Gotta Admire Their Spirit

Ugh. A post-picnic hangover, emotional disrepair and an office full of new temps. At 4 weeks in , I'm already a grizzled veteran- I haven't seen attrition like this since my 'contractor' days in the jolly old Belgian Congo. Last week I was training a temp and he went out for a cigarette and never came back. This is common.

Boss assigns two nubile young lasses to me as trainees. Ok. Soon we are joined by Church Girl . I have a sizable crush on Church Girl, so her presence improves my mood. I need to find a chance to ask her out.
My cube is about 100 yards away from everything else, so we do a lot of walking. Me and my single-file train of foxy babes. I instruct them to make 'quacking ' sounds while we walk through the busy zone.
Remarkably, they do this without even asking 'why?'

It's the funniest thing I've seen in a long time.
My work-pal, SH, falls out of his cube as we pass, doubled up with laughter.
Even Boss laughs.

The girls are pretty sharp, though. They catch on quickly. OK. Consider yourself trained, now disperse to your own cubes. Come see me if you have any questions or you just wanna visit.

The girls look confused. Cubes?We don't have cubes, they explain. They were told it would be a few days before they had computers. Not computer access, mind you, but an actual, physical PC. So I'm stuck with them for a while longer. Not so bad. They smell good and they do my work for me. They like calling people . I hate it. Y'all can take turns calling bankers.
The youngest one tells me loves this kind of work, especially when she makes $11/hr. At first, I
think she's kidding. You love this? $11/hr? We are from the same agency, doing the same job and I get a lot more than that. Of course, I've got twenty-some years of verifiable experience and a wholly fabricated Master's degree to go with it. Lying about my education added an easy $150 to my paycheck. Maybe I'll save up some cash and take a few classes. Do they teach Forgery in college? It'd come in handy in case someone wants to see a diploma. Eventually someone is going to wonder why I don't hang mine on my cube like everyone else does.

Hmm... come to think of it, Forgery is soon to become an even bigger black-market cottage industry than it already is -National ID card , anyone?

In Memorium

There are so many holes in my life. They used to be filled by people , but now they are just memories. Damnit , I miss you. Some of you.

- Grandfather C. :You tried so hard. I used to think that you were a comic-book Superman who could fix anything wrong in the world, but you decided to dedicate yourself to myself and the Twin instead. You are my hero. Forever.
If I could be half the man that you were , I'd be twice the man that I am now.

-Grandfather B. : I barely knew you, but I'll never forget you. I'd never smelled death , violence, disintegration and hatred before I watched you die.
Nowadays, I'm used to it.
Your vile and petty cruelty killed your wife and now it's killing your children. You have one child left and your accursed spectre hounds him like a thousand barbed-wire shadows. Do the world a favor and remain dead.

-Mom: I'm OK , Mom. I'd wish you were here, but you are. You always have been, even when you weren't.

-Dad: I don't even know if you are still alive. I don't know if I care. I do know that I do not wish to be your son. I inherited your anger, but don't dump your failures on me. Do you remember the last time we fought?
You lost. Badly. I'm not a six-year old anymore.
I know what you did to Mom.
Don't ask me to forgive you, because I won't.


I gotta stop. I need cook-outs and company. I had to vent, so I did.

Listen

This is Anousheh Khalili, a recent musical guest at WRIR.

Free Press

Taken out of context, the following quote is honest and insightful:

"Anyone who has ever cried at work knows exactly what that moment felt like, trying so hard to fight back tears that it only makes you cry more. It is the loneliest feeling in the world".
-Debra Pickett

Placed in context , it's honest, insightful and damn scary.

Re-Cycle of Life-Affirmation/Condemnation

Last night I had a number of what some would refer to as 'life-affirming experiences'.
Jerry, Blee Mike and myself got together to jam for the first time in at least a year.
But first, Pizza must be consumed.
Sadly, our ham, pineapple and x-cheese pie arrived sans cheese and pineapple, but with a rapidly -congealing pool of pepperoni grease. Pepperoni, pineapple, it's the same thing, no? No. This affirmed my lifetime of experiencing annoyance at people who insist on fucking up even the simplest instructions. A pizza w/out cheese?

