33 posts from August 2009

In the words of (the annoying) Emeril Lagasse: Bam! Billboards kicked up a notch...

Buckle Up:

The Economist: A person passing by triggers a light sensor:

Bic Razor:

Benjamin Moore Paints:

Which way the wind blows for bustop lingerie:

When it rains, it runs:

REI Detergent. From billboard to surrounding space; the ad reads: Stop colors from bleeding:

Adidas ad installed at the Munich airport for the 2006 World Cup:

McDonald’s triple-thick shakes:

Nike. Notice the treadmill? Passersby hopped on and for every kilometer Nike made a donation to UNICEF:

A fun meme was happenin' over at Rev Stan's place. Hop aboard if you'd like and pass it 'round.

Alcohol: Do you know whom you’re askin’? Of course.
Believe in God?: Trying to cultivate a belief in something like that.
Chocolate: Lindt rocks!
D&D character: Huh?
Eggs: Soft boiled with runny yolks or raw with white rice.
Food: Loooove to cook for others, while for myself eating’s a necessity I could live without.
Gemstone: Lots - though I’d worship at the feet of anyone who gifts me a ruby.
Hairdresser: Whoever’s cheapest. Usually a revolving student haircutter.
Ice cream: Yes. And don’t bother tryin’ to pass off frozen yogurt as a substitute.
Jeans: Good ol’ Lee. Leather tag’s too faded to read the rest.
Karaoke choice: Drunk.
Left- or right-handed: right officially; ambidextrious in practice.
Music: A passion. Note: Nix rap and disco and small doses only of country, please.
Nationality: To be determined.
Occupation: Unemployed.
Perfume: No fucking way!
Quest: To get a job. Followed by hopefully improved income. Followed by various health-care treatments long delayed. Followed by travel and trips to see loved ones long not seen. Followed eventually by a move.
Rant: The dumbing down of America. The atrophy of even the basic fundamentals of language and relatedly the carelessness and apathy as a source. Ill-mannered and dangerous use of cell phones, especially when driving. The decline of customer service AND customers tolerating it, thereby contributing to it.
Seafood: My brethren so natch! - sans uni (sea urchin) and ikura (roe).
Twitter: No. I don’t do fast-food communication.
Uncontrollable urge to: Leave town.
Vice: pretty painful.
What I wear to work: The meme's author either wrote this two years ago in a better economy or lives in a cave unaware of the millions out of work.
Rather than pass it on, I'm revising to:
What makes me smile: SUNSHINE with and upon water. Animals. Being barefoot, especially outdoors.
X-men character: Huh? Am I dating myself? Seeing too few movies? Watching all the wrong television?
Yesterday I: Consulted with another in preparation for banishing my home of spirits and ghosts.
Zodiac sign: Man, too easy! Pisces.

Silly fun courtesy of our blessed and beloved two- and four-legged creatures:

Feels good to be without hope.

Today the newspaper where I interviewed is making its decision and an offer to someone who’s not me.

Frequently I’ve been in that waiting period after an interview where I’ve really wanted the job and hoped for the call, then needed to be peeled up from the floor from disappointment.

Not today. Because I already know I’m not gonna get it. Their line of questioning (indicating they were seeking skills I can’t offer) tells me that.

Also there's the matter of distance. The publisher, noting my location, opened the interview saying I’d need to move and that she wouldn’t hire someone with that commute.

She’s right. Why would she? It’d be ridiculous and exhausting. A former roomie used to make the Seattle-Tacoma commute. It’d take him two hours to travel 30 miles (km), and the newspaper's more than double the distance so it ain't rocket science putting on the commute kibosh.

Then there's the feasibility of relocating in a week (too broached in the interview). One factor I didn’t share: Rents (which I began investigating before the interview) are surprisingly high for a rural area, one reason being that the county neighbors King County -- Seattle -- and plenty of folks who can't afford those insane prices hope over into the next county.

Two, Boeing. A major presence in the county with its largest plant there and those employees make beaucoup bucks, which is reflected in housing costs.

Interesting tidbits about that plant:

It’s so large that it has its own fire department, security force, medical clinic, electrical substatations and water-treatment plant. The fueling area can accommodate five planes and the pre-flight areas 26 finished jetliners. Its main assembly building is in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world’s largest by volume.

That’s damn big!

Anyway, point is that finding affordable housing on a salary equivalent to my last cleaning job was gonna be a challenge even in the best of situations, never mind on the quick.

