This Should Be Epic

The title says it all.

Where to start, where to start, where to start.....how 'bout here?

It's painfully obvious that I don't have a fucking clue.

Now that that's stated, I can go on. It's amazing how much freedom that statement gives me. Just accepting the fact that I don't know it all, it allows me to move one. If you know me, you know that to a certain degree I have to know everything, or I'll at least give it a shot. Maybe it's not me, maybe it's a guy thing. Who knows?

It's past midnight on a school night, I should be asleep. But, I'm here, and so are you.

I was talking with a good friend (OK, maybe great friend) of mine, as I do often, about my next step. Which is never what I think it to be. 25-years-old. I've got the world ahead of me with a quarter of a century behind me. No strong footing to step on, to allow myself to climb higher up. Just sand. Quick sand, maybe.

Lately, I've fallen into the rut of waking up, cooking breakfast, setting the kids off to school, kissing the wife, and off to work I go.

Wait.....

I must've seen that on TV. But, I've fallen into the rut, anyway. Just without the kids or the wife. This whole concept of growing older, but not up, appeals to me. The problem is, I don't know if that's possible.

There seems to be a piece of the puzzle missing. One that I can't locate (hence the fact that it's missing). The problem is, I don't know what to look for. For as long as I can remember, I had this set plan of how my life was going to work out. Turns out, the only thing I had set planned was my career. Now, I wonder if that was just wishful thinking. Maybe I just assumed that once you hit a certain age and had a job, the rest would fall in line. No one said this would be easy. Bastards.

I was naive, I'm sure, in my presumptuous notion that a job = being grown up. That I had it all planned, and that was going to work.

Problem is, I don't like the plan that I had set forth for myself in 7th grade. Yeah, that's right, I'm doing what I've wanted to do since I was in 7th grade ('96-97). Great, right? Well, not so much anymore. I envy people that care so much, that are so passionate about what they want to do (solve world hunger, cure AIDS, etc.), yet, when I do what I do, I don't feel any good from it. Sure, it pays the bills (and I'm grateful for that) and I'm good at it (but I've got a lot to learn in this industry), but I don't know what kind of affect it has on the rest of the world.

We've all got a gift - whether we use it is up to us. I've got one. And sure it's nice and all, and I've shared it with the world once or twice (not my gum, but that is a gift that keeps on giving), there isn't much that can be made out of it. It's something I enjoy as a hobby, but in no way would I try to use it to support me (I'm not that good at it).

I talked with a couple of interns today, and told them "If you can find something that you can enjoy the dirty work, then go with it. Because, it'll only get better." Problem is, I can dish out advice like a barkeep and you're my only patron. My own medicine is harder to swallow. I'm not the type that thinks I deserve better (because I don't, and there's plenty of people out there who do, who deserve at the very least a fighting chance - I've got my cards, I'm playing my hand).

My puzzle doesn't seem to have a picture with it. So, not only am I missing a piece, but, I don't know where it's going to fit when I find it - into this picture that's only partially finished.

Drive

There's something to be said about driving. The Beatles sang about it. So did the Beach Boys. Even Chuck Berry got in on it. Sammy Hagar let us know that he "can't drive 55" - because really, who can? There's even a band called Cars.

Getting behind the wheel - there's power. You become the master of a two-ton wrecking machine. Gas. Brake. Clutch. Windows rolled down - the top if you're lucky. Gripping the steering wheel, white knuckled with a cold sweat. Like your first fight, you look around, trying to anticipate what others around you are doing, but ultimately it doesn't matter. You're in control. For once, you are your own boss. Going as fast as you need to to get where you're going, if anywhere in particular.

Weaving in and out of traffic like Barry Sanders. Cutting left. Then jamming on the gas pedal to avoid getting rear ended. You're flying now. Look ahead, the left lane is clear. You glance in your mirror like you do when you're checking yourself out in a reflective window walking down the street. Not enough to be considered vein. Not enough to worry about anyone that might be behind you as you start gliding down the highway.

The music blares. Not any of that top-40 crap. The oldies can't handle the speed. Jazz doesn't provide enough of a rhythm. Rock. Rock will direct your speed - dictate to the world who's highway this is. It's yours. The drum beat. Your foot listens to and adopts the pace of the skin player - like you were in the rehearsals when the song was cut. Your thumb now taps along on the steering wheel - picking up the beat.

