WEAR MY ASS AS A HAT
I'm listening to King Crimson.
I'm drinking a glass of Shipyard Export Ale (from Shipyard Brewing Co. in Maine). It's deep gold in color, and it's wonderfully smooth and balanced. Notes of pine and butter, followed by a nice hop snap.
Now, it's Elvis ("Spanish Eyes").
Well, I've come to a much belated decision. I'm quitting one of my jobs. It's a particularly miserable job at a certain shipping company that uses brown trucks. I'm always hesitant to quit a job because I'm a cowardly routine addict. I've suffered before as a result of this disease, and it's a cruel malady indeed. It also made me stay in some shitty relationships out of some feeling of loyalty.
Anyway, working my ass off before the sun comes up every morning without any satisfaction is not my gig. Hard work is great. Being a cog in a machine is quite another matter. I couldn't even spend any quality time with my wife during the week.
I won't get into the details of why it sucked so bad, at least not beyond a few key points:
1)shitty schedule
2)only 20-25 hours a week, so I have to work another job
3)the management's absolute indifference to employees' misery
4)conscientiousness and attention to detail are drawbacks if they slow your production
5)you get to see a printout of how you fail to meet expectations every day
6)I already sprained my lumbar once. I don't know about you, but I wasn't very enamored of needing my wife to take my shoes off for me.
Now, I will be even more impecunious than ever. I will have more time to search for jobs that don't exist. More importantly, I will make breakfast for Lindsey each morning, and send her off to work with her tea. I will do crazy things like go for walks and write and read. Until now, my hobbies have been primarily sleeping and eating junk food (no time or energy to cook real food), along with spending money on crap I don't need just to divert myself from the problem.
I am excited. Being poor sucks, but I was a grumpy son of a bitch at these two jobs, and still pretty poor. Now I can braise pork shoulders for hours and hours and hours, and maybe brew beer.
By the way, I'm just not showing up tomorrow at work. It's a shitty thing to do, and I wasn't brought up that way, but fuck 'em. I have my reasons. I said, "If something doesn't change, I won't be back on Monday." I was blown off by my supervisors (they are brainwashed, stupid, or they simply like their jobs - maybe all three). If I gave two weeks' notice, they'd probably make me train my successor which is a big pain in the ass. Several people told me that I was a rarity in that particular work area, in that I was the only one that hadn't quit. I guess that says something about me. Hopefully it's an admirable trait somewhere.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
BUCOLIC NASCAR COUNTRY
Few things are more welcome than that elusive agreement of mood and surroundings. It's great to be content where you are. This occurred over the past few days, a period of time that some call Memorial Day weekend.
A three-day weekend, first of all, is the shit. I've never appreciated time off work so much as I do now. I love to get away from The Sorrow Mines.
Lindsey and I left Raleigh Friday evening. I had worked both jobs, so I was worthless and unmotivated. We shoved some stuff in our bags and got in the car. Traffic sucked.
Hey, North Carolina Drivers:
1) There's a slow lane and a fast lane, not just two slow lanes.
2) Stop tailgating me.
Hey, All Drivers:
1) If you slow down to stare at an accident, you should have your eyes gouged out.
2) How do you feel about having that cellular phone shoved into your rectum sideways?
Anyway, it was still a hell of a lot better than San Diego traffic. We arrived at our destination in Davidson, NC. It is a condo on Lake Norman. Things got a whole hell of a lot better.
Lindsey and I found ourselves sitting in Adirondack chairs on the sand, sipping wine in the company of her excellent parents and their excellent neighbors. The sunset was, well -- I was in the mood for it. The clouds, minute by minute, kindled themselves into a sky-filling swirl of colors that have no names. Orange, pink, red and yellow won't quite do. It was finished in fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. The sipping and talking continued.
I awoke the next morning to sweet rolls and a complete lack of work. I luxuriously drank dozens of cups of coffee while sitting on the patio watching ducks, ospreys and boats. I made an omelet for Hub, my father-in-law. I paddled around aimlessly in the kayak, and I didn't capsize. The day continued like the curves of a woman lying in a hammock. Swimming, eating, drinking, sand between the toes. Phil, a neighbor, was the recipient of a surprise birthday party that evening. Food, alcohol and conversation abounded. Everyone was nice, and I met new people. My miserable skill at retaining names is less of a problem around nice people. A bit of rain interrupted, but without much effect.
The next day dawned, and yet more coffee met its demise. I watched Hub fly his radio-controlled airplane. Phil, the birthday boy, set two full coolers out behind his patio. He said that a great deal of beer was left. It was still ice cold, and he insisted that I help my self to as much as I wanted. Such rotten luck! A veritable ocean of Heineken, Guinness and numerous other refreshments. We amused ourselves with a sailboat that had washed up in a previous storm. With a little work and scavenging, it was seaworthy (tame lakeworthy, to be more precise). Swimming and shopping occupied the day, and even work made an appearance, albeit in a friendly guise: wallpaper stripping. Hub and Andie are redecorating. I sipped beer all day. My eyes moisten with happy tears at the mere recollection of it.
