I'm reading a book called "The Edge of Sadness," which won the Pulitzer Prize in 1962. One of my little life goals is to read every single Pulitzer winner. This one had a bit of a dry start - the central character is an aging priest in a dying parish - but I am getting the feeling that he is suffering the fallout of an alcohol problem. Interest piqued.
Anyway, this passage about a visit to his childhood neighborhood struck me:"I had come back, not to stay, but only for an hour so - long enough to see and to savor again, for the first time in nearly five years, that small and surprisingly unchanged part of the city where I was born and had spent so much of my life, where I knew every building and back alley as well as I knew my own front yard, where I had been a young man, and where, as in no place, else, I had belonged, I had been at home. I suppose it's the mark of the provincial man, but in any case I find that I have a special and lasting love for this place which is so obviously just a place, which has no particular beauty or grace or grandeur of scene, but which is, quite simply, a neighborhood, my neighborhood, ca compound of sights and smells and sounds that have furnished all my years."
I have been confronted in a fairly direct and straightforward manner, with little nuance, by the death of my parents. I have been struggling a lot more to make sense of the loss of place I have felt in my increasing estrangement from my birth city. This passage captured that feeling as well as anything I've come across in a while. It isn't that I'm thinking back about the mansion on top of a bluff overlooking the ocean that was my childhood home, a place of uncommon beauty, but instead that place where I knew every nook and cranny, who lived in every house, where every street led.
I have been visited by these strange flights of fancy where I am walking, drifting, floating through the home where I was raised, the homes of both sets of grandparents, even the apartment where my folks briefly lived. These people were of a generation where you lived where you lived and nowhere else. I can see every picture and every stick of furniture, every decoration, feel the cool dampness of the basement in the summer, the heat coming off the gas stove in the bathroom in the winter, smell the musty basement smells and the hot, dry attic ones.
It's a long, strange journey.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
God As A Vending Machine
I used to treat god as if he was a big candy machine. A consumer of miracles and blessings would stroll up to god and peer through the glass at a dizzying array of treats and candy and donuts, make a selection - no money required - and dial up a snack, sweet or salty, as fancy would have it. There wasn't any fucking fruit or vegetables in there, either, just good stuff. If you wanted twelve Twix bars all you had to do was keep pushing the combination of buttons that l.
I still treat god as a vending machine. It's a good image and I don't want to waste it. However, the new vending machine god has some candy and some vegetables and some bags of poop from an indeterminate source. But when I make my selection - invariably candy, rarely feces - I notice that there's only one button to be pushed. No codes lining up under the treats. I push "Dispense" and I get what I get. Mostly, I get good stuff. I'm terrified of the poop but I don't get it very much, and it's OK when I do - into every life some bags of poop must be vended. I often get fruit and vegetables, things that are good for me.
It's enough with the candy already.a
I still treat god as a vending machine. It's a good image and I don't want to waste it. However, the new vending machine god has some candy and some vegetables and some bags of poop from an indeterminate source. But when I make my selection - invariably candy, rarely feces - I notice that there's only one button to be pushed. No codes lining up under the treats. I push "Dispense" and I get what I get. Mostly, I get good stuff. I'm terrified of the poop but I don't get it very much, and it's OK when I do - into every life some bags of poop must be vended. I often get fruit and vegetables, things that are good for me.
It's enough with the candy already.a
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
The Jabbing Clinic Affair
Optional: Left to personal choice; elective
I have health insurance and for that I'm grateful. It doesn't cover anything and for that I'm also grateful although not as grateful. That's the great thing about health insurance: it works fine as long as you don't need any healthcare services. My very, very big health insurer has surely taken a page right out of the GWOMPO playbook - namely, they takes the money in but they don't gives the money back out.
The needle jabbing procedure that I just went through - and it went fine, by the way, although my gratitude for this lasted several seconds and then vanished - was deemed optional by my insurer. "Not medically necessary" were their exact words. I can just see the insurer's scrivener hustling onto the scene of a horrific auto accident that I've been involved in: "That tourniquet is not covered! We are not paying for that totally optional tourniquet! There is some perfectly fine engine wiring spilling out of that destroyed car that you could be using."
As you can deduce, I am not a fan of the insurance industry. The health care industry is on my shit list, too.
Back to me. The Jabbing Clinic that I used gave me a private pay price for my procedure. The number quoted was Pretty Fucking Big. I don't think I got a break on the price. Fair enough - I inherited a little money and I figured this would be a good way to spend it. When I showed up for my first jabbing procedure the staff explained that they were going to try to do both legs in one shot rather than attacking them in two separate appointments. Fine by me as any reduction in jabbing sounded like a good thing.
I paid for one leg before I went into the jabbing room as they weren't positive on how things were going to go; got jabbed; exited the clinic. I came back for a follow-up; was not jabbed; and exited the clinic. So the question is this: did the jabbers decide that the amount of money quoted was for one appointment or was it per leg. They didn't ask for more money at the end of either visit and I didn't bring up the matter. Frankly, I found the sum of half the amount to be appalling so I wasn't going to voluntarily offer to give them any more of it. If they want some more money they're going to have to speak up.
So - the ethical quandary. Do I offer up information or do I remain tight-lipped?
I do have to add this, too:
Jab: a quick stab or blow; a short, straight punch.
I have health insurance and for that I'm grateful. It doesn't cover anything and for that I'm also grateful although not as grateful. That's the great thing about health insurance: it works fine as long as you don't need any healthcare services. My very, very big health insurer has surely taken a page right out of the GWOMPO playbook - namely, they takes the money in but they don't gives the money back out.
