Hog Wash

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I've moved.

Hey! Remember back, in the old days, when you'd move and have to change everything from your cable service provider to your butt hair braider to match your new address? Remember how it seemed like that was just yesterday?

For me it was yesterday.

And today.

And tomorrow.

And on into next week; that’s when I call the braider. The list of changes due to moving is never ending. So is the list of surprises.

"Honey, have you seen the checkbook?"
"Wasn't that in the grey file-box?"
"The one we threw away?"

Surprise!

Many people think the move is the hard part. The move is wonderland cake piece.

Eat Me!

Unless you handle your personal life like FEMA in Katrina-wake, the move is simple. You load boxes; boxes go on truck; wave good-bye to truck; now move! Blow out your cake candles cuz that’s all there is to it.

Oh, you can stress about breaking stuff, but let's face it. We break stuff everyday. What’s more, if you're the Pirate Queen, it's not called "breaking" it's called "spring cleaning."

"But that was my Fra-gee-lay lamp!"
"And it's now lighting a landfill somewhere in East Ontario."

The point is, things break. Things change. There's nothing you can do to stop it; so why stress about a move that will only further the inevitable? Move or no move your list of unbroken stuff inevitably shortens.

If you've invited family for a slice of move cake, disregard all that "don't stress" crap. Put on diapers. Family will make you wet your pants as they wedge grandma’s 200-year-old curio cabinet between the broken glass relief of Abraham Lincoln and the Canadian bear trap collection. A diaper will give you something to toss at uncle Teddy as he proclaims, "It fits!"

No, family and moving was actually on a college entry exam I took once. "Family is to move as bull is to

a) Pamplonian toe goo.
b) American Politician.
c) China shop.
d) Wisconsin Cheerleading."

I know. I got that one right.

And I got this move right. No family was used in the dissemination of Rob-goods. No family except the Pirate Queen, and she had a vested interest.

"Uhm, what happened to my boxes of comic books?"
"I packed them in the shredder."
"oh..."

Our move was exhausting, but simple. So was the drive across country. That's not to say that two cats in the backseat of a Hyundai Sonata didn't create challenges, but really it's not any different than traveling with kids, except the smell of cat urine is a little more ammonia-like and takes longer to get out of leather.

Yeah. I know that too.

But still, it's all just a great big adventure, until the truck is emptied and the box pile blocks everything from bedroom to bathroom. In that instant, that very moment, a line of demarcation is crossed. The side of fun adventure bleeds into the seventh ring of hell. Yes, That's the Devil dancing on the box of Ho-Hos. He didn't think they were packed tight enough.

Remember being a kid? The pile of toys you'd create in the middle of the floor to hold the burning Barbie sacrifice? Remember when you're parents would say, "You aren't going anywhere until you clean your room and that smell of burnt plastic is gone?" Well imagine the Barbie sacrifice actually called the Kraken from your closet and every item in the house, from Mom's authentic faux Elvis figurine collection to Dad's nose-hair of the presidents presentation, was pushed atop the altered-Barbie altar for you to clean. That's a post move.

That's our post move. Right down to the presidential nose-hairs. Now it’s time to figure out where it all goes. Post move is all about gathering the pieces of your old life and finding an equivalent fit in your new life.

It’s boxes. It’s notifications. It’s madness. It’s finding cat puke in a bowl and knowing that you moved that plop of joy across country.

At the same time it’s like Christmas. It’s finding things that you didn’t remember owning, and then losing them again amidst all the packing.

I think this is the time that speaks most to your faith. This is the time where you trust that God will show you the location of the TV remote. It should have gone in the TV box, but that’s life, right? Nothing is ever as it should be. Life is making the best of what you have and hope the neighbors don’t get too mad while the volume of Alex Trebek’s voice rattles the walls.

That doesn’t make it easier though. Life, like moving, is change. Change is hard because even when we know what’s going on, we don’t know what to expect. We just open the next box, leading to the next day of surprises.

I guess moving is like reading my blog, only with direction. So here’s your box to open today. Go ahead.

Don’t worry. I’ve already found the nose hair collection.

Ducks in a Row

This week I’m getting all my ducks in a row. Every ducks is a moving duck, so better duck: duck-stuff’s a’ flying. Well in our case Rob-duck-stuff is moving in a big duck truck, not really flying per se, but don’t let that stop you; you should still duck.

Our stuff is flying and we don’t know where.

