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33

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#33. I am thirty-three years (and one day) old.

This means that in only one hundred and eighteen days, I will have been alive for one-third of a century. It’ll happen on… lessee, carry the four, thirty days hath… on November 23rd of this year, assuming I can add dates in my head. (Which is like assuming that a box of crackers can conjugate sentences.) But anyway, sometime close to Thanksgiving. I’ll be sending a big ‘gobble, gobble, gobble this, bitch!‘ to the guy in high school who said I’d never live this long. Man, you’d think a school principal would have rules against talking smack, too. At least the counselor thought I’d make it to thirty-five before I fell apart. Where’s the love, principal-man?

32

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#32. I was thirty-two the first time I was laid off from a job.

That was about eight weeks ago now, and while I’ve gotten off my ass and turned thirty-three in the interim, I don’t yet have a replacement job. You’d think a birthday would count for something!

At least I wasn’t the only one laid off. The biotech company I was working at took a rather sudden and precipitous turn, and decided that it really had no use for research scientists any more. Or the programmers — like me — who supported them. Just about eight hundred people were let go, and offices closed in two of the three cities where the company had sites. And, of course, the stock went up on the news. Just a bit, but still. Lousy bloodthirsty Wall Street bastards. Eight hundred people out of work == eight hundred less salaries and benefits to pay. Hurrah! Fuckers.

It also means the end of research at the company, at least for now. And the end of employment there for me and most of my coding friends. Even the guys who were spared are moving out of coding — they’re supporting third-party systems, or getting into management, or working with outside vendors. Boring, uncreating, suck-the-life-out-of-you, for-the-love-of-God-it’s-only-two-pm crap. Er, in my opinion, anyway. Rather strong opinion, apparently, but still just my opinion. No offense if you happen to do one of those jobs; they’re all very important and I’m certainly glad that someone takes care of them. And better you than me, brother (or sister).

Speaking of opinions, one that I don’t have is that ‘any job is better than no job‘. I watched my dad suffer and squirm through several years of a job he loathed, and I’m not interested in doing the same, myself. We’re supposed to learn from previous generations, right? So I’m not terribly interested in seeking out one of those ‘new and improved’ positions at my old company, or any other, for that matter. For the moment, I’m steadfast in my conviction that I’ll find a suitable job, doing what I like, and in a suitable environment, with friendly, competent, like-minded folks. And in an office somewhere within a ten-mile radius. I don’t ask for much, do I, folks?

On the other hand, I’ve only got a couple more weeks of severance pay coming. My expenses are down lately, of course — all my lunches and most of my dinners come at home these days — but the well’s not bottomless, either. I figure I can reasonably last until the end of October without a job, but if I hit the end of September without a solid prospect, the sweating is going to commence in earnest. As I mentioned in the title, this is uncharted territory for me.

In the meantime, I’ve got to walk that fine line between idealism and desperation. Take a job at McDonalds? No. Not that desperate yet. How about coding, but at a bank? Um… no. I’m not quite ready to buy nice clothes and wear a tie to work. Not if I can avoid it. Web monkey at another biotech? Errr… ah… how much does that pay, again? And where’s the office? Maybe a tech support job at a hospital, or school? Ugh. Um, yeah, probably, if it’ll pay enough to cover the mortgage. God help me.

Clearly, these are dark times. Or will be soon, anyway. Goodbye, dignity. Farewell, self-respect. And sayonara, soul. If this goes on much longer, I may have to bid you bon voyage for a while, until my mad skillz and the economy conspire to land me a better position. I just pray my next job won’t involve asking customers whether they’re interested in ‘super-sizing‘ anything. I’m not sure I could come back from that.

31

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#31. I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge when I was thirty-one years old.

Okay, maybe this isn’t so unique or anything — I don’t really know. Certainly, on the day my wife and I walked the bridge (both ways, of course), there were a lot of people out there doing likewise. Dozens, if not hundreds. It’s a long bridge, after all.

So perhaps more important for me than the bridge itself is that this was my first — and only, to date — trip to California. I was in ‘frisco for a week-long conference, and my wife flew out for the weekend afterwards. We hooked up with an old friend from college, and she and her husband showed us the sights, including the bridge.

We also got a chance to see — but not eat in — Chinatown, (What kind of ripoff is that?) the ultra-windy Lombard Street, and the Embarcadero. We checked out the bay, and peered out at Alcatraz (but again didn’t have time to visit — gyp number two for the trip), and watched the sea lions lounging by the pier. (Now there’s a job I could get into — Hey, just lie here for eight hours or so, then go for a quick swim, and then get back to lying here, all right? We’ll bring you some fish later.‘)

But the real treat (for me) on the trip was a visit to PacBell Park. Unfortunately, we were there in late April, so we could only see a preseason game. Of course, that also meant that we could actually get tickets, so I suppose I should be careful what I wish for. But the park is gorgeous; they’ve really done a great job with it. The sightlines are great, it has personality, and having the water just beyond the right field fence — genius. Of course, when we went, there weren’t too many boats braving the chilly April night air for a shot at one of Barry Bonds’ longballs — just a kayak or two paddling around and trying to stay warm. But it’s still a great idea. I most certainly approve.

