Forever Holds Forth on ER and Clooney

For someone who does not have a job and really nothing else to do, my inability to keep a consistent blog is abominable and inexcusable. I am just going to cut to the chase: I have been watching an atrocious amount of television. And I mean that in the fullest sense of the word; the time I have spent staring at a two dimensional box is nothing short of an atrocity committed by someone who has been given the gift of life. And for that I am unapologetic, because it has been awesome.

The week and a half I spent with my parents only renewed the love/hate relationship I have with the show "Bones." I hate the fact that I watch such a terrible show, but I still love it in spite of myself. The good news is that my father told me that the simmering yet unresolved lust between Bones and Booth is supposed to spill over this season. Preparations for the viewing party have already begun.

More to the point, and the reason why I am writing right now, is that last night I watched the final episode of ER. I used to watch this show in grade school. Since then I have graduated grade school, high school and college, started a career, had a career, retired, and taken up inconsistent blogging. Through all of this, the show has kept a steady beat. Remarkable. While the cast has turned over at least twice on this show, the character I immediately associate with ER is that of Doug Ross, played by George Clooney in the show's first several seasons. Within months of the show's premier he was holding the world hostage with his good looks. When he buzzed his hair--probably the most basic and popular male hair cut ever--it immediately became known as the "George Clooney cut." So instrumental was he in the popularity of the show that when he announced he was leaving ER to embark on a film career I immediately forecasted the final season of the show. I was off by about a decade.

Impressively, Clooney's only role of note before the show was Jackie's love interest "Booker Brooks," on the television show "Roseanne." (I used to watch a lot of Roseanne when I was younger). ER launched his career and for that we should always be grateful. We rely on understatedly handsome, middle-aged white men to serve as the bedrock of pop culture. Without an alpha male, chaos would ensue. Think of American history without Bogart, Newman, Redford, Harrison Ford or Sean Connery. Who would have stepped into the breach if not Clooney? Brad Pitt is too pretty. Matt Damon's friendship with Ben Affleck has always dimmed his attractiveness. Eric Bana's career had yet to take off. We would have been leaderless throughout most of the 90s. I don't even want to think about the possibilities.

It should also be pointed out that George Clooney, from his television parts as Booker and Doug Ross, to every character he has played in film, has always had the role of a self-assured, roguishly attractive bachelor, i.e., himself. I say that without bitterness. I know there aren't a lot of roles for snarky, 20-something oafs without ambition, and I am ok with that. But this just goes to show you how powerfully attractive he is. Movie people just film him being him and we pay to watch. The allure is almost biblical, like we should turn into a pillar of salt if we turn our eyes to him. I have gotten way too sidetracked talking about Clooney, as tends to happen. Back to ER.

"Close your eyes when you look at me!"

While watching ER last night I did manage to note a few things. The first is that whenever it's raining, they always bring the patient out of the ambulance and then discuss the patient's condition while rain just pelts the injured person. Somehow this is the only hospital in the country without a covered ER dock and despite constant practice of offloading patients in thunderstorms, the staff still hasn't figured out that they can move the patient inside while asking if they're still alive or not.

Secondly, in case you missed it, Ernest Borgnine had a part. I thought he was long-since dead. The man is 92 and is still acting. He was actually born during World War 1. This is incredible. Somewhat heartbreaking, is the fact that he had to play a man whose very old wife was dying. Clearly there is a need for old actors to play old people near death, but at what point do you throw your hands up and say, "I get it. I'm going to die soon. Could I get a role where I am old and not dying....please?" And what sort of direction can you give in those scenes? "Mr. Borgnine, that take was good, but you seemed a little too coherent. Remember, you're almost dead. This take, try to look a little more confused, like your brain is turning to mush. But do keep in the back of your mind that all of your years on the Earth are soon coming to an end and everyone you've known or loved is long gone. But don't overdo it, because your character's brain at this age probably can't process deep thought. And....action!"

Also, Angela Bassett is a smoke show and she's over 50. I'm contemplating putting her on my Top 5 list, which would mean that 60% of my Top 5 would be over 40. (Maria Bello and Diane Lane being the other two mature women). In so doing I would be opening up a Pandora's Box of psychoanalysis that I don't think I am ready for. Anyhoo, it's Friday and I have to get off the couch, but I'll be back soon. I have 10 hours of West Wing coming through Netflix this weekend so I should have some thoughts on how to run a country for Monday.

St. Patty's Day, a Celebration of Drunks

I'm a few days late on this, but I have been meaning to ponder the allure of St. Patty's Day and the hilarity that the one day of the year we associate with Ireland is a day everyone uses as an excuse to drink. As a friend of mine once remarked, showing wisdom far beyond his years, "there are two things that always live up to expectations: sake bombing, and St. Patty's Day."

I can't think of another country that is so closely associated with a substance abuse problem. Certainly other countries have issues with narcotics. Alcoholics abound in every country and civilization across the globe and throughout time. Mongols used to ferment horse milk to chase a buzz. Can you imagine fiending for a hit of fermented horse milk? Today it's hard to think of a country like Colombia without thinking of cocaine, or Afghanistan and heroine for that matter. However, if I were introduced to a Colombian I wouldn't jump to the conclusion that they were a coke head. I would probably assume that they're an ultra violent drug dealer, but never an actual drug user. Same with Afghans.

Now I am not one to stereotype.* However, I will say that I have yet to meet an Irish person who failed to live up to the popular stereotype of the Irish. I lived with one for six months and she drank like a fish. The sound of her retching in my bathroom late at night woke me up on more than one occasion. On a weeknight we watched a two and a half hour movie together while she steadily plowed through several bottles of wine. She did not remember a wink of it the next day. And I don't mean the details of the movie, but being there at all. She actually asked me what I did that night. I'd often come down the steps in the morning to find Irishmen sprawled about the living room, face down, fully clothed, and completely unconscious. It didn't matter if it was a Saturday, Tuesday, or a Thursday. I was regularly treated to a ghastly display of liver warfare by her and her Irish friends who were all just as hellbent on achieving perpetual drunkenness. Of the six months I lived with her I can't think of one night that she was sober. I addressed this once with a coworker of mine who was also Irish who assured me it was nothing out of the ordinary.

Now, other countries certainly have their own stereotypes that we celebrate. The English have bad teeth, the French hate freedom, Canadians wish they were us, and the Russians lost the Cold War. Although that last one is more of a fact than a stereotype, it is still worth celebrating. But no country is so closely tied with a love for alcohol as is Ireland. Given the fact that all people everywhere like to drink, I think that is something to be proud of.

Well done Ireland, well done indeed.


*Complete lie. I use stereotypes, prejudices, and racial profiling in almost all aspects of my day-to-day. It serves as a good security measure at airports and also makes me feel good about myself.

FU Suffers Existential Crisis, Drinks with Old People

This past week has been an existential cyclone for FU. Coming to Florida in March one is hit with two modes of life that are polar opposites: spring breakers going wild, and the walking dead. The former are enjoying youth in all its carefree vibrancy, the latter are driving Cadillacs at 20 miles per hour whether they're in a parking lot or on a highway. And then there is FU, travelling the lonesome highway in between.

I am sorry if that sounded incredibly melodramatic. I'm trying to post while watching the tournament games and I am finding it incredibly difficult to stay focused. After only 8 games I think I am in last place in both pools I've entered without a hope of coming back, so I am finding myself questioning life. This shouldn't surprise people as I have had similarly bizarre tangents spurred by nothing more than chicken salad.

But Florida is somewhat of an alternate universe to an outsider. I was in the grocery store with my dad the other day and I was a full head taller than everyone else in the store. That afforded me an excellent view of the parking lot of grocery carts that consumed every aisle. Nobody moved with any semblance of having to be anywhere else. I think some people actually stopped and took naps standing up while shopping for peas.

