Soap on a rope

[Thinktank]

I think this is going to help me relax. If I can let go of doubt, my gears will be greased for goodness.

My name is Steve, and I work for a large computer company, doing office maintenance. I live in the suburbs of Chicago, my home my whole life. I'm 23, sadly single, and going nowhere so far. I'm looking for my road, slowly going blind.

I'll start with some profiles of former and current coworkers.

A woman named Carol is quite the character. From what I understand, Carol used to be absolutely gorgeous and sexy. When I met her, she was skinny as a toothpick, no figure, and looked like she'd spent 5 times too long at the tanning salon. She was burned and frequently had a facial rash. When I started here, 5 years ago, I always knew when Carol was in the office because her floral perfumes emanated into the environment, penetrating every nook and cranny of the building. Carol wore bright pink suitjackets, slacks, and accesorized those with green and brown paisley scarfs. She had a thick New York/Jersey/Bronx accent (I'm not sure which, but the same as the Nanny's) and she wore huge sunglasses that seemed to have animal print frames. I never looked too closely. She never ate food, but instead drank carrot blends from her little pink thermos. I think her husband was trying to feed her, and she was hiding the food in the back of her freezer. As a thank you for a task perfomed, she would bring me a McDonald's burger that had long ago been frozen and freezerburned. I think she took them out of old styrofoam containers and wrapped them in paper towels to erase the evidence of their age. Many times the task I completed for her was plugging in her computer, or flipping the power switch on the monitor. I don't understand how she actually sold computer related items, as she probably didn't have much technical knowledge beyond her beloved blender.

She left the company two years ago. I miss Carol.

[Thinktank]

About three years ago this kid named Raoul was hired from a temp agency as a site technician. He was supposed to stop here at the office, grab a couple parts and be on his merry way. Raoul, however, wouldn't leave once he got his parts. He'd wander around the building, standing at various cubicle entrances, talking to people about the weather, or aliens, or guns. Raoul was a typical computer nerd stereotype. He never bathed, wore the clothes of a 50 year old man, and was covered in unpopped zits with greasy white knobs poking out of them. He had glasses a half an inch thick that magnified his black beetle eyes, enhancing their hapless, swirling, watery gaze.

He frequently would tell people, including me, about his progress in setting up a LAN network at his house. He had at least two computers in each room to hold gaming tournaments, he just couldn't find anybody to come over and play. Many mornings I'd get to my desk to find an empty software box on my desk, back up, with a screenshot circled and a post-it with a note like "this one's exactly like WWII!" stuck to it. (Raoul in about my age, born in the seventies sometime) Nothing he could say or do would entice me to make buddies with him, however. After a while he gave up, although he still would come tell me about his new frictionless power source, which created electricity from nothing, or about the evidence he had that aliens had invented the microchip, in hopes that humanity would mature and the aliens would have some peers to relax and chat with.

During the last week of his employment, Raoul came in to work bragging about an assault rifle. The next day, he was bragging about his new armor-piercing bullets that would shred kevlar. The crowning moment came on a Friday morning, when he came in, raccoon eyed and sad looking, and asked me if I was his friend. Naturally, I said "Of course! What's wrong? You look down." He replied that nothing was wrong, everything was just fine.

I had him fired. I reported the guns, the ammo, and the troubling questions. While he was walking out that evening he was stopped, his keys and badge taken, and he was thanked for his work. He tried to come back on Monday morning to chat with his so called friends, but we didn't let him in. We were as kind as possible about it.



Alan works here in contract renewals, which is a desk job involving lots of paper, mail, and phone calls. Alan is an albino fellow with bloodshot eyes and a bride of Frankenstein harido. He looks like he stuck his hand in an outlet. Alan never uses the urinal, but pees standing up in one of the stalls. He collects cereal boxes and his cubicle is full of them. He keeps asking me about shampoo brands. He keeps a wide selection of natural foods in his trunk and brings in various types of oats and grains every day at 1:00 for lunch. I think From Kashi To Good Friends is manufactured for Alan and others like him.

[Thinktank]

One of my good friends has the same name as mine, Steve. The two of us decided three weeks ago, on a Saturday night, to go score some weed on the west side. We drove around Augusta and Cicero, which is basically a poor black neighborhood. I should feel guilty for supporting drug dealers in this community, but they provide a valuable service to lowdown degenerates like me. It's cheap, too, which is something the folks with the good stuff downtown cannot claim. I am poor, so my decision is easy.

While you drive slowly down a dimly lit oneway, you'll see hypes trying to get in your car, swaggering gangbangers in tank tops yelling "Smoke! Rocks! Blows!", and huge swarms of teenagers standing in the streets, vying for their peers' attentions and trying to talk louder than the next.

We bought a couple dimebags, and then decided to get some blows to top that off. We went from gas station to station, trying to find a cash machine. At night, these places are locked up tight, and nobody gets inside. All the cigarettes and pepsi have to go through the sliding bin under the thick, bulletproof glass. Invariably there's a few old men and hobos outside, asking for smokes and change.

When the cops pulled us over, the other Steve put the bags where the sun doesn't shine. The cops didn't like me lying to them, and into their back seat I went. "You're lost? Bullshit. Hands on the hood. Now." My enterprising friend, however, took a more direct approach, telling the officers that the north is dry, and that we're trying to score. He also fed them a line about his uncle dying in the line of duty, and dropped a name he picked up off the news last year. They pulled me out, and the cop said "Get your weed and get out of here without getting shot, allright?"

Okay. You got it, officer.

We finally found a blows guy again, which took a little while since the cops were thick. We went back to Steve's place, listening to the oldies on the way. Smokey Robinson provided the soudtrack for Steve's finger-spelunking. The car smelled like shit when he fished out the dimebags. Thankfully I had napkins. Tears Of A Clown indeed.

Steve has no air conditioning, and it was very hot and humid that night. We had bottled water in the fridge, and we drank lots of it. We stayed up until 5 or 6 in the morning, snorting the heroin and smoking the weed. Once I couldn't discern the difference between a joint and one of Steve's Top brand homerolleds, I went outside to catch some breeze. Steve was nodding out and breathing raggedly, so I shook him out of it and brought him some water.

I felt very clean the next day. All that sweating had detoxified me. I went home and curled up with a book. The Cubs lost, too.

[Thinktank]

I like to walk. Once or twice a week, preferrably when the weather is unbearably hot, I'll go walking when work ends at 5 pm. Sometimes I'll go to my folks' house, which is about 7 miles, and sometimes, if I'm really jacked, I'll turn around instead of begging a lift back to work. That brings it closer to 15 miles.

I see lots of things while walking the suburban streets.
A sexy asian woman in a red convertible, picking her nose.
A discarded winter glove, which changed from grey to black until a gutter finally swallowed it.
A patch of sidewalk, stained a dark purple, from bicycle tires crushing mulberries.
A rose bush, growing through chain links.
A two-story deep hole in the street, blocked off my pylons. I wonder what they're doing down there?
One spot where crows hang out on the telephone wires. I always smell lilac, but I never see purple.
A small hole under a bush, always filled with black water. Wounded animals splash in there to die, and the smell is always putrescent.
Fat redheaded twins.
An old man from Pakistan, standing on the corner, asking for directions to the library. Sure, I'll look at your passport. Very nice picture. Go that way, and that way. Bye now.

[Thinktank]

I am trying to beat my shyness into submission. I am lonely, and time is passing.

I went to a sports bar to watch the Bears and Cubs last Saturday. I see a girl who went to the same elementary school as myself, and I was trying to figure out what to say, and how to approach her. My amigo is egging me on, and it's not helping. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I know.

I saw a guy go talk to her and her friend, and then go sit down. Hmm. Shot down? I see the girls getting up to leave, or so I thought, so I quickly scrambled over there. She remembered me, and I got her name right. Danielle. Her friend is Alice.

They weren't leaving. They were going over to that guy's table for a drink. Danielle invites me to join them, and I do. The guy is not pleased. "Dudes! I didn't ask for dudes! Where'd the dudes come from?" His hame is Dave, and his buddy, I shit you not, was Jethro. Jethro never once spoke, but he laughed and giggled a lot.

Alice was very embarrassed. She's got competing males on both ends of the table. She verbalizes her discomfort. I don't know what to say, so I asked Danielle about her photo album, which for some strange reason she brought into the bar.

Best I can figure, Danielle was stuck as Alice's wingman and didn't like those guys, so I provided a convenient distraction. Alice sure wasn't pleased. Either that or Danielle is too nice to say no and avoid an awkward situation. I don't know. I asked for her number, but she's seeing somebody. I wonder if that's true or a nicer way of saying no way jose. I told her that it was nice to see her, and I went back to sit with the church cult guys who'd been keeping me updated on the Cubs game. They belong to the Willow Creek compound. It's huge, and I think Walter Payton's family goes there. That's what I heard.

[Thinktank]

I finally found Friday.

As a Monday through Friday 8-5 person, Friday is the longest workday of the week. Clocks tick more loudly than usual, and twice as many cigarettes are sucked down. Today I'll be changing ceiling tiles and wiping chalk dust out of my eyes.

Curt Schilling is pitching for the Arizona Diamondbacks today at Wrigley Field. My favorite team is the Cubs, but I loved watching the D'backs beat the Braves and the Yankees last year. Mark Grace, back at Wrigley for three days. Schilling, my favorite pitcher, mowing down my favorite team. I'll be listening to the radio today, and Pat Hughes and Ron Santo will help me pass my afternoon. Hopefully they'll stray from the game and start insulting one another's wardrobe, and discuss skeletal structures and current musicians they've never heard before.

I want to carve a Christmas Tree. I think I'll find some good wood tonight, and carve while I listen to the Bears game on the radio. Maybe I'll even head out and do something social. I'm not in the mood for booze or greens, so I'll have to try having fun sober. I'm not very good at having fun with other people. I'm at my best alone, volume cranked.

[Thinktank]

Sweepstaking.

When I was on prodigy, a dial-up service pre-internet, there was a group of people that entered sweepstakes in mass quantities. They would buy index cards in bulk, as well as stamps. They would win lawnmowers, grills, bicycles, money, and even vacuums. Vacations, candy, and museum passes. You name it, they would try to win it.

I think these people are the cause of the "one entry per person per day or per household" restriction that so many contests now have.

I am considering becoming a sweepstaker. After a few years, I'd be able to throw the best fucking garage sale ever held in Cook County, IL.

[Thinktank]

I know a guy named Mike who just got sent to 26th and California, site of the luxurious world-renowned Cook County Jail. Eveybody who comes out of there always talks about getting their dicks q-tipped for the health check when they go in there. That sounds rough.

Mike was on house arrest, except that he was confined to his place of employment rather than his home. He had to wear one of those ankle bracelets that keep you within the judicially defined perimeter. He would frequently take this off and put it on the coffeemaker, since if the anklet gets below 90 degrees the alarm goes off and the hounds are unleashed.

Anyways, before all this he was visiting and trying to recruit a driver to take him to some dodgy south side crackspot. He's dealt with a certain house before, and they knew him well because he'd always run down there to get heroin for a friend who had silly money.

Mike was getting low on money, so he wanted to take my kitchen knives there to steal their crack and cash. He promised something like $2000 in liquid funds and a comparable amount of crack. He already had two of my knives wrapped up in a Ralph Nader t-shirt of mine from the 2000 elections.

Personally, I don't like crack. It makes me sweat like a hog, my heart races faster than cheetah on rollerblades, and I'm scared of absolutely everything. I smoked some in an alley behind Union Station with a homeless guy, and he put me on the Red line to get to a concert, but all the signs were blue. It fucked my head up, but I got to the show okay. He smelled bad too, but I paid his train fare and he came half the way there with me. He said things like "little whiteboy ain't cut out for the big city life, oh no oh boy my goodness heh yeah"

So obviously I'm not interested in helping Mike. His bigass van, which I think he stole from some Hispanics, had fresh bulletholes in it that still had paint flakes floating off of them when a strong breeze gusted. I did not ask about the holes. I don't want to be an accesory to murder either, I don't approve of murder, it's wrong in my opinion. He kept saying that all I had to do was drive and wait on the corner down the street, but whites can't just sit still around there. I'd really be asking for it. Eventually me and his friend talked him out of it, at least for the day.

When the fidgety gleam finally left his eyes, we went to get some weed from one of his buddy's ex-girlfriends. I didn't know they intended to steal it from her car until we got there, but fortunately it was too late to buy a slimjim and we couldn't find an appropriate metal stick, so we gave up. I think stealing is wrong, too, and she's a nice girl who should know better that to date one of these guys.

I'll tell you how Mike landed in jail next time.

[Thinktank]

Goddamn typos. I usually find the letter S where a D is supposed to be. Two in my pre-lunches post. All fixed up now.

This journal is one hell of a great way to pass the day at work. I only have 90 minutes left now, and then I get to go either A) clean out a garage for painting, or B) go to the Speedway in Sycamore, IL, and watch old cars race and demolish one another. I love it when they flip over. I hate cars. Even mine.

I just finished with two round trips to Home Depot, where I picked up about 80 acoustic ceiling tiles that my office's landlord bought for me. I gotta cover up all the water stains by way of tile swapping before the VP comes in for a big seminar at the end of the month. We just merged a couple months ago and my company is an IT juggernaut now. Watch the fuck out. I have to get some LAN lines activated too.

Whoops, I'm boring you. Sorry about that. I had two lunches today. A nice, healthy, tasty turkey sub from Cousins, and some sloppy, greasy, sludgy jalapeno cheesebugers from White Castle. As a teenager, we would always eat at the White castle in Hoffman since it's right outside the police station. The Hoffman cops are overzealous and we'd contantly be picking someody up there.

I need to check on the game. Don't worry, Mike's arrest will be forthcoming shortly.

[Thinktank]

40 minutes until 5pm, perfect for a cute little criminal enterprise story.

I left off with big Mike on house arrest at the telemarketing office. From what I understand, it's 3 story building and his office is on the 3rd floor. From there he and his coworkers would call businesses to solicit donations for the Chicago Fraternal Order Of Police, a large portion of which would be paid to the caller as commision. The FOP charity attributes these payouts to the solicitors under "administrative costs". Donating businesses get advertisements in the quarterly officers' newspaper.

You heard me right. He was on house arrest at a police charity office.

I'm not sure what led him to it, but he decided one night when he was feeling restless to climb up into the ceiling. Mike's a lardass, and I happen to know that no fabricated ceiling tile is going to hold him. He must have stayed on top edges of the walls or something, in the plentim between the ceiling and the roof. Eventually he found his way to an office with goodies in it. The office was for a real esate investor who also owns that building. Mike grabbed some Mercedes keys hanging on a rack, a few credit cards, and about 20 pieces of computer equipment: monitors, printers, computers, etc.

He loaded as much as he can into the Mercedes Benz and hightailed it over to a friend's apartment to stash it. When he went back, cops were swarming so he abandoned the rest of it. He drove that car around for a week, buying jerseys at Sports Authority with the credit cards and eating expensive meals. The cops found him in his old neighborhood eventually. He had gone through a tollbooth, not realizing he had an I-Pass, and the booth operator thought it was strange, especially when he said "I don't think it's working". They always work, you see. Combine that red flag with the tollbooth cameras and you have yourself a suspect profile, previous offenses and all. Good luck Mike, I hope you stay out of trouble in the big lockup.

The buddy who had the stashed equipment did the right thing and brought it back to the office, and made an anonymous call to look out back. Good for you bud.

[Thinktank]

I need to tell you about the goddamn geese.

For 4 years, the stench of summer was an earthy not so delightful gooseshit eau de toilette. Gaggles here, there, everywhere. All around the office nests were hidden, and hundreds of the little bastards would sprout in June, threading single file goose marches in circles around the property.

Naturally, this meant a lot of shit. Gooseshit comes in three varieties. wet splashy green, moist spongy green, and dry brown pellets. Everywhere.

Until finally, this year, I discovered a nonviolent method of preventing this horrible scourge. The fine for a dead or injured goose is $500 if I'm caught, by the way. They shouldn't be listed as endangered anymore, in my opnion.

I shoot bottle rockets, whistle and pop, squak and flap. It only took about three weeks before they stopped coming to feast on our dry, heat-harshed grass. Our parking lots suffer only from dead leaves, used condoms, and mysterious garbage bags full of cantalope shells now.

That makes me feel good about myself.

[Thinktank]

This is a Monday started in the dark, with drizzle and mist choking the light away.

My friend Ian moved to Lakeland, Florida about 6 months ago. He cut his hair into a mohawk, dyed it electric blue, joined a punk band as a drummer, and lived on the beach.

Now he's in jail, again.

For a while, he lived as a leech off underage tourist girls. He would hang around the Hyatt and invite girls to come to his punk shows, and he'd get them to buy alcohol and once they were drunk, he'd have sex with them. He's in jail for grand theft auto. He took his brother's truck while extremely drunk and crashed and totalled it. They never got along anyways.

I started delivering pizzas yesterday. It was a slow day, but I made $50 in just over 4 hours. So far I haven't been molested by any lonely housewives with husbands travelling in Europe. That's better than any $3 tip, I would say. I'll just have to be patient.

I went to a Powerhouse gym on Saturday as a guest. Why do these places have so many mirrors? Is that so it's easier to check somebody out without overtly staring?

Reasons to check somebody out at the gym using the mirrors:
1. Damn, he/she is sexy.
2. I wonder how long it took him to get that strong.
3. How in the hell does she bend herself like that? Does it hurt?
4. How the hell does this machine work? I'll go use that one until somebody hops on this one so I can see what to do.
5. I wish I could read lips, cause she's really enjoying that song and I'd sure like to know what it is.
6. I could do that. Easy.
7. Damn, I'm sexy.

I really enjoyed it, and I'm going to save up for a membership. 45 minutes there beat a 90 minute home workout, and the range of muscles I can work is far greater. I just need to make sure I don't get too big, because I don't want to be a spinach-fed looking guy with a crewcut.

On Friday night I had a few guests at my apartment, and somebody asked me for something to eat. My answer: "popcorn and carrots." That's all I had. Laughter erupted. I'll bet they were stoned. Go to White Castle you freaks.

[Thinktank]

The men's washroom has 4 stalls, 2 urinals, 5 sinks, 1 shoe polish machine, and poor ventilation. Employees bring newspapers, magazines, books, and cellphones into the stalls. I always wonder how one conducts an important conversation while loudly defecating, or contracting one last wet lump from the bowels. Sometimes I go there to take a nap. I usually wake from my daze sweating, shocked by the sounds of grunts and splashes. I have to endure another's stench for a few extra moments before I exit, as I usually have a big red mark on my forehead from sleepeing on my arm. Usually it looks like Tennessee.

I have a spot where the highway passes over train tracks. I go there on bad days, usually to cool off, relax, and vent some steam before reentering society. It's a filthy place, with discarded bottles, broken glass, children's clothing, dirty matresses, dead animals, cigarette butts, bits of tin foil, and lots of graffiti. I stand between giant concrete supports and practice my pitching arm with empty bottles. (I usually bring or sixer or twelver there, and lots of cigarettes.) The trains echo mountains of sound that shake the air, and the lights are giant fireflys with outboard motors. Lovely. The tracks are laid atop colorful limestone shards, some laced with granite, and I usually bring a pretty one back to my apartment after each visit. The tracks are an ugly place, but I love it there.

[Thinktank]

I think I eat Indian food the wrong way. At the local lunch buffet, you receive 4 pieces of Tandoori chicken and some naan bread aside from whatever you'd like from the buffet.

I peel the chicken into strips, douse it with lemon, put it on the naan bread with onion and a strange, tangy green sauce, and I roll it up and eat it like a burrito. This seems to alternately amuse and horrify the Indian staff.

It's really good though. So is the curry chicken on the pea rice. The only Indian dish I've disliked is the lentil one, since it's too gritty.

Free salted fennel seeds on the way out. I saved a few extra in my cigarette cellophane. I think they use these things for black licorice. They being manufacutures, that is to say, confectioners, or maybe purveyors of black licorice.

I managed not to spill any vindaloo on the Cold Six Thousand, the Ellroy book I've just started. It's very choppy and static, and I'm enjoying it so far.

I have an avatar now. That's me at the top of this page, watching you watching me. Hooray for Neal Stephenson buzzwords.

[Thinktank]

The Great Lakes Manager Of Finance for Services must be a degree holder with a title like that. He's a big guy who waddles. One day about three years ago he spilled coffee on a spiral notebook.

So he microwaved it. As you know, spiral notebooks have spirals, made of metal. He walked out of the cafeteria as I walked in, and halfway past the candy machine I hear flying buzzsaw blades straight out of megaman combined with Earnheardt's last crash.

Okay, that's an exaggeration. It was an electrical storm in a bottle, though, and I had the prudence to press stop instead of rashly opening the microwave door. I wrote DO NOT MICROWAVE - RINGS ARE METAL on it and set it atop the microwave.

I think he was just expressing his creativity.

[Thinktank]

Last Friday I ended up in a crappy bar called Coachhouse instead of helping with the garage project or going to the car demolitions. Coachhouse is a place people go to find a fuck or a fight. The music was typical top 40 garbage and early 90's rap, and I couldn't get into it. I think I'm just an uptight prick who can't loosen up, relax, and have fun, but I can't help it if I find the humpty-hump retarded and refuse to dance to it. My problem is that I still live in the same area that I grew up in, and everybody left are those who went straight into labor or attend the local community college for lack of ambition. Good luck finding a conversation.

Let me tell you of two brothers I know, Joe and Rich. Joe is the older of the two, 27, and right now he's doing well, working in construction with his father. Joe spent about a year in jail for retail theft. Joe had a big heroin problem. For a while it was just a bad habit, but once he got a needle it became a cliffjumper of a problem. After his folks kicked him out he borrowed a tent from me and lived in the forest strip along the highway which was opposite my front door at the time. Joe would have his girlfriend pull up at the dock doors of a Best Buy, Circuit City, or the like, and he'd run through grabbing the most valuable electronics he could carry and dash out the back exit with it before the employees or security could catch up. When you need a fix, you can run really fast. He got to the point where he'd go score and shoot up on the way home, and one day he nodded out and crashed his Z-28 into the median. (I think it's Z-28, I know fuck all about cars) The cops took him away.

Joe is a much kinder, friendlier human being than his little brother. Rich is a violent person who loves to cause major injuries to people, especially his 'friends.' He's built and stacked, like Paul Bunyan, except without the ox. I always gave him a cigarette when he asked. I like having teeth. Rich has gone to jail for assault, possesion of a firearm, auto theft, possesion of an illegal substance, and possibly other charges as well.

A few years ago I asked my buddy D to hook up some coke for a weekend bender. (although with coke we all know it's a one-night bender, you do that shit until it's gone, believe you me) D came with Rich to pick me up and we went to this woman Anna's condo. Anna's fuckpal went to go score with my $100, and while he was gone D told me that he ordered crack. I was a little bit upset, since I wanted cocaine, but what's done is done so what-the-fuck-ever. When the goods came back, Rich got mad. He's a cracksmoking virtuoso, and he knew that what I had before me was about a $40 bag. He saw that Anna had hooked up, and based on the raccoon bags under her eyes, she'd used my money to do it. She looked like she was jonesing bad and probably broke. He grabbed the crack from her, violently, and she attacked him with her fingernails. He reached out with his arm and pushed her back, and she fell over the table and knocked her head on the tv set. As we left, she stood at the door, screaming obscenities into her neighborhood at 2 in the morning. D, Rich and I went and got rocked.

This was after the Union station hobo experience, and it was equally unnerving. That put me off crack forever, although I knew better all along. What can I say, the suburbs are boring.

Nowadays Rich is rail-thin and not nearly as formidable. He caught the same heroin bug his older brother did, except he has no consience or guilt and does not care whether his parents are happy or not. That's too bad, because they're both very nice people who feed me well whenever I visit. I don't know how they can handle all this crap from their sons.

Here's another good one: When Joe was doing horse, one night he decided to make a bomb. I cannot venture a guess regarding his purpose, but he made the front page of the newspaper the next day. He was packing sulphur match heads into a lead pipe with a screwdriver, and it sparked and ignited and almost blew his thumb off. His hand is still fucked up. He put a hole through his bedroom floor and the ceiling of the den below. Fortunately this was before 9/11, or he'd have been in deep shit and labelled as a terrorist. I'm glad Joe is behaving these days.

[Thinktank]

Last Sunday I started delivering pizzas for extra cash. I used to work drive-thru, front register, and delivery drawer at this place during my teenage years, and they were happy to have me back.

During my 1st or 2nd year there, in 1994 or 95, I had a jalapeno eating contest with some of the illegal immigrants who work there. They're all Mexican, so I knew I had quite a challenge before me. There were 5 of us: the italian beef guy, Alejandro, the gyros guy, Jose, the fry guy, Chepe, the grill guy, who's nickname was cayo negro (black rooster in English, he was also a Jose) and myself. I won by eating 37 whole jalalpenos, and after receiving my congratulations I continued to take orders for the dining room. After about a half an hour, I started to hear a percolating and feel a bloating. Those green fuckers sent stabbing pains north and south, and I could no longer stand up straight. I was bent over my register, sweating like an death row inmate with no appeals, and hyperventilating while taking hot dog orders. People felt so bad for me they tipped me. The Mexicans giggled a lot, since they'd known what was coming. I must give them credit, though, as they got me good and drunk later that night while we closed up the restaurant.

That stuff burns far worse on the way out than on the way in, and it comes in little care packages, no big burritos. I had to use the can once every 15 minutes for the next 8 or 9 hours. My ass chapped.

Those were the days.

[Thinktank]

Recently I went to a Bar called the Capitol Sports bar. My first clue was the 21 & up signs, which were all in Polish. My second clue was the neon highlighted Warholian painting of the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. My third clue was the cheezy eurotrance with Minnie Mouse singing Richard Marx's "I Will Be Right Here Waiting For You." No sports were on the television despite games in progress for the White Sox and Cubs.

There was a small bar in the front room, and in the side room was a banquet-dancefloor area, which was empty. It was still early, and aside from the smokingly gorgeous women serving drinks, the place was full of males who wear shiny leather jackets, wear polyester, use lots of hairspray, and own much nicer shoes than mine. I noticed this because they kept comparing shoes, that is, when they weren't giving Steve and I the evil eye. Steve's ex-girlfriend had taught him some Polish bed talk, and he'd never learned what any of it meant. He asked a tall, trim blond waitress to translate, which she did.

"I'm a teddy bear."

[Thinktank]

I grew up in Schaumburg, Illinois, and I still work there. At one time, Schaumburg could claim to have the largest mall in the world, Woodfield Mall.

During 2001, when the economy was strong, the state of Illinois was handing out landmark budgets to towns and cities with large groupings of commercial zoning. The idea was to increase tourism, I suppose. Towns like Naperville and Schaumburg were alloted large sums of money to build giant signs proclaiming the town's name. Schaumburg bought a giant rock to be engraved with "Welcome To The Village Of Schaumburg" in some fancy font or other. It was installed at Higgins & Route 53.

During the installation, the rock broke into three pieces. They glued it back together, and it broke again. The quarry they bought the rock from was all mined out, so they couldn't get a matching rock to replace or repair the sign. To this day, it looks goofy and Village Of Schaumburg look like chumps who waste money.

Earlier this year, the Village sent a notice to my office building to change our dumpster enclosure from chainlink to wood, or face sizable fines. So we did it.

The next month, they sent us ancient blueprints and charged us with installing 10 or 15 trees, mulching all sorts of spots, and a few other beautification-related demands. Our landlord managed to talk them out of most of it, but we still had to mulch and prune several of the existing trees. We got an incompetent landscaping company to perform these tasks, and now our property looks like a Tim Burton set. The trees were trimmed and branches cut off seemingly at random.

Schaumburg is suing a guy who convinced them to set up two art galleries. One was an indoor gallery inside an old barn, which formerly was a Women's Workout World. The other was an international sculpture garden, full mostly of Picasso knockoffs and substandard bent metal abstracts. Apparently he's commited fraud of some type. Personally, I blame Schaumburg. I've walked through the sculpture garden many times, since it's on one of my walking routes through the Prairie Center, and I like only 3 out of about 20 sculptures.

I was considering making a proposal to Schaumburg. All of the sculptures are by Scandanavian artists, and I thought perhaps they'd like to have one by a local boy. I draw tribal art, lots of animal skeletons and the like. I want to do one cut in wood about 10' tall, and grow ivy on it.

After all this shit going down I doubt they trust artists any more. Besides, they're now hurting for money and trying to induce whiplash in all of their industrial tenants by making outlandish requests, I don't know, to collect fines I guess.

I'll have to ply my trade alsewhere. I don't even know how to cut something 10' tall anyways.

[Thinktank]

There's woman at work, Lynda, who is somewhere between 50-60. She struts. She wears 2 inch heels, wears tight sweaters, and orders something new from the Victoria's Secret Catalog each week. When my shipping clerk is out, I have the dubious honor of delivering these items to her desk. I don't want to know what's inside of them. Maybe it's just more eyeliner. She uses a lot.

I bought a car from Jeff and his wife, Nancy. They work here. Jeff's sister also works here, and her name is Sharon. She goes to lunch everyday with Vince, who just loaned me a book about a Texas A&M football team from the 50's and brought me a shrimp and bacon sandwich from The Cheesecake Factory a couple weeks ago, which was excellent. I wonder if her husband or brother knows that she's cheating on her husband. It's unfathomable to think that she leaves the office with Vince everyday and isn't cheating. Good for them, I think.

One of my bosses, Marilou, just retired. She went to Vegas to gamble, and then she came back and hopped on a Harley, as did her husband, and off to Sturgis they went for a big bike rally. She came back to visit, tan, glowing, and blissful. I wish I was Marilou today.

I just took a capsule. 313 mg ephedrine extract, 150 mg caffeine, 25 mg of combined weirdo shit like Ginko and Bee Pollen. Once it sinks through the heap of pizza, I'll be wired like Johnny 5. I will then walk, walk walk. I have a case of beer in my trunk. I won't be able to sleep without most of it.

People keep leaving food outside my cube. Yesterday, it was a box of doughnuts. Today, bagels and cream cheese. Whoever you are, I want to thank you.

[Thinktank]

A few years ago Steve and I went to sell a sheet of acid to a guy named Adam, who was a strange character. He was a white guy with big hair, a fro similar to that painting teacher guy, Bob Ross I think, who was always painting landscapes on PBS and talking like James Taylor sings. Adam always wore a knife on his belt, and tried to look menacing, and yet he always listened to the Grateful Dead, which was anything but scary. He had a big jaw and small eyes that were beetle black and just a little bit crosseyed.

The Hoffman Estates police pulled us over at the entrance to his condo complex, and they knew exactly what they were looking for. They took a 40 oz. Mickey's away from Ian (the one in a FL jail right now) and found a little bit of weed, probably not enough to bust us for. They had dogs, 3 squads, and a lot of flashlights and plenty of intimidation.

They were making shit up, too. They tried to convince us that if they found some acid, and nobody admitted to owning it, we'd all get the charge. They also said that if a dog licked the acid and died, we'd all be charged with homicide of a police officer. They had us squeezed into one squad car and kept shining lights into our eyes and swearing loudly. We all stayed quiet, and they were pissed off.

They didn't find the acid, but they made a huge mess of the car, pulling off any panels that were even close to loose and ripping the upholstery. They arrested Steve, the driver and owner of the car, for underage alcohol consumption since he had some empty bottles in the back seat. The next day, we found the acid sitting on the back dash, a shiny piece of tinfoil sitting right out in the open under the back windshield's defroster stripes. It was obvious in daylight, but somehow their flashlights had missed it.

We later learned that Adam set people up all the time, and he had a CB radio tuned into the police frequency. He was listening to the whole charade on the radio, and probably watching everything with his binoculars from his bedroom window. I think he was probably masturbating.

[Thinktank]

It's fun to let my imagination run wild. Throughout the Chicago area today, heavy rainfall is fucking up the streets and highways, and all the light has been transformed to a drab blue and gray glow.

