Cold Bean Porridge and a Virgin Milkmaid

Working in a grocery store, you--there's--it's--ah, bloody hell, I got nothin'.

I don't know when keeping a LiveJournal turned into a chore, but here we are. Used to be I was clever and/or witty odclay, but somehow I opted for style over substance and became boring ol' jacobford. Or maybe I just moved out and got my own apartment and became a hermit. Either way, suddenly there's nothing to write about anymore but my job, and even my job's nothing to write about. Woo, I'm some sort of semi-big-time manager-type person. Hey, my new boss is a clown (truth! The woman hired to replace the customer service manager who up and quit a month and a half ago is a professional clown with her own Wikipedia page--which is actually kinda cool, as long as she doesn't introduce new uniforms or anything). Woo, same old customers, same old muzak, same old, same old.

As for the rest of it, I got nothin'. I guess that's the tragedy of being a hermit: all the time in the world to blog, but nothing to blog about.

Woking in a grocery store, you learn to tune things out. Like the muzak. Especially the muzak--and especially when that muzak is the creepy stalker-esque oldies muzak from the good ol' days when it was considered sweet and charming and romantic and socially acceptable to harrass a girl who doesn't like you anymore with a barrage of letters despite the numerous mail returned unopened with "RETURN TO SENDER" stamped on the front, or to sleep on your doorstep all night and day/just to keep you from walkin' away/oh god another restraining order what've I done wrong?/lalala hey! but I digress. It's easy to tune that out.

The Backstreet Boys? Not so much.

And it looks like some kind and decent soul changed the muzak from Crazed Weirdo to Ye Olde Nineties. Hurrah. So instead of bands like Creepy Boy Next Door or Old Man in the Park, we get such timeless classics as the Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion (whose heart just keeps goin' on, and on), Hanson, the Spice Girls. Actually, the Spice Girls really aren't too bad. Everyone likes the Spice Girls. I am not ashamed. But don't let me go all nostalgic here. After all, despite those bland "If you remember this!...!lol" groups on Facebook, it's not like everyone grew up in the nineties. Not everyone remembers a time when Saturday Morning cartoons were actually good--and, as I found out yesterday, not everyone remembers the other great (or just too-annoying-to-forget) hallmarks of the good ol' days.

Yesterday. Pierce's Market. I was working. There was a small slow period between customer avalanches. Then the Backstreet Boys, singing about how they wanted it that way, knocked me out of my manager-ing jive. "Oh, god," I muttered.

"Ugh, the Backstreet Boys," Kelsey said. Kelsey was one of my cashiers, this high school chick, fifteen or so. Give or take a few months. Whatever. "I hate the Backstreet Boys," she said.

Kudos to her. "Yeah, someone switched it to a Nineties station about a while ago," I said. "It's been like this all week. Celine Dion, Spice Girls, Backstreet Boys, Hanson."

"Hanson?" Kelsey said.

"You know, Hanson?" I said, "Mmmbop?"

She gave me a funny look. "I don't know what you're talking about."

SHE'S NEVER HEARD OF HANSON

I feel so old.

Working in a grocery store, there's never much to blog about. It's the same old story; day in and day out, week after week, foodstuffs and drinkstuffs and otherstuffs travel along that short conveyor belt, get scanned, get bagged, go away. It's not an exciting job. The people are the same. The muzack doesn't change (although someone recently switched the satellite radio station from Oldies to 90s, and man, I haven't heard the Spice Girls in a while). The same old job you have now is the same old job you had yesterday, so try not to expect anything new tomorrow. Nothing big will happen.

So it was a big surprise when my boss quit last Monday, two weeks ago.

There he was, ol' LeRoy, Mister CSM, Customer Service Manager, sitting there in the office, asking me how my weekend went--he cared because I was there, at the store, li'l Customer Service Representative that I am--when the company president stopped by to chat, I went down to watch the registers, and twenty minutes later he grabs his coat and storms out. Left me there holding the clipboard. Nice of him to wait for my shift to start before jumping ship. How thoughtful.

Not a big deal, really. He was a good guy--got me hooked on the original Star Trek, hurrah--but not the most competent manager I've worked with, and that upper-case R in the middle of his name annoyed the heck out of me. LeRoy. LeRoy. But the problem, the annoying thing is, he quit. On a Monday. Kevin, his predecessor, had been fired on a Friday, and the following Monday the folks in charge had replaced him with LeRoy from the Portage store, so holding things together for a weekend was no big deal. At least, I assume so; I was just a little guy back then, lane jockey, no authority or title whatsoever, so I never noticed.

Now, though, I'm a CSR, Customer Service Rep, a rung or two below LeRoy on the jumbled hierarchy of the grocery store, so I'm feelin' the heat. Where I was just a part-time supervisor, originally filling in one or two shift each week to cover the days LeRoy and Pam, the other full-time CSR, had off, I'm suddenly a full-timer. No more dividing my time between day shifts, opening the store, and bein' in charge. Now I got LeRoy's shifts. In charge five, occasionally six (overtime, bay-be!) days a week, hoo-ah.

Of course, I just have the shifts--not LeRoy's job. And, far as I know, it's all a temporary thing. The ads are out. The store's looking for a new manager. After the fifteenth, after they find someone, it's all over for me. Back to part-time, filling in for the others...

...unless Pam gets the manager spot. She's been working at Pierce's for about ten years now, knows her way around the store, certainly deserves that kind of promotion. She's much more qualified for the job than LeRoy ever was. She's got my vote. Plus, there's the possibility that, y'know, since she's currently the night CSR, so if she were to get the promotion to manager, working the day shifts, then the full-time night spot could very well open up to, oh, yours truly. How about it? 'Sides, since she and I are already full-time employees with benefits, they'd just need to hire someone new, part-time, to cover the other Customer Service shifts on our days off...

