I Work Here...

One phrase that I am getting so very tired of saying is, "I work here." I say it a lot. Too much.

The problem is that I leave Arizona so much that I have to get hired and quit frequently. Since I am gone from the radio stations that I usually work for nine months at a time, I am forgotten and not known to the new people. Radio has a high turnover rate, so there are many new people that don't know me. When I get rehired I become a second class employee. I don't have e-mail accounts, access codes or security cards to get anywhere.

Just this week I was working some hours at WestStar Talk Radio Network. I didn't have any codes to the doors. A guy walked out as I was walking in. I started to walk in through the first of two security doors. He looks at me for a moment and asks, "Excuse me, can I help you?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks." He keeps looking at me. It's not like I was wearing a brown paper bag as a hat, using an extension cord as a belt and pushing a shopping cart full of plastic bags and empty faded Crystal Pepsi cans. "It's O.K. I work here." He was skeptical, but he let it go and left.

I then came to the second door that I can't get into. I ring the bell. The person there was hired just as I left to Hawaii last year. When she asks, "Yes?" I answer, "It's Jared."

"..."

"Jared...I work here..."

"Oh, come in." Keep in mind that I was let in the day before by her as well. And the day before that.

Then we have my lost glory at KFYI.

This is me back in 2001 when Pres. Bush came to Mesa. It was not long after this when September 11 proved to be the defining moment of the then new president.

This is the board I control that all of the audio you hear on KFYI comes through.

One of my small moments on air with the host.

I was recently rehired there for the summer by the replacement of my usual contact. He hired me because KFYI was short on staff and I was available for any shift. He had no idea what I was capable of. He had me start on a cruddy weekend shift with caution. There were some available shifts during my old shows. He did those himself. On my first shift he called to see if I was doing alright. It was a watered down, weekend, no-one-would-listen-if-you-paid-them, shift. I think I can handle it.

What I can't handle is getting in the door. Since I don't have a access card, I have to walk out of the basement, make a call begging someone will let me in, and go back down hoping some local vagabonds don't gang me while waiting. So far so good - keep your fingers crossed for me.

When trying to get tickets to KFYI's 20th anniversary party I had to try hard to jog people's memories. I don't think I should tell you how many people I had to sleep with to get tickets, but let's just say that I got 4 instead of the usual 2.

When there, I sat with the I-have-no-life-and-listen-to-talk- radio-all-day-and-talk-about- it-to-my-friends-whenever-I-can crowd. Not the best considering that I have worked on every one of the shows of the hosts present. During the celebration my replacement, Andrew Babinski got quite a few shinning moments on stage. Every time he came out the crowd went wild cheering for him. I realized that would have been me - and I gave it to him. I try not to think of myself as an ego driven, adoration seeking freak, but I felt a tinge of jealousy. I miss the notoriety. The crowd really gave all of their love for Andrew. The technical director never spoke to the host or took part of the show until I broke the rules and did it anyway. I did it well and made myself a part of his show. Andrew walked into my spot not having to break ground, he just had to try to be me. He took a gig that I invented and gets all of the attention for what I created. It's not becoming, but I do miss what I feel is mine. I just keep telling myself that mine is on it's way.

Being a temporary fill in every few months gets old. I think that one thing I look forward to is a future where I am known well enough so I never have to introduce my self at any business or attraction again. Instead I will say, "Do you work here?" Or better yet, some day I may get to say, "It's O.K., I own this place..."

Nothing...

"Michael, I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be."

Ron Livingston as Peter Gibbons in "Office Space" (1999)

It has been a good long time since my last post. You might have noticed that it's even more sparse than usual. So, the questions begs: What have I been doing that has keep me so darn busy?

Nothing.

Honestly, I've been doing nothing, and it's been everything that I thought I could be. I was so busy with my two jobs, many classes and (believe it or not) taxing social life that I was ready to collapse. My one goal to accomplish this summer was this: Get bored!

In order to accomplish this, I had to watch TV, avoid productive time on the computer (i.e. blogging), and avoid work in any and all forms. As of yet, I am close, but have not quite been bored enough yet. It has been relaxing and I am enjoying it so far. As a bonus, this time has let me reflect some.

