First, let me explain what the difference is between and "Song" and a "Song Demo."
A song is a fairly rare occurrence. It's something I've written, play all the instruments on (except drums), and usually sing. Songs are indicative of a serious musical effort, something that represents whatever it is I'm trying to say with the musical abilities I have.
A song demo is something I come up with much more often. I use software to play around and write short pieces of music which are usually some combination of technical exercise, seed of a future song, or a raging slab of irony. The parts are all generated by the software, so there's no human playing going on.
The beauty of this is, unlike the old days of recording on an analog four track recorder, I can hear the songs before I've done all the work of recording them. When you record all the parts yourself, finding out that the song just doesn't work after several hours of recording is a bummer. Also, for me to really nail parts takes quite a few tries, so the software is great to hear things played well before I try and do it myself with dozens of takes per part.
So without further adieu, a song demo: Storm Coming
I was attempting to take a simple piano part and give it a much more active drum/bass background, with the timing a little weird to give a "skittering" effect, hopefully in a good way.
(More music can be found here.)
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
It Sucks To Be Sick
There is a very fine suite of medication I employ to feel healthy when illness hits me (more on this later), but sometimes, the offending malady is too strong and downright evil to be stopped by any amount of drugs. In this case it's a nasty head cold.
I thought I was going to escape major damage this time around. The drugs were keeping the worst of the symptoms in check. But then, last night hanging out with Cathy celebrating her charity 5k fun run with her co-workers, the shit hit the fan. I felt like total crap.
This sucked on many levels. For one, I was suddenly doing my best zombie impersonation. Secondly, what was a celebration time for Cathy now had one less than festive participant. Lastly, Cathy works with a really good group of people that I rarely see, so not being all there for the get-together was a bummer. Sorry guys.
Fast forward to last night as I was trying to sleep and coughing incessantly. I kept waiting for the pillow to cover my head so Cathy could put me out of my misery and get some sleep. At one point she asked in a groggy half-awake state, "Why are you so mad at me!" as if my coughing was an act of antagonism. When I did get to sleep, I started to dream about being sick. Also, probably because of how deeply I've been thinking through a coding project at work, I will admit with embarrassment that I dreamed that there was a bug in my breathing code, and until I fixed it I would continue to cough. I guess androids do dream of electric sheep.
Fast forward further to this morning and one of my least favorite things: waking up after a long night of cold mucous plugging up my head and lungs. The ritual is then a fresh does of drugs and the waiting game. Am I feeling well enough to go to work?
A few words about sick days. I never took a sick day until my mid-twenties. This had a lot to do with my mother, who is tough as nails and has the New England work ethic. She never took a sick day (as opposed to my dad, who didn't mind taking the odd year off of work). Part of the reason for this is simple: when you're making hourly wages (minimum wage, I might add), you don't get paid if you don't show up. There's no allotment of sick days like us salary boys get. Beyond that though, my mom just didn't need sick days. This is, after all, the woman who has been known to pull her own teeth to save dentist fees.
Because of this, I feel like a big wimp when I take a sick day. But what I've learned over the years is that I can't code when I'm sick. There's just too much mental processing, too many balls in the air at once, and all it takes is one cough or sneeze and you've lost it. Then you're spending several minutes picking them up and getting going again.
Also, when you cough all day, your co-workers want to lynch you. And if they get sick from you, they really want lynch you.
So when I decide to pull the plug on going to work and admit defeat to my head cold, I'm left with deciding how to best get through the day. Sleep would be good, but I just can stand the feeling of filling up with mucous. I also can't really focus long enough to do anything fun like read a book or watch a movie.
So I'm writing a blog entry. I think this must say a lot about how I write. That it's really mostly a stream of consciousness that requires very little active thinking. (This is kind of true, I just sit down and write in order, then read back once for typos.) And that I can lose focus repeatedly (like the 2 minutes I just spent feeling sorry for myself for being sick) and just jump back in where I left off . That's the beauty of writing: your words don't have to compile.
So I'm either going to resign myself to trying to sleep and all the grossness that will entail, or I may just wing out a couple more of these babies.
