Blogging the Light Fantastic.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the point in my life where everything started moving really, really fast.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

On a whim, 365 days and a couple of weeks ago, I applied for a job in San Francisco, California, one evening when I should’ve been writing a philosophy paper. I had illusions of grandeur and major procrastination issues working in my favour, and to my great happiness I got a very positive response. I flew out of Detroit Metro Airport and landed at SFO the day before Saint Patrick’s Day, 2007. I’d never been to California before, or, hell, to a serious job interview before. I had to talk my way into being hired in retail a few times, but that’s it.

I remember feeling unprepared. I wore a blue suitcoat and tan pants, with a tie that made me look as young as I must have felt - schoolboy stripes all across. My university’s colours, however unintended. I had convinced one of my professors to give me an extension on a major paper, and I figured I’d have to spend some time writing it in my hotel. When we landed, I decided it would probably be best if it just waited until I got home to Windsor.

San Francisco can be a very intimidating place. It’s very urban compared to what I was used to - suburbs the light fantastic. The only truly urban place around Windsor, that is to say, Detroit, wasn’t the sort of place you’d feel alright walking around most nights. I was running late, and didn’t bother to check in at the hotel - I took a cab to the pier where the interview was taking place.

It took four hours, and it was done. I felt good about it. I went back to the hotel and ordered a steak at the restaurant downstairs, and then I walked around chinatown for a spell. I started noticing that things had been sped up - I didn’t much care to sit around anymore. I walked from the financial district to fisherman’s wharf, and back town into tenderloin where I proceeded to look for apartments (note: city is expensive - even in tenderloin).

I was in SF for long enough to envy it, but there was no semblance of “home” there; it felt like I was living in a new-age sitcom. Everybody seemed happy and the city seemed too clean. Even the shitty areas of town had some sort of glint to them that felt appealing, but not familiar of comfortable.

Back in Windsor, a few weeks later I found out that I didn’t get the job. I was bummed out, and part of me thought that moving so far away was beyond my means anyhow, but I kept an eye out for the things that interested me, with a few more interviews along the way. Things had changed, and I didn’t feel like I belonged as a student anymore. I graduated with my best grades of any of my undergraduate years. The day after my very last exam, I was at an interview in Phoenix, got hired, and the rest is the rest. Things never slowed down. I still feel a bit alienated here. Even if they wanted to, most of my friends couldn’t pack up and move to Phoenix to be with me here - I hear they’re not even taking new dual citizenship applicants anymore. But, I couldn’t be happier with my job or the pace at which things are moving. Change moves fast, and I’ve learned to appreciate that.

Saturdays

(Blog Soundtrack: Jolie Holland - Demon Lover Improv. Open it in a new tab/window and read along)

Strange days, theaudience. Strange days.

I don’t remember how or when I woke up. I remember that I dug around my fridge and pantry before deciding on crackers and cheese for breakfast out of a lack of viable morning-food options. It had been awhile since I’d done groceries, or really, since I’d even left the house for a reason that wasn’t for work.

Right. So, I don’t remember waking up.

I remember thinking how the toilets seemed to be flushing in a fairly odd way. I didn’t think anything of it then, but I thought a whole lot of it when my running water ran out completely.

I should mention that I’ve been living in this condo now for over six months. I’ve never had a conversation with my neighbours that got further than a rushed and gramatically improper sentence. My first thought, then, was to call my Dad.

“What do I do? I’ve got to shower and stuff”

“You know, you need to be able to figure this stuff out on your own now. You live by yourself, two thousand miles away from everybody here.”

and he’s right.

“call Etta”

Etta is the realtor that leased me this condo. She’s an older lady whose face never changes, and thus whose mood is never easily discernable. She unwisely gave me her mobile phone number when I signed the lease.

“Hello?”

I could hear the Green Bay/Seattle game on in the background.

“Etta, I think my plumbing is fucked”

then, after a long pause,

“is it just in your unit? or is it building-wide?”

shit. Her saying that put the chances that I was going to have to speak to my neighbours at about 95%.

“I’ll call you back”

I walked next door, a one-bedroom appartment of a middle-aged woman I’ve seen but never spoken with. Her wicker welcome mat used to say “Welcome!”, but now it’s been turned so that the printed side faces the floor and only after a few seconds of staring does one realize that it’s not a message in some foreign, backwards-looking tongue.

In any event, no answer.

I walked downstairs to the unit of Old-Woman-who-Parks-Too-Close-to-my-Car. OWwPTCtmC came to the door at my second attempt at a knock, hair in a mess and and sporting a newer model iPod than I’ve got.

“Sorry to be a bother, but is your water running?”

It’s been six months since I’ve had to introduce myself to somebody, so I’m rusty. Give me a break.

