All the freelancing and late nights and near break-ups have resulted in many bills paid, but also in this, my newest technology child. Thanks to Czeltic Girl for the photo and bandwidth.

I have dinner with Dad tonight, or Hobbes would be getting quite the workout. Now I can run WoW in a window while I work! Not that I would do that.

After reading a few other blogs, whose authors possess more discipline and skill than I likely retain, I came to a small – very small – epiphany. Part of my inability to make myself write when I want and how I want springs from what I would politely label efficiency, but what generally translates to spazziness.

Like many of my peers, I have a notably short attention span. In one sense, it makes me a harsh and incredibly effective critic; if something does not hold my attention, I know that it is not something of particular note. In another sense, it can make me look bat-shit insane. Instead of merely sitting comfortably in my chair and enjoying a film, I shift and go for snacks and twitch and think of other movies that might play in my head during the dull parts of this one. I imagine, in media res, how I would rewrite the dialogue or direct the actor in another take of the same shot. Sometimes, I even play costume designer.

Similarly, if there is even a momentary lapse in action in a video game, or indeed my coding work, I furiously rub my hands together, scratch my scalp, or any other number of ticks that would embarrass even a victim of Tourette’s. Am I a reflection of our times? Without a doubt. Why, just today, when I have an important deadline, I cannot bring myself to concentrate since I have nothing good to play on the computer’s DVD player. I have come to the point where I require overstimulation to function.

And this keeps me from writing. You see, most writing brings with it a sort of ponderous serenity, moments of furious finger-flashing on keys interspersed with periods of inactivity that bludgeon my mind into distraction. When I am struck with inspiration so forceful that even the beating dol-drums of this lethargy cannot restrain me, I manage to create in a threshing frenzy of paragraphs. But chapters or stories or, for that matter, pages are far from my natural state.

I fight with the accusation that I am lazy as a writer. Instead, I think I strive to capture that moment of inspirado without leaving it to the entropy of revision and continuation. Thus am I left with countless vignettes, hinting subtly at stories which I have long since forgotten and poems whose beginnings match neither the tone nor subject of their lavish endings.

Maturity, perhaps, is what I lack. I would certainly agree with the notion that writers age like wine*. Where I have the most growing-up to do is in taking my time, realizing that I needn’t hammer home my entire point within a few paragraphs. Most writing is not like marketing, my “chosen” profession, or like blog entries where readers get this far in and begin looking up synonyms for “rant.”

My mind, due to the stresses of life in America in the 21st Century, is simply not still. I struggle with this in more than just writing. And although my very nature believes that stillness is the wellspring from which the mind and spirit drink, I fear my life is just not possible at that speed. So, unless inspired, I feel like writing is merely wasting what precious little time I have, both in terms of simple free time and in the grander sense of mortality.

It is not my only stumbling block. My tools are rusty, and my confidence is low. Even my more inspired work seems to fade in retrospection and when I make daring attempts to write through the obstacles of apathy and dreariness, I find the work no longer pleasing enough to pursue. I do not mean to be bleak or greedy, but honestly what’s the point? What’s my reward? There are many people out there who pursue writing more fervently and devoutly. Am I so vain that I believe my talent so unique to circumvent the need for all that work?

* – Put forth recently and blogged by both Brian and BB, hard-working and talented and wonderful the both of them.

Written in a meeting, about no one in the meeting:

I find it quite pleasing
the way your body shifts
without your knowledge
without your notice
and the folds of your dress
crash like cloth waves across
the shores of your skin.

(Before anyone gets on my case, the wedding I ushed this weekend was lovely and I had fun. That doesn’t change my stance. If you want to be married, more power to you. Does that mean I have to?)

SB: I don’t need the legality thing. I wouldn’t legally get married unless there were some outstanding legal issue that needed resolution. And the ceremony part (whether religious or not) is pretty self-absorbed and puts stress on everyone involved. I just do not get it.

MHG: It’s totally a girl thing. Being married is co-ed. A wedding is a girl thing.

SB: I’m not proposing at this moment, but if I asked you to marry me, would you be allright without a license and a ceremony? Could I take you on a honeymoon, give you a symbol of my commitment, throw a big bash for our friends and family, and be done with it?

