She Gives Me Piles

Monday was Day One at my latest serial temp job. I'm given piles of papers. On the papers are numbers. I take the numbers from the papers and put them on a monitor. I can do this half-asleep and completely stoned. In fact, I can't imagine doing this any other way. If I was awake and alert, I'd have to throttle my Child Boss as she explains what the TAB and SHIFT+TAB keys do. Then she shows me how to fold a letter so the address shows in the envelope window. I must have a powerful scowl-on going, because she says," uh, you probably already know that".

She gives me my break schedule. Break schedule? What is this-High School? Sounds about right- I don't think she's even old enough to vote. Hell, she's probably under the local midnight curfew age. I should spank her, but her ass is so much larger than my hand that I doubt she'd even notice.

Child Boss gives me a pile. I give it back a few minutes later.

"Done."

"You can't be done. That was too fast."

She wastes ten minutes checking my work. It's 100% accurate, but I already knew that.

Again a pile. Another check. Same result. I'm not used to having my work checked. Why doesn't she just enter it herself if she's going to spend so much time on it anyway? Why? Because her 10-key skills suck.

I already hate this place.


Day Two: I'm introduced to Lamont. He's new and they want me to train him.
Lamont's just a kid , but he knows how to do data entry. Consider him trained.

It's nice having a guy to bullshit about football and guy stuff with. I ask him what his last job was. He answers in perfect deadpan:

"I was a professional drug-dealer".

"So, how'd that work out for you"?

"I'm sitting right here is how it worked out.How 'bout you"?

" I got busted selling "George W. Bush is a Punk-Ass Chump" t-shirts. They sent me here to do corporate community service instead of going to prison".

We laugh, but it after talking awhile we learn how things really are. Lamont, who is young and black, was subjected to a serious background check and drug screen. I'm white and older, and they just kinda waved me in. ( I couldn't pass either test,if administered, but he did). The words 'fuckin' unfair' come to mind. I was getting ready to tell him not to sweat the job stuff-he was fated to be drafted soon anyway- but he beat me to the punch:

" Pretty soon there's gonna a lot of ( N-words) in Canada".

Day Three (today): Where's Lamont? Nobody here knows anything. I work alone in stoic silence. Until I'm pulled aside by the Child Boss. I'm ushered into her double-wide , semi-private damncube.

"Have a seat". I remain standing; fight or flight, it can't be done from a chair.

"I've reviewed your work. It's excellent". I hear a but.

"But, I've received complaints from some of the staff. You need to limit your work-place conversations to appropriate subjects. You have a negative attitude and it's making your co-workers uncomfortable".

Ow! I feel awful. How thoughtless of me.

"You know, I just remembered that I left my Grandma locked in the trunk of a burning car. I gotta go let her out before the gas tank blows. Here. Sign my time sheet".

Child Boss looks at me like I'm crazy. I am, but I'm still the sanest person in this building.

I leave, never to return. I hope Lamont sues them for discrimination.

I'm sleeping late tomorrow.

Who Reads This Crap Anyway? -or- My Blog is a Babe Magnet

I'm always glad when someone leaves a comment. I wish more people would. I even enjoyed the ego-boost I got from the death-threat emails last summer. I must be hot shit for someone to CAPS LOCK and go !!!!!! a lot.

If you blog, you know what I mean. Got one of those free, eerily inaccurate meters? I do.
Using it, contacts from my Federal days and the I Ching video game, I have determined that I have two types( not mutually exclusive) of visitors/readers:

A) Sad Grade C search engine pervs. A while back I wrote about a friend's band called 'The Strap-Ons'. I still get disappointed traffic on that. Likewise for 'beheading videos'. I'd wager that posting a rant about 'consensual necrophilia' would result in a baker's dozen of hits. Sick puppies.

B) The smartest, most creative and fascinating women I've ever not met. (In person-except once, but her boyfriend was so cool I really cannot be jealous). Just follow the links on the right ,then check the comments. You'll find some good stuff.
It seems like women blog better-it's probably because they are smarter. I could be wrong, but I don't think so. Check the links. Read carefully. Repeat.
Drawn in by words spelled out by eyelid pictures.

I can't get my twin brother to read my blog. I can't get my best guy friends to read. They just roll their eyes and look exasperated when I mention it. They used to watch my lousy bands play in shitty lifespan-reducing smokey clubs , but they can't take five minutes to check out my web-drivel.

Of course, there are exceptions. Nick, Can-o, Jerky, et. al. ...you know who you are.

Gratitude and best New Year stuff to everyone who reads this.
Extra-thanks to those whose blogs and mail I have enjoyed.