As promised, a word on drugs. When I have a cold, I use two things: an antihistamine called loratadine (aka Claritin) and the world's greatest decongestant, pseudoephedrine (the main ingredient in some, and formerly all, versions of Sudafed). For brevity's sake, I'll refer to pseudoephedrine as PE going forward. (As pointed out by my blogger buddy MommyDoc, Sudafed now has a non PE version that they've dubbed Sudafed PE, so just be aware that my use of the term PE is different than that of Sudafed's.)
PE is amazing, but it's now hard to get and many drug companies have stopped using it in their medication, replacing it with another drug that doesn't work as well (for me at least) and makes me drowsy (PE is actually an upper). The reason for this? PE is now strongly controlled because it is one of the ingredients needed to make meth. This means you can only buy one box at a time, and only at a prescription counter where you have to show id. My hunch is this will lead to the end of PE being used by drug companies eventually.
Now, I'm all for not allowing people to buy a dozen boxes of the stuff, but can't I at least buy one or two without going through a long process? If some drug dealer wants to run in and out of CVS stores buying two boxes at a time, I just don't care. I'm for educating people on the dangers of drugs, but you can't legislate common sense (or morality). And nothing is as sweet as forbidden fruit.
Oh God, that must be the cold medicine talking, since I hate political rants. Oh well, now you know how I feel about the "war on drugs." And that I hate being made to feel like a criminal because I want to buy medication that improves my quality of life and that I have no intention of abusing. And that I'm pissed that the difficulty of acquiring PE will most likely mean that it will eventually not even be available as a cold medicine.
Blame the pseudoephedrine. Perhaps we need to ban this dangerous drug all together. (Please don't, I'm only kidding. I need my PE!)
I thought I was going to escape major damage this time around. The drugs were keeping the worst of the symptoms in check. But then, last night hanging out with Cathy celebrating her charity 5k fun run with her co-workers, the shit hit the fan. I felt like total crap.
This sucked on many levels. For one, I was suddenly doing my best zombie impersonation. Secondly, what was a celebration time for Cathy now had one less than festive participant. Lastly, Cathy works with a really good group of people that I rarely see, so not being all there for the get-together was a bummer. Sorry guys.
Fast forward to last night as I was trying to sleep and coughing incessantly. I kept waiting for the pillow to cover my head so Cathy could put me out of my misery and get some sleep. At one point she asked in a groggy half-awake state, "Why are you so mad at me!" as if my coughing was an act of antagonism. When I did get to sleep, I started to dream about being sick. Also, probably because of how deeply I've been thinking through a coding project at work, I will admit with embarrassment that I dreamed that there was a bug in my breathing code, and until I fixed it I would continue to cough. I guess androids do dream of electric sheep.
Fast forward further to this morning and one of my least favorite things: waking up after a long night of cold mucous plugging up my head and lungs. The ritual is then a fresh does of drugs and the waiting game. Am I feeling well enough to go to work?
A few words about sick days. I never took a sick day until my mid-twenties. This had a lot to do with my mother, who is tough as nails and has the New England work ethic. She never took a sick day (as opposed to my dad, who didn't mind taking the odd year off of work). Part of the reason for this is simple: when you're making hourly wages (minimum wage, I might add), you don't get paid if you don't show up. There's no allotment of sick days like us salary boys get. Beyond that though, my mom just didn't need sick days. This is, after all, the woman who has been known to pull her own teeth to save dentist fees.
Because of this, I feel like a big wimp when I take a sick day. But what I've learned over the years is that I can't code when I'm sick. There's just too much mental processing, too many balls in the air at once, and all it takes is one cough or sneeze and you've lost it. Then you're spending several minutes picking them up and getting going again.
Also, when you cough all day, your co-workers want to lynch you. And if they get sick from you, they really want lynch you.
So when I decide to pull the plug on going to work and admit defeat to my head cold, I'm left with deciding how to best get through the day. Sleep would be good, but I just can stand the feeling of filling up with mucous. I also can't really focus long enough to do anything fun like read a book or watch a movie.
So I'm writing a blog entry. I think this must say a lot about how I write. That it's really mostly a stream of consciousness that requires very little active thinking. (This is kind of true, I just sit down and write in order, then read back once for typos.) And that I can lose focus repeatedly (like the 2 minutes I just spent feeling sorry for myself for being sick) and just jump back in where I left off . That's the beauty of writing: your words don't have to compile.
So I'm either going to resign myself to trying to sleep and all the grossness that will entail, or I may just wing out a couple more of these babies.
