The Job Part I
Category Archives: Meaning of Life
The Turn – The Job
School’s Out
Morale and Moral – They’re Both Sinking and Stinking
Great Ideas – Already Done
The Plan 4 Survival
They Are Back!
Dateline: Frigid late January 2009, suffering mental and emotional trauma from having bought a house
I have often been asked the question by my peers, enemies, colleagues, friends and various law enforcement agents across the globe, “are you a complete idiot??!!” The implication in that interrogatory statement is that I wasn’t really thinking using the twin and rarely linked logical pillars of action and consequence, further implying I was trying to score with a chick or I was under the influence at the time of said action or inappropriate statement. Or if I was indeed thinking in the classic scientific sense, meaning synapses were firing and chemicals in the cranium were mixing and reacting, it was at a level more in keeping with single-cell organisms on the bottom of my shoe or in my hot dog.
Thus it is with some embarrassment that I admit to having bought a home, and freely inducing long-term suffering upon myself and others who live with me, including those fleas we had. Why would any sentient being do this to him or herself by purchasing a house? I still don’t know, but I bet it had something to do with a glossy sales brochure that lulled me into thinking gardening and DIY would be fun like it is on TV, and a fair bit of parental convincing using that uncommon thing people call “common sense”, not to mention a scandalously low mortgage rate. And what the hell else was I going to do with my money? Invest it?
These “life decisions”, as they are known in the world of human resources require various things to be aligned for them to come to fruition. (Funny, there aren’t a lot of “death decisions” — except for deciding on the color of my coffin liner, purple, and what to serve at after the funeral, most likely danish and coffee, not to mention the death decisions of what to eat at extra greasy fast food joints that haven’t been cleaned in 2 decades, and when I sample the local cholesterol-soaked croissants at the bakery.)
Often, but not exclusively, it requires a partner as stupid and starry-eyed as you, who has also convinced him or herself that this will “all be good — somehow”, knowing full well either a divorce lawyer and/or pharmacological support should be ordered in advance. Critical to this concoction is a financial institution, containing employees devoid of a conscience, soul or anything that could trigger feelings of guilt or honesty, that looks at you like a giant 12,000 gallon vessel of gullible liquid blood that it can leech onto for the next 3 decades, and smiles gleefully as you sign over your soul, wallet and life in exchange for “equity.” One can’t forget the prescription strength rose-colored glasses for you to overlook the fact that the pile of bricks and mortar you bought is really just loosely assembled, poorly maintained cheese cloth with a smattering of cement, bricks, wood and electrical wires ready to burn down that selfsame house.
Now, is there such a thing as free will? I like to think so, despite neuroscience proving otherwise, and it was this free will that let me think I was purchasing a roof over my head (an investment it isn’t, unless the insurance company would insure it for triple its value and then ignore the accelerant from the ensuing “accident” and I give the adjuster a massive, swimming pool-sized kickback) for the betterment of me and my family. Not to mention a place to put all my crap I have been accumulating over the years.
So, I can say I went into this with open, if short-sighted, eyes and knowing full well I was going to take it in the neck worse than a lamb sacrifice at the altar of the Old Temple in Jerusalem just before or after a battle with other hairy and testosterone-laden Mediterranean tribes. And I did and will continue to suffer for my sins until we sell the place.
Now I must focus on making more money to pay for this bag of bricks called a house. Thankfully it’s filled with love that makes it a home, if you discount my light and gravity sucking black hole negativity I emit.
The Birthday Gift – Sort Of
How does one pay homage to a parent? Is it through hugs and kisses? Is it by lionizing their great achievements and holding them up as an example for others to follow? Could it even be just making them a nice supper once a week and saying “thanks for being there when I scraped my knee as a kid”.
Sure, any of those simplistic answers would do, but I prefer to use the power of art and imagery, and possibly some backhanded humor. It’s way more complicated but I can use it at dinners with the family and friends to point out mom’s particular habits. Like being obsessed with never lea ing out chicken on a counter for more than 8 or 9 milliseconds, heaven forbid we all die of salmonella or some such food-borne illness.
And I guess that is what a good parent does – he or she prevents us from injury, illness or death where possible some can contribute to society later on. In this case it is most certainly my mom playing the role of the protector, because my dad would let me play with a plugged in hair dryer while standing in a metal bucket of water, as the sword of Damocles, probably rusted, swung over my head.
