Thursday, March 30, 2006

English Conference

I'm awake. It is 5:05 am. I'm about to leave for the airport. What? You thought I get up this early because I like it?

I'm going to an English conference. I went to one of these last year. Had a great time. There are a few things that bug me, though. Remember, I am an English major. This is what I do.

For the next few days I will be surrounded by other English majors. I will listen to crappy poetry and literary analysis that a monkey could have written. I will listen to short fiction that, despite what the review panel thinks, is not as good as mine. No worries. I know my strenghths. I also know that snooty English types in their sweater vests do not like horror fiction.

Last year I sent in a more mainstream short story (Available in Westering Volume 3. I've meant to send a bunch of them out but I haven't had the cash to spare for postage.) and wowed the crowd. It is a pretty good little story but it isn't my personal favorite. This year I sent in what I like as opposed to what I thought they would like. Is this a mistake? Maybe. This isn't like sending a Lord of the Rings fantasy story to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, though. Screw them if they don't like genre fiction. I'm fine with it. I just feel bad for all the poor souls who won't get to have as good a time now because they won't be able to hav ethe shit scared out of them by me.

Of course, if they realy want to be frightened, they can always go listen to some of the poetry.

I will keep you all updated as the conference goes on. Catch you on the flipside.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Just doing my job...

Some of you may know that I have a healthy disrespect for authority, including law enforcement. part of it being healthy is that I will let them do their job as long as they don't bother me. Today I was bothered.

I live inthe backyard, remember? I walked out from the yard, headed for a walk. I took a sharp turn back to the house to check the mailbox. At that exact time a police cruiser passed by. I didn't think anything of it until I saw the cruiser quickly turn at the next corner. I kept walking until the cruiser pulled in front of me, blocking my path.
The officers exited the vehicle and asked me to take my hands out of my pockets. I complied and answered yes when asked if I lived in the house I just left. When asked if I had any warrants I made the mistake of answering truthfully.
I said, "Not that I know of." The officer said that most people say no and an answer like that usually means yes.
I told them I had a very good reason for answering the way I did.
One day, I was a passenger in a car with expired tags. Headed to work, we were pulled along side a county sheriff at a red light. The cop backed off as the light changed and quickly pulled us over after seeing the expired plate. The cop asked for both our IDs. We complied, the driver profisely apologizing for his minor violation. After spending time in his car, the officer came back with our IDs and handed the driver's back to him. The cop told the driver he was letting him off with a warning. This time.
Then the cop came around to the passenger side where I sat. He opened the door and asked me to step out of the vehicle. Now, I 've had my run ins with JOhn Q. Law but I'd stayed clear for a long time. I knew I hadn't done anything. I was told there was a warrant for me due to an overweight vehicle.
I laughed. I did not (and still don't) have a driver's license let alone a CDL. I told the cop this but he was so happy to get an arret that he didn't seem to hear. I wasn't even old enough at the time to possess a CDL. We went back to his cruiser after the pat down. I told the cop that he was mistaken, that I bet the warrant was for my father who was an equipment transporter for an asphalt company at the time. He called in to dispatch again with my ID only to be given back the info of my father.
See, we have the same first and last name. Different middle name. Our birthdates, apparently, sound so similar that this particular could not tell the difference between 9-30-59 and 10-31-79. The situation was straightened out but I did not get an apology. The cop did not get his big arrest, however.

Back to today. The officers check my ID, discovering that I do live where I said I did and that, in fact, I did not have any outstandinf warrants. Naturally, I chatted away the whole time, answering questions because I had nothing to hide. Suggesting the officers should have raincoats on when they get out of their car. You know, just being a nice guy. They wer enice, telling me that they percieved my actions as suspicious and felt the need to check it out. I thanked them for doing their job and that it was good to know they were watching.
It could have turned out worse. The best part is, karma rewarded me for my troubles. Three blocks down the road I found a five dollar bill.
Karma rules. I still don't like cops but I can put up with them if they can put up with me.

