It Was A Bad Call Ripley, It Was A Bad Call...

It's really hard to watch other people make mistakes. Especially if you don't feel like you have the right or the place to speak up and say something to them before they make it (or even after).

There's this narrow place in any relationship where on one side you feel like if you *don't* say something to them about their impending mistake, you are failing them as a friend. On the other side, you are intruding and overstepping your bounds as a friend if you *do* say something.

So, for my own sake, since I'm only human and I know I make mistakes. I fully endorse and empower anyone who might call me friend to throw out any advice at me. I'll never be offended, I promise. I might say 'you don't have all the information' or 'thanks, I'll weigh that appropriately'. But I won't ever get mad at your two cents.

Thanks. That's all.

Eight Belles

I have a strange relationship with horse racing and the Kentucky Derby specifically. In short, horse racing horrifies me. Let me explain.

In 2008, I'd never seen any horse races, never been to one and, in fact, outside of some petting zoos had no experience with horses. Never ridden one or sat on one, although I did sit on a pony when I was three for a photo. I'd never really paid attention to horse racing as a sport. Growing up in Southern California, I'd sometimes see commercials for Santa Anita, but it always seemed like another universe.

That changed in 2008 with my then girlfriend, soon to be wife, Sonja. Her family had a big tradition of getting together for the Kentucky Derby and making a party of watching at her parents house. There was food, booze, and about 20 friends and relatives packed in around the TV. It wasn't my thing, but I'm always game for a party so I tried to get in the spirit.

Before the race began, we all began to discuss the horses and their backgrounds. Immediately my attention was caught by an underdog, a filly named Eight Belles. Apparently, fillies were a very rare occurrence in Kentucky Derby history and I loved the fact that she was an underdog. We all began to pick our horses in a friendly betting pool and I was the only one that picked Eight Belles.

The race was amazing to watch and we were all stunned at Eight Belles incredible performance. She took the lead and was seemingly going to win it. But in the last quarter lap or so, she began to slow. Something was wrong. In the end, she slowed enough that she lost first place to another horse and came in second.

Then things went horribly wrong. Right there on the track, they shot Eight Belles and killed her. Everyone around me was cheering the spectacular race. The person who had picked the winning horse was high fiving everyone. The announcers were very excited for the winner. Then they briefly mentioned that Eight Belles had broken both of her legs and had been euthanized on the spot.

Even as I write this now, I'm tearing up at the thought. It wasn't just that she had to be killed. It was that so many people seemed to hardly notice. This beautiful animal who had been set to pull off an amazing coup was forgotten and discarded in a matter of seconds. In less than a minute this horse went from winning the Kentucky Derby in an upset to being dead on the track.

The horror and sadness I felt that day for the horse, the incredulity I felt at the people around me and on the television at their lack of concern or compassion for Eight Belles all combined to make me upset to the point of being nauseous. I had to step outside and get away from everyone in that house.

I have no interest in watching horse racing ever again. Whenever I hear about the Kentucky Derby, I can only think of Eight Belles, the first and only horse I ever cheered for.

The Bend Of My Gender

I'm going to start this post with a short anecdote. Not long ago, Jen and I went to birthday party with an Adam Ant theme. It was fun! We dressed up for it and as part of the ensemble, Jen painted my nails. I got lots of compliments on them and I found that I enjoyed having them painted.

A month or so later, and they're pretty much painted all the time now. For a good number of you, that might seem strange. But I've tried hard in my life not to attach gender to anything outside of itself. If that makes sense. Cooking isn't for girls, football isn't for boys, yadda yadda yadda. I don't expect my view on these things to be the prevalent one, but I'm also not interested in siding with the majority just for the sake of being in the majority.

Then last week, Jen and I were at a restaurant and there was an older couple sitting a few seats away, maybe late 60s. After about 10 minutes, the guy leans over to me and says, "I really like your nails." I was a bit taken aback and my first thought was that he was being sarcastic. It turns out, he really did like them. More than that, he told me that he enjoyed painting his toes. They both told me that they hadn't run into any other men that painted their nails and I thought that was kind of sad.

The other day, as part of a package deal that she'd gotten awhile back, Jen took me to Aveda where she got a massage and I got a facial. I've only had two other facials in my life, both gifts. They aren't really something I can normally afford. My esthetician complimented my nails, my eyebrows and my overall skin care.

This of course got me to thinking. From somewhere deep within the recesses of my brain came voices that said things like : "Painting your nails and getting a facial are so gay" - and gay sounds like in insult when I hear that voice.  There are other more (seemingly) rational voices that ask if this in some way effects my gender, my sexuality, my masculinity. Thankfully, there's one voice that always rises to the top and drowns out the others. "If you like your fucking nails painted, then paint them. It doesn't mean ANYTHING expect that you like your nails painted!"  I like that voice.

