Party Like It's 1995

Do you remember 1995? I do and I'm grateful to my friend 'B' for reminding me. She sent me this wonderful guidebook to mutant culture circa 1995 and it really stirs the memory...my memories of 1995 are blurry but upbeat, I was only 29 and life was good. Leafing through this book reminds me that if life was good, then it can be good again.

Don't these look like sidebar labels? Back in 1995 we called them "stickers".




The book contains a how-to for email ID theft circa 1995 and an article that warns that the growth of cyberspace was bringing a "vast array of jerks, idiots and nincompoops" and advises the reader to be wary of "drooling perverts who try to virtually molest Net-surfing teenagers".

Who knew?


Well, I need to sort out my old Magic: the Gathering cards. Seriously. I'd forgotten that I have a small fortune in them. Another friend (name also starts with B) reminded me- he sold his for $500. I used to deal Magic- I should be able to clear my rent, easy. Why didn't I think of that before? And my comic collection...holy shit.
That will be my project for early 2008, circumstance permitting: Sort the comics.


My project for 2007 is to get postmarks on some books. See ya at the Post Office!

Pouring

I was getting ready to pull out of my building's parking lot when I realized I had forgotten my thermos; I shut off my car and ran back inside, a quick dash that set my trip back about ninety seconds. I cursed myself for my absent-mindedness and headed for the interstate.

After a few miles of rain and heavy traffic I was seeing red. The red wasn't my temper, it was the sudden flashing of brake lights- I was watching scarlet dominoes as they fell towards me, blinkity-blink, closer and closer...I skidded to a stop a few feet from the car in front of me.
I thought the guy behind me was going to hit my rear but he didn't. I didn't see anyone hit anything - we just stopped.

I wish I had brought my camera, but I wasn't on the sort of trip that one takes snapshots of- otherwise I might have photographed the milepost we stopped at. I'm going to call it '150' .
I was stopped at 150, nothing to be done but watch the emergency vehicles race down the shoulder.
Ziiieeeooowww!!!- State Troopers.
Wweeoohweeeooh!!!-Ambulances.
AraraaaaaAarrrrraaaarrrraaa!!!- Fire Trucks.
Beeeppppbeeeeppp!!!- Animal Control. Animal Control?

Shortly after the vehicles passed traffic started creeping along...after an hour I rounded a long , sweeping curve, passed milepost 151 and was presented with the accident scene- a tractor trailer was on the right shoulder, four or five badly dented cars and SUVs were lined up along the narrow left shoulder, shaken people talking to police and medics. It didn't look too bad until I saw that there were wheels sticking out of the small ravine separating north and south-bound traffic...someone had flipped over.
I didn't see any animals.

By the time I reached milepost 152, traffic was almost back to normal. I estimated the accident occurred one and a half miles from where we first stopped. That's a ninety-second trip at 60 mph. Ninety seconds is how long it took me to run back into my apartment and grab my coffee.
If I hadn't forgotten my thermos, I might have been much closer to that wreck. Maybe.

A couple of hours later I arrived at the family home. My twin brother was waiting.

The Twin went upstairs and came back with a paper grocery bag full of poison. Here, he said, and handed me a beer- Miller in a bottle. Yech.
For the first time in over two years, I opened a beer. The Twin opened his.
Together, we poured them down the kitchen sink.
It was a strange feeling.

We followed the Miller with a half-case of Busch, then another half-case of Yeungling. I topped it all off with a 1.75 liter bottle of Bowman's Virginia Vodka- my old brand. When I died in 2005, it was Bowman's that killed me.
To me, Bowman's Virginia Vodka is not a life-affirming beverage.

Our dad, who is ostensibly not drinking, had beer and liquor stashed all over the house. It's difficult evidence to ignore. Alcoholics who don't drink don't have to hide their liquor; he hides liquor, therefor it's a sure bet that he's drinking. I'm not sure that he ever really stopped.

There's a wonderful feeling of liberation and freedom that sneaks up on you a few months after the hiding stops- it's a rush of empowerment and once you have felt that, it's hard to imagine ever wanting to go back. I have tried to discuss this sensation with my father, but he doesn't seem to know what I mean- it made me wonder if he really wanted to sober up. He doesn't want to. He wants his mother to die so he can resume his business of mortal drinking.

I know this because Fred Thompson told me so in a dream. Fred's Law& Order character was serving me a Manhattan at an old bar that doesn't even exist anymore.

"Arthur", I was complaining, "Manhattans were the ex's drink. If there was nothing in the world to drink but Manhattans, I would have quit drinking in 1988."

"Look at your glass", he said.

He studied my face with jowly authority as I looked down. It was empty. Had I drank it? All of that work wasted on a Manhattan?

"Arthur", I reasoned," I don't consider a Manhattan to be a drink, it's a waste of whiskey is all. Just because you are wasting bourbon it doesn't mean you are drinking. You can't knock me off the wagon with a Manhattan. It's a technicality."

All of those Law & Order marathons were finally paying off.

"Look again", he growled.

Four fingers of Wild Turkey bourbon. Straight,101 proof, no vermouth and no cherry. I raised it to my lips, thought better of it and set it down. Pushed it back to Arthur/Fred.

"Nice try. No thanks."

Fred looked at me with dead basset eyes. The drink vanished.

"Too bad about your father", he said, ice forming on the words. He didn't explain what he meant because he didn't have to. He was gloating.

"I know,"I told him. "I'm ready to wake the fuck up now."

And I did. Fred didn't tell me anything I didn't already know.

*******************************

In 2005 I was very sick.
When I got out of the hospital I went home and poured my Bowman's Virginia Vodka down the sink. I never wanted to touch it again. No more Bowman's. No more hospitals.

In the last days of 2007 I found myself pouring Bowman down the drain and preparing to enter the hospital, this time as a visitor. My grandmother is very weak and ill - she has a recurring blockage - but she was alert enough to give me a highly detailed description of the gruesome and invasive medical procedures she is undergoing- out of nowhere she started talking about a cyst she had removed in the 1950's, something we had never known about; I blotted out the details at "then they split me open"- after a few minutes of that, all I could hear was my brother's voice saying: You better stop talking about the cyst, I think Allan is going to faint.

Maybe you should get some food into him, suggested my grandmother.

So we went to a nearby diner and I ordered a deep-fried salt block with a lard-based cream sauce, extra starch and green beans soaked in pork brine. In my younger, fearless days I would have called this a 'chicken-fried steak special', but yesterday it seemed more like a blockage waiting to happen...that's why I ordered it. I need some potentially self-destructive danger in my life, but that danger has to have a certain plausible survivability.

I can outlive dinner. That's easy. I can even do dessert.

What I'm dreading is the unknown. My family, as I know it, will be soon be extinct. When the inevitable occurs, there are going to be complications- always complications- and the idea of having to babysit binge-drinking adults while dealing with lawyers and funeral homes is not a happy one.