Monday, March 27, 2006

My how time flies...

You'd never believe it but eleven years ago tonight, I sat in a juvenile detention facility, surrounded by adults I didn't know and kids I didn't want to know. Other than being in DT, there wasn't much difference between that night and any other. They fed me Lima beans, which I had no opinin on previously and now despise. It was so cold my ass nearly froze to the lidless commode. Like today, it was a Monday. I was sprung by Thursday.
yes, it was a horrible few days. I don't want to go through it again. I've avoided brushes with the law as much as possible. And still I would not trade that day for almost anything. So many things would be different if that day had not happened as it did. Who knows where I would have gone? Who knows what I would have done?
I wouldn't be here, writing for you now. I would not be in college and so would not be the editor of the college newspaper. I wouldn't have moved when I did, meaning I would not have met some of the best people I've known. (Those in Payson, Reno and Las Vegas especially.) I may never have embraced my love (and, humbly, talent) for writing.
Not every day since then has been a good one. I've had some very bad days (and occasionally, a few bad weeks). There have been some really great days, too. Just becuase some of those great days were immediately followed by the bad days does not make them any less great. (I have to remind myself of this constantly.)
I do have a point. Really.
Shit happens. Sometimes the bad shit turns out to be the best things that could have happened. In won't seem like it at the time. It can take years for karma to come back around. Eleven is a good number, don't you think?

Saturday, March 25, 2006

Another Story

Ok, this was an assignment. We had to write an 800 word story using only dialogue. Here is mine. Guess what it is about?


Glaucoma Prevention Tips

"Don’t do that."
"Do what?"
"What you are doing right now."
"I’m doing lots of things. What don’t you want me to do?"
"God, you are going to make me say it, aren’t you?"
"Does it bother you to say it?"
"No, I’m not a prude. It’s just that you are always doing it and I wish you’d stop."
"Well, maybe if you joined in more often, I wouldn’t have to do it so much."
"You’d do it anyway."
"Yeah, but not as much."
"Could you maybe go into the bathroom then? "
" I like to look at you."
"Take a fucking picture then."
"Can I?"
"No. You know how those things get out."
"Kinda like this one of your sister."
"What? You don’t have a picture of my sister."
"Yes I do. Paul took it at the wedding."
"Why haven’t I seen it?"
"We don’t want it getting out to too many people, do we?"
"I’m her sister, dammit. Show me the picture."
"Ok, but I didn’t take it. Paul did."
"Just show me."
"What do you think of little sis now?"
"Jesus, is that her head or…"
"Definitely not her head."
"All those years of gymnastics and cheerleading and it comes down to this."
"Weren’t you a cheerleader?"
"Yes, but I never did anything like this."
"I heard otherwise."
"From who?"
"No one in particular."
"Bullshit. You better tell me now or I’ll tear up this picture."
"Go ahead. It’s your sister. You were going to tear it up anyway."
"How do you know?"
"Not much of a stretch."
"Tell me who told you and I’ll think about letting you keep it."
"Nah, it’s fine. I don’t need it anymore."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Have I ever lied to you?"
"You never told me about this picture."
"You never asked."
"What? You expected me to ask, ‘Hey, do you have any naked pictures of my little sister?"
"Technically, she still has her clothes on."
"Technically, I don’t care. You can see everything."
"Only if you turn it just right."
"That’s it. Get out. You are on the couch tonight."
"Ow! Quit kicking."
"I’ll stop kicking once you are away from me."
"C’mon, don’t be like that."
"I’m tearing up this picture right now."
"I don’t mind. You are sexier than her anyway. I married you, remember?"
"Good bye to the picture. I’ll see you in the morning."
"Ok, ok. It was Megan."
"Megan…Megan from college?"
"Yeah, Megan from college. She told me about you and her and the debate team."
"She didn’t?"
"Yes, she did."
"When?"
"When she dropped off your reunion invitation last year."
"Oh my God. She swore she’d never tell anyone."
"Yeah, but do you remember what day that was?"
"No, I don’t…Wait, it wasn’t…?"
"Yes it was. The five in one nighter."
"I can’t believe it. Hearing that old story made you…"
"Made me do this first."
"Stop it!"
"I can’t stop now. It has a mind of its own."
"Why can’t it have a place of its own?"
"It does."
"Nice. It isn’t a garage and that isn’t a Cadillac."
"That isn’t what you said that night."
"I was drunk."
"So were you drunk last night when you called it …"
"Don’t say it. Please don’t say it."
"Henry’s brother. Peter Wadsworth Longfellow."
"That is so ridiculous. How did you get me to say that out loud?"
"Tequila. Lots and lots of tequila."
"I could go for another right now."
"No go. You drank it all."
"I did not!"
"Ok, I had a couple shots, but you drank most of it."
"We just bought that bottle last week!"
"If you want more tequila, I will get you more tequila."
"Are you going to put your pants on first? Maybe wash your hands?"
"Nope. I’ll tell the clerk I lost my pants drunk and I need to be drunk to find them again."
"Get back here. You don’t have to get me drunk to get a little."
"That would be true if I only wanted a little."
"If you’d hold still for a second, you can have all you want."
"Can I have that picture back?"
"No. I’m keeping it."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Same thing you’ve been doing."
"You aren’t?"
"Yes I am. I’m going to hide it from you for ten years. When you forget about it, then you can have it back."
"Oh. I thought you meant…"
"Meant what? You thought I was going to do this?"
"Don’t stop."
"I won’t."

