999

A couple of posts ago, I talked about the yacht race. This is how many days I have left, before I say goodbye to the company I've worked for for eight and a half years. It'll be 11 years almost to the day by that point. The exact starting date of the race hasn't been announced yet, and probably won't be until January of that year. But I like to have things to look forward to, so 12 Jun 2015 is the most tangible date I can give myself. I don't know which ports we'll end up sailing in to. I don't know where I'll go at the end of the race. And I'm actually excited about that.

I've had a career. I decided when I was pretty young that I wanted to do theatre professionally. I've been a lighting tech, run sound, automation, stage management, even acted and been paid for it. I started my own company with a couple of friends, wrote scripts, built sets, hung lights- and on one memorable occasion, a snow machine with a squirrel fan which blanketed the audience. I've loaded and fired pyro.

I've programmed automation for three Cirque Du Soleil shows. I've gone from an hourly employee, to Show Lead, to Assistant Head. I've gone from having a problem with authority to being the authority.

And I'm only 32, and ready for something else. Automation, theatre, is comfortable for me. I have no problems operating a multi-million dollar system with people's lives in my hands, while two thousand people watch in awe. I'll take a screwdriver or a wrench to just about anything, especially when I've got a bunch of people waiting for me to either continue the show, or cancel it.

So the way I see it, I've got 999 more days until the end of my career. Will I continue to progress in that time? Who knows. My bosses know I'm making this trip, so are definitely less likely to consider me for promotion, but I'm fine with that. I have 999 more days to work on finishing some of the writing projects I'm working on. I have 999 more days of 2am shopping, and 24 hour bars, and showgirls and slot machines.

I have 999 more days of paying for the trip.

Guns

Guns scare the fuck out of me. I see the point of them, to an extent. I love game, and hunting is the best way to get it in the US. But I didn't grow up around them. I had a friend in England who had an air rifle, and we would shoot targets on a rock in his back garden, but that was the extent of my exposure to guns until moving to Louisiana at 15.

While there, a friend of my brother's waved his mother's .45 (I think it was) around in our faces to show off one day. It wasn't until later that the incident really worried me, because that's when I found out that statistically, that's how most of the kids killed by guns die.

And the idea of becoming a statistic sickens me. I have goals, and plans, and stories to write and experiences to. . .experience, and I don't want some little twat to take that all away from me.

I'm not saying that guns need to be banned. That's not going to solve anything. But in the light of the recent horrific events in Colorado, I feel like both sides of the argument are missing the point. On the one side, you've got the people who are pro gun, who are saying that if someone had been armed in the threatre, then the loss of life wouldn't have been as high. The trouble with that argument is that Colorado has some pretty liberal (in the sense of lax, not in the sense of what conservatives think liberals want) gun laws. There was nothing to prevent any one of the people watching the movie from taking a gun with them, and unless you're going to make it compulsory to carry a gun, there's no way to make sure an innocent bystander will be armed.

On the other side, you've got people complaining about the root causes of gun violence in this country being poverty and income inequality, which is why the US has a higher level of gun violence than any other western society. Now, I agree with this to an extent, but if you think about the mass murders in this country, they don't have anything to do with that. Columbine, Virginia Tech, Fort Hood, and now Aurora, none of the gunmen have been from impoverished backgrounds.

The problem is, no one is willing to have an open conversation about guns in this country. If you are pro gun, understand me when I say I DO NOT want to take away your right to bear arms. I just want there to be some system in place to keep a bit better track of who has what. And if you're anti gun, understand that you'll never get rid of guns in this country, and you shouldn't have to if people are willing to be responsible and sensible about owning the damned things.

K, rant over. But one last statement. Part of civilization is being able to have a civil conversation about things that affect all of us. Let's start trying that again.

The Future.

Three years. I have to make it three more years. Three years of living in Las Vegas, the stupid hot summers, dusty windy winters, constant construction, and twenty-four-hour whatever you want. It's been eight, so it's less than half the time I've been here already, and when you look at it that way it's much more survivable.

It's not that I hate Vegas any more. It's grown on me. It's like a mole that you hate when you're young, cos everyone makes fun of it. Then you grow up, realize that those people don't really matter, and accept the mole as a part of who you are. I'm accepting now that Vegas is a part of who I am, and I don't really mind it too much.

It's just a matter of getting out before the Vegas mole metastases.

But I have a plan to get out. Actually, this week I'm signing a contract to get out. And as a result of that contract, and money paid, Sometime in July of 2015, I'm going to be a part of a crew on a round-the-world yacht race. It hits six of seven continents, ten boats, eleven months, fifteen ports of call, and about 450 crew over the course of the race.

