Touche, life. Touche.

File Under Meager Accomplishments: Book List, 2011

2011-12-15T19:56:00.001-06:00

Here's a list of the books I read or partially read, in no particular order, this year, along with a few words, mostly only slightly uninteresting. Please read and forward on to the the authors in question at your leisure.

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When You Are Engulfed in Flames, David Sedaris
I read the majority of this book while sitting in a parking lot protecting wedding goers' vehicles. This was comprised mainly of me sitting in my van, smoking cigarettes, reading, and every twenty minutes or so, strolling around the parking lot to make sure that no one's cars had been vandalized or whisked away as part of some heretofore unknown mechanical rapture. During my six hour career as a parking lot attendant, while gaining an unhealthy, undeserved sense of ownership over a rhombus-shaped piece of concrete that I previously had only walked by ("Hey, cab! You can't fucking turn around in this lot!"), this book at times made me laugh aloud. And essentially, I was paid $20 an hour to read it. Best book I've read all year!

The Air Conditioned Nightmare, Henry Miller
This book sat on the back of the toilet for months before Lindsay silently and graciously removed it, as it was clear no progress had been made in my reading of it. I don't know if it's just because I'm older than I was when I first read Miller, or if it's just that this book (that I'd never heard of before I bought it on a whim at the Newberry Library Book Sale), which must have been poorly accepted in the States, is a stinker, but I just couldn't get through it. I loved Tropic of Cancer and The Colossus of Maroussi, but hearing Miller's whiny diatribes about how much America blows is just plain fucking boring. I'm certainly no nationalist, but if you truly despise your homeland so much, why waste an entire book complaining about how ugly Boston is? Everyone knows that. Get back to France and drink wine, do some mescaline, and fuck a bunch of weird people. That's what everyone likes to read about, anyway. Also, invent a time machine so I can send this review 50 years into the past. This book isn't even good for poopin.' Two shits down.

The Chainbreaker Bike Book, Shelley Lynn Jackson and Ethan Clarke
I read the majority of this book, tried to fix my brakes, and failed. This either says something about me or the book. I think I'll let history decide who is to blame. Useful if, at times, highly cryptic information. Fun, zine style anarcho stories about working at bike shops, tattoos, and using bicycle tubes to make bracelets or whatever.

The Braindead Megaphone, George Saunders
A series of essays wherein, among other things, Saunders gets to go on a paid vacation to Dubai, stay in the most luxurious hotels in all the world, and write about the disparity between himself, perched aloft his ivory balcony while sipping a blood diamond/kiwi reduction smoothie, and the immigrant proletariat, hunched miles below, paid pennies a day to continually wash and squeegee the gold inlaid marble steps leading up to the hotel's entrance. Powerful stuff. I mean, imagine it- blood diamonds.. in a drink!

Quicker Than the Eye, Ray Bradbury
I read this entire book, but remember nothing about it. Honestly, no recollection whatsoever. Guess it wasn't that good. I'm about to read his more popular works, since I've gone my whole life avoiding them, so I hope they're better than this. At least memorable. Oh, wait! This was a collection of short stories. Eh, whatever.

McSweeney's Joke Book of Book Jokes, Editors of McSweeney's
The name pretty much says it all. A whole book dedicated to literary jokes. There's a page in the back with a graph that charts the ratio of the jokes you actually got to how big of a fucking dork you are. Well, there should be. Even calculating liberally, my score was alarmingly high. I never realized being in the intelligentsia elite would be so lonely.

McSweeney's #32
Reading these quarterlies is a bit like listening to the Slayer station on Pandora before you've finished training it- most of it's great, but every once in a while, you're stuck listening to "Ain't my Bitch" while you're washing your dog or something. The irony isn't lost on you, but it still sucks.

McSweeney's #37
More short form fiction from McSweeney's 37th quarterly installment. Not all great, but mostly great. McSweeney's doesn't put out much plop. This issue also included a few chapters from an upcoming "Yukon adventure story" by John Sayles called A Moment in the Sun. The few chapters I read were awesome. Plus, getting an excerpt from a Yukon adventure story really made me feel like I was reading in the 1920's. Publishers don't seem to release physical trailers for their books like they used to. It's a shame, really. As soon as I can find Sayle's book as a .mobi on Demonoid, I'm totally downloading it!

More Information than You Require, John Hodgman
Hodgman's sequel to The Areas of My Expertise. The formula works, but it started to get old in this book. I still loved it. I haven't rushed out to buy That is All yet, but I'll probably read it at some point.

The Instructions, Adam Levin
I met the author of this book at his book signing at The Boring Store early this year. Knowing absolutely nothing about this 1,000 plus page tome, I bought it simply based on its commanding and intimidating size. It took a couple of months, but I got through it. I even friended Adam Levin on Facebook, as I had developed somewhat of a case of Stockholm Syndrome about halfway through the book. It was a great read, but little did I realize that when the main character of the story refers to the book he is writing (and you are reading) as a new scripture for the Judaic religion, Levin, as an author, seems to be fucking serious about it. I know satire, and when I finally finished the book, I didn't get that smug feeling of self-righteousness one gets in knowing an author really pulled one over on the subject he or she is satirizing. No, by all accounts, this book actually appears to espouse a hardline stance for radical new Jewish thought, couched in the story of a young-boy-would-be-prophet/savior-of-God's-forsaken-people. Entertaining read, and there was an element, for me anyway, of seeing something I'm not supposed to. This book wasn't meant for goyem like me, except perhaps as a stern warning of what fate awaits my wretched blood. Nonetheless, I still invite Levin to every Brickfight show on Facebook, just on the off chance that he may think we're a Hacidic punk band, and that the name might refer to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, or something.

Autobiography of Mark Twain, Volume 1
The first 60 or so pages of this book are filled with academic writers patting themselves on the back for undertaking such a massive project- thanking themselves for the thankless job of sifting through Twain's yellowing, rum and piss stained private papers. Once I got to the actual autobiography, I made it about 30 pages in before I realized, "Wow, Twain was a real self-important prick!" Any writer who decrees upon high that his autobiography may not be published until 100 years after his death is either highly delusional about his value to culture at large, or has something damning and shameful to hide. I'd say both are true in this case.

Gun, With Occasional Music, Jonathan Lethem
This was the second book I read on my new Kindle, and at the time I wasn't aware of just how many errors a lot of these .mobi files have. Perhaps the industry of ebook editing is still in its fledgling stage, or maybe this was just a bad "rip," but, WOW, did this book have a shitload of grammatical and spelling errors. So many, in fact, that I thought perhaps that they were intentional, and that at the end of the book I'd be let in on the joke. Because, honestly, this book was a horrible joke. I was a huge fan of Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, but this book is a hard-boiled detective story set in the future complete with talking animals and "Babyheads," a genetic experiment designed to make children grow up faster gone horribly awry. Bad, slow timing, and the mystery revealed wasn't that shocking or illuminating whatsoever. With as many mistakes and just bad literary techniques as there were in this book, I felt as if I was reading an O. Henry award winner from Idiocracy.

While Mortals Sleep: Unpublished Short Fiction, Kurt Vonnegut
These are all short stories from before Vonnegut really found his culture-cutting voice. Milquetoast, lackluster fiction with a high morality factor that you really don't find in any of his novels after he went off to war. His publishers should have let his mortal coil sleep, and left these charming, ethical vignettes in his family's attic, to be used as stocking stuffers for his great-grandchildren. What I really learned from this book is that in order to develop a scathing satirical voice one should probably travel thousands of miles and watch people die, like, a lot.

Pygmy, Chuck Palahniuk
I wasn't a huge fan of Rant, so I didn't really have high hopes for this book. To my surprise, Pygmy turned out to be one of Palahniuk's best since Choke. Told from the perspective of a young Chinese would be terrorist, the narrative is delivered in broken and coded English that takes a while to fully understand, but by the end of the book just seems normal. Going back to reading properly structured sentences takes some getting used to, actually. Palahniuk's chosen method of delivery for this story is not dissimilar to the first part of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, except, in typical Palahniuk fashion, the entire book is written from the perspective of a character that the reader must actively engage to fully understand. Faulkner copped out by putting the perspective of people his readers could actually understand in his (legendary, critically lauded) novel. That's right, I just compared Palahniuk to Faulkner. And also, essentially called Faulkner a pussy. I stand by my decision.

I Drink For A Reason, David Cross
Somewhere between David Sedaris and John Hodgman, this book is another hodge-podge collection of essays and musings from one of America's great funnymen. Unfortunately, this book does not match up to his sketch writing, stand up, and acting prowess. It's a fairly boring read, with no real structure, except for a few one-liners thrown in hastily at the end of some of his essays to tie them into the next one you're about to read- almost like a Mr. Show segue way , but not nearly as witty or well timed. Not to mention his unbelievable overuse of the words "ubiquitous" and "ostentatious." At one point, he even refers to something as a "ubiquitous ostentation." I hear the audiobook is pretty hilarious, though.

A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole
This book has been on my list to read for years, but I just never got around to it. What a great book! I don't know much about Toole's life other than the fact that he killed himself before this book ever got published, and that his doting mother hounded an English professor at a local college to read it before it finally did get published, but if the main character, Ignatius C. Reilley and his insane, self-centered roommate mother are in any way autobiographical, it is no surprise that Toole blew his own brains out. Scholars and literary critics always mourn over the loss of such a great writer and what work we missed out on by him preemptively ending his own life, but it's doubtful he ever could have achieved as great a work as he did with this book. Also, Dwight Schrute of television's The Office HAS to be at least loosely based on the character of Ignatius C. Reilley. I wonder... Anyone got B.J. Thomas's number?

Imperial Bedrooms, Bret Easton Ellis
Ellis's "long awaited" sequel to Less Than Zero. Falling somewhere between the seminal work he shit out while in college and American Psycho, this book is basically just two hundred or so pages of Hollywood self-aggrandizement, brutal sex, and some heinous murder thrown in for good measure. What is left out is all the sly, poignant themes about celebrity culture and the pursuit of wealth that made both Less Than Zero and American Psycho so fantastic. Ever since Lunar Park, a novel about a fictional character named Brett Easton Ellis by Brett Easton Ellis, I've been a little suspicious and reluctant of this author. I doubt I'll read anything else he comes out with in the future. Ellis is today's F. Scott Fitzgerald.. with juggalo face paint.

Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Haruki Murakami
Someone recommended this book to me years ago and wrote the title in Sharpie on the back of a used Taco Bell hot sauce packet. I had the packet tacked to my bulletin board for years, until I finally got rid of it the last time I moved. I wish I had followed the hot sauce's advice so long ago! What a phenomenal book. I can't wait to read everything else I can get my hands on of Murakami's. I'll never be so cavalier towards a condiment again.

Zeitoun, Dave Eggers
In the same vein as What is the What, Eggers tells the story of real life people who have gone through a horrible tragedy. This time, the setting is Hurricane Katrina, and the main characters are the Zeitouns, a middle eastern family with a well known painting and construction company in New Orleans, and their harrowing misadventures with Louisiana law enforcement after the breaching of the city's levies in 2005. A great read, but I do question Egger's motivation for telling these (albeit necessary) stories. I think he's got a case of that San Franciscan White Guilt that a lot of writers get after they option their narcissistic, semi-autobiographical novels for one million dollars that never gets made into a movie (A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius). Whatever the case may be, he's a great writer and seems to have found his niche in telling the stories of those that society has heaped so much shit onto. This, coupled with the philanthropic work he does in conjunction with these books, along with the 826 workshops across the country, must surely allow his rich, tortured soul to sleep at night on his mattress made of Icelandic infant skin.

All I Will Say On The Subject of Female Fronted Rockabilly Music, Ever.

2011-09-13T19:26:00.003-05:00

I might actually like Wanda Jackson if she hadn't spawned such horrors as Kim Lenz and the Jaguars.

Yep. That's pretty much it.

You know I'm bad.

2009-03-26T19:20:00.009-05:00

Economic times being what they are, or, at least, what I'm told they are, I've lately begun to consider- academically, anyway- crime. Not in any specific, real terms the way one might plan a bank heist or a really sweet dognapping/ponzi scheme (mental note...), more in just a general sense- like, what is it? Or, How do I get involved? It's kind of just this over-arching, lofty ideal in my mind that I can't really grasp. It looks like this:

CRIME.

..only less wordy. I've begun to wonder just what exactly it might take for me to involve myself in “crime,” whatever form it might take. I wouldn't consider myself a greedy person, and, if asked, will tell you that I am wont for nothing. But, don't let that fool you into thinking that I'm not broke as fuck. Oh, because I am. Yes, sir, this economic global crisis has hit me too, buddy. Never mind the fact that my increasingly expensive cross-country move last summer just happened to coincide with the country's failing rocket jump over the yawning chasm of crippling depression. Nope, that was just good luck on my part. Like my friend said the other day, “Man, this recession hasn't affected me at all. If anything, the gas prices have just gone down.” I've considered that, as well. I know that if I hadn't moved, had kept my nice, steady, relatively well paying jobs back in Texas, none of this would have really affected me. I wouldn't be months behind on bills, wouldn't have applied for food stamps, wouldn't have to scotch tape my laptop screen to stay up instead of just buying new hinges for it (this last one, especially since the screen fell onto my hands just as I typed that, has introduced a whole new series of criminal thoughts into my head). I also wouldn't have had the chance to finally realize, once and for all, just what it would indeed take to push me towards actions that may, by all means, be considered...

CRIME.

It should be noted that the Brazil/Idiocracy-esque bureaucratic, stupidity fueled visions of the future we all love to laugh at and glance quickly over our shoulders for in those moments of impending doom do indeed exist, in real time, and the tale recounted below serves no purpose but to illuminate that fact. Take heart, however! This is not a tale of defeat or regret. My only hope is that you may find inspiration and hope in direct correlation to the overwhelming sense of fear and dread I felt in the intervening hours before the incidents recorded below were resolved. Holy shit.

I. 2:30 a.m.

“We can park here, right? This is weird- why is no one parked here?”

“Yeah, this looks okay- there's a meter,” Robyn says.

“Looks good, dude,” Vern agrees.

“Okay, sweet. Oh, wait- I forgot. We can't park here after 3 a.m. or they'll tow it. Or is that only in the winter? There's no snow anymore- does that sign still count?”

We all half-heartedly agree that this parking spot seems pretty much shruggingly okay.

“Well, whatever. I'll just come move it by three,” I say.

II. 4 a.m.

“Car's gone, dude.”

After a quick, informative telephone call to the friendly dispatchers at the non-emergency police hotline, I learned where my and so many other late night Milwaukee Ave. revelers' vehicles had been removed to: Auto Impound No. 6. I wasn't surprised. I wasn't even angry. I suppose it makes perfect sense that one shouldn't be allowed to park on a street that has nearly no traffic between the hours of 3 and 6 a.m. Why not?

I also learned that the ease of getting one's car out of the impound at 4 a.m. is made exponentially more convenient by the ultra-modern policy of only accepting cash. I breathed a sigh of relief when I fished through my pockets and realized I was only a mere $152 short of the necessary funds to exhume my van from the city's cash grabbing tomb. Fortunately, Robyn had a friend that worked at the bar, who, after hearing our tragic story, quickly pulled out his wallet and practically shoved $160 at us, and said, “Go get your van. I'm a traveling musician, too. I know what it's like.” I was amazed by his generosity, especially to someone he didn't know at all, and I did all I could to show my gratitude in the best way my drunken stupor would allow me. I gave him my number, assured him that I would return his money in the morning, and gave him, like, at least twelve daps.

It got kind of weird towards the end. Perhaps he had second thoughts, because his attitude seemed to quickly change from that of a benevolent brother-in-arms to that of a, I don't know, twice betrayed ghetto bookie? “Hey. Don't fuck me on this deal. I've got your number. I can find you. Don't fuck with me.” After numerous assurances that I had indeed given him my correct phone number and that I had no intention of “fucking” him, he even gave Robyn an extra $20 to get a cab to the impound! It was only the following morning that I realized I had cashed my check from work earlier that afternoon, and had all the cash I needed buried somewhere on my person. But hey, what's another debt saddled with thinly veiled threats between friends of friends? Buy the ticket, take the ride, I always say.

III. 4:45 a.m.

After arriving to the impound and standing in line for a few minutes, Robyn sees some more friends whose car shared the same fate as mine that night. Wow, she seems to know people everywhere she goes, I thought. When they don't offer to pay my impound fee outright, I begin to question just how cool these people are she calls “friends,” anyway. When we finally make our way to the front of the line to the teller's window, I could tell right away how the interchange would go. The lady behind the glass had seen it all before, and I'm sure to her I was just another privileged, drunk white kid that always got his way, and for this night to be anything but an exception to that rule would be a miracle of biblical, fuck-all proportion. I've always struggled with the concept of being able to simply say “Motherfucker” with one's eyes, but this lady had it down pat. If I could only mimic that gloriously hideous glare half as well, I am confident that my life would be infinitely easier.

After the tedious process of identifying just which 1998 red GMC Savana on their lot was mine, filling out all sorts of various forms in triplicate, mining my brain for various pieces of inane information that I never thought I would need (Who cares what my second grade teacher's name was?), and relinquishing my state issued ID, I was handed a yellow pass, which, when presented to the lot attendant, would grant me access to the impound lot, where I was to retrieve my registration information from the van.

IV. 5:15 a.m.

Though knowing all too well that I had none of the pieces of paper required of me when I finally climbed into the van, I nonetheless frantically rifled through layers upon layers of CD's, empty Taco Bell cups, and band t-shirts for a good fifteen minutes in hopes of finding something, anything, that would serve as a cure-all, magic one way ticket out of this comical-snafu-quickly-turned-Camusian-nightmare. There were no papers. What papers? The title of the vehicle was in some bank's coffers 900 miles away, the registration was out, and the current insurance card was nowhere to be found. And even though I did eventually find the current insurance, it would serve no purpose, anyhow. When a curious lot attendant finally shined his flashlight in my window to inquire as to why I had been in the van for so long, he saw the expired registration in the windshield and said, “Man, your registration's out. You might as well just go home, 'cause you ain't gettin' this thing out tonight.”

Refusing to believe the inevitable, I trudged back into the office with my current insurance card and a growing sense of urgency and financially inspired fear inching its way up the back of my neck.

“I couldn't find the current registration, but here's my insurance card.”

“I don't need your insurance card, Mr. Pool, I need your registration card,” said the lady behind the glass.

“But I don't have the registration card. You know the car's registered to me- it came back that way when you ran my plates. “

“That don't matter, Mr. Pool. I need the card.”

“I don't have it. They don't do paper registration cards in Texas [lie], it's all done through the plates and the windshield sticker. Besides, the registration's expired in Texas,” I said, moron that I am.

“OH. Well then, you can't get it out anyway,” she explained.

“Wait. Why? It's registered in Texas! It has nothing to do with Illinois. You won't see any of the revenue from its expiration here. Why does it matter?”

“You can't get your car out if the registration's out,” she further illuminated.

“That makes no sense! What do I have to do?,” I half-yelled, growing increasingly fucking furious.

“You'll have to go to the DMV, get a seven day pass, come back in the mor-”

By this time, I had ceased to listen, and was beginning to formulate all sorts of murderous or suicidal plans. My brain took over, and threw out one last-ditch-ninth-inning-hail-mary-shot-at-the-buzzer-sudden-death-shot-of-adrenaline-to-the-heart attempt:

“Aaactually, I think I may know where the registration is, now that I reeeeally think about it. I think the state mailed me a new one a few weeks ago,” I kindly smiled through clenched teeth.

Somehow, impossibly, I was handed one more yellow pass to return to the lot. The pass was check marked “Retrieve Personal Belongings.” I walked back towards the yard, and never again returned to that office.

V. 6:05 a.m.

Sitting in the van, alternately staring at the side panel of the navy blue van they had parked directly in front of me and the blinding glare of the numerous floodlights that cast an eerie, unnatural glow about the oversized gravel parking lot, my mind played over and over the events of the preceding two hours. I half joked with Robyn and Vern, telling them we were gonna “bust outta here,” and to get ready. I even had them wait outside the gated property for me. They waited and waited, but nothing ever happened. Robyn eventually called a cab and went home, offering to take us with her, but we declined. Vern continued to wait outside the office door, loyal. This loyalty likely arose from the fact that he had nowhere else to go, and also that he probably had no idea where he was, or why in the fuck he had moved to Chicago in the first place. I thought about my interactions with the lot attendants and how nice they were, considering the circumstances, and how unwavering they were in their adherence to the rules of the impound lot. Bribes were denied, unbelievably. “You think I'm gonna risk my job over 160 fuckin' dollars?”

“Fair enough,” I replied.

I thought about my final entrance back into the lot- how the lot attendant didn't believe me when I told him I was coming to get the piece of paper that I needed, how he had to radio back into the office to make sure my entrance was legitimate, how he returned my pass to me with a suspicious glance and yelled to me as I walked slowly away: “Don't START that van!”

“Right on,” I muttered.

I thought about the bulldozer that had previously been parked in front of the gate, blocking all cars from coming or going, its glaring absence at this moment, and how, as I walked to the van, the lot attendant squelched into his radio, “Hey man, bring that bulldozer back up here.”

I thought about my roommate's casual mention of needing the van to go to the unemployment office later that morning, and how his own vehicle was in a state of disrepair. I thought about how unbelievable it is that nearly every action, every move we make is motivated primarily by money or the lack thereof, and though it often has before, disgusted me to a point of shame. I stared at my pants and shoes, covered in the flour and sauce of a job that pays me $8.50 an hour in a business where skill and pay rate are completely disproportionate, and how this concept is nothing new. I saw the lights of the bulldozer in my rearview mirror, ambling slowly, robot-like, from the rear of the lot back to its unwavering parking space, as if in mocking, waiting for me to pay its gaping metal claws, laughing.

And I snapped.

VI. What is time to a criminal?

There are decisions in life that, once made, can never be reversed. I do my best to avoid these types of situations most of the time. But, I knew that, once I had turned the ignition over on the van, there was no turning back. I dropped the gear into drive and floored it. The van they had parked in front of mine, presumably as a deterrent, proved to be quite helpful in my escape, as it provided a few precious seconds of driving before the lot attendants saw me. They had parked it close, but not close enough that I couldn't squeeze through the gap and barrel towards the gate. The bulldozer, though closer now, was no match for my speed. I yanked the wheel hard and blew in front of it, leaving a cloud of grey dust for it to crawl pathetically through. Rocks and dirt sprayed everywhere as I raced toward the front of the lot. The lot attendants had seen me now, and screamed, waving their arms, angry, jumping in front of the van to stop me. I swerved around one, leaving the main one at the front of the lot as the final obstacle between my freedom and my financial imprisonment. He jumped directly in front of the van, spewing venom and horrible sailor's curses at me. I faked left, then swerved right, hard, and as I narrowly missed running him over, he pounded the van with his fists and hurled all sorts of unnecessary insults at me. I think I waved at him as I passed, for some reason. I yanked the wheel, and spun a hard left out of the parking lot. I passed Vern, who gaped at me confoundedly as I blazed past him, out of the yard, and off the impound lot's property altogether. I screeched a right out of the driveway, and onto an adjoining side street. Vern sprinted out of the parking lot and met me on the street, and I slowed just enough for him to take a running leap into the van's passenger door.

“Go! Go! Go!,” he screamed.

“Holy shit!,” I responded.

I took the first left I could, then the first right, then the first left again, instinctively, to lose the trail of any number of cops that were surely on my tail. Vern rolled me a cigarette, and though we were both strung out from fatigue and the overwhelming adrenaline of the movie-like escape we had just been the primary actors of, we were both surprisingly calm. Between “Oh my god's” and “What the fuck's,” I said, “Um.. I'm pretty sure I just committed Grand Theft Auto.”

VII. 7 a.m.

We made it back to the apartment, and I edged my way into the tightest parking spot I could find, in an attempt to block the front and rear license plates from any patrol car searching for the APB that was surely out on my car. We ran inside and sat in the living room, smoking one cigarette after another, trying to process what had just occurred, and trying to come up with solutions in typical male fashion. All the commotion must have woken Nick, because he stumbled out of his room and said, “Whoah, late night, huh guys?”

“You have no idea,” I said.

He would later tell me that we looked like we had been doing speed all night.

After recounting the terrible saga, I said, “We gotta change the plates on the van, man. We gotta do something!” I kept saying that I was pretty sure I might have to skip town over this deal. At some point, he wisely told us to get some sleep and figure out what to do in the morning. Over the course of a nearly hour long conversation between all of us, I went to sleep with a feeling that this wasn't that big of a deal, and that everything would be fine in the morning.

VIII. 12 p.m.

Upon waking, the feeling I had when I went to sleep had now been replaced by its most severe counterpart. At this point, I was sure I had committed a felony, and was likely hours away from being arrested and put in jail for a long, long time. I considered my options. Before I went to sleep, both Nick and Vern thought it would be a good idea to call the impound to find out the possible ramifications for my actions. It wouldn't hurt to find out, they said, and the folks from the impound had called three times since we left the lot, and had even sent me a text message that simply had a phone number to call. On top of that, they still had my ID, and seeing as I was supposed to be getting on a plane in two days to go to Texas for one of my best friend's wedding, it was sort of imperative that I get it back. So, I called the number that was texted to me.

“Impound.”

“Hi. I, uh, I left the impound last night without, um, paying, and I just need to know what I need to do to get my ID back, and what I have to do, uh, or, whatever.”

“......Hold on,” the woman on the other end belatedly replied.

Seconds later, a man picks up the phone. Two words, with just the right amount of inflection, instantly popped beads of sweat onto my forehead.

“Frank Maroni,” said Frank Maroni.

If I'd never heard the perfect voice combined with the perfect name of a Chicago police officer before, I certainly had now. I repeated the same sentence I said to the lady that had answered the phone.

“Mr. Pool,” he liltingly responded, all too knowingly.

Swallowing, I replied, “Yeah.”

“Well, Jonathan, do you wanna save you and me both a lot of hassle, or do you wanna do this the hard way? 'Cause as it stands right now you have a felony warrant out for your arrest.”

“Easy way, please,” I replied.

IX. 12:20 p.m.

Frank Maroni laid it all out for me. He told me that all he wanted to do was to get this “little mishap” off his books. He said that the city just wanted their money. He told me I had a felony warrant for “theft of services” out for my arrest. He said it wasn't a big deal, but that he just wanted to clear his books before day's end. All I had to do was come in and pay the $160, collect my license and my paperwork, and be on my way. Easy as that. None of this seemed right. I asked him why it was so easy for them to take my money today, when just mere hours ago, I was practically throwing money at anyone I could at the impound, and not a single person would take it. He explained that he was the supervisor at the impound, and that the people working here the night before (there was an air of exasperation in his voice as he referenced them) did not have the ability to authorize such an arrangement. All I had to do was come in and pay the money.

“Are you a cop?,” I asked.

He assured me that he, Frank Maroni, was not a cop, and, perhaps to illustrate his non-police officer status, said, “No one's gonna fuck witcha- I just needa get this shit off da books. Man ta man, I give ya my word.”

Trepidacious, I hung up the phone. I told Vern and Nick about the conversation, and they were both as skeptical about the situation as well. Nick suggested that I call back to double check everything that he had said. I said, “But he gave me his word. If that doesn't mean something coming from Frank Maroni, then what can we trust these days?!”

When that line of thinking failed to work even on me, I called Frank Maroni back. But not before I called the police station to find out if there was a warrant out for my arrest.

“You'll have to go to the police station to find that out, sir.”

What the hell was this? Were they all, the whole goddamned city, in on this? Was this a massive sting? I shut the blinds.

“Well, I don't think I'll be doing that. Let me just ask you this. Is 'theft of services' considered a felony?,” I asked the beat cop on the other end.

“No, man, it's a- well, it depends on how much you stole, first of all.”

“Whoah, wait a second,” I said, “I'm not saying I stole anything. Say, hypothetically, it was for $160.”

“Pssh, naw man- that's a class c misdemeanor. Don't worry about it.”

“Thank you, officer.”

X. 12:45 p.m.

Armed with this newfound knowledge and some interesting internet research that Nick had done on this place (turns out this particular impound, which was not police run, but just sub-contracted out, has been under a series of investigations for all sorts of shady shit, from things like employee theft from some of the impounded cars, all the way to an insane story of forklifting some poor girl's car with her still in it, because she was hysterical and wouldn't move), I called Frank Maroni back to see what else he might have lied to me about. The ironic catch of it all was that if he was in fact a cop, he wouldn't have even been able to arrest me for the crime he said I had a warrant for.

“Can I speak to Frank Maroni, please?”

“Who is this?”

“It's Jonathan. I just spoke to him.”

“Hold on.”

Minutes later, a man picks up the phone.

“'Lo?”

“Hello, Frank?”

“Yea, whaddup?”

“Um, is this Frank? We just spoke..?”

“Who 'dis?”

“It's Jonathan Pool.”

“Who??”

“Is this Frank Maroni?”

“Oh! You say Frank?”

“Yes. Frank. Maroni.”

“Aw man, 'dis Spank! Hode on..”

XI. 12:49 p.m.

When Frank finally gets on the phone, I ask him, again, if he is a cop. He explains once again, swears, even, that he is only the supervisor of this impound and just wants this off his books. He seems to get a little more animated, and, frankly, well, frank, and begins to lay out the true reality of the situation. He explains to me that it is the cardinal sin of auto impound to let a car get off the lot without paying. He tells me that it is a paperwork nightmare, and to make this incident just “go away” will be a lot easier on both of us. In fact, he says, this is such a big deal that one of the lot attendants got fired over this deal for not doing his job. I assumed this was the same man who I tried to bribe for $160 that wouldn't risk his job over so paltry a sum. I feel really bad that this man lost his livelihood over this ridiculous situation, and I wish he had taken the money when I offered it to him, because now he didn't have a job or $160. I wondered why Frank Maroni had lied to me a) about the severity of the charge levied against me, and b) the apparent severity of the situation. Earlier, he had said this was no big deal. Someone lost a city job over this shit, which, after seeing the sheer ineptitude of many city employees (and I don't just mean in Chicago), seems really hard to do. When I asked him about the supposed warrant, he merely stumbled over his words, never answered my questions, and mumbled some report number. I dropped it at that.

