Category Archives: Uncategorized

Uncategorized

Repurpose

Now that everything has finished coming up Milhouse, I think that it’s about high time that I get back into the daily habit of writing. Soon, I’ll have ample time to write on my commute, as well as that quiet time between The Minkey going to school, and me going to work. I have to admit that I was tempted to just marathon out seven thousand words over my days off, but, while that will certainly give me seven posts a week, it won’t force me to wipe away the thin layer of rust which has accumulated since January, and if I’m to have any hope of finishing the first draft of my novel before 2017, I’m going to need to be in top form.

So, starting later today, I will resume my entries in The Vaults of Uncle Walt. I want to thank everyone who has supported me through this trying year, and I look forward to the opportunity to filling your coming days with laughter and deep thoughts.

Tex

Uncategorized

To Woo Women

“Language was invented for one reason, boys- to woo women…”

John Keating, Dead Poets Society

Even though I may have announced on a certain face-based social networking platform that I wouldn’t be putting something out on here for another week, the chance to write something for Leap Day shone brilliantly within my brain, and I felt obligated to give it my best shot. I was playing around with wording and psyching myself up to pound out another 1,000 words about how my life has changed since I began this blog all those many months ago, but then I unlocked the front door, and had not even set my left foot within the boundaries of my domicile, when my son, my eight (riding upon the cusp of nine)-year-old son, declared to me in what can only be described as a stage whisper, that he had a date, and that he needed some advice. Aside from the strange parallels his life seems to be taking in concert with those from my more youthful days, I was brought up short by the notion that my son thought that I would be a good person to come to for tips on how best to interact with members of the opposite sex. Not wanting to disappoint him too quickly, I delayed the inevitable moment when he would come to realize that all of my romantic encounters have occurred through the mercies of dumb luck, and began to ask him about the particulars of his current predicament, all the while thinking that I was entirely too old for this, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be a grandfather (biologically).

As it turns out, he finally screwed up the courage to ask a classmate of his out on a date. I more impressed by this than anything else, as I wasn’t ever able to actually muster up the courage for face-to-face communications with the fairer sex until I had reached the tender age of somewhere in my mid-twenties. Until then, I managed to subsist on the exasperated interests of ladies who were somehow interested in me, and the age-old classic of a handwritten note, hastily delivered and abandoned (thereby sparing me from immediate rejection). Hell, my first kiss only came about because Heather got in it her head that she fancied me, and took matters upon herself to win me over with a game of Spin The Bottle. I never actually took the lead in the pursuit of romance-based adventures until I had come to realize that I had something within me to offer to a woman (please keep your minds out of the gutter- there simply isn’t enough room down here). By the time I finally met David’s mother, I was on the downward arc of belief in romance, and had decided that if it didn’t actually work out, well, at least I had the internet. I’ve always thought that David was intelligent, but I may have to reconsider, as he chose me (me!) to be his mentor in the whirling rapids of romance. That’s like meeting a homeless drifter in the desert and asking him to captain your imaginary galleon. Just saying.

Of course, it was at this point that Flower decided to call me out on something (which totally wasn’t my fault!), and I was pushed toward a defensive posture, despite the fact I was still reeling from the news that my son possessed exponentially more game than I had ever dreamed of having. It had been my hope that he would inherit my complete and utter inability to interact with women, considering the fact that he is, by far, more handsome than I ever was. Sure, I hit puberty ahead of the curve, but it was my total inability to make an actual, human connection with a woman which kept me from the risks of fatherhood until such time as I had fully developed theories on socioeconomics, and a place (no matter how much of a hovel) of my own. If David is already beginning the process of honing his game, there is a clear and present danger that we will have to find a bigger apartment. Now, don’t get me wrong: he’s only eight, and the manliest thing which he has ever done was belch three-quarters of the alphabet after chugging a can of Ginger Ale. But the fact that he is biologically incapable of poor decisions on a grownup scale, does not mean that he is intellectually incapable of making those mistakes. The last thing he needs is a girlfriend. Especially since he will be at least 34% cooler after he goes to his first concert on the second of May (we are all going to see Apocalyptica, this time with VIP tickets (and let me take the time to mention that I am kind of jealous of my son, that at his very first concert, he gets to meet the band (kids these days))).

Of course, all of this boils down to his final question of the night: “Dad, how did you win Mommy?”

Let that sink in, if you will.

“Dad, how did you win Mommy?”

Let us, for a moment, discard the notion that another person can be “won”, or that his mother chose that particular moment to start another argument with me, laughing openly at the prospect of that I won her (though, to be fair, if she won me, that has to literally (literally) be the worst carnival prize ever (ever)). I have made it my mission to undercut my godhood with the Minkey since he was capable of understanding the concept of infallibility. I’m just this guy, you know? I make sure to keep reminding him. How he got it in his head that I am some sort of Casanova is entirely beyond me. Honestly, it might be flattering, if it weren’t so worrying a thought.

His main strategy is to buy her affection with flowers and a teddy bear. I asked him with what funds he hoped to buy these items, and he conceded that he might need some sort of financial aid from either myself or from his mother. But the worst part? The very, absolutely, unpardonably worst part of all of this? He wants to bond with her over a game of Minecraft.

Maybe I don’t have that much to worry about after all.

