This. Means. War.

*ahem*  Let’s see how good my faux German accent is today.  Buckle up.  *snicker*

…before we begin our next phase, I would like to take some time to address a rumor floating around ze fleet.

Some of you have come to believe zhat I.  Like.  War.
I vish to dash these rumors.  I do not like war.
I.  Love.  War.

Through my life, I have discovered so many forms of war.  You get up in ze morning.  You get into your shitty car, und you see a rich CEO who works half as hard as you do drive down the street in his Porsche.

Class war!

…

Zen you try und post about it on your Facebook, but zen all your friends start arguing about vhat’s right und vhat’s wrong–

Flame war!”

— The Major, Hellsing Ultimate Abridged (Episode 4… definitely NSFW…  Check out Takahata101 on YouTube)

Ah, now that feels better.  The whole speech truly encompasses the goddamn euphoric feeling I get when I am gloriously justified in loosing my wrath.  I never once anticipated that my current Bitcoin obsession would eventually result in me picking a fight with the powers that be in Albany, NY.

Those of you that live in The Empire State are already facepalming, realizing that I am voluntarily preparing to stick my size 11 boot in the biggest pile of sycophants and fail found outside of The Federal Beltway.  Why would I take on such an implacable edifice of feckless bureaucracy?  Well, let me cut to the chase– they’re poised to shit in my Wheaties.  In short, fuck that noise.

Bet you were expecting Alucard to show up here. You were mistaken.

I will not sit idly by and let some six-figure-pulling jackass destroy my opportunity to make a decent living using my own ambitions and abilities.  Sooooo, here’s where things are about to get interesting.  Why, you ask?  Well, it comes back to war.  Waltzing into a fight without allies is more stupid than a bunch of technophobe Baby Boomers trying to regulate a global cryptocurrency.  It’s bad enough that Wall Street is under their jurisdiction– and wouldn’t you know?  They failed at regulating that so hard, it hatefucked the USA into another recession.

I’m not letting them screw my ambitions just because they’re idiots.  Luckily for me, there’s a state assemblyman who has his head screwed on straight…. and I happened to have met the man a few weeks ago in person.  The following is a verbatim copy of the letter that I’m sending to his office via certified mail tomorrow to fire my opening volley.

Have a read:

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have opted for such an informal salutation, however after meeting you while I was working at the [redacted]—you told me this is how you prefer to be addressed. I am writing you to express my concern and disdain for NYDFS’s proposed regulation/licensing of Bitcoin-based financial ventures. As you once said, NYS has a disturbing habit of squashing ambition and incentivizing failure—and I believe the proposed actions of NYDFS to be yet another sign of your observation. They claim that this is to strike a balance between protecting consumers and setting common sense rules—but the proposal is precisely the opposite in every way. No private individual or business entity can or will be affected by Bitcoin that does not choose to deal with it. Furthermore, virtual currencies like Bitcoin are of no danger to the public—contrary to this reactionary proposal. Truth be told, it’s plainly obvious they consider Bitcoin to be a criminal endeavor only—and they wish to destroy opportunities for residents who aren’t among the financial elite.

Firstly, as you plainly know—economic and employment opportunities in Western New York are pitiful if put politely. This proposed burdensome set of licensure and data-collecting measures reflects two things about NYDFS—and namely Superintendent Benjamin Laswky. One, they have no grasp of what they are trying to regulate. Two, they do not care if innovation and businesses continue to flee from New York State like first class passengers from the Titanic. Their myopic and alarmist set of measures betray their lack of understanding for what Bitcoin is (how it works, how it’s produced, and how it’s used)—and demonstrates deliberate ignorance of the IRS’s ruling that Bitcoin is a commodity and not a currency.

According to the IRS’s decision, virtual currencies like Bitcoin are to be treated in the same manner as birdhouses produced in one’s garage.  Similarly, individuals like myself who have the technical knowhow to set up a Bitcoin “mine” have the opportunity to lift themselves from the current economic climate—and potentially return more to our respective communities than if we were stuck in the traditional job market. With their current proposal, any small mines like mine (in my case uniquely benefitting from the inexpensive electric service by the Jamestown BPU) would be driven out of business– or out of New York State. This is an economic boon that NYDFS will deny enterprising individuals, and exclude from the state’s taxable revenue.