But that's the most efficient move, which means it's probably not gonna happen. Still, it's a nice thought, maybe getting that kind of promotion. I've been a full-time supervisor since LeRoy left, and I'd hate to go back to doing it part-time, opening the store and working 6-2:30 on my other days. Seems like a bit of a letdown.

Of course, part of me still wonders if another promotion is what I really want. It's not a bad thing, but still, since becoming a full-time employee (with benefits!), I've been finding more and more things anchoring me to the grocery store, to Reedsburg, to this little half-life I have. Still don't have a good reason to go back to college, but I am starting to think of other things I want to do. Other plans. But I can't just quit my job without being certain of something else--and it's becoming increasingly harder to become certain of anything else. It's a comfortable job I got there. Like I said before, if I keep working, five, ten years, where'll I be? I could have it good. I could be a part of the family.

I watched Fight Club again a month ago, while drinking, although I mostly sat staring at the wall because I know the movie mostly by heart. Good movie. Better than the book, which I just picked up for a re-read a few days ago. Good stuff. And sure, maybe Palahniuk's brand of anachy starring Brad Pitt is now too popular and mainsteam to ever be taken seriously, but the potential is there. Maybe Chuck is right. Maybe what I need is a Tyler Durden. Maybe what I need is a human sacifice.

Maybe I just need someone to Raymond K. Hessel my sorry ass.

So. Wisconsin Primary was yesterday, and I have a confession to make: I didn't vote. Really. I know, I know, it's really awful, but I do have some good reasons:

Reason #1: Ragnarok is coming! Ahead of schedule, too. See, Fimbulwinter's only been going on for a few months now, but apparently the great wolf Hati has decided to go ahead and devour the moon ahead of schedule. Total lunar eclipse? You people are just in denial.

Reason #2: I know I'll be banished from Blogdom for saying this, but I AM NOT ENAMORED WITH BARACK OBAMA. Or any other candidate, for that matter. Okay, so I was in love with Ron Paul for a while, him with the IRS-ending and the war-bashing and the awesome-making, but I eventually realized he was waaayyyy too keen on states' rights, and we all know how leaving issues up to the states went for gays in, oh, two-thirds of the country in the 2006 midterm elections. Oh, heavens no, we can't let government re-define marriage, but we sho' can let 'em de-fine it!

Reason #2: (Continued) So, no Ron Paul for me. Which leaves us with, oh, B. Hussein Obama (Ann Coulter doesn't think her readers are too bright, does she?), Madame Clinton, Mister "He's Prolly Gonna Winnit" McCain (What, you think those baby boomers and old folks are going to step aside and let us youth take over so soon?), Guy Huckabee, and Mike "Here's Lookin' at You" Gravel, who does seem kinda cool--Ron Paul without the states' rights stuff--but really, the call to "vote for the candidate you like, not the one who looks 'presidential' " only works with the front-runners who have more than a Marshmallow Peep's chance on Easter. Kinda pointless to toss away a vote on a guy who gets less than 1% of 'em anyway.

Reason #2: (Additional) And as for the other guys, well, lessee--maybe it's because I'm cynical, but Obama has yet to inspire me or make me believe in how cute and fluffy America will become if we just hope, and I just don't see anything special about Billary, and although McCain is prolly gonna win he's just another old white Republican and I don't care, and it would be awesome to have a president named Huckabee but that guy kinda scares me, so that leaves, um, nobody. And I'd much rather not vote than vote for the guy or gal I don't care about but maybe care about a leeetle beet more than the others, thank you. Here's me being cynical again but I don't think much will change no matter who takes the throne next January--see, there's this monster they call the Military-Industrial Complex, and which head would you like to lop off first? Guess I should go to Burma and join the revolution, 'cause maybe democracy needs a jump-start.

Reason #3: I noticed last night that my middle left toe is slightly shorter than my middle right toe and I was trying not to hyperventilate. Ok Jacob it's okay don't worry stop obsessing stay calm stay calm stay calm OH GOD I'M NOT SYMMETRICAL.

Ok, I lie; I'm not really drunk. The fact that I drank plenty of non-alcoholic liquids before and between the consumption of said alcoholic liquids prevented that. That's me, ever so cautious. But I do think it's worth noting that I finally decided that the whole "My grandfather drank himself to death right before my 21st birthday" act was getting old and morbid, and that I stopped wallowing in self-pity and had a coupla drinks with a friend. Not enough to get drunk, although I am feeling quite relaxed at the moment. It's a nice feeling--although, as it turns out, Superbad doesn't really improve much when one has been drinking. Fight Club, on the other hand, is as good as always.

Obligatory (Not Quite) Drunk Post, Out.

HALP HALP THERE'S NOTHING TO BLOG ABOUT.

I've suddenly turned into what I hate the most: the silent blogger. He Who Does Not Blog. Silent for weeks, then a sudden, brief, completely pointless entry. What the hell was that? I've always hated that. If you have a blog, update it--once or twice a week, at the very least, is that so much to ask? Can't be too hard to write something slightly interesting, right? Right? Wrong. Suddenly everything goes dead, and now I can't criticize anymore because hey, lookitme, I'm that guy.

But seriously, it's winter. It's really winter. What with the snow and frost and wind, all the cold and more snow, and some extra cold to boot, it's cold and snowy and there's nothing to blog bout, except the cold and snow. And you can only blog about how it's snowed again, it's still cold, before it gets boring.

