Why I'm Winning This Write-Off, Jen!

"Baby, it's not that I don't care, it's just that, well, you have that little problem..."

As she spoke, a million neurotic and chaotic mini-questions flitted around my cerebral cortex, attaching themselves like spear hooks to my synapses and generating innumerable thoughts on the fragility of the human soul. It would happen to anyone in my situation. How did it come to this? Was there a moment when things could have changed? How can I continue living knowing what’s about to happen?

I knew the statement was coming, of course. Even a blind moron who just staggered drunkenly from the cave he entered back when Amelia Earhart said, “No, if a man doesn’t need to stop for directions, neither do I,” could have seen that particular sentence coming from light years away.

But for Jen to call Nescher little? I mean, c’mon, that’s just kicking a man when he’s down. Or in our case, tickling a guy when he’s man-crushing another dude’s ankles while his own kick wildly in spastic dance moves reminiscent of a Riverdance show Pyshcer once casually mentioned.

He may have been trying to explain a rain dance at the time. I’m not really sure. I don’t usually listen when he talks, anyway.

“Are we really going to tell jokes at a time like this?” I asked, my hands struggling to maintain their grip on the rotting cluster of exposed and gnarled roots originating from a thorny bush a few feet away. I didn’t need Nescher’s extra weight pulling me down toward the jagged orchestra of massive rocks being besieged by pounding waves below to remember that I was hanging over…well, a shit-ton of nothing.

“It’s always time to tell jokes,” Jen answered. That smarmy, shit-eating grin of hers did little to instill any degree of confidence. “Besides,” she added, “I’m not the one in trouble.”

At least, I think that’s what she said. It was hard to hear over Nescher's whiny pleas for his mommy and some rope. I mean really, dude. All he had to do was hang on; I was the one supporting his ass.

“Dammit, Horton!” I screamed. I wanted to add more, but the roots serving as my salvation loosened, choosing to just say, “Fuck it all!” and spew forth from the ground in a murder-suicide catapult to the scenic death machine several hundred feet below.

Or it could have been the wind kicking up dust. Again, between Jen’s “this is kinda fun to watch” smirk and Nescher’s bellyaching about being too fat and too talented to die like this (whatever the hell that meant) things were a little…tense. Sure, tense is a good word.

The wind died down, and things returned to normal. Ha! Normal. How grotesque that word becomes in the company of these two. It was only six years ago that the three of us went through what has affectionately become known as the Hanging Crapper of Death, or The Day Nescher & Shawn Almost Killed Jen In A Porta-John While Drunk Off Tequila & Cheese Fries. The first is easier to say, but the second is way more accurate.

They say time heals all wounds. I’ve found that six years, three changes of location, two changes of name and identity, more therapy than Charles Manson would need, and copious amounts of whatever liquid with even a mild alcohol content is available actually speeds up the process considerably.

I’m not a patient man, but I do love things with alcohol, so it’s win-win.

It was Jen’s idea to meet up again after all that time apart. Stupid ideas like this always start with Jen. Prior to the ill-fated road trip to a closet-shaped stink hole with a two-drink minimum in Biker Nirvana, Arkansas, Nescher and I had lost count of the number of times that mighty suburbanite got the two of us into…well, shit like this.

Par for the course, it seems.

Even suspended over a cliff face, with Nescher clutching my ankles like he was protecting the world’s last box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars from an approaching zombie horde (who, yes, don’t really eat Little Debbie snack cakes, but try telling Nescher that) and squealing like a bloated prom date – with her Fantastic Sam’s page boy and a dress hastily stapled and hot-glued from old parlor-room window coverings and a Piggly Wiggly reusable shopping bag – who’s about to get her photo taken with the dumbass cute guy who has definitely learned never to take bets involving spoiled milk, Alka Seltzer and two shots of Jager…yes, even during all of that, I was already composing my next letter of introduction to my latest in a series of psycho-analysts.

Hey, when you’re friends with Jen Horton and Nescher Pyscher, it pays to plan ahead on some things.

“Just find us some rope, woman! Now!” Jen giggled once, then twice, at our little predicament, then bobbled off to – and I’m totally just guessing here – find a way to rescue us. As she left, snippets of dialog from one of those lame sparkly-gay-vampire-meets-ugly-emo-chick-and-both-pretend-to-be-in-love-while-equally-gay-werewolf-smells-his-own-farts-and-calls-it-acting movies carried on the wind in Jen’s voice.

“Nesch, buddy,” I said, trying to show calm support to the dude bonded to my pasty-white shins like love juice on a set of Motel 8 king sheets, “It’s gonna be okay. Jen’s gonna get us out of here. Trust me.” I damn near choked on the laugh bubbling up from my diaphragm.

“Bullshit! She’s gonna let us die!” he yelled back. The last word came out in about thirty syllables – all vowels, like Vanna White’s vocabulary. I couldn’t argue with his logic; I mean, I was thinking the same thing myself. But part of me realized that sober Jen – and here the word “sober” is a very relative thing – was much more clear-headed than tequila-fied Jen. And since Nesch was the one carrying the two bottles in his backpack (additional weight I could’ve done without, thankyouverymuch…) I had to assume she was getting help and not finding the perfect spot to set up the video camera.

Still, it’s Jen. Two birds, one stone. (I’ve said it before: It pays to know your friends.)

When I got the call from Nescher saying he and Jen wanted to meet up again, I was hesitant. I wasn’t thinking about the last time, I just really didn’t want to have to kill a friend because she did something stupid again. And since she can’t help herself, it was pretty much a gimme.

But I needed to get away, and I knew it would be good to see them again. They had even chosen the perfect place: Hawaii. Who could resist?

The first three days had been paradise on earth. Sandy beaches, warm sun, cold drinks, good times. Even the significant others – Mr. Jen (nay, Jerry) and Christine, those beautiful souls destined for sainthood – marveled at how well things were going.

Then someone opened her mouth.

“We should go on a hike tomorrow, just the three of us!” Nesch and I traded horrified looks. And yes, we’re both…um…slightly out of shape. But I have lived for more than 20 years in the bum-fuck-Egypt land of Colorado, so I’m at least used to hiking, even if it takes me a while. Nescher? Well, I know he can hike his pants up.