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Craziness

The blog has been acting up. Hope no one else has been adversely affected.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Well?

So, did anyone read the story? As much as I love writing, if no one is going to read it, I'll go back to just writing in my journal. The only way I know if you are reading anything here is if you comment. Just something as simple as, "Hey I read the post." I'd like a bit more than that, but I can be happy just knowing someone is at least reading.

Friday, March 17, 2006

A bedtime story...

Ok, the formatting doesn't translate well, but you'll get the point. This is called "An Appointment with the Knifeman". Enjoy

My first appointment for the evening is at 7:30. Most clients do not schedule me this early. I tend to cater to the night crowd. I arrive at the home at 7:28. I’ve learned to be precise. Showing up too early can be horrific; showing up late can be deadly.
The trees and sidewalk are clear of leaves. Spots of frost have already begun to form on the lawn. The small home hovers over the front yard, a prison guard watching from his tower. I can see basement lights barely shining through the blacked out bottom windows. The rest of the house is dark. I hope the client has not forgotten about our appointment.
I climb out of my car, then walk up to the steps. I ring the doorbell at exactly 7:30. The faint light, which had illuminated the lawn, goes out. A door inside the house slams. Anyone else might be tempted to ring the bell a second time. I resist; my client knows who is at the door because I ring only once. Just like opportunity.
The front door opens to reveal half the face of tonight’s client. It looks nothing like the drawings on the news. Not all my clients are so lucky.
"Is that you, Mr. Cutter?" the half-face asks.
"None other, Mr. Harmer." Harmer. Sounds fake. But I’m one to talk, aren’t I?
"Please," the door opens farther, "come in, Mr. Cutter. I heard of your impeccable timing but you’ve surprised me. I don’t like surprises. I’ll make an exception this time."
"I hope you’ll make many more. You may be surprised and hopefully amazed at the quality of my product."
"We’ll see about that."
"Yes, yes we will."


