What Would You Do?

This question sort of hearkens back to high school as well as a scene in Office Space. We all fill out these basic questionnaires to see what type of job will best suit us in the future. Essentially, it's answering the question: what would you do with your life if there were no financial repercussions, family obligations, or long term consequences of any kind? Every time I ask myself this, I come up with but a few answers: holing up and playing music all day or holing up and listening to music all day. As it stands, neither holds much weight in terms of real life possibility but I'll get back to that.

I am currently in a position broadcasting high school football games. Actually, the word "position" is giving the experience too much credit. I make enough money to put the required gas in my car to drive around the Bay Area to actually do these games, so it's not like there's financial gain. I guess it's no big deal. It's not like I've been making any money the last 9 months anyway. But I stroll up to the press box every Friday, wading through waves of annoying high school kids and parents in the 'burbs who think I am a child molester, and keep my mind busy by secretly hoping this isn't what my future consists of. By kickoff, I have spent a solid hour and a half gathering stats and information about both teams and the players on them. I am thankful to be doing color commentary, where my voice is only needed in long stretches during breaks in the action as opposed to play by play. I hate the sound of my voice but not as much as I hate researching these kids who are gunning for big colleges and possibly a future in the NFL. They don't know me. They don't even know I exist. This shit shouldn't bother me, but it does and that is the way a life in sports broadcasting is gone about unless you are working in Bristol, CT. It just feels weird to know so much about athletes when they are hardly, if at all, aware of me in any way. I work with a great play by play man who, like many I've met in these circles, truly wants to get ahead in this niche. He wants every connection, every in, every contact there is to be made along the way so he can forever be the guy who delivered play by play for a bunch of unsuspecting athletes whose focuses always seem to be on the game only. I'm not in that gung ho boat of broadcasting. I got a degree in this field to have a more applicable craft, but it doesn't feel all that natural to me. I am not like my play by play partner, who shows up to each football game to get more experience under his belt for a future career. I show up every Friday hoping to see a good football game, and so far I'd say 2 out of 6 this season have been fun to call. I definitely draw a parallel between these feelings and the musical endeavors I undertook in high school.

Before I got to high school, I simultaneously played oboe for 2 years and sang in a boys choir in middle school. These weren't my first school music groups, but they definitely came at a time when I was ready to take things more seriously. My main focus was on oboe, which I not only played every day after school but also took private lessons for on a biweekly basis. It felt pretty intense, but I like being able to say that at least for 2 years, I could read music accurately. My playing got decent praise from the band director, but the instrument I used was rented and by the time we packed up and moved across the country, the last thing on my mind was continuing oboe (or soccer for that matter).

High school brought a whole different experience into my musical understanding. There was a critical moment at the end of freshman year where I had to decide between trying out for the show choir called Chanteurs or putting my efforts more toward athletics. I felt I could improve my basketball game enough to make varsity and take track and field more seriously, but after a year of being in the classical choir, there were Chanteurs members trying to heavily recruit me. I was hesitant, because my dancing is decidedly average at best and Chanteurs used a lot of it. My voice was decent enough in a group setting, and maybe they felt they needed some bass backup. Their efforts paid off, as I tried out in the Spring of '97. I got in not realizing the commitment required to perform in this group, but it was all for a great memory now that I think about it again. My biggest regret is not stepping up my game in the dancing department. In the practice studio was a huge mirror which we used to practice our dance routine. All the focus was on smiles and smoothness and jazz hands, only I didn't look at myself in the mirror. I knew it was ugly, so instead of using the mirror to my advantage in order to improve, I just checked out the hot girls instead. Why lie? The only problem with that approach is that many of our performances were filmed for home viewing, and boy do I look stupid. It is so obvious how full of shit I am on those videos that I actually feel bad for the other members. If any members from my era come across this, I'm sorry about that. I was at my strongest on the ballads and songs which required no dancing. I looked like everyone else instead of the horrible dancing white guy with the bad haircut. And while I was at fault to a certain degree on that end, I didn't feel I was fully to blame. All the way through high school, every piece of music I performed was written, arranged, and created by someone else. The songs meant nothing to me, so how could I be expected to look like I was all about it? We'd get up there and sing religious songs during the holidays, and I was supposed to look like I was really feeling it. I wasn't religious back then, nor am I to this day. I was full of shit to a certain degree but not in those cases. I simply had no choice in the matter.

By the time I got to college, I was both weirded out by the fact that the main driving force in my life for the past 3 years was suddenly over and exhausted from it as well. Only after I stopped did I realize how intense the schedule was. I played intramural volleyball, snuck alcohol into dorm rooms, started playing bass guitar, and was introduced to music that didn't require sequin vests and session musicians. It is now making me think of that "what would you do" question. It is rooted in playing in some awesome bands throughout college and up until last year. As awesome as Chanteurs was in high school, it didn't provide enough creativity on our parts. We were given the music to sing and given the steps to dance. I'm not sure it could be any other way in that setting, but being part of the writing process is really what makes music special.

To answer that question, it has been suggested that I really take it up seriously and learn music from an institutional standpoint to step it up a notch. That is a good idea, but I feel what I want to play doesn't require all those resources to be lost. I am not classically trained nor do I have supreme chops, but I can write the type of music that I would hope to be known for. The whole idea of classical music is still quite strange to me. Here you have perhaps the most gifted musicians in the world playing music that was written for them instead of by them. I respect the hell out of their playing ability, but I seriously question if they are able to make it up themselves. Not only that but the audience they cater to confuses me. Over the summer, I went to a concert in the park with my family, in Arcadia of all places. I probably hadn't been there in 8 years, so that alone was strange. We get into the park and the music was great. Live classical music really is good stuff, but it received little more than golf claps. Then, they announced the show was over and as people started getting up to go, the orchestra began playing "We Are the Champions" by Queen. After a great set of classical music with so-so response, the crowd then came to life with a pop rock song and put their lighters in the air like it was 1976 all over again. It also reminds me of classically trained studio musicians, who spend their whole lives recording commercial jingles and hoping for big exposure breaks to come along, as in being in the background while Ashley Simpson does a song on Conan O'Brian. This is why I don't go to school for music. Being attached to what I'm writing is more important to me than being good at what I'm playing. I guess that's why I'm sitting here bitching about it as opposed to doing something about it. So basically, I've accomplished nothing other than some good writing time. Guess I'll take it.