As promised, a word on drugs. When I have a cold, I use two things: an antihistamine called loratadine (aka Claritin) and the world's greatest decongestant, pseudoephedrine (the main ingredient in some, and formerly all, versions of Sudafed). For brevity's sake, I'll refer to pseudoephedrine as PE going forward. (As pointed out by my blogger buddy MommyDoc, Sudafed now has a non PE version that they've dubbed Sudafed PE, so just be aware that my use of the term PE is different than that of Sudafed's.)
PE is amazing, but it's now hard to get and many drug companies have stopped using it in their medication, replacing it with another drug that doesn't work as well (for me at least) and makes me drowsy (PE is actually an upper). The reason for this? PE is now strongly controlled because it is one of the ingredients needed to make meth. This means you can only buy one box at a time, and only at a prescription counter where you have to show id. My hunch is this will lead to the end of PE being used by drug companies eventually.
Now, I'm all for not allowing people to buy a dozen boxes of the stuff, but can't I at least buy one or two without going through a long process? If some drug dealer wants to run in and out of CVS stores buying two boxes at a time, I just don't care. I'm for educating people on the dangers of drugs, but you can't legislate common sense (or morality). And nothing is as sweet as forbidden fruit.
Oh God, that must be the cold medicine talking, since I hate political rants. Oh well, now you know how I feel about the "war on drugs." And that I hate being made to feel like a criminal because I want to buy medication that improves my quality of life and that I have no intention of abusing. And that I'm pissed that the difficulty of acquiring PE will most likely mean that it will eventually not even be available as a cold medicine.
Blame the pseudoephedrine. Perhaps we need to ban this dangerous drug all together. (Please don't, I'm only kidding. I need my PE!)
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Tale of Spanky McHanderson
Here's a story I tell with childish glee over and over, so might as well get it out there for everyone in one fell swoop.
This happened a few years ago.
I shared a long room with several developers at my job. We were coupled on long desks such that glancing to the side would allow you to see the other guy at the desk, and glancing the other way would look out the window. The angle my deskmate "J" sat made it easy for him to see a nearby hotel.
As you can imagine (and I bet your already did, you dirty bird), lots of shenanigans occurred at that hotel, and the occupants were often kind enough to leave the blinds open for us to enjoy the show. One fateful day, we got a show we didn't want to see.
J was typing away at his computer when he decided to take a quick window break and just look outside for a few seconds. I was typing away myself when I heard him bellow, "OH MY GOD!" before slapping his hands over his eyes. He turned his chair around and jumped up, walking away from his desk.
The immediate reaction to the several people in the room was, of course, morbid curiosity. We scampered around like animals at feeding time at the zoo, hustling to the window. Since I sat next to J I reacted quickest, looking over at the hotel, and witnessing a man I have since dubbed "Spanky McHanderson" in my mind.
First off, the windows at this hotel were floor to ceiling, so when the curtains were open, you had a full view of the goings on. Especially when the occupant was in the corner room, as was Spanky.
Mr. McHanderson was standing in the window, buck-naked. He looked to be middle-aged and slightly paunchy. He was also flogging the dolphin. Terms that come to mind are "going to town" and "with reckless abandon." This was not a sweet romance Spanky was having with his little fellow, this was a passionate tryst.
In short, McHanderson was really enjoying the view of Boston.
Exclamations of disgust erupted through the room in a shockwave, bringing more rubberneckers from beyond our room.
One person who came in had the immediate reaction to laugh at the sight, and then to reach for his cellphone to take a picture.
Quicker than you can say, "Dude, wtf are you doing?" (which we did in chorus), Spanky seemingly sensed his potential capture on film and disappeared, leaving us all both amused and traumatized.
Ever since that fateful day, I've pondered whether Mr. McHanderson hadn't realized people could see him, but that seems unlikely. It seems to me (in a horror story twist) that he wanted to be seen, and he was excited about it. The kind of excited you can go to town on. Shudder.
I feel so dirty. Spanky, wherever you are, you and your spanky ways have molested my eyes and scarred me for life. I hope you're happy.
This happened a few years ago.
I shared a long room with several developers at my job. We were coupled on long desks such that glancing to the side would allow you to see the other guy at the desk, and glancing the other way would look out the window. The angle my deskmate "J" sat made it easy for him to see a nearby hotel.