I sped through an intersection that was underwater, and a huge spray of murky water waved onto the sidewalk, breaking and crashing there. In my fevered imagination, there was an army of mice surfing off my treads, sqeaking exclamations as they topped the wave, and bouncing and somersaulting off the cement and into the dirt at the base of a tree next to the sidewalk. I wonder what they do during good weather. I may have to set up some miniature bungee cords on the crabapple tree outside to see if these imaginary mice are truly acrobats.

[Thinktank]

My little sister Carolyn and I went to Milwaukee to get some Anne Rice books of hers signed. Anne had a new book out, Memnoch I think it was. Carolyn brought a copy along and so we got in line outside of the bookstore. Before entering, we discovered that we must purchase a copy there, and that there was a 1 autograph limit. Stingy but practical for a popular writer such as Mrs. Rice. I had just enough money to buy a copy, and so I did. After over an hour of waiting, we reached the front of the line where Mrs. Rice sat with her limo driver/security escort. She was a big supporter of Al Gore, and I was wearing a Nader /LaDuke shirt. I think I did that on purpose, just to piss her off. It worked.

I stood there proudly, chest out, shoulders squared, chin up, beaming down at her with a big shiteating grin on my face. Her perfunctory polite smile melted into a blank stare, and the corners of her mouth twitched before forming a scowl.

It was great.

My sister got both of her copies signed anyways. She still has them. I read most of Anne's books when I was in high school, but I don't enjoy them any longer. I tried to reread Interview With A Vampire about two years ago, and I found all the whiny woeful undead angst to be a bit much. Every character spent most of the novel stroking their unique miseries, and every line seemed to be a remix of "Woe is me!" Too many violins, not enough drums.

[Thinktank]

I was stranded in Milwaukee near Marquette University when the dirty hobo came into the police station. He had some sort of sandwich in his hand, and he was shaking as if a tapeworm was wriggling it's way up his ass. I'm talking electric chair convultions. The sandwich looked like the a pita bread, a mound of ground beef, and a heaping pile of grilled onions. I don't know what it's called. The guy was stuttering and trying to tell us something important. Who's us? Me, Feffie, Matt, and the rookie at the dispatch desk. The rookie was a young fresh faced lad who was too young to carry a firearm and therefore could not ride a squad.

Imagine a sprinkler that sprays grilled onions instead of water. Instead of "chick chicka chicka chicka clack clack clack clack" you hear "g-g-g-gun fo-floor da d-dude c-c-cuh, cuh, cuh, crazy no no bad you gotta g-g-g-g-g-g-g-go hep I-I mean help!" The rookie had onions on his phone. He was upset. I had onions on my shoes. The carpet had more than either of us.

As it happens, the guy was trying to report a crime. He'd gone into some restaurant up the street, and before they had a chance to kick him out, somebody had fired a gun into the ceiling. A party of gangstas was there, and one of them demanded a blowjob from a waitress, and when she refused, he got upset. He pulled his piece and made some noise with it. Assuming that all of this was actually true, I have to assume that everyone inside hit the floor and the drunk hobo grabbed somebody's food from their plate before going to visit the police.

When some real cops came back, they started yelling at him, and one of the cops beat the guy. He slammed him into a bar railing and nearly tipped him over it head first. Not my scene. I went across the street and slept in a parking lot. Feffie and Matt did the same. We'd all been going camping when the car broke down, so we had sleeping bags.

Earlier in the evening, when the car had broken down, we sent Matt to buy oil. He came back an hour later claiming he'd been mugged and knocked unconscious by four gangbangers, one of which had Grape Nehi. He said one clubbed him with a gun and took the money. We knew he was lying, and so did the cops. Feffie's money had all disappeared, and we think Matt stole it. Therefore, no cab money, and no way back to Illinois, the Land Of Lincoln. We had called the cops to report the incident, since Feffie and I hadn't figured out that it was bullshit yet. He woke up from a KO and got back awfully fast, and there were no bruises. That's why we were sitting in the station when the incredible onion man walked in.

Feffie's mommy rescued us and sent us a cab in the morning. We spent the next day looking for weed, with no luck. What losers.

[Thinktank]

When I still lived with my folks, I always hung out in the garage, which was covered in posters, cigarette butts, broken glass, and old furniture with liquid cheese grafted onto the upholstery. During those years, I had many wild parties in the dingy hole, and I'm going to tell you about one of my favorites right now.

My neighbor at the time, Shane, was a cool guy. He was recently married, had a pool table in his garage, and sold counterfeit watches and glass pipes out of his briefcase. One night he threw a party, and he asked me to DJ it. I brought my turntables, mixer, and record collection next door to his condo and set up the equipment in his living room. I'm not very good at mixing, so I played some techno and industrial records radio-DJ style, one after another, to save myself the embarrassment of one trainwreck mix after another.

Shane had a keg of MGD in his back yard, and a tank of nitrus in the bathtub upstairs. Sometime around 11:30 pm the police came because some teenage girl had told her parents exactly where she was going. She'd been denied permission, so she snuck out. Her parents called the cops, and they showed up the door to flush the girl out and check IDs and make sure everyone drinking was old enough. Of course, many were not.

This led to a bull run of people running out the back door, including my friend Dave. I grabbed him by the sleeve and told him to stay put, which he did. After everything settled down, I hauled my equipment back to my garage and broke out the cocaine. While Dave and I were touching our second or third line, Shane knocked at the garage door and asked if he could bring the tank into my garage. Sure! He'd already given me the keg, and the night looked to last a long time. I don't know if you've ever heard a nitrus cannister before, but they are very loud, like an elephant's mating call. I had about 15 people stuffed in there doing balloons, falling over into piles of nasty garbage full of pizza crusts and iguana shit.

Eventually they all left, sometime around 4 in the morning, right around when my dad wakes up. He drinks a fifth or two a night of Ten High bourbon, so he goes down at 8 or 9 and wakes early. My friend Darren was piss drunk and hitting on a girl named Tanya who had no interest whatsoever, and Darren was getting belligerent. I asked him, ever so kindly, to go inside and sleep on the couch. He went, but he had to urinate first, and he mistook the kitchen for the bathroom. With my dad hungover and watching groggily, Darren tapped his kidney right onto the kitchen floor. My fathert was upset, but I thought it was no big deal since dad himself had peed in the refrigerator a few times in the past, a worse offense in my opinion. Especially when he nails the meatkeeper where all the sandwich stuff is.

I was getting a friendly massage from Tanya when some jackass asked me when I was going to kiss her. My silence condemned me and she got mad and sulked at the other end of the garage for a while before going to sleep on my sister's floor. I was too damn drunk and fucked up, and I didn't like being put on the spot. The fact that I'm a prude doesn't help either.

When all was said and done, my front lawn was littered with plastic cups, balloons, bottlecaps, cigarette butts, and footprints. I slept until the afternoon. I think I drank more when I awoke, but I'm not sure. The passage of time makes memory hazy. Okay, the drugs don't help either.

[Thinktank]

One of the most gastrointestinally challenging foods I eat is White Castle jalapano cheesburgers. Those little puppies come in a briefcase of 30 for about 20 dollars. I can eat between 5-10 at one time, but the side effects are humbling. They make gas, and lots of it.

I reheat them in the oven at 350 degrees, and the entire kitchen and part of the hallway smell like them for the rest of the day. When you combine that with the silder poops and the slider farts, my kitchen and bathroom smell exactly the same, except for the tint of mouthwash to the smell of the bathroom.

I think it's the onions.

[Thinktank]

I have come to a conclusion: People who smoke love gyros sandwiches. Especially weed smokers. In the course of my deliveries for the pizza joint last night, 3 deliveries I made were to apartments with pot smoke drifting out of them. All of these people ordered gyros, the wonderful sliced lamb & beef with tzatziki sauce on pita bread creations of the Greeks, I believe. They have a very strong flavor.

My dad smokes 2 or 3 packs of benson & hedges de luxe ultra lights 100s every day. He orders pizzas with black olives, mushrooms, anchovies, green peppers, and sausage on a regular basis. Garlic sometimes, too. He drinks lots of bourbon. He really has to go overboard with the flavor assault.

My theory is that people who smoke have a layer of tar and resin paste on their tongues, and stronger flavors cut through and dissolve this paste. Like Draino but for your mouth.

I used to put jalapenos on absolutely everything when I smoked Newports. I'm a non-menthol smoker nowadays, and my jalapeno compulsion has reduced drasticly.

Once I run out of White Castles, I'm going to eat lettuce and felafels until my colon recovers.

[Thinktank]

There lies a property on unincoporated land at the edge of town. It's backyard fence is also part of the outfield fence for the local minor league baseball stadium. In the backyard there is a stable and horse, a trampoline, an above-ground pool full of muck, 10 or 11 broken-down cars against the back fence, and a large firepit.

Before the stadium was built, about 3 or 4 years ago, I got drunk on the 4th of July at this fine household. Leo, Bill, and I decided to get up to some mischeif. Armed with 4 or 5 m-80's, we strolled over to the local Metra train station, about a block away through some backyards. After blowing up some potted plants, we wandered over to a port-a-potty. It was on high ground in the parking lot, which was perfect for our intentions.

If you look at where the walls meet on a port-a-potty, you'll notice that the front right corner is rounded, whereas the other 3 corners are right angles. That's because there's a tube running from the septic tank up to the roof, to vent foul odors and improve ventilation. On most port-a-pottys, there's no grill or screen at the top of this tube.

We lit an m-80, and Leo, being 6' 5 or so, dunked it right into the exhaust tube. We ran. After a muffled thud, a green tide washed out from underneath the shithole, in every direction. Amatuer lincoln logs went atumble down into the parking lot, taking spaces and not paying for them. The sludgier wastes moved like melting turtles, causing erosion that split the green rivers into tributaries.

By god that smelled awful.

The parking spaces are all numbered, and there's rows of wooden boxes with little numbered slots in them at either end of the lot. People shove dollars and quarters into the slots to pay for their spots. Leo and I went there after dark with some saws, boltcutters, and screwdrivers. The plan was to either break into one or to take a whole box home. Hey, I was drunk. Don't look at me like that. Please?

After a lot of effort, sweat, and grunting, we sawed one off the shitty metal pole it stood upon. As we were hauling it away to pry it open for spare change, headlights shone upon us. I saw the bar atop the hood, and I knew it was cops. "Cops!" I dropped everything and so did Leo, and we ran. Leo knew the neighborhood well, so he went through all the shortcuts and got home quickly. I, on the other hand, was stuck in open space and I panicked. I hid behind a small pine bush along somebody's front walk. The police circled me many times, and I heard their dogs barking angrily. They couldn't find me. I got bit by a few spiders in that bush. After two hours, when all was quiet, I went back to Leo's. He was glad I didn't get nabbed.

There were about forty animals inside that house. Raccoons, fish, rabbits, weasels, birds, dogs, cats, gerbils, snakes, frogs, and a few others. When the house burned down last year from an electrical fire, most of them died. When rescuers brought the cats out, the cats kept running back in. There was nothing anybody could do about it. Leo and his family still live in that shell of a house to this day.

[Thinktank]

Gold Road has been under major construction all summer long. For a while, it was drilling, pouring, seaming, and smoothing, but now the project has moved on to it's final phase: blacktopping.

As the workers complete one a lane at a time, they block off that lane for a stretch of about 10 miles. During the earlier phases, they used large cylinders, sand-filled pylons, spaced about 5 feet apart. These prevented people from driving into the gaping square holes in the pavement. During the current phase, they're using simple orange rubber cones.

Last night I saw a few people driving in the blocked lane, and I was in a line of about 2 miles in length, and it hadn't moved recently. So I cheated, and as I zoomed past the huge line through the perfectly-good-but-blocked-off lane, and others began to do the same. We reached the end of construction far more quickly than if we'd behaved.

Fast forward to this morning. I tried the same stunt, as did several other cars, but they put cones in the middle of the blocked off lane, 2 right in the middle. I got back into the long line, but I saw people running over the cones, squashing them flat into modern art.

I think that's going a little too far.

I saw construction workers dumping loose blacktop stone into the weeds and grass next to the street. I also noticed that they have women hold the slow/stop signs and have the men do the actual work, shovelling today. I don't know if it's a cushy union thing, a sexist thing, or an appeal to male drivers' basest instincts, but it seems to work. We sure don't obey the cones.

[Thinktank]

When I was 10, my dad took me and the family to the Illinois Railway Museum. There's antique trains to ride, hot dogs to eat, and more antique trains to climb through.

They have these little metal stairs that people use to board the trains once they pull up to a stop. I was playing on one of them and managed to tip it over onto the tracks, with my legs caught between the steps. A train was coming, a silver Zephyr.

I screamed and wailed. Dad heard me and untangled me with over 30 seconds to spare.

To this day, I'm still skittish while waiting for a train. I stand far away from the platform's edge.

It's nice not to be afraid of heights, public speaking, or clowns like everyone else.

[Thinktank]

I started smoking when I was fifteen. I was smarter back then than I am now, if you can believe it. I hadn't yet fried all my brain cells, and my vocabulary was ridiculous.

I let myself be convinced that smoking pot wasn't bad for you like alcohol or cigarettes, and I tried it. Back then, a warm feeling would spread over my body I would would feel delicious all over. Nowadays it just slows me down and makes me anxious.

I got hooked quickly, and I was told that if I didn't have any pot, I could catch a buzz by coating a cigarette with toothpaste and freezing it for 45 minutes before smoking it.

So I did it. I got extremely light-headed and giddy for about 60 seconds, and then my stomach cramped up tighter than a nun's cooch.

I did it again the next day. That's how I started smoking.

[Thinktank]

Since I'm looking backawards lately, I'm going to tell you about my first time getting drunk.

I was at my best friend Teddy's house. I'd been living there for a couple of months, ditching school. I wasn't getting along with my folks or my peers, so Ted's basement bedroom was the perfect place to hide. We'd set up blanket forts and play RPGs on Super Nintendo to pass the time, chainsmoking Newports along the way.

One night, I somehow ended up with a fifth of Southern Comfort. I don't remember a whole lot about what happened, but I do know that while trying to pass out, dizzy and spinning, I'd puked on the carpet and rolled over into it. I woke up with my face in a puddle of rancid sweet SoCo pink mash.

The second time, also at Ted's, I drank my first beers. When I tried to get my bicycle from the garage, I smashed my right index finger between two panels while closing it. My fingernail took about a month to shed. I also crashed my bicycle on the way to my parents' house, and I came home bleeding and hurt all over.

Now I know when to say when.

[Thinktank]

I just returned to work from a wonderful chicken chimachanga lunch with my little sister.

Somebody left me a pickle.

There it was, a whole, unsliced pickle, toadbumps and all, on a sheet of Einstein Bros. Bagels paper. My cubicle wreaks of dill.

I don't like pickles. I guess you could say I'm not a pickle person.

I've been offering various office denizens the pickle. They keep giving me funny looks.

[Thinktank]

It has been brought to my attention that you would like to know why crackheads steal antennas.

They do this to smoke crack. The best way to do it, in my experience, is to take a section of antenna and stuff some steel wool into one end. You may want to wrap your crack rock in the wool so that i won't fall out and leave you jonesing. When you smoke the crack, it will liquefy and a wispy steam-like smoke will emerge to coke up your lungs and nerve endings.

Once you stop shaking, you pull the wool out and flip it over. This prevents the liquefied crack from running down the antenna, thereby cutting down on wasted crack. It also helps keep your mouth clean, especially if you're using a really short antenna stick.

I do not recommend or endorse this product or activity.

[Thinktank]

I was delivering a pizza on Washington Blvd. the other day when I drove past a property blanketed in crows. They were on the grass, the trees, the deck, the roof, and the cars in the driveway.

None of the other houses had any birds.

Seeds, or something spookier?

[Thinktank]

I think doing drugs and committing crimes are stupid.

I just read everything I've written here. Some of it is comical, but some of it reads to me like a jock bragging about being illiterate. I don't want to brag about this stuff. Instead of writing this journal for myself, as I had intended, I've been writing for my audience. Instead of clearing my head onto the page, I've been trying to one-up myself by dredging up the stranget things I've seen and done, trying to put only the most interesting things (in my opinion) in this journal. I'm going to attempt to change my direction here a little bit. Please write to me and let me know what you think of this thing so far. I'd really appreciate some feedback at power_hymn@hotmail.com.

I just deleted about seven paragraphs about me. Reading it made me hate myself, hate emotions, and hate all the generic, boring, worthless bullshit that translates into angst and woe is me crap, which is what a lot of people write about. I am not going to be another person who writes a journal about how sad they are, goddamnit. Not me. I think I'll just stick with my old format.

[Thinktank]

I'm going to the Cubs game tonight. Yesterday the Cubs played a doubleheader, and they lost 4-2 and won 17-4. I hope they put on a good show for me tonight.

One thing I like about Best Buy is how the security guard at the doors is disguised as a greeter. When a good greeter is at the door, my spirit of community and goodwill is refreshed by the country store feeling I get from a good "Welcome, How are you today?" Especially if it sounds sincere. Even though I know better. Corporate policy, the employee's paycheck, and the lack of stained wood point out that there is nothing genuine about the greeting. The illusion, however, is very nice if you ignore reality.

I got drunk last night, my only day off in two weeks, and I ate way too much pizza. Today I am waddling about like a duck, drinking lots of water, and trying to adjust to my new body shape and weight. I've needed to gingerly lower myself into my luxurious swivel chair. I have had to hyperventilate (almost) because I am so full that my diaphram cannot expand all of the way and I cannot take in my normal breathing capacity. Naturally I skipped lunch, although I have heard that the little packet of salted peanuts in the vending machine wants me to eat it.

[Thinktank]

Yesterday evening was a fun experience. My roommate and I got stoned and left for the Cubs game in my car, and we took a roundabout path through Park Ridge. Park Ridge is a lovely suburb of bricks, ivy, and tall oak trees. Everywhere you look is green. Combine this with a good buzz and some soft golden sunlight, and you've got idyllic to a T. Add some Beatles songs and you'll feel like you're riding a hot air balloon in slight turbulence.

The busses weren't running on time so we walked about 3 miles from our parking spot to Wrigley. Weaving through the milling mobs and entering the gates, we made our way to the food stand and loaded up on overpriced dogs and sodas.

Our seats were right underneath the broadcast booths, at the bottom of the upper deck, right behind home plate. I could see everything on the field, and the announcer's speakers were directly above me. With the sun fading and the lights taking effect, the field seemed like a magical playground awash in a silver glow. The hum of voices was the breath of the stadium, the clapping the pulse. There are no strangers when you're in a place like this, only friends yet to be met. Everything becomes far greater than it really is.

I wish I could stay forever.

Cubs 10, Brewers 1

[Thinktank]

Today I'm holding a blood drive at work. I expect that 15-20 donors will go home lightheaded today, including myself.

Last time I donated I was sick. I lied during the questions, and I had to eat some ice to bring my temperature down below 99.8, which was too high to allow me to donate.

What if I gave an injured person contaminated blood? Well, that's what they test the everloving christ out of the blood samples for, right? To prevent that. Besides, I couldn't skip donating when I'm the chairman and I've convinced 20 other folks to do it along with me. It would look bad.

I ended that day with much worse than a slight fever and a sore throat. I stayed up all night sweating and shivering, and the next day I felt better, if a bit drained. Alcohol always seems to be the best medicine for me. I've killed several fevers with whiskey, and it's an overnight cure that's never once failed me. Those old west doctors were on to something, apart from the bloodletting thing.

That night I had only 2 or 3 beers. It worked. Chloraseptic throat spray was a big help, too. I even went to work in the morning.

Tonight I figure I'll smoke some pot, drink a couple beers, and watch a movie or two. Nothing stressful.

[Thinktank]

It's a sports week for me.

I know a gentleman named Walt who works for the NFL. He maintains all of the fancy computers that hold statistics, and he goes over the footage with a team of people to determine who gets credit for plays made. They watch the footage in slow-motion, and they determine which player gets credit for assists, tackles, tipped balls, etc. He and the team do this for all Chicago home games.

Instead of paying Walt expense money for travel, (3 hours each direction, each Sunday) they've given him two extra tickets to each home game. They're doing this because the Bears are playing at U of I this year instead of Chicago, where they're building a new Soldier Field currently. Walt has to go there anyways to work in the scoring room, so obviously he doen't need the seats.

That's where I come in.

My mother hasn't seen a Bears game in person since she and my father went in 1971. That was the last year the Bears played at Wrigley Field. She's thrilled that the two of us are headed for Champaign to see the season opener. This is something I've wanted to do for her for a long time. It's either the Chicago Bears or Neil Diamond, and I don't knew if he's going to tour again, so the Bears it is.

Unfortunately, Walt hasn't shown up at work with the tickets yet. He's a good guy though, and I know he won't let me down.

Next week, if finances allow, I'm going to try to catch a White Sox game at Comiskey Park next week to complete a September Chicago trifecta, the Cubs, the Sox, and the Bears.

I am so lucky sometimes.

[Thinktank]

About two months ago I received a batch of 3 different posters to hang up at work. I got about 50 of each in cardboard tubes. (they echo well when you shout through them) That's enough for a 5-story office. We are a mere 1 story building, an office ranch if you will.

I brought the extras home to give them away, or start campfires and grills, I don't really know.

My roomate came up with bright idea of coloring the blank sides. Instant homemade posters. He requested markers and pens and such, and I obliged him. (Did I use that word correctly?)

Now we have posters covered in what appears to be the following: an elementary school drawing of somebody shitting on a cake, Cartman from South Park, a junior high sketch of an naked elderly woman, a stick figure eating 3D poo, a wad of bathroom tissue soaked in red ink and glued on to represent a used maxi, a mouse crawling up a butt, several disembodied pussies, (all very hairy, like hippie rodents) and an undecipherable mess captioned as "chinese gangbang". You get the idea.

Him and a friend took down a U2 poster to hang one of these.

I was astounded. I was not amused. The roomie does not understand why I dislike these brilliant works of sophisticated humor. He's 22, by the way. All of our friends are in the same age range. Most of them like the new posters too.

What is wrong with them? I still laugh at the occasional good fart, but that's as far as it goes. We're smarter, more mature, and more imaginative than this, right? Right?

[Thinktank]

It took me about 2 hours to get to Champaign yesterday. After waiting though about 45 minutes of crawling traffic in town, I found a parking lot adjacent to a Motorola building. It's still under construction, and the sand and dust were swirling with every struggling tire spin. About a mile away, perhaps less, stands Memorial Stadium, home of the University Of Illinois whatever-they're-calleds, a football team. (Fighting Illini, I think maybe)

It got hot. Really hot. Water was sold out during the 1st quarter of the game. The Bears were losing. Interceptions. Fumbles. Boo.

Of course, Da Bears love 4th quarter comebacks, and we beat the Vikings 27-23.

Yes, I am one of THOSE people who say "we" when I am not a Chicago Bear, merely a fan. I like it.

My mother was ecstatic. We both had lots of fun once we found the water fountains. All the TV commercials played on the jumbotron so we got commercial breaks even at the stadium. That really chafes.

If you ever see a Famous Dave's barbeque, and you're not a veggie, go eat. It is fucking great. They even have real trucker-looking rednecks cooking the food. I swear I saw a guy with a mullet and an apron. I wish he was my uncle.

[Thinktank]

MY neighbors are old hippies. Rob works at the local forest preserve doing outdoor maintenence, and Brenda is a cleaning lady. Brenda has no teeth, but her gummy bright smile is sweet in an infantile way. Rob is a short little skinny bald guy, and watches lots of sports. We get on well.

I went over to visit them on Sunday night. I hadn't seen my roommate since I left on Saturday morning, and while I was gone he'd disappeared and taken all of our silverware with him. Although I did find one knife, fork, and spoon each hidden underneath the empty silverware tray in the drawer. Curious.

I know a married couple that are just way too cute together. Mark is a painting and carpentry contractor, and Linda works at a sex toy shop. My neighbor, Rob, had driven my roommate over to their house. Linda had an epileptic seizure while driving her new car, so the roomie went to drive Linda around while Mark was working. Fortunately Linda was in a her parking lot when it happened and no injuries or damage occured. The doctors have fixed her epilepsy medication and she's back to normal again. I went to visit them yesterday, and pick up my roommate, and she looks okay. She has a massive bruise covering her tiny birdlike right hand from all the IV drips.

I never did discover what happened with the silverware.

[Thinktank]

I love stopping traffic.

I'm also a hypocrite. When behind the wheel and I'm making a right turn at a red light, I get twitchy and impatient when pedestrians are taking their sweet old time crossing the street. Then again, I drive 15 miles over the limit regularly, so maybe I have a nascar wannabe issue to deal with.

When walking, however, I have no regard for all the spinning wheels. I routinely walk in front of right-on-red cars, hold my arm straight out, palm up, and lay some Aretha Franklin on their asses. I've stopped turners for kids who lack the boldness and authority to do it themselves. That always cheers me up.

My favorite moments are when I go through a busy intersection without pausing. It's a matter of lucky timing to walk right up to the curb when the left turn arrows green.

Sometimes people aren't looking the direction they are driving and I have to jump or dive out of the way. I wish I had some eggs.

[Thinktank]

My bud Steve got himself into a doozy this time.

Across the hallway from his sales office is a rehab clinic. Whenever he goes out for a cigarette, all sorts of troubled souls wander past thinking about drugs, be it finding them or staying off them. One of them took to bumming smokes from Steve. Her name is Bridget.

Eventually they started hanging out, and Bridget started bringing friends around with her to Steve's apartment. One of the friends, whose name I don't know, came to visit Steve last weekend. I'll call her Trashy.

Trashy came with three guys but had left them at a nearby bar to go visit Steve. She aksed him for some coke, but he didn't want to help a recovering addict get a fix, or maybe he couldn't get any, I'm not sure which. She asked him if he and Bridget had hooked up, and when he answered no, she busted out the porn dialogue and said "Let's fuck." They did, and she left.

About an hour later, three big guys broke the window of Steve's back door with a gun handle and let themselves in. Trashy had gone back to the bar crying and shaking, and she said Steve had raped her. The guys beat the shit out of Steve and broke his hand. Forunately they didn't shoot him or steal anything.

The moral of the story is this: don't hang out with cokeheads who don't have any. They behave strangely.

I'm going to borrow his gym card since he can't work out with a broken hand. Lucky me.

[Thinktank]

or "How To Have A Useless Day"

Yesterday was a Sunday. Upon rising at 11:30 am, a luxurious time to wake, I immediately set upon preparing for the Bears game. After relieving myself and showing, I went across the hallway to my old hippie neighbors' apartment. Barely awake, I smoked a couple bowls and drank a few sodas.

Brenda has ulcers, so she makes a curious chili recipe. All the peppers, onions, cheese and sour cream are all sides to be added upon serving. She goes heavy on ground beef and light on beans. My roomie thought it tasted like Wendy's chili. I disagreed. I was a good, thick, brown-sugary sweet chili. Add humongous slices of apple pie to the top of my heap and I'm waddling like an ostrich with osteoporosis.

The Bears won.

Cue pizza delivery time. I arrived late and still had to wait forever before any deliveries came up. I spilled an oreo shake all over the floor of my car. At least it was cool outside and didn't melt quickly. I was tempted to try and eat some of it to lighten the cleanup job, but I resisted temptation. I like butterfinger shakes better anyhow. I also would've been breaking the ten second rule of dropping food. Not to mention that this is semi-liquid semi-solid. I wish my floormat had been where it belonged.

After work I bought a bobble head doll. I kind of hate those things, but it was Brian Urlacher. Everybody loves Brian. I love Brian. My mother loves Brian. Now I too can make Brian dizzy just like he made Michael Vick dizzy yesterday. The circle of life is completed again, and everything is copacetic.

I also bought Sudden Impact since I needed some grumpy Eastwood action. Unfortunately I didn't get to watch it since the roomie was playing video games, monkey ball 2. He wanted me to give him weed before I went to bed and I said no, so he ate my food and stole my cigarettes from my car. That fucker. I'm taking my weed and my cigarettes to Chicago to watch Monday Night Football on a huge fucking television. It's disgusting.

I think I am going to buy some shoes today!

[Thinktank]

My roommate does one thing. He gets stoned. That's all.

No job, no car, no places to go. No goals, no ideas, no motivation.

No, Nancy Reagan is not paying me off or sucking my dick.

Ahem. Yes. His mother pays his rent, sends him cash for food, weed, and clothing. He plays my Gamecube, watches my DVDs, and downloads South Park episodes on his computer, the one thing his father has provided. He doesn't have to do anything so he doesn't.

It's easy for me to judge him, but until late last year, I'd never learned to drive and I lived in my folks' garage, getting stoned and drunk each and every day after work. Unlike the roomie, I've held my current job for almost five years, not mentioning previous employment. But the basics are the same. Do as little as possible for as long as you can. Once I got the boot, it was do or die, so I did. One day he'll get the tough love treatment from his soft touch parents.

His Twilight Zone headspace in affecting the apartment itself. The blinds are all shut, and the lights are off. When I get home, all I can see is blue screen glow from the TV or monitor. Occasionally a reggae bulb will be lit. (a lightbulb, half red, half green, totally obnoxious)

I smoke it too, although it's not my sole activity. Between April and August, I smoked infrequently and bought none of it. Instead I chose to busy myself with long walks, weightlifting, woodcarving, and attending baseball games.

Lately I've been buying it and smoking it much, much more. My brain is slowing down. I've stopped noticing strange little things everyday that make living fun. I haven't carved anything in two months, drawn anything even longer, and I've lifted weights maybe twice this month. Once I get stoned, I don't want to go out. I just want to order pizza and stare at a screen. Am I just preparing for winter hibernation, or am I going back to my old ways of getting wasted and doing as little as possible?

I don't want to stagnate, and I don't want to lose my drive to better my station in life. On one hand, when I'm nice and sober I think all the time about a better job, as better home, financial security, etc. In essence I worry a lot, and sometimes grasp an idea, although I never pursue them. It's a depressed headspace, but an aware one. On the other hand, I relax, stop thinking, stop worrying and sort of enjoy myself when I get stoned. I'm also absent, a zero, a zilch. No emotions, just sweet nothing when I'm stoned. Smoke some pot and I've got a steady hum that drowns out both signal and noise.

I look forward to getting home and toking up each day now.

Now I'm starting to worry about that.

[Thinktank]

Once upon a time there were 5 guys watching Monday Night Football. They were hungry and broke. Several of these fine gentlemen are confidence artists, so they set upon scoring some free food from a nearby White Castle hamburger shack.

One of the guys secured a twenty burger meal with fries for some local sheriffs who were organizing donations for a celebrity basketball charity game. Supposedly, retired Cubs, Sox, Bears, and Bulls players were going to play hoops with the sheriffs to raise money for underpriviledged children. The sheriffs would place a banner ad in the gymnasium during the game if the restaurant would feed the sheriffs soliciting donations. False contact information was likely given.

Another, calling the same restaurant, called to complain about a drive-thru order, and did so angrily and convincingly. The manager on duty kept asking for a ticket number, but eventually found an order that must have been the screw-up, and gave our friend number 4793 to come and pick up a corrected order.

Those two and a driver went there, one through the drive-thru, (4793) and one inside at the counter. (the donation) At the same time. Could they really be so gullible? Two identical free orders at the same time, for completely different reasons?

As it turns out, yes, they were that gullible. I guess you could say they bought it.

Too bad all those guys bet on the Redskins, or they might've come out ahead.

[Thinktank]

My neighbor Brenda tells great stories about bikers and heroin addicts, and occasionally, herself. Back one summer night in 1991, Brenda had been drinking heavily for several hours when it became time to head home. Her friend Tagger asked for her keys, since Brenda was so sloshed that she couldn't even stand up straight. She belligerently refused.

They haggled, wrestled, shouted and eventually calmed down. Brenda agreed to a compromise. She would sit in the driver's seat and steer, and Tagger would sit in the middle and control the pedals.

They drove through both lanes past the copshop, stopping and starting and turning and backing up. It didn't work very well. Somehow there were no police leaving or entering the station at the time they passed it. Dumb luck.

Tagger must've been drunk too if he agreed to try that.

