It's never good when you feel yourself losing your drive to write, especially when it's the one thing you're good at. To say nothing of the fact that it's what you're banking on to keep a roof over your head from now until the day you die.
The "big things" I had planned was a package I was going to shoot and edit from my trip to Ft. Lauderdale a few weeks back.
It never really got off the ground, but I did manage to get a column out of the experience.
It's just past 1 a.m. on Tuesday, two days before spring break starts, so I'm blaming my lack of drive on that. It seems like a good place to start laying blame.
I need to pull straight Cs in all my classes to graduate, as I've exhausted my allotment of Ds in my major. I have found that I've got a 75% average in ethics and law, which I suppose means that I can be counted on to do the right thing three-quarters of the time.
In other news, I got published again in the Record this Sunday. Go me!
Now if only I could get paid. I've got $4 to my name; I'm still waiting on a check I invoiced Drift for two weeks ago, and if I have to wait for my Harvest of Hope article money to come in the mail, I will surely starve.
There's other stuff on my mind: Dissatisfaction at work (as I write this, I'm sitting in the office, Craigslist open in another tab), figuring out where I stand with a couple of my other classes that I'm nervous about my grades in, etc.
I guess I just need a break for a few days. If I can manage to get the Record to cut me a check this afternoon, it'd be great: I might be able to fulfill my dream of getting so drunk on St. Patrick's Day that I'll be the first person to vomit off the side of the newly-refurbished Bridge of Lions.
You have to aim high, is what I'm saying. Everybody needs something to strive for.
At this point, however, I'd settle for having something to put in my stomach. Or, at the very least, a Coke and a cigarette. You wouldn't think it so much to ask for, but I bought a 2 liter bottle of Coke today and it was flat when I opened it, so I guess I might just be asking too much from the universe.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Four and a half hours left.
I'm at work, it's 1:30 and Craig Furgeson's on TV.
Four and a half hours left.
Today in one class, it was more or less decided that I'd be writing 600 words this weekend about where my future's going in light of the fact that I would rather have been born in 1585 instead of 400 years later.
There's no adventure left, no romance in the world. Nothing new to explore, nowhere left unspoiled, unseen, untrod upon.
Today in another class, inspiration struck. A plan hatched.
In related news, I got home Wednesday night around 9:00 p.m.-ish.
Thursday afternoon, around 4:30 or so, I was going to go run a couple of errands, come home, eat and nap before work.
Then I found this:
That's right. Some unidentified douchebag hit-and-ran my car.
Guess who's going to be driving a rental for the next several days?
Anyway. Watch this space. Big things soon.
Four and a half hours left.
Today in one class, it was more or less decided that I'd be writing 600 words this weekend about where my future's going in light of the fact that I would rather have been born in 1585 instead of 400 years later.
There's no adventure left, no romance in the world. Nothing new to explore, nowhere left unspoiled, unseen, untrod upon.
Today in another class, inspiration struck. A plan hatched.
In related news, I got home Wednesday night around 9:00 p.m.-ish.
Thursday afternoon, around 4:30 or so, I was going to go run a couple of errands, come home, eat and nap before work.
Then I found this:
That's right. Some unidentified douchebag hit-and-ran my car.
Guess who's going to be driving a rental for the next several days?
Anyway. Watch this space. Big things soon.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The future! And why they'll all hate us.
So I saw this cartoon once wherein a young boy asks his grandfather if he was ever one of those people who owned 'animal slaves.'
Grandpa starts ranting, as grandpas are wont to do: "They weren't slaves, they were pets! They were lucky to be pets!"
Got me thinking: What do I do on a daily basis that future generations will consider monstrous?
For starters, I'm a big fan of meat and the eating thereof. The universe, loving a good practical joke, has decided that it would be a good idea to make my friends vegetarians and vegans.
My roommate will often enter the kitchen: "What are you cooking?"
Bacon and eggs.
"I hate you," he'll say.
But you're not supposed to like to eat meat, people tell us. Meat is murder! Dairy is rape! Go veg!
I don't know about that. I don't know if comparing sexual assault to cheese is a great idea.
The best way to overcome this, I think, has been laid out for us in the pages of science-fiction. In Douglas Adams' The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, we're introduced to a cow that's been bred to want to be eaten:
'Are you going to tell me,' said Arthur, 'that I shouldn't have
green salad?'
'Well,' said the animal, 'I know many vegetables that are
very clear on that point. Which is why it was eventually
decided to cut through the whoile tangled problem and breed
an animal that actually wanted to be eaten and was capable of
saying so clearly and distinctly. And here I am.'