MHG: Using wedding terms, a “ring” and “reception?”

SB: A ring and a reception, yes.

MHG: I’m not concerned with anything right now; what concerns me most about the lack of legality is children, but we don’t need to worry about that now either. It really is all about being “their day,” a day for the people getting married.

SB: But people shouldn’t stress about such a thing. I mean, a party doesn’t need months of planning.

MHG: I think the point is to be a spectacle.

SB: Then they should put on a play or something. If you’re going to say “Look at me! Look at us! We’re special!” then it should come with an act. You should have to entertain your guests with more than a bad DJ.

MHG: What, like in Lemony Snicket? or “Wedding: The Movie?” “One man…one woman…”

SB: Yeah, ’cause then you could edit out all the bullshit.

MHG: And the parents could buy the long director’s cut with all the crap that makes moms’ eyes tear up.

SB: Most weddings would just be a trailer, anyway. And, as we know, none of the good parts of the trailer show up in the movie.

MHG: “Wedding: The Trailer,” “Marriage: The Movie.”

Apparently, I am dying of some creeping mucousy plague, and this is making my fingers too weak to type. In fact, in order to make this semi-post, I had to commission a translation and typing expert (we’ll call her Navis Deacon) to listen to my stuffy, dripping mouthings and convert them into passable English. That and someone’s getting married this weekend and I am to ush. Therefore, no posts. I’ve got a few drafts hidden beyond the veil of blog administration for the \_337 |-|@xX0®zz among you, but the rest of you are just going to have to wait until they’re leaked to the P2P networks.

Love doesn’t rhyme with cholera,
sb

As I walked to work, I saw bike couriers streaming through the traffic and construction like spawning salmon. The bear-buses along the river of Wisconsin Avenue could not swat them from their horny little goal as they darted skillfully through the flashing orange rocks that created honking eddies and waves. Let’s face it, the subconscious which makes my legs stalk their way across the pavement to my office is a creature of metaphor.

At any rate, the brief glimpses into this stream-of-subconsiousness made me wonder if maybe I could be one of them. It is dangerous, no doubt, doesn’t pay too well, and probably contributes to testicular cancer (ask Lance about that). But, I’d get to work outside, get lots of exercise and actually feel like I get things done in a day.

I get big ideas like this sometimes about being a bike courier, but then I always think of the different media influences I have. Kids in the Hall bike courier jokes [rollover those, links not included], that bike movie with Kevin Bacon point to reasons why being a bike courier is stupid; Dark Angel makes it look cool, if the technology level of the world were to suddenly change.

In the end I decided against it. at least for now. But it did get me thinking that I’d like to see a documentary on the subject before I make my decision. The closest I’ll probably get is some reality television series. I don’t have cable, but has this already been done? If not, expect it soon:

World’s Most EXTREME Bike Couriers! Sipping coffee while jumping a curb! EXTREME! Flipping off a driver while carrying important insurance forms! EXTREME! Rolling up one pant leg! ÜBER X-TREME!

I need to get this stuff out of my system. It distracts me from my work. In Marketing.

In a dream this morning, pressed firmly between the ten-minute bookends of my snooze buttton, I was hearing auditions for a play I was directing. Although I felt that creatively this project would fall into my hands, the power definitely belonged to the person sitting to my left. Perhaps he was the producer, the money that would get my project off the ground; my dream did not specify and let me fill in the details myself. Who was this stranger with Caesar’s thumb approval over my every decision?

Mr. Peanut.

Now you may think, as many of us have storytelling sense and like to embellish, that I have changed the person’s identity in order to make a dream story – something that always has more urgency and catharsis to the dreamer – just that much more bizarre to enchant my audience. Nay not, I say! No, even without his trademark top hat, cane and monocle I recognized the mascot immediately.

And even thus dressed (or undressed, it would seem), his snobbery remained at the forefront of his personality. As each audition ended, he would proclaim loudly, “Not…handsome…AT ALL!” and then proceed with a mean-spirited critique of the performance. One young lady was told, “Not…handsome…AT ALL! Please remove this young lady before she is so repulsed by her own whining that she heaves her Lunchables all over our proscenium.”