As you can imagine (and I bet your already did, you dirty bird), lots of shenanigans occurred at that hotel, and the occupants were often kind enough to leave the blinds open for us to enjoy the show. One fateful day, we got a show we didn't want to see.
J was typing away at his computer when he decided to take a quick window break and just look outside for a few seconds. I was typing away myself when I heard him bellow, "OH MY GOD!" before slapping his hands over his eyes. He turned his chair around and jumped up, walking away from his desk.
The immediate reaction to the several people in the room was, of course, morbid curiosity. We scampered around like animals at feeding time at the zoo, hustling to the window. Since I sat next to J I reacted quickest, looking over at the hotel, and witnessing a man I have since dubbed "Spanky McHanderson" in my mind.
First off, the windows at this hotel were floor to ceiling, so when the curtains were open, you had a full view of the goings on. Especially when the occupant was in the corner room, as was Spanky.
Mr. McHanderson was standing in the window, buck-naked. He looked to be middle-aged and slightly paunchy. He was also flogging the dolphin. Terms that come to mind are "going to town" and "with reckless abandon." This was not a sweet romance Spanky was having with his little fellow, this was a passionate tryst.
In short, McHanderson was really enjoying the view of Boston.
Exclamations of disgust erupted through the room in a shockwave, bringing more rubberneckers from beyond our room.
One person who came in had the immediate reaction to laugh at the sight, and then to reach for his cellphone to take a picture.
Quicker than you can say, "Dude, wtf are you doing?" (which we did in chorus), Spanky seemingly sensed his potential capture on film and disappeared, leaving us all both amused and traumatized.
Ever since that fateful day, I've pondered whether Mr. McHanderson hadn't realized people could see him, but that seems unlikely. It seems to me (in a horror story twist) that he wanted to be seen, and he was excited about it. The kind of excited you can go to town on. Shudder.
I feel so dirty. Spanky, wherever you are, you and your spanky ways have molested my eyes and scarred me for life. I hope you're happy.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Scary Things Pointed at My Head
Went to my bi-annual dentist appointment today. I had a sinking feeling throughout the day before my visit that this would be the time that all the warnings of, "We'll have to keep on an eye out on that next time," would finally catch up with me. I feared horrendous issues. Dates with drills and other sharp, scary things.
Turns out that my teeth were just fine, thank you. Things seemed to be so good, as a matter of fact, that I didn't get the usual warnings about my bad oral habits. I was shocked, to be honest.
But, there was one bump in the road. My hygenist informed me that it had been five years since my last set of full oral x-rays. She also explained that they had moved to a new computer based x-ray system. "It's easier because I don't have to develop x-rays anymore," she said happily, before noting, "But taking the x-rays is a bit harder."
This caught my attention, since the travails of x-ray development had been hidden from me, but, by golly, the actual taking part involved me and my poor little mouth.
She brought out what looked a bit like the usual apparatus: a metal bar with a large plastic loop on the not me end that was used for aiming the x-ray cannon. (I call it x-ray cannon because that's what it looks like when it's pointed at my head.) On the business end, where once had been a simple little piece of x-ray film, was a hunk of plastic with a rather intimidating cable protruding and running to a computer. It was about to be my joy to bite down on this sucker eighteen times.
First was the lead flak jacket for my chest (and more importantly, my genitals). After that was thudded into place, my first command to bite down was given, and with that uncomfortable hunk of plastic in my mouth and the x-ray cannon pointed at my head (my chest is protected, but what about my brain?), she ran from the room to pull the trigger.
I have a pretty strong gag reflex, so this exercise in painful repetition required a force of will on my part. Beyond that, for a couple of the x-rays, it hurt pretty ******* bad.
In case you're wondering, the word replaced by ******* is "fucking."
Now, this would all have been perfectly awful enough, except for one exciting twist. When I'm in a painful, awkward situation, I tend to giggle. Giggling is not the best way to go about having oral x-rays taken. It potentially messes up the x-rays, which can lead to more cannon fire, and more melted brain cells. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or my good friend and fellow blogger MommyDoc may have told me that.
Anyhoo, another symptom of giggling in the dentists office is you look pretty silly (or sexy and macho, at least that's what I tell myself). Based on the exasperation of my hygenist/sadist, I'll have to bet on silly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had been looking forward to torturing the poor sap that need the full x-rays to end her day, and here he was, laughing. I guess that's like hours of foreplay not only not leading to an orgasm, but resulting in an anti-orgasm where your genitals explode. Needless to say, she was not pleased with my inability to suffer properly.