The Twin needs to return to work but he is afraid to go home, lest he need to return immediately, our gran's been touch-and-go all year long and there isn't any real hope of improvement- if this blockage passes (as of 6pm , no go) , there will be another soon after.
Four times this year alone- four hospital stays in one year. That's too many.

Still, she's stronger than me. I am completely spent after a hospital visit. I start having panic twinges as soon as the doors open...when I am in a hospital all I can think about is getting out. The sounds are too loud, the smells are overwhelming, the lighting is all wrong -everything spins, blinks and whirls- I want to curl up on the floor and scream until I am somewhere else.

But I know that if you curl up and scream in the hospital, it dramatically lessens your chances of getting out, so I didn't do that. Eventually I found myself back here, but now I don't feel like screaming anymore, which is an improvement.

Best of all, I slept without dreaming of Fred Thompson, bourbon or vermouth.
I dreamed about the buoyancy of salt. It was good.

Spiller

I have a long story to tell, but first I need to take a moment and acknowledge my own personal awesomeness. I usually don't brag- I take great pride in my humility and my unparalleled modesty is the stuff of legends- but RIGHT NOW I am the #1 search result on the Google engine for this phrase : doing dishes as erotic foreplay.

I wonder what they were looking for? Tantric Domestic Bliss?
That doesn't sound too bad, really.

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

I'm tired. Things are quiet. I found a substitute DJ(thanks Scott!) for my show in case I didn't make it back- as I feared, I didn't get back until late and now I can't sleep. Today will be the first show I have missed this year- and the first time I have slept past 7am on Sunday in over a year. I'm aiming for noon.

Later I will tell you about:
-A horrible accident involving five cars, one tractor-trailer and the coffee that saved me.
- Drinking Manhattans with Fred Thompson and what happened next.
- A visit to the hospital.
- The deep-fried salt block that comforted me.
- The Boston Tea Party and how it felt to be there.

Now I gotta crash. I'll be along shortly.

Chicken Little Was An Optimist

Whoops. I was wrong. I thought that the catalytic event that shifted an idling WWIII into full gear would be the assassination of Pakistani dictator 'Pervy' Musharef- I hadn't anticipated the return and subsequent murder of former Prime Swindler Benazir Bhutto.
Bhutto- who was a politician, not a saint- was Pakistan's best hope for 'moderate' rule- a chance to build a corrupt democracy instead of a corrupt military dictatorship.



A good example of a corrupt democracy would be America.
A corrupt military dictatorship might resemble North Korea. Or Pakistan.

In politics, corruption is inevitable- the price of doing business as they say- we will always be given the choice of lesser evils; the choice of lesser evil must be made with the greater good in mind- money will get stolen, lies will be told, favors will be granted- of greater concern are issues such as: do the people have food?
And: Are we still fighting?

General Musharef has been playing 'double agent' for years...taking billions of US dollars to 'fight terra' while simultaneously allowing the Taliban and al-Queda to become resurgent in the remote Pakistan/Afghan border regions- and Osama bin Laden* is, of course, still a free man.

Pundits and politicos have started asking questions regarding what exactly we are getting in return for our generous material support of Pervy's regime. Ostensibly, he's fighting terrorism, but his nation's most popular leader was just killed on a crowded street in a military neighborhood- overlooked in the uproar was the sniper who killed at least four people at another political rally earlier the same day. The news of the suicide bomber who killed nine on 23, Dec. didn't seem to reach the American media , but it did happen.
Such incidents are increasingly common in Pakistan.

In short, it doesn't look like Pervy is very good at fighting terrorism. He may, according to recently released emails from Bhutto, be committing terrorism... I imagine we will learn the truth about Bhutto's murder at the same time we find out who killed JFK.

Anyway, why are we giving Pakistan so much money? Hmmm...

Pakistan, you probably know, has a nuclear arsenal. Bombs with upper-case B's.

I haven't heard anyone ask the obvious question regarding our 10 billion dollar aid package to Musharef: What if the payments are nothing more than a shakedown? Protection. I mean:
Give us tanks, guns and money and we will make sure Osama doesn't 'accidentally' get his hands on one of our shiny nuclear weapons, you see what I'm saying?

There was a time not long ago when overwhelming American military superiority could deter tinpots like Pervy and North Korea's Lil' Kim from ever becoming serious threats- but that time is past. Unfortunately, at the moment our military is busy elsewhere and would be hard-pressed to fight an actual 'war of necessity', should one occur. I hope it does not.
Iraq, Afghanistan (and potentially Iran) are not wars of necessity- no matter how many times you say "9-11" and point to Afghanistan, it doesn't change the fact that the large majority of the 9-11 murderers were Saudi Arabian- as is Osama. It also doesn't change the likelihood that Osama is comfortably holed up in Pakistan. Nor does it change the fact that the Taliban have regrouped and are more influential than they have been since 2002.

In any case, it's long been a simple matter of time before a suicide bomber gets strapped to a nuke- this inevitability has been hastened by recent events...when? Where?

Another possibility is the establishment of an openly anti-American theocracy in Pakistan. (See notes on nukes, above). Our troops in Afghanistan would suddenly face an overwhelming number of hostile fighters on their border. Historically, this sort of scenario tends to end poorly.

There's a possible upside: These events may lead to our military being pulled out of Iraq.

The downside: They will be pulled out and re-deployed to combat duty in an all-out war on the Afghan/Paki border.

--------------------------------------
An Unrelated Note of Appreciation

I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has sent kind wishes for my grandmother; at the moment there is nothing new to report. These ER trips are serious, but not uncommon for her- some are more severe than others. She is stable and resting at the moment, tomorrow I will drive back home and learn more. Assuming that we haven't been nuked, that is.

------------------------------------
*who?

Play Guitar and Wait

My twin brother gave me this 'inspirational' poster for X-Mas. He picked it up at a museum in Chicago.
It's the first inspirational poster that I didn't hate on sight. I loved it.

4 pm, Christmas evening. The food was ready.
The Twin had just finished setting the table, so I walked into the living room and announced that dinner was served, come on in and have a seat...it's a small Christmas, but there's a huge feast awaiting!

Instead of enthusiasm, my father and uncle displayed worry. Why worry? I've been cooking for thirty years and haven't killed anyone yet.

Oh.

My Grandmother was not feeling well. She was having difficulty breathing.

I leaned in closely so I could hear what she was saying.

Oh.

So I went to her room to gather a few articles of clothing while my father fetched her cane and the Twin prepared her portable oxygen tank. The whole thing had the feeling of a drill
but it was not a drill; ten minutes later we were gathered in the waiting room of the local hospital's Emergency Room.

A nurse escorted my Gran, my father and myself into an examination room. The Twin and my uncle waited outside while the lady asked the requisite questions and took the obligatory measurements. On a scale of 1 to 10, my grandmother rated her pain a '12'. She's been sick for years, terribly ill at times but she has never exceeded a '10' before...could she please get some pain medicine? But her blood pressure was too low for that...she was wheeled into another room where the nurse started hooking her to tubes and machines .