Plus, PacBell had the absolute best concessions of any ballpark I’ve been to. Sure, they had the requisite hot dogs and popcorn and peanuts, and I’d wager that they offered some specialty food that we didn’t see or get to sample. But we did have Krispy Kreme doughnuts and Sierra Nevada Pale Ale — yes, together, thank you — and that was absolutely heavenly by stadium standards. Usually, you’re lucky to find an Amstel Light and an ice cream bar. This was the shit, boys and girls — the primo shit.

So, I enjoyed my first jaunt to Cali, and I’d like to return sometime to see some of the things I missed. (But mainly just so I can sing, ‘I’m goin’ back to Cali… to Cali… to Cali; I’m goin’ back to Cali… yo, I don’t think so‘ to my wife during the entire trip; ain’t I a stinker?) I hear the wine country is especially nice, as well as San Diego, and most of the beaches. I mean, I’m not pretty enough to live there, of course. But I can still go to booze up at their vineyards and splash on their shoreline. It’s a free frickin’ country, you know.

Maybe we’ll even make it back to San Fran, and actually eat in Chinatown, and go see Alcatraz, and do some of the other things we missed. (Hey, we didn’t have any Rice-A-Roni, either — what the hell were we thinking?!) But as much as I enjoyed it, I’m not walking over the Golden Gate Bridge again. It’s a long frickin’ way, folks, and it’s tiring and windy and cold. Besides, that’s what cars are for — goin’ over bridges and shit like that. I’d rather spend my time doing something cool, like going back for another ball game. If there’s one thing that never gets old, it’s a dinner of good beer and even better doughnuts. Two great tastes that taste great together. God bless you, San Francisco!

30

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#30. I got a surprise trip to Atlanta for my thirtieth birthday.

First of all, my wife is the coolest. I’m sorry if you think your spouse, or your kid, or your kindergarten teacher is the coolest, but I have to correct you now. Because my wife is the absolute coolest. That’s just the way it is. You’ll have to find some way to go on living. Sorry.

So, I don’t really make a big deal about birthdays. I’m not really comfortable with all the attention. I think. I’m sure it all hearkens back to some childhood trauma, but whatever it is, I’ve apparently repressed it. But I don’t really know what to do when people single me out for attention, or go out of their way to be especially nice, or — Horus help me — sing to me. I mean, I appreciate the sentiment; it just makes me a little itchy sometimes. I’m working on that.

But a spouse is a different animal altogether, then, isn’t it? (In a few of the places I’ve lived, that would be literally true. We don’t talk about that in mixed company.) Your wife or husband has to make a bit of a deal over your birthday, though, don’t they? A card and a hearty handshake at the very least. Or a cab ride, an airplane trip, and a secret weekend getaway. At the very most.

So, I should probably explain that I’m a huge baseball fan. Well, okay, I’m not huge, though I could stand to tighten up a bit in a few places. The point is that I really, really love baseball. Not quite as much as my wife — even though I’ve known baseball much longer — but still, there’s a lot of love there. I would probably take my wife and baseball and an unlimited supply of Victory Hop Devil IPA as my three ‘desert island’ things. Of course, that might cause some tension, as I’d be sitting around on the island drinking beer and watching baseball all the time. On the other hand, she doesn’t seem to mind it so much now, so it would probably work out. I’d just have to build the lean-to and hoard a few coconuts and weave some grass skirts first. Then I could sit down and really have a nice baseball-watching. That’ll be nice. I can’t wait.

Um… so, steering back in the general direction of the topic, I like baseball. A lot. I’m (slowly) trying to see a game in every park, even.

(So far, I’m up to five (two of which no longer exist), with an exhibition game and a stadium tour thrown in. So, I have five, with an asterisked sixth, out of the approximately forty possible parks (including now-defunct stadia) that have been available throughout my quest. I said I was trying, folks. I didn’t say that I’m trying very hard.)

So, anyway, big fan, love the game, catch the fever, you get the idea. And the Atlanta Braves are my favorite team. Which always elicits groans from other baseball fans:

‘The Braves?! Ugh. I hate the Braves. You must be one of those bandwagon-hopping fair-weather fans. Do you do that damned tomahawk chop thing? I hate that! I hate the Braves! I hate you people! Wah!‘

Okay, so most people are a tad more tactful than that. But just a tad. And I can see their point, frankly. The Braves have won eleven division titles in a row. They’re always in the playoffs. Many of their fans are extremely annoying. And I, too, think that the ‘Tomahawk Chop’ is usually a warning that there’s a pot-bellied, slope-browed, mouth-breathing goon on the other end of that oscillating arm. So, I feel people’s pain, I really do. More so, because I get lumped in with the morons and fair-weather half-assers out there who’re just picking a winning team.