One thing that I have learned in my stint as a bump on the couch is that TV really does suck. My parents have a satellite dish. They get about 300 channels. I don't know how but I honestly find myself thinking, "There is NOTHING on." And I stand by it. My mom watches all 12 of the Home & Garden style channels. I don't get it. She will watch 3 or more hours a day of queer eyes telling misguided s and straight guys alike how to spend $1000 on cheap, tacky and ultimately uncomfortable furniture. I have asked her why she watches so many of these shows since they are all the same. She says she likes it because she gets ideas. Why in the world does she need all of these ideas if she never does any of the stuff? Here's and idea, see what else is on? Or better yet, what else could you do?

My dad on the other hand watches the 30 varieties of Discovery and History channels. You'd think that after watching 120 minutes of how magnets work and countless others on science and history that he'd say something intelligent or stimulating once in a while.

I have discovered the wonderful world of spin-offs. Joey is the miserable excrement of Friends. It's low rating were just high enough for the brass of network hierarchy to grant amnesty for one more season. Yea...

But even worse in my opinion are the shows with the same name and a short location or acronym appendage. You had CSI, then came CSI: Miami, CSI: New York, and my favorite CSI: Mesa. And there is Law and Order, Law and Order: SVU, Law and Order: SUV, and Law and Order: EIU (Elevator Inspector Unit). The big difference that I notice...is...well...OK, I haven't noticed one yet. But I'm sure if I keep myself strapped in my Clockwork Orange Recliner, pinning my eyes open, and force feeding my mind this refuse then I'll be able to see some form of uniqueness in some of them.

I don't think I even have to talk about the vile spew of "reality" TV. Five minutes of Brittney Spears new white trash pillow talk or some Fox-esc dating/island/survival/sex show and you already know it's too easy of a target for criticism. I was at my sister's house the final night of American Idol. I felt sorry for my niece. I watched her face as they were about to announce the ditz as the new winner. She held her hands up to her face and held her breath. It was as if some fraction of her life were to be so vitally changed by this. I don't think she blinked twice when she found out her cat was hit by a car. It's ironic that reality television makes us numb to the actual REAL things that DO happen around us.

So, am I really doing nothing? Well, not if you count watching TV. I've heard it said that you are what you eat. Others say, you are what you wear. In today’s age, you are what you watch. Given what's floating in our airwaves these days that can mean only one thing...nothing.

I'll Have A Bloody Jared On The Rocks...

While in my trip to Utah I was able to participate in an act of raw male aggression. It was an act of primal instinct, competition, and survival. I went Paintballing.

For those of you who have yet to venture out of Plato's preverbal cave, paintballing is a "sport" where two or more people arm themselves with marble sized balls of paint and shoot them at each other with the aid of compressed air. Some evolutionarist (…well it should be a word…) have speculated that this stems from our carnal past of throwing rocks at each other to keep other men away from our food and women. When no paint balls are available we resort back to rocks (see Piggy from "Lord Of The Flies").

The day before we went my guide, Byron, announced a surprise wedding. The wedding was a surprise to both him and his bride, let alone the rest of the world. When questioned about his plans for his honeymoon he replied, "Well, we'z a goin' paintballin' tomorrow, ain't we?" I couldn't have chosen a more perfect mentor for this outing.

We drove out to the boonies, which is past Laverkin. Where's that? Past Hurricane. Where's that? Past St. George. Where's that? Let's just say we were not worried about hitting bystanders.

We donned our gear and carefully walked into a ravine. I was doing well when out of nowhere Jessica's mom hit me right between my eyes. I was wearing protective gear so the only thing hurt was my pride. But it was hit pretty bad.

After a few rounds I went in for a last jot before we called it quits. I felt like I was in Predator, except the guy wasn't an alien, he was only using a paintball gun, he didn't make any clicking noises and he could only see the same way I did. Well, maybe I felt more like I was in Kindergarten Cop. Either way, the moment was intense.

I had a great hiding location and decided to come out from my rock and face the fight. I turned around and began climbing up the hill as my opponent began walking down in toward me. Chaos ensued. He took off back up and I ducked. I knew my odds were not good as he had the aerial advantage. I decided to reach my gun up over the ridge and pluck him out without anything but my barrel exposed. I was so clever.

As I jumped up to shoot over the ledge I heard guns fire, I felt a barrier hold back my head. I thought I detected a chopper flying overhead and countless men screaming. It was the hell of war.

