Why now? Just some stuff to monitor, the stuff that gets my heart racing, and not in a good way. Also the stuff that grounds me.
I was on Facebook and a friend of mine has very conservative family. She posted something about an image of police brutality and they responded with "These Occupy folks need to get a job." Such ignorance & victim-blaming makes me want to explain things to them so that they will understand. Nothing wrong with communication, but the fury I feel when I read what they write makes me nauseous. That sort of emotional shitstorm is something I would like to learn to cope with, because it's much easier to communicate when you're not red in the face & trying to pick all the cuss words out of your speech.
Also, I am probably going to start work as a CNA by the end of the year. I finished the class & now need to pass the state exam. Then I will look for work. CNAs (certified nursing assistants) can usually find work pretty easily, because there's so much turnover (because the work is hard & the pay is low, because the companies are profit-driven and cut corners wherever they can). So I'm fairly confident that I will be able to find a job.
I desperately do not want to work as a CNA. During my month-long training, we worked for six days at a nursing home. I was frequently in tears. It's not the difficulty of the work that bothers me, although it is very difficult to care for elderly folks with dementia who don't want to brush their teeth, don't want to bathe, are frequently incontinent and have complaints that I don't know how to handle yet. There will be a steep learning curve, but I'm sure I'll get the hang of it, especially as I get to know the people in my care. No, it's not the nature of the work - it's the volume. It would be challenging - but possible - to provide excellent care for five or six people. I could see that. I was barely able to manage two during my clinical days working at the home, but I can see how one would learn people's routines & preferences, and how to best manage time & priorities. Eventually I would be able to handle half a dozen folks and be able to really make sure they're being bathed thoroughly, that their toes aren't getting funky, that their hair isn't getting dreadlocked through neglect (both of which I observed).
But I am going to be expected to care for 12-15 people. I resent being set up for failure.
Okay, so look at the big picture. Why am I accepting this job, if it's such a guaranteed nightmare? Because after working for a few months, I hope to be able to get hired at a hospital (they usually want to hire people who have experience, which one obtains at, that's right, a nursing home). Once in the hospital setting, I will be able to look around and find another job that I would enjoy (ultrasound tech? respiratory tech? med assist? There are literally dozens of options) and start the process of training for that job. CNA is an entry-level position that I hope to occupy for the minimal amount of time.
Also in terms of the big picture: None of my co-workers or bosses can be blamed for this situation. (Obviously there is no room for anger at any of the people in my care: however "demanding" they may behave, they are elderly folks with dementia, which means they are tired & breaking down. They deserve the very best I can offer them.) The fault lies with the way health care is managed in this country - the fact that its motive is to generate profit off of the business of caring for people. There is absolutely nothing I can do about this situation right now, except for voting, writing representatives, and going down to support my local Occupation, all of which I do. In the meantime, maybe if I get some experience in the industry under my belt I will be able to do some work at the level of policy. Who knows. But right now, we are overworked and understaffed and short of supplies. All that falls under the category of "things I cannot change" and thus require acceptance.
Sort of like those condescending, ignorant family members of my friend.
So I am trying to work towards two things. One, I would like to be able to hear people state opinions with which I do not agree without feeling like I'm drowning in the blood that is rushing to my head. Even if I'm right - that they are the people whose prejudices and self-rightous ideas about pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps are the ones allowing the elite to stay in power - and even as I write this I think more and more about the lies these well-intended people are fed in order to keep them docile & compliant - that said, even if I'm right to be, shall we say, irritated with & disappointed by these folks, the desire to CRUSH them with superior liberal logic has an animal energy that doesn't fit. I would like to be able to disagree & even debate without losing my freakin' mind.
The other thing that I'm scared of right now is that I will be so angry about the conditions I expect to be working in that my anger will compromise the quality of my work. I do not want to become so jaded that I'm just doing the minimum to get by. Maybe someday I will be able to help work for some real change in this area. In the meantime, these people will be at my mercy. I am glad that I am already well tuned in to the idea of taking care of myself (getting enough sleep, meditation, staying in touch with a support network, being mindful of the bigger picture, thinking things through - which is why I've resumed this blog). I will be a primary caretaker, and therefore a primary component of these people's own personal big pictures - their day-to-day lives. Just because I will never have enough time or help or supplies to do my job right doesn't mean that I can't be patient and kind.