After a brief chat and a handshake, she tells me that she’s had the repairman over all morning because she was getting a constant drip. For some reason he must have shut off my water when he was trying to shut of hers, but it should be back on in an hour.

—-

I’m going to glaze over the part where Old-French-Man (OFM) and Guy-I-Met-In-the-Laundry-Room-Once (GIMitLRO) advised me to just take a dip in the condo estate’s pool instead of waiting for my own shower, because it occurs to me that this post is getting far too long. In fact, that Jolie Holland song I posted above might have already ended (I hope you liked it, it took awhile to grow on me). Here’s another song, just in case.

I had to go to the office to wrap up the second phase of a large project we’re right in the middle of at work. I left only half-assured that I’d have running water again when I got back. Slapping on an unholy amount of deodorant and sprucing up with my strongest cologne, I grabbed the movies I’d had sitting on my desk since NYE and took the 101 down to Tempe.

I’m a good saturday worker, which doesn’t bode well for my long-term sanity or ability to relate with others. I spent about five hours, missed all of one playoff NFL game and half of another, and got home just in time catch New England knock off Jacksonville, and to do my groceries.

If I ever needed to be reminded that Scottsdale is a city of pretentious jerks, doing my groceries at 10:00pm on a Saturday night is probably a good way to go about it. I can usually do my groceries in about 12 minutes flat, but tonigiht I didn’t know what to expect (who buys groceries this late? honestly.)

I push a squeaky cart from aisle to aisle and pick up the essentials (milk, eggs, peanut-butter-chocolate Lindor truffles), and head to the registers up front. There’s a line out of check-out row #4 and is about 15 people long. I can see a chubby kid with curly hair busting his ass bagging and scanning, and I’m calm. It’s saturday at 10pm and we’re doing groceries - it’s not like we’ve got anyplace to go.

A couple of women a few spots behind me yelled across the way to the chubby, curly-haired kid (CCHK), saying that he’d better open another line because there are a lot of people waiting in this one, to which he replied “The only other staff member is on break”, or something along those lines.

Whatever. People have to smoke, or use the facilities, or what have you. It’s nothing to get worked up over, right?

The women (middle-aged, blonde, dressed in lots of denim, a cart full of mostly inexpensive white wine) start throwing a tantrum. They begin (unflatteringly) emulating your stereotypical box-store public address system,

“Kchhhck, can we get a lane open on aisle five”

and when that didn’t work,

“Kkcchhhhhhkk, can we get a lane open on aisle six”

and when that didn’t work,

they walked past one of the roped-off checkout counters and demanded to speak with a manager. When they were informed that there was no manager on hand during the night shift, one suggested that they just get back in line and the other one opened her purse, slapped a bunch of money down, and started taking a few essentials out of her cart, saying “and don’t worry about the receipt” in her best, most facetious tone of voice.

The other grocery shoppers nervously shift their eyes to the scene, thinking the woman might make a run for it. Some groan, knowing this will delay their purchase even further.

The CCHK explains that they can’t do that, and maybe he used his particularly reasonble voice, because the less-than-crazy blonde woman told her colleague that they should just get back in line. The checkout process resumed, crisis averted.

When I finally made it to checkout (plastic, debit, $20 cashback for the washer/dryer), I said to the kid,

“Don’t worry, shit gets a lot better from here on out”.

So, that’s how I spent my Saturday. How was yours? 

Rain in the Desert

(Blog Soundtrack: Tunng - Woodcat. Open in a new tab/window and listen along) 

Phoenix is not a city built for stormy weather.

It rained fairly heavy the other day, and I thought how nice it would be to be able to use my windshield wipers for the first time in months.

I left the office for a bite to eat around quarter-to-noon and ventured o’er flooded sidewalks across from soggy buildings that never bothered to have gutters installed.

In Windsor, people drive thirty kilometers below the limit on the occasion of the first snow of the year. Here, people drive at a snail’s pace every time there’s a weak shower.

I’m feeling much better now, by the way. Eating my vitamins and holding down food just fine. Even the old snowbirds that inhabit the rest of my condo complex have taken notice.

I should mention that I play a little game whenever a stranger tries to strike up a conversation with me (not as often as I’d have expected, truthfully), in that I try to guess whereabouts they’re from. It’s the same game that I play in airports when I’m too early for my flight (certainly not as often as I should be). Everybody here is a transplant, and it’s sometimes as easy as picking up on an accent or hearing them hint at a sports team, but I’ll never work myself up to ask outright.

I think it’s because if someone were to ask me,

“so where are you from?”

and I knew they had no way of ever finding out the truth,

I bet I’d have a lot of trouble saying “Windsor” or “Detroit”.

But, I bet I’d feel the same way if I’d been born in Prague or Paris or Tuscany.

I haven’t the foggiest idea why that is. It’s just one of those nights.