I've known about the race for a little over a year. But about six weeks ago, out of the blue, I said fuck it, and decided instead of talking about the race, I was going to do it. Emailed the recruiter to arrange a time to talk about the race while I was in the UK, but instead of just talking, I actually went in and did the interview. Got accepted. Come pay day, I'm sending off some money, along with the signed contract, and that's my life for the next four years sorted out. No more buying computers, or cameras, or rounds of drinks, cos all the money is going to the race. It's expensive. But I'm at the point where I feel like I can't afford to NOT do the race. I need a kick in the arse. I need a challenge. I need to get the shit kicked out of me as only the Northern Pacific Ocean can do. I need to go away for eleven months, get out of my comfort zone, out of my rut, and see more of the world-- at least the wet parts of it.

So for now, that's what's going on. At some point, I might ask you for money. It's expensive. But I won't ask just yet. Right now, I'm just letting you know if you want to visit Vegas while I'm here, you got three years. And if you're already here, then we'll hang out at some point. But three years is it. Then I'm gone.

Motivation pt. IV

So here's the thing. It doesn't matter where it comes from, as long as you can find it for a while, use it, and make it to where you're going. Tonight was necessary. Very Necessary, to use the title to a Salt-N-Pepa album that has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I'm not going to talk about Sex. I don't want to shoop. But I do want to keep a hold of the feeling I have inside right now, cos it's a good one. It's a little to do with the Manhattan and Martini and double Whiskey, but mostly to do with the conversation of the last two and a half hours.

I went to Europe with 29 lucky people my sophomore year of University. I wish I had the arrogance to claim they were lucky cos they went with me, but no. The reason they were lucky is because Holy Fuck! Europe for a year when you're nineteen! So I went over there with these people I knew a little or a lot or nothing about, and after the year I knew a little more or a little less about all of them. But the funny thing about being over there is that while I made some of the best friendships of my life, that wasn't even the important part. It set me up for what was to come.

To come was now. And not now in the sense of some fleeting moment that is always just gone, but now as in a state of mind. It makes more sense to measure your life in states of mind, or transitions from one to the next. So I like to think that everything was leading to here, it is the recent discovery of friendships I laid years ago that is going to get me out of this now, and in to the next.

Confused? Good, me too. Should probably have had a single.

So here it is. I've been lucky in my life that I've had almost no one I've been close to die. Grandparents, Great-something-or-others, a cousin, but I was younger than twelve for all of them, and no one recently enough to affect me, until Greg a couple of months ago. And his death has been in the back of my mind since in found out about it, because fuck, thirties is too young to die, and because the conversations I'd had with him in the couple years before had made me feel not so alone.

When part of your crutch, one of your coping mechanisms is taken away, it hurts. And you go back to some of the things you've gone through before, because there's something of a regression whether you want there to be or not.

Here's the thing, though. You're never alone. Never fucking alone. No matter how bleak, how helpless, how unique you feel, someone else has been there before, is there right now, and is going through what you're going. And you lose sight of that in the bollocks of living your life, and saying the things you're supposed to say to the people you're supposed to say it to, when all you want to do is scream, or sing, or tell someone to stop being a twat. And while I'm way too much of a pussy to ever let the totally minor hardships that I come across in life-- loss of value in my house, grey hairs, less than satisfactory performance in the sack-- push me to the point of ending it all, it takes some convincing to remember that I'm not alone sometimes.

I'm rambling. Going back and looking at the rest of this post I can see that, but it's still helping me get to what I want to say right now. So if you've made it this far, and you're still following the tenuous thread of this badly grammaticized post, here's my point.

Take the time to talk to people. Share yourself, and let them share themselves. Because you never know what you can give to each other, and you never know what the other bugger's going to take away from the conversation. An almost-three-hour, mildly-alcohol-encouraged conversation made me get to this point:

We're both better than we'll admit to, and while that's somewhat endearing, it ain't going to get us to where we want to go. And we're both worse than we want to be, because that's just the nature of being alive. There's always lapses regardless of your moral code or belief system, and as long as those lapses don't affect your ability to be a member of the human race, you're ahead of the game. Because after tonight, I understand it isn't BAD to use a friend for the people he knows. And I think he's in the same place, and gods I wish I was in a point to be used. And I feel more motivated that I have in a long time, and if I never get rid of this white-hot, soul-twitching, stupid-pose-in-front-of-the-mirror-inducing feeling, then it's too soon and I'm not ready yet and don't take my keyboard or my drink or my internet access away just yet, and I'm sorry and you need to fuck off or raise a glass and say here's to all of it in all its glory and disappointment and wonder, and just understand that motivation is wherever you force it from.

Greg.