Nothing at all...
Nothing at all…
Uncategorized, Writing

New Year

I haven’t written anything in about a week. I can blame the first couple of days on the New Year’s Eve festivities and how my increasing age has made recovery a longer process, but the rest of my time has remained unproductive due to a combination of persistent headache and a general feeling of malaise, coupled with an extended bout of insomnia and full-contact parenting. It’s really a shame, as I was really gaining steam with the thing I had been working on. Of course, part of it also had to do with the fact that almost nobody read my last column, which I had been hoping would drive some fans toward the artist. Hell, I even said I’d give away a free copy of the album reviewed, and still no one seemed to care to participate. I remember when I could count on double digit page views on any given day, and now it seems that I am lucky to get eight. I mean, I know that’s what happens when you disappear for months on end, but it’s not like I have kept my intermittent return a surprise. And to top it all off, it seems that my muse has recently abandoned me, though I cannot hold it against her, for even fountains of inspiration must grow weary of my melancholy shenanigans. So far, I am not terribly impressed by 2016.

I’m hoping that by actually sitting down and writing on the blog, that I might shake loose whatever has been holding me back, and I can get another couple of thousand words written on the Other Thing. I may have mentioned it, but I was really enjoying the process of writing it, and it finally felt fun to write again. Sure, there was a satisfaction in retooling Terracrats, but it didn’t flow as easily, and I was quite self-conscious about both staying true to the spirit of the original, and showing off nearly two decades of honed skills. But, I’ll not speak too much ill of it, for it is my first (self) published original work, and I have made tens of dollars off of it. If only I had some way of paying off all of my bills, I think that I would give it another try, and pour myself into the only career in which I have ever envisioned myself consistently. To that end, I began another business yesterday, but everyone seems to think that it’s a joke, and it looks like I may have to expend actual effort in monetizing it. Then again, last night was the Mega Millions draw, and there is a minuscule possibility that my wife and I have won some manner of prize, enabling me to forego the drudgery of working for The Man again. There’s always hope, right?

Oh, to be able to buy a house with an office, and feel no worry about debt or other fiduciary obligations. But, knowing me, I’d probably do as close to nothing as I could tolerate for as long as possible, while consuming an alarming quantity of… let’s call them “artistic enhancers.” I could finally catch up on all the shows which I’ve been meaning to get current on, and play through the stack of video games which I haven’t really had the time to play. And sleep. I could sleep for weeks, waking only to use the restroom and then burrowing back into my bed again. I could fund my friends and help their creative careers get well and truly rolling. Maybe if I focus on hoping to make the world a better (or at the very least, more tolerable) place for those for whom I care, the Karma Fairy will douse me with his positivity, and I will find myself able to enact my Master Plan without all of the hassle of having to build my empire slowly. I’m not really a patient sort of fellow, you see, and I’d sort of like to get a move on, if it’s all the same to you.

I would also like to travel. Not to escape the the sadness of a mundane existence, but to see the beauty of the world beyond that which I could rightly consider my backyard, that is, if I actually had a yard, which I do not, because I am poor, and live in an apartment. I think that I would like to see the British Isles, and then maybe pop over to check out Spain before getting drunk in Germany. Perhaps I could make my way to the ancestral home of my great-grandmother, and pay a visit to Norway. It would be a fine opportunity to catch up on the finest of Death Metals. Hell, it would even be fun to bring the kid along, and maybe even Mr. Bad Leon Suave. After all of that, I’d head to Mexico and bum about near pyramids amidst the thunderstorms. Maybe even get to know my parents-in-law. There is so much that I am dying to see and do, and I feel that I will never see or do any of it at the rate which I am going.

Baby steps.

It cost me thousands of dollars for the opportunity to knock the rust off of my wordsmithing abilities, and a large chunk of that time spent was done so under self-inflicted duress. I made myself write nearly every day, and would have kept doing so, but I ran out of money, and couldn’t keep connected to the internet. By the time I paid the bills, and we got reconnected, I was locked in at a full-time job, and found myself without the time to write. Luckily, I’m nowhere near as bad as I was when I began this blog, and there is a chance that maybe I will actually make it happen. I just know that I can’t give up. I have to find a way to pay the bills, and yet not work so much that there is nothing left in me by the time that I can finally make my way back home. I refuse to stand down again. Once I’ve stopped, and by this I mean, accept that I have failed in this endeavor, I don’t know if I could ever rebuild the momentum.

The second half of 2015 was a setback, to be sure, but I never signaled my surrender. I will make it. If only because I never made plans to do anything else with my life, and if I allow myself to believe that I shouldn’t be doing this, then I honestly don’t know what I’ll have left. I cannot bear to entertain the notion that a world exists wherein I have given up the dream of writing. I am in my mid-thirties, closer now to middle-age than I am to the vigor of my youth, and there is no better time to finally force myself to make things happen than right now.

I hope.

