I use to be from here

  

Recently I visited my boyhood home town of Roseville, California.  Nestled in the foothills of the Northern Sierra Mountains it was a great place to grow up. At the time of my youth, it was a fledgling stop on Interstate 80 for those driving east from the San Francisco Bay area. They were on their way to go skiing or gamble at the Casino’s in either Lake Tahoe or Reno.

  The town grew, as all towns in ideal locations do. Being on the outskirts of the capital, it was inevitable that Sacramento would eventually blend into Roseville through a series of smaller towns swelling with additional housing developments.  I left Roseville nearly forty years ago and have only recently begun to return to assist with my aging parents.

  Every visit I’m amazed at the raw truth of my no longer being able to navigate the area very successfully.  Never mind the new shops and business’ I am told to fetch needful things from; that’s reasonable to need directing to. But the real kicker is these new businesses are on new roads that had been in my recognition just fields for sheep to graze.  Lead Hill? Where the heck is that? 

  It happened again; I got lost.  I thought I knew how to navigate the new streets towards familiar locations; I was wrong. Once more I’m faced with trolling until I see a road sign I recognize “Oh Taylor, OK, now I know where I am” yet, most often I have to stop at a gas station and wear my tourist mantle saying

   “I’m not from here, how do you get to my mommy’s? ..er…the Galleria, yeah, there.” 

  Each time there’s a pinch of embarrassment.  Shouldn’t I know my home town?  I use to chide myself for this new grown-up-getting-feeble process of memory impairment; this before I’m sixty no less?  Inferior genes I suppose. Le Sigh.

  On the shuttle taking me from the airport to Roseville, I shared the ride with others who live there.  We struck up a conversation and I mentioned my getting lost every time I come back for a visit.  The woman sitting next to me told me to not feel so bad, she moved there back in 2005 and still gets lost.

She was right of course, get your act together lady, this should have been resolved for you in seven friggin years. (compassionate aren’t I?)  I can’t fault myself for forgetting the main roads when others have taken their place.  I pointed out how much of the real was just empty when I was a boy.  Internally it made me chuckle because, isn’t that always the case with

change?  New replacing the old I mean.  Don’t agree?  Look into the eyes of a toddler and I’d bet you see a glimmer of something of someone you once held dear.  There seems to always be a bit of the old in the shimmer of the new.

  Maybe that’s the sentimental me.  Maybe it is a case of my practiced becoming a lost-wandering-old-fart.  If it’s the case, I’m here to report

I’m making great progress.

Another Wave on the Ocean

Another wave on the Ocean

Another heavenly body in the sky

It’s said, for a dog, every day is an adventure

 I retrace the steps that brought me to where I am

I am called to wonder 

where my adventures would have led me

If I had followed a different star

Swam a different ocean

Said yes to an invitation I declined

They passed me by, without remorse

Or recrimination

they did not alter

The hue

I have become

Just Stop Complaining

  It’s been said that complaining is the pastime of those who perceive themselves powerless.  I could go into great depth concerning perception and self deception; but the point of this topic is why would anyone intentionally accept the notion that they have no power to make changes in their own situation?

  Well there are lots of reasons for complaining, as for today I’ll only address a few.  Overall I believe that most of us do not want others to consider us as a whiney-hiney.  So I think most people, when they complain about particular objects or situations, what they’re really trying to do is vent.

    Venting one’s frustration with the challenge of a life puzzle can relieve the mounting pressure being felt.  Sometimes we just need to blow off steam by expressing ourselves.  Women do this a lot to their male significant others who mistakenly think it’s a call for fixing.  Yet, there is another pervasive reason for complaining, and one I believe is more compelling for the practice  and is far more common; ego face saving.  The reflex to complain happens as an emotional push to a sense of being wronged.   

When we are frustrated by feeling that things are not ‘fair’ or that we somehow were misjudged, or giving a raw deal, we take action to validate our bruised egos.  We seek this validation by complaining in the hopes that someone will respond with “I know how you feel, I’d be frustrated too.”  Hearing that can be like a healing salve; it validates the sense of entitled position of special.

