"Let's See Here..."

I love modern corporate America for one thing: it's subliminal vocabulary. We all use it, we all do it, and none of us know it. I refer to the ubiquitous term "Okay, let's see here..." when interfacing with a copier, a computer or a recalcitrant report. It's a polite form of failure, the Seehere. It reeks mildly of fear, of complication.

We use "okay, let's see here" when the paper jams in the entrails of the copier, when we are confronted with a blue screen meltdown on our networks, on a recalcitrant row of Excel figures that somehow just won't add up. Soon will come the drumming of the fingertips upon the beige plastic case. A short sigh. Paper will be shifted, re-collated and refed and again we will ask ourselves to "see now, let's just see here."

What's best is when a crowd forms. And everyone is muttering their "see heres" as they mill in your cubicle or around the Xerox 3000 in the mailroom. One person will step up, fail to retrieve the mangled document wrapped hotly around Lever Arm 3, and mutter "okay, okay let's just see here..." and then give up and walk to the back of the crowd. Another steps forward, crouches down, pokes at a wheel or pulley, sighs, and it repeats. Occasionnally one far-seeing soul will firmly announce , "Let's just. SEE here...!" and be rebuffed instantly.

This is equivalent to the "lean in" method of car repair. You know the type - the kind of person who is clueless under the hood, but will stand there with their body leaning into the engine bed as if adopting a relaxed yet intent look will cause the car to miraculously roar to life right there on the shoulder of the freeway. Or the people who put their hands on their hips or fold their arms when talking to the mechanic. They always want to look comprehending and sincere, but just come off as dumb as sticks. It's the automotive version of staring at an open refridgerator without a thought in your head about food. As if the fridge itself was responsible for feeding you. "Hey, Bob, if you follow me to the back of the second shelf, there's a dandy slice of Pepe's Pizza from last month you might enjoy discovering for the first time again."

Let's face it - we're all terrified of technology. Okay, most of us are. That's why the IT guys at work are always seen as slightly monastic, as if we can't disturb them too often or their direct connection with God will be torn asunder, causing locusts and plague to descend down upon the office. We so often compliment them out of all reason - "Gee, Jim, without you here I wouldn't even KNOW where my computer even WAS! Thanks for doing whatever is you did there to make my machine turn on." I think they can smell our fear and they secretly pity us. When the Technological Rapture comes, and all the IT people finally ascend to the Starry Motherboard of the Absolute, they will look down upon us with a nostalgic yearning, the way you once felt about your favorite dog who passed away all those long, long years ago.

Marriaging is Hard!

Lately all I can do with my wife is fight with her. Okay, argue. Okay, discuss. Whatever verbiage you want to choose from the Ladder of Communication is fine with me. I've fallen into the trap that has buoyed the horrid stand-up routines and sitcoms throughout time - "How The Hell Do You Live with The Opposite Sex?"

What's scary is how volatile I've become - rages aren't infrequent, yelling and storming out seems appropriate more often than not, and then of course, the inevitable wretchedness of the Sorries. Sorry this, Sorry that, Sorry for Everything. Common household objects such as socks, dishes and mail have become titanic sources of wrath. For both of us.

It's so common that it ought to be a crime, some sort of petty misdemeanor that is expunged off your criminal record in a few months or years. "Booked for Screeching About Detergent - January, 2005" , "Multiple Arrests Stemming from Credit Card Bill Payments Left on Kitchen Table - Summer of 2003" , "Did Time for Debating Dog Walking Chores - Fall 1999"

The cops could lock you up for a weekend and force you to watch Leo Buscaglia films with a soft-spoken intermediary to work off the fines or whatever. Or you'd have to be Santa at a mall during Christmas Season. To teach you patience and acknowledging a loved one's needs.

I'm just tired of the mundanity of even having conversations about stuff like this, honestly. Do I want on my tombstone : Fought Over Socks? I walk by the other apartments around here, the other houses, and I wonder what they are arguing about.

I feel like I should get some uniform together and go house-to-house with a nametag on my jacket and do surveys for the common good. "Excuse me, Mr. White? Hi, Steve with Arguers Anonymous. Yes, it is a lovely night, sir. Can you tell me what types of ridiculous household objects are currently unravelling the state of your marriage to Mrs. White? Plastic stemware, plush toys for Kitty Boo, and bathrobes? Um hm. Thank you, Mr. White. Please take this stress ball as our free gift and I'll let you get back to watching t.v. alone in the dark of your living room now. Thanks."

