I found myself in a time warp, so I did the obvious thing and bought a bunch of postage stamps. Eventually I had enough to get myself back to 2010, but along the way I sent some postcards. I made sure to break the message into six parts, in case the Jejune Institute intercepted one or two of them.
Have you seen that film “Signs?” Do you remember the previews for it? Crop circles! Alien spaceships! Mel Gibson! Everyone was amped to see it, and when it finally came out, the theaters were packed. I watched it on opening night, along with a theater full of people ready for explosions and CGI. And what did we get? The only special effect was a black and white picture of a light bulb, and when the alien finally showed up, with about 2 minutes left in the movie, it was just a guy in a cheap rubber suit. They splashed some water on him and “aaaaaa!” the alien is dead.
The entire theater was stunned into silence. “What have we just seen?” they seemed to be asking themselves. “There were no explosions at all. There was never even a spaceship. Mel Gibson didn’t shoot anything. And the alien looked so fake.” In short, the audience response was wtf?!? Meanwhile, I loved it. Moreover, I was laughing on the inside, for I got the message.
“Signs” wasn’t an alien movie at all. It wasn’t even a proper science fiction film. It was the story of a preacher who lost his faith in his god, and regained it when tragedy struck and he was faced with the realization that all the events in his life that he saw as pointless tragedies all fit together into one cosmic puzzle that saved the day. The aliens were irrelevant. They were what Hitchcock called a maguffin; just like the birds in “The Birds” or the briefcase in “Pulp Fiction.” In “Signs” the maguffin could have been communists, or a hurricane, or an overdue library book– it just happened to be aliens.
Now then, while I thoroughly enjoyed the film, what I enjoyed even more was the fact that a bunch of people with no desire to see anything remotely intellectual were forced to sit through a two-hour long discussion of lost faith and redemption, with no explosions whatsoever. There’s something about such subversive cinema that really warms my heart.
And I think that pretty much explains exactly how I plan to change the world, but just in case it doesn’t, in my next post I’ll be less obtuse.
Moving day has arrived. I spent the better part of the day transferring all of my worldly possessions from storage into my new loft. Everything is now piled into the center of the room, and until I paint the place I’ll be living amidst boxes and disassembled furniture.
The new place is big and loud. It’s directly adjacent to an elevated portion of the local subway system, and trains run by constantly. They stop running at about midnight, though to be honest, the unit is insulated well enough that the noise is relegated to background status. But boy howdy, let me tell you– when I step outside it’s a different story.
In addition to the thunderous squealing of subway trains, a never-ending stream of semi trucks rounds the corner in front of my building, for the freeway that passes overhead exits a block away. They are en route to the largest (or perhaps second largest?) seaport on the western coast of the United States, which is just down the street, and visible from my windows. To add to the cacophony, the terminus of the transcontinental railroad system is just blocks away, so freight trains and Amtrak trains periodically clack by, blasting their horns.
I do enjoy the view– from my windows I see an army of protective AT-ATs surrounding my building. Beyond them is urban blight and hyper-industrialization, all leading to the bay; yet I see the Bay Bridge and the San Francisco skyline across the water, which makes for a nice balance.
Did I mention yet that this place is tremendous? It is so much bigger than I remember it being when I visited it. That’s probably because the previous tenant still had all her belongings in here. Seriously though, this place feels more like a ballroom than an apartment.
A ballroom?
Suddenly I have an idea. Literally as I typed that above paragraph, something clicked in my head, and the last pieces of the puzzles fell into place. I know how I’m going to change the world.
I’m blogging via my mobile phone tonight, because there is no internet access where I’m staying. Hopefully this will be the last such night for some time, for tomorrow, at last, I move. Two months of homelessness has at last come to an end.
I will revisit this entry as soon as I have proper internet access on my computer, or compie as I like to call it. I will provode a detailed breakdown of today’s demanding gig.
—
I now have internet access.
