Dream Journal

Martin is a Good Boy

Pine needles in a glass box, a terrarium actually, marinating in some kind of food juice pickling solution to make them tasty. Being cleaned, as part of job training for some 22-year-old Latino kid with a bald head (and a bad attitude). Not that I blame him when this is the only productive thing your society allows you to do.

Examining the phenomenon of the BART station spreading out into neighborhood; discussing the perspective of the wealthy (and perhaps parasitic) suburbs. I think I was talking with was my old neighbor friend Richard H. As we walked down the sidewalk on 24th. Their unquestioned attitude is treating the lower classes who take public transit like an infection which spreads. Trying to establish local lore about where the “poor part” starts, supposedly the consensus is an alley halfway through the block — “Inception” or “Industrial” alley.

Asking about an empty cage on a ceramic counter, countertops like the work surfaces in a science classroom. This rat cage is almost the same size and shape as the marinating box from before. Could be the same box, for all I know.

Something triggers me to say “Martin is a good boy”. I still miss my pet rat Martin-Martin. He *was* a good boy.

Dream Journal

Just Great, I’m a Passenger on a Bus with Politicians

I’m on a bus, full of other candidates for job. In a previous dream I’ve helped Russian President Vladimir Putin defend the country of Greenland from something related to homophilia, homophobia, or both.

An image of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, and a wall of human bodies made of Legos.

Vice President Mike Pence is near the back of the bus. I point out to the interviewer/autority figure that he’s asleep, he admits jokingly that he was in fact asleep (happening, of course, while I’m actually asleep in this dream). The authority, acting like a teacher, gives him a C for that day despite that I’ve been given an F before for the same thing. Right there I decide to quit this nonsense job, which might mean suicide, but as a protest I can come up with nothing else.

Dream Journal

Body Snatching, a Tricky Family Role

It’s a big budget music video parody shoot, on the caliber of Saturday Night Live. The gag is that there’s too many words to fit, lots of nonsense scatting and repetition of catchphrases. It has to be cut early because the singer’s pun of “pear of genes” has been ruined by colored pineapples in the background instead of pears.

I’m a speedboat valet, participating in a training program which shows how to correctly give up your life battoning down doors during a hurricane. I’m with another bro-type dude, and we later sink together into a tumultuous sea giving each other fistbumps.

In Asian-feeling apartment quarters, taking possession of bodies, and playing different roles. An Uncle Iroh-like character from Avatar: Last Airbender. Taking a body and talking to my real-life aunt, but though I need to accomplish a task, I suspect I’m failing to play the role well enough — she may begin to believe I’m not her sister, my mom.

A load of cookies on the stove, the recipe includes letting them float in water to seal in flavor. I have an internal argument with the mom-spirit, where she keeps insisting how I’m doing it wrong. In faux anger I pretend I’m about to slap a stylish black girl with silvery metallic bangs, but she reacts somehow the right way. So I ask her why she reacted that way, and she answers, sensibly “because I thought you were going to slap me”. I say, “if that’s the way you reacted to me about to slap you, you reacted correctly, because I didn’t slap you.” Hmm.

Dream Journal

New Orleans Job Interview

I’m on vacation in New Orleans but decide it’s worth a shot to go in for a job interview… maybe if I’m lucky I might just be able to live there. I make the regrettable decision to get there by bus and get stuck between the doors trying to exit with all my stuff. Damn tourists.

So then I’m late by 30 minutes (appointment was at 3:00), but I’m still willing to try. The place is a wine restaurant with charming unfinished wood paneling, upstairs is a big shipping department, high ceilings, round floorplan. I set my extra stuff down on a table in their common area. After I come out of the interview I have to pick it out from their Lost and Found at the security desk. Apparently my wallet was in there, now there’s only a single dollar left. Thankful they didn’t take the credit cards, I guess.

As I’m waking up, I recall being in bed next to my wife and exclaiming “grinding coffee isn’t a career, it’s something goats do by accident!” Unfortunately she says she has no memory of this.


Several Posts in One

I got new glasses today. They are blue, with tiny stars on the arms. I’m don’t quite like them as much as I expected to, but part of that is the new even stronger prescription. The world feels just that much further away (but -9 will do that to anybody). My right eye is worse than my left and so the recurring perception is that my glasses are uneven, and so I’ll start to adjust them before realizing “oops, these were freshly fitted just earlier today.” But, well, they are blue.

Also found out today Consumating will be going offline for good in about a month. This is sad for a number of reasons. I’ve met a lot of people through Consumating, good friends. There’s also a lot of people I like that I just… never really hung out with. But could have! Some who live across the country, who I might have someday met, who I probably never will. The community (and there is a community, in this instance) is being broken up. I’ve been archiving some of my old stuff that I wrote, although now that I’ve read Waxy’s writeup on CNET’s Consu-killing decision I realize I didn’t have to. I gave lots of tags, thumbed up every question for a couple people, and wrote some nice notes. It’s not that I think that’s important, it’s just that I’m sad I didn’t take as much out of it as I could’ve. Life is short.

Speaking of which, I still don’t have a job. Lynae talked to me a good long while this morning about why she was worried. See, I said that I was going to wait a week before I started seriously looking for a job. And, well, I did… but in the meantime, unfortunately, Lynae’s mom died. I’ve kind of put that on the back burner ever since. I’m thinking that tomorrow I’ll start. But, frankly, I don’t like the prospects. Not my prospects, mind you, but the prospect of working again, and all the BS that comes with getting a job… the resumé, the interviews, training, paperwork, once again acclimatizing to all the little ways you give up on your own dreams because of how much time you give to someone else, just for a little cash. It just seems so inhumane, somehow. I don’t want a job, I want a *good* job. Good for me—for my own broad intellectual and artistic interests, not just in the interest of money. But then again, if society were about promoting the self-actualization of individuals we wouldn’t need MONEY, would we? Yuk yuk yuk yuk.