This particular episode of the illustrated comic gem cryptically called Stanko & Tibor, once deemed by The Society for the Protection of Cruelty to Animals as being a visual assault on all living creatures on this planet, aims to pay back some of that protective love and nurturing of my maternal unit, that led to the publishing (and printing and framing) of this humorous piece of my life. Sure, I could have the money for a proper gift, or even put it towards the heated storage unit I’ll put her in one day, but that would prove that she did too good a job of parenting. Can’t let it get to her head.
Keep reading, keep thinking, and keep fermenting and never let your boss tell you what to do. Unless he or she signs your pay checks. Then grovel politely.
Mucho love from Monsieur Jean de Exupéry
Olympic Fun & Games
To those who know right from wrong and still eat spicy food before they go to bed without taking a Tums, I give you this particular episode of the visually delectable and intellectually fluffy scribblings once called “asinine” by Picasso’s aunt Esmeralda before she was put in the basement.
Given the weighty topic that it covers — oppression and the Olympics — it should be food for thought, like a fried dumpling filled with mystery innards and garlic, with a nice, dark vinegar dipping sauce. Oh how I love those and wish all humanity could eat them and learn of glorious yet toxic qualities.
The Olympics once stood for greatness and athletic achievement, for personal drive and the belief in sport to better us and bring us together. Now the Olympics stand for most of that still, albeit with a heavy corporate backing and sales-enhancing marketing, nationalistic chest-beating akin to sandlot battles between maladjusted children but with freakishly large budgets, and chemical and DNA tinkering meant to “enhance” performance, all in equal parts.
And then came China’s successful bid/bribe for the Games and the massive soul- and bone-crushing undertaking they set in motion to make it happen. Do I have proof there was bone-crushing? No, not really, but it’s China, so you know something nasty happened to the environment, the protesters and the journalists who tried to expose the corruption. What is Chinese for “gulag”?
And what should this comic teach us, dear readers? Well, if it weren’t for China, chances are I couldn’t have afforded the computer and associated peripheral equipment to document this little historical fact of Chinese sporting glory and oppression. So it’s a bit ironic I’m making fun of them with the results of efficient slave labor from their factories. But isn’t the universe funny that way? You bet.
So take from this political commentary what you will, be it the food aspect, the wry political commentary, or the loving interaction between man and machine, dad and son or gun and nosy blogger.
It boggles the mind. Or at least my mind.
Parental Payback
Do you remember that Alan Parsons Project song “Games People Play“? I barely do, but what I do recall of it was a mess of whiny, annoying pop drivel that made me reach for the tuning knob on my old radio in a desperate effort to find something entertaining to keep me from having to do my homework. And no, I didn’t play video games largely because I sucked and was massively uncoordinated in the fine and gross motor skills department. But as a child I wanted to do something well enough to impress my dad so I’d gain his love and respect as any child would. And show him he was getting old.
Hence this episode of the parentally-themed, Picasso-esque visual tour de force brings to light a topic that so many of us, the intentional and accidental creators of offspring, must deal with – the generation gap. Happens to all of us, the coolest of the cool, the dopest of the dope, even the hippest of the hip, including those who have had multiple hip replacements. We eventually stop being cool as nature intended us. Were we to remain eternally cool, we’d piss off our kids so much they’d either run away and join the circus as some do, or they’d kill us for stealing their thunder. Nature has this way of replacing the people who are ahead of the curve with those just behind them, kind of like ducks flying south in a V-shape. At some point, the lead duck has to give up and let a stronger duck ahead.
But that doesn’t mean parents have to completely give in to our children. In fact, by being intentionally uncool, non-hip, or even lame and loser-ish, we hold the great trump card in the eternal battle of child versus parent. All it takes is some well-timed and skilfully placed verbal blunders, particularly in front of the kids’ friends,even better if you’re in your underwear or wearing a filthy mustard-stained t-shirt with swear words on it, and you have sunk their battleship like an Exocet into the side of a Bismarck.
Armed with the knowledge that your child will one day replace you and make you obsolete, much like that last technology with the came along and made the one before that look so yesterday, know that for a brief time, say about 10 years if you’re lucky, you will appear cool, the hero, the dude to your child and then it all goes south in a medley of disco pants and bad hairdos and they’ll make fun of you too. Until their kids make fun of them.