The Careering Uncareerer

It's a lot like trying to fit a giant tub of spaghetti into a tupperware that certainly is not big enough to hold these globby contents.

I know. I did it that time. Maybe not with spaghetti. But one night, on a whim when I made macaroni and cheese because I just had to have it, I also ate like seven bites and then said, shit this stuff is rich. But I couldn't waste it because all over the media, I'd see advertisements for renewable energy and greening our economy, and in the distant social buzz, I'd hear things like sustainability, which really I don't know what is, yet I think it must have a tiny, or big, thing to do with all this environment hoopla.

So I decide to go with the distant, foggy green program in my mind and opt for putting the macaroni ('character noodles' I hear is best) into a container for later. Will I actually eat it later? Who cares. But then I riffle through my container cupboard (because I own one of those specifically so should this situation come up), and I realize there are only two containers in this specialty cupboard: one is a tiny itty wee bit of a tub. In fact, this wee plastic cup contraption, once used by the food industry to transport sour cream of some sort, can barely hold half of a lemon. That, at least I can imagine going in there.

But this galactic portion of macaroni? Not a chance. And on with the riffling through to the other object: a container which was to once hold sour cream as well. Curious. Do I cook often with sour cream? In any case, same sour cream. Bigger container. Still, that mac and cheese character variety ain't going in there.

And there we are. But what's like this? I told you something was like this. Becoming a careering uncareerer. It's like being those contents of enriched flour shapes and cheese powder cream, and not being able to fit in the erstwhile sour cream tub. I want to. Fit, I mean. Because it would prove secure in there, safe from the microbes in the air (though they would find a way in), from the light of the refrigerator, from the garbage disposal or compost pile or dog jaws or whatever.

In there, I could make a living. A living as dead, used, aging macaroni. But at least I'd have a function. If disposed of, I wouldn't really get that, right?

I'm telling you that making a career out of being uncareerable feels like this excess macaroni must feel looking at the container of air, knowing it can't all go in there, despite its unyielding desire (to fit). Painstakingly searching all those search engines (Google typically suffices) and landing on countless job sites and thrusting what would be--save this wannabe sustainable economy, and the invention of emailable CVs--piles of resumes out into cyberspace. Crossing fingers with secret prayers for a response, yet knowing deep within that response will likely evade delivering to any of the players from my media gadget repertoire.

Or maybe this is what it's like to be a writer. Or like that green-going economy, of the wannabe variety. Stuffing a 32-oz box of prepared mac n cheese contents into a 16-oz cup. To be fair, I'm not sure how many ounces are in a prototype of mac n cheese. This, friends, is the mark of a proper lazy journalist. Would I deserve a fellowship of some sort, in that trade? I'm pretty sure McGee and Snee foundation would want a lazy journalist. A careering uncareerer.

You shouldn't wrap your head around it too tightly. To be sure, the careering uncareerer is a lot like macaroni and cheese and a comparatively microscopic sour cream container.

Haiku is Back

1. Me, Wizard

I saved you from death
A fucking wizard! you said
And then you shot me

2. What's With You?

Penguin, what's with you?
You're black and white, and you swim
Penguin, you're funny

3. Vomit

The smell of vomit
I smell it, and I vomit
I feel really sick

4. Cheap Hair

My hair is cheap shit
You look at it, and you lick it
Now I feel dirty

Top 5 Ways to Save on Snacks at the Movie Theatre

We all know that in an age where movies at the theatre are no longer just movies, but 3-D spectacle-a-thons, it’s virtually impossible to foot the bill for tickets. After paying for How to Train Your Dragon, you think you’ll have any scratch left for snacks? Forget it. Why not smuggle your own snacks into the theatre? Here’s a list of strategies how to pull it off.

1. Dress loosely. Sorry ladies. This means you can’t wear those pleather, skin-tight trousers. You’ve got to think more along the lines of artsy frock, or cargo dungarees. This way, you can slip that flat box of chocolate covered raisins into the side pockets.

2. Bring a buddy, or better: three. While going to the movies can be a hoot by yourself, lest you yield to the movie choice of a friend who’s got no film taste, you’ll need the extra pocket room. The more friends, the more places, not to mention arms, you’ll have along for stowing away snacks like licorice, chips and peanut butter cups on the sly.

3. Wear a small backpack with a side pocket for water bottles. This is a nice choice for those with a conscience, those who feel better having their “drink” of choice out in the open. Particularly in the city, the backpacker with water bottle is common. Select a dark water bottle or thermos so you can enjoy soda in the theatre.

4. Upon entering the theatre, drape your jacket over your arm; clutch snacks under the jacket. After you gain experience with this, it works like a charm. In warmer weather, no worries: bring a lighter jacket or a button down shirt.

5. Prepare a meal to stow, or pack baked goods carefully into a shopping bag. This works nicely if you select a theatre that sits pretty among a shopping district. No ticket seller is going to think: “Hmm. I wonder what this guy has in that Crate & Barrel bag," will he?

Now, go enjoy the movie-going experience on a dime!

rainbow mystery

curious rainbow
you pirouette
upon my window shade
like a pup
yearning to fetch

curious rainbow
you're only vapor and dust
yet
you see, like a friend
and you emanate

like the light bulbs that
exploded
when my father
blew a fuse
at Christmastime

lemonade pours upon ice
and I am gone
mother's happy pecks
upon my dirtied head

but when I return
curious rainbow
you too have vanished

talk

listen about the jet stream
of flight
heard overhead
whilst below a sparkly unicorn
spoke with a triceratops

prattling, were they
under a canopy of verdant
leaves high above
yet

close upon
the maniacal waterfalls
and
misty hydrogen kisses

water drops danced upon
triceratops'
one and only horn

when the genius unicorn
comrade said
Harry
you've traveled in time

Hunger

There once lived a beast
Who hungered for a bone

I cannot sleep
The little beast thought

He tossed
And turned

He lounged around
His home

He did not excite over a walk
Over a squirrel

When his master said
What’s wrong, sport?

The little beast placed his head
Upon his paws
And sighed

One day, a young woman appeared
In the doorway

The master looked at her
And then at the little beast

And she looked at the master
And then at the little beast

Honey, perhaps he wants a bone
She said

The little beast perked his ears
And his head came off his paws

A bone? It has to be!
The master said

Beast went hungry no more
The end