the gender predicative

Since we've made the big announcement, there's been a lot of fear. Not about the impending birth, mind you. Nah, my fear is entirely bound with the level of gender role saturation which inevitably arises whenever either of us mention the forthcoming urchin.

The first thing I noticed is that it mattered not what we said...any observation/fact/detail about Mighty DuBose would invariably be interpreted as a sign we were going to have boy (50% of the time) or girl (50$ of the time). Tell someone that the heart rate was 150 at the last appointment, and you would hear "Oh, that means you're having a boy/girl." Spousal Unit tells someone she's been craving cinnamon, and that definitely means we're having a son. Tell someone she's also craved root beer, and that's a sign it will be a girl. It doesn't matter: how Spousal Unit is carrying, how much sleep she gets, how much and where exactly Mighty kicks, what time of day urchin was conceived, what phase of the moon, how urchin reacts in utero to zombie films, whatever you can imagine, it becomes a scientific marker of sex-to-be.

The absolute weirdest one so far? One co-worker told my spousal unit that if she uses the rest room and then pours Draino down the toilet before flushing, it will change color, and the resulting color will show either boy or girl...said co-worker didn't know what color would mean what, though, so this is one we didn't try. Plus, how did Draino's last reformulation affect its gender-prediction properties? No one is saying.

I've read a lot about how parents are supposed to react to pregnancy, and most sources say both parents will have strong preferences for either a boy or a girl, "I just want it to be healthy" claims to the contrary. Personally, though, I honestly had no real preferences...and I am most certainly an interested party. This makes everyone else's innate need for gender that much more puzzling. Co-workers and good friends both have made it their mission to trick us into saying one way or another. Why are they so invested as to resort to treachery?

The Spousal Unit had someone at work hold a baby shower for her. Spousal Unit told her co-workers that we weren't disclosing the sex of the kid, and that gender-neutral gifts would be best. Nevertheless, one coworker (convinced Mighty would be a boy) got blue clothes with race cars, while another (convinced Mighty would be a girl) got an array of pink outfits.

This weekend, I was telling these tales to a relative. Said relative looked at Spousal Unit for a minute and said, "But I know you're having a boy...I can tell by just looking at you...and I'm 95% accurate."

Sigh.

the costs of pregnancy

Pregnancy does many things to women. The spousal unit, for instance, has been suffering the standard spacial disorientation, pregnancy brain, fatigue, and numerous other symptoms, so I have a little bit of first (well, second) hand knowledge of some of the things pregnancy can dos.

Today, I found another effect of pregnancy.

I was doing student conferences today from home for my online class. In between video and text chats, I decided to use my spare minutes to assemble the urchin's crib-in-a-box. It took a while, particularly since I had very few short or no-show conferences...and it's very hard to get any momentum with a single five minute work session per hour. So, unfortunately, when the spousal unit got home, I wasn't completely finished.

I labored on, though. It was, after all a quintessential male activity...sitting in a study-in-the-process-of-becoming-a-nursery, bolting together furniture for the forthcoming bundle of joy as the pregnant lady rests in the other room. A little under an hour later, I had finally finished.

I came into the living room to grab the mattress, and the spousal unit followed me back to the now-it's-actually-looking-somewhat-like-a-nursery...and, of course, as soon as she saw the criblet out an "awww." I put my arm around her and said "you know, this really helps drive home the fact that in just a little while, I'm going to be a father"...and then, after a brief beat, let out a brief panicky yell and ran out of the room.

Nothing. I came back in the room, and the spousal unit was examining the crib.

"What? No reaction at all?"

She didn't even look up. "Get used to it, dear."

So, one more thing pregnancy does for women...it removes their appreciation for cheesy spousal drama. Sigh.

transition

No, it's not going to stop

so just give up

--Aimee Mann

Some kids want to be firemen or astronauts. Both options never really appealed to me...they both required more energy and physicality than I had. I was always a fairly sedentary child. My parents love to tell how I would always rather read a book rather than go outside and play.

It wasn't that I was lazy, per se. It's just that, given a choice, books always won out over running around. I would prefer to sit around, read, and think about what I had just read. Thinking was about figuring stuff out. It was about entering other words. It was about letting my mind go farther than my body ever could travel. The first books I can remember reading were the "Classics Illustrated" kid's versions of classic books. Then I graduated to the actual classics themselves (A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court was particularly vivid). Then it was on to detective fiction. I started science fiction and fantasy upon stumbling across Lord of the Rings in my middle school library. Then a friend introduced me to horror. Eventually, it was just any book, any story, any genre...as long as it transported me somewhere or let me think, it was where I wanted to be.

Somewhere in high school, my reading became subsumed by events...mostly work, guitar, and partying. Class took some of my time, but I got sucked into a job which occupied many more of my hours. I moved from part-time job to part-time job. Eventually, I found myself selling water as an operator-standing-by. When we were slow, we had permission to read, and it prompted a bit of a resurgence in my readings...I actually went through my local library's entire science fiction section.

Reading became important to me again...I found myself diving back into thinking, exploring, learning. There was, however, an unexpected result: I found myself increasingly aware of exactly how dead-end my series of menial crap jobs had become. I would like to say that I realized how little impact my various occupations (whether water seller, pizza maker, rat killer, or warehouse worker) made on anyone, and that I decided I wanted to move on to a career where I would make the world a better place, but the truth was nowhere so noble. Simply put, reading made me realize that I was tired of not feeling smart.

So I quit my water-selling job and went back to school. From the beginning, I wanted to figure out a way I could make reading and thinking my career, and pretty much from the start, this meant going to school long enough to become a teacher...in essence, I wanted to enter the university and never leave it. I wanted to become a professional thinker, someone who worked with ideas, explored theory, created knowledge. This implied teaching, but although I became very good at, enjoyed, and ultimately found teaching to be very rewarding, it was always about thinking for me, first and foremost.

I did everything I could think of to become a professional thinker. I studied night and day. I became a graduate assistant. I wrote. I read. I started my own literary journal. I wrote articles and published as many as I could. I expanded my vita as much as possible. Becoming a professional thinker--that is, getting a tenure-track professor's job--has pretty much been my focus since I went back to school in 1994. It has been the reason why I've read more than I ever thought I would, taught myself discipline after discipline, and spent my summers reading, writing, and thinking.

Unfortunately, my grand plan didn't work.