The needle jabbing procedure that I just went through - and it went fine, by the way, although my gratitude for this lasted several seconds and then vanished - was deemed optional by my insurer. "Not medically necessary" were their exact words. I can just see the insurer's scrivener hustling onto the scene of a horrific auto accident that I've been involved in: "That tourniquet is not covered! We are not paying for that totally optional tourniquet! There is some perfectly fine engine wiring spilling out of that destroyed car that you could be using."
As you can deduce, I am not a fan of the insurance industry. The health care industry is on my shit list, too.
Back to me. The Jabbing Clinic that I used gave me a private pay price for my procedure. The number quoted was Pretty Fucking Big. I don't think I got a break on the price. Fair enough - I inherited a little money and I figured this would be a good way to spend it. When I showed up for my first jabbing procedure the staff explained that they were going to try to do both legs in one shot rather than attacking them in two separate appointments. Fine by me as any reduction in jabbing sounded like a good thing.
I paid for one leg before I went into the jabbing room as they weren't positive on how things were going to go; got jabbed; exited the clinic. I came back for a follow-up; was not jabbed; and exited the clinic. So the question is this: did the jabbers decide that the amount of money quoted was for one appointment or was it per leg. They didn't ask for more money at the end of either visit and I didn't bring up the matter. Frankly, I found the sum of half the amount to be appalling so I wasn't going to voluntarily offer to give them any more of it. If they want some more money they're going to have to speak up.
So - the ethical quandary. Do I offer up information or do I remain tight-lipped?
I do have to add this, too:
Jab: a quick stab or blow; a short, straight punch.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Prayer
Prayer: A practice of communicating with one's god (Ed. Note: I like how the definition is non-specific about the god part, choosing the possessive adjective one's instead of allowing god to exist as a stand-alone noun; as in, communicating with god).
When I was living at home, subsisting on my parents' nickle, it was off to church we go on Sunday. This was not debatable in any sense, shape, or form - Sunday was church and I was going. Usually this was not so bad. Often boring, sometimes pleasant, but generally not objectionable.
Church is where I learned to pray. That's the good news and that's the bad news. I was glad to be given instruction in the act of praying, to reap its benefits, while occasionally chafing against uncomfortable feelings associated with the technique. I recall a lot of specific praying for specific things, like relieve this person from that affliction or bless our attempts to do this or that. I was never down with asking god for specific things - it seemed kind of bossy. I also remember that some of the prayers were unnecessarily long, seeing as I was kneeling on a nicely padded . . . kneeler thing . . . no small feat for the terrifically hung over, tottering back and forth, back aching, stomach rolling, head pounding.
Away from home I abandoned the practice. My diligent pursuit of the release presented to me by drugs and alcohol allowed me to abandon many things. Many, many things.
The Fellowship suggested that prayer is an integral part of spiritual growth. I approached it warily, circling prayer as if it was a Ukrainian Greco-Roman wrestler, feinting and juking, afraid of going down on my ass. I tried the specific prayers for specific things technique and was amazed at how often my god seemed to find a loophole in those very selfish prayers with which he toasted my ass. You know the hazard - "Please, god, get rid of my boss" morphed into my getting fired. You see the trick? Technically the boss was removed from my life. I often tried to go back and clarify my request but going home is never easy to do.
So I got into the very vague prayers. "Take care of me" and "Help me be of service" and shit like that. Those are most admirable prayers but not very satisfying for the man who wants a red Ferrari.
The Fellowship provided me with the most brilliant of all qualifiers: "If it be thy will." A praying man can dip into outrageously selfish waters if he adds that phrase. Seriously, though, I've gotten comfortable asking for reasonable personal favors as long as I remind myself that I've got to be good with whatever transpires. Take my needle-licious medical procedure. I felt very comfortable saying: "I'd like this to turn out well. If it doesn't, I'm good with that, too."
Remember: it's all about me.
When I was living at home, subsisting on my parents' nickle, it was off to church we go on Sunday. This was not debatable in any sense, shape, or form - Sunday was church and I was going. Usually this was not so bad. Often boring, sometimes pleasant, but generally not objectionable.
Church is where I learned to pray. That's the good news and that's the bad news. I was glad to be given instruction in the act of praying, to reap its benefits, while occasionally chafing against uncomfortable feelings associated with the technique. I recall a lot of specific praying for specific things, like relieve this person from that affliction or bless our attempts to do this or that. I was never down with asking god for specific things - it seemed kind of bossy. I also remember that some of the prayers were unnecessarily long, seeing as I was kneeling on a nicely padded . . . kneeler thing . . . no small feat for the terrifically hung over, tottering back and forth, back aching, stomach rolling, head pounding.
Away from home I abandoned the practice. My diligent pursuit of the release presented to me by drugs and alcohol allowed me to abandon many things. Many, many things.
The Fellowship suggested that prayer is an integral part of spiritual growth. I approached it warily, circling prayer as if it was a Ukrainian Greco-Roman wrestler, feinting and juking, afraid of going down on my ass. I tried the specific prayers for specific things technique and was amazed at how often my god seemed to find a loophole in those very selfish prayers with which he toasted my ass. You know the hazard - "Please, god, get rid of my boss" morphed into my getting fired. You see the trick? Technically the boss was removed from my life. I often tried to go back and clarify my request but going home is never easy to do.
So I got into the very vague prayers. "Take care of me" and "Help me be of service" and shit like that. Those are most admirable prayers but not very satisfying for the man who wants a red Ferrari.
The Fellowship provided me with the most brilliant of all qualifiers: "If it be thy will." A praying man can dip into outrageously selfish waters if he adds that phrase. Seriously, though, I've gotten comfortable asking for reasonable personal favors as long as I remind myself that I've got to be good with whatever transpires. Take my needle-licious medical procedure. I felt very comfortable saying: "I'd like this to turn out well. If it doesn't, I'm good with that, too."
