A businessman told me last week, as I interviewed him about possibly buying competing businesses to grow his company: "Getting bigger isn't all it's cracked up to be."
In his line of business, combining two medium to large companies would not create a lot of "synergies" or economies of scale, he said. The whole process would likely not be worth the trouble. Nevertheless, his company has bought competitors in the past.
Funny how ambition can tempt us to pursue things that in our logical mind we strongly suspect to be unwise. It's true for businesses that spend all the money they have plus as much as a bank will lend them to expand, expand, expand, as if a rainy day will never come or the trendiness of their crazily overpriced coffee will never fade. It's true for cheating spouses who want to prove to themselves they are still sexually marketable to the general public, or at least some tiny fraction of it.
It's true for young writers who have a good-paying job with ample benefits and flexibility of schedule -- not to mention a loving wife, nice home and an all-around happy, hearty lifestyle -- yet struggle to commit wholeheartedly and with full mental attention to all of the above because of the constant distraction of dreaming of some more meaningful or fulfilling or broadly-impacting life's work.
Stupid young writers, whoever they may be.
Well, I have sworn off ambition more than once (albeit never on the Internet, I don't think), and I am here again today to repeat said swearing off. I swear: no more ambition for me.
Life is good, and I really ought to consider the possibility that I'm having all the impact and fulfilling all the purposes that I am meant to right here and now --- or, more likely, that all of those opportunities are right here in front of me if only I would pay attention to them instead of living a constant daydream about some bigger, more important occupation for which I must keep constant vigil.
I'm not making my point well, I'm afraid. This is really better-suited to a diary entry than a blog. But, this is the closest thing to a diary that I keep. (Imagine how infrequently I would write in an actual diary, if I had one.)
I think my message here (to myself, primarily, so sorry if I've lost everyone else) is that I can and should devote my life to savoring and doing my best with the people and tasks in front of me right now -- and not feel like that will amount to a selfish kind of life, because I haven't done some great project to change the world or impact thousands of people, as I'm afraid my subconscious is prone to think.
Mother Teresa made the point much better and more concisely than I. During her acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1979, when asked what people could do to promote world peace, she responded, "Go home and love your family."
Sorry for such a squishy return to my blog. I'll try to serve up some of my usual mindless entertainment real soon-like.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
It's no one's fault but my own
On my infinitely long list of careers/projects that I would like to try, comedy writer has made appearances in a number of variations.
For example, there was a time when I thought being a writer for "Saturday Night Live" would be the coolest job I could ever have. I have known, of course, for several years that I stood less than zero chance (something like negative 25% chance, I calculated) of ever getting this job. More importantly, I've known for several years that the quality of the show has deteriorated to the point that I couldn't take pride in my work there, if by some freak accident I ended up there.
(I imagine it would be similar to the deflated feeling suffered by President Bush's speech writers each time he butchers one of their carefully crafted works -- guys and gals who probably grew up dreaming of one day being a presidential speech writer, only to realize that precise dream at the worst possible moment in American history. Fate, these writers learned, has a demented sense of humor.)
But my dreams of legendary late-night sketch comedy aside, a career in humor writing has escaped me even in its less grandiose forms (e.g. self-publishing collections of comedic essays that I could sell at lightly attended book signings at the local library; I'd give away a free funny-looking bookmark with each book sold to drum up business).
My unachieved dream, however, cannot be blamed on a lack of material, as I was reminded yesterday.
I had one of those surreal moments while mowing the lawn -- the kind of moment that makes you think, "If I ever produce a plotless independent film, I will include this exact same scene somewhere in the middle third of it." I have accumulated a number of those scenes in my head, if only I could find some connective theme to loosely yet artistically string them together, plus figure out what to do in the first and last thirds of the flick.
So the scene was this: A woman, who I estimated to be 4' 6" tall and about 175 pounds, rides past me on a small electric scooter wearing a blue and red one-piece bathing suit, traveling at about 12 mph. She reaches the stop sign at the corner by my house, turns around and rides back up the street. Running along beside her is a boy, who I estimated to be 6' 0" and about 225 pounds, wearing khaki shorts, flip-flops and no shirt.
