I’m not going to lie, it’s a little weird. It’s weird driving the same roads, parking in the same parking lot, walking into the same building, opening the same doors, and sitting at the same type of desk, albeit one a floor above my old position. During my first week, I felt almost detached as I walked down the same halls, saw the same offices, and even smelled the same smells that I was acquainted with for the last few years. They were all the same, yet I was different.

I know not working made me appreciate “being me” more. It made me have a stronger sense of self outside of the workplace. When I tell people I used to work in the building, many have asked what I have been up to. I’ve told them that I took a year off to pursue my interests. Although that’s not 100% true, I like the way it sounds.

What I did not anticipate upon my return was that getting laid off would make me appreciate the work environment more. I don’t think I will be so quick to complain about the lack of parking or the traffic on the way to work. I don’t think I’ll even bicker about the time I have to be at work. I think before I was so accustomed to the environment I almost considered being in the workplace a right, and not a privilege.  I know now that the powers that be made my workplace what it was and what it continues to be and there is no way I can change that. That’s the corporate culture of that environment and corporate cultures don’t usually change from the bottom up.

Another thing I have appreciated more in the few days I have been back working in the same building is the outpouring of support from former work acquaintances. So many familiar faces have smiled when they saw me and said things such as “great to see you” and “welcome back”. Those comments definitely made me feel good and appreciated. Although I stayed in touch with a handful of ex-work acquaintances, many of the people I’ve run into while walking the hall in the last week are people I haven’t seen in nearly a year. So to know that they not only remember me, but are honestly glad I have returned is heartwarming.

That said, I am in no way going to march through the building announcing my return. That would be foolish and arrogant. And besides, there may be people who were happy to see me go. Because I was laid off, there were decisions made by people in power who decided that I wasn’t of maximum value at the time of my dismissal, that keeping me around in my former position was not cost-effective for the organization. These people might think I am not cost-effective in my current position either. So with that in mind, I think it is best to stay out of the line of fine and keep my head down. And if I do run into anyone who is critical of my return, I should stay humble, acknowledge any lessons learned or second chances, and move on quickly.

Fortunately for those situations, I won’t have to avoid any negative encounters for too long as I am headed overseas for business for a year in late January or early February. Although it might mean not seeing all my friendly former work acquaintances or being able to say hello to everyone I would want to say hello to, hopefully my short time in my old building will be to my advantage. Hopefully I won’t have time to take anything for granted or get in my own way. Maybe I’ll even be able to accept the corporate climate and culture for what they are and keep my opinions to myself. Maybe I’ll stay humble and show people that I have learned quite a bit since I was last in the building of my new and old job.

One month isn’t too much to ask for. But in this case, in a familiar place with familiar complaints, temptations, and adversaries, staying positive and looking at employment only for its bright sides – the friends, the new challenges, and the income – is a large step for me.

Entering Nanowrimo, I thought doing 50,000 words seemed difficult, but highly doable. In reality however, it proved too difficult. I ended the month with only 33,233 words, or 16,767 words off of the goal.

When I was in the Army, we would look back at exercises and attempt to derive “lessons learned” to hopefully guide us in our future efforts. I think that is a good way to look at Nanowrimo. It was definitely an exercise, one of the literary sort. And although I didn’t succeed in my writing goal, I did learn a lot about myself as a writer during the month.

1) Leave the house

I was most effective as a novel writer when I left the house and visited a local bookstore coffee shop. I limited distractions and surrounded myself with writing. That helped a lot. Being home meant keeping an eye on the TV or an ear on the radio. It was easier to do something else when I was home. Going to the bookstore was a lot like going to the gym to work out.

2) Limit internet access

Although I went to the bookstore, I still was extremely tempted to use their free wi-fi and check my email, hop on twitter, or pop on Facebook. It got to the point where I was tweeting with the document open. I would type 50 words, then tweet, then write a sentence, then tweet. The only times I was successful in removing the Internet as a distraction was when I would take my computer into my bedroom, sit on a yoga ball, and type on a makeshift desk of an end table.

People have often asked me why I don’t have a wireless router connected in my apartment. I have for years used a cable wire out of my wall connected to my laptop. It is makeshift and ghetto, but it works. I cannot imagine how little work I would have gotten done in my bedroom if I had an Internet connection there as well.

