Life Rap

I love riding the bus. And one thing I've noticed over the past decade is that, much like a house, a warm bus attracts vermin during the cold months. Rats and mice I've never seen, thankfully, but bugs ... cockroaches, ants, different kinds of flying insects. They occasionally make themselves visible, even in the dead of February.

green lacewing

I don't kill bugs. Well, I do. But I feel very guilty when it happens. I will kill mosquitoes, though sometimes I blow them off my skin. I will kill thousand-leggers — those most-unwelcome Chicago visitors — because they sting. And cockroaches. I know I'm supposed to kill them, too, but once every 10 times or so I just can't. I admire their resiliency and stay my hand. Gunnery Sgt. Hartman would say that's how I become a dead marine — to hesitate at the moment of truth. But in this case I'm only letting a cockroach crawl around my house at night and eat the eyelashes of my children. (Sorry, Erika.)

That's my platform on killing bugs. I try to stop the kids from tormenting them, though they honestly don't know what they're doing. Ella "petting" an ant is meant as an affectionate gesture. She doesn't know what death is yet. Like all parents, that is the conversation I look forward to the least. In the meantime, I just try to steer them back toward the sandbox and say that the ant needs to go home. 

That Day

What more can an American say about September 11, 2001?

I lived in Brooklyn at that time, and because I had a slacker record store job I didn't need to be in Manhattan by 9, like my previous office gig. I was sleeping when my roommate Casey woke up all of us at 226 Franklin to say something was happening. His mom had called from Texas after they cut in on TV.

We were in Greenpoint, so Casey, Ted, Sterling and I all headed down to the East River to see what was going on. Both of the World Trade Center buildings had smoke coming out of them. 

The WTC was, for me, the prime symbol of New York. I had been coming there for visits since 1998, and the buildings were always the first points of the city visible over the swamplands of northern New Jersey as I approached on the bus. And when I was in Manhattan, they served as a compass point if I got turned around. They were always south.

When I moved to Brooklyn, the box factory I lived in had a no-frills metal door on its long, blank side for an entrance, and whenever I stepped out to go to work in the morning, the first thing I saw across the water was the WTC. It was always there as some kind of reminder of permanence.

Raining

Today everyone at the Cracker Factory was forcibly given a pay cut. It applies to about two weeks of work days spread out over the three months of the summer. The good news is that I'll now have a bunch of Fridays to spend with the baby and take three-day weekend trips. The bad news is, well, that's pretty obvious, but it's not crippling, and Erika is gainfully employed, too.

The refrain for these times has been "At least you still have a job." I'm getting sick of hearing that, as they chop off more pieces of us, week by week. Now's probably the time for a good Karl Marx quote about worker exploitation, but that's too much effort to dig it up right now. I'm tired. We still have to sail on through this week, patching up all the holes they punched in our ship.

I'm pretty sick of talking about work, so I'll stop. What I'd really like to do right now is get a drink at the bar at the Chicago Yacht Club and stare drunkenly at the nautical maps on the walls. Or better yet, I'd like to get a drink with Charles Barkley. Can someone make that happen?

No? Well ... I'll settle for comics in bed. However, I don't have anything to read on the bus tomorrow. Maybe I should go with Karl Marx. Or the Marlene Dietrich story, which I actually own. Yes. I don't know. … It's time to go to bed.

Job rap

What a week at the Cracker Factory. It started out mellow but harshed by Wednesday morning. Now, well, I guess it's almost over. We've had a lot of people leave here, a lot of organizational shock-waves and still no clear structure in the aftermath. I guess the same could be said for many (most?) businesses across the country. Dad just needs to keep his head in the game, though understandably it can be hard. Some of this static was externally applied, but two problems were of my own creation, based on snap decisions. I need to better question my choices before I make them. (How about that for job commitment?)

Seriously though, I do take pride in my work here. I know it's not my life's work, but I'd like to think I do it well and help those I'm in with. Recent circumstances have made it a bit harder for all of us to truly take as much time as we'd like on all of our tasks. I only hope that by year's end we'll get some kind of relief.

Of course, I don't ever have it as tough as Erika, who had to go on a field trip to Champaign this morning against the wishes of her boss. She'll get back by 10 p.m. tonight. I cannot wait for the weekend to start. I plan on spending it exclusively with my wife and baby. It makes me very happy to know we'll all be together at this time tomorrow. Hang in there, Woundup.

Ghost town downtown

It's been a rough month at the ol' Cracker Factory. My immediate supervisor recently was struck down as part of budget-related layoffs. We were shocked because he's a 13-year veteran of the company. That's a lot of experience to let walk out the door, but it's happening nonetheless. At least we're sending him off in style tonight after work, though I still can't believe it.

Who does that leave? Me, the budget option. There still might be more cuts in our group, but my editor seems to think they'll happen elsewhere. Who knows. It all makes me question my choice of career. Sure, the economy eventually will swing back, but what about print journalism (read: print advertising)? Thankfully, I've gotten my share of Web experience in this gig. That's the direction it's all going.

Here's to hoping the rest of month moves by quickly and without incident — and that terminated positions everywhere are recreated soon.