Arthur's dinner party orders four steaks:
'I'll just nip off and shoot myself.'
He turned and gave a friendly wink to Arthur.
'Don't worry, sir,' he said, 'I'll be very humane.'
It waddled unhurriedly off to the kitchen.
Scientists of the world, take note: I don't care about the flying car. I want a cow that begs me to eat it.
Or consider the humble playground. European safety standards are being used to update playgrounds in Malta to keep them "safe."
I don't buy it.
When I was a little kid, our playgrounds were made out of wooden beams and steel poles on top of gravel. And we liked it!
Dr, Chris Said, of the Maltese Parliament, said,
“Many accidents are unavoidable because of the way children play. Children need some risk in their play to help them develop."
But what happens when some kid gets it into his head that because the new playground is made out of plastic and has a bouncy, spongey ground surface, it's now safe to go take a header off of the top of the monkeybars?
Then he'll split his head open and not understand why. If kids were still playing on blacktop, they'd understand that fun is inherently dangerous and not to be trusted.
Generations into the future, I can foresee my grandchildren looking at me like I'm the worst person on the planet for yelling at them to put down their XBox 1080s and go outside and play.
"The outside world is bad, grandpa! I could hurt myself!"
Perhaps, though, it's the way of the world. When my own grandfather would yell at me and my sister for watching cartoons instead of getting some fresh air, we didn't understand what he was talking about or why.
The weird thing about it is that for all the yelling and teeth-gnashing that people do about violence on tv, sex in the movies and, of course, rap music, it's probably stuff that we take for granted that will color us as inhuman savages to the world in the future.
Why did they drive CARS? My God! You mean to tell me they actually ate sugar?!
Which is why my usual approach is to just not care. I have no real way of knowing if my love of medium-rare steaks will put me alongside Mussolini in the eyes of posterity. So why spend energy worrying about it?
Grandpa starts ranting, as grandpas are wont to do: "They weren't slaves, they were pets! They were lucky to be pets!"
Got me thinking: What do I do on a daily basis that future generations will consider monstrous?
For starters, I'm a big fan of meat and the eating thereof. The universe, loving a good practical joke, has decided that it would be a good idea to make my friends vegetarians and vegans.
My roommate will often enter the kitchen: "What are you cooking?"
Bacon and eggs.
"I hate you," he'll say.
But you're not supposed to like to eat meat, people tell us. Meat is murder! Dairy is rape! Go veg!
I don't know about that. I don't know if comparing sexual assault to cheese is a great idea.
The best way to overcome this, I think, has been laid out for us in the pages of science-fiction. In Douglas Adams' The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, we're introduced to a cow that's been bred to want to be eaten:
'Are you going to tell me,' said Arthur, 'that I shouldn't have
green salad?'
'Well,' said the animal, 'I know many vegetables that are
very clear on that point. Which is why it was eventually
decided to cut through the whoile tangled problem and breed
an animal that actually wanted to be eaten and was capable of
saying so clearly and distinctly. And here I am.'
Arthur's dinner party orders four steaks:
'I'll just nip off and shoot myself.'
He turned and gave a friendly wink to Arthur.
'Don't worry, sir,' he said, 'I'll be very humane.'
It waddled unhurriedly off to the kitchen.
Scientists of the world, take note: I don't care about the flying car. I want a cow that begs me to eat it.
Or consider the humble playground. European safety standards are being used to update playgrounds in Malta to keep them "safe."
I don't buy it.
When I was a little kid, our playgrounds were made out of wooden beams and steel poles on top of gravel. And we liked it!
Dr, Chris Said, of the Maltese Parliament, said,
“Many accidents are unavoidable because of the way children play. Children need some risk in their play to help them develop."
But what happens when some kid gets it into his head that because the new playground is made out of plastic and has a bouncy, spongey ground surface, it's now safe to go take a header off of the top of the monkeybars?
Then he'll split his head open and not understand why. If kids were still playing on blacktop, they'd understand that fun is inherently dangerous and not to be trusted.
Generations into the future, I can foresee my grandchildren looking at me like I'm the worst person on the planet for yelling at them to put down their XBox 1080s and go outside and play.
"The outside world is bad, grandpa! I could hurt myself!"
Perhaps, though, it's the way of the world. When my own grandfather would yell at me and my sister for watching cartoons instead of getting some fresh air, we didn't understand what he was talking about or why.
The weird thing about it is that for all the yelling and teeth-gnashing that people do about violence on tv, sex in the movies and, of course, rap music, it's probably stuff that we take for granted that will color us as inhuman savages to the world in the future.
