all i hear is king me love me watch me did he love me honey kiss me is she off me naughty you've been naughty ladi dadi move your body

Maybe I needed (need) some time off. Deal.

Things that have crossed my life lately:

Hypothetical question: Let's say you're the father of a small child preparing to spend the day with said small child, as well as the wife, at a theme park of sorts (maybe like the one I work at). Putting yourself in these shoes, picture yourself in front of the mirror, picking out clothing let's say. You presumably have a collection of t-shirts (meaning hopefully more than one t-shirt) and a dressy shirt or two. When reaching your hand out, hoping to bring it back grasping the day's torso wardrobe, would the t-shirt you retrieve be the trusty and ever-so-classy "Miller High Life" shirt? Maybe I'm the only one who has issues with father's toting their beer preference while riding small trains with their child. It just feels...tacky. Like the mom's sporting matching Hooter's t-shirts with their teenage daughters.

I like that regular citizens like myself band together against the injustice that is the speed trap. My drive to work includes one of those 45 mph roads that could easily be 60 mph, you know the type. And on a particular curve of this road, police officers seem to enjoy parking in initially hidden locales, stalking their prey on the everyday speeder such as myself. Now I've seen these coppers repeatedly and as such have learned to drive cautiously, but my road compatriots don't seem to be privy to this same knowledge. A few days ago I was approaching this curve when a van in the incoming traffic lane opposite ours flashed his headlights a few times, indicating the lurking danger. Appreciated, fella.

I have an unnatural love of replacing the word "of" with " o' ," as in Barrel o' Monkeys. Again, deal.

As of this last week I have become infinitely cooler, what with my receiving an early birthday present in the form of a record player. Much of my time not spent at work is now being used for cruising used record stores of the physical and occasional online variety. I don't spend much (usually between fifty cents and four dollars), but have already built up a respectable collection including, but not limited to: The Who, Simon & Garfunkel, Cat Stevens, the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, Toto (though I forgot it in Cedar Rapids last weekend), and William Elliot Whitmore (though admittedly this wasn't a used record, but was totally worth the $12 I threw down at the Electric Fetus (winner in my contest for best store name of all time)). That should about reestablish any cred I've lost by having D&G glasses. It's nice to be back in the indie world.

Dos Equis and I wrote some music when I visited him a week ago. It was one of the most cathartic experiences I've ever had. The songwriting progresses, more on that later (once I purchase a new pack of strings).

Finally, I saw these cats last night:


DOOMTREE


It was off the hook.

But I Would Totally Date Katherine Heigl, You Know, If She Wasn't Married

While out running errands with my mom this morning I passed a nail saloon with a small sign in front of it. This sign read: "Come on in and get nailed by Jenn."

My initial response was disgust. I should just accept that our Grey's Anatomy loving nation is always brought in by any sort of innuendo. It's sort of what we do.

But the more I thought about it, I wonder if my reaction wasn't based more one who I was with when seeing it. It's plausible that, had I been rolling with Grinaldo, Dos Equis, or Spats, that I could have greeted this ad with a lighter tone, perhaps even a laugh.

While this may seem probable, the truth is, my mom and I have the relationship where we can laugh at jokes of this nature amongst each other. As such, I'm still wondering if I detest this sign or not.

On the other hand, I know damn well that I hate Grey's Anatomy.

Guess Who's Back

Somewhere along the way I let this blog become somewhat pretentious. The original reason I returned to the blog world after my angsty high school experience was that I wanted something that would keep me writing on a somewhat regular basis in a somewhat free form. However, over the past few months I began posting only when I felt I had something important to say.

It's a serious pet peeve of mine when bloggers actually say, in their blogs even, that they don't have anything important to say or that they have nothing to write about. It's a blog, not a term paper, not an op-ed article, just an online venue to say whatever the hell you want. Don't go through the effort of creating a blog if you're only going to wallow in your own uninteresting life.

I'm not trying to be preachy, I'm just saying.

As such, I hope to return to form. Soon.

Esteem Boost

I've been writing music again. Halves of three-ish songs done. Bluesy earthy folk stuff. I dig it.

This is big news, because it was high up on the list of things I wanted to accomplish over the summer.

So yea, go me.