My father and I were banished to the ER waiting room, where it was decided that we would take 'shifts' going back to the house to eat...the Twin and I would go second, so we sat in the ER and watched a CSI marathon on the TV. At first, I felt that an endless barrage of simulated autopsy footage was inappropriate fare for a hospital waiting room but after about forty minutes I was engrossed, wondering who murdered the Crazy Cat Lady.
I never found out, but it was a welcome distraction while we waited...our wait was interrupted by the nurse, who informed us that they were waiting on tests and the arrival of another doctor.
Nothing to do but wait some more...eventually it was our turn to go home and eat.

By this time it was after 7 pm and the food, which had been abandoned when we rushed to hospital, had gotten cold and dry and was about as appetizing as paste...we ate anyway, we would need our strength, we reasoned. It was likely to be a long night.

When we returned to hospital, we learned that they had decided to admit my Grandmother- no surprise, really. We were allowed to go back and see her; she had stabilized enough to be given a bit of morphine...the nurse kept up a steady stream of banal questions as she administered the drug- after a minute or so, our Gran's answers started getting fuzzy and her pain had gone down to a "six or the number like six". The dope was working.

Then she started to vomit.

The last time I saw someone vomit in a hospital, the person I saw was myself; I was observing from a vantage point several feet outside and above my body, which was entering a grande mal seizure.
It's not something I like to think about, so I usually don't- but all the sights, sounds and smells were the same.

I started gasping and my vision was flashing white, black, white...the next thing I knew I was in the hallway, being held by a family friend as I bawled my eyes out. After that- a long while after that- I was able to pull myself together and assist the lone nurse as she navigated the gurney down the corridor to the elevator and up to my Gran's new room, where she was placed on a real bed and further sedated. Finally, she was calm and quiet and there was nothing for us to do but return to the family house.

It was after midnight. Christmas was over.

What should we do with our gifts?

My father, amazingly, was the one who stepped up. We need to exchange the gifts, he said.
He was right. We needed to. We did.

So I got the poster above...and this t-shirt( below, front and back), which, as I told my brother, is the best T-shirt ever. The Twin knows how I feel about signal flow.


BACK:

My father gave me a 'Car Talk' CD of songs about car trouble (ha!), which is something that I can use for my radio shows and a book called Auto Repair for Dummies...I gave him my old set of PC speakers so that he could listen to me play the CD in hi-fi. In our family, there is not much stigma on the giving of 'hand-me-downs' as gifts, it makes sense to us...why throw away an item that works fine and then spend money on replacing it?


I also got a set of Pyrex cookware and a shower curtain, two things I can certainly use...I actually asked for the shower curtain- I've already been fixing my own meals and doing my own laundry for decades- if I were to actually go shopping for a shower curtain I am afraid I might be lurching into metro-sexuality, a leap I'm not prepared to make- so I asked my Gran for a 'sensible' curtain. She came through- solid blue, no frilly floral pattern crap. Right on!

Best of all, the Twin gave me a new compact audio mixer, a TAPCO (below). My old Behringer died months ago and I've been feeling bereft ever since...now I can re-create the signal flow diagram as illustrated on the world's greatest t-shirt, above.

My uncle had to work today, so we left home early this morning...there was very little traffic, the interstate highway is a strange place at 3 am...especially the day after Christmas.
Today, I slept later than I have for months- well into the afternoon.

The Twin remained at home, waiting...as of an hour ago, Gran was unchanged, still stable- we continue to wait.

At first, I felt guilty about hooking up my new mixer and playing guitar until my fingers hurt- I mean, my Gran is in ICU and I'm playing guitar...but then I looked at my new inspirational poster and I knew that I was doing the right thing.

Other than wait, there is nothing else to do.

A Musing

I am appalled at the lack of progress I have made over the last 365+ days. I sat down with the intent to do some sort of "reflections" post; after reflecting, I have decided that "looking-back" falls under the category of "why bother?"

After all, very little has changed in my life since 2006:

A year ago, I was unemployed, destitute and heartbroken. I had quit my steady job, lured away by the promise of greener pastures- after crossing the stile, I found myself hip-deep in bullshit. Three days later I was unemployed.

I had also lost my Muse. My Muse was a female blogger, a fellow refugee from Gull Valley and someone with whom I felt an uncanny kinship- 'kismet' she called it.
It felt magical, she stoked my creative fires- I dedicated entire broadcasts to her- I even changed my Blogger template and set up a music site- serious stuff for a typically results-free slacker such as myself.

All for naught - it backfired actually, the music was the deal-breaker- and it was all to end in tears shortly before Christmas, 2006.

My Sunday morning show fell on Christmas Eve and I had planned to play songs by my Muse- I often played songs for her and sometimes she'd be listening on-line from her distant time zone...on X-mas Eve I was going to play songs composed and performed by her!

How many men get to give their sweethearts airplay for Christmas?

I don't know the answer to that question- only that it is one fewer than I had hoped. I got my "Dear John" the day before the show.

I played her elegant music anyway...it was a transcendent moment of beauty, longing and sorrow; alone in the booth with the lingering notes of my Muse's songs fading, falling...fading, falling...falling and gone...this, I thought at the time, is a feeling that I will one day inflict on a character in a novel that I have not yet written. Poor bastard, he.

I went home and took down all the blog art and images I had posted for the Muse. I deleted my entire music site- it was my songs that drove her away- I erased our emails, scrubbed her files and came very, very close to quitting blog altogether, the infamous Beta Blogger transition wasn't helping my mood...somehow, another blogger saw these actions and decided that I was making a public suicide announcement- he emailed my blogroll (but not me) to let them know about my "sinister plan"...according to him, I was going to kill myself on-air during my New Year's Eve show.

I found out about my own devious plot via an email from someone that I scarcely knew at the time- someone who had taken the time to actually read the words on my blog, specifically the words that said: " suicide is not something that I would do".

Unlike my unwanted meddler, my new pal understood that adding "not" to a sentence significantly changes the meaning of the sentence...nonetheless, they wanted to check up on me- they'd gotten a weird email concerning my nefarious radio offing and just wanted to make sure I was alright- I wasn't exactly alright, but I wasn't swallowing hemlock either; still, I'm glad they asked...

OK. I had to email my accuser...look, you are mistaken, I said. I hadn't planned on blogging it, but my heart is really fucked-up now...I am not, however, going to kill myself. Sorry for the mistake, but I plan on living. Yadda yadda...

He wrote back , calling me a liar. He claimed to have saved screenshots of my blog and said he had shared them with a team of highly-trained psychiatric professionals, who all agreed that I was a dangerous sociopath who should be stopped before I hurt myself...huh? Say what?

Dude, what sort of person has the time to save screenshots of other people's blogs and also has access to a team of "highly-trained psychiatrists "?
An inpatient at a private asylum would have time and access...just sayin'.