I got my Ph.D., entered the job market, and...nothing happened. I sent out over 500 applications in my time, and these did lead to a few phone interviews. The ones I wanted the most, though, I never heard back from the universities. I did get two campus interviews, but they were both at schools (including the community college I , and actually attended) where I really didn't want to work. I published more and more, but it's paid off less and less. It's been years since I've even heard back from any school where I've applied. No one, it seems, is interested in hiring me as a professional thinker.

Yesterday, I deleted all of the job announcement e-mail alerts in my in-box. Some time this week, I will unsubscribe to all my academic job feeds.

It's not, for the record, all bad. I do have a full-time job (albeit in a different field). I have published a lot of my writing, and when I last checked (which was a few years ago--in spite of my ego, I don't really sit around and google myself), some of them were used in classes and in other scholars' dissertations. But ultimately, thinking is not my career...and, as I will not be able to be on the job market for the next two years, there's little hope of me ever becoming a professional thinker.

Why did I not succeed? It's actually not a surprise to me. In an attempt to be different, I picked a topic that no one else was doing. Instead of being cutting-edge, though, my topic was just dramatically unhip. This prevented me from getting work doing anything other than part-time work for the first two years after graduation, and part-time teaching leaves utterly no time or mental energy for thinking or writing. Then, when I finally realized my dissertation was unhip, I rebranded myself...into something else that was also unhip. Then the economy imploded. Then many state governments decided that educators were the problem and that schools could survive without funding.

So it is officially time to give up on the job market. I wish my friends on the market the absolute best of luck, particularly since they're no longer my competition. I envy them: they still live in the world of ideas.

Me, though, not so much. I still have my dissertation-to-book project to write, and I still have three papers in circulation. I might still send out some apps when, in 2013, I'm able to reenter the job market, but I don't really have much hope. If I am honest, I've known for quite some time that I will never be a professor.

There is still tons to do, though. I have become a performing musician. I have pretenses of just being a writer...maybe an essayist, maybe a writer. And I still have article ideas, so the academic world isn't done hearing from me.

It's time, though, to admit that I'm transitioning into being a hobbyist thinker.

style versus innovation

These chords are old, but we shake hands

'cause I believe that they're the good guys

I'm blessed by the ability to play music. Last weekend was a good one for me: an acoustic show, an electric show, converting new fans, getting to see some of my favorite bands, hanging out with my bandmates, feeling fully like a music guy again.

In spite of this, I do believe that in a very real sense, music ended quite some time ago.

When someone decided that kids in between the age of thirteen and eighteen needed to have their own separate culture, music started to change at an astounding rate. Shocking became the key trope in distinguishing "teenage cultural artifact A" from one belonging to your father. Depending on the genre and medium, this could mean any number of things. Obscenity. Blood. Brighter colors. Faster pace. Increasing illegality. Controlled substances. The street. Graphic whatever.

In music, this turned in many cases to an obsession with hardness. In rock, it was first in incorporating the forbidden timbre and groove of black music. Then lyrics became increasingly more... gritty... realistic... guttural... streetwise... obscene... whatever. In the meantime, some pioneer decided that using crappy, inefficient, prone-to-explode equipment could be, in and of itself, both beautiful and transgressive. Tempos increased. Distortion piled on top of distortion. The tone underwent went a slow crescendo into noise.

Unfortunately it was often missed, in this struggle to become more and more shocking, a realization, a certain subtle factoid, and it was this: at an eventual point in time, musicians would reach the point where they physically could not play any faster. Sooner or later, you would run out of startling lyrical possibilities. Eventually, you would meet the maximum level of distortion. Where would you go after you finally hit the wall? When there was no other side as a possible destination? Where can you go when you've gone too far?

I've never really known. My personal musical style could hardly be called progressive, futuristic, envelope-pushing. I am, at heart, just a blues-rock guitarists. My scale is the minor pentatonic. Yes, I use effects, but they are too far out of fashion to even be considered in the neighborhood of retro. I am far from the first person, for instance, to use an envelope filter or analog octave divider.

One friend, upon hearing me play, complemented me before saying she hadn't heard anyone play like me in a long time. My look must've been questioning, because she said, "y'know, like arena rock-ish." It took me a while to realize how accurate she was, and, more to the point, be okay with my arena rock influences. Hell, at one point in my life, I wanted to be a musical pioneer. Then I wanted to be unique. Now, though, I'll settle for just being the kind of guitar player I always wanted to be.

Sometimes, you gotta let the guitar talk. Sometimes you gotta just hit it. That's what I do.

home improvement.

One of the real problems of being a media scholar is that you quickly run out of any entertainment options which might in any way be described as "brainless." I try out tons of programs in the pursuit for something that doesn't really make me think, but sooner or later, I'm breaking down everything. I quit watching food television because I couldn't turn off the gender analysis. I've tried NCIS, but the stereotyping drives me insane. The list goes on.

My latest effort in my pursuit of "not thinking for at least a moment" is home improvement television. Now, I've watched tons of shows in my years. For a while, I could've been described as a Bob Villa junkie. I've seen every single This Old House and Hometimes, many of them multiple times. I enjoy it, but mentally, I already have paper after paper planned. Some of them would be quite good ones, if only I had time to write them...damn job that doesn't reward scholarship.

I try to go more brainless by delving into HGTV, but that doesn't help. Many of the shows feature people looking for new houses...these always drive my thoughts into the area of class warfare, as I have very little sympathy for anyone depressed over the lack of housing options under $650,000. I watch the design shows, and they only make me want to invent a new game: "Gay or Canadian"...because all the hosts seem to be...well, you get the picture.

Lately, I've been watching the Mike Holmes programs Holmes on Homes and Holmes Inspection. They're particularly interesting, because they reverse the standard home improvement narrative. These shows are certainly not telling you "yes, you can do it yourself." No, they make absolutely no attempt at claiming viewer empowerment. You watch this show, and you have no thoughts about your repair competency. Moreover, they don't even hint that professionals in the field might be competent...quite the opposite, in fact. I watch Mike Holmes, and I feel utterly depressed at the possibility of there being anything close to an honest, skilled professional anywhere. Except Mike Holmes himself, of course...he is, according to the show, the construction industry Jesus, albeit with a Canadian accent.

Today's episode was particularly brutal. The previous owners of the hell-house in question had apparently, before selling to the now shell-shocked couple, found massive termite and rot damage, all caused by the fact that the foundation was made of dirt...simple, unpacked dirt. Their solution? Just insulate and drywall over everything. The crew's fix wasn't so much a gut job as a "bomb and start over job." It was truly horrifying.