3) Try not to catch a computer virus

During some late night Internet surfing on or about the 19th, I caught a debilitating computer virus. This virus wormed it’s way into my system, deactivated my anti-virus program, and replicated into my computer’s registry. I eventually had to back up my entire hard drive on to my portable back-up drive, reformat my hard drive, and re-load everything, including a new updated anti-virus program. The whole process took four days and totally killed my rhythm for writing.

Could I have saved my novel on to a thumb drive and taken it to a local library? Sure, and I was very close to doing so. But I felt fixing my system was more important than writing a novel.

4) Get more work done before Thanksgiving

The Thanksgiving holiday fell right after I fixed my computer from its killer virus. Although I wrote the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I did not write Thanksgiving Day and only wrote 500 words the Friday after. I knew Thanksgiving was going to difficult and I did not give myself enough flexibility to stay on top of my needed word count, even not counting the virus. I was behind before that.

Thanksgiving, however, was the death kneel of my effort.

5) Writing at my parents’ house is impossible

My parents’ house has always been loud. Sound resonates there. Combined with the fact that I have a loud family – nothing wrong with that, some families are louder than others – and a musically inclined 4-year old nephew and writing is all but impossible. It is like trying to read cosmic physics at a death metal concert. It is a fact of life.

6) Surround myself with other writers

I know I said I was going to meet other writers. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. After my friend Keri said she dropped out a week in, I knew no other writers in person. I had to rely on going online to seeing other people’s updates and share words of encouragement. And going online was my Achilles Heel, as I mentioned. If I had followed through and gone to write-ups perhaps others’ positive writing vibes would have worn off on me and aided my production.

Conclusion

I learned a lot about my writing style, techniques, and habits because of Nanowrimo. Although I can write non-fiction anywhere with the TV on, radio blaring, my nephew doing nephew things, and life going on around me, writing fiction requires much more discipline and a change in my habits.

I will definitely finish the story I started in November. I also am working on another story I was writing before Nanowrimo began. I’d like to have them both done by Christmas.

And I will be doing Nanowrimo again in 2012.

I found this paragraph in a notebook of poems, thoughts, and other random musings. It was written 2/19/2008. Not sure I want to expand on it, but I wanted to post it here to maybe foster some deep ponderment.

We worship sport like gods. Football our Mars, basketball our Venus, etc. The rise of sport and industrialization pulled us apart as a nation and drove us into small affiliations. Only fitting then that the battles of sports, the cut-throat of industrial capitalism, and the vile polarization of politics spawned from our civil war. It is not over – we only re-channeled our nation’s natural-born aggressiveness. Sports and political vitriol are releases of the hostility and societal pressures borne from our precious democratic industrial capitalism.

From what I know of hunting, most people sit in “deer stands” and other strategic positions and wait for their prey to mosey across their path. That’s not hunting.

That’s sniping.

There is no sport to waiting for your target to pass before blowing their brains out.

Hunting should be sporty. There should be a certain chance the prey could live. Hunters should have to track down their prey like the old Indian trackers of yesteryear. I’d like to see hunters have to pass a certain block of tests before donning their camo and rocking their rifles.

They should have to do at least some of the following:

- They should be able to identify animals by their feces.

- They should be able to hear the ground and tell when an animal – any animal – is within 100 yards.

- They should be able to differentiate between the tracks of the male and female species of the animals in which they want to hunt.

- They should be able to walk for 5 miles. If golfers can walk, so can hunters. As a matter of fact, the only activity with less activity than some hunting is fishing, which is basically aquatic sniping.

- They should be able to identify which type of weapon is most effective to kill an certain type of animal.

Or if they do want to stay in one place and snipe their prey, they shouldn’t be able to shoot anything until they are in their position for at least five days. They should have to lay in the mud and wallow in their own waste.

They should have to have to prove they really want that turkey.

Also in the same conversation with the same friend, he told me there are people who purposefully hunt bear with a pistol. And then they complain they had to shoot the bear repeatedly before it dies or they brag about how they outran a pissed off bear with a bullet hole.