     Now there’s plenty of literature out there on how to put a positive spin on complaining.  First and foremost is the necessity to acknowledge that the ‘injured’ ego is playing a game seeking to ensnare others into its racket.  We complain because it works.  Others come to our aid; potential solutions are offered, even if most are rejected; and best of all, the complainer gets what they really really REALLY want.

Attention. (agreement if they can fetch it too)

  The down side of complaining is how the formula works.  If you want to surrender your welfare to others by complaining, then the rescuer may do better than you; they may also do far worse.  After all who knows better what you want than you?  Whether you are successful at finding a hero to save you is immaterial because the truth of embracing the approach is you become a slave to whomever steps up to fix your very specific complaint.  Just as a child is subject to the authority of a parent, whoever complains is advertising to become a prisoner of another’s whims.  I think that contract may not always be clear to the casual observer, but to those who have gotten less than what they wanted by those who took charge may consider these words reminiscent of a heavy-hearted disappointment when they practiced complaining as a coping tool in the world of their unknown.

  Complaining is a practiced habit of powerlessness. Oh, and complaining is nowhere near the same as protesting or objecting.  The last two are the fundamental rights of every mature human being willing to attempt to shape their environment to their liking.  Negotiation is always welcomed among the brave souls who dare accept the consequences of their effort.  With or without…permission.

The Overwhelming Obligation

  It’s not that I have any unwritten obligation to blog every day.  As a matter of course, the promise I made to myself (and let me alert you to the fact I rarely make promises of any kind) but in this case, perhaps I should say ‘vow’ or ‘commitment’ or even, ‘pledge’ to post a thought, comment, idea once a day for a year; now that the year as come and gone I allow myself to be distracted with tasks, chores, and obligations.

  And that’s the theme for today.  Obligations orbit our lives without comment.  Like the moon, we can easily identify it without difficulty.  Yet, obligations are deception and a handmaiden to guilt; which is another useless energy vampire.  But today, let me stay on obligation because it is so silkily seductive.  It goes like this:  What was yesterday’s favor, is today’s expectation, and tomorrow’s obligation.  Much like weeds, when we let past actions go unchallenged we unwittingly sign on for more of the same; in the Army we called it the ‘silence is consent’ understanding.  Say, out of sympathy for the widow next door, having just learned of the loss of her husband, you see their yard needs attention badly, so you go over on the weekend and you mow her lawn.  Well guess what?  When you don’t go do it the following week, you’ll be held in contempt.  Why? Well because you fostered an expectation of continued service of course.  Oh and don’t even try to resort to ‘I never said’ defense; especially to a poor widow, you swine.  No, you are obligated to continue to mow that lawn because you made the gesture, (albeit out of compassion) but you did the dreaded good deed.  Another saying from the Army I might add, and appropriately so is:  No good deed goes unpunished.

  Wait a minute.  We’re supposed to honor our obligations, aren’t we?  Sure enough we’re encouraged to make steady-monthly-payments to retire that 30 year mortgage.  Yupper, 360 monthly installments to pay triple for that house; (not including the necessity of replacing the roof several times during those 30 years, along with the water heater, probably several times, the furnace, garbage disposal, paint, and probably replace the windows as well.  So sure, obligations help other people just find-and-dandy.  But to the obliged, it’s a living hell that keeps on giving.  There are countless underpinning prods to keep us on the straight and narrow of obligations as well.  The guilt of personal responsibility unfulfilled is the weapon given for the individual to whip themselves with; and we’re also counseled to do that adequately until we get-right with our obligations.  We’re told not to abandon family, (even if they’ve done lots to earn abandoning)  We’re advised to ‘stick out’ bad relationships under the hope that the abuse will someday subside; and its recommended that we stay the course in what would otherwise be a failed-and useless effort to breathe life into a losing proposition such as a job where we’re under paid; under-appreciated, and most likely held in open contempt.  We’re even told to accept a bosshole as a necessary evil for the paycheck to pay that 30 year obligation on the house; when did accepting humiliation as a replacement for self respect ever come out as good counsel?  Because we don’t have alternatives?