This is the part of the post where I really should be including a video, or at least a photograph. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough nor daring enough to capture either one. I have no good excuse, because the lady made at least three trips last night, sometimes with and sometimes without the boy. And it wasn't the first time I've seen her.
In fact, Mickey and Courtney were lucky enough to be present for our very first sighting a couple of weekends ago. Meaghan, of course, has seen this as well.
But let's keep moving: Immediately following this scene, I witness the neighbors' 3-year-old Mexican boy standing on the front step of his house, peeing through the railing into the bushes. Also, not the first time I've seen this.
I couldn't shake the sense that I was watching some kind of avant-garde Vaudeville show. Like maybe next I was going to see a bear riding a tricycle, and he would turn out to be the neighborhood ice cream vendor, pulling a wheeled ice box behind him. And the neighborhood kids would come running out and buy ice cream from him, as if nothing were out of the ordinary (i.e. as if he were not a bear on a tricycle).
Even without the bear, the scene gave me a good laugh. I am no closer to a comedy writing career, however. I'll probably become a firefighter or termite inspector or something.
For example, there was a time when I thought being a writer for "Saturday Night Live" would be the coolest job I could ever have. I have known, of course, for several years that I stood less than zero chance (something like negative 25% chance, I calculated) of ever getting this job. More importantly, I've known for several years that the quality of the show has deteriorated to the point that I couldn't take pride in my work there, if by some freak accident I ended up there.
(I imagine it would be similar to the deflated feeling suffered by President Bush's speech writers each time he butchers one of their carefully crafted works -- guys and gals who probably grew up dreaming of one day being a presidential speech writer, only to realize that precise dream at the worst possible moment in American history. Fate, these writers learned, has a demented sense of humor.)
But my dreams of legendary late-night sketch comedy aside, a career in humor writing has escaped me even in its less grandiose forms (e.g. self-publishing collections of comedic essays that I could sell at lightly attended book signings at the local library; I'd give away a free funny-looking bookmark with each book sold to drum up business).
My unachieved dream, however, cannot be blamed on a lack of material, as I was reminded yesterday.
I had one of those surreal moments while mowing the lawn -- the kind of moment that makes you think, "If I ever produce a plotless independent film, I will include this exact same scene somewhere in the middle third of it." I have accumulated a number of those scenes in my head, if only I could find some connective theme to loosely yet artistically string them together, plus figure out what to do in the first and last thirds of the flick.
So the scene was this: A woman, who I estimated to be 4' 6" tall and about 175 pounds, rides past me on a small electric scooter wearing a blue and red one-piece bathing suit, traveling at about 12 mph. She reaches the stop sign at the corner by my house, turns around and rides back up the street. Running along beside her is a boy, who I estimated to be 6' 0" and about 225 pounds, wearing khaki shorts, flip-flops and no shirt.
This is the part of the post where I really should be including a video, or at least a photograph. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough nor daring enough to capture either one. I have no good excuse, because the lady made at least three trips last night, sometimes with and sometimes without the boy. And it wasn't the first time I've seen her.
In fact, Mickey and Courtney were lucky enough to be present for our very first sighting a couple of weekends ago. Meaghan, of course, has seen this as well.
But let's keep moving: Immediately following this scene, I witness the neighbors' 3-year-old Mexican boy standing on the front step of his house, peeing through the railing into the bushes. Also, not the first time I've seen this.
I couldn't shake the sense that I was watching some kind of avant-garde Vaudeville show. Like maybe next I was going to see a bear riding a tricycle, and he would turn out to be the neighborhood ice cream vendor, pulling a wheeled ice box behind him. And the neighborhood kids would come running out and buy ice cream from him, as if nothing were out of the ordinary (i.e. as if he were not a bear on a tricycle).
Even without the bear, the scene gave me a good laugh. I am no closer to a comedy writing career, however. I'll probably become a firefighter or termite inspector or something.
Friday, June 6, 2008
You'd think I've been really busy
But I haven't. I have been pitifully unproductive at both work and play, on my weekdays at least, yet I have not managed to write a post on this blog in a full three weeks.