Funeral Doom at 28

I am coming up on another birthday tomorrow. It's kind of weird every year where you just think to yourself, "Wow it's actually here" in a way that is increasingly more forlorn than it was growing up. I have this unhelpful new habit where I research musicians, actors, and any artists, living or dead, to see what they were up to when they were my age. I check their filmographies and discographies and think back to where I was and what I was doing at the same age they were getting recognized for their respective creative outputs. Does that make enough sense? Of course, turning 28 has had me thinking about "the curse of 27" in regards to the four music icons who died at that age: Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison of the Doors, Janis Joplin, and Kurt Cobain of Nirvana. Actually, technically, I have now outlived all of them, but turning the literal age page tomorrow will make it official. It's annoying thinking about how much they accomplished by this age and how little I have in the same span. So to piss myself off even more, I made a quick list of dead musicians who have had a lot of influence on me and who wasted no time in pumping out awesome songs and albums by the time they were my age. True, most of them lived past the age of 28, but true also that they achieved greatness in my ears by then. I was trying to come up with 10, sort of like a game of David Letterman Mortality Checkers, but I topped out at 8. I didn't want to throw in two extra people I cared little about just to make it. I'm not trying to make it sound like I don't care about them, but I just don't have that emotional attachment. I won't take away what Jimi Hendrix did for rock music, but nothing particularly draws me to his style. John Lennon would be another easy one, but I happen to think the Beatles are one of the most overrated, overcredited music acts of all time. It's tragic what happened to John Lennon, but I'm trying to put the scope of the work in the context of my appreciation for it. I wasn't alive in the '60s, so from a purely objective point of view I think the Beach Boys had more going for them than the Beatles in a musical sense. So it's a tribute to the top 8 musicians in my world who own a piece of my life, did so while they were younger than 28, and whom I wish were still here for more perfection. Their demises were a combination of bad choices and bad luck, and I miss them and their music. I didn't know them but I still do.

8. Cliff Burton, Metallica bassist, 1962-1986. Cliff was the busy bass man in the biggest metal band of the '80s. Incredible finger agility helped produce the low end on classic albums Kill Em All (when he was just 21), Ride the Lightning, and Master of Puppets. A bus crash ended it in Sweden.

7. Chuck Schuldiner, frontman of Death, 1967-2001. When it comes to writing death metal songs, Chuck Schuldiner is still unmatched. In a genre where most bands focus on trying to be the fastest, most technical, and most brutal, Chuck let those bands exist while he destroyed them with 7 masterpiece albums starting at the age of 20. Luckily, the band's final opus with Chuck, The Sound of Perseverance, came out when he was 31 so I still have time to match that. Not. Cancer came into the picture, and that was that.

6. Layne Staley, Alice In Chains singer, 1967-2002. With Nirvana and Pearl Jam came Alice In Chains, a seminal third option in the explosive grunge era. More haunting and introspective than his Seattle brethren, Staley appeared on albums that have stood the test of time such as Dirt (1992, 25 years old) and Jar of Flies (1994, 27 years old). Considering his lyrical content detailing his biggest vice, it probably surprised no one that his death was drug related in 2002.

5. Phil Lynott, Thin Lizzy singer/bassist, 1949-1986. As far as I can tell, Thin Lizzy revolutionized the way dual guitars were used in rock and metal. Phil Lynott backed up that attack with great bass lines and ridiculously infectious vocal parts. Starting in 1971, when Lynott was just 22, the band released at least one album every year of fiery influential rock through 1981. This includes 1978's Live and Dangerous, still my favorite live album to date. Despite or because of their success, Lynott was heavy into drugs and alcohol and it caught up with him.

4. Jim Morrison, singer for The Doors, 1943-1971. The turbulent times surrounding the United States while The Doors were around make me wish even more I could have been around to witness this band. Jim Morrison managed to sound like a wild man on record; I can only imagine what he was like in person. He was the poet behind a plethora of great songs that uprooted the happy flower power attitude of California and gave the movement some sustenance and balls, all while Morrison was in his mid-20s. As many people do, I remain confused by the details of his death, but he was 27 and ahead of his time on the lyrical spectrum.

3. Witold "Vitek" Kieltyka, drummer for Decapitated, 1984-2007. One of the first bands to pique my interest in brutal death metal was Decapitated from Poland. Much of the reason they did can be attributed to Vitek, who was a furious master blaster and could vary his feet rhythms on the double kick mid riff. I listen to his chops and just say, "holy shit" to myself over and over. Really, that's all you can say. He recorded two masterpiece albums , Winds of Creation in 2000 (16 years old) and Nihility in 2002 (18 years old) at an age when most of us are barely driving. He died as Cliff Burton did, in a tour bus accident, traveling to show while in Russia.

2. Kurt Cobain, singer/guitarist for Nirvana, 1967-1994. This one is fairly obvious, but it took me awhile to realize the social impact and scope of his passing. I was only 12 when he killed himself, so understanding what it meant was difficult back then. I can hear now why he was chosen as the voice of that early 90s generation. People were growing up, and you can only listen to 80s spandex butt metal for so long. Cobain had a great knack for songwriting, and I often wonder what direction his music would be going in if he was still alive today. The thing I feel most sorry about is the fact that Cobain had so many strangers who hung on his every move and word but no one he could lean on to help him avoid what eventually happened. He was apparently not ready for the fame and fortune that followed his music, I just wish he could have pep talked himself into a contented middle area.

1. Jon Nodtveidt, vocalist/guitarist for Dissection, 1975-2006. When I first started listening to metal, it was of the death metal variety. All fast, all the time, constant brutality. It took finding this band to realize I am more of a black metal fan, and Dissection did it better than any band I've heard since. A perfect combination of thrashy goodness, icy riffs (they are Swedish after all), and atmosphere, Nodtveidt was the lead songwriter for all their material. At 18 years of age, he recorded The Somberlain, a formidable first offering in what was, at that time, a new and untested genre. Two years later, the masterpiece that is Storm of the Light's Bane arrived, and even though I wasn't a fan of this band until 10 years after the fact, it remains the main reason why this band is unrivaled for me. Then Nodtveidt went and did some stupid shit. He was an accessory to murder, in what capacity I don't know. He spent 7 years in jail and reformed the band upon his release. In 2004, they recorded an amazing live DVD from Sweden which showcases beautifully the ease with which Nodtveidt could destroy an audience and make them beg for more. He killed himself in the same manner Kurt Cobain did, and I'm still pissed about it because I never got to see Dissection live.