It is very obvious that this proposed direction is an alarmist and reactionary move in response to articles on MSN, Yahoo (et al) that demonstrate that Bitcoin may be used for money laundering purposes.  In the case of Bitcoin mines (the production side of the equation, where specialized computer hardware generates Bitcoin for sale/usage), that is impossible. I am not surprised by the myopic response by the NYDFS—it is on par with individuals who lack the technical abilities to handle the simplest of tasks like setting up their own email client. These cumbersomely stringent (and presumably expensive) licensing and documentation procedures reflect their erroneous understanding of virtual currency, from production to purchase/sale.   If Mr. Lawsky has his way and this proposal becomes law, the only individuals with the resources and capital capable of accommodating the regulations/licensing will be large businesses. There will be no room for forward-thinking individuals to better their circumstances through their own ability and ambition. So much for the American Dream of creating opportunities from your own hard work and ingenuity, right? I am not surprised by this disregard for the common citizen as the NYDFS members have little first-person experience with the current job market and economic climate. Their six-figure salaries and stock portfolios are already taken care of.

This brings me to my final, and probably most ireful, point. NYDFS has already failed pathetically at regulating Wall Street (which is already under their purview, and has harmed the lives of millions of Americans through their questionable practices.)   After reading their proposal—I have little doubt that these individuals are borderline computer-illiterate, Mr. Lawsky included. If you will pardon the phraseology, they have no business attempting to regulate a technology that they only understand through diluted third-party explanations. I am further disgusted by the fact that public funds were wasted on drawing up this reactionary policy, instead of focusing on aspects of public business and finance that do affect the majority of citizens in NYS and beyond. Instead of focusing on the spate of problems already on their desks that they have shirked and ignored, they have chosen to collect their salaries while demonstrating their clear lack of priorities—and understanding of the digital world.

Andy, my Bitcoin-generating hardware is at a stage where it pays my personal electric bill for my apartment—and part of a credit card payment. Currently, I can net roughly $120 per month, and while that is modest—it is a beginning of my business, one that Mr. Lawsky clearly seeks to squash through ill-conceived overregulation. I have a degree in English composition, and even I lack the words to properly express how much this effort by NYDFS must be publicly and permanently ceased.   I cannot stress enough the immediate need to generate a vocal and decisive opposition to his measures in Albany among the decision-making members of government.

Thank you for your time and consideration. I hope to speak with you in the near future about how to stamp out these measures before they permanently drive more ambitious, youthful, entrepreneurs from New York State.

You feeling that joyous quiver in your loins yet?

Next step, picking five or six other officials to receive similar letters… and then the media….  I don’t take prisoners.

Never piss off a guy with an English writing degree.

It’s showtime.

Unplug.

Go Big or Go Home

Anything I feel is worth doing should be worth going utterly overboard. Whether it’s Tough Mudders, Halloween Costumes, Homecoming Alcoholism, or college (I was an undergrad for only a decade)– if I’m going to do it, I’m taking it too far.  It’s just who I am.  Yes, I have lately shirked my passion for the written word to have an affair with my first love– tech.  Believe you me, it’s getting torrid and she’s offering to pay me to stay.

Let me pause to let the slow kids catch up with the metaphor.

There, now that we’re all on the same page (the part where my old laptop has a part time job), I decided to take a step outside my comfort zone.  I like to be solely responsible for all of my successes– and therefore my failures.  I realized my Bitcoin mining operation was not growing fast enough– or rather, I have learned all that I can at this stage.  My current hardware is earning for me, yes, but not at a rate where I can get ridiculous.  I don’t have the funds for that kind of hardware, either.  So I did something that I’m not comfortable doing– I asked for help.

Exactly why I bit the bullet… I wanna get back into the thick of life.

So I went ahead and looked at Kickstarter after hearing about the dude that cranked in over $50 grand for a $10 potato salad, and upon realizing that my “fund” is just to start a business (as opposed for public benefit)– I had to look elsewhere.  I ended up landing on GoFundMe.  I usually scoff at this sort of thing, and if I can’t do it myself– I don’t deserve it.  My pride can be a personality flaw at times.

Realizing that I will never have time to write, nor really do the things for Cortana that I want, I started off my own page.  If, by some amazingly unlikely galactic twist, this works– I’ll finally be able to put all of my talents to use.  My tech background will provide the funds to get me in a permanent writing mode–  and who knows, maybe Cortana will get her way sooner than later and I’ll bring about the apocalypse (by reproducing… it’s the 8th Sign, after all).

So, everyone, share the link wherever you may.  After all, it’s a starter for a business– and pretty much a totally revamped life.  I guess we’ll see what happens.

The mindset.

Seriously though.  Give it a click and give it a share if you can’t give it a buck.

Unplug.

 

Dammit, I’ve become Fred Rogers.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor, why in the Nine Levels of Dante’s Infernal Pit do I have to be everyone’s frigging neighbor?  Seriously, I understand the mechanics of how this happened— but it doesn’t mean I like it any the more.  I always valued my anonymity, my ability to meld into a crowd and vanish, but Jesus Hydrophobic Christ on a tugboat– I never realized how much I’d miss it once it’s gone.

Believe you me, it hasn’t just gone full Houdini–  it’s even worse.  I’ve seemed to go full-on Fred fucking Rogers.