When we finally got back to the house we were graced with a visit by my parents' neighbor who, at 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday, was sloshed. And not the convivial sort of drunk, but rather the totally incoherent, you-really-shouldn't-drink-when-on-meds kind of drunk. I listened to him ramble for 20 minutes before he had to stumble back to top up his cocktail. I am not lying when I say that the only I thing I understood him utter in that entire 20 minutes was that someone got a paint job for a Bronco. And I couldn't even frame that nugget of information with any sort of story. I think a jet way and a ticketing agent were involved somehow, but trying to connect the dots taxes my brain more than I care to.

Somewhat taken back by this land of short, intoxicated seniors I decided to spend some time reading and not thinking about what was going on in the world around me. Unfortunately, the blender being used for the margarita mix made it difficult to focus on my book. My parents, seeing their neighbor as an inspirational figure, decided it was time for a potion. That was Monday and it hasn't stopped. In fact, there hasn't even been a slow-down since then. All week happy hour has started early and doesn't stop until bed time. I am astounded by how much older people drink, especially given the fact that nobody ever seems to get hungover. It's almost like I am witnessing a spring break for seniors....which makes the road ahead not quite so bad.

Then again, I am looking at a very long retirement...

FU

A "Maintenance Day" for FU

A belated St. Patty's day post. The reason for my tardiness is the same reason why right now most of America is walking in an hour late to work and cursing the last four beers they had last night. During my long and illustrious career, I would tell my boss that I had a lot of "maintenance" to do on days like this. I never really understood what exactly "maintenance" meant, but other people in the office used it all the time and so I just followed their lead. Think of Ron Burgundy saying "when in Rome" throughout Anchor Man. That was me, but instead I would try to look really stressed and then complain about being "up to my eyeballs in maintenance." I think it was supposed to mean catching up on emails, documentation, compliance, and general tasks that clients required that didn't result directly in the company earning money. Whatever it meant, it allowed you to retire to your office for the rest of the day and gave you an excuse for not coming out until 5:00. For me, a maintenance day was usually spent playing a Tetris game that was embedded in an Excel spreadsheet and catching up on ESPN articles that I hadn't had a chance to get around to that week.

So what happened on St. Patty's Day? Most people wear a green shirt and head to a bar where they try to drink themselves numb. If it's an Irish bar--something with a name like O'Something or McAnything--the whole ritual is leant an air of authenticity. But FU is currently in "God's Waiting Room" where 70% of the local population carries an AARP card in their wallet. So last night I did what old people do--I went to a dog track...with my parents. My parents apparently know what they're doing when it comes to betting on Greyhounds and in the excitement of their hot streak were buying beers after almost every race. By the time I got home I was ready to hit the sack, but my mom insisted on a nightcap. Next thing I know it's 1:00 in the morning and I am layed out on the floor listening to my mom mock me for having "the tolerance of a high schooler."

So even though we took different routes, I found myself in the same place as the rest of America this morning; in bed, dehydrated, and questioning my decision making. I'll do my best to make it back to you this afternoon with my original St. Patty's Day thoughts.

Stay Strong America-

Forever Unemployed

Clarification to "Bones" Reference

Just a quick clarification on a sidebar from yesterday's post. I commented on a future post regarding the "palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth." This was in reference to the television show "Bones." On the surface this statement could be a little confusing to an outsider as they picture an FBI agent getting together with a skeleton. In case any of my readers are not avid watchers, Bones is not only the name of the television show, but is also the nickname of the lead female character, Dr. Temperance Brennan. Despite her dry clinical language and seemingly shallow emotional pool, we can only suspect that she is a sexual dynamo. Her sidekick is an ubermasculine FBI Agent named Seeley Booth (see below). For some reason they haven't done the dirty yet and it keeps FU coming back for more.

Temperance "Bones" Brennan.....smokin'

I'll be back later today with more thoughts that are not related to TNT crime dramas.

How to Sterilize Shark's Teeth

As usual, I apologize for the delay in getting a new post up. I have been visiting friends and now family in Florida. A few years ago my parents figured they had reached the time in their lives where it was time to have a place in Florida. Being retired myself, I understand the impulse. Unfortunately, my cash flow right now resembles Enron's so I won't be following in my parents' footsteps. Anyway, during the dreary winter months, my parents escape the gloom of the Midwest by escaping to Florida--the state they affectionately refer to as "God's Waiting Room."

My parents have picked up some interesting quirks over the last several years. For one, they have a glowing love of the television show "Bones." If you haven't seen it, it's awful. Every episode features an outlandish crime that is solved incredibly easily by the forensics team. Unfortunately, I am also hooked on this show after watching 20 episodes with my parents over six days during Christmas. Despite my dad being largely unable to use most everything invented in the last 20 years, he has figured out how to DVR every episode of "Bones" that is replayed on TNT. The result is that he and my mom have frequent "Bones" marathons. This is how my family bonds. So after a few of these marathons I actually started liking these inane plots and characters. Now I can't live without them. One of these days I will treat the palpable sexual tension between Bones and Agent Booth in greater detail. For now, back to my parents.

Another somewhat bizarre development I witnessed earlier today. My parents have become collectors of shark teeth. They walk up and down the beach looking at the sand in the off chance that they find a stray shark's tooth. The first thing you're wondering is, how many shark's teeth are there on the beach? The answer is, apparently a lot. Today's stroll yielded 27. Apparently sharks are constantly losing teeth and growing new ones in their attempt at being the most terrifying creatures ever. If my parents, having already patrolled that section of beach numerous times, still come back with 27 teeth that despite 2/3 of the world's surface, found their way to a small beach in Florida, think about how many teeth must be out there and attached to ferocious, underwater, man-eating monsters. By the time we left the beach today I had already developed the beginning stages of a crippling phobia of the open ocean.

So what happens to these teeth that my parents devote several hours a day to finding? They go into a jar in the cabinet never to be seen again. In a separate jar my mom puts a random collection of sea shells that she also picks up on her shark tooth hunting trips. However, not before they are subjected to a sterilization treatment that would put any ER in America to shame. My mom boils the shells for 15 minutes. In chloride. I don't know why she is petrified of the germs on sea shells, but my mom is adamant in her treatment. I told her that 5 minutes would probably be sufficient and she would have none of it. Using water, as opposed to an industrial cleaning agent, was simply out of the question. But who am I to judge? Maybe after 40 more years of retirement I will be patrolling the beach every day and sterilizing everything I find.

I'll be back tomorrow with more. Happy St. Patty's Day America!

FU

A Cornucopia of Thoughts

While traipsing about Cambridge Square on an unusually mild Sunday, my roommate commented on the amount of seemingly questionable business ventures that had set up shop. There was a door store. Yes, a store that specializes in doors. Eureka! To the owner's credit it had appeared from some brief window shopping that the door store had diversified into kitchen tables and ceiling fans. Although I have to question the wisdom of this move since my first instinct when buying a kitchen table is not to look up a place called The Door Store.

There were also three shoe repair shops. I don't see many shoe repair shops, but I saw three within a quarter-mile of one another. This baffled me. I always figured the era of the cobbler was long-dead, having gone the way of the chimney sweep or the typewriter repair man. Am I in the dark here? Is a good shoe repair guy the same thing as having a good mechanic or talented accountant? Is it that common? Answer me readers!

We also spotted one tannery. Whether or not hides were actually tanned there could not be ascertained as they were closed on Sundays, but this certainly raises some of the same questions raised above.

