I'm discovering that work, while an obvious necessity, has the potential to be a huge pain-in-the-ass at the most inconvenient of times. Haley and Owen are on Long Island, but back at home, 2 hungry cats and a hungry dog are waiting for me. And I'm stuck here at work for God knows how long, waiting for 2 jobs that don't appear to be any closer to my desk than they were 3 hours ago.
I've had to stay late a few days this week because our night editor, an ordinarily reliable fellow, has gone MIA. Well, not exactly MIA, but he's been absent for the last 3 weeks with self-diagnosed insomnia. Each time he's called out—which has been almost every day this week—he informs my boss that he has a "call-in with my doctor," which is antithetical to common sense and completely ignores modern medical conveniences such as hospitals and walk-in clinics. This man is not stupid, but maybe he thinks we are.
Wonky work schedule aside, I'm really happy with how things are going. Owen is just the most amazing baby. Every day he shows us a new side of his personality. Whether it's a laugh, a smile, or a facial reaction to gas, he's just providing Haley and me with so much joy and happiness. I also can't forget that as hard as it is to work late at my job, Haley is always fully engaged in her job as the best mommy in the world. I'm grateful to her for all she does.
Right now, I'm going to check out the Rutgers course catalog and see if there are any nondegree classes I can take in preparation for applying to their MA-English program.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
Eyes and ears (but mostly ears)
I'm of the school of thought that being a good talker requires one to be a good listener; I'm pretty confident I've always been both, but perception is a very subjective thing.
When my parents convinced me to forego the glory of Ivy League academics--in all fairness, my grades played a part, too--I was left with a single option: City University of New York.
I'd achieved the minimum SAT score to gain entrance to the CUNY school of my choice, a feat unbelieved by the college counselor who told me I'd "be better off aiming for the realistic options offered by trade schools like Chubb Institute and Devry." Not many bigger buzz kills than being told you're only fit to enter the highly intellectual world of the free toolbox mafia.
I settled on Brooklyn College because I was resigned to living at home with my parents until an undetermined date. On the day of my orientation, the incoming freshman were feted by the department chairs, who were all decked out in absurd Hogwartian robes, sashes, and, most ridiculous of all, an organ player fumbling his way through Pomp & Circumstance to an auditorium full of denim-clad post-high schoolers.
Later, we made our way out to the quad to sample the club offerings of BC. Almost without any hesitation, I gravitated to the table for WBCR, the college radio station. A club spokesperson mentioned the need for new blood, so I signed up right away.
The station became my home for the next 3.5 years. I met my first real girlfriend there. I learned how to not be afraid to talk. More importantly, I learned how to listen.
Flash forward to 2004, when I was heartbeat away from homelessness, crashing on the bedbug-infested couch of my former boss, a gay opera singer named Jonathan. One night, during one of many nights of wanton disregard for common decency brought on by consumption of illicit substances, Jonathan said, "You used to be a good listener, but now you're as good as deaf." I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but he was absolutely correct. One of my more prized attributes had been jettisoned from my body, a heavy price for placing faith in Alexei vodka and generic Robitussin.
I think I've changed quite a bit since then. In the course of regaining my sense of self, I realized that I could finally be a good listener again. Stupid, I know. But what some people have to say to me--the good, bad, and ugly--means everything to me. I don't always have the answers, but I always have a pair of ears and an open heart for anyone needing to unburden themselves.
When my parents convinced me to forego the glory of Ivy League academics--in all fairness, my grades played a part, too--I was left with a single option: City University of New York.
I'd achieved the minimum SAT score to gain entrance to the CUNY school of my choice, a feat unbelieved by the college counselor who told me I'd "be better off aiming for the realistic options offered by trade schools like Chubb Institute and Devry." Not many bigger buzz kills than being told you're only fit to enter the highly intellectual world of the free toolbox mafia.
I settled on Brooklyn College because I was resigned to living at home with my parents until an undetermined date. On the day of my orientation, the incoming freshman were feted by the department chairs, who were all decked out in absurd Hogwartian robes, sashes, and, most ridiculous of all, an organ player fumbling his way through Pomp & Circumstance to an auditorium full of denim-clad post-high schoolers.
Later, we made our way out to the quad to sample the club offerings of BC. Almost without any hesitation, I gravitated to the table for WBCR, the college radio station. A club spokesperson mentioned the need for new blood, so I signed up right away.
The station became my home for the next 3.5 years. I met my first real girlfriend there. I learned how to not be afraid to talk. More importantly, I learned how to listen.
Flash forward to 2004, when I was heartbeat away from homelessness, crashing on the bedbug-infested couch of my former boss, a gay opera singer named Jonathan. One night, during one of many nights of wanton disregard for common decency brought on by consumption of illicit substances, Jonathan said, "You used to be a good listener, but now you're as good as deaf." I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but he was absolutely correct. One of my more prized attributes had been jettisoned from my body, a heavy price for placing faith in Alexei vodka and generic Robitussin.