I didn't make this list, because I want to become a famous musician. Well, I wouldn't mind that but in no way am I banking on it happening. I'm just impressed with how talented these individuals were at a younger age than I am now. I am really thankful they were able to put these records and songs out to be appreciated before succumbing to the forces that be. If there is an afterlife of any kind and they get word that some loser in the East Bay is throwing a shout out to them, I hope they can be happy about it.

I'm Ready For Football

I haven't written in awhile, but I'll take this opportunity because it is opening weekend of NCAA football and a week away from the start of the NFL season. I have tried convincing myself in the past that these are not special occasions, but that is pretty foolish. The fact is I love the game of football, and no matter what level the players are on (including high school and junior college), I will stop and watch if I have a chance.

Oddly enough, I barely played any organized football growing up. In Texas, school athletics begin in 7th grade rather than 9th as in California. I was still in Texas for 7th grade and had originally registered for a theatre class. After the first day, feeling uncomfortable with the ad libbing and expressive nature of the surroundings, I opted to get out. I wasn't in the frame of mind at 13 years of age to "find" myself through obsolete characters I didn't feel connected with. The only other elective I had the opportunity to join was the football team, which couldn't refuse people. Not that they would have refused me because by my own cocky volition, I was an athletic kid with a soccer background and was used to running. My favorite part of football was getting to play both offense and defense, but my game time was limited so all my glory occurred in practices. I was a lineman on offense and a linebacker on defense. Clearly, linebacker was the most fun. At that age, the coaches basically instructed my position to find the guy with the ball and tear his fucking head off. In soccer, I was more of a finesse player at forward because with only shin guards as protection I felt exposed. As a football player, I played with reckless abandon. When you are wearing full body protection, you feel bigger than you really are. Because I had missed the summer practices, I was third string everything and the coaches probably didn't expect players of my ilk to test the starters. We were more or less the practice squad that got them ready for games, but we took that shit seriously. I remember more than a few occasions busting my way through the line of scrimmage on a blitz and putting hits on the star quarterback of our school. Of course, that led to all his first string cohorts hurling playful insults at him and he probably hated us third stringers when we threw him down to the ground.

Of course, it wasn't always fun. There's a reason I was third string. Before our first game, which took place on the road two days after I joined the team, I had no cleats to wear so I boarded the bus with no option but to wear my Converse All Stars. At halftime, our head coach was asking who hadn't played yet. I stepped up and asked to play defense. He looked at me and laughed in my face. Can't really blame him. For another game, I washed the football pants but switched the knee pads with the thigh pads. I thought it felt wrong when I put them on, but I attributed that to nerves more than anything. Turns out it actually WAS wrong. But all in all, it was a fun season. My glory on defense was relegated to practices, and strangely enough all the game time I eventually did receive that year was on the offensive line, which I found really boring but that's how I was used. The drills in practice helped my athleticism and probably made my soccer skills stronger. And on weekends, I followed the high flying Houston Oilers with Warren Moon at the helm. They had the best uniforms, the best offense, and the worst playoff loss in NFL history, which I think started their move to Tennessee, a team I refuse to cheer for. They are the same franchise, not the same team. You don't see people in Cleveland rooting for the Ravens just because they used to be the Browns.

Nostalgia is a funny beast. It creeps up on you at unsuspecting times. Watching the first weekend of college football has me remembering so much. We had season tickets to Texas A&M games in the early 90s when Corey Pullig at QB and Leland McElroy at RB were leading the charge. We went to every home game for a few years at a time when they never lost at Kyle Field. They had an amazing band, which has the best halftime performance you will ever see. I remember one Saturday I had a soccer game where I got violently and blindly slide tackled as I was taking a shot, resulting in a badly sprained ankle which kept me out for almost the whole season. We iced my foot for the remainder of that game, after which point I was carried to my Mom's car. Instead of taking me home to rest, we had a football game to go to. I wrapped my arms around my mom and stepdad to avoid pressure on my ankle, and we made our way to the gate. Our season ticket seats were high up in the stadium, so I had to grip the railing and hobble my way up the steep concrete steps. All for the love of football and a game the Aggies won. A loss would have been highly unacceptable for the amount of work it took to get there.

Stiffer Penalties For Divorce

I was watching "Bowling For Columbine," the Michael Moore film about gun violence in the U.S. recently. In it, he pulls a great clip (get it?) from a Chris Rock performance where Rock says something to the effect of, "If you wanna stop the crime, forget about the guns and focus on the bullets. Guns will always be around, but if a single bullet costs $5,000 there won't be anymore innocent bystanders. For $5,000 a bullet, you know the person who got shot must have really pissed someone off."

I like that idea, but it seems too far fetched to ever be taken seriously. Maybe mine is too, but it seems at least somewhat reasonable. I've got my politician's cap on, trying to think of how we could produce extra cash in this economy. Obviously, putting money in the government's pockets means either cutting spending from any number of groups or populations, raising taxes on certain items (such as cigarettes), or creating or raising fine levels for certain actions (such as parking illegally). I'm thinking more along the lines of this last one. I started by thinking of groups to hold back from, but that's just uncool. I've seen enough music and arts programs go under to think I know what deserves to stay and what deserves to go. Do we really need a nation full of math and science dweebs? I think music and art is more important, but I digress. Raising taxes, well that's going to happen anyway. They don't need my help on that one.

Ah, but married couples. Such an easy target, it makes me wonder why Washington D.C. hasn't considered something like this. So here we go. Marriage is a joke in this country. Britney Spears can get married for 48 hours, sign a couple documents and be out of it with no penalty. This no penalty shit is what needs to change. Conservatives think gay people are ruining the sanctity of marriage, and I say that is stupid. What is ruining the sanctity of marriage is the fact that there are no rules governing it. Why do we act so surprised that half the marriages in this country end in divorce? There's no harsh consequences. Jack and Jill can get married and at the slightest hint of discord, they can just pack it up and move on. Pay a court fee and sign the X. What should happen is a stiff fine for getting divorced. Just like in the Chris Rock clip, if you are willing to pay $10,000 apiece to the government to finalize a divorce, you must really hate the shit out of each other. This would be on top of legal fees and property matters. Just $10,000 each right to the government because you couldn't keep it together. In the meantime, this will force us stupid idiots to think harder about who we are marrying, cut down on the divorce rate, improve childrens' lives by having two parents in the house, and beef up the nation's cash money situation for the people who won't mind forking over the money to get away from their spouse.