Little Cat Feet Tank Drives Deep into Hometown, USA

I'm a tank with cat feet. Yeah, that's right. A Rommel engine with a pure sense of stealth. A home invasion squad on tiptoe. A gramma with a pistol on her hip. A ninja-star wielding paperboy come to collect. I am all of these things. Why?

Because I'm tired, that's why.

I'm tired of doing things the old way, the nonsensical way, the way that proves to the world I'm a sucker and a shlep. I want power and lots of it. I want to be out in the job market field and when I say Pull! the little clay disk that is employment falls to the earth with a sodden thud and my lackey goes out and gets muddy picking up the shards. I want to exude such self-confidence that I scare people with my slick, Teflon-like structure. I want to dominate every interview, cut the bullshit and take names. I want to make sure people are reprimanded for not speaking to me in the terms for which I'm accustomed.

There are two types of people in this world - those that do because they can, and those who don't do anything. Those who demand their place and those who wait for others to do the demanding for them. Sideliners and headliners and there ain't no in-between. I'm sick of using up my energy trying to stay with the pack. "Let's all huddle together and hope something astrological happens, k?" "I dunno, I guess, no, you're right, you're right, I totally need to work on that, no, I need to hear it, I need to do something...."

Do this: kill yourself. Kill everything you know to be wrong. Kill your habits, your belief systems, your petty little idiosyncrasies that keep you in the dark, down where the smelly moss grows thick and smothers your life. No one cares about you more than you should care about yourself. What is your opinion about anything worth if your opinion of Who You Are is so small?

I'm sick of it. I'm sick of talking big and walking like a toddler holding tightly onto Mommy's arm down the street. No one should listen to me unless my voice is coming out of a loudspeaker and my eyes are tremendous orbs bulging out of a billboard in downtown Los Angeles or dominating the Jumbotron in Times Square. What else is there?

I'm tired and sick of holding myself down. Godzilla had no doubts about whether entering the city and wreaking havoc was a bad thing. King Kong didn't bust a nail crushing biplanes and then fret over it.

Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and on the boards in Redmond, WA

Last night some friends from church took me out to see Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris out at Second Story Repertory. An amazing show. 20-odd songs back to back to back nonstop for 5 players.

This amounts to an act of sheer creative torture for any ensemble. Everyone solos. Everyone dances. Not once, but several times. If you love to sing on stage, this is the show for you. If you think you love to sing on stage, this show will kill your sorry ass.

I have friends down in CA who are ardent theater-goers, but snub anything musical. I think of this show, and of Marat/Sade and I pity them. The songs are fantastic, moving and quite funny. And pointed - there's a song called "Middle Class" that is as political as anything with lyrics like "the middle class/are just like pigs/the older they get/the dumber they get!"

Every now and again I think of leaving the Northwest for a more urban environment, a bigger arena like Chicago or Austin or New York, and then I go out to a local show and realize that quality theater is right here, not even a half hour from my front door. If you're a local kidlet reading my bloggity blog right now, get your coat on and go see this show. Sit on the side aisles closest to the stage and support an amazing group of people going out of their way to bring excellent work to the Khakilanders of the Eastside.

Simpleton Wakes Up!

I am a simpleton. I am bleary-eyed, watered-down, distracted by dust motes. I dispel the rumor of myself thus - coffee addiction. Two cups in the morning, and my headlights could pierce the moon.

What to say, moon? The job sitch is heating up on many fronts, so much so that I can actually have some small measure of choice about where I end up possibly. The choices themselves are not fantastic, life-altering "this is the time in Steve's life when..." choices, but they will pay the bills and not drive me into a sick frenzy of self-doubt by 9am on a typical workday. Stay tuned, kidlets.

During an open-mic night at Pegasus Pizza and Pasta this past Wednesday, I watched a fantastic comedian: Dean Evans, formerly out of Salt Lake City of all places. Great political humor, a wonderfully caustic attitude that didn't rely on pussy jokes and swearing to get his shtick across, and enormous long red dreads to boot. Imagine a rastafarian elf with a sharp tongue and bedrock stage presence and you're there. (I'm sure he's sick as hell at being described as an elf, or leprechaun or whatever, but if da foo sh*ts, then...)

What else? Reno 911. Hilarious. Finally got around to watching it.

What else, else? Battling all week against the empty feeling that being unemployed brings. That shiv to the ribs sadness that makes everything you believe you are start fading out. I start reliving every bad choice I ever made on the buses carting me from the 'burbs into Seattle and then blank out on the bus back home, head slumped against the window.

