An introduction

This is my lovely girlfriend, Anne. (We've been dating for quite a while - around one and a half/two years or so, not really sure.) I felt that since she's such an important part of my life, a blog which did not introduce her would not be a true reflection of who I am. Anne's a Wisconsin native and full of passion for life and human rights. She has been living in Boston for around four years and will be the reason I'm leaving the city in a couple of months. I'm following her and love (happily embodied in the same person) to NYC. She'll be going to graduate school for Public Health. I'll be doing something - not quite sure what yet. We'll see. Okay, that's her. She's my sweetpea.

Diesel

So, I spend most of my non-working time at Diesel Cafe in Davis Square. This is a photo of a quite carefully crafted latte. They've perfected the pour. I enjoy the sight almost as much as the espresso drink itself. This is a place for work, for play and great music (though I'm almost invariably listening to my own, the staff's myriad Ipods declare this a venue for a motley of tastes in tunes).

We finally went for a hike

Well, after two years of courtship under the pretense of an eventual hike, my friend Angela and I went for one. We made it to the Fells here in the Greater Boston area. The hike lasted for roughly 4 hours - mostly on account of our not having a map; something I do not suggest, even for a seemingly non-threatening hike around a resevoir or two. We got lost and luckilly it wasn't the sort of lost that's followed by encounters with a bear or rain or the need for shelter. We were lost midday.

The hike was most enjoyable. Mostly flat with few hints of climbs and descents - no blisters to speak of. Our conversation mostly revolved around her recent get-back-together with her long-time on and off again boyfriend Jake who now lives down in Florida. They're happy. I'm happy. However, I mistakenly affixed my foot square in my mouth likening her to Ms. Haversham from 'Great Expectations'.

Anne's out of town this weekend, visiting with her family for her brother's graduation fromGrinnell College in Iowa.

I'm on my own - left to my own devices this weekend. Going to take Desean, my 'little' brother out for a while today. I'm deciding between a duck tour or something else. Our excursions have mostly revolved around walking great distances and playing pool. I think it's time for us to enjoy a day on a WWII beachcraft. Quack Quack.

The Start of Something . . .

Let me start with this: I’m a twenty-seven year old male not living up to his potential, living amongst those living up to theirs. This is my age of angst; of agony and depression. This is the age of the unfortunate little me in the center of the world – NYC. There’s war in a desert. There’s poverty on the corner. There’s suffering everywhere. In all respects, I should be counting myself lucky. I fucking hate parts of my life. Actually, it’s the story I’m forced to tell – I’ve a hell of a lot of time on my hands.

I woke up today to my girlfriend’s kiss before heading out to work. A barely hidden pity for my nonworking ass was scrawled across her face; a look that will invariably turn toward contempt if I remain this lump on a log for too long. I made my way downstairs after considering and failing to convince myself to masturbate. I ate half a melon before perusing Craigslist for an hour. I then rallied myself to on the coffee shop; a ritual I’ve been fastened to for the latest stint of unemployment. The wireless is down so this is the story I’m forced to tell.

I’m an otherwise healthy and typical over-educated and relatively good-looking young man with my future just waiting for me. I’m also an aging wanna-be ascetic, with a worthless degree in psychology and an even more worthless graduate degree in history, who has recently come to the realization that he can no longer, given enough practice and determination, play for the Yankees.

It is no coincidence that I lay myself flat in the coffee shop situated next to one of the most prestigious law schools in the country. I still have faint dreams of acing the entrance exam, studying at Harvard and leading a life in politics thereafter. I still believe in the fantastic. This dream, like the Yankees, will inevitably fall to the wayside come thirty. The life I lead and the one I wish to lead are battling for permanent residency.

I'm Jobbed

A deleted post from 3/17/06.

I'm Jobbed . . .

So I had a morning and half of one afternoon without a job. I'm jobbed. I start working at a coffee shop this coming Monday. Making 8.50/hour, but I get my own cordouroy hat and free meals during shifts. And my exercise routine is in full steam. Going to Tufts Gym and working out with all of those 18/19 year olds are cause for celebration. Their bodies are so fit, so young. Youth, to quote George Bernard Shaw, is wasted on the young. I feel good. I'm doing roughly 45 mins of cardio and 15 of stretching. Just about right for now. We'll see how long I can keep this up. I'm pretty proud of this job and can see myself enjoying it - making sandwiches, coffee etc. Reminds me of the winters working at the deli back on Long Island - just a bit cleaner and further removed from the mafia.