Lack of Inspirado

I didn't expect something like a Tenacious D television episode to bum me out, but it has. The guys do all these ridiculous things to gain "inspirado" for writing a new tune, and it got me thinking about my own relationship with creating riffs.

I've been a bummed out dude for a while now, and I feel my own inspirado was previously fueled by a number of factors that have since disappeared. The most obvious of these was a job, which got me out of the house and tired me out on a day to day basis so that when I got home, a very logical thing to do was pick up my bass and play. I didn't come up with new stuff every day of course, but there was definitely a concerted effort to produce something. My focus was never to make increasingly technical riffs that no one would ever be able to copy. In fact, I became skilled in ripping off other artists while putting what I thought was my own spin on things. Of course, every musician thinks they are bringing something new to the table so I probably wasn't doing anything special but every couple months, I could map out, memorize, and be happy with a continuous progression of riffs and ideas. I wouldn't call them songs, because I basically just played each idea a pre-determined number of times. I took pride in these self-appointed "riff packages." I don't consider myself a natural bass player, which means finding the right sound and feel took a lot of time practicing alone, trial and error, correcting mistakes, and dropping ideas and switching gears altogether. Having a job was one major source of this process, naturally lending itself to winding down at the end of a day without turning off the brain completely. However, it wasn't the main source of my drive.

For over 2 years, I played in one of my favorite bands ever. All people who play in bands might feel obligated to say they are in the best band ever, but I am convinced to this day that I had that luxury. Maybe it was because I had just gotten out of a rock band that played completely mediocre music and had a great appreciation for the improvement of the sound I was surrounded by. It helped that I was invited to play in this group by my best friend. For the first few months, we kind of felt each other out and put some simple songs together by jamming. After writing a few songs this way, some kind of fire was lit under us and we took on a more focused process that helped deliver tunes that get stuck in my head all the time. And yet, somehow, we knew our comraderie was a helpful tool in arriving at such cool song destinations. We took the music seriously, not each other. We spent time every practice goofing around and talking. Maybe it wasn't as efficient as it could have been, but it worked for us. Around the time the fire was lit under us to write good music, my practice time at home went from easy going job wind down to intensive riff making for band purposes. Jamming together helped us create a sound and energy that we were excited about, but I wanted reinforcements for down time. When we got to points in jam sessions where the next move was unknown, I liked being able to lay some riffs down as possibilities to keep the momentum. Every time I did this, the other members were able to dissect it, expand it, and bring it to new territories I hadn't even thought of, which in turn gave me more incentive to write music. I would pound out riffs at home, wondering all along how the other 2 guys would interpret it and improve it. For me, the entire second half of our existence was an exciting week to week adventure in the bowels of song writing. Practices would end, and on my way home I would already be thinking about what would happen next in the song we were working on.

My job and my band both ended within two weeks of each other. I accepted the idea of not having a job quicker than I did of not having a band. But not just any band, that band. I could go join a shitty group right now, but it wouldn't mean anything. To this day, I don't have a problem with the circumstances as to why the band is done, I just miss it. And my inspirado is gone. From a job standpoint, I don't have that need to unwind on my couch with my bass. I'm at home all the time now, so it's like reverse prognosis. It's just standing there wondering why it's not worthy, and I ignore it. She's my baby, but a couple times a week still I'll pick her up and start playing. I can dominate the old riffs I wrote in the job/band days, but as soon as I try to come up with something new, it's like I'm playing this instrument for the first time. I can write a riff, but it's stale and boring. It might even work for some people, but if it doesn't work for the writer, what's the point? It's not good enough for me, so I dismiss it and start over. It lasts ten or fifteen minutes before I get frustrated and put the bass back. I would spend 2 hours at a time in the old days. And I have no band to get hyped for, so there's no immediacy in my process. With my band, I'd tell myself the day before practice to accomplish something in case new riffs were in demand. It wasn't easy, but I would get something done, even if it was minor. Maybe it wasn't a lot, but it'd usually be enough to feel good about by the time I went to bed. I look at my bass now, and it surprises me that I pounded out so many riffs on that thing. You hear people say all the time how writing music will always be a part of them no matter what. I used to think I was part of that club, but seeing how I've turned out has definitely proven that wrong. I feel like a fake, a guy who wrote music when it mattered and had substance. It meant something and had a source. I can't write good music just because. I can write good music when it has a story and when something is on my mind. I figured being home a lot and being depressed would provide something similar, but it hasn't. I would like to be able to put together a good riff package, but only time will tell. How's that for cliched?

Jon and Kate Plus Hate

Continuing on with my unsympathetic theme from the previous post, I set my sights on the family dynamic surrounding Jon and Kate Gosselin of reality TV fame. Last night was the new season premiere and first on-air goings on since reports of Jon cheating on Kate surfaced. It was painful to watch, even for someone like me who likes seeing awkward moments. But then again, I tuned in to watch this episode knowing full well it would be chock full of these. Previously, the show didn't interest me much. TLC loves putting shows on the air detailing couples with way too many kids (18 Kids and Counting, Table For 12, Jon and Kate Plus 8), and seeing the stress of running an overstuffed household doesn't really interest me. Watching a marriage on the verge of collapse has a better ring to it. I'm betting TLC got some incredible ratings for Jon and Kate last night, and it has nothing to do with the fact that their sextuplets were celebrating their 5th birthday. During the interview segments of the episode, which usually show Jon and Kate together, the couple spoke separately and bitterly.

Kate had more of these segments and I have to say I am not fooled by her bullshit. She constantly spoke out against the papparazzi following her and her children. In fact, she took the kids shopping alone and told the TLC crew how she hated the papparazzi. Upon hearing this word, the kids chimed in and asked, "Mommy, what's papparazzi?" Despite having just said this word out loud to the crew, she got upset when her kids spoke it back to her out of curiosity. Her pleas for sympathy lasted the entire hour. Her extreme naivety made me want to throw something at my television screen. She whined along, saying all she signed up for a few years back was a show detailing her 8 kids. She didn't think anything would ever go wrong, because she's living in a fantasy world. She must have been too busy with the kids to see what happened after Newlyweds and Hogan Knows Best ended their runs. She whined some more about how her kids had started calling her by their babysitter's name, the reason being she chose to go out on a national book tour while leaving Jon and a babysitter at home. So, in summation, she hates media attention, cameras, and controversy but chose a money grubbing media tour over her kids with a marriage on the ropes. This in addition to the good money they are making just by signing on with TLC in the first place. The cameras aren't following you around because you are so interesting. You signed up your kids while they were too young to object, hungry for fame and greedy for money, but now you don't like having your dirty laundry aired out. Should have thought about that before your arrogance and refusal to consider the consequences took control of you. Take the good with the bad. You had no problem ordering your husband around while things looked bright and rosy, but maybe you did it too much and drove him to this destination. He's cheating on you because there are women who aren't complete bitches 24 hours a day like you are.