Seriously.

Kinda like John Candy’s “Bald Ass Bear” in “The Great Outdoors“.

There is no point for that.

Either pick the weapon you need or leave the damn bear alone.

Personally, if I was hunting bear, I would use something automatic or a rocket launcher. And if I missed, I’d call in an air strike.

Perhaps even a napalm strike like in “We Were Soldiers”. I’d burn Smokey and the rest of the bears before I let one bear chase me.

Maybe that’s why I don’t hunt. Not only am I unwilling to smell turkey poop, but I don’t have any napalm.

You know, maybe that’s why I usually don’t have good mornings.

I remember that night:

That was the night I didn’t think I would see you.

That was the night we were recovering from yet another fight.

That was the night you saw me walking to the ATM – you told me you thought about turning around or running me over.

That was the night we both went to the concert by ourselves.

That was the night I saw you rocking out by yourself.

That was the night you wore purple when everyone else was in black.

That was the night I noticed how into concerts you really are.

That was the night a mosh pit broke out right near you and I was not surprised at all.

That was the night you tweeted constantly about how cool Maylene was.

That was the night I tweeted about how impressed I was with them.

That was the night you texted me to say “I’m still giving you the silent treatment, but I am texting only to say I told you so.”

That was the night we texted and twittered back and forth during the Maylene show.

That was the night I was glad I had my friend back.

That was the night you told me to pay attention to the band.

That was the night they played a song that you said reminded you of us.

That was the night you punched me in the side as I waited by the bar to get a beer.

That was the night you grabbed my hand and led me outside.

That was the night I saw how absolutely flushed you were from screaming along to one of your favorite bands.

That was the night you told me a good concert turns you on more than sex.

That was the night I left where I was standing during the first bands to hang out with you closer to the mosh pit.

That was the night you weren’t into one of my favorite bands.

That was the night you pushed several guys into the mosh pit.

That was the night you tweeted that you protected me so I could watch Clutch in peace.

That was the night I retweeted most of your tweets about me.

That was the night you took off your purple shirt and rocked the sports bra.

That was the night you walked out before Clutch’s encore.

That was the night I thought you were walking out and leaving me at the show.

That was the night you told me I could stay, but I was too curious as to what adventure you were looking to get into.

That was the night we found dubstep at Fubar.

That was the night you made fun of me for ordering an Anchorsteam at a dive bar while you ordered a PBR.

That was the night you told me “when in Rome”.

That was the night you were overjoyed to find a local spot for dubstep.

That was the night it was insanely crowded in Fubar.

That was the night that one of the local DJs called one of the highlights of the St. Pete dubstep scene.

That was the night the bass moved the entire crowd.

That was the night the DJs had the dance floor in the palm of their hand.

That was the night we moved up and sat by the stage because you wanted to be closer to the action.

That was the night I learned how much you enjoy people watching.

That was the night the whole bar was hot and sweaty.

That was the night I told you that at that moment you looked very attractive.

That was the night you quickly grabbed your purse and walked out of Fubar.

That was the night my words got me in trouble again.

That was the night I tried to catch up with you.

That was the night I told you I was walking you to your car.

That was the night I didn’t ask if you would like me to.

That was the night you stopped and told me to go away.

That was the night I heard that line for the first time – it wouldn’t be the last.

That was the night I was worried you would get mugged on the streets of St. Pete.

That was the night I tried to play Prince Charming.

That was the night I forgot you are a Warrior Princess who doesn’t need protection.

That was the night you pulled out your phone.

That was the night my first thought was that you were calling the cops on me.

That was the night I thought you were going to have me arrested for stalking.

That was the night I walked away and let you be.

That was the night I couldn’t find my truck.

That was the night it was taken by a local towing company.

That was the night I frantically texted and called you, praying you would come back.

That was the night I feared I would be sleeping with the homeless.

That was the night you turned around to help me out.

That was the night I felt hopeless.

That was the night I remembered how much I hate feeling hopeless.

That was the night you came to the rescue.

That was the night you told me to get in the car.

That was the night you told me to shut up and tell you where to go.

That was the night we pulled next to a crazy warehouse and some lady asked us where we were going.

