The Digression Lives! Elsewhere!

Here's some exciting news to all of my faithful readers! Both of them!

After a couple months off from posting to my other blog, The Digression, I am happy to announce that The Digression is back online! Wahoo!

Well, sort of.

Actually, the physical incarnation of this blog will officially end here, but the basic idea of this blog will live on at another site. Same idea but improved! A "The Digression 2.0", if you will.

For one thing, I'm able to use the name I actually wanted to use in the first place, but was already taken on Blogger. For another thing, I'm widening the scope of it just a tad which I'm hoping will keep my inspiration fresh.

All of my faithful readers (both of them) may see a few posts from this 1.0 blog showing up on the 2.0 from time to time. Don't worry, though. I'll try to keep it populated with mostly original ideas.

The new site, Scroggles, is the brainchild of my entrepreneurially (wow - my fingers need to rest a moment after that word) minded friend, whose blog can also now be found at this new paradise for bloggers. The site is in its infancy, but we're all hoping for some great things from a range of creative and dedicated authors - and, occasionally, from me, too. Who knows? Scroggles could be the next blogging powerhouse! And you can say you knew us all in the beginning.

And now, without further ado, here is the link to the resurrected blog:

Digressions and Other Inconsistencies

Thanks for reading! Now go read the new one!

San Francisco Disappears. Bush Blamed.

In our trip to SF so far, yesterday was probably the highlight. We rented a couple of bikes near Fisherman's Wharf, and biked a few miles along the coast, then over the Golden Gate Bridge, and on into Sausulito, where we had some lunch, hung out for a while, then took the ferry back to Fisherman's Wharf. A very relaxing afternoon.


Unfortunately, I have serious news to present you. On the way to Sausalito, we got onto the bridge, expecting to look back, and see the entire SF skyline, with its rolling hills of high-rises, and its rows of piers. Instead, all we saw was the following. Please sit down before viewing these shocking pictures:











You guessed it. San Francisco had completely dropped off the face of the earth, replaced by a soupy, lugubrious void. Officials on the bridge were as shocked as the rest of us tourists, not hesitating to blame Bush and his outrageous policies for its disappearance - that, and the fact that LA had beat the Giants nine straight times, and that one of the cop's daughters had an unusually bad cold. "The sooner we get him out of office," the cop declared, "the sooner we stop needlessly losing random American cities to soupy, lugubrious voids."

Luckily, we were able to get out of SF and on to the bridge before the tragedy occurred. We're still trying to calm down from the disaster. However, we did get some nice shots that reminded me somewhat of The Neverending Story's "The Nothing". The Golden Gate Bridge itself was also as spectacular as all the pictures seemed to suggest. It was really neat to be able to bike over that thing, and take in the spectacle all around us.

When we got to Sausalito, instead of having to search for one of three parking spaces left in town like each of the 2,498 cars that were frantically looking, we just locked up our bikes, and had a very nice lunch at Cafe Tutti. The ferry ride back was rather chilly and windy, but it was pleasant enough. Yes, that's right: Back to SF. Believe it or not, SF had reappeared just in time for us to return to the wharf. Admittedly, it's a very strange and lugubrious coincidence, but we weren't complaining. When we got back to our hotel room, the fog had rolled in over the city, giving us some neat views of the place.

All in all, a nice day. The bikes were definitely the way to see the Golden Gate Bridge. Scenic, relaxing, and completely separated from the harried and lugubrious automobile rat race.

I'll keep you posted as the trip continues to develop.

San Francisco and the Latest in RST

Mindy and I got up at 3:50 in the morning on Tuesday to drive to Denver International Airport, which is located in western Kansas, so we could catch a 7:00 am flight to San Francisco. Up to that point, the concept of "3:50" was an untested theory in my mind. Much like the theory that states that people with seven fingers on one hand have an easier time ordering drinks at a local bar, I knew 3:50 existed, I just hadn't ever seen it. (What, you mean you haven't heard the one about seven fingered people?) I regret to inform you that 3:50 does, in fact, exist, with all the bleary-eyed, phlegm filled grunting, half-conscious stumbling about that accompanies being awake at such a ridiculously early time of day. Honestly, if I had...