No Sympathy for the Feeble Minded

There's a great show on cable called American Greed, which details money making schemes on large scales. Most of the episodes I have seen have centered around Ponzi schemes. While I'm not a financial wizard by any stretch, the concept seems simple enough in scope but doomed nonetheless: greedy person starts what seems to be a legitimate investment company; greedy person starts promising investors incredible returns on potential investments to get the ball rolling; greedy person then delivers on those promises by using investments from one person to pay off another while keeping any leftovers. The cycle continues with more and more investors until finally the government finds out or the company goes bankrupt due to no actual revenue being generated. The show's intended theme is to make the viewer dislike the greedy schemers as much as the people they have victimized. It works for the most part. I mean, there's no reason to feel bad for the schemers who have pocketed unearned cash from hard working regular folks. Fair enough. They're doing bad stuff and they eventually get jail time for it.

But the victims this show tries to paint such sympathetic pictures of are who I focus on more than the schemers themselves. They come on there saying stuff like, "Well (Schemer's name here) was promising to double my investment, so I sent in $5,000 just as a tester to see what would happen and sure enough I got a check for $10,000 a month later." Inevitably, the investors then start pouring in huge amounts of money as in life savings, retirement funds, mortgage payments, and trust funds. We, the viewers, are supposed to feel bad for them as they look into the camera and sniffle along. "That was my life, everything I had, and now I have nothing." Then they say stuff like, "That man's greed ruined my life, my family's life, and everything I worked so hard for." Yeah and I'm supposed to feel bad for you. Actually, dumbass, it was your own greed that ruined your life. You're just pissed because you got taken for a fool. You saw a return on an investment that was made on blind faith. You didn't do your homework on the company, you didn't bother to find out what the source of income was on that company, and you didn't ask any questions. You saw the money once and never looked back. Explain to me why I should feel bad for you for taking out your life savings and dumping it into an investment you have no knowledge of. The only difference between you and the guy who schemed you out of everything you had is he's doing jail time and you're not. The level of greed is exactly the same in my eyes, you just don't have the brains to concoct such a grand plan. So, no, I don't feel bad for you. Do your homework next time and quit having so much faith in the good of mankind. More often than not, mankind is trying to take its brethren for the proverbial ride.

My Case Against Earth Day

So I guess today is Earth Day, which has a largely positive connotation. Save the planet, take public transportation, go green, all that shit. The problem I have is that it's like a Get Out of Jail Free Card. I took BART into the city today to do some stuff and check things out. I got out of my car at the parking garage and saw a family getting out of a Mercedes SUV to do their part. Way to set the example, Mom. Everywhere I looked, people had shirts, signs, and whatever else they could find to spread the message. All the slogans were green-themed and Earth friendly. I'm all for the surface value of these messages, but the fact is there are people who wait for this day in particular to make an attempt at creating a difference. It doesn't mean their efforts are pointless or without merit, it just means they wait to perform positive actions on this one day to feel like they are part of some 24 hour movement. It would make more sense to me to have a Fuck Earth Day. Let's turn the tables around. Think about it. Fuck Earth Day. This would presume the idea that for the entire year minus one day, the world, and especially Americans, would be making a concerted effort to reduce those actions that harmfully impact our planet. Let's just pretend we could ever pull that off. If we could actually do that, then having a Fuck Earth Day would be super. It would mean that we've been protecting the Earth for the whole year and for one day we can let loose a little. There'd be no guilt about leaving the air conditioner on all day or leaving kitchen appliances plugged in when they aren't being used and all the other small things that could make a difference on a large scale. Unfortunately, our priorities are turned all around. We obliterate the planet year round while pretending not to realize it, then turn around and pat ourselves on the back for a day because we took our own tote bag to the grocery store (which we still drove to in our gas powered car) rather than double bag our food with plastic. Yeah, hooray for us. Everyone is so proud of themselves for doing one good deed for one day of the year. Personally, I vote for Fuck Earth Day.

Laughing All the Way to the Bank

This is what I do when I have to visit my bank. I laugh on the inside, because I know I'll have to put up with fake people asking scripted questions. They don't want them to sound that way, but I can tell they are because no matter who "helps" me with my transaction, the delivery is exactly the same. Now, I tend to go to the bank either Thursday or Friday when duty calls. Don't ask me why, I just do. I fill out my deposit slip and step up to the window. They first ring up the check and deposit slip on their monitor, which must have a delay because that's when the first question comes up. "How is your day going so far?" I consider my options. Every fiber of my being wants to mess with this person's head. I might as well be talking to the Terminator. The robot sensibility is undeniable. There's a great part in the movie Groundhog Day with Bill Murray after he's lived the same day over a few times and is used to the idea. He goes downstairs to the dining room and starts answering all the questions that the innkeeper would ask anyway. He cuts to the chase, and it's brilliant: "Slept like a baby, I'd love some coffee, I'll be staying another night, have a nice day." Then, whoosh, he's gone. I think I'll do this at the bank from now on just to save everyone the trouble. Because after I answer the question about how my day is going, the next question arrives with utter predictability. "Do you have any plans this weekend?" Well, that all depends on what you consider a certifiable "plan." I mean, in your view of the world, probably not. I'm not going to any fairs, carnivals, or parades. I won't see any friends, make new enemies, or cause any trouble. I will rearrange my records for no reason just to kill some time, pace around my living room shooting fake basketball shots while trying to have a grand inquisition, play years old riffs on my bass to feel like I'm still creative, watch an episode of Seinfeld in syndication, and look at old pictures to try and rekindle an idea of who I am and where I came from. I'm sure the hot college chick handling my money and laughing at how broke I'm becoming doesn't want to hear any of this, though. I'll simply tell her, "No, no plans this weekend. Just the usual." But I think next time, I'll steal a page from the Groundhog Day script. I'll walk in and the delivery will have a supreme finality. "Just a deposit, no money back, my day's going great and I don't have any plans this weekend." That should take care of all the unneeded conversation and allow for an awkward silence that hangs like early morning mildew while my check is being swiped and receipt being printed. And I live for awkward silences.

