perfidy

Well, maybe not to that deluxe apartment in the sky. But the Buckethead has secured new and more remunerative employment, and will be leaving the comfortable if unchallenging realm of the government contractor for the fast paced results-oriented world of the commercial sector. I will leave the humid and dank lowlands of the Justice department for the sunny uplands of a small consulting group. My early experience in a small start up several years ago was without question one of the most rewarding and fun times I've ever had at work, and I hope that this job will prove to be the same. And thanks to the extra money, my son won't have to get a summer job. Good for him, because the only jobs available for three year olds are either degrading or not well paid.

One key benefit for me in this new gig is that I will be able to work at home for a good portion of the working week. The reason this is key is that it will allow me to reasonably take on short term and part time gigs that were just not feasible when I had to be at the job site every day during business hours. You can't easily or indeed legally take a conference call for another gig when you're sitting in a government office cubical, and taking off time a couple times a week to tend to your side gigs quickly becomes suspicious. Now though, I can do that sort of thing without interfering with the main job.

While I have some feelers out for those part time and short term writing jobs, I would certainly appreciate any leads that you, my loyal readers, can give me. So you know, I have nearly a decade of experience as a technical writer in the software field, writing manuals, supporting documentation, help systems and web copy. Of course, I also have three years experience as a world class blogger. What I'm looking for is technical writing gigs, and journalism-type gigs in the software industry press. Any help will of course be greatly appreciated, and will certainly merit prominent mention in these pages.

[wik] Thanks to Nicholas for pointing out some word use issues. While you're thanking him for the quality of this post, go encourage him to post more than once a month, on average.

Last Friday, the Buckethead clan welcomed its newest member, Jocelyn. After a mercifully short labor, Jocelyn Anne regarded the world with suspicion, and immediately commenced to crying. Resigning herself to her fate, she abandoned that approach and began eating. In stark contrast to my son John who slept through the entirety of his first five days on Earth, Jocelyn has been occasionally awake, and feeding most of that time - so much so that she has already gained several ounces of weight. This may not seem like much, and in fact it isn't. I could do the same in a matter of minutes with the aid of moderately large pizza. But when you gain a twelfth of your body weight in a week, that's a rather impressive enbiggenment. The equivalent for me would be on the order of twenty pounds.

On the way to the birthing center, my mom made a critical error. She told my son that that day was Jocelyn's birthday. In an amazing and utterly typical display of cunning, self interest and the appearance of empathy, John made insisted that we should have a birthday party for his baby sister. I don't believe that he knew for certain that Jocelyn wouldn't be able to eat a birthday cake. But I'm sure he was confident in his abilities to horn in on any cake that might happen to arrive at the house. The other thing that his febrile three year old mind associates with birthday parties is presents. He knows that when, in the past, he has had a birthday party, people give him things. He assumes that when other people have birthday parties, they will give him things.

For a number of reasons, I assented to his cunning birthday party scheme. One, my wife likes chocolate. A lot. Two, giving John a matchbox car would distract him at least momentarily from his sister. And three, I could do this:

Happy 0th birthday, Jocelyn! And God bless the CVS for having that candle.

Over the next week, John has actually been really good with his baby sister. He says he loves her, he gives her kisses, and it's all very sweet. We only have to be careful that he doesn't try to feed her things, or crash toy airplanes into her head the way he does with me. Mrs. Buckethead and I are rather tired, as you could expect. She's tired because of Jocelyn, and I'm tired because all of a sudden John is waking up at O dark thirty every morning and wanting a Banana so he can watch Dora the Explorer. Hopefully, this will end soon.

And before I forget, here is a picture of the little girl:

You can click on both pictures for a bigger version.

I eagerly await the mittens that Johno informed me he was going to send us. When I get them, I will post more pictures. Until then, you'll just have to wonder.

The noble house of Buckethead is now 33% larger, with the addition of new baby girl Jocelyn. More details later, as I am really, really, really tired. And that is fresh as a daisy compared to Mrs. Buckethead, who is very tired indeed. I'm going to go cook some dinner and sleep.