“Sounds great,” I said. Nesch gave me the evil-eye. I ignored it. Sue me, I wanted him to take a hike. Is that wrong?

“I know the best trail,” Jen assured us. “This guy I was insulting last month while I was pissed on beer and shots told me to go fuck myself then jump off this great cliff overlooking the ocean!”

“And you want us to go watch you do it?” Nescher asked. The idea certainly had merit.

“No, dorkus. While I was looking up more insults to go back and smack-talk that asshole, I found a website with all the great trails in Hawaii. I asked the bartender here while he was tossing me shots last night and I convinced him he’s an ass addict which one he’d do, and he picked this one.”

It’s best if you don’t try to connect the dots, kids. The picture it forms isn’t pretty. Hell, it’s not even so-ugly-I-have-to-look bad. Really, it’s just the stuff of nightmares. Move on. Save yourselves.

The three of us agreed to give their spouses a break and just take off by ourselves. Bad Idea #1. We met up at o’dark thirty and let Jen drive us (Bad Ideas #2 & 3) to the trailhead. The sun was just coming up over the ocean’s horizon line, and the view was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Three writers, standing and staring agape at the sheer beauty before us? Even we had a hard time coming up with the right words…although Jen tried to bait us into another write-off on the spot.

Bad Idea #4.

Once on the trail, we eased into the familiar and comforting cocktail we’ve enjoyed our entire relationship: take equal parts trash talk, idea sharing and constructive criticism, throw in a healthy dose of one-upmanship, and serve over a frosted mug.

Not in, cuz that would be silly. On. Y’know, like getting your ass handed to you by a small Asian woman while trapped ON an elevator is much funnier than while trapped IN one.

Like I said, it pays to know your friends.

We enjoyed a packed lunch on a series of boulders protruding from a cliff overlooking an endless blue canvas. We laughed, we laughed some more, and we laughed again. Time passed slowly, easily. Nescher regaled us with tales from his book tours, while Jen enthusiastically told us about the traveling she and Mr. Jen were enjoying.

Me? I’m pretty sure there was a chuckle when I told that knock-knock joke.

Or maybe Jen just farted. Too close to call.

Hey, it’s been a slow six years...

“OK, boys, picture time!” Jen shouted suddenly. We were in high spirits, and spent an hour acting out different poses. Then Jen got an idea. (Bad Idea #5) “Alright, ‘Oser, I want you to pick Nescher up and hold him like a baby. And Nescher, I want you to suck your thumb and try to pull out Harper’s nose hairs.”

Yeah, we listened. Are we stupid? Hi, my name’s Shawn Harper. This is my buddy, Nescher Pyscher. We’re friends with Jen Horton.

‘Nuff said?

What came next was a little hazy, but I know it involved Nescher belching in my ear like a dying moose imitating a fog horn, 200+ pounds of shaved man-baby giggling from said belch, lost footing on wind-smoothed rock, a game of Twister with Nescher on an inclined surface, and enough loose rock and dirt in my shorts to let me know just what Jen goes through on a typical Wednesday night.

Regardless of what happened, the end result was the same: Decayed roots, choke-the-shit-out-my-ex-wife death grip, eventual amputation of my feet from loss of circulation, stubble-headed man-bear leaving a permanent impression of the balls of my feet on his perky man-boobs, and nothing between us and a school of tuna wondering how the fuck we expect to catch one of them this way but a Tom Petty song and the fleeting image of a Gremlin exploding in the microwave.

“Just hang on, bud,” I said calmly. “She’ll be back any minute, and this’ll be just another thing we laugh about someday.”

If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he believed it, either.

Now, as the sun slowly sinks somewhere behind that thorny bush that’s been nothing but supportive throughout this whole silly affair, as a full moon creeps heavenward on its nightly sojourn across the stratosphere, Nescher’s cries have dropped to a whispered blubbering. His legs have stopped kicking, and I can’t tell if his he’s chanting the Lord’s Prayer or a bayou witch lady’s voodoo incantation of ghostly revenge. I don’t think he’s religious, so it’s probably the prayer.

A cool breeze floats through the coming night, and I know somewhere on that breeze will soon come the mangled speeches of tortured love repeated fondly in honor of some shitty movie. I know that our good and loved friend Jen will be here any moment. I know she’s out there searching desperately, and not in some skanky dock-side bar going twenty rounds with her lover Jose…

…Oh, who am I kidding? It pays to know your friends.

I just hope Nescher breaks my damn fall.

Slackin' Off

Wow.

So, it's been awhile since I last made my presence felt here. Obviously, I've been missed. We've all been a little busy, apparently, and that's okay. It's that time of year. We've got presents to buy, wrap and hide. We've got weather conditions to avoid or frolic in. We've got work, friends and family, school, vacations, and all manner of things on our minds right now. So in the end, it's completely acceptable that none of us could find the time to come over here and commiserate.

Still...more than a week. One of us should have cracked before now. Dumb blind luck it was me, I guess.

Two for flinching, that is.

As previously reported, I've had two jobs going the last couple of weeks. There's the one that pays the bills - the seasonal job at Sony - and the freelance one that could very well be a stepping stone. Both have been going great, for different reasons. And then, there's the other job...the one I've been yapping about for months, only to have my almost giddy dreams vanish into smoke like a magician's trick. More on that one later.

First up, the freelance job. I've already talked about the gig itself, so if you want to know more about it, look at previous posts. Today was the deadline, and I turned in my final draft about an hour ago. Initial response from the editor is that everything looks good, but he's going to go over it in more detail, so that could change. What I really want to do tonight in this segment is to share some not-so-secret information with you kind people. This really should be a no-brainer, but that may just be me.

When I first got the assignment, I was given a list of people to contact. These people had been lined up previously, before the person ahead me dropped out and I was brought in to pinch hit. I contacted everyone on my list and introduced myself. A nice, short letter of introduction explaining that I was looking to interview them - either by phone or by email - and that I needed to know their preference if they were willing. All of them answered immediately. Some wanted to be contacted by phone, some by email. Those who wanted a phone call got one; I recorded the conversation, told them I was doing so, and took my notes. The ones who wanted to be interviewed by email were given a list of questions for them to answer at their leisure. The unwritten rule, of course, being that even if it was a written email, it was still to be considered a formal interview. All answers given were considered cleared and fully quotable.