Remember: it's all about me.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Wayne Pebber
You know, I had made a vow to not permit the words Big Financial Institution ever grace my electronic writing again. That lasted about zero days. Most of the time I lead a fairly mundane, calm existence. I'm afraid once this all wraps up I'm going to fall into a horrible depression. I'm going to have to go out and actively look for shit to be upset about because these people have set the bar high.
As an aside, one of the less irritating but still very irritating institutions - let's call them UBS Wayne Pebber, which would be an excellent name for a pro golfer - whose Estate Team was going to call me back in three to four business days did, after accepting my call after six business days, sort of seem to be in the process of wrapping things up. One of their tasks would be completed by the end of the business day and the proceeds would be deposited in my account by no later than three additional business days; the other would be completed in three business days and the check would be mailed and would arrive at my address by the end of the next calendar week. I'm sure that guy was just fucking making those dates up.
Someone overheard him and said Really? He said I have no idea when this is going to get done. He didn't realize he hadn't muted the phone and that I could hear everything he was saying.
Okay, I made that part up.
As an aside, one of the less irritating but still very irritating institutions - let's call them UBS Wayne Pebber, which would be an excellent name for a pro golfer - whose Estate Team was going to call me back in three to four business days did, after accepting my call after six business days, sort of seem to be in the process of wrapping things up. One of their tasks would be completed by the end of the business day and the proceeds would be deposited in my account by no later than three additional business days; the other would be completed in three business days and the check would be mailed and would arrive at my address by the end of the next calendar week. I'm sure that guy was just fucking making those dates up.
Someone overheard him and said Really? He said I have no idea when this is going to get done. He didn't realize he hadn't muted the phone and that I could hear everything he was saying.
Okay, I made that part up.
Friday, September 23, 2016
Xanax, Away!
So I have two hereditary blood clotting disorders. While they're both uncommon they fortunately don't cause any complications in my life as long as I keep an eye on the symptoms that might indicate something is going sideways. I've known for a couple of years that there's an optional outpatient procedure that might help head off any future problems but haven't taken advantage of this because it involves needles. I'm not a needle guy. It makes my stomach turn to think of sharp, stainless-steel projectiles being driven into my boy flesh so I justified not doing anything - first of all it's expensive and not covered by insurance - and secondly the disorders aren't killing me at the moment. I think of it like having slightly elevated blood pressure - while medication can be helpful you also have to worry about side effects and also side effects that involve needles. I don't know why blood pressure medication would require the use of needles but medical people like to stick people. They don't fool me when they say: "Little stick" and then plunge a needle into my body. I know what's coming.
So as I was listening to the intake nurse explain the prep work required for the procedure she mentioned the word "Xanax." I'm blessed with very good health and haven't had to take any pain medication in 30 years of sobriety. Couple of shots of Demerol to sedate me for two colonoscopies and big needles full of Novocaine for whatever evil shit dentists do inside my mouth - and the only thing better than needles in my body are needles in the wet mucous membranes found inside my mouth. I explained that I'm in recovery and didn't want to take anything depressive unless the pain was going to be a real factor. I'm a downer guy - the drugs that I liked, including alcohol, took the edge of my manic energy. I don't get cocaine or meth or speed. I'm up as soon as my eyes open in the morning - I'm not interested in getting more up.
She explained that the med was just for the anxiety that a lot of people feel contemplating the heavy use of needles being stuck inside their muscles and not for pain so she wouldn't write a prescription for the Xanax - and it was only for one stinking pill, too.
I was proud of myself for being cautious. Later, not so much.
The general drift of the procedure is that a physician stuck a pretty big needle into my leg and then dug and probed around - guided by an image on an ultrasound machine - until he got the tip of the pretty big needle inside of a vein at which point he injected a kind of glue or cement into it. It wasn't great the whole needle in the leg thing but the digging around in there was not in the least appreciated.
So everything went OK, I think. I didn't die on the operating table which I was pretty sure was going to happen and hopefully the operation is going to improve my circulation. When SuperK picked me up I said: "You know, I think if I knew what it was going to be like I would taken the Xanax - that hurt." She just shook her head. She's not a drug person so she takes pain meds that a doctor prescribes but she understands why I try to stay away from them.
It occurred to me afterward that I made the call Xanax - Not Xanax without checking in with anyone in The Program.
So as I was listening to the intake nurse explain the prep work required for the procedure she mentioned the word "Xanax." I'm blessed with very good health and haven't had to take any pain medication in 30 years of sobriety. Couple of shots of Demerol to sedate me for two colonoscopies and big needles full of Novocaine for whatever evil shit dentists do inside my mouth - and the only thing better than needles in my body are needles in the wet mucous membranes found inside my mouth. I explained that I'm in recovery and didn't want to take anything depressive unless the pain was going to be a real factor. I'm a downer guy - the drugs that I liked, including alcohol, took the edge of my manic energy. I don't get cocaine or meth or speed. I'm up as soon as my eyes open in the morning - I'm not interested in getting more up.
She explained that the med was just for the anxiety that a lot of people feel contemplating the heavy use of needles being stuck inside their muscles and not for pain so she wouldn't write a prescription for the Xanax - and it was only for one stinking pill, too.
I was proud of myself for being cautious. Later, not so much.
The general drift of the procedure is that a physician stuck a pretty big needle into my leg and then dug and probed around - guided by an image on an ultrasound machine - until he got the tip of the pretty big needle inside of a vein at which point he injected a kind of glue or cement into it. It wasn't great the whole needle in the leg thing but the digging around in there was not in the least appreciated.