Another store we came across was titled Bob Slate Stationer. The sign had Bob Slate's signature written above the block letter "Stationer." While a stationary store isn't that uncommon, I chuckled all day thinking about Bob Slate introducing himself to everyone as "Bob Slate, stationer." I couldn't get the image of him at a cocktail party out of my head. "Hi there, I'm Rick, Nancy's husband." "Hi Rick, name's Slate. Bob Slate...stationer."

I have consumed one jar of mayonnaise in one and a half months. I am disgusted with myself and wanted to share this fact with everyone. If I die tragically young you'll have a place to start when trying to determine cause of death.

On a similarly dark note, my friend who is in medical school felt the need to tell me after my "FU Does Not Have AIDS" post that overcoming a serious illness is indicative of someone who has AIDS. (I stated in my post that overcoming the flu was proof that I was AIDS free). Apparently I still have some leverage for landing the nickname 'Magic.'

I just finished a book on the run-up to the Iraq War that included an account of the CIA operations in Iraq in the late fall and winter of 2002/3. As part of the operation, the guy in charge had to be able to dole out large sums of money in cash and so had millions of dollars stuffed in duffel bags lying around his place. I think it was something like $37 million. In case anyone was wondering, $1 million in hundred dollar bills weighs 40 pounds and can fit into a backpack. There's no snarky comment there, I just thought that was interesting to know exactly how much $1 million was. However, one amusing tidbit was that after three months of paying the local opposition group exclusively in $100 bills, it soon came to dominate the local currency and hyperinflation set in. Apparently a cup of coffee couldn't be bought for less than $100 because nobody had any change. The CIA ended up having to smuggle in a few tons of cash in smaller bills over three truckloads. Again, there's no point here, just sharing.

One of my friends has suggested repeatedly that I incorporate pictures into the blog as a means of spicing up the delivery of its content. As a gesture that I am open to criticism and not oversensitive about people questioning my artistic decisions, I have decided to make an attempt to spice it up with some pictures.

On a totally unrelated note, I am no longer friends with that loser.

That's for you Joe.

Finally, I'll be traveling for the next 10 days or so which could mean some pretty irregular posting. Stay strong America, I'll be here.

FU

Roadhouse, an FU Movie Review

Last night I caught the tail end of "Roadhouse," a 1980s Patrick Swayze classic. Back when I was working I actually spent part of my day drafting a review of the movie which I felt compelled to dig up and revise. It is one of those movies that is so bad it ends up being really good.

Premise:

A nationally renowned bouncer with only one name is recruited to a small town in Kansas to clamp down on the absolute chaos that is the DoubleDeuce bar. Unfortunately for him, the small town has been run for years by a millionaire named Brad Wesley who doesn't like the arrival of Dalton, the bouncer (Patrick Swayze). The conflict between these two men will shape the rest of the movie. Let's take a closer look.

According to his medical records, which he carries with him wherever he goes due to his propensity to find trouble, Dalton has been shot twice and stabbed 9 times. He has an out-of-this-world mullet, wears tight jeans and smokes Marlboro Reds. We are led to believe that he has amassed considerable wealth from bouncing--a sign of just how good he is. When not bouncing he does tai-chi while sweat glistens off his body, reads Jim Morrison, or just lays on the roof of his car looking at the sky.

He apparently sews his own stitches, except for when he doesn't. (In the span of five minutes he is shown sewing his own stitches and then going to a hospital to have stitches sewn for him. This incontinuity is never explained and doesn't make much sense). At the hospital he meets a leggy blonde doctor. This is the love interest of the movie. Her intelligence is a good match for his brawn, but then again, he also studied philosophy at NYU--specifically "man's search for faith or some shit." So Dalton in many ways is the total package.

Dalton's mastery of the bouncing profession is illustrated very early in the movie by having him assess, in only 15 minutes mind you, everything wrong about the DoubleDeuce that the long-time owner has been unable to--drug dealing, bartenders skimming, underage people being let in, and sex occurring in the broom closet. Not to mention medieval levels of violence. In firing the skimming bartender, Dalton sets off a maelstrom due to the fact that the bartender's uncle is Brad Wesley, the millionaire who owns the majority of the town. Instead of finding his nephew a much better job at any of the 100 businesses he is part owner in, he refuses to be slighted and insists that his nephew WILL work as a bartender at the DoubleDeuce. Why Wesley won't find him a better job at any of the other businesses he owns and/or terrorizes is never explained and doesn't make much sense. Regardless, Dalton refuses to employ the nephew and the town quickly devolves into violence as these two titans collide over the fate of the DoubleDeuce. Throughout this conflict Dalton manages to befriend a few of the town's innocent victims and lays the doctor. He also rips out the throat of Wesley's no. 1 goon in a moonlit, riverside showdown. I've never found out if ripping out a throat is actually possible, but Dalton does it while wearing sweatpants. That's Dalton.

Let's move on to Brad Wesley, the town's despotic millionaire. He throws rock star parties even though he is 50, and has a band of goons who drive around in monster trucks terrorizing the populace. He is given to buzzing livestock in a helicopter and laughing sardonically. We are never told how he made his fortune, but it is clear that he now demands regular payments from every business in town. For what, we don't know. He is given to burning down or demolishing these same businesses by way of monster truck for apparently no reason at all. Despite this apparently spotty business sense, he is able to bring a JC Penney to town, which is his proudest accomplishment. To display just how completely above the law he is, he drives his convertible on the wrong side of the road while listening to show tunes forcing oncoming traffic to veer of the road. The oncoming traffic happens to be Dalton, perhaps a foreshadowing of the conflict that is certain to occur when anyone lines up against Swayze in a movie.

Why Wesley would drive on the wrong side of the road and directly into oncoming traffic is never really explained and makes absolutely no sense at all--which is also one of the movie's main themes. In fact, after 10+ viewings of this movie I am convinced that the whole project was conceived, directed, shot, and edited without a script or anyone ever being told what it was they were filming. In addition to plot sequences that make no sense, we are also treated to some head scratching lines. While getting stitches (Dalton refused a local anaesthetic--also never explained why), Dalton tells the doctor "pain don't hurt." Wesley, not to be outdone by nonsense statements, asks one of his goons "you know why I don't like you?" He then punches him in the face, forcing the goon's nose to bleed, and says "because you bleed." It would be fair to say the average viewer could be somewhat confused by this sequence of events. Clearly Wesley disliked him before he was bleeding--why else would he punch him?

And finally, we have the DoubleDeuce. The bar becomes a character of it's own throughout the movie. How this place was ever in business in the first place is never explained. On a nightly basis it gives Baghdad and Lebanon, circa 1985, a run for the money. When Dalton first sees the DoubleDeuce, everyone in the place is involved in a fight. Literally everyone. Most patrons who come to the DoubleDeuce seem to order a single beer before deciding to throw the bottle at a blind band member or destroy wooden furniture on other patrons (or vice versa). Despite low alcohol sales, a thieving bartender, a never ending need to replace chairs and tables, and a 65-75% chance that as a patron you will be killed or dismembered, this place stays afloat.

Here are some more bits and pieces about this movie that make it an absolute delight to watch.

-Monster truck. Utilizing a monster truck in a movie I'm fairly confident in saying, has never been done before or after Road House. It is totally random, excessive, and doesn't make sense, which puts it squarely in keeping with the rest of the movie.

-"Prepare to die." I feel like the presence of this line in any movie signals a terrible movie, and this movie has it.

-Patrick Swayze rips out a throat. I already mentioned this, but it needs to be repeated. Patrick Sway rips out a throat in this movie.

-Gratuitous sex and topless shots. If the producers of this movie planned one thing of this movie it was that they would definitely receive an "R" rating. Tough to grasp on television, the DVD version (which I own) is replete with sex scenes topless women.