Hardly.

Why all of this?  Yellow freaking fear; as Tom Hanks would say in Joe Versus the Volcano.  We are afraid.   We tell ourselves we’re afraid of the consequences of our actions than to follow our better judgment; but what we’re actually afraid of is punishment.  And here’s the really, sad part.  It’s the punishment we heap on ourselves for not living up to a demanding, stringent, inflexible standard that we can’t even recall how we adopted them as our values.  We’re afraid of being inadequate to a personal standard we hold for ourselves to meet, knowing all along we can never meet it.  Because that standard is perfection; strive as we will, and struggle for all we are worth to reach it, we know we never can; and the judge in our head reminds us that we never will. 

  So we play the game with ourselves making promises and performing on obligations because we are deathly afraid of the alternative; which is living free, and that is the worst of nightmares.  Why? Because with that freedom comes responsibility.  The judge in our head is the best deceiver of them all.  The voice tells us that we will be punished, but the threat is empty.

Like any promise we make for the future obligation that doesn’t exist.

The Fatal Glass of Beer

  My father was a big W.C. Fields fan; one of his favorite films was the 1934 rendition called The Fatal Glass of Beer. A gag that became a WC Fields trademark was the scene of when he looked out the door and Said, “It’s an unfit night for man or beast” then got a handful of fake snow tossed into his face. Every so often, as the plot developed, he’d go back to the front door, open it, then while looking out at the weather say the same thing; with each time getting a face full of snow. It became funnier each time, while it grew intriguing to see what would happen the next time; the beauty of it became known as the running gag.

  Growing up I conjectured the meaning of the fatal glass of beer meant if one were to follow their vices, eventually one more helping, such as a single glass of beer, would be the final tip to bring the accumulated failings crashing down. But I had mixed my idioms. The ideal I was thinking of was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and that is from an Arabic proverb concerning how when a camel is loaded beyond its capacity to move or stand something as slight as a straw can surpass the limits of endurance.
  It was only recently I remembered my dad walking around the house from time to time saying, “It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast;” And just where that came from. Anyway, I followed those bread crumbs to the lyrics of the song that helped make that film a comedy classic. I thought I’d share them for their antiquated charm. As well as my inserted comments:

Fatal Glass of Beer

(From Helen Ramsay, printed in Shay's More Pious Friends etc.

Recorded by W. C. Fields.)

There was a young man, and he came to New York

To find himself a lucrative position befitting his talents.

And he hunted all the Employment Agencies, but was nearly starved

to death,When at last he got a job in a stone quarry with all the other

college graduates. (seems like this graduating from college to find no job waiting is nothing new.)

And after work was done, they lured him into a saloon,And tempted him to drink a glass of beer.

But he'd promised his Dear Old Mother that he never would imbibe

That he'd never touch his Lips to a glass containing Liquor.

They laughed at him and Jeered, and they called him a cow-yard

Till at last he clutched and drained that glass of beer.

When he saw what he had did, he dashed his glass upon the floor,

And staggered out the door with Delirium Tremens. ( I had to look this up, it’s Latin for ‘shaking frenzy’ also referred to as the DT’s Or the horrors of withdrawal from alcohol firs described in 1813.)

And the first person that he met was a Salvation Army Lass,

And with one blow he broke her tambourine!

When she saw what he had did, she placed a mark upon his brow

With a kick that she had learned before she was sav-ed.

And the moral of this tale is to shun that fatal glass,

And don't go around breaking other peoples' tambourines.

Alas the moral of any good story remains true: actions have consequences.

Our Friends

“It's all very well to tell us to forgive our enemies; our enemies can never hurt us very much. But oh, what about forgiving our friends?”
― Willa Cather, My Mortal Enemy

  I received a text message on Sunday, “Happy Fathers Day” send by a phone number that wasn’t in my contact list.  So I responded with appreciations and asked,

“Who is this?”

  The following message said it was from someone who use to salute me, but also had always respected me. But mostly, it went on to say, someone who considered me his friend.