I think I've changed quite a bit since then. In the course of regaining my sense of self, I realized that I could finally be a good listener again. Stupid, I know. But what some people have to say to me--the good, bad, and ugly--means everything to me. I don't always have the answers, but I always have a pair of ears and an open heart for anyone needing to unburden themselves.
Monday, June 27, 2011
This morning, I saw a TV ad for the diabetes drug my company creates advertisements for. It didn't really hit me at first, but I later realized that I edited the copy for that ad. In my 10+ year work history, I had so little to be proud of, so little to show for my hard work. Well, sometimes I didn't work very hard at all, which is probably why those jobs fall under the category of "former employment." Maybe it's time I did a series of blogs about my past jobs. Hmmm.
Went to the park in Brooklyn yesterday with wife, baby, sister, and niece. Other niece did not show up, opting instead to flake at the last minute. I love my niece and I try to be patient with her, but she's very prone to throwing a wrench into everyone's plans by foregoing her social obligations, with nary a phone call or email to give a heads-up. Love her to death, but she drives me fucking insane.
In other news, WE HAVE BED BUGS. Oh no!!!! Actually, it turns out that bed bugs aren't quite the skin-piercing, blood sucking scourge the media make them out to be. They're also not impossible to kill. If you have or suspect you have bed bugs, you need to hire a good exterminator who deals with bed bugs, not just roaches and other lovelies. Peace of mind comes at a cost, but it's well worth it. Pursuant to the exterminator's directives, we're currently living out of giant zip lock bags, a direct consequence of our "issue." We look a bit like hoarders, but well-organized hoarders at that!
Went to the park in Brooklyn yesterday with wife, baby, sister, and niece. Other niece did not show up, opting instead to flake at the last minute. I love my niece and I try to be patient with her, but she's very prone to throwing a wrench into everyone's plans by foregoing her social obligations, with nary a phone call or email to give a heads-up. Love her to death, but she drives me fucking insane.
In other news, WE HAVE BED BUGS. Oh no!!!! Actually, it turns out that bed bugs aren't quite the skin-piercing, blood sucking scourge the media make them out to be. They're also not impossible to kill. If you have or suspect you have bed bugs, you need to hire a good exterminator who deals with bed bugs, not just roaches and other lovelies. Peace of mind comes at a cost, but it's well worth it. Pursuant to the exterminator's directives, we're currently living out of giant zip lock bags, a direct consequence of our "issue." We look a bit like hoarders, but well-organized hoarders at that!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Money for nothing
Speaking with the best friend on the phone last night, I lamented that while unemployment liberates one from the ball and chain of corporate tyranny, it ain't all it's cracked up to be. My friend is currently living in Colombia with his wife, trying hard to get his import/export business up and running. All kinds of obstacles such as free trade agreements, hostile locals, and lack of capital are conspiring to prevent this venture from seeing the light of day. Having suffered through many subpar jobs in my lifetime, I can honestly say that I'm grateful to have the job I have today. Still, I get a little green with envy when I encounter people who are unemployed and NOT dead broke. A little sound financial planning allows for such an arrangement. Sadly, I suck at financial planning.
On the subject of work, my annual review is coming up very soon. I haven't had an actual review in almost 2 years because my last boss (HR job) booked it for Texas right before I was to begin the review process. If I learned one thing in HR it's that recognition is paramount to nurturing and retaining good employees. Here's to hoping that I can continue down the path toward becoming a better editor—and a well-compensated one at that!
On the subject of work, my annual review is coming up very soon. I haven't had an actual review in almost 2 years because my last boss (HR job) booked it for Texas right before I was to begin the review process. If I learned one thing in HR it's that recognition is paramount to nurturing and retaining good employees. Here's to hoping that I can continue down the path toward becoming a better editor—and a well-compensated one at that!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Out to lunch
I spent nearly 4 hours at work yesterday revising a copywriter's botched reference citations. I'd be less bothered by it if the copywriter in question wasn't a bitch to me on a few different occasions. She definitely outdid herself last week when she showed up at my desk looking for me. I was seated a few cubicles away, doing a spellcheck. I overheard her ask my colleague if she knew where I was. My colleague told her that I was around, just not at my desk. Then, the copywriter said to no one in particular, "He's the only editor I know who's never at his desk."
Really?
I mean, exactly how many times has she visited my desk to draw such a conclusion? Anyway, you gotta love people who deflect their own personal frustrations and try and turn shit around on you. The way I see it, if you're going to lie, at least try and be somewhat believable and fib within reason. Even if I was never at my desk EVERY TIME she walked by, it's foolish fer her to assume that I'm "never" there. You know when I was at my desk, though? The 4 hours I spent yesterday fixing up her mess.
