Jacob Grier on the Many Faces of "Intellectual" Work; Or, Living the Life You Love

Jacob Grier just posted a lovely essay (that I bet he wrote off the top of his head, damn it. Why can't I do that??) on the pleasures of the "working" life. "Working" as in what used to be called "manual labor."

His jumping off point is this essay in last Sunday's New York Times magazine. It hit home with me, as does Jacob's essay. I've had what can only be described as an, ahem, diverse work history. I endured a mercifully short-lived career doing clerical work. Quel nightmare: I can't stand the 8 to 5 bit; hated, and I mean HATED, the office politics crapola. (This was waaay back in early 1970s, when men ruled the office and women, working their menial jobs, clawed at each other and hoped the men would whisk them away.) (For more on this, see "Mad Men.")

But I spent far more years in "manual" work. Blue collar work. (Or, as the sociologists call it when said work is being performed by a woman, "pink collar" work. Ugh. What a phrase.) I waited tables for years (about fifteen total). Worked for a city street department, mostly running a jack hammer (at which I was quite good).

Worked as a union carpenter for four years. I was (and to a certain extent still am) fabulously strong. Need someone to haul two sheets of plywood up two flights of stairs? No problem! All that waitressing also came in handy: I had far better organizational skills than the men I worked with.

But, I discovered, I had zero spatial skills and was a lousy carpenter. What learned from all those years was this:  I was bored. I had nothing against the work, and absolutely nothing against the people I worked with. Indeed, to this day, I miss hanging out with busboys and dishwashers.

I had to face facts: I was slowly, but surely, dying. The work was not me. I don't function well in "groups." (And still don't.) I am bored by work that requires using my hands (unless it's cooking). Have no patience for fixing stuff, yard work, etc. I mean, if I have to do it, no problem. I can do it. Hand me a screwdriver and I'll figure out what needs to be done.) (The tool, I mean, not the drink, which is icky beyond words.

So I went off to college, thinking I'd find my true calling. And, after a few fits and starts, did. (See the bio and "My Life As A Loser")

The point, such as it is, is this: I admire and appreciate "work" in all its forms, but understand that many people indavertently end up doing work they hate. The most painful part of teaching at university was dealing with 19-year-olds who'd been shoved into college by well-meaing adults, when what those kids wanted to do was cook, or repair engines, or make things, or paint walls, or whatever.

What they wanted to do, in short, was the kind of work that modern American society too often scorns, but which is, for many people, satisfying and engaging and creative.

The good news is that some people figure it out. They strike their own path, regardless of what others expect. They figure out what makes their brains --- and their souls --- happy.

So to Jacob I say: Here's to you. If I were in Portland, I'd raise a well-made drink, preferabably one created by you, in your honor.

Spending Less on Alcohol = Evidence of Smarter People?

This from Jeremiah McWilliams at Lager Heads on the ways in which economic woes are changing consumer spending on alcohol.

The short version is that people are spending less --- ie, hunting for "value --- and that they don't plan to revert to old habits once the recession ends.

I've got another take on it: maybe people are simply coming to their senses. (No pun intended.) Let's face it: in the past decade or so, alcohol makers have come up with zillions of ways to part fool from their money. "Premium" vodkas. Appletinis. Nauseating "mixers." Other wierd shit-in-a-bottle-that-tastes-horrible-but-costs-lots-and-therefore-must-be-good.

And of course the alcohol makers came up with the stuff because, ya know, there were plenty of fools (armed with credit cards) ready to be parted from said money.

The report also notes that people are spending less on alcohol when they go out. But again: perhaps people are simply wising up. I mean, did anyone NEED to visit bars with a $300 cover charge?

Answer: No. (*1) So --- perhaps "reduced spending" on alcohol is simply evidence of increased wisdom.

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*1: I'm reminded of a scene in a Sopranos episode when AJ complains that he's always broke because he goes out every night and the Big Name champagne he's expected to buy every at nightclubs sets him back a few hundred bucks.

The Nygren Interview; Or, My Life As A Winner (*1)

How classy does THAT sound? My buddy David Nygren, who blogs as/at The Urban Elitist, runs an occasional series of interviews with writers (of which he is himself one).

A few weeks ago, he asked if I'd answer a few questions. I said yes, and he posted the results of our e-interview today. This seems to be my week for baring my soul: first my detailed excursion into my drinking-and-drugging past, and now, the ugly facts of my so-called life as a writer.

[WARNING: what follows is digression into the politics of writing/publishing. a topic I rarely discuss here because, frankly, it's boring as hell.]

Because I used David's interview as a vehicle for violating the Great Taboo of the writing world: I talked numbers. (*2)

Among writers, numbers are the great unmentionable.  That's because some writers --- not all of them, but some --- love to play "Mine's Bigger." The "mine" in this case being the royalty statement (number of books sold) or bank account. They follow other writers' Amazon ranking (which, I'm here to tell you, don't mean much) or other publishing numbers, watching, vulture-like, for evidence that a book has "failed."

(This, by the way, is a game based on speculation, rather than fact, because none of the "public" numbers mean much of anything.)

"Failure" meaning it's not on a "bestseller" list of one kind or another. (Never mind that of the hundreds of thousands of books sold every year, only a few dozen land on a "bestseller" list. And never mind that most of those lists are representative of not much of anything.)