“Look, I want to get this taken care of. You've given me your word that you're not a cop and that no one is gonna 'fuck with me,' but I still don't trust you. Can I send in a friend to take care of this?”

“I don't give a fuck,” Frank responded, “I just wanna get this off my desk before 5 p.m. today.”

XII. 2:30 p.m.

I nominated Vern to go in my stead, and he accepted with great humility. We climbed into Nick's truck- he had fixed it that morning after learning there might be a felony warrant APB out on it- and drove towards the impound. We didn't want to take the van, anyway, for fear that they might try.. to.. re-impound it..? Whatever, fuck you! You have no idea what we were going through!

I hid in the tiny seat behind the main cab, and Vern sat in the passenger seat. I was really worried that the guy that had gotten fired would be hanging around the lot, right next to the lead pipe and gun store. I pulled my hoodie as far over my face as my eyes would allow. They demanded to see their impending slaughter. Nick devised the code word “Maddragon” for Vern to text to us if things started to go south while he was in the office. We dropped Vern off, and as he slowly walked the 300 yards to the office, we watched, and we waited.

And waited.

“Wanna call him, dude?,” Nick says, handing his phone back to me.

“No,” I said, “Let's give him a few more minutes.”

Moments later, I said, “Give me the phone.”

When Vern picked up, he told me that everything was fine and that he just had a lot of paperwork to fill out. Relieved, I hung up. Then, Nick said, “What if they made him say that?”

I sent him a text saying, simply, “Maddragon?,” to which he replied, “Unfortunately, no.” Minutes later, he exits the office, walks back to the truck, license, receipt, and police report in hand, and says, “Done, dude.”

XIII. Maroni's Last Lie

It turns out that the supposed police report Frank referred to was anything but. And I mean that literally. Right there on the piece of paper were the words, “This is NOT a police report. It is for informational purposes ONLY.” Strike three, Maroni.

XIV. Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Although knowing now that busting out of the impound like a fucking murder suspect ended up costing me far less money than it would have if I had bowed to the City's absurdly strict standards and regulations, I hasten to add that in a better time, economically, I would not have allowed this situation to be pushed to its scary, awesome climax. But, my hand was forced, and I guess I know now how far I can be pushed before I really fight back. When logic and reason cease to be a factor, we must react in any way necessary to restore natural order.

We must all know by now that everything is nothing more than child's play- a silly game played with bigger toys and harsher consequences. If we fail to realize the absurdity of it at any time, we lose. Vern is not Vern's first name. It is his middle name. Vern does not have a state issued ID. He only has a passport. When he went in to retrieve my license and pay the fee, he used his passport as his identification. Since there is no address present on the passport, they merely used his first and last name in the address blank on one of the required forms. The pink piece of paper he handed to me as he climbed back into the truck clearly illustrates, to me, anyway, the perfect comical absurdity of this whole fiasco. It says, simply, “Street Address: Michael Jackson.”

The Tie-In that Binds.

2009-01-23T23:31:00.009-06:00

There are a few intersections in Chicago that present a geometrical nightmare to someone who spent his sophomore year in high school math pining after a POE-crazed, Kool-Aid hair dyed, near drop-out, Geo driving, pot smoking skinny girl who was in love with a bad boy named Billy. Billy was so bad he vomited on the carpeted floor that year. Twice.

I'm always reminded of the time I wasted skipping class to get high and go to Denny's with a girl I knew I could never attain when I'm on the verge of being hopelessly lost. The correlation my brain makes between my usually trustworthy sense of direction and my occasional poor choice in women is a palpable example of my mind's penchant for torturing me with cruel analogies at the most inopportune moments.

Spinning in concentric circles looking for a familiar Burger King or Taco Bell at the most obtuse of triangular intersections is not the best time to begin ruminating on the theorem (the reader will note my rudimentary use of geometrical terms in this essay) that had I been only a year older, that misguided 17 year old, late 90's burnout in a 16 year old's class (for the second time) could've been mine. No, that would be the time to buckle down and find out where the fuck you're supposed to be going.

Although, I suppose this action, this diversionary tactic, that my brain presented to me at this particular moment was not completely irrational, and my brain should be given some credit for trying to take itself off the slew of information and experience it had running through itself at this particular moment. I mean, I had just walked nearly 15 minutes out of my way only to realize that I was heading in the opposite direction of my house, after exiting the train station at an unfamiliar location in the hopes of saving time, after having to leave my bike locked up to a bike rack, since my lock decided to stop working, forbidding me from riding home, which occurred directly after having a meeting at the place of employment I was fired from five days ago for a karaoke performance the night before.

And, while the above statement may appear ludicrous, were one to know my history, one might not be so surprised at the eventualities that led me to the situation I found myself in on this quickly cooling Chicago winter's day. (I hasten to add that the glossed over nature of the above paragraph will not stand for long. You have all asked, and I will be reporting on it fully, as soon as certain obligations permit me to do so. Wait for it..)

A light snow had begun to fall, but was no match in the race it and the temperature were having. Watching the breath float out of my nose and into the noisy din of the rush hour bustle, I thought momentarily that it might be in my best interest to cross the street, to walk, somewhere, anywhere, rather than stand on the curb for another five minutes. I knew I'd find my way eventually, even if a 20 minute walk took two hours. Who gives a shit- it's not like I have a job to get to, I thought.

Having resolved to let the genius of The Frogs, which was blaring through my headphones, carry me wherever it deemed necessary, I stepped into the street. Where I was headed didn't matter at this point. I had already let pride win out over basic survival by deciding not to ask anyone for directions. I slushed through the first puddle of my sojourn into the unknown when I heard a muffled "Hey!" through the lyrical gold on the "It's Only Right and Natural" record (Lotta cute guys in the club tonight. Lotta juicy asses hangin' out!). I continued walking, and only briefly turned to see where all the yelling was coming from when I heard "HEY, MAN!" again.

Shooting a sidelong glance over my right shoulder, I saw a rather large dude in an even larger red windbreaker staring at me. And, though I've never seen a fat kite before, I feel like I have a better grasp on what one might look like now. He wore clear sunglasses. I assumed that these were safety goggles for the fashion-savvy construction worker, but who knows, maybe he had a deathly allergy to UV rays that only dumb looking, wrap-around, clear shades could prevent. Having never seen this strange man, and fearing the worst, I gave him the universal "Whaddup." nod to allay any doubts he may have had about my downness.

"What's up dude?," he exlcaimed. "How you doin'?"

Shaking my head slightly, pulling my headphones off, I said, "Hey... man. What's goin' on?"

"Ah man, shit! You remember me from the other night at the bar? Fuck, when was that, Tuesday? Yeah! Tuesday! Remember me? Holy shit!"

"Uh, what?," I asked. "Where?" I knew my short term memory was terrible.

"The other night, dude! At the, at the fuckin'... bar! Down the street!"

"OH, yeah! What's up, man?" I hadn't been to a bar since Saturday, and it certainly wasn't down the street from where I presently found myself.

"Damn, dog, I knew I recognized you! That shit was CRAZY the other night, huh?"

"Yeah, man.. yeah! I was wasted. I was all, Who the fuck is this guy talkin' to me, then I remembered that crazy night at the bar! Haha! Sorry, dude," I lied. "So what're you up to, just coming home from work?"

"Fuuuck yeah, man- I'm working down at Shedd Aquarium, replacing all the tile in the new exhi-"

Who is this person, and why are we friends?, I wondered, as the Kite told me about his day.

"So, what're you up to, man?," he asked, snapping me out of my inner dialogue.

"Oh, man, I'm just walking." Wait- benevolence! Why stop a stranger to ask for directions when you can just ask your good friend from the bar?

"You know where Fullerton is?"

After beautifully detailed instructions and the benefits of taking said beautiful directions over much less convenient ways, I gave the Kite daps and turned to walk towards home.

As I thought to myself, The City, she does provide, I heard a bellowing "See you Tuesday, homie?"

"Oh, hell yeah, man!," I returned, walking backwards and waving. "See you there!"

Thanks, City, I thought, and made my way home, beating the severe cold front by mere minutes.

I retired to my apartment and decided to make a bowl of chili with corn and potatoes- a perfect, if not wholly cliched, end to my icy walk. I gathered the necessary cans out of the pantry, wondering, momentarily, why it was that these cans were wet. Perhaps some condensation from the cold, I thought. Wait, why.. what.. what the fuck is that smell?

"Oh, goddamnit. Awesome."

Clearly, the city does giveth, but she also taketh. Pantry Cat, also referred to as Gordie, whose theme song is "Can I Play with Madness," by Iron Maiden, decided that this would be the perfect day to piss all over my food. Hanging my head in acquiescence to the City's fickle finger, I switched off the pantry light, and just laughed.

Terrible PUNditry: Poetically Correct.

2008-10-07T15:00:00.003-05:00

It is no great epiphany to say that Governor Sarah Palin is clearly a master of the spoken word. But here, through the ancient wisdom and mystical nature of Japan's finest export, the haiku, we are able to extract even deeper, more meaningful connections to this brilliant orator, one carved in the stalwart traditions of such titans as Lincoln, Churchill, and Kennedy.

Unless otherwise noted, all references to the following material may be viewed at your leisure here.

On Experience

"Now, what I've done as
Governor and as Mayor
Is (inaudible)."

On Tax Reform

"Still on the tax thing
Because I want to correct
You on that again."

On Domestic Drilling

"Senator McCain
Does support this, yes. The chant
Is 'drill, baby, drill.'"

On Iraq

"Your plan is a white
Flag of surrender and that's
Not what our troops need."

On Nuclear Armament

"Nuclear weaponry
Here in the U.S. is used
As a deterrent."

On Leadership

"John McCain tapped me
And said, 'That's where I want you,
I want you to lead.'"

On McCain

"Who has been there and
He's faced challenges and he
Knows what evil is."

On Foreign Policy

"A comment like that
Was made to char- I don't know.
You know, reporters."

Viewable here.

On Personal Media Choices

"I've read most of them,
A great appreciation
For the media."

"All of 'em, any
That have been in front of me
Over all these years."

Viewable here.

My bicycle and Dave, the friendly, if not grossly misinformed, homeless man.

2008-10-02T18:59:00.006-05:00

Today, my bike got caught in one of these:

See, I've read the rules(#2, second paragraph). I know what's up. I knew better, seriously. I definitely knew better than to try to put an awkwardly shaped piece of metal and rubber through a labyrinthine, even more awkwardly shaped gate constructed of hundreds of metal poles and flaking paint.

But, you need to understand the circumstances surrounding that which, at first, appeared to be a comical snafu, but which quickly deteriorated into the kind of human traffic jam you only read about (here), the disgusted eyes of the carless rabble heaping shame and humiliation onto me as they trudged back up two flights of stairs to find alternate exits.

Also, you need to stop judging me.

If I preface this story by saying I was in a not-so-great part of town when this tragic mishap occurred, would that do anything to quell your heartless cackles? I doubt it. You cruel fuckers.
Well, I was. And now, I'm not even going to tell you exactly where I was, because you don't deserve to know. Also, I don't need any more heartless cackles added to the mêlée when you call me a pussy for thinking the Green Line at California and Lake is a bad part of town. Heartless cackles. Heartless cackles. I'm really into that phrase right now. Heartless cackles.

Thing is, I'd never been to this particular stop before today. When I tell you that the reason I found myself at this particular place in the universe is that I had just finished walking a pair of dogs downtown- one that was in its third year of remission from lymphoma, and one that had IBS and incontinence, and was required to wear what amounts to a doggie diaper (affectionately referred to as a belly band) on its way from the apartment to the outside- and was on my way back to a saw blade factory to wash and dry over 1,500 wine glasses, well, you'll just have to trust me. Because that is what I was doing. And also scoring a shitload of crack.

So, where I might normally know the access points of bicycle friendly exits at any number of my regular, more gentrified stops, today I did not. I merely hustled off the train with the lunchtime herd and headed to the nearest exit, where I was being corralled. It wasn't until I reached the halfway point of the trip down that I espied the forbidden gate ahead, but by then it was too late. Not too late to turn around and find the correct exit, mind you, but too late to avoid being seen by Dave, a streetwise tough that looked as bright and sharp as the pile of broken glass he stood in, but not nearly as shattered.

"C'mon man! We can get that shit through here! I done it befo'!," he hollered at me as I faltered in step on the platform, eyeing the gate nervously.

"Nah, I don't think so, dude. It looks pretty narr-"

"It's cool, man! C'mon! Fuck it!"

Yeah, I thought, yeah! It is cool! AND fuck it! This guy knows the score!
________________________

Minutes later, my bike now punishingly wedged in CTA purgatory, neither in the train station, nor out, Dave, safely outside the train station, looks at me, safely inside the train station, and says, "Shit, man. I fucked up."

"I don't know, man. I thought it would go, too. How're we suppposed to get it out?!"

"Fuck.. man I don't know! A damn saw? Shit," Dave mused.

By now, the initial crowd of onlookers and angry passengers had diminished, and we found ourselves quite alone in this predicament. I fully expected at any moment that Dave would grow weary of this absurd task, this extraction of a fucking bicycle from a fucking turnstile, and wander away, leaving me to my own devices and fulfillment of so many existential nightmares.

But Dave stayed. Whether it was pride, boredom, or maybe just working off a buzz before returning to the halfway house (I will note my own unfair characterization of the homeless, thank you.), Dave stayed. And we solved our problem together. And it did not include the destruction of any city or personal property, I can proudly say.

Did we alter any chemical properties, perhaps? There is no way to know for sure (except for any number of blood and DNA tests, MRI's, etc., but must we bog ourselves down with such minutae?), but I can safely say that we were different men when we met on the outside of that gate, bike intact, shaking hands heartily in acknowledgment of our shared triumph. Could there be a more apt physical manifestation of not being kept down by The Man, not letting The City win yet again?

As we stood there exchanging accolades, reminiscing about the experience we literally just had, and smoking drugs, Dave said, "We all fuck shit up sometime, man." He's right, you know.

Then he said, "Got any change, man?"

A heartless cackle* flew past my lips as I handed him a dollar and rode down the street, onward to all points wine and saw.

*Heartless cackle, in this context, can also be taken to mean "Here ya go, man."

On Sending Job Inquiries Via Email, Misspelling 'ASAP,' Pressing Send Before Completion, & Mouse Touchpads are Sensitive Pieces of Shit.

2008-09-30T16:47:00.007-05:00

"Hello Rick,
I am still interested in the job. Where is your business located? I can start ASS"

I was looking for a job, and then I (didn't) found (find) a job.

2008-09-27T10:59:00.006-05:00

I'm in a restaurant on the northwest side of Chicago. I say that, but I can't be sure. I haven't lived in the city long enough to say anything with much confidence as far as geography is concerned. I do know that the unopened Italian restaurant's kitchen, in which I am standing, alone, frantically shoving a three pound ball of unusable flour, salt, brown sugar, and water into a giant black trashbag hanging from the side of a storage shelf, is a good three miles north of my apartment. But it's also a good three miles east. But, I'll still stick with saying it's in the northwest sector of the city, because my house is "way west," as it's described by my friends that live here.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The ruse had been set up perfectly, and the plan was fully laid out, even written out in pen on an old sheet of notebook paper folded neatly in my back pocket. I would come in, make some dough, make a pizza, shove it down the owners' throats, then sit back and collect my paycheck for a month before having to quit and leave for tour. And at a job that was slated to pay 50K/year, that would've been one hefty check. I don't know how much, but the word hefty keeps springing to mind.

The problem is that the interview went too well. Sometimes, in situations of dire awkwardness, rather than clamming up and shutting down, I turn on the charm, extra charmy. There's no rhyme or reason to this peculiar trait of mine, and I cannot control when it may show itself. Of course, there have been many occasions that I have wished for it to come to my aid, to no avail. For instance. In this particular situation, though, I can only attribute it to the fact that I am new to the city, desperate for a job, and willing to do almost anything to achieve what seems to be, at this point, a week and a half into my search, a nearly insurmountable task.

I showed up to this address in response to an ad on Craig's List. The ad mentioned ever so casually that this Italian restaurant was looking for pizza cooks who had experience with hand tossed dough. "No problem," I thought, seeing as how every pizza place I've ever worked at (which admittedly is only two) used hand tossed dough exclusively. There is no doubt that I have tossed more than my share of pizza dough into the air with my hands. This was a shoo-in, a no brainer; it was any number of bad cliches about the ease of doing something. This was a slam-dunk-sure-thing-hole-in-one-lonely-50-year-old-woman-at-the-bar. What?

It wasn't easy finding the place. When I finally did locate the building, directly across the street from an aging cemetary that I learned had been there since this area was still considered the suburbs, I realized that the reason it was so hard to locate was because there were two giant mounds of dirt and a bulldozer right in front of the building. I used this as my excuse for being late as I walked in the door to meet the owner, though that wasn't true at all. I was just late. Instead of being met with the low chatter and clinking forks and glasses of a lunchtime bustle, I saw dust hanging lazily in the rays of sun that barely penetrated plate glass windows that were butcher papered over, protecting them from the layer of fresh maroon paint that had just been applied, if smell was any indication.

This was not a good sign. I was looking for a job that I could start immediately. However, I'd driven all the way over, and the owner, whose name I'll change here- let's call him... Jum- was extremely affable, and, as Digable Planets said, the vibe here was very pleasant, so I decided to see this situation to its ultimate conclusion, whatever that could be.

Jum and I were alone in this fairly sizable restaurant, and we sat at a small table in the middle of the room. He explained to me that they were putting the finishing touches on the place, and hoped to be open sometime in October. The bulldozer outside, he said, was in the process of fixing their water line, which had been damaged and never repaired by the building's owner. He also "explained a little bit about the job," you know, like every hiring manager says.

In addition to bartenders and servers, I realized all too quickly that the job I was applying for was not "pizza cook," but instead, "Master Pizza Chef." My foot tapped out code on the tile floor while I filled out the application(Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here. -stop- Now. -stop- ). Jum sat across from me in silence while I hurriedly scribbled out the banal information that no one ever looks at. He must have sensed the strangeness of the situation, too, because at some point he told me not to worry about the question and answer part of the application ("What is Customer Service?).

We then began a fairly lengthy discussion about pizza that really should never happen anywhere. It's moments 15 minutes into a tangent on the crispiness of pizza dough that put your life into perspective. But, like I said, it went too well. If there's one thing I can do really well, apparently it's convincing a new restaurant owner that I know way more about the craft of pizza making than I really do. This is why at the end of the interview he asked me to come in next week to cook for him and the other owners. "Shit," I thought. "Sure!," I said.

_____________________

The thing is, I do know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. One measures volume and one measures weight. Today, one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, I become terrifyingly aware that I do not know the difference between ounces and fluid ounces. I realize one hour into my very own two hour, special dough recipe that I did not retrieve from the internet at 2:30 a.m. last night, drunk, that the reason my dough is so sticky and grossly unmanageable is that, instead of measuring out 29.5 ounces of high quality, more expensive than necessary flour, I only measured out 29.5 fluid ounces of the stupid shit. In actuality, I'm the stupid shit.

An audible "Fuck!" passes my lips, and though we are separated by a giant kitchen door with a plexiglass window and about thirty yards, I can sense the owners, Jum and... Noncy (a late arrival, the full blooded Italian of the bunch- I know she can smell floundering) turning to look in my direction. Determined to waste as many expensive, fresh ingredients as possible, and to satisfy my own mind, which keeps telling me, somewhere back there, that this project can still be salvaged ("Nothing's fucked here, dude."), I furiously measure out the additional 3 1/2 cups of flour I initially shorted my amazing recipe and add it in to the stainless steel mixing bowl, and begin the process of suffocating the already gasping dough. When that doesn't fix it immediately, I rush to the sink and dump scalding water into the bowl, and start kneading the doomed mixture like a kitten on a head full of coke, burning my hands in the process.

Were there a military man behind me to gently rest his hand on my shoulder and say, "He's already dead, son," I may not have tried for as long as I did to resuscitate my dreams for a high paying job, but no such apparition appears, so it isn't until five minutes later, when hard chunks of the original dough began to flake off and mix with the milky mess of the "new" dough that I realize I am finished. I briefly toy with the idea of bolting out of the restaurant with the expensive fresh mozzerella and this really nice knife they've provided me with until I realize I put my real address on the application.

I have just scooped out the gory mess into the trashbag and am washing the bowl which gave birth to the hellish creation when Jum comes into the kitchen, and, as if sensing something wrong, asks, "How's it going? Is the dough coming along alright?"

As I turn to face him, a piece of dough, at once both hard as glass and runny as phlegm, falls from its perch on my now ruined shirt and plops onto the floor. Our eyes fix there, just for a moment, then meet.

Your eyes. Chapter One.

2007-05-10T03:23:00.000-05:00

"You don't want to see this," your eyes say. This is the reason your eyes give for not allowing you to roll them back into the cavernous recesses of your skull. "You wouldn't want to see what's back here."

Your eyes have become quite presumptuous of late.

Your eyes say, "Look over here," and so you do. They ask if you would like to see something unimaginable, and you nod in affirmation. You realize the question is merely a courtesy, since you have no control over where they direct your vision, anyhow.

Presently, they are showing you a dusty keyboard covered in a thin layer of dog hair (likely a short-haired breed), red clay dirt, and old rice. You assume the keyboard is attached to an ancient computer from days past and an overweight, yawning monitor, bearing forgotten images of spreadsheets and outdated resumes forever on its unlit screen, together with a ceaselessly blinking rectangle of lime green light in the top left corner. But, it is impossible to be sure at this moment, since your eyes are insistent on keenly noting every detail of the keyboard.

Your eyes ask if you remember the password, but, before even waiting for an answer, quickly rattle back and forth from left to right, as if shrugging off a dumb question, sighing. This unexpected motion leaves you momentarily dizzy as the keyboard swims back into focus.

"I'll just do it," your eyes say.

Sometimes at night you are awoken by your eyes' movement inside your head, their chaotic rustling and shuffling jarring you from peaceful rest. You attempt to look in on them- not to reprimand, but simply to get an idea of just what it is they are doing. This never works. Your eyes force the lids back down over themselves and wait, still and silent, until the rest of your body falls instinctually back to sleep.

Other nights, you awake to an inky darkness unlike any you have ever experienced. Your eyes are immeasurably quiet, and, although you know what has happened, it takes your reaching up with tired hands to touch the gaping sockets before you are roused out of slumber enough to realize that your eyes are gone again. Each time this occurs you are at once frightened and furious, and you bound out of bed with vast intent, until you realize the futility of beginning a frenzied manhunt for your eyes without the aid of the eyes themselves. It is a delicate, confusing situation that causes much angst.

Defeated, you sink back into bed and either stare at the ceiling or close your eyelids over that which is not there. You are not sure. You clutch a sweaty pillow and wait for sleep, for your eyes.

NOW you see what happens when nothing happens.

2007-05-08T04:45:00.000-05:00

I'm back. I'm back. I will start posting blogs again. No longer will I be checking statcounter.com to see who's viewing my blog, nor will I be responding to comments left on this fucking blog. Furthermore, I will not speak to you about blog postings at the bar, at dinner, or at work. I do not want to talk to you about my blog postings. I do not want to know that you are reading this. I want only to know that you are reading this. Please do not speak or write to me about this blog. I cannot talk about it, or recognize any inference that you are aware of it.

I mean no offense to anyone, especially as the only people that are reading it are people that I truly care about, but I cannot write honestly and with my normal devil-may-care attitude if I know that I might have to explain myself, laugh about something, or reiterate a point about a previous post at a later date. I just can't do it.

Ever since my aunt gave me an article to read over Christmas that had something to do with Time or People awarding 'Person of the Year' to YOU, the blogger (complete with a mirror on the cover of the magazine), I have been utterly disgusted by whatever it is that calls itself the blogosphere. I mean, I haven't even been able to read my sister's blog. And I love that blog, you assholes! I want nothing to do with it, and yet, here I am.

I have many things, DAILY, I mean, are you kidding, HOURLY, that I want to talk shit about, but I just don't want to literally talk about them. That's why I write about it here. Please, PLEASE, just don't ask me about anything you see here. If I go on a press junket to promote this blog, then, please, by all means, ask away. Until then, just read it and take it for what it is. I don't mean to be a dick, but seriously, I'm a dick.

This is all I'll say about this. Obviously, I wouldn't have a blog if I didn't want a lot of people to read and appreciate it- that's the narcissist's mission. But, do I really have to recap it with you at the bar two days later? I don't want that. Let's just let it be what it is: A filling of time until each of our inevitable deaths. So, with that being said, until next time, you poor fools,

Sorry so sloppy!,

Glummy McGlib.

LYLAS!

2006-10-11T00:38:00.000-05:00

When Victor's mother died, I offered to drive him home, since I knew he didn't have a car or the necessary funds to purchase the Greyhound ticket to get back down to the southernmost reaches of Mexico. Plus, I was sick of my job, and after he left, I would be the only one left of the original crew, and all the new people just didn't get it.

Although the extent to which we had spoken over the previous 9 months included only the phrases, "Listo!", "All todo?", and "No bueno!", the look he shot me after our manager Manuel translated my offer into Spanish conveyed an understanding not recognized by either of us during that time. He smiled, said, "Si," and that was that.

I picked him up from a house he shared with three other distant members of his family the following morning at 5 a.m., and we headed west on I-20, towards El Paso.

Mushpit.

2006-09-15T15:43:00.000-05:00

Many of you have written me emails asking about my inclination to urinate on the floors and walls of establishments such as Starbucks. “Why would you do that?” “Is that true, hahaha? Seriously, it’s not, is it?” Friends, it is. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t go out of my way to patronize such establishments, of which Starbucks is but one place in a long list of such businesses, but, should I find myself placed, however unsatisfactorily, in said establishment, I do admit that I indulge myself in this unsavory practice- an at least funny, if not wholly ineffectual form of protest against the shiny floor, soft-lit culture we’ve created for ourselves.

“What about the workers making 6 bucks an hour that have to clean it up? They’re not the ‘corporation’ you’re ‘raging’ against, man.” Fuck ‘em. They chose that job, and so, in my mind, they are that corporation. Ipso Facto. Fuck ‘em. This is the sort of dumb, unproductive ideology that so many attribute to punk rock, but don’t misunderstand me here. Although I have embraced and adopted whatever stereotypical image “that lifestyle” conjures up in any given mind, and in fact even wrote a song about this very subject called “Vote with Your Piss” in an old band of mine, I will not have this process, which is an amalgamation of years of dissatisfaction, disgust and apathy towards our terrible habits as human beings honed down to one hot, 45 second spray of steam and waste, tainted by being pigeonholed into the by now near meaningless term “punk.” Nope, punk or not, this one’s all mine. I take full credit.

Now, for the majority of you, I’m sure this still isn’t the answer you were looking for. You’re looking for some form of understanding, some way to relate. Perhaps you’re curious- maybe it is the case that you just simply want to feel the way that I feel. After all, that is the only way to truly understand someone’s thoughts. The human condition.

And with that in mind, I can only offer an example. I’m resigned to the notion that this is an all or nothing stance. You’ll either get it or you won’t. You’ll either understand or be even more baffled than you were previously. You’ll either be fer me or agin’ me. There shall be no grey area. And I’m okay with that.

The following interaction took place today at an establishment called Potbelly Sandwich Works, a place whose name I hate to even say, for reasons not clearly defined in my own head, but I think it has something to do with the fact that it highlights and casts a warm, friendly corporate overtone to the absolute gluttony of American consumption patterns. They make sandwiches, shakes, soups and chili that are just on the verge of being overpriced. Many would argue this point, which is why the prices are on the verge. Save your comparative sandwich shop pricing for a time when you’re looking to cater a bar mitzvah or something. I don’t care.

The setting: Aforementioned sandwich shop. 2 p.m. Enter Jonathan and Rebecca.

“Hey guys! And how we doing today?!” Another reason to hate this place is that corporate policy dictates that employees must not only feign happiness, but moreover, act like they give a shit about the customer’s daily lives.

“Fine.”

“Great! What can I get for you guys today?”

“I’ll have the pizza with no mushrooms,” Rebecca said.

“Will that be on white or wheat, ma’am?”

“White, please.”

“Got it. Pizza on white, no mush,” the overbearingly friendly man rattled back. “And you, sir?”

“Uh, I’ll have the pizza, too. On wheat, though. And no mushrooms, either.”

“Pizza on wheat, no mush?”

“Yeah, no mushrooms,” I said, the bile creeping its way up the back of my throat.

The overbearingly friendly man puffed his chest out just a little, and I caught a flash of his fraternity days coming back to him for just a moment. He caught my gaze, looked at me in a way that one might call severe, and sternly says, “Pizza on wheat, No MUSH.”

Sighing, I replied, “Yup.”

Rebecca and I shuffled down the line, and I muttered to her, “If he says ‘no mush’ one more goddamn ti-“

“TWO PIZZAS NO MUSH COMING THROUGH!”

"Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both."

2006-09-11T03:02:00.000-05:00

The following words were written nearly two years ago, but somehow seem to resonate even more now than they did at the time they were written. To wit:

"Sorry. I'm about as good at keeping committments to myself as I am with keeping in contact with friends and family that aren't directly in my line of sight each day. It has been well over a month since my last entry, and much has happened- many things that are exciting, many things that anger me, hopes for the future, longing for the past, and yet it all adds up to a general sense of anxiety coupled with the gripping weight of desperation and ennui. I hope to summarily and inadequately recount these events in the near future, but I feel a duty to finish my thoughts on my trip to New York, which, although essentially uneventful, seems important to wrap up, since it is the case that I almost never finish any writing project that I set out on."

And so, as history continues to repeat itself, the continuation of a story recounted by countless people on countless occasions, in countless times, cities, countries, lifetimes. Just filling in the ever-expanding gaps, if only until this too dissolves and requires one more recollection in another time, place, to fill space and accrue validation for the seeker. And on and on...

"We eventually found the right train and made our way back to 67th and Colombus. Turning the corner, we saw a huge line of people, and there were two minutes left on the clock. I suppose we made it just in time. Or were we two minutes too late? Regardless, we walked the half block to the end of the line. Two production assistants were checking people in, and promptly asked if I was there to audition. Two other fellows meandered up behind Rebecca and I and waited for their turn to be checked off the list. Just then, the P.A.'s made an announcement to the newcomers that they were all filled up, making me the last person in line. Is this a good twist of fate, or a portent of doom?