[Thinktank]

There's a short but enormous woman, Dolores, who works the dining room register at the beef & pizza joint where I deliver pizzas. I'd never seen her before when I showed up yesterday at 5pm. From across the kitchen she stared at me until customers came in, and once they left, she watched me more.

An hour later she walks over and tells me her work schedule, apparently trying to figure why she'd never seen me before. After a short bit of this she asked me to take a certain delivery.

I'm not sure if Dolores called first, or her friend, but she promised to send a cute guy to bring the italian beefs and fries to her girlfriend. "Don't check her out!" she says. "Too late.", my response. There's no way I'm going to NOT check her out after this kinda foreplay.

I arrived and got a good $4 tip from the woman, who rivals Dolores in the obesity department. The lady told me that she promised Dolores a full report, and she reminded me in some way of Alice from the Brady Bunch. I think I smelled cats. I have an allergy you know.

Huge women and young teenage girls both flirt like this. I think it's a combination of no confidence and no experience. Shyness, simply put. Like passing notes in class.

Fat women love me. I do not know why. I guess some attention is better than none, but they're more than I can handle, for sure. I wonder if they have a secret society. It would be hard to hide.

[Thinktank]

A cute woman representing the Raddison hotel came to the front desk today with literature and rates for the hotel. She also brought a complimentary gift.

It's green plastic cookie cutter, Christmas tree shaped. It has the Raddison's addresses and phone numbers on it. What is the thinking on this promotional item? I suppose next time I'm baking sugar cookies, and using my trusty cookie cutter, I'll think Raddison.

I put it in the cafeteria with a sign that says in brown capital block letters "free cookie cutter! have fun! impress your neighbors!"

I'll bet it's gone already.

Or just maybe, I'll get lucky and some women will fight over it. I've always wanted to take bets on a post-menopausal catfight.

[Thinktank]

Last Friday I called and left a message for my boss. I'd been vomiting, and I decided not to report for work on Friday. On Monday morning, I found a message on my voicemail. She wasn't coming in on Friday. Whoops. Apparently everything ran smoothly without us. That's not good. I am expendable. Apparently.

On Saturday night I went to the Blind Duck. (or the Blind Fuck, according to the vandal who altered the daily specials letterboard) It's a dingy little bar full of poker machines, well practiced karaoke singers, and saggy shouldered barflies. My friends and I tooted some coke and went to occupy the only pool table. Here's an observation. Tapper MGD goes down like water. You barely notice it until the 5th or 6th, when you start to feel a bit warm and noises collide and sound loudly in your ears.

I like bathrooms with saloon doors.

I delivered food all weekend long, spending 21 hours doing it from Friday night through Sunday. This brings to mind something I did a few weeks ago but neglected to mention here.

I was delivering some burgers and chicken sandwiches to a home on a Monday night, and I pulled up to the home after finally finding the numbers. (I hate it when people have no porch lights on and the house looks deserted) I have a habit of leaving the car door open while I run up to the door. It saves a second or two, especially if I have heatkeeper bags or cash in my hands when I return.

In this particular instance I had the food in my lap so I could read the address and total. I jumped out of the car and ran up to the door, and the lady was very nice and friendly, although she must have short sight. Behind me, my car had begun to roll. I made change for her, thanked her for the tip, and turned around and she closed the door behind me.

My car was gone. I saw it down the street halfway up a curb. I hadn't changed gears to park, and my Intrepid had casually strolled about six houses down the block and across the street, and it killed a very nice wooden mailbox painted up in a lovely mallard green hue. The home's front door was open, lights were on, but there was nobody to be seen and no voices to be heard.

I left. I'd intended to go pay for it later on, after work or the next day. With two other orders in my car, I couldn't sit around and wait for police or deal with angry homeowners. I never did go back. It's a good thing I have lots of good karma saved up.

[Thinktank]

Last night we held down a 3 year old kid as we forced chalky pink sludge through her clenched teeth. We plugged her nose and forced her to swallow it while she tried to spit and headbutt us. She was really mad. She hawked some up my nose.

She just had her tonsils out and if she doesn't take her medicine she'll get an infection or worse. Poor kid. She fell right asleep after the struggle. We adults watched Hardball, a surprisingly good Keanu movie.

My boss' husband went to China for a few weeks. He works for the famous criminals Andersen Consulting. Somebody painted some eyes and a smile on a crooked cucumber and left it on her desk. For some odd reason she put it in the flowerpot atop the filecabinet outside her cube.

Last weekend I ran an errand for the pizza joint. I picked up two buckets of Italian beef gravy and two slimy plastic-vaccuumed 10 pound packs of sliced beef. The gravy is kind of watery until the fat melts. It's a tan-cream colored solid wet fat, also the color of a weakly-brewed coffeestain on a tablecloth. I sealed the buckets, but some of the watery portion leaked out into my trunk. It smelled like rosemary. That stuff is really good soaked into bread. I like gravy bread.

I've been asked an important question: How do sumo wrestlers fuck?

[Thinktank]

As I sit here drinking Earl Grey and chewing Big Red, I wonder why I chose black socks to wear today. They make my feet sweat, itch, and stink. I wonder how I came to own these socks. I certainly didn't buy them.

I have a lot of magnets. Here at work, I have these things called car magnets. They're over a foot long, and people usually slap them on their car doors when tailgating on Sundays. I have two Chicago teams, the Bears and the Cubs. I also have some fridge magnets, including an upside down Packers magnet which signifies the Packers losing. Voodoo magnet rituals. It worked with my Enron magnet, so why not Green Bay?

My car battery died last week. I knew it was coming. I left my headlights on for two minutes while running inside to grab my bankcard, and when I dashed back out to go get beer and cigarettes, my staples, the fucking car wouldn't start. After receiving jumpstart help and eventually a ride to the local NTB, I had a running car again. To thank my neighbors for their help, I'm buying beer and dinner tonight. We're going to watch Monday Night Football tonight, da Bears vs. the Pack.

This entry isn't all that funny or interesting, mainly since I've been sleepwalking through life this October, and I have nothing of import to impart. It shouldn't be long before the world becomes bizarre again.

I love the feeling of my blankets right after the first chill of the season. I sleep with my windows open throughout the winter.

[Thinktank]

I got into a little argument over the phone with my roomate.

First, a little background. I've been friends with the roomie for six or seven years, and roomates since January. About two weeks ago, while drunk, I told my roomate a lot of things I'd been holding back. I told him that he's doing as little as possible for as long as possible, living the lazy bastard lifestyle. I told him that having no car is no excuse for having no job, and that life is full of little catch-22s that are difficult to overcome. (needing a car to go work, needing work to get a car, in this case) Walk or steal a bike. I told him that I quit doing chores, since I now work between 55-70 hours a week and have no days off, at all. I also told him that I quit doing them to piss him off. "You need a fire lit under your ass, and if you can't do that I might as well try." He's been doing all the housewife stuff since and has given not one word of argument until today. No fire. I'd been told by a friend that I could have him a lot more bitched, and apparently I now do.

At the time, I made sure that he understood that my judgement was qualified by my own period of uselessness and lazy bastardism. I told him he'd get out of it eventually. I think I've made an introspective person out of a carefree one. This is good but sad.

So today, he called on the phone to complain about the bathroom. I'd puked in there about two weeks ago, and I had cleaned it up. Now he's claiming it smells like urine, and he's latched onto one time last week that a drop missed, and he saw the wet spot next to the toilet, which I also cleaned up. Now he thinks I just go in there a pee all over the place, I guess. Not so. However, the last person to puke has to clean the bathroom. Mutually agreed upon rules. So I said sure, I'll get some Pine-Sol and do it tonight.

(It's not like I sit around all day doing nothing while the my chore is waiting....ahem)

Anyhow, he wouldn't let go of it. He was mad, I guess. "It's been two weeks, blah blah blah, that's how people get sick, and have to go to the doctor, blah blah blah. I know you quit chores, but you gotta do this."

All this lecture after I agreed to do it. Tonight. I told him not to blame all of the world's ills on a late chore.

Do you want to know why he's really mad?

Weed is gone. Dried up. He confessed yesterday that he'd been calling years-old hookups in Wisconsin in a vain effort to have a dealer meet him halfway beteen Chicago and Milwaukee so he could get high.

I think that when the slow trickle of weed is finally and totally gone, he will get bored. He will have to DO something. He already is feeling the stress. He's becoming frustrated, as opposed to stoned whatever man. Lying on the couch under blankets day after day watching The Simpsons and South Park reruns isn't fun anymore when your brain is functioning.

I heard a rumor about Texas. I heard that a great big banner is hanging over a highway near the border that says, "If you think this is a drought, wait until November." Referring to marijuana. Have they figured something out? Are they busting that many shipments suddenly, after all this time? Could it be true? No more imported weed, strictly domestic?

That seems to be the case. People who take the risk to grow it in the US don't grow crappy weed. In the past month, all that's been around is the expensive $60 an eigth stuff, which is fresh enough that it must be domestic. Now even that is gone.

Nobody can get anything. Even here in the NW suburbs of Chicago, the police are busting people left and right, as if they suddenly got a magic 8-ball that outperforms any sniffer dogs.

Personally, I have mixed feelings. I've been buying and smoking too much in the past month and a half. I've fallen back into an old lazy pattern, and it makes me feel dumb. I feel insecure and anxious and antisocial when I smoke it, but I sleep like a baby and wake up fresh as Wrigley's. Without it I toss and turn and wake late, sore eyed and drowsy. Overall, I think the lack of weed will be good for me. Circumstance has finally intervened for both me and the roomie. He just has no idea how positive it will be once he gets past the hard part.

[Thinktank]

I arrived home to find that the roomie had already done the bathroom. Why? "'Cause I'm nice" he said. I thanked him, and my hippie neighbors came over and offered us weed.

I guess that qualfies as a happy ending.

Now I begin my work marathon, 14 hours today, 15 tomorrow, 7 on Saturday, and 10 on Sunday.Back to the normal 9 daily on Monday. I need a hobby. Badly.

[Thinktank]

I just went dumpster diving!

We have a new cleaning crew here at the office. Last night they threw away the conference room reservation calendar. We have reservations going through January on that thing, and it's not replacable. I had to find it. Thankfully the dumpsters are emptied on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. Not Thursday. I went to the supply closet and grabbed a monstrous silver garbage bag. I cut three holes in it for my arms and neck.

People walking into the office gave me curious looks.

"I'm trying on my new dress." Got a few chuckles.

I retrieved some utility gloves and and a razor, and I moved all the garbage bags from one dumpster into another, and I used the forklift to upend it. I slashed the bags open one at a time and spilled them into the empty dumpster.

It was in the last bag. There was coffee and mayonase on it.

Our front desk guy is transcribing the bookings onto a new calendar. I have the pleasure of kindly requesting that the cleaning crew leave the new one the hell alone. I wonder if anyone here knows Polish.

We just merged recently. Each side of the company has a color code, so each employee is blue or red. Once a team is integrated into one, they were calling them purple.

Some genius got paid to think up something flashier. Now merged groups are called merlot. Can you fuckin believe that? What a golf club of an idea.

Now I have to sit in on a conference call. I would rather wade through raw sewage again.

[Thinktank]

I'm tired. My eyelids are lined with lead. I have a raccoon's gaze. My shoulders sag. I stumble as I walk. My head is bowed. Help.

14 hours of work down yesterday. 15 today. I'm running on empty. I might take some speed for a jumpstart, but the price would be poor sleep once the marathon is over. Recovery will be nil. That shit makes me sweat like a boiled camel. Not sure about this one.

Thankfully I have an imagination like a turbocharged weasel rocket. I can always drift off and let the toys on my desk tell me what to do. Darth Vader just points at me. "What? Why are you pointing at me like that? You're not my dad." Then there's Spider Jerusalem. He just empathizes. He's got a scowl. He says "Life sucks, get a helmet kid. Grrr."

I also have a big glass block on my desk with a 2400 baud modem inside it. I'd rather have a tarantula globe, but beggars can't be taxidermists.

Did I tell you that I'm a contractor here at giant computer company? My parent company was part of the Enron umbrella. Kenneth Lay sent me stock options. I never invested them. Lucky me. I have Enron mugs. Keychains, too.

Yeah.

Um.

I have four clocks on my desk, plus another on the computer. They are all different. Right now, Central time, it's 10:55, 10:57, 10:53, 10:56, and 12:02. It's been 12:02 for over a month. I think that clock is groundhogged.

Help.

[Thinktank]

Jan is a woman near retirement. She got flowers today. It's her wedding anniversary, as well as the anniversary of her husband's death. They were married 25 years. She couldn't think of anybody who knew, and the flowers bewildered her. She took them to her desk, so I don't know if there was a card in them.

I got a five year award today. It's a certificate of appreciation and a gold tie-tack. Nice paper. I should be fired soon anyhow.

Readers, have a nice weekend for me. I need it.

[Thinktank]

Marathon number one is finished. 71 work hours from Monday through Sunday, 46 of which were Thursday through Sunday.

It was ugly.

Upon leaving work Sunday night, I went home with some beer and a bad attitude. I was exhausted and cranky.

Fast forward twelve beers and four shots of wild turkey to 2:30 am. I ate dinner, some gyros, and crashed onto my mattress with a corpse-like bounce.

I didn't go to work on Monday morning. For the first time during my tenure here, I didn't call in my absense. My boss called my parents to find out if I was dead, hospitalized, or jailed.

I called shortly after noon when I woke, and I went to work.

My boss is between a rock and a hard place. I should be fired, but if she does that she'll have to train somebody new for the job. That's signifigant because we're all going to be laid off in January. She's also let other things slide with me because she's sympathetic to my struggle to generate income. I have around $900 a month in bills. After that, it's nice to have food, gasoline, and cigarettes. I hate money, and cars, so much.

I would never do something as sad and pathetic as killing myself, but when being dead becomes a pleasant daydream I know something has to give.

I have to quit. I can't do this to myself anymore. For the longest time I always told myself that my problems were insignifigant compared to many others'. I stoicly slogged through everything I had to. Well, fuck that. My problems are important to me. I cannot do everything with a smile on my face. I will fail sometimes, I and I have to forgive myself.

If I continually expect so much from myself, I will always fail. I need to lower the bar. I am not capable of being what I considered a sucess.

Not like this.

I'm so disappointed with me.

[Thinktank]

After work yesterday I spent a couple frustrating hours getting my car diagnosed. It looks like I'm facing about $200 in repairs.

After that, I went to a bar called chasers and got a bowl of baked french onion soup and a couple of beers. The soup was very garlicy, and very good. I started From A Buick 8, Stephen King's latest book. I also bought a recent hardcover by Michael Connely, City Of Bones.

My waitress was a young woman with beautiful black skin and a dazzling smile. I gave her a big tip, because her smile really made my day. It was a ray of sunshine when I needed one badly.

Besides that, I think these books are just the thing to cheer me up.

I've been telling everybody that I'm going to dress up as Elvis for a Halloween party this Saturday, but I may not have the time or money to pull it off. My fingers are crossed. I'd hate to disappoint somebody again this week.

My journal has changed recently, both in tone and content. I wonder if I've changed, too.

[Thinktank]

I got a bad haircut. My head looks funny, like I'm wearing a hat much too small for me.

I'm going to shave it bald tonight. I've never been bald before. So much for Elvis. My sideburns will have to go, too. I really liked those. Everyone here is telling me to wait and let it grow back out a little, but I am going shave it anyways.

I'm nervous. I hope I don't have a lumpy head. I know I will be rubbing it a lot. Maybe I'll be a penis for Halloween.

Either that or Daddy Warbucks from Annie.

[Thinktank]

I chickened out. I didn't shave my head. After two days' growth, I look like Kurt Russell from Soldier. I can live with that for a couple weeks. I'm going to visit an army surplus store for a costume on Saturday morning if my car is well by then.

I'm wearing a gaudy Chicago Cubs sweater today. I could just tattoo "loser" on my forehead, but this is more effective. I really should do my laundy so I'll have more "staying warm" options.

I ordered a wreath from the boy scouts and some cashews from the girl scouts this month. We have scout parents here in the office that bring order forms to help their kids with their sales. I remember when I was a scout, and I always felt that the kids whose parents helped them were cheaters. My dad was always involved in the pack or troop or whatever, but he'd never help me with fundraising projects. I still usually finished in the top five, because I had nothing better to do than go door-to-door all day long. I also sold Christmas cards and such where I got a dollar per item sold, or points to redeem for prizes. They always had ads on the back of Boys' Life magazine. One family neglected to answer their door for delivery two times, and I never went back. Eventually they started calling my parents and sending angry mail, but I always intercepted them.

I got cancelled on two weekday delivery shifts, so I don't have to go through hell weekend again like last week. That's a big relief. I was about to reach the point where I intentionally crash my car into the highway median and run down breakdown lane naked waving lit flares, loudly inviting people jumpstart my nuts while I defecate in liquidy clumps down my legs.

[Thinktank]

I feel a little bit better now. I rediscovered my best medicine - reading.

When the warmth of summer departs, I no longer take long walks. I think that's been affecting me. I've had so much happen in the past year that somehow I managed to forget that I read through the winter like a bear hibernates. This is how I maintain my state of grace during the icy season.

I've now spent $100 I can't afford on new books, mainly because the library in my town sucks, but also because I like to own books. I fetishize them somewhat. Not in a sexual way, but in a sensual one. I like the smooth, clean feel of a dust jacket. I like to run my fingers over raised letters on the fancier jackets. I like to open a book a stick my nose towards the binding, smell the paper, zip flip the pages from back to front, and squeeze the whole package. Something about the sound made by knocking on a book is intensely satisfying to me.

Reading follows, my favorite part. Since last Wednesday I've already downed three books: one each by Stephen King, Michael Connelly,and Tom Wolfe. I have another Wolfe, another Connelly, and a John Irving novel on deck.

I like to wear things down. I like books that have been dropped in dirt, posters that have been ripped by tape and pins, art that has been stained by tobacco smoke, and shoes that look too shoddy for the Salvation Army to accept them. It gives me a sense of time and history. Cracked compact disc covers, shirts with holes and bleach stains, and faces with smile lines engraved at the corners of the eyes.

These are a few of my favorite things.

[Thinktank]

I went to two parties this weekend.

I dressed up as a soldier. Camoulflage jacket, t-shirt, pants, green belt, green socks, personalized dog tags. Another guy showed up in the same thing. I mock saluted him, and he declined to respond with a rueful, bemused half-grin. I later learned that he used to be a marine.

His girlfriend was a short blond girl in a tight blue sweater. Not a costume, but she didn't need one wearing that. My friend Steve arrived around 2 am with Traci, and Traci had a red dress and a red feather boa draped around her neck. The marine's girlfriend badgered the two of them to switch costumes for about a half an hour, and the marine, Rogner, finally took the bait and off to the bathroom they went.

While they were changing, the girlfriend started screaming. "My boyfriend is a fucking faggot! My boyfriend sucks dicks when I'm not looking! etc., etc." What a bitch. It was her idea all along. He came out of the bathroom in the red dress, blushing cheeks to match, and made sure to point out to his girl that he still had his boxers on and that he didn't do anything bad in the bathroom. (they were in there for about five minutes, so he's probably honest) Traci came and sat on my knee, so we were quite a Kodak couple in our fatigues. About an hour later they returned each other's costumes.

That was the highlight of the second party. The first holds no great stories to share.

[Thinktank]

Time for crime.

Do you remember Mikey from the beginning of this journal? He recently got out of jail, and he took up residence with my friend Steve in a Chicago apartment.

They didn't get along well. With each other, or the third roomate, Dustin. Dustin moved out a week ago, and he took his TV with him. It was a giant monstrous thing, the biggest television I've ever seen in my life. It would probably make the Olson twins bigger than real life. Frightening.

Mike moved out this past weekend, while Steve was out drinking and partying with Traci. He stole Steve's stereo, his CDs, his bank and medical papers, and some diaries. He painted the walls up with gang tags and set fire to the posters on the wall, apparently in an attempt to burn the place down. The back door is loose on it's hinges and glass is shattered and strewn on the floor.

Steve is staying with me and the roomie for a little while. More on this story as it develops.

[Thinktank]

I used to be friend with a guy named Chris. Chris is a gorilla of a guy, a real barrel. He works out a lot and he's abnormally strong. Very physically intidating. We used to play cards in my folks' garage and drink cases of beer. While he's drunk he's usually a cheerful, belly-laughing guy with a Chicago accent so thick it borders on parody.

I became friends with him sometime in 2000 when I went to the local pub, Papa's, with Ian. (the one who went to Florida to be punk rock hobo, if you remember that entry) Ian had used an ID he'd stolen from me a few weeks before to get in, being an 18 year old. He buddied up with the bartenders immediately and they stopped checking his ID. (he looks nothing like me, and has a patchwork of scars on his large forehead from a few different drunken carwrecks)

He was friends with Chris, who was also inside the bar, somehow. Another underager. I'd met Chris before but never befriended him. We'd met at a party or two. Chris came and sat next to me and Ian. Ian was terrified.

I don't remember the exact flow of the conversation, but it boiled down to this: A few local toughs had spent a little too much time watching the Sopranos on HBO, and they got aspirations to start a little something going. They put together a list of about 100 people, and they added a price to each name, between $200 and $1000. People they didn't like were listed for more, people they liked for less. They picked out somebody popular and well known from the list, and they had Chris beat the hell out of him and fracture his skull. Supposedly. I later learned that Adam got a sound thrashing but no fracture or permanent disfigurement.

At the time, I knew none of the above. All I knew from Ian was that Chris would "kill us both, so don't look at him, and don't talk to him."

Once the word about Adam got around, Chris would go up to people and tell them how much he was getting paid to fuck them up. He told them he'd be waiting for them to try and leave, and he'd be there. He would not say who was paying, nor would he divulge why he wanted to inflict a hurting. It was seemingly for no reason.

It took several pitchers of Budweiser and several games of pool to extract from Chris that he was extorting people. Hopefully the intended victim would be frightened enough to pony up the cash in exchange for his bodily well-being.

I appealed to his sense of guilt and honesty. He was suffering from low self-esteem and thought that he'd never amount to anything, that he would never accomplish anything, and that he was stupid. The only way he could feel important was by intimidating people. I convinced him that he could be a much better person and that he could accomplish somthing better. He let on that he'd been invited to a business meeting and was told to bring as many people as possible. Invited by his telemarketing boss, Judy. He didn't think he was smart enough to "do any business stuff."

So he invited me to a pyramid scheme meeting. Similar to Amway, but instead of supermarket type products, this company sells stocks, mutual funds, and insurance. Chris didn't agree right away to stop the extortion, but he decided to let Ian and myself off the hook.

I don't think he really wanted to do it anyways.

He got drunker.

Then, I cajoled the names of the masterminds of the little plan out of him.

More later.

[Thinktank]

I went to yet another Halloween party last night, my fourth this year. This one was by far the best. I got there first, which is something I loathe to do. Unfortunately I had nothing else to do after eating dinner, a pizza puff and cheddar fry, and the people I was taxiing wanted to go right at 8:00, so we did.

It took about 2 hours, but the party became one of those mythical parties that don't actually exist, the kind you see in Coors Light commercials. There were women dressed as nurses, cops, and pop stars. A feast for the eyes. I love how Halloween brings out the freak in everyone. I wish you all could see the Gwen Stefani ringer with black hair and a Josie Pussycat costume. It was hard to keep my jaw from hanging. I wish I'd had composure, suaveness, a light buzz, and no obligations in the morning. Oh well, at least I got one phone number before I left at mignight.

The guys throwing the party rent the house, four of them. They pay less each than I do for my shitty little apartment and they have more room, and more flexibility with noise. I am somewhat jealous. I wish I had been more ambitious and researched when it was my time to move. Next April, who knows?

I ran into lots of old friends there, people I hadn't seen since elementary school or shortly thereafter. The strangest thing about the party was, for me, the fact that I had a great time and did not drink a drop. I'm rather proud of that. The hosts have parties every weekend, I hear, and I've been invitied to visit. I intend to. These guys know how to throw a bash.

[Thinktank]

Chris beat up one or two more people, but I put out the word that Ray, Alex, and Joe S. were behind the extortion. They quit, immediately. My friend Joe, the one with the heroin problem, saw to spreading the word to people who should know. His brother Rich, who was in jail at the time, had $750 next to his name and this upset Joe.

Despite that bad beginning, Joe and Chris did manage to get along. There was a foreshadowing of the end of my friendship with Chris when the three of us went to a party with Darren, who you may remember from a previous entry peed on my kitchen floor with my hungover father watching him.

Chris got drunk as a freshly grounded cosmonaut in about 2 hours. At the time I was playing chess with a shy redheaded girl, and I was showing no mercy. I had her on the ropes. She made a series of 30 perfect moves, and I made 2 slightly wrong moves. She capitalized and actually won the game, after being down a queen and two bishops. To this day I wished I'd asked for her number. She was amazing.

Chris, drunk as a hobo who spotted a $20 two hours past, was in the garage yelling at people, stalking back and forth bumping his shoulder into whoever was in his path. I think he got shot down by some girl he liked. Darren, Joe and I dragged him outside and loaded him into the car, and off we went to my garage.

Chris kept talking about one person in particular who'd drawn his ire, saying how he'd kick his ass, etc. Darren and I knew better than to push Chris ' buttons when his head was full of steam, but Joe showed no such restraint or prudency. By the time we arrived home, Joe was laughing like an Irishman and Chris was ready to deck him.

They fought in the street. Joe was nimble, quickfooted, and economic. A real old-fashioned pugilist, bouncing on his heels. Chris was a lumbering hulk, throwing his massive hams through molasses in slow motion. He nailed Joe once on the cheek, but the rest was all Joe. Chris earned a shiner and a swollen ear, and he eventually tried to bullcharge Joe. Joe sidestepped and tackled Chris, and to keep the bronco grounded he wrapped Chris' neck in his elbow crook until Chris choked and finally nearly passed out.

Chris protested that he had won because Joe cheated by strangling. We had a very loud arguement over whether there are rules for fighting, all of us vs. Chris. My neighbor railed against our brutish and immature feisitiness, and he stared daggers at me until I raised my arms in surrender and promised him some peace and quiet. We settled down, played cards and drank Bombay Sapphire gin shots.

[Thinktank]

One of the pizzaboys is a pizzagirl. She's got an exotic name, so I dare not post it here. I'll just call her Z. She woke yesterday morning at a stoplight. Her foot had stayed on the brake. Lucky girl. She remembered leaving before sunrise, and she awoke well past dawn. A woman was knocking on her window. The woman wouldn't let her leave, claimed to a paramedic, and called the police. Somehow Z got off without a DUI or reckless driving. I scolded her.

Other things happened on the roads. I was going through the Dee Road curly-qs last night after scooping the roomie. The car ahead of me was a dingy grey ford escort, and a little scotty dog wagged his tongue out the passenger window. He was on a leash tied to something inside the car. When the woman driving slowed for a tight turn, scotty jumped out and she kept going for a few moments. The dog was straining to keep up and his leash was choking him. She must've heard yelping or saw the leash go taut, because she stopped and retreived her little doggie. She made many apologetic and hysteric arm-waving motions. I was laughing too hard to be impatient or angry.

[Thinktank]

I hate the opening lines of my journal. "If I can let go of doubt, my gears will be greased for goodness." That is fucking god-awful. Yet somehow, it's right. Things are looking up. I may still be broke under the weight of bills, about to lose my job, and unable to keep my car working properly, but I have been very happy during the past week. I am learning in my heart what I've known in my head for a long time: Don't worry.

My dad kicked me out of the house shortly after I learned to drive. It was a couple of days after New Years, 2002. I went to stay with the roomie at his Chicago apartment last January and paid him $200 a month until we moved together to my current dump in Des Plaines. We moved in at the beginning of April, and we threw a party to celebrate the occasion.

We packed the little 2-bedroom full of people. Several cases of beer were consumed, numerous joints were rolled and pipes packed, and about half of the crowd took some weak ecstasy pills near midnight. I invited the neighbors next door to come and that was how I befriended Brenda and Rob.

I'm still good friends with one of the roomie's ex-girlfriends from many years back, Isabel. I invited her and her art school fiance, Ryan, and I left detailed directions with her brother since the two of them were busy upstairs when I visited her father's palatial suburban home. At one point in the evening I hushed the crowd in the living room and played Ryan's cartoon for the audience. He'd brought it to me at work a few days earlier. It was about five minutes long, and I guess you could describe it as an intellectual's offbeat South Park. It went over well, and I led the applause. Seeing him blush, and finally stand and bow before the crowd, and to see Isabel beam up to him, well, it gave me a nice fuzzy glow. Since then they've cancelled the engagement. Isabel got stuck in Sweden when she went to her mother to recover emotionally. Something about an expired visa and her father's refusal to pony up some cash. He's nearly rich and owns a custom oil filter company. I hope she comes back soon.

Before the party started I called Chris and invited him. He had no way to get there due to a recent DUI, so I picked him up. Fast forward to midnight. Chris is whsipering with Daria. The roomie and I exchange eyebrow raisings. Approving ones, of course. They went out into the stairwell and kissed. I was very happy about this because Chris had been obsessing over her ever since they dated briefly a few years past. Chris came back inside with her, striding like a King, his shoulders back, his chin raised. Triumph. He must've set up a date, or reconciled any past differences. She was smiling shyly, clutching her giant teddy bear by the arm.

Daria got very drunk, very fast, and she passed out limbs askew on the couch. Dan and Natalie carried her out and took her home with them. Chris became very quiet.

I'd polished off well over twelve Budweisers. I wasn't slurry or stumbly, but I was giggly and loud. A happy drunk. I remembed the whiskey. Over a year past Chris and I had made plans to have a drinking competition once I got my own place. We'd each get a fifth of Jim Beam and a case of Budweiser and see who could drink the most, puking allowed. Not a race, but an endurance type of challenge. No passing out, no stopping for longer than 10 minutes, stuff like that. Slow and steady longterm drinking. I decided to get the whisky and have a toast to the idea since it was too late to measure such a thing that night, and besides, I didn't want be an embarrassing host.

I was not thinking about Chris' mood change after Daria left. I was not thinking. I did not see that he was brooding and that his jaw was clenched, or that he was staring at the wall scowling. Well, I did see these things, but they didn't stop me from trying to cheer him up with whiskey shots.

That was a very bad idea.

[Thinktank]

On my way to vote during lunchtime I was stopped at a red light next to the Wacky Wagon. I smiled, the old feller smiled, I waved, he nodded. It was great.

I wish I could get more people my age to vote. (23) Most of them know that politicians are lying, stealing, corrupt scumfucks. They think that's an excuse for apathy, when they think at all. While I don't have the time or energy to be a fulltime citizen, informed and opinionated on all the issues I find important, I do make sure to vote at each election. You have to try. You have to care. The only way to make a difference is to become a demographic. One must band together with those of similar ideals in order to be represented. I know the Green party got notice during 2000, and I think it's important for those of us opposed to the new Gulf war to be recognized as well.

I went on a great date last night. We intended to go to a movie, but M had to work early this morning and we got together too late for the 8:00 movies, and our schedules prevented us from attending the 10:00 shows. We went to a small punk bar in Chicago that was dead and quiet, and that left us to focus on each other and talk. It was my first date, ever. No fireworks, but great conversation and getting to know each other. We'll be seeing each other again soon. I'm happy and cautiously optimistic.

[Thinktank]

Let's go back to April again. The apartment warming party, where I left off, at about 4 am.

I was drunk enough to appeal to Chris' sense of macho drinking endurance. Idiotic goadings like "Can't you handle another?" and "Show me what you're worth" were uttered, I recall vaguely. We drank two or three doubleshots each of Ten High bourbon in rapid succession.

I began to fall asleep sitting up. My head teetered, then gently fell towards my shoulder as my posture melted and the couch absorbed me.

Somebody was slapping my face, gently but firmly. "Dude, your friend is going crazy, you gotta do something." My eyelids fluttered and unglued themselves, although the cobwebs sewing them shut resisted this in concert with the pulse running up and down my scalp like Bugs Bunny burrowing his was to Albequerque, constantly getting lost.

