feel the al gore rhythm of the night...

Blank.

The ideas have stopped. Yep, it’s the time in life that you knew would happen, just hoped it would wait a little bit longer.

It’s happened before, however, so it doesn’t worry you at first. It’ll pass in a day or two.

Or maybe a week or so.

Next month, I’m sure I’ll get back to it.

Wait, it’s been six months?

Damn.

Funny how things work.

You think you’ve got a handle on it all. Then life happens and fucks shit up again.

And again.

And probably again again.

Double words and triple words. I don’t keep score.

I hate playing computer games and I love collecting video games. Even though I haven’t bought a new one in at least five years.

My Lucero poster collection is too big.

I got a Bill Madlock 1987 Fleer autographed card. I really want to finish that set one day. More so than I did my Barry Bonds home run card set. Speaking of, some guy had an auction on ebay, it’s probably still there, with tickets or ticket stubs from every game he hit a home run in.

That’s pretty damn cool.

Kind of like a full set of Clash bootlegs. I gave up on that, even though they’re all readily available.

That’s definitely the rub of the modern world. So many things that used to just be pipe dreams are so easy to do now. I still like browsing record bins for that elusive 7 inch or LP or CD or even cassette tape that I’ve been searching for. Problem is, there are few actual record bins around anymore. I went to the local record store on “Record Store Day” and it was depressing. Everyone was there to grab the special this or limited reissue that. I admit it, I got a couple too. But I didn’t look at anything else. Well, not true. I looked for a couple of things. And noticed how barren the shelves were. How there were so few “new” artists to search through.

You can always just go on the internet and find it, listen to it and decide.

That’s so boring. So riskless.

I used to enjoy the thrill of finding a new band simply because I liked the artwork on the album sleeve or CD longbox.

Now, I can’t find them to do it. I have to go online.

I don’t like it, but I deal with it.

It is cheaper.

But that doesn’t keep a band touring.

Next time I listen to “Even the Losers” by Tom Petty, I don’t want to think about Pam.

Next time I listen to “Sixteen” by Lucero, I don’t want to think about Crystal.

Next time I hear anything by so many others, I don’t want to think about Emily.

And then there’s Maude.

Shit.

And the next time I hear anything by Garbage, I’ll not want to think about Adrianna.

But all those things will happen.

But I really don’t mind at all. It’s what makes it all matter.

There was a time when a live Christmas tree was everything.

Then there was the era of fake ones.

I hate fake Christmas trees. I should have taken that as a sign.

I always ignore signs. It’s a bad habit. Or is it?

I fucking hate those kind of thoughts. They have no meaning at all. No reply at all… ha. Random song lyric in my head alert.

I read Chuck Klosterman’s column today on Grantland. It was boring. I’d never been bored by his work before.

He replied to a tweet from me once. Said “Fuck” to open it.

That made my day.

Bruce Campbell retweeted me the other day.

I dug it.

That’s kind of sad, really.

I wrote a shitty article the other day. It had two big mistakes in it.

I used to go home and drink when I knew I’d done something like that.

I came home and ate Oreos instead.

Times they change. And so does the job. Which sucks. Really it does.

I don’t want it to suck. I never do.

It always seems to end up that way.

I was never that good at good byes anyway.

Random again.

Dr. Oz scares me. He looks really old on this episode. More serious. It’s about gay “fixing” whatever that is called. Yeah, a good journalist would look it up. I’m just a tourist, I guess.

I saw a post about kids being arrested last night. At least that’s how it read. I printed it out. Thought I’d be able to write about it.

Then, I saw it was last year.

And someone had just commented on it, bringing it back into Google’s ugly grip.

Feel the Algorithm of the night….

dancin' machine

“Eh, it’s not going to make much of a difference.”

Yep, there’s plenty of places in my life where that phrase fits in perfectly. A time when a decision must be made, and you’ve got to stick with the consequences. Love or hate the results. Enjoy the fabulous disaster that may occur.

Last night, it was a simple one.

I went to the freezer and pulled out one of those frozen, all in one meals. This one was only bought because I had a coupon. It was from the Macaroni Grill. I think they retail for something ridiculous like $7.98. The coupon was for half off. So what the heck. But that’s not the decision I had to make. No, this one ranks up there with LeBron’s.

I opened up the package. Well, I attempted to at first with just my hands. However, it appears I am too weak now to even open up a sealed plastic wrapper with frozen vegetables, chicken and pasta inside. So, I found a knife, almost cutting my finger in the process as I just stuck my hand into the drawer and grabbed, and I proceeded to cut that thing open with a flick of the wrist. Did that sound sexy at all? Or is it even possible to say ‘flick of the wrist’ and be sexy?

Looking at the contents as they trickled into the frying pan that I use as a sauce pan, it looked edible. Better than the cheese toast I had for dinner the night before, for sure. (Ha. Night before, for sure.)

I look at the directions (for the first time) and am stunned to see this “add ¼ cup milk.”

“Shit. I don’t have any milk.”

But wait, there is a jug in the fridge. Way in the back. Behind the Orange Juice. Behind the tap water filled jug. Even behind the month-old Budweisers I bought for a buddy that came down. I even drank some of them.

I reach in and pull it out. Expecting solid waste.

Instead, the jug is liquid. The expiration date is Oct. 11. It’s officially Oct. 30 when I’m doing this. I take the cap off and look inside. Just a few swirlies in the mix. No cottage cheese. It’s still white as well. Then, I do what has to be done, I take a sniff.

