Sunday, March 29, 2009

To be an Author.

I'm constantly stunned by the quantity of books in the typical bookstore. Are there legitimately that many people with careers executable from a coffee shop? I think that is my ultimate goal - to be able to work from the local Caribou - and look carefree doing it.

On a typical day I will have at least 2 or 3 ideas that I feel would be perfect for a book. It's a pretty rare idea that actually perpetuates itself enough to actually become a mainstay of my day to day fantasies. Sometimes I think I should just start writing one of these hypothetical books in my spare time. But then I realize that, hey, I've written 4 posts in over half a year. Doesn't seem likely a book will come to fruition without a serious concentrated effort.

Anyone who knows me knows that I pinch not only pennies but any other physical thing that could be a new source of gain if only given a small pinch. I try to act lavishly, but the fact is I make $32k/year and somehow manage to save $15k/year after taxes.

Eh... I'll finish this post at a later date. My throat hurts.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

A deeper meaning in everything.

Let me tell you a little about geocaching. Perhaps you've heard of it, read about it, or even participated in it by your own right or with a friend who's into it. There's something deep about this hobby though. Perhaps there's something deeper in everything if you look deep enough. I believe that the activities we choose reflect something deep about us - they appeal to us because they satisfy some deep need or some strange obsession that we hide deep inside.

But let me tell you about geocaching. It's an activity that sends you searching the internet for new places to go right outside of your door. It keeps you looking for new places to go, new things to see and to be quite honest, new people to compete with. The end result of a successful geocache find is an immediate sense of accomplishment and splendor that you have completely satisfied your mission. The proceeding moments are not as exciting, as the goal is now done and one must trek their way back home with really nothing to look forward but logging the find you already completed.

As you can probably see, the thrill of the sport is in the hunt, and subsequently the find itself; but not so much the result of the find: a "found" you could say. You use the GPSr - a wonderful little device that plays "hotter/colder" with you until you stumble over a rock that just looks out of place. The hidden cache could be the size of a 9mm bullet opened in half, or a refridgerator-sized lockbox in the heart of Vienna, Austria (seriously, I found that one).

I like to say that finding a geocache is 10% getting to the location and 90% finding it once you're there. And, obviously since I said it, I staunchly believe this to be true. See, the GPSr only plays hotter/colder with you until it gets lost in inaccuracy and seems to say "ah, you find it yourself, I got you this far." At which point you are obliged to comply and start sticking your hand in every hole that may hold a geocache or a geocreature. Or, you may just find a used syringe (seriously, I found that one in the Vatican City).

To be fair though, the 10% is certainly no walk in the park - although quite frequently it is a walk in a park. Given the circumstances, you may find yourself scaling a tree, wading through a creek or crawling through a 3-foot diameter storm drain. There is a lesson to be learned from the trek to a geocache, and it is this: the most straight and direct route to a geocache is almost never the best route. Such is the case in all of life, I believe: to arrive at a desired end result, you almost always have to stray from the most tempting route.

I want to be rich; I want to be filthy rich. Not even for the lavish life, but because money is a score that signifies success in the world of business. But for now - my mind is on learning and growth: the windy road to money.

Stay tuned for more insights into the unexamined.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

The Americans I read about.

I'm not particularly patriotic, though I do defend what I do believe in. One of those things is capitalism. But today, I saw Americans as everyone else in the world seems to see them. I can sadly say with absolute certainty that I was thoroughly disgusted by what I saw. 300 pound heffers drinking 42 oz. vault energy sodas - narrowly squeezing in and out of roller coaster cars. The 400 pounders waited on the benches outside of the amusement rides. Good god people. Take a look at yourselves. Wall-E's vision of the future hit home today.

The patrons of Dollywood - and Tennesseans in general - make me proud to be from the Pacific Northwest. Oh, we have our fatties too. But at least everyone views them as abnormal in their obesity. Not to mention that almost 50% of said orcas sported religiously-affiliated clothing. Could it be a correlation? Church does make you sit down on your big lard ass for 2 hours every Sunday morning instead of spending said time enjoying some type of outdoor activity on that god-given weekend morning. Yup, god gave it to you. And he's not asking you to give it back sitting on wooden benches memorizing a book written by a dude a long time ago.

When that flabby plate piggy-backing on the triceps sticks out over the elbow like a knight's shield, that's when you know you've passed the point of no return. When scratching your own ass requires a shoulder-dipping maneuver and an accommodation of a perpetually straight arm, you should probably just head to Mattress World, find a comfortable one, and shut yourself behind a door that will make us forget you exist. Thanks but no thanks for the "thank god I don't look like that" feeling I get every time I see an overly-obese individual - the self satisfaction doesn't hit as hard as the gag reflex.

For a first post, this is probably pretty cynical. But who the hell cares? No one is ever going to read this anyway. I too have a couple pounds I could lose and maybe I will. But if I get that tricep fat shield, take me on a trip to Mattress World.

Something ironic to complain about when my own stories are quite clearly not that well told is how poorly the average individual tells a personal story from their past. They skip right past any prelim info that could aid us to put the story in context, they give so much prelim info that we lose our way through their rambling or they jump right into what was supposed to be the climax of the story without even giving us any foreplay. For christ's sake people, tease me, tease me, fool me, fool me, but let's not make this all about the foreplay. Fair enough? Tell it like I would tell it. Skip the stuff I don't think is interesting. Be perfect for god's sake - is it so much to ask?

ADD my ass. ADHD my ass. I get bored too. I have urges to say shit that would get me in trouble too. Fuck chemistry, I never wanted to pay attention in there either. For the weak - that's what I say - the excuses about shortcomings being the result of a poorly dealt genetic hand. Ritalin? Now you're just cheating. Athletes can't take steroids. Test-takers can't use notes. Porn stars can't use male enhancement paraphernalia... oh wait, yeah they can... but the point is that you're now using a bike because you couldn't run with the rest of the pack. Buck up for god's sake and work on your conditioning.

Shit, I wouldn't read this if I were someone else. I'd write me off as some self-indulgent cynic. Oh, you'd be right. But I'm a step ahead of you (ahead of myself? now I've lost myself.), I already don't care about you.

Who is going to read this anyway?

I have no intention of anyone else in the world reading my entries. If someone does, perchance, stumble upon my page, then great for them; they will most likely have wasted time and effort searching for something with some actual substance. Notice that use of the semicolon? Perhaps I didn't use it right, but Eats, Shoots & Leaves is actually having an effect I guess.

Why am I writing an intro that no one will ever read anyways? Who knows, but enough with the formalities already - let's get to the stuff that slowly ambles through my head on a daily basis.