  I was more than touched, when he told me who it was I was surprised, but not shocked.  We had a long association through the Army that stretched over decades, and we always interacted in a friendly manner.  So I pondered, what makes us consider another ‘friend’ and not a fond acquaintance?  It struck me the defining difference was the moment of care when there was no profit.  Over the years we tipped one another off on developments and situations we discovered.  Some were useful; others served as great caution of avoidance.  As our careers progressed we went in different directions, but continued to cross paths from time to time; the most recent on a college campus.  We both attended the same university and literally ran into one another in a causeway. Perhaps fate had bound us to the same road, and if I were to subscribe to that sort of metaphysical dabbling, it’d be ok by me, because he has grown into a friend.  I believe his concern is real; as I am concerned for his welfare.  I’ve had a lot of friends over the years I thought would be with me for the duration; but I was in error.  Ours was a comfortable alliance of convenience.  When those bonds were tested, when the reason for us to commune failed to remain, we no longer held close.  I consider that experience a great growing lesson into value.  Loss will do that.  It will hone awareness to the point of identifying quality when it is present.  Never loud and boisterous, but subtle and kind….like an expression of appreciation; I can get use to that sound of genuine…it is true music to my ears.

Altered by Life

In a recent drama we were watching, two of the main characters were discussing their past; and what made them choose their professions.  One of them spoke of a story of pain and betrayal.  They chose to hide in a profession of servitude.  The one listening said,

“life had altered you.” 

  I was touched by the clarity and the broad application of that observation, far beyond the tale.

  We spend a lot of time in our routines and rituals, and that’s fine, it’s part of the never ending quest for comfort.  Having some degree of certainty and reliability calms our fears about the unknown.  Oft as not, we can get a sense of fulfilled prediction when observing our pets; who by nature, are routine oriented creatures.  Even when they expect to eat at a particular time; or go out to do their business at a specific time, they are keen to adjust to the moment when events demand changes to that routine. It’s good to see a flexible disposition.

  Our little Bichon, Oscar, has this ability to stare at his mama with total-absorbed-adoration; something we here in this household refer to as being in the Oscar Zone.  What that translates to is his being in the present moment behavior with total commitment; it becomes irresistibly contagious. 

“I want that kind of focus”

  When Oscar is watching Montse, nothing distracts him from his total immersion into the glory of his wonder.  I like seeing that, as I also know such a state is a private experience; one I aspire to visit, and linger in.  The ideal becomes apparent to me where applying that attitude to all aspects of daily life invokes this natural salve of humor:

  Experts tell us laughing is good for our health.  It provides Endorphins to relieve stress; laughter takes lung capacity that opens up oxygen pathways to enrich the blood feeding our vital organs.  It dispels our worry and lifts our attitudes of well-being.  Short version: Oscar’s moments of adoration makes us laugh.  I’ll not go into the power of perception so much today as to say, that is the key that unlocks the door to our potential.  We’ve come to the point that when one of us is ranting about a complaint over a particular situation beyond our control the other softly suggest.

“Come with me to the Oscar zone”

And we have a good laugh.  Just one more benefit we get from inviting that little guy to share or living moments. 

We Will Wear You Down

  So I get this Email from Wells Fargo Digital Channels Group Fraud Operations telling me they would like to verify some recent activity on my account.  They also, in their helpful way, informed me that my Wells Fargo accounts(s) are being protected from unauthorized access by restricting my online access.

  They give me an 800 number to call and discuss this in further detail along with specific time they would talk to me; by the way the restricted access will remain in effect until I comply with their ‘suggestion’.

  Firstly, I was suspicious because I’ve heard the horror stories of fake email messages used to steal identities; so I went to the Wells Fargo page and called the 800 number posted on the verifiable web page. 

  I got the computer robo prompter.  It asked me for my account number, which sheepishly I couldn’t remember. So I had to talk to a human being, which was fine by me.  The ‘banker’ on the phone asked a number of identity verifying questions;  last four of my social security; my on-line ID for my account; weight of an gold atom; things like that.  Then the all sacred, ‘What is your ATM PIN number?”  I said I don’t have one, (which I don’t.) 