To be clear, I have not written a post on any blog in three weeks, in case you were wondering. And the fact I have nothing to write about is exactly what I came here to write about today. So it's good to know that most of my regular readers do have other ways to waste time on the Internet, because I have been providing precious little fodder.
May I suggest some ways to extend the pleasure and time-wasting capacity of this blog even when its author runs into frequent non-writing ruts:
-Start a vicious comment war on the latest post. I mean, not with me, because I'm a passive personality and only know how to defuse hostile situations. The war would not rage on very long if I were your chosen enemy. In that same spirit, I'll decline to suggest any particular enemy combatants, but let's just say Jacob spends an awful lot of time on the Internet. Also, Mickey is never afraid to speak his mind, although his comments are generally short and to the point. Just depends on what style of war you want to wage, really.
-Go back and re-read previous posts. For fun, you should randomly hop back to November or March or something. And don't just breeze through it. Read a paragraph at a time. Take bathroom breaks and water breaks in between. Because reading makes you thirsty, and drinking water makes you piss. Roll the words around in your head until you derive far more meaning from them than was ever intended.
-Hack into my blog and write a post for me. Seriously, that would be pretty awesome. If I liked it enough, I'd just leave it there forever. But don't get smart, because if you just tried to make me look like a racist or something, then I would delete the post and you'd have nothing to show for it.
Go on, then. Amuse yourselves.
To be clear, I have not written a post on any blog in three weeks, in case you were wondering. And the fact I have nothing to write about is exactly what I came here to write about today. So it's good to know that most of my regular readers do have other ways to waste time on the Internet, because I have been providing precious little fodder.
May I suggest some ways to extend the pleasure and time-wasting capacity of this blog even when its author runs into frequent non-writing ruts:
-Start a vicious comment war on the latest post. I mean, not with me, because I'm a passive personality and only know how to defuse hostile situations. The war would not rage on very long if I were your chosen enemy. In that same spirit, I'll decline to suggest any particular enemy combatants, but let's just say Jacob spends an awful lot of time on the Internet. Also, Mickey is never afraid to speak his mind, although his comments are generally short and to the point. Just depends on what style of war you want to wage, really.
-Go back and re-read previous posts. For fun, you should randomly hop back to November or March or something. And don't just breeze through it. Read a paragraph at a time. Take bathroom breaks and water breaks in between. Because reading makes you thirsty, and drinking water makes you piss. Roll the words around in your head until you derive far more meaning from them than was ever intended.
-Hack into my blog and write a post for me. Seriously, that would be pretty awesome. If I liked it enough, I'd just leave it there forever. But don't get smart, because if you just tried to make me look like a racist or something, then I would delete the post and you'd have nothing to show for it.
Go on, then. Amuse yourselves.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I suspect I may be able to help keep another, smaller human being alive
As you might have heard, I seem to have fathered offspring. The developing life form is now about the size of a lima bean and is on schedule to join us in this non-amniotic outer world in mid to late December. A Christmas baby, perhaps.
So I've started to think about how it will be to share the responsibility of feeding a baby, keeping it safe and comfortable, eventually teaching it not to crap itself and maybe showing it how to partake in a few recreational pastimes, like darts or bocce ball.
I have been expecting and waiting for a rush of freaked-out-ness or giddy excitement or paralyzing fear or uncontrollable laughter or... something. Cause it's a big deal, right? Well, you may (or may not) be surprised to hear that none of these has come.
OK, there was one spell of uncontrollable laughter, but I'm confident it was unrelated.
So, I'm left with my usual dull-spirited self, taking my usual uber-dorky pleasures in things like reading and balancing the household budget. And oh the budgeting that is to be done in preparation for this young lima bean.
But this is not to say I have been without my own miniature emotions. I feel a sort of distant gladness and warmth toward the little developing human.
I've also noticed a mildly renewed ambition for household projects. There is a room to be repainted and decorated. Just last weekend I finally replaced the old grungy electrical outlets upstairs and put covers on them. (They had been coverless for the vast majority of our three years in this house.) And I've still got work to do toward creating a tolerable climate upstairs, since it currently feels a lot like a greenhouse on hot, sunny days -- and the nights that follow them.
