random reflectors

Driving down the highway, it’s easy to be hypnotized by things.

One moment, it’s the guardrails just flying by. Especially when you can make out the rivets that join them all together.

Still another, it’s the lines in the road. Whether they are double yellow, dashed white or a mixture of whatever, they’re the time-honored part of a beginning of any road movie.

Yet in North Carolina and parts of South Carolina, it was noticed recently by a traveling companion that the reflectors on the sides of the road have no discernable pattern. I tried to be combative, as always and try to figure out a pattern, but failed miserably. In the end, I just summed it up as being done by someone with Josh’s perspective on order -- the Punk Rock Filing system.

Today, while driving home from work, I caught myself staring at the guardrails on the way. Then, I caught a glimpse of one of those damn reflectors. There it was, then another, then another. But no same mileage was in between them. A third of a mile here. A tenth there. A full mile on another.

Randomness is good, I believe. So, I let the randomness of it be my soothing sight as Johnny Ace’s smooth voice was my soothing sound for the drive home from work. I’ve become somewhat fond of finding new distractions every time.

It makes the stressful drives -- such as the one a few nights ago, when there was seven inches of slush, frozen rail and snow all mixed up and not even touched by a plow.

The gerbil has made itself quite the road worthy car in my estimation. It’s been through two ice storms -- one in Atlanta, one here. And it survived the flood of 2010 when I found myself foolishly in the middle of Podunk Eastern North Carolina swimming through roads.

I won’t soon forget those moments. And I’m glad my Gerbil car got me through them. Much better than the Red Shark probably would have.

I honestly have nothing to write tonight. I’m just typing words now. Hoping that it gets to my magical marker before they stop. Cooking some red beans and rice and sipping on a generic ginger ale is definitely better than the night before of three-day old pizza, reheated in the oven. Although the extra heat that the oven gives off when left open helps heat up the house a bit.

The winter has hit a lull for the moment. The 18-degree nights with 35 mile per hour wind gusts have disappeared -- for now. In their place is a nice 43 degree night with a slight breeze. It’s supposed to be in the 50s the next couple days too. So, hopefully, this is a sign of the death of winter. But it never is. Not this early, at least. It came so damn early, though, so I will hold out hope.

The job search has decidedly taken a twisted turn. Applying for two jobs -- one in southern Georgia, the other outside of Houston. Don’t know what I’d do if I got either of them, but I figured it’s time to start trying the market again. See what works resume-wise, and what doesn’t. I have a lot of practice at each of those, with journalism jobs taking up almost all of the positives. Maybe paying someone to write my resume differently is not such a bad idea. It just seems like such a waste, especially if I want to believe that I’m some kind of a writer. Well, I am a writer. Been paid -- poorly -- for more than 15 years now to do it. Or is that for over 15 years? Ha, copy editing trivia.

Another thing that really hit me today was how easy my job is. I hate it being that way. I can do the job I’m supposed to do in 8 hours in about 3. The stir craziness of it all hit me today as I hit 6:40 p.m. and I needed to be there until 9:19 to get 8 hours. I left early. I just can’t sit there staring at nothing. If they’d let me report, write, opine, hell take some photos, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Yet, I’m told I can’t. I know why. If I do extra, they’ll expect it from everyone. Or, if I show that my job can be done while writing 4-5 stories a week as well, then what the hell do they need that empty spot to be filled for?

Ah, corporate stupidity and specialization. I learned how to do all the things that I now supposedly get paid to do so I’d be more marketable as a writer. A newspaper writer that is. And in the end, it seems to have screwed me. Or, maybe my telling the truth to the big man upstairs did that.

I hear the Beatles in my head now.