So, my charge today is to organize my job search for NYC. First thing's first: revamp resume and send it along to Rob (soon to be brother-in-law?) for editing/embellishing. Next I'll list and organize my organize my networking/contact list down there. If I'm feeling really dangerous, I'll even work on a cover letter and search Craigslist for openings etc.

Part of the reason for this extended leave of mine rests in my being burned out. The Board, as I've previously written, has jaded my sense of accomplishment and security in my youth. I was done with the Board over a year ago and have been coasting since that disengagement.

I have a few other goals for this time off. Learn a few tools on the computer. For example: Excel, basic HTML etc. I think it may be useful in future job search.

For now, from the garage of Diesel, I bid you good bye.

My first . . .

My first day of unemployment. Self-inflicted unemployment, however. I've been working for the Federal Government as an investigator for the past 2 years and have sufficiently witnessed the dimmer-switch gain speed and conviction. The dimmer-switch I speak of is my reflection on self-actualization. I've seen the future. Ask anyone in government service and he or she will tell you, and rightfully so, that they've seen the future. They've seen their future selves. Now, I'm specifically talking about workers in the public sector, such as teachers, police officers, and others on a 'track' toward retirement. Everything is geared around retirement and the road to it. The first year or so at one of these jobs can be exciting. However, after a year the outlook turns grim as you start seeing yourself as a 57 year old unfulfilled civil servant counting the days. Quite literally, there are colleagues of mine who know, to the day, how many they have left prior to kissing the agency's sweet ass good bye. I am not fit for this service; this portension sits boldly in line with my rush to skin myself alive. Therefore, I have elected to take leave without pay for roughly 2 months. During this time, I will be engaged with my world and the world abound and about myself. I will revisit what it is I thought I want out of life, out of the life I was afforded. I have the potential, the capacity and, dare I say, possible naievete, to step out of the circus of accrual, the circus of service, the circus of self-loathing just for a brief while. Long enough, hopefully, to re-engage me.

It seems to me . . .

that I've been in a bit of a funk as of late.

It's been a while . . .

Random events happen instantly and instantly happen randomly. Every instant is remarkable in its infinitesimal probability of having occurred. But every once in a while something happens, which boggles the mind in its complexity as not to be understood as mere coincidence. Two nights ago I was out with a couple of co-workers in Springfield, VT after a particularly long day. We were recommended to head to a basement bar in the center of Main street as it was the only establishment open at that time. We walked in and I instantly recognized a fellow sitting at a table just next to ours. He seemed to recognize me too. Two or so years ago I was staying at Green Gulch - a Zen conservatory, and self-sustaining farm outside of San Francisco - and working on the farm. A few days during my two week stay I was asked to help with the building of a yurt. The leader of the yurt project was (we'll call him) John. He was in the bar. In Springfield, VT. He had just moved there a month or so ago. To emphasize the impossibility of this event, I've drawn a picture, however it doesn't seem to agree with this Blogger program. I'll explain: a picture of the USA, 3 locations indicated by dots - San Francisco, Boston and Springfield, VT. This picture, nevertheless, does not account for the temporal issue, the existence of species issue, and a number of others. Anyway, thought I'd share.

To jump or not to jump . . .

I really don't seem to have an option lately. I've been jumpy as a jumpy bean. Unfortunately what I've been trying to calm my nerves has only enhanced them. I'm going to have to reevaluate my efforts.
Last evening Anne and I met up with a few AHC friends at the Green Street Grille in Central Sq. for a few drinks and then headed off to a party of another AHC colleagues'. The dynamic was absurd. Gay/liberal/jewish meets straight/conservative/catholics over minature hotdogs and drinks. I felt more than uncomfortable on account of the mutual segregation that was taking place. Not to mention the foiled plan on stealing a photo of Waxman.
Now, at Diesel, and not being productive. Time for productivity.

Full on Sushi . . .