I don't remember the first time I met him, but it would have been during a Salzburg orientation meeting. He was one of the people I'd be spending a year abroad with, and we all had to go through them, so I assume he was in them. The thing is, moments in your life pass by unnoticed, and you never think on them until years later, and you find that the memory is gone. Can't have been important, you tell yourself. We called him the Patriarch, cos he was older than all of us, and the name lent itself in a year we were studying Art History like it was going out of style. He was lucky enough to get one of the only two single rooms that the UP Salzburg Centre has to offer, and he would stand on his balcony, cigarette in hand, and survey the courtyard-- and mutter comments about Schneibel under his breath. Or maybe he didn't, but this is how I remember it. I do remember he was there, with Bri and Ali, on the day I got back after a night of extra-curricular activities. And he wondered why it took me so long to start enjoying all that Europe had to offer.

After Salzburg, we were part of a great group of friends who hung out with each other and, to be honest, whoever the fuck wanted to hang out with us. It wasn't until after University, when I moved away because working on a cruise ship seemed like a better idea than getting a real job, that I lost touch with him. Then he went into the Army, and I don't think we said two words to each other in twice as many years.

It wasn't until FaceBook that we started to reconnect. Say what you will about the evil timewaster, it IS a good way to keep in touch, reconnect, and bombard people with game notifications. It was good to catch up, and to find out that he was going through some of the same things I was. Drifting apart from people, through no fault of anyone's but life, it was a comfort to know that there was nothing wrong with me. While other people were getting married and having kids, he made it okay in my mind to not want any of that. And when I coerced him into coming down to Portland for our 10-year Reunion, it was because I was selfish and wanted someone to grumble with.

The last time I talked to him was January. He asked me to write a letter of recommendation for Seattle University. He'd decided to go back to school, Seattle University, to join the Therapeutic Psychology Program. I'm lucky, because I got a chance to let him know what I thought of him, how highly I valued our friendship, even if the letter was for a specific purpose. I didn't have to embellish.

Fuck, this is hard. I'm going to miss you, Greg. I'm going to miss your 'Ladieth Man' impressions. Your opinions, your stubbornness, your compassion, your generosity, your friendship.

Thank you, old friend.

Light.

Driving through Vegas at night I love looking at the lights. Not the green glow of the MGM Grand, or the over-compensating shaft that shoots out the top of the Luxor, but the scattered lights that shine from people's hotel rooms. Each one has the promise of a story. It might be something boring. It might be something exciting. It'll almost definitely be something that I won't get to hear about, but that doesn't matter. What matters is behind every one there's people being people. Whether that involves a mundane activity like watching infomercials, or something that requires the participants to wear rubber, it doesn't matter.

I've always been fascinated by lights. One of the best things about the university I went to was that it looked out over Portland, and the docks, and at night there were a thousand lights looking up at The Bluff, hinting at their stories. Provided the weather wasn't too bad and the clouds or rain didn't cover them. Hell, lights are the reason I am where I am right now. If I hadn't have taken a drunken stumble all those years ago, and seen a cruise ship in dry dock a hundred points of moving and working and preparing for sea, I don't know if I'd have had such a stupid idea as work on ships. If I hadn't worked on ships, then I probably wouldn't have ended up in Vegas.

But now I'm here, and I see each of those points of illumination as something more than they ever were before. Each one is someone, or some people, who have specifically made the decision to come to Vegas. Whether they've come for a wedding or funeral or divorce or other life-changing event, they're here. They're here for the hell of it. They're here for the heaven of it. They're here, doing whatever they're doing in those little pools of light, and if the potential behind each and every one of them doesn't make you curious, at least for a second, well then take a moment and think about it.

Enjoy the fact that none of us are in this alone unless we choose to be, no matter how bad we think things are, because behind each one of those lights is someone, and we're all just writing the stories of our lives as hard as we can.

Writing

Writing is a lot like sex. Sometimes it's easy, and enjoyable, and better than therapy. Everything flows, and you don't want to stop, can keep going for hours, and it makes you feel good about yourself.

Sometimes it's a struggle, and you're not in the mood, and every little bit of progress is a huge effort. You might need therapy because of it. Things on your mind get in the way, and you feel bad about subjecting other people to it.

Sometimes music helps, and most of the time alcohol is involved.

And the majority of what you'll do in your lifetime probably happens alone.

I don't get it.

So. I don't understand how a country that sells itself as the 'best country in the universe!' can almost shut down three times in a year.

This isn't a judgement, or anything like that. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it.

in my mind, a country that is a contender for 'best country in the world,' should be able to operate without the fear of shutting down a day or a week or a month from now.

In my mind, a country should be willing and able to take care of its citizens, no matter what their income bracket, or sexual partner, of skin colour, or how they spell the word colour.

