A broken, worn out memory

In my line of work as a reporter I get to meet a lot of people. Some make you jealous and others you pity. But its always the ones that I pity that seem to teach me a lesson, which is probably the reason Christians struggle to help those of us who are less fortunate.
Anyway, today I went to visit a struggling family that my newspaper has been trying to help out.
During Hurricane Rita this family lost their mobile home, most of their belongings and their sole sorce of transportation: a truck that overheated during their 18-hour exodus from Houston and disappeared from the spot where they had left it. Needless to say they are starting from scratch.
But you wouldn't know that by looking at the mother/wife. When my editor and I showed up to their squalid hotel room, her eyes seemed troubled but happy -- kind of like a minimum wage couple that just found they are going to have triplets. They were full of muffled enthuiasm. As we walked into the room, which smelled like a wet, old book -- and was just as aesthetic -- she greeted us with a slight hint of shame.
Her 6-year-old son as just the same. In his face you could see a world of worry. His big,brown eyes didn't do much to conceal his pain. In fact they seemed to only reflect his misery more clearly, like the confused glare of a punished puppy. He couldn't figure out what he had done to deserve this. Nor could I. Behind his downcast eyes I could see a boy that worried about his family; a boy that worried more about their happiness than his own.
It broke my heart.
His only oasis from the scorching reality of poverty was a worn out game controller held together by electrical tape. It was one of those controllers that contains three of the old games, like Pac-Man or Donkey Kong. It stood as the only toy he had gotten this Christmas. Amid all the packages we brought the family there were no toys, nothing to take his mind off his day to day struggles -- which I would guess are a heavier burden than anybody his age deserves.
That's when I wished I hadn't thrown away that old Nintendo 64. That ancient machine was something that I haven't been interested in in years. And something he has always wanted.

Another Monday??? I just had one last week.

Woke up this morning with a light fog settled in my frontal lobes. Nothing but air-headed confusion for me on this morning, which marks the third arrival of Spring for Houston this year.
Questions about my career choices swirl in my thoughts like a swarm of troublesome gnats. I have found several jobs that pay what I want, but I am not sure they are the kind of jobs I will look forward to going to every day. But maybe none of them are. The grind of something, day in and day out, may make even the grandest of jobs a little tiresome after a while. Like HST said: sure sex may be fun, but "old whores don't do much giggling." And I guess that is something I will have to come to terms with.
Everyone has to choose, at one time or another, between a life of security and adventure. And in my view there are few choices that are more important. So which should I choose? Some would tell me to get a bottle of rye, go for a hike in the mountains, and don't come down until it comes to me. I've drank my fair share, dousing my brain with enough liquor to permanently bleach it the color of Michael Jackson's skin, but nothing has come of it.
Maybe the problem reaches farther than I'm looking.
A friend recently asked, "Are you living right?"
Damn good question.

Blessed are the job seekers

So much for trying to work my way out of this predicament I'm in. Thought I would get a little motivated and go to a job interview this morning. Big mistake.
Granted, I was still a little groggy when I woke up at 8:30, partially because I didn't get off my other job until 11:30 Monday evening, and due to the fact I was forced on a midnight run to Kinko's to make 3 copies of my resume.
Usually I don't mind going to Kinko's -- I have always been intrigued about that place and the way it radiates the vibe of a place to really get things done and possibly turn your life around -- but I don't like making a red-eyed dash in the clutches of a nervous breakdown just because my friends are too lazy to make a trip to Kinko's themselves.
Anyway, after I make my trip to Kinko's (actually two trips because the first time they opened the UNCORRECTED version of my resume on my flash drive) I settle down for my nap around 2:30 a.m. after setting the alarm clock to go off in five hours.
Of course my rest was anything but complete as my mind spun off its axis with worries about bills, the holidays and, of course, the interview I had in six hours.
So, without my usual Coors Light nightcap I force myself into a troubled sleep, but finally made it to 7:30 and was surprised to find that I was relatively fresh, my eyes were a little cloudy and my brain muddled but I felt I could make it and stay sharp throughout the ordeal.
So I get dressed, shaved and prime myself for some of the anticipated questions. I think of four words that best describe myself while I drink my morning Dr. Pepper and watch Headline News, and I also think of where I want to be in 10 years.
After I spend a little while in that routine I head out the door and make the 30 minute drive to the Galleria area of Houston, where the interview is scheduled.
When I first got to the place I noticed a lot of other people that looked relatively unsure of their surroundings, not a good sign -- all indications are it's going to be a group interview.
And right when I was getting the urge to kick out all the windows and jump five stories down to my car, a man walked out of a conference room and told us to all go inside for a group interview.
Bingo. I called it, yet I'm totally disappointed that I didn't see the signs earlier.
And as if the group interview wasn't enough of a soul crusher I walk into a room filled with snappy visuals illustrating the difference between a "Level I representative" a "Level II representative," and so on. Mingled in with the charts and graphs pasted to the wall are the words "Unlimited Income Potential." Now for those of you used to these kind of interviews, you know what is next: a thirty-minute presentation peppered with "ground-floor opportunity" and "incomes up to $3,000 a week," but no mention of the ACTUAL job description.
So I sit there in my anger, dismayed that I was actually reeled into another one of THOSE interviews. Halfway into nawing through my lower lip, I walked out midway through the presentation, good manners be damned. I just don't have the patience for this kind of stuff anymore. Looks like I need to ask more questions while I'm setting an appointment for an interview. Kids, learn from my mistakes.

I live for this

Just a normal day at work, surfing the web looking for signs of the decadent and depraved, when lo and behold a nugget of pure comical genius pops onto my monitor. But it's one of those things that is made more funny by the fact that it's not supposed to be funny -- like when a clown falls down and really hurts himself.
Anyway if you remember the show "Salute Your Shorts," and the character named Donkey Lips, you're going to love the hell out of this.


http://www.myspace.com/mikey_rayder