You can't understand the words. You've tuned out the singer - the song is all too familiar to you, anyway. Your eyes are darting. The side view mirrors. All you see are the reflection from the lights behind you as each person you pass becomes another statistic.

The road bends, you bend. The tires hug the corner like the women saying goodbye to their G.I. Joes for the last time. There's no tears here, just rubber. Concrete. Inches from smearing the car against the sidewall. It doesn't matter, you don't think twice as the cars vibrations are almost unnoticeable. It hums like when your mother would lay you down to go to bed as a baby. It's a calming hum.

The songs have changed - but you haven't noticed. You're still in the moment. You can't take the risk of taking your eyes off the road - the station stays put. The car in the left lane isn't going to keep up with you. In your head you execute the perfect maneuver to avoid them without having to lay off the gas - time, is of the essence. Your hands are wet - you rub them on your pants to dry off the cold sweat.

You know people are looking at you as you fly by - the bullet leaving them for dead. Dust. You don't have the luxury of looking to see who's in the car next to you, like all the other times you've been in the car. It's not for fear of anything other than knowing you're better than them. It's not a race, but, you're not losing.

You lean forward to check your blindspot. You move right. Quick. The exit is coming. You don't know how far - you've yet to read a sign. You've been here before, it's no different than all the other trips you've made before.

Check the blind spot again. Clear. You hit the off ramp and lay on the brake. You pull of the highway and park the car. The cold sweat is gone. Your heart is pounding like the bass drum as the music blares. You turn the key and step out of the car. You breathe.

A Quarter Life Crisis

It might be a quarter life crisis, or just the stirring in my soul - John Mayer, "Why Georgia"

I'd apologize for the lack of updating of the blog, or the John Mayer quote - but, I'm busy and I like John Mayer.

Over the last few months (read: this hasn't been updated since May) I've been working a lot. Sure, it's money, and affords me the things I like to do (read: drink), but it takes up my time - almost all of it. But, in this economy, if you have a job, you should be thankful - and I am. In my mid-twenties, with a job, a couple of roommates and a fat dog. It's not all bad - trust me. I assume most of this shit is in my head, which is where it is for everyone.

But, I've come to that proverbial fork in the road - left, right, straight, north by northwest, south by south east? You get the point. If you don't, here. We all get to that point in the road - some of us love it, some of us don't care either way. It keeps some of us up at night for weeks in a row. I'm one of those people.

Time to put up or shut up.

I don't know what to do next. I've got a few options, which is great! A lot of people don't have options - beggars can't be choosers. But, each one has a question...don't they all?

Allow me to introduce item "A" to the jurors.

Do I go back to school to get my masters? Then, if I do, do I get it in my field - or something totally off the wall? Chances are, it'd be in my degree field. But, then would there be a job after I get out of school? Should I leave my full time job to go back to school to risk not having a job when I get done? Seems a bit fucking insane, no?

Do I go back to school to get my masters while working part-time in my field?

If I go back to school and get something in my field, then it may depend on which school has the best program - location becomes a key issue as to if I can even find a part-time job while going to school.

What if I don't go back to school and just continue to work full-time? Then there's that regret feeling - maybe, 10 years down the road, married with children while working full-time, I decide to go back to school.

If I go back to school, and I look back on it, and never needed my masters - how much of a waste would it be?

(BRB - taking Sox to the dog park).

And we're back.

So, it wouldn't be bad for the extra education and having more than one degree wouldn't be too bad. But, what if I really didn't need it? That's a lot of money to throw out there...

Then there's evidence section "B" - forgive me if this incorrect, but I guess it's clear I won't go to law school.

What if I don't want to continue to work in my field? Then, do I go back for a random degree? I don't know what it would possibly be in - outside of teaching (more on that in a moment). Sure, I've got hobbies - but nothing that I could really turn into something that I'd love doing for the rest of my life. I'm not nearly good enough to even think about playing the guitar as a studio musician, nor have I honed any of my bier drinking skills to have the slightest clue about brewing it (but I could learn). Maybe writing - I love to write short stories, but there's a lot of people that do, and well, I can do that along side any sort of job regardless of what it is or where it's at.