Anyway, this bullshit webdrama ruined the blogging part of that holiday, but it did serve to introduce me to one of my best blogpals ever, so the story actually had a happy ending.
Other good things followed:

-Shortly after the New Year, my old boss called and asked me if I'd come back to work- hell, yes! Having an income changed everything...I went back to the Firm.

-Before long, I'd found a new Muse. This one was from the Real North and she was certainly my True Heart...our brief friendship was one of the happiest moments of my sober life...this woman wrote lovingly heartfelt posts about obscure guitar FX and little-known but true Rawk legends...I was smitten. Again, endless hours on the phone seemed to indicate a longer future of some sort. She liked my CD. She was perfect.

"Come to me", I finally asked her. She said yes without hesitation.

At first.

When it came time to plan the trip,' yes' became: " Legal trouble...I can't get a passport. Can't come to the States."

At this time the media was widely reporting that it was taking Americans a very long time to obtain passports, so I decided I'd better get my application in post-haste...I was told to expect a wait of several months.
My passport arrived 10 days after I applied. Yowzah!

I called my New Muse: "Woo hoo! I'm on my way to see you!"

"You can't come here", she said.

"Hah! It arrived! I have a passport now. "

"I can't see you. "

Then she told me that she was angry at everything and everyone -except me- that she loved me, but I had to stay away. Forever.
Then she vanished. I don't imagine that I'll ever know what happened.
I hate not knowing.

A few months later I got laid-off from my job and haven't been able to find steady work since then. Another Christmas here with no job, no money and no Muse...but also no booze and no psycho-stalkers...it could be worse.

Several days ago my old boss called me- he stands to get a new job at a different law office and wanted to know if I'd join his staff if he should happen to get the job- hell, yeah! I hope he gets it.

Having an income would change everything- including deja vu.

So perhaps next year I will have my old job back, only at a new firm.

Perhaps a new Muse as well... I admit that I still carry torches, but I'm surrounded by lights...so if I decide to "snuff it", please know that I'm not talking about my life, I'm talking about my lights. There are many, many lights but I only need one.

Not that I dislike lights- far from it. I love lights and the shadows that come with them, but my Muse bulb is dark and it *ringles* when I shake it...it needs changing.
I need changing.

But not as much as I thought- after all, I did make it through last year without drinking (which would have been suicide)- and this year isn't nearly as bad as last year.
Not even close.
I was with someone who'd been drinking heavily the other night and just their smell was enough to make me feel ill...wow, I thought as I drove them home, this is how I used to smell every day.

Every God-damned day. Until it killed me.

I haven't touched a drop of booze since September 6, 2005. I had forgotten the exact date, but the collections agencies have been very helpful with sending dated reminders to me...09/06/05.

This morning I walked down the beer aisle and saw people stocking up...beer for the games, beer for their parties, beer to blot out whatever it is that needs blotting out...I saw these 10 AM brew-buyers and I wasn't envious of them. They looked sad.

Is that how I used to appear? I know the answer to that question.

Today I bought cat food, cilantro, potatoes and rice; then I went home and drank coffee. More coffee than any human ever should consume; still, it was just coffee.

Tomorrow I plan on making homemade stuffing with rosemary, almonds and cranberries; real mashed taters; pork-less beans and some sort of messy baked vegetable casserole, all of which I will take home with me on X-Mas Day in lieu of gifts, gifts being in short supply this year.

I have to be a bit careful with the ingredients because of my Grandmother's health- she would eat a deep-fried salt block if you put it on her plate, not because she's senile or stupid
(she's not) , it's just a Southern thing...we Southerners like our deep-fried salt blocks, preferably served with a saline-based gravy solution on top and half of a pie for dessert. I can't eat like that any longer- two slices of pie is all I can manage.

In the last 27 months I have had zero alcohol and consumed fewer than eight slices of pie; I have lost 50 pounds of fat and lowered all of my blood numbers into the "green" range...and to think that I started this post by lamenting my lack of progress. Idiot, I am.

I should change the opening sentence of this post, but I'm not going to. I've come a long way, but I am still making mistakes and that incorrect opening sentence is going to remind me of that fact.
When I achieve a state of personal perfection, I will come back and correct it. Don't stay up late waiting for that to happen.
Have a Merry Christmas instead.

Meme-Thing

It must be Christmas- I am doing a meme. Christmas makes me do crazy shit.

New Year's Resolution: No more memes...wait, that was last year's rez...and the previous year's as well...fuckity, it's for YDG and I'd do almost anything for YDG- including moving to Texas. Maybe.

Anyway:


Favorite X-mas Memory: Spending Christmas Night alone in the back of a Mexican restaurant in Eugene Oregon, where I was working as a transient busboy, circa 1990. I used my tips to purchase a 40-ounce bottle of Schlitz Malt Likker and a pair of Spider-Man comics .
This particular memory isn't mine, but it is my favorite.

Favorite X-mas Song- Rudy the Redneck Reindeer: In the early 90's I played in a punk/metal/space-rock band called Mister Sensitive...at one pre-Christmas gig, I dressed as Santa and was given a bottle of Tequila by my Lesbian Fan Club- I carried it on stage with me, Santa chugging fer the worm between songs- during a pukey, belching fit, the rest of the band started playing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed..."- after my belching subsided, I ad-libbed the lyrics...I am told I was brilliant. I barely remember it.

Favorite X-Mas Movie: This would be an untitled home movie I made with my Utah girlfriend, Natalie, back in the winter of 1985...it's in freaking Beta. Do you remember Beta tape?
I sure do.

Favorite X-Mas Ornament: Played a featured role in the aforementioned movie.

What are your X-mas Plans?: I don't have a job or any money to buy gifts, so I plan on fixing a really good home-cooked meal with all the trimmings and feeding my small family until they expand...this all depends on my grandmother's health. She may be in the hospital on Christmas, which will change all of our plans.

If I can have one gift, it would be to have my Granma at home on the 25th.

To all my Blogpals: Happy Everything to Everyone!


........................................................

Next: Who Knows? Life is Nuts.

Advanced Technique

The painting below is on display at Cambodia's Tuol Sleng Prison, which is currently serving as a Torture Museum, a reminder of the horrors perpetrated by Pol Pot's despotic regime. The artist is Vann Nath, a former inmate.


According to John Dean, there are at least ten preliminary investigations regarding the CIA's destruction of ' advanced interrogation' videotapes, tapes on which waterboarding and other 'advanced' techniques are demonstrated.

There are more than a few things wrong with the 'official story', whatever that is at the moment. Like the reasons behind the Iraqi occupation, the rationale for torture and the subsequent obstruction of justice seems to change over time.

- The initial BushCo defense, that the tapes were destroyed to protect the ID of CIA agents, is laughable. First, Cheney didn't hesitate to out Valerie Plame, who was an honest-to-Godzilla anti-terrorist secret agent; second, doesn't the CIA have the ability to pixelate images?
If pixelation is too high-tech for our CIA, couldn't they simply take a cue from the terrorists they are supposed to be monitoring and wear ski masks?