My personal gender and my sexuality are, to me, a sculpture that I continue to refine and chisel at. I sometimes glance around to see what the other sculptures look like, but I'm trying hard to remain true to what I feel is the truth of my own personal sculpture.

Which leads me to some other things. Lately amongst my social circles and the news at large, there have been a lot of articles and conversations about sexism, feminism, misogyny, female body image, rape culture, sex workers and the list goes on. Something in me is telling me that my attitude about my nails and all of that external stuff is connected. I don't know how exactly. I'm still working that out.

I don't have any deep answers (and I've commented on many of these social issues in previous posts). But what I will say is that I like my nails. They look awesome.

Fuck Your Cover Letter

With over a year of unemployment under my belt, I've had quite a bit of experience in applying for jobs. I've read the websites, watched the videos, reworked my resume multiple times and even attended the Washington State mandated seminar for the perpetually jobless.
Over this last year, I've learned that most of the time, somewhere around 90%, I get an auto-reply from companies, acknowledging they've received my application. Somewhere around 3% of the time I get either something more personal or an auto-response saying that I've been passed over. Around 1% I get a call or a follow up email or an interview. (Around 6% I just never hear from at all.)

The company I really wanted to work for was Hasbro, specifically, Wizards of the Coast. I somehow actually landed myself an interview with them last year and it was awesome. I didn't get the job and I can live with that. But since then, my enthusiasm has gradually waned. Yes, I want a job. Yes, I want something that feels 'right' and fits me well. More than anything though, I just want to be able to pay my bills and get on with things.

So, when I read a job posting that says: "We are looking for a thoughtful, personalized cover letter that demonstrates your qualifications," my response is, "Fuck you and fuck your cover letter." I'll spend an hour being witty and smart and trying to figure out all the right key words and phrases to make sure you notice my cover letter. I'll hit send. Then I'll get an auto-reply. The end. You know what I won't get? That hour back. Or the countless hours I've spent doing the exact same thing for every other company in this state that I've applied to.

I want to work but, at this point, if my resume isn't enough to get your attention, then you don't deserve me.

"The State Of My Modern Music" or "Technology, Bitches!"

I began DJing in 1998. By 2004 I'd amassed a pretty sizable music collection, most of it in CDs, but plenty of vinyl and mp3s too. Katrina wiped that clean except for the mp3s.

I slowly began collecting tunes again through various channels, but buying CDs and vinyl was quickly becoming bulky and too expensive. I was moving toward digital.

When I lost my job last year and decided to move in with Jen, I got rid of my old desktop. I saved numerous large playlists to Spotify and decided in the spirit of trimming my possessions a bit, that I'd go even mp3 free and try to subsist entirely through Spotify. But Spotify doesn't have everything and once I started considering DJing again, I saw the flaw in that plan.

So, a few months and a lot of research later, I have this stuff MASTERED. My music collection isn't just back, it's dynamic, accurate, accessible and so 21st century that it should glow Tron blue. It is full on bad ass. This is how I did it:

An Amazing Photo

So, this picture is definitely Not Safe For Work. It's also probably not for those easily offended, although I think it's beautiful.

With that warning, let's proceed:

One Year...Of Unemployment

Tomorrow marks one year of unemployment for me. It's the longest stretch I've ever gone without work as an adult and it's had a profound impact on me. Just go look at a few of my previous blog posts.

Sitting here a year later, still uninsured, using up the last of my super-extended federal unemployment insurance, I'm amazed at what I have and haven't done.

It's surprising that I haven't found a job, that's for sure. I did get a wonderful $5 gift card from Pagliacci's Pizza included with my letter from them telling me they'd gone with someone else for their PR/marketing position. I even got a few dozen 'thanks, but we're going with someone else' emails. All very kind.

On the other end of the spectrum though, I've written not one, but two books. And I'm damn near finished with a third. They aren't going to give Hemmingway a run for his money, but I'm proud of them and I've seen my writing drastically improve in the last 365. What's more is that I've gotten an amazing sense of satisfaction that I've gotten to feel a few other times in my life. When I opened my nightclub, when I got my degree, when I shot and created my TV pilot, I felt the same sense of accomplishment.

I expect to finish a third book this year and start on a fourth. I don't know if I'll be able to convert my career into being a working author, probably not. But if I can keep writing and find a way to pay my bills, I think I'm going to make it through okay.

Back to writing.