Here's what I missed: Chris and the roomie got into a bullshit arguement about something. The roomie doesn't know when to say when, when to drop it, and he probably was pointing and poking Chris is the chest while bitching him out with righteous indignation for some perceived disprespect. Chris, like a bull, began to slowly work up a head of steam. I know he stood still in the kitchen getting angrier as the roomie continued to whine his way down the hallway to the living room. Then, he moved. He charged down the hallway, swatting Megan out of his way, knocking her violently onto the floor.

The roomie had been slapping me on the cheeks. He stopped when it appeared I was down for the count, and he returned to Chris, who had now reached the living room. The roomie continued his bitchfest. "Dude, settle the fuck down. This is my house, this is fucking NOT cool, and show some fucking respect and calm down." Somebody should've told him the old maxim about catching flies with honey instead of vinegar. Alas. Chris began pushing the roomie, and as the thud of him meeting the wall reached my ears the scene came into focus.

The room was still full of people, maybe ten or eleven, all unmoving, staring, rapt and wide-eyed at the spectacle in the center of the living room.

I tell this portion of this to you as the crowd related it me, upon my return.

I leapt up from the couch, using the coffee table separating me from the two of them as a launching pad. I landed on Chris, knocking him off balance towards the wall. He definitely hadn't seen me coming in time to stop me. As he reached out for the wall to steady himself, I reached under his armpits from behind him and locked my elbows at a right angle in them. I threw myself backwards with all of my weight, and I began to scream.

He writhed and shook on top of me, trying with all his might to get loose. His problem was that, despite his massive strength, he lacks both flexibility and speed. It took all my might, but I kept him pinned above me. People told me I was screaming things like "Don't you dare touch my roomate! What the hell is wrong with you, Chris? Why are you doing this!?"

Somewhere around here my memory returns.

The stillness of the room broke. Suddenly, we were surrounded by flying feet. Feet with bad aim. Kicking him in the ribs, kicking him the head. Kicking me in the head, the neck. "Ow fuck! Watch it, that's me!" Many fled from the room, like Darren, the kitchen-pisser, who'd been mauled by Chris once before and did not want to be available as a punching bag if Chris got loose. After they realized they couldn't aim for their target with all the bouncing and struggling on the floor, the roomie knelt down and went to work with his right fist. At this point, the other three or four kickers backed off. Little Greg, a tiny little guy who ends every sentence with "...and shit", took our porcelain toothbrush holder from the bathroom counter and shattered it on Chris' temple.

It was shaped like a frog. I liked that toothbrush holder. At the time, we all thought he used a lightbulb from somewhere. It wasn't until two days later that we realized the frog was missing. But I digress.

Throughout all of this, nobody managed to knock Chris out. I was exhausted, as was Chris, and I screamed everybody out of the room. They took a lot of convincing. They went to my room. Chris settled down, but I did not let go yet. "Chris." "What?!?!?" "I'm letting you up now."

He stood there, furious, facing me, hyperventilating. I tried to reason with him, but there was not much I could say to him. He was angry with the whole world, and life had shat upon him. He began to shove me into the wall, much like my roomate, but there would be no help for me. He was crying. I tried to put my hands on his shoulder to talk to him, to calm him, but he shoved me again, yelling "Don't touch me!"

There was only one thing I could think of. "Do you want a ride home? Get your shoes." As I led the way towards the kitchen exit I could see my bedroom door cracked, and heads peered through the crack like children about to sneak out after bedtime for cookies. Little Greg now had a pan from the kitchen, which I saw gleaming. He was ready to hit a home run, but only if he got an easy pitch. It was kind of funny. Greg is tiny and couldn't weigh more than 120 pounds. At the time, though, I was in no mood for humor.

The drive home took place during the sunrise. Not much was said by Chris, but I tried to tell him that I still considered him a friend and that I felt bad about what happened. He had never landed a punch on anyone, let alone thrown one, but his physical intimidation, yelling, and pushing had terrified everyone. I told him that if I hadn't been drunk, I would've talked him down like I had in the past instead of jumping him.

Chris was like that Michael Jackson video during the ride home. His face kept morphing, swirls of white and red and purple and blue under his skin. Did I mention that he stays bald? Well his head grew during that ride. He had cauliflower head, not just ear.

I offered to try to buy him beer, but he didn't make up his mind until we reached his subdivision, at which he finally spoke. "Stop" At this point I refused. "No Chris, too late. We're here."

When I returned home everybody was relieved. They thought Chris would kill me for sure. I had a slight bloody nose, and I noticed the hole in the wall. To this day we never discovered whose head went through it. It has since been patched and painted.

We drank. Megan and I did beer bongs until noon, long after everybody else had run out of gas. We soaked the kitchen floor.

I spoke to Chris a couple times during the following week. He wanted Daria's phone number. He wanted to talk to her about what happened before she heard about it elsewhere. They're still friendly, which I'm glad about, although no romantic relationship ever grew between them. The roomie had her number and I had a hard time convincing him to let me have it for Chris. He gave it as a thanks to me. The roomie broke his hand punching that thick skull and it took three months before he recovered. Chris and I have not spoken since April. I hope he's doing well.

[Thinktank]

A friend of mine, Rich, has been jonesing for a fat bag for a few weeks now. A guy visited his work for a two week project setting up some sort of server modules for a Starbucks project, and learned that Rich is a stoner. That ended a few weeks ago, but out of the blue the guy called today.

I talked to Rich today, who told me that he might be getting a pound tonight. I pried from him the following information: 1) the guy mentioned in the past that he's friends with cops and ATF agents 2) Rich barely knows him 3) he said there were five pounds so his guy would sell each one cheaply to move them fast and 4) the guy offered to have it delivered tonight, on the same day he made the offer to sell. Rich was very happy, even though the quality would be poor.

I spoiled his day and saved his ass. I related a story to him that my neighbors had shared with me a few months earlier. A guy they knew, who was a medium level dealer, had been raided. Agents in ATF hats, kevlar vests, combat boots, and cold eyes had busted his door open, guns drawn. They cuffed him to a chair and took his money, his drugs, and his dignity. I can imagine the sounds in my head. "Where's the shit, asshole? Talk or I'll blow your fucking head off!" Typical police threatening, including the awkward and unimaginative swearing. They told him to stay put when they vacated, telling him that if he attempted to leave the agents outside would shoot. They'd be back to finish the arrest shortly. He stayed put, cuffed, until his girlfriend had come home to the mess.

I don't know if he was calm enough to think about it, but police do not leave suspects unattended. Even supposing that he had known, what could he do? The guys had guns. He was ripped off, either by imposters or off-duty agents making some hay on the side. This happened nearby, not in some faraway never-neverland. Recently, too, about a year ago.

After telling this to Rich, I began to hypothesize. Why would this guy sell a pound to someone he barely knew? I connected this with the recent rash of arrests. Most dealers are very suspicious and cautious, and they don't like to sell to people they've never met, or barely know. What if the guy was trying to take Rich's money? What could Rich do, call the cops? What if the guy's ATF buddies are setting up an easy bust? What if they're using evidence they never booked to pull in some spare cash on the side, like what may have happened in the above incident? A dealer is suspicious of customers, but if somebody offers to sell, and it's a good deal, I personally think he's more likely to drop his guard and go for it. Drooling over the big take. The classic donkey and stick manuever, with a slight variation. Instead of dangling the carrot so the donkey follows it, the carrot is bait on a fishhook.

I told Rich to think very hard about it, and please don't be the donkey. Don't be an ass. A fool and his money are soon parted. If it's too good to be true, it probably isn't.

[Thinktank]

Rich turned down the deal. He will remain a free man. Good on him.

Shortly after the robbery, Steve began threatening Mikey through his phone tag middleman and former roomate Dustin. Dustin passed this along and now Mikey has been calling me to find Steve. Steve only stayed with us for two days, but Mikey doesn't believe me and he may come over with weapons. I truly hope he doesn't. I have no idea how I'd react and whether I can handle him. He prefers big sharp knives and that makes me nervous. If anything happens to me, and the police find this journal, go ask my mom for my 7th grade yearbook. She has it on the top shelf of her closet. There's a guy in my class named Rob who shares the same last name as Mike. Not Robert, just Rob. (I think) Mike is also the guy you arrested for credit card fraud and the stolen Mercedes, I think it was. He's a big fat fuck who wears basketball shorts all the time. I gotta call Steve and have him threaten Mike from somewhere else so that the roomie and I will not be bothered. I don't think anything will actually happen.

I told you in a previous entry about the snaky police charity and the huge "administrative costs" the salesmen take out of each donation. Tonight there's going to be a huge investigative report on NBC 5 here in Chicago about it called Pros and Cons. I heard about it on WGN 720 this afternoon while driving to my folks' house. The journalist told how nearly all of the employees are criminals and he said that a certain state government agency even funnels parolees the job. He said that the few legit operations still only hand over one dollar of every ten to the fraternal order of police. He says that he's sharing info with the cops and many arrests will be made. In some cases they'll have to legislate some news laws, because some of it is only morally wrong but not illegal. One of the broken laws involves felons taking credit card numbers on the phone. It's a good thing Steve left Chicago, even though he still works for one of these places in Westchester. The guy on the radio specifically mentioned Six Corners, where two of the offices Steve has worked for are located. Six Corners is the intersection of Milwaukee Avenue, Cicero Avenue, and Irving Park Road. It's on the north side of Chicago, and there are lots of Cubs fans there.

[Thinktank]

My first car was a grey '86 Lincoln, a huge boat. I got it for free in the fall of '01 from a coworker who has always been generous and helpful to me. I drove that sucker all over the place and learned how to navigate narrow Chicago sidestreets without bumping anything. Thinking about it puts a smile on my face.

I was driving through a snowstorm late in January when my gas pedal stopped repsonding to pressure. I passed O'Hare and coasted into the tollbooth on I-90 towards Chicago. I paid the forty cent toll, but I could not move. I pushed my car through the snow and traffic to the breakdown lane, and I went into the Tollway Authority building to find a towing service. When they arrived, about 30 minutes later, I asked them to tow me to the BP/Amoco service station at Lawrence and 90. I left my car there and walked to my new home about 4 blocks away.

They called me the next day at work. I'd taken a cab to the Harlem and Higgins bus stop, and bussed myself out to Woodfield and legged it the remainder of the distance to work. I was cold and my jeans were soaked nearly up to the knees. When I finally got their call at 4pm, they told me that I needed a new fuel pump, and that they'd fixed four other problems. I had authorized no repairs at that point. I told them to stop what they were doing and wait for me to visit. They'd done $500 in repairs that hadn't even fixed the problem. I knew I was being fleeced.

Being ignorant on the subject of mechanics, I enlisted my dad to drive me there and help me handle the situation. We arrived at the station at about 6pm on another snowy, slushy night. I put on my mean face and strode into garage.

"I didn't authorize any repairs yet, and I was told over the phone that you did $500 in repairs that didn't correct the problem, and that the repair I actually need is another $400!"

Enter a big fat sleazy greaseball, Tony. "Stop right there kid, hold it, hold on, okay?" I stop. "When did you last buy gas, and where?"

"Here, on Tuesday morning, five dollars worth."

"Okay, okay. Don't worry about a thing. You're not gonna pay a red cent, kid. It's on us."

"Huh?" I looked over at my dad. He was chewing on air, trying to find words.

Tony continued. "There was a little mixup. Some BP stations in the area, seven of them, sold some bad gas. We had some diesel mixed up with the regular unleaded. But you didn't buy it here, got it, kid? You bought it at the BP on Lasalle. I want you to call this number, but you gotta call it before it hits the news, or they're gonna think you're bullshit, see? How'd you pay for it?"

"Debit, Mastercard." I paid cash, but I wanted him to think there was proof.

"Well, you tell them you paid cash. Tell 'em you bought it at the Lasalle station and brought it here for service. Take my card. Your car'll be done tomorrow at this time, and bring your towing bill, too."

(yer car'll be done tamarra at this time, and bring yer towin bill too)

Tony, the owner, got to fleece his franchise parent, BP, instead of me for the unneccesary repairs. I'm sure they reimbursed him for for all $900 in repairs, and the towing, which he paid me in cash, which went to my dad. I made the call as he instructed and got a fax number from them, and then I got in on the fleecing act, too.

I'd kept a copy of my towing bill. I submitted that as well as my cab and bus fares. They sent my a check for $115 to cover that. A few weeks later BP sent me a card loaded with another $100. I came out on top.

I was lucky that I brought my car to the scene of the crime. I would've been capital S shit out of luck otherwise. I was also lucky that the first major breakdown wasn't dangerous, and the worst that came from it was a lot of hassle. There were other breakdowns, but the final one almost took me and several other motorists with it. That happened during bad weather, too.

[Thinktank]

I have been labelled a freak, a loser, and a liar. How very flattering. It's certainly a bit condescending coming from someone who has transformed a public eulogy into petty bickering and then screeds on the nature of perception and the unreliability of the internet. I'll try my best to lead a wholesome and believable life for you.

At least you're reading, Tim.

I went on my second date, ever, last Thursday. I rang Jenny's doorbell and her mother reached it despite Jenny's lunge to get there first. While she sympathy squirmed, I spoke to her parents about my job, my family, my favorite foods, my hobbies, and maybe my shoe size, too. They were very kind and sweet.

We went to play pool and bowl, at which both of us were rotten. We both had fun, but there wasn't any spark like there was with M. She and I share some mutual friends, so I'm sure we'll hang out as buddies sometime down the road.

Speaking of M, I haven't seen her since last Monday, and I was getting worried that she decided not to see me anymore. My fears were unfounded. She had hidden away on Saturday with a migraine, which I can understand completely. We're going to see each other again sometime this week! Ringling Brothers circus is in town, and I told her I'd like to take her there, but we decided that with our hectic work schedules that something easy and relaxing is in order. We'll go to movie theater or maybe stay in and rent one. I still haven't been to an improv show at Second City yet, so that's a possiblity if I have some free weekend time.

Today I am stealing little naps whenever I can. I am tired and useless, and my list of tasks are piling up while I procrastinate. Laziness is a temporary luxury.

[Thinktank]

I've been schooled, I've been fooled. I knew better all along, but I gave in anyways. Here's what happened:

I was arriving home at 12:30 am from a beer and DVD run after work. As I slithered my car gently across the apartment complex, a guy yelled for my attention as I passed him. "Yo, yo man! Hold up ! I gotta holler at ya!"

Being a curious cat, I reversed and met him halfway.

"Whassupman, you need any weed?" I did, and I requested a dimebag. After assuring him that I am not a policeman or otherwise, he asked for the money. I said no, let me see it first.

"Don't you trust me?"

"No, I don't, I just met you, and trust is earned, not given away." I spoke this in the tone of a confidant, not a scolding. He came around and I let him hop into the passenger seat.

He was drinking a can of Budwesier. I thought he had a dime with him, so I pulled up in front of my building and asked to see it. He instructed me to go to another building where his girlfriend lived, where he stayed at.

When we arrived, he asked for the money again. An eighth for twenty. I refused a second time, and said I'd wait here while he got it. He said "My girl will want the money first."

"Doesn't she trust you?", I asked.

"We've had some problems.", he explained with an embarrassed half-smile. He put keys in my hand. "I'll leave these as collateral, they're my house keys." I looked. They were indeed the style of keys issued for my apartment complex, one for a front door, and one for the back door, but no back stairwell or mailbox key. "How will you get inside without your keys?" "My girl'll let me in. Come on man, I ain't trying rip off, I'm looking forward here to your clientele."

I should've insisted to see it first. I know never to hand over money until you've at the very least seen what you're buying. But I did it anyways.

I now have a $20 set of keys. I only waited for seven or eight minutes, but that was plenty of time.

I am such a dumb rube.

[Thinktank]

It's been a useless few days for me. After work each day, I've been getting stoned, watching movies, eating too much, and passing out early. M works unpredictable hours, so I've been awaiting her call each night in case she's free, and then once I've decided that tonight is not the night, I go ahead and get stoned and then sit in mortal fear that she'll call while my brain is out to lunch. When I'm stoned, I can't finish sentences, my confidence in my communication is nil, and much of what comes out of my mouth makes a vague kind of sense to me but is a total non-sequiter to those subjected to it, including longtime friends who should be able to connect the B,C, and D between A & E. I should join a church.

Furthermore, I have not worried about my impending financial doom during this small hibernation period. This may be a good thing since if I begin beating my head against the wall too early I may fracture my skull or pulverize a necessary brainspongeportion. All of my luck in life has been timing and coincidences, and my gut tells me now is not the time to leap.

I am currently the subject of a fraud investigation. I have been suspended by paypal for this incident for months now, and ebay is finally getting around to taking action as well. I made the foolhardy mistake of neglecting to use a tracking number on an item I sent, and the buyer has taken full advantage of this situation. Without that number, I have no proof of shipment, so I am shit out of luck even though he has since turned around and resold the item for a higher price on ebay. Fuck me gently. This will impact my credit report no doubt, but on principle I refuse to refund the bastard his $200 because I know he got the goddamn merchandise. He could just realize I'm playing hard to get and that I will not bend over, and just drop it, but no, because he couldn't screw me he's fucking me instead. I hope you die cold and alone you vile scumslathered leech.

I'm in a good mood since I'm leaving work in one hour. Have a nice day, everybody out there.

[Thinktank]

Yesterday a goose died in the parking lot. Apparently it died of natural causes, as there was no evidence of a car hit or a coyote attack. It was prodded and flipped into a garbage bag and deposited in a dumpster. Generally I would allow nature to finish the job, but the human traffic would be disturbed by the scavengers' carcass raids.

This morning I walked past a large grey wooden box that houses recycling for sensitive documents. I have the only key and I empty these giant boxes quarterly for the shredding company. Sitting atop the box, next to the paper slot, was a large kitchen knife on an unopened box of Kleenex. I don't want to know the explanation, as the mystery is far more satisfying.

I have a bolt stuck in my tire. That's the third one since April. Am I lucky that I have not blown a tire, and that each mishap has plugged it's own damage until the removal and repair? Or is this bad luck due to the repetitive punctures?

I am moody and contemplative this week, and most of it is negative and pessimistic. During such times I try to peer into the kaleidescope of the strange that laces the everyday mundane, much like above. Somehow, the oddness this week has been grey and grim, much like both my mood and the weather.

[Thinktank]

I'm still grumpy and irate. Makes me want to write poetry. Put me out of my misery before I rhyme. Anybody. Here, take this crossbow.

I've been thinking about advertisements lately, particularly those on the radio. On most stations, between the music and patter you'll get commercial breaks. On the oldies station, however, the DJs themselves hawk the products and in many cases broadcast from the store or car dealership they're promoting.

This made me think of the DJ as a filthy shill, and I wondered why the station would stoop so low to have the on-air personalities that I "know and trust" sell me cars and stuffed animals.

Does the older crowd that listen to oldies like having somebody familiar speak to them on their own level? Does the folksy, homely endorsement help them feel comfortable with a product? Do they feel that the quality of a product is reliable if good old Dick Biondi tells them how his arthritis pains are now a thing of the past?

At this point I began to like the idea. I hate commercials, you see, and it's sometimes difficult to tune them out. They're bright, loud, flashy, obnoxious, and clever. They fight so hard to get my attention and keep it. They pretend to sympathize with my frustrations, make me laugh, appeal to my self-image, and appeal to my integrity.

With the personal approach, however, the DJ's voice drones on and there's no rape of protest rock songs or twinkly jingles or mealy-mouthed children cute-ing me to death. It's just like listening to your boring neighbor talking about the weather. You don't really hear it. When I have paid attention, I've discovered that the incentives are actually real. In some cases I can get a free t-shirt, kitchen magnet, or pair of raccoon slippers for visiting said store and saying hi. Hell, they even fed people hot-dogs and sauerkraut one day just for looking at some nice wooden furniture. Cheap and pathetic, I know, but at least the bribery is up-front and honest. It's a hell of a lot better than hearing that I'll get $1000 cash back on a car that's just been marked up by $2000.

Yeah, I hate ads.

[Thinktank]

I nearly forgot about this thing. Today is my first day back at work since last Friday, and it'll be the only one until next Monday. For this job, that is. Y'know, the office one with the computer on my desk. On this site I've read about a lot of misery, heartbreak, wonder, discovery, and confusion. To all of you out there living: I hope you enjoy turkey day. For me it's a quiet day to eat and spend with my family. I'm one of the lucky ones who has supportive parents and agreeable siblings, so there won't be any mental torture or obnoxious arguments to taint the day of eating. If I'm not eating, I'll be revelling in the luxury of watching football or movies while curled up in blankets, pretending to go to sleep.

I won't be thinking about my impending financial doom. I won't be thinking about the car, which has broken down again. I won't be thinking about my dead-end love life and the silent vanishing of each girl I've pursued after two weeks of contact. I won't be thinking about anything except for french onion soup, pumpkin pie, turkey, stuffing, potatoes, gravy, cheese dips, and possibly some beer.

My little sister is always good to get slightly drunk with, so I'll probably indulge with her when everyone has gone to nap on Thanksgiving night. The next day we're heading north to Milwaukee to see Counting Crows. They're a guilty pleasure of mine.

Stay warm, and latch onto whichever little pleasures you can wrap around you. Tomorrow is meant to be a band-aid for the soul. It won't heal the wounds, but it can cover them up for a little while.

[Thinktank]

It's snowing and I need a haircut. I got my wreath today. It smells wonderful and it's too large for my apartment door. I have no fireplace, so I think I'll hang it on the wall next to our tiny television. This way I'll have something to draw while the roomie watches inane sitcoms.

My weekend was very nice. I slept for twelve hours each night, and I ate enough to feed two midwesterners each day. I delivered some pizzas in the snow, and for some reason I expected to get better tips due to the weather. Not so. Just a few "Cold out there, isn't it?" comments. I lost my viginity in an unspectacular and drunken fashion to a birthday girl on Saturday night. I don't regret it, but she's my little sister's best friend and she wants it kept secret. I'm not sure what I think of that yet.

Tonight will be cozy and safe. My only dilemmas are chicken curry or chicken vindaloo, and one blanket or two.

[Thinktank]

I am hungover and I still need a haircut. Today's pains will net me another morning of feeling drug through gravel and fish hooks. This abuse has value, much as slamming a finger in a door repeatedly feels better once you stop.

Is my childhood overwith? I no longer delude myself into thinking that everything will be better once I reach my inevitable rich and famous turn. I no longer entertain myself thinking that my thoughts and feelings are valuable and important. Mom saying how special I am was just a storybook line to keep me comfortable and safe. No, I try to to stare down a future of drudgery, scraping for dollars to keep the belly full and the skin warm. I don't like it and it feels suspiciously like waiting to die. I must find something that I like doing that will support me. I am envious of those who know themselves and their place in the world. Some people learn easily what they want to do. Not me. I must find it and I don't know how to even look. Emptiness humbles.

The freedom one earns upon leaving the parents' nest is actually a cold place to hold back an avalanche. I hate money. It killed my dreams, and even worse, my faith in fairness and goodness. I have meager rest and no peace.

Spinning wheels.

[Thinktank]

I'm feeling better today, but I still haven't had a haircut. The hungover aftermath of combining ephedrine, alcohol, and marijuana leaves me in a bizarre and bitter introspective funk. It's really very ugly, as you can read in the above entry. While the feelings were and are genuine, I am not prone to such gothic wailing most of the time.

I'm reading The Proud Highway, a collection of Hunter S. Thompson letters from when he was a young man about my age. There are several thoughts about the differences between those who limp through life looking for comfortable resting places, and those who take risks and truly live. I've always wanted to be one of the adventurous spirits, but that 'll take some prodding and stretching, as by nature my habits are those of the great swarm of mediocres. I don't mean to slight the simple life of making ends meet, raising a family, and holding down the fort, because I respect and value that greatly. It's just that I'm conceited enough to consider that I may deserve something more interesting. Am I capable or daring enough, though? Confidence can either be learned or conjured, and I am one that must conjure it out of the chilly air.

I have to keep looking around the corners for those glimmers that'll lead me down yellow brick roads. The notions of writing fiction and sculpting monstrosities have brought me closest to the path I need to walk. I will either be creative, productive, and happy, or stifled, bored, and disgruntled by an office & boss.

Speaking of offices, it's almost lunchtime.

Edited to add: I've just discovered that emails that came through these boards have been delivered into my junk mail, so if anybody out there has mailed me, I haven't neglected to answer you, I just didn't get your mail. You can mail me directly at power_hymn@hotmail.com. I'm not religious, but I used to be a huge Moby fan and Hymn is one of my favorite songs of his.

[Thinktank]

Today I was given a CD wallet apparently made of license plate metal, same size and screwholes included. Inside this rust-begging abortion are about 30 sleeves. The pinnacle of it's folly is that, while being a promotional product for the largest PC maker in the world, it says Taking It To The Streets on it. This is written tag style, with sloppy graffiti letters and ill-advised star-twinkles assaulting my tender eyes. I wish I had a way to show it to you. It's gone beyond sad and insulting into a new realm of perverted delusion.

Counter-cultures always get co-opted by the mainstream, usually for advertising purposes. It's a way for a product or company to ingratiate themselves with a newly discovered demographic, or just to keep up with whatever is hot and cool at the moment. Pepsi's got to be the worst right now, with the Pepsi Blue commercials portraying an embarassing hip-hop MC flowing about the virtues of the berry revolution, regular Pepsi hiring Outkast, and Mountain Dew, a PepsiCo product, hijacking snowboarders and skateboarders. Did I mention that I hate ads?

I wonder what stiff old suit approved this particular kink. I'm going to take it home and love it, and store my CDs in it, meanwhile betraying not one iota of irony. I can't wait to see which people look at me funny (as they should) and which compliment my rare new toy. (to which I will nod and thank them, hoping desperately to detect a trace of insincerity.)

If I keep this cultural misanthropy up, one day I'll end up eating granola and tofu while listening religiously to NPR, waxing nostalgic about the smell of tear gas in the morning and the thud of billyclubs at night.

[Thinktank]

I consumed another spread of intoxicants last night. This time I don't feel so rotten, mainly because I stayed in bed for a few extra hours this morning.

While giddy in the throes of my lunacy yesterday, I embarrassed myself in front of my guests by singing "Blue Moon" by the Marcels and "People Got To Be Free" by the Rascals at the top of my lungs. Forunately both are good friends are were entertained by my silly merriment. In other settings I would certainly have earned a labelling as an obnoxious clown of a drunk.

The stew of pollutants had temporarily atrophied my appetite, and I woke this morning in desperate need of nourishment. I reined in the galloping herd in my stomach until I reached the office, where I annihilated several glazed twists.

This weekend I face a punishing marathon of degradation: pizza delivery every waking minute. This begins when I finish here, Friday at 5 pm, and ends on Sunday night at 9pm. I will be dissheveled and grumpy once finished, but considerably wealthier. I would wither away to emaciation were it not for the greasy, fatty, delicious sandwiches assembled in this cholesterol castle.

It really sucks to see people I haven't talked to in years by handing them pizza. Downright embarrassing. I would only look more a fool if I clumsily pointed out that I hold a decent and respectable job on the weekdays. I should apply for some warehouse muscle work. Good excersize and anonymous.

[Thinktank]

Subtract: four packs of cigarettes, two eighteens of beer, four half-price sandwiches, twenty-five dollars worth of gasoline, twenty dollars worth of: frozen pizzas, grapefruit juice, one small wheel of gouda cheese, and spiced apple cider, and the remaining $255 is my weekend profit. Few drugs and poor sleep later, I'm back at the 9-5 with baby kangaroos under my eyes and a miniscule gloss of sweat highlighting my hairline, induced by coffee. (8-5 actually, but Dolly's phrase has more ring)

I'm in a good mood today, and I'm glad that I don't know why. While such things are best left unexamined, I'm going to thinktype about moods nonetheless.

I'm a reckless pharmacist. Objectively I can see that I have mood swings, but I dislike the idea of psychotherapy and medication for something that I believe is part of the human condition. If I'm going to seek false relief from reality, I don't want a perpetual subversion of my emotional peaks and valleys. I think that prozac etc. would dull me and change me into somebody else. While I might be more comfortable and happy, I would also be duller and less introspective. All sharp edges sanded down. Whitewashed. It simply would not do for everything to be easy. Was it Plato who said that "the unexamined life is not worth living?" I choose instead to have moments of relief, and this is where alcohol and other assorted illegal sundries have their place. They are a temporary escape, and they remind you of this every morning after. I can see and feel the price of my wombing, whereas a prescription would just be flicking my switch to Off.

Rereading that, it's not as lucid and concise as I would like, but it'll serve. In one sentence:

It all boils down to awareness.

The roomie has been away for one week, with one week to go. The apartment is corrupt with filth and scum. He left a sink full of his rotting dishes, and I've amassed a formidable array of empty bottles on the countertop. Tonight, if I'm not lured by football and cocaine, I will wash the dishes, mop the floor, vacuum the carpet, and pine-sol the bathroom. I dread performing these tasks suddenly, but when I plan them ahead and succeed with completing them on schedule, I feel very self-satisfied and content.

A sudden simple realization: when I'm happy I think about food, and when I'm not I think about money or companionship. I'm hungry.

[Thinktank]

I murdered two plus hours of my precious free time last night by doing the wretched dishes. I put some angry music on the stereo at an unacceptable volume, took off my clothes, and started the hot water running.

I needed a shower when I finished, because the month old dishes had turned the dual sinks into moldering pits ripe with stench and foul unidentifiable decay. There were some kidney beans and pecan fragments, but the rest was just a light brown gumbo-gravy stinking like a raccoon carcass in the summer humidity. The experience was testing and unarousing. Next time I may open the blinds to play voyeuristic mindgames to distract myself from the horrible oozing slop. If there is a next time. I usually let the roomie do all the chores. I have little free time and better things to do with it, while he has nothing but time. While he's away, I'm cleaning the entire apartment to Show Him How It's Done.

A note to other potential nude dishboys out there: blue DishWish will irritate your penis if it splashes on there and you let it sit for longer than say, 60 seconds. Get the soap off your hands first and then wipe yourself off. Trust me on this.

The loud angry music was trail of dead, which I turned off when Monday Night Football came on television. I watched it until the bitter end. It's a bad year to be a Bears fan. I ate the rest of my gouda wheel , a half a loaf of mom's pumpkin bread, and a large serving of dirty rice with chili beans. I was stuffed like a horseshoe crab. I've been pigging out lately and I've got a pouch on my tummy now. Time for a gym membership.

[Thinktank]

The geese are back, and I am the Pigpen of gunsmoke aroma. My right hand looks like I grilled it. I need something bigger than whistling rockets.

My boss called in sick, yet several people have asked after her. They want to wish her a happy birthday. Any hooky guilt I've fostered is now orphaned.

I have emptied the humongous bag of marijuana I was drunkenly cajoled into purchasing last week. Thank fuck. My skull has become a fondue pot. Time to congeal.

Waitresses and gas station attendants are smiling at me and chatting me up - a welcome turn of events. I do not understand it, as I am no different now than I was for the past several years, and if anything, I've added flab and my haircut looks like an otter's rump. No, I still haven't had that haircut. The thick wad of money has remained stealthily concealed, and my demeanor has not changed since I gave up my virginity. Despite my puzzlement this makes me merry.

Speaking of women, I successfully broke it off with the birthday girl. It was quick and easy and painless, something I couldn't possibly have hoped for. I'll spare you the details, as they're tremendously mundane and universal.

There's a guy who always orders food that lives in a nearby apartment building. He's the only customer who meets me at the elevator on his floor, and he tips very well. He's a short bodybuilder guy, and he keeps inviting me to death metal concerts and AC/DC coverband gigs at various local blue-collar roadhouses. I always thank him without answering the invitations. He's barking up the wrong tree. He has nice teeth, and he likes to show them off. I always think of the Joker. I'll bet they're not his original teeth. Maybe he's selling those to the elderly on ebay.

I am feeling somewhat feverish. I am in desperate need of some black licorice and some black pepper jerky. I will leave work early today to procure these confections as well as some steel wool for the kitchen floor, which is encrusted with ancient garlic-heavy spaghetti sauce.

