Still Kickin'

I'm still alive. Been a very busy week, which is why there hasn't been an update in a while.

Something fun to share (if anyone but me reads this). Check out Type Talk! It amused the hell outta me.

Banner

Finally got around to putting up a banner. Tada and stuff.

Lets see how long I leave it up before messing with it, shall we?

Anti-Me

Everything has an opposite. I'm not talking about a mirror universe with my own personal Evil Spock. Somewhere out there is a person that hates everything that I love, and loves everything I hate. My antithesis. The thought's not a new one, I know, but intriguing all the same.

So, what'd be up with the anti-me?

• He wouldn't laugh when seeing the infomercial with the food chopper that "cleverly rotates." What the hell does that mean?
• His friends would never refer to him with as "I-Would-Have Gotten-Away-With-It-Too, If-It-Hadn't-Been-For-You-Meddling-Kids Adam." Long story.
• He's also a graphic artist, but insists on using Microsoft Publisher on an archaic PC. Making no mistakes, he insists that all copy is provided on damp used napkins and that proofing is a waste of time. He never uses any fonts but Times Bold and an all-caps script that he downloaded online, cause it makes everything look really classy.
• He'd love Steven Segal movies, Walker, Texas Ranger and Carrot Top.
• Coconut would be his bread, caffeine-free sugar-free one-calorie diet soda his butter. Sushi would be considered evil.
• He would never get tired of fart jokes.
• He'd be able to pronounce the word "tequila" properly every time.
• All of his blogs would be written completely in internet shorthand/slang and smilies. (thx UR GR8!)
• He would insist on driving with rap music so loud that his license plate holder buzzes. He doesn't think it's important to be able to hear his music, as long as everyone else within 1500 feet can.
• He would be able to think of more than this.

Sleep Deprivation

I'm really amazed at my ability to lie to myself. I blew off movie night with a group of friends, having convinced myself that I really needed to come home and just crash out. I missed out on Killer Klowns from Outer Space and some great homemade spaghetti, only to sit around in my apartment quite conscious. Truth be told, it probably was a good idea to skip out – I'm running on four hours sleep. Still, I shouldda been able to see past my own crafty plot.

All weekend my schedule was just screwed up. It was the boozing up that did it, I imagine. Sunday night was spent staring at that little popcorn crap on my ceiling until about 4:30 am. Tonight was going to be the night I smacked my body back into its normal rhythm. Not so much, no.

Why is it so hard to TRY to sleep? I'm really good at it normally, probably have myself a medal if it was some sort of Olympic event. I'm not saying that I'm getting the Gold and my own personal box of Wheaties. Maybe one of them gold stars?

So what do you do about it? If you're me, not a whole lot. I wandered around aimlessly online for a while, picked up and tried to start about four different books, shuffled madly through my iTunes library and pondered about things.

[rant]
I'm convinced there's two middle aged guys sitting in an apartment somewhere in the Midwest responsible for all the spam blogs I keep finding. One of them is named Bob. Bob and his pal sit for ten hours everyday in a dark little room launching spam blog after spam blog, trying to sell timeshare, discount cellular phones and car insurance. One of these days a group of us are going to find out which basement you folks call home… Stop clogging up my damned internet!
[/rant]

Pardon me for that. I feel a little better now.

I came up with a couple of questions/musings during my last few nights as an insomniac. In no particular order:

- I've come to the conclusion that "normal" is a pretty stupid label to apply to people. This epiphany came at around 5:20 am of night two of sleeplessness, as I started to compare myself against my fellow bloggers. How's my life doing in the grand scheme, I wondered. A random voyeuristic peek into a handful of other lives and I'm starting to see how it's like on the other side. You're odd folk, people, but I imagine there are many more outside of this medium just as quirky. "Normal" applies to how my car's running or the current weather trend.

