Working with life insurance is strange...

...the conversation basically goes:
Life Insurance Company: Bet you're not gonna die!
Client: Bet you I will!

So I'm pretty much all moved in to my parent's house in San Jose and am going strong in my new job. It's a little bit strange going from starving waiter with dreams of finding a film production job to benefits consultant and insurance broker with dreams of finding a film production job.

Everything is a bit overwhelming right now as I'm trying to learn customer assistance, how to handle claim issues, how to make quotes, how to explain 401k, and get licensed in life/health/accident insurance...all at the same time.

But the truth is, I'm really enjoying where I'm at right now. I still want to thank all of you who gave me advice on this move. All of it was wonderfully helpful and made my decision that much easier. I also want to publicly thank Megan. I'm not sure I know of any significant others who would say, "Oh, we're getting married in a year and you want to move 450miles away from me? Ok!" I would be a mess if it were not for the support of my friends and family.

Other things that are happening: I'm learning Indian culture pretty quickly; I'm reuniting with some old high school friends; I'm eating better than I have in 8 years; and I'm still not used to having nights and weekends free (*shakes fist angrily at 4 years of working in the restaurant industry*).

I'll try to keep things updated here for anyone who checks the site. Also, if anyone is interested in how the wedding stuff is going, you can check out:
our wedding site

Hope all is well with everyone! Feel free to write or call any time so I can keep updated on you all.

Can I just say...

...I love my friends. And that includes you. Yes, you. I made my last post as a sort of desperate hail-mary. Not that I am going to base major life-changing decisions on comments from a blog; but I was hoping to get insight from someone outside of my immediate situation. To those of you who responded: thank you.

I know I haven't always been the best of friends. Ed, I never make it to your shows (damn this mostly weekend restaurant job). Aro, I'm flaky when it comes to reading scripts/comics and giving advice. Aaron and Kirsten, I have now failed twice to make it to your place to hang out. But despite my downfalls, you all stick by me.

The more I think about it, the more I feel sure that friendship is much more than society/media tells us. Here's how I see real friendship:

Friends Are:

-There when you need them, as well as when you feel you don't; because let's face it, you always need them.

-Those who, despite weeks/months/years passing between visits, feel as if you hung out with them just the other day.

-Willing to tell you that you are being ridiculous/stupid/stubborn even when they know you will temporarily hate them for it. And in the long run, that's part of why you have them around.

-Lifesavers when your life needs saving.

-One of the best parts of life.

Now forgive me for this sappy post. I just wanted to say thank you to all my friends. I am forever grateful for all the love you have bestowed upon me. Hopefully I have made you feel special a couple times as well.

Undecided/Indecisive

This site has taken many turns. It started out as a goofy way to link to funny pictures and complain about my loner-status. It then became a semi-regular window into my life (and all activities I deemed "news worthy"). After that, I went through a serious phase where my posts all had weight and gravitas (or so I liked to think). Now? Now I try and mix all the good parts from the past. Funny links mixed with life-updates and a sprinkling of serious topics makes for, [once more] in my opinion, a decent site that one might choose to visit now and then.

What I have stayed away from is using this site for angry name-calling (though it was incredibly tempting at times), serious self-help (I tried to keep my serious problems cloaked in obscurity so as not to be shouting, "Pity me!"), or taking myself too seriously (I never want to think that I am special because I write some words on the internet). But...there are always exceptions to the rules (though a recent episode of House had House saying, "No, there are not exceptions to every rule, that's why they call them rules" or something like that). I am now going to use this site as a way to express mildly angry name-calling (breaking rule #1), procure self-help (breaking rule #2), and take myself seriously (breaking rule #3). Well, at least for this particular post. Then it's probably back to posts about skid-marks and pictures of raccoons procreating.

The name-calling comes into play because I am angry at the economy. I know, it's kinda meta, but I'm angry that I put so much time into my chosen career of "filmmaker" and now that I'm ready to embark upon that adventure, there seems to be no way into said career. Why couldn't the depression have taken place while I was in school and not looking for a film job? Now that I'm ready to get that perfect job, people are being laid off left and right and those fateful words of my film school teachers ("Oh, getting a post-production job will be easy") haunt me.

