Day 2

This is officially Day 2 of being unemployed -- partially out of choice, but mostly due to necessity. In the last 2 days I have fielded phone calls from friends and relatives inquiring if I am bored out of my tree yet, which incidentally, I have found rather amusing. In fact, I am not running out of things to do.

For example, I spent most of the afternoon laying on the couch since I pulled something out of place in my upper back, and it was excruciating to do most actions, including sitting. So I took a muscle relaxant and found myself quite stoned for the afternoon. I found it difficult to focus, and my eyes were drooping. This somewhat threw my plans for the day out the window, as I fully expected to spend the day sitting on the couch watching game shows.

Okay, this story is a little embellished. It is true, however, that I have a long list of projects that need to be done around my house. Much of it can be accomplished with this fantastic new product that has recently been brought to my attention: It's called Swiffer.

Perhaps you've heard of it.

Derelict

The more time I spend on this weblog, the more I begin to realize how much like my psyche this site begins to resemble. By this, I mean, that this place -- much like my mind -- is a total mess, unkempt, broken, and in need of a major overhaul. I have been trying to motivate myself (when there's time) to add tags to all the blog posts, but that has since been tossed at the bottom of the priority heap. I've been trying to give this site a facelift, but unfortunately it continues to recede... not unlike my hairline.

I continue to convince myself that things are going to change, and they will in two weeks. I hope I can find the motivation and desire to make this site, and the others I maintain to appear in the way that I have been envisioning. But that has much more to do with how much energy I have (and how many daytime game-shows I insist on watching), than how motivated I am.

Most of the weblinks situated on the sidebar are broken. Tags are missing from more than 300 posts. I finally fixed a broken picture of me, and it took me how long? It was only today I realized that the image hosting site I was dependent on a scent few years go went tits up God-only-knows-how-long-ago. It was a damn good thing that I have kept backups of this site, as I have managed to retain 95% of the images that disappeared into the black hole known as the internet. Still, I have to re-upload every image manually -- and after some 20 minutes of frustration, I managed only to resurrect about a half-dozen images.

Once April 1st hits, things are going to be totally different. Say goodbye to MC Fro, the tree-hugging hippie, and say hello to MC Fro the Trailer-Trash Hermit. It's probably just as good; I likely destroyed more trees in my tenure as an Environmental Consultant than I managed to save. But that's another story for another day.

It's time to start cleaning up everything. This includes my house, my yard, my car, my website, my mind, and my life.

2007: Year of the Empty Bank Account

Before I get into too many details, I'd like to wish my readers a belated Merry Humbug and a Happy Hangover Day. I hope your last week has been filled with joy, fellowship, and lots of 'walking through the winter, drink in hand'.

The pillaging of the tree this year wasn't quite the cache as it has been in years past, though all I really asked for was clothes. I did however, brave the lineup at Visions on Boxing Day, and walked out with a 40" Samsung LCD high-definition television. I'll be feeling the pinch of that purchase when my January credit card bill arrives.

It has somewhat been a bit of a yearly tradition here at mcfro.blogspot.com that I take a few minutes on the first day of the new year to reflect what I accomplished this year, and what I would expect in the next 52 weeks to come.

Sifting through this year's posts, I have come to the early conclusion that I really didn't accomplish anything, given the astounding few number of posts there have been. I mean, there were at least three months were I didn't blog at all. Like I have said on here ad nauseum, I have been busy -- I've been lazy too, lethargic, exhausted, and unmotivated. It's all derived from worker burnout, and is a big reason why my New Year's resolution is to find a healthier work/life balance. Money can buy lots of things; but it can't buy sleep.

2007 got off to a very expensive start, as I quickly dropped four digits into a newer, faster, and larger iMac, which has, more or less, become a machine I use for audio production. Since the successful resurrection of my derelict iBook, I spend most of my web-surfing time on it instead of the desktop machine. Sure it's not the fastest, but it's good enough for most mundane tasks, and even runs a number of video games quite nicely. The laptop also keeps me out of the windowless basement, which ensures that I see more sunlight -- indispensable for someone like me who goes through mood wings and bouts of depression.

2007 continued with a string of large purchases, as in April I added a third drumset to my arsenal. Price is relative: though I got a great deal on the kit, I still paid a pretty penny for it. I have subsequently spent small sums over the course of the year for replacement parts and upgrades. The Canwoods have also seen a number of gigs already, so they are paying for themselves -- if they haven't already.

An expensive set of concert tickets allowed me to see the Police in concert in Edmonton. After paying for fuel, meals, accommodations, and toys, the trip escalated well into four digits, but it was worth every penny to see Stewart, Sting, And Summers together for the first time in nearly 25 years.

June also saw the most successful blog post on this site, ever. Skeet from medhatblog.com kindly linked to me from the website. Though it didn't elicit comments as I had hoped, it did generate scores of traffic -- over tenfold what I was accustomed to. It even increased my readership -- albeit temporarily. Had I continued blogging regularly, I may have managed to keep those readers, but they have since gone.

I guess this was where I really got lazy. Now that I was generating a great deal more traffic than I had been, I also felt increasing pressure to be delivering work of exceptional quality in order to maintain that readership. That was, to say the least a little daunting. In one hand, the site was beginning to become what I had wanted it to become (popular!). On the other hand, I didn't have the energy to invest the time and effort required to make this site what it was becoming. So I sat on my haunches and meditated on what I wanted to do with this site. The next thing I knew, nearly four months had passed, with nary a post on this site, and all my readers found other weblogs to be entertained by. Thus, the answer became clear -- I'll just write about my insignificant little life whenever I am inspired, and if readership increases, great. If they do not, that's still great too.

The first entry since my 'hiatus', was a review of Matthew Good's performance at Medicine Hat College this November. The posting also generated a fair amount of interest from readers across Canada, including a few views from Mr. Good himself. He didn't drop a note, but he left a trail of bread crumbs that said he had been here.