Look at that crooked middle finger! It almost seems appropriate with that benevolent Jimmy Carter grin…

Yes indeedy, at first it was an insidious change…  once in awhile stumbling over one of my boxholders at Wegmans, or someone’d recognize me on the random happenstance that I went out for a drink…  but I quickly realized that it didn’t stop there.  I have learned quite quickly that I can’t go anywhere in this general area without someone recognizing me.

This is the point where I invoke the almighty holy-shit-time-out-4th-wall-breaking-power-of-Zack-Morris.

I no longer can be out in public shitfaced, because I have suddenly become the antithesis of the guy nobody saw sober.  Instead of being sober and surprising everyone– now people know sober me…. and worse off, sober and stressed to the point of bad puns at work me.  This will not fucking do.  What in the Lovecraftian concept of fuck is wrong with this picture besides… I don’t know… everything?!

No, today it all came to a head while I was walking home for lunch…  one of the local kids (and damned in Hell if I know what the little ginger’s name is) waved and called me by name.  Yeah, I know, real cute– right?  Oh no, the rest of the kids apparently now know me too.

Yeah, my reaction too.

So yeah, I guess that just cements the fact that I’ve been installed as a fixture in the community…  I can no longer get shitfaced where I live, nor near where I live, nor go out in public after the fact…  because hey— the last thing I want to deal with is someone who knows me from work trying to talk shop while I’m endeavoring to enjoy a proper buzz and mind my own goddamn business.

Son… of a bitch.
I miss being a ghost, one rarely if never recognized nor seen around my old home town.

Now?

Fuck all kinds of duck.
… and people wonder why I prefer to drink at home for more than just cost-effectiveness and lack of DUI’s.

Unplug.

Econ 101 for the kids who slept through that class…

Over the past couple months, I’ve seen a lot of posts giving attention to the picketers demanding over $15 an hour to work at McShitheads.  It’s either that or ridiculously raising the minimum wage.  Political posturing aside, let’s break this down for the dumb kids who think this is a good idea…

Truth to life– there are consequences to your actions, no matter what those asshole Baby Boomers tried to litigate out of reality. (Newsflash– they failed.)

First things first– supply and demand.  If suddenly everyone at Greasy’s was paid over $15 an hour, that would be justification for ridonculous inflation.  Meaning– that $15 bucks an hour is going to buy even less than the “minimum wage” you’re getting today.  Interesting sidebar– most of these jobs pay a buck over minimum wage, and you don’t even need to pee in a cup to get them.

You think that life’s too damn expensive now?  Just wait until there’s a sudden influx of money into the system.  Prices will skyrocket as the money will be devalued– and the corporate fat cats will justify raising them to “stay in business.”  We all know this is a blatant lie, but come on– if you truly don’t think this is going to happen, you’re even dumber than you look.  Case and point?  Just look at the asshole ways these employers have gotten around providing healthcare.  This situation is no different, and don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.

This disastrous desire would utterly screw each and every American by opening this flood gate, especially seniors who are on fixed incomes.  Not to mention, that increase would be across the board– rent, groceries, gas, healthcare, everything would go up faster than anyone has seen in this country… ever.

You probably think this is a solution to all our economic issues.

Was that clear enough to start with?  Let’s move on to another reason that fast food isn’t worth premium pay– do you honestly think that the people who did their time in the grease traps and worked their way into good jobs are going to get a commensurate raise to match yours?

Here’s another revelation– they won’t!  That’s right all my little sacks of soylent green, all that time you spent struggling, studying, working, and achieving will be negated.  In fact, if you have done your time in the grease traps (myself included), you might just find yourself making significantly less than the drive-thru operator that just fucked up your order.  Everything you’ve done with your life to better it has officially been for nothing.

Excuse me, I run a post office alone 6 days a week…  I’m responsible for everything that happens in that building, about $20,000 in inventory, and roughly 1,000 customers worth of delivery.  I have keys to a fucking federal building, and I don’t even make $13 an hour.  Do you mean to tell me that slapping processed ass on a bun is worth more than what I do?  Do you think I’ll get a raise too?

Go fuck yourself with a salt-crusted cactus.  Twice.

Take that spatula, polish it up real nice, turn that summbitch sideways and cram it straight up your ass!

Here are a few small revelations for you if you support this bastardized assholery.  Fast food joints were meant to be supplementary income, starter jobs, or meant to remove the unemployment curse.  It’s called a stepping stone– and almost everyone I know has been there and done that, myself included.  If you can’t step above that stone, I feel bad for you.  I’m not being facetious here, because it’s a thankless job.

Let’s be honest here, it’s not about the job.   The primary problem is people who are working can’t pay to live.  That’s wrong.  The discussion shouldn’t be about unrealistically raising the wages of Thomasina Taco, Franky Frenchfry, and Bobby Burger– because let’s face it: you shouldn’t get $15.00 an hour to fuck up my drive-thru order.  The discussion should be about how to realistically lower the cost of living.