[Thinktank]

A miraculous thing: the oven can be pulled away from the wall! I was shocked. Nothing ruptured, exploded, or otherwise. This discovery led to further exploring of the kitchen components. When I removed the shelves and bins from the refrigerator, I was not surprised to find dehydrated bay leaves and spilled cherry grenadine coating the formerly white interior. The 409 and the chore boy brass wool took care of that. I renamed the brass as scrub buddy, and I talked to my cleaning implements with a poor imitation of a drill-sergeant's voice. It's all a testament to the power of positive thinking.

The nice young man who previously inhabited my body has gone on vacation. In place of the quiet and mostly harmless fool who lived there for 23 years, there is now a ravenous and bloodthirsty cancer. It howls at the moon, cackles and leers, and twitches while staring bug-eyed at the hoarsely breathing paint on the wall. Just kidding.

Today I am severely lacking in inspiration, and I have no reason to be making an entry. I suppose I just want to think aloud, so to speak. That's what I've been using this journal for lately. I still have plenty of stories I could tell, but I'd rather look forward than back. Enough introspection.

I got clerked yesterday. On the way home I stopped and picked up a few movies. The clerk was the stereotypical cynical and superior arbiter of taste, peering down her nose at the lowly peons and their hopelessly inferior taste in cinematic entertainment. It seems I threw a wrench into the gears of her assumption generator. She looked at the top of my pile and read aloud the title with wry bemusement. "Black Knight." Very disapproving. "We Were Soldiers." She sighed. I imagine some disparaging thought about guys and guns was crossing her pure waters. "Amelie?" She looks up at me. "Black Knight, We Were Soldiers, and Amelie. Oh-kayyyy." I smirked and kept my silence. I save my snobbery for music, with one exception. I cannot tolerate teen horror or comedy movies.

Enough blathering. I'm shutting up until I have something to say.

[Thinktank]

I take that back. I will hold forth with nothing of importance to impart. Below is a letter I sent last Friday to a friend attending UNLV. I was attempting to begin a correspondence, but I was bitterly disappointed by the one-line reply I received.

Are you even still reading, Dave? Write me back properly and show some moxie this time, old boy. Let it not be said that email has butchered the concept of "formal" written communication. I intend to buy some stationary to write letters from now on, as the electronic method seems to inspire apathy and laziness in many cases.

I must also include a cowardly disclaimer that this letter is rife with hyperbole and exaggeration. My ego does not swell like a broken ankle. I was merely vying for his attention via colorful entertainment.

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


Hello there you degenerate bloodsucking heathen,

I have decided to become a Writer when I grow up, and I have been sharpening my mental knives of late in preparation for the carving of the great glazed goose that is Amerika. What an awful sentence. I have far yet to go, as you can plainly see. I will not be deterred. In the vandal's act of plucking the feathers, I may during some crisis have need of reliable legal counsel. If you have intestinal fortitude and obnoxious gall enough to make Proclamations of Righteousness, I hereby elect you to be my lawyer. I am, after all, the majority stockholder in the corporation of me. Fuck, I sound like a self-help book written by Donald Trump. Fuck. I have also decided to begin and maintain correspondence with anyone brave and foolish enough to reply to my letters.

I have begun by chronicling my adventures, which has then lead to wallowing in morbid despair and self-pity, which has then led to ranting about our backwards provincial culture. I hope you'll find it entertaining, and I hope it provides you with plenty of material with which to torture me during your next visit. I am in dire need of roasting, for my ego runs rampant and my head is beginning to swell like a boil on Rush Limbaugh's pasty flaccid asspile.

You may pass the link to your criminal college cronies, (alliteration is cheap and lacks subtlety, I like it) but please refrain from sharing it with the unfortunate podunked souls back home here in our sad hopeless little burgs. Certain friends and acquintances have thin skin and I wouldn't like to be billed for the varicose results. There are now almost five pages full of this stinking garbage:

http://www.improvisation.ws/mb/showthread.php?s=&threadid=7350

Be sure, if you dare, to write me back some ginsu commentary, be it commendation or condemnation. I greatly desire to read of your adventures desecrating nuns and tattooing satanic slogans on ripe virgins. Orgies of gluttony and excess are restrained and uninspired here by scarfs, parkas, and churches, so I must live vicariously through your exotic and filth-slathered Las Vegas debauchery.

Feverishly,
Steve

[Thinktank]

I look a bit wrecked today. I haven't shaved in over a week, I have a hole in my shirt on the right side, and I've got a large, deep pimple on my jawline. I think a spider laid eggs in my face as I slept and later on, perhaps while chewing lunch, the swollen lump will explode outwards in a weak splash of blood and pus. Cute little eight leggers will pour out, cascading down my neck into my shirt like a nomadic rash.

The weekend's indulgences have me twitchy. My eyes are red from shampoo and little sleep. I'm drowsy. This happens frequently in the morning, and I always promise myself that I'll hit the hay at an early hour. That never happens. Hello Red Bull, hello candy bar.

[Thinktank]

Dear ???,

I am a reluctant customer of your Blockbuster stores. I usually purchase movies from other places. Your selection is severely limited by a policy of yours that restricts movies that you find "morally objectionable" or "explicit" from being sold on your shelves. While I disagree with this policy, it is your right to run your businesses as you see fit. I merely wish to make you aware of why I choose to shop at other establishments before I continue, as that's not the reason I've written you today.

I received a gift card for Blockbuster as an early Christmas gift this week, so I found myself browsing the DVD racks in your Schaumburg, IL store. Several titles I was interesting in purchasing were only stocked in full screen format. This format chops off the edges of the picture and does not present the movie as it appeared in theatres, which, for me, was the motivating factor in upgrading from VHS to DVD. I know many people who feel as I do. Additionally, widescreen televisions are becoming more popular as their prices continue to drop. This also should lead you to consider stocking both formats of all the movies that Blockbuster sells.

I must commend you on your buy 2, get 1 free "previously viewed" promotion. I took advantage of it and brought home three movies. It was an excellent value.

Upon arriving home, I attempted to remove the bar code and pricing stickers from the movies. I was unable to get them off without risking damage to the packaging. I would like to suggest that you wrap previously viewed movies in shrink plastic before applying stickers to them. This would allow myself and other customers to read the special features listings and movie summaries on the back of the boxes. It is also aesthetically displeasing to see giant red circles covering the artwork when I take a movie off my shelf.

Please reconsider your position on these policies and consider changing them. Thank you for your time and attention.

Sincerely,
Steve ..........

Now to find a name and address to send this sucker out.

[Thinktank]

Dear Score 670 Maneagement,

I recently began listening to sports radio. I’d grown tired of the limited music selections offered by FM radio, so I switched bands out of curiosity. To my surprise, there was more available on the AM band besides weather, traffic, current events, and Hispanic trumpet music. I now regularly listen to WGN’s Spike Odell in the mornings, and during my lunch break and on my commute home in the evening I listen to your station or your main competitor, ESPN 1000.

I’d like to share a few thoughts on your programming.

I don’t listen to Murph and Fred in the morning. While their insights and knowledge may be top-notch, I find their humor to be pedestrian and unimaginative. Nor do I like the sounds of their voices. Their nasal braying reminds me of the church lady at work.

I love listening to Terry Boers and Dan Bernstein during my lunch break. Their humor is sharp-edged, sarcastic, irreverent, and colorful. Yesterday Terry described somebody as a “simpering pile of jello.” I chuckled at this and I’m likely to use it in conversation whenever possible during this holiday season. They went off on tangents and eventually began insulting each other in a mostly playful fashion. I also recall that they advocated applying Mike North’s giardinara pepper mix to the scalp as a hair regrowth formula. High comedy indeed. Please give them more money, or at the very least, some plastic dog feces and some blackjack chewing gum from a novelty store. I am confident that they will use these items to entertain me.

Mike North is good to listen to if I’m in a foul mood, because he’s always harping and crowing about somebody or other, and he loves to showcase hypocrisy and idiocy among athletes and coaches. Sometimes the lampooning is a bit too po-faced and serious for me, but Mike usually knows when to lighten up and have a laugh. That’s why I’ve enjoyed his “jag bag” call-in segments the most. They are mean-spirited but venomously uplifting nonetheless. I think the word I’m looking for here is cathartic. We Chicago sports fans have plenty of frustration to vent, and Mike is perfect for expressing our loathing.

Last weekend I was working my secondary job delivering pizzas in Hoffman Estates. On Saturday night, I believe it was, a show I’d never heard before called the Me and Z show came on. Aside from Boers and Bernstein, this was the best radio I’ve heard on your station. These guys must drink a whole lot of coffee. Between discussing the following day’s matchups, these gentlemen somehow laced in an astronomy lesson and some ruthless impersonations of Chris Russo from In The Huddle, a syndicated Westwood One program following theirs. “Hewwo, dis is Kwis Wooso heah wih Boomah, howzit goan Boom?” I didn’t see this show on the programming schedule published on your website. I will be checking again to find out when this show airs again. I really enjoyed it and would like to hear more from these sugar-addled chuckleheads.

Thanks for your time and attention.

Sincerely,

[Thinktank]

My phone died one week ago, although the bill is paid and it still rings to voicemail. Yet in the apartmentI hear no ringing, dial tone, or otherwise. Dead air. It died sometime last Friday, the 13th.

I didn't come to work yesterday. I couldn't call in. My boss is furious. Today is a half-day, and she should arrive sometime in the next hour. It's ten past eleven right now. I talked to her on the phone this morning when I arrived.

If I don't have a great reason for her to keep me, I'll be fired. Her words. I don't have a reason. She doesn't believe me about the phone. She lives east of here, like I do. I'm going to invite her to go there with me and see the phone for herself. She'll decline. It's a pathetic idea really. Not to mention that in my frantic haste I locked my keys in my apartment and can't get in. The roomie's still away, so no help there.

I hope to be back writing here soon. I do all my writing at work, you see. If this clusterfuck goes badly, it may be a while.

[Thinktank]

The boss never came last Friday, but called and asked me to come in Thursday, today. I expect I'll be fired on Monday, New Years' Eve.

It's been a winter wonderland. I've slept a lot, stayed mostly sober, and just hibernated. I did all my Christmas shopping on the 24th and my gifts were received well.

I've gotten no replies to either of the above letters so far. I started one to the Vic Theatre in Chicago while having a steak last weekend but haven't finished it. I intend to respond to some editorials in the Sun-Times soon. I'd meant to answer one or two last week but neglected to do so in a timely manner.

This entry is for the record. I want to be able to look back and see the bridge from one part of my life to another. At this moment, my eloquence and verbal verve are too tired to muster anything of value. The major change in question is the departure from this employment. I began here at 18 when my peers were graduating highschool. I was already a longtime dropout wastrel at that point. Survived a few mergers, from digital to compaq to hp. Now I'm going back into the blank again. I was afraid of that, but I'm not anymore. Worry is waste.

So yeah, that's what happening. I'm mildly surprised that I haven't got a few pages worth of crap to say about it. It just is.

Coffin nail, check, lighter, check, coffee, check.

[Thinktank]

I told her that all the conference rooms are open, and to holler when she wants to have a meeting. To fire me.

She just got back from lunch and I'm due for food next. Still no meeting. I think she enjoys having me dangle like a little worm on a hook. I don't mind, as this place isn't affecting my headspace, apart from one strange malady. After an extended period of sloven couch dwelling, I've realized that I psychosomatically make myself tired upon enterting this building, yawning and stretching the whole day through. I look forward to the end of this employment.

A guy just passed the front desk where I now sit. He told me all about the differences between handguns now, and handguns then. Recoil/jamming problems on newer lighter models. Interesting.

Fuck this writing. No fire today. Need drugs.

[Thinktank]

Dear Vic Theatre Management,

I’m writing today to commend you on your Brew and View movie showings and to offer a suggestion. I last attended a triple feature over a year ago for the bargain price of four dollars. I’ve heard that the price has recently been raised, but whatever the minimal increase I’m sure the value is still excellent.

The notion of allowing the movie going public to drink alcoholic beverages and smoke tobacco during a movie screening is both novel and genius. As a person with little leisure time, who lives hard and fast, and is a cinema enthusiast, the luxury of combining these vices is a treasure among other expensive and restrictive options.

During the past year I’d forgotten how greatly I’d enjoyed patronizing your establishment. I was reminded of the Brew and View a few days ago when a friend made an offhand comment regarding the recently opened Lord Of The Rings film. Instead of three two-hour movies, why not screen two three-hour movies? I know that in addition to current movies that are late in their theatrical run, you also pursue older movies, usually cult favorites. I think that a dual screening of The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers would be excellent and admirable double-billing. I and many of my peers would certainly attend it. Please let me know if such a thing is possible.

Once again, thank you very much for holding Brew and View at your establishment and please continue to do so in the future.

Sincerely,

[Thinktank]

No replies from the Score 670 or Blockbuster yet. I don't expect them, but I admit that I have checked the mail more often than normal, which is twice monthly.

My boss wants me to stick out this job until the end of January. There are several reasons. Hopefully at that point our contract will terminate and not renew, and I will be a layoff as opposed to a resignation. She's really been very helpful and supportive, and she gives great advice. I have a great deal of respect for her and must express this in some way before I depart.

Today I will lollygag gaily. I expect when the workday is through my desk will be covered in scattered paper: origami swans and tribal swirlyspikes in black on white.

I've been invited to Mark & Linda's New Years' Eve celebration, and I am considering carousing while sober tonight. That seems to be the direction I'm heading. Today is the first day I've tried to muster my creativity without being hungover from anything fancy. It's been a couple weeks now since I had a steady diet of anything besides food. I shall have to summon myself from rosy comfort as opposed to delerious nausea.

A note to all regarding tonight:

Whiskey before beer, never fear, beer before whiskey, pretty risky.

Or the more common:

Beer before liquor, never sicker, liquor before beer, in the clear.

I hope I didn't write all that backwards or I'll owe some apologies tomorrow.

[Thinktank]

I sit here at my desk, ragged and grizzly. I never got that haircut, and it's looking sentient now. My complexion is spotty and my eyes are swollen pink. I had trouble sleeping last night.

My holiday season was quite a coccoon. I didn't exactly emerge a beautiful butterfly, but I definitely exited as somebody much different than I was in November. Some telltale threads are woven into this journal, some not. I'll spare you.

Instead, some colorful anecdotes.

The roomie called last Tuesday to tell me to pick up Steve for Mark & Linda's New Year's Eve Party. (yes, he made it sound important enough to warrant capital letters) When I got there with him, I learned that Linda had a hissyfit and refused to have him as a guest. This stems back to when Steve's apartment got broken into, theived, and vandalized. Linda had been witness the next day when Steve had muttered and evenutally shouted, for several hours straight, "Kill. I'm gonna kill him. Knife, gun, bat, whatever's there. Can I use your phone?"

So I called Jim and Kelly, friends of mine for many years. I see them every New Year's Eve, and sometimes only then. Unfortunately they were going to Doug's house. The last time I went there, mid-summer, I had brought Steve, and he got drunk and tried to take two of the women to Chicago for cocaine and sex. Most everybody got upset by that and a fight nearly broke out. Doug kicked us out and I accidentally took his mom's Tommy James & The Shondells greatest hits CD. (I'd been carrying it upstairs when I had to run outside to the conflict, and I got kicked off the property while dragging Steve towards the curb) That eventually led to the heroin story. On my first page, I think.

Since he'd worn out his welcome everywhere, I told him to find his own goddamn party. He ended up in Plainfield with a bunch of South African girls who kept asking him and his buddies if they know who Nelson Mandela is. That reminded me of the Specials' "Free Nelson Mandela," a joyous political song that makes me beam.

I went to Doug's anyways, and he made me feel very unwelcome. He didn't look upon my efforts to defuse the summer situation favorably, and instead opted for guilt by association. Everybody gave him a very hard time about it except for me. Instead of speaking his mind, Doug's rationale was that he hadn't approved me as a New Year's guest with his mother. Doug is 26 years old. Yeah, he got grief from all but me on that flimsy weak shit. I left gracefully and went to stay with Darren and Leslie. The three of us ate cookies and drank cheap beer until two am. Low key.

The final week of the year brought news of three pregnancies and one murder. I guess that's good math, supposing such things can be reduced.

My friend Laura had her 21st birthday party at an arcade/bar. She got completely sloshed and was smart enough to bring two cameras. I saw to it that both were filled. Many images of her flirting with strangers, hugging her friends, and some long distance Where's Waldo? stlye shots with her on balconies, tall staircases and exiting washrooms. I have a good eye for compostition. Actually I haven't seen them yet. I thought so while I was buzzing, so it must be true.

I also decided to go to Florida in February. I will drink rum on the beach in Fort Lauderdale and collapse on the sand. Eat seafood. Cuban. Sleep late. Piss in the gulf or the ocean, depending on where the city lies. That sort of thing.

I've been spending a lot of time alone in the apartment. I have nowhere to go, nobody to see, and I like it. I've been begging myself to spend some quality time free of obligations. Lazy. It's somewhat boring, to tell the truth. But I got what I wanted. Old GrandDad bonded bourbon, a leather couch, cheap movies, blankets, cigarettes. Even after no sleep last night I feel more awake that I usually do on Monday morning. I must've gotten something right.

I recall that a few people have observed that writers on this site are depressive and gloomy. I don't think that's true. People vent some negative baggage here because it's safe and anonymous, but that doesn't make us gothic as a whole. And if you think about it, the dark stuff is more entertaining than the happy stuff. You can go on for hours exploring problems like little ant caves, all knot twisted. Happiness is far less intellectual, and to question it is to threaten it. I couldn't write much more than a paragraph about it without making myself ill. What would I say? I am overcome with an abundance of mirth, and the light twinkles all about, and the air is clean and perfect, and the music marionettes me a merry jig, and I am a great blazing sun, and I radiate my light wherever I pass, and if I smile any wider my cheeks will crack!

No thanks. Leave that to musical types and ecstasy abusers.

[Thinktank]

Dear (oldies station office manager),

I was driving home yesterday evening with WJMK blasting at an obnoxiously loud volume. When commercials air, I usually flip to other station to see what else is on unless one of those “more magic music in sixty seconds” alerts pauses my hand. This time, I’m glad I let the advertisements commence. To my surprise, I heard your ad for entry-level salespeople; accompanied by a name and phone number I regrettably did not have the opportunity to write down. I would have quickly memorized the information and pulled over to record it, but I was driving along a particularly treacherous and icy portion of Golf Road, and it demanded the entirety of my attention. Browsing WJMK today at work, I found your name. I’m writing to request more information about this work and to find out if I qualify for a position with your radio station.

Please allow me to tell you a little bit about myself. I hope this will provide you with enough to determine whether this opportunity would be of mutual benefit to both myself and WJMK, or at the very least, whether to continue to an interview process.

I am a twenty-three year old music enthusiast and aspiring writer. I am currently looking for a new field of work where I can utilize my communication skills and professional demeanor to my advantage. I am currently employed at Hewlett-Packard, which recently changed its brand name to HP Invent. I’ve been here for five years. I began shortly after my eighteenth birthday performing shipping and receiving duties at the Schaumburg, IL office. After one year I was promoted to my current position, site services coordinator. My duties include supervising the following contractors: landscapers, snow removal, cleaning services, vending machines, roofing repair, electricians, heating and air, and locksmiths. Duties that I perform as opposed to supervise include printer, copier, and fax upkeep, cubicle construction, shipping clerk supervisor, office and cabinet key distribution, guided tours for new hires, audio and video equipment for conference rooms, conference room setup, scheduling, and supply, storage area organization, and inventory ordering when necessary for paper, toner, letterhead, and envelopes. I also cover three breaks per day for the receptionist and send out security parts across the country. I am also savvy with a computer and frequently help visitors troubleshoot small problems. There are many other miscellaneous tasks that I perform here, although the above describes the bulk of it.

I’ve decided to seek out new employment due to lack of job security. Although I’ve been at the same office for five years, our name has changed from Digital to Compaq to HP. I’m a contractor here, not an employee, and after the last merger HP is looking at hiring a company to perform these duties at all their offices nationwide. As a contactor for a relatively small company, we cannot competitively bid for the nationwide contract, and ours is set to expire at the end of January. Instead of waiting and hoping to interview with the new contractor, I’ve decided to seek out something more engaging than facility services. I think that sales and oldies are appropriate for me, as I enjoy interacting with others and I love music.

Rereading the above, I think it accomplishes my goals of requesting information and providing my basic work history. Feel free to ask me whatever you like. I hope this letter serves as the first note of a long and happy song.

My favorite oldie at this moment is “Give Me Just A Little More Time” by the Chairmen Of The Board, although my favorites change from week to week. I’m also partial to the Marcels and the Rascals.

Thank you for your time, attention, and consideration.

Sincerely,

-----------
It's more personal than a resume, and I think for an entry level application it should bowl them over. Tonight I'm going to have a thick bloody steak to celebrate something or other. Whatever comes to mind that's worth celebrating.

[Thinktank]

I made a startling discovery in the pawn shop yesterday. In 1992, at the height of the Sweatin' To The Oldies craze, some genius at NFL Films thoughts it would be a good idea to make music videos full of archival NFL footage interspersed with some awkward narration. They made a few different videos, and the one trailer at the beginning of the video advertised Elton John and Bon Jovi. While that sounds as vile and nauseating as microwave pork rinds or head cheese, the tape I bought is a treasure. Sunshine on a cloudy day.

NFL Goes Motown.

That's right. I can watch clips of fumbles, leaping catches, end zone dances, and miraculous Walter Payton ballets while listening to the soulful sounds of Smokey & the Miracles, Diana Ross, Jr Walker, Stevie Wonder, The Contours, and the Temptations. More than that, even. I've already watched it twice. It's sadly only 45 minutes. But what a 45 minutes. Wow. For 99 cents. I want to sing along but that would distract me from the jumping running backs getting helicoptered in mid-air. So I watch, mouth open, eyes unblinking, swaying back and forth like a rusty teeter-totter. Very happy. I'm going back to the pawn shop tonight to find out what else is hiding there. I suspect that this is untoppable.

[Thinktank]

Here I am writing another post, starting once again with a chuckling, self-effacing description of my poor state of appearance. I've got matching luggage under my eyes, patchy stubble and most likely bad breath despite the vomit inducing yellow listerine attacks. That's right folks, I went and got nuked last night, safe and sound in my flourescent cell.

I have received no replies to the letters I've sent. That's poor customer service, but the customer is never right, because there's a thousand more who will settle for less. I should be more careful. I might lapse into syllogism.

My boss is in Indiana today, so naturally I went into the storage room and napped. This after appearing one hour late. This job has never been awful. At worst, it's boring. At the same time, I'm enjoying myself here now that I've formally declared my lack of enthusiasm. Anybody with an ounce of sense would slap me with a skillet and berate me for being a spoiled little shitheel. The economy is bad, you know. Fortunately I'm insolent enough to stick my dick into the barren womb of unemployment. Don't worry, I'll bring lube. Everybody has to get off sometime, and my stop is right around the corner. I shouldn't even be on this bus. I don't belong in an office. It makes me a tool, a turd-riddled cupcake. I'm not having it.

So I've prescribed myself a few shots of sanguine arrogance. It's a good buzz, and even healthy from time to time. I like people less and they like me more. That's economy right there. I've eaten a lot today. That's why I'm sounding fat and rich right now. Time for a toothpick.

[Thinktank]

Fuck religion by the way. That's better. Like a really good shit that splashes.

I have treasures. I would not barter them for even the finest meats and cheeses. Yesterday I wrote about the NFL video. Allow me to tell you of another recent find. During the cleanup process following my grandmother's eviction, I found a small 3" x 2" gold foil box. Inside it are bookplates. It took a moment for me to realize that a bookplate is for marking your literary property. You write you name on the fucker, sponge it down, and slap it inside the front cover, and viola! that book is obviously owned by Mr. Crap Tacular. These bookplates have a knight on a horse done in a congenial calligraphic hand, and the quote is beaucoup fun. "The man who fights for his ideals is a man who is alive." Cervantes, author of Don Quixote. They're really old and the glue is shitty, and I'm having a devil of a time making the gummy fuckers stick.

How about "The man who fights for his meals is a man who needs a five." No, that's stupid. Unfunny. Time to quit for today.

[Thinktank]

"Don't shit on me!," I cried at the flock wheeling above. The swarm honored that request, but that didn't stop them from hailing green eggs and ham on my car. That'll teach me to park on that side of the building. It almost makes me want to kill what I eat, just for the illusion of triumph over nature. Almost.

My fantasy of gnawing a fresh still-beating deer heart will have to wait. Photographs of me with bubbly blood running down my chin and a twitching artery poking out the corner of my mouth will not be taken anytime soon. When they do.. well.... let's just say I won't have to fake that smile.

No, instead I'll refrain from purchasing firearms and stick to the farmed meat. I realize that they keep the cows in factory pens where they eat, shit, breathe, and squeal during chemical growth hormone injections, and this doesn't bother me. I don't have to smell it.

I wonder about those folks that consciously decide they want to work at a butcher shop. For some it's a family business, but there have to be some people who woke up one day thinking "I want to chop dead meat." You know, people that derive satisfaction from rending bovine anatomy into separate wet piles. For my consumption, and yours.

Then there's the slaughterhouse. I imagine that some do this for economic reasons. Small town, two choices: spike cows in the skull and peel their skin with giant hooks, or swindle hobos for cheap wine and sneak up on old women and steal their insulated jackets. Do they hire immigrant workers to do this kind of stuff now? I'll bet the mop job there is awful. I wonder what kind of jokes they tell one another. I think it would be funny if they drank red Kool-Aid. Especially if they used that Kool-Aid man pitcher.

I should write the fellow who keeps the Theoretical Sociopath journal. He posts once a month, I suppose during library visits between victims and fleeing from trenchcoated detectives. I'll bet he knows all about it.

[Thinktank]

My tummy is rumbling like a garbage disposal full of coffee grounds and turkey bones. I'm pouring syrupy sweet Red Bull atop the compost pile in my stomach, and hopefully my next cancer stick will inspire some movement, for good or ill.

Enough about biology.

I delivered a pizza to a group of stoned waterheads the other day. A guy with a Grateful Dead t-shirt answered the door, coughing, his bloodshot eyes magnified by his glasses. He looked like a fish. A girl yelled "Don't tip him! ha ha ha!" She was obviously joking. I told him his total. He fumbled with his crumpled cash, eyeing it vacantly. Then, like a dog returning a stick, he tried handing me different combinations of the bills. Watching me, seeking approval. His total was 21.95, so I simplified it to 22. He gave me no tip after I pulled $22 from his hands. He looked up at me with an infantile blinking. "Okay?" "Yeah. Here, take the pizza." A bong bubbled somewhere in the house. I left disgruntled, with no tip.

Don't smoke marijuana, kids. You'll become a drooling imbecile that enjoys Chinese water torture music like Pink Floyd. Your brain will become a gong beaten slowly. Eventually you'll speak in slow-motion and end every sentence with "dude" or "man." Your mother will be disappointed and your father will be embarrassed. Your dog will walk you. You'll laugh at commercials starring children pretending to be adults. You'll buy lava lamps. If you're going to abuse drugs, try the ones that'll make you interesting.

I have a massaging showerhead. Instead of the regular shower sprinkle, I can set it for five pulsing water lazers. I aim this into my ears, up my nose, and down my throat. It makes me choke and spaz, but it dislodges popcorn shells from teeth even better than a toothbrush, and it boxes my uvulva like a punching bag. That's more valuable than it sounds. Since I smoke a pack a day, I need a lot of torque to powerwash the tar. If you intend to purchase something fancy and luxurious like this, be warned that it's easy to bruise your eyeballs if your aim strays for even a moment.

I was discussing eggs with the roomie and his girl last night, and I've decided to make a special breakfast. In the beginning of The Neverending Story, Bastion's dad puts vodka, orange juice, and a raw egg into a blender. I think that's a great idea and I intend to try it. My current favorite is runny eggs on toast. Something about the combo of melted butter and bleeding yolk makes for a satisfying eating experience. The roomie's girl says she can make a tye-dye sunny-side up egg with food coloring. I'm a bit frightened by this, but I will try it if she's not bluffing. The last food I enjoyed that colorful was Fruity Pebbles, and that was a long time ago.

Have a nice Monday.

[Thinktank]

Have you ever stopped suddenly, realizing that everything is perfect in this one second? Everything stopped, and for a moment you were beautiful? I hadn't experienced that perfection in a long time. I did last week. I think it was Thursday. The air was forty five degrees and the sun was almost fallen. The air was damp, and a pink wash of dying light caught on pine, caught on salty pavement, caught on a wooden fence. I inhaled that moment. By sorcery I stretched it into a full thrity minutes. That moment was seen as I left the building, you see, so I was able to epilogue it with my departure from work, a loud radio volume, and open windows. Magic carpet.

The land was bleached again on Friday.

It can be entertaining to fuel preposterous imagininings into schizopherenic territory. For instance, what if human moods were dust, and wind and light circulated them among the population? It would certainly give more heed to the notion that our moods are influenced by weather. My perfect moments always come when I stand outside during these atmospheric zeniths, those idyllic moments when the sun blazes or the light glows or the wind caresses. That's why I miss walking.

Everybody likes to imagine something invisible.

In the meantime my flourescent desk lights murder any fanicful flights and leave me stark and grey. It's not hard labor, but there must be a reason that people describe working in an office as a soul-sucking job. Apart from identity issues, could it be the light? Maybe these buzzing tubes attract only foul dust, the kind the makes you whine and slouch and frown.

So how does darkness figure into this crackpot's tangent? I do not know. It doesn't matter, because if I try to organize these thoughts and force them into logic, I could get whiplash. No, better to focus on tonight's mission: oblivion.

I need miles on foot. Concentrated automatic-fire perfect moments, flashing in staccato. I emerge aglow with polish. Give me sun, give me heat, give me blisters on my feet. Give me a reason to Look Up.

[Thinktank]

It's a stark, bleak Thursday. I'm a dull blade. The car took a shit on me yesterday, so I celebrated by going to a fancy restaurant. I ate many different fried underwater creatures. I've recently begun celebrating disasters as well as triumphs. It's sort of a cackling half-crazy reaction to fear. I adopted "worry is waste" as my mantra a few weeks ago, but as of yesterday I've had trouble living by it. I've got two weeks left here, and after that I hope that unemployment will carry me for a short while. If by some miracle my company's contract renews, I'll be a resignation as opposed to a layoff and unemployment may not exist for me. If that's the case, I figure I'll run away and join the circus. I'll apprentice myself to the sword swallower. Maybe I'll be a clown on stilts. I'm really good at those.

Somehow I've lost my mental balance. My self-declared invulnerability has morphed me into a balloon, and the slightest gust could land me deflated in the Artic Circle. If the future is a rampaging child, I'll be popped in no time.

All the same, I'm not ready to cash in my chips. If I go back to worry, I'll be worse than a balloon. I'll be chocolate in sunlight. A sludgy brown mass, a dripping puddle on a foil wrapper. Vague resemblance to diarrhea. It may be sweet but you sure don't want to touch it. No thanks. I'll keep my naive mental retard grin glued on for now. Hear no, see no. Some call it blindness, others call it focus.

Eeeeeeeeee. Somebody needs to beat me with an iron bar.

[Thinktank]

It's time for me to entertain myself by describing gross wet things again. My big sister loathes the word "moist." She shivers and recoils at its use.

My visit to the cajun castle last night brought to mind visions of scuttling squishy sea critters. I wonder what sort of sound a living lobster makes as it hits the surface of boiling water. What's it like to salivate over a pile of fish on the deck, all of them caught in a net, out of water, gasping and flopping as their lidless eyes dry up and wrinkle. Can a squid imagine a marionette as the wiry net weaves its tentacles into knots and its ink gushes like blood, staining the deck black? What sort of thrill do people get from eating the green and red stomach contents of a lobster? I eat the claws and tail only. Not the tamale, as they call it, even if it strongly resembles guacamole. I ate ten lobsters in one sitting once. My little sister ate six. I've never eaten a raw oyster before. With that hard shell around it, it must be like performing cunnilingus on a severe burn victim. Talk about a hot ass.