  That shut down the process.  I was told I would have to go into a brick and mortar bank and present identification to one of the bank officers to prove who I was.  I was not happy about the prospect, but after I cooled down I complied.

  I was surprised there were so many people in a bank on a beautiful Saturday morning.  When it was my turn, I was led to a bank officer. Diamond Daniels is a friendly young banker at our local Wells Fargo Bank. She helped me with placing the call to the computer robo who would route us to a real-live-banker; contrary to assumptions they too have to face down the computer prompter.  They were told my story and tried to transfer me to a representative for on-line banking. The On-line banking representative asked me the very same request for information I gave to Ms Daniels, who also gave to the robo-computer-prompter.  So I told my tale to the representative who promptly gave me a temporary password to get back on my account:  it didn’t work.  They gave me another password, it too did not work.  They then asked me for my ATM PIN number, I again told them I don’t have one.  Their resolution was to transfer me to the Fraud Squad.  We were put on hold and I suspect Diamond is still listening to musak to this very day.  I told her I had to leave, it was the weekend and I had chores to do.

  The following work day I called the Fraud Squad number (no longer fearing fraud) and got the computer that asked me my account number (fortunately Diamond fetched that for me) I entered it.  Then it asked me for my ATM PIN number.  It would not respond to “I don’t have one” and transferred me to a live banker.  The Banker asked me for my name, account number and on line name.  I tell her my tale of woe and she assures me she can help, and gives me a temporary password:  It didn’t work.  I told her this happened on Saturday with a real-live-in-the-bank person. She decides to transfer me to an on-line-banker who wants the same information I’ve given five bankers.  I cut her off with my story and that telling her my information won’t help, just connect me to the Fraud Squad.  She transfers me.  I wait…then the robo-computer tells me I can’t get through and cuts me off.

It’s been a week and I still can’t get into my account.

This is not fiction.

The Real Deal

I had not forgiven her for leaving

I dodged the pain

trying to ease my suffering

with reasons

about her

It never made sense.

So many parts were missing

until I accepted the truth;

we all try to love

the best we're able 

Some things take a while to accept

It’s quicker with surrender

And that’s not in the least

Similar to resignation

Recovery

It's true...

I've begun to rewrite. 

I've often pondered 'What happened to the fire; the innocence?’  Life is the page turner, and as much as we'd love to linger, we are compelled to continue.

    Perhaps it was the changes? I wondered...did my voice find a different avenue?  An accomplished acquaintance told me that my writing was affected.  It took me years to understand, perhaps even to the point of me delving into the psychology of how we humans think and then feel.

Affected, in psychology is defined as feelings.... I remember clearly I suspected a subtle insult when I was told my writing was possessed; and in that I felt the tug of inadequate.  I smile to reclaim the ability to feel; then convey.  Knowing as I do enjoyment in the journey; I thought I'd pass some changes along...

A Heartbeat Tale

In an effort to quell any suspicion to heart’s misgivings he whispered

  "My love for you has no limits"

She smiled, brightening to the ideal, she replied

  "Now you're being redundant"

Passionately locking fingers they drew nearer,

laughing heartedly through the fog of their fearful delusion. 

Resident Expert

  I was reading a blogger the other day and she advocated blogging until you find your niche.  Her point of view was that of becoming an expert on a topic that you love, or come to love; then distribute what you know about the topic to the questioning world.  That lay heavy on my heart for the rest of the evening and into the morning; mainly because I had been blogging for over a year and I was not dedicated to linking to sources in order to persuade others that I was right.  My bias is slinking into this post as I pound out the words.  My rebellion with the notion of ‘being right’ and citing a host of other authors who may be correct in their research about other writers doing research on …um…researchers, only goes to prove a point I’ve long ago discovered to be prevailing.

It depends.