God help me. Seeing the way the other CNAs worked really scared me. They were frequently unkind. I don't judge them. They're being paid shit. They're burned out. God help me maintain an attitude of service and humility. It's not about the money. This is just a stop along the way. I will be able to learn a lot. There will be times that I am frustrated and overwhelmed. It is my intention stay present and think of how I can best balance my obligations to the resident in front of me, my other residents, my co-workers and myself.
There's this tree that lives outside my window. All summer it was green and beautiful. As fall approached, all the leaves on all the other trees changed color & dropped, but this one was green, green, green, well into September. I remember when I thought I could detect a hint of red around the edges of some of the leaves, a slight rustiness. Then suddenly it was like the whole tree was on fire, it was so red and orange. Just as suddenly, it turned brown. Yesterday I noticed that I could actually see through it to the houses across the street that I had never been able to see before. Now I note that if I watch that tree for more than a minute, I will probably see a leaf fall. Just one leaf every minute or so, but over half of them have fallen.
Even jaw-droppingly drastic change usually comes sort of slowly. I need to cultivate patience.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The best song ever recorded
I promised my li'l bro Dustin that I would explain my audacious claim to have selected the best song ever recorded, and so I shall. The envelope please? Screw the envelope, I got the answer right here. It's "Nobody Falls Like", by the Dead Milkmen.
"But I don't know that song," you might protest. No matter. It's still the best song ever recorded, and a lot of people don't know this. It's track 7 on the 1993 album "Not Richard but Dick" and the lyrics are as follows:
Why did I give my neighbors the head of a chicken last night? Did I think the head of a chicken could make everything all right? Why do I do these bad things that I sometimes do? Is there something wrong with me... or with YOU? Why don't you stop lookin' at me? Why don't you stop spyin' on me? Why don't you just leave me alone? WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL
Why did I chase the children in a clown suit last week? Is it just because I like to hear the children shriek? Why do I do these bad things that I sometimes do? Can you give me a reason? Can you give me a clue? Why don't you stop lookin' at me? Why don't you stop spyin' on me? Why can't you just leave me alone? WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD... YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL...
Why did I touch the postman with a cattle prod today? He wasn't hurting me. He wasn't in my way YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL Why do I pick the flowers when I know it's not allowed? Is it just because I want to stand out from the crowd? Is there something in my brain? Is there something in my skull?
The song is fast and frantic and weirdly flat in its affect and pacing. The production quality, in contrast to the rest of the album, is shit, which enhances the tossed-off, blurted-out feel of the track. They used the perfect style to create the character in the song.
Right, so he's obviously insane. I can see him now, leaving, not a decapitated chicken, but just the head of said chicken, on his neighbors' doorstep. I mean you wouldn't even necessarily see it, or register its nature, right off. A dead chicken would indicate hostility. A decapitated one, sinister hosility. Just the head? That's just so fucking creepy. Furthermore, he's sort of slapping himself on the forehead for thinking that this little gift would "make everything all right." He knows that it was a fucked up thing to do, maybe, but he was trying to restore some kind of balance.
All the "bad things" he does are for some kind of purpose; he knows they're "bad" and he's trying to fathom them. But he's so far out of sane that he draws no real distinction between touching the post man with a cattle prod and picking prohibited flowers. He may as well be chiding himself for always forgetting to pick up the mail on his way into the office. This is part of why I find the song so fucking heartbreaking: his task is beyond Sisyphean, he's some hollow-chested stick-limbed little nerd, nose to the boulder, sort of heaving feebly for a minute and then inspecting the stony surface, completely incapable of even budging the damn thing, much less starting it up the mountain. And he has NO idea.
Except, I think, in this song, it's just starting to dawn on him. Just barely starting to dawn. And the gruesome, gory truth of this dawn is so horrifying, so unbearable, that he will prefer to believe that the greying in the East of the dawn of this truth is something else, anything else, storm or war or locusts, anything. I get the feeling that he's been not real happy with his behavior for awhile, and this is perhaps the first time that he's actually asking himself WHY he does it, instead of taking it for granted that his compulsions must be obeyed.
I just sat here for a long minute trying to figure out why I've always been so sure that he's addressing some external person rather than just talking back to the voices in his own head. And I think it's because he tells the person to stop spyin' on him, to stop laughin' at him. It sounds like an external projection. I think that he thinks that he's a fundamentally good, or at least not-bad guy, who inexplicably does bad things even as he's trying to do the right thing.