I took it as a good sign, especially since I still had forms to fill out for the audition. One of the questions was, 'What would Meredith Viera find most interesting about you?' This was a question I was confounded over. How am I supposed to know? I don't really care about her life, and I just naturally assumed she wouldn't care about mine. So, my response was that the Millionaire line was the longest one I'd ever been in, which turns out not to be true, as I waited in line with my sister and her friends for hours when I was in fourth grade to get New Kids on the Block tickets.

Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the long run since I would go on to fail the qualifying exam to get onto the show. The test was thirty questions in ten minutes, and I knew in the first two minutes that I was doomed. It turns out that the central reason for going to New York was the most negligible, inconsequential aspect of the journey. I was happy to get out of there so quickly, actually. The atmosphere in the testing room had the distinct feel of school, and I was instantly out of my element and anxious to leave. Not to mention that Rebecca had left me at the door and was now wandering around the city by herself, which made me inexplicably uncomfortable.

On the way into the testing room, a flamboyantly gay man who cut in front of me in line was proudly strutting with our sheeplike herd, which incidentally was paraded around nearly a whole city block before being admitted into the building, gleefully announcing to the total world of strangers around him and across the street that he was auditioning for Millionaire. I hung my head in shame.

Surrounding me in the testing room was a true melting pot. Every type of person imaginable, save the Brown University dyke type, the anarcho-punk (my personal favorite), and the anarcho-hippie (my least favorite). I was definitely one of the younger ones in the melange. I was seated at a table with all men, who ranged in age from 25-60. Directly across from me was a portly- well, why mince words- a fat, balding man with vibrato to spare. An insecure joker, he tried to lighten an already casual and [the network's idea of a] fun, loose atmosphere- complete with late twentysomething test proctors and various other hip looking P.A.'s. He made 'funny' quips and asides in between every sentence the proctor spoke. He raised his hand and asked one of those 'funny because the answer is obvious' questions.

At the end of the test, his wit and charm proved no match to his utter inability to pass the test, just like the other 85 out of 100 people that didn't, myself included. On the table were official 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' pencils that we all took the test with. Most everyone around me that failed the test were palming their pencils or putting them in their bags as a small memento of yet another failure in their lives, and I followed suit.

As we shuffled out amidst post-test banter about the Missy Elliot question and who led the Zapatistas, the fat man, however, grabbed every spare pencil from each table he passed. At last glance, he must have had at least twelve of these things, and he stealthily stashed them in his fake designer shoulder bag.

As we exited the building, a woman near me asked simple directions to a nearby street, to which I responded that I wasn't from New York. She said, 'Me neither,' and continued to look at me in earnest. So, I gave her directions that I found out not five minutes later were completely wrong. Oh well. I walked up the street to a Starbucks that Rebecca had gotten coffee at earlier, thinking she may have taken refuge in the only place vaguely familiar to her. Not finding her there, I waited for the restroom to free up so I could crap, which, although I didn't really feel the need to do, I liked the idea of a free restroom in the middle of the city, and the fact that it was Starbucks was the crown jewel in the equation. I made sure to pee on the wall and floor before I sat on the toilet.

_______

I turned the corner and gathered my bearings. I fished a wadded piece of paper out of my pocket and found the nearest pay phone, which turned out to be about a block away, strangely. I had Rebecca's calling card number, and I needed to use it to call her cell phone so we could meet up. I dialed the number, and glancing at the PIN number on the paper, something seemed wrong. Then I remembered- days earlier, as we were traveling, she had at some point rattled off the PIN in the midst of a conversation. I couldn't believe it, but I actually remembered that part of the PIN had four two's in it, and the piece of paper that she had written the number down on for me only contained three.

I marvelled at my remarkable listening and memory skills, and said a quiet, 'Fuck yeah,' as I grinned to myself and dialed Rebecca's cell phone. As the line clicked to connect, I glanced around at my surroundings, y'know, like you do when you're on a payphone. A single moment between daily dealings when one is at rest, when one can take in the world around them and observe the chaos with which they are involved. Or to see if you're about to get mugged. Either one. Probably both.

Crazily, fatefully, my eyes instantly fell directly on Rebecca, half a block away and across a major intersection, walking perpendicularly to my line of vision, out of the possible hundreds in my line of sight. An audible gasp hit the back of my throat. I slammed the phone down and raced along the busy sidewalk, y'know, as one sees in the city sometimes and wonders, 'Where the fuck are they going in such a hurry?' or 'What'd he do? What's he running from?'

I thought about this as I zipped around professionals and professional transients. I always thought people ran through the city to get to an important meeting or class or court date, but as I ran through the crosswalk and hurried up behind Rebecca and slipped my hand through her pocketed arm, I realized that nine times out of ten it's probably for a girl. I couldn't believe I found my girlfriend in the middle of Manhattan by sheer sight alone. She kissed me and we walked around the city, past Central Park again, and eventually, we found our way back to the subway where we boarded the train to Jersey and returned to our hotel to clean up.

New York Retrospective: A Brief Pictorial.

2006-08-10T12:42:00.000-05:00

Minor Interruption.

2006-07-31T03:01:00.000-05:00

The chronicling of events past will continue with my next installment. I just feel it necessary to update those that may care (the devil may care! See: my attitude) on recent events in my life that are, I don't know, pertinent, or not at all pertinent. At any rate, things that have happened. In my life. Recently. Because this is a blog. And that's what one does. On a blog. Chronicle events. In one's life. Because people give a shit. Because this is a blog.

1) On Saturday, I went to Moore Funeral Home in Arlington, Texas to attend the interrment of my friend Joe Garza, who died last week. Joe was a good friend that played in many bands with me. You can view a biography that I wrote for his website here. It was a Catholic funeral, and I was fine through the whole thing until afterwards when I watched his big brother put his ashes in the little drawer while standing on a ladder. Then his sister played a song of his on a portable CD player- a song Joe recorded right before he died. That's when I lost my shit. If you click on the Joe Garza link, you'll hear the song I'm referring to. Then I came home and watched the series finale of Six Feet Under.

2) Later that afternoon, I got a credit card statement from American Express stating that they had not received my last payment- incurring any number of late charges, finance charges, and holds on my account, as American Express is merciless when it comes to matters of the heart, er, money. I called the company in complaint- I had sent a $100 payment not two weeks before. Of course, they hadn't received said payment.

"Can you cancel the check?"
"I sent a money order," I replied.
"Do you still have your receipt?"

Mere hours later, I found myself rummaging through rancid pizza sauce and unusable dough in the dumpster behind my place of employment searching for one piece of rectangular 65 lb. stock paper. I was searching for the receipt for a money order that I had thrown away not 18 hours earlier in a fit of boredom at work- a receipt that sat on the floorboard of my car for weeks. Why did I decide to rid my vehicle of trash that usually rests there until my girlfriend gathers and throws out in exasperation? Presumably so I could dig through a restaurant's dumpster in 100 degree heat. Of course! I did find the receipt, however, along with a number of other money order receipts I had purchased. Victory! Now to get the $100 refund from Western Union. All I have to do is send in the receipt from the money order (along with a $12 non-refundable service charge) with all sorts of information and conditions, one being, um, that the receipt be whole and intact. No problem. Except for that the one receipt I needed was RIPPED AND MANGLED.

So that was this Saturday.

3) Last Saturday, I skipped attending Joe Garza's memorial service in lieu of attending my grandmother's 80th birthday party/family reunion in Seminole, Texas- a town deeply west, about 30 miles from New Mexico. In fact, I visited New Mexico a number of times while I was there, as Gaines County is dry, and just across the border, in the beautiful deserts of New Mexico, the counties are as wet as you want them to be. And so, alcohol was purchased. And imbibed. The cousins and I had our fair share while playing card games and 'talking story' at the nearby hotel where my grandmother graciously put the young ones up for the weekend. Except for me. I was staying at my grandparent's house along with my father. After the evenings wound down, my cousins and I would retire to the hotel to drink and freak out the Mennonites who apparently let their women swim only at night and under close supervision. Generally, around 4:30 a.m., I would find my way back to my car and swerve back to my grandparent's home to pass out on the fold-out bed. And so it was last Saturday night.

Wait.

At the party earlier that afternoon, my grandfather, after having filled a plate full of barbecued meats and saladed potatoes, slipped and fell onto his hip and shoulder while exiting the back door of the house we were at. I was right in front of him when it happened, after having posed sardonically for a photograph that my aunt was insistent on taking. Luckily, he was okay. No paramedics were called, and the afternoon progressed as planned.

However, when I returned to the house later that evening in a severe state- I had just finished showing my cousin the first five chapters of R. Kelly's Trapped in the Closet- I found things to be amiss. Why, when I sneakily entered the house in a state of utter sleep, I noticed that the back door was open and the kitchen light was on- an unfamiliar attribute to a house normally quiet and dark after about 10 p.m. No matter- just let me stumble to my bed. Fuck brushing my teeth.

"What are you doing," my grandfather asked, scaring the fuck out of drunk me.
"I'm drunk. Why are you up?! I'm going to bed."
"I just can't sleep," he grimaced. "My shoulder hurts so bad."
"Aw, I'm sorry. That sucks. At least you didn't break it," I laughed.
Wincing, he said, "My hip, too. Gosh."
"Man, that su-ucks."
"Would you look at this and see if I have a bruise?"
"Sure, yeah."

And there went the pants. And underwear.

"Uh, yeah, you definitely have a bruise there. That's gonna be a big one."
"What about on my shoulder?"

At this point, he begins to take off his shirt, only realizing halfway through the process that his arm is in so much pain that he cannot remove his clothing on his own. So, what to do but enlist my help in removing his t-shirt? Directly, I found myself helping my already half-naked grandfather pull the tight, white Hanes shirt off his injured and aging body.

Thinking the worst to be over, I said uncomfortably, "Um, nope. No bruise there. At least not yet, anyway."
"It just hurts so bad, though."
"Well, you should put some ice on it. Or a heating pad or something. Ben-Gay or whatever," I casually mentioned, inching my way towards my bedroom door, praying for a swift end to this nightmare. One bullet's all it would take, I hoped.

"Well, I've got something in the bathroom I could put on it," he replied. "That would probably help."
"Do it!," I encouraged, turning on my heel and walking away.

Just as I reached the door to my bedroom, salvation only six seconds of dizziness and passing out away, I hear, "Hey, will you give me a hand with this?"
"Sure, what do you need?"
"Will you rub this on my hip? I can't reach it 'cause of my shoulder."
"Rub what? That cream? That cream in your hands?"
"Yeah. Ouch," he grimaced.

The world darkened. Shit got real.

"Sure.."

And that is how I found myself rubbing old people salve into my grandfather's heretofore unseen-by-me ASS, knowing all the while that the only reason I was able to maintain any sort of composure in this terrible, terrible situation is that I was completely drunk. And I'm okay with that. Actually, no I'm not. I'm not okay with that at ALL.

Fuck a Saturday.

"Call it New York Karma if you like."

2006-07-30T14:46:00.000-05:00

Then we made our way back to the subway and headed uptown. Downtown? Whatever- towards the financial district. Toward the World Trade Center site. It was hard to find because the buildings weren't there to serve as a beacon. What? Too soon?

We saw a few buildings with giant drapes over them, perhaps to serve as blinders for the employees within, to keep them sane and productive, but I'm sure the official reason was far more utilitarian. There were mounds of construction everywhere, surrounded by streets barricaded, but we weren't sure if we were in the right place or merely among the melee of constant New York renovation. Finally, we spotted the ~~garish tourist trap~~ memorial- Ground Zero.

We made our way down the stairs which also served as an entrance to the subway to view the rebuilding through wire fences and black drapes similar to the ones that turned nearby highrises into giant shadows, into buildings composed of dark matter. We stared into the black hole of the site, and I, for one, didn't feel much different. It was somewhat impressive to see the scope of it all, how big it was. Although, I never saw the towers in real life, so I suppose much of the awe and indignation was lost on me. Plus, it doesn't help that I'm an insensitive asshole. Meh.

We continually cracked subversive and insensitive jokes and took satirically somber photographs of ourselves ensconsed in serious discussion and gazing pensively and morosely at the site, laughing hysterically for an instant here and a moment there, while simultaneously telling each other that we had to shut up lest we get our asses kicked. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't wear this shirt that day. I don't really own that shirt. Sigh...

After growing weary of being callous jerks, we decided to make our way back to the subway stop we came from as my appointment was drawing near. We had about 45 minutes, and the ride back downtown, uptown, was only about five minutes, so we had plenty of time. Of course, we got lost. I don't know how. I guess I just hadn't paid attention when we walked through Manhattan. I was more interested in walking through Tribeca and saying "Don't mind if I do," continually. I'd been saving that one.

We found plenty of subway stops, but none of them had the corresponding color or letter that we needed to get back to where we needed to be. I tried to walk quickly, but Rebecca's foot had begun to bother her, and the rain was picking up. Call it New York Karma if you like.

"I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor."

2006-07-17T03:30:00.000-05:00

Day 3 cont'd., cont'd.

____________________

Within ten minutes, we were through the Lincoln Tunnel, explosion free, and pulled into the Port Authority Terminal. The blur of the city began, and we made our way to the subway station, getting deterred for a good five minutes by a guy trying to unload Improv Club tickets on us, a young man who wouldn't take no for an answer, though we managed to decline his incredible offer nonetheless, eventually. Lesson one: Learned. Ignore the comedy guys.

We were approached by no less than ten of these people while in Times Square. My declinations became less and less polite, so much so that the last one I remember encountering was visibly pissed off at whatever it was that I said to him, and stared after us menacingly. I awoke in the hospital.

Not really- but, with any luck, that guy became severely disillusioned with shilling comedy tickets and re-examined (or possibly, just plain examined) his life, and quit a job that would never offer an "in" into the stand-up comedy business, and promptly quit after our encounter. I don't distinctly remember the extent of our repartee, but it was something to the effect of, "Hey guys! Do you like stand-up come-"

"NO!", laughingly, jovially, like him.

In the subway station, Rebecca bought our one day "Funpasses" with her credit card. We were impressed- no- we were perplexed that the machine instructed the purchaser to "dip" the card to pay for the tickets. We searched the machine for some sort of credit card pool or flea bath to drop the card into, but to no avail. The only place to put the card was your average, everyday credit card slot. There was no "dipping" involved. You insert the card, and then quickly remove it. No dip.

A dip, to me, anyway, implies a quick drop and quick removal of an object, and usually the removal finds the dipped object covered in some substance not previously found on said item. We began to refer to everything as a dip, and I told her I was going to dip (excerpt missing here- oops! -ed.). Then, I dipped my hand into my pocket to retrieve my newly acquired subway ticket and we boarded the train and went uptown to see some shit, to wander aimlessly, to find the building my audition was to be at, and aimlessly wander. And look at shit.

We went to 67th and Columbus to find the ABC building that the audition was to be held, and there it was- just like the mystical email foretold. There were still about three hours left before the audition, so we continued down 67th Street to Central Park West and walked into a surprisingly serene and empty Central Park. We attempted to self-photograph some pictures of us in front of the grey, cloudy skyline with little success. Eventually, an old couple strolled by and offered to take the picture for us. I clenched my own bag a bit tighter as I handed the old lady the camera, just in case I had to bludgeon them if they tried to run, er, hobble off with the camera.

As I backed up to the fence to pose with Rebecca, I imagined the old couple as Rebecca and I from the future, coming back in time to help a young us- some sort of strange Auster scenario. After all, we were in his hometown.

We wandered around until we decided to find a place to expell urine. We walked up Central Park West towards 72nd Street, and while Rebecca talked to her mother on her cell phone, I noticed a particularly clever homeless man wearing a yamukah, pushing a shopping cart with a haggard partner. They stopped at a bench where an obviously successful Jewish businessman sat (he also wore a yamukah). I didn't hear their conversation, but it was clear that the homeless man was playing the religion/race card with the businessman, and whether or not the homeless man was Jewish was of little import.

I saw the businessman shoot the homeless man a disapproving, yet guilty look as he pulled a quarter out of his pocket and begrudgingly handed it over, holding onto and looking at the quarter a bit too long. So, I suppose the homeless man had won, but if the stereotypes about Jews and their money are true, the homeless man had seemingly carved a niche for himself that clearly wouldn't be too profitable. I suppose he would occasionally hit the guilt jackpot with some of the more self-loathsome, successful ones, if, in fact, the stereotypes pasted on Jewish culture are true, which I don't necessarily agree with, except that I know Mark is cheap as fuck. And he's one of 'em. Nonetheless, I found the homeless man's angle quite genius and enterprising. Maybe he was genuine after all.

We made our way to a Starbucks back on the corner of 67th and Columbus where I could piss without having to purchase anything. I took the opportunity to marvel at the cleanliness of the restroom and piss all over the floor.

"Not that I'm complaining- I just found it odd in a city that lost two huge buildings not three years ago."

2006-07-14T03:12:00.000-05:00

Day 3, cont'd.

___________

"Hello," I said, cautiously. I saw this in a movie once. "Jonathan..." my mother's questioning-and-yet-relieved-in-knowing-that-I-was-still-alive's voice replied on the other end of the line, quite clearly, actually, for being over 2,000 miles away. Not that this should be a surprise. This isn't the fucking forties, after all. Some amazing advances in telecommunications have been made in the last few decades.

"Yeah-uh, hi...- what's.. up," I asked, taken aback. "I mean, I just walked up to the desk; we have to check back in."

"Well, I was wondering how big that hotel was! Is your room right by the office," relief and laughter in her voice.

"More of a manger, really. Hey, let me call you right back after we check in," I said.

"Okay, bye."

"That was weird," I smalltalked with the clerk. After we got checked in, Rebecca went back to the room and I called my mother from the payphone in the lobby, yelling to her over the jackhammer the various details of our trip thusfar. She told me that she had tried reaching us three times the night before, but that we hadn't arrived yet, not to mention a slew of sleuth's work tracking down the hotel's address and phone number after I had casually mentioned it when I told her I was going to New York.

I smoked a cigarette, said my goodbyes to my unconvincingly 'not worried' mother, bought a tea from a vending machine and returned to our room, where Rebecca and I finished getting ready to make our way into the city.

The shower head in the bathroom was attached to the ceiling. Man, is North Bergen ever weird. Finally ready, we made our way to the lobby to inquire about the best way to the city, after discovering that the whole wall full of brochures boasting things to do in NYC wasn't worth a shit when it came to getting around, unless one is interested in horse-drawn carraige, which, while not only being really slow, is also quite expensive by my estimation.

The lady at the desk gave us a badly xeroxed, hand drawn map highlighted with a pink marker along with some very hurried oral instructions. This took about three minutes, at the end of which I asked how much it would be to just take a cab. When she said, "Probably about $40," I asked her to explain her crazy pirate map again, the "X" being the Park and Ride which was literally just across the street- only seperated by a mound of dirt, construction and a railroad, and this time I paid attention when she spoke.

She said we could walk, but the bus stop was a Park and Ride, and even though the term "across the street" sounds simple enough, there were no crosswalks, sidewalks (except a very thin one crossing a bridge over a busy road), or places that weren't covered in dirt or surrounded by construction crews or machines. There were, however, concrete barriers, giant muddy dirt mounds, and an endless flow of one lane traffic on both sides of the street to traverse. Hell is easier to navigate. So, we decided to drive. Even though the Park and Ride was not only less than one quarter of a mile away, but visible, in fact, we still got lost.

Of course, there was no way to turn left out of the hotel parking lot and easily round the curve that led directly to our destination. Instead, we had (or, we were told) to exit the hotel's parking lot from the rear of the building, go left (or was it right?) out of the lot and proceed to the nearest 'turnaround,' where we could then access the road that would lead us in the direction we needed to go. There was also the matter of a stoplight that we were told to wait at until it turned red, and then proceed through.

Though this was baffling, it did shed a great deal of light on the mishap we experienced the night before. Apparently, there are lights that one goes through when they turn red. Exactly. We ended up back at the hotel, feeling like dullards (that was probably just me..), asking for the third time about how to get to the goddamned Park and Ride. Luckily, the lady was friendly and courteous, as were most of the east coast residents we interacted with. Stereotypes be damned!

Eventually, we made it to the Park and Ride, parked the car as far away from the bus terminal as possible, and upon arriving, bought round trip tickets for our ride into the city. I smoked a cigarette in the drizzle and felt like a backwoods hick- no one else was smoking. Progressivism and ad indoctrination are still alive and well in the east, and out of the eight million stories in New York, I'd bet only about 500,000 of them smoke. It's just not romantic anymore.

The bus came, and I marvelled at how easily a would-be terrorist could smuggle a bomb on board and blow the Lincoln Tunnel to bits. Not one metal detector or C4 sniffing dog in sight. Not that I'm complaining- I just found it odd in a city that lost two huge buildings not three years ago.

"A moment later, she looks at me strangely and says, 'It's for you.'"

2006-07-13T14:51:00.000-05:00

Day 2 cont'd. cont'd., cont'd.

_________________

"We require a $20 deposit to activate the phone... and then we charge for any calls you make." Even credit card calls? "Yes, sir. But there is a payphone in the lobby, sir." Well, of course there is. Okay.. thanks. "Thank you, sir." Oh- wait. Is there any way to turn off the air in here? We tried to, but nothing's happening. "Yes, sir. You just turn the knob all the way to the right. You'll hear it shut off." I know, I think that's what we did, but nothing happened. "Hmm... try it again." Okay, great. Thanks. "Thank you, sir." Oh, um.. one more thing. Could we get a wake up call? "What time?" Uh... 11? Rebecca? Yes- 11 o'clock. "Thank you, sir." Thanks.

I walked to the thermostat, looked at it- a beat here- and turned it all the way to the left- the coldest setting. The air conditioning clicked off. Another beat. I walked to the window and opened it to smoke, cradling the cigarette under the umbrella of my palm as a driving drizzle tried its best to pelt me, then changed its mind, blowing parallel to the building. It must have been having an existential day as well. I decided to wait to phone my mother until the morning- I didn't feel like going downstairs again. We settled into the bed and Rebecca made drinks- beer for me and vanilla vodka and 7up for her. And me, too. I really needed to take the edge off. Not that it did much good. I was too keyed up to relax, so Rebecca started in on the massage she'd been promising all day. At some point we turned off the television, likely around 4 or 5, and went to sleep, finally.

Day 3

___________

The wake up call came and I awoke somewhat refreshed. Either that, or I was still filled with excess anxiety that my body couldn't get around to the night before. Checkout was at noon, and we were required to check out and then check in again, as we had decided to stay an extra night so we could meet up with Rebecca's father and extended family on the way back through Pennsylvania.

The elevator doors opened into a lobby filled with disgusting noise. In New Jersey, "Under Renovation" is not just a sign. It's a statement. The statement is, "Prepare to be bombarded with a fucking jackhammer." We approached the desk and began the process of yelling our request to check back in. Right as we began talking, the phone rang and the clerk motioned for us to wait while she answered. A moment later, she looks at me strangely and says, "It's for you."

"I made a phone call to the front desk to inquire about the phone."

2006-07-12T01:51:00.000-05:00

Day 2 cont'd., cont'd.

________________

I circled the hotel an indeterminate number of times, hoping somehow that the elusive Palace Hotel would emerge through the mistiness of the late Jersey evening, a literal oasis, a savior for the road-weary- to no avail, of course. I decided to stop and ask for directions at the Radisson, and thought twice about it, my fatigue becoming paranoia about rude and embittered East coasters that must surely have had it in for me. Why is this city so goddamned hard to get around?! It was one in the morning. Surely the night clerk would steer me the wrong way. Fucking tourists. I'd do the same thing.

I parked in a no-parking zone, hazards ablaze. I peeled myself from the seat, legs and arms jittery from all the subsiding adrenalin, my fight or flight instinct disabled, mutated into an unfamiliar strain of 'drive or die,' a new bacteria that easily conquered my nerves. Walking to the door of the hotel, I felt high- in a bad way, though- and light flashed in my periphery, light that wasn't there, exploding into a million refracted points by the raindrops collecting on my eyelashes. Eyelashes and water- the stoned man's prism.

I made it to the door under a shining, wet maroon awning and pulled. And pulled again, just to be sure, like people do when doors are locked. And.. once more. The night man looked up, bored, used to the homeless, probably, that yearn for a lobby of repose. Wet, haggard, crazy-eyed- I could have been homeless. I made some sort of motion with my hand- Open the door. He pointed to the wall on my right- a telephone, sans buttons. I picked up the receiver, and directly was having a conversation through two glass doors and about 100 feet of lush carpet. Essentially, I was having a face-to-face phone conversation. As Brendan Kelly said, "There's two types of prisons, some say. One where you're locked up and everything's outside, and the other one- you're outside and everything's locked away."

The overweight man, stuffed into a shirt and half-vest, pointed the way. "Go that way, about five or six miles. You're on the completely wrong end of the street."

"That way," I pointed, mimicking his gesture. A not wholly unfriendly nod. "Thanks."
Click.
Back in the car, I felt better, but not relieved. We wound our way up the hilly street and emerged at an odd three way stoplight. It was red, and so naturally, I stopped. One line of traffic, off to my left in a sort of S-curve, was stopped as well. One line, to my right, at sort of an acute angle, was also stopped. I sighed- a momentary lapse.

A car pulled up behind me, stopped quickly, and inched closer. As I watched the headlights begin to set in the horizon of the bumper and mirror visibility, a car passed on the left, fast, right through the red light. Then the honks began. I can only imagine what the guy behind us was saying: "Fucking GO, Texas!"or "Dumbass hick! GO!" or "As a native Texan, I understand this fellow's confusion at this strange intersection, and perhaps if I gently honk, I can coax and encourage him to bolster enough confidence to FUCKING GO, DOUCHEBAG!"

Shit. The light's red here, but I guess I'll go. "Shit," I told Rebecca. Very cautiously, I edged into the intersection, and then zoomed through. "What the fuck was that?!" I pondered. Finally, though unbeknownst to us at the time, the worst was over. The horrible, seemingly destroyed by giant, spiked metal feet, construction laden road finally put the Palace Hotel into our line of vision. Elation. Exhaustive elation. We pulled into a spot on a hill and staggered, somewhat melancholy, into the lobby. We checked in, inquired about the continental breakfast we would not be attending in the morning, and rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the 'under-renovation' hotel.

When the doors opened, thousands of us stared back at us. The entire hall was lined with one or two inch lengths of mirrors, seperated by dark strips of wood. This wasn't helping. This was Timothy Leary's vision of a hull in a 1940's pleasure cruise liner. A few more steps... a few more. We closed the door behind us, leaving the sounds of partying tourist groups just returning from the clubs in NYC to bounce off the mirrors and settle into the dark carpet and plaster ceilings and become part of the living history of the building, to give the hallway character, to help one to feel less alone when walking in solitude in the aging hotel.

I returned to the car to put our parking pass on the dashboard and to retrieve Rebecca's pillow. I returned to our freezing room. There was a thermostat on the wall, but we couldn't turn the air off. I told my mother I'd call her when we got there, so I tried to make a calling card call from the phone by the bed, and when Rebecca and I had both tried enough times to determine that it wasn't our fault that we couldn't dial out- we aren't stupid, for Christ's sake- I made a call to the front desk to inquire about the phone.

"In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district."

2006-07-11T02:52:00.000-05:00

Day 2, cont'd.

_________________

The final hundred miles to North Bergen, New Jersey, where our hotel was located, were appropriately the most grueling. Why should it get easier? We passed a giant building that said "Nestle" in giant blue letters on the side, and I began to speculate as to whether it was a factory or a distribution center, shortly before we passed a smaller building with wide, sweeping windows that appeared to be on the same property. Inside the building, backlit by what must have been 1,000 watt spotlights stood what appeared to be a giant vat, and we decided that this building was the actual Nestle Factory, which, though not marked by any signage, must surely have doubled as a fun tourist attraction for Jerseyites, or at least bored schoolchildren on field trips. We marvelled momentarily at the thought of thousands of gallons of molten chocolate percolating inside a big, brass pressure cooker.

I began to feel the comfort of the home stretch, imagining that this factory must be the beginning of what must be vast urban sprawl, growing further and further out of the giant industry of New York City- vericose veins of business branching out and out in search of cheaper real estate and softer blood cells to contaminate and render unattractive.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be an anomoly, as, aside from a few shopping districts and gas stations, the densely potholed, divided expressways, rust iron and corrugated steel of the Garden State's North Bergen were still a good sixty miles away. Presently, I focused my attention on driving rain and rude truckers, and as I felt my car hydroplaning every twenty seconds due to the next divot in the road, each one longer and deeper than the last, I hunched further and further over the steering wheel, feeling not unlike any number of stereotypical images of old men or women behind the wheel, my heart rate rising rapidly as Rebecca grew agitated aloud as she attempted to decipher the final, most confusing directions so generously bestowed upon us by the inhuman, cold and calculated brain of Mapquest.

I began to second guess, to question myself: "What the fuck am I doing right now? Why am I driving in New Jersey at one in the morning? Wouldn't it be weird if I died out here, 1,600 miles from home?" I began to think that Rebecca's mother would think that I had done it on purpose- taken her daughter from their happy home to commit a strange murder-suicide.

Finally, we sensed the nearness of the city; not from traffic- the highway was surprisingly empty, even for a Tuesday night. But, what do I know about traffic out east? The big rigs were still problematic, and the rain and puddling hadn't ceased, so tensions still walked a tight line in the car. I took a risk and exited the expressway to the other, unnecessarily divided part of the expressway- luckily- just in time to make the exit to the city highway that we needed to be on. According to my odometer, we were a mere two miles from our one-way, 1,596 mile journey.

As soon as relief began its washing effects on my mind, the sense of security was quickly swept away by a tide of fresh anxiety and worry. We had found our way to North Bergen, to be sure, but now to find the city street to turn onto. I crossed a horribly ugly steel, brown bridge, wondering if it was completed, or if mine would be the car that would finally buckle the ancient girders, imagining a disastrous death of stinking Jersey river and toppling I-beams. I looked off to my left- was that the skyline? It was too rainy and foggy to tell. A fine welcome, indeed.