So everything went OK, I think. I didn't die on the operating table which I was pretty sure was going to happen and hopefully the operation is going to improve my circulation. When SuperK picked me up I said: "You know, I think if I knew what it was going to be like I would taken the Xanax - that hurt." She just shook her head. She's not a drug person so she takes pain meds that a doctor prescribes but she understands why I try to stay away from them.
It occurred to me afterward that I made the call Xanax - Not Xanax without checking in with anyone in The Program.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Help! I Need Someone!
Help!: A cry of distress or an urgent request for assistance.
It's not that I don't have anything else to talk about except for big, fat, stupid, evil Financial Institutions, or that I really am being eaten alive by their shenanigans. I'm sure there's something else I could talk about but whatever that topic would be is escaping me at the moment.
Of course, the big benefit to me of all of this endless rehashing of the excruciating minutia of my life is that it frees me from the task of repeating the conversations I have in my head with the various representatives of these organizations over and over and over again. I took a long hike today, half of which I don't remember because I was deftly cutting some factotum off at the knees, with devastating, irrefutable wit and sarcasm.
"Did you enjoy your hike today?" asked SuperK.
"I dunno. I guess," I said.
"It was a beautiful day," she prompted.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," I replied.
I'm sure glad I humped my ass for 8 miles with 2500 feet of elevation gain so I could remember none of it. I'm just proud of myself if I don't fall over a cliff.
So. The latest scrivener-infested snake pit that I'm probing is proving to be a worthy foe. Because I don't want to cast aspersions upon the blameless I'm going to disguise their true identity. Let's call them PNC Banq.
Several eons ago I called their "Help" line and spoke to Thomas. Very nice guy who requested that I email him a rasher of documents. As I've grown in wisdom and paranoia I didn't wait very long before emailing again to make sure he got the stuff I sent. Tally Ho, Seaweed, he said, Good to go, adding that someone from the Estate Team would be calling me back.
A black finger shivered up and down my spine. Not the Estate Team. Mental and emotional assassins, those bastards.
About a week later I call back and speak to Jessica to find out why the Estate Team isn't reaching out to me and guess what? she knows Thomas! he sits right next to her! but he isn't there, he has the day off, or something. Secretly? I think he's sitting right there, leaning companionably on Jessica's shoulder, listening in, stifling chuckles, slapping his desk gleefully as if he's ingested a really hot pepper. She goes away and comes back and goes away and then comes back, regrettably informing me that she can't find the documents. Could I send them again? Off they go and I follow up immediately. Got 'em, Seaweed! she says. Someone from the Estate Team, etc etc etc.
Three days later I call back and talk to Sean. Oh, yes, I see the documents here but you need to talk to John from the Estate Team and here's his direct line. I leave a message for John. The next day he calls back and assures me over and over that the Estate Team does this kind of stuff all the time, these requests come in every day, and we're definitely going to get this taken care of. You're not on the Estate Team? No, no, I'm your investment adviser. Now, what are your parents' names? My parents' names? Don't you have the documents in front of you, I've sent them in like 87 times, they're stuffed with all kinds of important information like my PARENT's Names!! Let's see, hmmm, sorry for the delay, no I don't seem to have any documents yet, could you send them over to me? Into the electronical hemisphere they go and Sean has them! Thanks so much and yessir, the Estate Team has been notified.
I think the Estate Team is the team to be on. I have this mental image of severe people, in dress and temperament, locked in a highly fortified room, insulated by ring after ring of defensive scriveners. I mean, nobody can get through to the Estate Team. The Estate Team probably doesn't even have phones. They don't even pretend to work. I'm afraid when I finally get to talk to them they're going to say yeah, we have the documents and we're not going to do Jack. Shit. With. Them.
I don't believe these people think they have any competitors. Or, more likely, they know that their competitors suck just as badly as they do. And I'm not even trying to take the money out. I'm trying to leave the money in their institution. All I want to do is change the legal name on the account. And they all end most phone calls by asking if I want to send them some more money. I've been pretty calm, usually replying that maybe we could start with this task first, the one that you're NOT COMPLETING.
The weirdest thing is the documents vanishing. I have used a credit card thousands of times, from Vietnam to Morocco to Norway and never had a transaction lost, ever, yet I'm batting like .210 on the documents I'm sending. That would seem to translate into a world where the banks only log one in five of my purchases. The next time someone asks about additional investments I'm going to inquire as to how the fuck I'm supposed to send the money to them? What form of communication would get the stuff to them?
Not email, I'm assuming.
It's not that I don't have anything else to talk about except for big, fat, stupid, evil Financial Institutions, or that I really am being eaten alive by their shenanigans. I'm sure there's something else I could talk about but whatever that topic would be is escaping me at the moment.
Of course, the big benefit to me of all of this endless rehashing of the excruciating minutia of my life is that it frees me from the task of repeating the conversations I have in my head with the various representatives of these organizations over and over and over again. I took a long hike today, half of which I don't remember because I was deftly cutting some factotum off at the knees, with devastating, irrefutable wit and sarcasm.
"Did you enjoy your hike today?" asked SuperK.
"I dunno. I guess," I said.
"It was a beautiful day," she prompted.
"Yeah, sure, whatever," I replied.
I'm sure glad I humped my ass for 8 miles with 2500 feet of elevation gain so I could remember none of it. I'm just proud of myself if I don't fall over a cliff.
So. The latest scrivener-infested snake pit that I'm probing is proving to be a worthy foe. Because I don't want to cast aspersions upon the blameless I'm going to disguise their true identity. Let's call them PNC Banq.
Several eons ago I called their "Help" line and spoke to Thomas. Very nice guy who requested that I email him a rasher of documents. As I've grown in wisdom and paranoia I didn't wait very long before emailing again to make sure he got the stuff I sent. Tally Ho, Seaweed, he said, Good to go, adding that someone from the Estate Team would be calling me back.