In like a lion

If there's only one positive thing I should remember at the start of this day, it's that it's going to be warm outside. And I will be back in this spot in 12 hours, alive. All bets are off about everything else.

Checkout at 11

I'm not having a particularly good day for a number of reasons. Right now, I'm feeling like I want to be carted off in a stretcher at 5 p.m., a la Steve Malkmus in the "Painted Soldiers" video.

Looking at this map on my office wall, I wish I were in Madagascar right now. Somewhere warm. I would settle for Cocoa Beach, Florida. I can almost picture myself standing in the surf. Yes. I'm there …

We can't win, no way

I don't want to rehash all the details, only because they would fill me with exhaustion and rage. Erika should be the one who's mad. She spent five hours between leaving work and getting to our front door after a flat tire and a bad spare tire followed. The streets were in horrible, horrible condition.

It's turned into one of those weeks for many reasons, but that's why god invented Black Flag. When you feel like the world and its many inhabitants are a load of shit, just turn those Greg Ginn solos all the way up.

I guess I'd better go to bed. They teased us at work, implying we might get the day off tomorrow if the snow continues to accumulate. I'm not getting my hopes up. This all makes me want to live in a cabin next to the lake. Not Lake Michigan, either.

TGIF

I don't mean to get melodramatic, but the boss is in the office after being out all week. Friday is the day you're most likely to get fired/laid off, perhaps because then you just go home for the weekend, and, well, at least you have the weekend to collect yourself (and not come back to the office). I would think our boss would give us some warning about upcoming cuts. One person was laid off about two months ago, and the higher-ups stressed it was a redundant position long for the chopping block. They then said they foresaw no more cuts ahead.

Today's grim unemployment news makes me wonder how much cuts on the part of companies are the result of real financial needs and how much have been because of hysteria — and whether it will affect our company/group. I recently read a columnist I trust who believes the 24/7 news cycle is overcooking the financial crisis, creating more fear and paranoia. But this job news is hard to ignore, and with a baby on the way in about two months, I'm feeling a bit nervous. Thankfully, my wife has a recession-proof job that pays her more than me and provides health insurance. (She's kept hers as an emergency backup.) I would like to think my skills and training are very marketable, but I worry what the actual market will be for them. Are there electronic tumbleweeds currently blowing through the editing/writing section of Craigslist?

Well, all I can do right now is sit tight and count off the rest of these 6.5 hours till I can go home (hopefully still employed). Then I won't have to worry again — till next Friday.

The taped dollar

Sunday night while coming back from the hair place, I stopped at Foodsmart on Armitage, between California and Sacramento. Rain mixed with sleet had been falling all day, so I hoped to get a bag of sidewalk salt before it turned to snow (which it did later in the evening). Sure enough there was a stack of heavy, yellow salt bags right next to the newspapers up front. Lacking cash, I took $40 out of the ATM. I then brought the bag to the counter and set it down.

There was a middle-aged woman behind the register, and she was very slowly and methodically taping together a one-dollar bill down the middle with clear scotch tape. She did not look up and did not hurry herself to finish this job. If we had been in a small town, the woman most likely would've apologized, put the dollar down and rung me up. Not so in the City of Big Shoulders. I really took no offense; I was in no hurry. I paid for my bag of salt (five dollars and change) with one of the twenties from the ATM. She broke it and gave me back the difference.

This morning I looked in my wallet for a dollar to feed into the Coke machine, and I found the scotch-taped bill. Apparently I was in more of a hurry on Sunday night than I thought because I failed to notice that the woman gave it to me as part of my change. I don't know if any Coke machine will accept this dollar, and I'm even wary a convenient store like Foodsmart would refuse it. I guess you could say I got screwed twice: having to wait and getting back damaged currency. For a retail transaction, that's a impressive feat.

I console myself by saying that it's all a big give and take. … Though maybe there is no system. Or maybe you're always on the receiving end. Or maybe it's just Chicago. … Or maybe I should just forget it. … Yes, that's probably the way to go.

At least he was doing what he liked

I was especially careful this morning crossing the corner of Homan and Grand. I was nearly hit by a pickup truck there yesterday while trying to catch the 65 bus. This is perhaps the most pedestrian-unfriendly intersection in Chicago, with vehicles making blind turns under a Metra bridge right into the designated crosswalk. I don't think it's really meant for foot traffic, being in a kind of no-man's warehouse land between Humboldt Park and the West Side.

Whatever. I was too reckless, running out on Grand like that. I don't want to die before my child is born — particularly in such a stupid fashion. Getting killed as part of a CTA commute might make a kind of poetic sense (the system always wins), but you'll probably be viewed as an idiot as the years pass, until you become a joke in your great-grandson's stand-up routine …

"I can't say I come from a lucky family. My great-grandfather was hit by a bus."

(Now appearing Thursday at the Comedy Hovel.)

Quiche can't fix everything

Christ Jesus. We just found out Erika's step-father, who's been remodeling our baby's room, fell off a ladder in Palatine while helping a friend build a haunted house and broke his leg. That just sucks. Please keep John in your thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery. He's an old veteran of job site injuries, but a broken leg is still a broken leg.