This Isn't Brain Surgery

I've had a number of physically but not mentally challenging jobs where my bosses say, "This isn't brain surgery." I know the idea they are trying to convey, but I interpret it differently even so. If someone at my job tells me that, they should be ready to deal with my mistakes. It's not that I'll go out of my way to screw up, but the fact is I'm a clumsy bastard. When you give me extremely repetitive work, the lack of brain activity actually works against me. I had an office job for almost three years, and I performed consistently well because I had to think some. It kept me focused. I'm two work days into this new direction and already I'm screwing up. I don't consider myself stupid, it's just that my mind starts wandering when all I have to do is walk in a straight line for 300 feet with a spray paint can. So when my boss goes, "this isn't brain surgery," I want to say, "Exactly!" My miscues won't kill anyone, hurt anyone, or cause serious problems. This isn't a billion dollar corporation in a thriving industry. This is a set of baseball fields governed by a guy who's been doing this for 20 years and uses a 2X4 office space. If it was as important as you're making it out to be, you'd be able to fit two people side by side in there. I'd like to apologize that my aspirations in life don't amount to chalking infields for the rest of my days, but I'm not going to. I may be lazy, but I am better than this. And I have no choice but to do it anyway. I don't dislike working outside, getting my hands dirty, and feeling the pain at the end of the day. It's great knowing I've had worse jobs than this. I just hate taking shit off suburban simpletons who can do nothing else in this world and take advantage of that fact by acting high and mighty. So now my pants are around my ankles and I have to take it. I'll go read some Calvin and Hobbes. It builds character.

Epic Failure

Recently returned from New York, I have been playing this one particular album over and over. For one thing, the band is really good and merits repeated listens despite the back story. But the fact is, there is a back story. I saw this band in Manhattan under unusual circumstances, and all these listens bring me back, not only to the trip itself, but especially to that night and the craziness that happened. It's one of those albums that will forever hold extra meaning, and no one could have predicted such a lofty outcome. It got me thinking about other albums in my life that hold the same clout. There are really only a couple, but one still sticks out more than ever, and it is a tale of unnerving regret and humiliation.

In high school, I was not the cool kid. I was taller than average and underweight. As in grossly lanky and with a bad haircut to boot. So when this one particular female actually talked to me, I was surprised and thinking it might be a joke. For three years, we ran cross country in the fall and were both hurdlers on the track team in the spring. She was a good athlete but was modest in nature and didn't like talking about her success. Away from the track, she was unlike most Asian girls at school. She had green streaks in her hair and wore army style boots. She was mostly anti-social until you got to know her. Despite her grace on the track, her true calling was in art and was unmatched in that department. Once I realized she wasn't fucking with me, I opened up to her and we shared intimate details about each other. She introduced me to a band I had only heard one song of up to that point. That is the problem with radio hits. Whole opinions about an aural art form are based on a 3 minute snippet that is force fed by a DJ who talks over the entire intro.

The song I knew was "Creep." The band was Radiohead. She bought me their new album at the time, OK Computer. She was in love with Thom Yorke's vision, and I knew why after I heard that album. The radio tune was "Karma Police," and she hoped everyone would hear that song and skip the album so she could have the band all to herself. I remember thinking how harrowing and morbid OK Computer sounded for a mainstream music enterprise. With most albums I listened to back then, I would serve the music with other actions such as homework or cleaning. With OK Computer, I just sat on my floor and heard what was going on. I thought it was awesome and respect for my friend, already busting at the seams, grew even greater. Needless to say, we were both ecstatic when Radiohead announced a tour that would pass through L.A. in support of OK Computer. This was a perfect opportunity to see these songs live and expand our minds naturally. I felt great too, because I was able to break the news to her about the show. Usually, she would be the one doing this but somehow the news had escaped her. I told her I'd get the tickets, she could pay me back later, and we could go have a great time. It never felt like romance between us. It was just going to be two great friends having the best time ever. No pressure, just awesome. The tickets went on sale on Sunday morning, and I had to physically go to a record store to buy them. For one, I wasn't smart enough to think of finding tickets online at that age, which is pretty sad for a 17 year old. However, I also didn't get permission from my mom and certainly this would have been needed to buy online. I wasn't one of these kids who swiped mommy's plastic. So, I headed down to Music Warehouse around noon. The tickets had gone on sale at 10am. We all know where this is going. I strided into the store, ready to be the hero for my friend and excited to see Radiohead. I announce to the guy at the counter, like it's a proclamation of national importance, "Two tickets to Radiohead." Straight and to the point. In the face of a potentially life-altering moment, the prospect of heart crushing disappointment never really occurred to me. I had to do chores in the morning, the whole time smiling and envisioning how incredible all of this would turn out. This must have been my undoing. "Sold out," the guy says. It was so typical-sounding. It was like he had been saying those two words all day. Which I guess he was. Just doing his job, not giving two shits about Radiohead, ushering stupid kids like me away for the next customer. But I wasn't ready to leave so easily. I had too much riding on this. I ask, "Really? As in nothing left? At all? Nothing?" The guy was visibly ready to get on with his day. With a finality that is hard to forget, he raised his eyebrows, lifted his shoulders and said, "Gone in an hour. No more." With that, I was left to exit the store.

Telling my friend this news was not easy. She already knew I was going for the tickets, so I didn't have hours and days to think about my approach. Well, really, in this situation there is no easy way to break it. She was calling my house by 2 that afternoon, unaware of the events that had unfolded. She was still excited, the way I had been in the morning. She was ready to see Radiohead, her favorite band in the world. I was the one who had to tell her sorry. Her disappointment has stuck with me. She spent some time fretting at the fact that I wasn't lined up at the record store early in the morning to guarantee tickets. That hurt a little, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming disappointment. The kind that doesn't involve yelling and insults but just the downer, depressed hopelessness that it invoked.

That is what I think about every time I hear OK Computer, which is already a heavy hearted record. It wasn't supposed to happen, but it did. It's not like there weren't other chances to see Radiohead, but it was the only time it could have happened with her and in that moment. Nothing can bring that back, nothing can undo my stupidity. It was complete failure with my name all over it.