Why did they drive CARS? My God! You mean to tell me they actually ate sugar?!
Which is why my usual approach is to just not care. I have no real way of knowing if my love of medium-rare steaks will put me alongside Mussolini in the eyes of posterity. So why spend energy worrying about it?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Wherein we get this show on the road
I was told to pick a topic for my blog for opinion writing. I decided on sports and entertainment because it's easy. And I can knock out rants about how the Chargers suck and Jay Leno's a bad person without thinking about it.
And I'm lazy.
I was told:
and:
Because that sounds like work. It would require effort and the expenditure of calories. And besides, I'm lazy.
Besides, at the moment I don't have anything to write about. Nothing going on in and around town, I mean. What am I going to write about? The homeless? It's been done. And done. And done.
What I've got worth ranting about is my utter lack of money. I don't have money because I don't know if I've got a job.
See, here's what happened:
I got a job working overnight at a hotel. I was "security/night audit." Basically, I showed up at 10:30 and baby-sat the hotel until 6:30 in the morning. Which was the perfect job for me.
People show up? Park their car, haul their bags to their rooms. Lock the doors at midnight-ish, pass out the newspapers, slide the bill under the door. Otherwise? I sat on the couch, watching tv, surfing the web.
Anytime I was bothered, I was secure in the knowledge that I'd at least get a couple bucks in tips for my trouble.
Perfect job for me, because why? Because I'm lazy. That's why.
Then I was told that a guy at another hotel needed help. Was desperate for help. They used that word: DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
So I go, on a Monday, to see the manager. And I wait, in the lobby, for 30 minutes, to talk to the man who I'm told is DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
We talk for 20 minutes. It seems to go well. He has to interview another guy the next day but I've pretty much got it, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, don't worry, call on Wednesday.
I call on Wednesday. I call TWICE on Wednesday. I leave a message, twice, on Wednesday.
He calls on Thursday. "Hey Ant, just to let you know, we don't need you after all, sorry."
Well. Alrighty then. Glad I called.
It is now two weeks later. Two weeks of me not working and not earning money later. And I'm not on the schedule for the place I was perfectly happy working at before THEY came to ME and asked me to lend a hand to the guy who was DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
My landlord does not like this story. My landlord's response to this story: "So when can I cash the check for January's rent? Also February is soon."
I'll think of something worth writing about for next week. Not tonight, though: I'm lazy.
And I'm lazy.
I was told:
Sports and entertainment!?! What? Come on.
and:
Man, you’d have some great observations on this funny little town and the people you see around you. Comment on it. Find issues among it. Find things that riles you and piss you off. Things that you just can’t stand to let go unnoticed. And things that speak to bigger things.
Because that sounds like work. It would require effort and the expenditure of calories. And besides, I'm lazy.
Besides, at the moment I don't have anything to write about. Nothing going on in and around town, I mean. What am I going to write about? The homeless? It's been done. And done. And done.
What I've got worth ranting about is my utter lack of money. I don't have money because I don't know if I've got a job.
See, here's what happened:
I got a job working overnight at a hotel. I was "security/night audit." Basically, I showed up at 10:30 and baby-sat the hotel until 6:30 in the morning. Which was the perfect job for me.
People show up? Park their car, haul their bags to their rooms. Lock the doors at midnight-ish, pass out the newspapers, slide the bill under the door. Otherwise? I sat on the couch, watching tv, surfing the web.
Anytime I was bothered, I was secure in the knowledge that I'd at least get a couple bucks in tips for my trouble.
Perfect job for me, because why? Because I'm lazy. That's why.
Then I was told that a guy at another hotel needed help. Was desperate for help. They used that word: DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
So I go, on a Monday, to see the manager. And I wait, in the lobby, for 30 minutes, to talk to the man who I'm told is DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
We talk for 20 minutes. It seems to go well. He has to interview another guy the next day but I've pretty much got it, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, don't worry, call on Wednesday.
I call on Wednesday. I call TWICE on Wednesday. I leave a message, twice, on Wednesday.
He calls on Thursday. "Hey Ant, just to let you know, we don't need you after all, sorry."
Well. Alrighty then. Glad I called.
It is now two weeks later. Two weeks of me not working and not earning money later. And I'm not on the schedule for the place I was perfectly happy working at before THEY came to ME and asked me to lend a hand to the guy who was DESPERATE. FOR HELP.
My landlord does not like this story. My landlord's response to this story: "So when can I cash the check for January's rent? Also February is soon."
I'll think of something worth writing about for next week. Not tonight, though: I'm lazy.
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