Then again, welcome to America– where rationally assessing and fixing a problem is apparently a thing of the past.

Unplug.

Finally a job I can care about…

…  why yes, I guess I should let the proverbial cat out of the bag, provided that bag was not given to me by a certain guy named Schrodinger.  I’ll let the slow kids Google it while the rest of us ponder how much more awesome Schrodinger’s Cat would have been if he wasn’t in a box– but a bag.  That’s a whole new dimension, and you love me more for making your brain hurt with it– doncha?  It’s okay to admit, seriously, that dirty feeling washes off with a few gin ‘n’ tonics.

So it may or may not come as a shock to you that I have begun working for the United States Postal Service.  That’s right, I’m workin’ for the government– and freaking loving it.  Hang on to your obligatory “go postal” jokes, I’ll get to those in a minute.  I need to take a moment to gloat at my own expense.

The ONLY government entity not generally mistrusted by the general public. Blamed for lost checks/bills/packages  (even when not at fault), maybe– but nobody ever calls you a shady dickhole! I call that a win.

Lemme back up for a second, I’m not a carrier– those people have the hard job.  Granted, if I had been offered said position, I would have jumped on it with both feet like Mario on a Koopa– but I lucked out and landed a clerk position.  Not only did I land a clerk position– but it’s at a small-town post office where I run the joint.  Not only do I run the joint– I’m my own postman, and I can walk to work in under four minutes.  I can run to fucking work faster than most people can put the pedal to the metal– and not even get winded.

See me give a flying fuck that it’s not “full time,” I’m saving a ton on gas, and I get an hour and a half for lunch.  If this isn’t a situation utterly soaked in awesomesauce– hand me the winning Powerball numbers.  Otherwise, don’t judge me– because this is a job I can legitimately care about and not feel shitty for doing so.

Let me clarify this for a second before some of you jump on the judgmental bandwagon.  I felt dirty caring about my assistant manager’s job at the Rent-to-Own company because I hated that job for more reasons than I want to delineate here.  The two most recent part time jobs, yeah if I could have found a reason to give a damn about either one of them– I’d have felt dirtier than a hooker running a 2-for-1 Saturday night special.  This position, right here?  I freely give a shit about it– because although it’s not a glamorous job… it’s fucking important that it’s done right.  I can get behind that.  A sense of genuine purpose, no matter how seemingly mundane, goes a long way for a guy like me.

— and here you all thought I was just a shaken bottle of chaos and alcohol.

Who me?? Nahhhhhh….

Sure, I don’t tend to play nice with bureaucratic horseshit because I’ve got a viper wit and an opportunist’s sense of patience– but I haven’t noticed any of those traditionally federal shenanigans.  Honestly, everyone I have worked with so far has been pretty freaking nice– even if sometimes it appears that overlying web of command is more layered than one of my infamous pans of lasagna.  Seeing how I’m pretty accustomed to being told what to do, it doesn’t matter to me if it’s one or fifty people doling out the orders.

Out in out?  I’m working for the last government organization that is trusted by the public– and that specific fact is pretty well understood by the upper levels of management.  In fact, in spite of the confusing web of command that makes decisions– there is one constant.  The security and efficiency of the mail/package service is the primary imperative to be considered at all junctures.

This is a career path that isn’t glitz and glam, but I’ll tell you one thing.  Compared to anything I’ve done in the past, without question, I will always be able to justify giving 160% and feel good about it… even if I am a bit confused by the “government” way of running things.

Not to mention, the hours are ideal to get me back into a writing/publishing state of being– which was my initial goal to begin with!  Not to mention, being the only employee– I can count on things being done the right way, or I can kick my own ass for screwing up.  It’s also a help that the “small town” atmosphere of my location brings in some pretty nice people to chat with.  Win-win baby.

Unplug.

Here’s what Brown can do for me…

After several months and one successful Cracked.com article, the infamous unemployment curse was broken.  I would have said “mercifully,” however that’d violate the pacing of this little tale.  Protip: one thing that writing and banging have in common– you don’t want to get to the finish prematurely.

Back to the curse breaking– I was stunned to find out that not only had I picked up a part time merchandising job, I had even got my foot in the door at UPS.  Scuttlebutt had it that UPS treated their employees right, and I figured that this could be a potential career move since the company appears to be as healthy as a strain of AIDS at a Kenyan orgy.  All arrows pointed at Brown, and I should have know that shit was about to splatter in my direction.

In other news: Murphy’s an assjack.

The first indicator that this might have been an imminent case of surprise buttsex was the pay rate: $8.50 per hour.  If you’re going to work for a company as large and successful as UPS, and you’re going to make as much as a McJob, start worrying.  I, being ecstatic that I had doubly become a taxpayer again (after having been treated like a leper with dysentery), didn’t think that worrying mattered– they took care of their employees, right?