The critical side of my brain is still trying to process a home improvement show which argues most professionals are incompetent, some of them at levels bordering on criminal. Are they telling us that experts everywhere inherently suck? Is a home improvement channel really trying to dissuade me from ever becoming a home owner?

I would worry about this all that much more if I wasn't doomed to enough poverty to never escape being a renter...and might even make the swarm of bees seem a reasonable price.

Thank goodness for debt.

the Rusty Scotch-Aid

Sitting around late at night watching television? Depressed at the state of the world, your state government, the forthcoming sinus infection, and hopes of a successful resolution to the NFL labor situation? Maybe it's just me...but at times like these, I think the best thing to do is (wait for it) create a new mixed drink! I call it "the Rusty Scotch-Aid":

• take a high-ball glass and add ice
  
• pour in a healthy slug of cheap Scotch that someone gave you
  
• squeeze in a quarter of a lemon and dump in the remainder
  
• add a tablespoon or so of sugar syrup...more if the Scotch is particularly cheap
  
• top off with soda water
  
• stir, sip, and watch scary television
  

I am a rock star

One of these days see me driving round town

In my rock 'n' Rolls Royce with the sun roof down

I am a rock star.

No, not really. In reality, I'm a guy who's married to a wonderful/pregnant spousal unit, teaches writing under an uncertain future (thanks, Senate Bill 5!), and who plays in a local (meaning we can't get gigs the next town over) band. But from the time I bought my first crappy guitar, I always had visions of being on stage, playing to a worshiping throng of admirers who would hang on my every note and scream at the end of the solo. It was my dream

This, of course, never happened for lots of reasons. I've known for ages I would never be a rock star. Going back to college perhaps sealed the deal, but I kinda knew long before that. But there are still times where, when I close my eyes, I wonder what it would've been like to play arenas.

I know, though, I will never be a rock star. So, a few weeks ago, I decided to do the next-best thing: I ordered some custom guitar picks!

I found a place online who sold custom guitar picks for a reasonable price. I went to town with GIMP on a photo from one of my past shows and made myself look like a cool line drawing. I uploaded my photo, moved some stuff around, and gave them my credit card number. A little over a week later, I recieved a bag of shiny, customized .73mm color delrin picks.

The picks are a geeky fantasy come true, something I've always wanted. I've given them to friends, most of whom seem inordinately thrilled to get a 50 cent piece of plastic. Some have told me they're the coolest thing they've seen. One or two (who were admittedly drinking at the time) said something about putting the pick with their special souvenirs. True, one friend, upon seeing the pick, said "DuBose, you're such a nerd" (admittedly, she does have a case), and my singer has threatened to quit the band if I throw a handful to the crowd during some gig.

This past weekend, I went to see Two Cow Garage, my favorite band in the world, when they played at a Toledo bar. I know both Micah, the guitarist and Shane, the bass player, so when I said hello to them, I gave them each a pick. During their set, Shane used my pick...and showed it to me from the stage. Maybe I became a rock star by proxy...just a little, mind you.

Afterward, I was saying my goodbyes. When I was talking to Micah, I told him that I showed one of my classes clips from a documentary someone did on them a few years back, and how it depressed the students. The students, I told him, focused on how hopeless it seemed to make it in the music industry. This puzzled me at the time, and, I told Micah, I couldn't figure out why the state of the industry was of such importance to them...because personally, I don't give a crap about executives, labels, or any of that. Instead, I care about bands and music. The industry? Stardom? Ultimately, it doesn't seem very important.

This does not mean, however, that I will ever give up my custom guitar picks. I'm holding onto at least a small fragment of the dream.

just a number

But you know

The years make things different

When I turned 21, I actually did it at someone else's birthday party. It was close to midnight, and a friend asked who was of legal age. When I said I would be in 17 minutes, he insisted on driving me to the store...and then he insisted on waiting until 12:01...and then he insisted the clerk card me for my beer purchase.

After that, I don't really remember much about most of my birthdays. I understand why many people want to be sentimental about such things, and I kinda wanna be sentimental myself...but there is just very little of most of them that stick in my mind. There have been parties, there have been meetings at the bar, there have been times where I've just stayed at home and watched television. The one that sticks out most in my mind was when it was just me, my lovely spousal unit, and a vampire friend at Howard's Club H. I remember it because, after my spousal unit asked me three times if I wanted a delivery from The Cookie Jar, I finally asked her, "you want cookies, don't you?" She did that enormously cute pseudo-guilt look by way of reply. The cookies ended up being very tasty, though.

Moreover, my age itself hardly sticks with me. When I was 33, I remembered my age for two reasons: the play speed of an LP and the back of a Rolling Rock bottle. I remembered 34 because of a line from a Goober and the Peas song...of course, the song was about stalking, so I tried really hard not to think about it all that closely. I associated 35 with The Jayhawks song "Big Star" because of the line "a has-been at a mere 35"; that song ultimately is more optimistic than it sounds, but I still didn't think about it all that closely.

After that, though, whenever someone asked me my age, I would have to stop and think about it...and, embarrassing enough, do the math before I answered. While I realize some people might look at this as a sign of my encroaching senility, I've just never been that good at remembering some basic, simple facts. Hell, I still have to look at my hands most of the time to remember which side is my left and which side is my right.

The bigger issue is that I simply don't feel all that different. Back when I was still working in the pizza industry, I was sharing a cigarette with my supervisor, and we were talking about age. He took a drag off his smoke, looked into space, and said, "hell, Mike, I still have to stop and realize I'm not 22." When I was 25, this struck me as funny. Now, though, I can completely relate.

There was a time when I started to feel old. It was when I was working at another pizza place, and all the employees were teenies. No surprise there...the restaurant industry feeds on the young. However, I became acutely aware they were all younger than I only because they were all listening to more current music than I. I realized I was up against a decision. I could become a person whose references, experiences, and culture all came from his high school years (you know, the people who don't own an album that came out later than their 24th birthday). Or I could just dive into the world and experience it as I see fit...which might require me to reach a little bit outside my comfort zone. When I started to look outside of myself, age really quit being an issue.

Today, I turned 40. There's no tears, there's no freakout. There's really little significance at all for me. However, there's something better. When I woke up today, there was an awesome card and some organic dark chocolate from my beautiful preggie spousal unit waiting for me. There was about 40 e-mails and notifications wishing me a happy birthday, all of whom I appreciate more than I say. Tonight, there will be a good dinner and drinks with friends. If getting older brings all this, well, that is indeed alright.

my random 83rd Oscar observations.

