How the fuck does one choose a career? Career, to me, is a word that in many situations has as much or probably more relevance than the word married. Most of these situations being completely social. Why? Sure I’m in an open marriage, but I’m not even using that as the norm.

I always inferred that the purpose of college was to obtain your ultimate career path. That’s not a lie, to everyone, but close enough for a lot. It took me seven and a half years to earn my bachelors degree. Four schools and at least 3 majors. Not able to use any of that for anything, I went back to school for 2 years, and currently use absolutely no part. We will ignore the massive debt that I am foolishly ignoring until later. 

Maybe I should have just followed my dreams. Guitarist in a successful band, top editorial writer for Rolling Stone, author of a series of bestselling books of which  I also wrote the screenplays for the blockbuster movies. Yeah, good thing I went safe.

I have three jobs I have actually enjoyed. I loved working at the book bindery. Getting to create something(I made them teach me to run every machine) was very fulfilling in a physical and librophile sort of way…The next was working for Kids First. I started as a lowly diaper changing assistant and ended up a relatively upper echelon decider that still changed diapers and ingested first distaste of those thinking they were superior. I was working with special needs kids(mainly Down Syndrome kids,  spectrum disorders, CP, or simply Marshallese and not understood), so I dealt with a lot due to my need of moral upliftement I was easily getting…The last is any cooking job I had. I was consistently drunk or high at all of those jobs, rarely received a scolding but often received praise. And lots of food. 

So what do I want to do? I have a kid and a wife, so I have to support them. I don’t hate my bookshop and Sunday school teaching gig I have going, Alie is about to graduate and hopefully get better family funds.  We get by, and T is a happy little dude, which has turned into my only real goal. 

But you successful guys and gals out there…no lost love, and I adore all expenses paid trips to visit your amazing selfs!


Good or bad? Ignorantly infered plan for sure…

Shuffling thru the lot from my car to front door of work, I nearly trod upon some darkish avian breed. I found it curious that it didn’t float off upon my approach, and owing to my aversion to avian and rodent ambulatory limbs, I wasn’t sure if the curly- Q foot was out of place. 

My connection to the animal world is a pretty mixed bag. The best theological way to describe me is probably Buddhist Lite, so while not preferable, I may come back as say a deer or a rabbit or a hog in my next life.  At the same time, the only arachnidish thing I have a smidgen of fear of is that sadistic Lone Star Tick(look it up-I would almost certainly die or have enough epi-pen addict tracks for henna art). I have no problem killing something for the meat, primarily due to a deep love for venison, but would rather not even have to worry about whether a harvest is a trophy animal I’d feel pressured to preserve. 

As the awful slob I am, I had a raggedly old running shirt in my car that couldn’t lose my musky scent with a thousand washes. The birdy had no problem flap hopping into the shirt’s powder blue cradle, so I carried him/her/Casey to our grassy back lot. Fearing Casey might get overlooked if the lawn got mowed soon, I put C down in the place where grass and gravel met. So I did it! Right?

If it’s wing is broke, C is probably screwed. If it’s foot is broke,,, fuck if I know. 

Only problem with my new home for C: about twice a week a delivery van delivers thru the back way. I warn the delivery van to  avoid C when he comes by. He inquires about the bird and asks if I don’t maybe want him to make a wide turn, that it may just be the kindest option. I advise against it but let him know I wouldn’t fault him for it.

I hear him pull up to the back doors, I open them, and he says, “I couldn’t do it. But just saw him at the last second anyway,” He half -ass committed to at least not avoiding C on the way out. C was still sitting there after he pulled out of the lot. Not long later, a friend joined C.

After conversing with my co-workers, I realized C’s friend could maybe help out with food, but not water. Being me, and it being Summer, I began to worry. I broke out my pocketknife and made a bowl out one of our complimentary disposable coffee cups. I filled my bowl with water and carefully carried it out to where C was. Was. Now gone. 

Did Casey gain its strength back and fly off? Hopefully. I saw one of C’s friends, so there’s a chance they could help out until C was self sufficient. There’s also the distinct possibility that a neighborhood feline had itself a meal. And that’s less ideal, but at least the cat got a fresh meal.