Whatever. At least we've got beer and loud electric instruments. Let's play!
We do- we do the punk thing. The rock thing. Re-arrange some of our old songs to make them better. Suddenly, it's a jazz thing. It all works. At 38, I'm the youngster in the group.

This affirms the following experiences/observations:

a) Three people is the perfect number for a rock-type band. I say this despite the fact that most of my favorite bands were 4-pieces. By were , I mean that they broke up 'cause they couldn't get along. Y'see?

b) Old guys can still crank it. I just sorta let my fingers go on 'auto-pilot' and they flew my guitar into friendly skies. Holy Moley! Who's playing that? Me? Wow.

c) If your amp isn't properly grounded and you touch the PA microphone with your lips while playing an electric guitar, you have completed what brainiac electricians call a circuit. It's kinda complicated, but I think it has something to do with Symphonic music, since I was suddenly elevated to 'Conductor' status. Then I resisted something . Yeah, I know-but why is the CIA trying to kill me now?
"No," explains Jerry, " It's your amp". Then he gets all technical and I lose focus. I can't even think about gravity without getting dizzy, so this 'electricity' stuff sounds like a bunch of bogus
hocus-pocus .
End result: I sing and my first lyrics are:
OOOWWWWCCCCHHH!!!! FFFUUUCCCCK!!! OWWW!!!

It didn't kill me. It made me louder.

Overnight, I change identities...

Like poor Gregor, I awaken to find myself polymorphed into a giant insect, only I'm a Worker Bee and not a cockroach. Hooray for me for being slightly less consumed with self -loathing than Kafka. I slowly bumble towards the Hive, collecting exhaust fumes like pollen . I'm late, but it's OK according to a Fellow Temp, the traffic jam is a 'known issue'. He's being sarcastic- he and I get along pretty well . We both know that this place is so disorganized that no one knows anything about anything.

A woman's voice asks, "excuse me, but you look very familar."

I turn around. It's a bookish librarian type brunette with geek eye-glasses and pinned-up hair.
I don't recognize her , but I'm suddenly in eternal love. Where have we met? I don't know?
She asks me what church I go to.
None.
The torrents of paperwork sweep us apart. I need to find out why she asked me about church. I need to discuss this with her over lunch.

If she comes back to work. Most of us temps quit after a day or two.

Needed that

Jam session tonight w/ some old pals. Been a while, but it'll be be fun.

Climb, Fall

Have you ever been so emotionally overwrought that the thought of exiting your bedroom fills you with dread? The job is going to be so difficult to reach, it might as well be at the peak of Mt. Everest.
So you climb.
Out of bed. Into the shower.
Still climbing.
Into some clothes. Into the car.

Suddenly you realize: If you actually set this car in motion, it's taking you over a cliff. The kind of cliff where, instead of falling, you find yourself cursing out co-workers; slamming the Xerox machine so hard you break the lid; hurling merchandise (a boot) at the boss's head; expressing unsolicited opinions like ," why should I care? We'll all be dead in a hundred years anyway", and similarly unacceptable workplace behavior- most, if not all of which will get you canned.

Climb time again.
Out of the car. Up the stairs.
Climb.
Out of work clothes. Into sweats.

In a calm and level voice call work and tell them you are taking a personal day. Offer no explanation. Get off the phone as quickly as possible.

Because here comes the snot, and with it the tears. The fetal position and the weird sounds of pain. When this happens, it's better to be alone than with people who don't care or understand.
Eventually, it passes.

That was this morning.
But I had a warning.
I'm Popeye th...

But I did.
It's been over seven years since she died, but for some reason I've been thinking about my Mom a lot lately. Our dream-conversations have been pretty intense. Last night I was introducing her to Esmeralda, when there was a banging at the door- (this taking place at my mom's old house) - it was Esmeralda's boyfriend, not her real-life one, but in dream context it was obvious. He pushes me aside , grabs her by the arm and starts dragging her out the back door, towards the woods.
I can't move. I try to run , but I'm stuck. I hear Mom say ,"be careful tomorrow". Tomorrow?
Finally, I break whatever bond was holding me and I'm out in the dark woods.
Wait. There they are. I'm too late.

There's enough moonlight for me to see what he's done.