(Excuse me for the interruption, but I actually started this post to talk about San Francisco, and I've already droned on about "3:50" for an entire paragraph. Seeing as how it could take another couple of volumes to get to where I describe the front door on the jet we flew in explicit detail, I'll go ahead and fast forward to arriving in San Francisco. Sorry for the inconvenience.)

...And, then, when the sun finally did explode, what was left of our civilization had to quickly evacuate to the starship that was...

(Whoa! That was a bit too far. Pardon me while I rewind a bit.)

...then we stepped off the plane, and felt the cool moist breeze brush our faces, and we inhaled deeply. It felt good to be someplace cool. I was almost as amazed at the beautiful weather as I was when I discovered how exactly round the window was in the jet's front door, like I was telling you about before.

We took the Bay Area Rapid Transit (called BART, like some goofy but lovable dog) train from the airport all the way to downtown SF, right across the street from the Civic Center. It was interesting to see an entire hillside of row houses as the BART sailed along for one of the short distances that it was actually not underground. For the rest of the trip, we were in a featureless tunnel, and were treated to a heinous ear splitting squeal that sounded to me as if half of the wheels underneath were hopelessly jammed, and were being dragged across the rails by the rest of the train until they were superheated, glowing white, and ready to burn through the tunnel causing a massive explosion that would rip the train apart, leaving no survivors. In other words, it was a lot like a metal concert I went to, once, only it was more in tune than the band. Which reminds me that...

(Fast forwarding, fast forwarding...)

To get to Pier 39 the next morning, we decided to take the historic F Line from Market Street, and up the coast to the Pier. The F Line is part of SF's "Muni" transportation system. This particular system uses actual functioning street cars from around the world that have been restored, and put back in service. The cars date anywhere from the turn of the century to the early 1950's. It's actually pretty neat to see all these different cars from the pages of history clunking, creaking, and lurching their way down the street, leashed to the power lines above them. What wasn't neat was being tightly packed into those streetcars with so many other people that the bus driver advised us that there would be more room if we took turns breathing. (This is what SF'S "Muni" refers to as "Rolling Breath Outs", or "RoBO". They also came up with "BART". I'm looking in to whether or not they inflicted "BOOGER" on us.)

Imagine a shopping mall with mostly seafood restaurants, local stores (as opposed to the mega-chains), and a lot of boats tied up at a pier next door, and you have Pier 39, which is apparently the third most popular destination in America, behind Disneyland, and some other amazing tourist spot whose name escapes me at the moment, although I think it might be Carl's Jr.

It was fun. It was sunny and cool, and had that intoxicating moisture in the air that wafted up from the bay and massaged my face into a dumb smile. Mostly, though, I questioned whether or not it should be the "Third most popular destination in America".

That is, until we got to the "Turbo Ride 4D" store in a corner of Pier 39 next to the double-decker merry-go-round. Turbo Rider 4D was a virtual amusement park that offered the latest in RST - that's "Ride Simulation Technology". (SF's mass-transit allegedly wanted to use that name, but it had already been taken, forcing them to settle for "BART".) You see, these days, in our fast-paced, highly efficient society, it's no longer acceptable to spend the money and the resources building an amusement park ride. Instead, you build a dark room resembling a theater, put a couple rows of moving chairs in it, give the people 3D glasses, and simulate an amusement park ride. Kind of funny when you think about it. In all honesty, though, you couldn't be whisked to an island filled with dinosaurs, or take a ride down an insanely dangerous lumber processing factory in real life, so I guess that's something that RST has over a roller coaster. And, yes, I'll admit giggling a few times, and grabbing on to the arm rests when our virtual log plunged over a virtual cliff.

Right now, Mindy and I are back at the hotel room in the heart of San Francisco, resting our feet after taking the F Line back, and enjoying the endless honking that is apparently a legal obligation of driving in downtown SF. Tomorrow, we plan to rent a couple of bikes, and bike across the Golden Gate Bridge, where we will be treated to spectacular views of the city, and some very old, very large Redwood trees. Should be fun. I'll keep you posted.

From the Archives: Sealed for Your Frustration

Today, we explore the hidden conspiracy that I tried to expose concerning the corporations versus the consumers. Not surprisingly, I nobody took this threat seriously. Nevertheless, I hope you find this issue as important and thought provoking as I did.

