Thursday, February 26, 2009 :::
When I unearthed my violin from the closet recently, I did so knowing the likelihood of producing anything musically pleasing was far, far off, obscured by hours and hours of practice. The case itself has remained shut for a few years now, ever since my quartet failed to materialize. It's never been an amicable relationship, in fact. Even back in fourth grade, when the curriculum required every kid to choose a stringed instrument, I settled on the violin for precisely one reason: because it was the lightest instrument available. If I had to learn something, I sure as heck wasn't going to bust my chops hauling it around, after all.
But it was comforting to crack open the case tonight. Soothing. Reassuring. Here was something that existed more than a century ago, long before this recession, well before the Great Depression, cobbled together by someone who cared about none of these things. Equally calming were the memories of my favorite violin teacher, an eccentric German lady who lived in a renovated chicken coop.
There was no television. No Internet. I remember a clangy screen door and a perennial smell of spearmint. Candles. Mellow lighting. A small, ancient, virtually indestructible copy machine. She had developed an immunity to poison ivy by eating the stuff, bit by bit, and in retrospect the community probably regarded her as a witch. There was a hammock in the yard, flanked by a thick wall of bamboo. It was an oasis for the mind, a reprieve from the rat race.
I remember her stories: eating caramels as she waded through wartime rubble. Singing as loudly as possible in church. Sneaking out the window at bedtime to go dancing until morning. How she developed her prized violin technique late one night at her lowest point, bowstroke after bowstroke, clean slate, just open strings. I recall an impulsive trip to the beach, with jellyfish lighting up the nighttime water. There was a Bohemian sensibility that absolutely captivated me.
I'm not sure if I've been more at peace since then, and in that regard it was worth dusting off the violin to remember. How much time will I invest in it? Will I practice enough to ace an audition with the local orchestra? Do I even want to join the orchestra? I'm not sure. I'll need to feel this shit out, maybe map out a rough plan. And if the plan doesn't work? Eff it. Or, more appropriately, F# it.
Posted by Ben at 11:59 PM
Tuesday, February 24, 2009 :::
Far across the piano bar late last Wednesday night, on a mesmerizing LCD television, a commercial for Saw V was playing in an attempt to justify the existence of Saw V. I glanced at Jigsaw's horrific mug on TV, then at the Pabst Blue Ribbon--blue being the only color available, I was assured--clutched in my hand, and wondered what I'd rather be doing: pretending to enjoy PBR one foul sip at a time, or being locked in a booby-trapped house, clawing away at a key surgically inserted behind my eye. It was debatable.
The treaty I have with alcohol is tenuous at best. Mojitos continue to delight, but most everything else offends the senses and, more importantly, I don't like buzzes. What should be relaxing instead brings only disappointment as I consider how much slower I become. And as the entourage moved on to the next scene, through the doors and across that dark threshold, I instantly recalled why I vowed, years ago at the White Star Lounge, never to enter another nightclub again: I'm simply not wired for nightlife.
I lack the vocabulary to function well, or at all, in this environment, which may prove detrimental socially and professionally. But them's the breaks, and I made a beeline for the nearest patch of wall as soon as I stepped into the sensory overload, and against the wall I stayed for the duration, doing absolutely nothing besides witnessing the fascinating panorama before me. Be assured it was fascinating, from the packed dance floor bathed in psychedelic light to my shirt, which was rapidly absorbing smoke, perfume, cologne, and weed--the smell of night, I suppose--to the two chicks who hoisted themselves above the DJ to offer table-based gyrations.
Even then, my framework was deficient. It was, like, those chicks were hot, sure, wrapped in no more than two square feet of clothing max, but then I started wondering: did they have to take the train to get to this job, or were they given parking spots? Where did they go for dinner? Were they happy? Those fuzzy boots and those glitter-covered garters stuffed with cash--an actual factory made those, right? Was the factory affected by the recession? Any layoffs? Such a niche industry, but man, I hope the local branch is hitting its numbers.
Moments later, the rail I was leaning against began to jive to its own secret rhythm, and upon looking down the line I realized a couple was grinding against it. I briefly considered whether the builders had accommodated for such unique wear-and-tear, then decided they very likely just nailed the stupid thing to the wall five minutes before lunch break. Eventually I felt compelled to relinquish the rail to the couple, because clearly they were getting far more mileage out of it than I was. The rail was serving its purpose, in a way. It was meant to be there, in the club, at that time. I wasn't.
Posted by Ben at 11:51 PM
Thursday, February 19, 2009 :::
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, February 24.
