Final rewrite of this story...

Final! Won't rewrite it again. Never. Okay, never say never.

Myspace ghosts - Still Manifesting

How did I find your myspace, and why the eff am I reading your flippin' blog?

Backstory: We went to undergrad together, had a morning Jazz radio show together, didn't get along worth a bucket of warm pooh, and now you got me reading your blog into the wee hours. You know how late it is? It's -- AMC channel went from B/W to color to B/W to color again -- late. It's -- somebody just got up to go to work -- late.

First thing's first. I didn't hate you in college. You were a little... nervous? I was effed up too. (you know what, let's just skip all that) As for your blog: have I ever seen this many words? To say you are prolific is not enough. I see portions of chapters, memior. But criminy, it's like Les Misarables (in length, not content). Is that why I'm a guy? I don't say everything I think? And, speaking of, your blog is revealing. As is mine, I'm sure, and spookily so, in that I reveal things subtly. Oh, there's nothing wrong with journaling as part of worship - see, King David.

So. Long, revealing, and what was the other? Oh. Good, actually. At times I was taken in, when you were writing honest, hard-pressed thought. (Here's where she throws something.) Fine, was the thing on Joan Rivers hard-pressed thought? (Throws something else, yells. I answer.) No, I'm not a big published writer, but I worked as a story developer for a year in Hollywood, and I know from bad writing. I've never seen your fiction, but from parts of your blog, I see a new face coming to your genre -- maybe YOU as a peripheral, but then vital, entity to a crime scene. And the "guy" you "get" is the ally, but then he turns out to be bad, oh well, can't win 'em all? Okay, I'm bad at genre fiction.

Here's where I say holla back, girl. If there's anything you can say that's not written on your blog, please do. There's a bonus, something that happened at KCOZ I never told a soul about, and you know you want to hear it. It'll be entrez nous...

Caving In (not a think piece)

Late last night, on one of Portland's 250 cable access channels, I saw Sister Paula. Her sermon was God supplies all our needs, but the main point was that you have to work with your hands, and if you don't work for long enough, you begin to feel empty. I agree. I feel emptiness in my soul sometimes because I'm not working a job right now.

I sent out four emails yesterday on job openings and got two responses, one by phone. There are lots of hourly jobs, but I'm not wired hourly. I go crazy. One summer I worked at a dry fruit plant, which is already a problem because I hate dried fruit. Talk about taking the best part of fruit away to make it dry and more conventient, but yucky! But my job was to stand in one place for 8 hours across from another guy and pick up pallets of fruit and move them to be hauled off by a forklift. One place. 8 hours. That's the definition for madness, for me anyways. Hey it paid well, but you still go mad.

Couple of options. Go crawling back to Fibersphere, who probably hired somebody the next day, but I could con them. That was great opportunity, but I found I had to explain that more to myself than to other people. Or do what I know, which is wiring houses, which I've done for eight years. Jobs in technology bore me, though. I interact with people. I enjoy talking to people, and wiring and programming the alarms is the boring part. I don't fit in with the other tech-guys. They chain-smoke, cuss, and go to strip bars. Not that I couldn't do all those things. I just don't want to, does that make sense?

Jagshemash!!!