We found the city road to our hotel, but I mistakenly took the way marked "Trucks Only." Some sort of out of the way, lesser traffic, wider lanes number that terrified me to no end. I felt we were surely lost. It just didn't feel right. I pulled into some sort of gas station and asked a cabbie and his partner the way. They looked at me awfully, and Rebecca lustfully, and gave me directions that were clearly a brush-off. I thanked them and faithfully took the way they prescribed.

Minutes later, I felt that they weren't lying. I spotted a Radisson. The hotel district! The hotel district? 'District' implies more than one, correct? I could see no other hotels around. In fact, I think we may have driven into the brownstone district.

"I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office."

2006-07-10T04:14:00.000-05:00

Day 1 cont'd.

___________

At the end of our meal, we inquired about purchasing alcohol on a Sunday night in Tennessee, as the prospect of a fresh hotel room sans booze was a garish thought. We were pleased to find out from our perhaps overly knowledgable waitress that the alcohol laws there were actually more liberal than in Texas, which sounds absurd (at least to me, anyway), but nonetheless a pleasant surprise. We got a six-pack at a nearby gas station and continued on. I was driving 'in the zone,' and wanted so badly to whip the halfway point of our trip with a belt, which by my estimation would have meant travelling 1,000 miles the first day.

As the night approached the early morning late night of 4 a.m., we realized that most hotels require a checkout at or before noon, and we felt like getting as much sleep as possible without having to pay for two nights was a good idea. So, at 4:30, I relented, and pulled into a Days Inn in La Grange, Kentucky, and felt only mild satisfaction at having merely sort of elbowed the halfway point of our trip in the ribs in a large crowd while walking quickly by and behind it, wreaking a cowardly vengeance on it for having mercilessly stepped hard on my foot while it passed without so much as a second, or first, glance back in my direction- unapologetic, self-important and rude.

Rebecca stayed in the car while I got a room for one, and then we snuck in the back entrance, making sure to keep up the facade by not having Rebecca phone in our wake up call. It turns out I was really fatigued, only I didn't know it while we drove. That didn't stop me from drinking one, maybe two, beers and watching bad late night cable TV while Rebecca showered. (Excerpt missing here- damn ink pens and papyrus. -ed.) We went to sleep at or near six with plans to take advantage of the free continental breakfast between seven and ten the following morning, a plan that was quickly dashed the moment we closed our eyes. This would be a recurring theme for the following three nights. Not once on our journey did we consume any melon, burnt toast, bad coffee, or hotel scrambled eggs.

Day 2

________

The next morning we continued on- 700 miles to New York. I cannot remember when or where we ate, not that it's important. A lot of the day is a blur, though I do remember passing a sign somewhere in the mountains of Pennsylvania- a bonified, reflective, presumably state-sponsored sign that read, "Site of Fatal Bus Accident- 1988" in a shade of brown normally reserved for historical landmarks, tourist attractions, or tree sponsorship programs.

The mountains grew dense with fog and rain as darkness and semi-trucks crowded around my little car. The mountains lasted forever, and thinking about them now conjures a sense of depressedness, though at the time I was perfectly happy, if not just a tiny bit stressed about 18 wheelers and rain and death and an annoying windshield wiper blade that would be better termed a smearer. The roads were not too steep or winding in the Pyrenees, like those out west or in Hawaii, so there was an upside to it, I suppose. Earlier in the day, Rebecca discovered that our route was to take us directly through Washington, Pennsylvania, the town where her father currently resided, a man whom, before March of that year, she had not seen for five years. She called her mother to inquire as to whether or not she should call him to inform him that we were passing through.

Within minutes, the entire side of her father's family had heard the news- even her great-grandparents who were on vacation to the tiny, picturesque town, and plans were promptly made for a meeting and dinner on the way back home.

We emerged unscathed on the eastern side of the mountains, and what we lost in hilly altitude and curves in the road was made up for in increased rain and the hellish, slick, near destroyed roads of New Jersey. We stopped at a secluded rest stop about 100 miles from the city where I tried to help a man fish a quarter out of a pay phone that had become stuck in his haste to insert the coins and also read some fine, witty graffiti in the bathroom that involved Bush AND swastikas, as well as what seemed to be a legitimate gay personals ad space, complete with measurements, desires, abilities and actual phone numbers. Rebecca speculated that Bush is the only president that people tag bathroom walls in protest of. While the previous is a poorly written sentence, she conveyed her meaning, and I agreed at the time, but now that I think about it, I think I disagree. I wish I could've hung around truck stops when Nixon was in office.

"As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty."

2006-07-08T22:37:00.000-05:00

This blog has become so stagnant that I can actually smell it when I log in these days. So, as an exercise in writing (and futility), I will, in the days to follow, post some writings that I did about my trip to New York a few years ago that have never seen the light of a backlit computer screen, in an effort to get my feet back on the ground of regular writing, and since the recent posts on this wretched mess have been about travel, I considered it to be somewhat apropos. Forgiveness, please, if any of what is to come is boring or uninspired. This is more for me than you. Enjoy. Or not. You know, whatever.

_______________________________________________________

Day 1
On Sunday morning, Rebecca and I arose at a leisurely hour- 10 or 10:30- and made final preparations and object gathering for our road trip to New York. We made it out of the apartment and into the car, all systems go, by 11:00, which surprised even me. We got gas and were ready for the open road when a snag arose: I had forgotten my map of NPR stations across the country- the map I essentially paid $35 for when I pledged membership to the local station, incidentally (or perhaps not) for the very reason of road trips. No matter. We were merely one minute from the apartment, so I returned and retrieved it, and we made our way, our long, three mile, arduous way to the interstate.

Interstate 30, to be exact. In our haste to get on the road, we failed to eat anything, and we were both quite hungry, not to mention a little queasy from a night of drinking with Nick and Steve the night before- a sort of unintentional bon voyage, as Steve headed to the farthest Western reaches of the continent the following morning- the polarity of life pulling each of us in opposite directions, at once the same.

We hit standstill traffic just east of downtown Dallas, a strange anomoly on a Sunday, orange cones and police cruisers directing traffic around an invisible accident, at least as it appeared when we passed it. We were anxious to eat, and the choices are not scarce on this stretch of road, but I was determined not to stop until I was unfamiliar with the territory around me. This is how I guage progress. Had we eaten anywhere before Rockwall (which is where I worked at the time -ed.) I would have lost the sense of being on the road, and would be liable to lounge and drag my feet. Rebecca complied, and we waited until we were approximately 82 miles from our starting point, and pulled into an unfamiliar town and ate at an unfamiliar IHOP amongst the post-church crowd.

Stuffed into a tiny two seat table in the back, I accidentally got too animated in a classic Jonathan rant, and said 'fuck' a little too loudly next to a family of five, three of which were under the age of six. Oops. We distracted ourselves from talking until the food came by playing children's games of shaping and reshaping straws into makeshift hearts, which quickly degenerated into some form of flick-soccer or hockey across the table, scoring goals and changing the rules mid-flick to make the game work to our own exclusive advantage. By one, we returned to the highway and continued, or rather, began the long trek.

We traveled approximately 882 miles the first day, eventually surrendering to the hypnosis of the road in La Grange, Kentucky, where we stopped at 4:30 a.m. at a Days Inn. On the way there, we passed through, amongst other little towns, Little Rock, Arkansas, Memphis, and Nashville, Tennessee. In either Memphis or Nashville, we stopped to eat dinner after minutes upon minutes of indecisiveness, at a Shoney's that, while quite crowded when we arrived, quickly cleared out as soon as we sat down. We sat next to one another, as we usually do, and faced the front of the restaurant. Soon, an overweight black woman and her daughter sat next to each other at the table directly in front of us- facing us- and in an instant we were essentially sharing a table with two complete strangers, face to face, as if we were communing with friends or family. With both of us as insecure and inept at dealing with social situations as we are, I cannot speak for Rebecca, but I for one was uncomfortable. I don't like people looking at me. Of course, I realize that this is a very conceited thought- as if the lady across from us even saw us, much less took the time to fully look at us. Her attention would likely have been focused on her daughter, who was clearly severely retarded, or mentally handicapped, or whatever it is you say these days, but even this was not the case.

Perhaps the eleven or twelve years that she has had to deal with her quite needy child had left her numb and spiteful or simply indifferent, which, at any rate, left her free to ignore her daughter and stare silently at her menu, addressing her child only when she became increasingly loud in calling for her mother to look at any number of, to the ordinary mind and perception, inane objects and details. She seemed to continually stare at us, which made me less uncomfortable than if a 'normal' person was doing it. When Rebecca got her baked potato, she hit her head on the low hanging light when she got up to dress it at the buffet table. The little girl found this hilarious, and laughed and laughed. I laughed, too. The little girl quickly diverted her attention to other things, and we ate.

After we left, Rebecca was honest enough to admit that watching the little girl eat (a ridiculously messy sight) was uncomfortable for her, and she had to stop looking in that direction altogether. I felt the same way, but I was reluctant to mention it, as I didn't want to seem like a close-minded fool, simply because a little girl ate messily. As middle class, young, white liberals, we naturally felt guilty.

Friends and Compatriots!

2006-06-30T22:16:00.000-05:00

For all my friends from Myspace- my goddamn site has been hijacked and hacked. Maybe I'll get it back, and maybe I won't. Until further events warrant the answer, I shall remain close-lipped. Just prepare yourselves. That's all I'll say.

This is the business, and y'all ain't gettin' nothin' for free.

2006-06-20T03:41:00.000-05:00

What is most feared has now become reality. I will return soon, with much aplomb, accolade, and machismo. This, to you, I vow. No one is reading this.

HP stands for Helpful Percy.

2006-06-06T03:37:00.000-05:00

Copied below is an actual copy of an actual conversation I had online with an HP representative a few weeks ago when I was drunk. Good people, those HP'ers. I tried to draw him (or her, I'm not sure) out, but to no avail. Professionalism all the way with those people. Salt of the earth, those people! Those people- wow! Helpful, but not personable. And that's what I expect in a computer problem setting. "Take care of my problem, and then kindly fuck off, no matter what I say." Fix my computer, and then kiss my ass. That's why I bought the computer. So you can be subservient to me. Because I bought my computer from the company that you work for. BE SUBSERVIENT TO ME! As a consumer, I DEMAND it, even if I'm drunk!

Chat Transcript Begins Here.

Percy-Hello Jonathan.

jonathan pool- hello..

Percy- Welcome to HP Total Care for Pavilion Notebooks. My name is Percy. How may I assist you today?

jonathan pool-thank you for your courtesy..

jonathan pool- um..

jonathan pool- when i plug in my computer, the screen goes dim. when i unplug it, it gets bright.

Percy- Okay. Could you let me know the following System Information. Serial Number : Model Number : Product Number : The Model, Product and Serial numbers are located on the bottom of the notebook on a white sticker.

jonathan pool- hp pavilion zv6270us

jonathan pool- is that sufficient?

Percy- Yes,that's sufficient.

Percy- Could you please give me a couple of minutes to work on the issue?

jonathan pool- absolutely.

Percy- Thank you.

jonathan pool- Percy, for you, anything.

Percy- Thank you for your time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- Thank you!

Percy- To resolve this issue you need to adjust the Brightness of the display.

jonathan pool- Okay.

Percy- I would like to inform you that the brightness of the screen can be adjust by pressing the following keys Fn + F7 - To decrease the brightness Fn + F8 - To increase the brightness.

jonathan pool- Genius!

jonathan pool- Question..

Percy- You have to increase the brightness when the AC adapter is plugged in the wall socket.

jonathan pool- Is there any particular reason why the notebook would have switched the way it did?

jonathan pool- Because, before, it was doing the opposite.

jonathan pool- i.e., bright when plugged in and vice versa.

Percy- It will only reflect the previous settings.

jonathan pool- How do you mean?

Percy- The setting will be saved for every time they are changed.

jonathan pool- That's what I'm not sure of, because I didn't change any settings.

jonathan pool- So you're saying that if I make the screen dim when it's unplugged using the fn button, it will go dim the next time I unplug it?

Percy- That's correct.

Percy- Let me explain more that the settings for brightness will be saved by Windows whatever have been configured the last time. So if the brightness is made to minimum when AC power is connected then it reflects the same settings next time when you plug the adapter.

Percy- So Windows will make the appropriate settings for the display when the notebook is connected on battery and on AC adapter.

jonathan pool- Interesting. Might it have anything to do with watching things on real player when it was unplugged? like, does real player maybe default to a brighter setting?

Percy- So I suggest you to increase the brightness ( at plug-in position ) and then disconnect the Adapter. Now plug the adapter to test the results. To increase the brightness use Fn+F8 keys.To decrease the brightness use Fn+F7 keys.

Percy- No.

jonathan pool- Excellent. Thank you so much, Percy. You're the cat's meow. And I mean that!

Percy- Is there anything else I can assist you with today?

jonathan pool- Hmm.. no, I guess not. I'm just wondering how it switched the way it did. No matter, I suppose. Unless you have some insight.

Percy- Are you completely satisfied with our service today?

jonathan pool- More than you know.

Percy- I hope you have found this session helpful and informative. A copy of our Chat session will reach you shortly along with a Survey Questionnaire in 24 hours. Please do take your time to tell us what you think of our service. Our exclusive Owner Services will help keep all of your HP and Compaq products up and running. Please visit our Web site at: http://www.hp.com/home/ownerservices

jonathan pool- How are you doing, though?

Percy- I am doing well.Thank you.

Percy- Have a nice time Jonathan.

jonathan pool- They make you be completely professional, huh? You can't have much candid conversation, can you?

jonathan pool- The overnight shift, eh? Where are you guys? California?

jonathan pool- I'll leave you alone, I swear. Just wondering.

Percy- Yes. We are in California.

jonathan pool- How did I guess?

Percy- Have a nice time!

Chat Transcript Ends Here.

Right here is where I was attempting to apologize to my computer-savvy friend, Percy, for being drunk, but he/she didn't give me the chance. Just cut me off and sent me back to the HP homepage. I can't blame him/her, but I won't lie and say that it didn't sting a little. I'll probably never chat with Percy again, but I hope he/she knows that the job that he/she has is a shitty one where you can't even talk to a customer like a normal human being. Seriously, for the first few lines, I asssumed I was just talking to a computer generated response system. Until I asked questions that revealed otherwise. Although, I could be mistaken. I could've been talking to a robot the entire time. What do I know about technology? I'm sure they have computers smart enough to respond to bullshit questions like mine. I hope that's not the case, though. And, I hope that you, Percy, if you're an actual human being, that you find it in yourself, sooner rather than later, that human interaction is more important than a silly job with computers. I say that, but if I could deliver pizzas with a robot, I'd do it in a second. I hate interacting with strangers.

President Bush Adopts Ebonics During News Conference With Prime Minister Blair in Attempt to Seem "Cool" in Front of "Out of Towners."

2006-05-26T04:14:00.000-05:00

If you didn't hear this press conference or think that I'm lying (which I completely understand), go here.

Q Prime Minister, this is possibly your last official visit to Washington as Prime Minister --

PRESIDENT BUSH: Wait a minute. (Laughter.) Back-to-back disses.

Yeah, that's right. Bush said "Back-to-back disses." Speculation suggests that he may have picked up this word after repeated visits to various jails across the country while bailing out his daughters on various drunk driving charges.

And for the President, what will you miss about Tony Blair, and what are you looking for in an eventual replacement?

PRESIDENT BUSH: Hmmm -- I'll miss those red ties, is what I'll miss. (Laughter.) I'll say one thing -- he can answer the question -- don't count him out. Let me tell it to you that way. I know a man of resolve and vision and courage. And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President.

PRIME MINISTER BLAIR: Well, what more can I say? (Laughter.) Probably not wise to say anything more at all. (Laughter.)

Here's something, too: Besides the awkward silence after Blair's last comment, and it was very awkward- seriously, he really did think it wise not to say anything more at all, and so he literally didn't, leaving the room full of reporters waiting blankly to see if he was being serious, a few twitters of nervous laughter here and there- there is an interesting omission from the above transcript, which did come directly from the White House site. I'm telling you- click on the above link and read the transcripts for yourself. It's amazing. In Bush's last sentence, what really aired was, "And my attitude is, I want him to be here so long as I'm the President, which is another 2 1/2 years." Oh, wait. No- the 2 1/2 year comment came from earlier in the press conference when he was talking about being Commander-in-Chief. Whatever. The point is that it's only 1 1/2 more years. Maybe Bush just slipped up again. He's certainly been known for his flubs during speeches, hasn't he, the little scamp?! But, I'll keep the conspiratorial side of me alive, too, and just say to not be surprised if there is some grand mal in the next election that causes Bush to stay in office until 2009 (or beyond!), and if/when that happens, I will gladly take your money, whether it be from a bet we made, or that you have taken me as your personal messiah and savior- either of which I will be glad to oblige you with. Now: go read those transcripts. And wait'll you get to the last two lines. I sense some fan fiction sites popping up after this open-endedness! Steamy!

San Francischronicles, Chapter ∞ .

2006-05-22T05:38:00.000-05:00

On the last day of our trip, my camera was dying a slow and painful death. You see, I didn't bring the charger with us, because the charger is also a photo printer, and would have been quite a nuisance to lug around with us the entire time, not to mention the very likely possibility that I would drop and break it at any given point. So, we called Radio Shack to see if they had a charger for my particular model of camera. Of course they did- for only $50! When we got to Radio Shack, I explained to the young man working behind the counter the situation- we were only gonna be in town one more day, and just needed enough of a charge to make it home. I also played it real cool with the kid- let him know I was down. 'You into online gaming? Hell, I'm a 35th level Orc (I really hope I spelled that right.). You into weed? Fuck, let's get high, man! You into social activism? Shit, man, I'll form a picket line behind an "End Road Work" sign! Let's be pals!'

My ultimate coolness and Rebecca's friendly charm (pronounced: cleavage) eventually worked on the kid, who at first denied us due to his unfriendly, old, and uncool boss, but soon he said, "What the hell- I'll do it." Then- a problem. Turns out he didn't really have a charger for my particular model of camera. Turns out they're special order only. So much so, in fact, that not one Radio Shack in the whole of San Francisco had one. Then, an idea occurred to me. About technology. This is never a good sign, and yet I trusted myself again for some reason. I suppose I was simply in an affable mood.

"It says here that this just needs a 5 volt D/C cable. Don't you just have, like, a generic 5 volt plug we could use? That seems like it would work..." The Kid didn't seem too disagreeable with my idea, and so it was done. I knew it would take a while, so I told the Kid that we were going to eat, and we'd be back in about an hour or so to pick up the camera. The Kid said, "Word," we gave each other daps, and I moonwalked right the fuck outta there.

Upon our return from eating at The Yellow Submarine, The Kid played it cool, real cool, as we walked in. "Can I help you guys with anything?" Gulp. "Um...," I said, instantly betraying myself as so not down. We must've looked uncomfortable, because the next thing he said was, "...Or do you just want the camera back?" An audible sigh of relief crossed my lips, and soon he was behind the counter retrieving the camera. "Sweet," I said as he handed it to me. "Now to check the battery.. Huh. That's odd. It actually has less power than when we gave it to you."

The Kid shrugged, bored now with his act of rebellion. I knew it was over. The camera wouldn't even stay on long enough to snap one picture. It clicked on, flashed its red "battery drained- don't even think about it" icon and immediately turned itself right back off.

We walked out of the store, utterly dejected. The Era of Photographs had come to an end for this trip.

Or so we thought!

Now, dear reader, through the ironic use of the very technology that had so recently scorned us, YOU CAN STILL SEE PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE REST OF OUR TRIP!

REAL PHOTOGRAPHS AWAIT!

DRIVING DOWN HWY 101 IN OUR RENTED DODGE NEON TO HALF MOON BAY!!

OUR FABULOUS HOTEL ROOM AT COMFORT INN IN HALF MOON BAY! THANK YOU, DEB!
PERCHED PRECARIOUSLY CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF A BREATHTAKING CLIFF AT HALF MOON BAY!

THIS COUPLE SENT ME A COPY OF THIS PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN AT A BEACH IN HALF MOON BAY! THEY UNDERSTOOD OUR DILEMMA, AND EVEN THOUGH THEY SPOKE VERY LITTLE ENGLISH, THE INTERNATIONAL LANGUAGE OF PHOTOGRAPHY WAS OUR BOND, AND THEY WERE MORE THAN HAPPY TO LET US SHARE A FRAME WITH THEM!

THEN WE WENT TO THE REAL MOON!!

A fitting end.

2006-05-21T20:37:00.000-05:00

Note from the Editor: Due to the moratorium on doing any writing of any kind, especially as concerns blogging OR audioblogging (See "Ethics and Etiquette: An Author's Guide to Not Being Really, Really Lame and Embarrassing Oneself in front of One's Peers," Sec. 8, Par. 3, Clause 2, Subsection 6), while under the strange, cold, and careless hand of intoxication, whether intentional or not, this post has been forever removed from this blog, and all further conversation or thread-starting on other websites shall hereby cease forthwith. No questions or comments shall be directed toward the Author concerning this decision, as it was not his to make, and besides, any endeavor in this direction would only prove futile, as the Author has signed a sealed affidavit stating that he has absolutely no memory of posting the offending blog, even though the authoring of it spanned the course of 6 hours, not to mention 4 states.

Thank you.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 9.

2006-05-21T02:18:00.000-05:00

Lombard Street. I drove our rental car down this stretch of madness to prove my worth as a San Franciscan driver, wondering all the while why it was that I felt nervous and inadequate in attempting to manipulate this crazy road. Then I realized that I should not be the one feeling weird and insecure about myself- it's the fucking engineer of this road that should! What kind of insecure city planner would put the residents of this particular street through the daily misery of having to navigate this monstrosity? I imagine it must have been some sort of personal vendetta- perhaps the person in question was beaten by his drunken father repeatedly on this street, and hoped to design a road that would eventually kill him in his state of inebriation. Either that, or some weird Oedipal thing that I haven't quite been able to surmise yet.

At Chrissy Fields. Rebecca's nonplussed look likely comes from the fact that I was probably complaining about something- the kite flyer's lack of form in the distance, the fact that I was really, really tired, or that "this picture would be so much cooler if the bridge was on fire."

SEE?!?

At Baker Beach. We're European!

"Zees art, zees life- ees stupid. Een my homelahnd, een Gearmany, we live life dat ees real. Zees- Zhees is all illusion. Fake American boolshit. Would that I hang myself with rope from zees picture."

At Seal Rock, where not one seal was to be found. Unless seals have wings and shit on your car while you're driving. Man, how awesome would that be...

Sleepytime at Seal Rock.

TELESCOPIC ART!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another house Rebecca grew up in. The man in the top left corner of the photo was quite perturbed that someone was standing directly outside his front gate, and by the time we left, he had moved into the kitchen window directly above Rebecca with an economy sized jar of giffelte fish and was ready to hurl them at us loiterers had we been there much longer.. Our exuent was hasty. Though, if Shaw was here, Creed's "Arms Wide Open" might have blared from somewhere off in the distance and good times would likely have ensued.

Why I shouldn't be allowed to do anything, ever.

2006-05-20T06:38:00.000-05:00

At The Mint Karaoke Bar in San Francisco. It's probably best that the video doesn't show much. I think the audio says enough. Kill me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 8.

2006-05-20T04:40:00.000-05:00

Sometimes people kiss other people on boats. So what? Why don't you lay off, man?

At the Mucky Duck in Inner Sunset with Mike the Awesome. The Mucky Duck is the best bar in San Francisco, for numerous reasons. Note the flagrant display of an ashtray in the lower left corner of the photo. Actually, that's pretty much it. And they have PBR on tap. And fully sanctioned giants for bartenders.

Click on this picture to fully understand what I stared at the entire ride home from the bar, and my subsequent dumbfoundedness. I'm still not sure what that lump is, and I'm not even drunk now. Oh, wait. Yes, I am.

BLURRY SUBWAY ART!!!!!!!!!!!

Horrible photograph of the Roxie Theatre, where we saw an awesome documentary about Bolerium Books as well as "As Smart as They Are," a documentary about the band One Ring Zero, who play at a lot of McSweeney's events. They have an entire album of music with lyrics written by a bunch of awesome authors: Paul Auster, Jonathan Lethem, Dave Eggers, to name but a few. I say "we saw," but in reality, Rebecca fell asleep through the entire film. It's okay. She was tired. As am I. So, so tired.

My Mecca: 826 Valencia. Only this time, at night.

At the Elbo Room in Mission District. As you can tell, we're serious. Serious about things. Namely that a 12 oz. can of PBR costs $3.50 here. Rebecca: "Are you fucking kidding?!" Me: " *sigh* No... I'm not. I'm really not this time."

Photograph from inside a photo booth. Whoah... I just blew my own mind.

The end result.

And thus ends my work week's worth of free internet at the hotel. I cannot promise anymore posts before I return home, for I know not what the future holds. We rented an automobile, and tomorrow we venture into the unknown, by which I mean the hotel we stay at may or may not have free internet access from our room. We're roughing it! Please stay tuned, however. I have something that, if I cannot get up tonight, will be up very soon that I am absolutely positive you will want to see, if for no other reason than to see how lame I really am. Trust me.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 7.

2006-05-18T19:22:00.000-05:00

A Happy Ponderance. An Happy Ponderance? Whatever.

I believe that this will be my new mantra.

Action shot of me drinking! Rebecca's look of concern is well founded. Two nights previous, somehow I drank too much at The Mucky Duck(an awesome bar- great bartender and very friendly neighborhood "needy queers"- that's what the bartender called our new friend Ray, who got any number of free drinks from us. Also, I'm not sure if he was gay, seeing as how much he hit on Rebecca. Although he did tell me he'd marry me right now.) and remember very little of getting back to the hotel.

Um... I have, like, ten more pictures exactly like this.

On the ferry to Sausalito. If I look hard, it's because I am. Don't fuck with my gangsta stroll. Y'heard?

Lost m'teeth in a fishin' 'ccident. Y'can tell I'm still angry 'bout it, too. Death came slow to that damned sturgeon, and even slower for the albatross that caused all the trouble in the first place. Never leave shore without a welding iron, Mama used t'say. I'll take those words to m'grave.

MARITIME ART!!!!!!!!!

Staring down crabs in Sausalito. You'd be surprised at how easily they back down. They don't call them Cowards of the Sea for nothing.

Rebecca's twin sister, Carlita, The Russian Spy. Directly after this picture was taken, Carlita was discovered by the Port Authority taking photographs of the ship's hull with a small camera inside a ring on her finger. In a quick moment of indecision, she swallowed a cyanide pill given to her for this very instance. But then, she realized she had her rocket boots on. Perhaps she was not aware of the very devastating effects of cyanide, and believed she could fly to safety and rid her body of the deadly poison. Unfortunately, moments after she took flight, her body went limp and she sailed around the bay like a deflating balloon. The Port Authority immediately cordoned off the bay and began waiting for the boots to run out of fuel and bring Carlita down. They'll probably be there for a while. The boots were fueled by a highly concentrated mix of Uranium-238 and vodka.

Bad Punicles, Chapter 6.

2006-05-17T22:05:00.000-05:00

We went to the Palace of Fine Arts today, after being kicked out of the Exploratorium at 3:00 p.m. for some schmaltzy private party they were having there. I muttered something to the effect of "inventing a perpetual motion machine that would continuously shove itself up your ass" to the attendant. He grunted, but I could see the glimmer of an idea sprouting up in his dead, dead eyes.

Sadly, naziism is not dead yet, even in as liberal and progressive a city as San Francisco. Shortly after I took this photograph, a recruiter from the local chapter of Hitler Youth approached me with some interesting looking fliers (they were printed on brightly colored paper!), but turned on his heel after he saw my unkempt beard- perhaps he thought I was Hacid. He saluted a weak Sieg Heil to the wall and disappeared into a nearby bush.

FUCKING ART!!!!!!!!!!!!

Illegally posing in front of the world's largest cement Faberge egg.

We happened upon a swan attempting suicide at a nearby pond. Sadly, minutes after we arrived, he succeeded. The reason for this swan's untimely demise is still unknown, but speculations suggest it could have been utter disillusionment with the realization that he had lived his entire life in a pond sponsored by a regime responsible for the deaths of millions of Jews.

In front of 826 Valencia, only the coolest fucking place in the entire world!!

So goddamn cool...

Rebecca outfitted in a lovely pirate's hat and official pirate handbook. You can't see it in this photo, but her pockets are filled to the brim with dubloons. And lard. Just two of the many pirate related items they sell at 826 Valencia. I bought six fake moustaches. No, wait. Seven. Seven fake moustaches.

View of an immigration protest from a trolley car. I took a photograph in solidarity.

INCIDENTAL ROMANTIC ART!!!!! (you may have to enlarge this photo to see the genius.)

San Francischronicles, Chapter 5.

2006-05-17T13:47:00.000-05:00

And now, for the picture that you all knew was coming, but didn't think I'd actually go through with posting. You thought you knew me better. You were wrong.

I'm guessing this is art. I'm not sure.

Tree-sittin.' I think my facial expression conveys that.

Yancy's Bar. Rebecca's mom used to work here. Note the ancient cash register, which they actually use. For transactions. Of a financial nature.

Waiting for a bus that refused to come.

ART!!!!!!!!!!

San Francischronicles, Chapter 4.

2006-05-17T13:16:00.000-05:00

Federal Penitentiaries and Instruments of Death: The centerpieces to any good vacation.

The house Rebecca grew up in.

ART!

ART!!!

It's nice to know that you can visit any anarchist bookstore in the country and be ensured to hear a conversation between the person that works there and a customer about how Ayn Rand had it so, so wrong, and that she was the prime reason they became anarchists in the first place. I bought a Dosteovsky book and got the fuck outta there.

There's always room for more awesome Shepard Fairey prints.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 3.

2006-05-16T22:29:00.000-05:00

It is a little known fact that Rebecca instills sheer terror in seagulls. In addition, these sea-faring, fish, bread, penny, and occassionally,in a pinch, Alka-Seltzer eating flying bags of dirt are intensely poop shy, and cannot bear to let anyone see them relieve themselves, and will fly away with much immediacy upon being seen. Here we have an example of both.

