sealed

It’s a quest that probably will never have a completion.

Never have a happy ending.

It quite possibly could be impossible. I have no idea.

Maybe it's like love. You always want it to be like in the movies. Those 87-minute or so pieces of celluloid that always end happily. You never see the other, oh, 60, 70 years.

But it doesn’t mean I won’t stop looking.

What the fuck am I looking for? (Randy, why do you have to cuss so much?)

I’m looking for an unopened, sealed shut, copy of INXS’ cassette tape “Listen Like Thieves.”

Why?

Because I still remember the way it smelled when I opened it one day back in 1985. That smell now is a curse, because I can’t describe it. Which is why I want to find a copy of the original pressing of the tape. Sent to a Sam Goody’s or Peaches or Tower Records that year.

It’s got to be a clear cassette tape. Not black. Not covered with a sticker. Or any of the other ways it was released over the years.

I still have my old, very worn copy of LLT. It’s been through the ringer of my high school days. Of road trips and cross-country moves. Of being in blizzards and in 120-degree days without air conditioning.

Will I find one? I can always hope so.

There was a Canadian version on ebay not too long ago. I thought about buying it anyway, but didn’t. It might even still be there. It’s not the one I want. Or, to be silly, what cha need.

So, I will keep looking.

I probably would have had better luck in the late-1990s and early 2000s. When record stores started to die in a fast way. Much like newspapers, right when I was deciding to go to work (for the rest of my life!) at one.

Idiot.

Or not.

Depends on your perspective.

I’m not going to make it to 750 words.

I need to sleep.

why bother, you pee blood...

The fucking Police was playing when I walked into the bar.

“God damn I hate the fucking Police,” I yelled. Then I remembered something important, I was at the bar because a friend invited me. That friend? He’s a cop. And the bar was filled with cops.

So, like Tim Roth says in Reservoir Dogs, you’ve just got to jump right in and swim. That in mind, I walk up to the jukebox, just as Sting finishes saying something stupid over a backbeat provided by a drummer who appeared in a reality show about storage unit auctions. I put my dollar in. I picked my song.

“Right about now, N.W.A. court is in full effect…”

A few seconds later, a couple hundred cops were chanting along with Ice Cube, Easy-Z and Dr. Dre.

I watched this scene for a few seconds and thought back to 1988. I was a teenager who wanted to be James Hetfield. I drank like him. That was about the end of similarities. I had more of a Dave Mustaine mullet. I don’t think about high school much. Nothing much happened.

Kind of like this party. It’s at a strip-mall bar. It stinks like pee. I want to go home.

But I don’t. Why? I don’t know. Maybe something will happen.

I order a shot of Jameson and a Miller High Life to chase it down. I gave up drinking soon after my stroke. Well, I didn’t “give it up” as much as I just stopped because it hurt to drink now. That made it silly to do. Yeah, I still think about the girls and women of my past. And now, I don’t fight with them anymore. I just look at them and nod. Yep, still here.

Then I eat some unsalted nuts out of a can from CVS.

I take a sip of the beer. Fuck, it tastes bad. Then I take the shot. It tastes worse. But the beer, now it tastes OK.

Why am I friends with a cop? I’ve never had a good experience with one. It’s weird. Except that guy who showed up at my apartment in New Bern at 3 a.m. one night. I was blasting The Faces, signing along with Rod and Ronnie, and drinking way too much. I guess one of my neighbors complained to the police. Instead of just knocking on my door. Of course, I opened the door when the cop showed up in my shorts only. Beer gut hanging out, bottle of Shiner in one hand, devil horns in the other.

“Yes?”

“Sir, could you turn down the musi….Hey, is that a Jump in the Fire Metallica poster?” he said.

“Well, yes it is,” I said slurring just the it.

“Soooo awesome, man.”

“It is?”

“I never got to see Metallica, but they’re my favorite!” he said, to me, I guess still.

“Saw them twice in a month back in high school,” I said, puffing my chest a little bit. I have seen some good music, even though when SHE happened, I mostly stopped.

“Cool, cool,” he said. “But man, can you turn down the Rod Stewart? Neighbors complained.”

“Yeah, not a problem. Gotta be at work in the morning,” I said, fully knowing I went to work when I wanted. Some days at noon, others at 5 p.m., and still others never. Being the boss at that point of my life was a good, and bad thing.