Cheers,
ABC

Beer and Loathing

I won our fantasy football 'super bowl' this year! My prize money is almost exactly how much it's going to cost to fix my car. Life is funny that way, but it coulda been far worse-I'm a pretty lucky fellow, all things considered.

I hate myself. (Where the fuck did that come from)?

I'm suddenly awash in a private tsunami of self-loathing.
No.
More like self-contempt.
Shame.
Guilt.

Have you seen the news lately? What the fuck gives me the right to feel good about anything?
I can't wrap my walnut-sized brain around 35,000+ people dying- I'm still distraught over nightmare 9/11 and the man-made Hell in Iraq.
Hundreds of dead Russian schoolkids left me depressed for weeks. It's a long list.

I can't deal with 35,000. When I first hear the news, my thoughts are about three friends who are in the region. Three. Nice small number. I can worry about three. If I can keep a narrow emotional focus, I can stay detatched from just how bad things really are. The real scope is too vast for empathy or understanding.

Besides, it's really far away. I hate myself for thinking this.

Look around you. If you're in the USA, there's a good chance you are surrounded by happy drones who don't need elaborate psychological constructs in order to deal with truly horrific news.
They're oblivious. They don't care. They say the same thing in every place I've ever worked.

CubeLady #1: "Did you hear about ( insert atrocity or disaster here)?"

Cubelady#2: "Tsk. That's terrible. I tell you what, if that bitch takes my stapler again, me and her gonna have words!"

How I envy them. I wish I could make it all go away without the inevitable crushing hangover-usually alcohol-induced, but occasionally intensified by the aftermath of Bad Love Gone Worse.

Did I mention that I won our football championship?

The Spirit of Groundhog Past

Christmas was pleasant and predictable-just the way it should be for adults. After the usual family rituals (gifting and gorging), I gather up my loot and head home. I have a new Tom Waits CD and a football game on the radio to keep me company. Cool.

Flying down Rt. 17 , it occurs to me: this is where I hit that groundhog on Thanksgiving. Better keep my eyes peeled. I'm ready to avoid four-legged suicides.

I'm not prepared for the earth suddenly shifting on it's axis, but it does so anyway. There's a loud 'crack!' and I'm skidding down the highway at a 45-degree angle across both lanes. For the second time inside 30 days, my sled has dropped a wheel. Nuts. Somehow I manage to resist the urge to slam the brakes and twist the wheel . I make it to the shoulder without hitting anything. While I'm congratulating myself for this amazingly calm and dextrous driving feat, I realize that my throat hurts from the last few seconds of screaming. Scratch 'calm' from the previous sentence.

I'm shaking badly as I step out into the bitter cold. I am in the middle of a vast bucolic placelessness. It's dark, but there's plenty of traffic. I wait for a while, hoping a cop will drive by and stop. My wish is half-granted. I lose out on the stopping part.

It's late Christmas night, and for the first time in twenty years I'm hitchhiking. In between the whooshing of passing cars I hear chains rattling in the woods. Scary Dickens chains. Spooky.

Then, a whisper, in a chittery groundhog voice," I wasn't dead when you hit me. I was suffering horribly and you ended it. Merry Christmas."

Seconds later, a car stops. Kindly Stranger stops and gives me a lift to a Sheetz gas station. He refuses my offer of money and lets me use his cell phone. It's outside his zone, but I appreciate the gesture. I collect call Granma's and convince my dad and the Twin to bring me Granma's car so I can get home and to my new job Monday. (Later for that). It'll take a couple hours for them to get here.

I get some coffee and sit down at a booth for the wait. Let's see what's in my x-mas bag that I can use to pass the time:
-Socks and jockey shorts-practical, but lacking in entertainment value.
-New CD, no way to listen
-Nice new coat-see socks and jocks above.
-A book! That'll help take take the edge off my anxiety, self-pity and despair.

It's a Franz Kafka collection.

I'm reduced to tears after a few very short stories. Being stranded at a truck stop on Christmas with only Kafka's torment for a companion really sucks. I decide to see how many coins I can spin on the tabletop simultaneously. Five, which is all the change I have.

Time passes slowly, but eventually my relatives arrive. They bring Grandma's 1984 Mercury station wagon with them. Blessed be! Vinyl bench seats, no radio, broken side view mirrors, but it's got a V-8, which I like. The driver's side door cannot be completly shut, but at least it's got a seat belt in case it opens without warning.