Could be it's the start of Fimbulwinter, the Great Winter in Norse Mythology that precedes Ragnarok. Three years of snow and frost and wind, of cold and more snow, and some extra cold to boot. It could happen in Wisconsin and no one would bat an eye, although they would crowd the grocery store whenever the they heard rumors of another storm on the way or the sun being devoured by wolves. If June comes and the snow hasn't stopped yet, we'll know for sure.

(Aside: Ah, Ragnarok. If there's one thing I love about The End of the World According to Norsemen, it's that things aren't sugar-coated. With the Book of Revelations, you get lakes of fire and rains of blood and swarms of locusts and plagues and death and dying, and everything is going to royally suck, and there will be a huge battle between the forces of Heaven and Hell, because God loves you. With Ragnarok, the gods don't care. Loki and Odin and Jörmungandr and friends are gonna go nuts, and everyone who gets in the way is fucked. Bo bullshitting us there. Thanks for the warning. We appreciate your honesty. Aside over)

But winter of epic proportions or no, I've become quite the hermit. When it's too cold to go out, I'm not going out--and since I already very rarely go out, I go out even less. Downward spiral. Unfortunately, if I don't go out, nothing happens--and I can only write about nothing for so long.

The good news is, it's a good excuse to avoid going home. Don't get me wrong, I like my family--but when I live only ten, twelve miles away from them, visiting for dinner is waayyyy too easy. I could stop by for dinner every night; I could see my family all the time! So why don't I? Because it's fricking depressing, that's why. If I lived a few hundred miles away, sure, I'd cherish the occasional visit home--but, when I live barely ten miles away and can stop by any time, I don't want to. Makes me realize how I've barely gone anywhere.

At least I have my Netflix. Oh, Scrubs, how I love thee. It's just a good thing I can only get one disc, eight episodes, at a time. Give me a full season at once and I'll forget the world exists. Not a bad way to make it through Fimbulwinter, of course, but I gotta go out sometime.

The good news is, partly thanks to the distractions Netflix provides, I haven't been buying any new books, thereby keeping with that birthday resolution (Aside: at some point I need to make an addendum--addenda? addendi? ok, fine, an amendment--to that "read more than I buy" rule because, y'know, what's the point in reading books if that's all I do about them? Seriously, I need to start reviewing shit. I need to make it known that I read something--I need to log my books! Seriously! Only problem is, I can't review a book to save my life. Sure, theferrett can, baeraad can, they do it all the time, but me? Need to work on it. Blargh. Aside over). 'Sides, what with this Fimbulwinter going on, I reeheeheeeally don't care to drive to Madison for a book spree. Sure, I want new books, but it's cold, roads suck, I'm a hermit. And I intend to stick to this resolution the best I can.

Of course, not spending my money on books means I can spend my money on other things like, say, the complete series of Arrested Development. On sale at Amazon, all three seasons for under $50. Nice. Gives me something to watch between my 8-episodes-at-a-time Scrubs binges. Funny, though; I'd always see ads for the show when it was on tv, and it never interested me. But, while I was in Pennsylvania last month for my grandfather's funeral, my older sister had a DVD with her, so I watched a few episodes--sitting in the chair my grandfather died it, to boot. How's that for morbid? But anyway, good show, good show. Comfy chair, too. Slightly creepy, though...

Lastly: Don't panic! Just found out the price of stamps will go up a penny starting May 12. 42 cents now. They're probably doing this in honor of Douglas Adams and nobody gets it.

Links to news stories: the last resort of the desperate blogger. Soon I'll be doing memes. This is what I'm reduced to. This!

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

It was last year around this time--well, slightly before this time last year, about a week before this time, the day after my real birthday, but circumstances this year demanded that I postpone my birthday a week, so here we are--that I decided and declared that the Gregorian New Year was bunk. Bunk for me, that was; you lovely people can still have it. It's just never worked for me. Not much sense in changing years in the middle of winter anyway. That's old bunk, the leftover shit from the early Church's ad campaign to convert those nonbelievers who celebrated the Winter Solstice or the Roman calendar, sticking Christmas and the New Year in places they didn't belong.

But I digress. My point: the New Year never worked for me. Made some resolutions, forgot them, done. And I wasted the rest of the year. Nothing changed. Then, last year, I decided to give up the New Year and the resolutions, declare my birthday the New New Year, and do things differently:

Step 1: Make some New Year's resolutions.
Step 2: Immediately renounce them all..
Step 3: Replace them with more realistic vows that actually work.

And so, for the Jacobean New Year, Anno Jacobus, in the Year 21 of Our Jacob, what have you, here are the results:

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Stop buying books.
Why Not: Who d'you think I am? I love books and I love reading books, sure, but sometimes I love buying books more. Bookstores are lovely--lovely, dark, and deep--and I'll be damned if I stop going to 'em.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Read more than, or just as many as, I buy.
Why That Should Work: It's simple, right? I mean, I bought 201 books last year, barely read any of them. Add those to the ones I owned already, and I have a lot of books I own but haven't read. Nothing wrong with buying more books--only, I should probably try to balance things out this year. Read a new book off the shelves, add a new book to the shelves. Plow through five or six books, go nuts next time in Madison. It's worked so far--I've read a small handful of books so far this year, but only two of them were ones I own and haven't read yet. Balanced those out with two new books from Renaissance Books in the Milwaukee Airport. It's working now, and--although it'll probably be really difficult--it'll probably work later. Just gotta read fast, is all.