Otherwise what's the point in having a fucking country? Honestly?

What's the point in having a country that can shut down because one (earning eight times more than the average citizen) member of government throws a hissy fit about some bullshit issue?

Because right now I'm pretty sure the $11,000 I've paid in federal taxes so far this year hasn't been earned by a single member of congress, Democrat or Conservative. I'm pretty sure that the programs I want to keep running have been shut down while the programs I have no taste/interest in have been paid for.

I don't want the government to cut anything, except the bullshit and the lies.

if they cut teachers salaries, they need to cut their own. if they cut people who actually contribute to society (firefighters/teachers/cops/everyone except for politicians) then they have to start cutting themselves. they need to cut subsidies to every single industry except for those involved in alcohol.

Because the only way I feel like things might work out is by drinking copiously. But the problem with that is, if I end up going to hospital for some alcohol induced/related illness, the government (who are partially to blame for my drinking) aren't going to look after me. But they'll look after themselves. They'll make sure that while campaigning against state/govt sponsored healthcare and pensions that they've got that shit.

All I want in this world (apart for a 36' CS Marlin) is for someone who votes republican to explain to me why the fuck they would do something against their own best interests.

Please.

Stephen Perkin

When Stephen asked me about six months ago to be his best man, he told me he didn't want a speech, and I thought great, I don't have anything to prepare. So when I got into town a couple of days ago and he said 'yeah, sure, you can give a speech' I thought 'great, I don't have any time to prepare any embarrassing stories about when he was younger, and maybe got caught in the homes of young women-- not his current young woman-- without his pants on.'

Actually, there aren't any stories about that. Because where we grew up, we didn't wear pants, we wore trousers. So one of these times. . .

Nah, I'm kidding. Maybe he did it to get back at me, because he knows I hate getting up in front of people and talking into a mic, and despite my best efforts growing up-- like getting him to jump out of an upstairs window when we were young-- he still asked me to be his best man.

Best man is a bit of a misnomer. He asked me to be his best man, but my brother is the best man, and we're here today to celebrate his marriage to Melissa, and I need to stop now or I'm going to start crying.

So please, join me in raising your glasses to Stephen and Melissa.

Les Langues

It's invigorating walking around Montreal. Apart from the fact I love to travel to new places, and people watch, it's been four years since I was in a country doesn't just speak English. My brain is more engaged as I walk down the street, eavesdropping on the conversations, and trying to translate them as I go. It's mostly impossible. The last French class I took was 1996. It was taught in Baton Rouge, a name that would imply French, but is in Louisiana. Another French-sounding name. And yes, there's an influence left over there, but it's pretty distant now. The class was taught by a short, squat woman, whose name I can't remember, but she was from Algeria or Tunisia or somewhere. The French I learned there was a repeat of the French I started learning in England. But that repeat was years ago, and over time my French has grown rusty.

This is the first time I've really had to use French in years, then. It's not the French I learned. There's a different accent, different dialect, and it's not as easy to understand, especially when two native speakers are in discussion. But for the most part everyone here is bilingual, and if you try to speak French but are obviously having trouble, they'll switch to English and help you get there. Cuts down on listening to conversations in the street though.

It's tiring. It was a lot like this going to Vorstetten in Germany for dad's sixtieth birthday. No one really spoke English there, so I spent a lot of the time translating for my brother and sister, neither of whom speak German. But at the same time I remember a sense of accomplishment that I could actually converse with someone in their language. It was the first time in my life I've thought in a different language, not had to think about what someone said, translate it in my mind, work out a response, translate that, then reply. It was also the first time in my life I was in a country that spoke a different language (that I had learned) and NOT while I was in school.

This is the second, and I feel the same sense of satisfaction sifting through the years of memories to just exactly what the MRS VAN DER TRAMP verbs were, and remembering enough of them to get by. Don't remember them all, but it shows that those years of school weren't a waste. I've always said that most of what I learned when I was in school I learned outside of the classroom, and I still think that's true, but I guess unbeknownst to me, and despite my best efforts, my teachers were able to force some knowledge into my stubborn brain.

It makes me want to learn a new language. It makes me want to get better at the ones I hack my way through, buggering up the tenses and genders and still managing to communicate. It makes me want to immerse myself, disappear for a while to a place like Vorstetten, where they don't speak English, and use my brain.

Mais je assis ici, sur mon balcon, et je bois une biere, et le semaine prochaine je retourne aux Etats Unis, pour oublie tous que j'ai . . .bugger. Unforgotten. Relearned. Never learned that.

Guess I've got three more days to find out.

Revelation.

you know what growing up is? It's the ability to reevaluate who you are, and what you think and believe and know, and question it.

