It was worth it

I really like my job. I like the people I work for, and the people I work with. Well, most of them. There's always one. A troublemaker. A morale killer. He is my equal in title and status. Or was, until today.

I work in manufacturing. We make shiny things. I won't go into much detail for the sake of anonymity, but that's it; shiny stickers. Over the last 8 years, I have worked my way from an entry level position, to the leader of my shift, to the leader of my department, to a leader in the corporation. The company has two product lines, rigid shiny stickers and flexible shiny stickers. I am in charge of the lucrative rigid line and have full responsibility for their production in all aspects. I set the quality levels and hold the group accountable to it, I provide training and assess individual performance.

The afore-mentioned trouble-making morale killer has my same role for the flexible product line. His area is segregated behind a wall where many secrets live. It is a secured room, not easily accessible, with multiple production machines hidden away. Over the years, he has hired friends, family members, drinking buddies, gambling associates to work for him. He plays favorites, does not hold his group accountable, barely provides training, and lies to our shared boss on a regular basis. Morale is low in his area, and it is slowly creeping out to other areas. We are missing orders, and have not ended the fiscal year in good standing. Today, all that changed.

Today I was given my annual review. An interesting process; I write a "self-assessment," my boss adds a few comments, and we discuss the future. I never sell myself short. I throw every minute detail of my accomplishments (no matter how insignificant) and make them out to be infinitely important. This year I went a step further. I added commentary about the morale killer. I voiced my disappointment in my boss for not taking him out. Man, I have some balls let me tell ya. It was worth it.

He has been given a choice (effective Monday) of taking a lower position or leaving the company. I have been given responsibility for his area as well as mine. Many of my other responsibilities have been (thankfully) taken away so I can focus on turning that area around. Oh yeah, and a promotion and a big raise.

My wife and I had a conversation last night after I broke the news. We agree that the sacrifices we have made (her staying home with the kids, my long hours at work not seeing her or the kids) has now been justified. I am somewhat concerned though. The addicted gambler who is close to losing everything is only inspired to carry on when he wins big. I am in danger of becoming a work-a-holic. There are days when I can't leave work AT WORK. There are days when I can't leave work for long hours because I must fix every problem before I go. There are days I forget why I'm doing it. For them. For us.

It's been a tough couple of years, but today... it was worth it.

A Change of Pace

Life is a whirl...

One day I was sitting around thinking about nothing when my youngest son walked up to me and said "Daddy, whatchdoin'?"

"Nothing," I replied a little gruffer than necessary. It had been a long day at work, the wife was a bit on edge, and thinking about nothing sounded like a nice temporary break.

"Daddy, play with me."

I said nothing. I looked him straight in the eye. He stared straight back. In my mind I raced through all the things I wanted him to know; the right way to be around people, how to handle assholes, when it's OK to have fun and when you must stand your ground. I passed through all the love I have for him, his brother and my wife. I shared the stupid things I've done in hopes that he may learn my lessons without him having to feel my pains. We moved on to responsibilities and what it takes to be a man. How working too much in an effort to better yourself and your family can be noble unless it becomes excessive and obsessive. Then it's just time away from home. I transferred my hopes for the future and the horrors of my past, the things I've never told anyone and the things anyone could plainly see if they cared enough to look.

His eyes are deep and pure. They hold the endless enthusiasm and hope that I must fight to preserve in him. I fear the day he starts to lose his innocence and passion for living. It happens to all of us, but maybe not him... not him. He's special. He makes chaos. He makes joy. He makes love. He makes fun.

His eyes shift and the thread frays and snaps.

"Daddy, play with me."

I smile, get up, grab his hand and follow him... wherever he wants me to go.

And the beat goes on.

I was 7 years old. The year was 1980. My family was making the long drive from Woodstock, CT to Buffalo, NY for my cousin Wally's wedding. We made the trip in one day. I don't recall how long it took, but I'd have to estimate (based on what I know now) that it took about 7 hours. Who knows, maybe more. It was a pretty uneventful trip, and as I barely remember most things before I was 10 or so, it's remarkable I remember it at all. Why do I remember this trip? It's during this ride that I wrote my first song.

I still remember a few lines. Nothing groundbreaking; I'm no Mozart. But it's a cute little tune:

We went through the river,
We went through the rain.
And then we turned and came back again.
Oh, yeah, yeah.
Came back again.

Like I said, I was 7. I don't recall writing any other tunes until I was 11 or 12. I was in Junior High School, and I had recently befriended the coolest guy I had ever met in my short little life: Vinnie Murray. Vinnie was awesome: he had a blue jean jacket that was almost completely covered in assorted sized safety pins. Where safety pins were missing, he had drawn the most amazing images of anarchy and punk rock. Vinnie was a black guy with a six inch tall mohawk. He skateboarded, was admired by all the little white girls (and had his way with them at will), he drank and did drugs and he was an incredible comic book artist. He was an inspiration.