I cooked dinner that evening. Cooking for a willing audience is one of my very favorite activities. Here's the rundown:
I puréed some fresh pineapple with soy sauce, onion, ketchup and pepper. A bit of oil, too, I think. I poured this goo over sliced pineapple and boneless pork chops. I marinated it for four hours.
I baked some sweet potatoes, wrapped in foil.
I heated up the grill and soaked some mesquite chunks in water.
I quartered some zucchini lengthwise.
I put all the marinade goo in a saucepan and heated it up to a slow bubble.
I put a metal smoking pan in the lava rocks and grilled the pineapple and zucchini.
The smoke was coming on strong, and I moved the produce to the upper rack. I grilled the pork chops. I toasted some ciabatta on the grill, too. We dined on the patio, overlooking the sparkling lake.
I served the bubbling goo on the side as a pineappley, salty barbecue sauce. We slit the wrinkled skins of the sweet potatoes to reveal their orange flesh. Andie served a bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a tasty bottle (not too buttery, nice and dignified). The pineapple slurry did its job; the swine was nice and tender.
Later, when we regained the power of movement, we made s'mores. I continued to sip complimentary beer. My inner cheapskate, glutton and wino were all content.
Anyway, this briefly summarizes a very satisfactory weekend. Not much was anything but divine. My inept attempt at giving Lindsey a sailboat ride comes to mind (Aeolus, the god of winds, did not wish us to get further than fifteen feet from our point of departure). Hub and Andie's incomprehensible differences of opinion about drapes were only amusing. Something about seams. The moral(s) of the story:
1)This blog is not all bitching.
2)Free beer is terrific.
3)Work sucks, and you should do what you can to avoid it.
Few things are more welcome than that elusive agreement of mood and surroundings. It's great to be content where you are. This occurred over the past few days, a period of time that some call Memorial Day weekend.
A three-day weekend, first of all, is the shit. I've never appreciated time off work so much as I do now. I love to get away from The Sorrow Mines.
Lindsey and I left Raleigh Friday evening. I had worked both jobs, so I was worthless and unmotivated. We shoved some stuff in our bags and got in the car. Traffic sucked.
Hey, North Carolina Drivers:
1) There's a slow lane and a fast lane, not just two slow lanes.
2) Stop tailgating me.
Hey, All Drivers:
1) If you slow down to stare at an accident, you should have your eyes gouged out.
2) How do you feel about having that cellular phone shoved into your rectum sideways?
Anyway, it was still a hell of a lot better than San Diego traffic. We arrived at our destination in Davidson, NC. It is a condo on Lake Norman. Things got a whole hell of a lot better.
Lindsey and I found ourselves sitting in Adirondack chairs on the sand, sipping wine in the company of her excellent parents and their excellent neighbors. The sunset was, well -- I was in the mood for it. The clouds, minute by minute, kindled themselves into a sky-filling swirl of colors that have no names. Orange, pink, red and yellow won't quite do. It was finished in fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. The sipping and talking continued.
I awoke the next morning to sweet rolls and a complete lack of work. I luxuriously drank dozens of cups of coffee while sitting on the patio watching ducks, ospreys and boats. I made an omelet for Hub, my father-in-law. I paddled around aimlessly in the kayak, and I didn't capsize. The day continued like the curves of a woman lying in a hammock. Swimming, eating, drinking, sand between the toes. Phil, a neighbor, was the recipient of a surprise birthday party that evening. Food, alcohol and conversation abounded. Everyone was nice, and I met new people. My miserable skill at retaining names is less of a problem around nice people. A bit of rain interrupted, but without much effect.
The next day dawned, and yet more coffee met its demise. I watched Hub fly his radio-controlled airplane. Phil, the birthday boy, set two full coolers out behind his patio. He said that a great deal of beer was left. It was still ice cold, and he insisted that I help my self to as much as I wanted. Such rotten luck! A veritable ocean of Heineken, Guinness and numerous other refreshments. We amused ourselves with a sailboat that had washed up in a previous storm. With a little work and scavenging, it was seaworthy (tame lakeworthy, to be more precise). Swimming and shopping occupied the day, and even work made an appearance, albeit in a friendly guise: wallpaper stripping. Hub and Andie are redecorating. I sipped beer all day. My eyes moisten with happy tears at the mere recollection of it.
I cooked dinner that evening. Cooking for a willing audience is one of my very favorite activities. Here's the rundown:
I puréed some fresh pineapple with soy sauce, onion, ketchup and pepper. A bit of oil, too, I think. I poured this goo over sliced pineapple and boneless pork chops. I marinated it for four hours.
I baked some sweet potatoes, wrapped in foil.
I heated up the grill and soaked some mesquite chunks in water.
I quartered some zucchini lengthwise.
I put all the marinade goo in a saucepan and heated it up to a slow bubble.
