My Life as a Blog

Coming to a theater near you: SlugLife, a movie 10 years in the making

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 16:16:34 GMT

Ten years ago today, this beautiful coworker at Orchard Supply Hardware asked for my phone number. Who knew that simple question would start us on such an epic journey, from California to Utah and back, sickness and health, richer and poorer . okay, poor and poorer.. it's been an amazing time. Anna asked me out to the movies tonight. It wasn't intended to be a special night out or anything, it was the best time we could fit it in. Plus, no anniversary of ours would be right if we weren't flat broke . look at that, right on cue for numero 10, we're broke! Some traditions will never die!
Two weeks ago before going out to the movies we spent a good part of the evening watching movie trailers. Watching a dozen in relative proximity to our decade Slugversary, it made me think of a trailer for the film of our relationship together. The scoring was easy, as there's a song that I've been listening to lately that honestly brings tears to my eyes because it really makes me think of Anna and makes me so happy that I'm with her. I tried to explain the reason the song makes me feel that way, but I know she doesn't like the song in the first place. But this is my trailer, so I'm going to score it my way. The song is "Fidelity" by Regina Spektor. If you've heard it, it will make this much easier. But anyway, here's my trailer....
fade in to exterior of OSH, sunset paints the building burnt orange. J is locking up shopping carts, but is unrecognizable at this distance. Another figure starts to walk up to him...
Song: "Shake it up.." staccato strings play as camera cuts to close up of J looking up at A.
Voiceover - A: "So, are you going to give me your phone number?" J: "Absolutely."
Song: "I never loved nobody fully/ always one foot on the ground...."
Cut to the inside of J's Mom's apartment, J and A on couch, they lean in to kiss...
Song: "...And by protecting my heart truly..."
Cut to J on motorcycle pulling away from A on the curb in front of her house.
Song: "...I got lost, in the sounds..."
Cut to Anna in EMT uniform getting out of ambulance
Song: "...I hear in my mind all these words..."
Cut to camera above window at J's dorm room, J's head sticking out in the morning light, A smiles and waves. Cut to inside of dorm, J and A under covers in bed holding each other, smiling.
Song: "I hear in my mind, all this music and it breaks my heart, and it breaks my heart..."
Announcer Voice Over: "In a world where love can pass you on the street, sometimes all you have to do is ask the right questions."
Cut to J looking out of order window at Round Table Pizza at A as drums start into staccato strings of Song: "Suppose I never ever met you..." cut to night exterior of coffee shop with J and A holding hands at table...
Song: "...suppose we never fell in love..."
Cut to J on motorcycle with A on back laughing hysterically...
Song: "...suppose I never ever let you, kiss me so sweet and so so..ah..ah...ah..oft..."
Cut to J and A in room in Yosemite kissing in bed.
Song: "...suppose I never ever saw you..."
Cut to J and A at the duck pond feeding throwing bread to the birds..
Song: "....suppose we never ever called..."
Quick cut between A on phone in bed at her parents' house, then to J sitting outside his room in the hall on the phone...
Song: "...suppose I kept on singing love songs, just to break my own fall, my own fall..."
Cut to J and A in crowded Christmas shopping mall staring at each other in tears as people walk by, fade to black. A voiceover over: "So, are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?" J Voiceover: "Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are..."
Song, Regina Spektor singing quietly, almost a whisper over strings and drum, with reprise, "I never loved nobody fully..."
Cut to A sitting on J's bed petting gray cat
Song: "...always one foot on the ground..."
Cut to A running out of her parent's house into front yard, with J following...
Song: "... and by protecting my heart truly, I got lost, in the sounds..."
Cut to J on crutches, sobbing against A in front of crumpled motorcycle.
Song: "...I hear in my mind, all these voices...."
Cut to Barnes and Noble interior with J reading magazine, A comes around corner with armful of books, J looks up and smiles broadly
Song: "...I hear in my mind, all these words..."
Cut to A and J at Shoreline amphitheater, A full of glee at how close the seats are to the stage
Song: "I hear in my mind, all this music...
Announcer voiceover: "The answers to those questions become a lifetime."
Cuts are quick now, fast-fade into scene almost as tableau in quick succession as the Regina Spektor's voice rises to a crescendo, the drummer opens the hi-hat and snaps out the beat with intensity.
Song: "I hear in my mind, all of these voices..."
Cut to J and A hugging on the deck of the Hornblower as it passes beneath the Golden Gate bridge, cut to an ecstatic A in graduation cap and gown hugging J on the green at Oakes College at UCSC, Cut to J in suit at top of stairs of the Russian Church. A, in wedding dress, starts up stairs with her father.
Song: "... I hear in my mind, all of these words..."
Cut to A and J in rented white Mustang, coming over a ridge as the panorama of Cache Valley fills their view; Cut to A carrying a turkey to a small table surrounded by J and two friends; Cut to snowball fight in the courtyard behind the apartment; cut to A in front of classroom teaching, J walks by outside, pauses to listen, smiles; Cut to J and A in airplane, A staring intently out the sun-filled window, J holds her hands; Cut to inside of same Corolla, J driving, sun rising behind, with A asleep with her cat, Shurik, asleep in her arms
Song: "...I hear in my mind, all of this music, and it breaks my heart, and it breaks my heart..."
Cut to J and A on the ramp of a U-Haul looking at each other bewildered as snow falls; Cut to empty house in Guerneville, front door opens, light comes on to reveal J, A, and A's mother in doorway; cut to A in the middle of the vineyard at Ridge, surrounded by ancient dormant vines; cut to J looking up from the computer to A, excitedly gesturing to the monitor; Cut to inside of club in San Francisco, De La Soul on stage, entire crown bouncing, focus in on J bouncing clumsily out of rhythm and A, in perfect rhythm laughing joyfully at him
Song: .."and it breaks my har -ar-ar-ar -ar-ar-ar -ar-ar-art...
As Regina Spektor repeats the last phrase, "breaks my heart," an ironic contrast to the uplifted mood cast by the song to this point, the cuts slow down, A, behind the counter at a restaurant, chocolate-stained apron on, smiles at J on otherside of counter; Cut to A, J and friends at outdoor patio, toasting; Cut to A standing on deck outside of house, leaning against railing smiling as J approaches, messenger bag on shoulder. He sees her and smiles. This shot is held as drum stops and he starts up the stairs as Regina Spektor holds the last "breaks my heart." Over-expose fade to white, as the title fades in slowly, "SlugLife"

So that's my trailer. Now all I need is to be able to get film directly from my memory and I'll be set! :) And if you think that movie looks good, you should see the sequel. We're starting filming tomorrow, and it looks to be even better than the first. I can't wait!

