Hmm-Haw.

I'm kind of amazed at how many of my friends work/have worked with autistic children. I'm secretly terrified of it, mostly because I'm afraid of doing something inadvertently traumatic. Yes, it's surprising that I'm even able to leave the house with this sort of mindset.

In addition, I'm swirling through a bizarre manic period of wonderfullness. This week, I've made 8 dozen cookies, applied for 6 jobs, and cleaned infinite piles of laundry. I've talked to strangers about seagulls. I don't think I'm getting an ulcer. I've gotten over my fear of the post-office guy (not the one with the prison tattoos...the other one) and finally sent out wedding invitations.

Strangely enough, I'm pretty sure that I have fewer phobias than most people. Maybe.

I've openly confessed that I believe that my dead brother stopped by as a sparrow on his birthday last week. This also means that I finally confessed to Matt's parents that I even have a dead brother. And that I have adopted my own sense of reincarnation. Hence, that's how an insecure cat embodies a former sadistic Soviet dictator. And how the golden retriever captured Houdini's soul. Although, this means that Houdini was...well...a little lacking in common sense...and can't walk up stairs.

Maybe it's all the flax I've been eating lately.

I saw 'Match Point' last night, since I follow Woody Allen on any of his journeys. Except 'Bananas'. Fuck that. I did like 'Match Point' though, because it played a mean game of tug o' war with any preconceptions I had about it. Hooray! Tonight, it's probably 'Good Night, and Good Luck'.

Sometimes, I think that if George Clooney was to hug me, I would just cry alot. I wouldn't even try to make out with him. Jeez. I bet he would laugh and stroke my hair, mostly because of the hippie tea tree shampoo I use. George Clooney would like that.

"Ha-ha. Mmm...is that balm mint?"

"Fuck yeah it is, George Clooney!"

I'm thinking about making an asymmetrical necklace.

Posie.

Thank you, ilisu.

Find your own pose!

This makes me happy, although I prefer to be on the receiving end of the seatbelt. In fact, I also cross my arms like that and tuck a foot behind my opposite knee. Hmm...close enough.

Stream of....er....awesomeness.

I'm really concerned about the resurgence of leggings. Not tights. LEGGINGS. It only now struck me as concerning. The thing is, I was so damn happy when leg warmers were popular (i.e., readily available). I am now thankful for rural living.

Sorry.

Currently in the midst of conducting research on Maine folktales for Dr. T. In the process, I've become fascinated by peg legs. In turn, I'm seriously considering starting a short story collection filled with contemporary tall tales of my own creation, based on the idea of shifting internal/emotional scars/struggles/pains into more external/active representations.

For instance, when I attempt to explain that darker hours of my 24-year journey, the common response is, "Oh god, I had no idea." Yet, if I had a peg leg or a long scar on my right cheek, it would become a quiet declaration of, "Look, I've gone through some serious shit." Some folks attempt this by getting a tattoo, and, look, I think that's awesome...but it's also showing that there's quite a bit we're missing...in that primal/collective sense.

Because, sometimes, I'm not interested in a drug-induced, self-driven "trip". Rather, I want to buy that blue and yellow monster truck on Rt. 1 and that mega-set from "The Knife Show", take on a kitty sidekick, and find a chest of booty.



For serious.

Que Sera Blah.

Whatever, dude. I'm so tired of bitching about a job. I'm off to pursue better interests in the meantime.

Like selling psych-rock LPs for my future father-in-law. Like getting back into my foodie-ism, fueled by the prospect of farmers' markets and dreamy visions of drinking snake's blood with Anthony Bourdain.



Swoon.

Like getting into gardening. Like at least thinking as a writer again. Like getting in touch with friends and at least talking about big adventures. Like just generally getting back to the shit I really care about and letting go of pesky insecurities.

Or at least faking it.

Thanks, Shmuley Botech. You really are America's rabbi.

And I'm going to try to stay away from television...for the most part. Sudoku helps. It makes me feel like 'Little Man Tate' inside.

And, hell, if I get a gig cleaning hotel rooms or tending to the local crisis helpline, then I'll just take it as a bonus.

And I'm not leaving the County. Fuckers. My Southern can is here to stay, unfettered by chronic unemployment and a growing sense of ennui.

What would Serge Gainsbourg do?

Fly Safe.

My dad's not big on unions.




But I am.

And as I sit here today, waiting to hear back on a radio station job, my dad is considering early retirement from a job he used to love.

Here's the deal:

- Do you like flying?
- Do you conduct whimsical daydreams of bargaining tables?
- Do you have the hots for Barack Obama (D-IL)?

The FAA is trying to present the [false] idea that air traffic controllers (ATC) are getting paid too much, thus putting the system in crisis. In addition, the FAA is neglecting to address the impending staffing crisis that is about to occur (possibly more quickly) due to an increase of retirees over new hires. While attempting to act as/switch to a private entity (albeit, a poorly executed one), little care is taken to address the fact that this is a PUBLIC AGENCY. Let's face it: not many kids (or many current employees) are going to look forward to a government job with poor pay and an identity crisis.

So then what? Well, I've never been fond of scare tactics, but...do the math:

fewer controllers+more planes=terrorism might not be our biggest transportation concern.

Also, labor rights have been gradually wearing away, with union membership steadily falling. So be it, but there needs to be a means to insure that workers (ALL workers) can take on a proper wage in safe working conditions. In turn, workers on their off time (i.e., customers/consumers/patrons) will also feel the benefits.

Check out fairfaa.com for more info on the current crisis.

If you feel inclined, contact your local representative here or by your preferred means (egging his/her house is strongly discouraged, but holding up your sweet stereo and pumping "In Your Eyes" is always welcomed).

Hell, do it for my dad (he needed a healthy salary to pay for my braces), do it for my little sister....



...do it for Billy Bob Thorton in 'Pushing Tin'. Dammit.

Ultimatum.

Here's the deal:

If I don't hear back from one of the 9 jobs I've applied for by this Friday, I'm going to apply to become a farm apprentice.

If I don't hear back by NEXT Friday, I'm going to accept any farm apprentice jobs offered to me.



It feels like running away to join the circus, but that's exactly what I need.

I want to make goat cheese. Learn to build a boat. Drink a bottle of my own wine. Learn about heirloom produce.

Plus, I want some solid biceps for my Richard-Petty-as-pirate tattoo. It'll look amazing during my Jeopardy! appearance.

Otherwise, I'm going to have to make a list of television programs featuring an episode that includes the acquisition of U2 tickets.



You've been put on notice.