After the last x-ray, I had the urge to proclaim, "That was the oral equivalent of a prostate exam!" In a rare moment of self censorhip, I did not.
The rest of the exam was unremarkable. Just the usual insufferable pain caused by sharp, pointy things digging into my gums under some pretense of dental health. Then the cameo by the actual dentist to pull at my lips as if I was Mr. Ed before patting me on the head and assuring that everything was just fine, scooter! (Okay, there was no patting of the head and the word scooter was not used, but it sure felt that way.)
So with the good news of no impending oral doom and a throbbing mouth, I made my escape, never to have to go back. Until January 5th. Fuck.
Turns out that my teeth were just fine, thank you. Things seemed to be so good, as a matter of fact, that I didn't get the usual warnings about my bad oral habits. I was shocked, to be honest.
But, there was one bump in the road. My hygenist informed me that it had been five years since my last set of full oral x-rays. She also explained that they had moved to a new computer based x-ray system. "It's easier because I don't have to develop x-rays anymore," she said happily, before noting, "But taking the x-rays is a bit harder."
This caught my attention, since the travails of x-ray development had been hidden from me, but, by golly, the actual taking part involved me and my poor little mouth.
She brought out what looked a bit like the usual apparatus: a metal bar with a large plastic loop on the not me end that was used for aiming the x-ray cannon. (I call it x-ray cannon because that's what it looks like when it's pointed at my head.) On the business end, where once had been a simple little piece of x-ray film, was a hunk of plastic with a rather intimidating cable protruding and running to a computer. It was about to be my joy to bite down on this sucker eighteen times.
First was the lead flak jacket for my chest (and more importantly, my genitals). After that was thudded into place, my first command to bite down was given, and with that uncomfortable hunk of plastic in my mouth and the x-ray cannon pointed at my head (my chest is protected, but what about my brain?), she ran from the room to pull the trigger.
I have a pretty strong gag reflex, so this exercise in painful repetition required a force of will on my part. Beyond that, for a couple of the x-rays, it hurt pretty ******* bad.
In case you're wondering, the word replaced by ******* is "fucking."
Now, this would all have been perfectly awful enough, except for one exciting twist. When I'm in a painful, awkward situation, I tend to giggle. Giggling is not the best way to go about having oral x-rays taken. It potentially messes up the x-rays, which can lead to more cannon fire, and more melted brain cells. I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or my good friend and fellow blogger MommyDoc may have told me that.
Anyhoo, another symptom of giggling in the dentists office is you look pretty silly (or sexy and macho, at least that's what I tell myself). Based on the exasperation of my hygenist/sadist, I'll have to bet on silly. Perhaps it was the simple fact that she had been looking forward to torturing the poor sap that need the full x-rays to end her day, and here he was, laughing. I guess that's like hours of foreplay not only not leading to an orgasm, but resulting in an anti-orgasm where your genitals explode. Needless to say, she was not pleased with my inability to suffer properly.
After the last x-ray, I had the urge to proclaim, "That was the oral equivalent of a prostate exam!" In a rare moment of self censorhip, I did not.
The rest of the exam was unremarkable. Just the usual insufferable pain caused by sharp, pointy things digging into my gums under some pretense of dental health. Then the cameo by the actual dentist to pull at my lips as if I was Mr. Ed before patting me on the head and assuring that everything was just fine, scooter! (Okay, there was no patting of the head and the word scooter was not used, but it sure felt that way.)
So with the good news of no impending oral doom and a throbbing mouth, I made my escape, never to have to go back. Until January 5th. Fuck.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Greetings from the Gas Station
A quick walk to the corner gas station always lowers my faith in humanity.
First off, about the only reason I go there is to get soda and/or junk food, so I'm already in a self-loathing mode. This self loathing is further helped by one cashier that likes to remark on my purchases. "What, no Slim Jim today, buddy?" he'll ask with what appears to be a sincere, non-sarcastic smile. This throws me off. I'm always prepared to be mocked, and I'm ready to fire back. But he genuinely seems curious why I just don't want a Slim Jim today.