Really?
I mean, exactly how many times has she visited my desk to draw such a conclusion? Anyway, you gotta love people who deflect their own personal frustrations and try and turn shit around on you. The way I see it, if you're going to lie, at least try and be somewhat believable and fib within reason. Even if I was never at my desk EVERY TIME she walked by, it's foolish fer her to assume that I'm "never" there. You know when I was at my desk, though? The 4 hours I spent yesterday fixing up her mess.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Where my bloggers at?
Back when DiaryLand ruled the blogging landscape—I doubt if the word "blog" had been popularized as of yet—it wasn't uncommon to receive random plaudits from complete strangers who just happened to stumble upon your diary. The praise was usually short and sweet, but it reaffirmed my belief that blogs could cast a wide a net and capture an audience previously limited to those with published works in book and journals. There was even a diary-rating website that accepted submissions, reviewed blog samples and provided critical feedback. Today, I can't imagine anyone having the time to undertake such a project.
These days, most people are far too self-involved to read words written by someone else. If you charted the trajectory of blogging popularity, you'd probably see a peak in 2003, right before Myspace got REALLY popular. Pre-Myspace, blogs were the primary avenue for peers, friends, and strangers to exchange creative ideas and daily musings. Shit always gets messy when money is involved, and so I felt that blogging took a turn for the worst when it crossed the threshold from recreational activity to profession. Blogs lost their charm and became judged by not their critical and creative contribution but their ability to turn a profit. My wife, a recent mother, is an avid reader of Dooce.com, a blog written by a regular gal cum professional blogger. Dooce writes mostly about her daily trials and tribulations as a mother—and she makes a pretty penny doing so. Everyone needs a hustle, so I can't fault Dooce for taking advantage of an opportunity that allows her to be a stay-at-home mom and get paid to write. Maybe I'm just bitter because it isn't me getting paid to do what I love.
Nowadays, it's exceedingly difficult to get paid for blogging. The all of cyberspace is saturated with blogs, blogs, and more blogs. Blogging celebrities, like Dooce, have convinced everyone that they have what it takes to be a paid, professional writer. Huffington Post, Jezebel and scores of other websites offer free blogging on their sites; very few, if any, actually pay their blog contributors. The sites themselves stand to profit because they can increase their traffic and ad revenue without paying a dime for content. Sweet deal.
Who knows? Maybe blogging will experience a revival in the next few years. I'll be able to look back on this entry, laugh, and chalk it up to a moment of post-30 panic. I doubt that will happen. Sometimes, I pine for what was because I've romanticized the versions of events that exist in my memory. There's no guarantee that what was once new, fresh and exciting will feel the same way long after the novelty has worn off. For now, there's much to be content with in my present: wife, baby, and job—and they don't need a stat counter to measure their worth!
These days, most people are far too self-involved to read words written by someone else. If you charted the trajectory of blogging popularity, you'd probably see a peak in 2003, right before Myspace got REALLY popular. Pre-Myspace, blogs were the primary avenue for peers, friends, and strangers to exchange creative ideas and daily musings. Shit always gets messy when money is involved, and so I felt that blogging took a turn for the worst when it crossed the threshold from recreational activity to profession. Blogs lost their charm and became judged by not their critical and creative contribution but their ability to turn a profit. My wife, a recent mother, is an avid reader of Dooce.com, a blog written by a regular gal cum professional blogger. Dooce writes mostly about her daily trials and tribulations as a mother—and she makes a pretty penny doing so. Everyone needs a hustle, so I can't fault Dooce for taking advantage of an opportunity that allows her to be a stay-at-home mom and get paid to write. Maybe I'm just bitter because it isn't me getting paid to do what I love.
Nowadays, it's exceedingly difficult to get paid for blogging. The all of cyberspace is saturated with blogs, blogs, and more blogs. Blogging celebrities, like Dooce, have convinced everyone that they have what it takes to be a paid, professional writer. Huffington Post, Jezebel and scores of other websites offer free blogging on their sites; very few, if any, actually pay their blog contributors. The sites themselves stand to profit because they can increase their traffic and ad revenue without paying a dime for content. Sweet deal.