It's not until I get on I-95 that I realize I'm very dependent on having side-view mirrors. The rear-view leaves a lot of blind spot. Harrowing, to be sure, but I make it home alive. The first beer tastes really good tonight, but not as good as the second one.

Tomorrow I'll have to figure out what to do about my car, but for tonight I'm just happy to be alive and unhurt.

Merry Christmas and to all a Good Night!

Holiday Flu Tonic

My new fave x-mas beverage: Red Bull, Nyquil and Vodka. It's a marvelous flu tonic.

Flutonic. I like the sound of that word. It sounds like some obscure school of philosophy or architecture. Perhaps a religion? Belonging to a religion no one's ever heard of has some advantages:

"Would you like a bowl of my famous holiday sardine pudding"? (This dish actually exists. It's nigh-inedible, but it's great for attracting sharks).

"Gee, I sure would, but as a Flutonist, I can only eat sardine pudding on days that start with vowels."

---Or---

"We need some people to come in this weekend and shred ten years worth of accumulated useless documents. Are you available?"

" I'd like to, but Flutonists are forbidden from handling paper during the Holiday season. We buy all our gifts with plastic and don't wrap them".

It's amazing the shit you can get away with if you loudly proclaim your faith while you do it. Look at BushCorp if you don't believe me.

On a more personal level, I really do tell new employers that my faith doesn't permit me to work on Sunday.
I offer no other details.
This always works. It's pre-emptive, religiously correct ju-jitsu. Establish a position of ambiguous, righteous stoicism and wait for your opponent/inquisitor to lunge at you. Side-step and push. Use their 'faith' as a weapon of self-defense.

It shouldn't have to be this way.

No one should have to defend their beliefs by attacking those of another. Unless you worship Ares, war should be absent from the practice of faith.

Professing faith. Self-betrayal. Fatted or Crimson?

My Aunt Peggy calls. I've been pissed at her for days, but that's all over now.

Hey. What does (cousin) Jimmy want for x-mas?

Something Beatles. Or something guitar.

That is so cool.

Sleeping On The Tracks

I once spent some time drinking and discussing current events with a one-legged homeless man. He noted that it was raining. I agreed, pointing out the fact it had been a dry summer.

Eventually, the conversation turned to talk of missing limbs. I didn't want to be rude, but I had to know.

"Are you a vet?"

"Yeah, man. One tour. '70.Don't enlist". (At the time , I was young enough for this to be an option)

"So is that what happened...you know," I motioned toward his above-the-knee stump. I had a horrible vision of an 18-year old version of this broken man, face down in a rice paddy, blown to pieces for a war no one will ever be able to justify.


"Nah. I was camped out down by the river a few years ago and passed out on the tracks. Fucking train hit me. VA fixed my hip and gave me these crutches. Supposed to get one of them fake legs soon".

Oh.

A few years later I'm conducting Census interviews in a local halfway house .I see the same guy. He's in a wheelchair and his other leg is missing. He recognizes me.

"Hey man".

"Hey. So...what happened? Not the tr..."

"Yeah man. Fucking train got the other one. Supposed to get one of them battery power chairs soon".

Oh.

Now, years later, I realize this drunken amputee was a prescient bellwether for the American public.

No joy in that thought.

- Chapter One

It's been a week of whispers in the Office City. When it gets quiet like this, I get nervous. When I get nervous I get ready. I've got a Swingline 747 that I've modified to hold 500 1/2" staples and a Glock 21 that does just fine with it's standard magazine. Thirteen .45 shells and no complaints. A 1.75 litre bottle of Wild Turkey and a small pharmacy keep me company.

I'm too busy drinking to get up and close the Venetian blinds in the only window of the rent- by-the -week Spill Lane hotel that's serving as my office. Closing them would only ruin the striped lighting effect anyway, so I put my walking dogs up on my cardboard desk, pull down the brim on my old fedora and wait for the pills to kick in. With any luck, it'll be tomorrow soon.

I'm flirting with a dirtnap when someone knocks. I stir, knocking back what I hope is an upper with another shot.

"It's open".

The doorknob jiggles.

A woman's voice tells me it's not. Goddamnit, I'm too wasted to get up.

"Ok, then", I say. "Just move a few feet down the hall for a sec . You might wanna cover your ears".

I reach for the Glock and open the door with one shot. Two, if you count the bourbon celebration.

"Now it's open".

The total package walks into my office, introducing herself one part at a time. Nice to meet you all, I think. She's six feet of stacked Aryan perfection. In the background, I swear I hear Wagner playing. She stops just inside what's left of the door.

"Are you Mr. Bukowski? Bond Bukowski?"