Which leads me to realize with a twist in my stomach that I buy so many Slim Jims at this place that not doing so is a remarkable event. Now my self-loathing gets a topping of shame, and I'm in the perfect mood to witness humanity.
There is always (and I really mean always) someone in front of me, often of advanced years, picking out scratch tickets with the intense scrutiny of a teenage boy that just found his dad's stash of Playboys. The sucker in question is staring those little pieces of cardboard down like there's a sure big winner in view and all it takes is a good look-see to find out which it is. Our gambler is basically undressing those poor, helpless scratch tickets with his/her eyes.
I'm standing there, jonesing for a sugar fix, staring at the back of the sucker's head as if my intense frustration just might make it explode. (If this ever works, I'll let you know.) Every time I fight the urge to explain the economics of scratch tickets. It's pretty simple: If you buy every scratch ticket on Earth, you will lose money. Therefore, if you buy a fraction of all the scratch tickets on Earth, you will most likely lose money. The only hope for profit is buying a few, hitting a winner, and quitting on the spot.
This doesn't happen. How do I know this? Because all those suckers buying tickets scratch them off mere seconds after purchasing them, and turn in any winners for more tickets. This leads me to wonder if someone hits a ten thousand dollar winner, will I see them everyday feverishly blowing through the winnings in hopes of more winnings? I think I know the answer to that.
I know I should feel bad for these people, since they are most likely addicts. I should also feel bad for smokers who come in and drop eight bucks for a pack of smokes that might last a day. Often, it's the same sad-sack getting both cigarettes and scratch tickets. And to be honest, I do kind of feel bad for them.
But you know what, I'm a lard-ass because I'm in a gas station, buying soda. If I keel over in ten years, it's my own damn fault. We reap what we sow, simple as that.
Speaking of weight problems, one more life-affirming anecdote. Yesterday, I was getting a soda, and I hear a young girl behind me ask her mother, "Can I buy this gum?" The mother's response: "No, because it's full of sugar and it will make you fat."
Beyond the debate of how fattening gum that you spit out actually is (and the cold, delicious soda in my paw has it beat for sure), telling a young girl something will make her fat is not what I'd call a recipe for a healthy self image. I'm sure the girl is glancing over at me and thinking that if she's not careful, she too will end up as tubby as the creepy guy lustfully gripping sugar water. I'm also sure this is not the first time her mother has warned her about becoming fat. The same impulse that made me want to lecture the gambler makes me want to really go off on this woman for destroying her daughter's fragile ego.
Then a voice in my head says, You know, drinking soda is really bad for you, so I pay for my poison and go my not-so-merry way.
First off, about the only reason I go there is to get soda and/or junk food, so I'm already in a self-loathing mode. This self loathing is further helped by one cashier that likes to remark on my purchases. "What, no Slim Jim today, buddy?" he'll ask with what appears to be a sincere, non-sarcastic smile. This throws me off. I'm always prepared to be mocked, and I'm ready to fire back. But he genuinely seems curious why I just don't want a Slim Jim today.
Which leads me to realize with a twist in my stomach that I buy so many Slim Jims at this place that not doing so is a remarkable event. Now my self-loathing gets a topping of shame, and I'm in the perfect mood to witness humanity.
There is always (and I really mean always) someone in front of me, often of advanced years, picking out scratch tickets with the intense scrutiny of a teenage boy that just found his dad's stash of Playboys. The sucker in question is staring those little pieces of cardboard down like there's a sure big winner in view and all it takes is a good look-see to find out which it is. Our gambler is basically undressing those poor, helpless scratch tickets with his/her eyes.
I'm standing there, jonesing for a sugar fix, staring at the back of the sucker's head as if my intense frustration just might make it explode. (If this ever works, I'll let you know.) Every time I fight the urge to explain the economics of scratch tickets. It's pretty simple: If you buy every scratch ticket on Earth, you will lose money. Therefore, if you buy a fraction of all the scratch tickets on Earth, you will most likely lose money. The only hope for profit is buying a few, hitting a winner, and quitting on the spot.
This doesn't happen. How do I know this? Because all those suckers buying tickets scratch them off mere seconds after purchasing them, and turn in any winners for more tickets. This leads me to wonder if someone hits a ten thousand dollar winner, will I see them everyday feverishly blowing through the winnings in hopes of more winnings? I think I know the answer to that.