Sealed for Your Frustration
Originally posted July 10, 2005

Resigned (In More Ways than One)

I've never really enjoyed stumbling onto a blog where the author talks endlessly about himself, and bemoans his very existence. Besides being filled with details that mean nothing to me, I usually find myself getting depressed when I read.

That won't stop me from churning out a sigh-fest of my own today. Consider yourself warned.

I turned in my letter of resignation to a company for whom I've worked for eight years.

This job was supposed to be a temporary job until I could find "real" work as a musician. The unfortunate thing - don't laugh when I say this - was that the job was too good. Here I was, right out of college, just starting to realize that college was no longer my reason for existence, and that I had to actually start earning a living, and just at that point, here comes these opportunities for small jobs in a totally unrelated field. I took all of them, and it very quickly resulted in my landing a job at a huge corporation programming databases and reports for them.

With music, I would have had to fight and claw for any job I got. With programming, I already had a good job. With music, I would be lucky to find an orchestra that paid enough to live on. With programming, I already had a job that paid more than most orchestras.

That's why the job was too good. I was too comfortable too early. I had no financial reasons to pursue music anymore - I was already set. So, I spent the next eight years slowly watching my musical plans fade until they barely registered, all the while coding for a company that began to treat me like a number but continued paying me well, and giving me a raise every year on schedule. They kept me comfortable, fat and relatively.

Fast forward to roughly a year ago when my enthusiasm for my job had reached an all time low, right about the time I got another new boss who understood my job even less than my previous one. I was faced with a decision of Dilbert proportions: Do I continue in my job where I am paid well but nobody understands or appreciates the skills or techniques required to do my job? Or, do I return to a life doing a job that I love, but have no guarantee that I'll be financially secure?

I decided that, after eight years, maybe it was time to try the latter. I had tried the high paid, stuff filled, financially secure, ultimately empty lifestyle. I had grown to loathe it. All inspiration for working was gone. I decided the other option couldn't possibly be worse, and could actually, in fact, be a better life in the long run.

My wife, amazing woman that she is, supported this decision. We've spent the last year slowly getting into a position to allow me to return to my original passion (And for her to return to hers, but that's another story. She really should be blogging.). We sold our big house in the mountains. We got rid of probably two thirds of useless stuff that we had collected over the years. We moved to the Front Range of Colorado, where a choice of universities resided. I got a new bassoon, and renewed my practicing on the beast. I was accepted to CU in Boulder. Mindy got a job as a full time teacher.

And, finally, finally, everything was in place. So I threw the switch, and turned in my resignation. You would think I would be thrilled, excited, and inspired by this action, where I take my life down a different path.

I'm not.

Truth is, I'm not thrilled, excited, nor inspired about practically anything these days, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the result of all that time I spent selling my soul at a job I knew I shouldn't be at, but continued with anyway. Maybe it's the fact that, even as they continue to pay me, and tell me everything's okay, the company makes no secret that a guy in my position is unacceptable, and will soon be dealt with. Maybe it's the fact that I haven't felt really useful for at least the couple of years. Whatever it is, lately, my life has been nothing more than a series of waking up, eating, taking the dogs out to crap, reading the feeds on the web, and logging into my job where no one cares whether I'm even there or not.

It didn't help that all the acknowledgment I got from my boss about my resignation was a three line email saying, "sorry to see you go, all the best". It wasn't that hard to translate: "Thanks for making my own job easier. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

Maybe, after a while, that would get to anybody. I hope so. I hope I'm not just some weird depressed freak. I hope that, once school starts, I'll begin to actually enjoy life again. I hope I'll find something to get excited about. In the meantime, I'm just left with regrets. Regrets about selling out and letting my music fade. Regrets about working for a corporate giant that would only care about me if I expired in a drooling heap on their desk, thereby making them have to pay for someone to clean up my desk. Regrets about the life I might have led up to now if I hadn't taken a job like this right out of college. Oh well. At least I get a chance to try and fix things.

Bored yet? Depressed? Sorry about that, although I did warn you. The good news is, I only have 30 days until I can leave the corporate bullcrap for good - I hope. Then, maybe I'll quit writing this drivel.

Speaking of meaningless drivel, I need to go answer an email from work about the five things I plan to do to keep my desktop neat, thereby increasing my job satisfaction and productivity.