• King's Speech is a good and worthy film, but I really wish True Grit would've gotten some love.
  
• Whomever the male host was, he acted and looked stoned out of his mind...until, halfway through, it looked like someone had given him amphetamines.
  
• I really enjoy watching the Oscars. I don't care about the telecast in the slightest, really...but it's a wonderful excuse to have friends over, eat good food, and have a great time.
  
• The thing that bugs me most about the Oscars is the self-important "why does anyone watch this?" whining I hear online. I hear the same thing about the Super Bowl...which also bugs me. Hey, it's not a point of honor to not like something. It's not even a good conversational starter.
  
• I really, really, really hated the attempts to make the Oscars look hip...all of which boiled down to "oh, did you know there's such a thing as Twitter?"
  
• Do we really need to hear all the original songs? If you're gonna force us, then you should also, for the "best score" award, play every single second of every score.
  
• I really do not like how the presenters of each of the best acting awards directly address the nominees...it seems creepy and voyeuristic.
  
• If I was one of a few people to win an award, and if my co-winner hogged the mic the entire time, I would punch them somewhere very painful.
  
• If I was a winner of one of the minor awards and was only given 23 seconds for my speech, I would find the actor who was allowed to ramble for five whole minutes and punch them somewhere very painful.
  
• How depressing must it be to have to play the "we're glad you won, but shut up, so we can bring on someone else" music?
  

work and respect

My name is Mike DuBose. The worker's rights that my government and many of its citizens are actively trying to destroy? They are mine. This is my story.

My first job was summer employment. I got a position alongside my brother, who was working at a pavement marking company. We painted the lines on parking lots, school tracks, parking garages, and so forth. This was in Florida, in the summer, and we were almost always working on freshly-laid asphalt. As a result, the working conditions were awful. The heat was enormous...on top of the standard 95-100 degree highs, we also had to contend with radiant heat from the asphalt, which boosted everything by 20-30 degrees. Then there were the surely toxic fumes: paint, mineral spirits, and asphalt...even over twenty years later, the merest whiff of a new parking lot turns my stomach. I have no doubt that had I stayed in this line of work, I would today have serious health issues just from inhaling all the chemicals.

Our boss was a really fun and nice guy. However, he only really cared about working us as hard and as fast as possible. When he would run to the store, he would bring us (fairly awful) coffee--if we gave him money, that is--but he refused to bring us sugar or cream because it took too long for him to grab some packets. When we would break for lunch, he would eat as fast as possible before yelling at us to hurry up so we could get back to work. He loved to yell and berate us if we were not flying at our jobs.

My boss wanted to push us, but he never really reciprocated with any loyalty. I was the summer guy, and, as a result, I was never taught any skills which would increase my future hireability. I never, for instance, got to run the striping machine; this meant that the only real thing I could bring from the experience was the ability to sweep, to carry stuff, and to wait on my other workers who were given the big tasks. However, even the workers who were taught skills were unvalued. One weekend during the next fall, he called me and asked me to help him with a job. I went, because I honestly did like the guy...and also, I could use the cash. When we left for the job, I asked where all the co-workers were, but apparently, my boss had "let everyone go" because he wanted to raise his income.

This led to my first two lessons about work. First, you are only a tool for bosses to use as they sees fit. Second, you have no rights; you are instead a machine cog. Third, it doesn't really matter how nice your bosses are...they are never looking out for you.

My next job was working at a pizza chain. I was a good employee...I would do anything I was asked, I would come in whenever called, I tried very hard to learn, and I worked as hard as possible whenever I was on the clock. Eventually, I became an assistant manager. When this happened, my mindset clicked. I started to demand everyone work as hard as I did. I ran my stores with a maniacal focus. I kept a very close eye on labor and food costs, and I would rather work everyone as hard as possible than treat my employees well if it meant I could bring in good numbers for my bosses (who, I assumed, I could make appreciate me through sheer force of will).

When I got promoted, I read it as a sign that my hard work was paying off, that my bosses were taking care of me. I believed this in spite of getting only about a dollar above minimum wage and working most weekend nights. However, about two months after a major car accident, and while still suffering the effects of broken ribs, I got a call that I was fired. I wasn't even given a good reason, but later, I found out that my manager fired me so she could promote her 17 year-old cousin. Turns out the lesson I should've learned was that promotions and such were not signs you were becoming a valued employee; they were just ways to extract more work out of you.

I then worked at a major package delivery service. My job was to load two 60' semi trailers. These trailers would then be picked up, moved to the other side of the building, unloaded, and moved onto small local delivery trucks. I had two types of interactions with my bosses. They might try to trick me by throwing in packages that were supposed to go to Jacksonville AL or Jacksonville NC rather than Jacksonville FL. Then, when one of these slipped through, they would come and yell at me. Their other method of interactions was to just skip to yelling: first, that I wasn't packing the truck efficiently, then that I had to tear down my truck and start over, and then that, while I was rebuilding the wall of packages, I was falling behind on incoming packages. Finally, they would send over someone to help me get caught up, but only after giving me a "I can't believe how awful you are" look. Eventually, they quit calling me in and, after a few weeks, called me to tell me I was laid off. The only real lesson I got out of this was that even working hard was no real guarantee you would be treated with even a superficial level of respect.

After a while, I started work for a temporary service agency, where most of my work was in warehouses and such...although it occasionally got much worse. As a temp worker, I learned that no matter what I did, I was invisible. Hell, even the other workers wouldn't learn your names...so why would the bosses not treat you with the same respect they would give to a disposable toilet seat cover?

I went to work for another pizza franchise, promising myself I would be just a worker bee, completely uninvested in my work. Only my boss (a supervisor at my old pizza place) forced me into management...and soon, I was back to killing myself every day. I did rise to a valued position...I actually got traded back and forth between the supervisors and ended up working in about ten different stores during my time there. This, however, was by no means a sign they were looking after my best interests, and I eventually quit when my manager kept ignoring my hours requests. This was, I learned, the only real power I had...to walk away.

I worked in telemarketing sales for a while. Again, I worked hard, and again, I did a really good job, but the other shoe dropped when one of my colleagues got a job in the company mail room. He was overly excited about this, because it was actually a full-time job, unlike our sales work, which was all through a temp agency...and his excitement just depressed me further.