A black finger shivered up and down my spine. Not the Estate Team. Mental and emotional assassins, those bastards.
About a week later I call back and speak to Jessica to find out why the Estate Team isn't reaching out to me and guess what? she knows Thomas! he sits right next to her! but he isn't there, he has the day off, or something. Secretly? I think he's sitting right there, leaning companionably on Jessica's shoulder, listening in, stifling chuckles, slapping his desk gleefully as if he's ingested a really hot pepper. She goes away and comes back and goes away and then comes back, regrettably informing me that she can't find the documents. Could I send them again? Off they go and I follow up immediately. Got 'em, Seaweed! she says. Someone from the Estate Team, etc etc etc.
Three days later I call back and talk to Sean. Oh, yes, I see the documents here but you need to talk to John from the Estate Team and here's his direct line. I leave a message for John. The next day he calls back and assures me over and over that the Estate Team does this kind of stuff all the time, these requests come in every day, and we're definitely going to get this taken care of. You're not on the Estate Team? No, no, I'm your investment adviser. Now, what are your parents' names? My parents' names? Don't you have the documents in front of you, I've sent them in like 87 times, they're stuffed with all kinds of important information like my PARENT's Names!! Let's see, hmmm, sorry for the delay, no I don't seem to have any documents yet, could you send them over to me? Into the electronical hemisphere they go and Sean has them! Thanks so much and yessir, the Estate Team has been notified.
I think the Estate Team is the team to be on. I have this mental image of severe people, in dress and temperament, locked in a highly fortified room, insulated by ring after ring of defensive scriveners. I mean, nobody can get through to the Estate Team. The Estate Team probably doesn't even have phones. They don't even pretend to work. I'm afraid when I finally get to talk to them they're going to say yeah, we have the documents and we're not going to do Jack. Shit. With. Them.
I don't believe these people think they have any competitors. Or, more likely, they know that their competitors suck just as badly as they do. And I'm not even trying to take the money out. I'm trying to leave the money in their institution. All I want to do is change the legal name on the account. And they all end most phone calls by asking if I want to send them some more money. I've been pretty calm, usually replying that maybe we could start with this task first, the one that you're NOT COMPLETING.
The weirdest thing is the documents vanishing. I have used a credit card thousands of times, from Vietnam to Morocco to Norway and never had a transaction lost, ever, yet I'm batting like .210 on the documents I'm sending. That would seem to translate into a world where the banks only log one in five of my purchases. The next time someone asks about additional investments I'm going to inquire as to how the fuck I'm supposed to send the money to them? What form of communication would get the stuff to them?
Not email, I'm assuming.
Monday, September 12, 2016
Stress
Stress: Emotional distress suffered by a human or other animal. (Ed. Note: I like how humans are grouped in with the animals. We're really just big, fancy animals).
"We do not tire so easily, for we are not burning up energy foolishly as we did when we were trying to arrange life to suit ourselves."
That's a great line from The Book. It's a line that details a very real but often overlooked fact of life as a big animal. People under a lot of stress are prone to illness and depression. It can be stress dictated by circumstances outside of our selves and it can arise from internal battles between we, ourselves, and us.
I find that when I'm stressed about something bigger than pretty small that I let a lot of pretty small things become big. I've got a big thing on my mind right now that's stressing me a little so I find that weird, little things are jumping and hopping all over my brain. For instance, in my first house, I got a notion in my head that there were termites afoot. I have no idea why. I don't know what termite damage would look like so I certainly can't point to something and say: "Hey. Termites." But there they were, devouring my house cellulose fiber by cellulose fiber.
Eventually, I dug out the root cause of the stress and dealt with it. Voila! No more termites.
"We do not tire so easily, for we are not burning up energy foolishly as we did when we were trying to arrange life to suit ourselves."
That's a great line from The Book. It's a line that details a very real but often overlooked fact of life as a big animal. People under a lot of stress are prone to illness and depression. It can be stress dictated by circumstances outside of our selves and it can arise from internal battles between we, ourselves, and us.
I find that when I'm stressed about something bigger than pretty small that I let a lot of pretty small things become big. I've got a big thing on my mind right now that's stressing me a little so I find that weird, little things are jumping and hopping all over my brain. For instance, in my first house, I got a notion in my head that there were termites afoot. I have no idea why. I don't know what termite damage would look like so I certainly can't point to something and say: "Hey. Termites." But there they were, devouring my house cellulose fiber by cellulose fiber.
Eventually, I dug out the root cause of the stress and dealt with it. Voila! No more termites.
Friday, September 9, 2016
The Blible
I've been slowly re-reading a major religious book that I read several times as a young guy. Hard to believe from the invective that I regularly spew but I was a pretty religious kid. I wouldn't say that I'm opposed to religion even today, rather that my flawless ability to spot the flaws in anything at the drop of a hat sort of makes my outlook . . . ahem . . . cynical.
Because I'm trying not to offend anyone I won't use the actual name of the book but instead have decided to use a bookish pseudonym. Let's call it The Blible. That way no one will be able to figure out which major religious book I'm talking about.
As with most traumatic things that I revisit in my life, things that were so objectionable to me for so long, I'm finding the whole exercise pretty tame. It's a pretty good book, actually. I don't even find it all that objectionable. In fact, I can't imagine what I found objectionable about it at all. A lot of it is kind of boring to be honest about it: Jeebus did this, Jeebus went there, Jeebus talked for a while blah blah blah. I'm not running into anything very controversial, that's for sure. An awful lot of verbiage is devoted to trying to convince the reader that Jeebus is the main dude so if you believe that already it gets to be a bit repetitive. I feel like saying: "OK, I'm on board - how about something profound already?"