Posted by Ben at 2:11 AM
Tuesday, February 17, 2009 :::
Against my better judgment, I visited an animal shelter on a cold afternoon around Christmastime, pet ownership heavy on my mind, the whys and wherefores be damned. The cat ward was quickly dismissed--forever, come to think of it--because allergies aside, felines just plain freak me out with their sly, lithe movements and those piercing eyes, behind which could only exist finely wrought plans for my imminent demise. I was looking for dog.
The litany of costs slowly unfurled as I neared the entrance. Adoption fees. Modest, of course. Heartworm treatment. Affordable, if I chose the cheaper method, but a cool grand for more reliable treatment. Food, vet visits, grooming. Time costs: waking up to a clock not of my own setting and getting far more sunlight and fresh air than I've promised myself. The wages of housebreaking, paid in inches of soiled carpet. It was overwhelming to project beyond the initial excitement of scooping up a new pet.
But pets also offer that which defies measurement, and the promise of this pushed me through the door, straight into one of the most depressing scenes I've ever witnessed. A long room stretched before me, cells on either side with rap sheets affixed to the doors, the wretched inhabitants within representing the full spectrum of canine emotion, from tail-wagging optimism to motionless defeat. It was a doggie prison. Whenever an inmate would be taken out for a walk or heaven knows what, all the cells would erupt in noise, and I was convinced cups and spoons and shivs would start clanging against the bars, were opposable thumbs available. It was a kill shelter, too, so I suppose the hallway doubled as a Green Mile, even for the colorblind.
There was a brown Labrador I liked. A good, solid dog, which I later discovered also qualified as a very Caucasian selection. Well! The burden of choice, however, proved too much, because with each lap up and down the hall came a desire to adopt all of them, to relocate them away from this hellhole, so I did the next best thing and left with none of them. Now, weeks later, I find myself thinking about the benefits: the forced exercise, the social aspect, the discipline tempered by commitment, and, most recently, how a dog could handily serve as a makeshift security system. It all makes sense, really. Rather than call up ADT and pay some heinous monthly fee, I could put the money toward the most faithful alarm system of all. Sweet, dependable rationalization. You are man's best friend, truly.
Posted by Ben at 11:55 PM
Thursday, February 12, 2009 :::
Even now, as my keyboard clacks against each tick of the clock, I can feel the flu crouched at the gates, its congested, days-long payload looming large. I thought I had escaped the bug, a particularly virulent strain that's incited a local cacoughphony, simply by force of will. And by force of delusion, clearly, because I certainly feel its onset--the warm, achy haze that's just south of reality and not altogether unpleasant. The plan is to retreat to bed in a last-ditch effort to fend off the sickness, so time is short. We've got to adjourn before I start chaining three verbs in a row, followed by a string of Rs.
When I logged into my 401(k) today, I was relieved to find performance had not only held, but improved as well, despite the grim market dip from earlier this week. It's also the last time I'm going to sign in this quarter, because at a certain point you can fret too much over this stuff and, through one too many changes, shoot yourself in the face. Figuratively speaking. Now I'm turning to expenses and taking a cold, critical look at them, in what may be the most difficult part of this financial revamp yet.
Apparently more than half of my January expenses was lavished on entertainment, specifically the pursuit of purchased media. Half. This is absurd, whether you view it within or without a recession, and it's a habit nourished by a few things. I remember distinctly disliking the rental process as a kid, especially the rush to finish things and the subsequent return of materials, and likely this figures into the equation. There's also the issue of momentum, where I've already bought too much and I'm in too deep. Part of me also appreciates the ceremony: cracking open the cellophane to get to the latest DVD, for instance. It's probably one of the more ethnic experiences for me, considering the disc was manufactured in Mexico.
Naturally I hunt for the best prices, but the aggregate remains substantial, and the truth is media tends to be consumed only once, making Netflix the economical way to go. To shift myself to this mindset, I've committed to skipping the new generation of Blu-ray. I will not buy a single disc. Oh, I've seen the in-store demos, to be sure, but I'm not really incented to watch Touched by an Angel in 3060p with lossless sound, you know? I'm content with what I have, which is Touched by an Angel in 480p on mute, framed with naught but the sound of my own soft weeping.
And when Blu-ray runs its course in a decade or so, paving the way for flicks to be beamed directly into our skulls, I hope to have shored up enough financial grit to make the wiser choices. Frugality is in my genetic makeup. I know it. I just need to listen to it. You'd better believe Finances.doc is open right now and that this system will endure. It's low-tech or no tech, and should circumstances ever necessitate the latter, I will track my finances via Etch A Sketch. Give it a fair shake, one might say.
Posted by Ben at 10:31 PM
Tuesday, February 10, 2009 :::
Eight-and-a-half years ago, on a hot Chicago summer afternoon, I stood aghast at my bank balance, printed statement clutched bewilderingly in hand, the cogs in my stupid sophomore brain straining to understand how I had overdrawn my account. It was an affront! A violation of natural law. One solid year of highfalutin' book learning had packed my head with trivia most fascinating, along with the ability to do multi-integral calc poorly, and yet I was hopelessly deficient at basic budgeting.