Standing sideways in front of the war machine.

So, first time ever riding the train/trolley/whatever in San Francisco. Nice view, cool breeze. In fact, I was just about to take a picture of the Bay Bridge from the window of the moving train when I hear a loud crash. The driver yells, "Oh, shit!" and the train halts to an immediate stop. The doors fly open and the driver bolts out. As does everyone else on the train. Dude, this kid got HIT by the train. He was on a bike. You can't see him, but he's surrounded by all those people. He was alright. But, Rebecca and I both expected to see a dead body when we got off the train. Good times.

Then, ironically, I died on the bus. After becoming retarded. Rebecca seems oddly hopeful.

I like how the Golden Gate Bridge is in focus and we're not. I'm serious.

For Joey: The stinky seals at Pier 39.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 2.

2006-05-16T03:58:00.000-05:00

We're staying at Fisherman's Wharf. This is the view from Tarantino's, a restaurant right around the corner. View our ghastly images ingesting food!

Camera perched precariously on a wine menu, Rebecca sat perfectly still for 732 seconds, which is how long it took to get the correct exposure needed for the extremely low lighting in the restaurant. And also why she hates me.

Our generous waitress took this photograph, even after my insistence that the flash would completely eradicate the scenery behind us, which is the only reason we wanted a photo there. We might as well have been at IHOP. Our generous, dumb waitress. Also note that I am still in a state of near catatonia, a remnant of my airplane tranquilization.

I proved that waitress wrong, boy. Just look at the majesty of the beautiful wharf and the hundreds and hundreds of sailboats and fishing skiffs. After our meal, the chef came out and explained how he was trying to illustrate the inherent violence in dining, in the vein of Kurosawa. I said, "Dude, we had cheese ravioli and the vegetarian linguine." His eyes flickered and twitched a few times, he shuffled his feet back and forth quickly, and said, "G-g-g-get the f-fuck outta my restaurant." Then a Dick Dale song blared through the P.A. and he half-walked, half-ran, knees unbent, back towards the kitchen, punching an Asian busboy who was cleaning a table squarely in the face.

Beach and Hyde Street, walking somewhere.
Doing what we, er, at least, I do best. Note Rebecca's uncanny ability to remain almost perfectly still. These are all five second exposures.

San Francischronicles, Chapter 1.

2006-05-15T22:57:00.000-05:00

Plied with unnameable medication and a $5 Bloody Mary, I am in California now, when nearly the last thing I fully remember is throwing away half of an absolutely terrible bean burrito that I purchased from Taco Bell Express at the airport.

I don't remember taking this picture at all. In fact, as I recall, I was in the middle seat at the beginning of the flight. Now,here I am looking out the window. How queer.

The closer to the ground, the better, I always say. The sweet, sweet realease of death will have wait for another day, methinks.

This is what it looked like in my somehow inebriated and impossibly alive condition. And no, I wasn't on acid. Stop asking.

This is my new office for the next week. Free internet! Fuck yes.

More later, likely when drunk.

I'm going away.

2006-05-14T21:18:00.000-05:00

I'm going to San Francisco tomorrow. I'll be gone for about a week, hopefully. I hate flying. Flying is for phantoms and people who are secure in humanity and technology. I am neither of these things. If I live, I will update you on my travels. Don't be too confident. I'm not.

P.S. If I die, please label me a prophet and publish everything I've written as gold. But, pile all the money on my makeshift grave and leave it there. Do not attempt to use it. I will make your walls drip blood, and you will never have to use your air conditioning again. But don't consider that to be a good thing.

Hopefully this won't be me.

2006-05-12T23:48:00.000-05:00

The Infinite Wisdom of Do-Gooders.

2006-05-01T02:26:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I got a call from my old roommate. I was watching a movie and eating at the time, and my phone was across the room, sitting on my dresser for some odd reason, and so I didn't answer it. Minutes later, I checked the new voicemail that popped up on the screen, and heard this: "Jon- it's Steve. The cops were just here at the house, looking for you, actually- I guess someone called them about your blog, so I just wanted to let you know. You might wanna take it down, or whatever. I don't know- give me a call."

Called them about my fucking blog?! What?! Why?!, I wondered. Oh, shit! The Bert blog! In the course of a few seconds, a number of things flashed across my memory that led me to believe that this definitely was the blog in question: pissed off emails from Steve's girlfriend about disrespecting him by "beating" his dogs, a cowardly anonymous comment left on said blog chastising me for my reactionary actions towards the dogs, and the realization of just how much I fictionalized my cruelty towards the dogs in the blog based on the incredible amount of anger and sadness bearing down on me as I wrote the farewell letter.

Fuck.

I went immediately to the miraculously online computer and took the blog down. Feeling somewhat relieved and even more paranoid, I cautiously peered out the front door to check for any police that might be slowly approaching my house, creeping, ever-so-silently, lest they clue me in to their presence. No one. I sat down on the porch to smoke a cigarette. Then I began to think: Why did I take that down? You can't get arrested for a blog! That's total bullshit! And who in the FUCK called the cops on me??! What the hell is wrong with people? I decided to call Steve, who assured me that it was neither he nor his girlfriend that ratted me out to the fuzz. Furthermore, he informed me that the cops had arrived at the house with dog requisition equipment (a term I just made up- sounds more official), required Steve to step outside while they checked on the condition of the dogs, and finally, after sorting through all the various bits of information that are required upon a visit from the boys in blue, asked him if he wanted to press charges against me, which he refused. Of course, there would have been no evidence to do so anyhow, but nonetheless, it saved us both a lot of time and trouble, not to mention any great amount of ill-will that would have surely come of that.

We then began ruminating on just who might have called the cops on me. Steve told me that the cops said that they had just gotten the call that very day, which means, if true, that the rat was over two months late in reporting my heinous written crime. We then speculated that perhaps someone had reported the abuse to the SPCA, who then filed a complaint with the police department, who in turn, in the true bureaucratic fashion of governmental agencies, filed it away under "Things to Do Right After You've Ticketed Everyone in The Area Who Has Parked the Wrong Way on the Street," and so now showed up at the offender's address.

Er, old address. Here's the rub of it all, the mystery, the unknown, the goddamned X-factor. Whoever it was that did their civic duty by phoning in an awful crime, perpetrated by a cold-blooded, merciless would-be serial killer, or worse-terrorist!- didn't know me all that well. Perhaps they were worried about getting murdered. Who knows? They did, however, know me well enough to know where I used to live. The cops surely didn't get that information from pulling me up in their system. My license still says I live in Arlington (I keep this license so I have more time to get away with all the horrible crimes I commit. It's boring, but it's my life..), and none of the bills at the house were under my name. The only things that bore that address with my name were my credit card bills, and that's it. Sure, with enough sleuthing, I'm sure the cops could've found that information out, but I can assure you that the investigation never got that deep, especially when the the complaint comes from an individual's speculation based on what they read on A B L O G.

And so, on an inquisitive note, Steve and I hung up the phone, no closer to an answer, but at least my paranoia was greatly allayed. I cringed to myself, went "Psh," and immediately returned to the computer and reposted the blog, and nothing has come of it, nor will anything.

That's just some expository information for you, the reader, to ingest. This post is actually meant for the person who knows all this stuff already. Yes, you- yeah, the windbag, candy-ass piece of shit that called the cops on me for no fucking reason. The anonymous ship in the night, the miserable, self-loathsome puke that punches you in the back of the head after you think the fight's over. You know who you are- and guess what? So do I! You don't know me, and you never will, so why don't you just keep your grubby, lonely paws out of other people's business? Now, if you want to make any of this your business, I offer an open invitation, yet again, to you faceless heroes, to feel free to contact and talk to me personally. You know how to do it. Shit, it wasn't hard for you to find my address, huh, so it shouldn't be too hard to track down my phone number, or my email address, or even my Myspace page, right? I'll do ya one better: jgpool@gmail.com. No excuses now!

If you can unveil yourself, you stalwart of truth and goodness, I shall be happy to make your acquaintance and explain a number of things to you from my own mouth that might possibly shed some light on your dim wits. But I know you, and so does everyone else. You'll stay in your little gutter and just stab at people's ankles with a rusty pocketknife as they walk by right before rushing back into the murky shadows, carefully nursing your adrenaline boner.

Get your facts straight before you play the saint, douchebag. Had you read my other blogs, you could've saved yourself an incriminating, recorded, part-of-the-public-record-and-so-therefore-available-through-the-Freedom-of-Information-Act 911 phone call. You see, in an earlier blog that I wrote, I was shot in the head with a .12 guage shotgun, and as I attempted to drive away from the scene of the crime, my vision blurred and finally disappeared altogether. Because I DIED. Fucking moron.

The true Spirit of Truth.

2006-04-28T17:54:00.000-05:00

I may be getting too caught up with publishing videos instead of actual writing on this blog, but there is no way I could not put this up. This might be the best thing I've ever seen, and I'm sure you'll agree. Many of you may have already seen the purest gold of "Spirit of Truth," seeing as it is a nearly ten year old piece of footage, but I don't care. It's too amazing. "Anybody resistin' can goddamn my ass kissin'."

My electronic life in a nutshell. A really depressing nutshell.

2006-04-21T14:14:00.000-05:00

People search for things on the internet. People find things. Sometimes people find this blog. Here's a quick cross-section of the people that have found my blog based on their internet searches. I think it speaks for itself.

Num Perc. Search Term
1 14.29% the band called touche
1 14.29% blogger account purell, oklahoma
1 14.29% hair touche up
1 14.29% queer internet
1 14.29% cat licking deodorant
1 14.29% life of sparrows
1 14.29% stryper shirts
_______________

7 100.00%

It's sad how thin the veil is, really. So easily torn away. Piece of shit veil.

Bird With a Broken Wing: The Musical.

2006-04-20T23:58:00.000-05:00

This video was shot and edited by our good friend Rob while he was on leave from the military a few weeks ago. Definitely the first (and last, probably) Brickfight music video ever. There is but one error in this video. First one to get it wins a prize: An in-depth interview of YOU by yours truly, to be published on this very blog. Proceed with caution. I have been known to be quite biased. People say I'm scathing, too. Remember that before you take the plunge. Meanwhile, enjoy this video.

Get this video and more at MySpace.com

The reason.

2006-04-18T02:26:00.000-05:00

For those not in the know, I have broken my vow of silence for the month of April to inform the uninformed, after having received numerous emails and thinly veiled threats concerning my non-blogging over the past few weeks, to educate those not as far out on the fringes of liberal media and activism as I certainly am. Below is a repost of an article published in late March on the FAIR website. Although it would have been a good idea to post this article before the first of April, rather than waiting until nearly two weeks before it ends, I am not in possession of that much foresight, and I guess I just naturally assumed that like-minded writers would have been privvy to the same information that I am. Oh well. I can only hope that next year's movement will be more widespread and recognized by whatever community it is that calls itself the blogosphere.

Month of April Decreed to be "No Blogging" Month.
Douglas Pisara

March 23, 2006.

In lieu of recent revelations concerning published earnings reports from some of the country's largest blogging websites, as published in The Wall Street Journal on January 4, 2006, many advocates of internet self publishing, namely the blog watchdog group WRITER (Winning Recompense in The Electronic Renaissance) have opted out of publishing any work online during the month of April, claiming that large blogging websites, such as Blogger and TypePad, are systematically cheating online writers out of literally millions of dollars in compensation for their work, while simultaneously strong-arming smaller, community or fan-based blogging websites out of existence altogether.

"It is time for bloggers worldwide to stand up for themselves and their communities by recognizing their net worth in the online marketplace," Steffan Borgowski, international spokesperson for WRITER, said. "What most people don't realize is that for every 10 cents they receive for their Adsense hits, it is likely that the website that hosts their blog receives double that amount, as most of these larger sites have very lucrative deals worked out with advertisers."

Borgowski went on to note that while most blogging sites are free to users, the amount of income generated by the sheer traffic that is directed to the site by the users themselves is completely disproportionate to the services that the site provides to its members.

"Blogger reported quarterly earnings of close to 2 billion dollars last year. The average income of a blogger with Adsense on their site is $25 annually, not to mention the over 40% of bloggers who choose to keep their sites ad free. Free memberships and fancy template options are fine, but is that really fair compensation to the people who actually do most of the business for the site? We don't believe it is," said Borgowski.

WRITER is currently petitioning the major blogging websites to provide compensation to its users that is proportionate to the site's profit margins and its users output.

"For instance, if a blogger provides .001% of the traffic to a certain site, then that person should receive, at the very least, .0005% of the company's profits. We believe that this is a fair and ideal situation for all parties concerned. The site itself is still generating a more than lucrative profit, and the writers themselves are being compensated in such a way that is consistent with current market trends for writers of the printed page," Borgowski said.

WRITER is also forming a lobbying group that hopes to go to Washington later this year to present to the House a bill that would ensure fair compensation for online self publishers.

But for now, WRITER is simply hoping that the blogging community will latch onto April as "No Blogging Month," so as to send a clear message to the purveyors of the "seemingly helpful and unifying blogging websites."

"By drastically affecting the income of these conglomerate sites, if only for just one month, we in the blogosphere can achieve what it is that any writer, in any medium, strives for: not a hyper or permalink from another blogger's site, but fair compensation for our work."

____________________________

I hope this clears up any confusion as to why I haven't been posting lately. If you didn't know about this, chances are that many of your friends don't either. I strongly encourage all of you to repost this article, either on your blog or through your email, to help get the word out. I'll see you again May 1.

Bloggin' about bloggin'!

2006-03-27T02:57:00.000-06:00

A quick story about my "Soda Fountain" post, in case you're interested: So, I just moved into my new house about a month ago. As is normal with moving, there are always a few kinks that must be worked out before one can feel completely settled and comfortable in a new home. Assimilation into this new abode has been fairly painless: the electricity was on the first day I slept here (a rare occurrence in my rental history), the oven worked (an even rarer occurrence), and the pain of unpacking was softened by the blow of intense stomach and rib pain, coupled with an intense 104 degree fever, which kept me bed-ridden and doped up on any number of pain pills for a few days. So that was good. The one problem my roommates and I have had thusfar has been the goddamned internet. My roommate Aaron's computer, though a fine piece of machinery to be sure, has become inculcated with many viruses and spyware in its short five year lifespan. This, however, has not been the problem. Though it is horrendously annoying to have to close sixteen pop-up ads before being able to check my email, the real problem has been the DSL service provider in the neighborhood. While I want to blame the five year old Sony VAIO for its inconsistencies in remaining online to placate my every electronic whim, I know, after conferring with friends that know internet, like, personally, that it is not the aging machine's fault. It tries. It really does.

Nonetheless, the internet comes and goes as it pleases, much like the inspiration for writing on this dusty blog in the unseen corners of the web. However, a few days ago, I had time, I had an idea, and I had the will. I had been blessed with an extra hour and a half before having to be at work, so I sat in the cat hair covered desk chair, determined to get the thoughts out before my mind changed itself. But, no, the internet was out. I could not be deterred. I could, however, beat a turd, angry as I was that the internet was out yet again. 'No matter,' I thought. 'I'll just type it out, save it, and publish it to Blogger later.' No problem. Except one. My roommate Aaron's computer does not have Microsoft Word installed on it, at least not that I could find. He does have Notepad, however, so, even while feeling archaic writing in a program that does not have options for bold, italics, or even auto-return (even most fucking typewriters have this feature), I set about writing my post. Fair enough.

I got pretty close to finishing a rough draft of the entry, and then I went to work. When I returned home, the internet was still down. Determined to somehow publish this post that night, I set about surmising ways to get my schlock onto the internet, where literally ones of people were waiting, in between twisted shit fetish videos (thanks, Immortal Technique), to view and ridicule my writing. First, I considered just printing out the piece, taking it up to the Metrognome, where there is a superior piece of computing technology and a completely trustworthy internet connection (in fact, were this internet connection a boat, I'd sail tomorrow..) , and just re-typing the thing. After re-sizing the Notebook file, which incidentally is formatted in one of the strangest and quite possibly, most unused, formats in Computer Printing history, in the Page Setup option of the Print Menu, I pressed Print only to realize minutes later that the printer next to the computer is deceitfully not connected to the computer at all. It's just on. It hopes you will make the same mistake that I did. Failure in others is the only thing that keeps it going at this point, I assume. After frantically and futilely searching for the correct cables to connect the bastard printer to the computer, I gave up.

Soon, my wonderful girlfriend came to the rescue with a small, keychain sized USB drive. Victory! I plugged the drive into the port on the back of the computer, effortlessly downloaded the file onto it, borrowed her wonderfully newer and more accessible Sony VAIO laptop, and headed up to Metrognome to utilize the wonderful WiFi connection and type to my heart's content.

Upon arrival, I downloaded the file onto the laptop, copied and pasted it into my freshly opened Blogger web browser, and, in a flash of brilliance, deleted the file from the USB drive. 'I won't be needing this anymore,' I thought. Why would I? The necessary information is but one click away from being either saved as a draft or published. Makes sense, right? Thank you- I agree with your approval of my choice.

I hate you, Sony. You designed a laptop with a highly sensitive touch mousepad, that, while looking and feeling quite aesthetically pleasing, is a demon two square inches of cheaply produced plastic. Fuck you. Nearly completely done with editing and re-writing my first draft, I magically waved, not actually touched, but waved, mind you, my hand over your ridiculously sensitive mousepad. A moment.. an hourglass icon by the arrow, and voila- my Blogger window closed, unsaved and unwarranted. Nary even a warning. Just gone.

So, that happened. I frantically searched the Recycle bin of the computer. Funny how it produces delete results for over 1,500 things it has just recently deleted from having the internet open, but you couldn't save one little text file, could you? No, apparently, when you delete something from a USB drive, it's gone forfuckingever. Thanks. And yes, I'm sure there is a way to retrieve information such as this, but don't bother telling me now. You're days late, and clearly you're not psychic or clairvoyant, so you're no good to me anyhow. Don't bother telling me. I don't care.

Everything I had worked on for the past hour was gone. I returned home, defeated, yet angry enough to spite the electronic world by starting completely over, which is what I did, even though it was nearly 4 a.m. A mitzvah! The internet was up when I arrived. I started over. I re-edited, re-wrote, re-thought, wrote more, and came very near to the end of the doomed blog. In fact, I was merely one sentence away from being completely finished when- that hourglass icon. A frozen screen. I turned slowly to the EWire box on top of my roommate Aaron's computer. The internet was out again. Just in time for me to not be able to write my last six word sentence and press Publish. And that was that.

I went on a short, murderous rampage and retired to my bed, utterly defeated. The next morning, I approached the computer with caution, careful to step lightly lest I knock out the internet connection with too heavy a footfall. Luckily, I had saved my work quite frequently the night before, and so all that needed to be done was to type that last sentence, which I miraculously remembered.

And that's it. The story of an obviously ill-fated blog and its even worse off author.

Then the world exploded and everyone died. Except the makers of Sony VAIO, who went on to create a new world with computers and madness for all, the fuckers. You too, internet. You suck, too.

The History of Comedy.

2006-03-24T23:46:00.000-06:00

In 1983, a young Bill Cosby, discouraged with his work as a metallurgist, walked home late one evening down La Brea Blvd. in Los Angeles, California, after a long and lonely day's work. Ever the optimist, Bill whistled a happy, yet wistful tune as his sprightly steps echoed through the lonely, broken avenue that once held, besides a trail to the ever famous tar pits, golden opportunities for silver-haired memories of days long since past.

Just ahead of him, about half a block, Bill noticed a tired man- tired of life, tired of living- in a broken heap, nestled against the wall of a storefront. As he approached this man, Bill discerned what appeared to be the soft sobs of a once happy man. Never one to enjoy the suffering of his fellow man, Bill fished in his greasy pockets to see if he could provide some financial relief for this man, which at the time was the only means of consolation for humans. Realizing he was completely broke, Bill began to panic- he had never before been unable to provide relief for his fellow man! Beads of sweat popped like corn onto his forehead as he approached the poor unfortunate- he had nothing to offer!

As he came nearer and nearer to the man, he grew quite nervous, and just as he passed in front of the man, intent on ignoring his very existence, Bill stepped directly onto the peel of a banana that the broken man had eaten earlier and tossed carelessly onto the sidewalk, as men who have lost their way often do. Bill's balance was completely lost, and his legs flew out from under him, and directly he found himself awash in pain on his backside directly in front of the man. The sobbing fellow, surprised and frightened by this surprising occurence, frightfully looked up from his lap, soaked from sobbing, and gazed at Bill in wonderment. Bill, at a complete loss, save immense embarassment, said, "HeyHeyHey!," in a voice quite uncharacteristic of the type of man Bill was physically. In point of fact, his voice made him sound as if he were an overweight teenager, possibly named Albert, when in reality he was a slim and slender twentysomething, and his name was Bill!

And then, something quite strange happened. The fellow, quite confused by this freak accident, stared at Bill, and, rather than crying harder or becoming enraged at this occurrence, which was, at the time, the typical reaction to any situation whatsoever, grew mysteriously quiet. Miraculously, his tears dried instantly, and his face, rather than mutating into one of rage and anger, drew upwards, ever so slowly, into what we now know as a smile! Moments later, sounds emanated from the deepest parts of his belly- sounds the world had never before heard! This infectious sound, this spasmodic shaking of the diaphragm, found its way into Bill himself, and before you knew it, the two rolled on the ground in tandem, right in the middle of the city!

A few doors down, a local club owner, Hambone Laffin, fumed outside his nightclub, furiously smoking cigarette after cigarette, at a loss. His club, a local haven for music lovers, was in dire straits that evening. It seems as though the band booked to play there that night, The Dire Straits, had called to cancel their gig, as they were stuck in Colorado Springs, angrily finishing their much anticipated debut album, "Sadness is the best medicine," which, after this fateful evening, would go on to be an utter failure in the charts. Laffin, known as an extremely ribald risktaker amongst his fellow club owners, heard the commotion down the street, and furiously thought, "What the FUCK is that?" Storming down the street, he noticed Bill Cosby and the unfortunate man rolling like loons on the ground and instantly became quite intrigued, and, hard a man as he was, felt a jostling inside that he never felt before. A few yards away, he stopped and watched the two men for upwards of a minute, while Bill, catching on, sent the poor man into utter hysterics by repeatedly saying "HeyHeyHey!"

A man quick on his feet and even quicker to action, Hambone stormed up to the men, and, fatefully casting a downward glance at Bill, said forcefully, "You! Can you do THAT," pointing to the rolling degenerate,"in THERE?", pointing now to his club down the street. "You want a job?," he said. Bill's eyes lit up, and instantly he said, "Yes, sir!" The two men stood up from the dirty pavement, and just to see what might happen, Bill relayed to the men an hilarious anecdote, now lost to the sands of time, about a fellow who apparently hailed from the mythical land of Nantucket, followed, of course, by his now trademarked catch phrase, "HeyHeyHey!". The three men practically fell down the street, arm in arm, tears streaking down their faces, only this time not in a sorrowful way.

And so it was, on August 13, 1983, at Hambone Laffin's now famous nightclub called The Laugh Inn, stand up comedy was born. Incidentally, the act we now know of as laughter, was named after Hambone Laffin, as he was the first person in history to pay money to produce such a reaction, which was, and coincidentally, still is, the only way to lay claim to things, be they physical or intellectual property.

Bill Cosby went on to perform in literally hundreds of clubs across the country, and later went on to act in thousands of movies. He also found the time to appear in literally millions of American's homes to promote the frozen taste sensation of Jello's Pudding Pops. When he had his first child, the young buck, at the tender age of three, could not pronounce the family name, and, instead of "Cosby," said, "Comdy." Bill soon began to be known amongst his peers, which included such comedic pioneers as Margaret Cho and Yahoo Serious, as Bill Comedy, giving us the name of what is now one of the most financially lucrative and simple jobs to do in America.

Soda Fountain.

2006-03-21T02:10:00.000-06:00

I pay for my food and approach quickly, yet tentatively. There is a woman there refilling a sweating, waxy cup with four extra pieces of ice and diet cola. The cup begins to fold in her hand, transforming the circular top of the cup into an aching grimace, a yearning from this single use utensil to be retired, tossed. The third refill is a chore, a tax on its very being. She turns and walks away just as I reach the station, glancing behind her momentarily with what must be a look of relief- she had kept no one waiting.

I have two cups to fill, and so I hurriedly begin filling one with ice, peering down into the cup, realizing that I have gotten too much ice, dumping the cup out partially, and acquiring a few more cubes from the ice dispenser, as I poured too much out on the first attempt. I repeat this process with the second cup as I simultaneously begin filling the first cup with the chosen beverage. As the cup fills with streams of carbonated water, sugary syrup and mountains of fizz, I pull the second cup from under the ice dispenser, dump some ice, and move the cup to its appropriate beverage dispenser and begin the eternal task of filling it. I sense movement behind me, and a cautionary glance yields the horrible truth- another customer is fast approaching. I turn my attention back to the cups in great haste to check their progress. The fizz appears to be increasing, actually, and I stick a finger into each cup in an effort to make it recede more quickly- an old wive's tale, an urban legend. This act produces no result, short of leaving both index fingers cold and sticky.

The millions of bubbles, indifferent to any sort of social couth, patiently wait and pop as they please, taking pleasure, perhaps, in the act of waiting their soon-to-be consumers must endure while they act out their tiny, insignificant lives in tandem with one another. If only to be in one of those tiny bubbles of air- vast civilizations clinging valiantly to the smooth, curved surface of the cup, then- up, up, pop.

There is now a woman with a small child directly behind me, waiting, talking to the impatient child- making the need for an expedited end to this carbonated tenure that much more pressing and desperate. I push the first cup back under the nozzle and attempt to finish filling it, but my impatience has cost me- the cup has overflowed, and soda and bubbles and shame streak down the side of the cup and gather for laughs and the process of becoming flat in the grey, plastic gulley beneath the wire grate that catches ice and holds cups. I shake my hand back and forth once, quickly, as a cat does when it steps in its water bowl, to rid myself of the errant liquid, and turn back to the second cup to repeat this process. The woman sidles in next to me, quite craftily, and had I not been acutely aware of her presence, I would have been wholly unaware of her altogether, until the sound of the ice machine cranks up in masses of churning and volume. Horror- my first cup is under the very nozzle that she is intent on using. She eyes me peripherally, noticeably, and I give the first cup one final push under the nozzle. I can only hope, at this point, that the cup is filled to my liking.

The steady sound of rushing water and carbon dioxide filling the woman's cup mere inches from me burns my ears and causes the rest of the blood in the nearby vicinity to flood my cheeks as I look at my own cup that is only three quarters full. I take a half-step back in her direction, determined, momentarily, to finish filling the cup to its potential, but I decide against it in mid-stride and turn around again. My second cup, now calm from the storm of repeated onslaughts of cold soda, sits sparkling and glowing on the grate, triumphantly full, though not without beadlets of brown liquid lining its outer surface- wounds from battle not soon forgotten.

I begin fumbling with plastic lids, attempting to affix them in their proper place- atop the teeming ocean of life, death and refreshment below. I hear the woman shuffling down the line, drinks full, sips taken sans lid, the brown tray her food rests on scraping along the metal rails glued to the formica countertop. The child reaches for a straw.

Glimpse.

2006-03-10T20:04:00.000-06:00

She stared at the edge of the truck, the giant tread of the tires spinning so quickly that it sounded as if the truck was constantly running off the road onto the tiny, ingenious bumps that alerted swerving, drowsy drivers and annoyed the shit out of wayward tourists. Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" blared out of tinny speakers through the small, sliding back window. The passing cement of highway movement melted into a grey and yellow winding river when viewed through her crying, robotic eyes. She hesitated- wait- no, not a moment, and... jump.

Her feet hit first but her face hit hardest. Surprise. Mainly intense, tearing pain, but a good deal of surprise, too. Surprisingly. Surprise because of the feeling. All this talk of adrenaline overriding pain in these types of scenarios- nonsense. Actually, it was total bullshit. She thought momentarily that she simply had a low pain tolerance, and at once felt weak and helpless. Momentarily. Momentarily because this all happened in less than a moment. Well, to be fair- a short moment. But, alas, that portion of the moment had passed, and directly she turned her attention to the fleshy bone quite literally exploding from her cheek as she skidded and bounced, at once forwards and backwards, down the interstate at 60 mph, 59, 58, 57. Had gravity, friction, and flailing limbs not impeded this gradual slowing of one mile per hour at a time, it would have taken just over 4 1/2 hours to travel sixty miles, under the pretense that she traveled the same speed as the number of miles left.

This thought, however, never crossed her mind, and it likely never would have either, as she was not much of one for such heady, mathematical issues, but even if it ever had the chance, that chance was dashed as quickly as her brains, when, on the third tumble towards the shoulder of the increasingly still highway, she, probably unwisely, decided, or perhaps not, to use the back portion of her head as a slowing device, likely not realizing that her skull, while being one of the hardest pieces of continuous bone in her body, was no match at all for the reinforced concrete that the state of Ohio spent $2 million on in the last few years, in a tax funded initiative entitled "Rejuvenation: Ohio," spurned into quick action after a series of scathing articles in the Cincinatti Sun-Times by leading satirist Billy Rest, cleverly titled "No More Ohi-holes!," referring, of course, to the admittedly poor upkeep of roads that, in their day, opened welcoming arms to the weary western fortune seekers- those young adventure capitalists that shook the bonds of their eastern seaboard shackles, and pressed outward towards new life.

...As I sickly cull the cyclical.

2006-03-08T02:12:00.000-06:00

Not much has changed- everything has. Not much is different- everything is. Inspiration abounds- minds fester. New surroundings, well, surround- still four walls and a couple windows. Rebirth approaches- abortion be thy form. Wait for it.

Apologies for such schlock- my brain is still burning off the remnants of a few days of 104 degree fever. Many promises for a triumphant return.

