I don’t have many different options though.  I have gone down this road for the last 10 years and any type of career change now and I will take a massive pay cut.  That is the thing about sales, fundamentally it requires very little “skill”, yet pays extremely well considering the workload.  I am stuck and it is a bit depressing.  On the other hand, I feel like I am having another “this is why the terrorists hate us” moment because I AM making good money right now, not doing too much and due to this job they just moved me to Sydney.  Basically, I know I am not going to change anything but a guy can dream can’t he?  I have been thinking about some career change opportunities and the pro’s and con’s of each.

Entrepenuer

This has some allure because I would love to not have any managers lording over me or micromanaging what I do.  It is all me.  Out there.  Just myself to rely on.  Alone.  Wait, fuck that.  I definitely don’t trust myself enough to work my ass off for something even if it is my own welfare.  I am such a slacker sometimes and lose focus pretty easily, so maybe not having “the Man” nipping at my heels would cause my laziness to skyrocket to porch-monkey status.

Marketing

It is not sales, that’s for sure.  Marketing is somehow worse though.  It has all the aggravations of a sales job except none of the perks.  It is impossible to tell if a marketing person is doing a good job or a shitty job and therein lies the problem.  It is like art class in 5th grade, the work is useless but as long as the teacher/boss likes you, then you will get a good grade.  Marketing efforts are totally subjective.  There is no way that I could handle that simply because I cannot kiss ass.  No matter how hard I try, I have the urge to be a prick to anyone that tries to exert control over me.

Hobo

Not having to worry about a job – GOOD.  Sleeping on a cardboard box – BAD.  Checking myself out of the materialistic cycle of crap I don’t really need – GOOD.  Sucking dick for meth money – BAD.  Hmmm – the juries still out on this one.

Boytoy

Sweet baby Jesus I would love to have myself a sugar momma.  Hanging out at the pool all day catching up on some reading and working on my tan sounds fantastic.  What doesn’t sound fantastic is fucking some blue-haired socialite with skin resembling my childhood baseball mitt.

Farmer

I have lived in a large city for all of my adult life.  In theory the idea of going out to the country and fending for myself sounds like a pretty great idea.  Growing my own vegetables and living off the land is something that humans were actually meant to do rather than toiling away in front of a 21in LCD screen.  In reality though I would be absolutely clueless.  Seeds go into the ground, right?  How do chickens turn into breaded breast fillets… do they just come out of the eggs like that?  So many questions so little time.  I would most likely spend my time getting drunk and mailing cow shit to unsuspecting friends until I was broken and alone on the floor of my one room shack cradling a shotgun that I have no idea how to fire.  Man, I am a pussy.

Writer

Anytime that I sit in front of a blank word document it kind of freaks me out.  I have a hard enough time coming up with enough dick jokes and other forms of assholery to even make a weekly post here.  For me to  write a short story or really commit myself to writing something substantiative is frightening to me.  In reality that is the crux of it: the reason that I continue to toil in the sales “salt mine” is fear of failure.  I really don’t care about sales and if I succeed or fail makes no difference to me at a personal level.  If I sincerely tried something that I was more personally invested in and failed I would be crushed.  Sales is a job but in reality it is a shelter from failing at something that I really care about.

I constantly have thoughts about throwing caution to the wind and trying to do something that I care about but for a variety of reasons, I never do.  The paycheck is the first thing that comes to mind but more than that I feel like if I took a chance to do something I may find out that I really don’t care about that line of work either.  Maybe I am just set to hate whatever I am doing because I “have” to do it.  In that case, wouldn’t I be better off just sticking with something that I hate that pays, instead of working my ass off and being poor?Either I will or I won’t, I guess is depends on how much of my soul is left after working at a corporation for 10 years.

Geez, talk about depressing… on that note – have a fantastic Friday!

Although I have never been in the Army and am probably more on the pussy side of the scale than the badass side (I’m a lover, not a fighter) I feel like I could relate to them.  Not in any type of military context, since 100% of these guys are way tougher than I am, but rather in a symbolic way.  The previous night I played wingman to one of my buddies who had been visiting for the weekend.