Later that same day, as we continued through the exhibitor tent, we encountered the 101st Airborne’s booth. There we met a very nice young sergeant, who offered to paint John’s face. Not in the sissy manner of most children’s activities, but with camo paint. Here you see the sergeant, and the result:

Murdoc:

Having gotten our fill of things military, the next item on the agenda was a protest on capital hill. When my wife was pregnant with John, she (being the kind of person she is) conducted a thorough, not to say obsessive research project on all things related to child birth and child rearing. Whilst examining the topic of breastfeeding, she got on some breastfeeding email list and they had informed her that they were mounting a PR event next to the Cannon House office building.

It seems that a representative was sponsoring a bill to modify the civil rights law to include protection for breastfeeding mothers in the workplace. Aside from, (I assume) a normal distribution of gender in the fifty or so children there with their mothers, my presence accounted for half of all male participants. Also present were a goodly amount of comfortable shoes, caftans and high tech child mobility devices. While I couldn’t hear anything the representative or any of the speakers said thanks to a substandard sound system, it was my understanding that the aim of the gathering was to amend the law to prevent breastfeeding mothers from being fired for using mechanical breastpumps in the workplace, and to provide tax breaks for companies that provide special rooms for that purpose. I suggested that they be called lactatoriums, but no one was impressed with my creativity.

I was very disappointed in my wife, however, when she removed the camouflage war paint from John’s face. She felt that it might offend some of the more granola-munchy of the participants. My view, based on personal experience, is that loving breasts and loving your country are hardly incompatible, but again my input was not well received. I got strike three when I was not interviewed by the attractive ABC reporter, and was hence unable to use my line, “While I have not had any personal experience with breast feeding in over three decades, I stand four square behind the woman’s right to breastfeed.” Breastfeeders may have won a great victory, but the experience was a bit of a letdown for me. 

Today my son is two years old. After playing in the sandbox his grandmother gave him for his birthday, here he sits, just before holding forth on the tensile and shear strength of support elements in all sand construction. Later, in a similar pose, he lectured the family on the history of the sand castle, its persistence as an image of transience and instability, and its connection to the 'building on sand' metaphors in the theology of the Early Church Fathers.

The Universe is a demanding place. It was not enough that I spent most of a year groveling before HR drones, dutifully following up on every lead, no matter how tenuous, sending emails and trolling through the nether recesses of internet job postings. I had to demonstrate that I really, really wanted to work.

Last week, I started applying for McJobs. While I have been getting the occasional short term techwriting gig – a week here, a week there – the work was not dependable enough to provide any kind of financial security. So I figured a yob at Kinkos would provide a steady, if not large, amount of income to even out the feast and famine of intermittent contracting. Among the fine institutions that I petitioned for work was the local video store.

Last Wednesday, I accepted their kind offer of employment and free movie rentals. The Universe, now convinced that I was serious about the whole work thingy, turned the work spigot to ’11.’ Thursday, I had an interview with Northrop Grumman. Whilst I was interviewing, I got two calls offering short term contracts. Friday morning, Northrop offered me a job at significantly more than I was making last year. Today, I fully expect my last two interviews to call back and offer me work; and just to rub it in, I bet someone I talked to half a year ago will call back and say that the position I interviewed for is now open, and can I start yesterday.

Not that I’m complaining. After very nearly a year of blissful unemployment, I am ready to get back to the daily hassles of interminable commuting, smelly coworkers, cramped cubicles and (this is the important bit) the bimonthly ego validation of shekels in my checking account. The long drought is over, and now I need to google for whomever is the patron saint of unemployed and desperate white collar IT wage slaves.

He gets a candle and a beer.

Earlier, I mentioned that my son slept while Rome burned. I mean, while I blogged. This is what it looked like:

My two boys. Bodhi will always be my eldest, but at fifteen months, John is already vastly outperforming on the intelligence and common sense scales. They're duking it out for loudest though, a contest I am devoutly hoping will be resolved soon.
 

It has been a busy few weeks for the Buckethead family. When I was laid off almost a month ago I dreamed that I would have a period of rest; a time to gather my scattered mental faculties into a pile, give them a light dusting and polishing, and sort them into neat ordered rows. I would do the job search, obtain remunerative and rewarding employment, and rejoin the working week. But as my personal savior John Belushi said, "But nooooo!"