I decided to go back to school, because college, I assumed, would lead to a job where I was treated with some level of respect. I figured that if I became a teacher, if I dedicated my life to the public at large, if I just worked at helping people and hopefully making the world a little bit better of a place, things would work out. I never had any hope for fame and riches. I just wanted a job where I could sleep well at night, knowing I made a difference in some small way. Surely that will be respected in some small way...right?

To pay my bills, I went back to work for the pizza place, only because I was good enough to work a morning shift and get all my prep work done by opening. I would wait on customers through lunch and then study. Later, I got a job as graduate assistant for my department (which meant being a glorified office boy); one professor in particular enjoyed dumping piles of photocopying on my desk when I had ten minutes left in my shift. Eventually, I also started working for another professor's teacher-training project, but this prof, I am convinced, was essentially unable to even pick me out of a lineup; when I cut off my long metal hair, she didn't even notice.

I moved to Ohio and became a graduate teaching assistant. I wanted to teach as much of a range of classes as possible (thus expanding my skills and hireability), but my first department refused to give me their film class. I was then transferred to another department, where, although I was a doctoral candidate, my work was analyzed, reviewed, and critiqued by an MA student with years less experience than I, and the decision on whether my students passed or failed was made by someone else. I did one research assistantship where my prof wanted me to write a research paper and him to put his name on it, and another assistantship where I got a spot on a couch rather than an office.

I was then thrust into the world of part-time work, where I was treated even lower, paid less, and remained invisible to my bosses (save one at the lowest-paying community college, who, even though they paid me half of my other schools, still wanted me to wear a suit to teach). I then had to take a part-time job at the local zoo to make ends meet. My bosses there liked me, but only because the rest of the workforce was so lackluster...I still had no rights.

Throughout it all, I remained a good worker. Wherever I have been employed (even at the lowliest of places), I have honestly given my all to my job. When I was doing temp work, I would bust my ass...not because the bosses might see my effort and like me (I knew they usually didn't know who I was) but because that's what you're supposed to do at work. I gave my rural low-paying community college my A game, and my students got a taste of top-level college teaching...even if it was unappreciated to do so. I killed myself at the zoo. I was an awesome employee wherever I worked. It's just, I always thought, how you are supposed to be....and, if you keep doing it (the entirety of American culture tells us), someone will notice.

For my current job, I'm an Associate Lecturer in the Department of English Language and Literature at University of Toledo. I teach composition, business writing, technical writing, and literature classes. The subject matter really is outside my training, but I have worked hard to become a good, pedagogically sound teacher.

I meticulously plan my classes for maximum student learning. For instance, I put in long hours conferencing with students, discussing their writing, giving them the personal educational experience which I never had. I've had colleagues tell me "you're a badass teacher." My departmental evaluations are good, and my boss has expressed admiration at my reach and scope in the classroom.

All I want from work is to be allowed to do my job to the best of my ability, in an atmosphere of relative stability. While I by no means thought I would be a writing teacher, I honestly would be quite happy doing this work, at this school, until the day I die. I like my school, like my colleagues, like my students, like the work. As long as I am at this job, I will give my university as much of me as I can.

Unfortunately, I have learned recently that all the lessons from my previous job still hold true to this day. I might be good at my job, and yes, my bosses might like me. Ultimately, though, I am just a cog in a machine, and those who hold ultimate authority over my labor are not looking out at all for my best interests. Instead, they see me as the enemy.

My state elected a governor who ran on a platform to, among other things, raid my retirement. Now, my governor and legislators are ramming through a bill which will eliminate my right to collectively bargain. This means that my university president, who is already deeply engaged in efforts to undermine my college, will be able to do with me pretty much whatever he pleases. I am a soon-to-be father who is now probably going to have my family leave taken away. I am soon going to suffer a big financial hit when my take-home pay drops when the university administration quits contributing to my health care. I would not be at all surprised if my actual salary gets cut. These, though, are far from the worst thing that can happen. If the current anti-collective bargaining movement passes (as it surely will), my university could fire all us lecturers and replace us with part-timers. And because I wouldn't have the ability to collective bargain, and because the union wouldn't have the power to strike, there's absolutely nothing I or any of my colleagues could do about it.

Aside from my personal doom, the most disturbing thing about all this is that, if they gut my job (as I suspect they will), it will lead to worse teaching. You take away my job security, and I will be a much more panicked teacher. You increase my workload, and that's less time I can spend with my students. You take away my benefits or salary, and I will do my best to leave the business of teaching altogether (assuming, of course, there's anywhere else for me to go...I've even given thought to going back to the restaurant world). Moreover, you will teach me and everyone who does what I do that our work is unvalued...and although we really want to care about our job, there's only so far we can go when that consideration is constantly unreciprocated.

I don't really want much. While I think I deserve it, I have absolutely no expectations for a salary reasonable to my level of training and my work performance. I have no desire for awards, publicity, or accolades. All I want really is to be treated with a little respect and be allowed to keep trying to help the future generation become a bit smarter and better at critical thinking, in hopes that they can make this world a slightly better place. I also want to not be treated as the enemy.

That, during a time where you say we need increased job growth, and that the key to such growth is an educated citizenry capable of doing the work, this is the time you decide to rip the top off education, make all the workers devalued, and try your hardest to drive out the dedicated professionals who teach is frankly befuddling, counter intuitive, and more than a little sad.

exhaustion

I slip in and out of volume, mind cycling into a particularly sweeping tremolo. Blasts of synaptic soundwaves, punctuated by pure desertion. Noise, space. Action, inertia. Motion, stagnancy. Vibration, static.

If only it were slightly more regular, one might read it for signs of some grand pattern in the chaos. Yet it is instead marked more by irregularity, uncertainty, and the occasional patterns where everything just sort of...stops.

I find myself lacking tether. Instinctively, I realize that bases exist, but where? It's not lost. Somewhere, I am sure, the knowledge resides. Where, though, might my center reside? I try to think where, but instead, I grind to another standstill.

My arms ache, but the causal labors in question escape me. My eyes seem to embody more weight than usual, as if they've seen things no one should see...but what? All I can feel is a certain time lapse spreading through my frontal cortex.

The blame can only reside in the nights and mornings.

one of my turns

There are nights where, sitting alone at the bar, I realize that I'm surprised I'm manic.

Moments of blackness. Despair. Utter pissed-offness. Wave after wave crashing upon me, washing me out. The only thing I'm really missing sometimes is the regularity of a tidal schedule...and this, somehow, makes it all infinitely worse, in so many ways.

When these turns come, it makes very little difference if the music is crushing or lilting. Gravity, in this case, doesn't seem to apply...and at any rate, it doesn't seem to help.