Musically, 2007 has been a year of transition and flux. The Savoys took an extra long vacation this year, and by the time the band got back together to prepare for this year, it became clear that the band would be falling apart. We have best intentions to continue in 2008, and we are currently auditioning a replacement for BG, which we should know in a week if he is the right guy -- or not.

Tung 'N' Groove also got out of our heads and onto the stage. It took a great deal of rehearsing, and a large number of hefty equipment purchases, but we are now gigging regularly, and continue to build a dedicated following. We have secured a number of dates for 2008, which will be posted on the band's website when I have both time and motivation.

I hope everyone's 2008 is a prosperous one. See you (hopefully) soon.

The Stone Awaketh?

I hate writing posts like this.

I seem to be revisiting a number of symptoms that I had experienced some three years ago, when I had my first bout with a kidney stone. I am too lazy to dig through the archives and link posts, but longtime readers will recall that it took me something like six weeks to um, recover from my ailment.

Late last night, reflected in the residual image of the water in the porcelain reservoir, was an omen of what I should expect in the coming weeks.

Thankfully, I am experiencing no discomfort whatsoever, but I know I will be experiencing a great deal of pain in the near future -- which means I may be missing a great deal of work in the coming weeks.

This is one hell of a way to earn a summer vacation.

One of the most Perleximg Moments of My Life

Happened almost a dozen years ago, cruising downtown on a midsummers' night in my 1978 Dodge Arrow, with BD riding shotgun. I was dressed in my leather biker jacket; he was dressed like a punk, hanging out the window, barking at pedestrians like a rabid dog, all the while playing Enya full-blast on the car stereo.

I often wonder what the hell people thought of us. Of course, our intent was to trike fear into the hearts of those who had the misfortune of being in our vicinity, but if I had seen that yesterday, I would have thought: "What a bunch of geeks."

When I think of that evening, I can't help but smile.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up

I'm such a geek.

I'm a geek with some sort of psychological disorder. I refuse to grow up. If I grow up, then I grow old, and then I die, and if I'm lucky I might be able to sire some offspring before I am removed from the gene pool.

My self-diagnosed psychological disorder has little to do with not wanting to grow up. What it does allude to is some sort of attention-deficit-combined-with-obsessive-compulsive-tendencies mixed-in-with-a-healthy-dose-of-depression-and-insomnia. But that's another story for another time.

As a child, I did not partake in organized sports like the majority of my peers. I was considered the "strong, silent type", and spent most of my time alone, being creative or brooding. Spending much of my time alone, I developed countless hobbies and interests -- so many that I could not become highly proficient in any of the endeavors, as I quickly became bored or impatient. I, like every child, expected immediate progress, or immediate results. In some ways, it amazes myself that I managed to become a professional musician, given the amount of dedication, commitment, practice, and discipline to develop the necessary skills in order to become a skilled musician. I suppose I could dismiss it to having a high degree of natural talent and ability.

Simply because I am so busy that I do not have the time to do much of anything, I thought this was the perfect time to resurrect an old hobby of my childhood. This must be definitive proof that I am clearly insane, as a normal person should know his or her limits of what one can accomplish in a given day. I, on the other hand, figure that things such as food and sleep are merely obstacles in my way from getting everything done that I want to, and given the fact that I am in my early thirties, and I can only expect forty of fifty years of quality living before I leave this mortal coil, time is running short. Still, I have said this before -- and I will state it again, that in order to get everything done I need to in my lifetime, I will have to live at least another three hundred years.

Hence, a partial reason why a refuse to grow up. In my own twisted way, I am stopping time dead in its' tracks. Too bad father time isn't heeding my kicks, screams, and incessant pleas to please slow down!

I should consider playing with my toys again.

Come to think of it, having children of my own would provide justification for playing with toys again. I could explain to everyone else that I am spending "quality time" with my children; and they would consider my behavior as normal. Little would they know that I am playing with toys for the sake of playing with them, quizzically with a bottle of whiskey in hand.

My Car Hates Me...

Or at least, somebody out there hates me.

I am very diligent about the welfare of my vehicle. I get it serviced regularly, I don't drive the piss out of it, I wash it regularly; it's my baby.

But this has been a record year for unnecessary maintenance of my vehicle. First, some asshead vandalized the hood of my car. The damage was so severe, that I had to replace the entire hood. Then some inconsiderate fool with a hidden hitch backed into my car, leaving a square hole in the front bumper. My car had been guzzling oil, and the mechanic told me I needed the piston rings replaced. That cost another $1400.

Then Friday, we had the mother of all hailstorms. In thirty years, I have never seen such a violent hailstorm. It hailed for thirty minutes, and the hail was the size of golf balls. It was a scary and thrilling experience, standing under the shelter of the house, watching the hailstones hit the ground, and then bounce four feet in the air. The noise was deafening.

I was afraid to have a look at my car by the time the storm subsided. My car looked like it had been parked in the middle of a driving range. There are dents everywhere -- on the hood, the roof, the trunk, the port fenders and doors. Two thirds of my car could not escape the wrath of the elements.

Luckily, the glass survived. There were no cracks or broken windows. The mirrors escaped unscathed. But that matters very little. I will have no choice but to make a claim on my insurance policy, and I only wonder what this is going to do to my insurance premiums.

I am seriously pissed off. No matter what I try to do to get ahead in this life, I'm always spinning my wheels. I should resort to riding the bus the rest of my life. It would be cheaper.

Geek Inside... Definitely

Anyone who knows me will tell you I have little fashion sense. For years after the Grunge invasion of 1992, I was wearing army boots and flannel until it damn near fell off me. It wasn't until 1998 that I finally cut my hair, and drop-kicked my grunge apparel. I cleaned up my image for the subsequent years, exchanging boots for shoes, and T-shirts of every band I supported into clothing that was a little more "proper". Since 2002, my hippie hair has returned, as my hairline continues to recede. I figured this was my last chance to be a hippie before I would have to resort to shaving my head for the rest of my natural life.