This chick that he had a hardon for is living in Melbourne she decided to come to Sydney with one of her buddies for the long weekend.  Hanging out with this chick’s friend was certainly not me jumping on a “grenade” by any means, she was cute, definitely not my cup of tea, but a cute girl nonetheless.  Chatting up her friend was not where I was reluctantly called to duty but rather with some random old lady whose house they were staying at.  Apparently my visitors friend met this lady a while back and she offered that they stay at her place in Liverpool (an hour out of the Sydney).

When my buddy initially talked to the girls they were complaining about how far the place they were staying was (which it is).  I chimed in and offered that they could crash at my pad.  They, meaning the 2 girls, not THEY meaning the two girls and their old wet blanket soccer mom.  However, just as the mighty Australian fighters did during their battle at Gallipoli, I persevered.  When the girl I was talking to started to spout off racist theories on Aborigines (They have sex in the front yard and throw garbage in the streets!) – I persevered, when the psuedo-Mom was trying to cock-block my friend and I ran interference by chatting her up – I persevered, when the old lady came back to my house to crash and complained about being hungry – I persevered (and made her pasta).

At some point though even the most stalwart wingmen must fight thier own battles and look out for themselves.  I closed the door and retreated to my bedroom at about 4AM.  Leaving my friend and his chick on one side of the couch and what looked like a refugee camp with a snoring old lady on the other end.

The next day I was just about done with the wing-man routine as we went out to the bars for ANZAC day with the same “ladies”.  It was kind of gloomy and I really didn’t feel like drinking much.  If this were some random US holiday I probably would have just taken it easy and called it an early night.  It wasn’t a random US holiday though, it was mother-fucking ANZAC Day.  Little did I know I was walking into one of the most finely crafted holidays ever.

It is a widely known fact that Australians love holidays and love drinking.  It is a not so widely known fact that are huge gamblers as well.  ANZAC day is a pretty standard holiday except it heavily incorporates drinking and gambling combined with a public holiday.  Basically, this is my personal holy trinity of fun (… in the name of the lazy, the drunk and the gambling spirit… amen).  Let me explain.  Apparently the Australian sailors who got their asses handed to them in Gallipoli played a game called “2-up” when they weren’t getting shot at.  This game was banned in Australia because of the problems it caused but for this one day, ANZAC day, they lift the ban.

2-up follow’s Australia’s tradition of simplicity.  Basically, everyone at the pub stands around in a circle with one person in the middle as the coin flipper.  If you would like to bet that the outcome is “heads” you put whatever denomination you would like in your hand and point to your head.  If you would like “tails” you look for someone that is pointing to their head and give them an equal amount of money that they are holding up.  The person betting heads holds the cash until the flipping is complete and the coins come up either 2 heads or 2 tails.  If  ”heads” wins the person keeps the money in hand, if “tails” wins the “heads”  person gives all the money to the tails person.  That’s it.  Simple.  Oh, one last wrinkle – if there are 5 flips without definitive heads or tails the flipper has to do push-ups (if a guys is flipping) or jumping-jacks (if a girl is flipping)… good times.

Like I said, the Australians nailed this one.  They hit the trinity of fun PLUS girls doing jumping jacks. BINGO.  Anyways it was a glorious afternoon.  We really need to sort out something similar to this in the US… maybe Roulettines Day… or Blackjackeen… maybe Crapshanuka?  Ah, forget it…

“Statutory Grape”

This really has to be seen to be believed.  I saw this car with its back end bumping and the tunes blasting at about 5:30 on Friday afternoon.  When does the thought of detailing your car with the term “Statutory Grape” sound like a good idea?  Picture this:  your daughter is waiting for her new boyfriend and she sees this purple monstrosity rolling down the street and starts squealing “he’s here… he’s here!”  Do you A – Tie up your daughter, duct tape her mouth and hope that the car drives by.  B – Meet your daughter’s new boyfriend in the driveway and get the lowdown on when the next “freaknik” is going to be held.  C – Give your daughter a $30 gift card to Applebee’s and send her on her way then go downstairs and hang yourself with a note pinned to yourself saying “I didn’t know how to raise my daughter”.  Your call… choose wisely. *sidenote* By the way, if you saw this vehicle, Googled it and came to my site, drop a note in the comments with a story on where you saw it.  It will be my way of giving back to the community. *end sidenote*

