My airport encounter

On my way home from Nebraska, while I was getting ready to clear security, I managed to say hello to this man:



For the three of you who don't know who he is, he is Mick Foley. My mom and sister were there with me, but neither of them noticed him until I said "Great book!" to him. My mom didn't know who he was, but my sister did. She was really excited to see him. She also seemed surprised that: a) I was so casual with him; and b) that he seemed just like a regular guy. If any of you have seen "Beyond the Mat," then you know that he pretty much is a regular guy. Except for one thing that separates him from the rest of humanity: he has a superhuman tolerance for pain. (For the faint of heart, you should be aware that the preceding link contains a photo that some might find disturbing.)

Celebrity sightings in Omaha are rare. It's not like DC, where you can pretty much find famous people most anywhere (although often they're only famous for DC, meaning they're huge here and unknown anywhere else). The only other famous people I can remember seeing in Omaha (wthout having paid to see them in some sort of performance) are Chuck Hagel, Ben Nelson and his hair, and Laura Dern. All of these happened at the airport. Hmmmm...

The only down side is no dorm room

Finally, after many administrative hiccups, I am now a student at the Savannah College of Art and Design. I will be pursuing an MFA in Graphic Design. I will not be moving to Savannah, though. It is an online course, and if everything goes according to plan it should take 2.25-2.5 years. Woohoo!!!

Switches (or at least changes)

This is a light switch in my mom's house. Not the house I talked about before, but the house where *she* grew up. This house was built in 1885 by her grandfather. His son took it over in 1933. My mom was born there in 1944. She effectively lost the house in 1962 when both her parents died within three months of each other. She was 17 and couldn't keep it. When I think about how she lost her childhood home, it puts my own situation in a bit of perspective. I'm still unhappy about losing it, but I know it could have happened under considerably worse circumstances.

NB—This switch makes the greatest "ka-CHUNK" sound when you push the buttons...

You kids get off my lawn!

After five years of neighborly harassment, Charles Martin couldn't take it any more. He and his lawn had to defend themselves. So they (he, really) shot a kid. Hopefully that little upstart had the decency to collapse on the sidewalk and not on the fescue.

Just say no to spec work

Occasionally people will ask me to design something for them, and that if they like what I've done, they'll hire me. This appalling practice is known as spec work, and it is a BAD THING. In the words of the No!Spec website, spec work "devalues the potential of design and ultimately does a disservice to the client." Amen to that. Usually what happens is the "client" (I use this term loosely, as to be a true client you would have to have actually hired me in the first place) takes a look at whatever you've created, tells you s/he doesn't like it, and then proceeds to steal your idea and use it as if it were his/hers in the first place.

Susan Kirkland has an excellent piece on why spec work is a BAD THING. Creative Latitude presents a cogent rationale as to why spec work is actually a bad idea. See also ad-rag.com and the response of a bunch of Canadian designers to a shoe company's "cattle call" for designers.

This isn't a completely coherent entry—I just wanted to vent a bit.

You think *your* job is bad?

If you think things are bad at your current job, go take a look at Merujo's current post. You may start to count your blessings....

Check out my phlog!

I have set up a photoblog over at http://sasquatchphlog.blogspot.com. There's not a lot there yet, but there will be. Enjoy!

Memories of Macalester

A man ahead of his time

Behold! The only sports award I ever received:



It's amazing, the things one finds when cleaning out one's mother's house. Just point me toward the Lido Deck...

Attention, people at Job X

People at Job X: You made your bed, now lie in it.

Search all you want. The only thing you might get from me will be a sworn statement to the Inspector General of your institution that reaffirms that all Merujo did was to read me an article about a man in England. I may also comment on the extreme mental anguish that your so-called leadership caused. The rest of the situation was caused by your inability to listen, see logic, or do the right thing.

You caused a great deal of pain by both your actions and the distinct lack thereof.

You should be ashamed of yourselves. All of you.

Maybe you had to be there

As you know, this past weekend I went back to Nebraska to help my mom get her house cleaned out so she can move into a condo. I have to do it again next week. (It's the same house--she just has lots of stuff.)

In the delirium of the constant digging out and deciding whether to throw something away, I happened upon a Muppet book I had enjoyed as a kid. There was a section devoted to Fozzie's jokes, and this one made me actually laugh out loud:

Q: Where did the flea take his girlfriend?
A: Upstairs to see his itchings.

*I* thought it was funny, anyway.

A rite of passage

I'm going to Nebraska this weekend to help my mother clean out her house so she can move into a condo that will be much more comfortable for her. This house also happens to be the house where I grew up.

I'm not sure just how much I really want to delve into the ramifications of "no longer having a home" in such a public forum. Actually, I don't really want to at all. This space is for my own mental onanism, so I suppose I can say or not say whatever I feel like. I will say that the concept of "home" has always been one of great import to me. When I was a little kid, I would cry inconsolably at the thought that Dorothy might never get home again to Kansas. Even though I'd seen the movie before and I knew she would, the idea that she would be forever denied the possibility of seeing her home again was just too terrible for me to bear. I'll start crying during the trailer for "E.T." because all he wants to do is go home—even though I know he makes it. Not exactly the manliest behavior, I know.

I grew up in that house, and watched my father die in that house. I can show you where he used to pick up baby rabbits for me (until one peed on his hand, which put an end to the rabbit shows). I can show you where we drew our initials on the cement slab in the back yard. There's a great place in the back hallway where you can crouch behind a cupboard and scare the crap out of anyone walking toward the bedrooms. If you are in the front bathroom, remember that anyone in the back bathroom can hear you through the heat register, so try to do whatever you're doing quietly. I can show you the small basement storage room where I nearly passed out from paint fumes while building models. I can tell you how the living room used to be a breezeway, and that there was a six-foot square hole in the roof for a twenty-foot-tall pine tree to stick through. I can also tell you how my parents used to host lobster parties in that breezeway, and how much fun I had watching our schnauzer cautiously get to know the main course before it went into the pot. I can show you the stone in the hearth that looks like Nebraska. I can show you the doorknob where we've hung a Christmas ornament my mom made for me when she was a kindergarten room mother. I can show you the whiskey barrel planter where we would bury my sister's neon tetras when they invariably died.

Many of these things will still be there once the house is sold. But I will never get to see them again, because it won't be my house any more. I am really bad with the concept of "forever." For example, I will see something on TV and think "I should call Dad and tell him to check this out." But then I realize that I can't do that. He's been dead for ten years now. Yet the urge to call him has never faded. He's gone, and will be forever. My rational brain knows that, but it usually places a distant second to my emotional brain. How does this relate to the house? He always said he would only leave that house feet first. Well, he did.

Knowing that someone else will be living in "my" house as of April 15 is a concept that will take some getting used to.

I feel a little foolish now. I may take this post down tomorrow.