I walk back to my car to get my sample case. I never bring it with me to the door the first time. Some of my clients change their minds and do not wish to see me. Sometimes the client isn’t home for whatever reason. So I leave the case in the car. I have a few other reasons but those reasons are mine to keep.
I return to the front door, case in hand. Mr. Harmer has turned on the living room light allowing me to see where I should sit. I walk into the house and take a seat near the coffee table. My seat, of course, is the orange plastic chair. Stolen from some elementary school that Mr. Harmer can never forget. Mr. Harmer sits in the recliner at the other end of the table. I’m used to this sort of dominant/submissive treatment. Every client wants to be in charge. Every client thinks he is doing something new. The first to leave a note; the first to drive a panel van; the first to treat me like a child. I tell Mr. Harmer that he is in for more surprises.
I heave my case onto the table. The table is just wide enough to accommodate the case. I open it, lifting one side and turning it towards Mr. Harmer. His eyes bulge, not an uncommon reaction.
The knives, each in their place, shine in the limited light. Each knife, from the three-inch paring knife to the 14-inch bread knife, is made of 420J stainless steel. Each of the knives offered by Cutterman Inc. are full tang constructed. Ginsu may slice tomatoes, MiracleBlade might cut sheetrock, but Cutterman knives are guaranteed to slice through bone.
I’m very proud of these facts and I let Mr. Harmer know so. He scowls, grunts, and reaches for the cleaver. I gently lift the handle before Mr. Harmer can leave a fingerprint on it. Had I shifted the blade a half-inch to the left, Mr. Harmer would no longer have a thumb. I moved a quarter-inch and nicked his hand. His blood drips onto his table, not my knives. I don’t think anyone would notice another drop of blood on Mr. Harmer’s coffee table.
I know everything that touches the knives in my case. I know everyone who touches my knives.


I twirl the cleaver in my hand, slicing the air. I pull a black handkerchief from a pocket inside the case. I wipe the blade clean. Sparkling, as always.
"As you have just witnessed, Mr. Harmer, Cutterman Knives wipe clean. Even blood comes right off. That should be an especially enticing incentive to a man in your field."
"What do you know about it?" Mr. Harmer said. He springs out of his chair, leaning over the table. His snarl and sneer might scare seventeen-year-old girls but it doesn’t scare me.
"Please, Mr. Harmer. Sit back down. Do you think I would be here without knowing exactly who you are and what your business is?"
Mr. Harmer eases back into his chair. His body relaxes but his eyes remain paranoid. I can tell he would rather be back in his basement. I replace the cleaver in its space and decide to go for the sell now.
"Mr. Harmer, let me show you the crown jewel of the Cutterman collection." I hold out our sixteen-inch-long butcher knife. "As you can see, this knife is a whole four inches wide at the base of the blade. The length gives it that extra inch so many of our customers desire. The full-tang construction and 420J stainless steel make this the most durable knife of its type available anywhere."
Mr. Harmer’s eyes melt into a look of lust, replacing paranoia. "Do you have any frozen steaks, Mr. Harmer?" I ask.
"I think so, let me check the kitchen," Mr. Harmer answers. He stands up, eyes still on the butcher knife. He turns around when he reaches the kitchen doorway. I hear the refrigerator door open and the sounds of Mr. Harmer rummaging through his frozen foods.
"The thicker, the better, Mr. Harmer," I call out.
He comes back into the living room. "I don’t seem to have any up here. Let me check the basement freezer. All my big stuff is down there." I wave my hand in assent. Mr. Harmer grins and that lustful gleam returns to his eyes. "I’ll be just a second."
"I’ll be right here," I say. Mr. Harmer heads for the door that leads down to the basement. I can picture that diffused light shining on the lawn again. The butcher knife resides firmly in my hand. I love the feel of this knife. It is our most popular item and definitely my favorite.
Silently, I descend the steps into the basement, knife in hand. Careful not to trip over the pink and white Hello Kitty backpack, or the ashtray full of tiny sparkling earrings. This demonstration will be better downstairs.
"I can’t seem to find any thick steaks," Mr. Harmer yells. "I’m sorry."
"Don’t be," I whisper into his ear. "This will do perfectly."
"What will do…" Mr. Harmer can not finish his question with the knife buried in his chest.
"Can you feel how that extra length really does the job, Mr. Harmer," I say to him. His hand reaches to his back. He winces when his fingers nudge the tip of the blade. His fingers drip blood as he brings it back into view. "Can you feel it," I ask.
Mr. Harmer nods. His eyes close. No sale this time. Before our appointment is finished, I decide to take my commission out of Mr. Harmer.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Playing the system

Tonight, I will be attending my second concert as a reporter. I will be interviewing a British band called Athlete. They are openng for a band called Switchfoot. Ask me if I previously knew anything about these bands and I'd have to say no. We'll see how it goes.
If it goes anything like the first show I went to, I will have a couple new bands on my favorites list. That would be cool.

