Random Thought of the Day #1

This just popped into my head one day, as I was cleaning my dog's puke out of the car. Can't imagine why, just showed up. So, do police dogs get carsick? And who cleans that shit up if they do?

1984

I know it's been a while since my last post, but to be honest, I'm a little nervous about it. Government computers are monitored very closely, you know...as well as the phones. It's a little unnerving, to tell you the truth. I'm being watched...and therefore, so are you. Today I got my Pentagon badge. I swear there is a government conspiracy to make you look as disgusting as they possibly can in official photos. Seriously. It's a federal government thing, not a local government thing. My driver's license photo is awesome. I look happy and relaxed, smiling, and you can see the background, as well as my shoulders. In the federal IDs, they do an extreme close-up under a refridgerator lightbulb. No exaggeration here. In this photo, you can't even see my ears! It's that close. I have this horrible grimace, although I could have sworn I was smiling when they snapped the picture. It is the absolute worst representation of me ever taken. The only thing that rivals its hideousness, is my Capitol Hill pass. Again, a federal ID. And again, extreme closeup. Maybe it's because they don't want you flashing that thing around in public, to draw attention to yourself and your connection to the federal government. Well guys, in the words of our illustrious commander-in-chief: mission accomplished!

DoD

There is an air force sergeant sitting to my right, a marine corporal to my left, and a former Air Force sergeant directly in front of me. This is my day. It's somewhat surreal. Ever heard of The Pentagon Channel? Probably not, unless you're in the military. It's a network that provides news and other programming for military personnel around the world. And for regular shmoes with Comcast or Verizon cable. That's my latest gig, as I bounce around the bleak and terrible world of broadcast media. I'm a contract employee for the Department of Defense, and help produce the two newscasts that air on the network. Sadly, it's not a far cry from what I did at Fox. But now I'm getting paid to be an official mouthpiece for the propaganda machine, instead of a closet voice hidden behind the transparent curtain of "Fair and balanced". At least the equipment is state-of-the-art.

I Say, Fuggit

Here I am, taking a break from cleaning my house from top to bottom, all sweaty, hair everywhere, and exhausted. Why? All because we're having a Super Bowl Party. Well, I use the term "party" loosely here. We're having like 3 people over, which is a huge deal for us since we don't really entertain at all. So we're going through the routine, and halfway through mopping the kitchen, as I was brushing a stray hair out of my face, I wondered why the hell I was doing it. I mean, we clean and scrub for company...but we don't clean and scrub for ourselves (well, my sister does, but she's anal retentive -- she actually scrubs her bathroom floor with bleach every Sunday...I'm talking on her hands and knees!) We don't want our friends to see how we really live. Well, I say, fuck it. Next time you have company, don't do a damn thing. Sit right there on the couch in your sweats, drinking a nice cold beer, and scream "come in!" when they get there. "Hey! How ya doing! Come on in, don't trip over the shoes and the soccer ball. Damn kids. Oh, don't step there, the dog just puked. Anyway, come on in...there's beer in the cooler out back!" Yeah. Now that's a party.

The art of leaving

Ah Christ. I left my job today. Not like it was a long-term commitment or anything. I was just freelancing at the NBC affiliate in D.C. Or as my friend Darcy put it today, "perma-lancing". I worked 4 days a week there -- and only because I told them I didn't want to work Fridays. Otherwise, I would have been a full-time freelance employee. Which is an oxymoron of sorts...but I digress. They bought me a cake, and ice cream. We had a little going-away party for me. When I say "they", I don't mean the higher-ups. I mean the people in the trenches I worked with every day. I had only been there for about 6 months, maybe less. And they treated me like I was a long-time friend. You know, for every diva reporter and asshole manager (see my previous post, 'Take this job...'), there are a dozen people that take you in, accept you as one of their own, and make it worthwhile. They are the people that keep you from pulling your hair out and having a screaming fit in the middle of the office. Which, actually, I did at my previous job. I haven't quite mastered the art of leaving. It still hurts. Even leaving a place and people I've only known for a few months. I worked at Fox for more than 4 years. Hated it...and cried like a baby when I left. I long for the day when I don't have to leave anymore. Where I can settle down and stay, knowing I've found a home. A constant. Something that never changes, never wavers. And I hope I can appreciate it for what it is, instead of looking to the horizon for that next big adventure. I start my new gig on Monday. I'll let you know how it goes.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

--Elizabeth Bishop

Poetry 101

As I said, I'm an aspiring writer, but that's a bit misleading...I'm actually a poet. But I don't like to tell people that, because they immediately think of some flowery "how do I love thee" shit, and that's not me. I'm more of a realist when it comes to poetry. Somebody famous once said the difference between prose and poetry is the difference between saying 'put the cat out', and 'out cat'. See? No flowery romanticism there. So now I leave you with a poem I composed in my impressionable adolescent high school years...enjoy.

What does it mean to be a poet?

Writing down words to let everyone know it?

I think a person has way too much time

to sit around thinking of words that will rhyme.

And what do you call a poem that doesn't?

Bad.