That was the night we stopped right across the street from the tow place before finding it.

That was the night I was out 121 dollars for parking in the wrong spot.

That was the night you got out of the car to tell the tow truck people how much of an idiot I was .

That was the night I said “I love you, too.”

That was the night I said that I don’t say that to too many friends.

That was the night you said I should say that more often.

That was the night I got my truck back.

That was the night you peed behind a creepy dark building.

That was the night we talked for over an hour in the parking lot.

That was the night you sang “Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don’t” by Brand New to me.

That was the night I was glad to be where I was and with who I was with.

That was the night I thought the secret was about me.

That was the night there never was a secret to start.

That was the night I told you how frustrated I was that nothing was coming easy.

That was the night you asked me what my friends would think about you.

That was the night you wanted to take a nap in the tow truck parking lot before driving home.

That was the night I said I wasn’t going to leave you alone in the parking lot.

That was the night I should have sat in my truck and hung out while you slept for a bit.

That was the night I sat in your car and you couldn’t sleep.

That was the night we finally left the tow truck place at nearly 4AM.

That was the night you pulled out of the tow truck place and turned west, away from the highway home.

That was the night I followed you for a bit to see if everything was ok.

That was the night you went to pay tribute to a lost friend.

That was the night I turned to head home, confused.

That was the night you texted me when you got home and told me to stop worrying.

That was the night I texted back, “Good Night, Keri.”

That was the night you followed with “Go fuck yourself (that’s Keri for sleep well).”

That was the night I wrote about – twice. Once with mentions of you, and once where you play a very minor role.

That was the night I told you that I was sorry.

I’m still sorry.

I’m sorry I suck at apologizing.

I’m sorry I worried about you in situations I wasn’t familiar with.

I’m sorry I was a bad distraction.

I’m sorry I struggled to see things from your point of view.

I’m sorry I analyzed way too much.

I’m sorry I bruised your ego.

I’m sorry I said some terrible things.

I’m sorry I couldn’t let things flow.

I’m sorry you felt the need to “break” me as often as you did.

I’m sorry I think about control and power as a concept in human relations.

I’m sorry I don’t always write with heart.

I’m sorry it took me so long to write about that night.

I’m sorry we concentrated on falling apart.

I’m sorry I wanted to believe in us.

I’m sorry we can’t find a reset button.

I’m sorry I made you push me away.

I’m sorry you wrote about me again.

I’m sorry we aren’t friends anymore.

I’m sorry I ruined your Maylene song.

Another night of talking about something neat I found online:

Over at a blog called Under the Saltire Flag, Kei Miller writes about the strange pattern of Caribbean ghosts. According to folk lore, in order to prevent many spooks in Trinidad, Jamaica, and Guyana from disrupting the sleep of grown-ups and children, you are supposed to leave out something for them to count, such as rice or even the words of the Bible.

Miller speculates that the ghosts suffer from OCD.

Then, over at CultureBy.com, anthropologist Grant McCracken discusses the idea of people segmenting their lives to fit different sections of their life. McCracken writes about writer Brit Marling, who went from an analyst at Goldman Sachs to writing, staring, and producing for a show called “Earth 2″. Surely, she did not use the same skill set in both careers. As McCracken postulates, she had to transform and skip from one Earth to her own personal “Earth 2″. I also like the term “isle of personality” to describe this phenomenon.

Sort of like I used to do with “Jordi Scrubbings” the blogger and “Mike Lortz” the analyst. Now I don’t care. I am who I am. All of my traits live on the same isle. Hopefully I can do a thing that would bring them all to bear, but if not, I will pick and choose the tools I need to be successful in the work place.

The goal is not to “be” my job. I’m personally trying to avoid falling into the life of The Wizard in the cinematic classic Taxi Driver.

Look at it this way. A man takes a job, you know? And that job – I mean, like that – That becomes what he is. You know, like – You do a thing and that’s what you are. Like I’ve been a cabbie for thirteen years. Ten years at night. I still don’t own my own cab. You know why? Because I don’t want to. That must be what I want. To be on the night shift drivin’ somebody else’s cab. You understand? I mean, you become – You get a job, you become the job. One guy lives in Brooklyn. One guy lives in Sutton Place. You got a lawyer. Another guy’s a doctor. Another guy dies. Another guy gets well. People are born, y’know? I envy you, your youth. Go on, get laid, get drunk. Do anything. You got no choice, anyway. I mean, we’re all fucked. More or less, ya know.