-Not mincing words. Like previous point, this movie's inane plot would seemingly lend it to an audience of 12 or below, however, along with the toplessness, it does not shy away from dropping F bombs.
-An alternate universe? I can't imagine a world where bouncers gain national fame, but this is it. Everyone in this Kansas town has heard of Dalton and his mentor (yes, he has a mentor--another bouncer who is apparently the only bouncer in the world who can give Dalton a run for the money. Luckily, they're on the same side.)

Let's hope Swayze regains his health can continue delighting us with gems like this.

FU Does Not Have AIDS, Still Wants to be Called "Magic"

This post has been a long-time coming. I don't have AIDS. At least the results from my 2001 test told me so and I don't have any reason to doubt things have changed. Although, I did have a stage where I was really into experimenting with needle drugs, which ultimately led me to develop an insatiable appetite for Botswanan hookers. And while I don't recall ever having gay sex, there are some weeks I can't account for in 2003-3004 due to an incredibly potent score of China White. Sure, this may sound like a high-risk lifestyle, but it was the 2000s. Who wasn't high on smack and sleeping with anything with a pulse for an extra hit? If I have AIDS, then find me someone who doesn't.

Though I did have somewhat of a recent scare about a month ago. Here's a little background. My move from San Diego to Boston involved a 4000 mile road trip with my college roommate which touched off a two week onslaught of feverish drinking accompanied by little sleep and very unhealthy food. The result of two straight weeks of abusing my body in every way imaginable was that upon reaching Boston, I was hit almost immediately by a near-fatal case of the flu. For two days I was ensconced in sweatpants and a sleeping bag on my living room floor, too tired to even watch tv. The chills I experienced all day were accompanied by annoyingly regular night sweats for almost a week. I found myself searching for simple words like "toilet" and "remote" while in conversation, to no avail. There were moments where I welcomed death. But luckily my pedigree and robust physical fitness allowed me to ward off this disease within a week. Others would most likely still be suffering. Indeed, lesser mortals could have died.

But I perservered. And that weekend I was visited by my sister (mentioned in previous post). Somehow, while watching an NBA game on television, Magic Johnson's seemingly miraculous bout with HIV/AIDS came up in conversation. In order to satisfy our curiosity about his health picture, we turned to google where my sister stumbled upon a list of AIDS symptoms which she read off. The list included: fever, soaking night sweats, shaking chills, dry cough, and loss of memory. I felt a javelin go through my heart. I had AIDS. The next few days were a living hell for me as I came to grips with my certain demise; except for a very pleasant trip to Kennebunkport, Maine where I found my future retirement community (also mentioned in previous post).

Then, in an interesting turn of events, I realized that I wasn't sick anymore. In fact I hadn't been for several days. I had either beaten AIDS or I never had it. I wasn't sure which, but I wanted to share the good news with my readers with whom I had offhandedly mentioned I might have contracted the virus. But I had a serious hesitation. While coming to grips with my AIDS, I had also come to really like the nickname "Magic." I admired the nickname so much that I felt the name itself effectively counterbalanced, if not entirely outweighed the devestating stigma of the most damning disease of the 21st century. I was hoping I could leverage my potential AIDS virus to garner the nickname before revealing to the world that I did not actually have AIDS. Despite learning a rash of magic tricks and then performing them in front of my friends at every chance while also letting them know that I was 100% AIDS positive, I couldn't get anyone to call me "Magic."

And so I finally gave up. I don't have AIDS. But I am still unemployed...forever.

Happy Hump Day America

Quote of the Day

From the Boston Globe:

"With his lumberjack's no-nonsense demeanor, Hibbs leaves the distinct impression he prefers the company of dogs to people."

Snow and Inactivity

There's a lot of snow on the ground right now. I know this because I looked outside and there's a lot of snow on the ground. It wasn't there last night. In case I missed this, every major newspaper or website has this on its front page. I'm not sure I get why this is worth reporting. Aren't journalists paid to report on things the rest of us don't know? CNN.com has the winter storm ahead of "Octuplet Mom Holding Out for Reality Show?" and "Mom with Two Wombs Gets Pregnant Twice" on it's breaking news section. I think there was a story about a leader of some nation getting assassinated as well. At least two of those stories are really interesting and worth a click. I wonder if the authors of those stories just stare from behind their laptop screens at the guy who wrote about the snow with utter contempt.

As an aside, I was going to shovel some snow today. I don't have to at all, but I was craving some vigorous activity that would leave me feeling as though I depended on myself for my own survival. I wanted to feel like Teddy Roosevelt did after he killed half of Africa's animals or like Daniel Boone after he built his own log cabin all by himself. As I was gearing up to go outside I saw a snow plow go down our sidewalk and in 30 seconds did I was planning on doing for two hours. So now you're getting a second blog.

Anyway, back to the reporting of obvious news, I started thinking about this one a little bit. Perhaps there are too many journalists out there and perhaps we are a little too crazed for "breaking news." I probably check three to four news web sites anywhere from four to five times a day. That's up to 20 times a day I look for news. Granted, I have very little to do, but I did this when I was working while I was avoiding things I did have to do. So this isn't a new occurrence for me and I don't think I am alone here. In fact if you're reading this it's probably a sign that you're running out of web pages to read yourself. But why do I think I am really going to be affected by any of this? With the exception of 9/11, I can't think of a single news story that really impacted my life. And without sounding too callous, 9/11 really didn't affect me aside from causing longer wait times at airports (and a visceral suspicion of every middle easterner I saw from 2001-2005...I have since calmed down a bit).

Maybe what I should take away from this is that people need more things to do during the day to avoid work. Or maybe the fact that I am now writing about others writing about snow means I really need to get out of the house.

Happy Monday America, only four more days-

FU

FU Turns 26

I feel that I have to bring my readers up to date with the fast moving events of FU's life. I am now 26. Sure, this could have been predicted given the Earth's reliable 365 day orbit and humanity's long-standing history of aging, however birthdays catch me off guard nearly every year. The result is that I enter a mini-existential crisis that lasts for about 12-24 hours where I contemplate humanity's struggle against beast, as well as our race's collective struggle against imminent death. And this year was no different. However, this year I came away more confident than ever that I am winning.

Let me expound. Every day that we wake up alive and healthy on this planet should be a good one. But every day that we wake up without going to work is about as close to the sun as we can fly without our wings melting, and I make this flight every day. And on Friday, that flight took me to the neighborhood liquor store where I bought eight 40s and three lottery tickets to celebrate my birfday. As I walked back through the housing projects that lie between my apartment and the liquor store, I contemplated my haul as well as the fact that I am unemployed and not paying taxes at the current moment, and realized my ability to transcend cultures. I truly am a man of the people, all people. And that's a great realization on your birthday.

I'll have a few more posts up today touching upon random happenings.

Adieu-

Forever Unemployed

Having Sex with a Corpse--is it that wrong?

During a typical, late afternoon brainstorming session, which usually entails monitoring my beard growth in the mirror and contemplating whether or not I should shave it, my mind wondered to a story that has been unfolding in Cincinnati about a morgue worker who was tried and found guilty of having sex with corpses.

I had been following the story for some time, but really only through the daily headlines, so my knowledge of the case was sparse to say the least. I started thinking that, although grotesque and utterly repulsive, society really isn't threatened by this man. Couldn't we just put him in a job where there are no corpses, say, not the morgue? I started building my defense while in the shower after said beard monitoring. I should note here that I have a tendency to take the unpopular side of explosive issues. My impassioned defense of Michael Vick has cost me several friendships as well as caused me to lose the business of at least one client in my previous job. I have, at various times in my life, argued that more guns on the streets would be a good thing--and once I extended this argument to include the need to overthrow the government sooner rather than later. I campaigned vigorously for women's suffrage until I found out it was the right to vote. And in college I once took the side of the Hutus when debating the Rwandan genocide in a class on East Africa. I regret that one.