As I wrote above, the event was quite demanding, but in the end it was a success. I was the DJ, and the client had my music programmed in 30 minute increments. The event ran six hours, which meant I had to stay on top of things, which I did. At the end, the banquet manager from the hotel that hosted the event congratulated me; she said she’d never seen a DJ/ coordinator keep an event like that on schedule.
In addition to DJing for 100 adults and 40 children, I had numerous other duties to which I attended:
I had a second DJ on hand to cover the music while I acted as an MC. I not only made announcements, but also hosted half a dozen games and contests for the younger guests.
I had to run a Powerpoint slide show presentation.
I had my friend Freddy on hand as a photographer. We set up a mock photo booth, which was really just a backdrop and a photo printer, but it was a smashing success. Each guest who had their picture taken got a 4X6 printout on site, and we went through all 250 pieces of photo paper we brought. I brought up the idea on a whim during the client consultation, but now I am glad I did so; I’ll have to remember to offer this service to future clients.
I also suppled a videographer, capturing all the merriment on film. She’ll later edit it down and create a couple different DVDs for the client.
Oh, neat thing– I ran into Jerry, who was running the bar at the event. He owns a mobile bartending company. Years back we worked together often, but we’d fallen out of contact; I’m glad to reconnect with him.
I had to pay attention to a lot of details, and keep focused, but everything worked well and the family left happy. Moreover, though the event was trying, and in general I hate doing bar mitvahs, something about having Freddy and two other friends there, as well as running into my friend Jerry, made this feel different. I wasn’t alone, I was a part of a crew. I wish that were the case at more of the events I do.
In my next post, I will have moved.
Today was a work day. I DJ’ed outdoors at the U.C. Berkeley Botanical Garden. The gig was very straight-forward and easy to do. The bride and groom were incredibly laid-back, and barely gave me any instructions. They selected four songs that they wanted to hear, and otherwise left it up to me. The crowd was easy-going as well. I think the majority of the couple’s friends are hardcore role-playing gamers. There was much talk of Dungeons & Dragons, and the best man even mentioned having met the couple while playing World of Warcraft. The cake had some sort of fantasy design to it; it resembled a castle with animal-like figurines on top.
Here is a picture I took of that cake:
Easy and profitable though this work is, I feel I can do something more. I chose to relate the story of Arkansas in my last post, because it has been heavy on my mind of late. Is there no way I can do that which I am good at doing, yet change the world around me for the better?
In my next post I’m sure to be stuck at a bat mitzvah.
In deepest winter I arrived in Little Rock. Still deep in the throes of depression, and lacking any sense of direction in life, I considered learning how to repair cars, and setting up shop as an auto mechanic. So I befriended a mechanic and began hanging around his shop, observing his technique.
On my second day haunting the shop I talked at some length with one of the mechanics who worked there. He spoke of his wife and children, and about what one could expect from the job of car repairman. Physically he was imposing– a real juggernaut of a man, perhaps 6′4 and 350 pounds. But in disposition he was more akin to a cuddly teddy bear. Not that we ever cuddled, mind you. I merely mean he was soft-spoken and kind-hearted.
The following day he did not show up for work, as he died in an automobile accident en route.
Though I barely knew him, his death affected me greatly. It caused me to take stock of my life, and ask myself– just why *am* I in Little Rock, Arkansas in late January, contemplating a career as a mechanic? I know I’m capable of so much more; why let my life slip away in mediocrity?
For the first time since she left, I felt a stirring of energy and desire within my soul. I understood what I needed to do, and perhaps at that moment the initial incarnation of the Super Double Secret Party Planning Crew was born. I was by no means healed, but at last I saw a path out of the darkness. I took that path, and it lead me to Memphis, Tennessee. But before I made it that far, I was intercepted and detained by overzealous state troopers.
In my next post, I’ll DJ a wedding.
On my 11th day in Portland, I finally glimpsed a sunbeam. It happened as I left a laundromat. A beam of light was shining upon my car– a real, actual, visible beam, normally only seen in Garfield comic strips. I dropped my laundry basket and whipped out my camera with the hope of capturing photographic proof of the phenomenon, but to no avail. In none of the resultant pictures is it at all evident that the sun is shining.