Who knows? Maybe blogging will experience a revival in the next few years. I'll be able to look back on this entry, laugh, and chalk it up to a moment of post-30 panic. I doubt that will happen. Sometimes, I pine for what was because I've romanticized the versions of events that exist in my memory. There's no guarantee that what was once new, fresh and exciting will feel the same way long after the novelty has worn off. For now, there's much to be content with in my present: wife, baby, and job—and they don't need a stat counter to measure their worth!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Credit
Yesterday, CapitalOne saw it fit to bestow upon me a credit card, my first in nearly 7 years. Previous to yesterday, I applied for a number of cards online over the course of nearly a decade with little more to show for my efforts than a slew of rejection emails. I truly deserved my debt since I spent recklessly with no intention of repaying my plastic advance. Actually, I knew I'd one day repay my debt. What I could not foresee was the never-ending letters from collections and lawyers threatening legal action for nonpayment. That a credit company, after all that, didn't take a chance on me is no great mystery.
When you gain some stability in life, financial or otherwise, you start to reassess your goals because they're no longer just a pipe dream. Today, I can actually entertain the thought of going back to school without becoming interminably depressed. Haley may go back to school, too, and she truly deserves that opportunity. Her initial attempts at higher education were derailed by an overbearing parent who caused school to be become for her an anxiety-laden endeavor. Now, we've begun to forge our own path and are in a better place to start doing things on our own terms.
Of course, Baby Owen complicates any ambitions to pursue academic opportunities, but not in a bad way. He's our pride and joy, and we put him before anyone and anything else. It's just nice to know that whatever we do to better ourselves (college, new job, etc.), we'll be giving Owen a better life in return.
It's nice to feel a sense of independence again.
When you gain some stability in life, financial or otherwise, you start to reassess your goals because they're no longer just a pipe dream. Today, I can actually entertain the thought of going back to school without becoming interminably depressed. Haley may go back to school, too, and she truly deserves that opportunity. Her initial attempts at higher education were derailed by an overbearing parent who caused school to be become for her an anxiety-laden endeavor. Now, we've begun to forge our own path and are in a better place to start doing things on our own terms.
Of course, Baby Owen complicates any ambitions to pursue academic opportunities, but not in a bad way. He's our pride and joy, and we put him before anyone and anything else. It's just nice to know that whatever we do to better ourselves (college, new job, etc.), we'll be giving Owen a better life in return.
It's nice to feel a sense of independence again.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Lies
Have you ever been an accessory to a lie? In my case, the lies have been many and the friend telling them is out of control—with no foreseeable end to the tragic cycle.
We'll call this friend "Bob," since that moniker is pretty far off from his actual name. I met Bob in 2003 when I was living with my sister in Brooklyn. We became quick friends and he regaled me with stories of his life as a musician signed to a major label, a "fact" that would become important when I later began dissecting his lies. I immediately noticed that underneath his cocksureness was a desperate person with self esteem so depleted it could not fill a Dixie cup. Boasting is one thing, but outright lies (“I wrote some of the songs your favorite artists have performed.”) are difficult to overlook because they are blatantly unbelievable. I felt embarrassed for him because he was completely unaware of the absurdity of his claims. I think he had been brainwashed by his own bullshit.
So, successful musician/transplant from tony Scottsdale, Arizona finds himself in a quandary: What happens when people find out that his existence is a web of deceit woven by a man with gutter-level self esteem? I got my answer when Bob instant messaged me one night in 2004. He claimed he was suicidal and only moments away from ending it all. I guess you could say I was a little skeptical. After all, who really instant messages a threat to end their life? Still, I’ve always been behind the curve when it comes to social media, so I pressed a bit:
Me: Don’t do anything you’ll regret
Bob: I’ve already laid the knives out on the floor
When I read this exchange back to my roommate, he doubted the veracity of Bob’s promise to commit seppuku on a cold winter night.
“Who lays out multiple knives for such an occasion,” he queried. “Just be careful.”
Boy was I careful. I trekked out to a part of Brooklyn I hadn’t been to in almost 8 months. I arrived at Bob’s apartment and was truly shocked by what I found: it was hardly the bachelor pad belonging to an undercover songster I’d envisioned; in reality, it was a total fucking dump. By all accounts, this was a rundown shithole inhabited by a very obese, older man and his significantly younger roommate. Weird.
When I entered Bob’s room, I found no knives, no obvious signs of an impending suicide. Just a lonely guy who’d gotten so caught up in his shit that he could no longer cope with any of it. If Bob was unprepared for reality, his friends were equally caught off guard. As it turns out, Bob’s suicide attempt stemmed from a de facto intervention by a group of “friends” who’d put together the pieces and realized that the man who writes the songs you sing in the shower was a fraud. Of course, Bob never admitted any of this to me. He actually kept up the lie and told me that he couldn’t understand why his friends would cast him out. I was in no place to judge. I did what I used to best—I listened.