So anyway as I sat down and came up with my eye catching title, I figured I should get some of the details of this case before heroically defending this man. And I am mortified. This link breaks down the amount of dead sex he was having. I will probably side with the rest of society on this one. How this has escaped the national spotlight I have no idea. Although, once Forever Unemployed shines his spotlight of truth on a subject, national uproar is soon to follow. (Stay strong OJ! I'll figure something out...)

In other news, FU just got wireless capabilities which has dramatically increased his comfort while attending his blog duties. And, tomorrow FU turns 26. While this means very little in the grand scheme of things, there is a decent chance he could be inebriated in the AM and might not manage a post. I will see what I can do.

As always, stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

FU is Not God, Eats Easy-Mac for Breakfast

From time to time I get carried away in my rhetoric and yesterday's claim to be God was one of those times. I apologize to those I might have offended and regret any needless animal sacrifices that resulted from readers looking to pay me homage. Alas, these things happen.

Today is off to a decent start; I have already watched a Netflix movie (Appaloosa--I gave it two stars), I am still in sweatpants, and I am not at work. This morning I also realized that we are approaching the end of February, which means the beginning of March will soon be here, and that means I will be able to collect a brand new fly from the "Fly of the Month Club" from Orvis. This is fantastic.

And there was a most remarkable aberration this morning that I feel is worth reporting. Instead of my usual breakfast cereal, Total, I had Easy-Mac. It was delicious and very easy to prepare. Nothing tickles me like products that turn out to be precisely as advertised, and Easy-Mac certainly tickled me. I am going to muster some energy here so that I can venture outside of my apartment and mail this movie back.

Happy Hump Day-

Forever Unemployed

FU Achieves Nirvana, Might be God

If there is one thing I have established with this blog it is that expectations of regular posts should be kept very low. Yesterday, being my 87th consecutive day off, deserved a special celebration. I decided to go skiing and woke up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning to head to the mountains. Due to an overnight snow shower of roughly 20 inches that continued throughout the day, FU benefited from some of the best snow of the entire season. The fact that this was my first time skiing all year and I was so fortunately blessed with this gift from above had me contemplating for some time my divine composition. Surely, only the Son of God could receive/cause such a miracle. After ruminating on this for much of the day, I eventually decided that if I was God I would probably be a much better skier. I would also probably be able to approach women in bars. And I have a bald spot on my face which really impedes beard growth and has been the source of much consternation. Amidst this mounting evidence I concluded that there was a 99% chance that I was not God and got back to enjoying my day as a mere mortal.

I was surrounded by people who were all not working while being as unproductive as I was. Delighted by this healthy population of like-minded individuals, I thought of my followers and figured I had an obligation to determine how so many people became citizens of the FU nation. Sadly, most of the people I interviewed on the chairlift were retired, after long careers, or were on vacation from work. This saddened me. Coupled with the earlier revelation that I was not God, I was overcome with a sudden wave of fatigue and dread. Also, my mustache had frozen and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breath, so I decided to pack it up and head home.

On the way home I passed by a stretch of road which had almost been my undoing earlier that day. On my way up to the mountain I was driving on a series of back roads that were covered in last night's snow fall. My truck hit a slick patch and after some serious fishtailing I found myself traveling backwards in the oncoming lane. As I sat in the driver seat, looking at the rising sun through my amber-smoked aviator sunglasses, and sliding violently in the wrong direction and toward my possible demise, I felt a sense of calm. Sure, an inability to confront or express emotions is a trait that I am lucky to have inherited from my father, but I think there was something more. I believe I have reached the pinnacle of existence, and much like the Buddhist monks sitting atop the Himalayas, I have achieved nirvana. Everyday is a delight for me, and if my number is called then I will merrily march onward and hope that somebody will continue this blog after I have gone.

But I quickly abandoned that Buddhist nonsense when I thought of a much more logical explanation for my calm when faced with mortality; I AM God. Why would I be panicking--I am indestructible. Pleased with having put this question of my composition to bed, I happily continued on home and woke up today at the much more godly hour of 10:00.

Stay strong America--I command you.

Forever Unemployed

Forever Not Honored at Oscars

Despite my immeasurable contributions to film in 2009, I was saddened to see that my efforts were not recognized by the Academy. Smarting from this unprecedented snubbing, I am seeking solace in the call of the outdoors. While most of you will be returning to various economic engines Monday morning to start the countdown to the weekend, I will be skiing. Sadly, this means no journal entries during the day. I will do my best to get a detailed recounting of how awesome my day was Monday night.

Stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

FU Reduced to Watching Heli-Loggers

Yesterday truly was a struggle of the human spirit. Due to the Netflix tragedy I gave up on the day at roughly 9:00 in the morning, which left a lot of daylight to struggle through. There was a stretch from 1:00-3:00 that I spent on our love seat just staring at the ceiling. That was actually a pretty enjoyable part of the day. The low point came around 10:00 last night when I found myself watching The Learning Channel's newest series: Heli-Logging.

This has been an interesting trend in cable television when channels like TLC and the History channel air a series that follows blue collar people doing their blue collar jobs in a format that is absolutely impossible to interpret as being informative or historical. The basic premise to these shows is to find a job with an inherent amount of risk (like driving trucks on ice, fishing in the Arctic), put a camera crew on location and record all the drama as it ensues. The most interesting thing about these shows is that they prove that people will watch anything on television.

Last night I watched as this train wreck of a wife--the kind of woman who wears glitter eyeshadow around the house--tries to console her heli-logging husband who, for some reason, is still wearing a bathrobe at noon and is halfway through a six pack. I'm not saying I am above this behavior, but isn't this guy supposed to be heli-logging? We cut back to the wife as she addresses her marital problems and explains them away as caused by her husband's passion for heli-logging. The husband, still in his bathrobe and cracking open another cold one has just lit a cigarette in his living room.

Meanwhile, back at the logging site, everything is going according to plan. The safety standards that have been put in place seem to be working and the trained professionals doing their job apparently know what they're doing. This doesn't deter the production crew from reminding the viewer that disaster could strike at any minute. But after several hours without a disaster (sigh) the cameras head back to base camp to follow the drama of a worker who is--wait for it--drunk on his day off. This is where I turned the program off. First off, you're supposed to drink on your day off. Secondly, this guy is in the middle of the woods--what else are you going to do? Log? It's almost like the only peril these guys deal with is the danger they pose to themselves....

And that's when I figured out what the appeal of these shows was. It's not the danger of the job; it's getting a chance to see the absolute depths of existence these people inhabit. If you've spent your whole life in the lonely frontier of Alaska, or even worse, anwhere in Canada, the thought of losing your life isn't tragic. If anything it's probably appealing. The guy in the beginning of the show who was shamelessly drinking and smoking in his bathrobe wasn't passionate about heli-logging. He was passionate about killing himself. And I totally empathized with him after seeing his wife. I bet he enters the forest each day and says, "Please Lord, end me." But I wager God gets as big a kick out of his misery as the typical cable viewer at 10:00 on Thursdays does. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be for these people to come home alive at the end of each work day? Needless to say, this series is now being DVR'd by yours truly.

Congratulations (or my condolences) to everyone for making it through another workweek. For the next two days you can live like me.

Forever Unemployed

Yesterday Was Actually Wednesday

Mea culpa. In yesterday's post, a thrilling exploration of how often I shower, I closed with a note on how it was Tuesday. By no means did I intend to discourage those working readers by making the week seem even longer than it already was. Work itself is discouraging enough. Sadly enough, at the time of writing I actually believed it was Tuesday.