Re: Whistle

I wrote a blog, not too long ago, about the appreciation I got from my job, the joy I received from the smiles of children. That is still true, and truth be told, I love my job. However, here is another side.

A coworker referred to me a few days ago as someone who hasn't been jaded by the job yet. I hope that the short stay I intend to have there (merely a summer job, right?) will prevent me from becoming worn down. And as I've mentioned, there is an undeniable happiness that I get from working amongst those laughs and lights.

That isn't to say there aren't times when the surroundings wear on my ability to throw on a smile and offer a high five to each and every child. Sure, there are a handful of small things that would make the job better, but these are things that are universal to almost any place of employment, and truth be told, they really don't annoy me that much.

What does are the unappreciative parents. I said, in the post called Whistle While We Work, that the look on parents' faces when they saw their children scream and smile in excitement made everything else around me seem better. I have discovered that their is a polar opposite to this scene, and a corresponding response that it creates in me.

It doesn't happen often, but occasionally parents bring their children to my park with the seeming intent to deal with their own life while pushing their kid from ride to ride until it gets so hard to shepherd them forward that they surely must be leaning backwards in exhaustion. These are the parents who, in a few years, will get into endless screaming matches with their children about lifestyle choices, grades, and/or the people they choose to surround themselves with. Their children will resent them, and the relationship will be tested to its breaking point.

I'm talking about the parents who make a scene when they are told that their children aren't tall enough to ride a ride, all while the child him/herself is trying to calm them and meander to a different attraction. Or the parent who's too busy slipping countless unnecessary expletives into cell phone conversations to wave at their child as they race around the track, or worse, those who make phone calls while sitting in the race car with their child, explaining that the extra background noise is the reason for their elevated vocal volume.

So to all the parents out there, please cherish the time you have with your children, lap up the laughter and the shouts and the waves that they exude when you have given them the opportunity to be happy.

And for the record, I still love my job.

There Are A Million Things I'm Supposed To Do Today, But I'll Do None Of Them Because They Are A Million Things Doing Me

Over the past week I've had a bunch of things come to mind as topics I can and/or should blog about. However, my job has kicked in so much so that my last handful of days followed a pattern of wake up, go to work, come home, shower, sleep, repeat. I have more time off between my ending point today and my beginning point tomorrow then I have had between my last three days combined. Go figure, right?

I will now touch on a few of these said topics in no order, probably leaving a few to splice into other blogs later on.

-

So my other home is flooding. Not the one I'm living in right now. This one's on top of a hill. I'm safe here. But the one I call home for two thirds of my year is under a historic amount of water as the Cedar River is now holding its usual banks inside itself like a mother holds her child. Though short, this has been a traumatic pregnancy and now all we can do is wait to see what shape our baby's in when she meets this world.

I feel guilty, which is likely the result of my Catholic upbringing. I wish I was in Cedar Rapids, helping with the sandbagging and the relief efforts. However, here I am, dry and working in a theme park knowing and feeling that my home is suffering.

It's weird because I've never felt a guilt like this before. The closest I can get to describing it would be like watching a good friend of yours getting physically assaulted on television. You're lying on your couch, sipping soda, and someone you love and care for is being beaten and bruised miles away. You can't help, but you have to watch.

I wish them all the best.

-

Sadness overwhelmed me a few days ago when I turned on The Current (the only acceptable and normally quite reliable radio station in the Twin Cities) only to be greeted with the disaster that is the Red Hot Chili Peppers cover of Stevie Wonder's "Higher Ground."

I've been adamant about my distaste for the Peppers for quite some time now. I concede that a they are, for the most part, talented musicians. I just feel that they waste their talents on nonsense like "Hump de Bump" or really anything off of Stadium Arcadium. I'm sick of Anthony Kiedis making up words just so his attempt at vocal rhythm can seem more interesting. It's not, and I don't want to hear it.

Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic was good, I'll give you that. But stay away from Stevie.

-

Someone told me this would happen, but I didn't believe them. I have been proven wrong.

My sleep is now haunted with the operating of rides. I wake up nervous that I've stranded passengers at the top of the ferris wheel or that my carelessness in buckeling children into the race car ride has caused one to be projected into a cement wall. Sometimes I just freak out because I think I've aborted a cycle just after starting it and all of the children and their parents are going to be carving me with their upset eyes. All I want to do is sleep.