The self-help and taking myself seriously are almost one in the same. I have a dilemma. I want to make films. That is, as far as I can tell, my calling. But at the same time I am going to be married in almost exactly one year. I told myself I would not get myself into said situation (marriage) unless I could take care of myself and my wife financially. I never wanted to be that guy who gets married and then ends up working three minimum-wage jobs just to make ends meet. With the economy as it is, I don't see myself getting "that awesome film job" any time soon. Since I do want to have the money to enable a not-super-stressful first year of marriage, I am now considering alternatives job-wise.

The situation is basically as follows: I have the possible ability to take a job that is secure, safe, and pretty good in way of making money. This job, however, is not at all what I saw myself doing at any point in my life.

So the dilemma is as follows: do I continue the search for that perfect film job that will, at very least, allow me to financially support my future family; or do I take a job that will definitely allow me security even though it is not something I particularly want to do? Is this one of those give-and-take kinda things that I have heard are so vital to a good married life? Or am I being pessimistic in thinking that I cannot get the job I desire (and possibly hindering my future in the film business due to taking even more time away from it)?

Right now I am seriously considering taking the secure job as a in-between thing until I can get a job I will come home from feeling fulfilled and happy. If you read this site, I would love for your input. I'm a bit lost in all of this and I'm hoping that I will suddenly see a sign that says, "Do THAT! No, seriously, do it. It's for the best!" But I know that is unlikely. Life is all about taking risks; and I'm trying to figure out which risk to take.

Anyway, just some thoughts that I hoped to get some input on.

More Memories

I realize that my memories of my “younger years” (put in quotes because, let’s face it, being 26 doesn’t exactly entitle me to phrases like, ‘When I was young,’ or, ‘back in my day’) are possibly excruciatingly unpleasant to read for those who do not fall in one of two categories: 1) Those who are not me, or 2) Those who do not care what influenced me to become the person I am today. I, however, ignore the lack of interest since, in my opinion, reliving past experiences through prose-like writing can help one come to terms with the past and shine a light on who we are to become. So, in other words, I don’t care if you don’t care…I want to do this.

Wow…that was scarily cynical and full of self-loathing. Sorry!

I’m 18 years old and close to graduating from high school. I’ve gone through many fashion phases (everything from goth to nerd) and have settled on Express (or whatever ‘Express Men’ was before it took the name of the previously purely feminine store) sweaters, semi-baggy jeans, and tennis shoes. My hair is nice cropped in a comb-over style. Since I drive my sister home after school, and since she is much more popular than I, I often have to wait for her to show up. She’s off talking and flirting and having a good time while I lean against a wall awkwardly waiting and not talking to anyone. I must have seen one too many fashion advertisements and subconsciously accepted model-poses as common ways to present oneself. I would stand there with my shoulder bag, leaning against the wall, one foot raised and pressed against the wall. My eyes somewhat downcast. Calvin Kline models always stand like this, so it must be normal…right? One day my sister tells me that I looked like an Express model, standing there in my sweater with my foot on the wall and my ‘devil-may-care’ expression. I took this as a good thing at the time. Now, I walk by the mannequins in the Express storefront and cringe at the thought that I once thought looking like that was cool.

I’m 19 years old and, through some good fortune (read: my parents are way too nice) drove a 1980 convertible Mercedes 450SL. I sped everywhere. And by ‘everywhere’ I mean that every time I entered the car and drove, I sped. Due to the age of the car, the speedometer only went to 85mph. On many occasions I pushed the needle to the stopper at 85mph. I often drove somewhere between 85mph and 100mph. I never knew how fast I was going; but speed was a fix I needed. I was driving home one night at about 1am; there was no traffic, which allowed me to push my acceptable speed limit to the max. It was sprinkling; and California freeways do not get the most moisture…causing an extreme lack of traction. I closed in on my exit, a turn that hit about 70 degrees or more, and flew up towards the light. As I hit the pinnacle of the turn my car slid. I was, luckily, on the inside lane, and my skid took me to the very edge of the outside lane where a huge ditch laid waiting. Less than 2 seconds felt like 5 minutes as I cranked the wheel and let go of the brake in hopes that I was doing the right action to save myself from rolling over. I pulled out of the slide and ended up right at the line of the stoplight. As my breathing slowed and my heart returned to its natural pace, I vowed to never disregard the laws of the road to that extent again.