I left work 3 hours early yesterday to prepare for my sushi party - I also was feeling jumpy all day and leaving early fit well with calming a bit. I made my way, via commuter rail, to the Porter Square Exchange Japanese market - Kotobukia (sp?) and consulted the sushi chef there on how much fish to purchase. He suggested 1 &1/2 pounds for 12 people - .5 salmon, .5 tuna, .5 some sort of white fish. He was dead on. We were left, at the end of the evenging, with 1 quarter pound of the mystery white fish. I also purchased 30 pieces of nori, ginger, wasabi, chopsticks, rice vinegar, soy sauce and 12 cups/6lbs of short grain rice. We ended up using 8 cups worth. Then I went to Shaws and picked up avacados, carrots, cream cheese, cucumber and green tea. Those present: Myself, Anne, Brian, Audra & Brooks, Susan & Alan, Angela, Kristin, Dan & Rebecca, Luca & Michela, Oystein & Olga. We drank much wine and had a great time. Most of us has never rolled our own sushi, therefore Angela was the resident prefect. The whole project, foodwise, cost no more than $90. 12 people Full on Sushi for around $8 a piece. Not too shabby. If I had the materials, which I am the proud owner of now, the cost would have been around $6 a person. Not that I'm too fixed on the economy of it all, but it's quite impressive nevertheless.

Black then green . . .

Or was it green then black? I'm pretty sure it was the latter. Here's the skinny: Old friend, Matt Russell, E-mails me a request. Request being that I meet with his photographer roommate Lawrence. I met with Lawrence at Diesel, coffee shop, and looked at photos of his. He wants me to model for one of his shoots. Naked. And green. Posing as the Incredible Hulk. I say yes. Months pass. Last night, in Lawrence's room, I stood naked. And was painted, literally head to toe. He painted my butt and other areas I couldn't reach/see. I was dark green. My face was dark green. My eyelids were dark green. The photo shoot took no more than a half of an hour. I was done. So I thought. Down I go to the bathroom with my dark colored towel and travel/hotel soap Lawrence supplied me. The green wouldn't come off. I was in the shower. I was in the shower for almost an HOUR. During this hour, I was scrubbing like mad man and had to invite Lawrence to scrub my back and butt. Lawrence and I became quite close as the night progressed. I've not had my butt scrubbed, this side of age 7, by anyone other than myself. I finally emerged, thinking I was satisfactorily not green. Lawrence and his roommates, who were all expectantly waiting for me in the adjacent kitchen, thought otherwise. Two of them, Matt and Gretchen, were ferried out to CVS to get some cold creme. Lawrence was dutifully preparing pad thai. The cold creme worked. We ate pad thai and Matt drove me back to Anne's place. This morning I awoke with two black eyes. From scrubbing. Green to black. Maye I should get some of that eder spackle.

Elder spackle . . .

I just had an enlightening conversation with a few ladies in my office. They were talking moisturizer when I happened by the front desk. When I betrayed my strict countenance by displaying the truth - I was nonplussed. There were literally countless types of moisturizers. Not only did they reel me in with a few tid bits of terminology, they made mention of elder spackle. (search for QVC and spackle).
I'm not so much surprised that people actually use something that would work, in effect spackling one's face, but to purchase a product for one's face called 'SPACKLE'!? Goodness.

Wouldn't it be nice . . .

Wouldn't it be nice if we could all have a doggy door? A portal for freedom from reality? I envision a portable doggy door whereby one could unleash at any moment he chooses, crawl through it and play. This would be particulary fun for use while waiting on lines or bored to death in pointless office-wide meetings.

I was recently born . . .

I was recently born. Roughly 27 years ago, my mother went through some excruciating pain. This was called labor. By some wonderous, yet relatively understandable, mechanism called reproduction, my father and mother presumably created me. (This, undoubtedly, was both planned and romantic on their part). And yesterday, I had a surprise breakfast served to me in bed and a birthday chocolate cheesecake that evening for dessert. This would not have been possible if I had not recently been born. I guess I'm quite lucky.

I wear a blue shirt on most days . . .

My office occupies a small corner of the Tip O'Neil building in Boston, Ma. Within this office is a hat rack, which I've, ever so cleverly, designated my closet. On it I hang shirts, a belt and pants. Of the 7 or 8 shirts I have hanging, 5 or 6 are blue. Of the two pants, one is brown; the other, navy. This creates a dillemma of sorts. That being that I obviously cannot wear my blue shirts with my navy slacks for wont of fashion, so I inevitably wear my brown slacks almost every day at the office. The other 2 shirts, being white, are great partners for the navy slacks. I know that at least one of my colleagues has noticed, that being Angela. But she's leaving in a month, so I'm all set.