Teaching is something that I've thought about doing since before I graduated college - but not as far back as to wanting to have majored in teaching. I'd like to teach high school communications/journalism. I want to solve the crisis (that's not too big is it?), in that I want to prepare the next batch of journalists for what it's really like out there. I love in-depth journalism - ground-breaking/someone-is-going-to-jail-because-of-this/someone-is-going-to-cry-because-of-this/this-will-stop-a-war kind of journalism. None of this "meet the deadline" quota filling stuff. Oh, 750 words? OK. No, I love the stuff that when you read it or watch it or listen to it, you think, "wow, someone gave a shit. Someone cared"

Think big, work small.

Then there's the whole "what if I just need a change of scenery?" I need to be where the weather suits my clothes. I own a lot of t-shirts and shorts. Flip flops to the extreme. I'd love to be outside, doing something, having fun - not in front of a computer (like you are now, like I am as I write this ramble). It would be way-too-fucking-cool to be a deep-sea fisherman (not like in those Discovery channel shows, but in the tourists rent a boat and go fish for an afternoon). If not anything else, it would allow me to wear this hat. I'd love to have a job that I needed to wear that hat. But, again, I know nothing about deep sea fishing. I've never been on a safari, so how could I wear that hat?

I'm not an adventurous person by nature, it's really not my style. Maybe that's what I'm so afraid of. The whole fear of the unknown. But, you won't ever learn how to swim if you don't jump off the diving board.

But, what if I can't swim?

Workin' Fo tha Man Ev'ry Nigh' 'N Day

A lot has been said about work. But, I haven't said much about it.

The Grateful Dead - a band that I look like I'm following (see here) on tour - said, Workingman's Dead. John Lennon devoted a classic to the Working Class Hero. But, like the title says - Creedence said it best. Oh, if you're not in the know - because, you are - "Coaches' Rule" applies here. Every time, and I mean every time, Creedence Clearwater Revival comes on the radio, or in this case, your computer speakers, you're required to turn it up, regardless of how loud the speakers were before. So, now you're in the know.

Well, sorry to cut this short, but needs to be...

Off to find the hero of the day

I grew up with a hero. His name is Mark Carrier. He was a safety for the Chicago Bears during the early to mid '90's. I was 10.

He was the last hero I had. The last idol; the man on the pedestal. I put him as high as I could until he was no longer a Chicago Bear. That's all my alligence was worth when I was a kid. Play the same position as me on my favorite team (we both played safety), and I'll put posters on the wall (please note: I never owned a Mark Carrier poster - seriously, who the fuck would print that? And further more, who the fuck would buy it?).

But, I digress - as I almost always do. Mark was the last. Sure, there were guys I would've love to have been like: M.J., Brian Urlacher, this guy. But, the thing I learned over time was that I stopped idolizing people. Sure, I knew there were people out there working their asses off everyday fighting for causes they believed in. There were people running into burning buildings to save strangers. There were people that worked 15 hour days to put food on the table or a roof over their kids' heads.

But, they were people. I've come to learn over time that people are simply human. Look at the A-Rod's and Mannies, the Murdoch's, Bush/Cheney's of the world. These men had all the power they could want - and somehow managed to completley blow it the fuck up. Yeah, that cliched quote comes into play:

"With great power comes great responsiblity."

But, it does.

But, so does this:

"Question everything."

We sit back too often and let things happen. The people that we put in charge of our lives, our world - the people we hold to a higher level of accord, the people we put on the pedastal - often fall the hardest. But, it's not their fault. Afterall, after 9/11, we found out about the heroes who had drug problems and failing marriages, just like other people - hell, your neighbor, or maybe you. Yet, for a moment - they were the ultimate heroes. Better than G.I. Joe and Superman (because even Christopher Reeve was human). They were super-human. But, most of all, they were human. To hold them to a higher degree is unfair.

We didn't hold our heroes accountable. Our leaders, award winners. Instead, we took their word as truth, until we found out that it wasn't. Then, we had the nerve to cry wolf.

Yes, life would be easier if we let the inner 10-year-old idolize the heroes we'd created. But, those heroes don't know what's best for that kid. The only one that does is you. You need to be your hero.