That makes duck lining a tough thing to get down. How do you make a line to nowhere? Right now I guess it’s more of a circle-line than line-line. Our stuff is a ring of dropping ducks around your coffee cups.

Remember those shooting gallery tin-ducks, ducking off the edge of a conveyer only to reappear on the other side? Well, while those vision tins of painted-ducks dance through your head, picture each duck with a box on its back. You’d think the box would slide off tin-duck like water off a ducks back, but it doesn’t. It just come back up the other side. Same ducks. More boxes. Never ending.

Endless ducks in endless row carrying endless boxes. Our boxes. Our stuff. Our Ducks.

Leading those ducks over the edge are our duck scouts. Our ducks scouts are portrayed by Ma and Pa Pirate Queen. Think of the pirate parents as the Lewis and Clarke ducks exploring the Michigan wilderness for the new Rob and PQ homestead.

The pirate parent duck scouts are the old wise ducks, pa duck the old duck, ma duck the wise duck. Picture Gandalf the grey duck and Elmer the Fudd duck waddling from open house to open house like traveling pilgrim evangelist ducks.

“Have you heard the good news? RobBlogger may be moving here!”

This line of duck talk will probably get me Dick Cheney buck shot.

“Wobby season!”

So I’ll continue.

The Queen and I wanted to be house ducks. We’ve acquired whole lots of duck stuff and we need a duck nest to house it. A house nest holds more duck stuff than an apartment nest does.

QED.

Storing boxes means moving boxes and all our storage needs require a flock of moving packages. Some find the duck boxing daunting. I don’t.

Aim for the bill. I don’t know what that means. Go ahead and reread it. You’ll figure something out. I’m sure it refers to the expense moving. Moving isn’t about the moving price though. Moving is about the moving experience.

You know what? For all the times that I’ve moved, I don’t mind being moving ducks. It’s better than being sitting ducks, and like many other life events, moving a thoughtless moving task. If someone shoots the box out of my hand, it’s done. There’ll always be another box to replace it in the next circular revolution.

In our revolution, Lewis and Clarke ducks scouted prime landing sites. Unfortunately Michigan homes are swooped up by other migrant ducks undergoing America’s economic resettlement before we can quack an offer. Squatters thwarting our manifest destiny. I offered a solution:

“We’ve bring you blankets.”

The Pirate Queen said no.

This moves us across the line to apartment ducks. That means more of our duck stuff is duck dropping and not duck coming. Can we survive that?

I dunno. I line a deep nest, but I’ve been lining my nest with Thoreau lately. All that box duck stuff just weighs us down. If we didn’t have stuff, we wouldn’t have to move stuff. I’m burdened by a duck conveyer of my own making.

Time to cut ducks and trim fat. I’m the judge jury and executioner of all things Rob-ducky and I’m knee deep in duck stuff. I have to evaluate if every duck should stay or go. I’ve kept and coddled these ducklings for 15 years. Is it time to let them fly--if for no other reason than that there’s one less duck in the row?

And the ducks I reject may haunt me forever.

“Out! Out! Damn spotty Daffy rug!”

My feathers are more than a little ruffled and there are other ducks besides stuff ducks to line against the wall. This is my quacking orchestration. Power ducks, gas ducks, phone ducks, travel logistic ducks all need to be set into motion. If the right ducks don’t tow the duck line, my duck row could look like British teeth. Or even worse, I may lose all ducks altogether.

Duck season. Heh, heh, heh, heh…

Sigh...

I’ve spent 43 years accumulating and moving my ducks. I’ve done it longer than any career I’ve held. I take my ducks personally.

I’m a ducking professional.

The first time I moved, it was a great adventure; stepping out into the world, becoming my own drake. I didn’t have much more than a room to move so it was pretty easy.

The next time I moved I wasn’t as eager but it was still fun. I had friends, beer and pizza to keep the duck-walk moving.

Then next move I grew a new appreciation for Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Oh, I still don’t enjoy the story, but burning a pile of books before a move now seems benevolent.

Today, moving is no longer about the adventure, it’s about the drudgery.

As a kid, the first time I saw a duck it was a ducking new experience. The duck might as well be a unicorn, cuz that duck was a first duck. As I got older, each new duck becomes just another duck packed together in a flock of ducks.