The grunge/punk/hippie movement of the early-mid 90's left a lasting impression on me, probably due to the fact that I was "coming of age" and discovering who I really was. Clothing that was considered "trendy", which is just another name for sweatshop-produced, overpriced, poorly manufactured garments, was avoided like the bubonic plague. The clothes you wear is reflective of your personality.

So I often opted to purchase clothing that made a statement of sorts -- or at least had some inkling of sick, twisted humor. For a number of years, my favorite shirt was one I purchased on Whyte Ave. in Edmonton. It was entirely black, with white letters that said: Rehab is for quitters. I'd wear that shirt to the bar, to parties, to gigs, and it never failed: There always was a person who would read the shirt, and then proceed to spew whatever beverage they were drinking onto the floor in a sticky, cold mist. I made many friends with that shirt, even though there were a select few who didn't share my cynical sense of humor. Sadly, the shirt has been retired, though I miss it terribly.

Thanks to Wil Wheaton, I believe to have found a replacement for my Rehab shirt. He referred his readers to ThinkGeek, where you can purchase nerdy gadgets, and apparel that is somewhat nerdy, yet full of intelligent humor. There is apparel for geeks of all ages and genders. I would suggest to navigate to the T-shirt section, and be prepared to ROFL.

Speaking of which, here is another priceless t-shirt for toddlers. I must give credit to the parent who has the cajones to dress his kid like this. If I were a parent, it would be a cold day in hell before I would take my child in public with such a shirt. I must admit, I LMAO when I first saw this image.

The other day, I purchased a couple T-shirts from ThinkGeek, one of them being the "Geek Inside" t-shirt displayed above. I'm going to love wearing this shirt in public, and perhaps I can get a few unsuspecting strangers to erupt in spontaneous laughter.

It occurs to me that in recent years, at least since the tech bubble, that there is a certain amount of sexiness in being a geek. A few years ago, people bought dark plastic-rimmed glasses. The world embraced computers and the internet. It become more cool to be interested in books and science than to be a jock.

I guess there are nerds that are equally unattractive. Those creeps that lurk in chatrooms, the ones that are 35, overweight, balding, and still living at their parents, -- three letters: O.M.G. Does "get a job" ring a bell?

I really don't want to get into the whole "chatroom" subject here, but I will tell you that for a year or two, I got "addicted" to the chatroom scene. In fact, it was a pretty ugly scene. It was at a point where my life nearly fell apart. You know you have hit a new low point in your life, when you are drinking copious amounts of alcohol by yourself, staying up until sunrise, chatting with (and trying to pick up) strangers, when you don't even really know the age or gender of the person on the other end. At the height of my chat-room addiction, I was on dial-up, staying online for more than eight hours at a time. I would often find myself staying up all night, waiting for a certain person to log in. I even began "cyber-dating", and ended up taking long trips to meet complete strangers. Some of these online relationships developed into telephone buddies, and not only did my internet bill skyrocket, my cellular phone bill became astronomical. A few telephone relationships developed into real relationships, albeit long-distance, where we dated for months but only saw each other a handful of times.

What a way to torture oneself. It was a deluded state of love where the web could make you into anything you wanted to be; and everyone you met was the epitome of the perfect mate. Reality is hardly perfect, and the ideals that were crafted in these chat rooms were incredibly seductive. All was not in vain: I did meet some wonderful and friendly people in those chat rooms.

The chat rooms I used to frequent, are now rather empty. They are (more or less) full of bots that flood the message boards with advertisements for porn, products, or services. I sometimes log into the rooms for kicks, but leave promptly when I see nobody's talking -- if there is even something that resembles a living organism on the other side of the terminal.

Sometimes I think the internet is in a sad state of affairs. When it first became popular, it was a plethora of free information on almost any subject you could imagine. It still is an indispensable learning tool. But the image has become so tarnished. Viruses and Spyware have infiltrated almost every corner of the web. Spam wastes terabytes of server space and floods countless emailboxes. You are almost bound to download something malicious the moment you sign on to a peer-to-peer network (some might argue that if you illegally download software, such malicious software is rightfully deserved).

I expect that eventually things will return to the golden age of the web, but things are going to get worse, before things improve. Programmers will have to invent a more secure internet, or the web will have to be regulated. Personally, I don't like the idea of the latter. The web is our last source of free speech and expression. This is the last place I can speak my mind, or listen to new ideas without fear of censorship. I can hardly imagine what my life would be like (or the world, for that matter) without this medium.

I often wonder if the advent of the web was a little premature for our society. For it to truly be a statement of our technological achievements, and to become the hallmark of our culture, we must be a little more enlightened that what we truly are. It can be surmised that the ability to express oneself, without any repercussions, or accountability, brings out the worst in us, but that is a subject that should be reserved for another entry.

On Achieving Immortality

My brain is a miraculous piece of faulty engineering. To put it bluntly (yes the pun is intended) I'm about as sharp as a beachball. My mind ends up working overdrive 24/7 and several times during the day I catch myself saying "Wow! Is that ever brilliant! I should blog this!"

This happens consistently when I am away from the computer. It happens often when time constraints, or the environment prevents me from blogging.

Then, late in the day, when I am sitting at my computer, I open a Blogger window, expecting to write about every subject I had considered over the past day.

But that blank screen staring back at me, seems to cause my imagination to become equally blank. And then I get really pissed off. I managed to use every ounce of creative energy before I could make it to a computer.

I have some mental issues that I cannot adequately explain. But I can do my best within these entries to convey, to the best of my ability, not just what goes on in my attic, but my feelings on my purpose in life.