I’m 20 years old and my brother and I decide to go out dancing. If you have seen Dane Cook’s older acts (before he started sucking hardcore) you might have seen his bit about the difference in guys going out dancing versus girls going out dancing. He basically says that girls go out dancing ‘just to dance’ to no other intentions, whereas you never hear of a group of guys going out and saying, ‘F girls tonight, I just wanna dance!.’ Well, my brother and I actually want out just to dance. We hit a local 18-and-up club and went about our normal procedure: I got a sprite and my brother got a vodka-redbull. I would pour my sprite out and we would stand in a dark corner where he would pour his drink into my now empty plastic cup (non-alcoholic drinks were poured into plastic cups). This club, however, was very keen on plans like ours, and 20 minutes later we are still trying to trade drinks. The bouncers have numbers on their backs and we see, no kidding, bouncer #37 pass us by. They have, at least 37 bouncers watching for illicit activity. We finally trade drinks, I down it in 2 gulps, and we dance. Hours pass and despite “hot” girls dancing inches away, we have tons of fun just goofing off and not ‘playing the game.’ To this day I have a hard time explaining that I have been to dance clubs without the intent to hook up.

Please Drink Responsibly!

So I have this theory...

...and what better way to test a theory than to baselessly speculate about it on the internet. As was recently quoted (by a comedy TV show): "It's the internet. There's not place for truth on the internet."

Grant's [baseless] Theory of Age

When born, we (humans) are helpless beings, totally dependent on more competent humans to feed us, change us, make us happy, take care of us in case of sickness, etc, etc. Unlike other species (e.g. turtles), we cannot fend for ourselves; and without constant supervision, we (in our infant state) will surely perish.

As we age, we gain the ability to take care of ourselves. We reach an undetermined age (only undetermined because there is no way to ethically test it) where we could, if absolutely necessary, survive on our own. A 1-year-old on it's own will die. A 7-year-old on it's own might find a way to forge ahead and survive.

One day, however, we start to decline. Science today tells us that humans reach their pinnacle, their best if you will, at some point during the late 20's. As our brains deteriorate and our bodies decline, we find ourselves relying on the same assistance that we once needed as infants. Changing of diapers, feeding of nutrients, and help dressing/undressing are not uncommon for the elderly.

Our infant nature and our elderly state are often compared. We are born into diapers, and we die in them (with a brief interval free from safety-undergarments).

But I have another, possibly better, comparison for the human elderly state: the state of being drunk.

No, wait, hear me out. If you can, observe a group of elderly people. Take notes. Don't worry, they won't notice...they're old. Now observe a typical group of super-intoxicated younger people. Take notes. Don't worry, they won't notice...they're too drunk and self-involved (or on a sexual conquest) to notice.

Now make comparisons. Notice anything? You should. Here are some common quirks of drunkenness and their age-induced counterparts:

Forgetfulness: Drunk people forget their keys, where they parked their car, that they're married, and what they planned to order at the Taco Bell drive-through. Old people forget their keys, where they parked their car, that they've already taken their medication, or that they haven't eaten in 20+ hours.

Lack of Motor-Skills: Drunk people crash cars, trip over curbs (or even small cracks in the pavement), type poorly formed e-mails and text-messages, and attempt feeble punches aimed at larger (and obviously much more intimidating) bar-goers. Old people crash cars, trip over just about anything, call people the wrong name and retell stories told just minutes ago, and believe they can do tasks they could do when they were younger (e.g. carry the 30-pound bag of groceries to the car).

Confidence: Drunk people tell others of qualities/jobs/traits they do not possess, approach girls/guys so far out of their range it's laughable, and consider themselves God's gift to this earth. Old people mis-remember the past and boast of qualities/jobs/traits they never possessed, assure others they are capable of tasks they simply cannot do (e.g. drive), and due to point 1 (mis-remembering) still consider themselves to be part of the in-crowd or in the know.

Ignoring the Facts: Drunk people say they can still drive, boast of prowess (whether sexual, physical, or mental) they do not have, and proclaim loudly and often that they are not drunk. Old people say they can still drive, boast of prowess they either never had or no longer have, and proclaim loudly and often that they are not too old.