" Bond Bukowski, Secret Temp, at yer service. What can I do for you, doll-face?"

"Well, it's a long story, but the Agency said you could help..."

The Agency. It's always a long story with those bastards.

"You better come in and sit down. "

I manage to stand up. I don't have much in the way of furniture, so I stack a bunch of newspapers on top of a ten-gallon kerosene can. It oughta keep the leaky fuel off her fully-loaded skirt. Drug-induced partial paralysis does the same for my hands.
She sits down, looking nervously at the floor. She's a classy broad, but she's a scared kid inside.

I light two filterless Camels and hand one to her. Poor gal. She's shaking like an AA first-timer and drops it on the floor. Then she starts screaming and stamping her feet like she's the whole marching band. Non-smoker, I guess. I'm getting ready to offer her a drink , but she's already chugging straight from the jug. Good thing I always pull out those little plastic pour-filters as soon as I buy a new bottle.

"Gaaak....Mr. Bukowski...aak...my name 's Esther. Esther Toybox. I need help, and the Agency said you were the one to see."

"I assume they told you I don't come cheap."

"Actually, they said you'd work for Food Stamps and free drinks."

"And expenses."

"Of course."

She launches into a long story about some some missing documents. I can't tell from looking into her eyes if she's telling the truth-I'm staring at her chest the whole time.

When she's done, I write an address on the back of someone else's business card.

"Here's what I need you to do. Go to this address. Ask for Mel. Tell him you want to pay off my bar tab. After you do that , come on back. I'll find those documents."

She looks at me with eyes as pale and blue as original Crest toothpaste.

" A-a alright Mr. Bukowski. I trust you."

"The name is Bond ."

As soon as she leaves I call the Agency.


(to be continued, maybe)

How The Last Guy Did It

It's a lovely dawn. Early December, and with the sun just barely risen, it's already warm enough to unzip my light jacket. Every day should be just like this.

A security guard buzzes me into the latest in a series of increasingly indistinguishable corporate lobbies.I realize:Every day is just like this.

Have a seat. Have a visitor pass. Have a look at that!

Red hair and the Sexy Librarian look. Geeky glasses, hair in a practical, if not decorative bun and a blouse that seems to be worn loosely in an effort to deflect attention away from what's underneath. Doesn't work.

I'm already past that stage, I'm wondering what she tastes like, what her sounds are, her colors.
Holy Shit! She's approaching me.

You the new Temp?

Yes. I'm Allan... holding out my hand.

Michelle. I'm a temp too. They sent me up to get you. Follow me.

She turns around . I'm left with my hand stupidly outstretched, like I'm gesturing to the plastic plant in the corner. I follow her flawless ass with my eyes and my feet . Into the elevator.

So, do you know what we are doing today?

Messenger, she says, in a tone cold enough to discourage small talk from a church-full of old ladies.

It's plenty icy to shut me down.


Down to the basement. Into the mail room. A big jolly black guy in a Steelers sweatshirt greets us. He puts me at ease as he explains the task at hand.

Take this pile of mail, match the addressee with the dept. they work in and put it in the appropriate basket. When the basket is full, take it to the proper floor and deliver it. Here's some maps and lists that you'll need. Simple. He leaves.

I break the Code of Silence. So how do you want do this, I ask Michelle.

The last guy just sorted the mail until it was ready to deliver. Then he delivered it.

Her eyes tell me that my very presence is a stain from which her soul will never recover.

There's only about ten or twelve postal buckets to sort, if you've ever worked a big mail-room, you'd know this is nothing. I spread out my personnel lists and grab a bucket. Michelle does the same. I'm wracking my brain to come up with something to say-anything at all, when Michelle tells me: The last guy did it different. He put the basket on the table. (Mine's on a stool).

Obligingly, I put the bucket on the table. I'm too short. It's harder this way, so I go back to using the stool. I'm enveloped by a cloud of disapproval.

When sorting mail, patterns quickly emerge. Every envelope from Company X goes to either Dept Y or Z and so on. Then you plot your course through the office and arrange the mail in the proper order, and deliver it. It's not hard.

Unless you have to do it with Michelle. I finish six buckets to her one.

She notices my sorting method. It's not how the last guy did it.

It's hard to imagine that just an hour or so ago, I was fantasizing about going down on this woman. What an ordeal that must be -"that's not how the last guy did it"-scary.

At lunch-time I call Jill at the Agency.

Hey Jill, it's Allan. Look, I'm sorry, but I don't feel very good. I don't think I can finish my shift.

That's funny. That's what the last guy said.