And when they have enough "evidence" in hand, it's pounce time: "HA HA HAAAAAAAAA! His/Her book FAILED!" Which is followed by :"He/She is a LOSER!"

Because, sadly, many writers confuse the content of one's character with the content of one's checkbook. (Apologies to Dr. King.)

I'm here to tell you: I'm not a "successful" writer. I've not made much money, or sold many books.

But if we're measuring "success" in terms of moral character or integrity, or peace of heart and mind, or "happiness," by fucking god, I'm a success.

So, long-winded way of explaining one reason why I don't hang out much with other writers, or spend time at writers' forums. (The other reason being, as I noted in the interview, that it's counter-productive. Makes more sense to hang out with the general public. That's where the action is.)

End of boring digression.

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*1: With a nod to an essay I wrote a couple of years ago whose subtitle was "My Life As A Loser."

*2: If I could do it over, I'dve added another number: 18,000. That's the number of copies sold of Ambitious Brew, through December 31, 2008. Copies sold, not copies read --- because as I noted in the interview, many, many readers read used copies. Not sure how to calculate the number of copies read (including library copies). Triple the number sold? Quadruple?

And I Thought I Was Experiencing "Life" . . . .

Holymoly, I ain't experiencing nuthin'. Shawn Connelly, founder of Aleuminati and blogger-known-as-Beer-Philosopher just explained his recent absence from his online home. Life didn't just get in his eyes. It got in his brain, his feet, his toes . . . . Wow. I'll stop complaining now. Shawn: I wish you well. Correction: I wish you dry weather, a healthy baby, a healthy mother, a healthy mother-in-law, and good insurance coverage.

Remodeling Also = Slow Blogging; Or, Don't Tell ME How to Live in My House!

I started this post as part of the previous one, but when I'd added three footnotes, and a couple of footnotes that were footnotes of footnotes, well, I realized that I'd dived into a rant, one that required an entry of its own.

One project that has recently devoured my time is: Remodeling. The husband and I have decided to remodel our kitchen and some other areas of the house. Well, okay, more accurately: I decided I wanted to do that and after putting up considerable resistance, the husband realized he was fighting a lost cause and he caved in to my infinite capacity for getting my own way when inspired-and-on-a-mission.

Anyway, neither of us have ever done anything like this, so, I, being no fool, realized I needed to read up on the process so I can engage with it as a educated participant.

No surprise, that's taking time. Lots of it. Anyone who rushes into remodeling is, frankly, a fool. There's much to know, learn, and ponder.

It's also fascinating. I've lived in dozens of structures in my life: I attended five grade schools, and two junior highs (or middle schools, as those are now called), and have moved at least two dozen times as an adult). As a result, until relatively recently, my dwellings have more about expedience than choice. But now we're living where we expect to live for the duration.

Anyway, much of my reading, thinking, and learning has been inspired and informed by the work of Sarah Susanka.

And that, in turn, has affirmed something I already believed: I am sick to death of living in spaces designed by the Realtor/Contractor Complex, and of the conventional wisdom that if you do alter a house, think first of its resale value.

To which I say: Fuck that. Or, as I more elegantly told the architect and the husband at the outset: "During this process, DO NOT say to me "Oh, we need to think about the resale value."

Translation: Do not tell me to live in and use my house in a way that will please and appeal to some future, random, and, in my opinion, nebulous, potential, future, owner.

As a result, until relatively recently, my dwellings have more about expedience than choice. But now we're living where we expect to live for the duration. We bought this house planning to leave it horizontally. By the time it's resold,  I'll either be dead or too old and infirm to give a rat's ass.

example, I've FINALLY persuaded the husband that we don't need that damn jacuzzi thing that came with the house. I told him that the day we bought the house. I told him that when we added a new shower to that bathroom (the one it came with was apparently designed for toddler pygmies).

I've continued to tell him that for the nine years we've lived here. He finally got the message. Apparently he's an advocate of the Slow Learner's Movement.

End of rant. For now. Of course now it's occurred to me that I start a new blog series. "The Remodeling Experience: Inside Out." Or something equally catchy. Hmmm.... Must go ponder.

More Life = Slow Blogging

A few months ago, I read an article somewhere about "slow blogging." It referred to the blogosphere's version of the slow food movement: blog slowly and with care and only after careful deliberation, etc. etc.

I thought "Hmmm... that sounds like something people who are more neurotic than even me would consider."

I mean, I'm all in favor of "slow food," or at least good, thoughtful food  --- but when a girl's gotta eat, she's gotta eat. Same with blogging. Which sort of brings me to my point: slow blogging here because once again life is getting in my eyes. Main problem is that I stupidly agreed to write a long essay for a beer magazine and that project has turned into a time sink. (And once I finish it, I believe I will have officially expounded, dissected, and disseminated the last of my original thoughts about beer.)

But --- never fear: the next long, rambling series is not far away. It will provide historical perspective on the nature of "revolutions," inspired by a book I just read (and have mentioned here several times): Daniel Goleman's Ecological Intelligence. So, hey, you should read that book so you'll know what I'm talking about when I get around to that series.