So on this Friday someone's life is gonna change significantly; it ain't mine. I'm peaceful not hoping the phone will ring and I wish the new employee and everyone the best.

In news unrelated:

Later I’m helping a gal pal with ghosts and spirits in her home. I’m very psychic, you know (?), particularly with spaces and places. First time I saw her place, I was bowled over by the crowd (by which I mean energies and presences of experiences and tenants past).

I'm very excited to be helping her and her home. I love doing this work. It's not even work, it's what I do and who I am and to be of service is a joy.

Icing on the cake is her respect for these gifts (in fact invited me over because of them). She doesn't pooh-pooh 'em or the realm of the spiritual and ghostly; doesn't look down on me, roll her eyes or call me a freak. It's sweet and liberating to be able to be myself without being laughed at, ridiculed and more for being different as I've been been all my life. (If only you knew how different, most of you would stop reading this blog!)  These are tender and sensitive areas but with this friend I feel safe and accepted.

All in all it's a Good Friday. <---unrelated to Christianity

Good writing.

With music, nothing moves me more. And when praises are due, they're delivered. Found this online; kudos to the author, whoever he or she be.

A creative writing class at Slippery Rock University, in Pennsylvania, was asked to write a concise essay containing the following elements:

   Religion
   Royalty
   Sex
   Mystery

The prize-winner wrote:

"My God," said the queen, "I am pregnant! I wonder who did it?"

I won’t be dumpster diving for boxes just yet.

By popular request - from one (chuckle) - here’s the lowdown on the big interview yesterday.

I arrive in the small town 45 minutes early - not because I traveled the freeways at the speed of sound but left plenty of time for contingencies like getting lost, of which I’m highly skilled - so kill time with a partial tour of downtown.

That done after 5 minutes -- hey, I said it was small! and nice, quaint - I hang out at the visitor’s center, chat with a couple women and gather a few pamphlets about the area that I’ll sell for cheap ‘cause I won’t be needing ‘em after all.

My interview outfit's sharp - business casual - and with the new ‘do a source of confidence.

At the newspaper office, after a brief exchange with the front-desk lady and visual tour of my surroundings and photographs, I'm welcomed by the publisher and led into an office where we're joined by the waiting editor (both women).

How dull would it be to recount every thought and question exchanged so suffice it to say that the interview went OK. Just OK.

I remain poised, maintain good eye contact, articulate responses and information on my experience -- an accomplishment because my biggest worry was getting tongue-tied and coming across as an illiterate third-grader, which happens when I'm nervous.

And, I might add, I do all this good presentation without a cocktail in hand!

The editor exits, leaving the publisher to discuss the nitty gritty like salary. I’ve been in the business a long time and anticipated a ballpark figure for an entry-level reporter and am spot on so no surprise there.

The surprise is the start date, about one week after the date of offer (decision due Friday). The logistics for me are unfeasible. One week simply isn’t sufficient time to pack up my place (breaking the lease in the meantime), find a new place in a new town at a distance, handle the myriad of arrangements and details of a relocation, get kinda settled in and a couple days of rest before the starting a new job.

Better the position go to a candidate already in the area and there's no shortage (I asked). In this economy, many could start tomorrow, hell, they could start now!

So in sum, a just OK interview, a few skills that they're seeking/preferring that I can't offer and logistics: It ain’t gonna happen.

No regrets. Good to get outta town for a day and gain interview experience and for a position of personal relevance and meaning, it wasn't some crap lame job motivating me to slit my wrists.

Incidentally, on the return, I miss the turnoff and land in the next rural town, where I pull into a feed store for directions. Consequently, I end up in the early thick and hideous Seattle commute I'd sought to avoid and yech, so glad I choose not to live like that.

So back to square one where I've been stuck for a year with the same hovering question: When will I be working again?

Hmmmm.

I'm wondering whether it's coming time to depart Vox. Anyone who knows me even a little recognizes that I'm not one to jump on any bandwagon, a reference to a distinct mood of Voxer restlessness and/or exodus. In fact, when the bandwagon rolls into town, I bolt the opposite direction.

Perhaps it's a matter of diminishing returns. I'm a faithful and loyal neighbor but am tired of it too often becoming a one-way street as well as the growing percentage of posters who take little to no time to give to their hoodies. To me, that seems selfish. It sends the message: "I have time to post about me but no time to visit, take an interest in others or be your friend."