Here is what I've learned so far. Artist & Promotions people love it when you want to write about their band. Those first two, the A&R contacted me first. That made me feel special. To be acknowledged as a real publishing entity.

This morning I took a chance and called a record company about a band coming to town next month. Yes, I want to interview this particular band, but I also want to see the performance of the headliner. My interview will be with Lacuna Coil, a heavy metal band from Italy. How cool is that? The headliner is...
ROB ZOMBIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I'm half-tempted to contact his label, tell them I'm already set to get intot he show and ask if I can get a few minutes with Mr. Zombie. I love saying that. "Could I pseak with Mr. Zombie for just a moment?"


I may be broke but look at the perks!

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

A New Day

Everyday is a new one. Today, I can breath and be pleased that my first newspaper is finally available for the reading public. It isn't perfect but it will do. I had fun days and not-so-fun days. But I have that first one done.

I've already begun work on the next issue. I'm hopingto actually have this one out closer to my self-imposed deadline. We shall see what we shall see. It's never over, is it? No such ting as a real day off. My days off will come at the end of this month when I'm in Portland, Oregon, far away from the newspaper physically. I wonder how far away mentally I will be. If all the layout stuff is done and the paper is at the printer while I'm away, then I will survive. If it isn't done before I leave, I may experience some fitful nights and worrisome days.

Such is the life I've chosen.

NEW BUSINESS:
I'm thinking of posting a few short stories in the blog. I'm wondering what my readers think of that. Please, click that comment button and let me know.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Cold...so cold

No, the temperature is just fine. It is this damn cold. Won't go away. Keeps lingering. Really starting to piss me off. I can't get anymore of the medicine that actually worked because I have no money. I can't just stay in bed because I have shit to do. AARGH!!!!!

That whole money thing is pissing me off, too. Come the first of the month, I'll be fine. From the 21st to the 1st, I may be screwed. My bus pass runs out on the 21st and I spent the money I should have used on a new pass on food and medicine instead. Tough choice, eh? One might say, "But isn't the week of the 20th through 26th your SPring Break? Why do you need to go anywhere?" Good point. However, I don't really get a Spring Break. That week will be spent getting out my next issue of the paper. I might take a couple of those days off to veg, but not many.

We shall see what we shall see.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Finally!

After surviving the learning curve, my first issue of the paper is at the printer right now and will be ready for distribution on Monday. Also, for those of you who are webheads, we are uploading the edition to our web presence at this very moment. check out www.coyotepressonline.com Anything you see without a byline means I wrote (most of the A&E section) There are a couple pieces with my name attached, but anyone who has read any of my work should catch my style. It isn't hard to miss.
Just in case you wonder, I did not write the "Bad Ass Moments" article, but I love the title and attitude behind it.

Check you dudes later!

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Feeling better....

Not quite as sick today, thank goodness. Still a bit of a headache, but the sore throat is gone. Today is Gong Show day, so I have to have my A-Game ready. Have to have my hips swiveling and my curling. This hunk-a, hunk-a burnin' love is ready to rock 'n' roll, baby!

TCB, baby, TCB!!!!!

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Sick

It doesn't happen very often but I am sick. Headache, sneezing, runny nose/stuffed up, sore throat. I feel horrible. Not as bad as yesterday, though. Yesterday, I managed to roll out of bed maybe twice to use the bathroom. I missed a couple things i should have done. Oh well. I'm up today, still feeling like someting has a hold of me by the throat and is trying to squeeze my head off. A little bit of medicine helped.
As for today, I don't treally know what I'm doing. I don't know if my paper is done or not. I don't know how much anyone has done on the stories for the next issue. I don't know much of anything today. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. No going back now. Not for a few hours, anyway.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Fear and Loathing in...Henderson?