This last turn, there was a definite initial incident, yes, but beginnings are ultimately less an issue than progressions.

Whenever it starts, it quickly triggers cascades in other locations. Soon school, scholarship, career, family, friends, all of these start their own respective reactions. One atom flies across the room, smashing into another. Particles fly. Compounds form, react, explode, starting cycles in other nearby atoms. Pretty soon, reactions outweigh elements, the fire builds, and it becomes one massive, devastating event which is quite often hazardous to behold with the unshielded eye.

My logic is a series of forcibly abandoned atolls, each pleasant enough on its own, but with the distant appearance of some innocent eyed pilot on the horizon...things will change.

Atomic rage has implications ranging far and wide.

cold planning

Don't you love it when a plan comes together?

My spousal unit and I often carpool, since we both are working in the same directions and, this semester at least, work similar hours. We save some cash and get to spend some time together...that it's in the earliest hours of the day, when we both would rather be sleeping (or indeed doing anything other than being awake) is a fun bonus.

Today, I got up early, because there was one of those really charmingly fun Ohio weather patterns with both snow and ice (two-fer tuesday!), and the car needed clearance. On top of everything, on our ride home yesterday, one of my windshield wipers shredded, and I had to figure out how to chip off the ice, change the blade, and still clear off all the wintery trash while staying on schedule. But I am efficient, I am a machine, so everything happened according to plan.

I went in, defrosted, showered, ate my yogurt and granola, brewed my tea, watched a little television, noted how much Gadaffi nowadays looks like a very old Gene Simmons, and grabbed my crap for the trip to the car. I cranked the sucker up, scraped a bit of ice stragglers off my windshield, helped the spousal unit into the car, and went to buckle myself in. So far, no problem.

However, when I looked at the dash to see if I needed to stop for gas, I noticed my battery was discharging...badly, with warning lights and everything. This meant that I had to abandon my car, move everything to my spousal unit's car (only after banging off enough ice to unfreeze the doors), de-ice her car (with two days of ice, bordering around an inch), shovel all the freshly-plowed-off-the-road snow from behind her car, go back inside, change out of all my now sweat-soaked clothing, before heading back outside to leave for work, over a half hour late.

I haven't had enough time to plan for my second and third classes. My arms ache from scraping two icy vehicles. My spousal unit accidentally spilled my tea while moving from one car to another. AND, after classes are over, I get to inhale my lunch in about ten minutes before being locked in my office for student conferences for the rest of the day.

Everything is working out just perfectly...but only because, by now, I expect failure.

rethinking relations

I was talking to my father the other day. On top of exchanging the standard pleasantries, news, family gossip, and such, the conversation turned deeper than expected. I found out some new truths about my past.

I always used to tell everyone that, some point in history, some distant relative came over from France and Americanized his foreign name, as it was not hip in this country at the time to be from "elsewhere." I've always considered this to be, at least on an aesthetic level, to be a real shame, I would wistfully add, because I could be the significantly more sophisticated "Michel DuBois" instead of the much more pedestrian, klutzy Mike DuBose. Who knows? Maybe the sophistication of my Francophone name would somehow transfer to my pedestrian, klutzy personality, and maybe it would make me just a little more chic, give me a little elan.

As cool of a story--and of a hope--as this was, I'm afraid to say it's simply not true, which really bums me out. I blame my fairly distant cousin-type's genealogical obsession.

We've found out that, in the Normandy area of France, hoards of DuBois' and DuBoses (maybe peacefully) coexist. They even have a family crest.

Tons of these Viking/Frog hybrids, it seems, came over to South Carolina. The settled around where we used to live. Our South Carolina interlude, it seems, is one of lost familial opportunities, as we were blissfully unaware of our distant relatives living just miles inland.

Last October, apparently, there was a DuBose family reunion. Hundreds of them showed up. DuBose upon DuBose.

The mind boggles.

I've always thought of myself as being at the end of my family line. My dad has no siblings. My mom has one brother, but my only personal interest in him is of his suitability as a punching bag.

Now, though, right as I (with the slight aid of my pregnant Spousal Unit) am bringing in the next generation, the newest model, I realize there are in fact other versions of the DuBose out in the world, wandering around, making their own impact, all in the services of our quite scattered (geographically, temporally) family.

Mark this: with all of us, we're now a force with which to be reckoned. We are invaders, infiltrators, an infestation.

Watch out.

my new philosophy

I was sitting at the bar last Thursday, when I heard a pool player exclaim to a colleague "just Sarah Connor it!"

I have utterly no idea what it means...but this in no way hinders my burgeoning love for the phrase, my desire to live it completely and utterly.

Even the analogy is vague. Iteration after iteration of the once and future heroine spring to mind. None clarifies the issue.

Is there hope if one "Sarah Connor"'s it? Does it make on valiant? Is free will involved? Or is one inexorably drawn into events beyond control, beyond one's comprehension?

The more I ponder this phrase, the more worried I become. Yet my love for it continues unabated.

It's a strange metaphor, because it presages a unique yet never-ending ontologigal struggle.

Wouldn't be the first time.

last Thursday's bar notes

I write.

We're down to just the barflies tonight. One of them is overwhelmingly proud of proclaiming, at the top of her lungs, of how much she hates television that makes her think. Another pair listen, nod, and argue over who gets the next round. I'm sitting in the adjoining room, drinking my oversized beer, listening, and wondering. The loud woman has just proclaimed, for all to hear, that Suze Ortman's financial advice is "right, but fuckin' boring."

What can I add?

The music adds a slightly psychotic counterpoint to the overheard conversations. In the last few songs, we've moved from Public Enemy, to Jerry Lee Lewis, to Smashing Pumpkins, swirling between classic, merely slightly old, and closer to new. None of it brings up any real associations.

I don't know what it means.

I'm nursing my Chicago-brewed beer, thinking of the parenting class we attended tonight. The nurse running the session sprung upon us a collage of fresh-from-the-womb newborn horror photos. Soon came (in her words) a "rainbow of poo shots." Later, we watched a very "after school special" dvd telling us we, it seems, should not shake our baby. I can only assume she misplaced the "don't dry your infant in the microwave" shot.

I wonder where the sense and sanity might lie.

During today's "don't be late" class lecture, three people walked in late. Two came to me after class, desperately pleading for my assistance. We scheduled appointments into the non-existent holes in my fully packed schedule. Later on, I found myself surprised that I was surprised when they didn't show up.