And then, as a sympathetic soul, I would attempt to give some encouragement to the actor, but I felt like even Kevin Spacey singing “Modern Major General” in his near-perfect diction would have raised the glowering ire of Mr. Peanut.

When all the auditions were over, I was speaking with a stagehand. In a low conspiratorial tone, she said to me “That’s why they call him Mr. Peanut.” I said, “It’s not because he’s a giant talking peanut wearing clearly male-engendered clothing?” “No, it’s because he’s so salty.”

You see? All that, and I was late to work for conceivably the worst joke on the planet. My subconscious is a realm where few dare to tread.

Hey, it’s a random thought blog entry! Originality, thy name is me!

I was thinking that instead of having SCUBA equipment and masks and whatnot, there should be a way to use the technology of the hydrolysis battery to power a device that would split the water into its component atoms. Then, the mask could me small and self-contained, run on hydrogen (underwater this wouldn’t be dangerous) and get you high on oxygen all at once! Maybe there could be a nitrogen mixer or something to keep it from being too much O2 or to somehow decrease the likelihood of youe getting the bends? I don’t know. I’m not the science guy.

—

A friend of mine defended the war in Iraq admirably (nope, not Bjorn this time) over the weekend. He’s a teacher, so don’t go hatin’. He ain’t no Bush-lover. But in the tactical sense – the Sun Tzu sense – he had a point. If you want to fight a war against terrorists, do you kill the one man who accomplished a terrorist attack on American soil of a scale never before seen? Or do you fight the war right up to his door and hold him there, so he never gets to be a martyr? The second course of action assures that another holy war will not be taken up in his name.

Then, when you’ve cornered your enemy in such a way, you move the war to another front. A front which includes a dictator that no one loves, not even most of his countrymen. You set up shop there. And you dig in. Then, instead of going through all the trouble of getting through American security and flying across the ocean, every crazed person in that part of the world can drive a Jeep 300 miles and get a piece of their Great Infidel. And their innocent citizens die in the crossfire, not ours. And their country runs out of resources, not ours.

Humanitarian, agreeable, acceptable? I think not. But cunning and effective? Well, it’s a better defense than I’ve heard from the government for this bullshit war.

—

I’m going on a diet. I’ve read the facts, I’m reading the book, and I’m not going crazy with it. But I’m taking on the South Beach thing. Thus far, the thing I’ll miss the most is ice cream, but it says I can have some once in a while. And since I’m doing this mostly to not end up with heart disease or diabetes, the diet seems to have its head in the right game. The fact that I will be truly irresistible to the ladies is an added benefit.

—

I had a drop of honey on a banana for a snack when I got home from work and noticed that the bear has a warning to not feed honey to infants. I had to know why, so I looked it up. You benefit from my obsession with knowledge, if you read my site. But you don’t. And it’s so disheartening. You’re breaking my goddamn heart. Anyway, honey according to wikibooks:

Honey (as well as other sweeteners) is also potentially extremely dangerous for infants. This is because botulism spores are among the few bacteria that survive in honey. While these spores are harmless to adults, an infant’s digestive system is not yet developed enough to destroy them and the spores could potentially cause infant botulism. For this reason, it is advised that neither honey, nor any other sweetener, should be given to children under the age of 18 months.

Apparently, you have to use clover as well, or the honey can be poisonous, particularly from azalia bushes. And, in addition, beekeepers completely rule. Think about it. They have to be cool, they freaking keep. Bees.

I have a cleaning service.

Those among you who know me, know that I am by no means a man of means. I, too, assume someone with a cleaning service is someone wealthy, or at least someone important who hasn’t time to be bothered with such minutiae of house cleaning. But why should this be the case? Why should only those people who have wealth (and therefore time) be allowed the convenience of a maid?

I am not the first to think tis, obviously. I have a full-time job, several freelance jobs at once, a teaching job at the local university, and a personality that requires downtime. When I came to the realization that a service should save me some time and energy, I also realized there was an affordable company aimed at just that audience. So, I hired the service.