I learned a very important leson while covering the Burning Man festival in 2002. The woman in charge of the media center told me not to sit back and watch. As she changed into her birthday suit, she said, "If you really want to know what Burning Man is about, you have to join in. You have to get in there and do it." Participation, not observation.
I'd heard something like this before. Getting into the story, doing what you have to do to truly understand what is going on. This is a small part of "The New Journalism." Not simply being a fly on the wall, unaffected, uninvolved. "New Journalism" also includes many of the precepts of "Gonzo Journalism." "Gonzo," as espoused by the Father, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, is not just about participating instead of observing. It includes a style of writing about what you did and what you saw that blends truth and fiction into its own prose/poetry assault on all the senses.
Why am I writing this today? I've made a decision that some will not like. I have decided that, from this point, my newspaper work will reflect the ideals of "New Journalsim" in general and "Gonzo Journalism" in particluar. I'm going back to how much fun I had writing my Burning Man piece. I had a shortened deadline, numerous non-writing responsibilities, and the absolute joy of writing a NON-FICTION piece that I was a part of, but wasn't about me.
That is just it, isn't it? It isn't about me, but I'm still a part of it. The standards of journalism require reporters to take themselves out of the story. Numerous times while editing my first issue, I had to tell a writer to remember to take him/herself out of the story. I hated doing it every time. I may have to do that again. But here is how it will go down: Each story will be evaluated on its own. If it is a straight news story, then it should read like a straight news story. If it is something else, then something else is required. Depending on the writer, I might want more reporter involvement. This honor(?) will be reserved for only the best of my crop of writers.
And me. I don't have the time to be just as observer anymore. I'm going to live and write what I live.
If you don't like it...well...no one is making you read it.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Elvis

Once upon a time I won an Elvis impersonation contest. My Elvis doesn't sound like Elvis. It sounds like someone impersonating someone impersonating Elvis. I don't look like Elvis. I have red hair and a beard. I can curl my lip, though. So why did I win this contest? Simple. I shook my hips for the old ladies.

Why am I mentioning this now? Well, the student government of my college is hosting its own version of The Gong Show. I, as a participatory student, volunteered to be judge. I couldn't compete because I know I don't have any talent, unlike the performers in this show. Instead, I will be a judge of talent.
For the show, my fellow judges and I were given Elvis outfits. We have Black Elvis, Female Elvis, Short Elvis, and me as Fat Elvis. Now, I'm not that fat, but someone has to play the part. I will shake my hips. I will put a little sway and a little swagger into it.
Who knows; maybe I'll get some panties thrown at me.
Hopefully not old lady panties.

Basaballa beena berry, berry gud to chico

For any of you who think I'm stupid for that headline, you need to watch more classic Saturday Night Live.

Baseball hasn't always been good to me, but I love it anyway. I love that it has slow moments and fast moments. I love the strategy and the instincts it takes to win a game. I love 98 mph fastballs and deathly slow knuckleballs. I love three-run homers and sacrifice bunts. I love a runner turning the corner at thrid and steaming down the baseline like a freight train into the catcher. I love the catcher standing his ground and tagging the runner out to to keep his team ahead.
I love baseball. I love playing baseball, even though I'm not very good at it. I do not throw well and I hate running. If I can connect with the ball, the ball is usually over or near the fence. But that's only IF I connect. I'm a strikeout king. But I still love playing ball. Just a game of catch is good enough to get me excited.