Is the surprise a good or bad sign?

Some newcomers camp out at the pool table in the back. One of them is setting up the rack while extolling the virtues of fried food. Fried broccoli, it seems, particularly "rocks."

I sip and wonder.

I'm full of war stories tonight. If my friend, who works out of town, actually stops by as planned, some of them might be bartered across the table over alcohol. We'll look at each other, take sips, and exchange the glances exclusive to those of us who finally know, finally understand. Maybe our knowledge will drown out the Michael Jackson playing out of the back table's cell phone speaker.

I stop and ponder hope.

The couples at the pool table are talking slurs. My eyes limber up for the obligatory roll when they bring up "retarded," and I tune in. It's not what I expect. One tells another "just be proud you're young and smart and still care enough to call them what they want to be called.'

I pause. I reconsider. My hand cramps, so I put down my pen and contemplate the next drink.

locked out

Yesterday, when I was sitting down to grade, I realized that when I left campus Thursday, I forgot to transfer my updated grades to my flash drive. So this morning, I ended up getting up relatively early (well, for a Saturday) and driving to campus through near whiteout conditions.

I got there safely enough, grabbed my guitars (they were getting repair work, but I didn't want to leave them in my car) and made my way to my building's back entrance. Locked. Went to the side. Locked. Went to the front. Twisted my ankle. Cursed. Made mental note to not ever buy a tweed case again. Got to the front door. Locked.

I called the university police department, and they promised to send something. As I stood there, snow soaking into my tweed telecaster case, waiting on the police to arrive, my feelings were mixed. It's a good thing that they treat safety seriously on campus, I guess...we did have a problem with homeless people sleeping in and taking stuff from our building. On the other hand, though, I was getting cold and wet while locked out of my own office.

The arriving officer was nice enough to mollify my agitation, though, and upon letting me into the building, he told me a dirty joke, shook my hand, and took off.

losering

"So what if all my heroes were the losing kind?"--Lucero

I have gotten to the stage in life where I don't really mind being a loser.

This is a big change since high school. I used to be obsessed with why I didn't have more friends, why I wasn't popular, why I couldn't get in a band, why I couldn't get a date, why I felt like such a failure. But one can only worry about such matters so long, and eventually, instead of just saying "I don't really care about being popular/cool/whatever," I actually became able to not care. When I finally found myself at the stage where I actually didn't care what people thought of me, I started to more be myself...and everything came a lot easier. I ended up in a career I love, with the world's most perfect women (who, eight years ago today, became the world's most perfect spousal unit), and in a fairly awesome band.

This is all, I guess, part of growing up.

However, coming to terms with where I am and who I am does not mean that I always succeed...or even come close. Yes, I'm in a band, but although we are (of course) awesome, we don't exactly sell out the local stadiums. Yes, I love my job, but it's by no means where I thought I would be (non-tenure in a different field). I think I write good scholarship (albeit completely unrewarded), but I have a terrible time getting the pieces I like best published. Let's not even talk about how long it's been since my job application material elicited even the slightest response from anyone...my last interview was (I think) about three years ago.

These are all fine, though, because they all are the result of me doing my best, me really trying, and things just not working out. Maybe I'm simply not good enough, lucky enough, hip enough, or timely enough. But I can live with being out of step with expectations...because I'm trying. I'm pushing. I'm doing everything I can to succeed...so who cares if I fail?

What I cannot deal all that well with is the type of failure which has no logic...which has no cause...which hits out of the blue, without warning, without precursor, without justice.

Friday afternoon, I was finishing my workout when the spousal unit came home. She had picked up the mail (she's a little obsessed with mail delivery) and handed my share, saying "here's one from your Human Resources department."

I opened it. It said that said Spousal Unit's health care had been canceled.

I cursed. I yelled. I more or less collapsed on the couch. Losing her health care would be bad enough, but of course, the spousal unit is now the pregnancy unit...and the idea of paying for a pregnancy and delivery out of our own pockets was horrific. It would've, quite simply, finished any hope of us ever recovering financially. Hell, we both have a painful amount of student loans, and I'm still trying to recover from the fiscal devastation that was my two years as an adjunct. Throw on the potential pregnancy health care charges, and I could easily picture Financial Disaster.

I began to plan for the fiscal apocalypse. How would we survive? I came up with a multi-pronged attack:

• canceling the tv programming
  
• canceling the internet
  
• quitting drinking
  
• never going to Howard's again (which would've saved money yet cost me my soul)
  
• selling my plasma
  
• changing my cuisine to a cat food base
  
• having the delivery in our bath tub
  
• charging admission to said delivery
  

The spousal unit took to researching lower-cost ways of delivery, clinics, pregnancy insurance, and so forth. All I could really think of was having the urchin, struggling until the spousal unit's insurance was reinstated, and then declaring bankruptcy. Earlier, a friend suggested auctioning off naming rights, and there was a part of me which soon began to give it serious consideration.

The financial doom was, though, only a part of it. I really had a problem with the random "out of the blue" nature of this particular terror. This had nothing to do with missed expectations, with personal failings, with any logic or order. It just was a giant ball of misery pelted my direction for no apparent reason.

This morning, after a weekend of agony, I dropped off the spousal unit and stopped by my university's HR department. I put on my best pleading/pathetic/panicking look (which was not an act in the slightest), stated my case, used the word "pregnant" about ten times, and threw myself on their mercy. After frightening me for a little bit, they decided to clear up the paperwork snafu and insure my spousal unit after all.

I cannot begin to describe the level of relief and elation I felt (and still feel). I can think about leading something close to a normal life again. The biggest lesson from this experience? As much as I don't expect logic/mercy/pity, it's amazing how much I can be shaken when the lack of any coherent order is rubbed in my face.

I guess when it comes down to it, I can handle being a loser. Being a victim? I'm not so good with that.

things going on

Whenever our schedules come into some harmonic convergence, the spousal unit and I, in order to save on gas expenses (thus lowering credit card bills and hopefully guiding us one micron closer to clamping down on the higher-than-I-care-to-think-about debts incurred in our student and my adjunct years), ride together to work. While the spousal unit puts the finishing touches on her morning routine, I stumble into the still-dark outside frigidity, crank up the car, turn on the defrost, install my coffee in the cup-holder, and set about scraping the ice off the windows. Then we pack up the car, climb in, turn on the music, and hit the road

Last Thursday, rather than put the mp3 on random, I asked the spousal unit to just pick an album. I sipped my coffee, she scrolled through the list before eventually settling on a selection. A compilation of Lynyrd Skynyrd non-radio songs began to play. I wasn't expecting this. Suddenly, my mind was wandering through reminiscences fractals, wading through iteration after iteration of Skynyrd memories.