- In the course of the waterboarding discussion, defenders of 'advanced techniques' like to claim that valuable anti-terrorist information was obtained using 'advanced' methods...that assertion reeks of bullshit. If we obtained such invaluable data during these 'advanced' sessions, why were all the tapes destroyed? Shouldn't that valuable data be preserved?

-In typical BushSpeak, what are called "advanced techniques" aren't advanced at all. Water torture has been used for thousands of years- it's about as basic as you can get. See that painting, above? That is waterboarding. All you need is water, a blindfold and a victim. Gravity does the work for you.

- Here's a scary thought : Some of the 'advanced' sessions were held with terrorists involved in the 9/11 attacks. Perhaps, under torture, they gave up information that connected certain 9/11 dots, dots that BushCo would rather not have connected. These are not hard dots to connect.

In other Bad News:

- I am listening to George Bush on live TV and I find, to my horror, that I agree with him on something:
The Democratic Congress sucks at their collective job.
My reasons for believing this are different than his, however. Bush is upset that Congress waited until the last minute to collapse into jelly...I am pissed off that they caved in at all.
Not surprised, but pissed nonetheless...

- Bush just used the term 'shooters' to refer to soldiers from allied nations who are stationed in Afghanistan...'shooters' is the term used by Blackwater and other mercenary corporations to describe their combat employees. Calling a real soldier a 'shooter' is a show of disrespect.
To be precise, Bush said he was "grateful for the shooters"...perhaps he meant the Jello shooters that Pelosi and Reid were serving last night.

- He just called what we did to Iraq "bestowing the blessing of liberty".
I have to admit that the Second Amendment seems pretty healthy in Iraq...perhaps that is what he means.

-What was Dick Cheney's staff burning?

Cymbal Systems and Simple Symptoms

Mike called me today. He wrote a song last night and had recorded the drums...would I come over and play guitar on it?

Sure. That sounds fun.

I went over to Mike's and set up my guitar- he gave me some headphones to put on. Mike clicked a button and the 'phones filled with the sound of drums...an odd beat he'd recorded earlier.

I started playing.

Sour notes and shattered chords spilled everywhere. It was a mess.
Stop. Rewind. Try again.
Screech.
Again...I was getting nowhere. Something was wrong.

"Mike", I said," I have no idea at all what you want me to play. Can you give me at least a hint?"

He looked at me as if I were crazy. What did I mean? Just play something...ready? Rolling.... Chaos ensued...chaos and failure. Everything I tried sounded terrible.

"What the fuck?", inquired Mike.

"Just make something up," he explained(doing air guitar), "like do veet veeeet veeet during this part and then whhooom slowly here, where the vocals sound like they should be (even though they aren't) , then go sorta dunn duuuun dun dun- all downs, y'know? in the third part ...and then hit the accents on the break and go back to veet veeeet veeet -and again to where the vocals should be- and then go whhhaaawhooooh....go whhhaaawhooooh four times at the end- there's a solo there and then end on veet. Got it?"

"Dude, I have no idea what the hell you just said."

I was stumped. Mike stopped the song.

"Man, you used to be able to make songs up...just make something up. Damn, you used to do that all the time- what the hell is wrong with you?"

I didn't know. I was frustrated. I'd been itching to play- I've had a lot of time to practice and I have a lot of fancy new guitar tricks to show off...without thinking, I started playing a manic, crazed improv, sans drums...hey check this out, I betcha didn't know I can play ten zillion notes per second...boodeley-boodeley-boodeley...whaawhhoooh! Shameless, it was.

"There! That's exactly what I want!", exclaimed Mike.

"You want heavy metal histrionics ? I'm cool with that. That stuff is a lot more fun to play than it is to listen to."

"No...not that stuff... jam like you just did, except with veet veeeet veeet etc instead of the Van Haleney thingie."

Then it clicked. This sort of thing, veet veeeet veeeet, used to make perfect sense to me...I would just make something up and repeat the process until there was music. For years I did this...one really shouldn't need more than a solid beat, some absurd pantomime and a few whaaawhooohs to make rock and roll.
Duh.
How could I forget that?
After a few hours we had the arrangement for the whole song worked out...I can hear the parts, it's just a matter of rehearsal and time. Veet, dunn duuuunnn , whahhawhhooom and all the rest still make sense to me- more than ever, really...contrary to popular legend, drugs and alcohol do not generally improve one's playing...I am much better at going veet veeeeeet veeet than I used to be- a good thing- I mean,what's the point in having an electric guitar if you don't go whahhhawooom boodeelee boodelee boodelee boowheeew?
It's not difficult or complicated, it's just a matter of attitude really.
Duh.
How could I forget that?

"Jeez", said Mike," I told you it was easy."

Yeah. It is. I keep forgetting that.


A month or so ago, I was invited to ...uhm...play music with a female friend that I have wanted to , ah, er... jam with for a long time...finally, I had my chance. I hadn't played music with anyone for a long time and I didn't know what sort of tunes that this particular person favored, so we found ourselves playing a standard 12 bar blues improv- again, it's a lot more fun to play than it is to listen to, if you hear what I'm saying...anyway, this was a good start except for one thing:
I couldn't get my....er...guitar to um...stay in tune, if you know wot I mean. My bar had no whammy...I had a form of stage fright, I think.

Finally, I had to admit to her that I was baffled. It had been so long since I had played music with another person that I had forgotten how to do everything, including tuning. Especially tuning. I would need some help.

"Don't be ridiculous," my friend said. "You just go like this...and this...there. Seems familiar now, doesn't it? Why don't you try singing a cappella for a while?"

Well, I put my mouth on that money and hummed a heavy metal version of the Star Spangled Banner until Old Glory saluted again, ya know what I'm sayin?
Duh.
Playing music is easy. How could I forget that?
Fuck the blues- we wrote some new songs...it's not complicated. Just make something up, oh yes...use your imagination. Whahhwhooohaoobweee! Repeat until music.


The difficult part comes after the song is over. By the time my friend and I had, um, rehearsed a few times, I thought we were a band. In my head, I started making plans for shows, tours...new CDs of songs yet unwritten- I was convinced that I had some great ideas and we were gonna make it big. I shared these dreams with the person I thought was my new band-mate, my star-in-the-making.

That's nice, she said, but she is a solo act. I could 'sit in' on a song here and there, but she didn't want me-or anyone- in her band right now. Too busy and all that...there were a lot of very valid-sounding reasons given.

That's fine, I said. I even believed myself when I said it.

And I might have still believed it if I hadn't been told that she is currently auditioning guitarists.
Some very bad ones, I might add. Not that I'm bitter.

He Got the Job

In 2005, amid a storm of corruption charges, Jacob Zuma was fired from his position as Deputy President of South Africa. The charges were postponed following the conviction of one of his cronies, serial fraudster Schabir Shaik, and Zuma's case was dropped; prosecutors now say that they may re-open the case, along with new charges of tax evasion...