2006-02-28T23:56:00.000-06:00

Dear Bert,

2006-02-25T15:38:00.000-06:00

I am so sorry. I should have locked you back in my room when I left the other night to play out my delusions of self-importance onstage. You didn't want to be in there, though. You seemed to have grown quite content resting on the couch in the computer room. Perhaps it holds some nostalgic value for you. It was, after all, the couch you spent many hours snoozing on when we first met, after you became comfortable in your new surroundings at the old apartment in Arlington. Then, when we moved to the Dream House a few miles away, you would perch yourself right on the top cushion and sleep the days away until I came home late at night, just so you could greet me instantly, since the couch was right by my door. The couch must have been a deep source of comfort for you, and seeing as you spend 8-12 hours a day cooped up in my bedroom while I am off running errands or working, it's perfectly understandable for you to have wanted a reprieve from your daily prison for a few short hours until I came home again, at which point you would gladly follow me to my room to sit on my chest and purr until I either fell asleep or grew weary of your kneading paws digging into my bare chest and pushed you off onto a nearby pillow.

You didn't want to be in my room, so I didn't force you to, as I have many times over the last twelve months. I wanted you to be happy, and I didn't think a few hours left unattended would have me find you mauled to death on the kitchen floor by my roommate's vicious fucking dogs. I thought you kept them at bay. I know they were very mindful of your ferocity and dominance, at least while there were humans around. I thought you would be able to escape any imminent danger, especially as an agile feline against a couple of clumsy dogs. They must have cornered you, ran you down somehow. There were three of them, after all, and only one of you. I know Story did not do this to you, though I am sure she had a role in your tragic demise. You guys sleep right next to each other, and I know she never had any ill intent towards you. Sometimes she gently chased you while trying to sniff your butt, and other times she would aggravate you into giving her a few swipes on the nose after you grew wearisome of her incessant licking, but she never once growled or snapped at you. Those other fucking dogs have, though. And they've killed cats before.

I honestly had no idea that they would become so insane as to attack you, Bert. I really didn't. I guess that's what happens when your owner leaves town for nearly a month and doesn't do anything to care for you, short of having someone come over once a day to let you out for five minutes and dump some food in a bowl. I'm so sorry, Bert. I should've known better, but my hurriedness to get out the door after work must have clouded my judgment.

My guess is that you were sniffing and chewing at the plants in the living room, and maybe Story began playing with you, chasing you down the hall, which riled up the other dogs, at which point primal instinct took over. It doesn't matter.

What matters is that your last few moments on this earth were filled with sheer terror, and I did nothing to save you. I'm sure, loyal as you are, that until the very last second you were just waiting for me to come in and call off those fucking pieces of shit, even as you fought for dear life. What could you do? They couldn't have taken you on one-on-one, so one of the fucking cowards clamped down on your neck, suffocating you, while the other one bit at your stomach and back. I'm sure Story was around there somewhere too, barking either in protest or sadistic pleasure. There's no way to know.

The horrible irony is that what I said before virtually came true, body positioning and all. I'm still having a hard time considering the implications of it all, but it does seem to fit in quite resoundingly with the rest of my life, and I am so deeply sorry that you became yet another example. You spent the first years of your life grossly mistreated, and then for a while, you lived a somewhat normal life. You were loved very much by both Rebecca and I, and the love and appreciation you showed in return was unequalled by any pet I have either had or known. You truly were a unique being.

When I came home around two a.m. and found you lying on the kitchen floor, I gasped and yelled in horror and fell to my knees to check to see if you were okay. Your eyes were open in terror, and I cradled your head, the only part of you that was still dry and unharmed, and attempted to check your pulse. I couldn't find one, but I don't know that I'd be able to even if you had had one. Your body was still warm as I frantically pet and talked to you, and called my girlfriend and roused her out of bed with my crying hysterics. A small part of me believes that a small part of you was still alive when I found you, as if waiting to fully let go until you could see me and feel my touch just once more, because ten minutes later, your body was no longer warm, and your extremities had begun to stiffen. I could be wrong and simply deluding myself as we humans are wont to do when it comes to dealing with loved one's passings, but you don't mind, do you?

Minutes passed and I became enraged. I alternated between storming through the house, destroying doors and kicking the dogs and laying on the ground with you, pleading for your life. I assure you, Bert, that any terror you might have felt in your final moments was multiplied tenfold in the dogs. I don't think they thought they were going to make it out alive. Story was mortified. I put her in her cage while I mercilessly beat the others. She was shaking so hard that the door of her cage rattled as I threw the murderers outside. She hasn't been the same since. For the first day after your death, she would not leave my bedroom, even to go outside. Even now, she is wandering throughout the house, whining for no reason. She was truly affected. She misses you.

When my vengeful rage had finally passed and my breathing returned to normal, I wrapped your wet, broken body in a red towel and cradled you in my arms, trying my best to close your eyes, though they would not. I held you, a body heavier now with the weight of death, just like I did the first night I got you, about two years ago, now- wrapped in a towel, pressed tightly against my chest. The first night I did this was to comfort you. The last night I did this was to comfort me.

Soon, Rebecca came over and sat on the floor with me while I kissed your nose and blubbered tearful admissions of guilt, responsibility and memory. Later, I placed you inside a box, along with your food bowl full of Deli-Cat, the towel you always sat on while eating, and a plastic sack. I placed you up high, on a speaker cabinet, so the dogs wouldn't get to you again, if they came back, that is.

Rebecca gave me a sleeping pill, at my behest, as I knew I would never be able to sleep on my own, and around 6 a.m., I passed out.

I awoke with a start at eleven the following morning, and walked into the living room to see the dogs that I threw out the night before. I kicked Linus Wang in the ribs, and punched Daisy Mae squarely in the face twice, drawing blood, and kicked them out the front door again. I should feel bad for abusing those animals, but I do not.

The torrential rainfall that day made it easier to dig the three foot hole that would become your grave, and the mud that is still caked underneath my fingernails will not likely be gone soon. Can't say I really care.

I buried you on the side of the house, underneath the third stone of the walkway. That was the stone you always sat on when you went outside occasionally. You would just sit there and look around, not doing anything, really, but always sure to come when I called for you.

Rebecca came over after school and laid a white rose on your grave and said some really nice things about your poor, tortured life. I know it doesn't mean shit to you, but it made me feel better, if not sadder. I couldn't say anything. I just littered your grave with guilty tears.

The worst pain comes in knowing that in just three days, I will be moving to a new house free of vicious dogs and busy roads- a new place where I planned to let you run around outside as much as you wanted, free from the limitations of a small bedroom. We almost made it.

I'm so sorry, Bert.

Bert the Cat
??-February 23, 2006

Rest in peace, Baby B.

Love,

Jonathan and Rebecca[in absentia]

People have no fucking honor anymore.

2006-02-23T02:00:00.000-06:00

Out of the now five wrecks that my car (see almost every other post on this forsaken blog) has been involved in, I have been present (by which I mean actually in my car) for only two, neither of which were my fault. The only one that could possibly be construed as my fault was the time I was hit by a future co-worker, as I might have cut her off. But, we all know what the law says when it comes to a rear-ending. Besides, she told me later that she was looking at a Bennigan's across the road to see if any of her friends were there. Nonetheless, she never accepted any blame for the accident.

Three months after I purchased my car, I walked out on New Year's Day to find a nice dent in the hood of my car, apropos of nothing. Yes, I had been out drinking the night before, but I know, without fail, that I never hit anything. But- no note, no nothing. Just a nice dent and chipped paint that would've cost over $2,000 to repair as two seperate panels would need to be replaced. So, over the last three years, the dent has gone unrepaired, and a nice bit of rust has formed where there was once a nice coat of paint. Fine.

And then today happened. Leaving the grocery store after buying cat and dog food, cat litter and hot dog buns (that's how I shop), what do I see, but a huge fucking dent over the back wheel well of the driver's side of my car (incidentally, the same side as the other hit-and-run awesomeness). Sure, parking lot accidents happen all the time. I marvelled at the fact that I had not even been in the store for more than five minutes, literally. Then I had a clearly moronic thought: 'I'll walk to the front of my car and check the windshield. Surely whoever did this knew what they'd done and left me a note with their insurance information or something.' Boy, am I an idiot.

This was the point that I realized that the car that was parked next to me was the same car that I pulled in next to. How could this have happened? Then I realized that this heinous act of negligence and purposeful denial was most likely perpetrated by the painters and carpenters who have been repairing the house next door over the past month. All have white trucks, and, oh yeah, did I mention the nice streak of white paint on the dent?

It doesn't matter. I'm sure, though I'm exhausting all avenues, that I'll never find out who did this. The damage does not affect the way the car drives, and I assume that even if I were compensated monetarily for the damage inflicted on my car I wouldn't use it to repair the dent. I'd likely put it towards some other matter more pressing.

But that's not the fucking point.

Cowards! The whole lot of us, goddamn cowards. Everyone is so fearful of losing one more dollar or being unnecessarily sued in this horrendously litigious society of ours that common decency, basic human courtesy, has flown right out the window that some asshole left open, even after being told repeatedly not to.

Hey, if I smashed into someone's car, I would be tempted to just drive off as well. Especially during the times that I haven't had insurance. But I wouldn't. I'd leave a note with my number on it or a funny cartoon or something. Something. Anything. I can say this because I know, categorically, that this will likely not ever happen to me because I am an attentive and responsible driver.

Why not be a stand-up dude (or broad) and own up to your mistakes? I don't want your money, but an apology would be nice. Ever consider that?

This post sucks. I know it. I don't care. Ranting on the internet is stupid, but I didn't go to the bar tonight, and so therefore I had no casual acquaintance to unload the full extent of my social commentary onto. All I want is for people to cease to be so frightened of their money and start fearing what it is that really needs fearing: ME, when, as a big pussy, you speed away when you make a mistake.

You fucking pukes. You know who you are.

This one's for John.

2006-02-20T02:31:00.000-06:00

A = 2nd (1-23)
A = 3rd (24-46)

First Place wins a prize.

_________________

Forsooth and truly, it is fine to admonish the weak- they bask in their own glory; they mate without "achtung," to borrow a word, and feeling is nothing more than attachment to phony, peasantine ideals. Our crass, yet passive and unemotional acceptance of this ignominy comes as no surprise, given the state of the system we currently find ourselves in. Should one ask oneself the all-important question (hah! Quite unlikely, we may only asssume...), failing, after all, our Byzantine predecessors who, at the time, though proficient in Middle aged bedding, drew, nonetheless, very inaccurate conclusions about human interaction, still were able to accept the one thought we've assuaged ourselves from for so long: Will absenteeism absolve Every Day Man from the beauty- the blasphemy- of care and loyalty? Verily, he must begin anew.

Can the media really report this with confidence?

2006-02-20T02:29:00.000-06:00

Philippine landslide village buries bodies and hope.
Sun Feb 19, 2006 9:19 PM ET

Just wondering. Seems like it'd be hard to prove that last bit. I could be wrong. Unless 'hope' is the name of one of the bodies- y'know, a special body that doesn't get lumped in with all the rest of the 'bodies.' Like, maybe the mayor or something. Or whatever you call the person that resides over a couple hundred thatch huts.

Invocation.

2006-02-18T17:56:00.000-06:00

According to my many satisfied customers, the following invocation of The Muse has been known to aid in decreasing blockage, whether it be of the writerly, colonic, colonical, or paved roadway type. Feel free to use it at your leisure. My humblest wish is that it aids you in all of your various endeavors, whatever they may be. And that you'll send me fabulous wads of cash for my work.

Invocation of The Muse.
O, gentle, gentle Muse of One Thousand Graces, bestow upon me Your Greatest Treasure, a Gift akin only to the Likeness of Your Most Precious Countenance- a Gift that, upon receipt, sends Grateful Tears streaking down one's dirty, pock-marked Face, forming Tributaries and Eddies of Salted Water on one's Cheeks and Chins, much like the Rise of the Euphrates and the Rhone after the Onslaught of Highly Prayed Rain Recarves the Parched Countryside, as Cool and Refreshing as a Soothing Mint Libation in the Deadliest of Summer Heat, A Heat Most Hot!, a Heat Hotter than Vesuvius' Lava itself, and Replenishes the Scorched Land, more Scorched than an Eight-Score Desert Traveler, with dense and luscious Vegetation such as to provide Sustenance to its' People for the Entire Season; Such are one's tears upon Receipt of Your Magnificent Gift. I mustneeds beseech Your illuminous Gift, that I may be most Graciously Blessed to regale but a Fraction of That which I shall undoubtedly experience in My Sojourn into the Great Unknown, The Dentist's Office, The Voting Booth, The Backseat Of His Car, The Spidery Garage, The Library where All the Homeless Hang Out, The Rapey Junkyard to replace a Wheel Cover that Costs maybe $5 more at Auto Zone, The Sears to Replace a Broken Vanity Mirror that Shattered when Inflamed Passion towards My Seethingly Curious and Annoying Cat directed my Hand to Loose Itself of the Nearly Empty Can of Spirits in the Vicinity of My Feline's nosey Paws, or The Spidery Backseat of That Homeless Man's Junked Out Van. This I beseech You, O Muse.

Modern Satire!

2006-02-13T03:41:00.000-06:00

If you will..

2006-02-09T16:19:00.000-06:00

...Imagine a broke-ass Alice Cooper meeting a newly rich Kip Winger. Close your eyes. Got it?

Enter:

Yeah, I thought this. So what?! Like all living, breathing things, I am a sexual creature! I am also an artist, and making comparisons between things is something that comes naturally to me! And no, imagining the flagpole as a dick is not a common occurrence for me, but sometimes things pop up! Fuck you!

Like I care what you people think anyway.. My half-brother, Richard Marx (yeah, remember him, assholes? 'Endless Summer Nights' is the only reason half of you got laid after prom!) said my video is awesome. So, go ahead and criticize me, you bunch of terrorists. Fucking jerks.

Now, click here and watch my video. Um... please.

Three Cases.

2006-02-05T20:03:00.000-06:00

I hesitate to write this, seeing as the last thing I wrote related to my car was soundly defeated by a pop-tart, but considering I spend probably eighty per cent of my time in said car, it stands to reason that many of my experiences-turned-hilarious-anecdotes would stem from my decadent participation in our fossil fuel driven economy. If you are bored or unentertained by my usage of my vehicle as a delivery system for poor jokes, bad stereotypes or split infinitives, I suggest you click off the offending page now, head over to the nearest reference library, discover who coined and popularized the term "Write what you know," and spend the rest of your days searching for his or her tombstone so as to litter it with graffiti and flown middle fingers. And piss, too. That'd be good. Don't bother sending me emails or comments housing your complaints. My solipsistic leanings have instructed me to simply not care.

1. The Case of The Forgotten Accident.
A few months ago, I was driving to Guitar Center with my friend Steve, when, upon changing lanes perhaps too hastily on a very busy street, we found ourselves rear-ended. While we were driving about 30 mph, the offender couldn't have been going more than 40-45 mph. So, it was a minor accident. Not to see Steve's reaction, though. He jumped as violently as I imagine he would if I intentionally ran down two pairs of beauty pageant triplets. Maybe his reaction was not so out of place. Maybe mine was. You see, this marked the third time I had been rear-ended in this car. Once, my girlfriend hit it in my driveway (I admit that I was not in my car when this happened. I was in hers.). Then, a stoned teenage gangster hit me at a light, whereupon he threatened to "beat my ass" when I told his annoying, yelly sister to "shut the fuck up." And so now, this. No big deal. I told Steve to stop freaking out and pulled over into a Michelin Tire. Steve cited previous back problems as the reasoning behind his outlandish reaction, and so the subject was dropped.

I surveyed the damage and asked the young woman who hit me if she was alright. But, probably in the reverse order. She was fine, and her car had little to no damage. My rear fender, already scratched, was a bit more scuffed now, and part of the right side had popped out a little- something I could easily fix had I the wherewithal to do such things. I don't, and so it hasn't been yet. Of course, the police were not called. I gathered the girl's insurance information and told her I'd call her if I decided to report it. I had already decided, however- not having insurance myself at the time, I felt it would be unfair to tarnish her driving record and hike up her insurance rates for such a petty accident, and, had the situation been reversed (even though that would never happen, since I am an impeccable driver), I would hope she would do the same. Especially since she wouldn't have had a choice.. *ahem* We went our separate ways, an inconsequential bumping on an inconsequential day.

And that, as they say, was that.

A few days ago, one of the girls who I have worked with at the pizza hole for nearly four months now was relating past experiences of waiting on people at Denny's to me. I said, "Oh, maybe that's where I know you from, 'cause I swear you look familiar to me." That's when she said, "No, you wanna know where you know me from? I can tell you exactly. Remember that time you got rear-ended?"

"That was you?! Why haven't you said anything about that this whole time?"

"I dunno," she said.

Well, that shut me up.

2. The Case of The Nearly-Decade-Old-Lame-Thing-To-Do-To-Someone-If-You-Are-A-Fucking-Asshole.
Not much explanation is needed for this. But, let me paint the scene: Driving home from the dog park last week with my sweet hound, Story (she's not really a hound), windows down, radio up, tongues slapping various things as we roamed the freeway at 70mph (hers, the outside paint on the side of my car, mine, a soda, or possibly a cigarette, though I try to keep them as dry as possible when I use them), a warm southerly breeze drifting in and out of the car like so many ghosts, I took solace in knowing that I had just made my dog's day, even though nefarious, self-righteous pricks had unsuccessfully attempted to humiliate both her and I while at the dog park (explanation of this statement will be appearing here posthaste..) and that I would not be participating in waged slavery for at least 54 more minutes. I began exiting the freeway, as I am wont to do when the proper occasion presents itself. Then this happened.

Look! You can see my house from here!

That's right. Paintballs. Drive-by paintballing. Wow. Didn't that shit go out in like 1998?

3.The Case of the Forbidden Boob.
While I wasn't in my car during the following story, it is sure that had I not owned a car, I certainly wouldn't have found myself in Como, one of the supposed ghettos of Ft. Worth (frankly, it's a lot nicer than some of the neighborhoods I've lived in), standing inside the house of a freshly showered woman who was blasting gospel music. Wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe, the woman bent over to sign a credit card slip, and pop!, out comes a breast. While making a small attempt to pull her robe over the exposed no-no, it is clear that she was either a) clearly comfortable with her body and did not mind exposing it to bearded strangers or, b) hoping I would look at it, because the small movement of fabric did nothing to cover the escaped pouch of flesh. So, I looked at it, that's all. Not sexually or anything- just a look. A curious extended glance, a perhaps shared understanding between the two of us, nothing more. What was I supposed to do?! Then she gave me a very generous $5 tip. And a handjob.

I love the trough!

2006-01-26T03:11:00.000-06:00

Not really. In actuality, I hate the trough. If there is another man urinating at the trough, you won't catch me there. I'll either be waiting in line for the stall, or back at my seat at the bar, crossing my legs like nobody's business, or at least somebody's business that I don't want to invest in...

Aaron and I went to the Latino bar, "The Twilight Lounge," for last call tonight- only because band practice went late and Twilight is the closest bar to get to when it's 1:46 in the morning.

The few minutes we spent there were pretty uneventful, but nonetheless, we both agreed that they were quite surreal, those few minutes. How do I explain- it's not really that weird to go into a bar where no one speaks English. It's not that weird to pay $2.50 for a bottle of Miller. It's not that weird to hear, "Joo een't gottoo goo hoom, bot joo got too git dee fook outta heear!" Well... I guess that's kinda weird. But more funny, really. Especially coming from a young woman that I seriously thought was a prostitute five minutes earlier, simply based on her apparel. Color me judgmental. I guess she was a friend/girlfriend of the bartender. Who'da guessed?

Anyway, there was a trough for a urinal in the men's bathroom. Luckily, no one else had to relieve themselves at the same time I did. It could've been weird. I envision some sort of international incident evolving from a simple misunderstanding- "Look, it's not a racist thing! It's got more to do with my insec- OW! You just punched my nose! OW! What the fu- Hey! Stop punching m-", and so on.

This exists.

2006-01-26T02:42:00.000-06:00

Atoka, Oklahoma. I-75/69. Halfway between Dallas and Tulsa. Right by the Wal-Mart and the Love's. Seems about right.

Do my biddings.

2006-01-25T03:46:00.000-06:00

Please take a look at the fine item I've posted for sale on Ebay. I think you'll find it worth... something.

Haiku to Reinforce this Sentiment:

You could buy this thing.
This thing could be bought by you.
Don't you deserve it?

Huzzah!

2006-01-25T03:02:00.000-06:00

Many accolades to you if you are one of the few people looking at this blog unprompted by a link from a website. If you are new, I must certainly welcome you with open arms. If you are not, you should now be used to being turned away in callous fashion by these arms that are quite full, at the moment, with fresh, new readers. I thank you for your patronage, new readers. Old readers- I scorn your patronage. You are merely a spectre of the past. The future lies with all these new people! New or old, I beseech you all to sign up for my new email list, which I have listed below. I ask you to perform this simple task only if you wish to receive emails from me on occasion directing you to something (most likely on this very blog) that I deem of import- namely any various rant, complaint, or hogswizzle I might have posted herein. I thank you in advance for your patronage. But, that's it... Don't expect anything else from me. I've done my part already by thanking you. After this, it would just start to get weird. You understand..

Again, please sign up for my mailing list. If you so choose..

2006-01-23T02:43:00.000-06:00

CarMaximum Pain.

2006-01-16T23:36:00.000-06:00

When I bought my car 3 1/2 years ago, along with the vehicle itself I also purchased a 60,000 mile extended warranty- yeah, I'm that guy. Hey, it came in handy- I got a free CD player out of the deal when the one that came with the car stopped working. Oh, and I think they replaced a couple of headlight bulbs, too. All in all, though, the peace of mind one gets from knowing that one won't have to pay for any repairs for the first couple of years one owns the car is quite satisfactory. It's just one less burden to concern oneself with, considering the myriad of other headaches financing and caring for a slightly used car entails. And what's that worth, really? Oh yeah, about $1,500.

Don't judge me. I've made my choice.

Of course, this also meant having to take my car to the dealership to get it serviced, a proposition that I initially winced at. I've heard the stories. Plus, with a car like mine, you can always find a relatively cheap place to get work done. Y'know- hippies turned entrepreneurs. Strangely enough, and even as cynical as I am, especially as concerns dealing with large companies, I found myself leaving the dealership after each repair or oil change pleasantly, well, satisfied with the service I had just received, whether I had paid for it or not.

What was happening to me? Had I gone soft and given in to my unattainable ideals, or had I just been the nth victim of a truly masterful manipulation? I couldn't understand- why was it that I didn't feel ripped off? Why was it that I didn't feel as though I was being lied to when it came to the repairs that needed to be done?

Then I figured it out. These guys aren't getting commission, they're on salary! Therefore, they have nothing to gain by selling me parts I don't need. In fact, the sooner they get me out of there, the sooner they can go on their next smoke break or hang around the coffee machine where Sara from Receptions always goes at 2:09 every afternoon..

Plus, there was Greg: the ASE Certified Technician that always handled my claims. Greg was the kind of guy you want working on your car- clearly smart and capable, rugged, but not too rugged, and with a face as friendly as you might imagine your own mother's would be... were she a mechanic. For over a year, each time I went to the front desk to check in, the receptionist would inform me that my appointment was with Greg. I would then walk into the lobby and faithfully stand in line at his cubicle, and wait. I began to think that Greg was actually requesting me as a customer, as I found it quite coincidental that I should always find myself in his line, rather than any one of the other six technicians always on hand. With that in mind, I began requesting to have him as my technician every time I made an appointment: "Yeah, I need to see Greg about an oil change. Hmm? Oh, today, if possible."

And so it went. Sooner rather than later, "G'morning,Mr. Pool," turned into "Hey, whaddya say there, Jonathan?" and "Oh no, what'd you do that poor Golf this time? Hahaha!" As busy a man as he was, he always made an effort to offer a friendly handshake and a firm pat on the back after the completion of our transaction. I appreciated the gesture, so I even took the time to fill out the customer surveys he would occassionally meekly ask me to complete, "if it won't take too much of your time, pal."

And then, one day, he was gone. I didn't ask what happened to him. As emascualating as it is to take your car in to have something done that you, as a man, should know how to do in the first place, you certainly don't want to humiliate yourself by actually acting like you care about what happened to another man in front of a bunch of mechanics. Sure, you know they wouldn't laugh at you outright- that'd be unprofessional- but you'd see it in their eyes. They might even hang a poinsettia scented car freshener from your rearview mirror the next time they change your timing belt, just so you know that they know.

And so, I never found out what happened to Greg. I imagined him on a hilly ranch somewhere in the green fields of Montana, shoeing horses or installing exhaust fans on hogs. Probably, though, he was just promoted within the company. Guess I shouldn't have filled out so many of those surveys- at least not with all 10's.

I approached any new technician with extreme caution- how could I trust these guys? I don't know these guys! For all I know, they got that ASE patch on their arm from some guy they mugged down at the Firestone. I made no requests for specific technicians. I was fine with simply being shuffled around the office to whomever was available- I need some work done, let's just get it done and get out of here. This place creeps me out, I thought.

Soon, my stormy appointments at the dealership reached a sort of homeostasis. I began to be repeatedly assigned to Jesse, a nice enough man not too much my senior. He gave his customers a sense of comfort by displaying pictures on his cubicle of his children playing various sports. Even though I do not have children and the thought of having them makes me uncomfortable, his magic nonetheless worked on me as well. Even with the fear of being abandoned by another technician that I might grow to appreciate and even enjoy doing business with, I began requesting Jesse for my appointments.

Occasionally, Jesse would be out of the office, and so I would have to deal with someone else when I went in. There were a number of times that Brian, the technician in the cubicle right next to Jesse's, would handle my claim. I'm not sure how many, but it was enough for him to remember my name each time I came in. But, pound for pound, it was clear that Jesse was officially my new technician. Or, at least that's what I thought..

Recently, a few days before a road trip, I took my car in to get an oil change- you know, one of the many obligatory things you learn from your father before driving two hundred miles, along with washing the car (I've since rebelled against this notion- why not just wash it when you return from the trip? Or, better yet, why not just not wash it?). I had stopped asking with whom my appointment was by this point, as well as requesting anyone. I just naturally assumed it would be with Jesse.

When I walked in that morning, Jesse and Brian were both standing at their respective cubicles, waiting, apparently, for nothing, or (and this is the more likely of the two)for the following scenario to occur. Perhaps what happened next had been building up between these two- I'll never know, but, regardless of the reasons, all I know is it happened. With me in the middle.

in chorus.
Jesse- Hey, Mr. Pool! How ya doin'?
Brian- Jonathan! Hey buddy! I'll get you right over here!

Me- Hey... guys.

Jesse- I can help you right over here, Mr. Pool.

Brian- No, I got him right over here, Jesse.

Jesse- I don't think so, Brian- here his name is, right under my name.

*Brian walks over, attempting to act casual, but there are already tiny beads of sweat popping up on his forehead, and he smiles the way you expect a skeleton would if it found a suit of flesh- 'Just show all your teeth- that'll convince 'em it's genuine!'*

Brian- That's a mistake, Jesse. He's supposed to be under my account.

Jesse- No, Brian -----. *At this point, Jesse began to call Brian by his full name, for emphasis, I suppose. I've omitted it here.* Here's his name- RIGHT HERE, where it should be. What can I do for you today, Mr. Pool?

Me- Um, I just needed to, uh-

Brian- No! Jesse, *appalled at this injustice, and growing ever angrier* what are you doing, man?

Jesse- I'm taking care of my CUSTOMER, Brian -----.

Brian- *laughing nervously and, quite reasonably, embarassedly* Your customer? He's been coming to me for three years! *We all knew this was a lie, but he was simply trying to gain ground in a futile argument. I respected him for it.*

Jesse- I don't think so, Brian -----.

Brian- I do think so, Jesse -----. *Turnabout's fair play, and so out comes Jesse's last name!*

Jesse- Well, you're wrong.

Brian- Check the history, Jesse. *All through clenched teeth and severe eye contact, by this point.*

And now, the two desperate men realized I was still standing right there in front of them, and witnessing this awesome display of whatever it was that was happening here. As uncomfortable as I felt at that moment, I couldn't help but to smile inwardly at the knowledge that, while I may always be a pauper, I will never have to have an interaction like this.

Jesse- We'll be with you in just a minute, Jonathan. *The two men go about clicking buttons, pointing fingers at screens, and claiming victories.*

Brian- See? Right here. He was just in here a month and a half ago- and look whose name!

Jesse- Well, Brian -----, look at this. *He sets about pointing his finger to all sorts of points of contention on the 13" monitor.*

Brian- So what?

Jesse- So, he's my customer, Brian -----. How can I help you, Mr. Pool?

Brian- No, Jesse, no!

Me- I just need to get my oil changed..

Brian- Yeah, Jesse -----, let the man get his oil changed!

Jesse- Sure thing, Brian -----. Can I just get your keys, Mr. Pool?

Brian- Yes, I'll take your keys right over here, Jonathan.

Jesse- Brian, no. Stop- Who do you wanna work with, Jonathan?

*Just now, I feel like a child who is forced to choose between living with his mother or father, as the bickering couple selfishly brings him into their dirty war. Awkward!*

Me- I don't, uh-

Brian- He doesn't care, man. Just let it go, Jesse.

Me- I just want to get my oil changed.

Jesse- Okay, Brian -----, fine, if that's what you wanna do.

Brian- I'll get you all taken care of over here, Mr. Pool.

Thinking the firestorm to be over, I cautiously approached Brian's cubicle, though not before casting a furtive glance towards Jesse's cubicle, to ensure that my safety was not in jeopardy. I also made a solemn internal promise to always ask for Jesse from this point on. I always go for the underdog, and besides, he was right in the first place- I'd worked with Brian only a few times. Brian knew this, but his anger and pride got the best of him. I can't have a loose cannon like this working on my car! I might wake up exploded some morning!

After exchanging all the perfunctory information that is required for an operation such as this, Brian asks, "Will you be needing a ride home today," to which Jesse quickly replies, "No, he always waits in the waiting room. He never gets a ride. He waits." And so, the battle raged on.

During my stay in the waiting room, both men approach me seperately to apologize for the boorish behavior of their counterpart, offer me a cup of coffee, and hand me a business card with their personal cell phone numbers handwritten on the back. I assume they both went to the same customer service class.