As with a lot of things in my life as a professional cynic my big problem is with what the so-called experts in the field tend to emphasize. Frankly, I'm reading along and I haven't found any of the stuff that seems to be talked about ad nauseum. And I'm finding tons of stuff that seems really pretty nice and positive that never seems to get mentioned at all. Maybe I'm hearing selectively. Maybe
My dad was a microbiologist who spent a lot of time parsing scientific studies. He always told me to be very suspicious of numbers because a good promoter could usually set up a study to show the kinds of results that he wanted to show. I guess it's that way about everything. I could write a few volumes about The Blible that would stress concepts that I don't hear that much about. I would have An Agenda.
Because I'm trying not to offend anyone I won't use the actual name of the book but instead have decided to use a bookish pseudonym. Let's call it The Blible. That way no one will be able to figure out which major religious book I'm talking about.
As with most traumatic things that I revisit in my life, things that were so objectionable to me for so long, I'm finding the whole exercise pretty tame. It's a pretty good book, actually. I don't even find it all that objectionable. In fact, I can't imagine what I found objectionable about it at all. A lot of it is kind of boring to be honest about it: Jeebus did this, Jeebus went there, Jeebus talked for a while blah blah blah. I'm not running into anything very controversial, that's for sure. An awful lot of verbiage is devoted to trying to convince the reader that Jeebus is the main dude so if you believe that already it gets to be a bit repetitive. I feel like saying: "OK, I'm on board - how about something profound already?"
As with a lot of things in my life as a professional cynic my big problem is with what the so-called experts in the field tend to emphasize. Frankly, I'm reading along and I haven't found any of the stuff that seems to be talked about ad nauseum. And I'm finding tons of stuff that seems really pretty nice and positive that never seems to get mentioned at all. Maybe I'm hearing selectively. Maybe
My dad was a microbiologist who spent a lot of time parsing scientific studies. He always told me to be very suspicious of numbers because a good promoter could usually set up a study to show the kinds of results that he wanted to show. I guess it's that way about everything. I could write a few volumes about The Blible that would stress concepts that I don't hear that much about. I would have An Agenda.
Monday, September 5, 2016
Clueless Seaweed
I'm in the midst of a good run of trudging through my daily guided meditation practice. I'm tempted to say sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad, but I've been schooled in the There's No Such Thing As Bad Meditation philosophy. Let's say instead that sometimes it's satisfying and sometimes it's not, although I always feel better for having made the effort. It's like exercise that way - it's rarely great and it's rarely awful and it's always good for me. Mostly it's just exercise.
One of the messages I hear repeatedly is that the mind is made to think and that it's hard to just shut it off. Moreover, that's not the idea - we don't try to force anything or stop anything or strain or concentrate mightily. This isn't an exercise in yet more alcoholic control. Rather perceive that the stream of thinking is ongoing chatter. It's like the updates running at the bottom of a cable sports channel - usually we're listening to some dufus talk and not staring fixedly at the banner going by. We're aware that it's there but it's not the focus. Every now and then something will catch our attention and we'll quit listening to all of the talking. Sometimes we stay on the feed for a while - sometimes it's an instant, then we're back to the interview or commentary. The point is that it's not a bad thing or a good thing - it's a feed, a stream of information.
I've heard this described as white noise or background noise. If I turn on my radio really loud while I'm in between stations the hiss is really irritating. As I turn the volume down it becomes easier to ignore the noise - I'm still aware of it but I'm not focusing on it. That's my understanding of how I should view the thinking that goes on when I'm trying not to pay attention to the thinking. I shouldn't try to stop it or control it but I need to move away from long reveries of any particular thought. More of a "well, there goes that thought" and then back to the focus being on my breathing or the feel of my body or the background noise in my environment.
Does it sound at all like I know what I'm talking about? Because I'm mostly clueless.
One of the messages I hear repeatedly is that the mind is made to think and that it's hard to just shut it off. Moreover, that's not the idea - we don't try to force anything or stop anything or strain or concentrate mightily. This isn't an exercise in yet more alcoholic control. Rather perceive that the stream of thinking is ongoing chatter. It's like the updates running at the bottom of a cable sports channel - usually we're listening to some dufus talk and not staring fixedly at the banner going by. We're aware that it's there but it's not the focus. Every now and then something will catch our attention and we'll quit listening to all of the talking. Sometimes we stay on the feed for a while - sometimes it's an instant, then we're back to the interview or commentary. The point is that it's not a bad thing or a good thing - it's a feed, a stream of information.
I've heard this described as white noise or background noise. If I turn on my radio really loud while I'm in between stations the hiss is really irritating. As I turn the volume down it becomes easier to ignore the noise - I'm still aware of it but I'm not focusing on it. That's my understanding of how I should view the thinking that goes on when I'm trying not to pay attention to the thinking. I shouldn't try to stop it or control it but I need to move away from long reveries of any particular thought. More of a "well, there goes that thought" and then back to the focus being on my breathing or the feel of my body or the background noise in my environment.
Does it sound at all like I know what I'm talking about? Because I'm mostly clueless.
Sunday, September 4, 2016
SeaSnark Stevie
Snark: Snide remarks.
I spoke a while back about what happened at my regular morning meeting to a couple of disruptive members - one who made short, overtly religious statements, another who spoke defensively about distinctly non-recovery subjects. As a good group should, the members agonized over what to do, deciding eventually, after years of bickering, to ban the most disruptive of the two and rejoicing when the religious proselytizer went elsewhere. Only under the most severe circumstances do we throw up any roadblocks to anyone who wants to attend our meetings - this really is a life and death proposition for the real alcoholic so we take that responsibility seriously.