Sharp as a razor

Thu, 29 Jun 2006 13:14:31 GMT

I’m something of a razor whore. I’ll admit it. It started with the first razor my dad bought for me and went downhill from there. The Excel, Stealth, Stealth 2: son of Stealth – I’ve got ‘em. It all stems from the fact that my face actively dissuades shaving. I’ve got really coarse hair which renders even the best electric shavers to nothing more than expensive face massagers. Combine this with quite sensitive skin and you’ve got a recipe for disaster. Now, don’t get me wrong, my face really isn’t quite that bad. I know people whose face immediately resembles an angry puffer fish the moment you even pop the top on the shaving cream. Angry face. I’m not there, but I’m a few steps back the cranky-face spectrum.
The reason I’m writing this is because I have been trying the latest Gillette shaver, the Fusion with its Five Blades Of Fury. I should back up a second. Since its release, I’ve been more than content with Gillette’s Mach 3. Don’t ask me what it is, but the three blades on that beast was like shaving nirvana. It just worked. For me it represented a quantum leap in shaving.
I didn’t go in for their Mach 3 Turbo or Mach 3 Look We Put A Battery In It because I had found contentment with the original Mach 3. Thank you very much.
Then they released the Fusion. It had five blades. If three blades were nirvana, then FIVE blades must be some kind of nirvana Valhalla smoothie with an afterlife booster, right? It even has a little blade specifically for getting that annoying spot right under your nose.
I went to Costco and purchased the Fusion. As I completed my transaction a chorus of angels sounded from somewhere. The next morning I lathered my face up and dove in with the Fusion.
It hurt.
It did. I was so disappointed! But not one to rush to judgment, I have been using it exclusively for a couple months now. I still don’t like it. Where three blades struck the right balance between getting everything in one fell swoop, five blades felt like gross overkill. Even one pass left my face begging for relief.
I’ve still got some blades to finish with the Fusion, and I’m not about to toss them aside unused, cranky face be damned. But I am going to go back to the Mach 3. Sometimes more is simply not better.
So I don’t fall victim to Razor Lust again, I developed a clever rhyme to remind me of my shaving loyalties:
Blades of three, just right for me.
Blades of five, skinned alive.
Pretty straight forward there. Though, upon reflection, I’m reminded that Schick came out with some four-bladed thing... the Schick Phallus or something. Let me revise my rhyme then:
Blades of three, just right for me.
Blades of five, skinned alive.
Blades of four, are you an idiot? I just got done telling you to stick with three blades. You must be retarded, you moron.

I'll make sure I turn out the lights...

Wed, 17 May 2006 23:32:56 GMT

During the finale of any tv show that.s had its run and is calling it quits, there.s that moment where a cast member looks around with that look that says, .it.s been fun.. I.m a huge sap, and that always chokes me up a little bit.
I.ve been doing graphic design contracting for the last two weeks for the same company I put in my 40+ monotonous hours in tech support. The regular graphic design guy . actually his title is web designer or something, which isn.t very accurate but I suppose it looks nicer . is out on medical leave and they needed someone to fill in while he.s out.
It.s .contracting. and I knew going in it.s a finite thing with a short lifespan, but I fell for the job despite my best efforts. The woman I.m reporting to is going on vacation for the next two weeks and she mentioned that the guy I.m filling in for may or may not be back on June 1 . apparently his doctor says no but he really wants to and so they.re trying to determine whether it.s really in his (and the company.s) best interest for him to come back so soon. And that.ll be the end.
I.ve been dreaming that this would turn into something more. Praying that this could be my ticket out of customer service, but it doesn.t look like that is going to be the happy ending I was hoping for.
But the marketing folks know what I can do now. Y, who I report to, asked how I liked doing this stuff and I told her I.ve had a blast and that I absolutely love it. Who knows what lies ahead . maybe nothing, likely nothing. But it.s stuff for dreams. :)

Blog as confessional

Wed, 12 Apr 2006 04:25:52 GMT

Anna has been poking me to post and I think I'm going to try something different. I have had a lot of bees buzzing around my head lately demanding to be written, and its time to put them to paper so to speak. What follows will be a sort of memoir. My tentative title is "Two Wheels To Four," and it deals with motorcycles and me. Here is the introduction. This very well may bore most of you reading this to tears, and that's cool -- just ignore me, I'm okay with that.

INTRODUCTION
Though I never lost consciousness, the events immediately after hitting the Volvo head-on became a blur: lying on the ground screaming “fuck”; knowing without question that the searing pain in my leg meant it was broken; the nurse who ran over from the Starbucks and stayed with me until the paramedics came; the paramedics kneeling over me, discussing whether to take me to VMC or Stanford. One indelible image sticks with me and I cannot remember when precisely it occurred. I remember looking back at my crushed bike, lying on its side in a pool of radiator fluid and spilt fuel, headlight brightly illuminating the patch ahead of it. More than anything at that moment I wanted to turn the key off. I was a few yards away, completely incapacitated, and that task was an obscene impossibility. But the urge to turn the bike off was twofold and really illustrated the dichotomy of my riding self: “Turn the bike off, let her sleep, let her die,” and “Turn the bike off, I just charged the goddamn battery!”
Maybe it’s a reaction to the record breaking rains we’ve gotten this year. Maybe it’s the final sign that I’ve healed. Maybe it’s something else, more nuanced. Whatever it is, I miss my motorcycle and I miss riding more than I can stand. It actually hurts. Since that night, December 4, 2000, I have ridden a motorcycle exactly three times and each time felt more natural, more tantalizing. The biggest obstacle has been a financial one, though other factors certainly have also played into the equation, the largest being that I am concerned about putting Anna through the worry that I know will rise every time I throw my leg over my bike. It feels selfish to me and that, honestly, helps assuage the longing for a bike again. Last night I pulled out Melissa Holbrook Pierson’s wonderful The Perfect Vehicle: What It Is About Motorcycles to loan to a friend and opened the cover. The inscription was from Anna: “I understand and I love you. Anna, 2001.”
And she does. More than anyone else around me that doesn’t ride, she understands my longing to get back on a bike, to tool around the back roads of rural western Sonoma county, to once again feel that particular freedom only available to me on a motorcycle. Because she understands and she earnestly wants me to ride again, it’s not fair (or correct) to use her as an impediment to getting a bike.
As much as at any time, the financial hurdle is the biggest thing keeping me off of two wheels. While I bide my time and squirrel my pennies away, I feel the writing of this is perhaps the final step of healing. This is an effort to acknowledge the roles motorcycles have played in my life growing up, to honor that past, and to look forward to the place a motorcycle will fit in my life, a life very different from the one that abruptly crashed down onto the pavement of Hollenbeck Ave in Sunnyvale that December evening. In short, this is my life from two wheels to four.