When you grow up, you believe certain things. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings and classmates and children's teevee presenters, all of them tell you about the way the world works and help form your opinions. As you get older, your feelings about everything ebb and flow. You'll feel stronger about something, and then care less about it next week or month or year. As time goes on, you'll (hopefully) never stop growing, evolving, and adjusting who you are. And we do it unknowingly. you might hate one sort of music, and come to like it over time. You might think a film is shit, but in later viewings recognize it's merits.

You might hate the taste of whisky when you're young-- scratch that, you WILL hate the taste of whisky when you're young. But as you get older, your palate changes. I took twenty years before I took an interest in politics, and about twenty three years before I developed a taste for whisky. Now, I vote and caucus and volunteer for the campaigns I believe in, and I have no problems making friends with a bottle of Dalwhinnie.

So change happens whether we want it to or not, and wether we're conscious of it or not. But growing up, reaching maturity, coming of age, any of those bullshit terms we use as a society to try and justify legal drinking or cheaper car insurance or the maturity to fuck someone, none of that comes because of a specific age. Hell, I'm not old enough to drink, because I enjoy it too much and do it too often for polite society. My car insurance never dropped because of a speeding ticket or two. And the maturity to fuck someone? Show me one person on the planet who has the maturity to do that, taking into consideration all the possible repercussions of that little bit of hedonism, and I'l buy you a drink. Or maybe try and sleep with you.

But that's not the point. The point is, tonight, I really thought about a viewpoint I had, I've had for years, and it changed. It's personal, and it's not world-changing, but it might have the potential to be subtly life-changing. We shall see. But the acknowledgement that I was wrong, and that I'm okay with having been wrong, and want to move on with my new mindset is satisfying. I had an opinion, and I'm not going to excuse it, but it was wrong. And I'm going to go forward, knowing that I can admit that and change my opinion. I'm probably going to be slightly smug about it too, but that's just my way, and baby steps to maturity.

So growing up isn't the ability to change, but it's the ability to recognize those changes in yourself, and accept them, and use them to become the person you should, are meant, to be.

Or maybe I'm saying all this cos I'm just trying to sleep with you.

Noises.

When you own a house (read: when the bank has had your balls in a sling), you get used to certain things. There's the pleasure of coming back to the same place, decorated how you want it (to the best of your budget's abilities). You get used to the creaky stair at the top but one, that you try to step over so as not to disturb the puppy. You get used to the sound of the air conditioning kicking on, to make sure the Vegas summers are mostly liveable. I guess it's mostly about the noise. I'm used to the aforementioned step, and a/c. I'm used to the buzz from the light that the HOA decided, in their infinite wisdom, to mount on the exterior of my bedroom. There's the sliding patio door, the front door, the fridge kicking on, the microwave beep, the dishwasher and washer and dryer.

But then there's the noises you think you hear. My condo is pushing twenty, and it wasn't fantastically built. None of the houses in Vegas are. But it's mine until the bank decides to kick me out or lets me sell it for less than I owe, whichever comes first, and I pay attention to its moods.

The summer I first moved in, I was flush with the excitement of being a first-time homeowner. I'd never planned on buying a house, I saw myself as a more footloose and fancy free type, content to roam the earth like Caine (except without the mysticism and kung fu). Then something snapped inside, and I decided it was time to try being a grown-up. I would accept real responsibilities. I would buy a house! And it was everything I thought, until that summer when I realized what owning a wood-and-plasterboard (I hesitate to use the word) construction meant.

It meant when things broke, I had to fix the damn things or call someone in who could. That summer, my roommate handed me the towel rod from her bathroom. It had fallen out, because the wall was soggy. How the fuck does a wall get soggy? A wall gets soggy when the runoff pipe for your a/c compressor in the attic gets clogged with insulation, causing the water to seep through the ceiling and walls. Not fun, and if it had gone on any longer there would have been major damage. But I spent an hour in the roof, with a saw and a pipe patch kit, and fixed the problem.

Two nights ago (and this is where the noises part comes in), I thought I heard dripping. Jumped out of bed, listened to the wall I thought it was coming from, and panicked. Spent ten minutes in the roof, feeling for water, listening for water, because I was buggered if I was going to let the ceiling collapse this close to moving out. It turned out that nothing was wrong, there was nothing leaking, but owning a house has made me completely paranoid about the slightest little change in noise.