Until today.

After not hearing from one resort for over a week, I finally got an email from a gentleman on Saturday. Mind you, my initial deadline was Friday. Fortunately for him, it got pushed to today to accommodate a late-comer who wanted to participate. The email on Saturday asked if it was too late to answer the questions I gave the guy over a week ago. I said no, but that I needed them before lunch to go over their answers, ask follow-ups if needed, and work the information into the story. This morning he informed me that he had answered about half of the questions, and had forwarded the remainder to his marketing manager, who would be getting back to me later in the day.

Sigh.

Great. Thanks for wasting my time even more.

A few hours later, I got the blessed email. Answers! Woot. Just what I needed. (not really) I looked them over, highlighting parts I wanted to use, and figured out how to work them into the article. But of course, there's a catch. Because two people wrote the answers, there were two different colors used in the replies. I emailed the marketing manager, asking her who wrote which response so attribution could be properly made. Any good reporter would do the same. Her response? OK, are you sitting down for this? Her answer was, and this is lifted directly from the email...

..."We prefer not to be quoted, but if you really need a specific quote please let us know and we'll work with you on it."

Um...

'Scuse me?

I have specific quotes. You already gave them to me. It's called a RESPONSE. I emailed her back, explaining the situation as politely as I could while still making sure to not cut through my tongue with my teeth. She responded with:

"Okay to use quotes, but please pass all quotes by me before sending to print."

What?!?!

*&%#^)+=?/!@%

Who the #%$! is this woman?

Not being in the mood to pick up a knife, drive to Telluride, and "explain" how things work when being interviewed, I copied and pasted all of their quotes I planned on using into an email so she could see how HER OWN FRIGGIN' WORDS!!!! were going to be handled. A few minutes later, I got her reply:

"Shawn - I need to have my director review; what time is your drop-dead? I'm sorry for the run-around, but I just got this info a couple hours ago and my answers, while accurate, need to be approved before publishing."

Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

1. Why didn't the guy I sent the ORIGINAL G*DD*MN EMAIL TO just answer the damn questions?

2. Why, if you're going to pass along said questions to someone else, would you not get $%#/* approval before you reply?

3. Who the )@#$ do you think you are, woman?!?!

In the middle of composing my now nowhere-near-nice response, I got the final email. The approved email. The one that graciously allowed me to directly use as quotable information that which she already friggin' sent me to be used as directly quotable information.

And really, that just sucks. I mean c'mon, how many times have you been building up a hurricane of righteous anger, only to have it deflated at the last second by someone or something? There I am, all fired up and ready to let loose, and it all just...ends. That's painful, I gotta say. Like eating ice cream too quickly, or trying to fart while coughing.

Don't look at me like that. We've all done it, and you know it.

Now armed with extra-super-special permission, I turned in my final draft. Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, my final response to her would have read, "I've already turned the article in, quotes firmly entrenched, you stupid psychopath. Your answers became quotable the moment you clicked SEND, and if you're too busy wondering why that white stuff is falling outside your window to understand how interviews are conducted in the modern world, then you should walk outside, turn your head toward the sky, and wait for the comet that - with any luck - is streaking toward you on a fateful rendezvous."

Yeah, you're right. It didn't actually say that. But now you know what I meant by not being able to vent...

Still, to make a long story short (too late)...the article's turned in, and my editor seems happy. For the time being. That may change, and that's expected. All I have to do now is patiently wait for my check while wondering if the cover story my editor talked about is going to come true. Cuz really, how cool would that be? Your first published work is a cover story (with byline, natch...) in a national trade journal.

I'll answer for you. It's very frackin' cool.

Which, in a neat little bit of transition, brings me to the real job. I've worked at the Sony store in Cherry Creek for three weeks now, and I've got to tell you...I honestly can't remember ever working for a group of people I've liked as a collective whole more than the people at Sony. Maybe I'm crazy (possible), maybe I'm drunk (not as possible, but still likely), or maybe I just finally got lucky. (Not that kind of lucky, pervert, although any serious offers can...um, that's another topic.) The bottom line is that top to bottom, from regular employees all the way down to us seasonal folk, I haven't met anyone there I don't like. Can other people there say the same thing? Who knows. I don't speak for them. Well, I do, but it's usually in that little annoying kiddie brat voice we all use when mocking someone, and only when they're not within earshot. (I said I liked them, not that I didn't make fun of them. It's the Circle of Life...I'm sure they do it to me too.) So, as a way of saying thank you without there being the slightest chance of one of them actually seeing it, I would like to acknowledge the great staff at Sony Style in Cherry Creek Mall, Denver, Colorado (names in no particular order, and apologies to anyone I forgot): John, Chris, Brad, Terry, Joel (stock), Jason, David, Polina, Victor, DC, Maz, Armando, Todd, Matt, James, Molly, Joel (cashier), Sean, Ryan, Tracie and James. You're all good people, and I'm pleased to know you.

Certain people in Utah, however...not so pleased to know them.

I've mentioned before, probably more often than you're comfortable with, the ultimate blogging job I applied for at The Canyons Resort in Park City, Utah. For those of who you stumbled onto this blog by accident and have miraculously made it this far undeterred, I will quickly recap. Four months, all expenses paid, blog 3-4 times a week, get paid $40,000. (There, quick enough for ya?) Considering how long my video application was in the Top 5 for both Voted and Viewed, I figured my chances of at least an interview were better than average. Then things changed. All of the videos that had been on top fell, and fell hard. Suddenly, a week before the deadline, videos that never even cracked the first page were now in the top spots, and the ones on top disappeared, seemingly off the face of the earth.

Still, I was optimistic. I mean, really...I was #3 Viewed and #2 Voted for a month. That had to count for something, right?

Well, in 2 days, I'll know for sure. The Canyons announces the winner on the 15th and to date, I've heard nothing about an interview. At this point, the only way things turn out great for me is if they just decided to give me the job and are waiting until the 15th to let everyone - lil ol' me included - in on the wonderful news. Possible, I suppose, but doubtful.