I suspect that Bob realized he showed me too much of his hand because after that night, we pretty much stopped speaking to one another. Occasionally, I’d see him pop up on a hip hop message board, always eager to play the antagonist and get under people’s skin. It’s so easy to be what you aren’t when it comes to the internet. Bob knew this, took full advantage, and unleashed online salvos with ghetto bravado that would lead you to believe he was from the Compton, not the mean streets of Scottsdale. People on that message board suspected something was up, just like the friends who brought Bob to the brink of ending it all…kind of. On the message board, everything from Bob’s street credibility to his alleged industry contacts was called into question. Pressed for answers, Bob promptly deleted himself from the website, a move that probably answers a lot of questions for his detractors. Full. Of. Shit.
Last year, I found out that Bob had married and had a child. I was happy for him. Did I mention that he once tried using a picture to pass of his baby cousin as his own to thwart rumors on the hip hop site that he was gay? Yeah. That really happened. I spoke to Bob a few times, online, and he sounded really happy. Unfortunately, I don’t think people like Bob handle actual success well, and he was quickly drawn back to the hip hop site with an arsenal of crap to pass off as genuine achievements. Silently, I wished him well and put him out of my mind.
About a week ago, I heard from Bob. I think the crazy never real go away. They just lurk in the shadows and spring from behind the tree of opportunity at the precise moment when YOU don’t need crazy in your life. Haley and I are about to have a baby, so it’s fitting that Bob would come knocking. According to Bob, his wife accused him of hitting her (he said he “fell into” her), an accusation that led to his incarceration in a U.K. prison reserved for violent felons. Upon release from jail, he was promptly deported and arrived in New York last week—a broken man with no wife or son. I asked him where he was living and he told me back in his old apartment in Brooklyn, the same place where he’d resided with the obese man. Strange. Did his former roommate just happen to have an opening? With Bob, it was always something and this time was no different.
Yesterday, I logged into Facebook and saw the following message posted by Bob:
“Hi friends of Bob. This is Bob’s friend Jake. Bob died today. Please keep him in your prayers and thoughts so that his spirit may live on.”
Initially, I was shocked. My gut was pierced by a sensation usually reserved for bad news about a loved one. While Bob was far from loved by me, I couldn’t help but to feel as if our paths had crossed enough times to make his death a relevant—and shocking—event. God bless the skeptic that lives in my heart, because I picked up the phone and texted Bob. Imagine my shock when a dead man answered me back.
“She filed for divorce”
This was followed by suicide threats, and I realized that I was firmly entrenched Bob’s cycle of bullshit. Who was this wonderful friend, Jake, who so selflessly agreed to log into Bob’s account and post an obituary for all to see? Wouldn’t a real friend call the cops instead of aiding and abetting a suicide? Of course, there probably is no Jake. Just another character in Bob’s cast of delusions.
This time, I didn’t take the bait. After he stated that he was in Long Island and “about to go in,” I called 911 and reported the suicide threat. 911 could do nothing about it without a solid lead as to his exact whereabouts, but I felt I did what I needed to do. One day, Bob will run out of options and, sadly, suicide may become a viable option to end the misery of a life lived as a total lie. I’m glad that I choose not to hide in the shadows of deceptions because the light of truth favors my skin! Bob will turn 40 years old next year, an awfully old age to be playing the lying game. In my experience, people like Bob end up dead or in jail. It’s a sad fact. I do, however, pledge to remove myself from Bob’s cycle of bullshit. It serves neither me nor my wife well to associate with someone like Bob. That’s the truth.
“To be persuasive we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; credible we must be truthful.”—Edward R. Murrow
We'll call this friend "Bob," since that moniker is pretty far off from his actual name. I met Bob in 2003 when I was living with my sister in Brooklyn. We became quick friends and he regaled me with stories of his life as a musician signed to a major label, a "fact" that would become important when I later began dissecting his lies. I immediately noticed that underneath his cocksureness was a desperate person with self esteem so depleted it could not fill a Dixie cup. Boasting is one thing, but outright lies (“I wrote some of the songs your favorite artists have performed.”) are difficult to overlook because they are blatantly unbelievable. I felt embarrassed for him because he was completely unaware of the absurdity of his claims. I think he had been brainwashed by his own bullshit.
So, successful musician/transplant from tony Scottsdale, Arizona finds himself in a quandary: What happens when people find out that his existence is a web of deceit woven by a man with gutter-level self esteem? I got my answer when Bob instant messaged me one night in 2004. He claimed he was suicidal and only moments away from ending it all. I guess you could say I was a little skeptical. After all, who really instant messages a threat to end their life? Still, I’ve always been behind the curve when it comes to social media, so I pressed a bit:
Me: Don’t do anything you’ll regret
Bob: I’ve already laid the knives out on the floor
When I read this exchange back to my roommate, he doubted the veracity of Bob’s promise to commit seppuku on a cold winter night.
“Who lays out multiple knives for such an occasion,” he queried. “Just be careful.”