Why am I even writing this? It's a pretty mundane story as far as stories go. It's definitely not as exciting as the train ride through Morocco, or camping out in a Swedish park, or running automation even. I think I'm writing it, because soon I won't be a homeowner. I don't know how long it's going to take, but the condo's on the market, and a lawyer has been hired because the the thing's 'worth' about $140k less than I owe on it. At a time when a lot of my friends are buying houses, starting families, I'm doing the opposite. And I've never written much about owning a house. I've wasted six and a half years of living in my own place and not talked about it as much as I should have. So when I move out and no longer own my own abode, I guess I'll miss the small familiar sounds. I'll miss the first fireplace I tiled myself, and the way I can hear the pigeons that perch on top of the chimney. I'll miss the creaky step, and the buzz of the light. I'll miss the drip of water and the panic of moist drywall.

But I won't miss having to fix the bloody things myself.

Writing.

Everyone says that when you are writing, there's nothing so daunting as a blank screen. I don't agree. A blank screen is full of potential and promise. It's when I'm into a project that writing becomes daunting. All of a sudden I have characters who are waiting to find out what they're going to do next. I've got worlds to finish crafting, and similes and metaphors to pull out of my arse.

And I get to a certain point, and I start to worry about what I'm writing. Is it any good? Am I going to be able to convince anyone to read it? Or is it some unremembered story I once read, that I've become convinced is my own idea? You always hear that there's no such thing as originality any more. Every story's already been told, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

I haven't written much this year. I'm not sure why. But about two months ago I was in something of a funk, and decided to make a concerted effort to write. A month later, I started. I set myself goals, but because of the nature of life, I don't like to say I'll write five hundred words a day. Life gets in the way of that, and writing doesn't work like that for me. I have to do it when it lets me. I'll go month to month, setting a goal in the hopes that not too many things will distract me.

I'm not a fan of February. It gives me fewer days to reach my goals.

Anyway, I've been writing this month. Not as much as I'd like, but there's still time. Book II isn't going to go anywhere. I started another screenplay. I started and finished a short yesterday afternoon before work. Maybe as the year progresses, I'll get more and more down on paper/on the screen/in the hard drive/whatever I should call it these days. It's the pattern I seem to follow right now; bugger all until June, and then thousands on thousands of words, some of them usable, until the end of the year.

I got a tonne to get done before December, then.

Satisfaction

Sitting in my boat, listening to the rain come down, with the lights I rewired working and the holes I patched not leaking. One of the sails is my pillow. Outside, I know the world is continuing. People are living and dying, eating, sleeping, shagging. Acts of evil and acts of kindness are being committed. And I lie here, not off round the world yet as I intend, but that's okay, because there's time.

And when I decide to make a move, leave my boat behind and head back to my car and the drive home and civilization, it'll be closer. Not here, but closer.

Until then I'm content to lie here, the sail under my head, and listen to the world happening around me. Just so you know.

The Past

Is a foreign country that you can go back and visit, but you wouldn't want to live there again. Or maybe you would. Some people loved High School. Some people would do anything to live in the dorms again. But some people hated the food, got the shits from the local water, and don't even want to look at the pictures.

Spent the weekend at my ten-year University Reunion. And I'm not sure in which of the above categories I fall. Do I think about it? Yeah. Do I want to go back to it? Well, there's a couple things I would have done differently, but not really. It was part of how I got to where I am, and for that I'm eternally grateful. But I'm also grateful for not having to work full time AND go to class full time. I'm glad I don't have to share a bathroom, or worry about intervisitation and sneaking out of girls rooms after a certain hour. I'm grateful that I can now live on something other than Tuna Helper and ramen. Although I still have a weakness for ramen.

Going to a Reunion is a bit like taking drugs. You probably shouldn't do it, but your friends convince you it's a good idea. It gives you a bit of a buzz, fucks with your head, and you're affected differently than you thought you would, but it's not necessarily a bad trip. And it's a little bit addicting-- you kinda want to do it all again, once you recover. Recovery range being anywhere from a year to the hardcore user addicts, and ten years for the more recreational user.

I don't think I'll be back for another reunion for ten years. There was something strange seeing how young the most recent grads look, and how old some of the other classes look. It made me very aware of my oft-forgotten youth, and my own mortality at the same time. I've got some grey hair, but it's not receding. I've put on weight, but I can still see my own dick. I've gotten more responsible, but I can still choose to do stupid things.

At the same time, it's not just about the reunion. I caught up with almost as many friends from High School as I did with College friends. I'm a hundred percent unbiased in my catching up with whomever over lunch/dinner/drinks/hike up a mountain, as long as I have time. Whichever region of the foreign-country past you're from, let's catch up. Reunions are a good excuse, but honestly, do we need an excuse?

Last Time

My cousin, Gareth, is getting married sometime next year. He lives in Melbourne, Australia, and assuming I'm invited to the wedding I'm really looking forward to going over there again. I spent three weeks there five years ago, catching up with old friends, making new ones, and getting chased down a Queensland beach by a cassowary. My parents are looking forward to it too, and it seems the older I get the more often I see my parents away from their or my house. Germany four years ago, Lorna's wedding three years ago, England earlier this year. And Australia next year?