Once I no longer had the excuse of going to work, I was expected to increase my participation in the management of the household. I was able to get several days' respite by "reorganizing the garage," but my wife soon saw through my cunning ruse. But even Mrs. Buckethead had to defer to my new master, the townhouse.

Long time readers will be aware that the townhouse has been something of an albatross for me. While it held out the hope of gleeful capitalist windfalls, it mostly was a black hole of time, effort and money. (Well, let's be fair - it was only a neutron star.) We had finally reached the point where we could rent the damn thing, when the dark clouds started gathering at the workplace. So, we did what any sensible people do when faced with uncertainty - grab for the cash.

But the process of selling our spare house, begun just before I was pink slipped, has proved to be just as much a burden as trying to rent it ever was. Fascist homeowner's associations, recalcitrant plumbing and the prejudices of others have kept me working until my fingers are nubs. One particularly egregious example: just yesterday Mrs. Buckethead and I disassembled our fence, and then immediately reassembled it six inches lower to satisfy an obscure codicil of the association covenant. All the while, my son sat in purgatory, or what toy sellers like to call the Megasaucer. A thousand minor details must all be attended to, so that weeks later, you (cross your fingers) get the cash. I'll need to get laid off from being laid off, just to recover from this harrowing experience.

Then there was the trip to Vegas. Naturally, the first thing one thinks of when one is unemployed is, "Hey, I need to go to Vegas!" What better use for now scarce funds than to buy an airline ticket a week in advance and fly to an entire city scientifically and methodically designed to devour every cent you have, or can easily borrow or steal? Normally, my common sense and prudence (also known as my wife) would preclude such a journey. Thank god for extenuating circumstances! My dear friend Jeff (an actual rocket scientist) had decided after seven years of dithering that the right time to get married was right after I became a government jobless statistic. I met Jeff in 1972. I was born in 1969. I have quite literally known him as long as I can remember. And he asked me to be in the wedding party. I had little choice but to take the hit. I had to go to Vegas.

I got up at 5:30 on Thursday to get to the airport. Arrived at 10:30 Vegas time. Goofed off, found the bachelor. Went to the bachelor party at eight in the evening. Met some fascinating women with wonderful personalities and lucrative careers in the arts. Got back to my hotel at 4:30am, twenty six hours after waking the previous day. Got exactly three hours of sleep before waking to a phone call from Mrs. Buckethead, who apparently didn't think too much about time zones.

Then we gambled. And drank. And drank and gambled. We saw the fountains at the Bellagio, the miniature Statue of Liberty, the smoked glass pyramid, the lions at the MGM, and the Venetian, which would have embarrassed even a Sforza. Outside, it was Times Square - old and new together - on crack. Hispanic street buskers handing out hooker's business cards. Silicone. Elvis. Inside, all the wonderful and clever cheese that is a thin disguise over some rather merciless interior design. Every path leads to gambling. It's uncanny. Free drinks as long as you're playing. Silicone, Elvis.

Then there was the wedding. I could tell you that it had a Brazilian carnivale theme. I could tell you that the minister was a transvestite Carmen Miranda and a Cuban accent. But you wouldn't get it. This picture will give you some idea of what was going on - this is the happy couple perhaps ten minutes into the holy and sacred institution of marriage:

The reception lasted until the wee hours of the morning. I had so much to drink, I even danced. I apologize to all those who had the misfortune to witness that. No one was permanently injured though, which makes it one of my more successful forays into interpretive dance. (By this series of movements, the white male shows his alienation both from soceity and himself. He demonstrates that even his body cannot be a comfortable home for his soul. Here, this movement satirizes the conventional notions of grace, aesthetics, and athleticism.)

In my spare time, I have read exactly one and a half books. All on the plane to and from Vegas. I have pursued the job search thingy - In fact I have a lead on what would be a stupendously fantastic job; failing that, there are still several other attractive options before me. All I have to do is survive until next Monday (when the deed is recorded and I get my cash) on $6.00 and the change under my couch cushions. Then, big money. And I apologize to all four of my loyal readers, who may have noticed my absence and suffered for the lack of a useful reason to say, "Jeebus, what a deranged mongoloid fuckwit!"

So that's what I've been doing on my summer vacation.

