A Little G in a Big D

So the other day I was trying to relate some story or another from work to Michelle over the phone — like a lot of my stories, I sort of start in the middle, assuming that the other person is psychic and does not require some set up.

About halfway through my diatribe, it became clear she was lost …

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, sounding almost exasperated.

“I’m just talking about work,” I countered, confused.

“And it’s not like I know what you do there.”

She was kidding, of course — at least to a degree. But she’s right … as is my nature, I just assume what I do is totally uninteresting to other folks, and therefore don’t really volunteer anything unless asked. And if asked, of course, it’s not unlike having a conversation with an apprehended spy or teenager …

“How was work?”
“Fine.”
“Well, what did you do there?”
“Stuff.”
[awkward silence]
“So what’s for dinner?”
“[sighs] Meatloaf …”
“You haven’t spoken with the Russians, right?”

–

You get the idea. The thing is, over the last few years of doing what I do “professionally” (a term used loosely, of course), it’s become clear to me that a number of my family and friends aren’t exactly sure what I spend my days doing … hell, most of them don’t have a clue as to where I live (Montreal, Columbus, Michigan, ColOmbia and Milan being my favorite incorrect guesses).

So anyway, I’ve got some time on my hands right now and thought I’d do a little describing … give you all some “insight” as to how I spend my days.

Mostly, I’m out and about meeting new people … it’s pretty fun, actually. Moreover, though, I’m usually trying to convince them that their lives are interesting (which I think), and that other people will think so, too. It can be tricky, but it’s worth it — I really believe that candid, documentary images carry stories a lot farther than portraits and illustrations (though I do enjoy both of those, too).

Anyway, our workload is pretty light at the Tribune, thankfully, so we often get to spend a good amount of time on our assignments. It pays off in spades, since the more time you spend with a subject, the more apt he or she is to open up a bit. Additionally, I just really like being around people … especially quirky folks. I’m easy to please.

Those assignments almost always end up being my favorites — that is, those times I get to spend in the company of people many would consider “strange,” “weird” or “freakish.” I keep a running tally in my mind of all the assignments like this I’ve had. Take the other day, for example …

I had a features assignment to hang out with a local band while they practiced at someone’s house. They’re having a CD release coming up, and this would be one of our chances to shoot them beforehand. Additionally, I was told this would be a good situation to see “what they’re like.” OK …

The band was Witch’s Hat, who described their sound as “adventure rock” — to me, they sounded a little like Tenacious D, except without the facetiousness. In other words, I got the distinct impression they took themselves and their music seriously, which was amusing and, to be honest, kind of refreshing. I mean, it’s one thing to sing about “love swords” and “smiting with longing brain waves” when you’re joking around … but to really mean it takes some sort of guts, genius or a special, unmeasurable sense of humor.

Anyway, I’d been hanging out with them for about 30 minutes — they were practicing in a room no bigger than a medium-sized walk-in closet. Four musicians, a large heater and a single, incandescent light bulb. Cramped and moody, to say the least.

I’d positioned myself in a corner to get the most of the room when, about half-way through the song “WW VI” (as in, World War), the lead singer decides to randomly rip off his sweater and shirt. Mind you, it was like 20 degrees outside, and maybe 60 in this room. He then grabbed hold of a long, cardboard tube that was in another corner (imagine the roll that’s at the end of paper towels … but like 10 times bigger); he began to sing into the end, sometimes like it was a mic stand, and other times like it was a megaphone. When he wasn’t doing this, he was swinging it around the tiny room like a strange, stupid-looking weapon.

I asked him later if that was something in their usual live set … “We just play around with shit that’s in the room,” he said. “Last time I was playing with those hammers.” He then pointing to a precariously positioned pair of tools on a nearby shelf. Playing how, I wondered. A second later, the drummer (who’d house we were in) added, ” … And I don’t know where those came from.”

Huh? Makes me wonder what they’d do with some random gun or bag of money they’d find …

If only all assignments were this strange … and interesting.

Bye for now,

- g -

I know what you’re thinking …

“What kind of freak posts to his blog on Thanksgiving Day!? .. freak!! FREAK!!!”

Guilty as charged — I’m bored at the moment, Michelle’s studying in the other room, and we’re not doing the whole dinner thing until later; so, it’s either this, do laundry, or begin my relentless crime wave. Honestly, this just sounds the least complicated …

Anyway, as I was spending my morning the “usual way” — sipping coffee, soaking my feet in paraffin wax, cruising Google News and listening to Johnny Mathis on iTunes [Editor's Note: only two of those four statements are true ... maybe three] — I came across this interesting article on Forbes.com.