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Stop being a hermit.
Why Not: I quite enjoy being a hermit, thankyouverymuch. 'Sides, I live in Reedsburg. If there's anything I'm missing, it's mostly because it's not happening here.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Don't drink alone.
Why That Should Work: I'm 21 now, with all the bells and whistles, and although I'm not really in the drinking mood (my grandfather took that with him when he went, I guess), pretty soon I'll start to think, hey, why not? Maybe I can pour myself a brandy, maybe mix a nice gin & tonic, grab a book, have a nice quiet evening. Pretty soon I'll start to wonder if it's true what they say about booze and writing, and then it's Hullo Mister Poe, fancy meeting you here. Can't have that, nosir. I know I'm just weak enough to start and never stop, and I don't want to do that. So the solution: only drink with other people. ('Sides, I can't get drunk by myself--that's laa-aa-aaame)

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Figure out what to do with my life.
Why Not: Sorry, no can do. Too indecisive.
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Be somewhere else next year.
Why That Should Work: I may not have a plan, but I need to change. New job, new apartment, new town, something. One or two or all. Working in a grocery store--working in any thankless little job--you get too used to the boring old routine. I gotta get over that. There's no good reason I should still be living in this apartment, in Reedsburg, working in a grocery store, one full year from now. Simple as that.

New Year's Resolution I Didn't Keep: Find love, have sex, become a man.
Why Not: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...HA...eh...
New New Year's Re-Resolution: Laugh more often.

So there you have it. Three serious re-resolutions, with some riders tacked on. That's a bit less than last year, but keep in mind I didn't keep all those re-resolutions l made. I think these are better, smarter, hopefully easier to stick to. Hey, less promises to keep, more energy to focus on 'em. Simple as that.

Now let's just see how well they work.

Maybe I'm judging suicides too harshly. Can't help it, really; I'm stubborn with my opinions. In my ideal world, we'd all be more rational, and people would be less prone to those fits of passion in which suicide seems the only option. And while I'm dreaming, I'd also like a pony.

Still, it was hard to be angry--or even just annoyed--with my grandfather for ruining my birthday while I was sitting in my grandmother's living room surrounded by family and food and looking through photo albums at my grandpa when he was a boy. Jesus he was a handsome man (how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death), and so was my dad when he was my age, apparently (and at my age he was getting married, which spooks me--how'd he figure his life out so soon?), so (what i want to know is) what the heck happened to me? What, did we run out of the good-looking genes? I'm stuck with the fat face and sly shit-eating grin (and don't get me wrong, I loved Grandpop's grin) but there wasn't even a handful of handsome to throw my way when the time came? Well, happy birthday to me.

But I stand by my belief that suicides should ask permission first, or at least try to kick off with the least amount of inconvenience. Sure, my grandfather had cancer, and never felt right after that stroke a year and a half ago, and probably missed all that booze he couldn't have anymore, but he was head of the family. Didn't he have some sort of patriarchal authority to call all of his children and grandchildren together and say, my children, I am going to die. Just thought I'd let you know, see. Next Tuesday ok?

And while I'm at it, I'd like a (watersmooth-silver stallion) pony.

The memorial service was pretty tough. All those cousins and great-uncles and -aunts, the friends of my dad who showed up, those folks I haven't seen in ages or never but had to pretend to remember, ohsure, I know who you are. Service itself was short and sweet, and rather boring; I barely knew my grandfather, moved out to Wisconsin from Pennsylvania when I was six and only saw him once a year after that, then every other year, and he would provide backup when my grandmother called to sing me Happy Birthday each year. So I didn't get to be his favorite. Cousin Johnny was, that tough fishing-and-hunting redhaired monster (who used to break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat), and how he cried. I never thought Johnny could cry. Me, I got a bit teary-eyed when the Marine played "Taps", but I'm sure I wasn't the only one thinking irony when it was the black Marine who presented the flag to my grandmother. Grandpop sure loved the N-word.

Aside from that, though, I didn't really care to be there. Don't keep in touch with family enough to be familiar with anyone, and I wasn't interested in drinking with these cousins I barely know, and really, the whole trip would've been a total bust if it weren't for:

1. Philadelphia soft pretzels. Ohhohoyes. They may be old, they may be stale, and God knows what's in 'em or where they came from, but Philly soft pretzels are so friggin' good.

2. I convinced my cousin Ryan, a budding writer, that he should use his middle name as his pen name, because R. Samuel Hanson just sounds awesome. Because writers who use their middle names are cool. I'm sure I'll be awesome as J. Jacob Ford, assuming I ever write anything again, but I had an idea for a short story about airplanes and stuff that I may try writing...

3. We flew Midwest Airlines from Madison to Philadelphia, by way of Milwaukee. It's a barely-twenty-minute flight from Madison to Milwaukee, but it's the most effective way to meet up with my sisters from Minneapolis if we're all traveling together, and the complimentary cookies are good. Also, the Milwaukee airport is home to the best airport bookstore ever, Renaissance Books. Good-sized used bookstore, though the prices aren't great and the sci-fi/fantasy section needs some help. I was fortunate enough to get some browsing time between flights on the way home, and bought Pricksongs & Descants: Fictions by Robert Coover and The Stories of J. F. Powers. Mmm books.

Overall, though, the trip wasn't exactly great. And it didn't end very well either: on my way back to the apartment after getting home from the airport, a deer hit me. I'm driving along and wham, it jumps right into the side, between bumper and front left tire. Nice big dent, and the headlight is fucked up. A second sooner and I would've hit the deer instead; a second later and I would've been wearing the deer. I say, have we met? Kindly remove your hoof from my crotch.