Uncategorized

Intent

Enough with all of the melancholy diatribes. Although a defining factor of my personality, depression is not the sum total of who I am. There are also good things about me, or so I have been told. I’m sorry for putting all of you through my open-book therapy sessions, although I do manage to sneak some decent sentences in there from time to time, so I suppose even the darkness serves its purpose, if only to give depth and value to the light. It’s quite easy to fall into a cycle of self-hatred, and that dead horse is quite good for the beating which I’ve gotten quite adept at giving, but that’s only a part of who I am, specifically, the part of me with so little self-esteem that it verges on unadulterated self-despite. But I’m also in possession of a mighty ego, and while that by itself is not much better than the other, it is at least a springboard into the possibility of writing something that’s not so completely dour and vitriolic towards myself that it is known to the State of California to cause cancer (along with almost everything else). I think that it’s about time to try to say something nice about myself, or at least address why have a such a hard time taking a simple compliment.

Apparently, there are people in this world that have been under the delusion that I am attractive. I am willing to concede that when I am in a particularly viscerally vulnerable and self-destructive mood, I have been known to be quite charming. I would argue the point, but it has been well documented, and I have had more than the sum total of zero girlfriends in my day, so I am faced with no alternative but to admit (mostly to myself) that there must be something that isn’t completely repelling about me, at least in a certain light. But even that is not really what I’m getting at. I know that it is difficult to believe, but there are apparently people in the world who think that I am physically attractive. I literally do not understand this. I am fat. I am constantly scowling. My teeth resemble buttered popcorn more than ivory, and I carry the constant aroma of cigarettes about me like whatever the opposite of an Invisibility Cloak would be, but for one’s olfactory array. Also, I am bald. I know that’s a sign of virility, that I am literally too much man (fat joke!) to be burdened by the more pedestrian trappings of hair care products. On the other hand, I’m easily doing my part to fight the drought in California by taking such quick showers. If I was someone other than myself, I don’t know that I would “think of me like that.” You heard it here, folks: Even in the hypothetical, I have friendzoned myself.

Stop, Tex. You’re slipping back into self-critical humor.

Right. Sorry.

I mean, I have made strides since I was but a lad, in trying to make myself a better man. And there is something quite alluring about self-confidence, which falls into the bailiwick of ego (Great name for Cartwheels Into Oblivion’s first album: The Bailiwick of Ego). Not that this is truly a pressing concern of mine, but the fact is that everyone wants to feel beautiful. Even if you have someone who tells you every single day, that’s still a tiny sample size, and hardly representative of society at large. Sometimes it’s just nice for someone to smile at you for no other reason than they’re imaging the nasty things they’d like to do with/to you. Again, it’s not that I am looking for a dinghy, just that it’s a real boost to see the sparkle in someone else’s eyes. As a man, I have been led to believe that stoicism is the spice of life, and showing emotions (other than manly things, like rage) is something I should never do. Being beautiful in someone’s eyes is foolish; having compliments bestowed upon you is the most shameful of occurrences. Do I try to make myself attractive? Not really. Most of the time I just don’t give a damn. If the beauty standards were reversed, I still don’t think that I’d be caught dead painting myself just to catch a passing glance (please discount those years when I was younger and smoked clove cigarettes and wore black lipstick and nails- that had more to do with how deeply into the trappings of the Goth life I had fallen, and less to do with anything remotely beautifying).

I am funny, though. I don’t know that you would necessarily believe it, if you only know me from my written words, but I’m not entirely composed of sadness and grumpy faces. I’ve been known to make some people laugh. On purpose. And as much as I want to say that I’m only good for blurting out exactly the wrong thing, I’m also pretty talented at saying things which people need to hear, at least, according to my ego. I am much more likely to try to build a person up, than to hold them tight on their way down (assuming, that is, that I was the one to topple them). Aside from a very few exceptions, it makes me happy to bring happiness to others. I like to catch someone off guard and goad them into smiling. It makes my day to brighten someone else’s dour demeanor, or use their own momentum to lift them even higher.

Of course, I don’t subscribe to a philosophy of moderation. Once I have forged a connection with someone, it’s hard for me to play it cool, and I think that I end up frightening them away. Those friends of mine who still remain, have seen me at my worst, my neediest, and clingy, and yet they somehow think that I am worth all of that trouble. Tex Batmart: Xtreme(!) Friend!

There: did I say some nice things about myself, and put everyone at ease? I guess that the moral of the story is… Oh, what the hell, I’ve literally no idea. Hang in there? I’m probably worth the trouble? I don’t know, your guess is as good as mine.

Uncategorized

What Kind Of Year Has It Been?

I’ve had this website for a year now, and I thought that it would be appropriate to look back over the past 365 days and ruminate on how much (or little) progress I have made. Since leaving my job at Blondie’s Pizza, I have written hundreds of thousands of words (some of them readable), and have put out two ebooks for sale on Amazon (earning me tens of dollars). I have been employed by two corporations, though my opinions of corporations have, at best, remained the same. I have wavered between inspiration and apathy, though now I may have found my muse. My son is growing into a little man, despite my firm belief that he will always be a little kid. The world seems on a course for self-destruction, though history has taught me that this is nothing new, and that things are always darkest just before the dawn (except when they are not, because things usually begin getting brighter just before the dawn, as that is, in fact, how dawns work). Perhaps it would be better to say that I hope that we can stick it out until this fever breaks, and we, as a nation, and as a species covering this globe can get over our petty hatreds of one another and our collective hard-ons for things that go boom. There are plenty of people whom I would rather never see or hear again, but to entertain the notion of snuffing out there lives because I have a problem seems just the tiniest bit… self-centered, at the very best. Maybe it was my childhood spent upon the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise, but I had sort of thought that we had the potential to be better than this.