So I've written that job off. Not gonna happen. Not in the stars. That's okay, though, because I'm willing to bet another resort somewhere will want another blogger; and when that day comes, I'll be armed with a possible cover story in a national trade magazine as a testament to the natural talents you lovely folk have come to appreciate. And with a little luck, it'll be a tropcial resort so my pasty white ass can get a tan. Or, more to the point, a sunburn that fades to a tan for 3.5 minutes before disappearing like a tattoo drawn in invisible ink. In the meantime, I have a good job that's paying my bills, a good group of people I don't mind spending 8 hours a day schlepping 55" TVs around for, and more opportunities on the horizon than I've had in a long time. If there's only one thing I could change right now, it's that I really could use a drink.

Hold on...there's beer in the fridge. German beer. The good stuff.

What am I doing talking to you crazy buggers, then?

G'night, gawkers.

Catching Up

OK, so it's been over a week since I last posted something. Sue me. I've been busy. I started a new job (seasonal, and retail, but it's a paycheck), got through the holiday (mostly by working) and have been prepping a freelance writing job that will translate into some real exposure...if I don't screw it up.

Still, in the interest of full disclosure, I guess it's time to share.

Hey, it's my blog. I'll write about what I want to write about. Don't like it? Go start your own blog and tell everyone what a lousy host I am.

So, the new job. As I said, it's a part-time seasonal stock job at the Sony store in Cherry Creek mall. It's about 32 hours per week at a time when any hours (even for just a week) are welcome. So far the job's been really cool, if not entirely busy. It's one of those jobs where you're glad you don't really get paid that much - the desire to buy everything in the store is pretty strong once you've stood amongst it all for eight hours. Trust me on this. Plus, carting out 55" LED TVs for people kinda makes you crave one of your own. Oh yes, Envy is a wicked mistress.

The people working there are all great. Haven't met a bad egg yet, to tell the truth. Not sure if that's a good thing or if I'm just slipping, but at this time in my life I'm willing to let it slide. The job's scheduled to end on or before Jan. 15, which works perfectly if Utah comes through. (More on that later.) I'm told I'm making a good impression with my hard work; to be honest, it's mostly so I don't end up standing on the sales floor with everybody else for an entire shift. Not saying they're not fun to talk to (they are), only that it's boring and makes for a really long day.

I started last Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving. As I posted that Wednesday, I knew the holiday was going to be tough. And it was. Thankfully though, it went a lot smoother than I feared. There was an hour or so I had to go bury my head in the sand, but overall the day was good. I know next year will be better, and I'm definitely looking forward to that.

Now, about this freelance gig. I was up in Thornton a couple weeks ago helping my brother with some things. While there, I got a phone call from a gentleman who told me he got my name and number from a woman I've done some freelance work for in the past. This lady is also a former instructor of mine, and has been extremely helpful in getting my meager (to date) freelance career up and running. This fact alone convinced me I was going to take the job, regardless of what it turned out to be.

The guy who called is the editor of a trade journal that caters to ski resorts and other companies in the skiing/snowboarding industry. For one reason or another, a story his journal was working on lost its writer, and he needed a new one. So here it is - my first honest-to-goodness, professional writing assignment. I've been hired to write an estimated 1,500- to 2,000-word article on the advances in, and uses of, technology in ski resorts around the country. The journal gets first-publication rights, then those rights come back to me to be used however I choose. We're talking a byline in a trade journal here. Not exactly the public-at-large, but it's something I can take to any job in the future and show as evidence of my talents. (It turns out this blog, while insanely funny and full of nuanced character development, doesn't really qualify as solid journalistic experience. Personally, I call bullshit.)

So all in all, it's been a pretty solid week. The new job's going well, and the freelance gig is amazing. The only storm cloud on the horizon? Utah. Until about a week before Thanksgiving, if someone had asked me my chances of getting the job, I would have told them it was better than average. Then a funny thing happened. The video selection exploded and suddenly videos that had been ahead of me in both votes and views were now behind me...and my video started plummeting down the list like a lawn dart streaking toward the dirt. By the time the deadline hit on Thanksgiving Day, I found myself no longer in the Top 10 in either category. Still not sure what happened there, but it was humbling, I have to say. The final decision is being made on Dec. 15, which is now 12 days away. So far, no calls or emails for an interview. It could still happen, of course, but every day it doesn't my optimism levels drop just like that lawn dart. I know, without any hesitation or doubt, that I can win that job if I get the interview. But it's hard to convince someone when they don't want to talk to you. I'm hopeful, and will remain so until the 15th, but it's getting harder with each passing day.

But I digress...

To sum up: job's going very well, made it through the first of two holidays during my "rebirth", and I've got the makings of a great career start piled in various notes around my laptop. All things being equal, I can't really ask for much more than that.

And for right now, I'm not even going to try. I'll just end it here and keep y'all posted later. Til next time...

Thanks...No, really, I mean it...

Ah, Thanksgiving.

It's either a joyous and timeless tradition of gathering, remembering, commemorating and togetherness, or a psychotic mess of nasty food, family squabbles and enough things-gone-wrong to give Murphy his own Law Book. For most people - usually and thankfully - the tradition is somewhere in the middle.

Whether your tradition is to celebrate by traveling hundreds or thousands of miles to eat your mom's stuffing and hear Uncle Jack's joke about the lady who walks into the hardware store with a live gerbil and a rubber spatula for the umpteenth time, or to spend a quiet evening out in a restaurant by yourself or with your significant other, Thanksgiving is something more than the traditional start of the holiday season. If New Year's and the Fourth of July are the party holidays, and Christmas is the now-overly-commercialized-to-the-point-we-don't-even-want-to-celebrate-it holiday, Thanksgiving is the spirit and ideal that drives us through the rest of the year while giving us a chance to look back fondly.

Usually. Some people are just too Type-A. Those people can't be helped, so I'm just talkin' about the rest of us. Y'know, the normal folk...