Boy was I careful. I trekked out to a part of Brooklyn I hadn’t been to in almost 8 months. I arrived at Bob’s apartment and was truly shocked by what I found: it was hardly the bachelor pad belonging to an undercover songster I’d envisioned; in reality, it was a total fucking dump. By all accounts, this was a rundown shithole inhabited by a very obese, older man and his significantly younger roommate. Weird.
When I entered Bob’s room, I found no knives, no obvious signs of an impending suicide. Just a lonely guy who’d gotten so caught up in his shit that he could no longer cope with any of it. If Bob was unprepared for reality, his friends were equally caught off guard. As it turns out, Bob’s suicide attempt stemmed from a de facto intervention by a group of “friends” who’d put together the pieces and realized that the man who writes the songs you sing in the shower was a fraud. Of course, Bob never admitted any of this to me. He actually kept up the lie and told me that he couldn’t understand why his friends would cast him out. I was in no place to judge. I did what I used to best—I listened.
I suspect that Bob realized he showed me too much of his hand because after that night, we pretty much stopped speaking to one another. Occasionally, I’d see him pop up on a hip hop message board, always eager to play the antagonist and get under people’s skin. It’s so easy to be what you aren’t when it comes to the internet. Bob knew this, took full advantage, and unleashed online salvos with ghetto bravado that would lead you to believe he was from the Compton, not the mean streets of Scottsdale. People on that message board suspected something was up, just like the friends who brought Bob to the brink of ending it all…kind of. On the message board, everything from Bob’s street credibility to his alleged industry contacts was called into question. Pressed for answers, Bob promptly deleted himself from the website, a move that probably answers a lot of questions for his detractors. Full. Of. Shit.
Last year, I found out that Bob had married and had a child. I was happy for him. Did I mention that he once tried using a picture to pass of his baby cousin as his own to thwart rumors on the hip hop site that he was gay? Yeah. That really happened. I spoke to Bob a few times, online, and he sounded really happy. Unfortunately, I don’t think people like Bob handle actual success well, and he was quickly drawn back to the hip hop site with an arsenal of crap to pass off as genuine achievements. Silently, I wished him well and put him out of my mind.
About a week ago, I heard from Bob. I think the crazy never real go away. They just lurk in the shadows and spring from behind the tree of opportunity at the precise moment when YOU don’t need crazy in your life. Haley and I are about to have a baby, so it’s fitting that Bob would come knocking. According to Bob, his wife accused him of hitting her (he said he “fell into” her), an accusation that led to his incarceration in a U.K. prison reserved for violent felons. Upon release from jail, he was promptly deported and arrived in New York last week—a broken man with no wife or son. I asked him where he was living and he told me back in his old apartment in Brooklyn, the same place where he’d resided with the obese man. Strange. Did his former roommate just happen to have an opening? With Bob, it was always something and this time was no different.
Yesterday, I logged into Facebook and saw the following message posted by Bob:
“Hi friends of Bob. This is Bob’s friend Jake. Bob died today. Please keep him in your prayers and thoughts so that his spirit may live on.”
Initially, I was shocked. My gut was pierced by a sensation usually reserved for bad news about a loved one. While Bob was far from loved by me, I couldn’t help but to feel as if our paths had crossed enough times to make his death a relevant—and shocking—event. God bless the skeptic that lives in my heart, because I picked up the phone and texted Bob. Imagine my shock when a dead man answered me back.
“She filed for divorce”
This was followed by suicide threats, and I realized that I was firmly entrenched Bob’s cycle of bullshit. Who was this wonderful friend, Jake, who so selflessly agreed to log into Bob’s account and post an obituary for all to see? Wouldn’t a real friend call the cops instead of aiding and abetting a suicide? Of course, there probably is no Jake. Just another character in Bob’s cast of delusions.
This time, I didn’t take the bait. After he stated that he was in Long Island and “about to go in,” I called 911 and reported the suicide threat. 911 could do nothing about it without a solid lead as to his exact whereabouts, but I felt I did what I needed to do. One day, Bob will run out of options and, sadly, suicide may become a viable option to end the misery of a life lived as a total lie. I’m glad that I choose not to hide in the shadows of deceptions because the light of truth favors my skin! Bob will turn 40 years old next year, an awfully old age to be playing the lying game. In my experience, people like Bob end up dead or in jail. It’s a sad fact. I do, however, pledge to remove myself from Bob’s cycle of bullshit. It serves neither me nor my wife well to associate with someone like Bob. That’s the truth.
“To be persuasive we must be believable; to be believable we must be credible; credible we must be truthful.”—Edward R. Murrow
Friday, March 11, 2011
Smile!
In both geographic and dental senses, Ireland isn't that far from England. So maligned are the Brits' calcified outgrowths that they've endured well-documented parody in all forms of media. Again, Ireland is a mere stone's throw away from England, so it stands to reason that the pearly whites of the Emerald Isle aren't all that pearly.