Vinnie and I started putting some comics together. I had my characters, he had his. They got together and wreaked a path of death and destruction everywhere they went. We were like gods in our minds. Vinnie and I used to hang out at the local Record Breaker record store. When I say record store, I mean REAL VINYL. Now, up to this point, the only records I had bought were Chicago 17, Huey Lewis's Heart of Rock 'n Roll and all the Wierd Al Yankovic I could get my hands on. Vinnie introduced me to the independent/punk section of the store. My first trip in with him, I walked out with D.R.I.'s Dirty Rotten LP, Iron Maiden's Live After Death (a choice made solely on album cover art) and Black Flag's Damaged. A week later I was back for The Circle Jerks Golden Shower of Hits, Metallica's Kill 'em All and The Cro-Mags Age of Quarrel. I was hooked on punk from this point until I discovered John Coltrane in my early 20's. It was awesome.

Vinnie and I tried to write some songs together. Here's a small sampling:

Too Baked To Skate

It's Saturday afternoon,
Had too many bongs.
Try to thrash around,
But yer too far gone.

Road starts to spin,
Board begins to shake.
Do a skull grind,
Because yer fuckin' baked.

Not exactly Shakespeare. But songs like this made us legends. A band was formed but it got to Vinnie's head. He got into some trouble with the law (arson) and was ultimately placed in a facility to get the help and attention that he required to be a functional and productive member of society.

A second band was formed called Chemical Persuasion. I played guitar and wrote the songs. We played a few shows and had a good time. We played for beer money. Eventually we got a band room that turned into a party room and we started falling apart. Those were ugly times. Then my sisters accident and it was over. I pretty much holed up for a few years. I was the reclusive artist. I was depressed, and the king of excess. I barely showered, drank until sick, ate acid until it didn't work any more and smoked anything I could wrap a rolling paper around. I had a death wish. I gained almost 100 pounds during this time and lost nearly all of my friends. I dropped out of school and spent all day creating. Everything I did was awesome (whether it was or wasn't).

I remember drawing this picture of a mirror. The reflection is of a man who has just slit his wrists and blood is dripping into a reflected sink. Across the page in splashed red ink was one word: SUICIDE. I drew this picture and left it hanging on my easel when I went out partying. Some friends and I dropped a bunch of acid and climbed this mountain. We spent the whole night up there in the wilderness. When I got home in the morning all spent and gross, my mom was nearly in tears as I had not called or left a note. She thought I had gone off to kill myself.

I wrote a bunch of songs during this time. I recorded all of them. It's actually pretty positive stuff. I think it's the music that got me through. I haven't played any of these tapes for anyone ever. Not even the missus. But I listen to them sometimes when I'm down. They remind me how good things are now and how far I've come. When I met my future wife, the clouds magically lifted and I was suddenly happy. I wrote songs for her. I made beautiful things again. I wooed her with poems and art and insight into my vision of reality. She came to love me and I, her.

The band got back together in the late 90's. We wrote some songs and played a few shows. Then kids and a real job and time dried up.

I've since started another band. A few guys from work play instruments. The drummer lives 40 miles away. The bass player lives in Ireland. We have only played together in the same room once. Since then, we have made music online. I write a song and record a demo. The drummer lays down a drum track, than the bass goes in. If necessary we pass it around a few times to tweak and mix and such and then, VOILA!! a finished song. This band makes me happy. I get to be creative without a major investment of time away from the family. And it's the best sounding music I've ever written.

What's next? Who knows. A show? Maybe. Right now it doesn't matter. Right now I'm happy.

Fun is in the eye of the beholder

When I was a small child (my parents told me) I used to laugh in my sleep. Mrs Mungus says sometimes I still do. I don't remember any of those dreams, but I do remember waking up at times thinking "THAT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT!!" My unconscious mind has a knack for creating hilarious situations. My waking mind keeps me entertained as well. And that's the problem.

Sometimes (usually at the most inappropriate times) my mind finds the most ridiculously skewed way of seeing things. Picture being called into an executive meeting (I'm no executive mind you, but for some reason I am often asked to represent my group for the uppity-ups in the front office), sitting back waiting your turn to speak, and suddenly noticing an individual in the room with a slight speech impediment. This man (let's call him "Jim") verbalizes "L"s as "W"s. No shit.

Bob (the Lab Technician): I understand how the system can be used to manage our inventory, but how will items be identified?

Jim: You mean how will you wable your wacker?

Bob: Excuse me?

Jim: You want to know what the wable will wook wike for your wacker?

Bob: Yes. What will the label for our lacquers look like?

My boss's boss's boss is in the room. And I am quickly losing it. And NOBODY else is in on the joke. I asked people afterwards. No one fucking heard it but me. The conversation turns to generating "wables for the wift" and I audibly snort. I excuse myself as though I am having some sort of medical emergency and collapse in the hallway. Holy fucking shit that was funny.

Have you ever been in that situation? Everyone else is in "serious mode" and you're in the corner chuckling to yourself, holding back explosive laughter? Yup, I'm usually that guy. The guy that laughs at funerals. The guy that seeks out those forbidden videos of people getting hurt or killed. The guy who watched "Faces of Death" for a laugh.