So. A dead grandfather and a surprise deer for my birthday. Sometimes I wonder if Loki's been paying too much attention.

My view on suicide is, you don't kill yourself without permission. Life is already full of plenty of inconveniences without adding death into the mix, and dealing with natural death is enough of a bother already. But people die, that's part of life. You get old, you get sick, you have an accident, and bam, life stops for you and, briefly, for the people who have to pause and observe your passing. It's annoying but it can't be helped. But a suicide, now there's an ultimate expression of narcissism. Hey there, look at me, I considered my pain to be so great, so terrible, so unique that I could not bear to live and cope with it. My suffering was special. So fuck you all, I'm going to end it without regarding how you will be affected. Will you miss me? I hope so. Will I annoy you? Sorry, don't care.

The world would be saved a lot of grief if the suicidal asked permission first. I say, I'd like to pop off, do myself in, check out early, y'know? Does this fit into your schedule? Do you have time to grieve over my selfishness? No? You're much too busy to deal with my self-induced death? Oh. Well, I guess I'll go, er, think about my life and consider a way to deal with whatever makes me want to kill myself then, shall I?

It would work, I'm sure. No suicides without the blessings of family and friends. That way only the terminally ill would go.

And what does that have to do with me? Well, see, today is my birthday. 21 years old. Happy Birthday to me, eh? It's a good number; I can now legally purchase and consume all sorts of alcoholic beverages, whatever I want. Not that I really care too--never felt any great need to go out and get drunk, and as of today, my first day as 21, I still don't. I'm a hermit, so I'll probably have a quiet little birthday by myself, read a little, catch a movie, go home because my mom promised to make lasagna, etc. Nothing special. The special bit is supposed to happen tomorrow. My friend Brayton turns 21 then, so we figured we'd get together and have a small party of our own. Some friends, some booze, some fun. I could use the company. Not interested in getting sloshed, but hey, maybe I'll get a bit tipsy, have a good time, hang out with people, maybe-but-probably-not get a little cozy with this girl I know, assuming I decide to believe Brayton when he says she wants me...

At least, that was the plan. Instead...

Well, it would be a bit of a downer if your alcoholic grandfather decided to drink himself to death with a lovely little booze & pills cocktail barely a week before your 21st birthday, wouldn't you think?

Yeah, that's how it goes. Ironic little cautionary tale, don'tcha think?

So instead of, say, having a nice quiet birthday followed by a small party the next day in which I drink a bit and have some fun and maybe-but-probably-not get a little cozy with this girl I know, assuming Brayton isn't completely full of shit, instead I get to fly home to Pennsylvania on my birthday to go to the memorial service for my grandfather the next day and dance the grieving family shuffle mostly for the benefit of my dad and my grandmother, because, as I have little sympathy for the suicidal, I am not doing this to pay my respects to the old fucker, and it's probably a good thing that he donated his body to medicine and there won't be a casket or urn around, because otherwise I might give in to the temptation to mutilate his corpse for, oh, completely fucking ruining my birthday.

Yeah, that's it. He's dead, I'm just annoyed. He was selfish, I can be selfish.

Happy Birthday to me.

I remember being slightly appalled back in January 2007 when, after compiling the list, I realized I had bought 58 books in 2006. With a trip to London and Dublin to sample the bookstores there, plus the discovery of several previously-unknown stores much closer to home, my book purchases--previously nothing special, nothing worth noting, only the occasional book bought now and then--seemed to go through the roof. Fifty-eight books? Shocking. It was bad enough that I had a smallish pile of books I already owned and hadn't read yet; adding 58 books in a year--and only reading a handful of those in 2006--seemed rather extreme.

I was so innocent back then.

After all, compared to 2007, 2006 was a rather calm year. A trip abroad and the discovery of a few new bookstores in Madison are nothing compared to, say, three online warehouse clearance sales, several cases of retiring or moving English professors at UW-Baraboo giving away old books for 50 cents apiece or less, the discovery of several more bookstores close to home, and an unholy number of trips to said bookstores to pick up a few more things here and there. Faced with all that, 58 books seems like nothing. It's tame. Because a bunch of splurges like that won't result in 58 books. The total will be a lot more than that. Something more like, say, 200 books?

Yeah, 200 books.

( The Books of 2007 )

Pretty sweet, huh?

Ok, so why did I just do that? I may find lists of books interesting, but I know most other people don't. I'm sure everyone else would prefer individual book reviews more than a bunch of titles and links, right? Yeah, well, I'm working on that.

The real reason I posted the list of last year's books is because my birthday is on Monday. With my birthday comes my resolutions (or my re-resolutions) for the new year--my new year, not the Gregorian one. See, I realized last year that every New Year's resolution that I half-assedly make is usually broken or forgotten by the time my birthday comes around, so I decided to skip the process, declare January 14 the New New Year, and make a list of New Year's resolutions I would never keep, and what I had decided to do instead.

Those New New Year Re-Resolutions worked about as well as a regular New Year's resolution; I didn't keep them all, nosir, but I did make progress in various places. Didn't change my diet much, but I started baking vegan; didn't stop being a hermit (became more of one, actually), but I figured out how to use my cell phone; didn't develop any real short-term life goals, but I did move into my own apartment and became a full-time employee at the grocery store--and although I didn't see either coming, I can't complain too much. Still need to get back to writing, but whatever.

So is anyone surprised that the only re-resolution I followed to the letter was the one about books?

Of course, I only resolved to spend 2007 buying better books. I didn't say anything about reading them.

Guess I'll have to work on that part.