Well, that really puts a damper on the rest of this Friday. To recover, I would need some Bulls preseason action. Is that going to be available? I was looking forward to killing off the last two Brooklyn Pennant Ales in the fridge, as well.

I don't really know what the weekend holds beyond paying Erika's folks a visit. Maybe a few unexpected drops of sunshine into our lives will fall. Barring that, I'll take a slice of quiche at Vella.

Combine

Goodbye to Robert Rauschenberg. One of my favorite visual artists.

Second dark age

Yesterday my wife found out that she did not get an opportunity she had really been hoping for. It left me feeling very ineffectual and upset. I had helped her prepare her materials, so I felt we had done this as team, of sorts. I honestly don't know why Erika wasn't extended this opportunity, and I can only guess it might be over some administrative technicality. Regardless, this has greatly upended her plans for the coming year, and that makes me truly angry. No one I've ever met works harder than my wife; no one gives more while asking for nothing; and no one deserves more to have her dreams be fulfilled for the rest of her life. And if you're some crank who wants to tell me "life isn't fair," I have two answers for you:

1. No shit.
2. Fuck you.

Erika has had the dictionary definition of a hard life, and I doubt there's anything you can bring up that will top it, so save it, asshole.

Rejection is (cliche inserted), as we are both in the creative writing field. For every play produced, book published or poem printed, I wonder how many people have had their dreams spit upon. And I often wonder if the "winner" is truly worthy, and how that distorts an audience's view of that person once they somehow slip past the gatekeepers.

We can only try again next year. But what do we do in the meantime? What does everyone do in the intervening 365 days before the next round of possible disappointments begins? Enjoy the process, you might say. Well, that reminds me a lot of how the christian church made (makes) people obsess about an afterlife to forget how shackled they were (are) in this one. I don't know if I have anything else to say.

VoIPing It In

Gasp. For a second, I thought I had lost the complete Old Woundup archives. Diaryland looks to be taking a major crap. Hopefully they'll get it together again soon. Diaryland is kind of like the Maywood to Blogspot's River Forest. Diaryland is kind of like the Cheektowaga to Blogspot's Snyder. Diaryland is kind of like the Warren to Blogspot's Royal Oak. Diaryland is kind of like the Sauk Village to Blogspot's Homewood. Diaryland is kind of like the Yonkers to Blogspot's White Plains. And White Plains is where we get off.

Endure When You Must Inc.

The job search rollercoaster continues. I was up after the Thanksgiving holiday. Now I'm down as two possible employers have yet to contact me. One said they'd know by mid-December, the other said they were caught up in some things and are still making a decision. Both are quality gigs, I feel. I just need one to come through so I can leave this accursed night shift. I really hate it. Really, really hate it.

If you're a bit of an Internet voyeur, you might be interested in, amused by or curious about my suffering. Or maybe you aren't. We all have to suffer through things. I sometimes wish someone I know (or even a stranger) will hear my plea and rescue me. But then I think that if I was reading a similar WeBLoG post -- even one by a friend -- I would probably stand by and do nothing. I suppose it depends on the situation. Though it's depressing and disillusioning, my job situation doesn't carry the same weight as, say, the need for a new kidney. Then you would step in and help Woundup, right?

I'm not looking for your help, anyway. I'm just looking to fill some column inches. See? Even I'm detached about my own situation... and I'm the one getting fucked. Who's the real loser here? Regional cable, of course.

Reversal of Man (I want my $6 back, please)

It's been a tough one in the Woundup camp today, and that feeling of desolation -- maybe it's a holiday slowdown -- continues. I was musing last week how I haven't had "one of those weeks" in a while -- you know, where everything seems to go wrong. I can't say my problems are the worst. Erika had an even tougher day, so I should really just relax.

The Cracker Factory microwave broke Friday, and I had a very naiive hope that it would either be fixed or replaced by today. Of course it wasn't, so I had a nice dinner of Chex Mix and Kozy Shack rice pudding. Well, I'll warm up this bloody TV dinner when I get home.

We're hosting Thanksgiving dinner Thursday for our families and some good friends. Now, I have two choices of how I can anticipate it: 1. With dread. 2. With less dread. Wait, that's not very positive, is it? I shouldn't worry. I shouldn't worry about anything. No. Though things seem bleak and unpeopled, hope and opportunity are but a few pretzel stix away.

Isolation Isn't Just an Island in Spain

I haven't gotten an e-mail all day from a real person. The only e-mail that's popped up in my mailbox that wasn't an ad had to be written... by me. I had to write myself as part of a group e-mail. There you go. Thursday, Nov. 16, 2006.

Last Week Good. This Week...

No. I'm not sick. At least not yet. Maybe. Woundup is a notorious hypochondriac.

You know it's been a rough week when you go to a co-worker's going-away party just to get a drink. Get in, get out, and... Hey! Back to work! Fantastic.

I'll stop my griping. It's always darkest before... how does that go? Maybe... maybe my personal strife will draw readers in. They'll come back to read of my travails. It could be a WeBLoG hit. When is that drink coming?

Friday night. Counting down the hours here. Somebody write me or something. Leave me a note. I don't know. More later...