Hug ME!

Sat, 11 Feb 2006 04:32:53 GMT

Your Candy Heart Says "Hug Me"

A total sweetheart, you always have a lot of love to give out.
Your heart is open to where ever love takes you!

Your ideal Valentine's Day date: a surprise romantic evening that you've planned out

Your flirting style: lots of listening and talking

What turns you off: fighting and conflict

Why you're hot: you're fearless about falling in love

What Does Your Candy Heart Say?

I.m nobody.s Grandpa

Thu, 19 Jan 2006 16:20:23 GMT

I.m doing a bit better today, so far at least. A lot of it has to do with my class last night. In addition to finishing the Never Ending Masters Of Doom, I.m taking my first class at Santa Rosa Junior College . beginning and intermediate Photoshop. It.s been forever since I felt I .knew. Photoshop, so much so that I don.t mind starting at square one.
The teacher. well, if Mr. Rogers were an Adobe Certified Instructor. you get the idea. So that.s a little annoying, and it.s also the first computer-related course I.ve taken where we.re not in front of computers. It.s a lecture format, which struck me as rather weird. Okay, I.ll deal.
At one point I felt rather old. Mind you, in terms of the overall age of the class, I.d say I.m the median, as there are plenty of older and younger folks. But the teacher went around asking us what versions of Photoshop, if any, were we familiar with. There were a lot of CS folks, and a few version 7 people. He got to me and I said that the last time I felt comfortable with Photoshop was version 3. There were gasps. .Wow, version 3!.
Okay. Look people, this goddamn program was first released in 1988. It.s not like it.s a goddamned antique. And, yes, I remember when Adobe bought it but that hardly makes me some kind of fossil.
The class, overall, was fairly boring as he went over the difference between a bitmapped image and a vector image, etc. But I do think this is the class I need to understand Photoshop. Oh, and Julie, the new marketing woman, is in the class too because she actually uses Photoshop here at work. Yes, I.m making sure she.s fully aware of my qualifications and that I.m ridiculously over qualified for customer service.

I Used to Carry an RJ45 Crimper With Me...

Wed, 18 Jan 2006 22:57:08 GMT

.along with a whole host of tools I used when I worked in IT in Utah. I loved it. Loved it. It was like a cross between true geek and MacGyver . let.s call it GeekGyver. Even when I moved back to Cali and none of the IT jobs I applied for even blinked at me, I still carried around my tools, along with copies of my resume. When I settled into my job at Advanced Telcom I audited my bag and left the crimper at home, along with almost all of the other tools. I remember I did feel a tinge of sadness, but I was working repair in telecom and learning an incredible amount and there was still that feeling of GeekGyver. Then, I was laid off and took the first thing that came up, a customer service job.
And here I am. What.s ironic is that this is the least challenging job I have ever had, yet the most stable. I get paid decently, my benefits are good, but my job is dull as paste. This is all covered territory, nothing new. Anna has said that if I.m not happy I can look for a new job, but I don.t even want to think about that until I.ve been here a year.
But now comes an unexpected turn of events.
I like the people I work with. They have been nothing but friendly and fun since I got here. Now I find out that two of my favorite people are leaving in the next two weeks. There are two things going on with this: first, it.s a major blow to my morale because I count these two in my top 5 people at the company. Second, as they are both fairly senior in this customer service group, this leaves a hole that I would not be surprised if I was asked to fill. It might mean more money. It would definitely mean more responsibility/stress.
From day one here, I.ve looked for the lateral move . where can I go in this company outside of customer service. There has never been a very good prospect of going anywhere laterally in the company . the positions I.m interested in are filled by long-time employees who have no interest in leaving, and the departments are in no danger of adding personnel.
So I.m here. I carry a screwdriver and a flashlight, which I consider absolutely essential regardless of where I work. I.ve traded GeekGyver for TPS reports (metaphorically speaking). Don.t cry for me, Argentina . as I mentioned, the pay.s not bad, nor the benefits. But there is something missing, I think. I think.

Zinfoot!

Mon, 21 Nov 2005 03:08:48 GMT

My foot looks dipped in zinfandel at the heel, held by the toe – a reverse Achilles, if you will. A foot is not supposed to look like this. Friday, on my way out of the house I was distracted coming down the stairs (our San Francisco-living neighbor had come in late last night and the back of his Ford Ranger pickup truck was loaded with what looked like bags of concrete), and I managed to miss the last step. I went down hard. My first thought was reactionary and speaks to how living for three years without insurance can change your thought process – “It’s broken,” I thought. Then, almost as quickly, “It’s not broken. Get up.” And I did. “You’re going to go to work. You have to.” And this last reaction, as I hobbled to the car in a lot more pain than I really want to think about, is not true. I didn’t have to – even when I got to work and my coworkers looked at my swollen ankle (which had swollen to look like a tennis ball under the skin) they told me to go to the doctor and then home. I can’t do that. It hurt, yes. But, contrary to my initial thought, it was not broken and I knew that. During that hobble from the ground to the car in the darkness before the sun had yet risen, I knew how bad this could be. I knew what a broken (really broken) bone(s) could be. When I had broken my leg I didn’t walk unassisted for 8 months. This was a sprain, I knew that. I could walk.

I did go to the doctor – Kaiser wanted me to go to the emergency room, but I declined after learning it would be $50 for that trip alone. $10 co-pay, and $5 for my 800mg generic Motrin, and I knew officially what I suspected when I finally got into the car – my ankle was sprained; nothing broken.

It’s Sunday and it’s feeling loads better and looking loads worse. I’m okay with that disparity. As long as it works, it can look like whatever it wants to. It’s getting to occasionally aching, and that’s my sign I need another Motrin. Otherwise it doesn’t hurt nearly as much to walk tonight as it did just yesterday, and much less than on Friday.
So I, Zinfoot, am content to hobble until the pain of the ankle and injured pride fade.