So taxi drivers are going to drive or shoot pimps because it is who they are, ghosts are going to count rice because it’s who they are, and I am going to be who I am. Although considering I need a job, I am flexible. But like Meatloaf, I won’t do that.

Whatever the hell that was.

(Pic from ProKill.com, which surprisingly is not a hitman-for-hire website.)

I love this line:

Beauty, or rather our perception of it (for only in an eye does does it reside), is a prod to curiosity. It’s a invitation to invest attention and emotion, which are expensive.

Beauty is the reason guys get nervous around a beautiful woman. With her, he must commit time, emotion, and then cognitive thought with what brain power he has left. Yet at the same time he must assume the guy position of social power, confidence, and strength. Doing so is tough until he gets used to her human beauty.

That’s the difference between beauty that outlasts us and beauty we live longer than. Beauty such a sunset will be beautiful until time eternal. We don’t feel nervous around it because we know it will be there tomorrow, even though we might not be. We also don’t have power over it. We know that.

We feel more nervous around fleeting beauty. We take pictures of it, frame it, and try to keep it forever. But the sad reality is that no beauty lives forever. Eventually of course the Earth will be swallowed by the sun, which will be swallowed by a black hole, which will be swallowed by other black holes, and the Big Crunch will occur. And all beauty as we know it will be lost.

We also try to control beauty far too often. We overreact. We corner it and tell it what to do. We have to treat all beauty like the aforementioned sunrise or sunset and let it breathe. To do otherwise would be to ruin it’s innocence.

But to digress briefly back to the subject of women, beauty is also used as both status – fake boobs, extensions, liposuction, etc – but also in the concept of arm candy. Many status-obsessed men must have a certain level of physical beauty in their lives – be it a certain car, girl, or home. It shows achievement, power, and to an extent, control.

So what do you think? What is the epitome of beauty to you? Is it physical? Intellectual?

(Pic found at WorldGallery.co.uk)

I am going to take two completely different subjects and weave them together today. Only because I love the post heading.

This past weekend, I finished reading Greg Prince’s fantastic book “Fear and Faith in Flushing“. Prince is a super diehard Mets fan who is also one of the prime voices at the “Fear and Faith in Flushing” blog. I’ve been reading Prince and his co-blogger Jason Fry for several years now. The “Fear and Faith” book is like a solo album by someone who has been in a band for years.

I highly recommend the book for any baseball fan, but especially those who are, were, or will ever be Mets fans. Prince is a master story teller who tells the story of his own life as it intersects with the Mets from 1969 to 2009. Prince is able to weave in the Metsian community into every aspect of his life, and you get the impression that after 40 years of being a fan, Prince and the Mets are almost one and the same.

The “Faith and Fear” is not so much about stats and standings as it is about family and fandom. And like the title states, fandom is nothing without faith.

Which leads me to part two of this post.

According to news reports, the government of Tajikistan has prohibited children from attending religious services.

While some in the Western world might scream holy bloody murder at the idea that children would be raise faithless, I think it is a brilliant idea. Children minds are too fragile to be exposed to something as dangerous as religion. They should not be able to be brainwashed by religious doctrine. They should be free to choose their own faith and expose themselves to the stories of religion when they are mentally ready.

It is a lot like the old baseball warning that you should not teach a kid how to throw a curve ball before they are 13 as their arm muscles are not developed enough and they will only suffer in the end.

Children should be raised to be good people independent of religion. They should be taught respect and discipline and to say please and thank you without the threat of “hell” or sin or any other boogie man looming over them. Then, if they so choose, they can belong to a church, mosque, or synagogue. They will still be good people whether or not they join or not.

There is also the added benefit of removing children from possible extremists who could use them as child suicide bombers.