Various Hobos

My hobo ignoring skills have really made a resurgence lately.  San Diego is really the best town in the world if you are a hobo.  Nice weather, decent people and a great dumpster selection make San Diego a prime hobo location.  Unfortunately there is a vacant commercial space right below my building and a bunch of homeless people that congregate there at all hours.  If I were to give them money every time that I passed by I would need to take out a small business loan to support them.  Sometimes hobos can not be ignored though.  Case in point:  my friend from San Francisco recently told me that she came across a hobo blowing another hobo on her walk home from work.  As disturbing as that is it brings us to a more important question – Is there anything that would taste worse than hobo-cock?  I spurred me to develop a new taste scale that can be applied in any situation.  It is a simple 0-10 scale of the taste of an object ranging from o (hobo cock) to 10 (homemade German chocolate cake).  I really need to get a show on Food Network with this.

Me in my underpants

That’s right… in my extreme laziness and my multiple large windows that face a busy street have made me an exhibitionist  At this point I don’t really give a shit but if you are strolling along downtown San Diego you can probably get a great look of a lanky blog writer who is too lazy to close the blinds… what… no takers???  Fine – you suck anyways.

Any good sights and sounds lately in your neighborhood?

1. Take at least one day off for the move - It is never fun to take days off of work for shitty things.  Moving is one of them, however take a Friday off and get most of the move finished before the weekend.  Wrap it up on Saturday and you can leisurely unpack on Sunday.  Coming home from work on Monday to a move-induced crack den of half unpacked items is not the way to do it.
2. Choosing a good location – This is really key, especially in San Diego which is the drunk driving capital of the world.  Bars and neighborhoods are so spread out that it is impossible to get around without getting on a highway.  Add in the fact that cabs are ridiculously expensive and public transportation is nonexistent create the perfect storm for driving buzzed.  My point being here that you need to have at least a few well placed bars and restaurants within walking distance too even consider living somewhere.  Parking is also a huge consideration… there is nothing more aggravating than coming home from the salt mine and driving around for a half hour looking for a spot.  Invest in a parking spot if you need to – you will thank me later.
3. Go with a girl to look at the place – When looking at a place why not take the sex that has a “nesting instinct”?  Women notice of all of the things that a guy would never think about when looking at a place.  I was once on the fence about getting a  place then one of my friends turned on the shower to see what the water pressure was like.  It trickled out in a weak stream and I knocked that place off the list right there – I didn’t want to feel like I was getting pissed on every morning… and I would never have thought to look at that!
4. Throw out as much shit as possible – Get rid of everything that you can.  Those overalls that you thought were the money in ’92 that you are still hanging on to just in case they come back into style… ditch them.
5. Rip it like a band-aid – I suck at this part.  As soon as I have moved all of my stuff I start unpacking in a phased approach (read: lazy).  I end up having boxes all over the new pad months after the move – bad idea – I look like I work for UPS.  Don’t be a lazy-ass… just unpack everything immediately.
6. Throw a party before you leave – Why not?  Fuck the old place… leave with a bang.  This is the time when you can throw a “graffiti party” (where everyone wears white shirts and brings a marker to deface each other’s shirts) – which is never a good idea in a place that you would want to stay after the fact. *Sidenote* These parties always devolve into writing on body parts.  The last graffiti party I was at one of my buddies colored in this chick’s nipple with a sharpie.  I can’t imagine that would be too fun to wash off *End Sidenote*
7. Hook up your neighbors – I hate being kind to the people around me as much as the next guy but in this case it is essential.  Meet your new neighbors and make sure they have your number.  One day you may need a cup of milk or them not to call the police when you are making too much noise when you get home from the bar… a few minutes here can save you a lot of hassle down the road.
8. Upper-deck the toilet before you leave – Always nice to leave a moving gift for the new tenants of your old place(just kidding… … … …maybe)
9. Suckering your friends into helping move – This is the time of the year when you need to call in all of those favors you have done for your buddies.  Remember when you dropped off and picked up someone at the airport or disposed of that drifter that your friend strangled (wait… did I say that out loud?) – its time to call in some favors to help out with the move.  A friend that owns the pick-up truck (poor bastard) is of utmost importance and you MUST guilt him into taking a few loads over to the new place.  Bribe them with beer and food if necessary.  One of my friends used to always help me move but he would get too baked and start breaking shit.  It is all fun and games until some asshole drops the glass coffee table.  I know some of my friends purposely suck at moving so they are never asked again (very, very smart).