I enjoy and value an interactive community, reciprocity and sense of continuity; peeps are family, for me, in which case perhaps the course of action is not to leave but further cull the hood, which stands to only contribute to the current shrinkage rather than expansion of the Vox population.

I dunno. At what point do you stay for loyalty and caring about those in the hood or relinquish for the unknown and possibly greener pastures?

Midnight contemplations ... and an invitation for your own thoughts on the current state of affairs at Vox and/or elsewhere ...

Gross! Gross gross gross gross gross gross gross!

The other evening I'm strolling a residential neighborhood around 10 o'clock. As I pass a home's stretch of tall fencing covered by thick greenery, a rustling sound catches my attention. Nothing is visible in the shadows and gauzey light cast by the street lamps.

Suddenly two large gray r_ts leap out from the shrubbery. Right in front of me! Right at eye level! Oh. My. God.

There is life after death. I'm living proof.

Oh. Brother.

The other afternoon while walkin’ downtown I pause to say hello to a standard poodle and a mother-daughter team enjoying beverages outside a cafe.

They run a shop in the Seattle region. We get to talking about the schools and lack of discipline from parents and related topics. They tell me this story:

In one private school there, a teacher got in trouble because she made one of her students say “please.”

The parents caught wind and complained to the school.

The charge: The use of "please” teaches manipulation. They wanted it stopped.

And the school, the school got behind the parents! Reason's obvious: Suck up to parents, retain student, get fees.

The teacher was told that there'd be no more teaching or encouraging of "please" in the classroom.

Oh, where to begin?

One - that's the Seattle area, a hotbed of political correctness and liberalism to the extreme. This wouldn't fly in Omaha, Nebraska.

Next - like we need any more selfish, self-centered, ill-mannered spoiled brats, eh?

Next - with each new generation, I praise god that life on earth is not eternal.

A cut above the previous stylist.

That's what I wanna say about the person who did the fix-it job on the cut by the stylist the day before.

I sit down to Amanda, who upon seeing my hair and hearing yesterday's tale is sympathetic and apologetic. That it's a bad cut is glaringly obvious to her and her supervisor. Together they examine it, run fingers through, identify half a dozen fatal flaws and establish a corrective course of action.

"There's no balance to the cut. No flow," Amanda winces.

"I know, and it feels as bad as it looks."

"It's too long over here," she says, tugging at a chunk in the back, "and way too short up here," she says at the back of the crown.

"It looks like something I could've done at home." She agrees.

Haircutting's her passion, she says. It's her third repair cut or coloring this week, she tells me. I say that doesn't speak too well of them but does her.

With a warning that it'll need to go shorter, to which I reply, "fine, more important is that it look good, have flow and balance," she proceeds on an hourlong course of corrective actions, attentively and carefully. End result: a much much MUCH better 'do! It has flow and balance and looks sharp and is flattering.

Supervisor Ms. G. steps over to examine. (Unlike yesterday's supervisor who merely signed off with a glance), she runs fingers through, tugs here and there, snips here and there. "Nice job," she tells the student and signs off.

I thank Amanda profusely. The cut's gone from a chunky clunky home job to a short boy's cut, with part moved to the side, with fringies around the ears and neck. Having gone from long to short, I now think I agree with those who've told me through the years that they like short better on me. I'm gonna hang with this for a while.

The repair job's free but I pause at the receptionist to leave a tip, regretting the tip I left the girl yesterday and wishing I could add it to her pot. I also obtain the owner's name so I can write a letter.

I exit free of the paper bag over my head. A quality cut can really make a difference, not only in the obvious of appearance and presentation but the sense of confidence. I'm bringing various elements into harmony as I prepare for Tuesday's big interview, and the hair's now ready. :)

Afterward I see Barbara, the same gal who yesterday instructed, "you gotta go get that fixed." She takes one look and exclaims: "Muuuuch better!" as I turn, smiling.

"It makes you look older."

"Thanks a lot!" I groan.

"I mean, it makes you look mature."

"But I don't wanna look mature! I wanna look young and unstable and like I'm a flight risk."

She laughs. "It makes you look confident. That's what I'm trying to say."

"Confident. I'll take that."

Interview: four days away and counting ...

At the drugstore on the way home I find a set of cute little colorful glittery hairclips on the clearance table for a touch whimsy.

Things are lookin' good for Tuesday. I'm gonna knock 'em dead (quietly).