By this time, the holiday season has completely enveloped us, and traditions are as in full swing as pumpkin patches overflowing with ripe orange gourds and wild turkeys with death clocks faintly ticking down to doomsday above their spindly heads. So begins repeat visits to grocery stores for constantly-forgotten items that have since vanished from the shelves because they were also forgotten by 9,000 other people before you. We spend our days, and sometimes weeks, creating culinary game plans with the clockwork precision of military wargames. Checklists featuring everything from the savory to the sweet preoccupy our thoughts. Multiplying recipes, cooking times, quantities and transportation logistics take center stage in our thoughts. We become Rain Man in our ability to figure out how to cook a turkey while also heating up dinner rolls and making sure Aunt Betty's green bean casserole doesn't congeal like tiny twigs stuck in mud, all in the same tiny oven. Homes are cleaned just a little bit more than usual; pillows fluffed, furniture and knicks knacks moved for a more thorough vacuuming or dusting. Cobwebs we've ignored all year long suddenly vanish in a blurred tornado of arm movements and strained backs.

We know it's coming every year, yet every year it sneaks up on us. While some traditions need to die quick and violent deaths (we all have them or know of them, so I don't need to elaborate), some - like panicking a week before Thanksgiving because the only poultry left in the freezer section is a cornish game hen the size of a baseball that somehow has to magically feed 18 people - are just necessary for the true mean of "thanks giving" to come out.

Since I was a teenager, my mom has made Thanksgiving her holiday. Whether it was when I contemplated moving to Seattle for a job, or when my ex-wife and I talked about moving away for her career, my mom always made it clear that I had to be home for Thanksgiving. It was tradition. I was given a free pass to miss her birthday, Mother's Day and Christmas (not "miss" as in forget, "miss" as in I didn't have to come home. A phone call at the very least was still mandatory.) so long as my pasty white butt was seated at the dinner table on that particular Thursday.

Part of it's because she - like most moms - is big on the whole "family gathering" thing, but it's also because she hates the thought of anyone spending a holiday alone. If you have nowhere to go on Thanksgiving, my mom makes sure there's a spot for you at our table. It's been that way for years.

It's traditon.

It may have been the rule long before this, but I remember it really becoming a tried and true, dyed in the wool, set in stone Tradition-with-a-capital-T when my dad was stationed in Augsburg, Germany, back in the late 1980s. Dad was the NCOIC (non-commissioned officer in charge..."middle management" to the rest of us) of the emergency room at the army hospital, and as such had a lot of people working under him. When my parents found out that many of those people had no place to go for Thanksgiving, they opened our home to the lot of them. People brought their favorite dishes, and room was made on any open space available. No one was turned away, and no gesture of food was left untouched.

It was always an all-day event because some people worked in the morning (meaning they got out late and came over after) and some worked in the afternoon (meaning they came over before their shift). At one point, our three-bedroom apartment had around 50 men, women and children laughing, playing, eating and drinking all throughout the space. Kids congregated in my room or my brother's room, playing with Legos or whatever action figures we dug out of the closet (even the girls, who generally preferred the Legos to the G.I. Joes) while adults crowded the living room, kitchen and dining room. Everyone was happy, everyone had a good time.

Hard to not want to keep that kind of tradition alive, isn't it?

In the 25 years since, the number of people have dwindled, but it's still pretty large. Last year, we had in-laws for both Harper brothers, including the future in-laws of my in-laws so they didn't have to split up their family. This year we have some new faces coming...again, because they had nowhere else to go and my mom found out about it. We're looking at close to 30 people this year, but Thanksgiving's not until tomorrow, so who knows who else might show up. That's the fun of it, right?

The tragedy though, for me, is knowing how much this year is going to hurt. And it's going to hurt a lot.

Thanksgiving is a time to sit back and...well, give thanks for the people, things and events that have led us to this point in our lives. As I type this, though, I find myself not really in a thankful mood. If I sit back and look over the last year, I'm faced with a lot of heartache and pain: The loss of a child in the early stages of my now ex-wife's pregnancy, finding out my sister-in-law got pregnant mere months later, the dissolution of a three-year marriage, the subsequent moving back in to my parents home while I spent more than two months looking for a job, the birth of my niece, and watching my limited finances disappear just trying to keep up with bills.

Now, a lot of you will read this and tell me to get over myself, to think positive. I was told earlier today that I needed to focus on spending Thanksgiving with my family. But you know what? That's easier said than done. For starters, almost everyone who's going to be here tomorrow is in a working, committed marriage, while my divorce paperwork showed up in the mail yesterday. Great damn timing, that is. Also, I get to spend an entire day watching people gush and fawn over my niece, Ava. So while everyone's going on and on about the "first grandbaby" and talking about how beautiful and precious she is, I get to sit there and pretend none of that hurts. That Ava would actually be the second grandbaby, and that my child will never get to be gushed or fawned over, or told how beautiful and precious he/she is. And the best part? The absolutely heart-wrenching, soul-crushing best part? I get to go through all of this on my own. Completely alone. Why? Because the one person in my life who I thought would be by my side for better or worse, in sickness and in health, til death do us part, decided to walk out on our life together, and the final nail in that coffin just came in the mail.

So yeah, I'm a whole lotta thankful this year. I'm one big cornucopia of thankful. I'm a fucking buffet of things to be thankful for.

Am I thankful for my family and friends? Of course. Am I thankful that my niece - whom I adore with all my heart - is happy and healthy? You bet I am. Am I thankful I finally have a job and am able to pay my bills? Damn straight. But Thanksgiving is a time to spend enjoying the company of those most important to you, a time to look on those friends and family and realize how great it is to have people like that in your life. Not this year, though, and not for me. My life has been turned upside down and ripped into mangled shreds. Tomorrow, I won't see any good in that. The people around me won't help me take my mind off my problems, they will be unintentionally compounding them with every look and every laugh. Were I still married, if I had someone by my side I could lean on and give support back to, then tomorrow would be tolerable. As it is, I'll be spending Thanksgiving surrounded by the people I love the most, and completely unable to enjoy it.

Some traditions need to die quick and violent deaths. This is one of them.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Whatever your tradition is, however you choose to spend the holiday, I hope and pray it is filled with all the love and happiness you deserve. I am truly thankful for all of you, and I apologize for not being able to express it better. We all deserve better than this; I'm just sorry I can't hold up my end of it.