I am not happy with some of the cards I have been dealt. I think it's unfair that I can expect to live 75 years and accomplish everything I want to in my life. I don't think it's fair that out of those 75 years, a full-third of my time will be spent asleep. I am too ambitious and I have too much to accomplish in my short life. I also think it's unfair that once I depart for the great beyond, my existence will eventually be forgotten. Every brilliant thought of mine, every proof, every fact, every action, and every argument I ever had will disappear. I have been on a mission to achieve greatness for an undisclosed number of years, and I really don't want to think my efforts have been in vain.

Steve Jobs used to tell his employees that their mission, as members of Apple was to make a dent in the Universe. The greatest people that have ever existed have left visible (and metaphorical) marks in every one of us. You don't have to look further than Mohammed, Buddha, or Christ to see the kind of impact a powerful, charismatic, and loving person can have on this world. Philosophers, artists, composers, and scientists throughout history have enjoyed similar admiration, spewing out their "gospel" to the world.

Everyone of these people believed in their craft; as do I. I may be a mere mortal, but I have seen how so many people have managed to cheat death. Oëtzi is likely the oldest human being that we know a considerable amount of. His mummified remains, and his possessions have told us much about prehistoric technology, diet, and even gives speculative insight into prehistoric culture. If you would like to know more about the Iceman, I suggest you read Brenda Fowler's book. Being preserved for many millennia has made Oëtzi achieve a form of immortality. Sure there are remains of hominid species that are millions of years old, but they usually don't tell us (comparatively) a lot of information, especially with respect to primitive culture. One of the most fantastic finds in human evolution were the footprints at Laetoli, which proved that our ancestors have been bipedal for at least 3.5 million years.

Musicians, philosophers, playwrights, and authors have been able to achieve immortality. Scholars have been able to translate and decrypt some of the oldest texts ever found. The Dead Sea Scrolls, for example is likely the oldest translation of the Bible. Conversely, the Rosetta Stone allowed us to decrypt ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Ancient Greek literature, such as Homer, has been translated, allowing us to learn the history of the Greeks.

The great authors and playwrights, Chaucer, Shakespeare, among countless others are still alive in our minds and our hearts. They shall live on through the ages, just as Newton, Einstein and even Darwin will.

But there is a catch. These people will only life on as long as we allow them. This is largely connected to our society, as well as our ability to communicate through spoken and written means. Eventually we will all die off. Eventually, the human race will cease to exist, and everything we have sought to achieve, will be in vain.

The dent we have created in the Universe will eventually close.

The Money Pit

This is a picture of my car the first day I bought it. I thought I got a great deal and that it would give me many trouble-free years. Well, that was before a couple fender-benders (that weren't necessarily my fault), acts of vandalism, and a hit-and-run. I've also replaced the tires and a few belts on the engine. I swear I'm sinking a thousand dollars per year into the welfare of my car, not including my monthly payments.

I love my car. I take care of it, and I hope that my due diligence will be rewarded when the time comes for me to sell it. But I am really getting sick of spending all this money to keep her road-worthy.

I took my car to the doctor today so I could have it serviced. My car has been guzzling oil on the highway, which has had me concerned for more than a year. I have asked the service technicians to have a look at it, but they overlooked it in the past. All they did was change the oil, check the fluids, and give me a new air filter if it was required.

This time I made it painfully clear that I wanted them to investigate the mystery of the disappearing oil. And check they did. By 8:20 in the morning, I received a call from the serviceman saying that the piston rings would likely need replacing, as there was all kinds of sludge built up, and the piston rings were no longer creating a good seal.

So I gave him the go-ahead to do the extra work. I was also very lucky, as the replacement of the piston rings were covered under my warranty -- and lucky for me; my warranty expires next month.

By the end of the day I had a car in tip-top shape. Had this happened after my warranty expired, the service would have cost me $1,300. Luckily, the maintenance service only cost me 100 bucks.

This is what you get when you buy a leaseback. I have been taking my car to this serviceman since I have owned the car, and he knows I take good care of it. He highly suspects the person who leased my car previously drove the piss out of it.

After owning my car for three years, I sincerely hope there are no more surprises under the hood.

Impressions

Nothing like waking up to a huge pile of excrement in your cereal to brighten your morning.

I woke up this morning to discovering that someone backed their vehicle into my car again. Now I have a huge dent in my bumper, and I will likely have to buy a new bumper.

I just fixed my car -- like a month ago!

I am dreading how much this is going to cost me. I know exactly when this "accident" happened, which was in Calgary when I was staying at my buddies place. I parallel parked my car behind a half-ton truck. When I got up the next day, the truck was gone, but it left a tell-tale square dent in my bumper where the hidden hitch decided to make an impression on my car. Conversely, I am not the least bit impressed on that ingrate of a hit-and-run driver. I am tempted to drive back up to Calgary to take a crowbar to the thick skull of that knuckle-walking inbred, but I doubt he'd even feel the impression I'd make on his capacity-deficient cranium.

If that truck frequents my buddies' neighborhood, I am going to do my best to get the number of that truck. Won't he be surprised when I make a claim on his insurance policy. I'd like to take a big crunch in someone else's morning cereal just for once.

I'm getting sick of picking out turds from my morning breakfast. It just ruins the whole day.

One That Got Away

I spend too much time reminiscing about ages past. Today, in a half-awake state, my memories were flooding back to 1998, when my life was rather turbulent. I had reached the ends of my sanity, and my entire life began to unravel before my eyes. My life became dream-like when I was awake, I was drunk most of the time, and I slept 12+ hours per day. I lived my reality in my dreams, as the real world proved too difficult for me to handle any longer. I reached the end of my metaphorical rope, and I decided it was time to get some professional help. Within a few days, I was given a prescription of antidepressants, and instructed to make some changes in my lifestyle.

There was no more skipping classes. From that day forward, I was supposed to get up early every day and attend class. There was no more alcohol. I was instructed that drinking on antidepressants was not advisable, and I would have to get on the wagon. I began going to the gym to weight-train and do cardiovascular activity a few days a week. I even changed my image: I cut my long hair (that I had been growing for six years), and even changed my clothes.