This time my duck walk leads to a duck apartment. The Queen has landed with a lease in bill and we’re moving on. Now my ducks are all moving ducks. I’m done. I’m tired. It’s no longer about the great adventure on the other side ( and I assure you, for a SoCal boy moving to Michigan, it is a great adventure), it’s about the same-ol’ same-ol’ process that gets me there.

Oh, I’ll snap out of my repetition, just as soon as the Rob ducks get on the road. Until then, well…everything is just ducky.

Detroit or bust.

Location.

Location, location, location.

Ask any Realtor and they’ll tell you it’s all about location. Bull riders agree; the location on the bulls back is far more agreeable than the location on the bull’s horns.

Earthquakes are about location. You don’t have them everywhere. We have them here. That’s our location. Location, location, location. We say it three times because we’re trying to point out a location while the earth is shaking.

Earthquakes teach you three things about location. One: any structure built on any location will come down after enough shaking. Two: a location’s value isn’t permanent. Three: location is more than location. Location is people, place, and atmosphere. They’re everything that makes a location a Location. After the Northridge earthquake, I lived in a Location built on rebuilding. People grouped together, standing on the shoulders of what had collapsed, and reached upward. The night the earthquake fell was pitch and flat, but the day after, a Location rose from its knees, determined.

The next week we forgot the whole thing, and started hating each other again, but that’s LA. It’s all about location, and earthquakes.

Tornados don’t care about location. In fact, they’re all about location redistribution.

“My house was in this location, now it’s in that location…”

Tornados are more about timeliness.

So am I.

What good is a good location if your timeliness is bad? Any swimming pool is a great summer location, until Mrs. McGitche’s third grade class shows up to pee in it. That’s just bad timing--and too much lemonade.

“The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee...." 

I’ve spent almost twenty years in this SoCal location. Sometimes my timeliness has been great, other times my timeliness has been pee pool poor. Ask MyEx. She’ll tell you.

Talk to my queen, she’ll say she loves my timing. She’s not wild about my location. My queen hales from the land where the timing-tornados are great and the location-lakes are greater.

"’Superior,’ they said, ‘never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early…’"

Timing, timing, timing.

Timing is not a SoCal concept. For me, timing and finding employment in this location is like locating a snowball’s timing in Hell. I’ve knocked on every door at every location not selling french fries. My timing syncopates with opportunity’s knocking rhythm. Call me the little match girl.

No, really. I’m trying to start a trend. Trends are all about timing, and LA needs a new one.

My queen started a trend; she got a new job. Yeah, I can’t find a job needle in a unemployment stack, and she can’t shake her peg leg without stepping in one. This time she stepped in something big and squishy and it stuck.

It’s all about timing.

We’re moving.

And location.

Timing and location, I’m beside myself. And myself is leaving California.

It’s weird. For all the great leaving Los Angeles songs, I never thought that I would ever sing one. I’ve left LA before, but I’ve always returned. This time, I don’t think so. This time, the change of location song sings with the tones of permanence, like the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, only I don’t know these words.

‘At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said, ‘Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya…’"

Yeah, shut up Gordan. Nobody likes a six-minute and thirty-second know-it-all.

Location. I chose this location almost twenty years ago. I stood on the great ship LA, and here I stayed even when everything nearly capsized, and staying didn’t seem like what I wanted. It’s been a love/hate bull-ride relationship. I’ve taken the butt. I’ve taken the horns. Now I’m taking my leave.

“The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times…”

Goodbye Southern California.

I won’t miss much, but I will always miss your location.

Membership

Club 27. It’s exclusive. If you’re famous enough to join, you only need pay one onetime fee and you’re in the door. The fee? You have to die when you’re 27.

So yeah, the entrance fee is extreme, but so is the life. George Harrison sang, “you got to pay your dues if you want to sing the blues.” I’m not sure the 27 club is what George had in mind; he lived too long anyway. He didn’t get in the club.

For that, his guitar gently weeps.

Amy Winehouse made the club. She died last week. Causes are still unknown, but one thing is known: She joined the pantheon of musicians who died at 27, making her a member of club 27. The member list is impressive. Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Jimmy Hendrix top the roster. Depending on your musical preference, Brian Jones, Robert Johnson, and Jacob Miller are noted members as well.

I know, I know. You have questions.

I have answers. That’s my job. I’m not famous. I keep time while the famous pass, and jot unread footnotes in their postscripts. They have their race. I have mine. I’m 43.

I like my race.

So, back to your questions. They probably have to do with pantheon. What is one and who gets in? Pantheon is a Greek word derived from the words Panth and eon, or age of the panth.