- Where does creativity come from? This neuron fired after I saw some pretty nifty looking blogs out there, and starting planning some similar tweaks to this page. I'm a graphic artist, a creative professional, so I figure I ought to be able to conjure up something nice to represent my online ramblings. I sat around for about an hour, flipping through my design annuals and my (literal) shoebox of ideas and nothing. Nada.

I know creativity is an ongoing process, but why does it seem like many of my peers walk around with their own personal muse? Where do I draw my inspiration from? I'm not even certain that I can describe my own personal style at the moment. It's been weeks. Graphic design relies on communication, on grabbing someone's attention for as long as you can. It's about shaping an idea into something else and for that you need to be inspired.

I realize everyone in the field has these spurts. The analytical side of my brain is reassuring me that it's something that'll pass. For now, though, I'm afraid that my creativity ran off to the same place my ability to sleep went. Once they both decide to return I'll try to spiff up the locale a little.

Timetables

So I'm not completely screwed on the housing thing. Reread the notice when I woke up this morning (final tally on the beers: six), and hidden under all the damned legal disclaimers is a pretty simple story. Our lease ends the end of next month, September, at which point we've got a choice. Either we can get out immediately, or stick around month-to-month until they decide to put the apartment (pardon me - condominium) up on the auction block. Once they decide to do that we only get thirty days to get out of Dodge, as opposed to the normal two months they're required to give. The roommate and I had originally decided to stay until November, which may still happen, or we could end up getting the boot early.

I hate this apartment complex anyways.

Off Step

Today was not my day.

It just started off bad. I lay in bed this morning feeling great and refreshed, until I looked at the time. 9:04 am. I need to be AT my desk between 9:00 and 9:30. 9:04 am. A quick shower, deodorant and some toothpaste and I'm out the door and into my car. 9:18 am.

I live seven miles from work and hit two ridiculously long red lights. I'm also traveling a lot faster than your average law enforcement official would call acceptable - not dangerously maneuvering - but still. I pull into the lot. 9:28 am - cool!

Three spaces down from my dirty little Jetta is the production Team Director (the boss of my boss) and she's waving to me. "You've got really good timing," she says. Behind her, in the back of her car, are donuts – four or five dozen of them. She needs help carting them in, and I just got drafted. Nothing I can do, really. I don't mind helping (especially considering one of those donuts is stomach bound), but it kinda shot the whole sprinting into the building thing I'd had planned. I grab three bright pink bakers' boxes and march into the office. Deposit the cargo, and jog over to my desk. 9:31:15 am.

Now, it really wasn't a big deal. The company's laid back and I'm in the good graces. There's no disciplinary action, no stern looks, no harm, no foul. The Team Director even corrected my time after a quick e-mail. I just hate being late.

An hour or two passes and I take care of some routine stuff. I'm the Quality Assurance artist, in addition to my other duties, so I spend a good chunk of my day (particularly my mornings) correcting orders that have misprinted (correcting typos, researching tech issues, placing color-edited images and the like). All nice and smooth. 11:45 am. Log out for lunch.

Now I start the fun task. Our company provides digital templates for graphic designers, a starting point to build your layout. They're all pre-sized with guides, swatches and labels. Having built all the previous templates, and knowing more about the templates than anyone else, I get the job of creating more templates for some of our new offerings. Three new products, each with four different templates, in six different applications. That's 72 new files, if you're counting. Monotonous, yeah, but it needs to be done. Welcome to template hell.

1:28 pm. I get a call from a client I was helping last week. He's a photographer, and had placed a batch of twelve orders. He's a very nice guy, but very particular about the details, the cards being a personal marketing piece for his business. I ended up making change after change on the batch, little tweaks and such, trying to get them just perfect. The series printed on Wednesday afternoon, and I made every effort to get these done right. His assistant just picked up the cards and noticed a typo on one of the pieces. My fault. He's very cool about it, sharing responsibility for missing the error on the proof. I fix the layout and state we'll get it reprinted Monday.

