with the best of them.  I powered through my adolescence and ended up a young strapping adult.  When this happened, I was confronted with a choice.  Whether to keep moving in a scholarly direction, or become a man of the land.  Of course there is no black and white in life so I mixed my own cocktail of education and free wheelin’.  I ended up doing some time in a state institution (community college) and worked random jobs to pay my meager bills and stay fed.  All those previous actions steered me towards a beautiful two years in university where I got my degree, learned to shit or get off the pot and taught myself what it means to try.  I did not have it particularly hard, and I still don’t.

I write because it seems to me to be the smartest thing that I can do without selling myself short.  I don’t have to change the words on the page but I am always trying to change the words that I say out loud.  It’s funny that those are the only words I ever want to change.  For now, my written word is my purest asset, because for some reason I am always happy with the way they end up.  My life is full of surprises and any one of them could become the thing that changes my life forever.  The truth is that they have all changed my life forever.  I realize that every time I step outside or lay down to sleep, my life changes forever.  The smallest things make up my existence and my path changes with every breath.  My goal in life is to write, because it is what I enjoy doing the most.  Sometimes I write out loud.  Sometimes, before I fall asleep, I write in the ceiling with my eyes.  Sometimes I use red ink, but mostly I use blue and black. 

Blah Blah Blog, Jah Jah Job

It would be great to read a blog instead of a blah blah blog.  I intend to enjoy writing it so that you can enjoy reading it.  My original purpose with these wordpress pages was to vent my thoughts, to entertain those who desired to read them, and to get my verbage out onto the interweb.  I now have a different purpose.

Now I want to dominate the web, write the most meaningful prose that I can blend together, and wow my dedicated readers with a new and poignant form which will never disappoint.

The only problem is that I am still the same man.  I still write with the same voices in my head.  I still use the same fingers to press the same keys on the same laptop.  So what have I done to change my writing from a mild pecante to fire-death hotsauce?  I have become more interested in purpose.  I have become more dedicated to the almighty job-hunt which will result in a creative livelihood. I have been reborn through words and I want to share them with you.  Here they are:

Give me a job.  Please, oh righteous deity of wealth and employment, I would like to bring home a salary that I earned with love and devotion; love for the creative process, devotion to the cause of my clients.  I am a hungry individual with a collection of plates that I want to spread upon a table of my coworkers.  I want to share my cutlery with my boss and help him cut his steak.  If only he would bring the steak to my plate, I can marinate it and make it ready to eat.  So many consumers want steak and they are stuck with a shingle and brown gravy.  Bring them steak, oh lord of income, and bring them filet mignon but please let me cook it, cut it, and spread it on my plate to share with the world. Give me a job in advertising because this is where my devotion to words, and the power they hold, can pay off for me and my employer.  Bring me paper, for I have the pen. Bring me chaos, for I have reason.  Bring me fate, for I have a plan.  Give me a job.

Thank you world.

SFD

Walt

This is a fictional tale. I have written the following story in jest, with exaggeration and complete balderdash included, because I have been truly inspired by the activities of a few real people.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to the names, character, or history of a real person is purely coincidental.

His name is Walter Parker. He slouches at 5 feet no inches tall and has a thin grey head of hair that he sometimes lets grow in the back. It will fall to the bottom of his neck in a shabby burnt sort-of-way, but before it hits his shoulders it will curl back up towards the sky looking for relief from the greasy collar of his favorite jacket. All of his clothes are hand-me-downs. His orange shirt with the sleeves missing was the only shirt he wore for most of May last year. His Army jacket that hangs nearly to his knees off of his skinny-bone shoulders was lying in the woods in a sopping mess of leaves and deer shit. He doesn’t own a washer or dryer so he brings his laundry to the shop where he works and does his laundry there on Saturdays when nobody is around. The deer shit came out in two loads.
His biggest problem is his health. Walter has problems eating and digesting food. Eating is tough because he doesn’t own many teeth. Digestion is hard because he can’t afford healthcare to diagnose his frail little body. He can’t afford healthcare because he only works at the shop about 20 hours a week (including the time it takes to do his laundry), and he only works that small amount of time each pay-period because he doesn’t want the rent to increase on his section 8 housing.
There are good things about Walt that nobody knows. Everyone has heard about his big fat wife leaving the company Christmas party with all of the leftovers stacked as high as her triple chin, but Walt finds peace in knowing that he can support such excessive voluptuousness. He also brings a smile to the faces of his belittling co-workers when he leaves a note explaining his absence. Though the smiles are at his expense, he is still making people smile.
The only bad thing about Walter Parker is his lack of knowledge about how the world works. Like most ignorant peasants, he believes that he is always right. He considers his own opinion about anything relevant to be the only opinion that matters. This makes him hard to work with because of his lack of cooperation. He doesn’t understand the way that work ethic leads to success and that life is a huge learning process. The majority of the time he is lazy. Considering the fact that he only shows up to work for enough time each week so that his monthly salary doesn’t exceed the section 8 housing limits for gross annual income, and considering the fact that he walks slower than a drunk sloth and works slower than a blues guitarist on codeine, he is actually a pretty great guy.