Our Dumb Blog

I got a hand-addressed envelope today. Those are very rare these days, so I was rather surprised I got one. I don’t know the last time was I got a letter from someone. I guess it was when I was in Rome and e-mail was scarce. Sometimes I’d get real mail sooner.

Inside the envelope was a form letter inviting me to join an open house interview thing for a flight attendant job. I’ve applied to probably hundreds of jobs in the past few weeks. I’ve gotten all of ONE rejection, two automated responses and one “We’re considering you” form letter. This is the only interview I’ve gotten, even though it appears to just be a massive screening thing. I guess getting invited to the open house was the first step. I wonder if they’ll have any interest in me if I actually go. While I will unless I find a better job in the meantime.

I’m not sure how much I’d like working as a flight attendant, but at least it pays. Sort of. If I get hired I’ll have to go through a month of training during which “You will not be paid, but we will provide you with $20 per diem to help with food.” Gee. $20/day. And if I get hired, it’ll probably be a $15k/year job at best. Not terribly exciting, but you only have to work like 80 hours a week and get to to fly free. It’s with a Delta Connections, which means I’d get travel privelleges on Delta. Delta goes everywhere. Course, I’d have to make enough money to actually afford anything once I got there…

Anyway, it sounds like a job I might be able to do for awhile without killing someone or myself. We shall see. I somehow doubt anything will come of it. Just one of those feelings.

I’m not sure if I I should agree with John Cusack’s character in Hi Fidelity when he asks, “Is this Peter fucking Frampton??” but I’m inclined. Why then, you might ask, am I listening to him? I don’t know. Because he was mentioned in Hi Fidelity?

I’ve been wondering about whether or not one should maintain such seemingly private information on the web. But since my last name isn’t used, it would be difficult for a web searcher to turn me up. A search without my last name primarily turns up references to kite-flying events in the plage of Berck sur Mer. As interesting as they are, they are hardly incriminating. But then, this journal isn’t really incriminating either.

I’ve got this great fear of becoming, as I put to Todd not so long ago, “a Starbucks customer”. Even from that very comment wafted the air of that which I was afraid of becoming. Not the smell of coffee, but the odor of, at least as Todd put it, pseudo-intellectual. I’m not a fan of that word. Maybe because I’m not sure how to define it. I wonder how dictionary.com defines it. As best I can tell it doesn’t. A google search turns up http://www.ram.org/ramblings/ramblings.html which is interesting. The author of the page simply claims that he is, in fact, pseudo-intellectual, the pseudo-modesty allowing others to think that maybe he really is an intellectual. Is that what I’m doing, but in a different way? Perhaps. How is a pseudo-intellectual defined, except by what others think. And I don’t care what others think. Really. Or so I keep trying to convince myself. So in my pseudo-not-caring, I shouldn’t care if I’m a pseudo-intellectual or not, I should just be, and not worry about it. Right. So I don’t really care if you think I’m a pseudo-intellectual or not. Really.

His page is entitled “Pseudo-Intellectual Ram-blings” but I think that what I type is far more likely to be classified as rambling. That’s what it is, rambling. Probably more likely to be considered pseudo-intellectual. Oh, right, I don’t care.

I like Smog. At least, the band with that name. I’m not such a fan of smog, though it does provide for exceptional sunsets, particularily in Rome. Or maybe it’s just that because I was in Rome everything seemed exceptional. Don’t suppose that really matters. I like Pavement as well. Two bands with a similar sounding lead vocalist named after things very… civilized.

I wonder if I really like Metaxa, or I just think I do/should. I wonder if that question really has much of a meaning.

Why is it that to my unfocused eyes I was convinced that “Devotion” was really “Dresden”?

Somehow, this was not quite how I imagined spending New Years when I set out from Orlando to go to a party in Dallas. It’s 9:38pm, new years eve 2001, and I’m sitting in my car at a gas station. Quite thankfully, I got in touch with Karen Black, who lives not far from where I’m stranded in Tyler, Texas.

As I was somewhere in Mississippi today, I was thinking about the possibility of my alternator dying. I only thought about it because someone had just discussed the demise of the alternator in her ’91 miata with about the same mileage as mine. I decided that 150,000 miles was just not a typical lifespan of an alternator. I figured I’d wait until at LEAST 200,000 miles before I would replace it as a preventative measure.

So imagine my thoughts when the charge light popped on dashboard when I was about 50 miles east of Shreveport, LA. It felt like a problem related to quantum mechanics. The alternator is both alive and dead until I think it. Then it’s dead. I sighed, rolled my eyes at God, and sat about trying to figure out how to get out of this one.

I immediately stopped at a gas station where I learned that the nearest auto parts store was 20 miles away. I eventually found an Autozone which even though they were closing, was nice enough to test my alternator and announce that it was kaput. I had assumed as much, but since I can change an alternator in an hour or two, I wasn’t very upset until they told me they didn’t have one for a Miata in stock. “We can order it?” the guy asked sheepishly. I sighed, and got another idea. I bought a used battery for $30, which they promised I could return within 90 days. I swapped the largish “new” battery with mine, and decided to drive until it quit. For all I knew, it would get me to Dallas. And, if it only got me 20 miles, I’d know about how long I could expect to get out of my battery.

My headlights started getting very dim about 20 miles from longview. Then the tachometer started going bezerk and the engine started missing. I pulled into a convienently placed “picnic area” and swapped the batteries.

Car started right up, and I headed for the nearest telephone, which is here. After a waiting quite some time for my mother, who happened to be enjoying her evening at Universal Studios, to find the number for me I called Karen and Bob. Man I was glad to hear him answer the phone.

Bob said it would be about 30-45min…. So here I wait. Nice that I had a laptop along to type at, makes the time go faster, even though there’s not really enough room between me and the steering wheel to type, so I’m sort of at an angle. And my fingers are so cold, that they’re getting numb, which is making typing a bit more difficult.

I sometimes wonder about the cruelty of humanity, but I’ve encountered several different people so far who went out of their way to try to help me out. First, the people at the autozone (though after much bitching, because they wanted to go home–who could blame them?), then the guy was closing this gas station and came out to see what the deal was with me. He offered to drive me to a motel room, for which I thanked him.

Got the same offer a bit later from a rough looking woman smoking a cigarette, who had stopped to use the phones. She asked for a quarter for two dimes and a nickel, which I provided. She told me how neat looking my car is, for which I thanked her and said that I generally agree, but wished that it was working properly. She hung around for awhile to make sure I got in touch with Karen and Bob, which was quite nice of her. I have my doubts that she was sober.