Sadder still is that after the arrival of not one but two Netflix movies in the post yesterday, I took them over to a friend's house and left them there last night. When I realized what happened this morning I was so incensed I could have strangled a puppy. It's a rainy day and a perfect excuse to watch movies all day. Now what am I supposed to do? I really don't have any other choice but to put on Norah Jones, curl up in a ball, and wallow in self-pity. What must I have done to anger the gods so!

The only thing that is keeping me going at this point is the hope that this forlorn day might open up a window to an emotional rainbow and a whole palette of feelings which I can splash on this canvas allowing you to gain a better understanding of a truly complex and bewildering being--me. But for right now I am only one color....blue.

Come back to me Netflix, come back to me....

An Interesting Twist in My Shower Schedule

I just took what was at most a four minute shower after two minutes of which I couldn't remember if I had shampooed my head or not. While this reflects either a severe drop in FU's cognitive abilities or just the remarkable amount of carelessness and leisure that envelopes my life, I'm not sure. I will most likely spend the better part of today on the couch contemplating which one is more likely. I do know that my head got at least one, but maybe two, scalp massages with Head and Shoulders.

More to the point, I thought this occasion appropriate for addressing my showering schedule as of late. I have long been a consistent, once-a-day bather. Depending on the levels of physical exertion, I've even doubled up from time to time. But before FU rose like a phoenix from the ashes of a steady job he voluntarily quit before fully understanding the breadth and depth of the current financial crisis, he maintained a strict policy of not showering on Sundays. This policy predates my attempt at a professional career and was adhered throughout college (and possibly as far back as high school, although scholars are at odds as to when precisely this policy first took hold).

It's not that I don't like being clean. There is just something about lying around in your own filth that seemed rejuvenating, as if my pH levels had found equilibrium. Perhaps I identified showers with the start of a workday--that is to say, the morning shower signaled the end of an otherwise perfect day. Maybe I resented the act of bathing for this reason. Possibly I viewed a day away from showering like a farmer views the fields he left fallow; restorative, regenerative, and if not entirely hygienic, necessary for the health of the entire operation (i.e., me).

But having cast off the bonds of employment, I have found my life to be one long set of Sundays, but without the dread of the morrow. In fact, I can't wait for the next day of my life. Perhaps this explains why I am constantly napping--I simply can't wait to wake up in tomorrow. So I guess it would be more accurate to say that my life is kind of like a Friday/Sunday hybrid. Either way, it rocks. My ultimate point is that I have found myself suddenly loathe to take showers. I have traced this to three possible explanations: the first being that I am subconsciously identifying everyday of my life as a Sunday and without knowing it, I am enforcing my no showering policy; the second being a continued identification of the shower as 'the start of the day,' something I am generally too comfortable to confront in sweatpants, and perhaps (also subconsciously) still rebelling against; and the third being sheer laziness.

I think all of these have merit, and while I am not sure which argument I would want to make the case for, I am not going to even attempt one, because that would be missing the point. In my current existence, I answer to no one. I don't have to shower if I don't want to. I can sit around in sweatpants all day eating mayonnaise out of the jar if I felt like it. I don't feel like it, but having the option to do so is comforting. And to be quite honest, breaking a sweat really isn't a part of my life right now. My activity levels really don't call for consistent bathing anyway. Between the kitchen and the living room, over the course of the day I might walk 100 yards. So I'm still pretty clean, with or without a shower.

I guess my point is that being able to do whatever you want, whenever you want, is probably the greatest feeling I've ever had. I think today is Tuesday, which would mean three and a half more days till the weekend for the rest of you. Stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

FU is Eating an Orange, Otherwise Not Much Else Going On

Today has passed almost entirely without incident, which is to say, it has been phenomenal. I finished off the green bean casserole that I made yesterday, which took two turns in the microwave in order to achieve a suitable temperature for consumption. That took three minutes. I have also gone to the mail twice, but have come back empty-handed both times. I'm eager to go back a third time, but am waiting for the right moment.

In other news, during an earlier conversation with my aunt who works for an airline, she told me she was concerned that if she got laid off she would never want to look for work again. It wasn't that the job search frightened her, it was that she simply doesn't want to work anymore. Talk about someone getting me. Sometimes she calls just to hear about how little I am doing. While talking with the rest of my family I have to keep up appearances of a job search. I have another aunt who regularly calls me to let me know that she is praying for me to find a job. (God might want to take care of some other things first....say, Africa).

My apathy towards a job search is starting to become ridiculously transparent and I am quickly running out of ways to change the subject when talking with kin. When I tried to respond to my mom's question about what jobs I had been looking at, I got the sense that she knew I was lying to her, but would rather not acknowledge it; much like when I was 15 and she caught me just after smoking a cigarette and I tried to tell her I had been burning toilet paper to cover up a fart. (I had my back up against a wall and that was the best I could come up with). So I figured tomorrow I should check out the job boards so I can come up with some material and avoid alienating myself from my family. But don't worry America, I won't apply to anything.

Back to lounging-

Forever Unemployed

Forever Makes a Delicious Chicken Salad and Then Eats It. He Also Ponders Time

My sister holds the notion that if you give a person a half hour to complete a task, it will be accomplished in 25 minutes, however if you give that same person that same task and a deadline of five days, it will take all five days. I speak of this now because this highly structured, regulated and routinized* world we live in so often demands that we "find time" to do things. Today, while playing housewife, I did a load of laundry for my roommate because he didn't have any time to do it himself. Hey, what else do I have to do?

Which is exactly the point I am trying to get at. I have no deadlines, time frames, or any schedule at all. Half of my day I'm not even sure if I'm awake. So returning to my sister's principle, if you give a person five days to complete a simple task, what happens if you give them no deadline at all? This is the incredible world I live in--one where time isn't even non-linear, it's a non-factor. (I'll avoid a lengthy segue here about our definitions of "time," but Stephen Hawking treats the subject admirably in A Short History of Time, specifically chapters two, nine, and ten).

In last week's post I mentioned that I had to go to the grocery store. I just got around to that today. It probably would never have happened if I didn't really need to eat. In that same post I mentioned that I would address my showering schedule and the fact that I might have AIDS. Neither of those posts have been attempted. To be fair, both subjects being equally important demand a lot of attention. But I guess that's the point; I have had nothing but "time" to address these issues but have simply gotten lost in the chronic abyss that is my life. When you have absolutely no time constraints, what does it matter if it's done today, tomorrow, or 1,000,000 years from now. This is the philosophical argument I'm forced to address every time I am confronted with activity. I find myself quite often saying, "what does it matter, I'll get to it in a million years," and then smirking and imagining myself high-fiving Stephen Hawking. Sometimes I even go down that road where I say "what does it matter, I'll get to it in infinity." But that always leads me to attempt a comprehension of infinity and I usually end up getting really dizzy and passing out on our living room floor. Again, to be fair, this could be because I haven't had a lot to eat lately, so maybe it has less to do with infinity and more to do with groceries. Either way, I stick to the more reasonable "I'll get to it in a million years" and find myself doing very little quite often.

But back to the groceries. Confronted with the prospect of starvation, coupled with the fact that I had parked last night in a "residents only" spot and was already in my car to move it, I decided to venture to the grocery store. Upon getting home I changed my roommate's load of laundry and set about preparing my chicken salad and then immediately eating it. In doing so I lost track of "time" and didn't pull out my roommate's shirt from the dryer a little early, like he had asked. It's probably ruined forever. But that's what happens when you don't have to answer to "time." I'm sure he'll understand.

Stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

*That's my first time using this word--a 1/2 Day of Rest might be in order to recognize this occasion.