My Changing Ears

Just got back from seeing the Pixies- yeah. They're older and plumper, but they still sounded great- well, as good as you can in a basketball arena. They haven't changed much at all, really.

But the whole ritual of going to a big indoor show sure has.

Instead of being patted down for bongs and drugs, we get wanded for metal weapons and searched for electronic recording devices. A cute young woman a few places ahead of me is pulled out of line. Something with heaphones and wires is pulled outta her handbag. I try to see what it is, but the line forces me forward.

I exchange looks with one of my friends- we had thought about bringing our cameras. Good thing we didn't.

The next step is to stand in line to get a "beer bracelet". They sell beer? That's cool. I have to wear a bracelet? Not so cool.

You see, I have an unnatural dislike of having anything, anything at all, on either wrist. I don't know why this is, and I probably don't want to, but it's true. It's my Kryptonite. It's my Achille's heel.( Take the Rolex back to the store-just send cash instead this year.)

The last time that I wore a bracelet, the hospital was giving me Valium and Morphine, but I don't see those being offered here. Still, I've got a little courage left over from our last parking deck doobie, so I steel myself-it's just a plastic bracelet, fer chrissakes. Little girls wear them and they don't freak out about it. I should be able to do this.

I hand one lady my ID and hold out my arm to the other, then look the other way. This is pretty much the same way I deal with getting an injection. I feel a little pressure, and something brushes the hair on my arm. I pull my jacket sleeve down over this flimsy circlet of terror. I'll bring it out when I need it.

Next order of business is to stake out our territory . It's general admission, so we have to find four adjacent seats and make sure a sentry is posted to guard them at all times. We find decent ones in the back of the first level, centerview of the stage. They've curtained off part of the arena and set the stage up in the middle of the floor, so these are pretty good seats.

Our base being established, we set out for supplies. Page and Deanne, the smokers, go outside in search of nicotine. I head for the beer line. John, who doesn't smoke or drink, guards the seats.

The Beer Lady sure is friendly . She smiles warmly and asks me what I would like .

Gimme three beers, let's see...what've you've got?

Miller Lite.

What else?

Miller Lite.

Three of them, then.

You can only order one.

But my friends, they just went outside and...

One per customer.

In other words, no matter what you want, you can only order one (1) Miller Lite.

Now I realize why beer lady is smiling so widely. She asks you what you want as if it were an inside joke, but only she knows the punch-line. It's cruel. It's like the Nuns at the orphanage asking the starving urchins what they'd like, even though the Sisters know the only option is a single ladleful from a rusty tureen of watery gruel.

They should raise the minimum working wage to at least as much as the price of this beer.

At least this solves one problem. I set my cup down on the condiments stand and rip that hateful and suddenly useless bracelet off with my teeth. Stomp it.
Feeling better, I head back to camp.

Sorry guys, you've gotta get your own. I explain the long line, total lack of options and account-draining prices.

They both decide against beer.

The lights dim. It's time for the opening band! Oh, joy!

Huh? It's 7:55. The show starts at eight. I've seen a lot of shows. I've played a lot of shows. Triple figures total on each, easy. I've never seen one start on time, much less early. I'm in future shock. The watch-bearers compare time. Five early. Is this the new norm?

A digression here for those who haven't recieved a 24 page email autobiography from me: I wasted half my life trying to be a rock star. Playing shitty clubs mostly, but there were some great shows too... in short, I failed. It was hard and it wore on me, and it's given me a very different approach to (loud style) live music.

I usually avoid it like the plague. I'm reminded why.

The opening band, The Datsuns, were too damn loud. They were ok , but too predictable. After one song , I know what's in their record collection: MC 5's Kick out the Jams, Iggy Pop's Raw Power and that double-LP Blue Oyster Cult live album with the car and the mansion on the front. John bets me that they'll play a cover of 'Kick out the Jams'. I bet him they'll play 'I Wanna be Your Dog.' He wins.

The guitarist plays the same solo on every song, the only variation being how long he goes on.

A note here to non-lead guitarists. There's three players you should know about:

-Ed: Ed will solo forever. He'll solo during a breathy moment that focuses on the singer. He'll solo between songs. He's good, but he just doesn't know when to stop.

-Igor: Igor varies from band to band, but he's the idea man. Without a strong Igor, it's unlikely that you're playing in front of an audience in the first place. Sometimes he writes songs solely for his own benefit, but he's got the catchy chops and whatever charisma is available is usually his. Or hers.