And without God or Allah or Jehovah or Ra or Zeus or whoever else, when the kids do reach of age, who knows, they could eventually find solace at the altar of Gooden, Strawberry, Wright, Seaver, or Piazza.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, perhaps you noticed a bit of change around here. This and all the other blog posts are under the illustrious heading of “blog” on the top of the site. That is because as I am now tying this website into my professional networking sites, I want to give visitors a static home page in which to read a little about me and what this site is all about.

Now without further ado, throughout this week I want to share a few of the things I’ve been reading. The links in each days post are hard-working and will serve you well.

——————————-

I have been a fan of the work of Professor Henry Jenkins for a few years now, after reading his work in the book Steel Chair to the Head, an academic look at professional wrestling. Over the last few weeks, Prof. Jenkins has surveyed several other academics who study fandom and the phenomenon of following or rooting along with certain outlets.

In his latest entry, Jenkins posted the essays of Profs. Christine Bacareza Balance, Jack Halberstam, and Sarah Banet-Weiser.

I was particularly interested in this quote by Halberstam:

Fandom is full of jeopardy and heartbreak, it is a jagged experience that confirms you and shatters you and often in the same location. It summons a sense of community but also calls forth snobbish and elitist modes of differentiation

I think people like being among people who share their own tastes, but hate when the things they are passionate about become too mainstream. Or if they do become/are mainstream, people tend to attach a unique meaning to the popular thing.

“I root for the Yankees because they were the team my dad rooted for.”

We like thinking we are unique, that we have original thought. Especially in regards to the things we are “fanatical” about – music, art, books, restaurants, a certain afro-clad blogger – we don’t want them to be used and abused by the mainstream, where they become as common as q-tips. We want our community to be small and supportive. We want to tell the art form or business, “don’t worry, we will support you”.

And when the thing we are passionate about grows beyond us, we are disappointed, and we say they “sold-out”. In reality, the fault lies in the fan, who places a bet on the intentions of the performer. Some performers don’t mind keeping their work an art and keeping it local for their small community of fans. Others want to make their work a business and don’t mind incorporating it into the greater media machine.

That’s why I like street performers. They are the hungriest (literally) of all performers, playing their hearts out to make a few bucks. They usually stay in or around the same spot, so their schedule is predictable. They play all day, adding the color of music to a usually urban landscape. And they usually have little chance of being signed to a music deal.

They are a music elitist’s dream.

Halberstam also is absolutely correct in her statement that fandom is differentiating. Of course people will think what they found is the best in the world. It gains value by being from their perspective.

Like this blog for example. I think it is the best in the world. I’m not sure I have any super diehard fans, but if I did, they might think this blog is the greatest site ever.

I like those people. I am going to buy them a cookie.

I hope they like the white macadamia nut cookies at Subway, because I am a fan of those and that is what they are getting.

Quick post today based on something interesting I read on Wired.com:

In an article entitled “Pseudonymity, Anonymity, And Accountability Online“, author Sheril Kirshenbaum discusses her opinion of another article on the Wild, Wild West of Internet commenting.

(Yes, this is a post about a post about a post.)

This discussion of how people choose to comment on the Web behind the cloak of anonymity has gone on for a while among people who observe culture, media, and technology. The Web is not for the sensitive, bringing out the worst in racism, sexism, and overall meanness.

But there is another less-talked about effect of the Web. That which may even have an effect on lives offline.

There is an allure to be egotistical online. What you write comes from you and is your opinion and your words and often times, being from you, they have to be right. And when faced with the slightest bit of objection, people online tend to either coat their expression in the Internet language of snark or they become highly combative. Neither of which is very healthy.

The Internet has unfortunately decreased our ability to have civil discussion and instead preached argument. It has fostered a culture in which a solo opinion is all that matters and that people have to outshout or outargue everyone else.

If you do a lot of work online, this can be particularly dangerous.

Although you can turn off the computer and mutter under your breath how much of a moron the person you cyber-argued with was, that is not a healthy habit offline. Because it only takes one to type and comments are rarely made by consensus, the Internet has devalued cooperation, listening, and compromise.

As I live by myself, sometimes I have noticed these traits slip into my own interactions. Nothing major, but the ego and hostility that bear its fangs in online debate sometimes slips out offline.

That’s not good.

Stupid internet.

I need a dog or maybe a Russian bride.