He has to die for that.

I don't know where this shillelagh came from, or even why my dream-self calls it a 'shillelagh' and not a club, but I start hitting the boyfriend in the head with it. I'm screaming words I don't even understand. Pure berserker fury. I roll his prone body over so I can hit him in the face.
It's my ex-step-father.
I force myself to wake up before I fall off this cliff.

One Candle on a Cupcake

I'm not going to work today. I thought I needed the OT because I was going to take next wednesday off for the Lt. Governor's tour/interview at the station, but they postponed. I'm sorta bummed. On the positive, we will just re-schedule.

Oh, yeah! Guess what I've been doing for the past 365 days- hint: you are reading it.
This is my is my very first post.

In recognition of my Pulitzer Prize un-nominated journalistic accomplishments:
1) My strict adherence to the reporter's code of objectivity. Worst President EVER.
2) Verification of facts . In case you missed it , I had the scoop on this.
3) Dedication to mis-information.

I hereby award myself the following:
a) beer for breakfast
b) pizza to go with it
c) new guitar strings
d) bass strings
e) patience and understanding

4 of 5 is ok, isn't it?

Plans A, B & C

Always have a back-up plan. My Plan B was to sit here and drink and wash down Xanax until I can't write anymore. Then I'll go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll drag my ass into work and collect some OT.

As stated, this is Plan B.

Plan A was a hunchbackrub from Esmeralda, followed by a free weekend (no bands this weekend at the station) of reciprocal rubbing.

She needs some time to figure out what she is going to do about her current boy. Ok. I knew that.

But suddenly , I've gone from being fed grapes in a garden to becoming Plan C.

Leaps Are Like That

This here's a very persuasive argument for cremation.
Goddamn Funeral Directors. Years ago, following my mother's death of cancer, I learned to loathe GFD's.
My Mom and I had planned far in advance for her post-mortem wishes and she wanted cremation -I agreed. We also had it stipulated in her Living Will that there be no formal ceremony.

GFD didn't like it when I told him this. He put my bereaved butt in a small room and gave me "some time alone to reflect" and a brochure about cremation. First, it described, in graphic detail, how a corpse burns . Then it had a disclaimer to the effect that the Charnel House could not guarantee that the ashes you received were 100% those of your loved one. They may contain remains of others , as well as ashes from coffins, clothing , jewelry and other personal effects from previous cremations.
I paraphrased the above, but I distinctly remember the "jewelry" bit. Yeah, right. I don't know if adorning the departed prior to cremation is a common practice in atheist working class america, but I'd wager that it's not. Perhaps the wealthy do it. To the people doing the actual cremation this would be known as a "tip".

GFD eventually returns.
"Mr. C, have you had a chance to review the information? We have some very inexpensive optio..."

"Yes, goddamnit. My mother and I had six months to 'review the fucking information'! "

GFD is taken aback- not by my outburst, I'm sure he's used to that sort of thing- but by the realization that his commission on Mom's death was going to be minimal. I hope it was zero.

So he takes me to identify the body. I barely recognize what I see, but I know it's Mom. I'm very shaken at this point, and GFD thinks he smells weakness. He's mistaken. He smells grief and anger.

He escorts me into a 'choosing room' , which has eight or nine crap-ass coffins , ranging from around $150- $800. GFD prepares to leave me alone in this chamber of guilt, but I stop him.

"I'll take the cheapest one."

Mom would smack me if I spent money on something that was going to get burned up in the immediate future-unless it was pot.

GFD walks over to a cardboard pallet in the corner. I thought it was discarded packing material from the display models. It probably was, but it had a $50 tag on it. GFD just saved me $100! I have a brief internal discussion with Mom. She reminds me that no matter which model I pay for, they are just gonna put her on one of those $50 shipping pallets anyway.

Even after you're dead, people are still ripping you off.

So what to do? Covert pyre? I need to research the legality of this alternative. The current Government seems to frown on all things pagan.
You could buy a deep-sea fishing boat, connect a heart monitor to a shaped charge on the hull so if , for instance, your heart stopped for longer than 15 minutes or so ; a bomb would sink your boat into the abyss. That's too complicated.
Jump into a vat of acid and dissolve? Into a slurry pit at a frankfurter plant and be recycled?
Maybe, but the catch is- you have to be alive in order to make that leap.