“Night officer,” I said, slamming the door behind me and turning off the stereo. I drank the last half of the Shiner in my hand and threw the bottle in the trash can. It hit another bottle. “Clank, cla, clank.”

I went into the bathroom and peed … blood.

Probably should have paid closer attention to that stuff, I think, now back in the bar in a strip mall in suburban Raleigh, North Carolina, surrounded by cops I don’t know wondering where the fuck the one I know is?

Probably getting a blowjob in the bathroom, his brother says to me. I guess I’d been narrating stuff out loud again. It’s a bad habit of mine. I’ve been punched three times because of it and slapped twice. And got a girls number. Why? Because I fucking asked for it. Who’da thunk that actually works?

How the fuck did Sting get so damn rich? I think.

I order another beer and another shot. It’s going to be either a really long night, or a very short one. I hope for the latter, but know I’m in for the former.

“She’s here,” my buddy, not the cop, but the other one at the party I know says.

I look over my shoulder and yep, there she is, not HER, but instead her. She stole my heart for a moment because I left it out to rot. She kept if from rotting, and poisoned it instead. And her mom told me she liked me best.

Like mother, like daughter.

I look at her and then I smile. Why? Because I figured it out before it was too late.

I scratch my balls and think about cancer cells and Miller High Life bottle caps. This, I think, would make a great fucking story. And then I realize this is exactly why I don’t write for a living. Except for that newspaper thing any more.

depressing shit

I look down at the brown, squishy mess that is slowly disappearing in the way-too tall grass in our backyard.  It’s my dead dog’s last poop.

“I don’t do depression very well,” I think to myself. It’s not an epiphany, it’s a fact. I don’t do it very well.

On Friday, I had the day off. No idea why my boss, who doesn’t boss very well, gave me the rarest of rare days off for a small-town sports reporter at a small-town rag. But he did. He makes the schedule up on Friday nights. For the next week. Many times at 1 a.m. on a Saturday morning I’d find out I was working Saturday afternoon. I never will understand why he thinks this is cool. People, even lowly sports reporters at less-than-15,000 circulation newspapers in the 21^st century need some bit of normalcy in their lives. But I resigned myself to the fact that as long as I have this job, I won’t be getting that.

But anyway, I was off Friday, a rarity. I was looking forward to a day spent with my fiancée. Maybe we could take in a movie, got out to get a rare dinner together. Maybe even have a beer or two.

It sounded lovely. But I should have known better. Life, for us, hasn’t been that good.

A few days earlier, we took our dogs – Francine the 15-year-old mutt and Murray the 7-year-old mutt – to the beach. I hadn’t been back to the beach since moving out of my house two blocks from the ocean on Aug. 31, 2012. So, on July 8, 2013 we set out in her SUV to the ocean.

On the way, we drove through Jacksonville. A town I’d promised myself I’d never step foot in again. So much for declarations from my mouth. I’ve found my promises to myself are the ones that are never fulfilled. Maybe  going there is why what happened happened. Being tested. Or told. Or I’m just looking for a reason why.

We get to the beach and take the dogs to the ocean. They frolic. They get wet. Francine, who loves the beach more than I do, I think, smiles as much as a dog can smile. A wave gets her pretty good, she looks at me and smiles again.

Soon, she’s tired. At 15, she’s got lots of health issues. We’re poor. So we’ve done the best that we could. But I know she’s been in pain for a while. The pills she takes help, but not enough.

Late-night panting and needing to pee an awful lot had become a pain. But, you do it because of love. You get up at 4 a.m. to get her some water. Or to let her pee. Or just wander around the house.

Looking back, I wish I’d done more.

We go get some food at a local greasy spoon. Alisa and I talk about moving back to the beach.

“Well, back for you,” she laughs.

I like the idea. I don’t want to be unhappy so much. Would I be happier working a cash register and being looked at disdainfully by tourists? I don’t know. And that’s the question. I really don’t know. I think back to being 22. Working at Roses Department store. I felt stupid for being there, college degree in hand, making $4.35 an hour, but honestly, the job provided less angst and a little bit more fun than most I’ve had in my “career” since.

Yeah, I’ve loved being a writer. Putting words on the page is great. It also drains.

We drive back, getting out in New Bern to let the dogs crap.

At home, we sigh a little. Back to the grind, it feels like.

I work for a few days, and on Thursday take the two doggies for a walk.

Little did I know, it would be the last one I’d ever take the two of them on.

