The Life of Riley is a weekly post that details my activities since I ended a thirteen year career as a corporate drone. These posts are usually long, personal, and geared more for my own memory than the reader’s entertainment.

Sunday (Day 441): Introspection

I got up and baked some blueberry muffins for #1GF! because I had sort of been promising to make them if she was good. She’s always good, and blueberries are relatively cheap this time of year, so I destroyed the kitchen and made them for her. While #1GF! cleaned up, I read my heavy metal history book and did a crossword puzzle. The sky was blue, the sun was out, and there was a nice breeze, so once high tide hit, we headed out to spend the rest of the day at the beach.

As I read my metal book and watched all the people walking by, I realized that the best thing about not having a job is the feeling that you can do whatever you want. The worst part of it is feeling like you don’t deserve to do whatever you want because you don’t work at a real job. At times it can feel like you’re stuck in a catch 22 where you can and can’t relax, with breaks and vacations being undeserved. It’s almost like being a kid and wanting to go on vacation and having your parents tell you that when you’re a kid, every day is a vacation. It is, and it isn’t.

We left the beach and went home only long enough to wash out feet before walking down to a local restaurant for dinner. Afterward, #1GF! convinced me to walk up to the top of a nearby hill to see the sunset. Standing there, looking down at all the people still having fun on the darkening sands of the beach, I suddenly felt like everything was going to work out. The house, the lack of funds coming in, the writing, writing, writing. It would all be fine. And then just as suddenly, I didn’t want it to be fine. I wanted more than fine. I didn’t wanted happiness: I wanted joy. I didn’t want to just get by: I wanted to do what I loved and make enough that I didn’t have to think about money at all.

When you don’t have kids, there is no one to pin your hope for the future on when your life turns out to be less amazing than you planned. You have to create your own hope and your own purpose because if you don’t end up doing something great, you can’t look at a small version of yourself and pin your success or failure to their shirts. As I get older, that’s what I sometimes feel like I’m staring out into. It’s a space that is devoid of excuses for me not to do something important. And that definition is both a gift and a burden.

When we walked down off the mountain, we walked home and watched The Brave One, and determined that Jodi Foster can’t act. I wanted to shut it off, but #1GF! wouldn’t let me, so I made fun of it as we watched.

Monday (Day 442): I’m Pretending It’s Fan Mail

I wrote all day, made contractor phone calls, and cleaned out some drafts that have been haunting my inbox for years now. I got an e-mail from a reader letting me know that he was getting a kick out of my writing long after he had read it, and actually went so far as to thank me for the laugh. It was the nicest e-mail I’ve gotten in a long time.

Tuesday (Day 443): Writing

I wrote from 8:30AM until 1AM and finished off all my posts for the week. I had blueberry muffins for breakfast for the third time this week and only stopped for a quick dinner at 10PM because I knew that if #1GF! showed up, she’d chastise me for not eating. I’ve learned that there is no sense in derailing the writing train no matter how far it’s going because you never know when the next one will arrive. For the first time in a while, I felt like I had accomplished something and fell into a sound sleep.

Wednesday (Day 444): Mr. Popularity?

I read my RSS feeds all day because I couldn’t write another thing. When I couldn’t read another feed, I started researching black metal. When I couldn’t listen to another note, I checked my stats and noticed that I ranked around #36,000 in Alexa, which I thought was pretty awesome. Hell, I outranked Wil Wheaton, which was pretty remarkable considering he’s been in movies, on TV, and has written a couple of books. Yea, I know Alexa doesn’t mean all that much, and that Wheaton is more popular if you look at the long term, but hitting #36,000 in the world is pretty good for a regular guy like me.

As a regular guy, I don’t get fan mail very often. I did however, for the second time this week, get an e-mail from another reader who said that I was one of the few personal blogs he reads that aren’t written by people he knows personally. He then put me in such good company as Wil Wheaton, Defective Yeti. Wheaton’s an author and an actor (Star Trek, Stand By Me). Defective Yeti is a journalist for the Morning News (and outstanding board game geek). And like I said, I’m just a regular guy.

As I was eating an apple to celebrate my temporary rank increase, I realized that when I eat fruit that comes with stickers on it (apples, for example), I have a tendency to peel the sticker off, and stick it to the front of my shirt. I have the full intention of throwing the sticker away when I get in the general vicinity of a trash can, but I inevitably forget and end up walking around with it on my shirt all day. When I notice it later on, I get a laugh out of it. It’s almost like I’m playing a trick on myself every time I do it. Note to self: If you’re playing tricks on yourself, but getting away with them, it may be time to get a little more human contact in your life. Although, I am more popular than Wil Wheaton right now, so I may want to wait until the rush is over so I’m not mobbed by the paparazzi.

Crap. I just looked down, and there’s a sticker on my chest. Gah. The joke’s on me yet again.