When my car was finished, I climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. I looked to my left as I pulled out of the garage, and there, in the office window with glaringly open blinds, were Jesse and Brian, screaming at one another, while a man at a desk, presumably the boss, listened, mediated, or laughed. Behind his head on the wall of his office was placed a large, white markerboard that had names in one column, numbers in another, and stars in another. Somewhere, "Monthly Leader" was written on the board. I guess these guys do get a commission, after all. Innocence is lost.

Having failed to mention previously that while I was told when I made this appointment to be at the dealership at eleven a.m., but that I was not told that the mechanics go to lunch at eleven a.m., and was therefore made to wait an extra hour for a service that should not take more than thirty minutes, I hasten to add here that I have since found a mechanic quite near my house that specializes in vehicles of my sort, and is much cheaper to boot. My warranty expired 70,000 miles ago, anyway.

this post was submitted to action! everydayhogwash.

Sales Call.

2006-01-14T16:38:00.000-06:00

Please take a look at the fine ITEM I've posted for sale on Ebay.

Shoes.

2006-01-11T23:22:00.000-06:00

My shoes are Nazi Death Camp survivors. No- my shoes are Nazi Death Camp victims. My shoes never did any wrong to anyone. My shoes have always done right by me. My shoes give and give and give, and ask so precious little in return: "Tie me once in a while. Retrieve me from your dog's mouth. Just look at me from time to time."

When is the proper time to retire a shoe? Your shoes will never tell you- they will continually toil away at carrying you to whatever event it is that people like you with shoes like yours go. Your shoes are not socially sensitive; if they are out of place, do they cower in a corner? Do they shy away from expensive, polished marble floor, even while knowing that the bretheren that created them, gave them life, years, maybe only months ago, perhaps in Honduras, perhaps in Taiwan, are the same bretheren whose family immigrated to a desolate European country to die in a limestone quarry to make a measly pittance to send back home to combine with the shoe-makers measly pittance in order to simply feed a starving family, namely their own?! No, of course not! The things a shoe knows do not have an effect on the shoe the way the same thing would have an effect on you or me. A good shoe is like a good dog. Fuck it, even a bad shoe is like a good dog. A bad dog is not like anything. A bad dog shits on good shoes. But, that's bad dogs for you.

Sometimes a shoe can tell you something. It must certainly have to be important, as shoes do not usually make it their business to communicate with their wearers. No, they are only concerned with the next step, the next puddle, the next clutch.

But sometimes..

Sometimes a shoe begs to be let go, to return from whence it came. Well, not really to return from whence it came, unless you got your shoes from a dumpster, which is not altogether impossible, I suppose.

I noticed it last evening, when I was drunk. It still counts.

My shoes were a salty old eighty-seven year old man, just stirring from a coma after several massive strokes and bypass surgery. Stuck on life support, with no hope for recovery, they peered up, pleading, if only for a moment, with those piercing, ghostly green eyes that all his seamates would later constantly refer to during and after the funeral. Simply to say, "Please," and nothing else, except for the recognition and memory of all the time you'd spent together over the sprawling, inky past in the course of a single second.

You knew immediately what had to be done.

But in reality, they awoke in a nightmare flurry of burned skin and leperous boils, and while the screaming reassured you that they were indeed still alive, you knew that you would soon level the .38 in your left hand at their right temple and end their misery forever. You had shed no tears.

Don't they appear to be screaming in abject terror?

A typical morning at my house.

2006-01-08T14:37:00.000-06:00

Urgent! Please read!

2006-01-02T22:00:00.000-06:00

Just like so many other days in my life, I awoke a few mornings ago with an idea for a revolutionary new business buzzing around in that entrepreneurial head of mine. I couldn't shake it- it really seemed like a good idea, this idea of mine. One that I could make just gobs of money at, with relatively little work, of course. Sure, I'd need some money, quite a bit of money, actually, to get it started, but the idea was so strong that I was sure it would be no problem to get investors, advertisers, stockholders, etc. That was how strong this idea was.

Like many of my ideas for new businesses, this one latched onto what many would deem a cultural revolution, and it is well known that one of the easiest ways to get rich in this country is to piggyback something that has already made someone a ton of money. I could list a number of examples, but I'm sure you can come up with your own. I know where it came from, this idea of mine. I can pinpoint the exact few hours when, upon oversaturation on Myspace, my subconscious must have developed this stellar idea, and delivered it to me a number of days later, when it could break the idea down into manageable parts for my waking brain to digest and sort through.

Before the Christmas holidays, I spent a fair amount of time posting a comment on every person's page that I am "friends" with on Myspace. Granted, I do know, or at least am acquaintances with, almost every friend on my list in real life. There are a few exceptions, but for the most part, I have had some sort of face-to-face interaction with everyone on the list. It is a modest list compared to what many myspacers deem "friend collectors," who have upwards of 10,000 friends, but individually going to 79 different people's sites and posting a comment is no small task. It probably took me about three hours over the course of two days to post my holiday greeting, which was also (in my self-promoting shame) a link to the very blog from which your eyes are now processing information.

I can take Myspace or leave it, all things told, and generally, I leave it. I am certainly not a Myspace junkie, and have probably never spent more time on it than the time I spent creating my profile when I joined the site a couple of years or so ago. In fact, a testament to my previous statement is evident in the statement itself: if I truly was a Myspace junkie, I would know how long I've been a member of the site- it says in one of the upper corners on one's profile when you signed on. I don't know. I don't give a shit.

My point is this- all this time on Myspace affected my brain. It gave me this idea, and the more I tried to shake the idea, the more the idea gave me. I mean, I could come up with a reason that it wouldn't work, and then the idea would come back with five reasons why it would so definitely work. I even tried to, while acquiesing to the idea that it was indeed a good idea, dismiss the idea by telling it that no matter how good an idea it was, the loftiness of trying to set up such an idea with this insanely massive website was at best ludicrous, and at worst an idiotic waste of time, time that would be better spent doing anything else on the internet, like clicking on Free ipod ads.

My idea would not be swayed. Knowing that Rupert Murdoch, media mogul, just purchased Myspace from a young Internet start-up guy named Tom for some absurd figure like 500 million dollars, my idea convinced me that it was so good at what it does, which incidentally is nothing more than simply being, that it was so revolutionary and novel, that, if executed properly, would make Myspace to online friending what Google is to online everythinging. This is not to say that Myspace has not already surpassed any and every other "personals" site, but this idea would push it that much further ahead of the pack.

My idea convinced me to push forward in spite of my personal insecurities, and to contact the man, the myth, the Tom of Myspace with my idea. When I resolved to actually go through with it, to actually approach this newly rich man with my partner, the idea, I was wholly unaware of the massive process I was about to undertake. Normally on Myspace, if you want to send someone a message, you simply go to their site, click on "Send Message," and spout nonsense to your heart's content. Not so with Tom, Myspace Guru. You have to understand: Everybody's friends with Tom. He's your friend automatically when you sign up for Myspace. You have no choice in the matter. In fact, when I signed up, there were about three people that I added as my friends at first. I also had this strange Tom fellow, whom I did not know at all. A few days later, I had six or eight friends. Having grown confident in my ability to assimilate into web-based friendships, I hastily deleted Tom from my friends list. I had no idea who this asshole was in California, but he certainly wasn't my friend. "Hats off for creating this website, but I don't owe you nothin', buddy."

The next time I checked my Myspace page, it showed that I had -2 friends. While I thought this was quite hilarious, and as much as I wish it still said that, that gives you a pretty good idea as to how powerful this Tom fellow is.

When I finally summoned the courage to send a message to Tom, the process of actually being able to send him an email was akin to walking through a labryinth made of moist sand while a light breeze blows from the southeast, and also while the earth below is pushing the sand beneath your feet up in quick, rectangular motions, creating more walls to replace the ones that have just been blown away by the southerly breeze on your back. It's damn near impossible. I could outline the various avenues and cul-de-sacs I encountered in my attempts to get a simple outline of a sure-to-be multi-million dollar business to this man, but you get the idea: it was fucking hard. Like crossing a channel during low tide, it took timing. Like being allowed past an airport security checkpoint with a spiked belt, it took finesse. Like listening to a speech by Alan Greenspan, it took skill. Like running a speakeasy during Prohibition, it took moxie! Somehow, the stars aligned, and there I was- a blinking cursor the only thing between me and Tom.

I outlined my idea- a quick sketch, yes, but definitely enough information to really sell the idea, who by this point was raring to go.

While typing my email, I began to get paranoid. I can't say exactly why, but I think it has a lot to do with not trusting the Fox corporation for shit. Just to safeguard myself, I copied and pasted my message to Tom and sent it to all my various email addresses. I pasted it into Microsoft Word and printed out a paper copy. I even went so far as to use my digital camera to photograph my computer screen, complete with the time and date, not only on the screen, but also on my camera's display.

I mean, we're talking about a great idea here!

Just think of it- the very first .com based taxi company, exclusively for its own members! Not only that, but FREE for its own members! Sure, non-members could ride too, but they'd have to pay regular fare! And they'd still be riding all over town in a giant billboard! And hmm, don't you think they'd sign up for a free Myspace account when they got home so that they too could participate in the free rides, thereby driving even more business to Myspace's advertisers? Well, fuck yeah, they would!

Although still insecure and unconfident in my idea, who by now was beaming with joy while simultaneously threatening to "slap the shit outta me" if I didn't hurry up and send it off, I took a deep breath and pressed 'Send.'

And that was pretty much that.

A few days went by, and nothing came back. No one took the bait. No one cared. I began gaining confidence in my surefire inconfidence, and began chiding my idea, who had slowly deflated in the quiet few days. My idea couldn't believe it. It had the look of a small town girl who just found out that her boyfriend, the star quarterback for her high school football team, The Lightningjackets, had just broken his neck while diving for a first down, and would be a paraplegic from now on.

Knowing the best time to prove a point was when my idea was at its' lowest, I scolded it for not only making an attempt at such a lofty and clearly unattainable goal, but for using me as its' pawn. "That was what hurt the most," I told it.

My idea stopped talking. It pretty much sulked in the corner of my bedroom, and kicked at cat hair. I saw a light in its' eye at one point, when it appeared to be making some sort of structure out of cat hair and dirt. "Don't," I told my idea. "I don't need another mouth to feed, much less hear."

Then I checked my email.

All the emails I sent myself- they were gone. Gmail, Hotmail, Yahoo, Myspace. All. Gone.

I ran to my desk. Where was the fucking paper copy?! I stopped, turned, searched my room frantically. 'Where's my camera?' A sinking feeling, especially as that was a birthday gift from my sweetheart, and a really expensive one at that. Relief. There it was on my dresser, right where I left it. The only proof I had left. I turned on the camera, getting the USB cable ready to download my screenshots onto a disc I could keep on my person at all times until I had this mess sorted out.

Pressed the Review button.

This is what I found.

Someone help me, please. I need a lawyer.

If you don't believe me, go here.

Politicizing Pizza: Passion, Propaganda, and Patriarchy. Pfffft!

2005-12-22T03:45:00.000-06:00

The distributor sent us the wrong boxes last week. He said it was because they were out of the blank white ones, but it was probably really because my boss is somewhat of a blowhard, and the guy was sick of his shit. So we got this:

As if that wasn't awesome enough, one side of the box says this:

And one side says this:

And, lest we forget who we're referring to, the third side has this to say:

How does the distributor get the freedom, the wherewithal to send to a restaurant, that may or may not have political leanings, these patriotic boxes? How is it that we must stand by, and not only accept, but use these cardboard rectangular pieces of propaganda? How can it be that my boss, while maintaining the status quo of the American Dream by owning and running a successful small business, be overtly opposed to this message of nationalism, if only because it interferes with his blank canvas to paste coupons for Tuesday night on the top of the boxes, and still do nothing about it? I couldn't begin to surmise the answer. Imagine my shame when I had to hand people this box. Imagine my greater shame when their eyes lit up in recognition of someone, or some business, that feels the same way they do- that their country is the BEST! "And that's really such a rare feeling, these days especially."

How does this happen? What happens in life that makes it possible, and profitable even!, to print these boxes, these boxes that house nothing but what later turns into shit, yes, actual human feces, and nothing is said about it? How the fuck did they do it? I found my answer later, when I opened the pizza I brought home and looked at the inside flaps of the box:

2005-12-21T04:42:00.000-06:00

Then, nothing.

2005-12-21T01:21:00.000-06:00

In what would soon turn out to be a really shitty night, my first delivery today was to a neighborhood that I often refer to as "suck." I'd been to this house before, and luckily did not have too many negative connotations with the place. Chances are I probably got a decent tip out of a delivery that I would have normally assumed to be a stiff waiting to happen. I remembered this guy, too. This house. I wasn't sure why. Then, when I got to the door, I remembered. This guy was fucking weird. Maybe weird's not the right word. Afflicted, damaged, ruined, all come to mind. For some reason, I got it into my head after the first time I delivered to him that he was a veteran of one of our fine olive branches of the military. I don't know what gave me this impression. However, I do know that he had not one, but two, NRA stickers on the outside of his screen door. One was old and faded, and one was newer and fading. He'd probably paid his dues in the last two years at least. He also had a tattoo of a small cross on his ring finger, right where a ring might go, had he been married. Perhaps he was, after all. Not all people commit to each other with gold and diamonds. Did I mention that he looked exactly like a melting Christopher Walken with a pony tail?

Something had happened to this at once young (probably mid-thirties), yet insufferably old man. He shuffled slowly to the door, struggled with the lock, and verbal communication was a clear strain on his body. When I handed him his pizza and awaited payment after stating the total to him, he looked at me puzzledly. I waited. Sometimes you have to let things sink in with people.

Then he laboriously raised his right hand and made the international sign for writing, by which I mean he carelessly flicked his wrist back and forth a few times with a loose fist barely clinging to the wet paper towel that was his flesh.

"I gotta... sign.. something?"

"Oh, sorry, sir. You have to give your credit card information to the store when you call to order. I can't take a credit card here."

"Ohh..man.. that's gonna screw.. me."

"Well, if you want, you can just sign this receipt and give me the credit card number, and I'll just have 'em run it when I get back to the store."

He hesitated, understandably. I wouldn't give my credit card number to some guy on my front porch.

"Umm..."

"Or, you can just call the store and give 'em your credit card number, and they'll sort it out."

"Okay... okay."

"Okay. Yeah, just call 'em whenever you can and they'll take care of it. But I guess go ahead and sign this now, and we'll just staple it to your credit card receipt when we run it."

"Okay."

I felt pretty sorry for this guy. I looked at his overflowing mailbox, and remembered seeing the same sight last time I came here: bunches of bills piling up from various banks and credit institutions. Here was yet another of this dead nation's bastard sons (Thanks, D4).

When I returned to the store, I asked my boss if he had called yet. He said, "Who?"

"The guy on Coleman I just delivered to. He was supposed to call you with his credit card number. He didn't call?"

"No. Someone called, but it was a wrong number."

"Yeah, then that probably wasn't him," I replied. I love being a dick. "I'll just call him."

You can probably guess the rest. I called him a number of times, only to get his answering machine. I left a message the first time I called, but after that I just hung up when his slow, sad message crackled through worn out tape into the phone line.

My boss, from the very beginning, had doubted this man's intentions to pay for the pizza, and I told him that it's a tragic fucking day when a man can't even trust an ex-Marine. But, as the hours passed, I began to wonder, too. I knew we had delivered there before, and I know he paid with a credit card. What was going on here?

Running through all possible scenarios in my mind, I finally came to the conclusion that this man had probably already blown his brains all over the wall behind the computer which sat on a sagging aluminum folding table which served, however modestly, as a desk. That had to be it. He ordered so much food: a pizza, a salad, a piece of cake, a six pack of soda. Why so much food? It must have surely been his last meal, of course!

I imagined him suiting up in his full military regalia, just like in that movie A Few Good Men. I think that's what it's called, anyway. The one where the guy gets all suited up in his clean navy uniform and completes the task by putting a well polished chrome 9mm into his mouth and just going ape. But in this guy's case, it probably would've just been a dirty old army jacket that reeked of weed and cheap wine. His right shoe would've had to have been off too, so he could use his big toe, with that yellowed, cracked, and peeling nail of his, to pull the trigger of an ancient one shot shotgun that his step-grandfather not so much gave him, but that was kind of just left there after the old drunk had driven his rusty Ford into the oncoming traffic of a convoy of 18 wheelers just outside of Longview, Texas in 1972.

A few hours and a half-dozen unanswered calls later, I had a delivery going to a house just a few streets away from him. I asked my boss if he wanted me to stop by to see if I could collect payment.

"Sure," he said.

Well, if you're gonna be that enthusiastic about it, then fuck it, what do I care, I thought. But then I remembered I got stiffed, seeing as he made no payment at all, and so now it was personal.

While it was overcast and gloomy when I arrived there the first time, now it was just plain dark. Dark, muddy, and cold. I slooshed through the front yard, not seeing any of the puddles that were formed by a constantly shifting earth. I smiled to myself in thinking that his foundation is probably so fucked, and was warmed in the good fortune of knowing that mine is only kinda fucked.

There was only one light on in the house, and it was not the living room light. The soft glow emanated from a bedroom (computer room?) off to the right of the main living area. I knocked on his door my standard five times: not too agressive, but I definitely do mean business. Nothing. I waited an extra amount of time, remembering his drawling, dead man's walk. Three to four minutes later, I knocked again. Six times now. Louder, more urgent. I also maneuvered my body in such a way that I was not directly facing the front door. Instead, I had my shoulder facing the front door. Also, I moved away from being in front of the door. I also positioned myself so that I would not be in front of the living room window. I wasn't sure why at the time, but I am now.

Minutes later, after an awkward amount of waiting, I became sufficiently weirded out by my current station in life, and began walking quickly back to my running car. I had my hand in my pocket on my cell phone. I wasn't sure why at the time, but I am now.

As I reached my car, a feeling of control and security came seeping back into my consciousness, and as I opened my door and began climbing into the seat, I looked back at the house contemptuously and muttered, "Asshole." Which is precisely when, since I wasn't paying attention, my hat flew back, as if I had hit the brim of it on the top of my door frame. Clearly, I had overshot my landing while coming up with the brutish insult I just assaulted the nearby air with.

I reached back to re-position the wayward cap, now heavier than before. I sank into my seat, and instinctively pushed in the clutch, with a leg that had never shaken like this before, like the leg of a newborn calf. I began driving, my neck much warmer now, yet cold with the breeze from the open window. I couldn't stop my eyes from rolling backwards, and my ears, though mostly burnt and gone, wouldn't stop ringing.

The Story of B.

2005-12-19T23:07:00.000-06:00

What a novel name for a blog posting! Hmm..

This is my cat, Bert. Bert is the most affectionate cat I have ever been personally involved with. Many of my friends could attest to this claim, to be sure. It may have to do with the fact that before he was owned by me, he was owned by the ailing father of Adam, the ex-guitar player for the math rock phenoms known as Butterknife , who at some point in time went to the hospital for an extended stay due to, well, medical problems, I suppose. I do not really know. Guess I never really thought to ask. What an asshole I turned out to be. To prove this claim, I will effortlessly continue telling my story with absolutely no regard for Bert's previous owner. Did he die? Is he still sick? I don't fucking know. Why don't you go ask him?

It so happened that Bert, our fucking hero, was somehow sequestered into the garage at this man's house for literally months when the man went to the hospital. I am not sure of the exact length of time, but I remember the term "six or seven" being thrown around, and quite loosely, I might add. I do not know how he survived. Presumably, Adam went over there once a week and emptied a bag of Meow Mix into a dusty old metal dog dish that was put back into service when someone was too lazy or inconsiderate to get Bert his own bowl, which incidentally is how many pets define themselves, they'll thank you to know. Surely Bert must have had to eat around the dried and dirtied crickets legs that always seem to end up floating in water bowls and collecting at the bottoms of food containers. It's amazing that crickets can ever jump, being as frivolous as they appear to be with their legs.

Maybe once a month Adam would take the litter box that was cracked in the middle and sort of half-cautiously, half-carelessly dump it behind a bush in the backyard and kind of kick at it from the bottom until the big clumps of urine mache would come unglued from the box, and fall to the ground slowly, like a giant tree falling from the forest canopy. Maybe there was no litter box at all. Why don't you ask the garage? Alone in his prison of old chains, containers of bonemeal, piles of nails used as a paperweight for ancient, yellowing pornography, what did Bert do, there in the dark? Amidst the maddening hum of a barely working freezer (they call it an "icebox") that housed nothing but venison steaks and cartons of Dorals, what happened to Bert?

For one thing, Bert became very co-dependent on his next owner, me, and, once he trusted me and those closest to me, became the most affectionate cat in the land. Sure, it's an endearing quality that stems from a life of tragedy, but I think both parties are satisfied with the outcome. He gets an owner that doesn't torture him (except for the few times that Steve and I raced him and Poe, Steve's cat, around the apartment by putting socks over their heads- they'll back out of 'em for hours!), and I get a cat that comes when I call him.

But during his bid upstate, Bert developed a problem. It's true. He can't help it. He is compelled to eat plastic sacks. He also likes licking deodorant from armpits, turpentine from stained jeans, and ink from dirty palms. It is a compulsion, a curious feline drive likely developed from his tenure as an unwilling garage dweller. He tends to only go after the sacks when he is hungry, which is any time there are not at least three pieces of Deli Cat in his food bowl. This usually occurs in the early morning, and it is quite often that I awake to the sound of rustling plastic, look around blearily and yell, "Bert!" This sends him tearing off under the bed. He also commences to tearing when he has to poop and he knows I know. Understandably, he is very self-conscious about his defecating habits.

But, often I will return home and find waiting for me what appears to be a shining, white turd. It is not a turd, however. It is vomit. It is the vomit from a cat whose stomach, as much as he wants it to, will not digest manufactured plastic products. This does not keep him from trying, though.

More than likely, this affliction may have been what kept him alive lo, those many months in the garage of a dying man. And he should be revered for his bravery during that dark age. But I fully expect to walk into my room someday after work and see this:

At least he will have died a hero. Oh wait, no, that's hobo. Heroes don't eat trash. Bums do.

P.S. If I get any comments about cat litter or cat boxes on this post simply because a few key words were mentioned that alerts your blog reader that I might be interested in your shitty business, I will personally murder my own cat. How's that?

My curiously queer internet friend, Kyle.

2005-12-17T21:52:00.000-06:00

Below is a series of emails traded between myself and a gentleman on myspace. This gentleman must have stumbled across my webpage, and being a man of the gay persuasion, felt it necessary to email me, as my profile says that I am gay. It also says a number of other things about my personal statistics that are not only untrue, but (I think) hilariously satirical! If one were only to match my profile information with the pictures I have posted on my profile, they would soon see the obvious divergence between fact and artistic license. You too, will soon see what I am referring to. This clearly did not matter to my new admirer, however, as he immediately shot me a quick note, blind to every glaring incongruity that is present in my information, as soon as he saw that my sexuality read "gay." Perhaps the possibility of new and unfamiliar cock excited him so much that he failed to see the forest for the trees full of straight, satirical me's. As a male, I suppose I can understand- oftentimes we do not think when we act, especially as concerns sexual issues. He is not to be blamed for trying. Our correspondence has not been edited at all. I will continue to update this blog with any future communiques between my new friend Kyle and I.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: kyle
Date: Dec 13, 2005 11:10 AM

Gay and from Fort Worth I see. Do tell.

love - kylzies

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Jonathan
Date: Dec 13, 2005 3:12 PM

Hello Kyle-
Sorry, I'm not gay. I am also not a pacific islander, nor am I 8'11" with the muscular physique of a body builder. In addition, I am also not a Scientologist with a Post grad degree. Furthermore, I do not make over $250,000 a year in my occupation as a boner. I barely make $20,000 in that job. Many apologies, but you are the victim of an elaborate ruse. I hope this doesn't mean that we can't still be friends.
Sincerest regards,
Jonathan

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: kyle
Date: Dec 16, 2005 1:15 PM

Gay or not, you WILL be mine.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
Dec 16, 2005 7:58 PM
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Hello

You've got moxie, kid. I'll give you that. Keep it up, and you may just find a place for yourself in this crazy world. It just won't be inside my asshole.

Fondly,
Jonathan

www.jonathansalmanac.blogspot.com

Here's what my new friend looks like.

You can visit his site on myspace here.

You can visit my site on myspace here.

Nonsensical Dream. OR "That just means you're unsure of the future, you miss the past, and you want to be seen as a good person." Yeah, yeah.

2005-12-15T03:09:00.000-06:00

So, Rebecca and I were at an amusement park. She really wanted to go on this roller coaster- one of these wooden numbers from days past. Rickety and bumpy- not too scary, in the modern roller coaster sense of the word, but scary nonetheless, for its own reasons. Like, 'this thing could collapse at any moment,' or 'why the fuck is that guy smoking so close to this thing?!' I didn't really want to, but not for any real foreseeable reason; I'm just a big puss. Anyhow, she convinced me too, and so we did.

As the rows of cars ascended the sharp, gear-grinding track, we surveyed our surroundings. I noticed we both felt strange. At least I thought I did. I could have sworn I detected a strange look on her face, too, but that's probably just my own paranoia.

We shot down the first hill, everything normal, everything fine. Then, a strange turn. I surely didn't remember this from last time. Did she? I turned to look. She seemed apprehensive, cautious, scared?

Another unfamiliar turn. A sharp grade increase. Where were we? A slow, foreboding left turn at the top of the coaster. I looked off and down to my right at the dizzying tops of the park's poorly landscaped and young, grease soaked trees as we approached the final descent of what was turning into a strange ride altogether.

That was when we noticed a wooden caution sign, complete with red stripes and circles with stripes through them indicating a no-pass zone, right where the last hill should have been. Oh, it was still there, to be sure. But we wouldn't be gracing it with our metal wheels. No. Instead, we veered left, where one would not expect to veer when riding a familiar coaster. I had time only to shoot Rebecca a furrowed, pensive glance, noticing the same unsure look on her face, before we careened down a new and uncharted track on this heretofore dependable and entertaining family ride.

This drop was more drastic than before. We hadn't any time to catch our breaths at the newly forged bottom of the hill before we saw what lay ahead of us- the end of the track. We each inhaled quick breaths of goodbyes as we sailed off the end of the track and looked down and below at the desert of dead grass underneath the barely spinning wheels of the coaster car that yearned for a good oiling.

And then- connection with track again. Yes, the track had been out, but our momentum flew us onto the remaining portion of the track that had not been removed, or just recently added. We were saved, but had we ever been in danger?

Soon, I found myself in a nearby room with Bruce Willis. Tensions were high, and the niceties that had surrounded our meeting with the group across from us were quickly wearing thin. We noticed a great deal of fear and apprehension in the face of the young woman grouped with an obviously seedy element, in the form of two mid-twenties men clad in leather jackets and pock-marked faces. Apprehension and fear were not the only things we noticed in this young woman's face. She also had a number of knotted ropes jutting in and out of her face, which at the onset of our interaction seemed simply like a new fad, but which we later determined to be a method of torture. We surmised this to be true after the criminal element she was associated with told us of their intentions to make her star in a snuff film.

One might well imagine that I was shocked, but in knowing that, one should also speculate as to just how fucking pissed off Bruce Willis was. It was determined between the two of us that the scum that was to perpetrate this heinous act of violence must themselves be killed. In reality, it was probably Willis' decision, as that is the kind of person he is, and besides, there was this really dramatic shot from underneath his face, about chest level, that, with the effective overhead lighting shadowing his darkening visage, truly indicated his intentions to stop this travesty. I probably just went along with it.

We took in hand dully sharp shrands of glass that simply appeared before us, and, with everyone else absent that had been there previously, set to work murdering this scourge, this would-be snuff film producer. It was no easy task, murdering this fellow. Many hacks were made at the base of his neck before our goal was accomplished. Why, we even had to massacre a small, scruffy dog that was present in the room, presumably to leave no witnesses.

The deed was done. It was just then that Paul Goetz's ex-girlfriend, Julie, walked into the room with what appeared to be a niece or nephew of some sort. Bruce Willis, of course, was nowhere to be found. Having accomplished his heroic feat, he must have returned to Hollywood to await more benevolent missions. I grew fearful of being discovered in my violent act, no matter how justified it may have been. I attempted to act cordial, as I had not seen Julie in quite some time, and I did not want her to think me a cold blooded killer. Her eyes and expression betrayed a suspicion that made me fearful of having to murder her and her young companion as well, so I did my very best to allay any doubts that may have been racing through her mind at that crucial moment.

I stroked the dead dog, bloody coat and all. I felt fortunate when the dead canine began re-arranging itself, as if annoyed by my petting it while it slept, in an effort to portray to the unfamiliar company that everything was fine, normal.

I owed a good deal to that dead dog, and I knew it.

Mocked Mood: A boss.

2005-12-15T00:52:00.000-06:00

I've been trying to come up with a reason to use this hilarious play on words as a subject for something for quite a while now, and I think the following should suit the subject well enough. My friend Nick just got a job at the same pizza place I work at, and he called me a few nights ago to tell me about having just finished reading the delivery driver's manual. Of course, the first thing I replied to this information was, "You actually read that shit?" I admit that I did look over it when I was first handed it as well, but I certainly didn't read all 26 pages. Boy, was I dumb. I have no more to say on the subject, really. I will allow a few excerpts from the manual to speak for themselves.

On Arriving Prepared.

"CLEAN CAR. Good image builds tips. Also, clean windows and headlights can make for safer driving."

"STRONG SPOTLIGHT. Some drivers find that a spotlight helps in reading numbers on mailboxes and porches."

"WRIST WATCH, or clock in your car, that's set to the same time as the clock in the restaurant. Used for computing delivery time."

"NON-COMPANY JACKET OR SHIRT in the car. If you're involved in an accident, it may be helpful to remove your company shirt and hat (also the car sign) to avoid bringing attention to yourself."

On Safe Driving

"Drive calmly and with positive feelings. Driving with tension or anger can increase the chance of an accident. Leave personal problems and tension outside the car. ...Also, if you play music, listen to slow, relaxing music- not hard rock- as slower music promotes calmness and safe driving."

On Impressing Customers and Earning Tips

"Do the extra, nice gesture."

"Compliment something. If a child or pet comes to the door with the Customer, say something nice about them."