All the old tricks by Francine. She tries to pull me towards the lake. Giving me her sad eyes. She always loved going that way. I look at her and said “Next time, buddy!” She stares at me and pulls one more time. I pull back and she obeys. We go home.

I go to work. Alisa’s already been gone for a few hours.

I come home that night. Murray barks like usual, Francine comes and greets me. She rubs her nose against my hand, poking and prodding to try and get some pets.

I get some food. Giving them both a few morsels. The last thing I give Francine is a piece of Chex Mix. She pants after I don’t give her anymore and goes into the hallway in front of our bedroom. She always disappears like that. Waiting for me to stop watching Law & Order on Netflix and going to bed.

About 3 a.m., I go there. I pet her and say goodnight. Murray has already scampered under the bed, his place to sleep.

Around 8 in the morning, Alisa wakes me up.

“Something’s wrong with Francine,” she says.

I woozily get up.

“Huh?”

“She just slumped down in the hallway after going to the bathroom,” she said.

I call Francine from the bed. She looks at me, but doesn’t budge.

I get up, pet her and say “Come here girl!”

She moves a little, but doesn’t get up.

I go over to her completely, give her butt a little boost and she tries to walk into the bedroom. She almost falls over.

“Something is wrong!” I say.

We debate about taking her to the vet. I think we both are too scared to admit what is going on.

Finally, Alisa says it “I don’t want her last moments to be in the vet’s office.”

“We can call the in-home lady,” I say. “But she might not be able to go.”

We decide to go to the vet. I pick Francine up. She’s stiff as a board. She is never like that.

I place her in the back of my car. We have to drive my car because Alisa doesn’t have any gas.

Once at the vet, it takes forever for them to see us.

Francine sits on the table like a trooper. Staring at us. Her breathing is labored. I pet her as much as I can.

After an initial assessment, the doctor, who is very nervous, doesn’t know what to do.

She takes some blood. It’s very red. And there isn’t much of it.

It’s decided to give her an X-ray. They take her away.

A few minutes later, they call us back. Francine’s breathing is labored even more.

“She’s got blood in her stomach,” the vet says. “We don’t know why. We can operate.”

“No,” we both agreed.

By now, Francine is barely there. Her tongue is sticking out of her mouth and her breaths come only every so often.

We say goodbye.

I watch the breaths slow even more. Then they stop.

Francine is the closest I’ve ever gotten to a dog. I really loved her.

It’s been a few days now. I’m still thinking about her. I know it’ll pass. I don’t get over things very well, though, so it’ll be awhile.

I cussed at God for it. Knowing how pointless the whole exercise is.

I bought a lottery ticket with the numbers from her dog collar on it. In the cruelness that is life, the first two numbers came up immediately. Then nothing.

Of course.

I haven’t put the seats back up in my little Hyundai yet. I don’t know when I will. Her fur, which she always shed tons of, is still there.

But, like I said to Alisa yesterday when she vacuumed the floor and threw away a big container full of mostly her hair “Pretty soon, that won’t be there anymore.”

We cried. Was it stupid to say? Maybe. But I’ve found out from a lot of suffering over the years, that keeping it inside is worse.

Last night I came home from work for the first time since she died. She always greeted me.

This time, it was just Murray. He poked his head around a corner. His confidence is shot since she isn’t backing him up anymore.

I wonder what he thinks. He’s an attention whore, so a little part of me thinks he’ll be fine without her around. Especially with us pampering him the last few days.

But that’ll pass too.

Everything does. Just like in a few days, the rain and weather and flies and whatever will make her last poo disappear. But I’ll keep looking at that spot. Probably for as long as we live here. It’s just the way it is…

I miss you Francine. Love you…

No keepers anymore

The first day I was here, back in April of 2010, I drank my last Lone Star beer to celebrate. That beer had been picked up by me when my buddy John and I drove across country to take his wife and his old dog to his parent’s house.

I held on to that beer for quite a while, saving it for a celebration. That celebration would only come when I got a job.

Well, I got a job, I moved to the beach, and I drank that beer. Up until a couple hours ago, I still had that bottle. But, I chucked it in the garbage as I was moving my stuff from that house to yet another moving van.