I wanted to cast away everything I was; all the things that led me to become what I had, and start with a clean slate. The first few days were almost unbearable. I would compare it to being in detox. The antidepressant drugs were the worst trip I ever had. The withdrawals from alcohol made it worse, I was clammy, in cold sweats, I shook and trembled, I couldn't sleep, I didn't feel like eating, and I cursed everything under the sun, asking what I did to deserve this trip. I was ready to tell off the doctor, flush the pills down the toilet, and order two jugs of beer and a pack of cigarettes. I was miserable, and a sobbing mess. It took two days for me to fully detox.

Then something happened. I could attest to a miracle, but I really know that two things happened. The first was that the levels of antidepressants in my body had elevated to a level where it began to affect my mind and behavior. This happened precisely the same day the second miraculous thing happened: I saw the Matthew Good Band in concert. He had recently released his second album, Underdogs, and the hit song Everything is Automatic was on heavy airplay. The concert was mind-boggling, and the next day I rushed to the music store to buy a copy of Underdogs. Amidst my new-found mental clarity, Matt Good's music spoke to me in a way that music hadn't spoken to me since I discovered Nine Inch Nails years prior. I was in a state of euphoria, singing MGB's Indestructible for days on end, and I began to believe I really was immortal. Matt Good's music was my savior in one of the darkest periods of my life.

And then, being completely reborn, my eyes began to open again. I could focus, and I noticed things around me that either I had taken for granted, or I had no prior interest in before. I was alert, I felt good, and began crawling out of the bottomless pit of my old depressive self. I began to enjoy University again, I liked my professors, I enjoyed learning, I began writing a book, and I went to class.

That's when I met her. Psychology 2700 - Animal Behavior. My professor was the spitting image of David Suzuki with the manic sense of humor of Robin Williams. His lectures were hysterical, and we spent more time falling off our chairs from laughing so hard, that we would forget to take notes. Every class was a riot, and you never dared miss a class because it was so good for the soul to just be there. But she was the extra incentive that forced me to go to that class every day.

I never knew her name. She would sit in the row in front of me, and she would sit one or two chairs to the left or right of me so we could stare at each other. The first time she turned back to look at me with those eyes, she gave me a big smile, and my heart just melted. I was indestructible, I was psychic, I was high on drugs, and I knew she wanted me.

She was this tiny, thin girl who couldn't have been a day over 19. She had bone-straight brown hair that was a little longer than shoulder length. She wore these glasses that made her look both sexy and smart. She seemed so innocent; so pure, and after I had just been reborn, I wanted something pure and sacred.

She had the habit of wearing white blouses with plaid skirts and black stockings to class. She had the Catholic school-girl look perfected, which made me (and I'm sure dozens of other males smitten with testosterone) drool at her feet. It sure made her look innocent, but I knew underneath that innocent facade was a repressed sexual being who wanted to ride. I knew she wanted me, I was irresistible, and psychic, and when she looked at me with those eyes of hers, I stared right into her soul, and I saw what she had planned. I knew that it would just be a matter of time that we would introduce ourselves, and then she would push me into a dark, unoccupied custodial closet, and she would throw me to the floor and jump on top, tearing away at my clothes.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not gather the guts to approach her. I resorted my time between classes to wandering the halls, hoping that I would run into her; maybe I would find her alone and I could approach her and break the ice. I managed to see her a few times, but she was never alone. I had only wished that she might go to my stomping grounds, and then I would not have a reason to not approach her.

Then one night, nearing the end of the semester, a few friends of mine and I discovered that she was on my turf - The Zoo (the campus bar). The angel I had been staring at all semester was at my hangout, and there was only her best friend with her. My friends suggested I go and talk to her. I froze, and I found I could not. My friends had finished their beers, and I suggested we go home. They wouldn't hear it. They were going to force me to talk to her even if it killed me. I still refused to get up and talk to her. The one thing that my antidepressants did not give me was a shot of courage. I kept telling my buds that I didn't have a reason to go over there, except to get her name and phone number.

After much deliberation, by friends decided that they would invite themselves over to the girls' table, sit down and introduce themselves. I would leave the bar for a few minutes, and walk in, like I was meeting the guys there and they would invite me to sit with them. It was a bit of a childish plan, but we figured it would work, and I would have a chance to meet this girl I had been star-crossed with all year.

I left the bar, and peeking through the door I saw my friends sit down with the two ladies. I stood in the hallway for a few minutes, trying to clear my head. There was no way I was going to get around this; I was going to meet her, and anything could happen. I was also worried about my friends, as I was not sure if I could trust them. I was sure they were going to sit down, and tell her every little detail about my little obsession over her. I figured they were going to embarrass me, which would have been a fate worse than death. If I waited too long, I was convinced that these guys would spill the beans, and it would be better if I stopped them by walking to the table and meeting with destiny.

So I gingerly approached the table and made some story up about how I had been looking all over the place for the guys. I finally got to meet her. We were introduced, but sadly I cannot remember her name anymore. The conversation ended up being what I had expected: short, simple, and very superficial. She didn't speak much, and when she did, she said very little. My friends did most of the talking, and I got the feeling that we were regarded as a bunch of guys looking for some girls to pick up. I was really hoping that this meeting would break the ice a little, and we would speak again in the future. Unfortunately, it seemed like this meeting closed the door instead.

I never spoke to her again. I only saw her a couple more times around campus in the following years; nothing more than a glimpse. Whenever I saw her, I remembered the exhilaration I felt those first few weeks when I first saw her in class, when she would look at me and smile. I remembered singing Indestructible at the top of my lungs at all hours of the day and night, believing I was a flawless human being, and the object of desire of every female I met. I often wonder where she is today; if she is single, if she is happy, and above all, I wonder what she really thought of me.

Memories of what could have been (not unlike this anecdote) plague my consciousness every day. I wonder if it would have changed my life, or if fate would have brought me to the same place I am today.

