Between the hours of 4:30 and 7:00 p.m. last night, I had successfully 1) looked at a house, 2) sold a house, 3) bought another house and, 4) mowed my lawn. Oh, and 5) consumed a 32oz beer to dull the swirling panic of #1-4.

So it’s true. Bearing any and all small trip-ups that could occur, I think The Wife™ and I may just have pulled off our second Greatest Feat of Adultitude.* Unless of course the inspector finds out that our new home was a meth lab. Or discovers secret tunnels that lead to the Dairy Queen. Wait, if they found those WE’RE TOTALLY NEVER LEAVING THAT HOUSE.

Anyway, it hopefully is all said and done. We’ll probably close on both houses (in the same day?!) at the end of May. So the next three weeks will be a whirlwind of packing, writing checks and wedding events. No, we’re not going for a second round. It’s just that as everyone in the Midwest knows: April through November is one continual reception for anyone over the age of 25. I think we have 482 weddings between now and Christmas. And that’s not even counting the eleventy dozen bridesmaids lunches, bachelor/ette parties, showers and other such gratuitous soirees that are really just excuses to eat tiny sandwiches that no normal person would otherwise eat. Except I would. If I could just find those tiny loaves of bread at the store. And trust me, I’ve looked.

So there we have it. All in all I should be ecstatic. I should be peeing myself with joy. But really, the instant that The Wife™ told me the counteroffer, The Terror struck. Apparently when everyone else was standing in the Happy Line in heaven, I must have been distracted by a shiny object over in the Severe Anxiety line and thus missed out on the fun. Because instead of being happy about these things, I fret and agonize over every small detail, thus erasing any enjoyment. And I’ve come to live with this, but I feel badly that The Wife™ doesn’t understand. It’s ok though, she’ll just have to get used to it. Just like the rule about “don’t screw with my morning routine involving syncopated and choreographed maneuvers in the kitchen to get out the door with my coffee.” And yes dear, if you’re reading this you were in blatant violation of that one this morning.

Moral of this story? If I don’t off myself in a blaze of cardboard glory before moving day, anyone and everyone is welcome to stay. For as long as you like. Though you may have to bring your own furniture as we currently only have enough to outfit 39% of the new house (figure based on comparative square footage, numbers may vary). But with five bedrooms, hell, you can each have your own.

*this of course is second only to getting married, which we still think is funny since we feel like 10 year olds playing house.

Someone asked me recently if I liked my job. I hesitated in my response because, well, I was completely torn.

Every job has its ups and downs (with regards to the day-to-day minutiae). But for me those environmental differences between agencies, firms and corporations are secondary. The primary factor in deciding my job satisfaction is the quotient of how much I am able to help people. After all, isn’t that what design really is?

I rarely write about my job (or design in general) because there are already so many others out there doing it. And they’re doing so with more zeal and intelligence than I ever could. But when it comes to the reflective aspects of my career, the point at which professional and personal lives intersect, I have plenty to say. I just hope it doesn’t seem as contrived as I fear it may become.

I chose design at age 18 because I have some insuppressible need to communicate, to express myself. But since I think doing so by word is too limited for me (read: I write like a 2 year old on LSD), I choose to design. It’s about control and problem solving. That’s the bottom line. You take a problem, solve it and express it visually with such perfect integration that the final audience (hopefully) doesn’t even notice the initial problem. It’s the perfect blend of logic and aesthetic in my opinion. But as is the typical catch, the blessing is concurrently the curse.

If design were about solving the problems of clients (getting out their message, making their process seamless, fixing workflow breakdowns, etc), then one would naively expect the clients to be receptive to this. Perhaps simply because they are soliciting you, and not the other way around. But what happens when the client is energetically and self-righteously opposed to your work, your influence and your ideas?

Now to pause, I realize that this is no specialized problem. Teachers are reviled by their pupils, cops by the general public, and so on. Essentially any profession that exerts power or control over another group can be seen as overbearing and ultimately unwanted. Needless to say, I have no reason to gripe, as I am not alone in my frustration by any stretch of the imagination.