And so I think we're catching him, in this song, blurting out his fear and confusion to some outside person. Maybe he's been locked up, and the staff psychiatrist comes in and gives him a cup of lukewarm coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and asks him if he knows why he's there, and our buddy is just having a moment of lucidity and for some reason, just for a moment, spills his doubts. Maybe he's staring at his two-thirds empty glass of Budweiser while the garrulous stranger on the barstool next to him pauses to chug the rest of his tenth pint. Maybe he's sitting on the Greyhound next to my brother after thirty-seven hours and they're pulling into the city of their final destination.
He seems to start out with some kind of trust, but only because he's hardly aware that he's vocalizing. "Why? Why do I do this?" he muses. But as soon as it occurs to him - apparently for the first time - that there might be something wrong with him, he immediately swings into defensive assault: "... or with YOU?" Before the interlocutor can even respond, our deranged friend is hollering accusations of abuse and persecution, and finally of infiltration: the confidante is suddenly responsible for the "bad things": "You put something in my skull!"
The floodgates are open now, he continues to list his crimes. And now, when he's asking why he does these things, it's with a touch of bitterness: You CAN give me a reason, you CAN give me a clue... because you're the one who made me do them! It's little comfort though... it's one thing to have a stomachache all the time, but finding out that it's a malignant tumor doesn't make things better. Now he's just furious. And while it may not be sane to expect the tumor or the spies to simply vanish and "leave me alone," surely it's natural to WANT them to.
But in the last verse, his insistence that something has been planted in him is starting to sound a little desperate. The full depth of his lunacy is revealed in his attempted rationalization of his final cited crime of picking flowers, perhaps in order to show that he's no drone. The idea that this madman could possibly be mistaken for a moment as just another sucker on the vine is impossible. (And yet... he sat on a barstool for nine pints or next to my brother for 37 hours without raising suspicion. I suppose we all contain the possibility of insanity as long as we hold still and keep our mouths shut. There's all kinds of crazy out there.) And yet it's such a commonplace, normal-sized, univeral desire - to be a little bit special, to not be lost in the shuffle. Heartbreaking, again.
The final kicker for me, though, is in the last lines. The dawn of awareness comes inexorably, and he still hasn't accepted it, but he's articulated the ghastly possibility: is there something in my brain? Is there something in my skull? ...Because what if there's not? What if this is just the way I am? And the song comes grinding to a halt.
"But I don't know that song," you might protest. No matter. It's still the best song ever recorded, and a lot of people don't know this. It's track 7 on the 1993 album "Not Richard but Dick" and the lyrics are as follows:
Why did I give my neighbors the head of a chicken last night? Did I think the head of a chicken could make everything all right? Why do I do these bad things that I sometimes do? Is there something wrong with me... or with YOU? Why don't you stop lookin' at me? Why don't you stop spyin' on me? Why don't you just leave me alone? WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL
Why did I chase the children in a clown suit last week? Is it just because I like to hear the children shriek? Why do I do these bad things that I sometimes do? Can you give me a reason? Can you give me a clue? Why don't you stop lookin' at me? Why don't you stop spyin' on me? Why can't you just leave me alone? WHY DON'T YOU GET OUT OF MY HEAD... YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL...
Why did I touch the postman with a cattle prod today? He wasn't hurting me. He wasn't in my way YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL YOU PUT SOMETHING IN MY SKULL Why do I pick the flowers when I know it's not allowed? Is it just because I want to stand out from the crowd? Is there something in my brain? Is there something in my skull?
The song is fast and frantic and weirdly flat in its affect and pacing. The production quality, in contrast to the rest of the album, is shit, which enhances the tossed-off, blurted-out feel of the track. They used the perfect style to create the character in the song.
Right, so he's obviously insane. I can see him now, leaving, not a decapitated chicken, but just the head of said chicken, on his neighbors' doorstep. I mean you wouldn't even necessarily see it, or register its nature, right off. A dead chicken would indicate hostility. A decapitated one, sinister hosility. Just the head? That's just so fucking creepy. Furthermore, he's sort of slapping himself on the forehead for thinking that this little gift would "make everything all right." He knows that it was a fucked up thing to do, maybe, but he was trying to restore some kind of balance.