- Super-Igor: Super-Igor is like Ed and Igor after they grow up. He tightens up the licks and convinces Ed that there shouldn't be a drum solo. Super-Igor did not play with Great White, and as a result they burned the house down and killed a lot of people, including Ed.

Ed plays for the Datsuns now. I'd have liked this band when I was 18. That was 1984. John gets up and returns with a strip of toilet paper. He hands me part of it, I wad up a couple pieces and put the plugs in my ears. I take tiny sips of my beer. I figure that even the smallest of sips costs about 50 cents, but I've just saved seven years of hearing with .08 cents worth of paper-that's not so bad.

After a mediocre half- hour or so , they stop. Yay.

Here come the Pixies. They start with old fave 'Wave of Mutilation', with a new arrangement. Slow, sparse and subdued. Ballsy move, starting a set with a new arrangement of an old staple song, but it sets the stage for a segue into twenty straight minutes of unbridled fury. I like the fact that they've re-worked a lot of the old stuff, instead of just going through the motions, they've worked at it.

Frank, the singer, switches guitars. Kim, the bassist , lights a cigarette and chugs a Heiniekin. She just broke two Virginia laws: No public smoking and no drinking while performing in public.

But hey, there's 10,000 people here to see her play. Give her a break.

Frank's got the electric on and they proceed to rip through a catharsis-inducing half-dozen or so songs. Every riff is a mnemonic trigger fom my mis-spent youth. I am loving this. The band is alive. I'm alive.
Between myself and the three people with me , we've got over sixty years of combined friendship. (I'm thinking about that as I type this, and it occurs to me that getting older has some good points).

What's this? Some sort of interruption. Kim is pointing to her cigarette, yelling at someone in the darkness off-stage. I hear a snippet of Frank saying, off-mic, this is Virginia! Big tobacco and war... I wish I coulda been a fly on that microphone stand.

Well, g'night.

The audience is stunned. I look at Deanne. I think it's a joke, I mouth . She doesn't . She looks worried. I think the whole thing is staged ,and in a pretty brilliant way.

If you can't smoke and drink on stage, then what's the point of playing rock music? Unless it's Christian rock, which shouldn't even exist in the first place, why bother? It's bad enough they've forced sobriety on the audience, now they want the bands to keep it clean? It's Ok to sing about heroin, suicide, alienation and pain , but it's not ok to set a bad example for a mob of degenerates?

The place is full of smoke machines and people with hipster germs. We smoked dope all the way to the show. If the bass player wants to have a smoke, I won't consider it a threat to my long-term health.

Deanne points out a young couple with an infant . No hearing protection.That's uncool. You don't take infants to high-decibel concerts, even if the bassist doesn't have a cigarette. Is the arena smoke-free so idiotic young parents can inflict permanant hearing damage on the still-developing tympanic membranes of their babies?

We have to make rock concerts more accesible for infants and toddlers? I can't bring in a digital camera or an i-pod, but you can bring in a 1-year old who will probably develop tinnitis and hearing loss before they reach adulthood. Cool. They used to ban kids so adults could smoke.
I liked it better that way. If you can't afford a baby-sitter , you most likely can't afford a tutor and special ed' for your hearing impaired child.

Deanne wanted to jump down a few rows and bitch them out. I sorta wanted her to, but knew it would only end badly. Deanne restrained herself . What would she have said? It was too loud to talk.

Then John calls my attention to a swarming sea of tiny blue squares.

A sea of cell-phones. Everywhere. Weaving and bobbing like Glo-Stiks at a hippie concert.

Hear that? See that? They are making calls. And taking pics. How come my clunky camera is banned, but sleek camera phones aren't? Probably because they're easier to hide. Maybe they sell them at the entrance. (They do)


I can only imagine what it's like to recieve a phone-call from inside an arena show . I bet I'd wind up saying 'what?' a bunch of times and then hang up, feeling puzzled and annoyed.

My generation used lighters, but the flicker of a lighter will get you kicked out of smoke-free ODU faster than you can shout 'encore'!

Joke or not, after some wrangling,they play a great encore, obviously having fun. It's contagious.

I'm with good friends. The long ride home is timeless.

I needed that.

Endtimes Livery Rant

I admit it.

I don't much care for the Three Stooges. They just aren't that funny.

But you goddamned Four Horsemen really piss me off. I'm sick and fucking tired of mucking out the stalls at the Apocalypse Ranch while you guys ride all over Hell and Creation doing the same tired-ass old schtick you've worn out years ago. It's getting old. I can't shovel a sandpaper-handled pitchfork-full of hellbound horseshit without being reminded of your sorry lame asses.