But my question then becomes, “do not these other professionals become aggravated by continual rejection and devaluation by their audiences?” My knee-jerk response to cranky clients typically results in an internal retort of, “Fine! If you want your website to look like donkey ass then you deserve it! Be content with your Microsoft Frontpage monstrosity!” But here’s where the parallels break down. Cops are detested by those who are caught doing wrong. Teachers are seen as tyrants by those who have no choice but to be “ruled” by them. So in what other situation does one get solicited for help only to be reproached at every turn? “Please help me with this problem. No, you’re terrible! That is a stupid idea! Here, I’ve done it already so just use what I’ve done.” Harrumph indeed. Imagine calling 911 for an ambulance only to tell the EMTs to piss off once they arrive to help you. That’s where I feel contemporary corporate design is.

So for me, when my “services” are seen as more unwelcome than heroic, that’s when I question my long-term happiness. It’s one thing to battle the expected nuisances of a project, but it’s completely different for the entire process to be an uphill struggle. It is just too exhausting. I signed up to wrestle with information architecture and balance, not bureaucratic idiots that couldn’t tell the difference between a pixel and a pencil. I can wrangle with both, just not at the same time.

I suppose at the end of the day I need to just learn to begrudgingly accept it and move on with wounded pride. I do know, however, that when I pay a plumber or a dentist for their services, I won’t argue with them over what they do for a living. I may ask questions, I might even disagree. But the bottom line is that they are professionals, trained to do this. For a career. And sometimes we need to just trust in that.

The staff at FTILFF failed to show up this week due to senior skip day (kiss prom goodbye bastards!). Therefore there will be no exceptionally witty, quirky and side-splitting whacked-out introduction this week. Here it is, my precious:

1. Creative barista competitions - I’m always amazed at the depth of subcultures like this. But this guy’s “coffee and a cigar” capp sounds good. And a recipe! Happy day!
2. Google Calendar - Again, can they do no wrong? I was exceptionally skeptical about this, but the ease of adding items (typing “tomorrow” or “wednesday” automatically ‘knows’ the date) is perfect. And the export options to iCal is muy bueno.
3. Burritos - Perhaps the perfect food, in my opinion. Limitless contraptions, all summed up with a tortilla. Now if only Chipotle would open here (sorry Qdoba, you don’t cut it).
4. The Streets: The Hardest Way to Make a Living - New album from Mike Skinner. Not as gritty and grimey as his home-produced albums of the past. But still the odd Moby-lookalike British youth leading the hip hop game over the pond (listen to the whole album on his Myspace account above).
5. Spring - I’ve never been much of a nature buff, but daylight savings time and warmer weather get an A+ in my book. And yes, this last one is fluff. I couldn’t think of anything else for the week. Shove off.

**UPDATE**

6. Whipass video by a foreign kid - Actually, the title about nails it. That should make up for a poor excuse for #5.

Enjoy the weekend. Hopefully the staff will be back next week with a better update. Assuming they’re written their apologies for hazing the underclassmen.

Selling a house (and buying a new one) is probably the most vague, confusing, overwhelming and terrifying thing I’ve ever done. And everyone does it. Some people are even sadistic enough to do it every few years. What the hell?

Having watched too many hours of HGTV, I was convinced that *everything must go* in order to…what do the hosts say…oh yea, “depersonalize the house and make it look more spacious and inviting.” Right. Making a 1300 square foot house seem roomy is like adding 17” rims to a Ford Escort: sometimes it’s just not prudent to try that hard. Nonetheless, we’ve spent the past few weeks taking intermittent loads of crap (read: mostly my speakers and our alcohol) to the in-laws’ house. Granted the house does look a lot better. Maybe those bozos on HGTV have something here. At the very least the in-laws have a veritable party warehouse in their basement.

So after our bluelight clearance month, we then spent a few weeks sprucing up the outside. Mulching, mowing, weed-killing, planting and staining the back deck. And then came the tidal wave of cleaning. With too many episodes of “Designed to Sell” in my head, we resolved to have a completely spotless abode for when potential buyers were touring our home. (This process in itself is completely weird.) The problem with cleaning, however, is that everyday use makes it dirty again. It’s some law of nature, right? But the problem is that every dish must be put away, the countertops spotless, the bathroom sinks free of toothpaste, etc. Hardest. Thing. Ever. Because I dunno about yours, but our sinks auto-generate toothpaste globs whether you’re even using the sink or not. Maybe that should be on the disclosure?