I guess I'm not too terrified, is what I'm saying. I know raising a baby will be a lot of work, but I'm beginning to feel drawn to the idea of expanding our family beyond just me, the wife and the dogs. Let's face it, I've always been a more effective/productive person when given responsibilities -- versus being left with lots of idle time to try to fill.
I'm also hopeful about the idea of contributing a conscientious, useful citizen into society -- by which I mean someone who is not wasteful but cares about preserving the environment, someone who is generous to people who are less fortunate, someone eager to learn new ideas and also new skills to be better able to provide for himself or herself, etc. Unfortunately, we all know plenty of people bringing new babies into the world who have no such aspirations for them.
I won't get my hopes too high, though, because I know a parent only has so much control over how the child turns out. Parents are often disappointed. But nevertheless, these are some of my hopes for the little reptilian cluster of cells. (If I understand correctly, its arm and leg buds look kind of like tiny flippers right now.)
Now I've just gotten plain gooey, haven't I? Who knows, maybe someday I'll even become soft enough to let a boy wear argyle sweater vests.
Uh, no, never mind. That's not going to happen.
So I've started to think about how it will be to share the responsibility of feeding a baby, keeping it safe and comfortable, eventually teaching it not to crap itself and maybe showing it how to partake in a few recreational pastimes, like darts or bocce ball.
I have been expecting and waiting for a rush of freaked-out-ness or giddy excitement or paralyzing fear or uncontrollable laughter or... something. Cause it's a big deal, right? Well, you may (or may not) be surprised to hear that none of these has come.
OK, there was one spell of uncontrollable laughter, but I'm confident it was unrelated.
So, I'm left with my usual dull-spirited self, taking my usual uber-dorky pleasures in things like reading and balancing the household budget. And oh the budgeting that is to be done in preparation for this young lima bean.
But this is not to say I have been without my own miniature emotions. I feel a sort of distant gladness and warmth toward the little developing human.
I've also noticed a mildly renewed ambition for household projects. There is a room to be repainted and decorated. Just last weekend I finally replaced the old grungy electrical outlets upstairs and put covers on them. (They had been coverless for the vast majority of our three years in this house.) And I've still got work to do toward creating a tolerable climate upstairs, since it currently feels a lot like a greenhouse on hot, sunny days -- and the nights that follow them.
I guess I'm not too terrified, is what I'm saying. I know raising a baby will be a lot of work, but I'm beginning to feel drawn to the idea of expanding our family beyond just me, the wife and the dogs. Let's face it, I've always been a more effective/productive person when given responsibilities -- versus being left with lots of idle time to try to fill.
I'm also hopeful about the idea of contributing a conscientious, useful citizen into society -- by which I mean someone who is not wasteful but cares about preserving the environment, someone who is generous to people who are less fortunate, someone eager to learn new ideas and also new skills to be better able to provide for himself or herself, etc. Unfortunately, we all know plenty of people bringing new babies into the world who have no such aspirations for them.
I won't get my hopes too high, though, because I know a parent only has so much control over how the child turns out. Parents are often disappointed. But nevertheless, these are some of my hopes for the little reptilian cluster of cells. (If I understand correctly, its arm and leg buds look kind of like tiny flippers right now.)
Now I've just gotten plain gooey, haven't I? Who knows, maybe someday I'll even become soft enough to let a boy wear argyle sweater vests.
Uh, no, never mind. That's not going to happen.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Farce Side
If I could draw and decided to draw a comic strip for a living (or even just for fun), that's what I would call it: "The Farce Side".
I would labor on with badly-scrawled (as opposed to well-scrawled?) cartoons, begging small-town newspapers to publish my work, until one day I caught a features syndicate editor with an odd sense of humor in just the right mood and got myself a trial in 30 or so major newspapers across North America.