The Job @ Hand

Jobs are tricky things. In this day and age, everyone needs at least one.

There are the jobs that we'd like to have, and there are the jobs we have to have. In a minority of instances, those two concepts merge, and a person finds a jobs they love. The Dream Job. Doesn't happen very often, but it's a beautiful thing when it does. Unless that person rubs it in your face; then they're just a douche in need of a good punch to some place vital...like a rib, or the ball sack.

As with everything else in our existence, we've broken the notion of "jobs" into many categories: Full-time, part-time, blue collar, white collar, seasonal, temporary, entry level, and middle management, just to name a few. These can be, and often are, combined, altered, adjusted or eliminated. We've also devised new and not-always-interesting ways to describe our jobs: Administrative Assistant, Custodial Engineer, and Refuse Collection Specialist are some of my favorite examples. Many of us bring our work home with us, while most of us just like to rehash the day's, or week's, events over a round of liquid courage.

Some people stay at their jobs for years; others bounce between jobs like a puppy trying to choose a favorite toy. Some of us wear ties every day; a lucky few get to tie one on. Jobs can be inside high rises, strip malls and office parks. Jobs can be outside in glorious sunshine, dreary thunderstorms or frigid snowfall. Some people can make lots of money in just a few short months; most of us go a lifetime without so much as an extra zero appearing on our bank accounts.

They're cursed things, jobs are. It's a love/hate relationship unlike any other. We may like the people we work with, we may like the type of work we do, we may like the pay - or the benefits and bonuses - and we may like the hours. But, if it came down to it, a lot of us would rather spend our days lounging on a beach, or a mountaintop, or in a field of gently-swaying grass staring at bunny clouds and jet trails. If money wasn't an issue, how many of us would actually work our day away? I sure as hell wouldn't, and I'm betting the lot of you would be right there with me.

Now, I'm not talking about not doing something with your time, like learning a foreign language or painting bowls of fruit or reading the world's collection of great books. I'm talking about W-2s and direct deposit, "business casual" and casual Fridays, quarterly assessments and end-of-year reviews, pay raises and 401(k)s. I'm talking about Work, with a capital W. Regardless of what you do, how many people would continue doing it if they didn't need to do it? If the planet became a utopia overnight and suddenly the masses didn't need money to acquire the things they need and/or want, how many of us would put in the hours we do now?

I'm guessing some of you are saying you would, and you may be right. For a while. But I guarantee after watching us slackasses cavorting around you, you'd become one of us before too long.

And let's not get started on the whole "winning the lottery" joke, okay?

We've now reached the point of the story where you, my loyal followers, politely yet sternly ask, "What's your point here, dude?" Over the last week I've had a lot happen with regard to the word "jobs" and now things have culminated with not one, but two incredible writing job possibilities. And either - or, Fate willing, both - could be the start of something big.

Before we get to dream jobs, though, let's start with real-world stuff. Back in March, I had a part-time job. I took it to earn a little extra money for the wife and I; mostly because I felt like a slacker just sitting at home and going to school, but also because a little extra money's never a bad thing. The truth is I only took the job because the wife also worked there part-time, and she convinced me that working together would be fun. And she was right. It was. Until things started getting bad at home. Suddenly, working around people who got along with my wife better than I did made it not such a fun place to work. So I quit. It didn't matter if anyone there knew what was going on; I knew, and I didn't want to look at those people anymore. In hindsight, having spent the last three months trying to find anything to bring home a paycheck, I should've stayed. I didn't, and that's my cross to bear.

That being said, I've looked at everything. You know those categories I listed at the start of this thing? Yeah, I looked at every single one of them. My skill set covers writing and editing, clerical and office, shipping operations, and warehouse and stockroom management. You'd think someone who's reasonably intelligent, willing to work hard, and - perhaps most importantly - not friggin' picky would be able to find something in three months. Turns out, you'd be wrong. Every part-time, full-time, seasonal, temporary and contract job available that appeared even remotely in my wheelhouse was applied for. The only nibble I got was about a month ago when I interviewed with AAA Colorado for a mailroom/stockroom manager position. Didn't pan out, so here I am.

Last week, I got a call from a corporate HR person for Sony retail stores. I'd applied to be a seasonal stock clerk for the Cherry Creek location about a month ago, and they were just now getting back to me. Can't imagine how many resumes they had to sort through before they realized mine was pretty damn good, but I'm glad they stuck with it. I completed all of their online paperwork and scheduled the interview with the local store manager. About five seconds into the interview, I knew I had the job. It helped that the guy actually said, "If it was up to me, I'd start you tomorrow." But of course, there are pesky things like drug tests and background checks to go through first, which brings me to the Funny portion of today's blog.

Drug tests are pretty darn simple. You go into a medical office, pee into a container, and pray your poppy seed bagel from two days ago won't screw your chances. I got the paperwork for my drug screening location on Tuesday and immediately went to have it done. This was around 1 p.m. As I'm walking down the hall to the door, a lady comes out, walks passed me, and says, "It's busy in there." Um...crap. This doesn't bode well. Sure enough, it was busy. I signed in, sat down, and prepared myself for the long wait. That is, until seven minutes later when someone else walked in and asked the lady behind the counter what to do. She told him to sign in, but that it was about a - are you ready for this? - two-hour wait! But wait, my story gets better. Not only that, but the lady behind the counter was the only person working the lab. The entire lab. As in, she had to check people in and do their visits to boot. Oh, and there was also that teensy little issue of her leaving at 2:30 p.m. because she had somewhere else to be.

Confused? Let me make this simpler. A lady working solo in a medical lab had patients backing her up to a two-hour-plus wait, but planned on closing the lab in ninety minutes to leave for the day because she had "somewhere else to be" later.

I got up, scratched my name off the sign-in sheet, and left.

Wednesday I got up, showered and left the house. It was my mom's birthday, so my brother and I were taking her out for lunch at 1 p.m., and my brother was meeting me at the house at 12:30 p.m. That gave me two-and-a-half hours to sit in the lab and get my pee on. Alas, when I got there the wait was just as long as before. To top it off, I finally got a look at the sign outside the main door. (Someone had been standing in front of it on Tuesday while yammering on a cell phone.) The lab was open from 7 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., but only did drug screenings from 8 -10, and from 12:30 - 2:30. It was already 10 a.m. Without even bothering to sign in, I left.