Hell, they’re all Teamsters, so there had to be a silver lining of benefits and job security– right?

Right?

Falling for that shit was about as naive as falling for this.

Even including Jill 2.0’s handi-capable situation, I’m in pretty damn good shape.  I’m a Tough Mudder, for crying out loud, so I didn’t think about what the hiring lady was saying when she said that this job burns out 20 year olds.  What she didn’t say was that they treat unloading cargo semis like a good, ol’ fashioned, Egyptian pyramid raising.  I’m not sure how universal this is, but at this particular location–  they want a single person to empty an entire semi in under an hour.  The quoted rate by my (former) supervisor was 1000 packages per hour…  mostly solo.

Let’s do the math here:

1000 packages ÷ 60 minutes = 16.67 packages/minute

…for 3 freaking trailers.  Did I mention that the job starts before 5am?  Or that there’s only one 10 minute break between trailers two and three?

Now, let’s add in the fun part that these trailers are packed floor to ceiling– poorly– and the walls of cargo like to fall.  Let’s also add in that you can find anything from hot water heaters, to tires, to 50lb cases of copy paper, to electronics, to mail, to motor oil, to 45lb farming cases of onions… well shit, you get the point….  this kind of whip-cracking bullshit for the same pay rate as flipping a ¼ lb burger, potentially stoned.

Thanks to the way their benefits are figured– and the laughable total hours– I wasn’t going to qualify for even a bottle of ibuprofen for at least 5 months.  Something tells me that Jill 2.0 isn’t about to demonstrate some kind of bionic durability– and with that slave wage, there’s no way I’d be able to afford another surgery.

You were probably expecting the Double Deuce, but my grandma wanted me to be more like Jesus…  He used a thumb and index finger…. Come to think of it… so did I, when I called HR!  Grandma would be proud!

So, covered in contusions, minor cuts, and feeling like I had a run in with the Bear Jew–  I took my old man’s advice and cut my losses.  They’re looking for slave labor, and they got two back-breaking days out of me.  They’re not getting another moment, and I flat out told the girl on the phone about my concern for the inevitable injury.  It’s not like me to just cut out without a two week notice– but this is an at will state, and that shit is a two way street.

Guess who’s not waking up at 3AM to go get his ass beat for a slave wage– just to be told to work faster?

Thank all that is holy and/or alcohol-bearing that my other job, although part-time, at least has a decent pay rate… and can be made to look sexy on a resume.  As for Brown– you know what they can do for me?

They can get flushed along with the curse.

Unplug.

This is how you get someone’s attention…

So I was surfing around, looking for a new job, and found out that Bungie’s hiring in Seattle, WA.  I’m a bit of a Halo junkie (hence the Cortana reference), and I am pretty much over the whole Eastern Time Zone thing.  So I figured, why the Hell not?  Gretzky said, “You miss 100% of the shots you never take.”  Assuming I quoted and attributed that correctly, here’s my shot– and believe you me, it’s a freaking doozie.

Boom. Headshot.

So yeah, they needed a production assistant– and realizing that Bungie rules because they don’t use some bastard third-party ATS– I decided to stick out of the crowd with my cover letter….

To whomever is blessed with fielding this email address:

Since I cannot juggle chainsaws, the staff will be thoroughly entertained when I try to snag the first one out of the air.  Since I have a degree in English, you can guarantee that the resulting obscenity-laden tirade could very well be in sonnet form (I prefer Petrarchan)– complete with Elizabethan epithets.  I possess two keen eyes for detail when not masquerading as a pirate, and an attention span that doesn’t make that bi-ocular detail-orientation seem like OCD.  When it comes to seeking a multifaceted production assistant that can handle anything and everything that can be thrown in their general direction, not including multiple chainsaws, look no further.

Obvious reasons for wanting to work at Bungie aside (ascending beyond a glorified free-kill in Halo), my versatility and talents are not finding useful outlets in the corner of the nation that I have known all my life.  Desire for a challenge mentally equivalent to a Tough Mudder (I’ve already completed one) is what’s pushing me towards Bungie– and the manner the job posting was worded was too geared towards my personality to resist.  I’ve worked with people from the most humble bumpkin to well-educated engineers and doctors (as well as wealthy sycophants less intelligent than the aforementioned bumpkins.)  I have a natural ability to figure out what makes people tick, and adapting to those quirks like a Borg on crack is my key to being an exceptional team player.