I’ve moved a lot over the years. Less frequently over the last decade than the decade before, but still a lot by most folk’s standards. Since 2002, I’ve lived in Greenville, New Bern, Greenville again, and Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. I also had a year-long stint in Richmond, Virginia. There was also the move of almost all of my stuff to Gainesville, Florida, where I stayed for about the amount of two months, maybe three, over the next three years. Then, I had to move all of my stuff back. That took three trips. That was pretty fucking awful.

Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving the beach. Well, my stuff will be. I’ll have to come back to get my car and to clean up the place. I may just hang out on the beach those few days. I won’t have anything else to do. All my stuff will be in Raleigh, North Carolina.

For the third time in my life, I’m moving in with my girlfriend. My lover. You get the point. Technically, it’s the fourth time, but she moved in with me the other time.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to this move.

I hated my job, and I no longer have it. That’s a good thing.

Not having a steady income, that’s a bad thing. But I’m working on it. Already got some freelance stuff lined up, which is more than I had the last time I got shown the door.

It’s raining outside. It’s pretty much rained every day since I got canned. I think that’s a sign. That even the beach isn’t worth what you went through to live the life.

Driving 100 miles a day. Killing your old car, then putting 70,000 miles on a new one in less than 2 ½ years. Looking at mediocrity being rewarded, hard work not. It was enough to make me quit. And I did, without leaving the job.

I regret that. It was a mistake hanging on “just because I have bills”.  That’s been my excuse for so many wrong decisions in my life. Hanging on to a job, hoping things would work themselves out on the other end.

Well, it never fucking works. Unless you win the lottery. The, of course, you get introduced to a entirely different set of problems and concerns. Ones that, honestly, I wouldn’t mind facing.

So, I’m going into this new chapter of my life – fuck, I’m 41 years old – with my eyes wide open. I am not going to take a job working for slave wages “just because it’s in the business” ever again. And I mean ever.

Yeah, I may get a job in the biz again. But only if it’s one I want. And know that I’ll enjoy.

Hell, one of the ones I turned down I would have loved. But, the place would have made me miserable. So I chose destination over substance. And for a little over a year, I knew I’d made the right decision. Then things changed.

I don’t regret the decision. I just wish I could have that chance again. Right now, not then. I’d go now. I’d kick ass and enjoy myself.

That’s what I’m hoping for wherever I end up. It could take days, weeks, months to find a job. I have no idea. I just know that I want something I enjoy.

Maybe I’ll bag groceries? That Whole Foods looked like an interesting place to be. A hell of a lot more interesting than a newsroom with no reporters, no editors and no one giving a damn at 6 p.m.

I’ve been bitter. Way too many times and for way too long of periods of time in my life. I’m not bitter right now. At all.

The random pop ups of the past still happen. But I smile at them now. I talk to people about them more often. And when I do, I don’t cry. I don’t squirm. I don’t try to change the subject. Yeah, it took me a long time to figure it out, but I did.

I haven’t lived in a ‘city’ other than my little journey into Richmond for a long time. I guess Arlington was it. I didn’t see Manassas as a “city”. It was a suburb.

New Orleans? I didn’t live there very long.

Ditto Birmingham.

Although I loved both of them, for very different reasons.

Tempe/Phoenix was certainly the last I lived in for an extended period of time. Not living on couches or on someone else’s dime, or even on a Murphy bed while one-legged women tried to get me to drink cheap beer with them. Damn, I should have drank beer with her.

Today, I’ll grill up some food and wait for my girlfriend to get here. None of my friends could help me move on this end. I’ll take that as another sign. Two people said they’d be here, both waited until yesterday to tell me they wouldn’t.

On the other end, at least a dozen people are going to be there. Lifting boxes and drinking beer brewed in my new home city of Raleigh. I’ll take that as another sign.

I’ve never been one to be into being positive about things. It’s a flaw, not a badge of honor. It’s taken me a long time to believe that too. Yeah, I’m still a pessimist. Yeah, I think it’s going to be amazingly hard to find employment. But, I don’t want to let it get me down. Not yet. It’s too damn early. And hell, I’ve actually networked some and shown some signs of it actually working. When newspaper guys email me, asking if I can work, that’s a hell of a good thing.

I enjoyed all my time here. Yeah, I cried some. I was sad some. But I also had a couple of kick-ass get-togethers, a few latenight drunken stumbles on the beach – both alone and with friends – and hell, I got to live at the beach for two and a half years. Another life’s goal met.

So, tonight I’ll drink the last of another batch of Lone Star beers. This one brought to me in Arkansas by a friend who lives in San Antonio. And I’ll smile when I throw the bottle away.