For those too lazy to click and read, the article basically surmises a study by the Institute for Social Medicine, Epidemiology and Health Economics at Charite University Medical Centre in Berlin (try saying that three times fast!) about chronic noise. The study, which was released today in the online version of the European Heart Journal, shows that ” … chronic noise exposure is associated with a mildly to moderately increased risk of heart attack … ”

So why do I care? Hello!? Have you ever met me?!?

I may actually be the noisiest person on the planet, if not surely the most this side of the Mississippi. That’s not to say I walk loudly or breath like a 70-year-old emphysemic — I actually just make noises … constantly. I’ve been this way my whole life, too, though I hid it from my parents for a while … see, one of the advantages to being an only child is there were no brothers or sisters to rat me out …

“Mom! Gerry’s making that hissing sound while he runs circles on the carpet again!!”

And, believe it or not, this isn’t actually an attention thing. At least not entirely. More than anything else, I just have a strong need to do these things … I suppose some might call it a compulsion, but I think those people are just judgmental.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve learned how to control it, especially in public places or around people I don’t know well (the converse of that being, of course, that I’m relentless about it around friends, family and loved ones). It takes quite a bit of will power, which takes the form of “the jitters” — basically, if I can’t be audible, then I’ve got to be physical. Foot tapping, finger twiddling, butt wiggling … you name it.

To be honest, I actually get a bit of pleasure from making noises … it’s soothing. The way it starts is, I usually hear the noise first … in my head. No need to call the funny farm yet — it’s harmless enough. Let’s use the present as an example — about a month or so ago (when Abbe was up here), I got the sound of a turkey stuck in my head. Gobble Gobble … perhaps I was anticipating the holidays. Anyway, the only way to get the sound out of my head (which was actually pretty annoying) was to make it — while producing a high-pitched, guttural sound, I run my tongue back-and-forth quickly against my top lip. Honestly, I’m sure it looks about as ridiculous as it sounds.

But it just feels good. I have the same problems with words, too. I get one stuck in my head — hearing it over and over and over — and the only way to get rid of it is to say it … over and over and over. This one I usually do on my own, though, when no one else is around … I’m assuming it makes me seem a little too crazy. Can’t have that happening.

[By the way, today's word is "taco" ... taco ... taco ... ta ... co]

So what’s my point here? Concern, really. If this article is true, I’m basically killing the folks around me … very slowly. Now, to be fair, I don’t think I’m quite what the article meant. As Dr. Stefan Willich points out, “[t]he increase appears more closely associated with actual sound levels rather than with subjective annoyance.”

So really, they’re probably talking about things like construction and traffic noises, and not the 26-year-old man-child who insists on imitating the emergency tones produced by out office police-band scanner. But I’m still left to wonder, what if they’re only half right? I mean, studies like this are wrong all the time. Perhaps in another year or so this same institute will come out and say, “We’re now adding annoying noises to the list of killers” … they’ll no doubt shift judgmental gaze my way, while I, in my nervousness, can barely get out a word in my defense.

Except “taco,” followed by a short series of whistles.

Maybe I actually have Tourettes Syndrome. That’s what my coworkers think, anyway.

But they’re just judgmental.

[taco]

Happy Birthday, Michelle!! Welcome to 26 … it’s just like 25, except you add a year. Ya.

Love you,

- gerry -

The other night, while “riding the desk” (read: not shooting but waiting for pictures to appear, if that makes any sense) at work, I took a quick bathroom break and noticed another continuance in what has been one of the more disturbing trends this month (the other being my frequent need to rub cashew butter and down feathers into my chest hairs …).

Someone in my office building is having what appears to be uncontrollable diarrhetic episodes in the men’s restroom on our floor … and hasn’t done … how do I say? … the best job of cleaning up after himself.

Ok — I’m a nice guy, so I spared you “the shot” … but this is just to show you that it’s always in the same stall — first one you see upon entering the bathroom. Pretty effed up, huh?