FU Sleeps Past Noon

The lives of history's great men all contain one moment, one event that marked their metamorphasis from ordinary to extraordinary. This afternoon, my moment came to me. Caesar crossed the Rubicon, Washington the Delaware, Einstein explained relativity, Edison invented the light bulb, Michelangelo completed the Sistine Chapel, and today, I slept in past noon. I haven't done that since college and for several years I didn't think I ever would again, but today, just a few weeks shy of 26, I managed to slumber past the sun's zenith.

This historic day immediately called for recognition and around 12:57 I established that today would be a "day of rest." Usually reserved for Sundays, Tuesdays, or any day where inclement weather threatens, I will not leave the apartment today or change out of sweatpants. Only frozen food or leftovers will be consumed. No cleaning, straightening, or organizing of things in my apartment will be attempted. Showering is simply unthinkable.

The writing of this blog borders on violating kosher, but posterity demanded it. Like all of the revolutionary moments mentioned earlier, this one can not be accurately appreciated or described at the time of its occurrence. Only the passage of time will allow future generations to put this into proper context, but I think it is fair to say that no conversation of aviation's most pivotal moments could take place without including Armstrong's stepping foot on the moon, Lindbergh's transatlantic voyage, the Wright Brother's first flight, and Forever Unemployed's PM wake up. This event simply transcends humanity.

Every General has a Colonel, every Batman a Robin, and FU has his roommate who thankfully picked up last night's tab AND it should be noted, slept past 10:00 this morning. While still an AM wake up and by no means mentionable when compared to my accomplishments, it is still worth noting simply because he has a job for which he was incredibly late this morning.

I must get back to resting, but I congratulate everyone on suffering through another week of work. Leisure awaits me-

Forever Unemployed

FU Regrets Decision to Attend "Abs Class"

An ill-fated decision made earlier today following the previous 48 hour run of great decisions took me to my gym and the Thursday Abs Class. I'm not a workout class kind of guy, and your core muscles aren't particularly relevant to lounging, so in retrospect this decision was completely unfounded. Perhaps at the time I thought a little physical exertion would keep me on the wave of good times I had been riding. Perhaps in the back of my mind I thought the class would be filled with gorgeous women eager to pounce on a 25 year old college graduate without a job and absolutely no ambition in life.

I was wrong on both accounts. While there was one attractive girl in the class, I am pretty sure my repeated calls for a break along with the stagnant smell of a cigar smoked 24 hours earlier coming out of my pores nixed whatever small chance I had to make a positive impression.

Several hours later, my body is still shaking from the instructor's insane workout regimen. The next several hours FU will be spread out like a starfish on his floor groaning. Take care my followers-

Forever Unemployed

Sweatpants, Cigars, and Being Smarter than Socrates

Another fine day in the life of FU. After my sister left on Tuesday (and my subsequent entry regarding Maine) I dilly dallied around the apartment for somewhere in the neighborhood of five hours. I'm not quite sure what I did or how long it took, but I know the answers are something like "very little" and "what does it matter to someone who is unemployed," respectively. I guess when it comes to these stretches of my daily life, I am sort of like Plato in the Allegory of the Cave, aware of something's presence but unable to ascertain its real form. More to the point, the hours I spent on Tuesday evening in the apartment are not important. What is important, is that the window to the human soul which this blog has become, is perhaps more groundbreaking and philosophically more insightful than anything since St. Augustine.

Who else is grappling with the ideas of time, relativity, life's purpose, the morality of our actions. Don't you see that the "apartment" is really "consciousness?" The work week is mortality, sweatpants are contentment, coffee is family. It's all a metaphor that is interwoven at a level that probably won't be understood for centuries until we develop computers that are fast enough. By that time we'll probably have calculated the last digit of pi and colonized Mars. Like Melville I don't expect to be appreciated in my own time, but that's the curse of true genius, isn't it?

That was all a lie. I'm pretty sure I watched reruns of "Bones" on TNT and did laundry, but that's not important. During this five hour period I managed to largely ignore the remnants of a 30 pack of Bush Light that was sitting in our refrigerator. Somewhere around 10:45 my will broke and I ended up drinking six of those delicious BLs, which ultimately lead to me sleeping in until 11:00 yesterday. Well, I woke up and contemplated my life a little bit, and realized it was pretty awesome, and wanted to reward myself for making great decisions. So I went down to a cigar bar and spent two hours savoring aromaic carcinogens in a poorly ventilated den. This was probably the manliest place I have ever been. It's the kind of place where offers are written on napkins and slid across the table and people drink cocktails that haven't been heard of since the 20s. I imagine that 100 years ago Teddy Roosevelt would sit at a table in the corner and arm wrestle everyone who walked into the place. I was at peace with the world.

But then it got better, because I met up with my roommate and two of our friends for a steak dinner and some Prohibition-era cocktails. This again lead to me coming home and enjoying a Busch Light or two which, again, lead to me waking up this morning and realizing that I make great decisions. So here I am in sweatpants on a Thursday, enjoying a cup of coffee and wondering if I'll get out of the apartment today. Only one more day of the work week for all of you hacks out there. Stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

Forever's Sojourn to Maine

My sister came to visit this past weekend and expressed a desire to see New Hampshire while she was in town. I wasn't sure if she meant that I point it out to her on a map, or if spying it through binoculars near the state line would do. She intimated nothing specific about what she wanted to see or do in New Hampshire; an entire state she simply wanted to "see." In fact, her exact words were, "I've never seen New Hampshire...I would really like to do that while I am visiting."

I consulted two friends who were from the state (briefly wondering if I could just introduce them to her and have that count as our visit) and found that they were equally perplexed as I was as to how to show someone an entire state. Perhaps even more vexing, was the fact that both expressed bewilderment as to why someone would want to visit New Hampshire. One actually remarked that drinking in Boston would be a better alternative to drinking in New Hampshire, which was his only recommendation of things to do in New Hampshire.

Back to square one, I set off for the local library intent on figuring out what to do in New Hampshire and quickly found the solution in a guidebook to Maine. So early on Monday morning my sister roused me out of bed (around 9:00) and we set off for the lower corner of Maine (briefly passing through a sliver of New Hampshire on our way, at which point I considered my obligations as host complete). However, I was pleasantly surprised when we reached the sleepy town of Kennebunkport, Maine. Arriving at 11:00 in the morning and emaciated from skipping breakfast due to my early wake up, we set out on foot to find a diner that would eagerly serve us. What we found was that half of the town was abandoned for the winter. What establishments that remained in business throughout these frigid months weren't open on Mondays, save two, and those two didn't transact any business until 11:30.

I fell in love with the place, though not at first. While most people, starving and exhausted from a whirlwind tour of the Southeast corner of New Hampshire via I-95, would have been peeved by the lack of food, I understood it. I didn't' love it--yet--but I got Kennebunkport. Everybody (who works) hates Monday. To most people, the hatred of Mondays usually taints their Sundays nights. In fact, I was so loathsome of Mondays that Saturday mornings I found myself struggling to get out of bed, simply because I knew what was coming. So what better way to start the week off, than by not going to work? It's what I have been doing for months.

People in Kennebunkport, who actually have jobs, just don't work on Mondays. Half of the store owners actually shut down entirely for half of the year. In fact, most of these propieters are so eager to shut down, they forget to take down their "Open" signs in the process causing many a weary traveler to shout expletives and wish damnation upon them while kicking their double-locked doors and knocking over their sandwich signs for feeling so deceived after having first felt so delighted at the prospect of a warm meal, before said traveler realizes his blood sugar is dangerously low and his resultant foul mood might land him in trouble with the town's one cop, who has been watching him assault various "Open" cafes throughout the entire southern side of Main Street.