If you were that young woman who sat in front of me in that class, I would be happy to hear from you. I only want to know what you thought of me those many years ago.

The Cat's Out Of The Bag...

Ok, first thing's first. I have been feeling fantastic for the last week and a half. I believe I have finally passed the [kidney] stone, though I don't have any definitive proof. I have returned to my normal self, I haven't missed any work, and I haven't had to take a painkiller since two Saturdays ago. Monday morning, I went to the Hospital for more tests and X-rays, so I should have a better understanding of the status of my health in a few weeks when I see the specialist again.

As far as I'm concerned, the wrath of the stone is over.

Many moons ago, I mentioned here that I had some exciting news I could barely wait to share. It has taken a number of months for events to develop, but I feel that it is now safe that I can share the news with you. One afternoon while shopping for toys, the owner of a local music store approached me and asked me if I wanted the principal drum instructor job at his shop. I would be responsible for teaching some 90 students, and managing my own schedule. Equipment would be provided, so I did not have to worry about wear and tear on my own equipment. All I had to do was pay the owner a monthly rental fee. It sounded like a great deal, and I would be able to pursue music as a full-time career once again, just like I did in 1999 and 2000.

I regrettably did not take the job. A lot of people may regard this as a mistake, but let me assure you this was not an easy decision to make. I had to think long and hard about making music a full-time endeavor again in my life. When I tried it for two years, I found them to be two of the most difficult years of my life, and was I ever poor. It was a fight to just pay my bills every month, and what little left-over I had went to saving for next month's bills. Travel is very expensive, and when you are eating three meals per day in restaurants, the money you make disappears very quickly.

The other major concern I had regarding this job was the high capacity of students I would have to teach. Contrary to popular belief, teaching is not an easy job. There is a great deal of stress and preparation involved in providing every student the best guidance you can give them. In 1999, I had approximately 20 students, and I nearly hit burn-out. Teaching was a complete chore, the lessons dragged on, and seemed to get longer with every passing week. I ended up quitting teaching in 2000 to finish my degree. When I graduated in 2001, I found myself back teaching to put a little extra cash in my pocket.

If I could not handle teaching 20 students, how am I going to manage 90? There have been times in my life where I absolutely hated music; like being trapped in my own personal hell. I never want to hate music again.

The band and I took a few hours to set up our equipment at the Redcliff Hylton last night. I had an incredible feeling of relief when I walked into that bar last night; a lot like returning home from a long vacation. I haven't gigged at the Hylton in over three years. It's such a dump, but the atmosphere of these bars grow on you. I love the old, smelly bars where the low-lifes, the dangerous, and the rowdy like to drown their sorrows. I like the fact that every line on their face tells a story, and every drink they have seems well-deserved. These people have hearts of gold, and even though they have few possessions, they would give them all to you if it would help you out. These people are generous, and not greedy. And if you let them, they will tell you incredible stories about their life -- of course you don't have to believe every word they say.

While we were setting up the gear all the guys in the band were getting excited, talking about how long it has been since they played a show, and how much they were looking forward to the next night. Playing gigs in bars is highly addictive. It's like a weekly fix; if you miss out on a few dosages, you begin to long for that adrenaline rush.

It's going to be a huge adrenaline rush tonight.

An Answer

After waiting for two weeks, I have managed to see a specialist about my "little" health problem. A review of the test results have shown that there is a stone located between by kidneys and my bladder. It is anyone's guess when the stone will pass, if it has not passed already. All that I have been prescribed is more tests. So, at best, it will be another three weeks before I will know if I have passed the stone, if it has moved, or if surgery will be necessary.

The specialist doesn't seem to think that surgery will be necessary. He seems to think that I won't even feel the stone passing. I have a nagging feeling that I will.

Pain (Continued)

My return trip to the hospital was a lot less painful. The test they wanted to administer was actually called a CT; I misunderstood the hospital receptionist while speaking to her on the phone earlier in the morning. I suppose if I wasn't so tired that I would have been able to understand her better.

The CT is, for the most part, just an Electromagnetic Imaging System. I was placed on a table, and my body was then moved into a large circular chamber resembling a large donut (or, as geeks call them, a toroid). Superconductors spin at a high rate of speed within the toroid, generating a huge electromagnetic field, also making a rather eerie sound. The eerieness was also elevated as the generated magnetic field caused the hairs on my body to stand on end. With the aid of computers, doctors are able to generate an image of your innards (but you did know that, right?). It was all over in less than two minutes.

I wish I could have seen the image of my excretory system on the screens. I really would have liked to see the image of what's been causing me grief the last week. I will have to wait until I book an appointment with the Urologist to see my results. Since the earliest that can happen is Tuesday, I may very well pass the stone by then.

That doesn't mean that the rest of my Friday was a walk in the park. The entire day was difficult to endure. I (obviously) took the day off work, and spend the day wandering around the house deciding if I should eat, drink fluids, take a nap, or do something productive like clean the house. Sleep did not come easy and only managed a total of 3 hours' napping in the morning and afternoon. When I finally woke up late in the afternoon, the discomfort in my lower back had risen. For a good four hours, I was clenching my teeth in pain that rose to new heights and would subside, much like a sadistic tease. I took a T3, which did nothing for the pain, and realized that I had better fill my prescription, as I would likely be eating these like candy in order to make the next few days manageable.

Much later in the evening, the pain subsided -- at least for now. I managed to get six hours sleep, which is a lot more than I got in the last 48 hours. The pain could strike again at any time, and I fully expect the next few days are not going to be pleasant.

Pain

This has not been a very good week for me. There have been times that I have been in a considerable amount of pain, which has sent me to the doctor's office for tests. I wasn't surprised when I never heard back from my test results.