Last night (techniclly today, since the games were in Tokyo) the new World Baseball Classic began. I watched Korea beat China Taipei (also know as Taiwan) 2-0. good hitting, good pitching, great fundamental ball for the most part. twice, however, Korea nearly blew it. One runner dove head first into first base trying to beat a throw. He would have made it, as the ball took a looping hop ten feet before the bag. The runner slammed his shoulder into the bag, causing him to leave the game. The second bonehead play came with a runner on third. The Koreans are big fans of "small ball" meaning the will bunt men over even with their heavy hitters at the plate. In this case, the team captain lead off from third. the batter showed bunt but thepitch was high so he let it go. The runner thought this was supposed to be a "suicide squeeze" play. In a squeeze, the batter's main objective is to connect witht he ball no matter how bad the pitch is. This is because the runner starts running the moment the batter squares up and shows bunt. If the hitter fails to connect, the catcher gets the ball and can easily throw out the runner on third. Sometimes a blown suicide squeeze results in a rundown or "pickle" with the defense throwing the ball back and forth until they can finally tag out the runner somewhere in the middle. Pickles are great fun to watch but not as easy as they look. This play did not result in a pickle. Instead, the runner (captain of the Korean team, remember) was thrown out at third as he tried to avoid the tag and reach for the base.
Korea still won, mostly due to pitching.

I love baseball. The World Baseball Classic is like compressing an entire season into 17 days, playoffs and all. At the end, the winning team can truly call themselves a World Champion.
If anyone has tickets to the Round One games in Scottsdale, Arizona or Round Two in Anaheim, or the Finals in San Diego and wants to let me have them, I'd be more than happy to take them off your hands. Hell, if you have tickets to any game, let me know. If you want to pick me up for a game to the Las Vegas 51s I might even buy the tickets.

www.worldbaseballclassic.com www.lv51.com

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Shameless Plug for a Friend

I don't usually listen to Techno music. All the techno CDs I own are either movie soundtracks, Paul Oakenfold ("Bukka" because Hunter S. Thompson is on it.), or stuff by a friend of mine from Reno. He's good and he is getting better, as I just found out by visiting his website. i haven't been to the site in a long time. In fact, I've only recently re-established contact with the man. I'm not very good at "staying in touch".
Anyway, here's the plug (no, he did not ask me to do this). Check out Defect 9 at http://www.defect9.com/. It is my favorite techno. Hopefully, the Invader Zim tracks are still on there.
Enjoy!!!!!

Meetings

The truth is, I hate meetings. I hate going to meetings, I hate having to be part of meetings. I hate being the one in charge of meetings. This goes along with me not trusting people. I'm a secretive guy; I'd rather work on a project and then let people be surprised by the results. Reactions are not always positive, but I always get some kind of reaction. I'm still learning to work with other people. I don't have a problem working WITH other people. I have a problem with authority. I really don't like people looking over my shoulder. I will always take responsibility if something goes wrong. If someting does go wrong, and I'm taking the blame for it anyway, then it damn well better be my fault. If someone is going to get in trouble, let it be me.
I'm not a martyr, if that is what you are thinking. Martyrs, in general, do not ask for trouble. Me, I do tend to ask for it. I tend to put myself in postions for things to go wrong. And then I solve my way out of it, somehow. I am one of those people who must do things the hard way. I am a control freak. What I'm not is a perfectionist.
I don't believe in perfection. Perfection is the end of growth. The end of growth is death. Things do not have to be perfect. We can take risks and break the mold, even if it is done in subtle ways. It takes only a small seed of risk to grow a tree of major change. I like to think I was picked for this job due to my willingness to take risks not because I was percieved as someone who would not rock the boat. I want to rock the boat and shake up the establishment but I want to do it in my way.
By trying new formats and new ideas we can learn what works. Don't get me wrong; I respect the past. That doesn't mean that I have to follow directly in their footsteps. To start a new path, sometimes you have to keep one foot on the old path and simply begin drifting away from it. I don't have much time for drifting. If I don't get my feet off the old path soon, I won't be able to change anything.
I don't think the people who hired me knew any of this before calling me. I remember saying, "I don't think you know what you are getting with me." I'm proving myself right. I'm not a puppet. I'm not out to placate people. I remeber saying, "Some people need to be made uncomfortable."
I'm planting that seed of risk. We will see how much it grows. God help anyone who attempts to stunt change's growth.

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. -- HST