"Give their pooch a pet treat. The beloved family Fido is always a part of the delivery transaction (about 40 percent of pizza buyers own a dog). After handing a Customer the food, but before they give you payment, offer them a dog biscuit for their excited canine. This is a major tip-builder. HINT: Carry the biscuit in a plastic baggie- as it looks more sanitary and appealing."

On Receiving Payment

"NOTE: Many customers will tip after receiving their change. So, don't try to force a tip by stalling and fumbling with coins. It only angers people and causes them to withhold a tip."

On Basic Safety

"Glance at the back seat before getting into your car, to make sure no robber is waiting."

On Invitation to Come in from Customer

"For security and liability reasons, you should never step into a Customer's residence. If someone invites you to come in, say, 'Thank you. It's very thoughtful of you to ask me in, but the company requires that I stay outside.'"

On Additional Precautions for High Security Delivery

"When sidewalk conditions allow, RUN from your car to the Customer's door. A running person looks purposeful and in-control, which discourages robbers. It also leaves less time for a robbery. In conclusion, don't appear lost or scared, but act confident and like you know what you're doing. Robbers don't like approaching confident-looking people."

"After you've completed the sales transaction, say to the Customer 'Would you watch me to my car, please.' Customers are willing to do it if asked. Then RUN to your car."

Not like a flash of light or a black hole sound. Just gone.

2005-12-14T04:22:00.000-06:00

Recently, I went to pick up a friend from his home, which he claims is in North Richland Hills, but is actually in Euless. But that point of contention, which comes up quite regularly in driving to and from his house, is not relevant to this particular tale. Mark is known, amongst myself and the rest of his bandmates, not to mention the rest of his friends, probably, to really have a knack of making one wait around for quite a bit of time before leaving to do whatever task it is that people like us may have on their minds at any given time. Yes, like a good prom date before the spiked punch and misplaced rebellion, Mark makes a soul wait. Whether it's to finish watching a five hour marathon of "The First 48," or simply to "wrap up a dooket," as he often quips, know that, upon entering his house, even if you have, and iterate, a dire urge to leave, you are bound to be in his house for at least fifteen to twenty minutes.

I've learned to accept and embrace this trait of his. I don't mind, generally. Usually by the time I'm at his house, it's well past any time I have to be anywhere important. Plus, sometimes he'll pass an unopened beer, bum me a cigarette, or put on a David Blaine special. The evening I speak of now was not vastly different, though he did seem a bit more anxious to leave, as his mother was talking to him. An understandable motivation, to be sure.

Well, I thought we were leaving, as that is what he told me as I exited his house and headed to my car. I reached the door to my car, and turned to realize that he was nowhere to be found. I assumed he had just gotten caught up on his way out, presumably by his mother, so I climbed into my car and put on the CD-R that he had just burned for me that contained The Urchin and some really rare Dillinger 4 songs. You see, sometimes you also receive nice gifts for picking Mark up. It's always a surprise.

Needless to say, these songs were enough to keep my attention diverted from the fact that it was beginning to be an unbearably long time since he had informed me that he was ready to leave. Perhaps he knew of this particular eventuality that he presently found himself in, and that the CD he had just given me would quell any bitching I might passive-aggressively toss in his direction when he finally did show up. Nonetheless, I did notice the slow, exponential increase of time passed without Mark in the passenger seat, and for just a moment, I grew anxious, looked impossibly around in the inked forest of his poorly lit front yard, and impatience began to crystallize around my frontal lobe. I even considered leaving him at home, stuck with only his mother and her admonitions of his alcoholic tendencies when he asked to use the car, if only to prove a point that it is very rude to keep one waiting so long. I was ready to go, boy!

It was at that very moment that he opened the door and climbed into my car. In all my impatience and anxiousness to espy where he might be, I failed to see the exact person I was looking for walking right up to my car. I made no comment on his tardiness, even though he was not really tardy, as there was no predetermined time for him to be present in my automobile. We began talking about the songs on the CD, and he regaled me with many snippets of information about these bands that I simply did not know! It was glorious.

And then, a queer thing happened. My cell phone rang, and as I checked the caller ID, I noticed that the call was coming from Mark's house, where we just left not three minutes before. I thought it might be his mother, so I answered the phone somewhat tentatively, with the radio turned all the way down:

"Hello?"

"Where the fuck did you go," a male's voice asked, with a lilt of curiosity, but moreso,with an air of annoyance.

"Who is this?"

"-the fuck do you think? MARK, stupid."

I turned to look at Mark, who looked in turn at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Who is this," I asked again, with somewhat of a laugh in my voice. I figured Kevin must have showed up at Mark's right after we left and was playing an hilarious prank!

"Are we practicing or not?"

Mark's impersonator was beginning to sound more like Mark with every passing syllable.

"Uh, yeah, MARK. We're on our way to practice right now."
To my right, Mark looked at me with as screwed up a face as one can surely muster, and quizzically said, "Huh?"

"Look, you comin' back or not?"

Shaken, but not stirred, I turned to Mark in what seems now like slow motion, and. Handed. Him. The. Phone.

As soon as he put the phone to his ear, he was gone.

When I arrived at the practice space twenty minutes later, so did Mark. He climbed out of my car.

Completely rare and totally improvised Rise and Shine song!

2005-12-14T04:06:00.000-06:00

This one's from the vaults. Forgive the poor audio, but alas, that is the effect the vault has on things. The lyrics to this lost gem are below. Enjoy it now, for soon it will be gone forever. (The vault is in the process of being repossessed.) THIS IS AN AUDIO POST. If you cannot see the "Play this Post" button, it is directly underneath the lyrics to the song on the left. Just move your mouse around a little until you get the pointin' finger. You know, the finger that points you to rock. There's also probably a faint grey box around the link, too. Get in touch with me if you can't play the post.

"Meat is murder. Dairy is rape. Don't mind a rapin' now and then (Don't mind if I do!). Of course, I'm only jesting. (I don't participate.) I just communicate.. through m'songs(and my-). Don't touch that animal- it's not what you think!(It's a fucking human being! It's flesh and blood..) Well, it's not a human being, but it's flesh and blood. That is true, I think.(It's a human being!)It's flesh and blood. But don't kill it! No, not tonight! Not for anything. Not for anything tonight! Not for any..thing... tonight. And I see you walking- around. Got an animal in your trap, well, I don't *garbled lyrics -ed.* now. Mama, tell me why animals gotta die! So you can eat- blood- on your teeth. Mama, tell me why your tongue is(red)- coated in blood- (On your teeth.)."

At least they had something to cook with. All we get is brain cancer.

2005-12-09T05:58:00.000-06:00

Cell phone Customer #1- So, yeah, of COURSE I was, like, NO, I'd never fucking do th- hello? Buddy? You there? Buddy?

Cell phone customer #2- Do what? Hello?

Cell phone Customer #1- Hey. HEY. CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Cell phone customer #2- You'd never do what? Hello?

Cell phone Customer #1- HELLOICAN'THEARYOU. CAN YOU HEAR ME? IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, I CAN'T HEAR YOU. CALL ME BACK. GOODBYE.

Cell phone customer #2- Hey. I can't hear you. Call me back. Oh- hello? Hello? Y'there? Aw, fuck- *click*

Cell phone Customer #1- He- ..oh. *click*

FIVE MINUTES LATER

Cell phone customer #2- Hello? Can you hear me?

Cell phone Customer #1- THERE you are. What happened?!

Cell phone customer #2- What do you mean? What happened to you?!

Cell phone Customer #1- Nothing! Your phone just cut out in the middle of my story!

Cell phone customer #2- Not mine! I could hear you just fine, saying hello and stuff.

Cell phone Customer #1- I could hear you too! It wasn't my phone, I had five bars.

Cell phone customer #2-Me too. I had SIX.

Cell phone Customer #1- Oh,wait... So did I. I just always forget to count the littlest one, 'cause it's always there.

Cell phone customer #2- Yeah.

Cell phone Customer #1- Anyway, sorry about that. What were we talking about?

Cell phone customer #2- I don't know.. Did you turn your phone off or something?

Cell phone Customer #1- No. Why?

Cell phone customer #2- 'Cause when I tried to call you back it just went straight to your voicemail.

Cell phone Customer #1- That's what happened to ME when I tried to call YOU!

Cell phone customer #2- No way!

Cell phone Customer #1- I swear to God!

Cell phone customer #2- Then I guess we must have been trying to call each other at the exact same time!

Cell phone Customer #1- That is so fucking WEIRD!

Cell phone customer #2- I know!

Cell phone Customer #1- Well, sorry about that. Fucking cell phones. Anyway, what were you about to say earlier whe-

Cell phone customer #2- Did you get my voicemail?
______________________

2.7 million years earlier

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- Then Gog see great mammoth in clearing, and raised giant rock over he-

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- What that?

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- Me not sure. What happened?

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- Me think fire went out again.

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- Man, that weird. Me was just talking, and me could see, then all of sudden, me could not see anymore!

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- Me know! Me was looking and listening at you, then you gone! Me can still hear you, but me cannot see you!

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- Me too! You must not prayed and sacrificed to great heat spirit again.

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- No! Me did! Me figured you not prayed!

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- No, me pray today when great heat spirit was above Gog's head.

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- Me pray when spirit was at treeline.

Australopithicus afarensis man #1- Fire weird.

Australopithicus afarensis man #2- Me know.

Why wireless internet and laptop computers are a bad idea.

2005-12-07T03:22:00.000-06:00

Below is an excerpt from a draft of an ill-fated blog that I never finished the other night. I have no idea what I was writing, and all I remember about it is that my eyes were closed the entire time I was writing it. It is a bad idea to attempt writing while sitting in your warm, comfortable bed. What you are about to read is so bad, it even looks fake. But it is not. It is real. Send your shame c/o Jonathan Pool to my p.o. box. My email's already full.

"and anuyway, i was drunk.. i don't thikn you have any right to sit there, as if you were some sort of hight and mighty magistrate tper of person, in a medieval cour t or something, handing down the fucking charges and penalties as if i were some petty fucking thief that stole a lit candle from the window of some old broad that clearly left a vurning candle, not to mention a sasparilla pie burning right in front of her house in sindow that any passing hungry and night blind person coul've seen, would've seen, and stolen, nay bottoerf lihhy. yhr lihting like i burned the magna carta on arbor day or somethnig, man. lay off bro. that's all i can say,..man.let's take muey sleep nowkkeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiphooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhioo--"

Someone kill me.

Aww, I hate m'self.

2005-12-02T02:48:00.001-06:00

Yesterday at work, I decided to take a break from the dull monotony of doing nothing while waiting for a delivery to come into being, to offer itself unto me, and I stepped out the back door of the pizza place into the dismal alley, surveyed the abandoned/condemned houses directly behind our building, and decided to have a cigarette. To be honest, the cigarette is the only reason I went outside in the first place, as it was fucking cold out.

While smoking, I decided to place a call to my girlfriend on my cellular phone. While smoking and speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone, I decided to stand on a cinderblock that was next to the short three step staircase that leads to the back door of my place of employment. While smoking, speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone and standing on a cinderblock next to the staircase leading to the back door of my place of employment, I began to think about loggers, and the fanciful life they must live in the forest- cutting down trees, being so close to nature, drinking extra-frothy beer out of pewter metal steins that are as big and heavy as the axes they wield, keeping giant blue oxen as pets, and the good hearted and lively competitions they undoubtedly come up with to keep themselves entertained during their long tenure in the woods. Games such as log and axe throwing, spear fishing, thinly veiled homoerotic wrestling, and logjamming. I think that's what it's called. No, not the porno about loggers (what an hilarious joke! huzzah! ..fucking idiot. -ed.)- the event, the activity logjamming. It's that thing where there's a log in the water, and the loggers run in place on the log, spinning it under their feet, and see who can stay on the log the longest. I'm pretty sure that's called logjamming. One thing I know about loggers is that they love logjamming. I can almost hear, feel, their hearty guffaws bellowing through the woods into the nearby village, awakening all the children in fear of what must surely be a spectre or ghoul in the dark, foreboding forest.

So, while smoking, speaking to my girlfriend on my cellular phone, standing on a cinderblock next to the staircase leading to the back door of my place of employment, and thinking about loggers and the fanciful life they must live in the forest, I began to fancy myself a modern day logger- one of a more urban nature, mind you. Peering down, I slowly began pushing the cinderblock underneath my feet forward ever so slightly, just to get an idea of what it must be like to be on the river and logjamming with great friends and even greater enemies, even though I was in a dismal alley on a structure that is probably the furthest shape one can get away from a log. Are there degrees of separation for shapes? If so, I would imagine these two things could probably be the bookends on the spectrum and no one would put up too much of a fight about the choice. Soon- too soon, I realize now- I became quite comfortable with my balance on my urban log, and became a bit more cavalier in my attempts at blazing a trail for the new sport "blockjamming," as I have termed it. Patent pending, fuckers.

Then this happened.

And this, too.

Then the world exploded and everyone died.

You judge. You judge me based on your horrid, horrid jealousy.

2005-11-30T03:00:00.000-06:00

It's tea for me tonight. And tea for me last night, too. No alcohol, not tonight. Not last night either. I haven't left my house since I got back from Oklahoma a few days ago except to go to work and band practice. Why? It's not because I'm boring, I'll tell you that much right now. No, it's because I'm sick. Not really sick, but the kind of sick where you think you're getting sick. It all started when I went to Oklahoma..

Ah, to get away for a few days- fresh air, a change of scenery, leaving behind the hounds of hell that catapult through the house at all hours of the night and early, early fucking mornings. It's always nice. Leaving behind the foul stench of the Trinity River and the orange overturned bowl of pollution that domes the D/FW sky is simply refreshing. The sweet, cool breeze from the Oklahoma hills shocks the senses like a sharp cheddar, or a stout wine. Or a sponge filled with asbestos. It's poison!

Let me explain. I live in filth. For those that know me and have been to my house on some sort of regular basis, it will come as no surprise to hear that a common question upon entering my house is, "When did you get robbed?" You see, besides having three dogs who can come in and out of the house as they please since our foundation is fucked and whose natural penchant is to kill squirrels and rats and tear them apart on my kitchen floor, couch, or kitchen couch, and having a roommate who, by his own account, is a total slob, there's me- a roommate that really doesn't care too much for social graces, and so therefore doesn't really care if there are melon rinds and tripe lining the hallway. I don't care if anyone sees it - I didn't make the mess. Hence, I will not clean the mess. My own room is not particularly disgusting, most of the time. Sure, there's always clutter- piles of clothes here, stacks of papers there, the occassional cat shit when I don't stay on top of cleaning the litter box, which is admittedly too often.

The point is, and this is not a decision that was conciously made- it happened organically- mine is what some might call a punk house. In fact, I've been to squats that were less filthy. Can't say it bothers me too much. I'm kind of into it, actually. Were it not for my sweet, gracious and mildly OCD-about-cleanliness girlfriend, this place would probably never be clean.

I say all of this to posit a question. How is it that I, a person who actually kicks up more dirt and germs when I walk into my house, showers maybe once a week (on a good week), and spends most of my time in seedy bars and even worse rehearsal rooms, manage to stay relatively healthy most of the time, even while being a smoker, keeping odd, irregular hours, and subsisting on a majority of junk food? Why, were we to believe all the Purell commercials, I should've been dead a long time ago!

I think my body has adapted to the grime, and let me tell you something, people. When it all comes down, and we're foraging for food and hiding in sewers waiting to stab some guy in the calf as he walks by because he's got a piece of edible food in his hands, and there's a man walking around with a 9mm handgun offering to shoot you in the head for the meager price of a piece of bread (read Flan by Stephen Tunney to fully appreciate this reference), guess who's gonna be around a negligible amount of time more? Me, that's who.

More than anything, I have a sneaking suspicion that leaving my filthy house and my filthy city to go to a clean city, and an even cleaner house to sleep in is really what got me sick. All that clean air, no dust in the pillows, no cat hair on the towels, that really did me in. It was all I could do to drag myself out of bed to get to work today and inhale spray glue and burning fabric fumes at the screenprinting shop.

It's those little things, though, that really start to make you feel better. My cough is already fading, and my phlegm is clearing up from a dark green to a light yellow, which is good. My girlfriend told me so.

What's this stupid pond metaphor all about?

2005-11-24T14:35:00.000-06:00

What a stupid fucking picture. You should be ashamed of yourself, Urshel Taylor. This picture, to me, embodies the stupidity of Thanksgiving, and what it means to people who refuse to see the past staring back through its shallow, watery grave, as we modern day narcissists stare at the surface of the pond and pat ourselves on the back for a history well done. But, Brendan Kelly said it best, so here it is- the best song about Thanksgiving ever written. Maybe not, but at least for my current purposes, yes, it is.

"Third graders holding hands. Indians and Pilgrims celebrate their newfound land. Tried to teach me that at school. Make the white race look superior, that's always been their rule. Now I can't believe we celebrate Thanksgiving as a holiday of unity and peace. If I had my way, we'd all dress in black, and Daddy would serve up the white meat. 'Cause genocide is nothing to celebrate. Extinction don't deserve a parade. Well, we perpetuate those lies with the turkeys that we buy. I tried explaining to my mom, but she's too afraid to admit to herself that her race is a killing machine. Take a look around your town and who do you see? The Native American's surprisingly absent in his own indigenous land. Do you want to know why? It's 'cause we killed them all. It's not that hard to understand. Yeah, so I go to college, and you know what I learned? That 80 million people were killed by my grandpa, your grandpa, and all of their friends. They bleached out our continent but that's not the end. The last full blooded Aborigine died a century ago. If it's possible, there's a place in the Southern Hemisphere with a history even worse than our own. No one finds it peculiar that a tropic island is full of people just like you and me. 'Cause Australia's a piece of shit floating in the Pacific bouyed by the blood of the Aborigine."

Yeah, take that, Australia!

Bagmen and Basketball.

2005-11-24T14:05:00.000-06:00

"..No, I played guard. We were pretty good that year. We won state the year before. Yeah, we had this short Irish kid on the team that was the star, even though he couldn't have been more than 5'2". Hmm? Oh, 6'3", 6'4", depending on which shoes I'm wearing! Haha. Yeah, I don't know, Irish people are just short. In fact, that year we went to Ireland to play a tournament, and we just KILLED all the teams we played. I'm talkin' like 140-6. Every time. We played like seven different schools all over Ireland. But it seemed more just like exhibition games. There was no table showing what place we were in, or who we were gonna play next, no Round Robin, nothing. We basically just drove around and beat the shit outta these short Irish teams. I was pretty good friends with the coach that year, and at some point I asked him, "What the hell are we doing here, Coach J? This ain't even a challenge at all! That's when he told me that he was a bagman for the IRA, and he brought us over to Ireland to deliver hundreds of thousands of dollars- in cash- to 'em. The schools were just drop points. We were the alibi!"

The above is a paraphrased conversation that I eavesdropped on recently. Crazy, huh?

God bless 'em.

It's mine!

2005-11-20T21:31:00.000-06:00

I did it. I've bested my ebay foes, and acquired...

...a stupid ass jacket that I paid $40 for. This would have been a mitzvah had the Stryper Zippo that I was really vying for not been greedily snatched from under me at the last ebay second. I have sworn my vengeance, however, and vengeance will be mine. I'm gonna swoop the fuck out of that Stryper hog. He won't even know what hit him. At which point I'll be stuck with more useless Stryper crap. But, let it be known across the land- I will spend every dime I have to exact revenge on the one who has slighted my honor! I will not stand to be disrespected, and have the privilege of owning a severely ironic lighter taken from me in such a cruel, heartless way. Prepare to be disappointed. (I was talking to myself in that last sentence.)

Sparrows: Nature's Freedom-Givers.

2005-11-17T23:28:00.000-06:00

A few years ago, I had a job at a movie theatre in Southwest Ft. Worth, a place I affectionately referred to as "Murray's Theatre," as the projectionist there was, and incidentally still is, my friend Ryan Murray. In fact, he was the reason I got the job there in the first place. I was in college at the time, and still under the delusion that I would not always be employed at such low-level, low wage jobs, and so therefore took the job none too seriously. Not that I don't do the same now, it's just that back then I had less to worry about financially (i.e. no rent, no car payment, no three kids to feed, and no three d.u.i's to pay off), and I wasn't under any stress about getting fired. I took numerous days off, for various reasons, and was met with very little resistance from the general manager, a quite old for forty 5'2", balding shell of a man. Were one to look back at my schedule requests from that time (I'm sure this information is easily attainable from the corporate offices of AMC.), one would find such reasons for being off as "Building Pirate Ship," and "Going on Tour." Oddly, the former happened, but not the latter. At least, not at that point. I may someday revisit the Pirate story should anyone be interested. I digress.

The job at the theatre was not so bad. Okay, yes it was. It was horrible. Initially, I took the job because I was told that I could train to become a projectionist. That would be a sweet job. Of course, one cannot just become a projectionist, one must work behind the refreshment counter for a time, one must truly immerse oneself in the essence, the tao, of a functioning movie theatre to truly understand what it means, what it is to wind celluloid film through metal spools and past hot lightbulbs! You fucking dumb grasshopper. Regardless, I held onto hope, and put in my time as a refreshment server. "S'let me get this straight- because no one else has EVER asked for this before. I understand that you invented this brilliant technique- you want me to fill the popcorn halfway, right? Mm-hmm. Then apply butter? Then fill the rest of the bag? And then one more shot of butter? So the butter's evenly dispersed throughout the whole bag? Good sir, I am in your debt."

I got pretty good at the job, rarely stole money from the register, and even learned how to switch the bags of syrup for fountain drinks in the back so I could make the suicide drinks for the kiddies that utilized Twizzlers as straws. Why, I even worked there long enough to help train a crew of newcomers in the way of the concession stand. How long had I worked there? A month? Three? I don't remember, though I do know it was long enough for me to convince a new hiree that one of the initiation processes for working at a movie theatre is to have a drink of butter soda, a concoction I learned about from my friend Nick, who had also spent a good deal of time working for the theatre industry. Butter soda is nothing more than soda water (generally found right next to the Sprite button) with a few pumps of movie popcorn butter sprayed into it. It should be noted that hot grease instantly congeals when sprayed onto a cool beverage. It should also be noted how disgusting it tastes. Another fun thing was to have the new hirees wandering around the lobby watering the plants. The plastic plants.

But, as it usually does, humiliation of others soon grew tiresome, and I found it harder and harder to force myself out of bed on those early Saturday mornings for employee meetings that I knew were completely pointless and trivial, and I tried my hardest to find a way out of them. What could they possibly have told me? How to upsell a frankfurter? Fuck that. People buy hotdogs when they want a hotdog. Namely, when we're out of nacho cheese.

And so, it happened early one fateful Saturday that this very interior dialogue was traipsing its way through my likely cobwebbed mind, and as my unwilling eyes felt the sunlight prying at the four hours of sleep that preceded it, my ears became the catalyst that would truly be my Prince Charming, that which would fully rouse me from my slumber. I slept with my window open during that time, so I could hear the birds in the morning, so I could feel the breeze across my neck as I slept, so I could pretend that I was connecting with nature somehow. The birds in the trees directly outside my window were particularly loud that morning, and I remember being quite upset at first, until I realized that they had in fact woken me up when my alarm had failed to, and, had they not, I would surely have been late to my important movie theatre meeting! I simultaneously thanked and cursed the birds, and lay on my back in my bed with eyes closed, waiting for the sun to pierce my eyelids enough to force me onto my feet when- a louder bird than the rest. 'What was that? Oh, nothing. I have to get up. I gotta be there in 45 minutes. Goddamnit, why do I have to go to this stupid-' Wait. 'What the fuck did that bird just sa-' Wait. And right there is where my mind was made. The moment that I literally smiled to myself, agreed, pulled the sheets back over my head, and went immediately back to sleep. People, you can believe me or not, but I heard the bird directly outside my window sweetly sing, "Sc-ree-ew it! Sc-ree-ew it!" I never went back to the theatre. Except to watch free movies.

And then, for a few years, nothing happened. I did things, acquired debt, and found roommates.

Until yesterday, when I exited my room to get ready for work. I walked into the living room, and there, on the window sill, was a friendly sparrow, flapping its wings maddeningly against the glass frame in a futile effort to escape its climate controlled surroundings. I wondered what path this creature must have taken in its short life that could have put it in such a dangerous position, what with the three dogs that live herein that pride themselves on killing things in the yard and playing with said things on my couch. The dogs had already begun the hunt, and I knew it was only a matter of time before this creature's bones were crushed and its feathers strewn about my bathroom floor. I noticed the door to the backyard was opened, so I corralled it as best I could towards the kitchen, and eventually it flew out on its' own accord, with the dogs in-tow, and I quickly shut the door.

Five minutes later I came back into the living room, and there it was again, in the same spot I had found it not ten minutes earlier! This time I have no clue as to how it got in, and the dogs were more determined than ever to murder this helpless, yet by all rights, stupid, creature. I put the dogs in the backyard, and began trying to lure the bird out of the house with a broom. This was no easy task, as it became more and more clear that the bird simply did not want to leave. I must say that I would love to have a live-in bird, if I knew that I would not walk out one morning to find a beak at my feet. So, determined to save the bird from itself, I began an epic struggle with the broom to rid my house of the winged magnificence. Eventually, I did, and went about the rest of my morning with no mishaps or wacky adventures. I left for work, and about 45 minutes into an hour drive, I realized that I was missing my cell phone. Panicking, I searched my car at 75 mph to no avail. My means of communication was gone. There was nothing I could do. When I arrived at work, I talked to my girlfriend on my boss's cell phone, and asked her desperately if she could find my wayward phone by calling it with her cell phone when she got to my house. I received a call a short while later informing me that she had indeed found it by the very place that I had had my struggle with the squatting sparrow. Relieved that I didn't have to worry about trying to contact 200 people for their phone numbers, I went about the rest of my day with much less on my mind.

You see, for a while now, I have received much undeserved grief from my friends for my constant use of a cell phone that was given to me for business purposes- one that I don't even pay for. I shrugged off their annoying banter-"Sorry I have more friends than you. Fuck off." But, after just one day of being untethered to that which has, in truth, made my life much easier over the past year, my memory rushes back to the days that I never had a cell phone, and as much as I wonder now how I ever got along without it, I distinctly remember a time when I thought about how I could ever get along with it.

I shall never forget my savior sparrows, and a special place lasts in my heart unto this day for their spirits to nest, so long as they don't use the kind of trash to make the nest as their living counterparts do, like Big Mac wrappers and condoms.

Poop suicide. Microwave oven. These are not bad song lyrics. Not as in these song lyrics are 'not bad,' these are not 'bad song lyrics.' Get it?

2005-11-16T02:11:00.000-06:00

To wit: I had a dream the other night in which I was participating in a wedding of some sort. Not as the groom, mind you, but someone in the actual wedding party. That information is pretty inconsequential to the story, anyway. Who cares? The point is that I was at a wedding. But the real point is that not only was I at the wedding, rap superstars Eminem and Will Smith(a.k.a. The Fresh Prince) were also in attendance. I'm not sure if you know, and to be honest, I'm not sure I know, but I believe that Eminem has much disdain for Will Smith and his rapping career, as I have heard some quite disparaging comments about Will Smith's street cred in some of Eminem's songs. Perhaps this is why, in my dream, they were not friendly towards one another, even though we were presumably all there to celebrate the union of sacred matrimony of our good friends. Well, leave it to narcissistic pop stars to make everything about them, huh? Can't you take a day off, fellas? Gee willikers! Anyhow, it wasn't long before Eminem and The Fresh Prince got into a dust-up, an ol' fashioned roustabout, a fist fight. Well, seems Fresh Prince, in a fit of rage, perhaps not only towards the shock rapper Eminem, but towards himself at his realization that, yes, perhaps he had lost some of that original street flava that catapulted him to the vast success he has today- what with fighting robots and using his gigantic ears to sail around the world sans motor- proceeded to fight dirty. To literally hit below the belt, immediately rendering Eminem immobile, and thereby ending the scuffle that could very well have been the pop fight of the year! As you might imagine, Eminem was quite upset, though at the time, no one in the dream knew it. In fact, we thought the commotion was over, and soon I found myself at another part of the wedding, in a kitchen, standing with the bride and Will Smith. Oh, we were having a joyous time, and the conversation was lively and vivacious! This quickly changed as we soon became aware of an extremely angry Eminem, who said, with an air of crazed satisfaction in his voice, "Oh god, I'm so happy this just happened." We turned to look, and on a pantry shelf, Eminem had espied a 9mm handgun, and reached over, picked it up, and leveled the piece at our friend Will Smith's face! Terror! Abject fear! The worst was yet to come, however. Seems Eminem takes getting a square punch to the nuts pretty fucking personally, because at this point he informed all of us that he would not be shooting Will Smith, which brought a brief moment of respite to all parties concerned, until he, in the very next breath, informed us that Will Smith would be shooting himself. Not only that, but he was to blow out his own brains with his head inserted into a nearby microwave. I'm not sure if Eminem did this as a further token of disrespect to the Fresh Prince(there is much in the hip-hop world that I am not privvy to), or just to keep the inevitable mess under some sort of control. And to top it all off, in order to humiliate us all, the grave act was to be performed in simultaneity with the bride and I.. shitting our pants. The Fresh Prince was given the gun. On cue, the bride and I... well, the bride and I shit our pants, okay? What else were we supposed to do?! Don't you dare judge me and fictionbride! Then Fresh Prince shot himself in the microwave and died, I guess. Our attention had been immediately diverted as we shit our pants, which stands to reason, as I'm sure shitting one's pants is quite disturbing. But the disgust one might feel as feces rolls, drips, or pours down one's leg after an in-pants shit is not what distracted us from the poor prince's untimely(and frankly, stupid) demise( why the fuck didn't he use the gun on Eminem? My brain is a moron.). No, we immediately noticed, as we each looked between our legs, that we were shitting onto a giant pizza! Capital! I began commenting on the bride's poop, noting that it looked not at all unlike the mole sauce we have at my place of employment. We began laughing and chatting, and the dream sizzled away, back into the ether...

And then last night I dreamed I cut off both of Big E. Small's arms and accidentally killed him. I think he's already dead, though. In real life. I don't know how he died. Shit, I barely knew the guy. I couldn't even name one of his songs. Lay off. Am I on trial here?! Am I free to go or not?!