Thursday (Day 445): Black Metal

I spent the entire day researching metal. I made it through black metal and discovered that there is a distinct difference between power metal and classic metal that I didn’t know about. I don’t know what I can possibly do with the amount of metal knowledge that I’m gaining.

Friday (Day 446): Mr. Environment Hates Metal

Got some fat prices from the contractors and got a little concerned. Digitized one of my tapes to see if it could be done, and read the full text of the 1985 senate hearing on Record Labeling. As much as Gore wants to be Mr. Environment, that guy hates metal and comes off like a douche. I’m not a political guy, but don’t mess with metal.

Saturday (Day 447): Yes, I’m A Winner, No, Not A Loser

We dropped #1GF!’s car off at the mechanic’s and then drove aimlessly trying to decide what to do with our Saturday. #1GF! suggested errands, but I didn’t want to waste another nice day running around staring at lights or paint. I decided to get an oil change just in case we decided to drive somewhere. #1GF! started making phone calls while we waited, and was still talking by the time we were finished, so I wanted to pretend I was popular too.

I pulled into a restaurant parking lot near the highway and started calling people to see what they were up to. Everyone I knew was either busy or not up to anything, so we went over to visit an ex-coworker to take a look at a house that he had decided to gut and rehab on his own. After seeing all the work, it seemed like a herculean task that lacked a defining plan to keep it on track, but I had a hard time telling him that it would be better to hire a contractor considering my current situation.

From there, we picked up #1GF!’s car and went to the house to take more pictures as evidence of the shoddy workmanship before anything got fixed. We took pictures of the cement stuck to the outside of the windows, and I ripped my Amoeba shirt on the fence. Now the house has claimed my money, time, and my Amoeba records shirt. It was a sad day.

We went inside to take a few pictures, and I started ripping up the paper that was covering the floor because there was nothing to assure me that the floor had been repaired, and we had never seen it. I started pulling up pieces, and #1GF! got aggravated with me. I understood that she didn’t want to be tearing things up and finding more problems, but I thought that assuming that the floors were ok would have been a leap of faith that would probably bite us in the ass later.

From the first few pieces, we could tell that the floors were amateurish at best. The repairs were done by someone who either didn’t have the skill, or didn’t care. Because #1GF! was getting really aggravated, we decided to come back the next day and finish ripping up the paper to see how bad it really was.

Not much surprises me about this job anymore, so I was pretty calm. We went home, and I set out to bring #1GF! down to my level by making her a nice tall glass of iced tea. I brewed it right, got the sugar perfect, and had just the right amount of lemon sliced in. I added a healthy amount of ice, took a sip, and declared it perfect. Then, like a martyr for all iced tea kind, the iced tea used the condensation on the outside of the glass to pry itself from my hand and bounce on the counter before spilling its contents all over me and the floor. I felt like I was Charlton Heston, and we were in the last few minutes of the Planet Of The Apes.

As I stared open mouthed at the last bits of the perfect glass of iced tea streaming like a polluted waterfall down the front of the dishwasher, #1GF! swooped in and started throwing dish towels everywhere. It was all “step on this” and “Move your foot” while I tried to push the ocean of iced tea into the sink. When it was cleaned off the counter, I threw my ripped, and then soaked Amoeba t-shirt into the hamper and tried to sponge off the front of my shorts. I might as well have turned the hose on myself by the time I was done.

The shorts were stripped off and hung on the rack outside, and I grabbed some basketball shorts and a clean t-shirt. I split my imperfect mason jar full of iced tea into another mason jar for #1GF! to have. I lifted the tea to my mouth and took a sip. As if there was some sort of cosmic conspiracy, I promptly poured that sip down the front of my shirt. “You are living with an 842 year old man who can’t even drink a simple glass of iced tea without making a mess!” I yelled to #1GF! who was sitting on the couch looking as if this were something she had accepted long ago.

I stripped off that shirt and threw on a new one. I distracted myself by completing almost the entire Yahoo crossword. We had decided to go to dinner late to avoid the crowds, but within an hour, we decided to go just to get out of the house. It was 7PM, which meant that we were going to have to wait at least a half hour to be seated, but we figured that a half hour sitting at the beach waiting was better than a half hour in the house. Plus, I was sure that there was a conspiracy to soak me going on in that house. Off we went, me in a new t-shirt and with my shorts still damp.

We walked down to the restaurant, put our name in, and stood outside with the crowd that assembles there at prime time. Everyone had wet hair and smelled of soap as if they had spent the day at the beach and had gone to their cottage just long enough to shower and get ready for dinner. I leaned in to #1GF!. “I feel like such a tourist,” I whispered. She asked me “why?” with only a look. “Because a local knows better than to try to come down here and get dinner at seven o’ clock.” She just shrugged and rolled her eyes.