With the house on the market now, our evenings are spent avoiding home, in an ironic twist of events. The past months have actually gotten me more proud of where we live, which isn’t surprising, as it looks nice now. But with a few appointments each night, we spend post-work hours filling the time elsewhere. When we get home after 9 or 10pm, we feverishly clean and get ready for the next day’s work and hit the sack. It’s as if we live in a museum where things can’t be touched. Hell I’m even brushing my teeth and spitting into the toilet so as not to have to clean the friggin’ bathroom sink again. Actually this is a pretty neat trick that I just must add to my repertoire from now on. Talk about effortless! Timesaving!

We’re on the edge of our seats. Though we haven’t found a dream house to move in to, I think we’re just very much focused on selling. The odd part is that in all of this it’s as if you are personally being graded or evaluated when these strangers come through your home. Your personal style, decorating, organization and cleanliness are on display for extreme scrutiny. And what’s worse is that the final grade is a sum of money that I can’t even wrap my head around. Hell I still get excited about saving $0.10 per gallon on my gas. ‘Cuz that’s a lot of scrilla.

We’ve got two more showings again tonight, bringing the total since Friday to 9 (even one on Easter). Supposedly we’re going to get another offer today but we’ll see. (We had one Saturday night that they walked after our counter-offer. Jerks.) By the end of the week we could be a) homeless b) up sh*t’s creek or c) still in limbo. Can you tell I’m a positive person? ‘Cuz I am. We’re surely in over our heads. That I’m positive about.

“Hey, what’s up man? It’s been awhile. How’ve you been? Good…good. Hey, listen, your old lady called the other day. Yea, she’s still calling here. Anyway, she was ranting about that child support check. Something about she’ll cut you if you don’t pay up. Yea I’m serious. For real man, you need to get on that. Oh, and post that ‘five things I love for friday’ crap. Yea, she was pissed about that too. Or maybe that was me, I forget. Alright man, you too. Have a good one. Peace.”

1. Coffee grinding photoset - From the esteemed Dave Shea. Nice bokeh on the photos. Makes me thirsty. Now time to find a local distributor of raw beans!
2. Marriage - Yea, it’s pretty great. Can’t believe Saturday will make it 6 months already (though I’m sure The Wife™ would say otherwise, as Sunday makes 7 years together). More amazingly, I still can’t believe I conned this beautiful, intelligent woman to hang out with me for the rest of our lives. Score!
3. The Coup: We Are the Ones - Song from a cat I’ve never heard of before, and I stumbled across this one on okayplayer.com this week. I think Tom Morrello of RATM/Audioslave fame is on strings. Definitely putting the playfulness back into hip hop that has been missing for years. Revolutionary funk. Think lovechild of Prince and Talib Kweli!
4. Rentglass.com - Now you can rent Nikon/Canon lenses. Very cool idea. Now I can try a lense before I buy!
5. Selling your house - As much as it is a complete pain in the rear, there is a very liberating feeling about finally getting your house on the market. As of today we’re throwing ourselves into the lion’s den (with only half the back deck stained). And hooray for letting me take my own pictures!

Have an Easter-riffic weekend. Consider my overexaggerated use of exclaimation points my little Cadburry Eggs in your basket. Or the oversized chocolate bunny that you never finish. Or that green faux grass that thwarts your every attempt to get that last chocolate egg out of the basket. Hippity hop.

Ugh. I feel sick to my stomach. And no, this time it’s not because I ate the cheese’n’sausage dip that sat in the refrigerator for two days when the power went out.

I’ve known about auto-tune, or pitch correction, for a few years now. I have a friend who is a respected blues artist (and a verified Kentucky colonel to boot) who used to preach to me about the evils of it. The skeleton in the closet, the elephant in the room. I just choose to ignore it.

This morning I ran across an interview with Neko Case, a solo artist and singer for a little band called The New Pornographers. The interview with her brought this secret back to the forefront of my brain (fueled by the coffee), and now I can’t stop being irked about it.

For those that haven’t met the man behind the curtain, auto-tune (or pitch-correction as it’s sometimes referred to) is a feature in recorded and live music where a piece of hardware or software is used to automagically adjust the “correctness” of notes being sung. And what’s worse is that (reportedly) damn near every artist today uses it. And you just thought they were good singers.