I have noted with great chagrin over this time that some of the members who bitched the most about these two women play fast and loose with the procedures established by our group consciences and also by what I consider matters of common courtesy. There are people who talk at length, ignoring our suggestion that the large size of the group dictate that remarks shouldn't exceed 3 minutes. 3 minutes is a pretty long time to talk. Try talking for 3 minutes some time. You have to fill a lot of air to talk that long. And there are other people - who aren't anywhere as interesting as they think they are - who talk at every meeting. The problem is that there are a lot of folks who are tentative, less confident, and need a beat, a pause in the sharing before they'll speak up. My friends know that if I get to the place that I think my message is so good I need to be heard at every meeting that I should be taken out behind the woodshed and roundly thrashed.
I have noticed that I'm managing to work in my irritation at these situations every time I talk. One of the benefits/curses of getting older is that there is less of a governor between what I should say, what I want to say, and what I do say. My people-pleasing character defect has faded from view long ago. There is a right way to go about things and a wrong way. The right way would be to bring this up in a group conscience - I mean, who made me the arbiter of the group's behavior? Besides me? Or maybe I could quietly approach someone after the meeting and make my opinion known. I mean, everyone loves to have me tell them what to do, right?
Instead, my remarks are getting a little passive-aggressive-ey. Snarky. Too much superiority is oozing out. It's starting to feel mean-spirited and not at all helpful. Maybe I should stop doing it.
I spoke a while back about what happened at my regular morning meeting to a couple of disruptive members - one who made short, overtly religious statements, another who spoke defensively about distinctly non-recovery subjects. As a good group should, the members agonized over what to do, deciding eventually, after years of bickering, to ban the most disruptive of the two and rejoicing when the religious proselytizer went elsewhere. Only under the most severe circumstances do we throw up any roadblocks to anyone who wants to attend our meetings - this really is a life and death proposition for the real alcoholic so we take that responsibility seriously.
I have noted with great chagrin over this time that some of the members who bitched the most about these two women play fast and loose with the procedures established by our group consciences and also by what I consider matters of common courtesy. There are people who talk at length, ignoring our suggestion that the large size of the group dictate that remarks shouldn't exceed 3 minutes. 3 minutes is a pretty long time to talk. Try talking for 3 minutes some time. You have to fill a lot of air to talk that long. And there are other people - who aren't anywhere as interesting as they think they are - who talk at every meeting. The problem is that there are a lot of folks who are tentative, less confident, and need a beat, a pause in the sharing before they'll speak up. My friends know that if I get to the place that I think my message is so good I need to be heard at every meeting that I should be taken out behind the woodshed and roundly thrashed.
I have noticed that I'm managing to work in my irritation at these situations every time I talk. One of the benefits/curses of getting older is that there is less of a governor between what I should say, what I want to say, and what I do say. My people-pleasing character defect has faded from view long ago. There is a right way to go about things and a wrong way. The right way would be to bring this up in a group conscience - I mean, who made me the arbiter of the group's behavior? Besides me? Or maybe I could quietly approach someone after the meeting and make my opinion known. I mean, everyone loves to have me tell them what to do, right?
Instead, my remarks are getting a little passive-aggressive-ey. Snarky. Too much superiority is oozing out. It's starting to feel mean-spirited and not at all helpful. Maybe I should stop doing it.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
BFI
Anyway . . . The Big Financial Institutions. I feel like they're like huge gargantuans who are simply standing tall, swatting away the little darts and arrows slung by ineffectual mortals like me.
The first call I made yesterday was to a BFI that was very effective at losing shit, and not much else. As the losing shit part of their repertoire is the least attractive part I figured out some proactivity was in order. Wise to their mind games, I followed up the last document I sent with an email making sure that they got the document. Immediately. Yes, Seaweed, we have the document and we have already forwarded it to the estate team for dispensation. They will be "reaching out to you in the next few days." I flinch when I hear the phrase "reach out" coming from the digital mouth of a BFI. It is a phrase which has become blurred in my mind. I'd rather be told that a sorcerer with a syringe full of typhus is going to stop by and attempt to inject it into the white part of my eyeball. Thus, the flinch.
The tricky part is weighing the patiently waiting part against the appropriate action part. Normally, when someone confirms something and then says that some action is imminent I've learned to wait. Not with the BFIs. I call back, getting someone new who sees that I spoke with someone else who really did send the latest document along to the estate team but that there is another document required that the estate team also needs. If you don't call back they don't do anything. It's quite the Catch-22.
I paused several long beats. Patient Seaweed or Seaweed The Furious?
"You people are unbelievable," I said. I was reduced to making a dispassionate factual statement. Calling someone unbelievable would normally fall under the category of an opinion statement but this really seems pretty clear cut factually.
"Why didn't you tell me when I called last time to send this additional document so that I could have sent all the documents all at once?" I added.
"You realize I'm trying to leave this money with your company?" I said, wondering if they thought I was trying to take the money away. All I want to do is change the legal ownership, not add several amendments to the US Constitution.
They apologize etc etc if you send it in before 5PM EST etc etc we got the form etc etc go fuck yourself blah blah blah should take 3 to 4 business days yadda yadda yadda.
The second BFI on my Greatest Hit List says this: "I'm sorry but this is the investment center. Your inquiry has to be addressed by the estate team. I'll leave a message with them."
"Have I called the correct number?" I asked. "I'd be happy to call them myself. It's really no problem."
"No, you can't do that." He really said this. Maybe they don't have phones. Maybe everything gets to them in those big suction tubes where you roll up a piece of paper and it gets whisked away.
The estate team is where it's at. That's like some secret cabal, those people. I'd like to be on the estate team.