Cops are shooting people and never asking questions, and we are bombing countries and then refusing to clean up the mess. Corporations are (still) people, and yet the people who work for corporations on the bottom rungs are frequently treated as less than human. Concentrated money in the hands of a select few has bought and sold the soul of the very world, and I don’t think that it will get much better until we have come together as a species and decided that enough has been enough. Actually, it seems that most of the problems we are facing could be solved by people realizing that they do have agency and can make a difference, if they would only take a moment to stand with their fellow man and shout up to the heavens that they will tolerate iniquity no more. Of course, the problem with that revolution is that the whole system is rigged specifically to disperse the most abused across all days and hours to keep us from uniting and discovering that we still had a voice. But when you’ve got to work two jobs just to slow the descent into insolvency, there’s not a lot of time left to speak up for yourself. I think my generation may have waited just a bit too long to voice our opposition, but this group of youngsters who is marching along behind us may be the group to do it (though they still need to get the hell off of my lawn). They aren’t bound by the realizations that their dreams are those from a long past time (having been sucked dry by the generations which came before), and have, instead, come up with new dreams, and made them into a new reality, finding a way to be true to themselves and yet still finding a way to fill their bellies and souls.

I have met some people who have fundamentally changed my life. Young people. People who reminded me that I myself had once been young. My gut reaction is to pat them on the head, and regale them with all the tales of failure to which my life has been a testament, but I know that I would have known better when I was their age, and that they just might find a way to actually make it happen. Who am I to shit upon their dreams, just because my own have soured? And hell, I’m a writer. The longer I am forced to wait until I find success, the better I will be when it finally happens. I may not understand everything the kids are saying, but I am still young enough to learn. That was the reason I first dreamed up Uncle Walt Enterprises, Unlimited (which is why this blog is called The Vaults of Uncle Walt): I wanted to try to find a way to nurture dreams which would otherwise have been abandoned. Who am I to tell someone that their dream will never work? Am I Morpheus (not Laurence Fishburne), that I may dictate dreams to someone who isn’t me? I used to believe that if I just tried hard enough, the whole world would soon be mine, but I have learned over the years, that time was not quite right.

Everything that’s happened to me has made me better as a person and as a writer, though I don’t know that my younger self could have understood the necessity of living for the experience. Of course, back then, I also believed that if you loved someone enough, you could heal all wounds, so, there’s that. But I feel that I have waited long enough. I’ve uncovered a new muse, and I plan to utilize this newfound inspiration to get momentum on my side once more. Who knows? I might actually do something this time. All I know is that I want to write. There is something in the air that is whispering sweet promises that this will be my year. Three dozen chances I have had to be the man I’ve dreamt of being, and now it is the time for me to finally meet that man. I started this work last year when shame of inactivity prompted me to make some positive life choices, and I hope that I can carry forward and finally make something happen.

Uncategorized

Proper Autumn

So much for my plans to keep up with my writing on my days off. Between falling ill, and desperately needing days of zombie trances, I seem to have let my passion fall to the wayside. But I’m in the middle of four days off from work, and I figure that now is as good a time as any to get back to it.

The other day I saw my Facebook post announcing my retirement from the Food Service Industry, and today marks the one year anniversary (kind of) of my final day at Blondie’s Pizza. I’ll be doing a proper column about the year in review in the first week of December, but even now I am thinking back over the past twelve months and seeing how patterns from my apathy colored my failures (and successes I did make tens of dollars from my writing!). And now here I am, about to embark upon my latest endeavor, dreading tax time and the need to file three places of employment for this past year. Of course, I still seem to be getting ahead of myself. There’s always something about Autumn that puts me in an introspective (and retrospective) mood, not that we’ve really seen all that many proper Autumns here in California for the past few years. Any time you’ve got 100 degree days in the early weeks of December, you’re pretty much disqualified from knowing what the Fall is all about. I imagine children, now in Kindergarten, who are frightened and terrified by the recent streak of 40 degree mornings, having never in their lives been subject to them. Hailing from the Northwest, of course, I merely chuckle to myself and silently judge them for their provincial attitudes.

I myself am thoroughly enjoying the crisp air, with its promises of snow (which will, of course, never be kept), and nearly collapsing in pile of hyperventilation as I misjudge the plumes of smoke I’m blowing out as I smoke in the early morning. This time of year has always been my favorite, at least, that is, since I hit puberty. I mean, sure: when you’re in school, nothing beats the summer and its proffered freedom from the drudgery of learning. But with that comes rising temperatures and tons of pretty girls who seemed only to exist to remind me that I was so terribly alone. Once the weather begins to change, however, and temperatures start sliding down toward more tolerable conditions, something magical happens. The very quality of light begins to change, and the whole world itself seems nothing more than a warm and soft reality contained within a moderately priced frame hanging on the mantel. Perhaps I tend to enjoy this time of year because it is like so many sunsets: soft, vibrant, and life-affirming.

