Beach Book

For explanation on the concept of the beach book, go check out the wise woman:
http://strumpetslife.blogspot.com/2009/01/these-books-were-made-for-walking-new.html

First, an apology: I'm taking my "Senior Seminar in British Literature" this semester (on top of hectic work schedule and full-time Mr. Mom duties), so writing for my own good-happiness-stuff has somewhat fallen by the wayside. My professor is not one for slack-ass papers, no way: it's MLA or the highway, and you can't dazzle her with bullshit (my specialty).

My beach book: the Signet edition of T.S. Eliot's the Wasteland and Other Poems. The why of this particular book is a long story...

I left college after five years and joined the Navy. It seemed like a particularly dramatic and romantic gesture at the time. It was a good choice: I got to travel, I got a little discipline instilled in me (like it or not), and I got to indulge my freaky, Jack Kerouac / Zen lunatic personality in diverse and interesting places.

But it got lonely.
So I took to carrying around a copy of TS Eliot in my back pocket. My Kerouac-ian wandering often left me sitting, alone at a bar, hundreds of miles from home, drinking and trying to be Kerouac-ian. Tom Eliot was (and remains) the thread of my existence, the guy who binds the tangled threads of my life into some semblance of a coherent fabric. So I took to carrying my Eliot with me, reading it to pass the time.

"To pass the time"? Okay, let's drop the bullshit. I've secretly harboured the notion that one day I'd be sitting there reading my Eliot with a cold Coors in front of me, and a cute girl would sit down next to me and confess her own love for ol' Missouri Tom Eliot, and then I would know I had officially met Her (capital aitch-ee-arrrrr) and I could give up the wandering and spend my days basking in her glory, reading poetry and being artsy with Her and just living a life of barely-post-adolescent-literati daydreams.

Pathetic? Maybe. But I'm kind of proud of that twenty-years-ago-me kid. There was a certain romantic purity there, ya dig?

Anyhow, I ended up stationed in Virginia Beach, and I took to reading my Tom Eliot on the beach (still hoping to meet capital-aitch-ee-arrr). That summer I met the woman who would become my wife, and she had not the slightest interest in TS Eliot. Crazy, how I abandoned those crazy romantic artsy notions in exchange for an extremely (note the capital letters) Hot Chick. Okay, so the Hot Chick ended up having the soul of an accountant. I was weak. Whatever.

So that's why, when I think of reading at the beach, I always think of the dumb-ass me of twenty years ago, self-consciously reading TS Eliot, waiting for Ms. Right to sweep me off my artsy little feet.

New Specs

So I turn 40 in two weeks, and my reading glasses I've had since 1994 aren't quite cuttin' it anymore. I had a shit-ton of money left over in my health-care spending account that I was going to lose if I didn't use it, so I got some new glasses. Bifocals. I'm blind up close and far away. Yay for me.
So the optometrist guy recommends these no-line variable glasses: distance vision through the top of the lens, middle ground through the middle, and up-close through the bottom part. Sounds great in theory; but you spend a lot of time tilting your head, trying to find that elusive sweet spot of focus.
And taking a leak is a total nightmare, because you have to look down, but looking down looks through the up-close part of the lens, so you have to crane your neck over so you're looking down while looking through the top half of the lenses, and it makes you look like you must have the tiniest little wang in the world.
Getting old sometimes sucks.

Leisure Sucks

Our ongoing Economic Downturn (yes, it has assumed proper-noun status) has allowed me quite a bit of laying-around-on-my-ass time lately. Luckily, I work for a company that doesn't lay people off when times get hard; but we do shut down production for extended periods. When that happens, you make more money by burning vacation, so that's what I've been doing.
I did a bit of house-cleaning. I played quite a bit of Battlefield 2142. Hmmmm...that's about it. I've been between classes, so no school work. I finally had all this time to write and get all my me-things underway; instead, I sat around on my ass doing a lot of stupid, frivolous nothing.
I guess I work better under pressure. I'm kind of a lava-lamp: I don't really do much until you put some heat on me.
~Jack