I digress. Unusual for me, I know, but that's not what I was getting at. The point is, when my folks go over there they're planning on visiting New Zealand as well. That's somewhere I've always wanted to go, but right now with the short sale etc., I can't really afford to go over to Oz, let alone take the time for NZ as well. So it means at some point in the future, I'll possibly fly across the Pacific on my third trip. That's a lot of miles.

If and when I make that third trip (the one next year being my second), I won't be meeting up with my parents. They've already said that the reason they're doing the two places is because they won't be making the trip again. And that's depressing. I don't think of either of them as old, but obviously they're starting to become aware of their own mortality. Dad's got six years until he's the same age that his father died, so that's probably in the back of his mind when he acknowledges this will be his last trip to Australia and New Zealand.

But at what age do people generally start thinking about 'this is my last time doing...'? Not that any of us can plan how much longer we've got to live-- some people die tragically young, and some people die tragically old, and people pop it everywhere in between-- but is it something that happens once you reach a certain age? I'll admit, it's in the back of my mind sometimes. Travelling around Europe and on cruise ships, I met a lot of people from a lot of different places. And while I try to keep in touch through Facebook and email, it's probable that I'll never actually see some of them again. Our lives will get in the way, take us down different paths, and one day it'll be too late for a final catch-up.

I hate thinking about this shit at 31. I do my damnedest to not think about it, so as far as I'm concerned I've got several more trips to Australia in me, and several more Oktoberfests, and more than one shark dive, and at least a happy hour with you guys. But eventually I, we'll, all run out of time, so here's to the last time of everything, whenever and however it happens. Fucking enjoy it, okay?

Spring Cleaning

Is May too late to do a little spring cleaning? I just deleted the nine drafts that have been languishing in the shadowy, not-really-real world that is online. The seconds and minutes I spent on them, the thoughts and care and soul I put into them, is all gone. But was I ever going to finish and publish them? No, so they're gone.

I've been going through that quite a bit recently. I finally got my mediation notice through for my house, so moving out at some point in the near future is all of a sudden real, and I've got too much crap to take to a one-bedroom apartment. Sure, I could get a bigger place, but I don't really need it. I'm not married, don't have any pets, and want to discourage anyone who visits from actually staying with me. So at some point I'm downsizing, and not everything can go with me, so it needs to go. Too many clothes, books, kitchen stuff- although I'm not getting rid of the kitchen stuff until I absolutely have to. Paperwork in my office is being shredded, CD's are being ripped to my hard drive and gotten rid of.

Even things that take up no space. The aforementioned draft blogs. Email. But email's an ongoing problem, and the root of that problem is I need to stop subscribing to things, or signing petitions complaining about campaign financing and fox hunting. I want to still do these things, but every time there's a cause you believe in, you end up on another couple of email lists and begged time and again to put your name out there, help out etc. I'd do it more if I didn't have to give out my email address every time.

Physically, getting rid of my appendix last month was a good move. Didn't need the bloody thing, so out it went.

And then, to get absolutely metaphysical on you, getting rid of the baggage in my head. Sorry, I know it's been a while since my last blog, and to just dump that on you all of a sudden is a little bastardish, but that's proof there's things in my head I could do with losing.

So please sit back during this period of adjustment. My office will be slightly messier than usual (two tornadoes on a scale of messiness, where one tornado is my natural level of messy). I may not have full use of my bed every night, as things are removed from the closet and contemplated. My head might be doing some internal filing and take slightly longer for a snarky comment. And Itunes is going to be horrible to find anything for a while.

Don't worry, I'll soon not be back to my old self. Not that you'll probably be able to tell.

A Plan.

I have a new plan to get myself out of debt. It's a great plan. It's a plan that's being tried by the country right now, and with so many important people in public positions trying it, who am I to try any less. First, I'm going to stop paying for my electricity. Summer's coming, and being in Vegas with the a/c running all the time, I'm just not going to be able to afford it if I want to get out of debt. Maybe I'll stop running the a/c a little, but then the candles on the mantelpiece will start melting, and the puppy probably won't like it. I won't sleep well, because trying to sleep in a hundred and ten degrees (about forty three celsius) just doesn't work. If I'm rationing the a/c, I should probably ration other appliances that use electricity, like the fridge and freezer. Eating and drinking food out of the defrosted appliances might make me sick, but at least then if I have to stay overnight in hospital I'll be able to get a decent night's sleep, as there will be air conditioning.

If I'm getting sick from food that's gone off, I definitely shouldn't waste my time cooking it, so that'll save on the gas bill too.