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am not a morning person. Sure, I’ve been working mornings for several years now, but that has had more to do with transportation than any other factor. And while many have written volumes on the beauty of a sunrise, I myself have never had much use for them. They are jarring, and, though beautiful at times, often leave the world painted in migraine colors on either side of their appearance. They’ve taken something primal and necessary, and made it into something less, a shambling, weakened beast which marches up and down the world until it is finally put down a little earlier each day. But sunsets are amazing. They are the lullabies by which the beast is soothed, the dreamscape for the weary, a rainbow for the beaten down. And as they erupt into their brilliance, they are made even more precious by the darkness which soon overtakes them and draws them back down again. Sunsets quietly fade into the night, whereas sunrises are consumed entirely by the coming day, burned away by the insistence of the sun.

I should probably revise my previous statement about Autumn days. I was, of course, referring to those afternoons when the heavens have opened and the rain begins to fall, yet the sunlight somehow sneaks in sideways to make everything not gun-metal grey begin to glow. The browns of ruined vegetation, moistened by the falling rain begin to shine in prodded rejuvenation, and the blues and scattered greens take on a darker, richer shade, and though one might find himself shivering and damp, he feels safe and warmed, all the same. But on the clear days, as the sun arcs across the sky at a slightly off-putting angle, everything looks washed out and somewhat frozen, like a faded photograph, somehow spared from sepia tonality, but with an ancient appearance all the same. It’s a quality of light which lends itself to quiet, an invitation, if not outright commandment to be still and quiet, for fear of shattering the fragile peace which holds the day. I miss the Great Northwest, and feel guilty that I have sentenced my son to experience but two and a half seasons (at best) which we are granted here in Northern California.

A vision of Proper Autumn
… and Fed told me I couldn’t capture a picture of the rain, even during a proper Autumn…

Can you see the vibrancy of the fallen leaves as they are bombarded by the falling rain? Even in the throes of entropy, they proudly announce to the world, that they are not finished, that they will return some day, that there is still a little fight left in them. And now I see that I have made these leaves the metaphor for me and for my writing, placing upon them my growing burden of failing courage, pinning my hopes that this is not a foolish dream upon their cycle of renewal. Time will tell, of course, if I am meant to fade away, washed away and left to rot in some hidden gutter, or if I am spared instead to fertilize the soil in which my dreams once grew. I’m hoping for the latter, obviously, although I hear that the gutters are quite nice this time of year.

Uncategorized, Work

Work: Lots of Politics, Big Drama

Despite trying to remain as low on the food chain as financially possible, I seem to have been drawn smack into the center of a roiling drama between two of the managers at work. The GM, who it turns out isn’t leaving after all, is quite put out with the manager of my department. My manager, on the other hand, is at the end of his fuse with the GM, who seems, according to my manager, incapable of understanding the need to make the store attractive, and of hiring enough people so that the rest of us can actually accomplish what is expected of us. One of them runs by the numbers, and seems the type to view a drop in sales not as the fact that the store is all higgledy-piggledy, but as a simple trend in sales, and therefore cuts down on staffing accordingly. That, and the fact that corporate seems to know better than those of us doing the actual work just how long everything should take. Never mind that our lovely customer base rips through the store like a natural disaster, and the employees who are supposed to pick up after them know even less where things should go than our customers.

My manager seems caught between shifting targets. First, he got tagged because he was following the directives of the GM, and suddenly we saw a shift in how we were doing things. Corporate wanted things to look nicer, and my boss seemed almost happy to oblige them. But, because we are facing a dearth of employees, this means that the warehouse is generally packed, especially if we have to spend the man hours to rearrange the store (as we had to yesterday), which apparently is also unacceptable. The fact is that we need more people, but it’s really hard to find anyone halfway decent who is willing to bust their ass in high gear for a part-time gig, making minimum wage. Of course, my opinions tend towards those of my direct boss, as he actually seems to give a damn about his work, whereas, though I may, in fact, be incorrect, the GM seems jarringly removed from the day-to-day operations of the business, more content to monitor everything from safe within the office, pouring over the labor and sales reports while glancing at the security camera monitors to make sure that everyone is, at least, appearing to be busy. Not that I’ve slacked off, but the key to surviving this, should someone not actually want to work, yet unwilling to inadvertently summon him, is to merely look busy. Walk with purpose. Carry boxes. That sort of thing. Ah, the lessons learned while ditching class in junior high!

I mention all of this because today the whole damn thing came (mostly) to a head. The Back-of-House manager called in sick (for Truck Day), and we got the GM instead. Personally, I believe that this may have been some passive aggression on the part of the BoH boss, as he’s also been getting frustrated by the lack of space remaining in the warehouse, yet also increasingly irritated by the “Do this! No, wait! Do the opposite! Sorry, do the first thing! Why are you doing it like that?! Do it the way I told you!” style of leadership that he has been forced to endure. Were I to speculate, I would suggest that he actually wanted the GM to see how unrealistic his goals were with the number of people we have. Of course, this sailed right over the GM’s head, and instead he voiced his frustrations that the store wasn’t as he wanted it. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut, as I well and truly to not want to get involved in this power struggle. I suppose that I could have thrown my boss under the bus, seeing as how it would have curried favor with the man with whom I worked today, but I just have too much respect for my boss. And I completely agree with him.