Time to reheat the leftovers.

[Thinktank]

It's a Friday afternoon and clear watermelon Gatorade tastes just like Nerds candy. I love it. I'm going to buy a jug of strawberry on the way home to see if it too measures up. I have standards you know.

My boss is in Indiana again today, so once again I took a nap on my psych couch. I had many strange and terrifying dreams. I always do on that couch, but I continue to use it. Today was actually my last opportunity in all likelihood. I won't give you any details of the dreams, as I can't think of anything I'm less interested in hearing than other peoples' cloudy muddled half-remembered surrealistic nonsense. People, keep your sleeping dreams to yourself.

I'm going to treat my lone employee to lunch today. He's an indecisive sort of fellow who'd much rather defer to my culinary judgement than risk suggesting something I dislike. Or maybe he's just laid back. I know he gets stoned all day long, which I don't mind, as long as he doesn't get caught by any of the uptight element that wander these necktied halls. When I get stoned I have specific cravings. I know that I want a barbeque pizza, or a sourdough turkey sandwich, or a patty melt with a small dollop of thousand island dressing in the grilled onions. He must've eaten already. That's got to be it. Whatever I buy for lunch will just be his dessert.

I haven't bothered to diagnose my vehicle yet, so I've been sleeping at my folks' house. Mooching rides and cars and stuff. I watched Showtime with my mom on Wednesday night. Her favorite actors are Carrey, Sandler, Stiller, and Eddie Murphy. Followed closely by Pacino and Deniro. So that worked out well. We watched Lilo & Stitch last night, which was cute. I like spending time with my mom. Everybody needs to be adored at sometime or other, and my mom is unconditional. That's good, because she's all I've got in that department.

After pleasuring myself last night with a french nudie magazine and a rabbit fur pelt, I discovered that I'd let all the hot water run down the shower drain. Whoops. I haven't had an ice cold shower in a long time. Not an experience I'd like to have frequently. Chattery teeth. Skin like clay. I warmed up by cooking pizza bagels for myself. I stood at the oven and watched the cheese cycle. From shred to melt to gold.

I also tried to smoke some high grade maryjane that had been soaked in soap and water. My mother had swiped all of my clothing when I went to the shower and hadn't emptied the pockets before dumping them in the wash. I also lost the toothpick from my pocket knife. My money was damp. It still is today and the clerk at the stop n shop was careful not to touch my hands as he dropped my change into them.

It's nearing one o'clock and I need to order some hot food.

[Thinktank]

Fuck shit fuck. I think that about sums it up. I got big rig tire treads on my face. Slack open. Urg.

I'd be hungover if I wasn't still drunk. Plus I'm at the front desk all day, greeting visitors and employees with red eyes, blue lips, and a hoarse crackle of a voice. My mouth is full of malted snot.

Fuck a duck and make it quack. Ole mole. Yowch. Somebody turn off the static. Stop the drums. Help.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Thud.

[Thinktank]

It's time to put on my tinfoil viking hat and act crazy again. That means I get to write another journal entry! Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah amen supercalifragilisticexpealidocious?

Set down the pixie sticks and step back from keyboard, son. No quick movements, and keep your hands where I can see them.

My hair froze this morning. I should've dried it better. Cold has expanded all the metals and everything shreiks. The doors to the building sound like the jaws of life. Strangely enough, no snot. No cold, no sniffle, no sinus boogeymen. I am as healthy as Dr. Ruth with Centrum and Astroglide. Except a lot younger and male. Probably better eyesight too, come to think of it.

Did you know that Tombstone produces a line of pizzas called All-American Flavors? I cooked up a meatball pizza yesterday. It was damn good, even if the thing looked like jumbo fuzzy rat turds on a wet plate. I eat a lot of foods that are visually offensive. My big sister thinks that gumbo looks like diarrhea, so when she's there I glue a shrimp tail to my chin with the brown broth. Then I slurp and leer at her like a toothless hobo. She loves that. Actually she's properly revolted, but her husband enjoys the spectacle. He likes dead baby jokes too. I like him. Next time I'm going to pantomime putting the bowl under the table and "refilling" it. As long as I don't spill. We're big fans of intestinal humor at my folks' household. You should see what I can do with mashed potatoes and gravy.

I have been offered a job with the police scam crew. If I get unemployment I can work this job unreported, under "fuck uncle sam" instead of the 1040. I like that idea. It's like a sodomy of Christ, but better. Can't you just see Charleton Heston with a stars and stripes Uncle Sam top hat, bent over and whinnying like a horse while Fidel Castro reams his old gnarled ass out with a hockey stick? Bombs away, Uncle Sam! Colon stretching time! I can just see Fidel cackling through cigar smoke with his cute little green hat spinning atop his head like a dreidel on rocket fuel. Feel free to substitue Saddam with a beret if that imagery pleases you more. Go ahead, I don't mind.

So I heard that Pete Townsend is in trouble for chilld pornography. I'll bet he was going to photoshop the heads of Dick Cheney and Curious George W. Bush onto them for his next solo album liner notes. It would be a marvelous political statement. Exhibit A: Dicky and Bushy doodling their dinkies in a puddle of crude oil. Exhibit B: Dicky teaches Bushy to apply lipstick and mascara. Exhibit C: Fun with diapers, hershey's syrup, and baby oil.

You get the idea. Art should be provocative.

Well, I guess I'm not so grown up after all. Enough for them to lock me up in Gauntanemo Bay without a trial, though.

I no longer think I'm qualified to write editorials. I am qualified to pee on statues, at least.

[Thinktank]

It's the last Monday. Next Monday I'll sleep until noon, and then I'll head over to the unemployment office. Trepidation and relief overlap. Strange. Pardon my fragments today. They feel right to my ears.

Decent pizza delivery last weekend. Superbowl tips are better than average. Slush, salt, and spilled oil stains. Steam rose from the sewer drains, and everybody was speeding. No cops anywhere. Turned down offers of cocaine, booze.

Told the roomie that my commitment to move with him again at the end of the lease is questionable. Gave him the opportunity to convince me that he can contribute financially. His mom won't pay his rent anymore. Good for her, good for him. So he might be thinking of how to convince me. He should know that action will, words won't. But he probably doesn't. He's getting his GED. We're doing that together. I'm overdue. So is he.

More watermelon juice. Chef Boyardee lasagna from the machine. Decaf. I drink a lot of decaf these days, ever since those damned pills fucked up my caffeine processing to the point where a single cup of regular joe sends me to orbit. No effect from sodas, strangely. A small blessing.

This donkey will have to pull a heavy cart this week. I've been assigned all sorts of ridiculous cleanup and reorg in the storage hall. Haphazard results will be displeasing to the eye. My legacy. My references will be gone too, so the disarray will not harm future prospects.

I'm drained. Empty. Not happy, sad, or confused. Just clean, blank. Had a big downer last week, even cried. Since then, autopilot. Nothing to chew on. I've never walked long through the cold. Need footwear, earmuffs.

Hm.

[Thinktank]

I have Van singing to me.

Back to Sunday. First the night, and then the morning.

Waiting for deliveries in the kitchen, sending pepperonis frisbee through hot greasy air, I see high schoolers with bright fresh faces full of hope and promise of escape. Snarfing bland heavy pizza, fries, burgers. Across the glass in the dining room. All here for food, not money. I'm here for both. Don't they like football?

I go to restaurants alone. Everybody else has company. I bring books instead. I was at the Omega on Sunday morning at three. I needed an omelette after the six-pack, as well as hot decaf of course. Twenty-four hour place. Barhoppers and nightclubbers in leather and glitter making hubbub, a cacophony of giggles, murmurs, clinks and clatters. The corners of my eyes caught curious glances, moments of attention. I studiously avoided eye contact. They are nightlife. I am nolife. I need to paint Peace Is Patriotic on my army jacket. I'm tired of being mistaken for a Republican, despite the good tips from upstanding churchgoing suburbanites. I got home and opened a seventh, but beer tastes bad after I eat, so I poured it through a totem pole of dishes encrusted with salmon and basmati.

When the sun rose, I slept.

Back again the night, after work. I got to see the fourth quarter.

I won a hundred on football squares. A wiser fool would save it. I think I'll buy some coke to celebrate unemployment. A last hurrah. Or a first volley of self-inflicted destruction. Creativity counts. When the powder blows away, a whiskey bath to make a crash. Then a day of ragged breath, brutal despression and involuntary shivering under many blankets. Heads and tails.

Letting go.

[Thinktank]

File under: you had to be there

My friend and coworker Luis had to be at the hospital last night. His wife is pregnant and needs a cesarian section done. So I volunteered to cover his delivery shift.

So there I am in the kitchen with Alejandro and Jorge. They're the youngest of the staff, in their teens. Jorge does pizza and Alejandro does dogs and gyros. They were teaching me different phrases in Spanish, and Jorge grabbed and egg from somewhere to teach me "huevos."

Back through the mists of memory in some chalky classroom I remembered some lesson about equal distribution of pressure and the egg squeeze. There's a way that you can squeeze an egg in your hand and it will not break. I wasn't exactly sure, but caution be damned.

I decided to demonstrate. There were skeptical.

I squeezed. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four.... and it exploded. Egg ran own my face, my shirt, and puddled on the toes of my left foot. Egg splashed the pizza counter but not the toppings. It was on the floor, on the guys' aprons, and on the front of oven, frying as it ran towards the floor.

None of us could stop laughing. We were doubled over.

I cleaned myself up and shed my shirt.

[Thinktank]

It's hard to write when the music won't stop playing upstairs. I try to find beginnings. Even when I don't know the plot, when I find a start the rest follows as naturally as rainfall. But when I have a choir of violins in my head and an acoustic guitar strumming underneath, I can't seem to figure out what to write, why to write it, or the point of dry words at all. The song that won't leave me alone, thankfully, is Astral Weeks. That's Van Morrison, kids. I bookend it mentally with Minstrel Boy by Joe Strummer and All I Want Is You by U2. Hello mixtape, I'm calling you.

Lovely wings of the dove above, slow-motion.

I try to avoid explicitly referencing music or literature in this journal. It's about me, not what I see and hear. This is a journal, not a weblog. I generally leave my references in obtuse headings and winking uncredited quotings. Yet with no place to wander my think, I slip my rules.

So I'm not here. My mental gears are quiet. All that's left in the absence of thought is sense. Five senses. I have warm blood. Smoke. Movement is easy, free and cheap. I am light of foot - I'm used to more effort and grimace to move. Now without that tackle, without that burden. No hangover penance. No pain for inspiration, no need for distraction. I can float. It's a good mood nowhere.

I speak my language. Abstractions like puzzle pieces whose picture I know, dropped in a pile online. You reader - can't see that image, but fragments may shine when the light strikes them fine. Litte dots to dance and prance and all fall down.

Now more violins.

[Thinktank]

Tell me loud, tell me clear, aching troubles, gnawing fears.

Stand aside, let traffic pass. Watch the world and fade from here.

I'm just trying to do my very best.

Goodbye constant readers. I'll be coming around the mountain when I can.

Steve

[Thinktank]

I have a computer and net access, so I'm here to take a quick mental bowel movement.

Life is sweet. Recipe modifications have had mixed results. The pizza was great with scallions, but the sausage and potatoes really need the curry.

I built a 500 piece jigsaw puzzle in 4 hours. I drank gallons of gatorade. I blew off all my job interviews but landed two good jobs anyways.

My anonymity is spoiled. I gave a printed and bound version of this journal to my big sis and her husband, and the links are on it. They are the first real world people who I've shared this with. I intended for them to read it when they got home, but they couldn't wait and read some of it right in front of me. I kept my cool as best I could.

No appetite for smoke or drink. Still seeking sunshine. Reading fast. Loud music.

Yesterday I toured Harlem avenue. From 7900 south to 4000 north. It was a good drive. At 7900 south, I hung out with a police officer and a jail guard for a while. Drank coffee. At 4000 north, I went to the butcher shop for artichoke focaccia muffins and fresh imported parmesan.

I'm going to Hallmark today for a fancy puzzle. 1000 pcs. minimum.

I hope I can visit you all again soon.

[Thinktank]

January 2000.

I was walking along a side-street off of Bourbon in the French Quarter. (Rue Anne, I think it was called.) A guy came up to me and friends and introduced himself as Pierre Pressure. He claimed to be a gypsy orphan, and he handed me a piece of origami paper with gold foil. On it was written the address and time that he was doing some performance art onstage at an open mic night. To rouse our interest, he stuck a long blade up his nose far further than it should have been able to go. His ugly girlfriend stood up next to him. She'd been crouching. "Did you notice that I just pulled my pants down and peed on the sidewalk next to you?" No, I hadn't. There was a puddle.

I wanted to go see them, but my compatriots were afeared of mischeif in the poorer neighborhood where the local tourism authorities had warned them not to venture. So much for adventure.

I love New Orleans.

[Thinktank]

I thought last Friday was my last day at work, but things changed slightly and here I am having another last Friday at work. Here's my farewell email, which I just sent to about 300 people at once. Now I really will be more scare hereabouts on the IRC.

Dear friends,

Today is my last day here at HP. I began here in July of 1997 as the shipping clerk, and over the past five and a half years I've had the opportunity to work with a lot of great people. I've also learned a lot and gained plenty of valuable experience. It's been a lot of fun and I will miss you all. I'll be visiting occasionally to be a general nuisance and to harass the lot of you. I recommend that you keep all the doors locked.

I'm going to work for a small technology company in Schaumburg that upgrades fast food restaurant hardware. I'm very happy to have discovered the opportunity and I'm looking forward to increasing my income, broadening my experience, and eventually taking over the world. Don't worry, I will be a benevolent dictator and I will give you all new cars once my coup is successful. Vegas is giving me better odds on it than I'd anticipated.

I got my job here when the shipping clerk stopped showing up for work. My friend Tim's mother, Cheren (omitted), was working for Digital and got the job for her son. He worked here for one day, and the next day he decided to take an unannounced vacation to Poland. She was very upset when he sent the telegram from Warsaw, and she enlisted me to help track him down. I had no luck, being 18 and inexperienced in such matters as espionage, diplomacy, and the Polish language. Despite that failure she did offer me the job, and I interviewed over the telephone with Peggy (omitted) at 8pm on a Sunday night. 12 hours later I was here.

Thank you everybody for your friendship and encouragement. It's meant a lot to me and I can't wait to come back here bragging. All because of your collective positive influence on me. I might take little credit too. You understand.

Greener pastures, folks. Take care.

[Thinktank]

I am in my father's throne. It smells like farts and spilled whiskey. There are framed pictures of old steam locomotives on the walls. He is out purchasing socks. He has large feet. Very large.

I have built two puzzles, and I'm well into my third. Oh no. He's back. Gotta go. Wait, that's mom. I can continue. I know their footsteps.

I'm here because the roomie asked me to vacate the apartment for V-Day. I complied. I was thinking about going to the bar last night, but I can't afford it. Former employer reneged on the leftover sick and vacation. I was counting on that. Phooey.

I got a Valentine from my sister. All three males in my family got one each, from her. I see a trend. We are emotionally crippled people who speak the language of love in an awkward foreign accent. That phrase is stolen from my favorite Mormon, thank you OSC, that's us exactly. So it's not all my fault that I'm a reclusive hermit. Still, I know better than to blame other people. for my problems. Enough of this trash.

Next time I hope I'll have time to read all my favorite journals. I haven't had time yet, and now I must go again.

[Thinktank]

I just wolfed a shitload of fried stuff. Shrimp, clams, hush puppies, cod, chicken, and some that were just contorted hulks of fried batter. Long John Silver's. A pirate "arrgh!" every time. You go to the bathroom that is. With all that grease my movement will be the voiding of a slippery eel with whiplash. Imagine stepping on a tube of toothpaste.

My father is pacing behind me, awaiting his turn on his machine. I was here when he arrived, doing my taxes. I had intended to write several paragraphs full of retch-inducing merriment, but I'll have to save my tumorous imagination for a new day.

[Thinktank]

When I grow up, I want to buy one of those vibrating massaging foot baths. It's just a little plastic tub with foot contours in it and a cord running out from underneath. So when I graduate to adulthood, as I was saying, I intend to fill one with rubbing alcohol, take off my clothes, turn it on, and sit in it reading a book until my ass goes completely numb. That's all I've got so far. It's good to set goals.

Meanwhile, back here in the present day, I've had a few ideas that I'm dumb enough to contemplate but smart enough to refrain from attempting. For instance, there has to be a way to padlock a drive-thru window from the outside. I could be something of a vigilante health nut, depriving drunk barflies of big bacon classics and bean burritos. Very noble. I would use combination locks. If I used keyed padlocks, nobody stupid would waste time trying to guess the combo.

Then there's the game I call Poop in a Old Shoe. It's a solitare game that doesn't need any cards, just some old sneakers and one dedicated bowel mover. You can demostrate the old water in the bucket scientific principle by twirling a full shoe by the laces. Be careful.

That's what goes through my head when I spend too long sober. On that note, I'm off to drink enough to satisfy a mid-sized Arkansas family. Good night.

[Thinktank]

Last Tuesday night the roomie asked me to blow out two candles before I went to bed. They were big square red things on tall ornate wooden posts.

I forgot.

Our smoke detector had no battery in it. It always went off when we cooked.

One of the candles went out after burning down and splashing red wax all over the carpet. The other burned down and it's wooden post caught fire. The wooden coffee table underneath it caught and smoldered orange and filled the apartment with thick white smoke.

There were 30 or 40 bottle rockets in the top drawer as well as some Neal Stephenson paperbacks. When the rockets went off at 8 am, we both woke and charged into the smoky living room. Since there was just a huge orange smoldering and not any open flame, I picked it up, carried it outside, and chucked it into the pure white snow. As it flew from my hands the air movement kindled an exploding flame that last only a moment before the table landed upside down in the snow. The roomie didn't try to help the situation. Instead he stood there and berated me as I took action to prevent the situation from becoming worse.

The fire department was mad about the smoke detector. The roomie was mad about the carpet and the furniture. They were his candles. He burned something like 10 a day, on wooden posts, on wine bottles, in little glass dishes. So I decided not move into a new place with him, as I'd agreed. He was mad, but he's over it. It was my fault, but I feel he should share in the responsibilty due to his candle fetish and compulsive wax burning tendencies. He'd lit those fucking hazards.

So we were lucky. Saved by bottle rockets.

[Thinktank]

I've been pointing and yelling at my television set. Cackling, ranting, and sighing. I can't wait fro November 3rd, 2004. Election day. The first presidential election in 8 years.

My new job has me working from 10pm until the wee hours. I love it. Once I've past my trainee stage I'll be able to move back out of my folks house. My income will skyrocket. We have uncomfortable couches here and I can't make noise past 10pm or smoke in the house. Stifling.

Baseball has returned, and once again the sun shines above. This is church for me. I'm going to opening day at Comiskey and Wrigley this year. It's either that or have a general freakout over global issues I can't control. April is the most hopeful month of the year for Cubs fans.

I almost ripped my face off with a bungee cord. I was strapping a box spring to the top of a minivan and it was stetched out very long. When it slipped my grasp, it snapped past my right ear with a mighty whiff. I persevered enentually and departed with it, the last item to be moved. The box spring flew off the top of the van into the middle of a busy street less than ten miles away from the apartment. Queen size. Into a mud puddle. I lugged the bastard to a chainlink service road gate to a forest preserve. Barbed wire on top. They're serious about not letting degenerates fuck with their badgers and rabbits. No peeing in our sanctified creeks. I told my parents the thing had been destroyed.

I was barefoot when I moved a garbage bag blocking my entry into the garage. My foot was wet after I stepped into the bag's former resting spot. Oh no.

My little sister is having digestive difficulties. I recommended that she sing "I Heard It Through The Grapevine" to her butt to see if the sludge would dance right out like the California Raisins. Or maybe a Ray Charles song. She laughed. So I suggested a vacuum. She laughed again. She settling on quaffing a Budweiser 40 ouncer. Always works for me. I'm terrified of the vacuum.

I'm glad to see all the familiar names here. It's been a little while. Keep floating.

[Thinktank]

New office. I'm a field guy, but I'm doing some database nonsense at our cozy little office and making a little extra hay on the side. It's a small company and we're all tobacco users.

I thought of this site earlier while I was sitting on the toilet humming "Bring Back That Lovin' Feelin'". I've had lots of hilarious moments I've wanted to record but they've all melted out of my head. There was something abut mayonaise guns at fast food restaurants and families of mice trapped in air ducts, but it's all hazy at the moment.

Go Cubs.

[Thinktank]

I live.

[Thinktank]

I'm back at a desk. My field subcontracting was too damn slow so I'm working five times as much for slightly more money, at the same company, but once things pick up I'll be far more knowledgeable and prepared to take on field work. For now it's tech support.

After living with my folks for the past six months, I've watched my father's alcoholism degenerate into a sleep all day drink all night pattern gilded with deep depression and finally defeat. His van got repoed and and we're evicted in a couple weeks. I've landed a room just outside of Chicago and everyone else is making arrangements as well. Mother cries a lot. I didn't want to be living with them this long, so the kick in the ass is welcome. My temporary role as family uniter and leader made my head hurt anyways. At least I kept everybody civil. They will still speak with each other after this, and I consider that to be a moral victory.

That's all information. I intend to write more colorful anecdotes and vile imagery to entertain myself soon. I miss making myself giggle with this journal.

[Thinktank]

I've been drinking piping hot coffee out of a plastic cup from a gas station soda fountain. I think it's been melting slightly as the coffee tastes different after each sip. Have you ever squeezed a balloon and seen the rest of it expand as the air is forced into it? That's my head. Pretty cool. They should make anti-plastic commercials instead of anti-drug ads. Maybe it's just the caffeine.

I feel great. I've been getting plenty of sleep and my move to River Grove is nearly complete. I'm glad to be back near Chicago. Once I have more money in pocket, I'll be able to carouse properly. All I need is some new shoes and a gold tooth.

It's strange for me to be mostly sober. I don't have that sharp edge that physical punishment grants me. Reading back through my journal, I'm amazed at how deranged I became. I want to be deranged again. It's going to take practice and hallucinogens to revive that. I need to lay on the booze and weed for a little while. My first idea is to find a kareoke night that has "Henry the VIII" by Herman's Hermits in their system, and to get sloshed and sing that. Yes, I'll have to start with weirdness for it's own sake, but after a while I won't need to force it.

I wore my beat-up jeans with a hole in the crotch today, and it just so happens that I've been asked to climb and crawl over and under things today. I am wearing stars and stripes boxers inside out. Now everybody knows that.

I would like a slice of carrot cake now.

[Thinktank]

I got my carrot cake. It was lovely, and followed a heaping plate of week old dark meat turkey. I had to microwave the everloving shit out of it to feel safe eating the microbe-ridden meat. Gravy to keep it moist. It made me sleepy.

Today at the office we're discussing weird guns, Canadian inheritance taxes, stinky unwashed people, and setting up companies in other countries to avoid taxes. Also, Rush Limbaugh's prescription drug addiction and the likelihood that they caused his deafness.

I'm just chomping at the bit waiting for tonight's Cubs-Braves game. I have a good feeling about this one.

I'm losing weight for no particular reason. I'm not sure what's causing it, but I haven't withered down to a skeletal husk yet so I'm not concerned. If my voice starts to go Crypt-Keeper-ish and my cheeks sink in, I'll head for the doctor. Maybe I have a tumor. Everything gives you cancer.

That's what I heard.

[Thinktank]

I'm splayed out in a deluxe luxury bucket-style spinning office chair. I have just learned the origin of the word cakewalk, and no I'm not going to share it. It was easy to search out if you actually care.

I got a surprise yesterday when my dad called me at noon. It was his birthday. Shit. He invited me to dinner (during Game 1 of the NLCS!) and asked me to help change his alternator. I accepted both, but right then one my younger sister's employees offered to help immediately and I ducked that car repair. I went to the Chinese restaurant which mercifully had a TV going in the kitchen with the game on it. It was a hell of a game. The Cubs lost, but it was still un-be-fucking-lievably entertaining. Somebody gave Dad toothpaste and listerine pocket strips. Ouch. She gave him 2 packs of Bensen and Hedges De Luxe Ultra Lights also. Talk about mixed messages. My older sister bought him a fucking daily study bible. That's awful. The food was good but caused immediate gastrointestinal discomfort. My older sis was giving me grief for going to check on the game more than I was sitting at the table. I explained to her that it was the washroom I was visiting. "Got the craps?" she asked. I told her I was having my first period.

[Thinktank]

Hey Chicago, whaddaya say, the Cubs are gonna win today!

Well, tomorrow.

I started on the 6am - 2pm shift today. I like to start in the dark. I get the first newspaper, the freshest coffee, and three hours of peace and serenity before the rest of the office chugs into motion. It feels like living through a morph from slow-motion to stop-motion superspeed.

I already smoked six marbles. That's what daddy calles marlboros. I like it. I found a Zippo a couple months ago at dinnertime in the dewy grass outside a drug dealer's house. US Steel - American Steel & Wire Division. I love it. That's what I'm lightin' 'em with.

[Thinktank]

I can not fucking beleive this. What a horrible thing to happen. How? Why?

I don't believe in curses.

But that should never have happened. Not like that. So much for my prediction of Cubs in 6.

CUBS IN 7!

[Thinktank]

Yesterday I got sent to fix power lines for outdoor security cameras at Rock n Roll McDonalds' in Chicago. I don't have a two way radio or cellphone, so everytime the other guy I was with adjusted the focus on the camera mounted to the McDonalds' sign outside, I had to dash back into the store, through a throng of customers and loiterers, into the office and up to the camera monitor. I must've done it 40 times. I almost knocked a drink tray out of a mother's hands. She was sauntering around a blind corner at the wax sculpture of Paul McCartney. I also nearly stepped on a small child who crawled out from under the table next to the red neon Under My Thumb sign.

The view of downtown from the roof was beautiful, marred only by the garish decoration of the Rainforest Cafe across Clark street from the store. There's no place for a ten foot tall tropical toucan bird in Chicago.

Panhandlers love the RocknRoll McD's. I got begged upon 5 or 6 times during the afternoon there. The store gives free food to cops, and whenever undesirables start prowling thier lot, be it dealers, whores,or beggars, they get an average police response time of 90 seconds. With their new high tech camera system, they can see these characters coming much more quickly. There's another reason for the beefed-up security... to deter lawsuits. People claim their children found Miracle Grow on a shelf and drank it, that there was a nail in their nugget, that they slipped in ketchup and broke their funny bone, you name it, someone's claimed it. They get sued almost daily.

It was a fun day and I'm hoping to get more involved with the CCTV business.

[Thinktank]

We are the helpdesk staff.

Here's what we've discussed today.

While watching Wild on E!, I could swear that her voice was too deep and that her jawline too sturdy for her to have been born a woman. I wonder if she had the chop done, or if she has a kangaroo pouch to tuck her giblets into. There's certainly no gear visible through that leotard. Maybe it's detatchable and she's got it put away in her Vegas showgirl peacock headdress.

Bill Gates has an underwater sound system in the pool at his home. He also has a tree in the middle of his driveway that's monitored electronicly to keep it properly hydrated. He's a perfectionist and all the wood on his walls has no knots in it, and he has 104 electricians on staff to tear down walls and add electrical outlets whenever he moves an appliance. There are never any unused outlets in the house.

Wayne is on the phone again. He's calling for the 5th time and demands to speak with the President. Supposedly they go "way back."

Advertising agencies are paying starving artists to tattoo company logos on their foreheads.

Some kinda fuckleberries.

[Thinktank]

I feel better today. Yesterday I managed to get a headache, a nosebleed, and an earache all during the 1pm hour. After work I went straight home and crashed out until about the 3rd inning, which would be 8pm.

I was wrong. I told everybody that the pope would die on Wednesday. He didn't die yesterday. I've been saying that for almost two weeks. Whoops. Good for him. I'd rather see a strong wind knock him over than actually have him die. I think there should be an Elderly Pratfalls TV show. We could all send in those home-recorded hilarious moments. With this particular subject matter they'll also border on sad and disturbing. Alzheimer's Alley!, tonight on FOX.

Yesterday I heard some people discussing what underwear they wear. Boxers, briefs, none, etc. I was really tempted to tell them that I chew up several packages worth of chewing gum until it's a nice big wet wad, and then I spread it all over my crotch and try to pop bubbles each time I scratch my nuts.

But I didn't. I made the right decision.

[Thinktank]

I'm slouching so deeply that my chin is on my desk and it's really hard to type since my arms are scissored like a praying mantis to reach the keyboard. I ate a lot of turkey soup today. Yesterday I got White Castles for everybody in the office, but I forgot to get ketchup. I stopped by another restaurant and grabbed two handfuls of packets and shoved them in my pocket and snuck away. Nobody saw me apprpriate the squirt packets. I don't even like ketchup. I felt like I was cheating on mustard even though condiments don't get jealous. Except mint jelly, because it is green although it is more of a side than a condiment. I can actually get lamb from the mediterranean fast food place nearby. I usually get the felafels instead. I hate the Yankees and I hope they lose. Bye.

[Thinktank]

Happy Halloween!

My ear hurts, I've been asked to work late, everybody is ignoring my comments during conversations, and I don't mind one bit. It is Friday, after all. I've been invited to a party tonight at Mark and Linda's house, who you may remember from previous entries. I may not go, since last time it changed from a raging party to a graveyard in the space of ten minutes, and then a large number of considerably drunk people were ushered out to drive home sloshed. This time I have a designated driver lined up should I deside to go.

Eat candy 'till you puke, kids!

I bought a large pizza today amd the crust was over an inch wide from the edge. It looked like somebody laid a 14" pizzas' toppings on a 16" crust.

Bah. I have nothing worth saying today. I wonder how many new allergies are discovered on Halloween.

[Thinktank]

I went to that Halloween party on Friday night and had a blast. I drank over a case of beer, flirted with a girl in the kitchen until her boyfriend berated her through the kitchen window from outside, argued with a teenager that racism is stupid and that his sycophantic white supremacy blather would get him into trouble eventually, and finally threw up outside and got dragged home by my designated driver. Somewhere along the line I was stabbed in the arm with a lit cigarette. I think it was when the flirty girl fell on me. My costume was a pair of 3-D glasses and a budweiser hat made from cut up cans and yarn. It was my grandpa's. The glasses came with the 1998 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue and I found them last week at my folks' house when I was cleaning out the last of my possesions there.

That was Friday night. Late Saturday night, actually Sunday morning, at 4am central time, my roomate got a call from his big sister invitng us to an acid/exstacy get-together. We declined. He was already asleep and I was hopelessly hooked to a gamecube game and unable set down the controller, let alone travel an hour's distance to start tripping at 6 in the morning on a Sunday. I went to bed around 7 am, and my roomie tried to wake me at 10 because there was some some of a trouble situation invloving his sister.

To make a long story short, some of her boyfriend's enemies in the Chicago club scene offered to hang out with them and have kiss and make up party. As veteran iliicit substance users, his sister and her boyfriend thought it was a fine idea. Unfortunately, the enemies had bad intentions and fed them PCP instead of acid. They all became very fucked up in a bad way, and my roomie was called to help. Eventually paramedics and police had to be invited to save some lives and sort them out. His sister may lose her child, who was present in the same house during the shenanigans. DCFS is investigating her worthiness as a mother. I spent all day Sunday helping to find the child, contacting the father, and just supporting everybody during a trying time in general. It was miserable.

Tomorrow I am going to see the Hot Machines play at Schuba's. I haven't seen any live music since the Joe Strummer concert last winter, and I hear that this band is amazing. I hope so.

[Thinktank]

I drove through a thick daybreak fog today for the first time in ten days. For a week I was green, bronchitis with cigarettes. I am glad to return to work, where the flourescents will sting my eyes. I lost my brush so I put my Panama Jack on my crown.

I've never kneeled down and licked the asphalt. Never had gravel tic tac toe my tongue. Never had splinters take tally on my forehead. Still I think of unprotected flesh and beads of blood and the unrestrainable urge to poke a wound.