Lunch, btw, was best summed-up by the appetizer we shared: Deep-Fried Green Chili stuffed with Mac & Cheese. It. Was. Awesome!

But I digress...

How's this story end? With my getting up at 6 a.m. yesterday, getting to the lab before seven, waiting for the one person ahead of me to be seen, and being done and out the door by 7:30 and home before eight. Ah, the joys of having to pee into a cup for a job.

Now we get to the meat of the story. I know what you're thinkin'..."way to bury the lead, Harper." Fair assessment, but inaccurate. Since the "job" I'm ultimately looking for is Paid Writer, I was building up to the Good News:  I may have a job. Not a "job" like "part-time seasonal stock clerk for Sony", but a Job like "paid to write a story, have a byline and have said story seen by a target audience." That's a lot better. I can't really talk about it too much right now, but once I can y'all will be the first ones outside of my family and friends to know...though you'll probably see it on Facebook long before you read about it here.

All this, naturally, begs the question, "Why bring it up if you're going to be so secretive?" And while I applaud your perceptive and quizzical nature, I laugh bemusedly at your lack of vision. The Job in question has deep connections to the ski industry. Not just in Colorado, but nationally. As in "other states besides Colorado." As in "also including Utah." Which, if you've been following this blog (and I see no reason why you shouldn't be...) is where the Ultimate Mountain Gig is being held. The Job should take about a month, which is plenty of time to get the people at The Canyons to check it out and see just how capable their new blogger is going to be.

You see where I'm going with this now, don't you? Fate is calling, and for once I'm not sitting on the toilet and singing "Another One Bites the Dust" with my boxers warming my ankles. Everything is lining up nicely, even if none of it has actually fallen into place just yet. They say that in this day and age it isn't what you know, but who you know. I don't normally agree with that ideaology; truthfully, it doesn't matter who you know if you're not competent enough to do the job...unless you're in politics, apparently. But now, I'm starting to see the benefit. I've made some great contacts in the last eight months, and those contacts will be leading to more and more, helping me create a network of people and businesses from whom I can get not just steady employment, but valuable information and skills to be used in later assignments.

In other words, if the next month or so works out, then by this time next year I won't need to pee in a cup for a seasonal stock job. And that, I'm proud to say, is my idea of a "dream job."

Though staring at bunny clouds sounds nice, too.

Family Ties

I never grew up close to my family. My extended family, that is. I grew up with my parents and brother, but since my dad was in the army, I never really knew my aunts, uncles and cousins. Every couple of years, whenever Dad got a new assignment and we moved again, we always seemed to find time to go back to Ohio and see the family. That was always a blast; it was like a vacation to where some of your best friends were staying. I may not have known every detail of their lives, but they were my family, and it was always good to see family.

As I got older (I'd be lying if I said I "grew up"), and as my immediate family and I settled in Denver, going back home to Ohio to see family became...not a chore, or a hassle, but, in a word, unimportant. When we moved here, I was just out of high school, aimless and clueless. (Sadly, for nearly 20 years after, that didn't change.) I was more focused on trying to figure my life out than I was with figuring out someone else's. Even if they were family. By the time I reached my late 20s, I'd settled into a groove - a repetitive, boring, stagnant and ugly groove. Family was something that came up around Thanksgiving and Christmas; occasional phone calls and emails that - unless something tragic happened - mostly served as a reminder that everyone out east was alive and doing well, and they were making sure you were doing the same.

When I got married in 2007, one of the many trips we had planned on taking was to Ohio. When I got married in Las Vegas (and trust me, there's lots of material in that scenario...) I was fotunate enough to have a large chunk of my family come out and celebrate with us. For those that came, we wanted to return the favor by going out and seeing them; for those who couldn't make it, I wanted to show off my lovely bride and our happy marriage. Three years, a couple of moves and one divorce later, we never did make it out there. My mom's sisters came out earlier this year, so that was a fun time. But now? Well, Facebook takes care of most of it, but I'd still like to get back out there and see everyone face-to-face. Especially the ones I haven't seen in years, which is a long list, unfortunately.

So by now, you're probably wondering, "Where are you going with this, dude?" It's a fair question, and one I aim to address in due time. For the last week, my cousin Aaron has been in town to help promote a film in which he's co-starring. "The Rock and Roll Dreams of Duncan Christopher" is an independent feature that's been making the festival rounds nationally and internationally  to some pretty awesome reviews, and was shown at the Starz Denver Film Festival just this weekend. The film is about facing fears, facing reality and realizing that what you want isn't always what you need.

Of course, that's my intrepretation. Others may, and probably will, vary.

My parents and I went to the Saturday night showing to help support Aaron and the film. The evening was lots of fun, and the film itself was great. Incredibly solid stuff on both sides of the camera; and that's good, because going in, we had no idea what to expect. We weren't nervous, though. We were hopeful. And our hopes were pleasantly rewarded. Following the film, there was a Q&A with some of the cast and crew. I want everyone to check out why so many people, myself now firmly included, are finding this wonderful film Simply Irresistible.

L - R: Simply Irresistible (The Dragon); cinematographer Luc Nicknair; writer,

co-producer and star Jack Roberts; director and co-producer Justin Monroe;

and an unidentified staff member of the Starz Film Festival

On Sunday, while Aaron was preoccupied while festival business, Dad and I were content to deal with football business. Mom, as usual, found other ways to kill time. On Monday, however, the burgeoning film powerhouse that is my cousin found time to mingle amongst the common people and join his family for dinner. That was followed by a quiet evening at home, where Aaron got to finally unwind a little after a long and winding journey.

Then came today. While the rest of the family had to work, Aaron and I got to spend some quality time together - something we both realized we hadn't done in probably close to 20 years. We started the morning off by Skyping with his lovely wife Justine and their adorable daughter Luna, then attempted to have breakfast at Watercourse Foods downtown. They were closed. Aaron was disappointed. Something about a chocolate milkshake, I think. Not quite sure there.