This specific production assistant job is something I was made for, and having a look at the attached resume might provide a tip about all I could bring to Bungie.  That said– it’s never just the tip, and just like any similar enticement– this is about the whole package.  I want to relocate to the Seattle, WA area as I said before– and I can’t think of a better way to usher in a new era of growth than by throwing myself face-first into a dynamic career at Bungie.  I’m looking forward to hearing from whomever may eventually end up with my credentials, and I do sincerely hope said contact is not just a generic form letter befitting lesser, generic applications.

After that, I attached my updated resume, signed off, and figured this might set me apart from the thousands of other emails that flooded their centralized “careers@bungie.com” address.  A couple minutes later–  here’s the reply I got:

Thanks for your interest in opportunities at Bungie. We’re flattered—sincerely!  We promise that your resume hasn’t gone into the dark void; it’s actually being pored over by a real, live person.  We’ll contact you as soon as possible if there’s a match between your skills and our opening(s).  If there’s not a match at this time, promise to keep your information on hand and reach out as appropriate opportunities pop up. In the meantime, thanks again!

 

PS: If you’re an artist and have not yet submitted your reel, please do. We’d love to see your work! A detailed description of the work you performed or a comprehensive shot breakdown should accompany your submission.

My general reaction.

I don’t think much more needs to be said here…

… in other news, click this link to my first publication– 6 Ways Companies Are Secretly Screwing Job Applicants

Why?  Because my broke ass could use the monetary site-traffic bonus, and I’m in direct competition with every other Cracked article posted this month– and I was started with an 18 day handicap.

Help a brother out, post that link everywhere, and click on it as often as possible.
Do work, people, I may write because I love it– but dammit, I want something back this time!

(This has been my shameless plug of the night)

Unplug.

 

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda– BUT.

One trait of mine that I truly value is my ability to yank myself out of any situation and dissect it from a third person’s point of view.  No, I’m not about to confess to hiding some form of schizophrenia– but seeing how I fancy myself a writer, I’ll at least give you credit for attempting to Sherlock Holmes my ass.  Digression aside, I was watching Anthony Bourdain while doing the laundry and stamping wedding invitations, and I realized that he does pretty much exactly what I want to do.

Ladies and gentlemen– ruling the world would be great (and I’d make a grand dictator on an awesomeness scale of Peter the Great, complete with my own Drunken Synod), but I know what I want to do every time I watch Bourdain. I want to travel the world, experience it without a tourist-y crusting, generally be awesome on a global scale, and write about it.  Judging from my adventurous nature, amiable personality, warped sense of humor, and chameleon-esque social skills, I’d have a winning show too.

Now we go back to the first paragraph… the gigantic “However…” rears its fugly head.

… you get the idea.

I look back at my last decades and realize that I couldn’t take it back if I wanted to (and yes, it hurts to put that in the plural because more than one decade mentioned is considered functional).  I glanced at Cortana while I typed this, and realized that if shit hadn’t hit the fan the way it did, the spray pattern wasn’t exactly right, or the chips hadn’t fallen as they did– she wouldn’t be here.  So, in that respect, I win.

Suck it, multiverse counterparts.

That said, let’s play in hypotheticals.  I was born and raised in Jamestown, NY— a now dying city in the puckered asshole of the Rust Belt.  Since I was born, the city’s lost a humongous chunk of industry– and at least 7,000 in population.  I guess this is what happens when your major employers pack up and leave, and your governing officials decide to base your economy off of HUD residents (but that’s another rant entirely).  Seriously, look at the demographics in the link, it’s no wonder why a town of now 31,000 has–  count ’em– five rent-to-own companies.  However, the area is beautiful; it’s where my great grandparents ended up after they took a boat from bella Italia.  It’s always going to be “back home.”

One advantage to having been raised in a smaller community is that you generally learn responsibility for your own actions– whether you like it or not.  If you get caught doing something stupid, illegal, or you’re a general-purpose douchebucket: everyone eventually knows about it.  This isn’t the eerily personal type of rumor mill like you get in a small town, this is the kind of personal responsibility that fades as the population grows.  I wouldn’t trade my sense of self respect, or I should say social accountability, for the world– or would I?

The answer is no.  Cortana reads this.

You get the point.

Word from the wise– if you were born and raised outside of major metropolitan areas, and have aspirations that are above the norm, it would do you well to not attend college in a tiny ass college town that’s less than an hour away.  Sure, everything’s familiar, but Jesus Highsticking Christ– everything‘s familiar when you do that.  Naturally, you pick up a few local colloquialisms and some sundry stupid shit.  As a bonus, you’re within striking distance of home should you really find yourself up shit creek without a paddle.  Other side of the coin: your cultural/entertainment/networking opportunities are just as limited there as the first 18-20 years of life.