I (used to) Work Hard, I (used to) Play Hard

At some point, things started changing. Probably around the time I moved out of San Francisco. I drive around the suburbs and see the occasional bar. An establishment such as this makes perfect sense in a big city such as SF, where public transportation allows the individual to get completely wasted without having to worry about getting home. That and the fact that bars in big cities have unique personalities and atmospheres. The bank I use is in a shopping center here in Pleasant Hill, like everything else here for that matter. Included in its confines is a bar. I have never been inside, but I often walk by out of curiosity. The reason I don't go in is because there are always patron reps outside its doors depicting what lies beyond. Gross white people with their bass fishing shirts tucked into their denim jeans slurring through old sports stories. Like Al Bundy without the clever script. I peek in and it looks like an Applebee's restaurant without the dining area. Then again, who am I to talk shit? There's plenty of stuff that needs fixing in my own world, but I single out others and their idiocies to take the edge off. Insecurity is probably to blame. As much as I'd love to step into that circle and discuss sports with those folks, the fact that I actually don't know too much keeps me at a distance. I start realizing that I know very little about lots of topics rather than very much about a few. I can't hold it together. I turn to music and think maybe I know shit, but I don't. I play a few riffs on my bass, but it doesn't make me a musician. I listen to a few bands, but I can't go into great lengths. I don't even know some of my favorite album names. My cd's are stacked standing, so I recognize them by design and color rather than name. I think I know shit about sports, but I know lots of guys who try talking about it with me only to realize I can only hold it down for a couple minutes before I'm out. I don't know what I know the most about, but I know I don't know much. I should probably do something about that. It would probably help my situation. That shitty bar serving all the blandest beers around isn't sounding too bad right now. I can walk instead of drive, laugh instead of cry, and maybe learn something for a change.

Home on the Strange

I got back from New York about 1am yesterday morning. Resuming my routine of job hunting, I'm sitting here asking myself, "Did I really just spend a week in New York"? I am tempted to wave off the possibility except for the fact that I have incredibly distinct day by day accounts, 190 photos, and a shit ton of memories that have nothing to do with location at all. It's a funny thing about traveling. When I go places, I rarely retain details of individual stops. They provide a new backdrop, and maybe that fact is what helps the conversations and actions taking place there seem more prominent. For now, everything is so fresh in my head. I am thinking back on the smaller details of what went down, and as much fun as I ended up having, not everything was smooth. And that's okay. Life doesn't take vacations just because pretty boy Josh does. Awkward moments and nervous laughs serve to even out the dreamy surreality.

New Surroundings

I have had something to look forward to for the last couple weeks, a trip to New York. After I lost my job, the idea came to me but I figured it was far reaching and unattainable. I'm not accustomed to having freedom with regards to time. I was employed steadily since 2004, and all of a sudden I had no idea what to do. I've been holed up for a month looking for jobs, but I am now going to take a week to be completely selfish. New York and I go way back. My mom used to let me fly alone as a kid to visit my dad. My grandma has lived in the same house in Levittown since the 1950s. She used to impart culture on me, albeit the touristy kind, but nonetheless. We'd see sights like the Intrepid, all the museums, musicals, and one time a jazz concert at the Lincoln Center featuring Wynton Marsalis. There's pictures of us at the Empire State Building and standing at the top of the World Trade Center. I was old enough to remember but too young to appreciate these days.

My dad hates tourists in New York but would brave places to take me to shows, something I've always loved. Over the years we've seen Chick Corea at the Blue Note club, the annual Christmas Carol show at Madison Square Garden, and the Radio City Rockettes. All the time and memories I have of New York stem from postive surroundings. It's been six years since I last visited, a time when I was still in college and not having to deal with the real world yet. I could just go for two weeks and not worry about what happened next. It's not the case now. I would love to leave the pressures of reality at the airport in San Francisco tomorrow, enjoy myself to the fullest in New York, and return rejuvenated at the prospect of possibility.

My best friend just moved to Brooklyn, which helped fuel my desire to visit. I hope he helps show me parts of New York I never knew existed. Touristy shit is fine and dandy, but this is a great time for me to see less homogenized parts of a cutting edge destination. Or maybe I don't need to see anything. Maybe I just want to sit and have a face to face conversation like old times. Actually, I don't know what I want out of all this. I haven't made a single identifiable plan for a weeklong trip to New York. It's pretty blasphemous when you think about it. People save money for years and plan every last detail for a chance to visit this incredible place. All I do is buy a plane ticket and hope the rest works out. I'll probably end up wearing my camera around my neck. My dad will tell me not to because that's what tourists do. He's right but I need some new memories.

I Love Gore

Not Al Gore, although I admire his efforts, but I mean real gore. At least in movies. Maybe I don't need to walk down the street and see a guy's brains leaking out onto the sidewalk, but when I'm watching films it's perfectly enjoyable. Last night, I saw a Japanese film called The Machine Girl, about a high school girl whose brother is killed by local yakuza. On her quest to avenge her brother's death, she destroys a slew of yakuza, has her arm cut off, and custom fits a machine gun onto her nub for maximum blood. The storyline became a little flat, but the excessive number of decapitations and disembowelments was truly satisfying. It wasn't just the physical acts but rather the time spent showing the aftermath that got me excited. The effects were such that with every amputation, an exploding geyser of blood erupted everywhere. And it would go on for longer than would ever be really possible. It put old Peter Jackson movies to shame in terms of blood levels. As a side note, there was also a sword fight with people wearing football pads. There's not much reason for me to write about any of this, I just enjoyed it in a time of otherwise monotony.

What's the Big Deal About Steroids?

I understand they are illegal not just in sports but in general, but even so. What is the big deal? All of a sudden, fans, journalists, coaches, and "straight" athletes are talking about how disgusted they are. I heard one talk radio host say his 10 year old son's life was ruined, because he found out his hero, Alex Rodriguez, took steroids. If that's all it takes to ruin your kid's life, then you are a shitty parent who doesn't take enough responsibility. Hey, someone needs to say it. Now, more than ever, we should really heed Charles Barkley's words. Athletes are not supposed to be role models for your kids. That's your job, not theirs. Ten years ago, it was the same media members glorifying stars like Mark McGwire during his home run record chase. Back then, they were willing to overlook his unavoidable weight gain, veins popping out of his neck, and acne. Journalists could have done something about it way back then, but they chose to accept it instead of asking questions. The level of hypocrisy is astounding.