Even if you follow all of these rules the move is still going to blow – if all else fails burn the place down, collect the insurance money and travel the world.

Any moving tips that I missed?

To give you an idea of my laziness here are a few examples:

- When I come back from the grocery store I make one trip from the car to my apartment with the stuff i bought.  It does not matter how much I had bought – I make ONLY one trip.  I will literally load myself up like a pack mule and strain every muscle in my body to walk the 100 feet to my place instead of just making 2 trips and carrying a reasonable amount of stuff.  I have almost lost fingers due to the plastic bags cutting off the circulation to my hands.

- I love me some nappin’.  I have been told that my napping skills are catlike.  I can fall asleep anywhere, at any time under any circumstance.  It is at times good (sleeping for 16 hours of my 17 hour flight to Asia) and at times bad (passing out behind the wheel even with the radio cranking, windows open, chewing gum and getting road-head – OK, maybe I am lying about the road-head part).  Seriously though, when I am in the car as a passenger it is like someone firing a rhino tranquilizer dart into my neck.  Give me 5 minutes on the highway and my head will be bobbing around like “Weekend at Bernie’s”.  The ease of these naps adds to my laziness – if I’m bored I’ll just take a nap… why not?

- Part being the Lebron James of napping is that it is very difficult for me to actually wake up at all.  I like that I can sleep through some drunk asshole banging on my door at 3AM but that skill is not so good when I can’t hear my alarm going off at 7AM.  I currently use 3 alarm clocks to get up and I have still slept through all of them a few times.  My roommate in college got so fed up that he had a squirt gun by the side of the bed that he would douche me with if I didn’t wake up withing a few seconds of my alarm – trust me, waking up thinking that you are first few rows of the Shamu show at Sea World is not so fun.

- When I was a kid I learned to never answer the first time someone called my name.  Nine times out of ten when my Mom shouted from the first floor for me was when she needed me to do something.  I waited until at least two calls.  Most of the time she would either give up and do whatever she needed me for herself (I know, I am an asshole).  This has made its way into my current work life.  If there is an annoying task that someone needs me to do I will wait until they ask again.  Wait… maybe I am the reason why the US is falling behind… forget I said that.

- Right before I sat down to write this I realized that I forgot something in my car.  I was going to go right out and grab it (about 200 yards of total walking distance) then I didn’t really feel like it.  I started to think about how I could minimize the distance I would have to walk by combining my lunch and getting my bag from the car.  I spend a lot of my waking minutes thinking about how I can combine activities to minimize the amount of movement that I do.  If I would just do the thing I need to do it would be done and I could stop thinking about it… except that wouldn’t be lazy!

- I slept on a futon mattress on the floor of my condo for over 8 months.  I had plenty of money and time to go purchase a proper bed but the thought of going out to the store and buying something seemed like a lot of work.  It probably would have taken me an hour at most but for some reason I just didn’t feel like going shopping.  I am sure that the chicks I had been dating at the time who I brought back to my place  thought I was living in a crack den but even that didn’t make me get something.  I guess my laziness trumps not looking like a tool… pretty pathetic!

The sad thing is that my parents are some of the hardest working people that I know.  Apparently laziness skips a couple of generations.  I don’t know where I picked up my ways but I think they are here to stay.  Looking back on this list though it seems like it is a lot more hassle to be lazy.  The amount of energy and effort that I put into being lazy is probably a fraction of the effort that I would need to complete what I need to do and in reality I guess I am not that lazy.  I was not sooooo lazy that I couldn’t finish thi