  My background in science tells me that research produces results which gets studies published.  There are no peer reviewed articles on what doesn’t work.  There are no published papers on how a study didn’t obtain the results sought after by the researcher.  Those studies die a quiet death and are never seen from again; something my professor Dr Goldman and I agreed on as being sad and loss to the science community because it forces all studies to reinvent the wheel under the auspiciousness of trying to be unbiased.)  So I have been seasoned to accept that all research, no matter how exacting, obtains the results implied in the research objective statement.  Just as statistics can be manipulated to say whatever the statistician wants the numbers to mean; the facts can be aligned under stringent enough conditions to become irrefutable (under the conditions they are examined under).  So the whole notion of becoming ‘an expert’ on any topic can become an invitation into a point of view prison.  The endeavor to know all things about a subject can serve to lock a person who invest so much of their time and energy into a concept to see only the derived point of view under the lenses of always; they believe to the level of faith.  And like all faiths, is subject to rigid adherence along with resistance to any information that does not support its sacred trusted tenants.

  Yet, I can see need all around me; more to the point, I see the state of lack. Blogs from childcare to garden care; from best paint to use in the Arctic to best movies in the summer, and yes, ample blogs on how to blog.  So what’s my beef?  I guess it’s the notion that everything has to serve a purpose.  Endeavors must provide the reader with a plethora of citations and links in order to convince.  Why must we be inundated with so much effort to convince?  Is the prevailing need to be proven right so consuming that the fun of investigation has been beaten out of an opinion by anxiety of being judged?  On the flip side, there’s an army of intolerance just champing at the bait to not just debunk said effort; they get personal in accusations and slander about the authors family origin. Who would willingly wade into that kind of firestorm but a soul desperately seeking acceptance?

   Causes have their effect; have we lost the true nature of exploration? The joy of discovery?  Replacing possibilities with punishment is such a poor substitute for living well. Somewhere the notion of being wrong means flawed person who should be punished? Who deserves to be punished? Ours is a bullying society, and anyone who focuses on just child bullying is missing the message being sent; whose behavior teaches kids social behavior first?  Maybe I’m jumping to a conclusion; something about need to be right sets me in that mood.  I don’t want to be right; I want to connect; even if that’s by rambling about my puppy or butterflies.  That doesn’t mean I’m not interested in conveying a point of view, or I don’t take problems seriously, I do.  

  I am just not buying into the need to be an expert before I mention what charms me.  I’ve no evidence to prove my opinion beyond my personal experience. My objective is far more obvious ~ let’s share what we think; what we feel. Confident in the premise: You be you and I’ll be me; as I don’t have to make you wrong, for me to be right

For me.

A Livable Parable

  The message remains the same; the messenger, the textual language, the stage on which it resurfaces shifts in frequency and volume; so that some receive its affect.

While others; hear only noise.

  It has been this way, since time immortal.

When you change your thoughts

  you change your beliefs

When you change your beliefs

  you change your expectations

When you change your expectations

  you change your attitude

When you change your attitude

  you change your behavior

When you change your behavior

  you change your performance

When you change your performance

  you change your life

                            ~ Dr. Walter Doyle Staples

Puppy Progress

Oh and that cute little passive puppy? 

  It's like a re-enactment of Gremlins where they eat after midnight!  I don't know what got into him last night but destructor dog arose...miniature version. Racing, grabbing, growling murderously, the whole nine yards of wild and crazy guy. We had to resort to time out in the cage; once I capture him by diving at the flashing fur.  He's better today...for now.  

  Reading on the web it was suggested that if they don't get enough exercise they can go berserk from time to time. I've considered making a little doggie shovel and have him dig trenches out back today.  At one time he was dragging the day bed three times his size across the room, all the while earnestly trying to tear holes into it. The cats watched with awe ignited alarm from the top of the recliner muttering

   "I'm not going down there, you go down there.  I'm not going down there YOU go down there"

  I believe the pecking order in the home has been firmly established; crazy trumps numbers ev-ery time.

Herding Cats

An Idiom I’ve grown fond of recently is comparing my efforts to herding cats; where controlling something that is pretty much uncontrollable or chaotic is similar to that; implying it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, because the factors are unpredictable; such as the nature and behavior of cats.