While my teeth are neither a buttery hue nor a cluster of jagged bone formations, they have seen their share of wear. What's the damage?
A few weeks ago, I underwent gum surgery. Fun. I received more anesthetic than I ever have in my life. Despite the constant sticking and a completely numb left side, I still felt the waterpik touch a nerve shortly after my gums had been ripped open. The best part is that I get to do the right side of my face in about a week.
With a baby on the way in a little over a month, I can assure you that I am not planning on getting lazy when it comes to my son's dental hygiene. I will dress up as Timmy the fucking Tooth if I have to. Whatever it takes. Because he's my son, and for that reason, the dentist will never be his friend.
While my teeth are neither a buttery hue nor a cluster of jagged bone formations, they have seen their share of wear. What's the damage?
- 12 fillings
- 8 original fillings removed and replaced due to mercury content
- 4 wisdom teeth removed
- 1 root canal
A few weeks ago, I underwent gum surgery. Fun. I received more anesthetic than I ever have in my life. Despite the constant sticking and a completely numb left side, I still felt the waterpik touch a nerve shortly after my gums had been ripped open. The best part is that I get to do the right side of my face in about a week.
With a baby on the way in a little over a month, I can assure you that I am not planning on getting lazy when it comes to my son's dental hygiene. I will dress up as Timmy the fucking Tooth if I have to. Whatever it takes. Because he's my son, and for that reason, the dentist will never be his friend.
Monday, February 7, 2011
A cold one
After reading this story in ESPN, I'm a bit perturbed at what passes as "journalism" these days. Perry was an icon, a behemoth force to be reckoned with in the glory days of a juggernaut Chicago Bears defense. Surely, he is undeserving of the tale of woe presented for public consumption by ESPN.
Addiction is a malady no less deserving of privacy than that which we allot the AIDS or cancer sufferer. The media, unfortunately, believe that Perry, as a public figure, has forfeited certain rights for the fame he experienced in pro-football over 2 decades ago. Of course, let's not lay the blame entirely upon the shoulders of the media. WE are equally complicit in this crime against common decency. Our desire to consume, and to do so without boundaries and respect for privacy, creates an audience for ESPN to peddle gossip. After all, ESPN is merely reacting to our needs, and our needs are often woefully devoid of dignity.
Undoubtedly, supporters of such an article will employ the "if just one life is saved by reading this" defense. Shouldn't permission to disclose personal information that might lead to the saving of a life still lie with the article's subject? This article doesn't read like Perry consented at all. And that's a shame.
Perry's addiction should be addressed. There can be no doubt about that. It should, however, be on his and his family's terms, not for the purpose of satiating our morbid curiosity.
Addiction is a malady no less deserving of privacy than that which we allot the AIDS or cancer sufferer. The media, unfortunately, believe that Perry, as a public figure, has forfeited certain rights for the fame he experienced in pro-football over 2 decades ago. Of course, let's not lay the blame entirely upon the shoulders of the media. WE are equally complicit in this crime against common decency. Our desire to consume, and to do so without boundaries and respect for privacy, creates an audience for ESPN to peddle gossip. After all, ESPN is merely reacting to our needs, and our needs are often woefully devoid of dignity.
Undoubtedly, supporters of such an article will employ the "if just one life is saved by reading this" defense. Shouldn't permission to disclose personal information that might lead to the saving of a life still lie with the article's subject? This article doesn't read like Perry consented at all. And that's a shame.
Perry's addiction should be addressed. There can be no doubt about that. It should, however, be on his and his family's terms, not for the purpose of satiating our morbid curiosity.
Friday, February 4, 2011
$$$=^%$$%##%@%$
I love the stability that comes with having a full-time job. While I've definitely reaped the benefits of unemployment--4 times in 10 years--I'm hardly enamored by the prospect of sitting around and doing absolutely nothing. I heard all kids of stories about unemployment: it was a blessing, vacation, or even a war cry to the dormant, creative self. Whatever it is and means to others, I just don't like it. Keep your $405 a week, New York State.
Having just gotten married, and expecting a child in just a couple of months, money has become this frightening thing I know I can no longer be without. What scares me most is that I, along with Haley, am going to have to unlearn decades of poor spending habits. Much of my "brokeassness" is rooted in a compulsion to eat out all of the time: Who can resist the urge to forego a sweltering session in the kitchen when modestly compensated individuals will do the grunt work for you, all for a nominal fee? And this is why I have no money.
No excuses once the baby comes. Unless we want to invite the wrath of Child Service, we'll not be spending my entire paycheck on wasteful and frivolous things. God, who is writing this blog? Today me should send a memo to 2002 me and get that dude to put away some money.
