Space Genius

Look, I’m a patient guy. I’m in a band. I know how it is. But for the love of God dear Neighbor, give the fiddle a break every so often! If you (or I) had a job, you’d know about the “Coffee break”. You can take that 10 minutes. No one will miss the fiddle.

Yes, I know. Portland was your Shangra-la. Sure, your folks were none too thrilled that you dropped out of college, especially since Dad worked so hard to get you grandfathered in, but you had a dream. A dream of a place where anyone could ride a bike. A dream of a city that would appreciate your nostalgia for a musical era that you could only read about. All you had was a fiddle, a bike, and a dream, and you made it come true. Well, that and a trust fund.

And now in the promised land, you sit on the front lawn of the house that you rent with 10 other true believers, and you jam in your improvised olde tyme band. Sure, you don’t really know how to play it yet, but when you find a riff that YOU (emphasis mine) find somewhat accomplished, god dammit if you’re not gonna play it for two hours straight. So here you are, smoking pot and sharing your music with the world. For 8 hours straight sometimes. On the lawn of your art house utopia. Vaguely thinking about opening a food cart when the fund runs low.

Look, I’m in a band. We practice. But we hide our shame deep underground. In basements. Because I wouldn’t want to wish the pain of working out a new song on ANYONE. It’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck until you play it 1000 times. But really, only band members need to be subjected to that. Not the neighborhood. I’m sure you wouldn’t like our music. I don’t like yours. But I ain’t bothering you with mine, am I?

And like I said. I’m a nice guy. I don’t mind if you jam from time to time. But playing ALL DAY is excessive. It’s too much to ask.

Oh, for the halcyon days of Crazy Diamond!

*You know it was a great party when you wake up the next day to find that somehow you’ve dumped all of your cumin on the kitchen floor.

Bonus – someone tried to clean up the cumin, but evidently it was too difficult, so they just left a brush sitting in the middle of the spill.

*Do you think Alexander Courage knew he was writing the everyday mental sound cues for an entire generation of nerds?

*Yes, this English language German news magazine IS the most entertaining program on basic cable. I’ve checked 7 times.

*I’ve grown tired of these commercials that marry yogurt with girls’ pooping habits.

I understand that most of you wait your entire day for me to spill some words into this here text box.  Sorry for that.  Had some big boy stuff to do.  That’s how I roll.  Via prioritize-ation!

Anyway, somehow 10 gallons of beer materialized at a friends’ BBQ this weekend.  I’m not sure how it happened.  I’m guessing string theory?  I couldn’t have possibly have brought it myself.  Because that would make me a BOOTLEGGER!  So maybe it was all a dream.

A dream that got consumed in 2 hours!  I had no idea the Leo friends and family were so thirsty.  I had an IPA and Rye Pale on tap.  No more.  You should have been there.  In my dream.  Cuz that’s the only way you can taste my beer until the legislature gets around to repealing these stupid ass prohibition-era laws.

And hey, I had an interview today!  Why is it that post-interview, I feel like I could have done so much better?  I don’t think it’s possible to do ‘better’.  Part of the game.  It’s like the Kobyashi Maru.  No way to win.  Unless you get the job, I suppose.  Or are Captain Kirk.

I’ll say this… the Lane County Fair sure did make for some first class people watching.

Oh. My. God.

Those who know me may ask: Ian. Why were you in Eugene? You hate Eugene with the fury of 1000 suns. Once the University of Oregon had its way with you, left you penniless with a worthless scrap of paper, took away all your respect for the academic world, why, why, why would you ever go back?

An excellent question. Claudia wanted to go see Joan Jett and the Blackhearts play the Fair.

Fair enough*!

True, there were other attractions at the festival grounds. Baby pigs. Corn dogs. A baby pig race that we missed. That’s about it. There was an Old Tyme Picture booth but it looked too complex and crowded to brave.

On to Joan Jett.

She was as advertised. Kinda a bit zombie pale. But what do ya want? Played her hits, and some crowd pleasing covers (had to keep the interest of the slack jaw contingent). Worked the crowd. Made some lesbians very happy.

But the crowd. Oh, the crowd. Reprehensible.

I’ve seen some sketchy ass shows. In some run down clubs. I’ve seen stuff that was most uncouth. I’ve seen stuff that was illegal. This crowd I wanted to kill!