  I was then going to launch into bemoaning my contrition with not getting my way with a particularly troublesome institution.  I realized almost immediately that my example was not unique to individuals interacting with computerized customer service; and that specific events are not uniquely a single company experience, but rather has become the standard of all businesses.  

I understand running a business is about managing productivity and being efficient; yet there needs to be a balance so the process of being productive and profitable is not totally annoying the heck out of customers.  If I ever run for an elected office, I will offer up as my platform a resolution to burn down all phone trees. Having to listen to dozens of department options that don’t even remotely come close to solving problems is just too taxing for the average issue; or there again, screaming replies to a question four times only to have a false-calm reply of

   “I’m sorry I did not understand your answer”

  right before it disconnects you in order to afford opportunity to start all over again; I mean really, that is just unadulterated aggravation.  Such an experience turns most people into emotionally disturbed citizens who most likely take it out on fellow-innocent citizens in traffic; tuff luck for you bucko, I just got reamed by the bank robo-operator.

   So I’m going to decline ranting about automated computer call screening; along with delaying tactics of seemingly alive-and-breathing inept and rather-stupid customer service representatives who answer the phone.  I can either embrace there are an inordinate number of lead-paint eating babies who survived to adulthood, and who then obtained work in the customer service field, as also a great spin of happenstance brings them into proximity to be talking to yours truly. Still, I can also embrace my paranoid delusions that companies spend big bucks on scripting their phone programs and coaching their representatives on tactics to frustrate me off the phone in order to delay cancelling my account due to frustration; resulting in an additional day of revenue for them for doing nothing.

My point, for the day, Skulley, is that just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  Here’s the real benefit for bringing this up:  I have the magical, mystical opportunity to not take it personal.  Going through such frustrations is yet another exercise towards the real.  What makes any situation difficult to deal with is the conflict between that which is actual and that which is expected.  When I allow my entitlement to rule, I am in the realm of expectation, ultimately being disappointed; my choice.  This was driven home when after being frustrated at home by the bank phone computer who suggest I go to a branch office and obtain the help of a branch officer discover, when I follow those directions, said bank officer is put through the very same electronic gauntlet of being upset and frustrated as this customer;  in short, it felt good to see people working for this insane outfit get the same treatment as the people it fleeces.  Yes, revenge is best served up cold.  And preferably

At the Bank of origin.

Freelance Blogger

  I get update announcements from a write job blog that keeps me appraised to what is being asked for in the writing market.  Most of them don’t apply to me, so I usually skim the list:  Freelance Celebrity/Fashion writers wanted; Freelance Editorial Contributors for local visitor guides, such as San Francisco; Fashion Blogger, Beauty Blogger, Web Copy Writer for veterinary website, and the list goes on.  For me, it’s just subterfuge antic for marketing that has very little to do with the creative process of writing.  Oh sure, one can convince oneself that with the right perspective creating copy to sell soap, butter, and feminine protection requires an artistic effort, as well as convincing oneself that doing it also serves the public and provides for the wants and needs of a family.  I’ve also visited convicts at Draper Prison in Alabama and every one of them I spoke with had prevailing, logical, and compelling reasons why they had no choice but do the crime; right up until they got caught.  So yes, I could deceive myself into thinking that writing copy for marketing efforts is in any way related to creative writing.  And Satan doesn’t lie; he just renders an alternate perspective.

One must have standards.

  The other day I saw an ad for a position as Assistant Nutritionist at a local school.  The job was actually a Cafeteria Cook.  What’s with the relabeling?  A Salesman is now an Account Executive. I don’t know why deception has become so popular?

 But the ones that really get me are the teasers.  “Firm seeks writer to pen 100-200 word blog entries and post them in two locations. (I can do that!) Up to five blog entries per month (oh the pure joy of no assembly line production pressure).  Post based on content from various web sites, independent research by blogger, or provided by the firm. (I’m a little suspicious now because what is provided by the firm often is a non-negotiable MUST, and no I don’t want to write about the mating habits of turtles or the fictional benefits of using a personal grooming product.) But the clincher is then revealed; Applicants must live in Denver area. Oh big-fat-hairy-non-starter!!

Well, back to herding turkeys.