That goes double for you, Pesty. Either start wearing underwear or clean your own goddamn saddle.

Fuck this job.

I quit.

Goodbye Stupid World

I've got the coat and tie thing going. I'm in a small corporate meeting room, being interviewed by a trio of "role-playing" and carefully diverse HR weasels.

This shit gets old in a hurry. I'm becoming cranky and confrontational, which is sort of a bad approach to a job interview. I don't even want this job-I don't even know what it is.

It's all starting to blur together. I'm tired of trotting out the same old bullshit about what I did and didn't like about my prior jobs; lies about challenges, rewards and teamwork.

What did I like about my last job?

My DVD drive.

Excuse me?

On most weekends I'd be in the office alone. I used to watch DVD's between phone calls. One Sunday I watched the entire Band of Brothers series , made a couple hundred bucks doing it too, since I was on overtime.

If the HR weasels didn't have such tiny beady eyes, I'd swear I could see them spinning in their sockets. The candidate just went off-script! What do we do now? The groupthink training seminar didn't prepare us for this!

It strikes me as odd that an unexpected response from an irritable crackpot can fluster a trio of so-called 'professionals'. It's a rush, really. I feel empowered.

So, how would I feel about working in a more, uh, supervised environment?

I'd fucking hate it. Every minute you stare over my shoulder is another minute I can't get any work done.

The echo of the word 'fucking' hangs in the air like passed gas.

Can you excuse us for one moment please? The weasels leave the room.
They come back.

Well, Mr. C, we don't currently have any openings , but we'll keep your file on record should anything arise.

They are lying. I put my file in my jacket while they were out of the room.

I leave without shaking any weasel paws.


------- ---------- ----------

I decided to re-assess my career goals. My new objective is to see the Pixies and then drive to Chicago and stay drunk until Solstice . I'll crash with my twin brother and eat Polish Sausage between museum visits. Polish Sausage isn't unhealthy if you eat it in Chicago.

Then I'll drive the Twin home for the holidays.

At some point after the New Year I'll consider re-joining the 'real' world.

Until then, y'all can lick my stick.

(Not you, gentle reader. The Twin is getting a PC as an early Solstice gift. I'll keep in touch. )

There Ya Go

Not everything sucks.

Not every ringing phone is a death knell.

Sometimes it's a seance with the living.

Ring!

Hello?

Remember the Pixies?

The band? Yeah, they were great. Those were the days. (sigh)

Monday. Pixies play and you get in free. Pick ya up, drop you off. OK?

I'm OK with that. Gosh, I'm very much in favor of that.

I've never been ritchin famous, but I have some great friends anyway.

Not rock stars, nor producers of for-shit television shows that get canceled -just good friends.
That is the way the world should work.

Verbal grind away.

Give me the microphone , give me the outrage.

Gimmee my most awesome weapon- a handmade 1985 B.C. Rico Guitar. My Voice.

Just give me something worth fighting for. Please define what is and what isn't worth dying for.

Understand?

No. No honest person does.

All I know is that I cry more than any grown man ever should.

I'm sick of fucking body counts. I grew up watching the 'Nam on TV, wondering if one of my family friends was in that particular body bag. I should have had a childhood. The war robbed me of all innocence. Watergate helped a lot. Ha ha , I'm a funny guy.

Such a great time to grow up in...hey, it's 2004 -do you know where your kids are?

Hunkered down in the rubble of a Mosul police station? Carrying a dying child to a clinic that stopped existing because a 500-pound bomb went astray?
Do you know what it's like to be fired upon from 3,6, 9 and 12 ?

Nobody should. You do not want your kids in the crosshairs of Baghdad.

No more war. No more dead children.



You people voted for more war.
You are 59 million idiots strong , but I can roll you all -one at a time or all at once in the alley.

Yeah, someone could be stronger or smarter, but I'm not good at that stuff, so I will just wait for you to die of stupidity. Shouldn't take long.

My Second Amendment is much larger than yours, punk.

So you resign? Whose bitch are you anyway?

Career du Jour

My goddamned telephone has become a horribly intrusive Wheel-of-Misfortune. At some point in the early morning it's virtually guaranteed to ring, bringing with it some unenticing and low-paying offers of work.
Sometimes I wonder if Jill from the Temp Agency makes up some of this shit, just to fuck with me. I mean, she seems nice, but...

Would I care to do data entry for eleven dollars an hour less than I made at my last real job?

Uh, no. ( The pay is so low, I can turn it down without harming my unemployment check status).

We've got a three-week spot at a call-center for...