Whath’s a panth? It’s what I wear to keep my legs warm.

Yeah, sorry. And that’s why I won’t be famous. Let’s try again.

A pantheon is the Greek temple of all the gods or all the gods themselves. It’s a building where famous dead people buried.

“I see Fred Savage.”

Sorry, Fred isn’t dead, only his acting career lies six feet under. His wonder years are over and he didn’t get in the door either.

Haley Joel Osment could get in the door. He’s only 23, but he’ll need to become a much better musician. He’s got four years. It could happen. Jim Morrison came from nowhere in six years. The Doors started in 1965 before Morrison died in 1971.

That seems to be something Jim, Amy, and fellow panthe-ites have in common. They exploded from no-names to superstars in fast hot blasts. Amy released her first CD in 2003. She never released a third.

Another thing they share is blame. They never blamed themselves for their fame or for their death. They blamed their friends, their fams, and their fans.

“I did it my way.”

Yeah. Frank Sinatra sang that. He lived to be old and bought a pantheon all his own, built over a burial ground of early era Club 27ers and maybe even Jimmy Hoffa. We call it Palm Springs.

Club 27 ers didn’t do it their way. Oh, they had egos, but they’ll assure you that if they could do it their way, it wouldn’t be this way. The road Robert Frost took was the best road. Club 27 road is well lit by A&R men heaping platitudes like lei nooses around young travelers necks.

“You’re the greatest!”

And that brings another question: who is the greatest? Who deserves to belong to club 27 and who deserves to be forgotton?

When Kurt Cobain died, my first words where, “I thought he was already dead.”

To which my doom herald replied, “No, that was just an attempted suicide. This time he got it right.”

“Oh.”

I have to admit. I liked Kurt, but I never thought he was that great. Yeah, I can feel you hitting the back browser button now. It’s OK. I get it. It’s just that he had more to prove before winning me over, and he failed. Sure, he had potential, but he ran his race short and fast. He never completed the distance.

In that, the club 27 members are equal. They take a pantheon in our mind. Your Zeus is my Odin, but they reside in our heads because they all represent a world where we could have lived.

Was Amy Winehouse this generations Vesta? Maybe not, but we’ll never know. And that’s the tragedy. The same way that we’ll never know that freckly kid who lived down the block until he stepped on a mine in Iraq. He’s in my pantheon as well. He should be in yours, but you never knew him.

It doesn’t matter whom we consider greater. In death we’re all equal. What matters is that we remember the loss of those who could have been and share that with the lives that can still be. Whether they belong to club 27, 34, 49, or 86, it matters that we remember the lives lived and hold them in our pantheon, otherwise we’re empty temples housing nothing for nobody.

Borders Envy

Last week, a man lost his penis. This week, a nation loses a bookstore. Which is more important?

That depends on who you ask. Ask me, I’ll vote for the store. Books are my livelihood. Ask Mr. Woke-up No-Johnson, and he’ll see the forest with no tree. Ask my cat, and she’ll lick her shanks thoughtfully, before staring and yawning.

“Mew?”

Persephone is wise beyond her cat-years.

I’m still learning.

Last semester I took journalism. I thought I could elevate from mere blogger to real writer. In class, I learned about “newsworthiness”: a characteristic that makes stories worth writing; an important criterion that both blogger and writer blatantly disregard. I mean, books are published about things to do with penes, attached or not. Who really needs to know that? I didn’t have an instruction manual for mine, but I mastered the mechanism—and I certainly don’t need to know what to do with an unattached one.

Meanwhile bloggers are like Seinfeld: a blog about nothing.

“Just like the stork-o-pult baby placer, the world just isn't ready.”

So what’s the difference between blogger and writer? Bloggers are either superstars placating their fanbase or also-rans casting the illusion of importance. Writers are…uhm…no different really—except the paycheck.

My queen says I need one of those: a paycheck. I guess that’s why my vote for important news goes to Borders’ bookstore closing. If I’m gonna elevate to paid-writer, I’d kinda like a storefront to sell my goods. Otherwise I’m just a blogger who cuts down forests of wood.

“Timber!”

Just like that wood chopping woman in Garden Grove. Here’s the thing though: that woman knew the importance of newsworthiness. Penis chopping is so Lorena Bobbit 1994. It’s been done. It’s like blogging: nobody cares. This woman knew that making papers required more than cutting down trees. She also needed to pulp the wood. She’s McGyver. She utilized the tools available: she used a garbage disposal.