This is a bitter frustrated rant. Beware.

Thu, 10 Nov 2005 15:58:49 GMT

I.m more than pissed. .Furious. is an apt word
that begins to capture my feelings. My friends
are preparing to gather in SLO for a LAN party,
one that I.ve been planning to attend since it
was first scheduled. I missed the last one and my
frustration from not attending made me swear that
I would go to the next one come hell or high
water. It.s that high water part I should have
omitted. I even saved for this. No, it.s not a
lot of money needed to go down there and back,
and I.ve made arrangements to stay with friends
down there. But if anyone knows our financial
balancing act, then they know that it
doesn.t take much big waves to swamp our boat.
Tuesday the truck started overheating. I limped
it back home, confident that it was merely
telling me that its coolant was low . she had
been losing a little coolant for a number of
months now. Not dripping, mind you (we haven.t
seen as much as a drop on the driveway), but
losing it. Oil is clean, exhaust is clean, and no
bubbles coming up in the radiator, so not
likely a head gasket issue. All the same I was
pretty sure the coolant was merely low. No, it
wasn.t low. What.s more, everything looks to be
in good shape. But it.s still overheating.
Tomorrow we take the truck into the shop. Those
words strike fear in my heart, because we don.t
have money for that. But we don.t have a lot of
choice. Almost every part of the cooling system
of that truck has been replaced within the last
three years. I.m out of options. I don.t know
what.s wrong, and because I don.t know I have no
idea whether this is going to be a little sensor
I haven.t checked or some massive money
hemorrhage . money we don.t have.
So it.s into the budgets that we.ve delved in
search of any penny we can eek out for potential
savings. Mind you, we budget down to the dollar
because we have to in order to make sure we have
enough to survive. We have no credit cards, and
it.s times like this I deeply regret that. Then
again, I.ve been deep in credit card debt, so
maybe regret is too strong a word.
One of the most obvious places to get some money
is from my stash for the party trip. I hate this.
Hate it. I work five days a week at a job I
really don.t like, but that is stable and pays
our bills (barely). In addition, I work my
Saturdays at the winery so that maybe I can have
a little something in addition for things like
this party. And then well-laid plans break apart.
I.m frustrated because I feel like I.m working,
and working, and working, and not getting
anything I really want. Is that accurate? Not
entirely, but this is my 31-year-old tantrum,
goddamn it, and I.m going to fuss. Something has
got to budge. But nothing.s moving. I want to
scream, but that won.t do any good. I want to
rage, but against what? I.m feeling more
helpless and hopeless than I.ve felt in an
incredibly long time, and I don.t know what that
means or portends. I.m feeling low. This morning,
I opened the door to discover that one of the
pipes outside had burst aboveground and was
spraying water across the yard. Perfect.
Just fucking perfect. In the predawn light, I
pried up the cover for our water main and shut it
off . risking a $150 fine from the water company,
mind you (but we have no shut-off valve for any
of the yard pipes . that.s another long story).
For once, I.m glad I.m a home-renter instead of a
home-owner, and Anna.s parents have already
okayed the plumber to come out and fix it; Anna.s
off today and she is arranging that. But it fits.
It just fucking fits my mood right now that when
everything has gone to crap and that which I have
looked forward to for months is evaporating like
overheated coolant, it can, frequently will, and
now has gotten worse. Lovely.

Tiny Fuss, aka Clementine

Tue, 25 Oct 2005 05:23:53 GMT

I promise, I'll get bored taking pictures. Until then, though...

A Better Version of Me :)

Mon, 17 Oct 2005 03:42:02 GMT

Okay, I’m going to make an effort to update my livejournal more. My problem has always been a couple of things. First, it’s been my belief that I am fundamentally a boring person. Steady, stable, (often) dependable, but by and large pretty boring. I’m okay with that, but does anyone really want to read about it? My answer has always been a resounding, “No, no one does.” I’m not saying that’s changed, I’m just saying that I give less of a fuck :).
My second problem is that I think I’m a crappy writer. No, wait. Stay away from the comment button. Let me be more clear (see, as a writer I always obfuscate shit!): I’m not the writer I believe I should be. We’re always our worst critics – mine is particularly nasty – but I feel like I should be a better writer than I am.
All that said, I always told my students (back when I was teaching) that the key to becoming a better writer is to read and, well, write. A lot. The more you write, the better a writer you will become. Combined with a renewed belief that everyone’s life is interesting in one way or another – even mine. So away we go!

Doesn't take much to rip us into pieces...

Wed, 12 Oct 2005 04:49:50 GMT

My Mom called tonight. Her voice slightly hushed, sounding as if she’d been crying. She told me that Sue Dodson, wife of John Dodson who is the former pastor at the Los Altos United Methodist Church, died instantly in a car crash yesterday on highway 1. I didn’t know Sue very well, but I knew the intricate role she played in her husband’s life because I knew John very well. He shepherded my family through the very difficult times before, during and after my Dad’s death fourteen years ago this October 1. He has always been the most selfless person I have ever had the privilege of knowing.
The shock of Sue’s death was immediate, but its impact did no real damage; the aftershocks, however, have shaken me quite a bit. As I have said already, I did not know Sue particularly well, but what this death has brought to John, what he is going through and will continue to go through for the rest of his life absolutely tears me apart. As Anna said through welling eyes when I told her, “He’s lost his slug!” And he has.
T.S. Eliot wrote that “April is the cruelest month,” but I beg to differ. For me October has been the cruelest month, weaving together joy and sorrow: it ends with my birthday, and begins with the anniversary of my Dad’s death; School begins and it has always seemed like my new year, yet the trees shed their leaves, everything grows colder and winter edges in – summer’s end. And, this year, another point to add to the sorrow side of the equation – John has lost his slug, his soul mate, his other half.
I don’t think about losing Anna very often, and when I do I try to whisk the thought out of my head quickly; I remember too clearly the overwhelming, body wracking, consuming grief that comes with losing someone very close to you. Even the thought of such an event immediately brings the prickles of pre-tears to my eyes. The other day a strange dream had me considering the other side – if Anna were to lose me. And as if to underscore the point, on my way to work a buck strayed defiantly into my path on the way to work, an oncoming garbage truck took a sharp corner wide into my lane, and a highway patrol car monitored traffic half in my goddamn lane. We can all go at any time, I get it, okay?
No. Because sometimes we do lose those closest to us when we least expect it. Tonight I will hold Anna as we both fall asleep. I love her so much and I have always made it a point to tell her so as often as possible, but I know that should one of us go before the other the one remaining will never feel like they said it enough.
Somewhere between San Francisco and Aptos on Highway 1 John Dodson’s world ended, crushed, mangled. Sadly, tragically, horribly, he lost his wife. And now….. and now….
And now.