I know I should feel bad for these people, since they are most likely addicts. I should also feel bad for smokers who come in and drop eight bucks for a pack of smokes that might last a day. Often, it's the same sad-sack getting both cigarettes and scratch tickets. And to be honest, I do kind of feel bad for them.
But you know what, I'm a lard-ass because I'm in a gas station, buying soda. If I keel over in ten years, it's my own damn fault. We reap what we sow, simple as that.
Speaking of weight problems, one more life-affirming anecdote. Yesterday, I was getting a soda, and I hear a young girl behind me ask her mother, "Can I buy this gum?" The mother's response: "No, because it's full of sugar and it will make you fat."
Beyond the debate of how fattening gum that you spit out actually is (and the cold, delicious soda in my paw has it beat for sure), telling a young girl something will make her fat is not what I'd call a recipe for a healthy self image. I'm sure the girl is glancing over at me and thinking that if she's not careful, she too will end up as tubby as the creepy guy lustfully gripping sugar water. I'm also sure this is not the first time her mother has warned her about becoming fat. The same impulse that made me want to lecture the gambler makes me want to really go off on this woman for destroying her daughter's fragile ego.
Then a voice in my head says, You know, drinking soda is really bad for you, so I pay for my poison and go my not-so-merry way.
The True Face Behind Many Masks
The most unsettling aspect for me of this modern age of social networking is that it removes the context of interaction. We all wear different masks in different situations, may even seem like completely different people. But when we lose those contexts on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs, do we remove all those masks and reveal our true selves, or do we instead adopt a one-size-fits-all persona, constructed to be the most comfortable for us regardless of audience?
This leads to even thornier question: who am I really? Which person is me? Husband, software developer, friend, family member, artist, loner. Each is subtly different (ok, maybe not so subtly different in some cases). Am I somehow all these things? This doesn't seem possible at first. However, I do think that I really am all these things, that I'm not "faking it" in certain situations, because the context is so important. When I'm at my work, I feel confident that I can perform my job and be a leader for my team. As an artist, I struggle with anxiety about the difficult questions of life. I can have contradictory feelings because I'm feeling them about different things.
What does that mean for a blog? I think it means that depending on the topic, different aspects of my personality will come out. Since my goal is to discuss art and life more than software development, you will see the artistic side of me more. I'll be more introspective, anxious, and moody. In other words, an artist. This makes sense since, frankly, the "get it done" side of my personality that comes out when there's a job to be done has no patience for rambling rants, instead preferring action.
Beyond all this, there is still an invisible wall that each of us have. For some, we may hide much more behind it than others. This is the place we keep our innermost feelings, and our history of hurts and weaknesses. I have in my life made a big transition. Much more is outside this wall than it once was. However, the artist in me wants to share more. (If you don't want to share parts of yourself, do you really want to be an artist?)
So, if you're willing to come along with me, you'll get a chance to know things that I have largely kept secret. There are some topics I'd like to one day discuss if I find the strength and confidence. And find the trust in the big scary world that lives on the side of the Internet. (You're all good, caring people, right?)
I'll give you a brief peek behind the wall. Some things I may one day write about: my father's alcoholism; my grandmother's death; a medical condition that causes chronic pain; and of course, gobs of insecurity, guilt, and occasional depression.
Lest you think this blog will be nothing but a drag, I'm still a world class smart-ass and can even be witty on occasion. And I will have art to share: fiction, poetry, and music. So stick around and see what happens.
I'm dying to know myself.
This leads to even thornier question: who am I really? Which person is me? Husband, software developer, friend, family member, artist, loner. Each is subtly different (ok, maybe not so subtly different in some cases). Am I somehow all these things? This doesn't seem possible at first. However, I do think that I really am all these things, that I'm not "faking it" in certain situations, because the context is so important. When I'm at my work, I feel confident that I can perform my job and be a leader for my team. As an artist, I struggle with anxiety about the difficult questions of life. I can have contradictory feelings because I'm feeling them about different things.
What does that mean for a blog? I think it means that depending on the topic, different aspects of my personality will come out. Since my goal is to discuss art and life more than software development, you will see the artistic side of me more. I'll be more introspective, anxious, and moody. In other words, an artist. This makes sense since, frankly, the "get it done" side of my personality that comes out when there's a job to be done has no patience for rambling rants, instead preferring action.