I put a metal smoking pan in the lava rocks and grilled the pineapple and zucchini.
The smoke was coming on strong, and I moved the produce to the upper rack. I grilled the pork chops. I toasted some ciabatta on the grill, too. We dined on the patio, overlooking the sparkling lake.
I served the bubbling goo on the side as a pineappley, salty barbecue sauce. We slit the wrinkled skins of the sweet potatoes to reveal their orange flesh. Andie served a bottle of La Crema Chardonnay, a tasty bottle (not too buttery, nice and dignified). The pineapple slurry did its job; the swine was nice and tender.
Later, when we regained the power of movement, we made s'mores. I continued to sip complimentary beer. My inner cheapskate, glutton and wino were all content.
Anyway, this briefly summarizes a very satisfactory weekend. Not much was anything but divine. My inept attempt at giving Lindsey a sailboat ride comes to mind (Aeolus, the god of winds, did not wish us to get further than fifteen feet from our point of departure). Hub and Andie's incomprehensible differences of opinion about drapes were only amusing. Something about seams. The moral(s) of the story:
1)This blog is not all bitching.
2)Free beer is terrific.
3)Work sucks, and you should do what you can to avoid it.
Friday, May 28, 2004
3:04 am Eastern Time
I am tired. I'm burned out on this UPS job. I applied for a real job again yesterday, and I am hopeful. That's probably foolish, but you only live once.
More important, however, is onion foccacia. I made a batch of pizza dough from The Best Recipe, an invaluable cookbook from the editors of Cook's Illustrated Magazine. While it was rising, I sweated an onion in one of my black, shiny iron skillets. I formed the dough into a 1" thick pizza crust sort of oblong. I smeared the onions all over it. I applied salt, pepper and parmiggiano. I slid it onto my thoroughly preheated (425°) pizza stone and baked it for 25 minutes. I flashed it with the broiler at the end to give the onions a bit more color (an easy way to ruin stuff, so never walk away). This foccacia was then topped with pulled pork (see below), and Cottonwood Endo IPA washed it down. Lovely.
Now, I must go to work.
I am tired. I'm burned out on this UPS job. I applied for a real job again yesterday, and I am hopeful. That's probably foolish, but you only live once.
More important, however, is onion foccacia. I made a batch of pizza dough from The Best Recipe, an invaluable cookbook from the editors of Cook's Illustrated Magazine. While it was rising, I sweated an onion in one of my black, shiny iron skillets. I formed the dough into a 1" thick pizza crust sort of oblong. I smeared the onions all over it. I applied salt, pepper and parmiggiano. I slid it onto my thoroughly preheated (425°) pizza stone and baked it for 25 minutes. I flashed it with the broiler at the end to give the onions a bit more color (an easy way to ruin stuff, so never walk away). This foccacia was then topped with pulled pork (see below), and Cottonwood Endo IPA washed it down. Lovely.
Now, I must go to work.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
It's hot
My time is wasted on silly things like work
There's livin' that needs to be done
Cooking
Brewing beer
Baking bread
Having sex
Going places
Writing about it
Drudgery ain't my bag, yo. Maybe it's the ADD in me that keeps me from enjoying 47 hours or so of menial work every week.
However, food is always a welcome entertainment:
A few days ago, my wife and I sat down to a dinner of pan seared pork chops with blueberry/herb vinegar sauce with baked sweet potatoes. Afterwards, we had some pound cake (made by my sister) with fresh strawberries (from the Farmers' Market, see below) and Chambord-spiked whipped cream (made with the Mixer o' Death, see below).
Yesterday, I went to a little barbecue place on Chapel Hill road, Davis Family Barbecue. I got a couple of pounds of pulled pork. Heaven. Smoky, vinegary. I ate it on pita bread when I got home. Before stopping at the barbecue place, I had a couple of Yuenglings at Rocco's bar and grill, just across the road. An unassuming little place in a snippet of stripmall. An improvement to a shitty day at work.
My time is wasted on silly things like work
There's livin' that needs to be done
Cooking
Brewing beer
Baking bread
Having sex
Going places
Writing about it
Drudgery ain't my bag, yo. Maybe it's the ADD in me that keeps me from enjoying 47 hours or so of menial work every week.
However, food is always a welcome entertainment:
A few days ago, my wife and I sat down to a dinner of pan seared pork chops with blueberry/herb vinegar sauce with baked sweet potatoes. Afterwards, we had some pound cake (made by my sister) with fresh strawberries (from the Farmers' Market, see below) and Chambord-spiked whipped cream (made with the Mixer o' Death, see below).
Yesterday, I went to a little barbecue place on Chapel Hill road, Davis Family Barbecue. I got a couple of pounds of pulled pork. Heaven. Smoky, vinegary. I ate it on pita bread when I got home. Before stopping at the barbecue place, I had a couple of Yuenglings at Rocco's bar and grill, just across the road. An unassuming little place in a snippet of stripmall. An improvement to a shitty day at work.
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