Something began to trickle down into my vision. I reached up. My hand got wet from the top of my head. I must have been hit. I brought my hand back down and looked at the dark red of paint...wait...was it red? I thought he was using some manly color...oh yeah, he had pink paint. Where did the red come from? D'oh! There was an overhang I had been under. The rocks were tired of being hit with our paint balls and being thrown around as weapons. They got their revenge.

I did the manliest thing I could. I put my gun up in the air and pleaded for mercy and I took myself out of the game. The upshot? I got some great photos!

This is what I rode in to get there. Yes, I rode with the power tools. And to think I got hurt once I was OUT of it.

If you look close enough you can see that I already am bleeding pretty bad. But there is paintball paint mixed in, so it makes it look even more gory.

It loks werse than it wuz. And I didn*t supher any birain dnamnage...

I'd like to thank old What's-his-name for donating the bottom 3 inched of his shirt. It was so dirty that it likely spurred on any infection, but it's the thought that counts.

I dripped like a leaky faucet for some time. After I stopped bleeding I could tell that I had somehow lost enough blood to feel like my head was about 3 feet off my shoulders. I went home and slept sitting up. The worst part was the next morning when I started to shampoo. It felt like I had a sensitive Aries rock affixed to my scalp.

Through it all I felt rush of victory, the sting of death, and the pain of war. I admit that I see the appeal of the game. It's all the fun of shooting your loved ones and none of the annoying prosecution that follows. I will return, and I will get my revenge on those rocks!

Roots...

This week I am staying with my grandparents in St. George, Utah. Don't worry, I won't change the blog name to "Sleepy In St. George" or anything. This morning I spent some time talking with my grandma about some interesting stories of our ancestors. I have to share one.

I come from a line of McGeniths of Irish decent. Back in the day where you would actually care about what goes on in Ireland my heritage was in control. There was an aging father with two sons and he was not sure which of his sons would inherit his kingdom. Once, while attempting to conquer a city, the King promised his two sons that which ever one of them first touched ground on the other side of the opposing citie's walls would become the next king.

The two brothers gave each other wry smiles with the assumption that they would be victor. The both took off in hopes of being first. One brother was well ahead of the other. As the second brother accepted the fact that he was behind the other he decided to take drastic measures. He pulled out his sword. Rather than lob it at his brother, he cuts his own hand off. He then picked up his detached hand and threw it over the wall. The hand landed on the other side, touching down far before the other brother and securing the kingdom to the more creative brother.

I don't know if I'd go to that extreme, but hey, he received many "hand" maidens for his efforts. To this day the crest bears a red hand for obvious reasons. I wonder, if I had a family crest, what would I put on it? Any recommendations? Maybe a red mouth always open...

Double Dipping...

So yesterday was Mother's Day. I got her a beautiful orchid to wear on her dress in church. I also got something that would last, an ice cream scoop. Not just any scoop, though. This was the best kind of scoop in the world! It's known as an ice cream spade. To me, it looks more like a miniature shovel. How tiring is it to just get those darn title dallops out of rock hard frozen delight? How frustrating is it working up a sweat to get a mellon baller to fill a bowl big enough to make the effort worth it? This family knows ice cream. We eat it a lot. We don't joke about it.

To my shock and horror, we had just run out of my favorite ice cream (Bunny Tracks) the day before. We didn't have any left of any other flavor either. I had to make sure that not only would my Mother's Day gift get use but that I filled my gut with that life giving desert. I called both of my sisters that live in the state. To each, independently, I asked a favor. Each promised to bring enough ice cream not only for my parents and ourselves, but themselves as well. First Ladawn came over and she brought two whole batches of ice cream both of great flavors. We ate to our content. Just as we were finishing and it looked as if they were about to leave Wendy and her clan came over with their offering. They had brought over four half gallons, each of different flavors. Oh, we were truly blessed by the Ice Cream Gods. The Deity can be so kind.

Both of my sisters were not too happy with my attempt at double dipping. On the other hand, not a soul that wanted ice cream went without. Really, I was just covering my bases. My two brother-in-laws not only seemed to understand, but I think that they were proud of me in some way. I think the best thing about having family around is that when you mooch off of them, even if it's to a far greater degree than necessary, you never have to feel guilty.

I guess this would be a good time to thank my sister for letting me drive their Cadillac while I am home. Now all I need to do is marry the daughter of a rich oil tycoon and I'm in business.