Those posters on your wall are getting old.

Who grows a beard in May?

This guy!

In case if you're wondering why I'm growing a beard in May, you're not a hockey fan. That's OK. I like you less than I did before, but not a lot less. Just a bit. But, if I may - click here. That's Eric - he's in the playoff beard club too. Feel free to send a donation his way, all the monies raised on the site will go Blackhawks' charities. Eric, when you read this, post a new pic for the Beard-a-thon.

The Blackhawks are in the playoffs. And, not just the playoffs the way the St. Louis Blues showed up, they're one win away from the Western Conference Finals vs. the winner of Detroit/Anaheim. The Hawks have won 7 post-season games in the playoffs. In the last 11 seasons, they'd won one.

Needless to say, I look borderline Canadian lumberjack-ish. Please note I included "ish" so as to not offend Canadian lumberjacks who would feel as though my playoff beard isn't beardly enough for them. Secondly noted: they're Canadian lumberjacks on a computer. That's a miracle. But, let us not go so far as to say it's this kind of miracle. Because, really, it's all about next year.

As for the Blackhawks and my playoff beard...it will be bitter sweet when it goes. If you're not sure of the playoff beard rules, see here. Ok, since you didn't click on the link:

You shave the day of the first playoff game - you can't get a playoff beard now - it's too deep and too late. Remember this for next year. Also, if you're female, you shouldn't be growing a beard.

Then, you don't shave or trim until your team is out. That means round one through the Stanley Cup Finals (that's the cup to the right). However, I did scrounge around for the rules, which is where I found that link you skipped over. You are allowed to manscape the neck. Which I did. Unless you're Eric and you rock the Kyle Orton.

But, again back to the bittersweetness of it all. Because, lets face it, no one wants to grow a beard in May. But, for those few fortunate teams and their millions of fans - you have to. Those are the hockey rules. If you don't play by the rules, you're a cheater. No one likes a cheater. So, I've taken up my patriotic duty and am rocking the playoff beard. Please note: this is the first time in my life I've had the opportunity to grow one. The last time the Hawks were in the playoffs, facial hair was not an issue for me. Let alone trying to grow a playoff beard.

But, I know that when I shave it, and bare faced I become, I'll have it again. And I look forward to it.

Don't forget, the Hawks play Vancouver tomorrow (Monday - in case if you're reading this Monday) and with that win they will await the Wings/Ducks winner. With a loss, we've got another game after. And, with a win, we're guarenteed another series to grow the beard out. June seems like a good time to shave.

Sunday Mornings Are My Favorite Days

I realize I've let people down when it comes to posting this so called "blog." Hell, can I even call it that? I prefer the term coffee fueled ramblings. To which, those of you not in the know, is my newest addiction.

As today is going - I've spent almost my whole day between work and the BMV. I'm convinced that no one ever gets one easy trip into that place. It's like a black hole of lost time...(see Salvador Dali....or better yet, look at the picture of the clocks).

I went in for a simple procedure, but of course, that would've been too easy. Instead, I walked out, more confused than this guy (please note: that guy is really good).

So, after I left with another form to have to get signed, I came back - with a vengeance! I handed over my papers (keep in mind, this was all for switching a title and license plate over to the Grand Am - the Taurus, well she's gone).

To top it all off - I'm in the process of growing a playoff beard. Which doesn't entirely tie into a trip to the black hole of lost time, unless you're in need of a new license, because your current one expires this year (like mine). So, I got my picture taken. With my awesomely partial playoff beard. Turns out, too, that you can't have an open mouth smile. So, either you have that classic fifth grader w/ (also means "with" for you typing impaired persons) braces smile who doesn't want to show them off or you look like a convict. I, instead, went for the creeper smile.

I don't want to say that it's gotten that bad yet, but the hair on the beard is itching. On a side note, I could always move to London. I hear they love MJF there.

Another side note: what's w/ (see above) all the love for vampires? Yes, there is a Vampire.com. Wow. What about werewolves?

That's all I've got there.

Needless to say, I've gotta live with that pic on the license for the next six years. Which could be worse. Don't ask me how, it just could be.

I feel as though this coffee fueled rambling has gone on long enough....