When we finally got in, we got the worst table in the place and were staring right out the front door at the people waiting. I felt like even more of a tourist, but I thought, “Who cares?. Bad table, good table, not everything is going to be ideal. Whether you’re happy depends on your viewpoint.” I lightened up, and a waitress came over to ask us if we got caught in the rain storm while walking home from there a couple of weeks back. I felt like less of a tourist for the recognition.

After she took our order, I was off in space while looking out the doorway where people were waiting for takeout. As if to make my viewpoint seem perfect, a 5 year old Indian child danced from the front hall right into the doorway of the restaurant in a wiggling mixture of Bollywood and hip hop as if he had no idea the rest of the world existed. I burst out laughing, and looked around to see if anyone else had seen it. Everyone else seemed to be up to their elbows in fried seafood and conversation to have noticed. I stared out the doorway waiting for an encore that never arrived. Had I not had the worst seat in the house for dinner, I wouldn’t have had the best seat in the house for his one time only performance.

After dinner, We headed over to “The Comfort Station”, so I could hit the bathroom before we went in for a round at Fascination. Maybe I’m not very worldly, but The Comfort Station is probably the strangest public bathroom that I’ve ever been in. When you’re standing at the urinals, directly in front of you is a bank of windows that faces out onto a mini golf course. In the summer, the mini golf course is packed. It’s not like the windows are one way or anything. You’re peeing, and five feet away from you, people are putting.

As we were walking toward the comfort station, I jokingly said, “I’m going to pee and watch mini golf,” and #1GF! responded with “Well, I’m going to stand here and watch you pee while you watch mini golf.” I thought she was joking, but sure enough, when I walked up to a urinal and looked out the window, there she was on the other side of the mini golf course waving. I laughed, and then suddenly realized, “Holy crap. There’s a lot of people out there and I’m trying to pee here.” I had to look at the floor for a few seconds before I could get going. #1GF! must’ve realized the same thing, because when I looked up, she was gone.

We walked past the few people who inevitably can be found looking in the window of Fascination while trying to figure out how the game is played in between licks of their ice cream cones. One older couple was trying to figure it out, and as I opened the door I offered, “It’s like ski ball and bingo. You pay fifty cents, and you win five bucks if you light all the lights.” The man mentioned that the place had been there since he was a kid, but he had never gone in. I suggested that they shouldn’t ever go in, because we went in once, and end up here every week. The woman seemed delighted by the admission.

They continued on their ice cream cone eating walk (as people tend to do around here), and we headed into the hall. My table seemed really bouncy, so I thought that it was going to be a quick series of losses, but I ended up winning a game within the first ten minutes. When my buzzer went off, #1GF! threw her arms up in the air and shouted “WOOOOO!” as if she had won herself. A little while later, I won again, and you would’ve thought that #1GF! had won or that ghost of Paragon Park had possessed her and was taking her over the first big drop on the old wooden coaster. Needless to say, we were having a pretty good time.

When I was going for my third win, I leaned over to #1GF! and said, “One left”, which got a surprised, “No way!”. The woman a few seats down said something like, “You better hurry up, Martha,” and a woman with her dropped three balls in two seconds and soundly beat me like some sort of Fascination shark who had been toying with me. Next time, I’m keeping my mouth shut. I didn’t win again, but #1GF! pulled out a win on a $10 game, and we quit while we were ahead.

#1GF! headed to the bathroom, and I went outside to wait where the smokers and spectators typically stand. I was the only person out there, with the light from the hall illuminating the cracked cement that was covered in black dots from ages of gum chewers. Two girls walked by, but because I try not to be creepy or threatening, I turned away to give them as little attention as possible. As they passed, one said, “Man, I have such great tits,” and then grabbed her boobs.

My head snapped around, and I think the other girl’s wide eyed look of shock probably mirrored my own. The first girl responded to her friend’s look of shock with, “Well, I do. These are some great tits.” I just avoided any eye contact because the girls seemed like they were no more than 17, and quite possibly drunk. When #1GF! came out, I told her how the teenage girls were trying to shock the old man, and she reassured me that I wasn’t old. We then chattered on about Fascination the whole walk home, excitedly treating our $5 profit as if it were $500.

What I Learned

• Sometimes, I think I’m getting the hang of Fascination.
• There is a difference between classic metal and power metal, and that difference has a lot to do with speed.
• I learned a lot more about black metal, but I still haven’t found much of it that I like.
• Iced tea has something against me.
• Gore may be Mr. Environment now, but that doesn’t make up for what a metal hating douche he was in the 80’s.
• “Dance” was a code word for sex in early rock and roll.
• Tapes can be turned into MP3’s but the process is not worth it in most cases.
• Something bad can be something good, depending on your perspective.
• Being unemployed can be a catch 22, because you feel like you need a vacation sometimes, but you never feel like you deserve one.
• Getting mail from people that I don’t know telling me that they like my writing is somehow validating to me.
• My contractor sucked worse than I thought.
• It’s hard to pee while people are putting.

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