At times my propensity for finding the humor in the darkest situations has reached it's limit. My sister was in a really bad accident in the late 90's. The house was empty and I was home with a friend watching bad movies. We were pretty stoned. The phone rang and I was too high to answer it. The machine picked it up and my friend and I listened as my mother's shaken voice explained that sis was in the hospital and may never walk again. I swear to you I've never laughed so hard. "Picture that!!" was the only phrase I could say. I laughed and said it again and again. It was funny. Until Mom showed up. She asked me to come with her to the hospital. I got in the drivers seat (now totally sober), Mom in the passenger seat and my friend in the back. I drove my friend home. None of us said a word the entire ride. When we got to the hospital, my Dad (who lives 3,000 miles away in California - 6 hour flight) was waiting. How long had it been since the accident and me finding out? I was off fucking partying while my family was facing the first of many terrible trials? Did they try to find me or was I so far out of reach they dismissed me? Mom is gone now, so I'll never know.

My sister never did walk again. That's not funny.

Speaking of coffee...

Yes in-double-deedie, I do drink a lot of coffee. And booze. Sometimes coffee AND booze.

Saturday night at the Mungus house is drinking night. I don't generally drink more than two or three beers during the week (more than that is snooze time). But Saturday is another story. I go into work a little later than usual, space my caffeine consumption (so as not to crash too early), get the kids to bed a little early and... off we go. Generally I'll start with a caffeinated alcoholic beverage (winter time is Irish coffee time, summer I may indulge in a Sparks or whatever the latest 6-8% alcohol energy drink is) then move on to beer.

As times are pretty lean around here, beer brand is limited to the bottom of the shelf brands (Busch, Natural Ice, Milwaukee's Best). These not-so-fine spirits get the job done, but leave me dehydrated and with a splitting headache Sunday morning. Sometimes on special occasions (or around tax time or something), we'll splurge on some Sam Adams or something a bit higher up the wall. And on those occasions it seems the required recovery time is less. But again, these are special occasions.

Over the course of a standard Saturday night, I may need to intersperse caffeinated beverages in (to keep the Beast Sleep at bay). The standard procedure is: a pot of coffee is made in the morning. This pot is consumed. A second pot is made in the evening. One or two hot cups is made, the rest goes in the fridge for emergency speed consumption. If the Beast rears its ugly head, a quick mix can be swirled up and swallowed within 30 seconds driving back said Beast into the shadows for a while. Any remaining cold coffee is reserved for the Sunday morning recovery scene.

During the course of writing this, I have consumed 3 large cups of coffee. I don't stop to look at my hands very often, but when I do, they shake unconsciously. Sometimes they have a mind of their own. My writing is often illegible even to me, as my grandmotherly shaky scrawl meanders about the page. It's a crazed mix of cursive and block letters. Often, I don't know which style I'm writing in. I watch the words flow from my pen as if watching subtitles on a fast-paced foreign film. Wait! was that a typo? that didn't make any sense. What language is this?? What's going on?

I'll write more of my adventures with coffee in the days to come. Stay tuned.

Too much work and no play makes FM a dull boy...

As stated, I have a wife and two kids. The Missus and I have made the decision that it is best for the kids for her to stay home with them until they are in school all day. Then she can break away and finish school and ultimately have a career. We own a house and a couple of used cars. Yup, we're poor. Not like there are "red envelope" bills in the mail or constant harassing phone calls at dinner time, but there's no extra money for fun. Heck, there's no extra money for necessities. Luckily, I have a pretty good job and am paid by the hour. So I work. A lot.

As I write this, I am on a lunch break smack dab in the middle of my standard 11 hour day. My commute is 45minutes to an hour, one-way. So I'm away from home for a grand total of 13 hours. Sometimes when work is especially busy I work 12 or 13 hour days. That's 14 - 15 hours away from home. With 2 meals and some hygiene time, there's little time for sleep. Sleep is my enemy.

My enemy follows me from waking to sleep. It attempts to overcome me during waking hours. It taunts me with its comfortable embrace at inappropriate times. My safety is far from its concern. It tries to drive me off the road and jogs my coordination. It clouds my judgment and makes me think things are far more extreme than they are, good or bad. It waits for me when I least expect it, then pounces on me and makes me a liability. It makes me poor company. Quiet night at home = nodding off on the couch.

The wife and I struggle through my not being around so much. The big kicker: when I am around, I'm tired. I play it like I'm not, but I am. All the time. Sometimes I try to cover it up by hiding my exhaustion behind a veil of caffeine. After a stretch of 5 or 6 days of 4 1/2 - 5 hours of sleep each, the jig is up; I'm tired and there's no denying it. A pot of coffee after dinner can't keep my eyes open. But if I succumb to sleep after large amounts of caffeine I have nothing to look forward to but numb limbs and rolling and twisting dreams. Restful it is not. So the battle rages on between the Beast and me. Yin and Yang, light and dark, wet and dry, bitter and sweet - endlessly dancing and cutting and swiping until cold, dark and weary we collapse into each other and the pent up restfulness of years is loosed like a wave. And I drink deep. And sleep, forever sleep.

I need some more coffee.