Just a note to all the desperate people who keep emailing me - I am not this buckethead:

I will however autograph pictures if you enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope.

I now hear that 71% of the American public now wants the war to begin, quickly. The waiting really is the wearing part, though I think that early next week we may see the beginning of Gulf War II. My current take is that, barring major diplomatic breakthroughs with the undecided members of the security council, we will announce that we aren't seeking a vote because France would have vetoed it anyway, and then attack on the 18th or 19th. This will leave the blame for castrating the UN with France. I am looking forward to talking with (arguing with) my friends from Ohio when they arrive late this evening. While I have not discussed the war with them in any real detail (I don't get back home very often anymore) I hope that the "No war for oil/Bush is a fascist" type of antiwar argument has not seduced them. I don't think it has, though I am very, very curious to hear what they think about the ANSWER crowd that has been organizing these protests (unrepentant Stalinists) or the talk of plans for actively interfering with preparations for war. Or how they justify their opposition to the United States when the U.S. is going up against such a deranged mongoloid fuckw*t as Saddam. Or what relevance French opinions have on American security interests in the Persian Gulf region. 

Eminem is like Pat Boone.

What formal education I have had has largely been in Political Science and in Computer Science. One discipline is more or less engineering, the other is the red-headed stepson of the humanities. History, English, Philosophy, Sociology and Anthropology tend very strongly to the left. At my college (and Johno's) the only conservative faculty in the humanities were the two Political Science professors. The history department had two communists, and a liberal. 

Also, I read a lot of science fiction. 

So, I tend to look at history in a very judgmental way. (Many people now think that being judgmental and discriminating are bad things. But ask yourself: how far you would get in a day without deciding between things, or deciding that something was bad?) When I read history, I always think to myself, "Well they were right about that. That was clearly wrong. If they had done this thing, they would have been better off." This is why I like alternate history novels. 

I also take the same approach to current events. I look at what people are doing, and what effect it is having on them or others, and then judge. For example, I have decided that the Palestinians are a messed up people, who are completely wrong on just about every issue – and not just their strained relationship with their neighbors to the west. Someone once quipped that they have never missed an opportunity to miss an opportunity. Now, if someone were to offer me evidence that my judgment was incorrect, I would certainly change it. In the case of the Palestinians, I think this is unlikely. And that doesn't mean that I will never criticize Israel. 

You might say that this is likely evidence that I am a white, not very crypto, phallocentric oppressor of subaltern guano farmers. And you'd be right. The only thing that I hate more than Peruvian Guano Farmers is Dirty Hippies. And Norwegians.

Queerly, just as I was riding up the elevator after a refreshing nicotine break, thinking that despite a full time job, the endless labor of preparing my new house for moving into, and my old house for moving out of, and writing the great american novel in my spare time, and a wife preparing to give birth to our first offspring in two months, "now would be the right time to start a blog;" I got an email from my dear friend Johno, inviting me to join his blog. 

He therefore has my eternal gratitude for saving me the effort of creating one myself. He is my hero. At least until someone else does something nice for me. 

Like Johno, I am from Ohio. However, I am rather further to the right, politically speaking. Also, I am sans college degrees, though many people have called me the smartest "C" student they ever met. (In my defense, I did once get a 3.85 average one semester. It would have been a 4.0 if someone had warned me that the only way to get an A in Hale Chatfield's English classes was to write term papers on the topic of sex or death or both. I got a B+ on the mid term, recovered for the final, but the fat jerk still gave me a B+ for the class. But enough complaining.) I like long walks in the park, playing with puppies, and am a Gemini. I also think that astrology is horseshit. 

I fully agree with Johno on the politics, culture and stupid shit manifesto, though I should like to add "things that explode" to the list. 

[wik] While DJ B-head's first post did use the bold type that was to become characteristic of the blog's unique style and verve, note that he was so banal as to give his first post the excruciatingly bad title, "Howdy." Thankfully, he soon progressed to more innovative (and dare we say, cool) titles such as, "A quote from Ralph Peters," "Buckethead on France," and "The French." In almost no time at all, he became the stylish and clumsy commentator that we all love so much. 

This message from the Minister of Minor Perfidy: Thank you for your cooperation!