With a blank Word document sprawled before me, I set to task creating a rudimentary way to track finances. No fancy graphs, no clever Excel calculations, just plain, brutish text. Where reconciling a credit card statement may have elicited a jingly sound effect with a single mouseclick in Quicken, such accounting victories were instead celebrated with the word "RECONCILED" in italicized bold. That was the system, in a nutshell. It's the same system I'm currently using, kept alive by a healthy aversion to modern, more technologically advanced personal finance tools.
I'd like to think I'm savvier today, filling up the 401(k), topping off the IRA, and generally heeding the worn contours of financial folk wisdom. But it's not enough, and in one sense I've returned to that fateful summer afternoon. Investment cornerstones I took for granted, such as blindly shoveling pre-tax dollars into retirement accounts, can these days have all the effectiveness of buying three new cars and driving them straight off the dealer's lot into a ravine. I've heard depreciation may occur if you plunge into a fiery abyss.
It's time for a fresh start. A blank sheet. When I dove into my 401(k) account last month, carefully poring over each fund sheet, it became increasingly clear that nobody knows what precisely is going down. Old standbys, such as heavying up on stocks, rang hollow and only seemed to indulge a gambler's fallacy. I needed an anchor, so I reweighed my portfolio. Half bonds. 30% large-cap. The rest in small and medium businesses. And absolutely no more managed funds, because the only thing worse than effing the dog is paying for expert dog effing. Performance improved immediately, but the first real test will be how this lineup fares after today's government failout announcement. Either way, I'm now committed to being at the till of my own financial future, at least until the till factory goes bankrupt.
Posted by Ben at 11:50 PM
Thursday, February 05, 2009 :::
"No shit, Sherlock!" is an expression I believe hails from the grimier alleyways of London, where wordsmiths deftly transmute even the foulest vulgarities into palatable sayings by sheer dint of accent. You may have heard of it. It is a quaint phrase, very likely apocryphal to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's famous works, but it has a special, almost literal resonance tonight. Why? Because I may finally be able to close the casebook on why birds land directly on my car to poop.
There are moments when justice seizes evidence to cast a light into the dark, unraveling machinations most fowl before a jury of peers. This was not one of those moments. Instead, as I was walking back from my mailbox, thumbing through bills and yet another terrifyingly glossy church advertisement, the answer dawned on me. The pieces were always there, laid out so obviously: the birds. The caca. The time of day. The car. I had only to assemble them.
My car is essentially the warmest toilet within flapping distance. There, I said it. Conveniently located next to the woods, its outhouse appeal is enhanced by a black paint job, which assures it will absorb far more sunlight than its owner ever will. And here I thought those birds were just being racist. Now, I am pressed with a need for solutions, and already the gears are churning. The plan I have formulated involves superglue, specifically a generous layer applied to the car exterior, and it will require patience. The preparation must be thorough. The timing, flawless. Do you ever wonder why hood ornaments went out of style? Neither do I. Neither do I.
Posted by Ben at 11:36 PM
Tuesday, February 03, 2009 :::
True to my word, I stood humbly before FlickFool this weekend, curious, strangely contrite, filled with possibility, and letter by agonizing letter my username appeared, then my password. I hovered briefly over the Enter button and suddenly--click--I was in. I noted how the interface had changed. Guided the cursor across the screen. And then I logged right back out. Hey! I never said I'd actually write any reviews. We're talking baby steps here.
Back in April, I expounded on my losing battle against wrinkly clothing and how a miraculous steam-powered iron, heretofore alien technology I had only read about in Ironing Enthusiast Monthly, miraculously failed to press my shirts. Certainly the device didn't move of its own volition, placing some of the blame on yours truly, but it's far less blame than you'd suspect.
I have a new iron. There were revelations last night, in the course of 90 minutes spent at the board, when it was clear that a bigger iron makes all the difference. Apparently my original one was travel-sized, or possibly crafted by hobbits for hobbits to make presentable their buckwheat tunics or whatever the hell they wore. With a modern variant, the chore became easier. Fun, even. After laboring over a shirt, I reached for another one, two, then one more.
I had gained a new domestic art. It was exhilarating. What prior to yesterday evening were basically disposable button-downs transformed into a bounty of threads. Reusable clothes, you say? There's a new sheriff in town, 100% cotton. This morning, I donned my handiwork and stood triumphantly before the mirror and-- Still wrinkled. It was like I had never even fired up the thing. Shit.
Posted by Ben at 11:18 PM
