Author: JMBalaya

I'm occasional moved to write something and this is what you get.

My name

My name has been an issue all my life. The alert person, I say sarcastically, immediately notices the resemblance of my name, JMBalaya, to the food jambalaya. Yes, I have heard that before.

My name is James Michael Balaya. I am Franco-American, which means my heritage is French. My parents liked the name James, and it is big in my family. As a matter of fact, the combo of James Michael is common on my mother’s side of the family.

However, James Balaya is only slighty less troublesome the Jim Balaya so I go by JM in most circles. My last name is allegedly French though it has no true meaning in French. I don’t know the family history very well but the talk is that it is vaguely Creole. The word in French that it resembles is Balayer, which means to sweep. Considering the way names evolve over time, that’s a been a good ‘nuff explanation for me.

There is a lack of knowledge of French people in the U S of A. It is a lost history mostly because the English ultimately won the territory. That’s why Spanish history, French history, Portuguese, all of the colonists are essentially unimportant in the US history despite being on the continent for even longer periods of time. I guess that’s how history and war works.

In comic books, you always read the origin stories. Batman was an orphan when his parents were murdered in front of him. Superman is from Krypton and that’s why he has super powers here. He’s an alien sent away, like Moses, to earth to save his life. His adoptive parents took him in and treated him well making him seem sympathetic and explaining his allergy to Krypton.

The concept of an origin story if vital to establish an identity. For the most part Franco Americans don’t have a good origin story. There is no “ancestors came over on the Mayflower” pride. Or ancestors escaped the Nazis. The ancestors (Irish, Vietnamese, Italian or whatever) were starving and came over to escape religious persecution, starvation, oppression. In some cases, it is just ends with good ole ancestor risk taker pulling themselves up by their bootstraps.

Franco-Americans have none of that. French people came to the continent 400 years ago. No one remembers the origin story. Our neighbors to the North have a plenty of French speaking folks and a prouder tradition. Even the Anglos have some knowledge of the French history. On top of which there is  bilingualism. Franco-Canadiens at least have a place in the story even if the story isn’t always clear or wholesome. There was some ugliness around the Huguenots and the separatist movement for sure.

But they have an origin story and some lore that is the same as Franco Americans but no one in America knows it. I will have to stick with my weird name and spell it out again the next time I’m at the coffee shop.

Cream, sugar, soy milk?

Goddamn Soy Milk. I said Soy MILK. You heard me. Soy milk in your coffee? “You know <beat>  humans are the only animal that drinks the milk of another animal.” I am so sick of hearing that. I have one thing to say to the next person I hear utter that phrase at the latte stand where I get my daily coffee. One compound word. BullSHIT!!!

First of all, it ain’t true. Humans might be the only animal that physically milks, that is, puts his/her hand on a teat of a cow or goat, and MILKS (verb) it. But don’t tell me that man is the only animal that drinks it. I’ve seen plenty of cats and dogs drink milk. And I’ll bet they aren’t alone.

On the topic of “milk,” it ain’t even milk. Soy is plant and plants can be juiced, not milked. I’m not the first person to notice this. It isn’t soy milk at all. It’s soy juice. And, if you want to put it in your coffee or on your Cheerios, be my guest. I don’t give a shit.

But humans i.e. Man, isn’t the only animals to drink cow milk. And even if humans were the only ones who drink milk so what?

Humans are the only animals who do a lot of things:

  •  Use WiFi in their homes.
  •  Play guitars.
  • Build suspension bridges.
  • Discuss the merits of getting a crown on a tooth.

Somehow, I think the milk thing is the least impressive thing of the lot. While we are on the subject, how did bull shit get this special place in the pantheon of other animals shit? At least it is what it is.

Soy milk?

Bullshit.

Wow. Over a year

It’s been over a year since my last post and for some reason it feels like a year. Which is disconcerting and, no, that’s not a question.

What I mean is this: Sometimes time flies (meaning it goes real fast, right?) and you can’t believe it’s another year, like when you forget and write 19 something something on your checks. Whoops. That’s like, a long time ago. There are 8 year old kids around who have never written 19 anything anything, you know, for the year.

Well anyways, this year seems exactly like a year. No time flying or, for that matter, not time going really slow.

I haven’t been using my computer much either so I’m looking into a bunch of new stuff that seems cool, such as Facebook, MySpace, My Spaces, Classmates. I’m looking forward to spending a lot of productive time on those sites.

Current Mood: thirsty thirsty
Current Music: Pre-sellout, Old 27th Lancers

Kid’s slang

As a former fire lookout, I’ve been around a lot of kids. By kids, I mean the 18-30 year old demo. Being a lookout is a solitary profesh, no doubt. You don’t see a lot of people in a day but you do see a lot of kids if you see anyone. Nome sayin?

Many times they are hiking with a lot of gardening gear. It’s like they have a crop or something in the actual woods.

They, by they i mean the kids, use, like, a lot of slang. Seriously, it’s not as though slang is something new but your ear becomes atuned to it as you get older. I mean, it’s really annoying to hear English and need someone to translate for you. It’s literally like you are hearing a foreign language.

Anyway, I find that I don’t have a lot of tolerance for it. At. All. Why, back in the day, we used say stuff like calling other fellows “cats.” We kep it all on the down low as we hung around. This was way before hooking up became so popular. That I just don’t understand.

What is that smell

Every once in a while, you get the whiff of something and you say, mmm, what is that? I know that smell but can’t place it. It isn’t necessarily unpleasant but it is curious.