All the "bad things" he does are for some kind of purpose; he knows they're "bad" and he's trying to fathom them. But he's so far out of sane that he draws no real distinction between touching the post man with a cattle prod and picking prohibited flowers. He may as well be chiding himself for always forgetting to pick up the mail on his way into the office. This is part of why I find the song so fucking heartbreaking: his task is beyond Sisyphean, he's some hollow-chested stick-limbed little nerd, nose to the boulder, sort of heaving feebly for a minute and then inspecting the stony surface, completely incapable of even budging the damn thing, much less starting it up the mountain. And he has NO idea.
Except, I think, in this song, it's just starting to dawn on him. Just barely starting to dawn. And the gruesome, gory truth of this dawn is so horrifying, so unbearable, that he will prefer to believe that the greying in the East of the dawn of this truth is something else, anything else, storm or war or locusts, anything. I get the feeling that he's been not real happy with his behavior for awhile, and this is perhaps the first time that he's actually asking himself WHY he does it, instead of taking it for granted that his compulsions must be obeyed.
I just sat here for a long minute trying to figure out why I've always been so sure that he's addressing some external person rather than just talking back to the voices in his own head. And I think it's because he tells the person to stop spyin' on him, to stop laughin' at him. It sounds like an external projection. I think that he thinks that he's a fundamentally good, or at least not-bad guy, who inexplicably does bad things even as he's trying to do the right thing.
And so I think we're catching him, in this song, blurting out his fear and confusion to some outside person. Maybe he's been locked up, and the staff psychiatrist comes in and gives him a cup of lukewarm coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and asks him if he knows why he's there, and our buddy is just having a moment of lucidity and for some reason, just for a moment, spills his doubts. Maybe he's staring at his two-thirds empty glass of Budweiser while the garrulous stranger on the barstool next to him pauses to chug the rest of his tenth pint. Maybe he's sitting on the Greyhound next to my brother after thirty-seven hours and they're pulling into the city of their final destination.
He seems to start out with some kind of trust, but only because he's hardly aware that he's vocalizing. "Why? Why do I do this?" he muses. But as soon as it occurs to him - apparently for the first time - that there might be something wrong with him, he immediately swings into defensive assault: "... or with YOU?" Before the interlocutor can even respond, our deranged friend is hollering accusations of abuse and persecution, and finally of infiltration: the confidante is suddenly responsible for the "bad things": "You put something in my skull!"
The floodgates are open now, he continues to list his crimes. And now, when he's asking why he does these things, it's with a touch of bitterness: You CAN give me a reason, you CAN give me a clue... because you're the one who made me do them! It's little comfort though... it's one thing to have a stomachache all the time, but finding out that it's a malignant tumor doesn't make things better. Now he's just furious. And while it may not be sane to expect the tumor or the spies to simply vanish and "leave me alone," surely it's natural to WANT them to.
But in the last verse, his insistence that something has been planted in him is starting to sound a little desperate. The full depth of his lunacy is revealed in his attempted rationalization of his final cited crime of picking flowers, perhaps in order to show that he's no drone. The idea that this madman could possibly be mistaken for a moment as just another sucker on the vine is impossible. (And yet... he sat on a barstool for nine pints or next to my brother for 37 hours without raising suspicion. I suppose we all contain the possibility of insanity as long as we hold still and keep our mouths shut. There's all kinds of crazy out there.) And yet it's such a commonplace, normal-sized, univeral desire - to be a little bit special, to not be lost in the shuffle. Heartbreaking, again.
The final kicker for me, though, is in the last lines. The dawn of awareness comes inexorably, and he still hasn't accepted it, but he's articulated the ghastly possibility: is there something in my brain? Is there something in my skull? ...Because what if there's not? What if this is just the way I am? And the song comes grinding to a halt.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Go vegan! Sort of.
I got a whole pile of shit to do, but it's mostly niggling little stuff like pay the Con Ed bill and yank my laundry together, so first I'm gonna go into dietary ethics for a minute. I recently received a kick in the butt about this from a film fest short about the evils of egg production.
Now, I've known for a long time that the meat and dairy industries are about as filthy a scene as you could wish to remain willfully ignorant of. And I've been saying for awhile that, were I to eat in accordance with my values, I would pretty much be vegan. You don't have to know much about capitalism and ecology to understand that these industries are massively damaging to the environment in a variety of ways, and that they are satanic in their exploitation of labor and trade. I mean there is just nothing good about them. Nothing. At all.