“Eh, it doesn’t smell bad.” Not that it smelled good, but these are important little details that I wasn’t really worried about at that moment. I’m hungry. It’s after midnight and the only open store is the BP down the street. And, I won’t ever shop at a BP again. Fuck the little man and watch the big man rebrand itself.

I get the measuring cup. This is when you know the decision has been made. You’re going to eat this. Damn the consequences. Much like not going to the dentist in 17 years. But not really.

I pour it out into the cup. Then I pour the cup into the pan. It sizzles on contact.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m eating. This isn’t that bad. I don’t know, but Alien on the television just shot out of the guy’s chest while he was chewing on his food. Fuck omens.

I got to bed a few hours later. I tried to watch ‘Million Dollar Baby’ but just couldn’t fight off the monster of sleep. I stumble to bed. Taking a pee along the way.

In bed now, I slowly try to drift off. Then my stomach decides to say something.

It’s angry. With me. I try to just sleep through it. Nope. You’re getting up.

I go to the potty. Sit down and relieve myself. Yep. I said it. You read it. That uncomfortable feeling stays after the purge. You know what it means. There’s more to come. Yet, you don’t want to sit on the toilet and have your feet and butt fall asleep in the process.

So, I go back to bed. Leaving the bathroom light on, because, I know I’ll be back.

Funny thing is. I don’t. Instead, I wake up at 9 a.m. Take a pee. Go back to bed, laughing at the light still being on.

Then the stomach says, “remember me?”

Now it’s 10:46 a.m. I’ve been on the toilet four times. Lots of toilet paper used.

It’s the decisions you make, my son. They determine your future, whether you want to believe it or not.

And no, my dad never sat me down and filled me with such wisdom. I’ve learned it all on my own. With a little help from some awesome and not so awesome women. Some who dance, most who don’t. Not that I’m a dancer, mind you. I just have danced before.

you couldn't make this shit up...or could you?

The smarmy fuck comes in smiling. Every single time. His little rubber band wrapped pony tail sticking out like a piece of shit from a fat girl’s ass. Just not right that visual image. But it’s what I see when I see him.

He’s the office IT guy. I hate the fact that they call them IT guys. There’s nothing ‘it’ about them. Maybe at some places, but here, it’s not even Jimmy Fallon-esque.

Today, he got yelled at. By me.

Some days you just know aren’t going to go well. Today, didn’t seem like one of those days. Even after having to sit in my car for 40 minutes just 5 minutes away from the office. Almost a full hour I lost. An hour I won’t get paid for. An hour in this wretched place where I never thought I’d end up, but somehow have. It should be enough to fuck with my head. But my head’s already fucked enough, so this town can’t do that to it.

Anyways. My boss is being a prick today. He’s reached the point I reached a long time ago. I left the damn company, but had to come back…Swallow that pride. It’ll just hurt for a little while.

But, the shit with the computer system being completely awful just makes me mad. Then, the little rat fucker IT guy decides he’s going to be condescending. And, like Floyd in True Romance that’s one thing I’m no good at taking. Which is, of course, ironic since I tend to do that to folks. I try not to, but it just happens….

“Hey, the feeds aren’t working,” I say.

“Oh yes they are,” turd tail replies.

“The last thing moved at 12:26. It’s 2:13.”

“You need to use the right feed,” turd gurgles.

“I’m USING the FUCKING right feed,” I belt out, feeling the lack of control and having no way to stop it. I regret it. It’s the first real instance of my temper since I came back to this rat-infested office many months ago, but not enough months yet.

He doesn’t reply.

Later on, an e-mail to my boss. Detailing how all the problems are “our” fault and not “his” fault.

I hate people that pass the buck. Refuse to take the blame for shit when it happens.

I fully take the blame for my lot in live. Yeah, it sucks, but I spent the money that put me in debt. I stayed at shitty jobs when I had other offers. And I own all that shit. I don’t go to the doctor or dentist. So when I die with no teeth, it’ll be my fault.

And when I fuck up at work, I say, “yep, that was me. Sorry.”

Oh well.

The turd disappeared and two minutes later, the feed started working again.

“Yep, guess it wasn’t broken,” I say loudly. It gets a grin or two. Really not worth it, but, sometimes it is.

Me and another guy at work, Mike, we start talking about stupid things. Bad cartoons, good cartoons, baffoons we work with, and then the greatest Web site of late … a place that shows death scenes from movies.

It gets us to thinking about great ways to off the folks who bug us.

The consensus between us, and then many others in the office is Omar. The shotgun wielding homo from “The Wire”.

“Omar’s coming!” becomes the days rallying call. As is the whistling of The Farmer and the Dell.

Before too long, new guy, Jake, starts to get annoyed with us. We are a bit repetitive. But at least he wasn’t here for the Meg standoffs. When anything that bugged us got a “Meg” followed by a “Pbbbt.”

Good times are had by all. At least just enough to stay sane. And that’s really all you can ask when you’re doing mindless drivel. Reading mindless written drivel from mindless drivel peddlers with pens and pads. Although, I’d bet they all just have digital recorders now. Who has the ability to take notes anymore. Just too damn tough to pay attention and write at the same time.

Fucking amateurs.

My newest quote for the office is “One day, I won’t be here anymore.”

It’s not the best attitude, all give you that. But it’s better than “I fucking hate this place!” Although, some would argue that the new slogan implies the old one, not that that has ever been my motto at this job.

The best thing I can do is tread water and dog paddle my way though the awfulness. Tomorrow night, I’ll fight another 10 o’clock deadline. Maybe I’ll miss it this time, just to do it. Add a little spice to life.

Fiction? Or not…You be the judge.