That is all fine and well, and were the point of this entry the fact that the sun seldom shines in Oregon, then I’d be on the right track, but as the actual story I intend to relate centers around my car, it makes for a rather disconcerting opening paragraph. I should have instead began with something along the lines of, “While in Oregon, I dropped my car off at a mechanic’s shop because it was making an unusual noise.” For that is exactly what I did. Instead I will segue as best as I can.
Speaking of my car, I returned to the auto shop to receive the results of the diagnostic, and was informed that the noise my car had been making since I left Oakland was due to an harmonic imbalance. I received this news in stunned silence, for in truth I was not sure what I was hearing.
When the mechanic presented his diagnosis to me, I first thought there had been some sort of mix-up. Had I erroneously brought my car to an herbalist or a spiritual healer? An imbalance of harmonies sounded like a new age guru’s proclamation regarding my spiritual well-being, not advice from a mechanic hired to locate the source of a rattle in my car’s engine. It was somewhat akin to being told my feng shui was out of whack. Would the repair consist of readjusting the angle of the rear-view mirror, and perhaps placing an orchid in the back seat, positioned just so? Just how does one achieve harmonic balance in one’s vehicle, I wondered.
“Pardon my incredulity,” I began, addressing the stocky, bearded mechanic, who looked anything but guru-like, if one can even be said to look guru-like, for in truth, what does a guru look like? I’m sorry, I’ve lost my place, where was I? Oh, yes, I was asking the mechanic about the necessary repair. “Can this problem be remedied by adjusting the angles at which I park?” I asked. “Will fewer left turns do the trick? Or have I not been making enough of them? Is my ratio of right turns to left out of balance, and were I to bring them both into a proper proportion with my U-turns, will I at last achieve the elusive harmonic balance?”
Now, I’m not one to boast about my car, and I certainly did not purchase it to garner attention, but I mean, really, what is even the point of driving a 1957 Chrysler if it lacks harmonic balance? If evil spirits had indeed possessed my car, I intended to learn the means of exorcising them.
The solution turned out to be far more pedestrian than any of my conjectures. An harmonic balancer is a mechanical device found on older vehicles, and I had but to drive my car to nearby Salem, Oregon, for that is where the last of the harmonic balancers in America plies his trade.
As news goes, especially when the news involves the necessity of the repair of an obscure part to an on old car, this was more than a little bit fortuitous. The last living harmonic balancer could have been anywhere, so to learn he was merely an hour’s drive from me was utterly serendipitous.
In my next post I’ll jump forward one year, and be nearly a continent away.
I went on a date the other night, except I am not sure it was actually a date. I get the feeling she thinks we’re just friends, which I suppose we are. But by that I mean that I think she wants to keep it as such. Other than a complete lack of romance, I’d say the date was successful. We drank prodigious amounts of Irish coffees at my favorite bar in San Francisco, we walked around Union Square after dark, we jumped up and down in elevators, went to a bar atop a hotel and stared at the city beneath us, and pretended to be a couple on vacation from Wichita, Kansas when we interacted with strangers. I even spent the night at her place, but in a separate room. So yeah, not really a date, but closer than I ordinarily get, and that’s something.
Meanwhile, I promised last time to regale you with the details concerning “things to change about myself,” and so I shall. As even a cursory glance at any list of new year’s resolutions, or any sort of list of what people want to change about themselves, demonstrates, listers invariably focus on “diet and exercise.” I will naturally include those two things atop my list, and then progress to the pertinent things.
My diet has deteriorated, primarily because I am still in housing limbo. It is surprisingly hard to find good vegetables when you are eating every meal in a restaurant. Once I’m safely ensconced in a home of my own, I’m certain my diet will return to its normal, healthy state.