No. No call centers. Ever. It's on my Agency profile.

Well, I know you didn't like the envelope stuffing job, but there's a mail-clerk spot open. Decent pay. Be there at eight?

Gimme directions . Fuck. Why do all these places expect me to be on-time? My last job let me come in late, blog for a while ,take a three-hour lunch and then go home early. A couple days I just went home at lunch and stayed there. (My work,however, was always exemplary and that's all the Boss cared about.)

So I drag myself to this enormous fucking supply warehouse. I'm already bad vibin' on this place, but maybe it's just rush-hour stress jitters.

I add a new "Visitor Pass" sticker to my rapidly growing collection. A small man with very large moustache comes to greet me. He looks like the Social Studies teacher who tried to molest me in sixth-grade. I'm not feeling good about this. (Let's not drag that up...)

I follow him through a maze of cubes and offices-it's bigger than a dozen Wal-Marts. Pretty swank place-I peek into a break room. Three micro-waves! A soda fountain! Four burners of coffee! Cool! Feelin' better now.

We get into an elevator and plunge 10,000 feet into whatever Infernal Circle is composed of concrete, forklifts and loading docks. I thought I knew my Dante fairly well, but I don't remember reading about this place.

I notice an eight-foot pile of bags labeled "Sand. 60 lbs." Unless you work in a combat zone, you do not want a giant pile of 60 pound sandbags anywhere near your job. Trust me on this.

We need to load these onto palletes.

Can't do it. Bad arm. See my scars?

Hmmm...I see. Can you run a postage meter?

Damn Skippy I can run a postage meter! I'm like a human postage meter! Hand me a business-size envelope-any weight- and I can tell you exactly how much domestic postage will cost.

So me and the Pervy Guy go into the processing room. There's some sort of menacing press robot filling the room. It looks perfectly suited for printing obituaries, but little else. I don't need a crystal and a battalion of Hippies to tell me this gizmo is Bad Karma.I've never seen such a machine. It's gigantic. It looks like something used on the Daily Planet set from the 1950's Superman serials.
What is this thing?

Well, you:

a) load about a gabillion letters into one hopper.

b) load another trintillion business reply envelopes into another hopper.

c) load a yazillion brochures into yet another hopper.

d) load an uncountable amount of pre-addressed envelopes into ,you guessed it, a hopper.

e) hit a big red button. Cover your ears. Hold your nose !It's very loud! It's stinky! I inspect it to see where you shovel the coal into , but come up empty. Maybe it's diesel.I mention OSHA regs and am provided with earplugs, a facemask, and a very dirty look. Bosses hate employees who can quote OSHA regulations.

In theory, this contraption folds the letter, inserts the letter, brochure and return envelope into the larger envelope, meters it for sixty cents and spits it into a USPS bucket. In reality , it's more like a Rube Goldberg confetti-maker. Shreds and scraps fly everywhere, along with a handful of stuffed and sealed envelopes. I assume I've totally screwed up and run for help.
No, that's normal, I'm told. When the batch is done, gather all the "spoileds" and count and bundle them. I assume they get a postage refund from whomever they lease this Jet-Age mail-mangler from.

I notice every envelope is addressed to 'Resident'. Suddenly , I know what it's like to be swallowed by a whale.

This is the Belly of the Beast.
This is where they make Junk Mail.

I ask Pervy,would it be OK if I went to the breakroom and grabbed a cuppa ?

No. That's for Administration only. The cafeteria is that way. If we hire you on, you get half-price. Oh boy! I do cartwheels of joy all the way to the cafeteria! Half-price! WhhooooHoooo!

I've done a lot of stuff on the job. I've gotten drunk. I've gotten high. I've gotten laid in my office and in the stock room. I've played Wasted Hopscotch on the roof of a five-story building. I've told bald-faced lies to the then-current Governor and the Mayor and convinced them that it was all true. Made really long personal calls. Hell, 3/4 or more of this very blog was written while at work.

But I've never paid $1.69 for a cup of coffee at work. Until today.

Gee. If I do a really good job, it'll be 85 cents soon.

Problem is, despite my unorthodox attitude, I do a really good job. At five o'clock they're ready to induct me into the 85 Cent Club.

Gee. I'd love to work in a room with what has to be a direct ancestor of the Terminator and a sign on the outside of the door ordering, "Please Close Door immediately To Keep Fumes Out of Workplace!"

I envy the damncube drones and their free soda and coffee. I wish someone cared enough about me to give me a cup of fuckin' coffee and help keep the fumes out of my goddamn workplace.

All I smell is bullshit and toxic inks.