That's mighty raw. What brought it on? I want to get naked and hug a tree. Shit in the woods. Kill a fish with a stick. Break an animal with a rock. Bathe in mud. Bone tools and cave fires. Rising with the sun. Guts in unfinished pottery.

Hmmm. I just felt the need to write something down, and that's what I got. Makes me wonder about myself. Where the hell does that come from? What is it supposed to be?

[Thinktank]

How does an idea become a story? How does a trait become a character? Stephen King says that stories are not created by an author, rather they are dug up, unearthed, discovered. He's told how images such as a boy pouring coin change down a sewer grate led to Everything's Eventual. (I think it was that, I haven't read that particular story quite yet.) I'm wonderering this because I would love to write a story, be it short or novel in length. I've always wanted to write fiction, but I haven't laid pen to paper for that in seven or eight years. When I did, it was definitely a story of the discovered variety.

My class was given a book with thirteen illustrations in it, and we were assigned to choose one. We were then to write a story incorporating the image. I chose a picture of a nun on a floating chair, and did a 40 page apocolypse story in which the nuns hypnotized the world's population and led them like zombies to the water, drowning them all. It was 35 pages longer than assigned.

Just this quick rehash has brought a notion to mind:

If we all died like this, or just disappeared, what kind of events would occur in humanity's leftover infrastructure? If the demise of us was nonviolent, and we left all that we've created behind, what kind of natural order would evolve in our subways, skyscrapers, and golf courses?

Not the most orginal idea, I know, but just typing this has jerked my mental gears into action. I used to have ideas like the sky has stars, bright and scattered and numerous. I never used them. Never recorded them. That's okay, because they were then. I wasn't ready to use them at the time, and now that I imagine I'm ready, I don't have the ideas. I do know that if I can keep the story notion alive, one day the right spark will ignite. I'm watching. And waiting. I'm almost greedy for it. Who knows, maybe this time I won't have to kill everybody to have fun with it.

[Thinktank]

Words with purpose.

I don't mean theme, symbolism, or allegory. When I think about writing fiction, and words that have a reason for existing, I refer to knowing my story and using words as a car uses gasoline.

I have a friend that draws a lot, and in my opinion he does lots of sketching and scribbling but very little art. Without a composition or purpose in mind, he always comes up with grinning demonic elf skulls. Or female silouhettes. It's been years since he finished a cohesive page consisting of a single composition. He just starts laying down lines without any focus to them, and the results are invariably fragments.

This is my problem. It's not just a writer's block. I wonder if I can dig up actual stories and real characters in my head and communicate them. I know I shouldn't be waiting for the idea to pop up like a groundhog, but I don't know how to seek an idea, either, so I suppose I don't have much choice. So I wait, and... I'll be aware. I'll be contantly asking myself "What If?" I have to keep these gears turning. In the meantime I'm creating fragments, pointless anecdotes that don't have a beginning, middle, or end.

A few coworkers were talking about the word porpoise. In addition to being a marine animal that jumps out of the water, it's also a verb used to indicate the act of surfacing, as in submarines. "The submarine porpoised." The zenith of this conversation was "So what came first, the submarine or the porpoise?" I love word origin mysteries.

So I need words that won't just swim around aimlessly munching algae. I need words that'll break the surface, flop around wildly, then dive with a fractal splash.

Words that porpoise.

[Thinktank]

I was at somebody else's family party at a banquet hall in Bensenville the other night. You know the drill: eighty people, cutrate deejays playing la vida loca, fake wood panelling, half-lit chandeliers and bland food that the old folks can eat without aggravating their ulcers. I had nothing to say to anybody, and in truth, I didn't belong there. I'd been invited by my friend's mom, who'd insisted on my attendance, to the point of paying for my plate. Hey, it's a party, right?

Well, at east the beer was free. I ended up talking to Rosalita, a sweet old gal of about eighty years. She used to be a punch press operater, whatever the hell that is. She kept repeating herself, which was sad. "If Rocky wants to go out and make whoopie, then so can I, but I don't wanna. What's good for the goose is good for the gander. I could go out and dance, but what's the point now? Don't you trust nobody. Have fun, but not too much, don't take advantage of your life, but don't forget to dance either." Repeat ten times. Rocky is her husband. She kept looking around for him, but only once did she find him and point. During the 90 plus minutes I spent next to her, he never once came by. The message I got was this: she's regretful and dissatisfied with her life, and she feels cheated. Despite being surrounded by mobs of her offspring. None of them spoke with her, although many gave her quick hugs and kisses before fleeing.

I guess when you get old there's just no room for you in anybody's life. Everybody guiltily acknowldeges you and then runs away screaming back to the land of the living. I don't want to get old. I'm going to keep smoking cigarettes.

[Thinktank]

I'm going to start keeping a notebook. I have thoughts and ideas I'd love to explore that evaporate while I sleep. During the workday I am an arthritic automaton, but in my solitary night I have carnivals and parades and fireworks factory detonations causing disturbances of the peace in my head. When 4am approaches and the last gong is sounded, I lay down only to arise the next day with nothing but spilled ketchup and relish, trampled popcorn, and tire grooves crushing the grass as evidence of the eve's festivities. Maybe the notebook will serve to polaroid the carousels, merry-go-rounds, and bingo tent hollerings. If I can manage to alchemize those giggling phantoms into gravity-bound flesh, I might just manage to teach one of them to walk.

Allow me to pause this recording to dig through the flotsam abound in this office in hopes of finding a suitable tablet.

I have it. It's 120 college ruled pages, a third full of helpdesk notes undecipherable to none but their writer. That's good, because I am horrible with new blank pages. I have 4 or 5 diaries in which I never broke page 7. I shall delude myself that starting on page 42 will change the outcome this time. The last date on the last page used is sometime in October 2001, so it won't be missed.

Now I have to hope that interrupting my brain to write won't fuck up the whole stream of thinking. It really is quite an exhilarating experience that I can only acheive alone and slightly intoxicated. I can always throw it away if need be. Better yet, set it down next to me and casually forget about it forever.

[Thinktank]

I left the notebook at work that fateful December night. Others began using it for helpdesk notes almost immediately. I hardly used ye, notebook.

I have nonetheless saved fragments of thoughts and catchy lines on scraps of paper that litter my bedroom floor. I can blindly reach out and grab an old thought whenever I want, and they drift around the carpet like tumbleweed through the old west.

I've done nothing with myself lately. Lots of movies and games and useless crap, but not much socialization or leisure away from my home. I need to get out more. I feel cut off.

I did go out for a New Year's party at a friend's. I drank too much, as usual, but that's no surprise or cause for concern. I tried snorting ketamine for the first and last time. That's a bad idea after a twelve pack and assorted jello shots. Not to mention the dixie cup full of $300 champagne at midnight. K slo-mo'd me and I couldn't walk without swinging myself around like a rubberlegged cartoon sailor. Talking was possible but inadvisable. I couldn't hear myself speak, so I was very loud. I ended up yelling at somebody for not stashing their booze in the trunk when leaving. He put it in the passenger seat. On New Year's Eve. Open. Jackass.

I read lots of journals here, far more regularly than I post. I don't message or interact with anybody here much anymore, but I do enjoy your contributions. Thanks.

[Thinktank]

I had an interesting night yesterday. I went to see a friend's zydeco band play at 115 Bourbon Street, a New Orleans themed bar/nightclub/beer garden/restaurant. In addition to the music, I ate fried alligator and watched pig races. A medium sized track laden with hay to soak up urine, chicken wire fenced. Pigs will run but when they have to turn a corner, confusion sets in. Cute as hell them running little oinkers were. Beck's bottles for a buck and a quarter ain't bad either. Far south side of Chicago. Lots of retro white sox hats on display.

I got a promotion and two raises in the past month. I feel important now. I've gone from auxillary field install dude to leftover extra helpdesk guy to Inventory Control and Purchasing Manager. Dig those capital letters.

So I bought new shoes.

Early in this journal I said April is the best, most hopeful month of the year for Cubs fans. Not true anymore. tHE cUBs Am GOOd!

Yer momma don't dance and yer daddy don't rock n roll. Just felt like adding that.

[Thinktank]

So fuck, let's see. I bought a shitload of Cubs tickets, and I finally found a gas station that is selling ephedrine illegally, and they have a big healthy stock of it. I bought a bunch and popped a few. Can't wait for my heart to spring a leak and eventually melt, or explode, or just trip over itself. Just kidding. I like speed though. Makes me thirsty for beer. I have an enourmous glass stein that hold 30 ounces of liquid gold. I also got my Enron stock certificate back from my older sister's ex-husband. We talked about strip clubs and recieving money, all singles, in shoeboxes for services rendered. I have a recipe for Amish salsa.

I got all jacked up on Saturday night and blasted Bruce Springstein and Modest Mouse, drew tattoos and gnawed on over-dehydrated beef jerky that could chip my crowns off. It was great. Cadbury eggs were consumed. 3 of them. I don't have a sketchbook, I have an inkbook. When I run out of space I'll just draw over the previous drawings until the whole thing is a sludgy dripping block of midnight black ballpoint ink. If I had a razorblade handy there might be some red ink available. Just joking, not my style.

I'll do that again today. The speed and beer, not the chocalate.

YAY HOORAY HAPPY HAPPY FUCK OFF!

[Thinktank]

I have eaten many burritos this week, which arrive ensconed in aluminum foil to preserve freshness and flavor. With the green salsa and sour cream, the puddle on the foil looks like gooseshit when I've finished eating. It always comes back to gooseshit, doesn't it? Speaking of which Aurora had a two week long boil order for all water because of fecal toxins that the geese crapped into there, somehow.

Speaking of green things, girl scout cookies! The mints come in green packages, and so do girl scouts. I have the carmels, though, and they come in purple and sport coconut shavings and keebler stripes. I gave the mints away to the rabid raving rottweilers. Actually coworkers.

Green green green. I will smoke some tonight, and then think of lawns and fields full of grass, which I like to roll around in provided that it's freshly manicured and well cropped. Is manicure the right word? I know lawns aren't made of fingernails, but it strikes me as correct. Perhaps I'm suffering from a vocabulary lapse. If grass was fingernails, it would suck to walk on, especially if it tried to tickle your soles when you're barefoot. Oh well, as long as the grass isn't assholes the dogs will have somewhere to do their business.

How revolting. My scalp itches. I hate green apple shampoo. Fuck. More green, no escape from green, St. Patrick's Day is coming up, greeny fuckin greensicles.

I will now admire blue and profess it my favorite. From this moment forward.

BLUE MOON CHEESE GRATE EXPECTATIONS!
SUPER FUN HAPPY SHITHEADS!

[Thinktank]

What a week. 70 to 80 degree windy weather in Chicago, plenty of time off, and lots of April baseball. I went to Wrigley on Wednesday, Thursday, and my 25th birthday, Sunday. On Wednesday the Cubs slaughtered the Pirates and I got molested at Gate F by a cute girl with a Cubs logo tattooed on her lower back, right above her cute little butt. That was nice, I haven't been kissed like that in a long time. Lots of sunshine, peanuts, and hotdogs too. 8-3.

Thursday brought on another Cubs onslaught, once again booming off the Pirates, and this day also brought sunshine, as well as italian beef and nachos with liquid cheese and jalapenos. 10-5.

Sunday was a great game, but ended lousy in the 10th. That's okay, because I ate two dozen hot wings after the game, lots of cheesecake, and a fried cod sandwich. I need to stop eating and start drinking beer, commencing this fine Monday evening.

Not the most entertaining entry, but I wanted to record my baseball week for posterity. Oh yeah, I also filled out my first scorecard on Thursday tax day. I didn't do my taxes yet, nor did I file an extension. I ower, and my motivation suffered. Damn 1099s. Fuck. Nonetheless I am happy happy joy joy.

[Thinktank]

Hey fuckers. Long time no typee. My snot is writhing in my canal and preparing for warp speed dart thrown ejection into rorschach blots onto your pants. Is there a yellow, red, and green flag somewhere? I could do a Jackon Pollack version with my rockets.

It's good to be highbrow.

[Thinktank]

The cops in river grove have started giving me silly "blocking the sidewalk" tickets ever since I put an Obama For US Senate bumper sticker on my car. I can't wait for my tires to get slashed when the Kerry sticker arrives in the mail.

I've been on a greens kick lately. One salad has lettuce, spinach, cliantro, green onions, white onions, carrots, celery, green peppers, & jalapenos. Topped with ranch. Next time, ceasar. I also love my spinach, lemon juice and parmesan salad, bacon bits optional.

The best part of the greens kick is using the vegetable juicer. It gyroscopicly shreds anything you put into it, spearating flesh from fluid. I threw a few grapfruits, lemons, green peppers, carrots, and ginger chunks into it and the result certainly cleared my nostrils. Tasted weird. But good.

I have an electrical problem with my car. Remote locks, interior lights, clock radio, all dead. Not a fuse problem. I've found myself talking to billboards, freight liners, and roving wildlife to fill the aural void. They're usually unkind remarks and derisive diatribes directed at folks who think 45 means 30.

It's odd typing from my brain. I havent done this semi-seriously in a long time. It's like pulling on an old pair of jeans that are too short and too much of my socks are showing when I sit down and cross my legs. Pinchy at the knees, too.

Time to read several months worth of other people's journals.

Everybody should vote.

[Thinktank]

This damn journal just won't fade into oblivion. I'm still lurking here on and off, enjoying the giggling perversion that informs the comments littered about the off-topic board. There's really no other place like the IRC.

Too bad I'm not funny.

So what's worth writing about? What do I want to read in a year to help me remember? I guess I should start with the mundane list of notable events. I have the same job. My car's transmission died while simultaneously everybody I live with lost their jobs. So I paid all the bills and drove their cars. That was 3 months ago. I'm still saving to get my trans rebuilt. They are still unemployed.

I went to the Barack Obama rally the night before the most disappointing election of my electoral life. Obama won, and I felt like I was was really close to a rock star when Obama spoke. First time I've felt like that since I met Moby before he became a VH1 category semistar. The other Illinois senator, Dick Durbin, was there too. My Congressman, Rahm Emanuel, and Jesse Jackson Jr., also. I'm a politics geek. Damn the optimism informing my passions and the crushing hollowness of November 4th.

That Chrstmas party I mentioned a few posts back, nearly a year ago? Same thing, same family, this Saturday. Rosalita died two weeks ago. I wonder what mentally absent elderly person will be non-threatening enough for me to spend my time listening to this time. Some of this family knows about my politics now, and they're been talking. I expect to take a lot of shit. Hopefully the food doesn't taste like corpse in a blender this time. Next year I had better be far, far away from this godforsaken lot.

I eat beans. I am a now a grand master of deploying dehydrated Zatarain's packets into both cold or boiling water. I am also addicted to the fiery death of Buffalo Wild Wings blazin hot wings. I had to stop at three gas stations on the way to work this morning because of them.

I am considering quitting drinking and drugs. My consumption has tailed off considerably in recent months, particularly alcohol. Somehow it stopped being fun, so I started doing cocaine on Saturday nights, which lasted a month. Then I started getting headaches. I never get headaches. Dehydration and nausea from alcohol consumption, but never headaches. So no more coke. Since then I also haven't had any alcohol. 2 weeks ago. That's millenia for me. Yes, plural intended. I ran out of pot three days ago, and apart from some trouble sleeping, I have no desire for that either.

I think I'll try some excersize. I hear that's some pretty good shit.

Hmm, what else. So much has happened, yet little of consequence. Not good. Saving for my car repairs has instilled a sliver or fiscal discipline in me. Just a sliver. Should be enough, if I can continue the pattern, to get me saved up and moved away from Tom and Sandy. They really drive me batshit.

Oh yeah, there is one other thing. If you're one of the two or three inhabitants who've read this thing from the start, you may remember my buddy Steve that was running an FOP charity scam. I don't know if I mentioned this, but he had stolen employees from a "legit" operation that actually gave the FOP about 10% of their take and was licensed and all that. He did this by offering a higher commission. His thing lasted over a year and all together they raked just over six figures. Some of his guys were doing prank calls on the side, and they began calling Frank, their former employer, owner of the "legit" FOP charity and also part-time corrections officer at Cook County Jail at 26th and California. He's fat, I guess. I never met him. But they'd leave message after message when he stopped picking up the phone. All they would say were different foods and dishes. "Turkey tetrazini. Broccoli cheese soup. Fuckin pork n beans, you fuck. Banana chocolate sherbet, godamnit." He figured out who it was, used his police connections to trace their unlisted numbers, and sicced plainclothes detectives on them. Combine that with Steve's DUI charge two months ago from fishing in the middle of the night on the Fox River in Lake County, and he's got a whole swarm of badge wearing angry people looking for him. I helped him get his stuff out of his apartment and office before they came for him. I guess they were dumb enough to call and threaten him two days before they showed up with handcuffs. Which was the same day he was supposed to report to serve 14 days on the DUI. He's tiptoeing from shadow to shadow around Chicago now. I hope he's okay. His folks are pissed. They're still not going to apologize for kicking him out 9 years ago when he was 16. When we were teenagers we all knew Steve was trouble. I'm the only one who didn't mind.

[Thinktank]

I cleaned my room yesterday and put up a bunch of posters. I've been living, if you would diginify it like that, in this room for over a year. I just finally got around to making it home last night, 4 months before I'm due to split. Before I was living inside an eggshell littered with Almond Joy wrappers and peanut shells. Now it is wonderful. To wit:

I have two friendy fascism posters up. They show an american flag standing pround amidst a dump of oil drums and SCUDs. It has a little logo in the corner that shows Uncle Sam with a cheeseburger for a head and reads Patriarchal Death Machine. The kicker is that these posters are 6 or 7 years old. Precognizant. They were promo posters from IRS records (REM's old label I think) for a band/artist called Consolidated. I bought them in 1999. I also have a Junko Mizuno silkscreen, a Murray Eisner, a couple U2 posters, a Budweiser swimsuit girl on the back of the door, a Rancid poster with skull n bones that has a big picture of a mobile missile launcher in a third world village, and finally, a giant Outlaw Josey Wales poster. All are heavily smokestained. I like this. Obama for Illinois 2004, too, of course. That one is clean.

I might go crazy being sober with no chores. Anybody out there with a sink full of dishes and ten bucks to spare?

[Thinktank]

Did I mention fiscal discipline? Oops. I bought the new Tom Wolfe book, a couple DVDs, and replaced a copy of A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving that I gave to a friend moving to Florida a couple years ago. It's my favorite book, I think. I'm a happy kid with new toys.

More final posterity notes from 2004... I've never been to a strip club, but I did attend my first bachelor party. It was... weird. The three dancers were friendly, sexy, and entertaining, but I'm not sure whether I'm impressed or disgusted by a vibrator being muscleshot from a pussy over an improvised goalpost. I know I liked the ice cube and lifesaver tricks. Although my eyes were glued to the spectacle I didn't leave horny or frustrated. I thought I would feel lonely and angry when I left. At the time I just wanted to smoke pot, not get laid. I didn't even masturbate that night. I had been drinking, though, and unlike everybody else, apparently, alcohol actually dampens my libido. Which screws up the whole drunken inhibition lowering combo. If I tried to pick up drunk women while I was sober, I would feel like a creep. Oh well, I've gotten by as a relatively happy person without much lust or romance so far, so I don't worry about it. Much.

My former roomie and current roomie went to a party last Saturday night, and suprisingly got in a fight. With other people, not each other. Patrick, the former roomie, bashed some goomba over the head with glass Bacardi bottle 4 times and ran like hell. The current roomie, Tom, took the punishment for it and came home with several cuts and bruises on his head. He'd driven Partick to the party in the suburbs, well west of O'Hare, and Patrick lives in the Logan Square area, well into Chicago. I got a call from the freezing and wandering Patrick at 8:30 in the morning, well after Tom had returned home. I brought him home. Idiots.

This weekend I shall luxuirate amidst my newly pristine bedroom, blasting the new U2 and reading. Wintertime=reading.

It feels nice to be writing something, anything. Really nice, even if it's a few mundane observances serving as snapshots in time.

[Thinktank]

I hate most pets. A friend has a ferret and a cat that was, until recently, a kitten.

First, ferrets. They smell awful. I think of it as shit musk. If you boiled some cologne in a dead monkey's ass, added flour for coagulation, distilled the flour back out after three years of storage on a restaurant foodwarming tray, mixed that with jalapeno corn dog diarrhea, and finally sprayed it from an old Aquanet hairspray can, you would have the equivalent of what a ferret smells like.

Now for cats. Even I am susceptible to cute kitten adoration syndrome, but I am not fooled by this display. I know that they grow up to knock over beverages, scratch up couches, and claw your sleeping eyeballs open when they are hungy. My friend's cat likes me, so it keeps trying to cuddle or use my head for a napkin. I keep knocking the damn thing away. Not violently, but forcefully. The little bastard thinks it's a game now. I cannot win with this cat. If I had a bottle of ferret spray I bet I could chase it away quickly.

Now for the worst abomination, which thankfully this friend does not own. Dogs. I cringe when I see people play licky smoochy with their dogs. That tongue was licking its own asshole right before it licked your nose. I know you can smell it. You're probably used to it because dogs have horrid breath anyways. That comes from gnawing dehydrated bones, chewing on squirrel corpses, and licking their own assholes. In that order. Don't get me started on the drooling, the shedding hair, the genealogical pathology for attention, or the barking at insects.

I once had a tarantula. It ate and shit crickets only in the dark. I had long hair at the time and my neighbor got tired of untangling it from my ponytail when I let it crawl on my head and face, and my mother was terrified of it, but it's an ideal pet. That and fish. The spider sheds infrequently, and unlike hairshedding mammals, it sheds in one piece. It only makes messes in your terrarium. (Because only a madman would allow it to roam freely. It could get lost!)

Did I say fish are okay, too? Yep, I did. Other acceptable forms of vanity lifeform ownership include: small lizards (not igunanas they are shit geysers), small rodents (caged!), and electronic Japanese pet simulators.

I don't like children either.

[Thinktank]

Taken individually, I like most people. Taken as a group, I hate most everybody. I believe that the more people you put in a room, the lower their collective intelligence becomes. The very best two places to observe this phenomenon have a lot in common: bars and churches.

Warning: Extremely hypocritical arrogant misanthropic snobbery and contempt for organized religion and popular culture to follow.

When I was forced to attend a Methodist church as a child I was struck stupid by the atonal braying they called hymns. It sounded like the groaning of a thousand constipated cows. These idiotic mumblings provided a common shared experience that helped everyone feel like a member of the group, together, in a mindless procession of hypnotic noise.

I have voluntarily and enthusiasticly visited many bars, and I am constantly struck by the utter lack of taste betrayed by the most popular choices selected on the jukebox. Horrible miscarriages like Kid Rock's Bawitdaba and Pink's Let's Get This Party Started are constantly trying to bleed my ears and stuff my head with shredding tinfoil. Yes, I consider myself a highbrow arbiter of taste. Sue me. Anyhow, this idiotic thumping and screeching provides the drunks a way to feel like a member of the group via a vapid mindless shared experience. God forbid they enjoy that shit independently of other people.

While engaging in their respective noises, the volume of each group rises exponentially in relation to a certain characteristic. The bar patrons get louder and louder the more booze they imbibe. The saintly ones get louder and louder the deeper their fear of the unknown, desperately reaching for a higher power to answer their longings and salve their injuries. Sorry folks, God is just Santa Claus for adults and there is nobody listening. Increasing your volume isn't helping anything. My favorites are the ones who get louder to be more holy, to ward off that which they fear, the different. I want to create a gasoline lake of fire to scorch and drown them.

Socially there are many comparisons to be made. Many profess to attend the bar to get drunk, meet people and watch sports. Many also profess to attend Sunday service to seek forgiveness, praise Jesus, and meet people. There are subtleties beneath these stated goals. It seems that people in both places are actively showing off their wardrobes, accessories, and income, via both the cost of the vehicle driven and the wife's earrings. Everybody just wants to be popular.

When I go to the bar I usually end up taking to the grizzly old bastard smoking a tobacco pipe, snapping his suspenders and muttering at a bowl of peanuts. He knows he has nothing worthwhile to say, so there's only one pretentious shithead in the conversation, me. I realize that I am just as guilty of being a fuckhead as those I lampoon. I shall continue.

Finally we have the basic physical attributes.

Wood: In a church you sit on a pew or pray before the altar. The bar is named for the polished wood your drinks are served upon, on which you lean. Both require convoluted posture.

Iconography: Bars have neon beer signs. A church is easily recognized by the numerous crosses, although perhaps the stained glass windows are a better comparison to neon. Churches have roadside signs with bible passages, bars have chalkboards with drink specials.

Other: A church offers wafer & wine, a bar offers pretzels & beer. In a Catholic church, you kneel, bow your head, and confess to the priest to purge your sins. Upon leaving the bar, you kneel and vomit to purge your sins.

Survey Time!

1. Who do you look up to more, Jesus, or the guy who buys everyone in the bar a round? My answer: The buying guy, Jesus never did anything for me.

2. Who is more entertaining, the priest/preacher/rector, or the band/DJ? My answer: the band. Sometimes you get original music, whereas at the church it's always cover songs.

3. Do you feel you get a better reward by tipping Jesus (alms dish) or by tipping your bartender? My answer: Should be obvious by now. You can't get loaded off a sip of cheap red wine.

4. Are your favorite musicians, writers, and artists religious people? Mine are, and that baffles me. John Irving, U2, Orson Scott Card, Curt Schilling, Moby, etc. All Christians. Openly. Pisses me off. Yet they're great. I consider myself agnostic and consider religious doctrine to be arrogant posturing, a failure to recognize our human ignorance of the invisible.

5. What Would Jesus Drink? My answer: Nothing. He would smoke pot. Look at him, he's obviously a stinky fucking hippy.

6. What are the differences between Anglicans, Congregationalists, Methodists, Catholics, Lutherans, Baptists, Protestants, Puritans, Episcopalians, and Universalists? Did I forget any denominations? My answer: I don't know. I am masochisticly curious.

Okay, your turn. Crucify me.

[Thinktank]

One of my duties at work is outsourcing repairs. Certain items must be fixed by their manufacturers, so I send the items off to them and charge an administrative fee for handling the item. I am a middleman.

One customer, a fast-food manager, became irate because of long delays, shipping mixups, and various other difficulties. I spoke with the vendor, who promised free stuff and chocolates to help sooth this savage woman managing this burger joint.

So I put them in contact with each other. Diana (manager) called Maria (repair) and engaged in verbal combat. Diana will recieve some free register components. Diana called my office to gloat, and my boss put her on speaker so we could all share the glory.

I said "I knew Maria would bend over...... I mean bend over backwards for you. she seemed very sorry, so I knew she would stretch..... I mean go out of her way to please you."

Diana speaks again, meanwhile my boss has muted us and everybody is cracking up, bending over, and wiggling their asses as me. "Streeeetch, Steve, stretch, please us!"

Finally the call mercifully ended.

I'm not going to live this one down anytime soon.

[Thinktank]

Everybody has pet peeves. Mine are many and insignificant, but something about the plastic saccharine smarminess and frozen rictus smiles that saturate our American media Christmas drives me to make lists of this garbage. Without further adieu:

I hate diamond commercials. Don't you? They reflect and play upon the lack of communication and goodwill between married couples, in essence saying that it takes very expensive rocks to demonstrate your love to your materialistic, sex-withholding, status-conscious wife. I remember one that had the tagline "the one time she'll listen to you." Which suggests, inversely, "this'll shut her up." Some commercials even show children at the stairwell who know that a kiss comes after the earrings. Way to train the kids, guys.

Next comes Old Navy and their pastellization of culture. I hate their jingles, to start. I hate their rosy cheeks, I hate their fancy fucking scarves, and I hate their vapid blank-faced go-go dancer boys. I hate their sick idea of Christmas carolling in which this singing horde of demons berates a scarecrow-thin, far-too-young-to-be-a-mother-of-college-students "mother," warning her not be caught off-guard by giving shitty presents to her son-home from school with his girlfriend, etc. College kids wants money, not pullover fleece. Am I right, or am I that out of touch? They want money and alcohol and condoms and pizza. End of story. Okay, I know, people must wear clothes and parents must buy gifts. Supposedly. Still, Old Navy makes a great arson candidate.

One thing that I appreciate is decoration psychosis. Suburban superdads have an obsessive compulsive streak and will go to insanely laborious lengths to inflate two-story snowmen in the yard and to mount Santa sleds on their roofs. They'll bind their homes in enough flashing, glittering, twinkling, and garish multicolored lights to scare the shit out of Jerry Garcia. Let's not forget the tinsel on the mailbox. I think it's crazy, but it's quite a tasteless spectacle and I love tasteless spectacles. These fathers could be spending their energy shopping for diamonds at Old Navy, so I won't complain if they want to risk violating multiple electrical codes and burning their adorned houses to the ground.

One last shot: Kevin fucking Kringle and the Best Buy giftcards: Go away. I can see that you couldn't afford Chris Elliot for the ads and had to hire a cheap knockoff. That's bad enough. But just because everybody can't impersonate Santa from a Norman Rockwell painting is not reason enough to hand out giftcards like parking tickets for Christmas. That's almost as bad as the Illinois Lottery commercial about getting scratchoff tickets from a gay secret santa.

Moby once played drums in a sendup punk band called the Pork Guys, and they did a rotten piece of juvenile garbage called "Fuck Xmas! Fuck You!" I liked it. I have the 7" somewhere.

I actually like Christmas. It's television I hate.

P.S. Didn't you hear? Raging bitter hatred is the new black.

[Thinktank]

I found myself at the supermarket the other day.

Who eats headcheese? This is the fruitcake of organ meats. As far as I can tell, brains and guts are mushed together into blocks and sliced as a deli meat for elderly people. Go ahead, replace your cheese on crackers with brain putty spread on toasted ligament chips. Tell me how it tastes.

For all I know it could be a delicacy on par with caviar. I've heard that most caviar tastes like mold or mud, and rich people gobble that up.

I'm considering starting a business/community service. The service? I would round up all the homeless winos and scrape them off. All the layers of dead skin, alley grime, caked vodka vomit, and shavable scruff would all be removed, gently of course. The business? Mashing all that crap together into blocks, and selling it at the deli. The meat slicers might get caught on the occasional fingernail trimming, but the outrageous price I would charge for this carefully cultivated gourmet cut would offset the costs of an occasional slicer breakdown. I proudly present: Hobo Scrape.

If you are among the poor who cannot afford such a luxury as hobo scrape, you can make your own. Go to the supermarket and look for the Salvation Army santa ringing the bell outside. Brain him with a heavy object. Peel his santa outfit off. Gently scrape him off with a butter knife, paying special care and attention to the feet, particularly underneath the toenails.

Repeat as necessary. It may take several assaults before you have a cupfull. Take this mixture to the produce section. Hold it under the moisture sprayers that keep the lettuce dewy. Three sprtitzes should be sufficient. Grab some potatoes and butter. Run like hell to the 10 items or less line. Fight your way ahead of the blue-haired old lady reading the National Enquirer article about Princess Di's last crap in a toilet. Go home, studiously avoiding the ambulance treating the naked santa out front. Shred potatoes into a hash browns like substance, and butter fry all of it together. The poignant taste of the scrape should inform the blank culinary canvas of the potatoes, providing you a cheap yet plentiful taste of the high life. Add foot cream for a smoother texture. Goes well with Cabernet Sauvignons or Pinot Grigios.

If I succeed and become a food product magnate, my second nutritious gift to mankind with be placenta pancakes. Abortion doesn't have to be wasteful, nor does miscarriage. Why let all the vitamins and minerals from that third trimester midnight pickles and ice cream binge go wasted? Just imagine umbilical jerky! Pickled in garlic! Stem cell salad! I promise not to hurt any dolphins.

[Thinktank]

I came up with another horrible idea after 10 hours of drinking beer and smoking pot the other night. As with everything these days, the goal is merchandising. The brand name:

Kids Love Farts!

I would begin with a Saturday morning cartoon to hook the kiddies. The characters would have to be cute like the smurfs, and they could save the neighborhood/universe/school from evil Satanic nuns. Each character would have a certain food they eat for fart fuel. Billy Beans would be the leader, and there'd be Egghead Craig, and Coffee Cody, among others. The theme music would be made entirely from farts of varying pitch, tone, and length.