Leaps are like that.

Anything else is just a toss.

The Unbearable Tiredness of Being

I'm plumb tuckered out, y'all. I'd normally blame it on work or drugs, but I think it's from staying up all night with a certain lovely young woman (over 18, you sickos). I'm starting to like her but she's got a boyfriend. I asked her if she was using me as a way to break up with him.

Yes, she is. Now, that's honesty.

Does she want me around after he's gone?

Maybe. Let's not worry about that now.

OK.

I really appreciate her forthrightness. My desperate self has recently asked a few women out and they all said "sure", call me. So I left unreturned messages until I felt like an angry chump.

So this is what it is, nothing more , nothing less. Could end tomorrow , could last a lifetime, but it's the moment that counts. I wish I'd learned that lesson twenty years ago. For now, we'll see.
She's been in a relationship a long time, and it's been a long time since I was in one- never was very good at it.

I've gotta clean my apartment for her first visit.
---

Early this morning I drove out to my last temp job in order to turn in my passkey and get my papers signed- the NewBoss says, "oh good, you're here. I got you full system access and email. It'll make things easier". He didn't even ask me where I was yesterday. So back to mortgage hell.
I feel like asking ," don't you people know that after the next Great Depression, you are going to lose your jobs and your house and probably your lives as well, once you are conscripted to liberate Iran (or Iraq- it's only a 30-year loan, after all ) or thrown into a privatized debtor's prison that's owned and operated by your creditors? "
I don't ask that, but I probably should.

Lost in the Garden of You

Hello?
You need a ride to the record store to pick up some CD's?
Take your bike. Take the bus. Why call me? I've got some very important video games to play.

Bike is broken, bus doesn't run on Sunday- alright, whatever- fine. You owe me lunch for this.

So CD's are picked up. Need food. Now. You buy.

You have an entire picnic packed in your knapsack? Gotta hit the park and eat that.

Off to the Japanese Gardens we go! Mmm...hummus and bread, cheese and grapes. Not bad. Not bad at all. I've decided not to be annoyed by you- in fact, I kinda like you.

Oh. Not like that. No , no no. I am so stupid. You had this whole thing planned and I didn't even see it.

But then it's all tongues and your hair in our shared mouth and the green grass replaced by your emerald eyes and rolling and the only thing I can feel is you, but you are everything and I am lost in your depths.

I wonder why you are crying. You aren't. Those are my tears. I hold on to you until they stop.

This morning they start again, but you aren't there to stop them. I call in sick to work because my heart feels very unusual. Like it's not broken.

Oh, joy. It's "Casual Friday". This means that I can wear the same jeans to work that I wore yesterday and the day before. Good grief, but the corporate world is just like high school-only worse. You can play habitual hooky from high school and still get a diploma. Jobs (usually) require attendance in order to get a paycheck.
It's like having a life-time worth of spirit days and pep rallies shoved down your gullet every fucking day- aargh! This is the worst job ever, yet the pay is really good. I guess that makes me a whore, but I prefer the term 'mercenary'. They call me a 'contractor' but that word conjures images of trucks burning in Baghdad and poorly built porches in Fallentown falling down. Shudder.

This place ( Bank of Generica) reeks of upper-level (people who don't do any actual work) incompetence. The little folks are overworked , under-equipped and ill-informed. I asked my new boss ,"why we can't just establish a cut & dry process for this paperwork nightmare? Why does it take two days to get a box of paper-clips?" etc.

He replied that management won't let him hire anyone or do anything, so he's stuck with the ebb and flow of lousy temps. In the context of our conversation, this was a compliment.

At 2:00 pm they wheeled in some shitty ice cream sundae crap. I really wanted some, but as we queued up we were told by a Big Dude that we had to sign a laminated banner promoting "teamwork and commitment" and we had to use our legal names. We are required to wear name tags, so forgery was problematic.

I told Big Dude I wouldn't do that. I don't sign anything that I don't trust, believe in or understand. This is all three.
Big Dude tells me to get out of line. Out of 200+ persons I'm the only trouble-maker. I obey his orders. No ice cream for me.
I'm not making this up. You had to sign your name to get a few scoops of crappy ice cream.