Point being, from what I can tell, being old is like being drunk without all the perks. The young person who is drunk has issues driving to the nearest Del Taco, forgets his order, crashes his car into the garage trying to park, passes out before he can "perform" for the girl he convinced to come home with him, and can't remember any of the night before; whereas the old person has issues driving to the nearest early-bird special, crashes his car into the telephone pole on the way home, can't perform for his wife of 40 years (time for a Viagra refill), and can't remember any of the night before. The difference is that the young person will sober up and not have to deal with all the previously mentioned symptoms. The old person lives perpetually in all the mentioned symptoms (with the exception being the amazingly-alert old person who still has memory and motor-skills).

The point in all of this? I can't wait to be old. It will be nice to forget to eat healthy, crash my car, and re-tell the same story 6 times in a row...and then have people say, "Oh, it's ok, he's old." At least then I'll have an excuse.

Memories

Once more inspired by Sarah Brown , I thought it was time for a random memory post. Hope you enjoy!

It’s Christmas morning. I am 9 years old and my brother and I share a room (the girls got their own rooms; apparently it’s better for the boys to share a room than the girls). We know Santa doesn’t exist; but that doesn’t curb our enthusiasm for the upcoming spectacle. It’s family tradition to head to the kitchen the morning of, and have a big glass of orange juice (coffee for the adults) before we head into the living room for present opening. 6am hits and I am wide awake. “Chad,” I whisper, “do you think the presents are there?” “Yeah,” he responds, hiding his excitement (for it’s a little kid thing to get so excited about presents…he’s too cool), “but we’re not supposed to look yet.” “Yeah,” I reply; and then I get up, sneak down the hall, and look down at the Christmas tree from the second-story balcony. In the early morning glow the tree is a beautiful silhouette and the presents glisten temptingly, hiding names on tags, hinting at untold glories ready to be unfurled upon anxious souls. No matter how good the gifts were, the waiting was always more fulfilling than anything that could come after.

I’m not particularly liked or disliked…but it’s junior year in high school and every glance and comment implies love or hate in my mind. I’m a theatre-nerd and a film-kid and my peers see me as “that guy.” Nobody loves me beyond all others, and only a few hate me (but that's a whole new story). Theatre is, oddly enough, a very respected extracurricular activity at my school, and I have a lead in the Senior-produced play. Our color-scheme is sepia, and my blonde hair doesn’t work well with said scheme. Rather than wigging up every night, I choose to use dye to solve the problem (even for my facial hair grown especially for said play). My goth-mentor (also in the play) buys some black hair dye and we sneak into the theatre after everyone has gone home. We go into the theatre restroom and I apply the dye to my hair, eyebrows, and facial hair. Since heat makes dye grab hold quicker I put a wig on over my plastic-bagged head. The wig is from a recent play, The Lark, and belonged to the lead girl (Joan of Arc) who had a boyish haircut. My friend and I spend a solid hour in the mostly dark and totally empty theatre acting out our favorite movie/film scenes on stage. The cleaners show up and stumble upon me, on stage, in a shaggy and choppy wig, pretending I am a Monty Python character who is ‘not dead yet.’ We laugh it off before washing out the dye and standing speechless looking at my now strikingly affected hair, eyebrows, and facial hair.

It’s Thanksgiving time and I am home with the family. I head out on Thanksgiving night with one of my all-time best friends. During high school we loved getting McFlurries from McDonalds. There’s something about that cheap ice cream and chopped up candy at 1am that blows all other desserts out of the water. During high school our favorite was always Butterfinger®. We hit up the local McD’s and through the crappy drive-through speaker requested two Butterfinger® McFlurries. We were promptly informed that the Butterfinger® variety of our favorite tasty treat is no longer an available option. Dejected and broken-hearted, we ordered plain vanilla McFlurries. I had a plan. We hit up an all-night grocery store and bought two Butterfinger® bars and headed back to my house. With a well–implemented meat-mallet and some ingenuity we had ourselves some genuinely delicious Butterfinger® McFlurries (take that McDonalds). The lesson learned: don't accept defeat...an all-night grocery might just have the answer to your dilemma.