Yeah. For all the guys, this is where we’ll take a moment of silence, cuz we’re all looking down to make sure it’s still there. Go ahead; touch it if you need to. Nobody is gonna blame you.

It’s there? Yes. Good.

Now back to our story.

I’m amazed. Four out of four guys surveyed will tell you the real news here starts at the garbage disposal. Don’t get me wrong, we all wince at the chopping part, but the garbage disposal pushes things up a notch. It’s Emeril leaning over our crotch and shouting, “Bam!” And nobody wants that. In fact, most guys become quite thankful for the dismembered member once the garbage disposal cuts onto the news stage.

“Well at least she cut it off first…”

That’s right, cuz no man wants to come-to, lying on their belly, strapped over the kitchen sink to the sound of whirring blades while the woman they once loved pushes at their butt like a Bond villain with a toilet plunger.

“No Mr. Bond, I want you to cry. “

I’m not man enough to cry. No, seriously. Go ahead, strap me to the sink. Those blades? They aren’t coming anywhere near my privates. I’m hung like a 12-year-old white boy in an ice-cold swimming pool.

Who’s laughing now Mandingo?

Here’s another interesting newsbyte. More women read than men. No, it’s not that men can’t read it’s more that hunter/gatherers don’t require reading stimuli. We’ve got other things to worry about. That said, men do read. We just read differently, and not as much--at least not as much fiction. Men like history. We don’t want to learn from it; we just like the pictures. We like to learn other stuff. Teach us how to build or demolish anything except relationships and we’re on it, hammer in one hand, book in the other.

Borders disappearing from the book market won’t affect men. When buying books, we shop with purpose. We can do that on Amazon.

“Honey, I just bought a how-to book on installing a garbage disposal.”

Ok, men wouldn’t buy that book. Women would buy that book for us. Just because the paramedics removed us from the neighbor’s tree the last time we installed an outdoor wall socket, she thinks it’s a good idea to read.

“How ‘bout now?”

TZZZT!

But men do buy stuff. Men may not understand the import of closing a bookstore, but try closing a Home Depot in our home town and we’re mad as hell and we won’t take it anymore. Where else can we buy our garbage disposals?

And that’s where you separate the men knowledge from boy inexperience. Sure, we all winced at the disposal story, but the real men worked through the problem and found the disposal story half full. “Well, they lived in a condo and that might as well be an apartment. A condo is not gonna spring for anything more than the $19.99 garbage disposal special. That won’t chop through a sink of potato peels without backing up. His dick is fine. Pull it out, wipe it off, slap it back on, good as new. Now if he replaced the disposal with the InSinkErator Evolution Excel, he’s a eunuch--that think grinds bone…”

No, you reach in and get it.

That’s why beyond shock and “awww…” the penis story is missing something. It’s missing long term impact—unless you’re Mr. Johnsonless

Even if Americans don’t read books, we’ll still weep the loss of Borders for quite some time. First, our economy hasn’t recovered. We’re drugged and tied to the bed. We don’t know what’s going on. For those of us already scouring the job market for work, we’re going to wake up tomorrow with 10,700 new competitors vying for the same job.

Second, despite slumping book sales, malls will miss Borders. They’re losing an anchor store. Anchor stores drive up mall traffic and bring in new retailers. With local store fronts already closing, some malls will find it very difficult to stay open. Many property owners may find that the town without Borders is a town without a mall.

I know what you’re saying, “Rob, it’s just a bookstore. It’s not like they’ve lost their manhood.”

Maybe. It depends on how things swing. This could just be a kick to the groin, or it could be the Ginsu lopping off the whole retail market. I don’t think it’s permanent, but I don’t think it’s going to be painless either.

If you’re a reader, this is a bittersweet moment. It seems like just ten years ago that Barnes & Noble and Borders swung their sizable prepackaged packages into town and frightened your favorite local competitor away. Now Borders’ package has shriveled up, and there’s nothing big about them. Go ahead, laugh. They’re girly.

There’s also nobody around to fill the void.

For many towns, that leaves Barnes & Nobel as your sole brick and mortar bookstore pick, for others, like Moreno Valley, California, it leaves you in a town without a bookstore, except for the adult bookstore downtown, and they don’t sell books.

Bookstore free communities can go online. I don’t know about you though, but I like to touch a book before I read it.