Back to the templates. 2:30 pm. Brain numb. Hurts to think.

A quick meeting until 3:00 pm, and I'm starting to get back higher brain functions.

But wait! More templates to finish. Motor skills fading.

5:25 pm. Mark, the photographer, calls back. There's more problems. One of the images is higher than it should be (also my fault - I'm really not this bad) and the color's too dark on ALL of the cards. No problem. We'll get it fixed. I apologize for his disappointment, and let him know that we'll get the color reviewed and give him a call back on Monday. He's understandably flustered, and asks – pleads – if there's anything I can do tonight. He doesn't want to have this hanging over his head all weekend. Mark knows that the cards won't print tonight, but he just needs to know that someone's doing something, that he isn't lost in the process. Everyone I need to talk to is gone for the weekend.

I end up scrambling for the materials and flagging down one of the color guys, literally on his way out the door. We take a look at the batch. The press is on, so it looks like either (1) the proof he received is off or (2) the edits we made are just off. Doomed from the start, I'm thinking. The worst part is that we don't have our copy of the proof anymore and even after twenty minutes I don't have any good answers.

I call back Mark, worried that I can't give him any solace. Luckily, he's just happy that someone followed up. He can sleep better, especially after I assure him that we'll find an amicable solution. I ask him to FedEx in his proofs and we'll get the ball rolling. He's grateful for the attention, and has the time to get these suckers reprinted. Monday's problem. 5:50 pm.

I drive home, stressed out.

6:10 pm. There's a notice taped to my door. "90 Day Notice of Intention to Sell as Condominiums." My apartment complex got sold and the new management has decided to stop renting. Lots of legal text and multiple signatures required. My roommate and I were planning on moving anyways, but it looks like the management dates don't quite jive with our timetable. This might work out poorly. Walking into a large multi-page notice taped to your door…

Tonight was the first night that I've walked straight to the fridge for a beer, before I even put down my keys.

I'm currently on my third MGD, and currently decompressing.

Technical Difficulties

Q: Did you try rebooting it?
A: Um… no.

I'm not sure sometimes whether people just don't get it, or just don't care. Specifically, I'm talking about professional ignorance - or stupidity - depending on your mood and disposition. Some days I feel like I'm drowning in it. It's spectacular, the amount of times that I'm caught off guard by a stupid question.

Lemme rephrase a little: There is no such thing as a stupid question. The stupid comes in when you don't ask, or you just go about your day with out deductive reasoning. Today I explore the latter.

As a graphic artist, my job isn't inherently "technical." We're not reconfiguring servers or debugging raw code or anything. My company employs around thirty graphic artist and designers, most of us in a production-based environment. We take client-supplied mockups and loose digital elements, or press-ready digital files, and turn them into a final printed piece. A certain amount of eduction and experience is required, granted, but it really isn't that hard.

Most of the graphic artists I work with have some level of schooling in the field. Many are currently students, taking classes on design, or recent grads looking to get their feet wet in the industry. I'm in the minority in this aspect, having no formal training whatsoever, just a lot of on-the-job experience. I hunkered down and found mentors, listening diligently to everything they'd be willing to teach me.

Maybe that's the difference between us, the thing that urks me day in and day out. Is there a day that you consciously decide that your education's over? Get yourself a BA and that's that? I've learned everything I need to know, so I'm done?

I've become the resident expert in my department, the guy that the manager asks if he can't figure something out. In the past couple of years I outgrew my job, and a new job description was literally invented to encompass all the things that I do. I'm an unofficial lead, and with that comes the answering of questions and the dispensing of advice. It's a great thing, especially when you consider that the company that I work for is really something special (something I'll talk about in future installments), and every day in my little cubicle is different and invigorating.

We're not drowning in monkeys, let me be clear. There's just a handful, most of which just mindless work through the day on auto-pilot. Every job's got that, I'd imagine. The rest of the staff is great, engaged and full of great ideas.