In addition, this was also a minor stumbling block on my way to livable wages. I know for a fact that I can do the job as my boss explained it to me. And I know that I could most likely do the job as described to me today by the General Manager. But honestly, while both jobs are similar in many regards, the fact is that, at their core, they are fundamentally opposed. I don’t know that I really want to do the work that the GM is envisioning. Too much cracking the whip, with little to no regard for the needs of the lowest-paid employees. Of course, it’s not like I have a lot of options at this point. I mean, as bad as I would feel about abandoning my boss, if a decent restaurant called me up and offered me Manager Money, I would probably drop everything and jump ship, especially if the commute was reasonable. As it stands right now, I have no idea what’s going through the GM’s head in regard to my promotion. He was full of piss and vinegar while we were unloading the truck, and for about an hour afterward. To his credit, he stopped short of blowing his top at the lot of us for all of the things he felt we were doing to sabotage ourselves. And he even (at least in front of everyone, as opposed to just myself) refrained from laying the blame directly at my boss’ feet. Well, kind of. I’ve been in management too long to fail to understand what “Ultimately it’s my fault for not communicating better” means. In manager-speak, he straight-up called my boss out and ripped him a new one, in absentia.

The rest of the week will be dedicated to clearing out the warehouse, and I’m grateful that my two long days for the week are done and gone. I imagine that there will be a confrontation when my two bosses meet again (think Cox and Kelso in that episode of Scrubs (actually, that metaphor works frighteningly well)). Somewhere in the balance lays my future.

My fingers are crossed.

Uncategorized

Jury Duty

For the third time since I moved to California, I was summoned for Jury Duty. The first time, I had to sit through an entire thing before most of us were dismissed for having heard of asbestos before. The last time I went, I wound up sitting around for a few hours before a judge came to tell us that all the potential cases had been dealt with, and that we were free to go. I was a little nervous going into today, because jury duty only pays $15/day, and though I’m not making that much more on my shifts at work, it’s still a shortfall. But here’s the thing: since I escaped my twenties, I’ve actually been interested in serving. I’d like to say that I was interested in looking out for the interests of the little guy, or even that I’ve finally accepted the necessity of performing one of my three civic duties. but honestly it comes down to the fact that I was on the debate team in high school, and am fascinated by the entire process. I just wish that the state would cough up at least minimum wage for my time, and that they’d pay for the first day. Not that it really matters, though. After sitting on my butt for a little over three hours, looking forward to the ninety minute lunch break wherein I would have to pretend that I wasn’t really hungry because I have no cash, we were informed that we were all being released for the day, thanked for our service, and reminded that we were now free of jury summons for at least another year.

Flor, of course, was livid. She’d already been upset that I’d had to turn down an extra shift at work so that I could discharge one of my civic duties (the others being voting and paying my taxes), and when she found out that it was literally for nothing, she erupted. Fun fact: according to my wife, there is no jury duty in Mexico. If you ever have to go to court, I guess it’s just the lawyers and the judge, which kind of terrifies me a bit. It’s way harder to get to twelve people (plus alternates) than it is to bribe one man (or woman). I tried to explain that for these cases, they needed to have us ready so that if they actually went to trial, we would be ready. It wasn’t our fault if there was a procedural issue that postponed the trial beyond the day of our selection. I mean, they can’t just call us in at the last minute and throw it all together. And in California, we’re on a One Day or One Trial system. That means that if we’re not selected for a jury on the day which we are required to report, we have fulfilled our obligations, and can put it out of our minds for another twelve months. If, however, we are selected for a jury, we must serve the duration of the trial. On the one hand, I’m grateful that I was sent home, as I don’t think that I could afford to only make $15/day, but on the other hand, I’m a little disappointed that I haven’t ever gotten to be a part of the process, except as a defendant.

This has got me wondering, though, if that means that I am a little weird. I mean, do I have some secret agenda? Is there a reason why I’d really like to be chosen to serve upon a jury? Aside from the point about my love of procedural litigation, I do believe that someone should be there to ponder the implications of the law, who is willing to push for nullification should the need arise. And grey areas are my bread and butter. Give me something straightforward, and I will sit and stare at it all day, confused by the fact that there are no hidden tricks just out of view, waiting to trip me up. But abstract questions, and ethics, and the convoluted wording of the written law are things which light me up like what I can only imagine joy must be for other, more normal people. Ask anyone who knows me in real life, and they will tell you (without much prompting) that I am always ready to jump into an argument, and that they would much rather concede whatever point we happen to be discussing, rather than face the possibility of arguing against me for another hour. They are college football players, used to a rapid succession of facts, and a clearly defined winner after an appropriate amount of time. I, on the other hand, am a cricketer through and through, as I am willing to go the distance, even if it might mean a match of wits measured better by days than hours (though my opponents would most rather prefer to measure them in minutes), confident enough in my abilities that I do not require clear criteria for victory, and count a win by default just as worthy as one won by skill. If I were a politician, you could call me Phil A. Buster, is what I’m trying to get at.

So I’ve done my duty this time around, and all that’s left will be to file my taxes and vote in the next election. I’d say that 2016 was going to be a busy year for me, what with having to worry about all three acts of participatory democracy, but I’m not all that worried about getting another summons. I mean, I didn’t even get a summons until I’d already been living here five years (which may have been due to the fact that I didn’t get a California ID card until the middle of November in 2005. The last time they sent me a notice was either two or three years ago, and then they just sent me one this year. Unless the rate of crime skyrockets in the coming three hundred and sixty-five, it’s not looking likely that I’ll have to go until, at the very least, 2017, and by then, I hope to be living comfortably in Mexico, where I’ve heard there is no jury duty. Not that they could summon me, even if they did have juries, as I won’t be seeking citizenship (unless this country finds a way to completely implode).