And I also know from my adventures in raw-foodism (6 months, a couple of years ago) that they're really not necessary. Not for health, not for convenience. Now, over the last year and change, I've been experimenting with intuitive eating, which involves eating whatever you want and focusing on trying to eat only when hungry and stopping when satisfied, an experience I have not had since I was probably ten years old. All other concerns - health, appearance, ethics, money - have gone on the shelf. And in recent weeks my relationship with food has started to shift dramatically, as the deprivation compensation has caught up with me, and I've been starting to feel ready to start incorporating my ethical concerns.
Then I saw this short. And it was largely concerned with respect for animals: they are living creatures, they deserve the same quality of life that we humans expect for ourselves. I have never been one of these "animals are people too" kinds of people. Life eats life. But nor do I wish to have anything to do with the kind of violence and squalor I saw in the short. I seriously don't see anything wrong with eating their products (eggs and dairy) if the source animals are being treated well. And if I'm going to eat an animal, I want to be able to... I don't know, thank it with honor.
I don't see much change in my life as a result of this decision. I won't be getting the same sandwiches at the deli; my milk expenses will go up a bit. But you know what? Big fat fucking deal. It's not that hard, and it's an exercise in living consciously. And I'm not going to be a terrific hardass about it, either. If there's butter in something or it's been processed with lard, I ain't gonna make a huge fuss. And I frickin' LOVE ricotta on a slice... so I'll probably get a white slice. Probably a few times a year. But making the shift in the day-to-day is what makes the difference; cutting out 90% of what I used to consume of mainstream agricultural meat & dairy is pretty good, I'd say.
So I guess it's time to go check out the Stogo scene. My real problem will come once it gets cold again, because while I like milk in my iced coffee (which you can get soy milk everywhere, no problem), I like half-and-half in my hot coffee. Who has organic half-and-half for your to-go coffee in the Union Square area? Somebody must. I'll start scouting now.
Now, I've known for a long time that the meat and dairy industries are about as filthy a scene as you could wish to remain willfully ignorant of. And I've been saying for awhile that, were I to eat in accordance with my values, I would pretty much be vegan. You don't have to know much about capitalism and ecology to understand that these industries are massively damaging to the environment in a variety of ways, and that they are satanic in their exploitation of labor and trade. I mean there is just nothing good about them. Nothing. At all.
And I also know from my adventures in raw-foodism (6 months, a couple of years ago) that they're really not necessary. Not for health, not for convenience. Now, over the last year and change, I've been experimenting with intuitive eating, which involves eating whatever you want and focusing on trying to eat only when hungry and stopping when satisfied, an experience I have not had since I was probably ten years old. All other concerns - health, appearance, ethics, money - have gone on the shelf. And in recent weeks my relationship with food has started to shift dramatically, as the deprivation compensation has caught up with me, and I've been starting to feel ready to start incorporating my ethical concerns.
Then I saw this short. And it was largely concerned with respect for animals: they are living creatures, they deserve the same quality of life that we humans expect for ourselves. I have never been one of these "animals are people too" kinds of people. Life eats life. But nor do I wish to have anything to do with the kind of violence and squalor I saw in the short. I seriously don't see anything wrong with eating their products (eggs and dairy) if the source animals are being treated well. And if I'm going to eat an animal, I want to be able to... I don't know, thank it with honor.
I don't see much change in my life as a result of this decision. I won't be getting the same sandwiches at the deli; my milk expenses will go up a bit. But you know what? Big fat fucking deal. It's not that hard, and it's an exercise in living consciously. And I'm not going to be a terrific hardass about it, either. If there's butter in something or it's been processed with lard, I ain't gonna make a huge fuss. And I frickin' LOVE ricotta on a slice... so I'll probably get a white slice. Probably a few times a year. But making the shift in the day-to-day is what makes the difference; cutting out 90% of what I used to consume of mainstream agricultural meat & dairy is pretty good, I'd say.
