Comma Dot Comma

It’s been awhile since this blog has covered what might be considered “news.” I’ve been officially looking for work since the end of August, and as you might guess from my frequent blog postings, that is still the case. How about a numerical breakdown of the sitch? I like a good numerical breakdown.

• Jobs applied for: about 30
• Interviews: 3 (+ 2 second-round interviews)
• Offers of employment: 2
• Offers of contract worK: 2-3
• Offers of temporary work: 1

I’ve started trying to get out there and meet and greet a little more, and it’s working a little better for me than just sending my resume into the internet-o-sphere. We’ll see. In

Tara had no idea of the groans and glee she would bring to my tiny corner of the universe when she posted the link to this flickr slide show. I think my favorite might be the one that tells patrons to use the “toilet” in Cajun village.

Quote Abuse Pool

Dr. G, being a criminologist, is a bona-fide expert on crime. He knows more than most people in the world about when, where, why and how crime happens in America. This is why I love to stand near him in gatherings when the subject of crime comes up. People almost always express a sense that society is getting worse and worse, that people in general are more selfish and violent, and property and children are less and less safe.

Every time, Dr. G kindly and reasonably steers the conversation away from impressions and back to reality. “Actually,” he says, “crime has been falling steadily since 1992. In fact, it is at its lowest rates since the early 1970’s.” America is as safe or safer now than it was when my parents graduated high school. My friends’ children live in greater safety than I did as a child, and the odds are strongly in their favor that they will grow up without ever being lured into a car or fed poisoned candy or shot on the school grounds. I expect to go through my whole life without my home being robbed. As far as crime is concerned, the situation keeps getting better and better.

Of course, government officials and media outlets have something to gain by creating a sense of danger and societal unraveling. They can win supporters and viewers that way. A few weeks ago, I was channel surfing and stopped on a local news update about a criminal who had tried to contact a potential victim through the Craiglist ride share board. The show indicated that, therefore, Craigslist is inherently dangerous. That’s ridiculous; thousands of people safely exchange goods and services via Craigslist every day. And yet these distortions and extrapolations are typical. Even straight news can lend an impression of doom, by the simple fact that the worst events are the most newsworthy. By sheer repetition we come to think that anomalies are the norm.

So in the froth of whipped up emotion and vague anxiety, I love it when Dr. G wades in to gently relieve people of their fear. It’s a great public service, to be the bearer of good news. To say, in effect: the social contract still holds. You can trust each other, you can look strangers in the eye and be unafraid.

Today the blog is one year old. That means:

170 posts
764 comments
9,788 hits since I installed the hit counter last December
6,613 spam comments blocked since I installed the plugin last spring

This is so exciting. Let’s all brace ourselves for the terrible twos! You never know how contrary this blog could get as it matures.

This evening I returned from an event at the university and made a beeline for my tumbler. My tumbler is about 12 inches tall and plastic and purple and, as legend (in my mind) has it, indestructible. I could use it in an afternoon game of “kick the cup” with several 12-year-olds and it would still be in good enough shape to drink a quenching draught of lemonade from afterward. When I accidentally knock it off of a tabletop, it bounces dramatically, with a range of three or four noises depending which part of the cup hits and how much liquid is still in it. Everyone has to stop and wait for it to quit hogging the limelight.


This is a near-ideal tumbler. It has a little texture so it doesn’t slip from my grip; it is big enough that I can gulp as much as I want and then, a few minutes later, still have several good sips left in the bottom. I fill it up with water about three times a day and set it down somewhere I can keep an eye on it, in case I get thirsty. Whenever the diswasher gets loaded up, I just throw it in there for a little germ-killing session.

Up until today, my main problem with the tumbler has been that Dr. G. keeps swiping it for his own use, even though he has one identical in every detail except color– they came from the same clearance bin, even. I swipe his too, so it mostly works out. When you want a drink of water, it’s just easiest to grab the nearest apparently clean receptacle. However, it is dismaying to reach for your trusty water tumbler and find that it has a crust of milk or coffee in the bottom. In such cases, I usurp Dr.G’s water tumbler indefinitely and watch it like a hawk so it stays in my possession.