The first call I made yesterday was to a BFI that was very effective at losing shit, and not much else. As the losing shit part of their repertoire is the least attractive part I figured out some proactivity was in order. Wise to their mind games, I followed up the last document I sent with an email making sure that they got the document. Immediately. Yes, Seaweed, we have the document and we have already forwarded it to the estate team for dispensation. They will be "reaching out to you in the next few days." I flinch when I hear the phrase "reach out" coming from the digital mouth of a BFI. It is a phrase which has become blurred in my mind. I'd rather be told that a sorcerer with a syringe full of typhus is going to stop by and attempt to inject it into the white part of my eyeball. Thus, the flinch.
The tricky part is weighing the patiently waiting part against the appropriate action part. Normally, when someone confirms something and then says that some action is imminent I've learned to wait. Not with the BFIs. I call back, getting someone new who sees that I spoke with someone else who really did send the latest document along to the estate team but that there is another document required that the estate team also needs. If you don't call back they don't do anything. It's quite the Catch-22.
I paused several long beats. Patient Seaweed or Seaweed The Furious?
"You people are unbelievable," I said. I was reduced to making a dispassionate factual statement. Calling someone unbelievable would normally fall under the category of an opinion statement but this really seems pretty clear cut factually.
"Why didn't you tell me when I called last time to send this additional document so that I could have sent all the documents all at once?" I added.
"You realize I'm trying to leave this money with your company?" I said, wondering if they thought I was trying to take the money away. All I want to do is change the legal ownership, not add several amendments to the US Constitution.
They apologize etc etc if you send it in before 5PM EST etc etc we got the form etc etc go fuck yourself blah blah blah should take 3 to 4 business days yadda yadda yadda.
The second BFI on my Greatest Hit List says this: "I'm sorry but this is the investment center. Your inquiry has to be addressed by the estate team. I'll leave a message with them."
"Have I called the correct number?" I asked. "I'd be happy to call them myself. It's really no problem."
"No, you can't do that." He really said this. Maybe they don't have phones. Maybe everything gets to them in those big suction tubes where you roll up a piece of paper and it gets whisked away.
The estate team is where it's at. That's like some secret cabal, those people. I'd like to be on the estate team.
Friday, September 2, 2016
Of Goats and Ack-Ack Guns
Get My Goat: A theory which purports to explain this phrase is that goats were placed with racehorses to keep them calm. When ne'er-do-wells wanted a rival's horse to race badly they removed the goat; i.e., they "got someone's goat."
So I haven't written for a while. I've thought about this during the course of many days, figuring I should do some writing but not picking up the keyboard. Most of the reason is that I've been on a pretty good run of feeling pretty good and haven't had as much to bitch and whine about as I normally do. And it's not that I don't have stuff to bitch and whine about - rather that I'm not letting the stuff get my goat.
Personally I've never seen a goat at a racetrack.
Part of the reason that I write is that it helps me work out irritating stuff. So am I saying that I don't need to ponder the origin, the ins and the outs of the good stuff? That makes appallingly little sense. But I do like the concept of having irritating stuff around and not letting it irritate me. That frees me from the burden of trying to purge my existence of all things irritating which is shockingly hard to do. Take my word for it - I dedicated the first thirty years of my life trying to twist and warp everything to my liking, especially the irritating things.
This is all theoretical. The reality check is more Big Financial Institution fun and games.
There are still 7 financial institutions who are rampaging out of control with many of my goats. This is down from about 22 at the start. I'm making a lot of progress against the goat-stealing sons of bitches but they're throwing up a withering defense. They're like cornered rats, ferocious in the defense of their rat young. I bet I never flush all of them out. They're going to be like those enemy soldiers who, unaware that the war is over, are hiding out in a primordial jungle on an isolated island. I wouldn't be surprised to see a kamikaze plane, emblazoned with the corporate slogan for JP Morgan or UBS Paine Weber coming in fast and low, making a bee line for my trailer house, wing cannons blazing. I can see my neighbors glance at the ack-ack guns I have hidden in my palm trees, but they never say anything. A well-oiled ack-ack gun has that effect.
A tip of the cap to Terry S who commented:
"I'm not even sure what country you're from. There's a lot to read, which I like."
So I haven't written for a while. I've thought about this during the course of many days, figuring I should do some writing but not picking up the keyboard. Most of the reason is that I've been on a pretty good run of feeling pretty good and haven't had as much to bitch and whine about as I normally do. And it's not that I don't have stuff to bitch and whine about - rather that I'm not letting the stuff get my goat.
Personally I've never seen a goat at a racetrack.
Part of the reason that I write is that it helps me work out irritating stuff. So am I saying that I don't need to ponder the origin, the ins and the outs of the good stuff? That makes appallingly little sense. But I do like the concept of having irritating stuff around and not letting it irritate me. That frees me from the burden of trying to purge my existence of all things irritating which is shockingly hard to do. Take my word for it - I dedicated the first thirty years of my life trying to twist and warp everything to my liking, especially the irritating things.
This is all theoretical. The reality check is more Big Financial Institution fun and games.
There are still 7 financial institutions who are rampaging out of control with many of my goats. This is down from about 22 at the start. I'm making a lot of progress against the goat-stealing sons of bitches but they're throwing up a withering defense. They're like cornered rats, ferocious in the defense of their rat young. I bet I never flush all of them out. They're going to be like those enemy soldiers who, unaware that the war is over, are hiding out in a primordial jungle on an isolated island. I wouldn't be surprised to see a kamikaze plane, emblazoned with the corporate slogan for JP Morgan or UBS Paine Weber coming in fast and low, making a bee line for my trailer house, wing cannons blazing. I can see my neighbors glance at the ack-ack guns I have hidden in my palm trees, but they never say anything. A well-oiled ack-ack gun has that effect.
A tip of the cap to Terry S who commented:
"I'm not even sure what country you're from. There's a lot to read, which I like."
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