After Zuma's firing, he was accused, charged and tried of the rape of a 31- year old family friend.
During his trial, Zuma stated:

his accuser -- a family friend less than half his age -- made clear her sexual intent by entering his home wearing a miniskirt. He also said that he knew, before having sex with her without a condom, that she had HIV, and that he showered afterward to limit the risk of infection.

During his testimony, Zuma stated that the risk of contracting HIV/AIDS from having unprotected sex was minimal.
His male supporters declared that they, in a show of solidarity, would 'stop wearing the condom'. After all, the risk was minimal, right?.

By 2006, the S.A. Dept. of Health found that, nationally, 29.1 percent of all pregnant women carried the HIV virus.
29.1 percent.

It's important to remember that this man was once Deputy President of South Africa, and that one of his duties was to implement programs to help prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS; which , it should be obvious, cannot be 'washed-off with a shower', but which can be spread by unprotected sex, consensual or not.

Zuma has what some might politely refer to as a "checkered past", yet he does not lack for supporters - I am no expert on South African politics, but I am immediately suspicious of any man who uses a woman's style of dress (" of course she wanted me to rape her, she wore a mini-skirt... ") in his own defense at a rape trial. I also distrust the judgment of anyone who would knowingly have unprotected sex with an HIV-positive partner*...raping an AIDS victim shows an appalling lack of judgment, not to mention humanity- oops- I meant allegedly raping...after all, Zuma was not convicted.


(* Zuma claims he is HIV-free. Only a suicidal idiot or an infected person would knowingly have unsafe sex with an HIV victim, which Zuma admits to doing. Is Zuma an idiot or is he infected? My guess would be both.)

Now, you might think that a man with this many blemishes on his past would have a hard time finding a job, much less winning an election, but you'd be wrong.
Jacob Zuma has a new job- he was elected to head the African National Congress.

So when you look at the uninspiring row of schmucks on display at the next American presidential debate, remember this: It could always be worse.

Waiting to Enervate

I had a job Friday night. The temp agency sent me to a black evangelical Mega-Church, where I thought I was going to tend bar...but there was no bar to tend.
I was reminded of an old joke:
Two men walk into a bar. The third man ducks.

I should have ducked.
This was a trap and I walked right into it.
When I arrived, a pleasant-seeming Church Lady escorted me into a small room crowded with temp staffers- after few minutes, we were joined by a man who was the spitting image of South Park's Chef...Chef instructed us to join hands as he led us through what seemed to be an interminable prayer, ending with..."let the Spirit of Jesus Christ enervate our souls, amen."

"...enervate our souls, amen". He really said that. Enervate.
And lo, it came to pass.
My soul was, and still is, wholly enervated.

My first task was to inspect a thousand garden salads, making sure that the cracker packets on each one were placed with the printed "Club" side facing up.

Geez...first we prayed for Jesus to sap the last bit of vitality from my being (He did), then I - the only white man in the entire building- was placed on Cracker Patrol. Normally, I could have found some amusement in this, but I was tired, sick and enervated.
I wanted to go home and go to sleep, but instead I was forced to endure religious insults and racial slurs...(honestly, I was probably the only one who was aware of the irony of putting the token white guy on Cracker Patrol, I wasn't really offended, just amused)...
I might have been able to 'crack' wise with the two other men who showed up, but they were whisked away to the dishwasher room before we got to introduce ourselves.

The women were split into groups and assigned to set the tables.

In other words, we were divided and sorted into stereotypical Southern race and gender roles- the black guys did the dirty work, the black women set the tables and the white guy was the Cracker Boss.
All in the name of Jesus, who would have wept if He saw how much food this church threw away...
The salad line was then replaced with a dessert-plate line; make sure the slices of pie are centered on the plate- and so on...until it was time for the doors to open and the dinner to begin.

If you have ever waited tables, you know what a difficult balancing act it can be...every time you remove an item from your tray, you have to account for the sudden change in weight distribution...this is much more difficult when you are in a crowded room with a rapt, oblivious audience- people who are prone to leap to their feet without provocation and yell testify! hall-a-lew- hah, Love Almighty Jesus, amen! You gotta learn to dodge, and learn fast, no easy task when you are as full of enervation as I was.

I was so enervated by the spirit of Jesus that I could barely lift my tray above this roiling sea of heads and hands...everyone had their best clothes on and I was certain that I was going to drop an entire tray of greasy Cornish game hens onto someone's lap, but somehow I made it through the serving process without mishap. Or tips.
I also managed to survive the guest speaker- a Bible Comedian who yukked it up about the lighter side of child abuse and homophobia:
-" Kids today need the Belt (haha!)- you know what I'm talkin' about? (hahaha!)- my Daddy didn't worry 'bout invading my personal space, he just put a whippin' on me !" (hilarious!)

-" You hear people today talkin' 'bout how all sorts of things are natural...things that ain't natural to Jesus, things like homosexuality. Some people say that ten percent of everybody, including black folk, is a natural ho-mo- sexual...well, I think they got us mixed up with some other minority, y'all know what I'm sayin'?" (Hahaha. Testify!)

Praise the Lord and Pass the Enervation!

Finally, it was over. By the time I got home it was nearly midnight - I watched a few episodes of Firefly and my enervation slowly lifted...by 4 am I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep at all, so I put on some coffee and just sat...and sat.
Before I knew it, it was time to be on the radio.

My enervation had returned. I made it through my shows, but just barely...the good thing about radio is that you only have to sound healthy, alert and engaged for a couple of minutes at a time, the rest you can spend in the toilet...I felt that sick.

I haven't felt physically ill since I quit drinking- I thought I was getting the flu , but today it just feels like the lingering enervation of Jesus, not the sinus plague I was expecting to expectorate.
Great.
I don't have the flu, I'm just so depressed that I can barely function.
I'd rather have the flu.

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

Songs From the Big Hair, Saturday , Dec. 15th:

Dream Syndicate- Until Lately
It just goes to show how wrong you can be...

Joe Jackson- Right and Wrong
Joe! Side four is completely blank! More water to table 18! Oh...that nightmare is over.

Cardiacs- Big Ship
Can one still run away from home and join the Merchant Marine?

Magazine- This Poison
*Snaps fingers* Special order for table 23!

Stranglers- Who Wants The World?
This is rhetorical. They already have it.

Tuxedomoon- Everything You Want
Is not the way you wanted.

Robyn Hitchcock - Chinese Bones
I'm avoiding the inevitable "recall season" by not purchasing any Chinese-made goods this year. In fact, I'm not buying anything at all. Safety first!

Talking Heads- Houses in Motion
I am starting to look at my car as a sort of low-rent mini-apartment on wheels.

The Residents- Less, not More
This album has 40 songs. Each song is exactly 60 seconds long. Genius.