Now milk and coffee are the least of my problems. This evening, I went to take a swig from the half-full cup, and something dark and bobbing caught my eye as my mouth filled with water. I couldn’t make it out, what with the evening shadows gathering inside my gargantuan tumbler. I set it back on the counter and peered in. A soggy, motionless gray moth. A big one. Its feelers wobbled in the waves of backwash as I spit out my mouthful of water. Euuurrrrrgggggghhhh! Eau de moth! Down the garbage disposal it went.

Hey, here comes Dr. G. with a big purple cup. He is swishing water around in his mouth. Hey, did you wash that cup before you filled it, Dr. G?

Squirrely stew. C’mooo squirrely! Ccccc’mooooo squirrely!

Today I am thinking about all the empty space inside my face. Mouth, nose, sinuses, ears. It is mostly wet, squishy empty space. I’m wondering what landscape I might be able to compare it to. An undersea cavern? The structure of a sea sponge?

The days here are now in the high 70’s. Yes, it’s arrived: that brisk fall weather that signals shorter days and the donning of clothing with more surface area. Along with that fine high 70’s chill comes a certain je ne sais quoi in the air, a heavy brown layer on the horizon, a certain grittiness. Oh, I do know what it is: pollution. The Phoenix harbinger of autumn!

No longer can I while away the days in the secondhand house dress that I bought for a dollar from an old lady on the street that one time. I must abandon the breezy unconstricted freedom of dresses and, at least in the evenings, pull on some pants. This works best if the pants have elastic waistbands because something weird has happened since I moved to Arizona and started sitting around all day! The pants, hidden away in an unused corner of the closet, appear to have shrunk. I can understand their feeling unwanted; I could see how they could begin to feel they are just old rags sitting around taking up space, but I didn’t think they would go to the extremes of actually shrinking. They look the same when I pull them off the shelf. They just feel different.

You might be thinking that an unemployed, as yet unpopular person such as myself would be able to fill at least a few hours in the week with vigorous activity suitable to comfortably reacquainting myself with my pants. A brief review of my daily activities will show that I am far, far too busy. First, I must sleep nine hours. Then I must do some housewife type work, read some spiritual stuff, read some non-spiritual stuff, space out for a really long time, surf the blogosphere leaving inane comments, look for jobs, email friends and contacts, space out again, watch Oprah or something, type “i hate the blank page” over and over in a word document in an attempt to write a poem, take out the trash and get the mail, cook dinner, follow Dr. G around like a puppy, watch a movie or TV show, play a game, blog, erase my two lines of poem that I tried to write earlier, make faces at the digital camera, and then it’s time for bed. You will note that I don’t even have time to wash or groom myself. It’s a mentally rigorous if shockingly sedentary existence. If I have any extra time, I use it for a much-needed nap, or a perusal of the Maricopa County Volunteer Handbook, in which I have circled several phone numbers which I have yet to call.

Unemployment is the enemy of pants.

One bonus of our Subaru is that it has both a CD player and a cassette player. On occasion we break out the 10- and 15- year-old mix tapes that have been packed away unheard in boxes. Yesterday I was listening to an unlabeled mix tape given to me by a friend in high school. It was exciting, trying to guess what song would come on next, and fun singing along with crowd-pleasers such as “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John: “You can’t keep me in your penthouse, I’m going back to my plow! OHHH ohhh OOOHHHH Oh-uh-oh-oh-oh!”

So now I have an idea for a mix CD: male singers who can transition effortlessly from their regular singing voice to falsetto. So far I have mentally compiled a list: Elton John, Jeff Buckley, Mike Roe, and John Lennon. I think it will have to be heavy on 70’s singers since that was the last time falsetto was really fashionable in pop/rock music. Who else should be on my CD?

Speaking of 70’s singers, guess who’s back!? CAT STEVENS! Or should I say, Yusef Islam. I thought there was no way he could be any good these days but his new single, “Where True Love Goes,” (links to youtube video) is classic Cat. A bit subdued, and no “Moonshadow,” but solid, almost totally solid! Here are some reviews of the new CD. When I wrote a humor column in college, one of the installments gave a list of requirements for any guy who wanted to date me and owning a Cat Stevens album was on there. Also on the list was NOT folding underwear. (And no, the future Dr. G did not own such an album, but I let it slide).

I’m STILL getting a lot of reading done. And tomorrow I get to pick up my glazed stuff at the pottery studio. Yay. Still no word on my most recent interview.