First of all, babies. Newborns. Toddlers. EVERYWHERE! Moms bulldozing their way through the crowd with STROLLERS! This couple next to us had a screaming baby, a screaming toddler, and a crying kid. I wonder why they didn’t like it there. It was only ten thousand degrees in the sun, super noisy, and filled with rude, shoving people. The poor baby was redhead, and I’m sure developing quite the burn in the sun, and was clearly dehydrated. I saw a huge fat woman with babies strapped all over her like they were a bandoleer shove her way through the crowd. The babies kinda worked like a bumper. But really Eugene**, you gotta bring EVERYONE to the rock show? You can’t convince your friend Angel Mother to house them at the commune for an hour? Stay classy!

The teen girls. Oh the teen girls. I let one shove her way in front of me, because really this show was more for her than me. She was 15 and already two heads taller than me. She stopped, and started texting. Immediately. Incessantly. I wanted to pull her back and explain that if she’s not going to watch the show, then she doesn’t need to be in front of me.

The dour, pudgy, short lesbians. I’m sorry you’re not tall enough to see. If you wanted to experience this show so badly that you throw your shoulders into the crowd and bitch and moan while pissing people off at the same time… well here’s the answer. Get to the stage early. That’s what all the 13 year olds did. They can see fine. And yes, you smell really, really bad.

But to the big, stocky tucker guy pushin’ 50 who sang every one of Joan’s songs, and grooved out like a mountain in a sea of tween girls, you get the gold star of the show. You rock!

*I’m so very sorry.
**To be fair, I’m sure most of them were from Springfield. Zing!

You know who’s not hurting during this recession?

Human Resources.

These must be golden times for those who process and throw away résumés. All day iPod dance parties. Golf. That bottle of vodka hidden deep in the filing cabinet. Inventing sadistic, useless tests, measures, and hoops in which to watch job seekers jump through. And of course, general goldbricking. I’ve seen some shameful Human Resourcing in this, their time of plenty.

And here’s one of them. Check out this email I got:

Who?

Words cannot describe the incompetence of this email. But I’ll give it a try.

1) Who?
2) Who?
3) Who?
4) Again, who? I apply to many, many places on an ongoing basis.
5) This email arrived on a Sunday at midnight. The last form I filled out was on Thursday, I think? If the rejection came right after I hit the submit button, I’d be able to answer questions 1-4. As it is, did this refer to something I completed last week? The week before? A month ago?
6) There’s been this standard in the structure of forms since, say 1995, in which required fields are marked by a red asterisk. And there’s this programming language called JavaScript that can be used to make sure the form will not submit until ALL red starred fields are filled. If your form needed more info, why didn’t it ask?

And the kicker… I don’t recall leaving any forms blank?

So, I guess I’m not getting this job. But somehow I’m not all that broke up about it?

Here’s what I don’t understand about physics. Why is it that when I’m in a perfectly craptastic mood, the universe must work to perfect this mood by allowing events to end up happening in the worst way possible.

Let me explain.

It’s never enough for say, a bag filled with odd plastic forks made for flossing, to fall out of the medicine cabinet. It must fall out at the exact angle where I miss it. It then must strike a faucet head at the exact pressure point that pops open the zip grooves sealing it shut. It next must process to not expel one or two dental devices, but ALL of them. In all directions. Some go in the toilet. Some go in the trash. Some go behind the toilet. Some in the sink.

Great. Now I’m in the position of deciding which surface is ‘clean’ enough to not have contaminated these dental instruments. And what’s with that? Wouldn’t just plain dental floss work in place of these overdesigned thingies? And retrieving stuff out of the toilet – well, that’s always a party!

Not cool, physics. Not cool at all.

Portlanders have over 100 words for ‘beer’. And Budweiser ain’t one of them.

Just got back from jogging. Passed a recycle bin outside a house that obviously just had a raging party. It was filled with microbrew empties. And two or three full Budweisers.

Obviously brought by some sad sack who just moved to town. The owner of the house thought so little of them that he didn’t want to spare the space in his refrigerator so that he could try and pawn them off on his friends at the next party.

And the CHuDs that roam the streets for wayward can and bottle deposits had turned up their noses as well. Trust me, if you drop a can in this town, it will be gone by the time you turn around to pick it up. It might not hit the ground at all.

Now don’t get me wrong. The CHuDs will eventually drink them, but it’ll take some time and despair. I bet if some high school students were to run up SE Ankeny afterschool, they might have themselves a little treat!