Adrian Belew- Adidas in Heat
The Residents- My Work is So Behind
Dukes of Stratosphere- Little Lighthouse
Robert Wyatt- Age of Self
Golden Palominos- Strong Simple Silences
Snakefinger- Trashing all the Loves of History
Mission Of Burma- This is not a Photograph
Wipers- No One Wants an Alien

Godley & Creme- Cry
This one's for the Hat.

King Crimson- Sleepless
Oingo Boingo- Fill the Void
Pere Ubu- Miss You
Danielle Dax- Whistling for his Love
Grace Jones- Nipple to the Bottle
Jane Siberry - Mimi on the Beach
Lou Reed - Don't Talk to Me About Work
Tom Verlaine- A Future in Noise
Neil Young- No More

OK. I made it. Now I will go home and take a short nap.
A short nap. Hah!
I slept for twelve hours and barely made it the station in time for my morning show:

The New Breakfast Snob, Sunday Dec 16th:

Band de Soleil - Woman on the Floor
Michelle Malone rocks! For twelve minutes...I need a long song, my bowels hurt.

Little Feat - Dixie Chicken
Nine minutes...still not feeling so hot.

Claanad- Together We
Blind Faith- Had to Cry Today
Well, not only do I feel like crap, the turntable has crapped out again...there goes half my show.

Hot Tuna- Funk #7
Eleven minutes!

Blonde Redhead- Bipolar
No, it just looks that way.

Supertramp- Child of Vision
Seven minutes!

Eleni Mandell- Dreamboat
This song is very quiet and haunting...as it faded, I announced the songs in my best soft, seductive radio voice...let's take a moment and reflect on the year that's passed...setting the tone for something all mellow and sentimental-like.
Then-

Led Zeppelin- Communication Breakdown
Suck it.

Thin Lizzy- That Woman's Gonna Break Your Heart
Really? First time for everything, I guess.

10CC- The Things We Do For Love
Sometimes I like to pretend that I am on AM radio.

Steely Dan- Only a Fool Would Say That
Word.

Eleanor McCovey - Whisper and Prayer
Sigh. My heart is enervated today.

Mott the Hoople - Death May Be Your Santa Claus
This is the only Christmas song I'm playing this year. Next week, I may put it on a two-hour repeating loop and nap until it's time for the next DJ to show up.

The Doors- Blue Sunday
This is terrible.

Fiona Joyce- Long Road to Travel
This is pretty.

Jethro Tull- One Brown Mouse
This is for PETA.

Al Stewart- Sirens of Titans
This is for Leo.

Be Bop Deluxe- Love is Swift Arrows
This is for no one.

Austin Lounge Lizards- Jesus Loves Me (But He Can't Stand You)
This is for Friday's crowd.

Peter Tosh - Can't Fool Me Again
Well, you could. It wouldn't be hard to do.

Tom Verlaine- True Story
I swear I made it all up.

Pretty Things- The Letter/Rain
When I got to our meeting place/ I stared into empty space/ No one here for me...

Lou Reed- Vicious
Hit me with a flower.

That's all.

Mary and Matthew

I stood on the crest of a moonlit hill, looking down at the sea of graves that separated me from my lover and I asked myself a question.
Is this worth it?
I didn't know, so I hopped the low iron fence and started across the cemetery that served as a short-cut to Mary's house.

Our house, but not for long.

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

I met Mary when I was 19 and she was 30. It was at a club that no longer exists. She was short, auburn-haired and rather plain-looking; a brooding, neurotic drug dealer with a violent temper and a half-wild wolfhound named Gwen. My kinda gal.

I don't recall what was said when we first met-the music was horrible and loud- our first words were probably: "what? huh?" , but she grabbed my hand, pulled me out of the crowd and announced her intentions very clearly. We walked to her nearby house and , three or four months later, she decided that I should move in with her. I was living in a Dude House at the time, so I was ready to accept this offer. I told my roommates to rent my room to the next Dude in line and my belongings started making their way to Mary's home, one backpack at a time. Neither of us had a vehicle, but I didn't own much that wouldn't fit into a rucksack, so the move was made one day at a time, over the course of a month.

In the 30 days before I moved in I started not noticing a number of things that I should have noticed...Mary, for instance, had plenty of her own cocaine- yet mine was disappearing at an alarming rate- and Mary, who was a cook at a fancy hotel during the day, suddenly started working a lot of nights- but with no extra pay to show for it. In fact, the more she 'worked', the more money she had to borrow from me and the more of my blow vanished. Hmmm.
But I was 19 , stupid and unwilling to accept the fact that my girlfriend was trying to destroy me. And herself.

One afternoon I noticed a strange new painting in her living room. There was something familiar... had I seen it before?. I asked Mary about it. She gave me a curious answer:
"Oh, that. My friend stole that from the Museum. I'm holding onto it for him until things cool down."
It started to dawn on me that not only was my girlfriend a drug dealer, she was also a criminal.

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

The day before the move was complete, Mary called me at a friend's house.

We need to talk. Now.

Why?

I am in trouble. We are in trouble.

Are you calling from jail?

No. Just come over now. We won't see each other again until Sunday and this can't wait.

When I reached the other side of the graveyard, I crawled through a well-used hole in the chain link fence and stood at the end of Mary's street. I made a slow, circling approach, looking for police or FBI vehicles...the neighborhood looked normal. Mary didn't.

Mary looked insane. Her normally narrow eyes were wide with cocaine intensity as she told me the news: She was pregnant. I thought we'd been careful, but...

Wow. I was only 19 and I had some serious misgivings about making a lifetime investment with a woman who was revealing herself to be more and more dangerous every day. I was terrified, my mind was wrapped in tentacles of fear and doubt...this wasn't happening...couldn't be...oh, my God...
Suddenly, I knew.

Am I the father?, I asked.

I don't think so, she replied.

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

With those words still ringing through my head, I found myself on the squalid basement doorstep of my friend Matt, who lived nearby. Matt was a junkie and he had knowledge that I needed.

"Matt, I need you to show me how to shoot up."
I threw a bag of coke on his table.

"Whoa...why? Are you sure? What's going on?"

I started telling him the whole sorry tale, but he stopped me.

"I know", he said. " She has been coming over here with that guy and shooting up. I didn't know it was your stash. Sorry."

"Wh...why didn't you tell me?"

"What would you have done?"

I thought about that question. "I probably would have hit you", I answered.

"You see?", said Matt.

"Well, fuck that bitch...just show me how to use the fucking needle and I'll be on my way- you can keep that bag." I had plenty of coke, more than enough to OD, which was what I wanted.

Matt looked at me and for a moment the jaundice seemed to lift from his eyes.

"No. I won't help you with this. Look at my life- is this what you want?"

As if on cue, a large rat crawled out of his kitchen sink and into a cupboard. It acted as if it knew the route well.

"Allan", he continued," nothing is worth this. Mary is a lost cause. I am a lost cause. Don't be a lost cause. Don't get into this shit...I will not help you do this. Put your coke back in your pocket and stick it up your nose or up your ass, but you are not sticking it in your arm, not here."

