Oh, All Right . . .
Some periods of time, in any (every?) life, are either so lackluster that there's nothing to say about them or so turbulent that there's no way to condense all the information. It's rare, but not unheard of, that one's life should harbor periods of time for which both descriptions seem to fit. My last two weeks have been just such a time.
This is my way of explaining both why I haven't posted in a while and why this post is itself likely to be choppy and incoherent (though I must admit, being that I spend so much time apologizing for precisely that, it may be time to admit that, well, that's just the way I write/speak/think).
The boring-but-happy news: I've got a second job (seasonal, part-time) working for a company that specializes in Celtic art and memorabilia and sells through a seasonal catalog. So far, it's been all work and no pay, so I can't report on the benefits of such employment saturation, only on the fatigue borne of working seven full days and two short nights every week. Still, the work's fine, the people are nice, the products are--for the most part--pretty cool, and come next week, the 'hound and the purple lady are gonna have a little extra bank for the season.
This next bit is more 'Stine's news than mine, but here goes anyway: Memory of Water just opened this last week, and I'm thrilled to report that my wife is brilliant. We knew that, of course, but it's lovely to see it out there where those who don't already know and love her can see it. I wish the show nothing but the best. She posted the URL for the review in which she was singled out for praise, so there's not much need to place it here (in the unlikely event that there's anyone who reads me who doesn't already read her, click on the "My Amazon" link to the right . . . 'cause she's, like, my amazon).
Those of you who see me regularly know that there are some things I won't be talking about in this forum, to protect the innocent or . . . less so. Which leads me to some general observations about nothing in particular:
I'm growing a goatee, and I have to say that I'm liking this incarnation of the "unit" (goatee + 'stache grown as single piece, as opposed to the 'stacheless goatee--an old favorite of mine--or the pirate/Chris Cornell/Errol Flynn combination of narrow chin tuft and carefully tailored upper lip) better than past versions. That said, when I saw myself in the mirror the other day, I looked so old. It might have been the beard, it might have been the work schedule . . . or it might just be that I'm older than I'm yet willing to admit I am.
I've never thought of myself as someone who feared aging--I'm anti-plastic-surgery, anti-gray-coverage, anti-hair-replacement, etc. I've always longed for the wisdom and temperance of age. On the other hand, my models for aging have always been somewhat fanciful: ancient sages from kung-fu movies who can rip a spine out without breaking a sweat; tattooed misanthropes perpetually digging themselves out of holes or being flogged by harpies in heavy-metal videos; rogue philosophy professors or astronomers spending their last breath(s) solving some abstract (eternal) mystery. It's that cranky guy who doesn't get the music that those damn kids are listening to that I really don't ever want to become.
Anyway, I seemed to look better (younger?) by later that afternoon, so it was probably just that "fresh outta bed" thing.
This post had no point, other that keeping myself on the grid; it's fitting, then, that it should have no real conclusion, n'est-ce pas?
This is my way of explaining both why I haven't posted in a while and why this post is itself likely to be choppy and incoherent (though I must admit, being that I spend so much time apologizing for precisely that, it may be time to admit that, well, that's just the way I write/speak/think).
The boring-but-happy news: I've got a second job (seasonal, part-time) working for a company that specializes in Celtic art and memorabilia and sells through a seasonal catalog. So far, it's been all work and no pay, so I can't report on the benefits of such employment saturation, only on the fatigue borne of working seven full days and two short nights every week. Still, the work's fine, the people are nice, the products are--for the most part--pretty cool, and come next week, the 'hound and the purple lady are gonna have a little extra bank for the season.
This next bit is more 'Stine's news than mine, but here goes anyway: Memory of Water just opened this last week, and I'm thrilled to report that my wife is brilliant. We knew that, of course, but it's lovely to see it out there where those who don't already know and love her can see it. I wish the show nothing but the best. She posted the URL for the review in which she was singled out for praise, so there's not much need to place it here (in the unlikely event that there's anyone who reads me who doesn't already read her, click on the "My Amazon" link to the right . . . 'cause she's, like, my amazon).