I was sitting in the back of the 545 last night, thinking of...what? The utilitarian aluminum beams that supported the bus, the little vinyl straps that hang down in between the seats for standing passengers, and the way the bus humped and jumped along the road the way buses always do. Just the way we spend so much time in boxed up environments. Bus to office to bus to apartment, with small trips to cafes or breakrooms or delis in between. No wonder no one thinks straight anymore.

But at the same time, I'm enjoying what little time and freedom I have away from it by being unemployed. I like the variety of going on interviews, the people you meet are usually characters fit for a story, I like not knowing how each day will end up. Granted, the flip side of this is mortal despair, crushing guilt and a rootless sick feeling that I'm worthless, but hey, when that's not going on, it's not a bad gig.

The real deal is, of course, how to define yourself when nothing around you seems like it fits. And this is the backstory. For all the moments this last week that I've felt like things weren't working out, there are also moments where I realize that what I'm going after by and large is a joke anyways. Perhaps that's just protective rationalization over the gaping fact that if I don't have a degree and career path outlined perfectly, that all I can hope for is to align my skills with someone else's, which is basically whorish slavery. Called "teambuilding" if it's your dream that's being supported by people like me.

Anyway, more later. I'm afraid I'll get bumped now that it's 9am and the agencies are wont to call me up.

Back Again

Getting lit up on raspberry wine and feeling like I need to communicate. It's been several days since I wrote anything for WyW5, and seeing as the number of folks that have scooted past on this rag now numbers in the hunnert and teens, I suppose I should bother again.

Movies seen since last post: A Decade Under the Influence (neat, but light), Teaching Mrs. Tingle (awful even with the amazing Helen Mirren), Laurel Canyon (great because of Frances McDormand's character - whom I wish were a real person I could go and visit), Richard Pryor's Here and Now (what's the big deal? He wasn't that funny), Chris Rock's Bigger and Blacker (hysterical and pointed), Gypsy 83 (with the slurpable Sara Rue - a great coming-of-age film that gets it right), Shaun of the Dead (laugh-out-loud great), and Napoleon Dynamite (utterly amazing!).

What else? Not a whole hell of a lot, sadly. Still unemployed, although that may change next week. Question: why do people who counsel folks on career changes and Getting That Great New Job charge so effing much for their services? If we were all wealthy enough to afford career change seminars that cost 2 grand a pop, none of us would ever need career changes. It's like you're paying someone to short-circuit your own psyche. Because the actual swag you get with these packages if sold separately wouldn't even run you 100 bucks, much less 2 grand. I'm referring to Robin Ryan here specifically - go to www.robinryan.com to see her list of fabulousness with the appropriate pricing attached. Turns out she's some superwoman in the career industry who hobnobs with Oprah and Dr. Phil. You get a CD, a couple of inspirational books, and like, an hour of counseling with her most ritzy package. Big fucking deal! Not enough whores cost that much! I could go drop a c-note on a working girl in Seattle and feel even better about myself than blowing an entire month's wages on some feel-good career choice meet and greet.

I'm just bitter, that's all. Not to mention that Robin Ryan looks suspiciously like Dina Martina, local drag queen legend of Seattle's cabaret scene. Hmm.... why don't I let you compare and see for yourself: http://www.cloudroomstudio.com/cloudroom/music/dina%20martina/dinapics/picdisk%20presidents.jpg (Dina Martina)

and Robin Ryan....http://robinryan.com/images/top_robin.jpg

Anyway, that's all for now. More movies to watch, such as The Ref, Saved, and the Son...

bye kidlets.

Important! You may be the 100th visitor to WyW5!

Dear kidlets: If you happen to be the 100th visitor to WyW5 (you can find out by checking the counter on the sidebar down below), please please please contact me! Send me an e-mail (by checking my profile or by commenting on this post perhaps). I am deeply honored and yes, titillated by the fact that 100 complete strangers have either read or clicked-through this rag.

I would like to know who has come across this site for the 100th time since it's creation. Be brave - tell me a little bit about yourself, your interests, reasons for blogging or blogslogging, etc. Tell me a story - it can be factual, fictional, serious or comic - just write to me! If you take the time, I promise good things are in store for you.

Perhaps a small gift. A poem or trinket sent in the mail. Or not, depending on how you, lucky Mr. or Mrs. 100, feel about mailed trinkets. But don't let this opportunity pass you by! Contact me immediately and introduce yourself. At the very least, I will start a When You Were 5 Wall of Fame in the sidebar, chronicling who the lucky 100, 200, 300 and so on person is who read my blog. You'd be immortal!

So, go now and tell me who you are.

There's a good kidlet.