Driving. Driving to work takes a lot of gas, but you know what I've noticed? If I get stopped by fewer traffic lights, I don't have to accelerate as often, and that's what burns most of the gas. So I'm going to ignore traffic signals, which should enable me to stretch a tank of gas for at least another half a week.

I do feel the need, however, to buy a home security system. Sure, I have locks, the same way my neighbours do, and walls, but I think an infra-red intruder alert system, with sensors on all the doors and windows, is very necessary. Maybe some razor wire for the eaves, spikes hidden in the bushes. But that's the only thing worth spending money on.

And this is the piece de resistance. This is what will enable my plan to work.

I'm going to ask for a pay cut.

That's right. My theory is (closely modeled on what's going on with the US right now) if I have less income, then I'm able to get out of financial problems sooner. Apparently the way to get rid of debt is to being less money in. That's why tax cuts were extended, right? If you can't leave within your means, then you should, I'm learning from the government, have less means.

Correct me if I'm wrong here. . .

Insecurities

They pop up at the most unexpected times, don't they? But then, if it happened at any other time, we'd be better able to deal with them. On Monday, I signed paperwork that takes me out of the world of hourly employee, and firmly into the world of salaried, lower-level management. It's a place that is both strange and comfortable to find myself. Comfortable, because I've been doing the job off and on for a year now, what with the bloke who had the position before being out for surgery, and then family emergencies. Strange, because I've always had something of an anti-authoritarian streak.

That last part isn't entirely true. I haven't always had it. I used to be a right little kiss-arse, but I got to about the age of thirteen, and decided I didn't like being like that. I wouldn't say I changed overnight, but I definitely started pushing boundaries with everyone except my parents. I'd already pushed those boundaries starting around four.

'Come on Richard, you should read this book.' 'Not gonna.'

'Richard, it's been two months since your last haircut. Don't you want to have it nice and short for the summer?' 'No.'

'Richard, you're here to play golf, not help those damned bugs hatch.' 'Don't like golf. They need my help.'

'Richard, you don't want to always do theatre, do you?' 'Yes.'

And so on. The ironic thing is, I now read avidly and intend to be a published author one day, I'm getting my head shaved on Saturday (but it's for a good cause), and the idea of golf appeals to me (as long as I can drink a six pack whilst playing). The theatre thing is the one bit I stuck by, and apparently that's working out too with this promotion.

But I'm not supposed to be talking about my rebellious streak. That's a story for another, possibly drunken, blog. I'm talking about the insecurities I felt today on my first 'proper' day on the job. See, while I was covering for Tenn, it was easy. I could always blame it on the other guy, or use the excuse that I'm just filling in. There was a safety net of sorts. Now, I have to make the call, and at present there's no one else running the department. Ten guys, eight of whom are older than me, all expecting me to make the right call, and make sure things get done, and that's a little intimidating. I'm having to make calls now that, two weeks ago, wouldn't have fazed me. Should I have done it that way? Did I say the right thing to that person? Could I have done that differently? I can't back out of it now, I can't give back the mantle to someone else, cos with a blasé 'Eh, fuck it, why not?' I signed that piece of paper and became what I've always mocked and pushed back against. . .management. So while it's comfortable, I'm still going to spend the next couple of months secretly doubting the decisions I make, being all insecure while putting on a brave face and acting confident.

Don't tell the guys that gave me the job.

Hair...not the short story

I'm proud of my hair. I'm 31, and have a full head of the stuff. There may be a couple grey strands here or there, but who's looking? Me, actually, every week or so. They first appeared. . .at an earlier date, but once thirty hit I felt I could admit to them. And now thirty-one is here, well, fair enough, I have some grey hairs. At least I have hair, unlike some of my contemporaries. My hairline hasn't changed in about six years, so I'm pretty sure it's staying where it is. My father and grandfather both have a full head of hair, so I'm good.

My one concern is when I shave it all off in March, it'll come back greyer. I'm not ready to look distinguished. Give me another couple of years before that, please?

Oh yeah, I'm shaving my head in March. Been talking about it for a while now, and it's for a good cause. It's to raise money for the St. Baldricks foundation, which raises money to fund cancer research, specifically to help kids. The last couple of years I've been to the event, in McMullans pub,but this year I'm taking the plunge, joining the Cirque Du SoBald team, and shaving it off. Never had a completely shaved head before. Dad used to make us get buzz cuts when we were younger, but right now my ears have disappeared under the three musketeers look I've got going right now.

Anyway. Shaving head. What is it with this year, me being all impulsive and taking the plunge over and over? Well, whatever, at least this one's for a good cause. Here's the link to my page, click on it and donate money to help kids with cancer!

http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/participantid/421456