I gave a class a couple weeks ago, brushing up the staff on some fundamentals. Two or three artists at a time, about an hour each session, all told about a full week's worth of non-stop training. I got questions two days later on things I've covered extensively in the classes.

And then there's today. I was honestly stunned by a question I got. How could you work here and NOT know that?

Tomorrow will be better.

Wandering the Shelves

And he returns…

I came back to the computer on Saturday night and stared at the keyboard, unable to think of something to say. I wrote the first line of about six different thoughts, but they all dissipated into random tangents before they were fully formed.

Sunday evening was spent roaming the shelves of the local Barnes and Noble. Growing up, I never was a recreational reader, unlike the rest of my family. My sister, Amy, can literally read two books a day, if so inclined. I enjoyed to read, I just thought there were better ways to be spending my day. Couldn't figure out all the hype.

It's an aquired taste. I remember sitting in the house I grew up in, all of eleven, begging my father to let me have a cup of coffee. I found it repulsive, of course, and couldn't fathom why he drank the filthy stuff. It wasn't until a couple years ago that I truly started to enjoy reading for reading's sake. Now I could spend hours in a Barnes and Noble.

I bought two books: The Dive From Claussen's Pier by Ann Packer, and The Year's Best in Science Fiction, an anthology I try to grab whenever I see a new one.

I picked up Claussen's Pier after stumbling across the Lifetime movie adaptation, starring Michelle Trachtenberg and Sean Maher, both of Joss Whedon fame (Buffy and Firely, repectively). The user reviews on IMDb just tore it apart, each of every one of them praising the book. So, I bought it.

Just finished it. My manhood aside, it's worth a read. It's never something I thought I'd want to touch, let alone recommend to others. A tale about a midwestern girl running away to New York after her fiance (and high school sweetie) becomes a quadriplegic – c'mon now, that's not at all manly. It was really good, though.

It's amazing what you find when you step outside your normal boundaries.

Uneventful Day

It's Saturday night and I'm at home alone. Bored.

Like most other folks, I was clock watching late Friday night, impatiently waiting for the day to end. A couple of us would head outside for a break and we'd all praise the arrival of the weekend. I just wasted half of it, sitting on my ass alone in my apartment. Wasn't that fun?

Didn't I have plans? Guess not.

The sleep was good, don't get me wrong. I crawled out of bed around 1pm, which in itself is worth all the weekend hype. Took a nice long shower, then went to forage for some grub. The local Albertsons (which I can literally see from my window) had one of their weekend barbecues, so I bought myself out a couple of massive sausage sandwiches (the second made a nice little dinner) and returned to the home base. The excursion was pretty much the highlight of my day.

Farted around the rest of the day, watching the Night Court marathon on TV and perusing the internet. Night Court, by the way, isn't nearly as intertaining when I saw it as a kid in the late 80s. John Larroquette's Dan Fielding is still hilarious, but the rest of it just seemed tired and dated. I think I've outgrown live-action sitcoms.

What else, what else?

Still nothing on the eHarmony front.

The SciFi channel is re-airing Firefly, which is hands-down my favorite show (past or present). Watch it.

[flipping through Simon's journal]
Jayne: "Dear diary: Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy... Today we were kidnapped by hill folk, never to be seen again. It was the best day ever."

Battlestar Galatica rocks. Also on the highly recommended list, for anyone that cares. This new interpretation of the old (hokey) show is ... wow.

My thoughts are starting to wander a bit, and I don't quite remember what the point of this whole post was. Be back in a little bit once I refocus.

Yuppie

Work, rinse, repeat.