It's about time for everyone to realize that sports figures are not some larger than life representation of reality. These days, it's rare to find a pro athlete that has finished college. Athletic ability is their forte, but I'm not going to let my kid take grammar lessons from Delonte West. And like any profession, athletes are looking for a leg up to be more competitive. It happens in some form in every industry, so what makes it wrong for athletes? Any given athlete can declare he is clean, but every player I see is an automatic suspect of using. In my own view, this doesn't bother me. As long as I'm helping to pay for their exorbitant salaries (which is a whole different catastrophe), they might as well be juiced up super freaks. If I wanted mediocre talent by average sized people, I'd go to a high school game and pay 5 bucks to get in the gate. The entire reason you are paying $30 for a bleacher seat at an MLB game is because you get to see the biggest, scariest muscles in the game crush a ball 500 feet out of the yard. Accept the facts and move on. Unless you never once paid to go see a pro sporting event, you are in no position to act offended. You wanted to see extraordinary feats of athleticism, and the athletes did everything they could to give it to you. Now you blame them for it.

I'm 27 years old. When I was 16, I started realizing something was probably up. There's a disconnect here, because as far as I'm aware, sports writers are in the locker rooms day in and day out. It is surprising to me that this issue of steroids never occurred to them. They were so busy burying their noses in every athlete's ass that they didn't realize that very ass was being pumped with needles. Now, these same writers put together scathing editorials on the same athletes when in truth, the writers were the ones not doing their jobs properly. Cheating in sports is nothing new, they just chose to ignore it at their convenience. I love people now saying, "I can never watch sports the same way again." Really? Are that many people really that naive? I have no problem if testing becomes a huge part of the game, but it doesn't make sense to me to do it at such random intervals. What's the holdup? If you want a clean game, test every player before every game. What's this once every couple months bullshit? Piss in a cup with officials watching before every game all season long. Boom, problem solved. What's the delay? But when guys like A-Rod start declining in production, don't complain. This is how you wanted it, remember? I liked it better when all of them were juiced up, but I seem to be the minority here. A bunch of guys taking 'roids has no effect on my life, and I don't see why it does for so many others. Maybe I'm just missing something.

Nothing Changes

Today marks 3 weeks of unemployment for me. It's actually really hard to believe that, because every day feels so exactly the same. For the first week or so, I could recall what I did on a day to day basis but this far in, no chance. I've had a couple interviews, but both are completely out of the question for a variety of reasons. The main one, though, is that each requires accosting strangers on the street and getting them to fork over money. Seeing as how I don't have a personality, this would only get as far as making a mockery of myself before being dismissed anyhow. The other thing bothering me about both positions is how desperate these places were. In one case, I landed an interview without sending a resume. I asked for some information and was asked to interview. I brought my resume to the interview, and the manager looked at it for maybe 5 seconds. Maybe. It definitely wasn't enough time to realize that I have no experience doing this type of work, but another 60 seconds later and the guy is asking me to come back for a second interview. Not only would I suck at this job, but the pay is awful too. I'm no fat cat millionaire who's used to raking in big money, but I can't support even myself let alone a wife and future kid on a full time job paying minimum wage. But there I go, breaking off on some boohoo, over the top, self indulgent tangent. Will someone please tell me to just shut the fuck up? My coffee is ready.

Job Hunting is a Full Time Job

The only difference is I don't get paid and there's no benefits. Every day, I wake up early to take my wife to the train station, which she uses to travel to her work. She's our only source of income, and I feel like a bum. I return from this three mile trip each day and make the morning pot of coffee. The adjacent dining room has the limited light of dawn for a February morning, and I sit there in silence knowing full well this cup of coffee will be the best thing about my day until my wife is back from work. I take it with a little milk, no sugar. I even drink it slowly. I pretend that my mind has the impression of an eventual uprising out of the impending dreaded reality. But I know it is futile, and as this thought vanishes, the unassuming grayness of the room is replaced by jagged sun beams attacking the peace. Having a job, this would signal the time to leave for work. This doesn't apply to me. I have no job. I went from having deadlines, meetings, and responsibilities to having nothing to do in one day. So, as the sun blasts off into my dining room window, my day starts by writing a brand new cover letter. I do this to at least keep my writing sharp. I am, after all, supposed to be a professional one. I can't send stale sounding cover letters for weeks on end without even attempting to modify them. The little self respect I have going for me is a product of this action. This and taking my wife to a train station and back each day are the only things keeping me level while the rest of my world falls apart. After pumping out a few different cover letters, I already feel like a battered gonzo. I get up and empty the leftover coffee into my cup. It is about 8am with an hour of cover letter construction under my belt. Unlike the first cup, this one I just down straight away. I pretend I have a boss standing behind me. I'm not in the comfort of my own home, and I must finish this coffee and get back to work. Actually, I am but nonetheless I drink it quickly and get back to work. Phase two involves looking for freelance writing jobs. I feel at a disadvantage in that only a few pieces of mine are published on the internet. I write the needy and let them know I have only the highest regard for written craft. I ramble on about my attention to detail and time flexibility, as if this will separate me from the rest. Please contact me soon, I plead to them. If you told me to write a series of articles on how Ashlee Simpson is undeniably the best musician ever, I'd go put on my favorite Isis record and do it for a pittance. After plodding my way through this process, I take a shower, hoping to start anew with a fresh outlook. Back at the computer, the next phase is the longest and most painstaking. As of now, my resume is on no fewer than five employment websites. Supposedly, companies with openings search for resumes and find people by what they are looking for. I haven't been contacted, so you can imagine my excitement to check my messages and e-mail every day knowing full well no one has found me intriguing enough to try out. I'm used to it, though, so it feels more like a daily job task than, say, rushing out to the mailbox every day to see if you got accepted into Harvard. In the same way, I scour these same sites looking for appropriate work. I find about four or five a day that seem on par with what I am capable of and interested in. I tailor the new cover letter even more for each one, then read over my resume for the thousandth time just to make sure there isn't a typo. Exhibiting one like it's a work of art in a museum would effectively end my chances with any company when the rest of the resume is bonafide cheese log on how important a role writing has played in my life. So, yes, I look it over more times than is really necessary before I finally push it through. After a few hours of this, I pick up my wife and have a normal evening devoid of worrisome job shit. We cook dinner, watch television, read, and go to bed. By 5pm, I am wiped. I feel like I have put in a full day of work, except there is no room for advancement as an unemployed loser wearing a pair of boxers and one slipper. I guess you could call this my cooler talk.