I’ve essentially been stuck in the same corner of the country for my entire life, not including some pretty epic road trips, vacations, etc.  Erie wasn’t much of an upgrade, but hey–  it served its purpose in forging the amalgamation of misanthropy and awesome that is me.   Realizing this– I have also put a cap on what I can do (and where I can go) with my talents because my social network is comprised largely of people in similar boats to mine.  That’s not meant as a slight, it was never about the boats, because we keep each other afloat on a sea of booze and shenanigans.  Again, refer back to the amalgamation of misanthropy and awesome– my partners in liver abuse are part and parcel to having made me… well… me.

Yeah, yeah, I know.

I never would have discovered my love of writing if I’d gone to Rutgers straight out of high school, with or without a major (I didn’t have one).  My covetous admiration of the Food TV and Travel Channel guys wouldn’t be as poignant as it is now, had I stayed within my shell– and solely pursued academia.  Shut up, liver, you don’t get to judge me.

Come to think of it, I have a feeling that I’d kick alternate-reality me’s ass.
But that’s another rant entirely.

So seriously, kids, go outside your comfort zone– not just figuratively– and I mean geographically.  Social networking and the glories of digital reach can only go so far on their own, and nothing can substitute for slapping skin.  There’s a fap joke in there somewhere, but I’ll let you have it.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda– still glad I didn’t.

Now someone give me a travel show, because my layman’s approach to not being a tourist while totally being a tourist would be freaking awesome to watch.  Not to mention, who doesn’t want to see me get shitfaced on every continent– then narrate it?

Unplug.

My Holy-Shit-o-Meter Just Broke…

You’re asking yourself any of these questions right now: “What, exactly, does it take to break a holy-shit-o-meter?”  “Do those come with lifetime warranties?”   “Yours was way more durable than the rest– how in the Nine Levels of Hell did yours break!?”  Well, on Friday– January 25– at precisely 4:39pm, whilst conveniently and coincidentally taking a dump, my cell phone alerted me to an email.  I opened said email, and the ensuing colonic evacuation caused the porcelain goddess tap out– because I got the green light email from the Cracked Comedy Workshop.

For the first time in my life, I’m getting published…  I mean getting paid for my writing.

I thought I knew what this felt like. It has, again, been redefined for me.

Those of you who’ve been dedicated enough to read my slaphappy collection of miscarried thoughts, rants, and jokes– you know that getting published has been something I’ve been wanting with various degrees of conviction since I graduated from college.  While recovering from surgery, I took a slightly more serious stance towards getting published.  As you can see, “slightly” is a very relative term.

However, at long last, I got the green light.  It’s a damn good thing I was coincidentally subjecting a deuce to the witch test when I got that email– because believe you me– the individual witch had the rest of her odious comrades delivered on the double.  As it turns out, dozens of friends, family, former classmates, and former coworkers were right–  I actually can be a professional wiseass.

Wait.  Scrap that thought.  I am a professional wiseass!

Needless to say– I will hyperlink the article from the blog for you all to see.  I will be using a pen pseudonym (that some of you will definitely recognize), because I threw the Human Resource industry (and yes, it is an industry as well as a department) under the bus– backed that summbitch up– and then hit them again.

Sure, I’ve done that around here with my comparatively small reader base– but at Cracked.com…  I’ll garner literally hundreds of thousands of hits.  Since I’m still doggedly searching for a job (albeit with some success), I don’t need some butthurt sociopath blacklisting me because they read my article and realized that I’m onto their bullshit, and I just called them out with extreme prejudice.

Article subject matter aside– having my Holy-Shit-o-Meter blown to bits had a sweet side-effect.  I have a February 8 deadline for the article– but I wrote the whole damn thing in one night (proofread and edited it this morning).  I haven’t had this level of motivation to write (and ability to obliterate a writer’s block) since college.  I missed this feeling, and I’m all sorts of about feeding this addiction.

I’m getting published…. do dahhh do dahhh…

So yeah!  Let this be the beginning of a beautiful thing!  I’ll be emailing the finished article this afternoon after Cortana has a chance to give it an eyeball– then starting up on my next pitch.  I finally know what it’s like to make a dream come true.

Damn, it feels good.
I highly recommend it to every last one of you.

Go out.  Do it.

Unplug.

Unorthodox Sources of Motivation

Nobody has ever accused me of being mundane, Orthodox, or conventional.  Let’s get that out of the way before I commence the crazy.  Things that get the hoi polloi all sorts of fired up tend to make me yawn with disinterest.  That could be due to my history as a wry cynic, or that I have a severe allergy to propaganda– and most motivational techniques come across as just that.  Cheers and chants (with a handful of noteworthy exceptions) tend to annoy me.  Mission statements and similar concepts of that ilk are met with the same disdain as political campaign ads.  In my less than humble opinion, and you can feel free to quote me on this–  “Motivational speech without mechanics or substance to back it is just propaganda in pretty clothing.”

