Odd Jobs, part 2

The flipside of today's Janus-faced post is a clipping from the Bangor, Maine paper that my Dad included with his latest letter. It's an ad for contract logging workers in northern Maine. A feller-buncher operator in Fort Kent, Maine can get work at $13.00 an hour operating one of these fascinating machines. Time and a half after 40 hours; housing, transportation and equipment are provided at no cost. Wages, of course, are subject to change.

The sticky note on the clipping, written in my Dad's inimitable scrawl, says "Dangerous, away-from-home job opportunities. Wage scale is great for woodsworkers, isn't it?"

Coming from a stock of woodsworkers and wartime factory laborers as I do, I'm the second generation of college-educated and highly paid white collar executives in my family. I have a faded picture of my great-grandfather sitting on a rocking chair in a logging camp. He's smiling, probably because he's done for the day.

I'm proud of where I come from, and sometimes embarrassed by the outward signs of my own success. I know what I do is labor, too, but less physically demanding, and probably rewarding in different ways. It's hard to think about someone operating heavy machinery for 8 hours every day, for many years. But it's equally hard to think about someone sitting in a cube or in meetings for that long, too.

Terry Loves Toilets

I know it goes without saying, gentle reader, but there are some truly odd jobs out there. My current fascination with the Discovery Channel show "Dirty Jobs," and its slick everyman host (who's a cartoon version of Joe Six-pack) notwithstanding, I've been counting my little worky-blessings in the last days and weeks relative to what is, as they say, Out There.

Witness one Terry Love, plumber extraordinaire and toilet enthusiast, who's provided a helpful overview of several popular consumer and commercial-grade toilets. Terry gives the poop on the finer points of several brands, having (helpfully) tested them in his own home. No miso paste here, people! Terry's four evaluation criteria are:
1. plug resistance
2. completeness of flush
3. perception of sound levels
4. price
While the colorfully named "soiree" and "carlisle" models do present a strong showing, it's the Toto Ultramax that really brings home the bacon. Or, takes it away. Reader comments in Terry's Toilet Forum say it all.

What I Did Last Summer

Well, really in the past week or two...

1. Entered the Zone
2. Attended a bluegrass music festival
3. Shoveled the sidewalk
4. Watched "I, Robot" for the 45th time
5. Marveled at the decrepitude of Modern Celebrity
6. Contemplated the loveliness of honey mustard
7. Rediscovered pickles
8. Practiced my banjo rolls
9. Heard Brad's band at the Milky Way
10. Stretched

Flotsam and Jetsam

I haven’t sat through an awards show in several years, so I decided to give our new sofa a try and endure that Super Bowl for People subscribers, the Grammys.

The Police, poised for their comeback tour, made the audacious choice of the oddly compelling “Roxanne” to kick things off. Their sparse presentation thankfully lacked the pomp and circumstance of a gyrating Ricky Martin number. They looked and sounded great. Even the people besides the kids they hire to stand in the front and wave their arms around wildly, waved their arms around wildly. I’d probably pay $150 a ticket to see them perform live. Which is, of course, the intended result.

I forgot what a marketing-palooza these awards shows are. The Chevy commercials featuring 8-time nominee Mary J. Blige were especially ubiquitous. And not one, but two performances by Ms. Blige (whom I call Bilge) precluded the broadcast of many awards considered to be of lesser interest to the average consumer. I watched the ticker that appeared at the bottom of the screen during the bumper sequences for awards relating to the music I actually care about. This is sad.

Other lowlights to me were:

1. A painfully long volley of Eagles covers between Carrie Underwood and CMT-manufactured band Rascall Flatts. Highly derivative bands covering other derivative bands. Can’t they hire the actual Eagles? Hell’s frozen over several times at this point.
2. Short shrift given to the lifetime achievement nominees, who each deserved their own documentary-length coverage.
3. Ornette Coleman giving an award to Carrie Underwood. Check, please. This is where I turned off the broadcast.

If Ludacris’ father is actually in critical condition somewhere, what the f is Ludacris doing at the Grammys ceremony???

I kept track, during the hour and a half I endured this show, of whom the people winning awards thanked. Here’s the breakdown:

Mom: 2
God: 2
Industry people: 4
The Fans: 1
Target: 1
Rick Rubin: 1

I’m pretty sure God doesn’t give two shits about how many Grammys Mary J. Blige wins. Maybe I’m just projecting.

Hot Old Men

Bruce Springsteen, still the Boss.
Mick Jagger.
Walter Matthau.
And this guy.

Don't Tell Anyone This

Since I was about 15, I've had various crushes on pop stars. In chronologic order: Bruce Springsteen, Huey Lewis, George Michael (we were both confused), David Lee Roth, Jon Bon Jovi, Peter Gabriel, Ric Ocasek, Mick Jagger (circa Steel Wheels), L.L. Cool J (circa Around the Way Girl/Mama Said Knock You Out), Johnny Sciascia (formerly of Tarbox Ramblers), etc. These are harmless infatuations which pose no threat to my current relationships (other than, of course, my credibility and self-respect). I've not really outgrown this, as the object of my current "fascination" is wide-eyed Connecticut pop songsmith John Mayer, who in the last couple years has made the big time.

One artifact of this having arrived, as it were, is HIS infatuation with the pneumatic and functionally retarded Jessica Simpson. While neither camp confirms this rumor, the two have been photographed together for months at various functions. Therapists would probably have a field day with the exploration of why this bothers me at all, let alone this much, but this is at least the part I am able to articulate:

I don't know either of them personally. I realize that part of "show business" is "show" - a persona or character that you turn on and off for the camera, etc. But over time, one starts to see a pattern in people's behaviors that indicates a tendency toward this or that. (If Jessica Simpson is secretly a genius, then she deserves an Oscar for her performance in LIFE. If John Mayer is secretly as dumb as she appears to be, then he deserves some kind of medal for patience, or the worship of silicone.)

All this sounds like the ranting of a disenchanted ugly duckling who had a bad childhood and lives vicariously through what she reads in People magazine. Maybe that's me, but I don't think so; I think it just really pisses on my cornflakes to see someone who seems to be smart, funny, and self-deprecating with someone so obviously made of Velveeta. But maybe I've made the wrong assumptions about what makes for a good couple. I assume that people seek out their intellectual equals; while physical attractiveness plays a huge role, it's not the whole picture; people seek others with similar experiences to them, but who are different enough to be interesting. These two just do not compute.

I realize this post is ridiculous.

La Vache qui Rit

I've been a hardcore junk food junkie my whole life. Well, let's say at least since I'm 19 or so. As a kid, Kix cereal was my version of a sugar-fest, since my parents didn't allow me to have Lucky Charms. But in college, look out! Bring on the bagels and Count Choc-u-la.

Lately though, and especially since reading this, I've been thinking a lot about what I eat. I really like the idea of considering whether my great-grandmother would recognize what I'm eating - there was no Laughing Cow in the 1800s, no such thing as "cheez." There's something fundamentally not-right about "cheez," when you come down to it; it's the same convenience/aversion that I have to strip malls and SUVs.

It's going to be quite an adjustment to me, as I find most of the patrons of Whole Foods to be repellent, let alone the produce. It's going to be a gradual shift, too, as my poor beleagured organs will need to stop needing all that orange powder.

I've associated this type of change with "growing up," as in something i never want to do. But I have to do something, as I might become visible from the Hubble pretty soon. Just kidding. It's not really a weight issue for me, as that's just a number; it's about (at least occasionally, if not more often) making a better set of choices. How boring and adult. Goddamn it.