I want to make it known that these fears that plague my dreams seem unfounded as I've been completely successful so far in my endeavors. Fingers crossed that stays the same.

More to come.

Whistle While We Work

I have established a new rule for blogging. It's possible that this rule applies only to myself, but I hope (for comforts sake) that others find this to be true. From now on I will never mention in one post what the next post will be about. I made that mistake in the last (actual) post, saying that this would be an entry based on the idea of consumerism/commercialism. At the time I had things to say, passions to exude about what I saw then as the devils of capitalism and the adverse effect it has on poor bastards like myself. I could have ranted (hopefully coherently) for some time and could have made relevant points that would have further cemented my image as a fighter for good. Had I possessed the ability that night, all that would have been said.

To be honest, I'm kind of glad I didn't post then.

You see, at the time I had just come back from this outdoor underground (seems contradictory, I know) hip hop festival. As a totally independent festival, I had high hopes for the community it would build, and for the most part I was a part of what I had expected. Musically the show was real, honest, and interpersonal. It was an experience. My complaint was, since this concert was scheduled to begin at 11 am and last until about 9 pm, food was going to be an issue. They brought in vendors, something I had expected, but I didn't think the prevailing overcharging of edibles would make it into this place. I mean, the concert tickets were kept cheap, the mood was focused on the music and away from financial gain. Sure, artists had merch booths to put a little more bread on their tables, but shirts were kept to a minimal price and free mix cds and demos were handed out to anyone willing and eager enough to catch them. So why was the food so outrageously expensive?

First off, they went the ticket route. Ten tickets cost five dollars. I despise the ticket system, as it always causes you to purchase more tickets than you need for any given product (except a glass of lemonade which, no joking here, cost a full ten tickets or five american dollars). Burgers were going for around eight tickets, as were bottles of water. This leaves each customer with two excess tickets per purchase, also known as a full dollar. Now for the college students like myself (who seemingly made up a very large portion of the crowd), money isn't something we can throw on a couple spare slips of paper. And you all know damn well that nothing in any of the tents was available for the price of two measly tickets.

Honestly, I could go on for days listing why I hate the devils of money, but most of it would be based on the fact that, currently, I have none of these devils to play with. Which is why I got a job.

I had my first solo day of work a few days ago. For six hours I was stranded at a kiddie ride with no one to take the fall for me should one of these children be inexplicably hurled from their car into a plastic tree, or god forbid, the waiting hands of a lurking pedophile. The pressure is now on me.

Shockingly, part of my job requires me to watch the children throughout the entire ride cycle. (I've been told that it's rude to use on the job lingo in conversations with those outside of my field of practice, but I'm certain you can follow me here.) As I stand there, I'm met with something I had to expect. Little kids and parents alike screaming and smiling and enjoying the youth that bright lights and the ever present scent of cotton candy and sounds of shrieking can bring.

When I first applied to work at a theme park, I did a little thinking. Did I really want to work in a place that constructs it's prices by multiplying the highest possible amount of money one could understandably spend on thrill by four, then adding expiration dates? Would I still be okay with myself knowing that I was working for something like that? Usually I would say no, but the job situation in the Twin Cities is less than favorable with the current economy, and I need to fund my collegiate studies. So I swallowed my morals and applied, only to actually be hired about a week later. I was, in every possible way, a sell out.

But I noticed something a couple days ago. These kids are experiencing something important. Joy.

This country's in a scary place right now, you don't need me to tell you that. We are just beginning one hell of a recession, we're smack dab in the middle of multiple wars without any plausible exit strategies, we're growing up in a culture of fear and violence and materialism. The term family values is no almost synonymous with gated community. It's nothing short of terrifying.

But where I work, these kids don't have to deal with that. For a few hours they can let go and run around this pastel colored place, gab tooth grins proudly displayed, and laugh and scream and throw their hands in the air and actually have fun.

It's interesting that the standard verb for fun isn't experience, but have. It's possessive. Children can have fun, can own their own enjoyment, can keep it. It's theirs to take with them.

So while I do wish that the prices for my place of employment would drop to allow those of any social status to experience, I do see something noble in what they offer. The distraction that we need every once and a while.

I can respect that.