Huh. It’s a kind of bittersweet realization that this may have been my final chance to have served upon a jury.

Uncategorized

Lack of Sleep

So I’ve managed to pick up two additional days this week, one of them being almost a complete shift. Not too shabby for my first full week at my current job. I guess that I don’t completely suck, after all. Well, either that, or we’re seriously understaffed, and I’m simply a warm body. But I’ve been through this all before, at almost all of my jobs over the past dozen years or so, and as long as I can keep my current schedule (well, the start time, anyway), I think that it will be okay. I’m an early morning person, who has very little contact with our customers, and able to get out of work with plenty of day to spare. The only downside is that David absolutely refuses to go to bed on time, and that means that I’ve gotten very little sleep these past five days. It’s not so bad when Flor is here to run interference with David William, but on the nights when she is working, it means that I have to remain awake until my son has finally gone to sleep. I’m sure that I will find a way to make it work, sooner or later, but for right now, I’ve been ashamedly grateful for the part-time scheduling, as if I’m only going to get four or five hours of sleep, it’s nice that I don’t have to work much longer than a four or five-hour shift.

Unfortunately, Flor is going back to work at the billiard hall tonight, which means that I am doubly hosed. As you may remember, she would like me to accompany her on her walk home, as she’s off of work very late at night, and would prefer not to walk home alone. I’m on tomorrow at 5:30 in the morning, which means that I was already looking at a bad night’s sleep since I have to start waking up around 3:30 in the morning. Flor gets off at 2 o’clock this evening, which takes away another hour and a half of what little sleep I might have been able to manage. Considering that David isn’t likely to fall asleep until 10 o’clock or so (despite being fully aware that his bedtime is to be no later than 8:30 every night), that means that, if I’m really lucky, I might get three and a half hours of sleep tonight before I have to go get Flor. At that point, there won’t be much hope of me getting back to sleep, which means that I will work my first full shift at my new job on less than half the amount of sleep which I require. Still, I suppose that it could be worse. I mean, I could still be unemployed. And there’s nothing worse than that, apparently.

Next week won’t be so bad, though. I’ve got Jury Duty on Wednesday, which might wind up eating up my near future if I get chosen (though, if I am honest, I won’t be. I have opinions about things.), and David’s birthday on the weekend. His grandmother and great-grandmother chipped in and got him LEGO Jurassic World, which arrived today, and will be a constant temptation on my mind until the Monkey Man can open it. Times like these make we wish that school was year-round, although the fact that he’ll be here all day means that I have better odds at not opening it up and playing it before his birthday comes. Honestly, it would make a pretty awesome Father’s Day gift for Mr. Batmart. I’m not saying that I would open it on Sunday, thank David for his generosity, and figure out something of equal value to give to him next weekend, but I’m not denying it either. I mean, either way he’ll get to play, and it would mean that we could have that much more fun that much sooner. I mean, that sounds reasonable, right?

Okay, perhaps not. I wish that I could blame this all on a lack of sleep, but I’ve actually gotten a full night’s rest for the past two days. Maybe that’s my problem. I mean, obviously, four hours of sleep is not enough, but more than six just seems to wipe me out. I love how merely thinking about all the sleep I won’t be getting is exhausting me. But it’s now less than an hour until Flor has to go to work, and the odds of me nipping off for quick nap are about as good as me winning the lottery tonight, and since I haven’t even purchased a ticket, I’m not very hopeful. But at least I’m getting more work. If everything keeps going as it is, I’ll still be on track for a promotion along the same timetable as I seem to follow at every job I’ve had since I’ve moved to California. I don’t know that I really want the responsibility, but the extra money would be nice, not to mention the benefits. The key will be to maintain my open availability until I am too vital to store operations that I’m in a position to start making some demands.

I guess I’ll have to watch the ST: TNG marathon on BBC America, and try to remain moderately functional until the Minkey drops off to sleep. I’m hoping that he gets bored with the slightly dated special effects, and passes out as an act of defiance. I wish that he was more into reading. It doesn’t make me sleepy, but it keeps me quiet, and it could do the same for him. But the only things that he likes doing seem to involve him jumping around and making his own sound effects. Maybe tonight I will be lucky, and he will actually want to go to bed, but judging by his energy levels at the moment, that doesn’t seem too likely. Whatever. At the very least, maybe he will fall in love with Star Trek. He’s just a little too interested in Star Wars for my liking.

Uncategorized, Writing

Maybe When We’re Younger

 

I hear your hatred in my heart-

echoes loud as blood,

the nights we shared don’t ever seem

enough

to withstand the beatings of our souls.

But maybe when we’re younger, we’ll understand

It all.

For every hurt and pain that comes from this

another lesson has been learned.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew.

 

Destroy me, discard me, regard me as shit-

but once, you loved me (makes it harder).

Forgive me, though I know I don’t deserve it,

and love me again (though I know not to

expect it).