The merchandising is where the fun starts. I can picture t-shirts with the Kids Love Farts! logo in zany letters, decorated with kids handprints, in brown of course. Next would be trading cards and stickers with scratch and sniff. The official whoopee cushion. The Brown Cloud official fanclub w/ monthly magazine and membership card. Stained underwear hats as a Walmart exclusive.

By the time it gets popular enough for a live-action feauture film, I should be able to afford Adam Sandler to play Billy Beans and Judi Dench for the head evil nun. Are you still with me?

I will be sole proprietor of this empire of puerility. I just want my parents to be proud of me.

[Thinktank]

Unfortunately I've run out of money. Shut up. I'm going to need a burst of creativity if I'm to achieve the nirvana-like state of pants-shittingly drunk tomorrow night. I'm going to type out loud, so to speak, to see if I can summon fundraising brilliance. Watch and laugh in derision as desperation sets in.

1. Begging. Out of the question. Not only am I young, handsome, and far too obnoxious to engender sympathy, but I haven't got any clothes with month-old dried puke stains. Plus I have all my limbs.

2. Mugging. Out of the question. I have a relatively decent police record that would show I've been an upstanding citizen ever since those drug busts and public underage drinking offences when I was 18, seven years ago. Besides, the only violence I like committing is upon my digestive tract.

3. Ebay. Out of the question. I don't have enough time to sell my possessions by tomorrow. I was booted off ebay for fraud anyways. Even if I thought of this a week ago I still couldn't have done it. I was innocent, by the way.

4. Pawn shop. Out of the question. I have nothing universally valuable that I'd part with. Stuff like televisions and guns. I have some rare comic books but they'd only give me a penny a pound for comics, if at all. It's a good thing I stopped buying those years ago or I'd be really broke now.

5. Borrow it. Possible. My roomates are unemployed, so that leaves friends and family. All friends are unemployed. Most, anyways. I see a trend. Hmm. Family? I've called in that card too much recently. Transmissions are expensive.

6. Raid the honor system candy box upstairs at work. Out of the question. Even were I that depraved and pathetic, there's only 6.75 in there anyways. Yes, I guessed. Don't look at me that way.

7. Go to parking lots at train stations and use a hacksaw to cut off the box on a pole. You know, the one full of slots for people to slide their dollars into, $1.75 each. Out of the question. With the holiday season, fewer people are attending work and the pickings are likely sparse. Last time I did this I was chased by policemen for two hours and got a spiderbite. No, I didn't get caught. Refer to aforementioned clean-ish record.

8. Sell myself to science. Out of the question. Not enough time, nor do I suffer from balding/thinning hair, asthma, panic/anxiety, or high blood pressure. The only testing I would like to participate in is alcohol poisoning threshholds & tolerance levels. I can't get paid for that. I have to pay for that.

9. Sperm bank. Probably out of the question. Even if I found one tomorrow, people don't want sperm from Illinois. I think. Supposing I wanted to be artificially inseminated by Illinois sperms, I wouldn't pick the seed of a chain-smoking alcoholic high school dropout. If I qualify, they'll probably only give me a couple bucks. If I only had a degree..... then I wouldn't need to sell my jism for cash.

10. Drug dealer. Possible. I could get an ounce of pot fronted and turn it in about 3 hours. But I don't want to. I'd feel guilty about my markup. Which is stupid, considering the risk and effort involved. Definately no.

I had better get moving on my idiotic business notions or I might repeat this agonizing scenario next year. I think I'll go with #5. Borrow it. 2005 Resolution: assault cafepress and make immature slogan t-shirts and hope like hell some assholes want them. How's that for ambition?

[Thinktank]

Before I begin, I'd like to say that I'm not sure if this is satire yet. I'm in a mood.

I've always been a big booster of dreams. Of optimism. I happen to be a person that's very concerned with this country's political direction and the effect it has on families of all incomes and locations. My father just found an electrical engineering job two years after his last was outsourced. Eviction and divorce punctuated the years between, so it's personal.

My friend Steve, the fake policeman, espouses exploitation of every loophole available to get over. He looks down with contempt upon any fool he can convince to open their wallet. P.T. Barnum is his spiritual godfather. Several months ago we got into a shouting match over this.

My position grew from my involvement in the Nader 2000 campaign. My notion was that if one million people imagined a better world and tried to make a difference and only one succeeded that all of the effort was worth it. I namechecked Martin Luther King as one example. Steve said that I was an idiot sacrificing myself and that any sane man would look after himself and spend less energy on futile causes. He said such energetic altruism would eventually leave me broken, bitter, and poor. He said I shouldn't try to help people who don't want help. The election results of 2004 seemed to vaildate that, if only by a slim margin.

Since then I've been thinking about that. I dislike struggling to pay my bills. I want my own apartment. Can I make any discernable difference if I can't even support myself?

This leads back to exploitation, selling out, and getting over. I want my slice.

I hate those goddamn magnetic yellow ribbons. I don't believe for a second that much, if any, of the profit goes towards buying body armor or phone cards for US troops. It is exploitation of Joe American's goodwill. Exploitation much the same as cheaply mass-produced American Flag pins were an abuse of Joe American's grief and desire for consolation via false temporary illusions of unity back in 2001.

The truth is, I don't hate the ribbons for their tackiness. Nor do I hate them for their false profession to help. I hate them because I didn't think of them first. I need to save money to prepare for my merchandising assault on Joe American's emotional vulnerability. By my calculation I spent $2,407 a year on cigarettes. I've been quit for eight days now. There's a start. I need to find out whoever is responsible for distributing this asinine garbage to gas stations across the continental 48.

All I need is for something terrible to happen in this country. Like a terrorist attack or a war. Something new, because those ribbons and flags are pretty much whored out and overwith at this point. This time I'll be ready, I'll be first, and I'll get mine.

So, Joe American, fuck you one and all. You like to be stepped on, patronized, and abused. You keep buying it. I'm registering Republican.

[Thinktank]

So, I moved. If you give tin shit on a hot roof.

http://coffeerocket.blogspot.com

[Thinktank]

I like to stand on the front walk at work and launch crabapples into the field across the street. My 1x4 plank bat is stained with two summers of apple blood. My coworkers cheer me on, and sometimes they even take a few swings. Often we compete to see who has the longest range or the highest sky.

A couple weeks ago, I was playing solo with some young apples when I saw a lost dog on the sidewalk across the street. It paced back and forth along a short stretch of pavement, leash trailing behind. The plastic handle rattled and bounced.

I hate dogs. I considered calling animal control. I decided against it for the moment and walked towards the befuddled canine. I hoped to find the missing owner by looking up and down the street.

The shaggy waggy stinky shitball barked as I approached and quickly turned away from me. It took two tentative steps towards a small patch of trees amidst the dead yellow grass and barked again. It paused, looking back to me, imploring me to follow.

I was going to turn around and head back into work when my imagination conjured images of a man halfway through a leisurely stroll with his affectionate pet. I pictured him clutching his chest, his knees buckling. I saw a heart attack victim collapsing under the sun, incapacitated, dying, hot, wet, and alone.

Reluctantly I trudged behind the excited creature. I followed its wagging ass to the trees and surveyed the shade. A fat man wearing purple shorts and an orange Hawaiian shirt lay faceup on the earth. His eyes were open wide and his face was covered in livid red splotches. Each breath he gulped was a hitching stab. Pools of sweat accumulated in the crevices of his forehead, in his ears, at the nape of his neck, and on either side of his nose.

"Mmm, mmmmah ha, harr t. Ehhhlp. Mme."

I was right. Heart attack. Before I could reassure the man and run to a telephone, the idle dog yelped and swiped at its own left ear, producing a nasty gash. Insect attack? It howled, convulsed, and flopped onto its side. Another heart attack? Do dogs have heart attacks? This could almost be funny.

The dog bolted upright and launched itself onto its hind legs, imitating a human's posture. It growled a fierce wave of Purina halitosis up to my defenseless nose and settled back to all fours. I turned again to go for a phone, this time careful to glance back. I was afraid the toothy fucker had blanked his domestication and decided to eat my feet off at the ankles.

I hadn't jogged more than ten feet when I heard a loud, mean bark and then a wet tearing sound. Man's best friend had buried his snout into the side of the prone man's gut. This was gross. The dog had clamped his sharp dirty teeth into the flab and jerked his head back and forth until the guts were open, and then it proceeded to snack on the exposed flesh. Loose fat dribbled from its jaws, gleaming yellow kernels from a life of excess. I had to go back. The poor man may have bad taste in pets, but if I didn't go kick the beast in its scruffy jewels, it would make dinner out of its master long before the paramedics could resuscitate him.

I charged forward and punted the rabid creature. It didn't fly up into the sky and off into the horizon like I'd envisioned. It just flipped backwards and landed on its head. The dog's neck snapped and the canine flopped dying on the grass. It vomited involuntarily, blood and lard and mangled intestine splashing onto the dry grass. Then it lay still.

The fat old man had not survived the compound traumas. Between the still heart and the gushing cavity in his abdomen, he'd stopped breathing. His bucket was kicked, his ticket punched. I sat down hard, replaying the bizarre events, trying to discern if there was anything I could have done differently that would've changed the results. I came up empty.

It twitched. The dead dog twitched. No hallucination. Were leftover electrical impulses settling along the nerves? Fart gas rippling through the colon? It twitched again, violently. I scooted back. Time to leave. Let the professionals clean this mess up.

From both the nostrils of the deceased dog and from the purple shorts of the dead man dual waves of chrome insects poured forth. Cascades of silverfish blanketed the ground. They merged into a single wide strand and scuttled straight for me. They were fast. Too fast.

They got me. Up my legs, past my waist, up to my shoulders. Everywhere. Thousands. I shuddered and screamed in disgust as their grimy tiny little feet and slimy antennae tickled every inch of my exposed skin. They climbed into my clothing. They prodded my lips. They slipped on my boogers. They pried at my closed eyelids. I was flailing about, helpless and unable to remain still. I couldn't keep pace knocking them off me.

When they crawled into my ears, I felt a sharp stabbing pain deep in my ear canals. I gasped and a few more bugs wormed into my mouth and slid around in my saliva.

Suddenly, the vile assault halted. Most of the bugs descended my legs and scampered back onto flat ground. A few remained, stuck in my pants and shirt and hair. The pain in my ears flared up. A high, keening wail howled in my brain. A voice. The commanding entity of the silverfish army wanted to chat.

"Sorry about that, dude. I need help."

"Wha- wait. What?"

"The bugs, sorry. This is the only way I get to chat. Had to summon some little crawlies to ring your bell. Anyways, here's the deal. I need you to let me out. You do that, we're square. You don't, and I'll send beetles while you're sleeping. I can't wait for decomposition. Even if I get out of this head I'll still be buried. No good. By the way, pretty good show I put on, huh? With the dog and all that? Didja enjoy it?"

"Who are you? Where are you? Why the fuck-?"

"Hold your ponies, pard. I'm a homunculus. I'm sure you've seen movies and tv shows about spirits haunting sacred graveyards, that sort of crap, right? Well, that's me. I was a great Japanese warrior. Name's Kazuo. I was felled by a thrown blade a few centuries ago. I pawed at wisps in limbo for a while, and then I grew restless. I hightailed it back to the land of the living. The only way I was able to figure out to come back to life was a bit convoluted, but I took it.

I managed to commandeer a tapeworm spore in this fattypants's larb nua. He was scarfing a big fat dish between grunting fuck sessions with lice-ridden hookers. I guess they made him hungry. He brought me back to America from Thailand when his so-called business trip ended. Here I am.

This guy ate so much chow that I couldn't keep up, and he managed to gain mass poundage even while feeding both of us. I've been soaking up your lazy culture and your processed food for a long time, buddy. Cops on tv and John Wayne movies and Geraldo Rivera for what seems like eternity. And trust me, I know eternity pretty well. One compliment I must admit: American culture is so much more relaxed than that disciplined bushido crap I had to deal with before. I've been thriving in Billy's intestines for twenty years. He made a hell of a great incubator.

So anyways, about two months ago I migrated north, chewing a noodle thin trail through his guts up to his head. I've been growing in there. Billy-boy's been pregnant, and he had no idea! I'm a man again, only I'm six inches tall and I have no skin. Not a worm anymore! I figure once I get out of this claustrophobic skull, I'll sprout right up and live a normal life. I'm weak right now, but I get along with bugs and vermin real well. They'll crawl right into my mouth, crunch crunch crunch. I can also gnaw on that dog. I've always loved dog. Delicious.

So poke a hole for me, captain. Lemme out of here. Or it's bugs for you. Kay?"

"Yeah. First get these fucking silverfish outta my ears."

"No way, you first."

"Okay. Okay. I will. I am."

I yanked my swiss army knife from my pocket. I kneeled before Billy's corpse. He already had a swarm of flies. I snapped out the awl and jabbed downward at the knobby skull. I tore skin but failed to even dent the skull.

"Not gonna work, buddy. Take the eyes out first."

"No way. I'll get you out, just gimme a sec. You've been waiting for twenty years in there, Kazuo, a couple more minutes ain't gonna hurt."

I aimed my awl and jabbed again. And again. Once more, with feeling. I finally managed to plunge through the rocky dome. It was considerably easier after I'd scalped the head and wiped the wet away. A high pitched cackle of glee whistled out from the tiny hole. Now the voice came from both the dead head and from inside mine:

"More, quicker! You're getting it!"

I switched to the corkscrew. I twisted it inwards a few spirals, put my feet against the skull, and pulled backwards with all my might. With a dull pop the skull fractured. I was picking away loose shards when a little pair of hands grabbed my index finger.

"Pull me out!"

I did.

It was a naked little Japansese man. Miniature, maybe six or seven inches tall, naked, bathed in the pale ichor of brainpan fluid. His tiny eyes were solid red, his hair was jet black, and true to his word, he was skinless.

"The silverfish. Get 'em out now. They sting."

"You got it!"

The pinching sensation released and out came the bugs. I took a few moments to flick the rest of the bugs off me, those trapped in my hair and clothes. I felt nearly human again.

"So what now? What are you gonna do, little fella? Can I go?"

"Yeah, see you later. I'm gonna fuck and eat that dog."

"Have fun."

The image of Kazuo poking the dead dog's eye with his hard splinterdick revolted me. Quite possibly the grossest thing yet. I thought about stomping the little fucker into pinkish grey paste, but decided against it. We need more weirdness in this world.

[Thinktank]

Dear Steve,

It's been a long time! Since we last spoke, I got a job in Seattle beta testing video games, caught pneumonia, accidentally burned down three McDonald's, got married to a hippie girl, got arrested for trespassing, got divorced, and moved to a trailer park in New Mexico to contemplate my place in the universe.

That's where I am now. I'm writing for three reasons. The first? I decided to write to forgive you for the way our friendship ended. I'm sure you remember telling me "Call me when you've had your fiber" and "Everybody else only needs one day to celebrate his birthday, why are you so special?" I was an uptight, angry guy back then, and I took everything far too seriously. Sure, you were an asshole, but who else would help me move back to my mom's house after my suicide attempt? You didn't flinch when you walked into my filthy Chicago apartment and saw the dark blood stained on the mattress and the walls. You didn't laugh (too much) when I shit my pants after you and your other friends goaded me into drinking all that gin during that game of spades in your garage.

The second reason I'm writing is to kickstart our friendship. I'm going to return to film school, and I'd like to start a correspondence with you. You're not as good as I am at dissecting films or understanding directors, but you always had a weird take on films that helped me see them from a different perspective. In addition to my technical work and short film directing, I could use your help with the comedic aspects of scripting. You always had something sick, deviant, or bizarre to say, and I need to inject an added element of absurdity into my screenplays. I'm trying to go for something like David Lynch, but I need more than strangeness for its own sake. I want my weirdness to be funny and revolting at the same time. That's you exactly. Would you mind if I sent something your way for suggestions? I would appreciate it. My vulgarity is depressingly pedestrian.

The third reason is the meteor. It crashed about six miles away from my trailer. It was about two in the morning on a Tuesday night. June 21st, to be specific. Everybody else in this park was drunk, fucking, or dead at the time. I was outside staring at the sky, like usual.

At first I thought it was just another shooting star. It wasn't until the arc of descent angled sharply earthwards that I realized it was plunging straight for the ground, seemingly right at me. I could see the fire around it, and when it reached the horizon, it landed with a low rumbling "THOOOOMSH!" sound. I hopped in my VW bus and made straight for it.

The crater was pretty big for a rock so small. The meteorite lying in the center was still glowing hot, but not the usual reddish color. It was a strange blue light that oscillated from it in pulses. I didn't want to touch it and burn myself or catch space flu or cancer or anything, so I went and got some water and a tarp. I poured the water on it. It didn't steam. I guess it had cooled. It was still glowing blue. Next I rolled it into the tarp and brought the malformed chunk back here. It's out back next to my grill. I've been tempted to crack it open several times, but prudence holds me back. I don't want to be the guy that released space AIDS spores into our atmosphere.

I just thought you might be interested to hear about this. You were always the whackjob going off about evil extraterrestrials. I never took you too seriously, thinking you were putting us on, but sometimes you did seem halfway serious about it. I'm curious what you'd make of this. It's a tad strange.

Anyways, I hope to hear from you soon, and I hope all is well.

Sincerely,
Tim Waller

---

Dear Tim,

It's great hearing from you! I'm glad to hear that you've had a lot of excitement and done plenty of travelling up and down the west coast. I must admit I'm jealous. I've switched from working for a big corporation (Compaq/HP) to working for a small company in Schaumburg that does touchscreen restaurant registers and closed circuit cameras. I'm still single and I live on the edge of Chicago in River Grove, which is sandwiched between Elmwood Park and Franklin Park. I still spend a lot of time drinking to excess, often in public. I started writing again and I've forayed into fiction recently. I'll send you a few favorites of mine. I'm sure you'll enjoy my stories. They're right up your alley.

I'm sorry about the way our friendship ended. Thanks for forgiving me. What can I say, I've always been selfish. I'm glad you tracked me down and sent me a letter, and furthermore, I'd love to take a crack at your scripts. Send one or two along and I'll do my best to make them meaner.

As for the meteor, I have good and bad news. The good news is that you're probably not in danger of radiation poisoning or space flu. I believe the meteor is merely a vessel, and that if you were to crack it open, inside you'd find a glowing blue orb. The orb contains a chemical not found on our planet. I've found cracked open meteors in a dumpster behind some restaurants near my house. In the same garbage are empty orbs that fit exactly inside the center hollows of the meteors. I've seen the translucent blue residue lining the inside of the empty orbs. Also in the trash, strangely, are dozens of used hypodermic needles, all of which look slightly melted. More on the meteors, orbs, and needles later.

The bad news is the reason it was dropped to the earth. There's an army of extraterrestrials disguised as humans here on earth. They use this stuff in conjunction with brain chemicals they extract from captive humans. Different emotions create different flavors. They capture us and tinker with our perceptions to produce different emotions, and hence, different extractable fluids and electrical impulses.

They monitor us with remote devices, radios of a sort that tune into emotions instead of broadcast frequencies. When they find a person with they right mental makeup, they kidnap the vulnerable victim and spirit him or her off to their hideout. There they hook their machines into the brain, using certain nodes and lobes for input, others for extraction. They combine whatever they extract with the blue chemical, creating a potent injectable. (I think, based on the needles) I'm not sure if the end products are different flavors of galactic heroin of if they are used for something else completely, like medicine or fuel. They might even use the stuff on people. I don't know. I'm still investigating that.

I've been procrastinating on assaulting two local restaurants here in River Grove that are both closed on Mondays. I believe they're making their blue combo serum weekly in the adjacent basements of those facilities. I've been a tad cowardly and haven't gone in yet.

I will soon. I need to know what's happening. I want to see their machines. I must learn how widespread their presence is, and whether they pose a longterm threat to our species. Plus, you know me. I want to try that blue stuff, if it is, in fact, a drug. I'll try anything twice. My motto.

The fact that they're hiding and being sneaky gives me hope, because it follows that they don't have the power to subjugate an angry and aware human population. As for your situation, I'm guessing that they miscalculated a trajectory, or some butterfly wings altered conditions, and one of those suckers got flung the wrong way and happened to land in your patch of desert. I'm not sure if it has a transmitter or not. Maybe you should bury it. I don't know. I'm going to attack these aliens locally. If I survive, I'll tell you all about the blue goo.

Great to hear from you, Tim.

Be good,
Steve

[Thinktank]

<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/640/landfill-gulls.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #000000; margin:2px' height= 145 src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/320/landfill-gulls.jpg'></a><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/640/peachlabel.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #000000; margin:2px' height=145 src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/320/peachlabel.jpg'></a><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/640/landfill-mound.jpg'><img border='0' style='border:1px solid #000000; margin:2px' height=145 src='http://photos1.blogger.com/img/82/2729/320/landfill-mound.jpg'></a>

Rodney Ginter had been drinking peach schnapps for three straight days when he decided to commit suicide. His life was a rotten stew of pathetic experiences coagulated in a stryrofoam bowl. The recipe included teeth broken in bar fights, an ugly ex-girlfriend's hateful spittle, overalls stained by potato chip vomit, a mostly blank birth certificate, and hair shed during an early twenties receding hairline. Rodney was a lonely, ugly, dirty man, and he'd just lost his job.

For eleven years Rodney's life smelled like ripe diapers. He'd gotten evicted from his rented trailer three years ago due to spending all his income on alcohol, cigarettes, and fast food. Desperate for shelter, he snuck a key from the rack behind the counter at the local Motel 6. Ambrose, the deaf old codger who manned the counter, frequently needed to hobble off to the can to urge out dry little turds from his skinny ass. He'd leave the lobby unattended while working his bowels. On his second night homeless, Rodney tiptoed inside and snagged the key for room eight.

Ambrose never rented out room eight. A whore had been murdered in there ten years past. Her body had not been discovered for two weeks, and despite a halfhearted cleaning effort by the staff, stains and stink still permeated the walls. The furniture was all gone, and the maid no longer opened the door every morning to refresh the sheets and scrub the toilet. The room was forgotten, mostly.

It became Rodney's home. From work he scavenged the entire contents of his modest abode: On the floor lay an air mattress and a pillow. Atop a rickety card table sat a little lamp and an ashtray. The only other objects Rodney owned were a small television, an alarm clock radio, a can opener, a large garbage can, and a rusty bicycle leaning against the wall. He hung loose cardboard behind the curtains to prevent any telltale light from escaping. The room was shabby and dirty, but it was his.

Since the room was at the far end of the motel from the lobby, Rodney had little trouble sneaking out each morning to head for work. He'd mount his ten speed and pedal a mile each morning to the shoreline landfill. He'd worked there for eleven years compressing loose trash into managable cubes. It hadn't taken any fancy credentials to get accepted there. In fact, he was the only native citizen under the dump's employ.

Years of stench and monotony passed. Day after day Rodney raked the discarded flotsam from other people's happier lives into massive metal bins. Once full, he'd yank a lever and listen to the rumble of heavy motors. He grew accustomed to the song of piercing screeching when metal from car parts and rusty swingsets would twist and collapse under pressure from the mash plates. He got used to the tickling at his nose from the sweet fruity odor of decomposing food. He became apathetic towards the thick clouds of hungry insects that would flee the foul mounds of garbage during the compacting process. Rodney became numb to a life that stunk.

At the end of his shift one hot summer day, Rodney was threading his way through the garbage mounds towards the dump's office. Like every other day, he intended to take his cash pay to the bar, where he'd drown reality and his own sick odor under heavy splashes of whiskey and country music. As he approached the landfill office, a voice called out to him.

"Hey! Homes! Ju wanna play a game wit us?"

Three immigrant dump workers stood in a clearing amidst fresh arrivals of green trash bags, refrigerators, water heaters, and ruptured tires. One was holding a broken off toilet seat of the U-shaped variety.

"We playin shoes. Ten dollars a game, yo. Three pegs wins."

Rodney considered this for a moment. Ten yards beyond the Mexicans he saw a signpost driven into the dirt. On the ground next to the horseshoe players lay a pile of extra toilet seats.

"Sure, I s'pose."

Rodney lost thirty dollars flinging encrusted ass gaskets before he nearly won a round. When his third seat circled the post, it boomeranged off and fell to the ground, the tips of the front of the seat just inches from the signpost.

"I win! Haha-haa!"

"No way man, ju gotta keep it on the stick."

"Fuck you man, that fucking counts and you know it! Pay up!"

"No way, ju no get the shoe. Eet come off. Ees my turn now."

Rodney, flushed and enraged, charged Jesus and wrung his fists.

"Pay me or I'll break your goddamned face."

Jesus's pals, Hector and Jorge, quickly stepped forward and stood beside their threatened amigo.

"Three to one, homes, three to one. What ju gonna do, huh?"

Rodney wasn't just ugly, he was stupid, too. He lunged for Jesus, punching him dead center in the nose. Jesus fell, clutching his face as blood ran down his chin. Hector and Jorge jumped Rodney, quickly removing him from his feet. As Rodney lay on the ground covering his head and face with his arms, the standing assailants kicked him repeatedly in the ribs, cracking several. After a while they tired. They collected Jesus and went to the dump office to lodge a complaint.

Rodney was still curled up next to the pile of toilet seats when his supervisor walked to up him, expression stormy, posture stern, finger wagging.

"You drunk fuckin degenerate, I knew you was a sad case when you still worked here after five years, but I didn't know you was a violent mean son of a bitch, too. What in the blue fuck are you thinking tryin ta take on three spics all by yaself? You deserve every last bit a poundin they gave ya. Get yer dirty ass outta here, you sad fuckin sack. I pay 'em less'n half what I pay you. Get fucked, dumbshit. Yer fired Ginter!"

With that, Rodney Ginter hauled himself to his feet. He collected the scattered cash his former boss had flung at him in disgust. His final day's pay. Rodney moped away. After a quick visit to the liquor store, where he bought all the five dollar bottles of schnapps he could afford, he snuck into his Motel 6 home and set himself to serious drinking.

Three days later, drunk and soaked in vomit and urine, he rode his bike back to the landfill. His mind was made up: Suicide. He cleared a lane up to the center of a compactor. After he started the machine, he sat on his bicycle, waiting. The timing had to be just right. Rodney didn't want to crash into the compactor and lay there dazed, waiting to be crushed. He wanted to barely fit between the plates, his death immediate.

When the moment was perfect, he began peddling furiously. Crying and laughing, he plunged into the shrinking metal compartment. One minute later, Rodney and his bicycle were wet, red, and flat.

[Thinktank]

<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/1600/arrow-heart.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" height="125" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/320/arrow-heart.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/1600/psoriasis_plaque.jpg"><img style="CURSOR: hand" height="125" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/320/psoriasis_plaque.jpg" border="0" /></a>

"Conditional Love, Patience speaking, how can I help you today?"

"Hi. I want to sign up."

"Your name, please?"

"Joel Flach."

"Joel, thanks for calling. Here at Conditional Love we match up couples with similar conditions. I have to state up front that we do not guarantee a successful pairing. We'll try our best to set you up with someone who can understand the challenges you face. Somebody who will understand you and support you. Is this your first time with us, Joel?"

"Yes it is."

"Will you please tell me what your affliction is and why you've chosen Conditional Love?"

"I have psoriasis. Bad. I used to be able to date, y'know. It wasn't that bad. But I'm 38 now, and..."

"It's okay Joel, take your time. I'm here to help you."

"This disease... it... my skin is really bad, y'know? Scaly. Dry. I can't stop scratching at it. The doctors give me pills and creams and stuff, and they help in some places, but I still shed this ugly flaky skin dandruff stuff everywhere. Lots from my neck, so it's always on my shirt. Dead dry skin, peeling everywhere. Even on my face sometimes. I look like I got dipped in Elmer's glue and it's all peeling at once. Every day. Where my skin isn't white, it's deep red. Blotchy. My wrists look like I got tumors under my skin, just waiting to pop through. The nails on my hands and feet are yellow and green. I look like I'm rotting from the inside. I can't even look in the mirror some days. I scrub and scrub and take my medicine, but nothing's good enough. I can't go out, I can't meet anybody, y'know? I get so lonely. I get so horny, Jesus, I feel like I'm gonna explode! Sometimes I even gotta take lotion and-"

"Joel! I understand. It's okay, okay? You're not alone. There's thousands of women with psoriasis out there looking for a partner, just like you. We'll find somebody suited to your personality and schedule a meeting. I'll need you to come to our office to fill out a few forms, discuss payment, and film a short video of yourself for prospective dates. Do you know where we're located, Joel?"

"I don't think you understand. My skin, it's gross. Disgusting. I might as well be covered in rattlesnakes. I wake up thinking there's an army of scorpions crawling on me. Don't you get it? I don't want a woman with psoriasis. That's so wrong. It'd be like.... rubbing sandpaper together. I need a blind chick, or maybe somebody with cancer. Somebody desperate like me. Just not a woman with skin like mine. Somebody I can look at."

"...okay. Ummmmm. Excuse me, just a moment. I'm just looking through our calendar to schedule an appointment. Wednesday okay? Can you come in Wednesday at 3pm, Joel?"

"Can I come in sooner? My balls are fucking bursting here."

"I'm sorry, but that's the next opening, I mean the next slot- Shit. Excuse my language. I'm sorry Joel. What I meant to say is that the next appointment available is Wednesday at 11am. That's the best I can do."

"Okay, yeah. I'll be there."

"Excellent. Do you need directions?"

"No, I'll map you on the internet. I got the address. Will I get to meet you on Wednesday, Patience?"

"Yes, I'll be here, Joel. We're a team comitted to making sure you feel comfortable. I'll introduce you to everyone else here and we'll get you registered and on the market. You'll be dating in no time."

"Great, thank you! I'll see you then. I feel better already. I think I'll go to the swimming pool this afternoon."

[Thinktank]

<img height=130 src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/1600/joystick.jpg"><img height=130 src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/1600/6WC.jpg"><img height=130 src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/5047/688/1600/03.jpg">

“This is a strange conversation to have.”

“Especially considering you’re both parts of it. You’re talking to yourself.”

“Technically, yes, but in order to have this discussion, I have to imbue you with a personality and all sorts of traits. I think most guys do this. At least, I hope so.”

“I don’t talk. I’m not supposed to talk. I get hard and I squirt. I love surfing pussies. Or, far more often, your hands, you hopeless loser. Why do I need a personality? I suppose you want to name me now."

“If you earn it. Anyways, I want to congratulate you, I mean congratulate me, or… whatever. I’m just happy with your growth.”

“My growth.”

“Yeah. Let me explain. All throughout my teenage years I thought you were pretty small, even though you match up to the so-called average six inches. Still, I felt small, mainly because of Dad.”

“This is disgusting.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Now shut up and let me finish. Dad would always pass out wasted and so forth, and often he’d be dangling out from his loose and stained tighty whiteys. Compared to you, he was enormous. A real snake. I always thought I got the bad end of family genetics on the whole dick deal. Fortunately, I was wrong.”

“This is too weird for me, and I’m just a cheerful dick who doesn’t get enough sunlight. Would you stop?”

“No. See, I figured it all out. You got a promotion. You’re bigger now than you were even a month ago, and we’re well past puberty. By all rights, you should stay the same, for the most part. But you’re growing. Mainly in girth, not in length, but growing nonetheless. I couldn’t be more thrilled. Here’s my theory. After the third girl, you got a level up, kind of like a video game.”

“You are such a dork.”

“No you’re the dork. Bad choice of words. Try nerd or geek for me in this instance.”

“Christ.”

“I hope you aren’t religious.”

“I just go with the flow, in more ways than one. You’re fond of religious profanity, and I’m just following your lead.”

“Of course. So anyways, you’re thicker, stronger, and more effective now. Thanks and keep up the good work.”

"Are sure you aren't imagining things? You did just mow the lawn recently."

"Nope, I'm sure."

“You’re still not keeping me busy enough. I’m bored stupid down here.”

“Shut up. Life is improving and you know it. So stop complaining and keep your head up.”