Yeah. For all the readers, this is where we’ll take a moment of silence, cuz we’re all looking around to make sure our books are still there. Go ahead; touch them if you need to. Nobody is gonna blame you.

They’re not there? Yeah, sorry.

Now back to our story.

Readers do still have libraries, but libraries are government entities with tiny budgets and ebook envy. More and more libraries are reinventing themselves as civic gathering places and informational hubs, overcompensating for what they don’t have: books. They’d write a book about it, but nobody would check it out.

But all of this is yesterday’s news. We’ve already read it. The disposal victim was released from the hospital earlier this week. Like his name, the status of genitalia is undisclosed. He’s moving forward learning to live in a new world. He now has a lot more time to read a book.

He’d better hurry and buy one, though. Many Borders stores will close their doors Thursday.

I know that everything is cyclical. Eventually other stores will replace Borders. The economy will recover. People will still read books. Still, I’m gonna miss Borders as much as I miss the other local bookstores they replaced.

It’s a loss, and like a penis in a disposal, it’s just a waste.

The Mythology of Subtext

“Thanks. Yeah, we’ll talk soon.”

Text is a close encounter with a Devil’s tower of unsaid mashed potatoes. See what I mean? What the hell did I just say?

No, text is more like conversational makeup slathered over the harpy face of context.

“Those open sores really give you facial character.”

Yeah. Text is vanity.

Subtext is everything.

Subtext is the harpy claws hiding in panty hose.

Why all this happy harpy talk, and, more importantly, what the heck is a harpy? For those of you not up on your current affairs, a harpy is a mythological mash-up creature from the past.

Those who know Greek mythology know the harpy as an ugly winged bird creature with a woman’s face and torso. Don’t get too excited about the torso part, boys. The harpy also has talons; no groping here. Those talons are sort of like the harpy version of subtext.

Those who don’t know mythology might know Dungeons & Dragons. For them, a harpy as a seven hit dice monster, or the woman coming down the basement stairs.

“Tommy! Go get a job!”

An image also containing a whole subtext of it’s own.

Harpy or no, subtext is everywhere. So, why is Robby harping on harpies? They’re the perfect metaphor for dialog. They’re winged, they’re deadly, and they can be exceptionally ugly.

Ok. So maybe it’s not the perfect metaphor, but it works for me because this week I dated a harpy.

I know! And the Pirate Queen approved!

She approved because it wasn’t a romantic date. It was a different date. A date with another person you want to get to know better. A person you hope to one day stand at an alter and say, “I do,” before an HR representative announces, “I now pronounce you, insured and employed.”

That’s right I had a first date with an interviewer.

Little Robby draws from harpy bad-touch memory

This week I interviewed with Gary Gary from Bigshot Media. Gary squared is looking for somebody to web edit his cluster of Middle America radio stations so that they sound like individual slices of Middle American mom made apple pie, gooing with personality and not like the compressed conglomerate pre-wrapped and stuffed Hostess sugar licks that they are.

Does that sound harsh? It’s not. I find pre-fab corporate America quite fab. I love Walmart, Target, and Starbucks as much as mom and pop down the block do. It doesn’t bother me that corporations pretend to be local, so long as they’re paying local people, like mom and pop.

“Hi! Welcome to Walmart!”

“Didn’t you used to own mom and pops…?”

It’s all in how we pursue the American Dream.

That’s what Gary is doing, pursuing his dream.

Well, if Gary likes me, his dream will include moving me into a local market so that I can take a job there. I can make that part of my dream.

Gary wants his currently local radio team to write conversational blogs and raise the radio website like a multimedia barn. Gary wants the websites to look like the RobBlog on Hee Haw steroids. As the RobBlog writer I’m well aware of what Gary wants.

“I’m a pickin!’”

“And I’m a grinnin’!”

I know it’s me.

How do I know this? I applied for the job.

I don’t go one butt-cheek into an interview; I take everything full butt. I Googled Gary Gary, and let me tell you, Gary is an impressive guy. You know Rupert Murdock? He polishes Gary’s Jag for extra cash on the weekends. If Howard Stern is the King of all Media, Gary is the stinky-fisted puppeteer moving Howard’s lips.

Ok. I might be exaggerating, but in RobWorld Gary squared is doubly impressive. If I want t Gary’s Bigshot gig, I need to know what Gary is looking for and be damn sure that I’m it.

I know, I am.