I woke up in the middle of last night in a large amount of pain. It was enough that I could not get comfortable, nor could I get back to sleep. 3:00 AM found me on the way to the Emergency. I spent three hours being poked, and prodded, samples of bodily fluids were obtained for testing, and I was intravenously administered some pretty powerful painkillers. I was released from the ER at 6:00 AM being told I would likely be called in the morning to return to the hospital for more tests.

The ER Doctor suspects I have a kidney stone. He also has high hopes that the stone will be removed from my body naturally, (that is to say, the hard way). I should not hesitate to mention that I did not get a wink of sleep last night.

That being said, I am scheduled to return to the hospital at noon for X-rays. They wanted to inject me full of radioactive dye and then X-ray my tissues, but instead, they now want to perform some other test, called a CG. They didn't give me any more details of the test, so I called a friend of mine who is an RN, and asked her what a CG was. She didn't have a very good idea of what it was, but from what she said, that it was likely less invasive than being injected with dye.

What a week. This put the kybosh on my weekend plans, as I expected to visit some out-of-town friends this weekend. Instead, it looks like I am going to be lying on the floor in unpredictable periods of agony until the stone decides to make its' exit.

I suspect I will update this when I return from the Interrogation Chamber, er, I mean the hospital.

Wrath

A few years ago, in the cold of mid-winter, I got up early one morning to start my car when I realized that my car had been vandalized in the middle of the night. The drivers' side rearview mirror had been smashed, and parts of the plastic housing appeared to have been chipped off with a screwdriver. Broken plastic and parts were scattered directly below, and a large piece of the housing appeared to have been thrown across the street. Examining the damage, it appeared that this was no accident; whoever committed this act of vandalism was certainly angry at something, someone, or me directly.

To have this act committed against me only transferred the vandal's anger to me. It cost me a few hundred dollars to replace the mirror, not to mention the pain I felt that a person had a vendetta against me. I reported the incident to the police, but I knew there wasn't much the police could do.

Yesterday, while at the office, I managed to glance at my car outside the window. With the light of a new sunrise, I noticed that my car had been vandalized once again. I darted outside in the brisk air to take a closer look. It appeared that some idiot (who needs only to be referred as unprintable adjectives) jumped on the hood of my car. There were two large dents in the hood, and the paint had been scratched. Livid would hardly be the term to describe my mood upon discovering the damages. Emotions of wrath and vengeance were coursing through my blood, and all I could hear was my evil side cursing "I'm going to put that son of a bitch in a wheelchair!"

I managed to calm myself down over the course of the day, and by a gesture of kindness, by boss offered me the loan of his dent-puller, a large suction cup designed to pop out minor dents. I figured that I could give it a shot, and perhaps save myself the trouble of visiting an autobody repair shop. I spent a half-an hour trying to pull out the dents with the tool, but my efforts were proving fruitless. It was like trying to pop out a dent in a plastic pop bottle -- you only manage to move it around. This was going to cost me money.

So after work, I went to an autobody shop to get an estimate of the damages. The technician who gave me the estimate explained that the dents cannot be hammered out, and that I would be looking at buying a new hood for my car. Even with buying an after-market hood, I am looking at $650 to erase this senseless act of violence from my car. Ouch.

It seems that every year I am spending between three hundred and a thousand bucks on vehicle maintenance. This has got to stop. I am sick of people's disregard for other's valuables and/or property. I don't want to have to resort to sleeping in my car with a baseball bat to deter further damages. Perhaps I should consider buying an alarm for my car. I hear those things aren't effective anyway.

Just for once, I'd love to catch that knuckle-walking troglodyte in the act.

Age Abhors Technology

For reasons that should be obvious, I do not like discussing the trivialities of my day job on this blog. This is largely a safety precaution, as I would really hate to find out that one day, my boss discovers my blog, and then reads all the juicy details. This can and has happened to many of us blogging folk, and has cost more than a few of them their jobs. But I really would like to tell you what happened at the office today. Hopefully I can keep the details vague enough that the powers that be never discover who I am, or the fact that I'm talking about them.

My boss is one of the most technologically inept people I have ever met. He has little idea how computers work, though I think that he is forced to use them as a communication tool with his clients. When he is on the computer, it takes him an incredibly long time to accomplish any task, usually because he takes the longest computational path. For example, we are still on dial-up technology at the office, and he thinks the only way to disconnect the computer from the web is choosing "Shut Down" from the Start Menu. It is of my opinion that he should stick to machines like the pulley, the incline plane or the lever; he would get more work done that way.

Sadly, he has little concept of the importance of keeping one's software up-to-date. The security updates are never installed on the computer, and I have to fight with him every year to renew his Norton Antivirus subscription. He will use electronic equipment until it is far beyond obsolete; my computer at the office is running Windows 98. He has a little electronic address book that has a whopping 256k of memory. I was surprised to discover that you could plug this electronic organizer into a computer in order to back up the files. I learned this the hard way a few months back, as he accidentally wiped clean the contents of the organizer when he attempted to change the batteries. The interface to plug the organizer into the computer was so old, I had to plug it into the old COM ports. When I loaded the backup utility onto the computer, it looked like the interface was built for Windows 3.1. The backup took a ridiculous amount of time to transfer 256k, like five minutes.

In short, my office more resembles an electronics museum rather than an office.

Until today, as my boss came to me with a brand new PDA in his hands -- I don't even think he knows what a PDA is, but he bought one. I think he probably saw one of his business partners using one, and he decided that it might make his life easier. So he approached me this morning and told me that he tried for four hours this weekend to transfer some files from the computer to the PDA. Here we go again, was what I was thinking while he told me this. I asked him to provide me with the installation CD (he does not understand that computers need translation programs [i.e. drivers] so computers and peripherals can understand each other), and I proceeded to install the PDA software onto a computer that was (at the very least) six years older than his PDA.