Beyond all this, there is still an invisible wall that each of us have. For some, we may hide much more behind it than others. This is the place we keep our innermost feelings, and our history of hurts and weaknesses. I have in my life made a big transition. Much more is outside this wall than it once was. However, the artist in me wants to share more. (If you don't want to share parts of yourself, do you really want to be an artist?)
So, if you're willing to come along with me, you'll get a chance to know things that I have largely kept secret. There are some topics I'd like to one day discuss if I find the strength and confidence. And find the trust in the big scary world that lives on the side of the Internet. (You're all good, caring people, right?)
I'll give you a brief peek behind the wall. Some things I may one day write about: my father's alcoholism; my grandmother's death; a medical condition that causes chronic pain; and of course, gobs of insecurity, guilt, and occasional depression.
Lest you think this blog will be nothing but a drag, I'm still a world class smart-ass and can even be witty on occasion. And I will have art to share: fiction, poetry, and music. So stick around and see what happens.
I'm dying to know myself.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Here I Go Again
This is my second attempt at blogging. I created a rudimentary blog on my website and did some periodic posting, but my minimal effort in coding ensured the functionality was pretty lame. So I'm throwing in the towel and using a real blog site.
Before I get into the types of things I'll be talking about going forward, the first thing to state is why I'm bothering to do this at all. I claim no wisdom that the world needs to hear. I think I'm reasonably amusing, but I make no pretense that I will be the funniest, wittiest blogger you will stumble upon. My reason for wanting to blog is simple: I have always felt compelled to write, but have found the process so miserable that I rarely do. Instead of focusing on why I feel compelled to do something that makes me feel so miserable (that has to be some sort of mental illness, right?), I instead want to find a misery-free way to write. The hope is that when I get my mojo going with some not-so-serious blogging, all those short stories and *gasp* novels clogging up my head will have a chance to erupt forth. And if not, I'll have a nice forum to bemoan my clogged misery.
So, the stuff I want to write about: writing, of course; music, both things I love to listen to and thing I create as a hobbyist musician; life in general, and how bewildering it can be (hence the title); and, on occasion, thoughts on my day job, software development. Don't worry though, there won't be snippets of code and treatises on best practices. There are many resources that have far more knowledge in those areas than me. If anything, the area of software development I'd most like to discuss is the human side that is so often ignored. Software, after all, is made by people, thus communication and actually being able to stand each other is key. And well worth talking about, since both areas often don't go too smoothly.
Once caveat going forward: I may love to write, but that doesn't mean I'm great at spelling and grammar. I'm also a master at typos. Accept it people. That's why [sic] was invented, for people like me!
So, I hope at least a couple people follow along and have a little fun along the way. And if not, that's okay too; it reinforces the miserable writer thing.
Before I get into the types of things I'll be talking about going forward, the first thing to state is why I'm bothering to do this at all. I claim no wisdom that the world needs to hear. I think I'm reasonably amusing, but I make no pretense that I will be the funniest, wittiest blogger you will stumble upon. My reason for wanting to blog is simple: I have always felt compelled to write, but have found the process so miserable that I rarely do. Instead of focusing on why I feel compelled to do something that makes me feel so miserable (that has to be some sort of mental illness, right?), I instead want to find a misery-free way to write. The hope is that when I get my mojo going with some not-so-serious blogging, all those short stories and *gasp* novels clogging up my head will have a chance to erupt forth. And if not, I'll have a nice forum to bemoan my clogged misery.
So, the stuff I want to write about: writing, of course; music, both things I love to listen to and thing I create as a hobbyist musician; life in general, and how bewildering it can be (hence the title); and, on occasion, thoughts on my day job, software development. Don't worry though, there won't be snippets of code and treatises on best practices. There are many resources that have far more knowledge in those areas than me. If anything, the area of software development I'd most like to discuss is the human side that is so often ignored. Software, after all, is made by people, thus communication and actually being able to stand each other is key. And well worth talking about, since both areas often don't go too smoothly.
Once caveat going forward: I may love to write, but that doesn't mean I'm great at spelling and grammar. I'm also a master at typos. Accept it people. That's why [sic] was invented, for people like me!
So, I hope at least a couple people follow along and have a little fun along the way. And if not, that's okay too; it reinforces the miserable writer thing.
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