Fucking Chinese...

There's supposedly a Chinese curse that goes, "May you live in interesting times."

Am I cursed, then?  'Cause times are interesting, all right.  I don't recall ever offending anyone of Asian descent, although admittedly I haven't known many in my life.  There was a guy who used to come in the store where I worked -- before it closed -- who was obviously Asian, but whose name was Andrew.  He wasn't even supposed to rent on the account he always used, since his name wasn't on it as an authorized user.  But the account holder's name was Phung, Diep Phung, so I figured it was probably okay.  I wasn't going to get into what surely would've been a bottomless can of worms to try and sort that one out, at any rate.

Yeah.  Diep Phung.  Awesome, awesome name. 

So.  "Interesting times."  That's me on the charger there, by the way.  Going along my merry, chivalrous, naive way, doing what I am supposed to be doing, and about to be waylaid by three voluptuous, naked witches, who are in point of fact also cannibals.  My plate armor will make excellent serving trays for serving my roasted carcass, no doubt.

The above image, conversely, represents what I am most assuredly not:  in control of things.  Here you have a guy who is Master of His Domain (and not in the Seinfeld sense, mind you).  I suppose there are some out there who are like this guy, but I don't know any of them.  Or, I like to think I don't.  Most of us are as blindsided by all that's going on as I am, or worse.  At least, I can say I've been thinking ahead to this exasperatingly slow collapse of our civilization.  Hasn't made me that much more prepared, I must say.  If I had to rely on my preparations to feed myself and my family, we would starve within a month, two at most.

I won't bore you, kind visitor to The Gable Grey, with the details of my daily, unemployed life.  The days go by too quickly.  They really do.  I'm up at 5, Monday through Friday, helping the wife and kid get out the door so they can start their day.  That gives me an enormous amount of time, a wonderful leg up on the day ahead. 

I've cut what can only be described as a massive amount of grass.  I've gotten a painting project done that I've been putting off since last year.  I've nearly completed a new chapter of The Woodreeve's Tale (for those familiar with the work, I can tell you that one of the thanes doesn't make it), and am maddeningly close to finishing Where the Whang-Doodle Mourneth for Its First-born, a short story I've been trying to finish for the better part of a decade.  (I'm not exaggerating.)

Lots of job applications, resumes, behavior assessments.  I can almost recite my resume verbatim.  No call-backs yet, but it will happen, right?  Right???

I am not really optimistic.  I know it's un-American and all that to be that way, and I don't let my contrarianism bleed over into my applications -- at least, I hope I don't, not at detectable levels.  But realistically, I am not likely to find a job making what I made managing a video store.  It's that bad out there, friends, at least for those with my qualifications.  I understand this.  Not many others do, annoyingly.  Not many understand that this is not the job market of the 1990's, or even of the 2000's, or even of 2010.  I'm not even sure you can call it a job market.  It's more a kind of carnival, or circus; or maybe even a gladiatorial arena.  You fight, and fight, and fight, and are encouraged to fight more with the promise of eventual freedom; but the Emperor does not actually plan on letting you go.  You are too valuable as a slave, to be allowed to be let go and be free.  So you sally forth into the ring every day, and face off against African lions and rabid dogs and Nubians and vicious Goths and the occasional moray eels that the Emperor has brought in for those extra-special exhibitions when he has the Colosseum filled with water from the Tiber, and you give the crowd an inspiring show.

Meanwhile, dark forces are moving, forces largely beyond my comprehension, forces which seem terribly distant and yet threaten at any moment to sweep me and mine out into the Deep Primordial.  Markets go up, and my lot stays the same.  Markets go down, and my lot gets a little worse.  Western industrial civilization is a raging dragon whose fires have withered and nearly gone out, and is levelling mountains and little villages of Men in its death-throes.  Forests go up like tinder, lakes and rivers and whole seas turn to steam as the Worm writhes.  And all I can do is try to stay out of its way, because I do not have a sword of Dragon-slaying, and the Dwarves who knew how to make them are scattered, and there are no longer any real warriors left who know how to wield such blades, anyway; they were not wanted.

Some days are better than others.  Some days are almost impossibly quiet, and I find myself stopping and listening at odd moments; for what, I do not know.  Someone else in the house, maybe?  Was that wind in the trees?  What are the cats looking at?

Things are getting dicey out there again, and it's only mid-August.  Usually, summers are uneventful in the affairs of Men, or so I hear.  It has been anything but uneventful, though, and September is still a couple of weeks away. 

Hold on tight.  It could be a wild ride.  Hell, what am I saying?  It already is.

Wassail, friends.