I could’ve started today earlier, but stayed up too late the night before. And here I am again, so it seems. Except that tomorrow there is no mushroom hunt in Marin county, free guided tours and as many mushrooms as one can paper-bag. That was this morning. I’m hoping that maybe sometime soon me and the little lady can go out a-wandering in search of these fungal buds. Ever since I started reading Jeff VanderMeer books, man, fungus has just been that much more magical.

I don’t know why I felt the need to dump these four disparate magisteria into one post. My day had many different concerns, many facets. It’s done now.


That Job of Yours

It’s all lifestyle, really. It’s how you live. And where you spend 8 hours a day 5 days a week is a pretty big chunk of life. So how can you be a cool person, an interesting person, a valuable person, if your job isn’t cool, interesting, or valuable?

Well, I suppose it would be hard. I can’t really say—my job doesn’t suck. I like the fact, working in a hostel, I get to talk to people from Germany and Canada and Japan on a daily basis. Sure, I talk to them and take their money. And tell them they can’t drink in the building. And give them directions to McDonald’s, sometimes. My job doesn’t suck, mostly. There’s advantages and disadvantages and such things can’t ever be changed, and that’s a truer and more cliché adage than I’d care to reflect on right now. Only difference is how much you get paid.

I know people with cooler jobs. Some jobs carry a lifestyle in and of themselves (“I’m an artist” …and what do you do in your off time?). It shapes how you are as a person because, well, you are what you do. There’s a responsibility, a damnable adult responsibility no matter if you’re dedicated to your craft or if your job description requires nights and weekends wearing a beeper. It’s odd to finally understand that.


Profound Round

My favorite shape: the circle. Circles are one of the most structurally sound shapes known to man. Circles are also intriguing as symbols of perfection, and their geometry can reveal much about nature’s design. Speaking personally, the only tattoo I want is a circle—exactingly proportioned in a thin black line, drawn on my right bicep, parallel to the collarbone. Let me lead you along on one of my imperfect circular journeys, starting one autumn evening last…

Where do you think all of this is leading?

  • get a new job

That’s right! I worry too much. And, although the job I got offered (the same job I start tomorrow) isn’t the best, isn’t ideal, in other words isn’t perfect, I’m quite tired of being spun about by different employers all around town and feeling like I’m running in… circles.

Incidentally—and I say this with no little amount of ironic, synchronistically-recognized cosmic amusement—the next Buzzed Bee is tomorrow evening.



It is an important and popular fact that often the smallest detail can make the biggest difference. This bothers me. Fr’instance, today, when told that it was someone’s “[first day being a] manager [at the Elements Hostel on Mission st.],” instead of giving [what I later realized was] a condescending “all is forgiven,” I should have spoke the truth and said “could’ve fooled me.” This is just an example, of course. One’s brain doesn’t always choose the absolute best option in the allotted time. Hm, here’s another example: rather than say, “So I’ll hear back from you soon” after another interview is concluded [which conveys that one has arrogantly assumed that the job is yours], one should say something more like “I hope to hear back from you soon,” since really that’s all you can take from any job interview [that doesn’t end in signing papers]—hope. If this ever happens to you try not to worry about it. You gave good interviews, and the respective [hostel] jobs weren’t as bad as you imagined. I’m trying not to worry too much about it, too. Time travel does sound nice though. Damned details.


Burned Out not a Burnout

I might be bored. I might be lazy. I could be frustrated or befuddled. Mostly, I think I might be burned out (and so young; I know).

But I’m hoping in this case for the specific. I’m hoping I mean the status quo. I’m hoping, because homeostasis is boring although the animal’s body seems to like it. I’ve been hanging out a couple of new places… Builder. Monster. List. They’re not that fun… not as fun as Hostel. But Hostel is getting old. I’m young; I said so myself. It’s my imperative to have more ambition than resources. The only ones I need anyways are my wits (not wit — even though having Woody Allen and Winston Churchill in one’s back pocket can come in handy).

Here’s what I’m trying to say: I want to quit working here, at this place that I love, sooner rather than later. Simple enough.


Work Blog

Guess what? I got a job. And I’m here. Now.

I join the great tradition established by blogger big’uns like master Tony Pierce—of taking time when you might otherwise be working and instead writing b.s. you copy onto the internet. Cept I’m not working for a super-secret intelligence organization protecting the innocent, but answering phones.

“Good morning, Westin Mission Hills resort and spa and villas, golf course, convention center, beauty pageant host, annual lesbian mecca, etc etc, this is Robert, how may I direct your call?”

I’m Robert again. It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. People get your name right the first time.

It’s a pretty laid-back job, relatively speaking. No spouts of molten shrimp or light-sensitive chemicals you can spill that remove your skin. I sit in a chair and direct calls, very appropriately. As an associate of a 5-star, 5-diamond resort I cannot say “hi.” I say “hello.” It’s a good gig but I have to memorize a lot of things. For instance, the extension for the Gary Player golf bag room is different than the extension for the Pete Dye bag room. Also, there happen to be about 3000 such individual extensions.

But hey, paid training boy-o. $8.50/hour isn’t anything I’ll scoff at.

Wish me luck, intarweb malcontents.