The weekend's over and it's back to the office and my existance as a yuppie. Yes, I'm a yuppie. I don't know when it happened, or how, but it did. I've got myself a cubicle, a Volkswagen and an iPod. It's a good life, but I really am amazed on how life just kinda steers itself.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?," the teachers would ask. I was always the kid in class that could never answer the question. All the other little boys and girls could never contain themselves, and would always shout out two or three different choices. And over the many shouts of "Doctor!" or "Astronaut!" or "Dancer!" was little Adam, sitting and thinking about it. It wasn't that I could pick out my favorite – I couldn't pick anything.

As I think back, I'm really glad that the question stumped me. There's no possible way that I could have seen the path my life's followed. Stuff happens. Friends come and go, people die, and new opportunites spring up without warning. The whole trick seems to be not to worry so much about the navigation, and just to try to live well.

The Road to Here

Took a few moments to stare at that first blog. Read it a couple times, from multiple viewing angles (most of which are at different points in my bedroom, having paced around a bit). Went into the kitchen for some tasty beverage. I'm back and still feel like writing, so here I am again.

I figured I'd start by recounting the events leading up to the page.

- My brother in-law, Gary, recently launched his own blog, Freelance Father. That was a big step for me. I've noticed a general improvement in his sanity since he started a couple weeks ago. He's a first time dad, which (as I understand it) changes damn near everything in your life. While my life is comparatively simple I thought I'd borrow his therapy method.

- One of my best friends, John, just came back into town for the weekend. John and I have been friends for about six years, and spent about half of that time as roommates. Two years ago, after having some career frustrations and ending a really bad relationship, he decided that he needed to reset his life. He loaded everything he owned into his car and the two of us rode out to Houston. It was, obviously, a one-way trip for John.

John's one of the wisest people I know. He's always impressed me by his ability to just make risky choices and live by them. A courage to live life that you do not commonly find. The two of us could always just talk.

Well, as previously stated, John's back in town this weekend. His grandmother (who he wasn't real close to) just died and he's back for the funeral. We talk regularly via phone, but y'know - this is different. I'd rather spend two hours on the patio at the local Red Lobster with some pasta and a beer, wouldn't you? We caught up and gave each other some perspective on life. Then I kicked his arse at Halo 2 and he redeemed himself by introducing me to the online comic The Order of the Stick and forcing me to watch the new Dane Cook DVD. John won this round.

- I got tired of being single and signed up for eHarmony. A friend from work, Maria, has been pestering me to do it for a while and I finally realized she's right. There's nothing to lose, and potentially a lot to gain. I've been sans-girlfriend since high school and while I want a relationship I think I've just been a little scared to put myself out there. I constantly refer to myself as "painfully single" but I never do anything about it. This ends now.

Also, I've got the distinct impression that my grandfather thinks I'm gay. I'm not. I know he'd never ask, but he keeps asking my sister Amy (Gary's wife) questions about my life designed to circle (but never directly address) my sexuality. It's entertaining (the indirectness of it), but it's also makes me feel a little pathetic that folks aren't sure about me.


I've got more to say, but it's my body craves sleep. More later.

Who?

Assuming you're reading this (and are not me), you're probably asking who is this guy. I'm not entirely certain myself, so the answer to that question will hopefully evolve as this blog lengthens.

Before I get into the how and why of this page, lemme start off with a the basic facts: My name's Adam. I'm 26, single, and make my living as a graphic artist. I live in southern California, about thirty miles north of San Diego proper.

So what am I doing here? It recently occured to me that although I'm fairly happy with my existance I don't really (1) have a life or (2) know what I'd do with one if I found it. Once confronted with that fact I started to re-evaluate me as a whole. I started to reconnect with old friends, made steps to get involved in more activities requiring social skills and just thinking. I've never been one for diaries, handwritten or otherwise, which was one of the main motivations to do this in the first place. The fact that it isn't something I'd do is reason enough at this juncture.

This space will hopefully function as a way for me to decompress and sort my thoughts. A public outlet for a very private search. The blog is mainly for me, but you're welcome to stay if you wish. It's going to be pretty random, and probably boring, so continue at your own risk.