As a beginning guitar player, having friends show me the chord structure of "Sweet Home Alabama," while assuring me that, as we lived in Skynyrd's hometown of Jacksonville, this was a mandatory skill.

Sitting in a garage with an acoustic, some fairly drunk friend of my friend's dad insisting "Tuesday's Gone" was a double-time, almost bluegrass number, and that I, by adopting a bluesy approach, was playing it "all wrong and horrible"...all while blowing smoke in my face.

Master guitar player friend sitting in my bedroom, picking up my crappy Japanese strat, and playing "The Ballad of Curtis Loew"...me mesmerized by the dripping tale of an unappreciated artist.

Out on my dad's boat, fishing, radio quietly playing some of the more acoustic Skynyrd, aforementioned master guitar player friend commenting on "the perfect fishing music" as I got snagged in the weeds.

Hearing "Four Walls of Raiford" for the first time, wondering why the radio didn't play some of this awesome stuff instead of sticking to the same five overplayed songs...as this one perfectly captured hopelessness and crushing loneliness.

My brother's guitar player/1957 Cadillac owner telling us about playing in a bar, having someone requesting "Freebird," him making the flicking-the-middle-finger/"here's a free bird" joke, and having the requesting patron throw a 1 1/2" thick glass ashtray across the bar at his head in response.

Coming from Jacksonville, I have particularly complicated relationship with Lynyrd Skynyrd. Yeah, I know that every aspiring musician has to deal with their hometown successes, and I'm sure there are, for instance, a thousand Detroit-area guitar players whose stomach turns when someone requests Bob Seger (as, incidentally, would mine). But for us North Floridians, Skynyrd is a bit different. Pre-Jacksonville Jaguars, Skynyrd is all anyone knows of Jacksonville. And the image they have? Rebel flag-waving, George Wallace-supporting, "Freebird" yelling whiskey drunks. Jacksonville is way more complex than this. Hell, Skynyrd is way more complex than this. But the image, thanks to "Freebird," "Gimme Three Steps," and "Sweet Home Alabama"-obsessed radio programmers, persists. To this day, I have a friend who has, to my face, brought up the "southerners = Lynyrd Skynyrd = Klan members" equation.

I left Lynyrd Skynyrd behind long before I left the South, but eventually, thanks to Drive-By Truckers and a clever "Simple Man" placement in season one of My Name is Earl, I eventually found my way back. But I was living in Ohio by then, in completely different surroundings, a Southerner unrecognizable as such (thanks to my lack of accent). Lacking the Jacksonville context, Skynyrd just became a reminder, just something to occasionally prompt fuzzy nostalgia.

Last Thursday, though, hearing them out of the blue...it was different. The surroundings might've sported snow accents, but the bleakness remained. I was still driving through desolate landscapes (albeit without trees). After I dropped off the spousal unit, I crossed through an industrial zone full of warehouses, and save the cold, could've been on Beaver Street. A certain emptiness and despair entered the surroundings, and my mood altered itself to match. I was struck by how much of "is this all there will ever be to my life?" dug its way into my brain, and how strong was my desire to drown that feeling with whiskey. For the brief drive, Skynyrd became the over-saturated soundtrack of hopelessness, of ashtray-throwing critics, of fishermen and drunks.

Upon reflection, things are very much different for me now. I'm living in a much better place, with much closer friends, doing a job I love instead of merely tolerate, living with my true love instead of dwelling in emptiness. While it's true my life hasn't ended up how I expected, I am intently happy...and if this indeed all there will ever be, I will, 90 times out of 100, be perfectly fine with that.

But for one day, Skynyrd changed that. Hell, it's not even like it was in Lynyrd Skynyrd itself...they're too concerned with money, drugs, and sex...but that's where I saw it anyway. Maybe this says something about me.

I guess next time I should just focus on the endless guitar solos.

new year's tradition?

I've just finished my black-eyed peas & rice, corn bread, and collard greens. It is the traditional menu for a good southern boy to have on New Years. My versions aren't entirely traditional(my collard greens, for instance, are boiled, drained, and sautéed in a ton of olive oil and garlic). However, it's all very tasty, and I like to think I fulfill the tradition aspect well enough by cooking it in the first place in spite of any hangover I may or may not have. Now, all I really have to do to make it a perfect New Year's day is to hang out, watch the Winter Classic, and contemplate the year that was.

This, though, is where my personal traditions fall apart this year.

In many ways, I'm in pretty much the same situation as always. My academic career continues to stagnate, and, by now, I'm pretty sure I will never get that tenure-track job. I'm still living in the middle of the student ghetto, still driving a hand-me-down car, still writing desperately un-hip scholarship for no good reason, still have most of my friends either currently or are soon-to-be scattered throughout the country. I'm partway through another job-hunt year without any response from anyone at all. By all sense of my normal New Year's tradition, I should be sitting here, working through a terrible hangover, desperately trying to think happy thoughts, and doing everything I can to avoid my traditional seasonal depression.

This year, it's different. Although so much of my life is essentially unchanged, for many reasons, I couldn't really be happier.

It has been one hell of a year. Instead of being the guy who perpetually thought of himself as a failed guitar player, I am now in a pretty awesome band that's played out almost a dozen times and should have a cd out in a few months. Instead of being the lonely whiner of my teenage years, I regularly hang out with the best friends imaginable. I have conquered distance: even though one of my best friends left the country, we still hang out, drink, and chat regularly thanks to technology. Instead of having doubts about my academic relevance, I published in a major journal, have another publication coming out this month, and have the best writing I've ever done (which has real revolutionary potential) in circulation. Instead of feeling like I've missed having anything resembling a normal life, I have a child on the way. Hell, even after a 3am New Year's eve, I woke up feeling great

What's led to this joy, this sudden satisfaction with life? Beats me. I wish that I had some secret to impart, some bit of "if you do this, your life will be as awesome as mine" advice to give. Maybe I was just due. Maybe there is some sort of cosmic justice at work...although I doubt it.

I suppose that, as a writer, I would be insistent on finding the deeper meaning, coming to some great insight. Normally, I would...but there's hockey to watch, a food coma to work through, and a spousal unit to look at lovingly.

Enjoy your New Year's Day...it's a long year, and there's always plenty of time for insight later.