"New Media" class assignment

Mon, 03 Oct 2005 05:12:08 GMT

Here's what Anna and I have been working on for the last week and a half -- the re-media-tion projects. *sigh* they're done! I'm not saying they're great (well, mine isn't at least), but they're done. Towards the end we were getting a little punch-drunk -- Anna coined the phrase "Hunting the great brown toilet shark," for... oh, I don't know. Anyway, with no more introduction:
"Dreaming of Sea Anemones in Utah: A Digital Pantoum"(mine).
And Anna's
"Duality"
Enjoy. Or at least glimpse our suffering! :)

A Couple Pictures! Ooh, Pictures.

Tue, 21 Jun 2005 05:46:33 GMT

I know I haven’t posted on here for, oh, eternity. I’m not missed, I know this too. But I do have two pictures
First, there is this picture of my wife and her cat:

The thing to understand here is that Shurik, Anna’s cat, does not sit with anyone. He does not like to be pet, he is not a people cat. No, as this picture attests, he is indeed not a people cat, he is a person cat, as in only one person in the world he will snuggle with – Anna. And it’s damn cute.
He can be damn cute. Here’s another picture of him when he was sleeping and off-guard:

Note I have no pictures of him being evil and devil-possessed, which is his normal state of affairs. We like to remember him as a nice, cute kitty. Not Satan.

That concludes this post.

requium for my table

Sat, 14 May 2005 22:21:14 GMT

I gave away my computer table today. I intended to give it away as part of our office painting/space consolidation, but the actual departure
Anna and I had talked about consolidating our computers/workspace in general, “someday” terms. When my cheap 19” monitor emitted a pop one morning, we took it as an omen that someday was now. And then and now I still see it as a good idea, intellectually speaking. We now share one desk, one monitor, one keyboard. Though, we do have two mice (because cheap KVM switches don’t accommodate USB mice or deal well with scroll wheels), this now frees up a great deal of space where my monitor and computer were for more useful space allocation.
Hence the departing table.
But a little history – just a little. I’m not interested in making this table stand in as some symbolic link to my past. Okay, maybe I am a little. The history, though, revolves around the fact that I wanted this particular table for a very long time, finally got it and have used it for over five years now. It is a little worse for wear – the faux wood-grain is starting to peel, and there are five years worth of scratches – but it served me well.
I cleared off the table, dusted it, planned to take it to goodwill at some point this coming week, but dreaded all that would involve (disassembly, stuff into 4runner, reassembly, etc). Then it struck me. Throughout our neighborhood there are constantly piles of dilapidated shit in people’s front yards with a sign written in cardboard “FREE” explaining that you—yes, you—can turn one person’s trash into your very own trash. I’m being facitious, but our friend, Cindy, actually found a run down bread box that she took home. I am sure it has been lovely restored into a beautiful crafty breadbox, rather than sitting in their garage collecting dust (where it would be if I had picked the thing up. If I had a garage. Crap, I need a garage). With all the crap, a perfectly nice table should go quickly! I put it out in front of the house, and topped it with a working but extraneous desk lamp (with a slightly broken shade). I figured I’d leave it out through tomorrow night. If it was still there by tomorrow night, I’d make preparations for hauling it to goodwill. I got back to the work of clearing out the office.
Not a half hour later table and lamp were gone.
It was an abrupt departure. My settling discontent with it just reaffirms the space between the intellectually pragmatic situation of sharing desk/computer space with Anna and the practical application. Ultimately, I don’t mind sharing. But I do miss my table in that it represented in its silly way a space separate, apart, my own. A space of my own. We all have to make concessions, right? I’m embracing the intellectually pragmatic solution. It’ll grow on me. I know it. I keep telling myself it will. It will. Really.

Anniversaries of Place

Sat, 30 Apr 2005 19:21:47 GMT

Tomorrow is Russian Easter. I dropped Anna off at work (she’s stuck doing inventory today), fueled the car and started home to finish cleaning and load our bags (and Shurik) into the car; we will leave for the south bay directly from Ridge. As I turned from highway 116 onto Neeley my pace slowed to a crawl behind a horse trailer. This is odd in and of itself because there are no horse trails on this side of the river at all. I quickly realized that instead of horses, the trailer was being used to move people – inside I could see a pair of mattresses and assorted boxes where the horses’ tails would be. I had time to notice this because on the 30 MPH road that I usually take closer to 40, the small pickup towing the horse trailer was following a smaller blue Honda Civic, itself stuffed above its windows, crawling unfamiliarly along at 20 MPH.
On these roads that I know so well I can quickly grow frustrated behind slow folks. Not today, though. Not behind these folks. In a moment of clear blinding memory, I recalled navigating a 17 foot long Uhaul up this very road, following a small blue Toyota Corolla stuffed above its windows, crawling unfamiliarly along at 20 MPH. That was exactly one year ago today.
Well, tonight, at any rate. After an early start from our mid-route stop-over in Winnemucca, we stalled in Reno. An hour and a half wiled away waiting for the Uhaul crew to change our tire which had shredded outside Sparks. We then lost over three hours in the parking lot of a Travel America plaza while a different Uhaul crew attempted to fix electrical problems. Later, starting down past Truckee way too late in the afternoon, we finally decided to push on to our new home in Guerneville; we would get there tonight, regardless of the hour.
After taking a “shortcut” following the Corolla’s aggressive pace set by Momthra through Pocket Canyon (Anna followed me in the 4Runner, Shurik and Amaya prayed to cat gods as Anna tried to keep up with the wildly slaloming Uhaul which itself was trying to keep pace with the unnoticing Corolla. Finally, we reached Neely. It was past 9pm on April 30, 2004.
We followed Momthra tentatively up the narrow road. I remember thinking, “Where in the hell had we agreed to move?” as I had been to the cabin just once before, three years earlier. I recall seeing headlights following Anna. Whoever the local was would have to wait for our motley processional up the winding road.
When we opened the door, the cabin looked cavernous compared to our tiny Utah apartment. As we turned on the lights inside, the interior lit up, as did our future in our new home.
It’s been exactly a year in Guerneville. It’s been a hell of a year in Guerneville. The weather today is decidedly colder than it was a year ago, but I’m facing the coming year with enthusiasm surprisingly similar to that which I had a year ago. I’ve got a new, stable job. Anna is happy at her job. Summer will soon be back and we can swim. Things are looking good.
Instead of becoming frustrated, I smiled. When the Honda and the pickup continued down Orchard, and I turned onto River Lane, I silently wished the new folks good luck in their new home. I remember the sound they will hear only moments from now, the sound of tumblers in a foreign lock turning, a door opening, and light coming on in their new, exciting, unpredictable home.