Of course, there are also the personal sources of motivation– money, success, progress.  These dangled carrots, to me, feel like intangibles– especially if they are coupled with repeated indoctrination with circuitous motivational speech.  Now, some of you may be slapping your foreheads and saying, “What did you expect?  Have you not worked in sales before?”  (The answer is:  not like this, nope.)

Go on YouTube and look up Alec Baldwin’s “motivational” speech from this movie. Welcome to my life. The major noteworthy difference is: my company doesn’t tolerate dishonesty (unlike the one in the movie).

Some people are motivated by having a figurative (or literal) gun to their head.  Yeah, I’m motivated by the need for a paycheck– and certainly motivated by the concept of being fired.  However, that said, I’m more motivated by the promises I made to several friends– that I would personally handle their affairs and needs when it came to life insurance.   That promise upgraded the proverbial gun (usually a pistol) to full-sized naval artillery.  Forget spattering my think jelly on the nearest wall for an art student to critique, I’d end up a smoking crater.  This kind of motivation is less of the high-energy type, and more of the grim determination variety.  I cannot fail them, end of story.  Luckily, it’s in my 100% Italian/Sicilian genes to be stubborn enough to beat a cat in a staring contest.

Right about now, there are readers attempting to do this.

No, I will not degrade to utilizing only Cheezburger memes– but the point had to be illustrated… right? Stare at the cat and quit judging me.

How’s a jaded, easily-frustrated, misanthropic, cynic like me supposed to get actually fired up?  I mean if the allure of the almighty dollar sign isn’t enough of a carrot, and I’ve got my promise standing in for the main guns of the USS Missouri (pointed at my head), what’s a guy like me do?  Sex is a fantastic motivator, but I’m going to marry Cortana– so I’m not worried about attracting tail (although trying to ensure that she never needs to work is another excellent reason to keep my nose to the grindstone).  Is it through study, inspirational reading, meditation, praise, or reprimand?  Bitch please.  It’s all in the music.

85% of my colleagues are younger than I am, and this includes both of the guys higher than I am on the food chain.  I’m only 32, which makes this even more wryly entertaining.  They can preach all they want, but it’s hilarious when someone 4 years my junior tries to browbeat me like I’m 23.  Sorry, kiddo, you can either address me like a man– or you can be ignored like a child (albeit with a humongous allowance).  I don’t get motivated by rhetoric, and their choices in music are about as demotivating.  I’m a dyed-in-the-wool metalhead, and they’re listening to a ton of club music, hip hop, and rap.  My love of the Kool Ade has allowed these blasphemies to my musical cannon bleed into my psyche, and I’ve found myself listening to Skrillex.  That’s another sidebar entirely, in fact, it’d probably have been better placed as a side-effect like in the last edition.

No, my motivation comes from a much more powerful place– the heartiest bowels of all that is Metal.  Yes, that capitalization is intentional.  When I was plodding forward a month and a half ago, four weeks into a no-business/no-paycheck binge, I found the elusive gasoline to dump on the embers of my confidence.  That jug of gasoline came from the lyrics– and the infernally majestic orchestration– of a song entitled Gateways.  Although Dimmu Borgir‘s diabolical masterpiece, as a whole, spoke to me– it’s this specific passage that woke up the indignant narcissist inside:

“The rebirth is nearing completion
As we slowly awaken from slumber
To receive the light that shines in darkness
The light that shines forevermore (forevermore)…

Be the broken or the breaker!
(Be the Giver or the Undertaker–)
Unlock and open the doors!
(Be the Healer or the Faker–)
The keys are in your hands:
Realize you are your own sole creator
Of your own master plan”

For those of you without the benefit of an English background, or a background in poetry, we’ll take pause and let you really appreciate what I took from this.

You see a mosh pit. Like the dude on the surfboard, I see opportunity, energy, creativity, motivation, and innovation.

So I came up with my own master plan, and started working on it.  I got mad, because I realized that although I’d been pitched with smoke and mirrors– it’s all on me, and I’m not gonna fail because I didn’t take the opportunity and run with it.  So, needless to say, when I’m on the road– stuck in my box at the office– or trying to push my pace into overdrive…  cue up the metal.  Gimme that sexy Viking Metal– because (as Amon Amarth would tell me) “Valhall Awaits Me.”  Throw on that PM5K, because you know “It’s Riot Time.”  Cue up some FFDP and feel completely “Bulletproof.”  Just as DragonForce says, “Through the fire and the flames, we carry on.”  The message is pretty universal– in front of unstoppable odds…  clench your fists and let your soul loose a war cry.  Die if you have to, but never go down without putting up a fight befitting a fallen god.

Interestingly, it’s the same stuff I listened to while training for the Tough Mudder.  No matter what’s on the stereo when I pull up to an appointment, I’ve always got a smile on my face– and a healthy attitude backing it up.  The punchline:  this life insurance agent derives his immediately positive energy from death metal.

Unplug.