But it’s not like that. Not for me. I’ll admit, I did jump on the Braves’ bandwagon. But I hopped on the back in 1982, when I was twelve years old. They’d been horrible before that, and were in the middle of a ‘worst to first’ season when I started watching. After that year, they were horrible again for just about an entire decade. But I didn’t care; I stuck with them.

See, as a baseball fan, especially one growing up three of more hours away from a baseball town, the Braves and TBS were a godsend. Instead of a game or two a week of the ‘local’ team (the Cincinnati Reds, if you’re keeping track of such things), and a randomly-selected ‘Game of the Week’ on Sunday afternoons, now I could watch baseball five, six, sometimes seven days a week! What could possibly be better for a kid just finishing up Little League, who’s developed a passion for the game? Well, okay, somebody could’ve made me a batboy… that would have been better. But they didn’t (the bastards!), so I watched TBS. It was all I had.

So, by the time I lived in a real-life ‘baseball town’ (Pittsburgh, if you’re still keeping score… don’t you have anything better to do?), I’d been a Braves fan for about ten years. So I wasn’t going to give them up then. I went to quite a few games, of course, and cheered for the hometown Pirates along with the rest of the city. Until they played the Braves, at which point I kept my mouth mainly shut, letting my shit-eating grin do all the talking when the good guys won a game.

And now, I do the same with the Boston Red Sox. I love the Sox; I really do. And they’re in the American League, while the Braves (and Pirates) are in the National League. So the Sox and Braves don’t play very often, and never when it really means much. And they never will, of course. The Braves always get to the playoffs, but in that whole long streak of success, they’ve only won one World Series. More recently, they get knocked out in the early rounds, and I think they have trouble determining how to win in the post-season. And the Red Sox… well, they’re cursed, now, aren’t they? They haven’t won a Fall Classic since 1918, and they’re not likely to do so until Georgie Steinbrenner takes his swagger and his cash and his Cuban cigars and hightails it out of New York. Which is never going to happen, of course. They’ll have to pry his cold, dead hands away from the helm of that organization, which means they’ll also have to lift his lifeless boot heel off the neck of the Red Sox. Until then, the Sox are playing for second place. Cash is king, I’m afraid, even in the greatest game on earth.

Well, shit. These are supposed to be short posts, and I haven’t really told you anything about my trip. Man, don’t get me started on baseball. Obviously. Well, let’s see — maybe I can summarize. You can pretty much see where this is going by now, anyway. On my thirtieth birthday, my wife hustled me into a cab, and wouldn’t tell me where we were going. The airport in Boston is a bit isolated, so I figured out late in the ride that we were driving there, but I had no idea where we were going until she marched us to the counter of a flight headed to Hotlanta. We had a fantastic weekend, and saw a game (Turner Field is a great stadium, by the way — I highly recommend it), and saw a few sights, and generally had a spectacular, romantic, together-y birthday. It was the bestest.

So. I suppose the only thing that I really wanted to say, or that you need to know about this whole ball of wax, is that my wife is the coolest. And I already told you that, way up at the beginning. So you really didn’t have to read this far, now did you? Poor thing.

29

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#29. I made a New Year’s Resolution to lose twenty-nine pounds.

The good news is that I recently hit the nineteen pound mark, and though I’ve backslid just a tad (hey, I had a birthday; cut me some friggin’ slack!), I’m still solidly twelve-to-fifteen pounds lighter than when I made the resolution.

The bad news is that I made the resolution on January 1, 2001. So I’m losing weight at a rate of approximately six ounces a month. Or roughly the weight of one olive stuffed with pimento cheese. Bleh.

Back on the bright side, though, twenty-nine pounds was probably a bit too ambitious, and really not necessary, The point was for me to work out more, eat healthier, and stop stretching that last poor hole on my belt. And on that list, I’m three for three. I got back into volleyball, walk the occasional round of golf, and play softball on Sundays for six months out of the year. In the culinary arena, I’ve cut down on snacks, drink more water, and have six months out of the year when I don’t drink beer and eat nasty bar food after softball games. And now I’m using the third hole in my belt, rather than the last. (Which is good; that last hole got awfully oblong and stretched out. It looks a lot like the subject’s mouth in The Scream. So it’s good to give it a vacation for a while.)

Anyway, losing the full twenty-nine big ones would put me back where I was early in college, before four years of pizzas and keg parties wore down my metabolism. I’m not sure I need to go all the way back, but a resolution is a resolution, right? The cool thing is that I have this rule not to make another until I’ve conquered the last. So until I’m back to my lightweight self, I’m under no obligation to better myself in other ways. Woo hoo! Looks like I’m gonna be tying paper bags on cats’ feet and mowing my lawn naked for a few more years. Yeah, baby!