Went down to the river

Sun, 17 Apr 2005 01:36:13 GMT

I walked down to the river today —No small feat these days. First, the path is still more creek than walk-way. After threading your way down the rocky path and carefully stepping on stones in the muddy little creek there is a new hindrance. The winter rains and the creek itself have conspired to wash out the path a good ten feet before the path previously opened onto the floodplain. Presently, no foot traffic has conspired to make obvious the best route down. So I figured out my own way. I tried leaping one way, and slipped. Leapt another and sank. But my missteps had brought me down onto the floodplain.
I had made it this far down when winter still had much rain still in store —before the path had washed out. At that time, the river had risen to almost 20 feet only a few weeks previous, and the bare, bleached sand showed just how far the water had come. Today, however, that same barren sand is a veritable jungle of lush green grasses and wildflowers.
A woman who lived father up the block was out walking her dog who ran up to me with a stick and wanted to play tug-of-war. “She won’t bite,” the woman said. I wasn’t concerned. After a few minutes, the dog lost interest and ran to catch up with her owner, already past a particularly high stand of grasses. I got as close to the water as I could and stuck my hand in. Still cold. Damn cold.
Soon, though—in a matter of weeks— it won’t be so cold. Then Anna and I will be back down here – with a lot less leaping and falling, I’m sure – with towels, in river shoes. We will toss our shirts and towels onto the beach, and leap into the river, embracing summer.
But not yet. Today, there was still a visible current in the river, and it was too goddamned cold. Swimming time will have to wait. But not much longer.

When the music stops...

Thu, 14 Apr 2005 15:29:18 GMT

It hasn't hit me yet.
It's starting to creep around the edges, but I haven't accepted that tomorrow is my last day at Advanced Telcom.
I won't miss the customers. I won't miss getting paid late because the damn post office didn't get my timecard to Kelly on time. I won't miss not having vacation, paid time off. I won't miss not having benefits.
I will miss the people I work with, and I will miss them a lot. That's certainly true with any job you have been at, I think. It's certainly true that I miss the people I worked with at previous jobs when those jobs went away. But perhaps this is a little different because when I started here I was a stranger - I had been in Sonoma county less than a month, I knew no one in the county, I knew very few locations or how to get around. I knew nothing of the telecom industry. My first couple weeks were a steep learning curve and the training was, despite the company's best intentions, severely lacking.
But I managed to thrive here thanks, largely, to the wonderful folks around me. Their friendly attitudes, and patient demeanors helped me with any questions I had, despite how elementary it may have seemed to them. I will miss them, and I do hope that we cross paths again professionally, as unlikely as that may be.
I worked my ass off here, too. I knew as a temp that my position here was tenuous, and I was going to make myself a valuable commodity. It was an uphill battle from the start, but I think I did well - well enough to finally be offered a permanent position. Unfortunately, timing is everything and literally a day before the final signature on that requisition was signed, the company was sold. Hiring freeze. Life in limbo until we found out earlier this year that we would be laid off.
*sigh*
It hasn't hit me yet. It may not hit me until Monday when I don't drive into downtown Santa Rosa. When, instead, I continue down to Petaluma and enter the strange glass atrium, and start anew. Until then, maybe denial is not such a bad thing - I'll enjoy my time with my friends as long as I have them.

Head vs. Heart

Mon, 28 Mar 2005 21:39:34 GMT

I had a phone interview today. I know, I know - I actually faxed in my signed offer letter for a different company this morning. But I actually set this interview up early last week before any face-to-face interviews at my place-of-future-employment.
How'd it go? Great. It is my dream job - it's a combination support/technical writing position which is for a small internet search company owned by Amazon. I felt the interview went quite well, and the gentleman said he had a few more people to interview and he likely would get back to me for a face-to-face interview. I'm telling you, this is my dream job. There's only one problem.
It's in San Francisco.
Not that I've got anything against the City. Quite the contrary, the only issue I have with it at all is that it is an hour and fifteen minutes away. Without traffic. That would be at least a three hour round-trip commute. Every day. (no, telecommuting is not an option for the foreseeable future).
What it comes down to is a question of head vs heart. The job that I signed onto today is steady as a rock, with great benefits, isn't much farther than where I work now, better pay, but it's not sexy. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The job in the city has equally great benefits, is in a field that I'm much more interested in, may not be nearly as stable (though it is owned by Amazon), and much, much, much sexier.
It's still in San Francisco, though.
In the end, I'll take my head over heart here. I'll take the shorter commute and less sexy/more stable place because it makes a lot more sense right now in my life. It's quite wonderful to have the potential of my dream job appear, but right now I'm more interested in stability for a while.

Take to the sky

Fri, 25 Mar 2005 20:24:18 GMT

At the end of my first interview on Wednesday, the HR woman I spoke with explained the company benefits package. I know I've spoken about my confidence when it comes to interviewing, and that interview did little to diminish my confidence. Nor did the second interview the following day. But when she spoke about benefits, I started to get scared.
A full-time, permanent position has been my goal since we moved back to California last May, and it has stubbornly stayed out of my reach. I can deal with that. But benefits are something I have not enjoyed since August of 2002, when I left Pinnacle to start the Utah Odyssey. Living without benefits means constantly worrying about everything. In Utah, Anna cut her hand bad enough to, under insured circumstances, warrant stitches. She contemplated doing them herself. We ended up going with a lot of band-aids. That's the most realized example of the worrying that I have felt since August of 2002. What if I trip and break something? Is there something wrong with the hardware in my bad leg or is that just a storm coming in?
So you can understand when she started explaining health, dental, and vision benefits that I had a hard time keeping myself from welling up. The Holy Grail was within reach…
My second face-to-face interview yesterday went even better, I felt, than the first. All that was left was my references. I sent the HR woman four references. She only needed the first - my current supervisor here. As I was told by her, her assessment of me was glowing. I was speaking with her in her office when I heard my crickets - the ringtone on my phone assigned to numbers not in my address book. Could it be? Could it? Please?
The message took an agonizingly long time to make it to my inbox. After about fifteen years, my phone chirped that I had a voice mail waiting and would you-GIVE ME THE GODDAMN MESSAGE NOW, PHONE, OR I WILL DESTROY YOU.
There is something ridiculously simple, and concise with the first sentence the HR woman left on my voice mail. So simple and concise that their impact did not register for a few seconds, like when Anna cut her finger in Utah and it took a few seconds before it started to bleed and bleed and bleed…
"We're ready to make you an offer."