Strangely, though, instead of simply leaving my home in their capable hands, I find myself scarmbling to tidy and clean the house before their arrival. So, I pay for a bimonthly cleaning service, then clean the house in anticipation of their arrival. Why? Is it because I am embarrassed that I use their service? Partially. But I think there’s also a bizarre sense of courtesy. I don’t want their job to be difficult. I just don’t want to do it myself. Regardless, the dirty underwear is off the floor, the dishes are done, and the flat surfaces in the house are clear of sundry items.

I’d like to believe that I’m doing it for this courtesy in the majority, but I think it is equal share embarrassment, courtesy, and guilt. I feel guilty that I’ve hired the service. I try to hide it from people. But I hired them to relieve me of the hours of work necessary to properly sanitize my house. They are affordable, they are quick and they allow me to do more important things like finish MHG’s online store or write diary-like LiveJournally things on my website (actually I’m writing this at work.) Why should I feel guilty?

I guess I’ll try not to in the future, but in all likelihood, the night before will continue to be a whirldwind of dust bunnies and old bank slips.

Someone said to me, about Jenna Jameson, “She’s really smart!” The tone of voice used was one of incredulity, of surprise. And while I’m still too much of a social pussy to have snapped back with a witty comment, my brain did stammer a bit at the clear obliviousness of that statement.

Laying aside the attempt to legitimize a forbidden love of the porn star (wholly unnecessary), this is among the most ignorant things anyone has ever said. While there are far worse prejudices in the world, I have to laugh when I hear people assuming that anyone in the entertainment industry possesses certain qualities or lacks certain others. A star is not more worldly or more classy or more politically aware than another person merely by their accumulation of fame. What comes with that kind of fame is money and easier access to vice.

A porn star who has made herself into an international celebrity is probably at least mildly smart. Is it still likely, according to psychology, that she had a certain upbringing or background? Yes, it’s likely. But that background doesn’t necessarily squash intelligence. In fact, if she had to deal with a sexual predator or abuser of some kind, she must have developed extraordinary survival and coping skills, which can translate into a canny business sense rather easily. Is it more shocking that one porn star is savvy, or that so many are not?

Related to this problem of prejudice is another that irks me. Perhaps it is just my friends, or the way that I am perceived by my friends, but I’ve noted a certain reluctance toward taking my opinion over others. For example, just recently a few friends of mine, whom I have known for years, have started using an online voice chat system while playing City of Heroes. They seem somewhat enamoured of it and no doubt are reveling in the techie joys that come with such a system. I had suggested that we use a similar device over a year ago. In fact, I promoted a few different options, invested in a headset and researched different software. Despite this, it was no doubt one of their faceless online “friends” that got them to convert.

For reasons unknown, my opinion, though reserved for the occasions when I truly believe that it will hold interest to my friends, is considered sort of…well, worthless, if my self-doubt isn’t dramatizing the situation. Yet, the opinion of someone who could very well be a completely uneducated, pompous and immature 10-year-old is far more valuable. Someone who would not make the sacrifices I have already made and would make again in the name of friendship.

I’ve found the same dubious situation recurring in my life amongst these friends. Even subjects on which I have developed a refined taste over many years are considered the exclusive realm of people whom they hardly know. The most obvious example is that of role-playing games. Over the last 16 years, I’ve played my share of games, attended conventions, won awards, written articles and been published and certainly become a veteran. More importantly, I have not let my hobby dominate my life. I am still a socially well-adjusted and in fact, desirable personality.

Yet. Time and time again, my opinion is placed beneath those of the “higher-ups” at a convention like GenCon, my judgment of character laid aside in favor of those persons’ placement in the ranks of geekery. And with one exception, those have proven to be the rantings of fanatical gamers and not well-formed opinions after all.

Do I give up? I have, before. Then, some brilliant thing comes along. I can’t help but introduce these friends to it. And ten months later, when someone else, someone who they do not know but has more time to dedicate to these hobbies since they leave other important life pursuits behind, mentions it with similar fervor, then…only then is it finally appreciated. And the credit goes to the nameless person who they won’t even remember next year.

Call me an elitist or a glory-hound. I suppose I share at least some of those qualities with the worst types of people. But, to me it seems a matter of trust and a matter of respect. They do not trust me. They do not respect me. And that is a hard place to be. Certainly harder than it should be among friends.