Speaking of the baby, I find it quite amazing that Gerber Insurance's relentless mail campaign to enroll my child in their fabulous plan might actually come in useful. As a soon-to-be-expecting coworker told me last week, "There's no way that I ever thought at 30 that I would have a child at 40." I've got him beat by about 10 years on that sentiment. I am, however, quickly moving past the "shock and awe" phase of the pregnancy. To dwell any further on what "might have been" if "only I did this" serves to do nothing more than cheapen what has been an incredible journey of growth. I'll take the sleepless nights, dirty diapers, tears, colic, and health insurance with zero reservations.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Me...it's what's for dinner
Ick!Bedbugs are even grosser when they aren't fully engorged with blood. Thank god we do NOT have these suckas. Unfortunately, someone on our block does. I checked out http://www.bedbugregistry.com/ and there's definitely a building down the block that has the much-maligned bloodsuckers. Well, better them than us, I suppose.
Our first bedbug "scare" happened shortly after we moved into our last place. The media were saturating the airwaves and periodicals with a gloom and doom scenario in which bedbugs would eventually multiply at a rate beyond the means of ordinary pest control, depose the President and establish a New World Order of parasitic dominance. Adding to the panic a certain sartorial slaughterhouse of preppy fashion was shamed by a dressing-room infestation of the bed-dwelling parasitic scourges. You could easily call 2010 "The Summer of the Bedbug"
Haley (now-wife, then-girlfriend) was paranoid as fuck. I couldn't blame her. The media were in full swing, digesting nightly horror stories of homes overrun by bedbugs. Then posh hotels. By the time the critters reached a movie house on 42nd st, she was thoroughly convinced that we had them. Haley embarked on a quest to free us from the plague upon our house. I'll never forget the day I came home and every hole along the molding was covered with clear packing tape. Our bed! Oh, our dear bed. All 4 of its legs were submerged in small cups of some liquid. I can't quite remember. The theory was that if the bedbugs were to use the legs of the bed as a path to their host(s), they would instead find themselves drowning in a cup of...something.
Pre-dawn bedbug raids were the worst. Before first sunlight even had a chance to peek out from behind the black night, Haley was out of bed, shining a flashlight on the covers, frantically directing the beam from corner to corner of the mattress. There was no warning the first time this happened and I woke up in abject fear, certain that a criminal past of some kind had caught up with me. Nope. Just bedbugs.
The bedbugs took over and you know what the funny thing was? They never once bit us. They never appeared from beneath the mattress in the wee hours of the morning, like some marching brigade of bloodthirsty philistines of the insect world. They never existed. At least not in our apartment they didn't.
It took Haley months to recover from the psychological trauma of the invisible bedbugs. Poor girl. What's not there can do as much a number on you as what is there. Thanks to www.bedbugregistry.com, we now know that an apartment building about 100 yards away is occupied by the most unwanted of guests. We're better prepared and less anxious now that we know the little fuckers will have to make a certain-death march, across the street and in freezing temperatures, to feast on our juicy flesh. It's unlikely that they would survive such a journey, but Haley keeps the flashlight close by. You never know.
Monday, January 3, 2011
A brief but ill-fated jaunt to Texas notwithstanding, I will be a first-time out-of-state New York resident by week's end. Am I excited? Sure. I'm also nervous. NYC has been my comfort zone forever. I grew up here, fell in love here, got married here, etc. Plus, calling myself a "New Jersey resident" sounds a bit strange. Then again, I'm a bit strange so the designation fits.
The MTA and its money-grubbings way has made my decision to move that much easier. Haley and I spent almost $20 dollars traveling to and from Jersey City. The PATH train costs considerably less and stops right by my job. Win-win.
Like it is every year, getting back to work after the extended Advertising Christmas (nearl 2 weeks off) is an odd transition. Thankfully, I didn't have to contend with a difficult workload. So far, I'm really enjoying my foray into the world of editing. My writing skills have sharpened and I find myself putting pen to paper with a level of confidence that had been absent for many years.
Can't wait to get home and go to the gym. 5k training everyday this week in preparation for the Fred Lebow 5-miler on Saturday.
The MTA and its money-grubbings way has made my decision to move that much easier. Haley and I spent almost $20 dollars traveling to and from Jersey City. The PATH train costs considerably less and stops right by my job. Win-win.
Like it is every year, getting back to work after the extended Advertising Christmas (nearl 2 weeks off) is an odd transition. Thankfully, I didn't have to contend with a difficult workload. So far, I'm really enjoying my foray into the world of editing. My writing skills have sharpened and I find myself putting pen to paper with a level of confidence that had been absent for many years.
Can't wait to get home and go to the gym. 5k training everyday this week in preparation for the Fred Lebow 5-miler on Saturday.
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