Oh Dear Lawd Above!

Tue, 22 Mar 2005 06:53:15 GMT

There is a huge pot of heaven on the stove. The more informal name is lentil soup. Specifically, it's lentil soup through Anna's filter, and it is divine.
Oh, but you don't like lentils? No, I'm not going to call you a lentil hating bitch. Not yet. See, there was a time when I talked smack against lentils. Yes, I was known as a lentil hata. But I reformed, see? Anna threw down a bowl of sweet, sweet lentil goodness, and I had to testify. Dear lawd above, that was some majestic lentil soup.
Think like your favorite split pea soup. No, scratch that – split pea soup only wishes it could play in the same league as this lentil soup. Okay, but, wait, alright, take the most amazing split pea soup you have ever tasted, nay, ever dreamt about in your own personal food fantasy. Take that split pea soup – imagine it, there – now imagine Jesus Christ came down and laid goddamned hands on it. It’s no longer incredible split pea soup. No, it has become transmuted into something unimaginable. Beyond what should be able to be created in mortal pots and spoons. Oh, way beyond that.
This is the soup that’s cooling on the stove. It’s all I can do to not run in there and devour it in one sitting. It’s a lotta soup. A lotta divine soup. Yum.
So if you count yourself a lentil hata, I’ve got this to say to you: Don’t hate the lentil, hate the game. Or the legume. Or whatever. But try this soup.

Ode To the Sexy Kayak On Costco.com

Sat, 12 Mar 2005 19:11:04 GMT

Ode To The Sexy Kayak On Costco.com

Oh valiant blue polyethylene watercraft,
How I desire to carry you down our rocky path,
And present you like an offering to the river with a splash
Try to sit in you, and likely fall into the river for a bath.

But I would recover, and perch against your thermoformed back rest
Utilize your included paddle and begin upstream
Opening up new worlds on this river, new journeys, new quests
Joining the kayaking legions that pass us to dream.

Alas, Sexy Kayak, your watercraftian delights lay out of reach.
My job outlook is poor, though thousands of resumes are sent out.
Even with the time remaining here, finances leave us stranded on the beach.
Our pathetically small budget leaves us room to only dream about

That lovely day when an interview, then a precious job presents itself,
When we can afford groceries, bills, rent and have something left
To spend on ourselves, for things not essential or crucial to our health
Then, oh, then, Sexy blue Kayak towards the river I will carry your heft.

Until/unless a job comes, though, this plastic blue boat remains well out of reach.
For the sake of watercraft, and our financial survival, future employers, you I beseech.

Just one interview is all I need...

Thu, 10 Mar 2005 03:23:49 GMT

It wasn’t without warning, but the word came down yesterday that myself and two other temps now officially had a last day. This came on the heels of the three temps who had been there the shortest amount of time getting their dates a week earlier.
May 7.
And, again, it wasn’t without warning and, all things considered, it’s pretty generous to give temps a full 60 days notice before letting us go. All they really have to do is have Kelly tell us the night before, “please don’t come into work tomorrow.” So in light of that it’s very nice.
That said, I’m bummed and pissed and scared and nervous and worried and…. *sigh*
I wouldn’t be so scared had one of the countless resumes that I’ve sent out solicited a single phone call. But none have. I have received a few “We got your resume” emails and a few snail-mail postcards and such. Those are nice because at least it doesn’t completely feel like my resume is sent out into some gaping maw whose gravity is such that once a resume enters it will never be heard from again. But I’d love a call. And an interview? Oh, I drrreeeeeaaaam of an interview! I’m absolutely confident that if I could get an interview anywhere I could get the job. Period. Why am I so certain?
I’ve had a great number of intimidating interviews in my relatively short life, but here’s a Top Five List of The Most Intimidating Interviews:
5. The Never-Ender
I start with The Never-Ender which was with a company in Mountain View. The interview itself wasn’t terribly bad, but it went on and on and on. Anna drove me to the interview because she was going to her final presentation for a class at the JC… in a few hours. The interview was me being informally interviewed by a succession of people one after the other trying to gauge my technical knowledge level. I tried to leave, too, because I knew Anna’s time was running out, but it was stay or no job, and the job I had made Office Space’s Innatech look tame. Time having run out, eventually Anna left. I came out of the interview finally, a good three hours after it started. The sun had fallen. Anna was gone. I was in a suit. I ended up walking the four miles to her JC in loafers. I do not recommend this exercise.
While I actually turned this job down (got a better paying job a few days later), I ended up coming back after getting laid off a couple years later. That interview? twenty minutes. Guess they felt bad for the first one.
4. TCP/IWhat?
This is easily the worst interview I have ever had – and I judge worst on several levels: worst prepared, worst adlibbed, worst worst worst.
I’ll set the scene: it’s 1997 and evening is falling in Saratoga as I pull into the parking lot of a really swank office complex. Everyone else had gone home for the afternoon, it was just myself and the lead tech writer. Honestly, I don’t remember the name of the place, only that the place had TCP/IP in its name – this is important because the first question asked of me was “Do you know what TCP/IP stands for?” I didn’t. I panicked. I stammered. I failed horribly. Yes, I had used TCP/IP, but I didn’t know the first thing about what it was. I think I looked at their website a few minutes before leaving for the interview and that was it. The guy was rather nice about the whole thing, and when the interview drew to a merciful premature end, he said I was the first interview for the job and that if he wanted a second interview he’d call me. Needless to say, there was no second interview.
3. Who is this guy and why am I here?
This qualifies as the weirdest interview, or at least close to it. It was for another tech writing position, or so I thought. The interviewer was a friend of a friend. He knew in advance that I didn’t have a lot of first-hand knowledge of the product so instead he said he wanted to judge “how I thought.” He asked me to diagram on a white board how I would go about determining how many light bulbs there are in the US. No, this was not a light bulb company, it was an ISP. Then he asked me to do the same thing determining how many tortillas are consumed in this country a month. Excuse me, WHAT THE FUCK?! Didn’t get that one. Hell, I’m still not sure I wasn’t interviewing for some sick Silicon Valley version of Punk’d.
2. Seven editors and me in the middle.
“So, you want to be a journalist,” was my introduction here. I had applied for an internship at City on a Hill Press at UCSC and was there for an interview which consisted of little ol’ me sitting in a short chair in the middle of a semi-circle of editors in tall chairs hammering me with questions. For ambiance, add that this was in the “Stonehouse,” one of the original ranch buildings that was, well, made of stone. Throw in ancient PCs and GoodWill furniture and poor lighting and you’ve got a pretty good idea what it was like.
I did get the position, though.
1. Three morticians in a broom closet.
This is the reason I’m not afraid of any interview. Let’s go back to my senior year of high school and I applied for a Rotary scholarship. The interview committee consisted of not one, not two, but – count ‘em – THREE local morticians complete in dark-suited mortician garb. Two of the morticians were trained by DEATH HIMSELF, and looked like they were vying to replace the grim reaper. The third was one of the old guy’s son, and by their measure he was quite animated, but that’s not saying much. The only room available in the school office was a converted broom closet. I kid you not. So here are three morticians and myself in a broom closet. I didn’t think the interview went spectacular, but it really was like reading marble trying to glean anything from these guys. I got the scholarship. I remember the awards ceremony where they announced the winners from the other schools in the area – they were straight A students off to attend Ivy League schools. Then there was me, a B+/A- student going to UCSC. I guess I really nailed that interview after all.
*sigh*
This walk down memory lane has been fun. I do plan to send out about a million more resumes before May 7th. Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully, something will come through. Just give me the interview. All I need is a single interview.