Anyway, we ended up at City O' City, which apparently is owned by the same company as Watercourse. Aaron knew that, I didn't. Leave it to the guy just passing through to show up the long-time resident. Two sweet potato cinnamon rolls, one vegan empanada, one coffee concoction and one biscuit & gravy later (I'll leave you to guess who had which...), the two of us had managed to catch up on a lifetime of history and talked about our goals for the future. It was a perfect end to a great visit, and I hope my cousin had as much fun hanging out today as I did.

Which, of course, is the whole point of today's entry. Family. But also something else. Something much more personal. Thirteen years ago, I stopped writing. Quit cold turkey. Doesn't matter why, it was still the single biggest mistake of my life. Back then, the reasons seemed so clear as to border on transparent. Unfortunately, filtered through a decade-plus of hindsight, that's exactly what they were: Transparent. I regretted it every day since, but I could not bring myself to start up again. I wasn't good enough, I wasn't dedicated enough, I wasn't lucky enough. There were plenty of excuses. It was all bogus; I know that. I knew it then, too. Still, it wasn't until March of this year that I finally broke through that cursed wall, pulled my head from my butt, and got the ball rolling again. Since March, I haven't looked back. Just the opposite, in fact. I've begun expanding my horizons, strengthening my skill set to include not just fiction, but the whole spectrum of the written word.

Will any of it pan out?

Who cares?

And that, too, is what this entry is all about. It's something that came up while Aaron and I were talking about everything that I've gone through the last few months. When I stopped writing thirteen years ago, I did it because, in the back of my mind, I knew I'd have another shot. When I started writing again eight months ago, I did it because I knew, in the back of my mind, that I would never have another shot. This was it. I'd pissed away thirteen years because I was afraid. That wasn't going to happen again. I didn't realize it at the time, but Aaron reminded me of it today. You write for yourself, he told me. In 1997, when I gave up the only dream I had, I'd forgotten. In 2010, when the dam burst, I suddenly remembered. I wasn't writing because I wanted everyone to like it (well, I do, but you know what I mean...I hope), I was writing because I loved it. And I missed it. I missed the pen gripped in my hand, the feel of the paper underneath, and the release I got from taking random thoughts in my head and transferring them through that pen onto that paper. I missed every single thing about it, and I knew that if I stopped this time, I'd never do it again. This is my only shot at a second chance, and I will never again forget why I'm doing it.

That's why I want the Utah job so badly. This is a chance to really get my hands dirty, so to speak. It's not only a chance to get on with my life and experience new things, it's a chance to get my voice heard in one of the coolest venues available. Do I ski or snowboard? Nope. But I'm dying to tell people how awesome it is learning at The Canyons Resort in Park City, Utah. I'm jazzed to show video of my clumsy ass falling over and over and over and over again while I learn. I'm stoked to a level I would have thought impossible ten years ago. But I'm not stopping there. The half-completed first draft of my first novel has been dug out of storage and is sitting next to me waiting to be resumed. I'm looking into writing competitions for the next three months, and I'm trying my hand at short story and mini-story writing. Add this blog to that list, and I've become a regular writing fanatic!

This is the next stage of my life, and I plan to make it count. I screwed up the first stage, and I thought the second stage was going to last longer than three years. It didn't, and not a day passes that I don't want that back. But I know it's gone for good, one way or another. No use looking back. Today, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. One last little stroke completed the picture that began eight months and one marriage ago. All I needed to help find it was a day spent with family.

Thank you, Aaron. You didn't help me see the light, but you helped me take the thoughts in my head and get them put into words. For a writer, that's what it's all about. Best of luck to you, bud.

All Hallowed Out...

Halloween. The time of year when everything macabre, scary, ghastly, frightening and terrifying is given a welcome leave of absence from the tortured depths of our subconscious and allowed free reign in the real world. It's the season when ghosts, goblins, monsters and spectres mingle casually with superheroes, princesses, aliens and robots. The imagination shifts into overdrive, finding new and creative ways to scare, thrill and sometimes nauseate. As with every other facet of life, celebrations of All Hallow's Eve range from cute to whimsical, from funny to horrifying.

I love dressing up for Halloween. I always have. I never had a favorite costume, though; each year saw something new, something different. I've been an Elliot Ness-style federal agent, a fly and an accident victim. The last time I went to a Halloween party, it was a 1930s theme, so I went as a mobster. Even had a pencil-thin mustache and slicked-back black hair. The violin case really made it work. It's always fun dressing up and being someone else; or rather, your interpretation of someone else. It's role play, a chance to try on another life, personality or facade for just a day.

Unfortunately, a good portion of my friends and family don't share my love of Halloween. They're too cool for school, as it were. It's almost beneath them. To each their own, I guess, but it makes finding something fun to do difficult. My friends that do enjoy it are, like me, not always able to, be it scheduling conflicts or monetary considerations. It's tough sometimes, but we always try to make the best of it.

This year, since Halloween falls on a Sunday, it's a football theme party we're doing, complete with a tailgate chili cook-off contest. This guarantees that even the people who don't love Halloween show up in costume - let's face it, this is Broncos Country, so everyone has a jersey, T-shirt, sweatshirt or hat in their closet. It's a law.

It is, really. Look it up.

My friends Doug and Trisha are kindly opening their home to the festivities. The game, and therefore the party, kicks off at 11 am, so it's either going to be a short event or it'll turn into an all-day gathering. You never know; could go either way with this crowd.

Trisha's sister Dianna is in town for her annual visit. To celebrate, a group of us went to this dive bar called MVP's for karaoke last night. It was my first time out in a while, so needless to say I'm still kinda nursing the hangover. Ugh. Too old for this crap...but damn it was fun!

So this year, my Halloween plans are a little tame. Still going to be a great time, but I'm missing the costumes and parties. Definitely next year. There's a plan. So what about you guys? What are your plans for this most spooky of holidays? Any parties to attend? Trick & treating with the kids, or by yourself? Or are you going to be like my parents and turn off the outside lights and hide in the family room? What are your favorite Halloween memories, your favorite costumes or stories?

Share and share alike. Happy Halloween!