Of course, once 11:30 came around and FU was finally sated with a Philly Cheese Steak, his love of the town came to him. And upon further refection, I can't harbor bad feelings at those store owners who deceived me. I blame those store owners who keep ridiculous hours, inducing all of us to expect commerce to continue around the clock, throughout the year, thus forcing people to work all the time as well. In fact, if it was the end of the season I'd probably forget to take down the "Open" sign as well. I'd be so eager to leave, I'd probably forget to turn off the lights or lock the doors. I'd probably leave a day early and forget to tell anyone I was going. That's what the town of Kennebunkport is all about, and that's why I see myself retiring there some day....

Family Inhibits Writing, Increases Activity, Decreases Rest

Another unforgivable lapse in posting, however I have an excuse which doesn't have to do with my laziness: I have family visiting and haven't had a tremendous amount of "me time" to plumb the depths of unemployment and its related twists, turns, ups, downs, and emotions for my readers. But don't fear, the upcoming week you should see some really interesting posts concerning 1.) my showering schedule, 2.) having to go to the grocery at some point this week, and 3.) I might have AIDS.

Unfortunately, (for my legions) my sister is in town through Tuesday, which may mean that I won't be able to tackle the stated topics until at least then. But the good news is that there has been a flurry of activity the last couple days, all of which has had absolutely nothing to do with finding gainful employment (I'm now a member of the "Fly of the Month" club through Orvis!) which I look forward to recounting. Although the amount of walking I have been subjected to over the last several days has left me absolutely fatigued--Wednesday has already been declared a sweatpants day.

Finally, my heart goes out to the rest of you who have to go to work tomorrow and start another endless week of grinding it out. I am going to Maine to pump some dollars into the local tourist industry. Stay strong America-

Forever Unemployed

Forever's Take on Christian Bale

I initially wanted to steer clear of the recent firestorm brewing over Christian Bale's verbal tirade on the set of his newest movie that has been sweeping through all the major media outlets. While the tip of the spear of timely, relevant, and important news reporting--Perez Hilton, TMZ, CNN--were all over this story, I really wanted to stay true to my base and focus on my life, not Christian Bale's. But CB is a loyal reader, and I had to speak up.

One thing that the average Joe doesn't appreciate about somebody who truly is a master of their craft is the perfectionism that drives us, that fuels our fire. Christian Bale was in what I like to call, "the zone." It's the sole sanctuary of artists, athletes, big game hunters, and really, really expensive prostitutes. It's the place I enter when trying to recall the previous day's inactivity. Within the zone colors are brighter, edges are sharper, texture is amplified, memories become more malleable. When I am in the zone I can hear my feet sweating. We artists harness that sensitivity and turn it into something we hope is tough to understand and incredibly profitable.

But with that hypersensitivity the zone brings, the actor, painter, blogger, must exert an equal, if not greater amount, of focus to bring their creativity to fruition. My roommate found this out the tough way not too long ago, when he made too much noise walking through the door as he came home from work. I had just entered the zone, and reacted like an agile puma. I pounced on him and would have choked him to death, but my recent indolence does not support such exhaustive outbursts of activity and I soon fainted. Was he mad? No, he lives with a Michelangelo and he should have known better. In fact he apologized profusely. And I'd be willing to bet you, that if we had a chance to listen to the whole tape of what occurred on set, we would hear a lighting director apologizing to Christian Bale as well.

We artists did not ask to be born this way; misunderstood and better than most everyone. We just were. It's a burden we must bear and we do so humbly. While not everyone will understand this, I understand CB.

Lots of Activity and Movie Watching

Yesterday and today both brought a whirlwind of activity for FU. I made it to the gym for the first time in about a month yesterday, and was so spent I had to immediately watch a movie afterward to recharge my batteries. Having reestablished my operational equilibrium, I managed to actively mill around the apartment for the rest of the day.

After a frozen pasta dinner and watching five hours of college hockey on television, I plugged in my alarm clock for the first time since late 2008. While I have really been enjoying sleeping in every morning, I figured if I could get up earlier I would be able to enjoy an extra hour or two of not working. However, the snooze button, always an Achilles heel of mine, continued to be an irresistible temptation, and this morning it got pounded like it was in the 15th round of a Rocky movie. After an hour or so snoozing I did manage to get up around 9:30 and then mailed off a Netflix movie.

The activity continues! Because I then went outside of the apartment (again!) for lunch with an old coworker. She informed me that she would be leaving her job sometime in late summer and that since we had similar backgrounds I would be a viable candidate as her replacement if I was interested. Clearly, she is not a regular reader. I said thanks but no thanks. She paid the bill, we made out, then she went back to work and I to my couch. Again, feeling particularly spent after so much activity, I must now watch a movie to prepare myself for tomorrow.

And as for most of you, we're almost to Wednesday, hump day. For me, it's just another day in paradise.

Forever Unemployed

Addressing My Lack of Discipline

To my burgeoning fan base I need to address a serious deficiency that is an inherent part of my current retirement--a lack of discipline. To most of this country, today is Monday, the start of another week. A few months ago, a Monday morning meant that I was fudging my weekly activity report, perusing a standard set of web sites that regularly distracted me from work (espn.com, nytimes.com, theonion.com, etc...), playing a few games of tetris, and then usually settling down to ponder whether or not I should follow Alexander Supertramp into the wild. While I didn't (and don't) think a lonely death in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan Frontier is an enviable way to meet death, it would mean that I was no longer working, and therefore had currency as an alternative to my current life plan. Having to consider the pros and cons of both of these positions--alive and working, dying but not working--regularly occupied the final hour of work before my lunch break on most mornings. Some days I'd try to play tetris while considering my existential funk, but it usually resulted in an embarassingly low score, thus forcing me to take things one at a time.

What is my point? Having broken the shackles of weekly reporting, daily sales activity, and keeping up a general appearance of caring, the only person I have to report to now is me, and I am an incredibly laid back boss. I haven't gotten out of bed before 10:00 any day of the last two weeks. I then usually spend the hours before noon aimlessly wandering around my apartment, watching Sports Center until I have the broadcast memorized, rifling through my roommate's belongings, and then using the toilet with the bathroom door wide open. While my current life policy is that I am doing whatever I want, whenever I want, I realize that it is not fair to my adoring legions to keep them in the dark. In the days ahead I am going to work on establishing a regular rhythm to my reporting.* I promise to get better.**

It is almost 12:30 now, which means it's time for a bowl of cereal and then a nap. Stay strong America--

Forever Unemployed

*Since I am the only person responsible for holding myself accountable, I am not making any promises.
**See previous asterisk

The Genesis

I voluntarily left a steady, decent-paying job (in the midst of economic depression) in a city that has probably America's best climate to move to New England and back in with my college roommate to recapture those wonder years of yesterday; before I knew how unsatisfying a paycheck was, before I cared about 'accrued time off,' before some man tried to stamp out my will to live with weekly sales reports. Too often we hear others say "if only I knew then what I know now," that "youth is wasted on the young," that "these are the best years of your life, remember them." Why are our best days always behind us? Why can't I live like I did then with what I know now? Why must we succumb to that slow, steady, funeral march that marks our lives from our graduation days onward?

Well I can not stand idly by as the steady march of history rolls by claiming countless hearts into soulless caverns of fluorescent lights and computer monitors, marriage and children. I will be that bastard child of Mother Nature and Father Time who jumps out of line, who shirks all responsibility in the name of leisure. I promise to chronicle the exploits of man with no responsibility or routine; to live life to the maximum degree of ease; I will wake up when I feel like, do what I feel like, live how I feel like and do it all now. I am and vow to always be young, single, and male. I am:

Forever Unemployed.