My "Day Off"

Mon, 07 Mar 2005 23:56:54 GMT

A while back I split my days off so I could spend Sundays and Wednesdays with Anna - matching the days she gets off. Naturally there are both ups and downs - twice as many "Fridays" but also twice as many "Mondays". Sometimes, though, Anna has to work Wednesday or Sunday and then I have a day off to spend by myself - usually cleaning or doing housework, but Anna does the same thing when she has a day off, so all's fair in love and housework. This last weekend, Anna had to work both weekend days at the barrel tasting event.
The winery anticipated the weekend's craziness by even asking me if I would work on Saturday. Mind you I have never worked at a winery. Nonetheless I would have, but I had to work here. Saturday came and left Anna completely exhausted. Driving home my cell phone rang. I picked it up and Anna's phone stayed alive long enough to transmit her frantic, broken plea: "….order….pizza!…." Pizza was ordered.
Over Pizza on Saturday night, Anna indicated that her boss asked me to work on Sunday if I could. I decided to spend the day at the winery working with Anna rather than at home by myself. A good and sound decision, I might add.
It didn't hurt that I had the easy job - greeting customers, telling them to start at the bar, then proceed through the barrel room and finish outside on the patio. Besides that I had to empty the spittoons and fill the water pitchers every half hour. I was told there weren't nearly the number of customers that they had on Saturday, so that made my life easier. I got a hat, too! I have been told I will be paid in wine, but by the time they closed no one felt like thinking about wine anymore. My wine will be forthcoming, and that's all that's important.
It was a fun experience and in my one day I got a cross-section of the myriad customers Anna always talks about - there were the ones who marvel at the building asking when it was built (completed two years ago). There were the countless customers who remark "You have a beautiful view," as if you may not have noticed it yourself. There were the belligerent drunks, and the belligerent wine club members - the two have a lot in common in terms of bullheadedness (god forbid you get a belligerent drunk wine club member, which happens), there were lots of expensive cars, and expensive plastic surgery on display. It was an experience, to say the least! As closing approached and the sun started to fall while the blood alcohol rose, I learned a valuable lesson: Nothing says "You've had too much to drink" like breaking your wineglass in the bathroom. Two were broken in the bathrooms.
They're having another big event in the not so distant future. Maybe they'll ask me back!

Right Place, Wrong Time?

Tue, 01 Mar 2005 20:13:51 GMT

I should be writing my cover letter for the most recent resume I'm sending off, and I will in a moment. I have been meaning to jot down a few thoughts here and I think it will help ease my mind to work through this a little bit. Sending off the resume, however, has taken on added importance because they gave three of the five temps 60 days notice. I was temp number four, so my countdown has not yet started, but it might as well have….
Yesterday Anna mentioned that she was thinking about moving to Salt Lake City, Utah because there are teaching opportunities for her out there, which there are not here.
Ultimately it comes down to right-brain versus left-brain. The left-brain argues that it makes a lot of sense to move back to Utah. SLC is not Logan, and many of the complaints we had about Logan (isolated, very conservative, severe weather) are lessened or nonexistent in SLC. Anna could make a lot more money teaching there than she could make doing anything here. In addition, she could pursue a career (teaching) as opposed to working a "job." As for me, Anna reminds me I need to figure out what I want to do with my life and career. This is true. It's also true that SLC is a smaller tech pond than CA. That said, there are a lot fewer fish as well. Rent is significantly less than what we pay now, as is cost of living. These are arguments my left-brain makes, and they're very good arguments.
My right-brain, on the other hand reminds me that it would break my heart to move away from our incredible cabin in the forest on the river where we finally planted our roses, believing, to steal a Mormon phrase, that this was the place. Anna called it a "gilded cage," and she's completely correct - the job market is so poor up here that we have not been able to do any of the things we moved back here to do, and things do not look to be improving any. Dozens of resumes out, not one bite. Not a nibble. We're even talking about me getting a job in the south bay - because the job market is better - and I would live with her family or my mom during the week and come back up on the weekend. What's the purpose in that? What is living here if we can't live?
That's the problem we're in. Move to Utah because it makes prudent sense, or stay here and hope something comes along….
When we moved here there were a number of clues, déjà vu like pieces that clicked into place, which told me we were moving to the right place. Now I'm wondering whether it indeed is the right place, but perhaps this is the wrong time.
If any of the countless employers I've sent my resume to are reading this (which I know they are not), just a phone call, an acknowledgement, would go a hell of a long way towards encouraging the argument of my right-brain.