Our hearts we crushed alone in pain as if we

could not know each other. So many

arguments… dark bitterness…

But what’s the point

anyway?

Forget me, and build your wall

and remember nothing you’ve

taught me.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew.

 

So hate me now, the love can wait until tomorrow.

We sit and stab, while in the dark, ending up killing

ourselves (ourselves). Whatever was the point

any way?

But Maybe,

if we superglue and duct tape everything that’s left

(maybe when we’re younger, we’ll understand

it all),

we might live a little longer

and become a little younger.

Maybe when we’re younger we’ll understand

it all.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew

Because I know that when we’re younger

a nightmare will have passed.

Maybe when we’re younger-

Maybe when we’re younger-

Maybe when we’re younger,

a nightmare will have passed.

 

-Maybe When We’re Younger

© 1998 Tex Batmart

 

I originally wrote this one day after my girlfriend and I had endured a massive fight during one of our housecleaning jobs. Part of the phraseology had to do with the fact that I was eighteen, and fed up with people telling me that I would understand things when I was older, and part of it was commentary of the age difference between my girlfriend and myself. For me, nineteen years didn’t seem like all that much, but as I slowly work my way to the age she was when we got together, it’s difficult to imagine myself falling for someone so much younger. One’s mid-thirties are a breeding ground for existential doubt, as I have begun to discover for myself; whereas one’s late teen years are so infused by omniscience that it sometimes make me sad to think of all the confidence which I once possessed. But above all, the phrase, “maybe when we’re younger” is a metaphor for shrugging off the nonsense of the grownup world, muting the negativities which experience has bought, and turning back to a more passionate embrace of living in the moment and trusting in your heart. I hate admitting to the youthful sentiment, and it makes me want to travel back in time and kick myself squarely in the nuts for writing such pretentious crap. That being said, however, I’ve also found that the things I write have a tendency to work somewhat for the people and circumstances which they were written to describe, but are more unnervingly accurate when read regarding situations in the future. Somehow I’ve been given the gift of prophecy, but only when it comes to misery to unfold along the timeline of my life. Well, it’s either that, or I’m unable to change the cycle of my behaviors and it’s less prognostication and more living down to my own expectations.

Reading this again, I cannot help but think that I somehow managed to sneak a little wisdom forward. Maybe it’s true that I’m impossible to deal with, and maybe it’s true that I’m more likely to have epic disagreements with the woman with whom I’m completely smitten, but perhaps it isn’t just a matter of being unable to break the cycle of dysfunction. Maybe I really was onto something back then, half my life ago. In this case, it could also be interpreted as a suggestion that we look toward the happier moments of those years ago (which, to be fair, was how it could have been interpreted back then) in order to wash away the stresses of our failures and find within ourselves all the myriad reasons by which we first fell in love. Or it could be that, for some reason, I wanted myself to be more like the principled, unyielding poet/crusader that was determined to bend the world to his authority. It’s like when you’re in the middle of a transcendental hallucinogenic experience, and the universe unfolds before you, serving up its secrets directly to your brain, and you’re determined not to let go of this new level of understanding, so you leave yourself a note for when you’re back to being your regular self tomorrow, diminished and a little wistful at your loss. And it’s then that you look down at that piece of paper, and read the note you’ve left yourself, and wonder what the hell, exactly, you meant when you scribbled down “tunnels though the afterthoughts are the paradox of infidelity. Don’t believe the (illegible) wormholes into consciousness.” I mean, as you are looking at the words, you can remember having known what all of that meant the night before, but like a ten-dollar word, it resides solely upon the tip of your own tongue. And then you go in search of orange juice, and realize that there’s not a single drop in the entire house.

I know from far too many personal experiences that superglue and duct tape can’t fix everything, but I cannot help but love myself for having truly believed that it could. It makes me wonder if I’m a better person than I might have been before, if I’ve stayed the same, or if I’ve somehow sold my soul just to pay the rent. I’d like to believe that I’ve learned some things these past two decades, and that I’m better off for having done so, but I’ve also made so many compromises (not that anyone would believe that if they knew me), put survival ahead of my own self-truth. I guess that I will just have to hope that I know what I am doing (as I am known to reassure those with whom I’m close, from time to time), and that I also knew what I was doing back when I’m pretty sure I didn’t. They say Shakespeare is held in such high regard because he helped fundamentally shape the English language which we speak today. Could it be that I hold the younger me in such high regard because were it not for his choices, both successful and mistaken, I would not be who I am today, and therefore I am indebted to him for my very existence?

I guess the other reason that this poem has stuck with me all these years is that I still have the memory of when I wrote it in the empty spaces of a paper Safeway bag, and that it was the first song which I ever wrote without any assistance. I mean, sure, the melody is love letter to A minor, and I only needed to know the single chord, but it was also the first song that I ever felt comfortable singing, though not in front of other people. Pink Doors O Negative. That was the project that Fed and I had going back then. We recorded a half-dozen songs collaboratively before it became obvious to him that I had no idea what in the hell that I was doing. That wasn’t enough to stop me, but he also knew other people who could actually play their instruments (and keep time), so we just quietly disbanded.

Well, this just got weird. Hopefully tomorrow I will be feeling a little more upbeat. Until then, have a great night!