New Boss comes to my cube.

"I heard you caused some trouble in the ice cream line."

Yes, I did.

"Do you want to keep working here?"

No. But I need the money and you need the help. How 'bout I work 3 -4 weeks until we catch up, and then I call the agency for re-assignment?

"Deal."

We shake on it. New boss is damncool, but he knows I fucking hate the place.

I need to de-compress, so I stop by the station on the way home. I'm handed a frosty Newcastle Ale and a slab o' quiche.( Quiche is manly if it's a slab.) We have a little going away party for the invaluable GG , who is moving to Connecticut . Best!

Fuck. I hate this bank job.

But I love the station.

All this and no date. My calls are never returned.
Note to women: If you aren't interested, just say so. An upfront 'NO' is better than evasive maneuvers. Damn your voice mail... why did you even give me your # ?

The heart is lonely carrion luggage.

Slogan's Heroes

I don't wanna get up , but I do anyway. I don't wanna go to work either, but I go anyway.
This new job is in a building almost as large as O'Hare airport. And just as relaxed.
I've seen a lot of damncubes in my life, but if I added them all up , they wouldn't even be a dingleberry in this nearly infinite corporate chamberpot of damncubes.

The only way you can avoid seeing all the "Teamwork makes the Team Work" , "Smile, they can hear it", " Our company is a leader. Be one too" signs is by staring directly into your monitor-and I'm pretty sure there's subliminal company propaganda on it as well.

"Teamwork makes the Team Work" - Why not just hang a banner saying "Work will set you free"?

"Smile, they can hear it"- I'm already paranoid enough . I do not need signs like that around me.

"Our company is a leader. Be one too."- This one I like. I don't give a damn about the company, but they should put me in charge. That's how this banner reads to me , but the reality is: follow orders.

Yesterday, my damncube neighbor commented about a nicely framed poster of the Great Wall of China. Caption: Teamwork Makes It Possible.

She thought it was pretty- it is- but...

"Comparing our office drone jobs to the building of the Great Wall is a poor way to boost morale. Chances are, that if you were part of that labor force, you were a slave, peasant, criminal, or prisoner of some sort. Then they worked you to death and buried your ruined corpse in or around the Wall, whichever was easiest for the supervisors. And if this "Teamwork" thing was a shared reality instead of a rallying call for servitude and desperation we wouldn't need slogans. Or Walls. One day, some future temp is going to open a file cabinet and find my withered remains."

Crap! I said that out loud. I can tell that I've freaked out my fellow temp. I often have absolutely no control over what I say . Fuck it. Some people have no sense of humour and even less knowledge of history.

Today, I find that I've been re-cubed into a damncube located in the farthest unoccupied reaches of this vast wasteland . It's in a corner and has a nice view of some trees. My new boss shows me where my new damncube is- he starts with the "You do great work, but you make some of your co-workers uncomfortable..." speech, but stops because he can tell I've heard this spiel dozens of times. I like being as far away from everyone as possible at work, so this isn't exactly punishment.

Later, we have a meeting because us temps are turning in inconsistent work. I hear about every fourth word. I hate meetings. After the meeting, I talk to my boss and point out that there are two seperate instruction sheets being handed out and they contradict each other.

"Well, damn!", he says. "Let's fix this right now!" I suddenly have a new respect for New Boss. We sit down and he identifies the errors and I help him with wording it. I suggest that we print some sample screen shots in order to illustrate examples. He does this in under five minutes, and does it well. This Boss is on his job!

After lunch, the whole network crashed. No computers, phones- nothing. I asked if I could leave and go record an interview at the station- I had to leave a wet-behind-the-ears kid in charge and I really wasn't comfy with the idea of him learning on-air. Boss says OK.

When I get to the station, I find we've acquired a new PC and recording software for Studio B (my realm) and Max (founder/genius) is able to explain how to work it in about five minutes. Which is how much time I have before the guests arrive. One of them was Doug Cox, superintendent of special education for Richmond Public Schools- I'm not sure if that's his verbatim title, but that's what he does- he mentioned that his son plays drums in a band called Alabama ThunderPussy. They toured with Gwar. I lived with Gwar. Small world indeed!