As someone who spends more time with his headphones than with his wife (not by choice, mind you), I humbly think I have a large amount of music listening under my belt. About 10 hours a day for 5 days a week, minimum, if you’re counting. That being said, you cannot help but develop an emotional bond with the performers that are pouring out their souls through their music. It’s natural and it’s comfortable. My music catalog and it’s performers are friends…but in a non-creepy, non-stalkerish kinda way.

But to be reminded that what I hear is an altered product of what came out of their mouths makes me, well, feel a tad betrayed.

No, I’m not the type of person that get’s all indie-self-righteous about it (which perhaps Neko Case is). What burns me about the entire thing is just how complacent and almost demanding the American public has become about auto-tune. I’ve heard the arguments that people pay big for ticket prices for performers and they don’t want to be disappointed by a poor vocal showing. I’ve heard that pop music is supposed to be shiny and well-produced and that we dissenters should just get over it. I’m not rejecting technology. I think auto-tune can be used to correct a sparse number of off notes that would otherwise require laborious amounts of re-recording. But the gross misuse of the technology is nauseating. In a time where we anoint our entertainers with crowns of roses and reward them with unconceivable amounts of money, shouldn’t we at least expect a good product in return? Instead, the public is content with a fit body and a pretty (altered) face that can move their mouth.

I read an interview with Robbie Williams, the celebrated and much loved English performer, who admitted to using auto-tune to make him sound better in the studio. Defensively, Mr. Williams then made the analogy (that apparently must circulate around the music world as I’ve heard it before) that using auto-tune is no worse than using spell-check. “Does that mean that you can’t spell?” No, Robbie. Sorry. While Word may correct what my fingers slip up on, the difference is that I don’t get paid millions of dollars to spell. You however get millions of dollars to sing, and you’re not even doing that well. And don’t give me the “I’m more than that, I’m an entertainer” crap either.

I design. I use technology to design. You could even loosely say that I’m peer-pressured into using a computer to do my job (another argument for ‘artists’ using auto-tune). But I don’t just move my mouse back and forth and let an algorithm place things in the right spot, pick colors or decide what information needs to go where for the most usable effect. Merely opening your mouth, vibrating your vocal cords and having a computer do the rest (including automatically adding harmony) is much, much different.

As my design professor once said, “the music is not in the piano.” Just because you use a tool doesn’t mean it does the work for you. If these artists are playing their own instruments, writing their own lyrics and melodies, then I have less beef with them than the rest. But solo performers like Cher, Madonna, even the great Mariah Carey—what else are you being paid for?

I want to feel the music I listen to. I want to shake my head to Nina Simone’s wrong B flat note. I want to hear Michael Stipe’s voice crack because he’s straining to hit that with all his soul. Hearing James Brown go hoarse makes me smile because the man was collapsed while singing! What I don’t want is a radioscape full of models that have the telltale metallic perfection dripping from their lips. I don’t want a watered-down cultural soundscape. You don’t deserve the people’s hard-earned money. And you certainly don’t deserve any sense of accomplishment, satisfaction or pride in the “work” that you do.

If you can’t hack it without your vocal crutches, get out. But if you’ve got the guts to sing raw and unedited and the fans like it for who you are, then you are worthy of being called an artist. Otherwise, your business card should simply read “Ventriloquist.”

The weather lately has been phenomenal, but the neighbors…well not so much. In fact, they are the reason that I want to move to the middle of a cornfield, pitch a tent and live there forever and ever. Dumb bastards.

See, even though I am a people person, when it comes to my home life, I value privacy. Frankly I do not enjoy working around the house and having someone three feet away in every direction. Staring at you. This is the curse of suburbia, however.

Yesterday I forewent my usual workout so that I could get some yard work done (and to take advantage of the great weather as noted above). I was outside for about three hours after work, and the entire time I was subjected to The Compound™ and their antics.

I’m digress, I’ve never mentioned The Compound™ before – my neighbors across the street (or at least two of the older looking ones) seem to run some sort of hotel/hostel/daycare/drug cartel. At any given time there is no less than five cars in front of their house, and more often than not at least one of them is parked in just the right spot so The Wife™ and I can’t turn in to our driveway without falling off the little bridge and cracking the front axel of the car. The question I want answered , though, is where are these visitor’s cooking their meth staying? The houses in our neighborhood are quaint (read: small), so with five SUVs there has to be some magic portal whisking these assclowns somewhere, because they sure as hell are nowhere to be found when I can’t back out of my driveway.