Working in a grocery store, you don't usually get revelations. So it was nice, way back in September, when I realized I was free. There I was without a care in the world (re: no financial burdens), nothing that kept me anchored to Loganville or Reedsburg or Baraboo. I could do whatever I wanted. I could go wherever I wanted. I mean, sure, I was happy where I was, mostly, and I didn't feel any great need to pack up my things and run away to some hippie commune in California. But I could, if I wanted to. Really. I was still living with my parents, had no credit card, didn't have student loans to pay off. I was working full-time at the grocery store, sure, good ol' Pierce's Marketplace, but I hadn't been there long enough for the benefits to kick in--

The benefits just kicked in.

So here I am. I was patient; I was good. And now I have health insurance through work. I have dental. Vision. I got it made. It's another anchor; moving out of my parents' house, getting my own place, paying rent, that's an anchor. That's keeping me here. Oh, it's not too strong--I only have a month-to-month lease, so I can leave whenever I want, but now there's the job, too. Anchor.

Seems I keep getting promoted by default. There I was, another part-time college student lane-jockey, taking whatever hours I could get. Then Monica, the weekday morning cashier, quit, so I got promoted to full time, opening the store five days a week, 6 AM - 2:30. It was a decent shift; not always fun waking up at 4:30, but I had a guaranteed 40 hours every week. I was secure. I had a routine. I knew my schedule, knew when I worked, didn't need to worry.

And then one of the managers moved away. So guess who got promoted?

And suddenly, I'm not just a cashier, the morning guy. I have a title. I'm a Customer Service Representative. I get to walk around in a shirt & tie, keeping track of things, watching over those cashiers and baggers, telling people what to do. I still open the store a few days a week, but some days, some nights, I'm in charge. I have keys. I have authority. I have more money, as soon as I remind the boss who promised me a raise that he promised me a raise.

And it's a good feeling, moving up the ladder when I've only been there a year. Makes me glad I left the Village Market, where I rotted for two and a half years without any sign of advancement at all. Went there for some food a month or two ago and my old boss practically begged me to come back, said he'd make me a night manager, full time. But no health insurance, no real benefits, so I stayed at Pierce's, where I got the health insurance and other benefits. Where I was appreciated.

And really, it's all just another anchor.

Now I almost feel obligated to keep working there. I mean, I've been there long enough, worked hard enough, and my bosses believe I have worth. I'm valued enough that I get promoted, get full-time benefits. So why leave now, if I stuck around long enough to get health, dental, vision? Forget school; right now, I can't think of a good reason to go back to college, but why do I need to keep working until I figure it out? This is my time; with no credit card debt, no student loans to pay off, I could be traveling right now. I could do volunteer work. Heck, I could go to Thailand and sneak across the border into Burma and join a monastery, learn the language and local customs, plan the next pro-democracy marches and participate in the eventual revolution with the younger monks, help overthrow the ruling junta. Or just move to Canada, to the UK, get a job and an apartment and a life there. Whatever.

But I can't just leave. I have a job here. I have a place. Heck, if I keep working, in another year I could get a promotion again, another raise. Move up. There's always room for advancement. Maybe I could be a full CSR. Maybe a department manager. Heck, Jake in Dairy won't be there forever. I could do that. It's all a matter of working hard and being patient. I could be like Jason the store manager, who started out as a bagger in high school, been there fifteen years, look where he is. The lady in the pricing department has been working there for 30, 35 years. Some of the deli people have been there forever. Me, who knows? If I keep working, five, ten years, where'll I be? I could have it good. I could be a part of the family.

Except, well, I don't really want to do that.

But I don't have any other plans.

The thing I love most about the New Year is not the festivities, the celebrations with friends and/or family (didn't happen this year, nosir, not to this hermit), the Ball dropping in Times Square (call me sentimental, but I still love watching that, and hearing "Auld Lang Syne" played afterward), or the symbolic fresh start with a clean slate and a batch of vows to change one's life, hurrah hurrah, etc. None of that. No, what I like best about the New Year is that extra page that shows up in the archives of my blog.

While I'm hardly as prolific a writer as I once was, I still love the illusion the calendar page presents. Makes my blog look, well, aged. Mature. Especially since I left odclay for jacobford earlier this year, my blog's been hurtin'--and, though I may be shallow and slightly pretentious and, yeah, full of shit, there was no way I was gonna pad those archives anytime sooner than the last New Year. Seemed too shallow and pretentious. But now--now!--I can pretend that quantity is better than quality for a while and, next time I come across a journal newer than mine, I can think to myself, "Well, I now have two years in my journal but he only has one. Clearly, my blog is better, ha-ha!"

It's shallow, yes, and pretentious, sure, and it's all a load of bull, really, but you get the picture.

Happy Gregorian New Year, everyone--because Eurocentrism rocks!

I am an honest guy, and I am a devout and shameless blogger, and so I will be the first to admit that I am a socially awkward little wiener. Am, not have--I mean, yeah, I do, but we're not going to talk about that today. Today, I am a socially awkward little wiener, thankyouverymuch.

But I can be more than that, right? I can also be a king, because wieners can be kings. And I am a king--a king of many things. King of the Ill-Timed Gesture, for starters. King of the Tactless Response, King of the Witless Flirtation, King of the Missed Opportunities, you name it.

King of the Unspectacular New Year, too.

It's annoying, it is, but I seem to have a talent for ending the old year well and starting the new year poorly--well enough to be pleasant but not well enough to be great, and poorly enough to be unpleasant but not nearly so poorly as to be scarring. It's a fine balance: Ok, not horrible, nowhere near great.

Unspectacular, is what it is.