Now we have a dedicated recording/production computer for studio B! Snoopy Dance!

Dear Mom

I wish you were here so I could tell you this in person. Things are looking up lately and I think you'd be proud of your twin sons. Bryan got a nice promotion at his job and he has managed to keep your old car on the road- no small feat, that. 300,000 + miles! He is doing quite well, all things considered.
Chicago has been good for him.

I've found a group of great folks who are running a brand-new radio station and they've given me an important role -Production Director. It's hard, but it's easy too because it makes me happy - like I'm a part of something better and larger than myself. Like I belong. I don't have to explain loneliness to you.
I start a new paying job next week as well- but you know how I feel about jobs. I'll do well and make decent money, but I'd rather just win the lottery and play guitar all day.

If you can read this, then you know what Steve did, because he's with you. I wish he'd had your strength. He needs forgiveness too, I'm trying to realize this. It's been difficult, but there's been progress. The anger is slowly receding . Be patient with me and be kind to Steve. I know you will.

I recently found some old photos from 1966- 1968. Your babies were kinda goofy-looking, but you were the most beautiful woman in the world.

I wish you were here. Your children miss you.

Love ,
Allan

...

"Now I was training myself to take nothing seriously. A man's allowed to make lots of small mistakes, and there's nothing wrong with that. But if the mistakes are big ones and they weigh him down, his only solution is to stop taking himself seriously. It's the only way to avoid suffering- suffering, prolonged, can be fatal."

-Pedro Juan Gutierrez,
Marooned in No-Man's Land

Recent Moron

Logic and reason mean nothing to the dogmatic. Case in point: Last night I'm listening to a local right-wingnut politico rant about why the Federal government should be allowed to directly interfere in people's private lives-ala Terry Schiavo , Patriot Act, abortion , empire-building and the upcoming draft... etc. He thinks politicians are smarter than reg'lar folks and should control our most personal decisions- because "it's better that way".
I strongly oppose this viewpoint.
I remind my new pal that a true Conservative doesn't believe in a large and invasive government.
He tells me I'm a liberal. Wrong.
He tells me I'm an idiot.Wrong.
He's putting my drinks on his tab, so I'm fairly certain who the idiot is.

What a fucking pussy.

I despise the fascism that he endorses. It's a rote recitation of 'talking points' gleaned from the likes of Limbaugh, Coulter, Drudge and El Duce -I can't listen to this regurgitated dis-informed crap.
Shut the fuck up.
Please shut up.

He declares victory , buys me another Scotch and retreats.

Fucking pussy.

Read This

Read this.

Zahara

This man knows how to tell a story. I had the honor of recording his interview, now I gotta read the book. Amazing. I am giddy with new knowledge.

Yet Another Brush With Death

Last night I got plowed with two of my all-time best friends. We grabbed a pizza pie, a 12-pack and some other stuff and went to the river. Somewhere along the line we picked up some crazy-ass Mexican who just got out of prison.
Once we made it to the shore (gravity did my walking for me) we got crazy-baked, ya know?

Check out the skyline-pretty lights and such. Ooooo...shiny...

"Sploosh!"
Woah- that's a beaver that just caught it's dinner. The moon provides the perfect lighting for us to watch. This is about as close to beautiful as things ever get: pie, beloved pals, moonlight and animals. And a Mexican.

So the 'Maxican' (hi-5 2 max) grabs me by the arm and says "let's take a walk". I figure I have about 60 seconds to live. My two pals are already writing my obit- or creating an alibi-not sure which.

Me: "Dude, if yer gonna kill me just do it now, 'cause your cheesy Elvis sideburns are hurting my laughing bones so much I'd welcome the euthanasia."

Maxican: "I scared you. I did. " True.

This went on for a while.

Turns out that Maxican is a straight-up world class guy and a hilarious master of BS. Awesome!
We laughed so hard we had to hold on to each other just so we wouldn't fall down.

You Had to be There

After being hurled down a hillside of jagged boulders, lectured at gunpoint by a gangsta and generally feeling bad about the school bus/cliffside thing, I ask this : What the fuck is wrong with you?