To make matters worse, I’ve noticed this on the weekend/night shift, which — as a coworker I discussed this with pointed out — meant the staff was even smaller. Less people = less men I can wildly guess did this. Honestly, my brain hurts as much as my stomach does now …

I guess what bothers me most about this is the locale our “offender” has chosen at least twice. There are, thankfully, a couple of bathrooms to choose from here at the Tribune. Now, I prefer the one downstairs near our studio … the “single seater” …

See, I’m not unlike the Seinfeld character George Costanza, who once said he’d figured out where all the “best” bathrooms in New York were; I do the same at an even more local level. If I’ll be frequenting an establishment often (say, a job, perhaps), I’ll figure out which bathroom to use within six hours … that is, provided there’s more than one … and in the other event, I just won’t go. No joke. When it comes to the bathroom, I’m dead serious.

Which is what I find so absurd about this whole situation — sad to say, but it boggles my mind that someone else (in my office, no less) lacks the neurosis to clean up after himself; we’re not talking Scrubbing Bubbles ^TM here, people … just flush the damned commode, for Christ’s sake.

Maybe I’m in the minority here. Maybe most other folks (other men, that is) don’t venerate lavatories as much as I do. Perhaps others just don’t respect the vulnerability therein that equalizes us all, regardless of age, ethnicity, gender and so forth … ’cause let’s face it, folks … whether it’s number one or two, you just want to be left alone, no? In the safest, most quiet, clean and relaxing location possible. …

Maybe I’m just wrong here. Maybe this is why high school was such a drag …

Thoughts?

- g -

It’s good to be back, my friends — after a two month hiatus, I’m once again trying to make frequent entries into the journal.

As you can see, there have been some changes. With the help of the nice folks at blogger.com, this journal has gotten a much-needed makeover. Mostly, I switched to this service so someone else could take care of the archiving — that was, for me, the biggest pain about my old, hand-coded way. Also, by switching to this service, I can update from just about any computer I want, provided I can access the old “Interweb.”

Fear not — all the old posts are still around, archived as they always were on my website. Further, the address of this journal has stayed the same, since I’m publishing it from my own site, and not off of Blogspot … I’m just not that hip.

I’m reinvigorated about posting to this journal once more. There’s always plenty to talk about (with my job, life in a small Midwestern town, etc.), and, much like with the old journal, some posts will just be words, others just pictures, and sometimes a little of both. I can’t promise to be as “crazy” as I used to be (don’t have the time, mostly, but also lack a little nerve), but I do promise to be as honest as always … meaning I’ll say just about anything and everything that comes into mind … which really just means I’ll regret just about everything I do here.

And of course, by using blogger, you all can comment. Comments are fun! Yay comments!! Yay fun!!! Just please, please, please, don’t abuse it, or I’ll be forced to take it away (Adam … I’m looking your way). But please do feel free to comment as often as you like — I’m always interested to hear (read?) what people have to say … especially about me. It’s all about me, people. ME!!

–

In other news, winter is here in mid-Missouri. Sure, it’s still technically fall, but as far as this South Texan is concerned, Olde Man Winter has parked his fat ass in our fair city, and by golly, I’m not too happy about it. It was in the 30s last night, and this evening we’re supposed to get down to 16 degrees. 16!!! Back home, we unpack the ski masks and parkas for dips into the 60s. This winter’s gonna kill me.

But at least we have a fireplace …

We used it for the first time last night. It was kind of romantic … and warm. You know, I can’t remember the last time I even used a fireplace. I know we had one when I was a kid in Del Rio, and, by chance, it actually got cold enough to use it once or twice (meaning it was about 74 degrees, but we were gonna be damned if we didn’t use the thing). I remember sitting in front of its warm, amber glow, clutching a teddy bear while watching the wispy flames lick the hearth walls.

I also remember being struck by the strong desire to stick my teddy into the fire. More than anything, it was really just a way to see if my parents were actually paying attention to me (about 96% of the “troublemaking” things I did as a kid were for the same basic reason). I remember wondering how long it would take them to notice, or, better yet, how close I could actually get to doing it before they shifted their gaze from the The MacNeil/Lehrer Report towards me, leapt off the couch and arrested my flailing body. “Teddy said he was cold!!” I’d scream as they held me down, all but assuring another couple of months of therapy. But hey, at least I’d actually have something to talk about.

Last night, sitting next to Michelle while she worked on a law school memo, I was struck with the exact same urge. I wondered — ever so briefly — what would happen if I stood up, removed my shirt and threw it into the fire (I don’t have teddy bears anymore, so the shirt’s the next best thing, I guess). Would she be angry? Would she be concerned? Would that be our last fire? Would she even notice?

I hope so … I don’t own many good shirts.

–

Well, that’s all for now. Again, please check in often — I’ve plenty on my mind, and plan on using the place a little more frequently than I have in the past.

By for now,

- gerry -