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

I didn't see Matt again for over ten years; I assumed that he had died, but he hadn't. During an afternoon stroll , I passed a house and Matt was perched on the porch, painting the windows. There was a ladder leaning against the side of the building.

"Climb on up!"

So I did. Matt had been clean for years and he looked great. He was getting married- or maybe he already had- I forget the details, but his life had turned completely around. Things were looking up for him.

I was doing pretty good too...I hadn't done coke for years and the drinking hadn't caught up with me yet. I was enjoying life. It was nice to see Matt. I had something to tell him.

"Matt", I said, "you saved my life back then. I never told you that, but you did. I don't know how to repay you."

"You don't", he told me.

"You don't?"

"No", he tried to explain. "I didn't do that for you. I did that for me. You don't owe me anything."

I didn't quite understand that at the time, but I do now.

It's never too late to say thank you.

Thank you.

Playbook Lookback

I started following politics the same year that I started following pro football. That year was 1972.
I was six years old and very impressionable- my favorite animal was the dolphin and the best NFL team in history were the unbeaten 1972 Miami Dolphins- they became my favorite team.

By that logic, I should be a Republican.
In the 1972 Presidential Election the Democratic Party got it's ass whipped. Hard.
But my adults told me that Nixon was a liar and a criminal and that if he got elected, we'd see some bad things happen. My adults were correct.






I am still a Miami Dolphins fan. This year's Dolphins may well be the worst NFL team that isn't the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs, but I'm still a believer. One day we will win a game. It just won't be this year.



This season, Miami fans are so ashamed of their team's shoddy performance that they have started wearing bags on their heads at home games. They still attend, but only to display their outrage, sorrow and frustration.


That is how I feel about the current state of American politics. If I lived in Iowa, I'd be making a bag right now.

I am not certain who I want as President but I do know a few things:

- I don't want a Republican. I'm not exactly gushing with love for the Democrats, but they are slightly the lesser of two evils.
Ralph Nader was wrong. It did matter who won in 2000. And 2004.

- I don't want anyone who voted to give George Bush the power to start a war in Iraq. I knew that was disaster in the making- I wish I had been proven wrong, but I wasn't.
I said Bush was a liar and a criminal and if he got his war, bad things would happen. This was a dangerous opinion in 2002, but I stuck to it and I still do.

- I would rather have a platitude-spewing, egg-laying evolutionary freak in the White House than a Bible-thumping, war-mongering Creationist.

-There is no Platypus Party- but there should be.

Being Australian, Patty (above) sets an exemplary democratic example. Australia recently voted their Prime Minister out of office for being too much like George Bush. Strangely, in Australia the Liberals are the conservative party- I think it's because they are south of the equator. Bullshit flushes backwards in the Southern Hemisphere.

Honestly, I can't imagine why anyone would want to be President. They- and we- are fucked from Day One. It's like accepting a job as manager of a store that has "Going-out-of-Business" signs posted on the windows...I did that once. It didn't work out.

Good luck.

Hang in there, baby!

Remember: The plummet of a thousand feet begins with a single step!

Let Me Show You Around

I am beginning to think that I'll never have a paying job again. I send at least 20 electronic applications/faxes/emails every single week and I usually get no response whatsoever. When I do get a reply, it's always discouraging.

I have a few observations and complaints:

-Some companies still send letters of rejection- "thank you, but we have found our candidate elsewhere, etc"...I have quite a collection of these. It wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that some of these jobs are still posted and listed as open- sometimes repeatedly, for weeks.
I have even seen my old job posted twice...I considered applying for it, but they have cut the pay and added a background check to the job criteria. Oh yeah, I forgot-I'm unemployed because they fired me for no cause...I'm sure they want me back. Riiiight.

- On the positive side, so to speak, I don't have to worry about drug tests. By the time my potential employers look at my Federal arrest record and my dismal credit rating, they don't seem willing to waste money sending me to LabCorp. I haven't peed in a cup since I was on Federal probation, which ended in 2003.

-When I compare my rejection letters to the jobs that are still posted, I find that there are quite a few offices in Richmond that would rather have an empty desk than hire me...these are jobs that I am wholly qualified for, yet I am never called- I simply get a 'sorry letter'. I have good work and personal references, but none of them have received any calls about me.
I find that odd.

-Every week , I call my old temp agencies for assignments- they almost always have some sort of file clerk position posted...until I give my name.
After I give my name , those file clerk positions become filled.
In their lieu, I am offered 'production' (warehouse) work that involves repetitive heavy lifting, something that I haven't been able to do since my surgical mishaps of two years ago.
The agencies know I can't do the work, but they offer me the jobs anyway. Why?

- Following a job interview, I used to be able to ascertain- with near 100% accuracy-whether or not I was going to be hired. I had a great instinct for 'nailed it/failed it' moments.
For 25 years this was true.
Not any more.
I've had couple interviews recently where I felt like I totally nailed it- one was at the Public Library, a job for which I am a perfect match...the interview was very friendly, almost jovial- I had mutual friends with my interview team, nice banter ensued, I was taken around and introduced to the people that I was to work with...I was in like Flynn, thought I.
Wrong.
I didn't get hired. Instead, I got a letter for my collection.

My most recent interview wasn't as optimistic. It was at the Science Museum, an old train station converted into a children's museum, complete with IMAX dome and all...a pretty cool place, really.
In 6th grade, I attended a 'nerds' program there, where I was taught how to care for tropical fish- I liked it, it was one of the very few positive school experiences I had as a kid. There are certainly worse places to work.
The job, I thought, was for a seasonal ticket-taker at the box- office. Not the most prestige in the world, but better than a lot of jobs...better than no job. Perhaps it would lead to something better...

During the interview, it was quickly established that I could run a cash register and that I could use Excel without fucking up...now for the job description.
It wasn't what I thought.

The Museum, it turns out, has recently opened a roller-skating rink.
An outdoor rink.
The surface of this rink needs to maintained on a daily basis...do you see where this is heading?
Each morning, I would come in , dump a 50 gallon barrel of chemical sludge on the surface and manually wipe it down- a sort of human Zamboni.
Then I would sell tickets and dispense skates etc.

One of my interviewers was describing the giant mop-like device they had improvised to use for the polishing process...it was quite laborious...was I able to lift 50+ lbs?

"Yes", I lied.
I am so desperate that I am willing to tell lies that could seriously jeopardize my health- I am willing to do this for $8.80 an hour.
Or at least I thought I was.

I was trying to tell them that, "yes, I am available right away"...but my voice sounded weird. Broken.
I'm a DJ, I can usually control my voice- but it was cracking and I was powerless to stop it. I was likewise helpless to stop the tears that were welling up in my eyes as I thought about my future as a polisher of roller-rinks.
I feigned a sneeze. Maybe I could fool them into believing that I had a cold and cover the truth; the truth being that the thought of spending my winter mornings polishing a skating rink makes me question my will to live.

"Ah-choo", I exclaimed, fooling no one.

I didn't get the job.