I need to prove that to Gary, because I do have obstacles.

See, my kryptonite here is my experience as an online editor. It’s limited. Yeah, I’ve edited the RobBlog and Viewpoints Online, but how do I translate that into Gary love for Rob when all I’ve got are good looks?

I am so screwed.

Still, I can do the job. I have sent in an honest resume and strong portfolio, and Gary liked them enough to call back. That’s gotta mean something, right? Gary’s a big shot. You don’t become a media big shot without scouring the land with your army of search-harpies riled up like Ozian flying monkeys. They must have brought back some results that said, “You’ll like him, and his little cat too,” cuz I ‘ve got an interview.

So I gather all the Rob confidence I can muster. I stalk—er, uh study Gary for a week and I research what Gary wants in the job, so that when he calls me, I ‘m ready.

He calls. “Rob?”

I answer, “So whatcha wearing?”

I’m a little nervous. Sweat rivers glide down my face, forming grit deltas amongst my chest hair.

“I mean, hi! This is Rob.”

So begins the dance of the harpy. We’re two guys saying words, trying to see what’s underneath the skirt of subtext.

Does he like me?

Is he what I’m looking for?

Can he treat me as I deserve?

Can he make breakfast before he leaves?

Gary starts with a vocal smile: a glorious biography of the man, the legend, the hero that is Gary Gary. I listen. Everything he’s telling me, I know. I’ve stalked—er, researched this. He’s telling me everything except that he likes puppies and September breezes.

I already know those things too.

I’m quiet. I’m good. I listen. When he’s done I prove I know him like he needs to be known and I know what he wants, “So, how is your beagle, Jake?”

“Uhm, he’s fine. So Rob, what do you have to offer Bigshot media?”

I tell him. I’d tell you too but I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let’s just say I offer lots of long walks, holding hands, and plenty of snuggles.

“Snuggles? OK…Uh, How do you approach good SEO practices?”

Gary and I don’t seem to be jibing. It’s ok. He’ll like me once he gets to know me. I know I’ve got his SEO answers too. I amaze him with tales of keywords and metadata living together and bringing the Google queen and all her web-crawler friends along for the party. I even reveal how I incorporate keywords into article title tags.

“That’s great, “ say’s Gary. “Let’s talk about this article you wrote for Viewpoints on Stargate Universe.”

That’s a fan favorite. Let’s talk about that! “Ok.” I unbutton my top button.

“Your title, ‘Goodbye Old Friend’ doesn’t meet those SEO practices you were talking about. Why?”

The next sound you here is me spittaking my wine into Gary’s face.

He’s right and I hate him for it.

“Well, it was designed for print not for online.” I’m pulling the back-petals off of my flowers cuz I don’t bring my backpedaling bike on dates. “I left the title because I found it appropriate for the story.”

Great. I admit to leaving it because I’m a writer, not because I’m an editor. I might as well add some sweet nothings smooth over, “Oh, and that tie? It makes you look fat, you whore.”

“Ok…let’s talk about this Viewpoints Online. I’m looking at the site right now. What have you done for them?”

What? Can’t you see it? What part doesn’t scream “Rob was here?” What part doesn’t look like the tailor made pictorial answer I created you when you asked, “What do you offer Bigshot Media.”

Yeah. It was obvious that Gary and I were getting the same feelings from our date. Still we’re professional: we stick through the gore and slime until we’ve said all we need to say since neither of us have prepared emergency text messages from friends.

We’re locked in a spinning harpy gyre to the death.

“Do you have any questions for me?” Asks Gary.

I want to ask, “Yeah, what about my resume made you thing I was the guy you wanted when I’m obviously not?” Instead I moved in for a kiss.

“Uhm, what are you doing?” Gary’s working some back petals of his own.

Ok, so maybe I meant a more metaphoric kiss: “Where are you in your job search?”

“We’re really early. Right now we’re just talking to lots of people, gathering names, then we’ll pick who works best.” He brushes his lips against my forehead.

We don’t mesh, but at least we understand each other. We promise to stay in touch, but both of us have lost the other’s number before the phone goes silent.

Me? I’m alright with that. I have no hard feelings for Gary. I hope he finds what he’s looking for, the same way I know that I’ll find what I’m looking for.

It’s just going to take some time for both of us. More dating and more subtext. Lucky for me, I know how to speak harpy and Mom’s basement is big enough for all my Dungeons & Dragons needs.