Oh, it hasn't always been like that. I can't remember anything special about New Year's when I was a child, and nothing of note happened during my early pre-teen and teen years except for some fervent praying on New Year's Eve '99 (of course, the world wasn't really going to end on 1 January 2000, because God wasn't that unimaginative or convenient or predictable, and He most certainly did not run on North American Central Standard Time, but hey, I was a semi-religious 13-year-old coward who was just reluctant to die and/or go to Hell, so it didn't hurt to be prepared, did it? Oh, fuck, just got another boner, forgive me Jesus!), but I know that I spent those New Year's Eves reading and watching the ball drop on TV and wasting the rest of the night online even though nobody else was on MSN Messenger because they were cool and liked to par-tay. Nothing happened, sure, but it was nice. Not spectacular, of course, but nowhere near unspectacular. Nothing like, say, the last three years:

New Year's Eve 2004: Fondue with exrandu's family, old friends. And it was good. But then I went to some party somewhere with people I didn't know and where I didn't drink because I was uncomfortable and had also declared myself the designated driver. Parties aren't my scene, man.

New Year's Eve 2005: No fondue, but exrandu and I were in Dublin. Ireland. And it was good. But then we wasted fifteen Euros apiece to celebrate the New Year in some club, even though I had learned in a nightclub in Florence, Italy, in June 2004 that nightclubs full of loud music and sexy dancing people were not my scene. Story for another time. But heck, there we were in Dublin--Dublin, man!--and I couldn't just drink a pint and listen to music in some quiet bar because we were in Dublin, man, and what bar wasn't crowded, and I also couldn't enjoy myself in a nightclub full of loud music and sexy dancing people, because it was just like going to some party somewhere with people I didn't know and where I didn't drink because I was uncomfortable and had also declared myself the designated driver, although I couldn't really drive in Dublin. Sure, the internet cafe where I went to hide was nice, but man was I depressed.

New Year's Eve 2006: Back to exrandu's house for fondue with his family. And it was good. But, of course, because I never friggin' learn, I went to some party somewhere with people I didn't know and where I didn't drink because I was uncomfortable and had also declared myself the designated driver. Parties aren't my thing, man. But did I remember that? Of course not.

And so, New Year's Eve 2007: I'm staying home. I'm staying inside, I'm going to read a book, watch a movie, watch the ball drop in Times Square because I'm sentimental like that, stay up until midnight, go to bed. Just like old times, sans the fervent praying. Ain't nothin' big happening until 2012 anyway.

But really, I'm a hermit, so I'm going to embrace my hermitude tonight. Start the New Year off right, alone, have a pleasant time and not embarrass or compromise myself at all. Don't know why it took so long to decide this either; I spent the last two weeks wondering "What am I going to do on New Year's Eve? Oh, I cannot decide." before I thought "Why do I need to do anything? Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh?"

So, party if you will. Get totally sloshed. Have safe sex with dangerous strangers. Me, I'm going to avoid all human interaction, because that's what I do best. No regrets whatsoever, except I'll be missing out on fondue.

Happy/Merry Symbolic and/or Traditional Midwinter Observance (EDIT #1: and/or Celebration) of the Birth and/or Rebirth of Whichever Solar/Lunar Diety/Dieties and/or Mythological (EDIT #2: and/or Cultural and/or Ancestral) Figure(s) (If Any) Whom You Prefer to Worship, Celebrate (EDIT 3: Verb now unnecessary due to EDIT #1:), Scapegoat, and/or Ignore! (EDIT #4: ARRRGGHHH)

I like to cover all the bases at once.

It's hard, being a hermit around Christmas. Hermit-like, I mean. I'm not really a hermit anyway; I just live like one. But that's what I get for moving to Reedsburg. Went to school here, met most of my friends here, and most of the people I know who live here or somewhere nearby, unlike me, have some inkling about what they want to do with their lives and have left Reedsburg, to go to school or work or something far away.

And now everyone is coming back.

And now, save for those friends I actually want to hang out with, I'm going to spend the next month or so living with the very real possibility of bumping into someone or someones I knew in high school, at the gas station or the bank or the grocery store, and although I am quite happy in my hermitude they will happily greet me because man, how long's it been? And I will then be forced to make polite and awkward conversation.

On the plus side, I just baked brownies. Again. Because hermits have plenty of time to bake. I am becoming a baker. A master baker, in fact. I master bake all the time now. Of course, being a hermit, I have no one to share my foodstuffs with. Ah, irony.

And a Merry Christmas to all, etc. etc.

Remember how I did that Covance thing way back in February?

Yeah? And remember what I said I was going to buy with some of the money I got from it?

Yeah? And remember when someone from some movie said that if you build it, they will come?

Yeah?

Well, I came. I came so hard.

What about you?

Pictures of the Apartment, Part III

( Behind the cut! )

So. You've seen the blackshirts and the dueling laptops and the Evil Sex Bed and many pictures of carrots in various erotic poses, mmmm--now it's time for the rest of the apartment, the living room. Here's where I finally managed to get paradox_ninja's camera under control so she wouldn't take any more embarrassing pictures. Still, I suppose I should be grateful even if she did turn her camera on the fridge and its contents--I don't own a digital camera, and I didn't see much point in buying one just to take thirty or forty pictures of the apartment. No other reason I'd need one, because I'm a bit camera-shy. Hermits don't take pictures! Roar!

But I digress. Many thanks to paradox_ninja, and without further ado, here are more pictures of the apartment--namely, lots of books, a couch that isn't there, and an interesting table (including what goes on it). I'll try not to bore you too much with the books.