So I guess it's time to go check out the Stogo scene. My real problem will come once it gets cold again, because while I like milk in my iced coffee (which you can get soy milk everywhere, no problem), I like half-and-half in my hot coffee. Who has organic half-and-half for your to-go coffee in the Union Square area? Somebody must. I'll start scouting now.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The weather: Not worth bitching about
Right, so I've decided (for now) that I will leave all the gooey internal analysis on MySpace and try to cobble together a more, I don't know, dignified presence here on the blogspots. Here, I will regale you with my thoughts and opinions on stuff outside my own head and skin. Just to see what it's like. I've done it before, on the MySpaces, and written some stuff on salad and Tom Robbins and stuff like that. Don't get me wrong, I love nothing more than some good deep navel-gazing, but it probably wouldn't kill me to turn my squinty eye outward as well.
Having said that, I can't get over how much people bitch about the weather. It seems like if it's not 70 degrees and spotlessly sunny, it's a personal insult. It's been grey and misty recently, and you would think they'd dropped minimum wage to two acorns a day. It's been beautiful, people. Restful. The winter was not that bad, as we shall see when the mosquitoes are eating us alive. And as soon as it warms up, it's too goddamn hot. Give it a fucking rest! People whine if the spring is short, and if it's long, guess what. That probably involves rain. Then they complain about the rain. Suddenly, moderate temperatures aren't enough, now they want ideal humidity. Wah, wah, wah.
People like to complain, and the weather is an easy one to do. You want perfect weather, move to fucking L.A. I bet people there NEVER complain.
Having said that, I can't get over how much people bitch about the weather. It seems like if it's not 70 degrees and spotlessly sunny, it's a personal insult. It's been grey and misty recently, and you would think they'd dropped minimum wage to two acorns a day. It's been beautiful, people. Restful. The winter was not that bad, as we shall see when the mosquitoes are eating us alive. And as soon as it warms up, it's too goddamn hot. Give it a fucking rest! People whine if the spring is short, and if it's long, guess what. That probably involves rain. Then they complain about the rain. Suddenly, moderate temperatures aren't enough, now they want ideal humidity. Wah, wah, wah.
People like to complain, and the weather is an easy one to do. You want perfect weather, move to fucking L.A. I bet people there NEVER complain.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The inaugural address
My fellow Earthlings:
Like the rest of you, I'm here to make a buck. It's true. I've been blogging over on MySpace for years now, and Hannah just promised me that if I was blogging over HERE instead of over THERE, I would get offered a book deal. So now I'm just killing time until someone offers to pay me for what I am clearly happy to do for free.
That said, I will be continuing to do here what I've been doing on the Space: miscellaneous observations and attempts at esplainin' myself to myself and to anyone who will listen. For example, I picked this template because it looked okay... and because it is named SON OF MOTO!
We'll conclude the inaugural address with an observation from yesterday:
For those of you just tuning in, I live in Manhattan. Right now, I'm at my parents' house where I grew up in Mountlake Terrace, WA. Yesterday I was in the back yard, and there were some dandelions gone to seed in the corner of the yard.
You know what is one of the many awesome things about being a grownup? You stop stressing about whether you get all the seeds off the dandelion puff in one breath. You stop worrying about whether your stupid wish is going to come true, and you can just concentrate on how cool the seeds looks as they go flying off into the sky, the neighbors' yard, etc. I must have did like six of them, and they were the best I'd ever done.
Like the rest of you, I'm here to make a buck. It's true. I've been blogging over on MySpace for years now, and Hannah just promised me that if I was blogging over HERE instead of over THERE, I would get offered a book deal. So now I'm just killing time until someone offers to pay me for what I am clearly happy to do for free.
That said, I will be continuing to do here what I've been doing on the Space: miscellaneous observations and attempts at esplainin' myself to myself and to anyone who will listen. For example, I picked this template because it looked okay... and because it is named SON OF MOTO!
We'll conclude the inaugural address with an observation from yesterday:
For those of you just tuning in, I live in Manhattan. Right now, I'm at my parents' house where I grew up in Mountlake Terrace, WA. Yesterday I was in the back yard, and there were some dandelions gone to seed in the corner of the yard.
You know what is one of the many awesome things about being a grownup? You stop stressing about whether you get all the seeds off the dandelion puff in one breath. You stop worrying about whether your stupid wish is going to come true, and you can just concentrate on how cool the seeds looks as they go flying off into the sky, the neighbors' yard, etc. I must have did like six of them, and they were the best I'd ever done.
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