The one whom I presume is the wife never leaves the house. She mows the lawn in terrible daisy dukes from the late nineties (this means they were purchased in the second incarnation of this dreadful fashion) and a bikini top. Any time of day, I swear you’ll see a beer can in her hand. And the kids? Well, whichever of the 800 little bastards are theirs they have no sense of propriety better yet common sense. All I’m saying is if they meet the front end of my truck, I gave them fair warning, ok? They’ve got legs, they can run…

The woman-figure’s partner—assuming it’s the husband—is equally strange. Yesterday he spent the entire time standing on the front lawn in his 90’s-era Oaklies drinking a beer and staring at me. Did he think I couldn’t tell? Bro the shiny irridescent purple lenses don’t fool me one bit. Needless to say, I was unaware the trimming bushes was a worthy form of entertainment. But Cletus must have been sufficiently amused, because he continued to stand there watching me and directing the fleet of SUVs rotating in and out of their driveway.

And while I can’t quite figure out these people, I do know that they love their water. Whatever planet they came from must not have had this basic element, because their pool is in constant use. Seriously, I’m not sure they even bothered to winterize it. Before the calendar even hit April, they were throwing monstrous Budwiser-themed pool parties with Dave Matthews blaring across the neighborhood, with all 800 alien children running around the street, clamoring and climbing on their host vessel’s SUVs. Even when I was out power-washing the driveway with three sweaters on a month ago, the demon-spawn remained unperturbed by the sub-fifty temperatures. I guess the bodies of the undead feel no pain.

So as The Wife™ and I look to move, rest assured that I will not shed a tear when we leave The Compound™ far, far behind. And though my better half jokes that I’ll always find neighbors to be annoyed by, I’m hoping that the new ones at least come from a galaxy that drive smaller cars. Or have less offspring. Or at least aren’t painfully stuck in the ‘90s screeching “you go girl!” over and over at top volume. That alone would be worth a bigger mortgage.

Last Friday I stumbled across a New York magazine article about the shifting definition of today’s adults. Nothing new, mildly contrived, but nonetheless it hits on something that has been bugging me since I graduated from college.

Now, let it be known that I cannot identify myself as part of Generation X. That is my sister’s demographic, and try as I might to associate myself with it, I still missed it by a few years. But what is true is my association with the GenX culture. Working in the web/new media/dot-com industry, I tend to identify with this group when it comes to career. Maybe it’s all just envious thinking, I can’t objectively say.

Past the article’s fascination of clothing and music, though, is a deeper and what I see as more puzzling question of drive, ambition and career choices. Beneath the Chuck Taylors and designer blazers is the “not money but freedom” attitude, the idea that today’s adults refuse to lose their identity and soul to a job. It comes down to living your life based around passion. And this to me is The Idea that I’ve been wrestling with in the dark for the past five years.

I always assumed that it was my “artsy” side, as my friends would call it. Though I’m sure they always mean it affectionately, I recoil from this label, stung instead by the stigma of a class that is seemingly air-headed, wandering without attention or sense of responsibility. I resent that stereotype. But now I see that this term could signify “passionate worker,” not “boho weirdo.”

It is undeniable: I am someone who progresses through life in fear of losing passion for what I do. I see that flame as the life-force that propels me forward, justifies the adult sacrifices and hardships. Love of my career should be what makes me swing my legs out of bed each morning. And I am forever evaluating whether I am losing that passion.

The article makes this idea of passion pursuit seem noble. Romantic, even. But should it be admirable to shirk tolerance, suffering and fortitude in favor of the new, the exciting, the sexy? Yes, love should dictate actions, even beyond personal relationships. But love also requires patience, dedication, sacrifice and persistence. So when does this generation (myself included) stop being the gallant soldiers of passion and instead become egotistical job-hoppers with blunted copping mechanisms and a case of career ADHD?

I see my father just as the article portrays the boom generation: steadfast and full of resolve. I’m not sure the man has ever called in sick for a “mental health day,” nor have I ever heard him grumble about the simple fact of having to go to work. Yet, 90% of the people I know whine and bemoan this duty on a weekly basis, even to the point of contemplating career changes every two years. Why am I not more like my father? Why can’t I just go to work and perform, as opposed to fretting over whether or not I’m still in love with what I do?