Pictures of the Apartment & Certain Things Therein, Part II

( More Pics! )

Y'know, I keep saying I've moved out of my parents' house and into a place of my own, but where's the proof? I could be lying. Maybe I'm still living at home, dwelling in the basement. It's possible. After all, there's no proof. No pictures. No photographic evidence, know what I mean? Because I don't own a camera, digital or otherwise, and I don't really need one. But pictures of the apartment and things therein it would be nice, right? Right?

It's a good thing that paradox_ninja has a camera. Now I have proof.

So now, we proudly present...

Pictures of the Apartment & Certain Things Therein, Part I

( Photos behind the cut! )

With all the snow we've had this past week and a half, and all the whispers of snow in the future, plus the cold, the ice, the cold, etc.--the bunny that lives in the yard behind my apartment can't be too happy. Oh, sure, I can see its tracks through the snow so I know it's still alive--it probably frolics about in the moonlight just to keep from freezing--but hey, it's winter. Can't be too easy to find food out there, even in town, what with all the gangs of squirrels to compete with.

Then I thought to myself, hey, I have carrots! I eat carrots all the time. And bunnies, they like carrots. So I could...I could feed the bunny! Leave it some food in the back yard to keep it fat and happy. That would be nice.

Or better yet, since I never got to move to Seattle to live in my great-uncle's house, I could bring my great-uncle's house to Reedsburg. A bunny instead of squirrels, though. Can't be too difficult to go from leaving carrots in the backyard to half-taming the little guy and sneaking him into my apartment where there will be warm pillows and lots of carrots to munch.

Plus, in the dead of winter, when the snows are five feet deep and food is scarce, I can eat him.

Or we'll just raid my neighbor's apartment and take her cat.

Six days into December and I'm still wondering where November (not to mention the rest of the year) went. December already? Huh? What--what happened?

Don't get me wrong, I noticed when the month turned--first of the month comes and it's like, damn, gotta pay the rent. Didn't have that at home. Lived with my parents and probably overstayed my welcome two years past high school; not good in comparison to my sisters, two of whom scurried off to college in the Twin Cities right away, the third soon to follow. But I was going to school close to home, so why move out? Gas was cheaper than paying rent and buying groceries, so I had no reason to leave.

But times have changed, and here I am taking "a semester or two off" (so I like to say) from school, living in my own place, paying rent and buying groceries and worrying about bills. Working in a grocery store, you don't get paid much. Suddenly I'm on a budget. Most of the money I make now actually goes somewhere; now I have to watch my spending habits.

So, y'know, my book-buying addiction is starting to suffer. As you can see, November's haul is a bit smaller than previous months:

( November Books )

Yeah, that's right. Six books last month, taking the total this year to a healthy sum of, oh, one hundred eighty-nine. That's not extreme at all.

But suddenly I'm not tossing all my money into the bank, so suddenly my book-buying habits plummet. This is a good thing, I suppose, even though I kinda consider it a bad thing, because it's almost the end of the year and nearly time to focus on evaluating old--and making new--Re-Resolutions for the New New Year.

I recall being somewhat appalled by my so-called out-of-control spending last year, when I added fifty-odd books to my small library. So innocent. But I knew that I wouldn't curb my buying, stick to a budget, or keep a quota, so I decided instead to buy better books. Simple as that. Oh, nothing wrong with the occasional fantasy novel, of course, or the scattered collection of fiction plucked from the $1.00 clearance shelved at Half-Price Books, but what about the stuff I should be reading? Hey, philosophy! History! Why not, say, some classics?

Yeah, great ideas. Because deciding to focus on classics, history, and philosophy reeeally prepared me for all the philosophy, political philosophy, cultural anthropology, Greek mythology, 19th century European and Russian literature, African literature, South American literature, socialist works, dystopian novels, short story collections (45 book with a total of 760 stories, boy howdy), and, well, other books I actually got. Zounds. Maybe I should actually, y'know, read those.

After all, while I'm not making any re-resolutions yet, I should probably focus on the fact that I bought nearly 200 books this year. Gotta modify things accordingly. My bookshelves are overflowing--and I haven't even read about three-quarters of the books that are there--and I don't need to add another 200 to the list next year. Moving out of my parents' house and into the apartment did some good; it was a chore lugging eight boxes of books over there, buying and setting up two bookshelves, and trying to squeeze everything onto the shelves; at home I just piled the rest all over the room and didn't think about 'em. Now, I know how many books I own, and I know I can't fit too many more unless I start making stacks in the corners. So, methinks I'll have to, oh, read what I have before I buy things en masse again.

That's a scary little thought.

I have a confession to make.

You know I work at a grocery store, right? I'm a cashier. Morning cashier, full-time, to be precise; I open the store five days a week, do the 6-2:30 shift. That may change soon, with a small promotion on the horizon, but I digress. What I'm saying is, I haven't been completely honest with you. I'm not just a cashier. See, I got a new job, a second job, a few weeks ago, just to make some extra money for the apartment. And since this job is, well, less reputable than the grocery business, I didn't say anything. Wasn't gonna tell.

Until now. Turns out someone who knows me--and someone with a bit of a past & a grudge--saw me, er, working at my second job a few nights back. Worse yet, they had a video camera. And they caught me on film. And now this person just emailed me a copy of the video & has threatened to make it public--which could ruin my reputation--unless I do something for them.

Well, fuck it. I'm not letting this twisted coward use such low tactics to get what they want--you think you can embarrass me, fucker? Guess again! I'm not waiting for this to show up on Youtube: I'm showing this right here, right now.

( Behind the cut--NSFW! )