He wants to use the PDA as a tool in the field to enter data into a word processor or spreadsheet, which may cut my workload down, but then he would not have to carry forms into the field. I don't even think he knows or cares about the other capabilities of a PDA - an address book, a calculator, an email client, plus its wireless capabilities. At the moment I thought that he would still expect to use his 256k address book relic with its monochrome LCD display. After I successfully transferred some Excel documents to the PDA I realized that there were formatting issues that I will have to deal with once I obtain the data from the PDA. It is not going to cut down on my data entry time -- and I don't think it's going to make his life any easier, as he claimed this morning.

I should not hesitate to mention, I have never used a PDA in my life. I have wanted one on and off for a number of years now, but I have come to the conclusion that I would never use one enough to justify buying one. Nonetheless, this was an opportunity for me to play with a new toy. I hit the first hurdle early on. The installation CD had a "Wizard" program that was supposed to automatically transfer the user's contacts information directly from Micro$oft Outlook. I was not the least bit surprised when M$ Outlook kept crashing while the wizard was trying to transfer the data to the PDA. It never worked for me once.

So I spent most of my workday playing with this new PDA, Uploading Micro$oft Word and Excel documents, seeing if they will work properly and do what he expects them to do. One thing I learned very quickly is that the PDA isn't very good at recognizing handwriting. In fact, it's more like the user has to learn how to write all over again in order for the PDA to recognize what it is exactly you are trying to write. I quickly learned to use the on-screen keyboard to enter text, which I found was quicker than handwriting in the first place. All the while, I was thinking that my boss was going to have a conniption trying to learn how to operate this new gadget.

I eventually decided that I should put his contacts and email addresses into his PDA, that he might finally throw that relic of an address book into the trash. Even though I managed to successfully export his address books into a format that was readable by the PDA, there were many formatting issues that would require me to edit nearly every contact in the list. At current count, I am only about halfway through his address list. For some reason, I think he is going to have a fit once he sees that I have cleaned up his Address Book. "I can't find anything anymore!" he will exclaim.

The bottom line is that I wasted the entire workday playing with his new gadget. I fully expect tomorrow that I am going to have to teach him how to use it tomorrow.

I sincerely hope all of you are praying for me.

The Frayed Ends Of Sanity

Things haven't been going well lately. I'm beginning to think I have a sleep disorder. Pick one: Narcolepsy, or Sleep Apnea. I am consistently tired. I can't focus for any considerable length of time, I can't stay motivated, I have absolutely no energy, and I spend my days in a hazy fog that borders on delirium.

I have been wanting to write a few more entries to this blog, but when I sit down to write, I find that I have about as much energy to write little more than a paragraph, and I am the kind of person who likes to develop develop his arguments. After reading what I had written, I erase it and do something else.

I have a very sedentary job. I spend the entire day in front of the computer, but it's doing work that is not terribly exciting (data entry and report writing). Since my employment, I have been less active. When I first took the job in 2001, I was playing gigs on weekends, which required a lot of heavy lifting (those amps and speakers aren't light), so I was getting some exercise during the week. Last summer, I decided to take up jogging, but that idea was eighty-sixed when my knees seized up on the first jog, and I couldn't walk for ten days afterwards. So much for getting in shape.

I do not have low blood pressure. In fact I usually check it about once a month. I am always 120 / 80. Perfect score every time. I however think, that sitting for extended periods is weakening my heart, and I am getting poor circulation.

For the remainder of this week, I am going to take a break at 10:00 and 3:00, go outside for a jog around the block, get some fresh air, and see if my condition improves. In addition, I think I might have to revolt and bring music into work. My boss hates music being played in the office. He considers it a distraction, so for the last three years I have had to listen to the incessant buzz of fluorescent lights. That's enough to drive anyone insane.

I have said to myself a number of times how much I despise my job. Perhaps it's not the job I despise, but the environment. The job is in my educational field, and I used to like it, but something has to change.

But there is something else wrong. Fatigue has always been a problem with me, especially in the mornings even my Kindergarten teacher wrote in my report card "MC Fro does not deal well with mornings". Some things don't change even after some twenty-five years. I have fallen asleep standing up. I have also fallen asleep while driving -- more than once. It has been a miracle that both me and my car survived.

I cannot drink coffee - it makes me ill. I end up drinking about two or three cups per year, and then I am reminded why I do not drink it in the first place. I drink copious amounts of cola in a day -- probably nearing a liter per day. By body has grown accustomed to the daily dose of caffeine, and instead of it giving me a swift kick in the rear, it does little to help my alertness. In fact, if I do not get my daily dose of cola, it's headache city.

Please don't ask me about other stimulants or amphetamines. I don't even go near the stuff. I like to sleep on a regular basis. I'm just sleeping at the wrong times.

In other news... Yesterday, I played my most successful game of NetHack. I was playing a wizard character who couldn't seem to do anything wrong (at least at the beginning). Unfortunately, my kitty starved to death before I entered the Gnomish Mines. Using Force Bolt liberally, I managed to get my character "Zappy" to Gnometown. But then I was stupid, and I annoyed the priest. The next thing I knew I was surrounded by wolves and patrolmen. I had very little mana left, and I died rather quickly. Note to self: Don't annoy the Priest!

Grrrr...

In the last two days, I have written two lengthy entries, only to have Firefox crash on me at the last minute before publishing. My patience is wearing a little thin. If this post makes on the web, the Firefox has been granted a stay of execution.

Over the last few days, I have been considering the possibility of creating a third blog. I might call it "Zen and the Art of Drumming". I would like to keep some sort of practice journal, where I could document my progress on certain books, or exercises, as well as publish some exercises I have created. I would also like to discuss some of the deeper aspects of drumming, as well as some of the mental aspects, including some of the bio-physics issues.

I imagine most readers would find this quite boring, so I thought I would leave these issues off this blog. On the other hand, there might be some other drummers out there who might find this kind of publication appealing, and I could open the door for other drummers to post. It has the potential to grow into something larger, but at the same time, it could be one of those obscure corners of the internet.

I might have to consider this a little longer before I decide to commit to maintaining three blogs. I am having enough trouble managing two.