I recently got a whiff of something like that. I realized that this one dude I depend on at work is either incompetent, willfully trying to screw me, or treating me like the the minor boil he has on his ass. It’s not a major boil that needs any attention from a doctor. And it’s nothing like the spot on his lung or the lump in his right testicle. But rather to him, I am a minor boil that, in time, will go way.

I hate that smell.
Current Location: work
Current Mood: annoyed annoyed
Current Music: Austin Powers soundtrack

security

If they want to make computers more secure, they should just put some of that tape shit that they put on CDs. That shit is impossible to open.

The little, inside piece of tape says ‘pull.’ Pull what feather-plucker!?!? You’re a piece of tape!

I hate that shit.

Current Mood: listless listless
Current Music: Sanchez Bros

Moving

It’s been a long time since my last entry and let me explain why. I’ve been away from the internet. I was manning a remote outpost where I watch for forest fires and it is the best job I’ve ever had.

Who knew that not bathing for weeks would cause my rash and dandruff to clear up? Seriously, my skin looks great. I think my penis got bigger too but that could be from that stuff I bought off the internet before going to the outpost. A lot of good it is doing me by myself, if you know what I mean. 😉

Yeah, well, anyways about the job. I had to move and that was kind of weird because I lived in my apartment for several years. I had accumulated a lot of computer equipment – mostly PDP 11s – which take up a lot of space. I had a path clear to the bathroom of course and a place to set up a PC but not much more. The other 3 rooms were filled with equipment. Good thing I like cereal and ramen noodles.

When I finally moved to what I like to call ‘the outpost’ I had to get rid of the apartment. That was tough but eventually I just did it. And now I’m moving back to a small town out here in the Northwest. It should be fun.
Current Mood: amused amused
Current Music: Van Hagar

When I grow up

When you are a kid, growing up, there are certain professions that you want to be. You want to be an astronaut or president. Sometimes you are a little more realistic and you say stuff like lawyer, doctor, or crane operator. Those jobs look cool to you as a kid.

But there are lots of jobs that you never hear kids say.

I want to be one of many thousand people who do tiny little jobs that are often directly at odd with other tiny jobs held by my fellow co-workers who work down the hall from me. Jobs that make us hate other people for daring to contradict us and our opinions about those tiny jobs. I want to pit myself against the person in the office who NEVER makes coffee and NEVER refills the copier. I want to jealously guard some office supplies or a mouse that I accidentally ended up with. I want to spend 9 to 10 hours a day sitting in a cubicle, by myself, wondering what I really should be doing, and how on earth what I am doing helps anyone. Anywhere.

I want to be involved with power generation. Not the guy who envisions bold new ideas for harnessing wind power or water power. I want to one of the guys who looks at dials and meters who checks whether the meter still reads 407 for 25 years. I want to be one of the guys who is instrumental in sending current from place to place, current that is unchanging and invisible. I want to dig hole after hole and run miles of wire, the same wire, everyday, for weeks and years to remote places or to anyplace so that people can have something that they expect should be there. They won’t appreciate it at all.

I want to write those little slips of paper like those that come with your mobile phone that say stuff like correction to pp 44 & 45. The last paragraph should not read as follows:
Cut the red wire, but first -new page- cut the blue wire when disarming the bomb.
Instead it should read:
First cut the blue wire. Then no new page cut the red wire when disarming the bomb.
Failure to follow these directions could result in serious harm. We mean bad.

I want to spend the better part of my productive days in a battle with a tin-horn administrator, bent on destroying my soul. I want to plot ways to avoid eye contact with this soul sucker instead of helping children learn about art. I want to experience disabling, unexplainable pain in my lower back that I numb with a combination of alcohol and ibuprofen while I mumble, at an appropriate distance, about the wonder of the human mind’s potential for creativity. Oh, and I want the school committee, consisting of townies who have not been to a museum since elementary school and who think I talk funny, to offer productive suggestions on my teaching methods.

Or I could be a campus cop at a small college.
Current Mood: chipper chipper

Wow. Buying a house sucks

I’ve been able to resist the urge to buy a house for my whole life. Frankly, I have no urge to buy one right now in the traditional sense, but that ain’t stoppin’ me. George Carlin makes a pretty good pitch that a house isn’t for you; it’s for your stuff. The only reason people buy a new one is because they have more stuff.

I think he’s right.

Right now, I have stuff that I can’t even find.

I don’t have a lot of other reasons to buy one. As a matter of fact, I used to keep only as much stuff as you can fit in two trips with a Volkswagon beatle – the old kind not the spacious new beatle with a damn trunk. Trust me, (or don’t – I don’t care) that ain’t a lot of room. The only reason I say two trips was because I needed one entire trip for my tuba, bass guitar and amplifier.

I had no bed, just a sleeping bag and a pillow. And it worked for me. When I wanted to kill time, I mutilated ants with a magnifying glass until I lost it. Then I turned my attention to sharpening a stick on the pavement. Oh, those were simpler times.

I pine for that now. In these what I call ‘bed times’, I need a bona fide truck in which to fit my stuff. George Carlin you are one insightful sarcastic bastard.

Current Mood: annoyed annoyed
Current Music: Hall and Oates

Conversation

Sometimes, when you are talking to somebody, you realize that you are getting pissed, and you’re not quite sure why. By pissed, I mean angry not drunk. That happens to me a lot. Is that bad?

I think that sometimes I’m projecting onto them. My therapist says this. I think she is right. I’m sometimes thinking that they should think how I’m thinking about something and they aren’t thinking my way so I get angry. At least, I think that’s what she means.

When I’m talking to some dick and thinking that they are stupid, really I’m the stupid dick. Oh, I guess that’s a little different.