Those of you who see me regularly know that there are some things I won't be talking about in this forum, to protect the innocent or . . . less so. Which leads me to some general observations about nothing in particular:
I'm growing a goatee, and I have to say that I'm liking this incarnation of the "unit" (goatee + 'stache grown as single piece, as opposed to the 'stacheless goatee--an old favorite of mine--or the pirate/Chris Cornell/Errol Flynn combination of narrow chin tuft and carefully tailored upper lip) better than past versions. That said, when I saw myself in the mirror the other day, I looked so old. It might have been the beard, it might have been the work schedule . . . or it might just be that I'm older than I'm yet willing to admit I am.
I've never thought of myself as someone who feared aging--I'm anti-plastic-surgery, anti-gray-coverage, anti-hair-replacement, etc. I've always longed for the wisdom and temperance of age. On the other hand, my models for aging have always been somewhat fanciful: ancient sages from kung-fu movies who can rip a spine out without breaking a sweat; tattooed misanthropes perpetually digging themselves out of holes or being flogged by harpies in heavy-metal videos; rogue philosophy professors or astronomers spending their last breath(s) solving some abstract (eternal) mystery. It's that cranky guy who doesn't get the music that those damn kids are listening to that I really don't ever want to become.
Anyway, I seemed to look better (younger?) by later that afternoon, so it was probably just that "fresh outta bed" thing.
This post had no point, other that keeping myself on the grid; it's fitting, then, that it should have no real conclusion, n'est-ce pas?
posted by thelyamhound at 3:02 PM
9 Comments:
Glad to find something new--even just to know you're still there. I'll get a full report on the facial hair from Mandy, I assume. Hope the job stays ok, and that the waters begin to calm soon.
Hollllly crap balls! Mr. Clean lives!
It's about time, yo. I was beginning to think that Stine had tied you up for flogging purposes and, in the excitement of her opening week, had forgotten about you.
Welcome back, mon frere.
Yay, the hound returns. I was aware, of course, of the extreme busyness of your schedule of late, but am so glad you took a second to post. I too am going through the, Jee-sus, am I really getting wrinkles?? and grey hairs??? and feeling a little like it's the end of the world thing. I also relate to the desire of the young and not taken too seriously to grow up and BE something, and now that I am a grownup I don't know what to be. Maybe some late night conversations with someone who remembers me when I was still young and hot will help bring some perspective. Actually, I'm counting on it.
Love you darling, can't wait to see you TONIGHT!!
I kinda like the gray hairs. In fact, I wish they'd just turn all white, instantly, so I could grow out maybe a half-inch of hair and look like the gringo counterpart to "Beat" Takeshi in The Blind Swordsman: Zatoichi. But every now and then I look in the mirror and see my grandfather, and it's a little unsettling.
Yes, looking forward. Much, much about which to converse.
You "like" the grey hairs? What's with all that whining then when I point out the increasing army of them on your chest? Waa...waa....
And no Rob, no tying-up as of late - much to my chagrin.
And as far as things that cannot be mentioned to protect the innocent, I'm still trying to find a way to talk about it in my blog without really talking about it. I wish there was a way to make posts friends only in blogger, like there is in livejournal. Ah well.
I don't recall whining about your pointing out the grey hairs. I whine a bit about your pulling on them when you do so, but that's 'cause my mother used to do so (mercilessly, I might add) back when they were first appearing.
If you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask (or hit me over the head with something heavy).
You do too whine when I point out how the amount of grey is growing. You whine like a little girl.
And as for hitting you over the head with something heavy...we've been together what almost 12 years now? I don't want to have to work that hard. I'll just drug your drink.
Luv you,
Me
*Ahem*
*sound of fingers drumming*
It's coming, it's coming, fool.
Post a Comment
<< Home