Then, the lawyers for a much more famous cartoonist would spot my work and notice the near-thievery of my title, and they would carefully weigh their options for suing me or not (or just writing me a threatening letter with a mysterious white powder in the envelope; I hear that's how copyright lawyers operate these days). In the end, though, my cartoon would never make it past its glorious three-month trial run, and so the lawyers would save themselves any further trouble by just watching it die under the weight of its own mediocrity.
That's why I'll never be a cartoonist. Lawyers. They screw up everything.
I really didn't have anything to write about today, but I was so sick of that Nutella jar photo sitting at the top of my page. I should have made some advertising revenue off of that. But I didn't. I'm sorry you guys had to look at that jar for almost two full weeks, and none of us has anything to show for it.
So, so sorry.
I would labor on with badly-scrawled (as opposed to well-scrawled?) cartoons, begging small-town newspapers to publish my work, until one day I caught a features syndicate editor with an odd sense of humor in just the right mood and got myself a trial in 30 or so major newspapers across North America.
Then, the lawyers for a much more famous cartoonist would spot my work and notice the near-thievery of my title, and they would carefully weigh their options for suing me or not (or just writing me a threatening letter with a mysterious white powder in the envelope; I hear that's how copyright lawyers operate these days). In the end, though, my cartoon would never make it past its glorious three-month trial run, and so the lawyers would save themselves any further trouble by just watching it die under the weight of its own mediocrity.
That's why I'll never be a cartoonist. Lawyers. They screw up everything.
I really didn't have anything to write about today, but I was so sick of that Nutella jar photo sitting at the top of my page. I should have made some advertising revenue off of that. But I didn't. I'm sorry you guys had to look at that jar for almost two full weeks, and none of us has anything to show for it.
So, so sorry.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Darn you, Nutella, I'm a yuppie after all
I've been a peanut butter man for some time now.
Peanut butter on toast. Peanut butter on bagels. Peanut butter on bananas. Or apples. Or pickles, if I'm feeling wild.
It's a respectable spread. Hearty. Salty (and/or sweet, depending on the type you buy). And high on both protein and unsaturated (good) fats. It's a working man's spread, yet still acceptable and enjoyable for the college-educated crowd.
But -- there's always a "but" -- I've discovered a new love. There's another jar in the cabinet, right beside the peanut butter. Sometimes sitting on top of it, even.
This chocolatey, creamy, "spreadably delicious" stuff called Nutella.
Up until two weeks ago, I had only heard talk of a hazelnut-based goop that was apparently quite popular among Euro-snobs, who thought themselves too classy for lesser, legume-based spreads.
And I dismissed it as superfluous to my edible spread needs. It sounded unappetizing, expensive, perhaps even un-American.
But on a recent spring day -- giddy with weekend recreation and forgetful of my prior conclusions, drawn years earlier -- Meaghan and I bought a jar. One harmless 13-ounce jar (371 grams). It was not terribly expensive, and we were shopping at an all-natural, organic food store, so we were feeling rather hippie-dippy already.
I figured Meaghan would try it and occasionally labor to find something to spread it on as the jar collected dust over six months in our cupboard.
I. Was. Wrong.
It was I who tore the seal off the jar's top. It was I who first spread it onto a bagel in our kitchen.
I introduced our toast to the stuff. I dipped a graham cracker stick into the jar and scooped up a blob to place on my forked tongue.
It has been I who has devoured nearly all of the one-third of a jar (4 ounces, give or take) that has already vanished.
So with this it has become clear to me: As if driving a Corolla weren't sign enough, or I couldn't discern this from the fact that I write for a website subscribed to by investment bankers, or from my taking my dogs on vacation with me ---
Plainly, despite my better judgment, I have become a yuppie.
I fear I am doomed to a lifetime of penance -- taking on home improvement projects at which I am neither skilled nor experienced -- to try to preserve some allegiance to my working class roots.
And I promise, peanut butter, I have not altogether forgotten you. Perhaps this is just a fling, and this will be the last Nutella jar with which you'll ever have to share cabinet space. Or, at worst, I will soon return you to your rightful prominence in the spread corner, sitting either in front of or on top of that squatty, white-topped container.
Either way, I will not become a Euro-snob. (But they sure are smart for driving so many small, diesel-powered cars.)
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