Regarding exercise, I used to have a fairly diverse, and regular, exercise regiment. I boxed, a sport that went part and parcel with fairly intense workouts– pushups, situps, skipping rope, and bag work; and hitting people/ getting hit. I played basketball once or twice per week, which was probably terrible for me in terms of the pounding my feet and knees took, but it involved running and so forth. I have done neither, nor any real exercise, since my first stint of homelessness. I reckon I ought to bounce around some.
Now then, on to the really important stuff:
I waste time! Again, this is in part due to my not having a place of my own, but I fear that once June arrives, it will be hard to break myself of my slothful ways. For four years I’ve been wandering around in a daze. I’m starting to snap out of it, but I fear it will be difficult to shake off these doldrums and immerse myself into work the way I once did.
I’m ridiculously shy. I need to embolden myself and just face the consequences when I fail. Even if it means pretending to be someone else, who isn’t shy, I really need to force myself to approach people and conquer my fear of speaking out. For the first time in my life, I need friends (I’ll explain why in a future post), and I won’t make them hiding at home.
Overall, I feel utterly detached from the world around me. I’ve touched upon this before. Nothing and no one matters deeply to me. I desire nothing. Which means I have no goal to achieve, nothing towards which to reach, and no real reason to do anything. Were I a lolcat, my caption would read, “Motivation: I lacks it.”
For the time being, I have my post-move homelessness to rely on as a crutch, but in about two weeks I will no longer be able to do so. Then we’ll learn of what stuff I am made. Hopefully some really, really good stuff! In my next post I’ll pick up where I left off a while ago when I described pancakes to you. In due time, I’ll kiss a girl in Rome, have a run-in with the police in Tennessee, see a movie atop a mountain in Colorado, and someone will die in Arkansas.
I promised you secrets last time; you may not like what you get. There won’t be anything here about romance or sin, drugs or alcohol, or anything of the kiss and tell nature. In this regard I am something of an anomaly– I’m a DJ who doesn’t like loud music, crowds, bars or night clubs. I’m a party planner and night club promoter who seldom drinks, doesn’t use drugs and never chases women (or men, for that matter). I may be the most ill-suited person for my profession in this entire industry. And yet, now that my extended hiatus from life is over, and I can realistically choose to start anew in just about any profession I can imagine, I seem instead determined to start from scratch at the very same job I fled four years ago.
I can already hear the grumbling– what is the secret? The secret is the answer to the question alluded to above; why the hell am I going back to work at something I can’t stand doing?
Because I am not. This time around, it won’t be the same. On the surface it may *seem* that I’ll be doing what I did before, but it will be a grand masquerade. I haven’t sorted out all the particulars yet, but I know what I have to do. I don’t think I can accomplish it in direct fashion, but if I hide it behind a facade of fun, a party if you will, I believe I can make it work.
In my next post I’ll veer off topic a bit and puzzle out some mundane personal issues, as I have yet to work out the particulars of how I can do what I need to do regarding my soiree of subterfuge.
I need to start by saying, “Hello, New York.” I am uncertain as to how or why it happened, but apparently my blog is being discussed extensively on the New York Craig’s List site. Everywhere you look, it seems, you see “Who is the Jack of Chance?” I’m simultaneously flattered and puzzled. Especially since I’m in Oakland. If anything, the discussion ought to be happening on the Bay Area site. Regardless, hi to everyone reading in the Big Apple. I had no idea *anyone* was reading this at all, so I’m glad to have you here.
As you may have noticed in the comments, people keep asking: what makes this blog double-secret and super? Funny you should ask. In one sense, this blog is anything but secret. I’ve been blogging since 2003 under an assumed name, and now I’m blogging under my own name, so it seems like a better moniker for this blog would be the Super Open and Out There Blog. But no, it’s super double-secret, because no one who knows me knows about it. Which is why I am discussing such personal things. Will this come back to haunt me? Perhaps. Do I care? Not really.
So now you know why this is the Super Double-Secret Blog. In my next post I’ll tell you some secrets.