Perhaps it’s that we grew up with a divorced generation of parents and learned not to fully invest yourself until being irrefutably lovestruck. Maybe, as the article suggests, we saw our parents put in thirty years of loyal service to a company only to be neglected upon retirement. Or maybe this generation is just a bunch of kids that grew up in the lap of relative comfort, and have not really had to pull themselves up by the proverbial bootstraps, and thus don’t know the meaning of “nose to the grindstone.” After all, doesn’t a certain sense of boredom come with luxury?

What I do know is that I’m unconvinced that the trait of being guided by passion is remarkable. It is intoxicatingly romantic to be sure, but something that we want to pass along to our children? Likely, my kids will grow up knowing me with earrings and listening to Rise Against and DJ Shadow. But at some point, we need to realize that it’s no longer about us, and instead about them. And the fine print on the GenX model is just that: they still only care about themselves. That is something I don’t want to associate with.

It happens to everyone: that one morning (usually a Monday, no?) that everything goes wrong. I mean everything. It’s the kind of day where you are constantly looking over your shoulder expecting hoping that it’s all some lame prank by that smug Ashton and his trucker hat nation. But alas, the neo-hippie is no where in sight. You are actually just screwed, and if there were millions of people at home were watching this series of laughable events, no one would even believe it was unscripted. Yea, THAT was this morning.

The storms last night were violent. No problem, it happens often. The power cuts out around 10:30 pm. Peeved that I’m up later than normal, I return to bed once the tornado sirens let off, and simply set my cell phone alarm as a reveille since The Alarm is dead without power. Simple.

So to my astonishment, I awoke this morning feeling refreshed. This is odd seeing as I went to bed much later, so I check the time. Power still not on, I grab the cell phone: 6:18 am. Oh, only two minutes before the alarm. Great. Wait, why the hell is it so light outside? CRAP. Strike one: Cingular doesn’t auto-update phones with daylight savings, so 6:18 is really 7:18 once I restart my phone. I’m already an hour behind.

I run to The Fridge (in the relative dark) to see if it’s peed ice water all over the floor that I spent 2 hours painstakingly cleaning last night. Happily, it hasn’t, but the week’s food that we bought last night at the grocery is now in immediate danger of spoiling, as it is hour numero nine without power. This, I need to fix.

Coolers! Outside! Wait. Keyless entry to automatic garage door doesn’t work without power. Does she have a key anywhere? Of course, she doesn’t know! Finally, I break in to the garage, grab the coolers and rush in to The Fridge to purge her of expensive food. I get most of the perishables out, save some soy milk and OJ. This is an easy fix, though.

No power for coffee (the one thing that could right this morning’s wrongs), I have to improvise breakfast+caffeine. Late already, I decide to mix some OJ, soy milk and a leftover Redbull that someone donated from a party, and threw in some whey protein for nurishment. Not coffee, but good enough. Off to get dressed in the dark, lighting candles for the wife to get ready with along the way.

Fully dressed, keys in hand, I begin to mix breakfast in a shaker bottle (since the blender is out of commission). What fails here is common sense, which apparently is also down with the exploded transformer in our neighborhood. Imagine, if you will, explosion of equally epic proportions, sending the orange-Redbull concoction throughout the entire cleansed white-cabineted kitchen, and suffiently showering me in it as well. And by “showering” I mean I was drenched. In Redbull and sticky orange milk-juice. And the kitchen looks like a war-zone, with milky drips covering a full 10-foot radius (up AND out). Jacket off, shirt off, back to square one to change clothes. In the dark.

Still having not solved the “what to do with the food in the cooler all day” problem, I decide to take it all to her parents’ house. But of course this adds another 10 minutes of trying to get ahold of someone to confirm. At this point, I refuse to believe that this is all possible in the first 25 minutes of the week.

Out the door to figure out how to manually open the garage, adding another 30 minutes of commute time (since of course BOTH of the in-laws freezers are chock full already), I finally make it to work only to find not another single person in my office has come in yet.

And now I sit here, picking encrusted OrangeBull material from my face. If anyone asks if I have a “case of the Monday’s” because I look like a preschooler dressed me, they’re getting punched in the face, for sure.