No keepers anymore.

Throwing the football

“It’s a bit like begging,” my dad said to me after I explained a business proposal to him.

“Not really, pops, I replied. “Only kind of.”

I understood his concerns. We were independent guys. Fools as well. We’d always wanted to do things “the right way”, but also “our own way.” And many times, they conflicted.

I was 41. He was 69. Starting up a business wasn’t exactly something either of us had thought of. There was a time when I thought I hated my dad. There still are times when I dislike what he does. I’m sure he’s felt the same way about me.

But I’m tired of chasing my tail. I’m tired of doing a job I don’t like. I remember in my younger, more naïve days when I said to anyone who’d listen that I’d never end up in a job I hate. And here I am at 41, in a job I hate. Yes, it was taken out of necessity. But that was over two years ago. Plenty of time to GTFO, as the kids would write now.

So, I cooked up an idea one night. I was drinking, I will admit that, but like all drunks, I believe my best ideas come after at least four beers.

I’d start up a bar-b-que business with my dad. It would be a way for us to bond, finally, after all of these years. He’d be the recipe guy, the “talent” so to speak. I’d be the idea guy, the marketing department, the capital procurement one. He already had a cooker. All we’d need was a place to sell.

That’s when I broached the idea. It would be a “retirement” job for him. A “part-time” gig for me. Hopefully, it would morph into something special soon afterwards.

My main worries are – 1. My dad’s health. He’s not exactly in the prime of his life. 2. My ability to run a eatery. 3. Whether we’d fall flat on our faces. Maybe people won’t like his food on a grand scale. And 4. Would I enjoy it?

I decided none of those concerns were enough to worry and I plunged head first. I got up a business plan, I found a location and I set up some early food and beverage procurements. All of this before I talked to my dad once.

On vacation, right around his birthday, I decided it was time to make a sales pitch.

“You’re not a salesman,” was his response. But he smiled at the idea of me and him being business partners.

“Too bad you didn’t think of this 10 years ago,” he said.

“Dad,10 years ago, I didn’t want to be in the same room as you,” I replied.

He was hurt, but he understood the message.

“Well, what is this Kickstarter thing?”

“It’s a web site where folks go and ask for money from others in order to get their project started,” I said.

“So, we beg strangers for money?” he said frowning.

“OK, it is that. But, so is going to a bank and asking for a loan, right?”

“Yes, but,” he started. I cut him off.

“No buts, it is the same thing. We’re just taking out the institution from the process. Well, I’m sure the Kickstarter folks are now just the bank now, and I’m sure they make quite a nice cut. Hopefully, not as much as a bank.”

“You haven’t looked in to this?” my dad questioning me openly now.

“No. I haven’t.”

“Not exactly the best way to get started.”

“Well, we could just use my credit cards I guess. Since yours are most likely nearly maxed out,” I said, too snarkingly.

“No. Me and your mother have paid of most of them,” he said, smiling at her.

“You mean, she’s paid off most of them,” I retorted.

“Tough crowd tonight,” my brother-in-law interjected. A hearty chuckle was had by all.

“But back on course here dad,” I said. “We can do this. And I think it’ll be fun. Open up a BBQ joint, sell your awesome stuff, even venture into shrimps and tuna, God damn your stuff is good. And I think it’ll be a hit.”

“Son, I’d love to. But I’m too old to start a business.”

“That’s the beauty dad,” I tried to reason with him. “You teach me how to do the cooking too. You’ve never taught me anything about your cooking. I’d love to know.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“I know. But you’ve never offered either.”

My dad looked over at my mother, shaking his head.

“You haven’t dear,” she said. My mom loved to poke the bear. I’d told her many times of the last 15 years that she enjoyed provoking him more than anything else now. She didn’t get it. But I know she did. She just didn’t want to admit it. She’s much too smart to be so simple.

“Anyway,” I restarted. “Let’s make a go of it. What’s there to lose? And we could gain so much from it.”

“Gain?” my dad asked puzzled.

“Dad, maybe you and I could have a father and son relationship. Finally.”

“But,” he said.

“Dad, I love you. And I love all that you’ve done for me over the years. It took me a long time to realize that you actually didn’t hate me. That you were always looking out for me. You just never were able to tell me. Hell, if we’d thrown a football once or twice when I was 10, everything would have turned out a whole lot differently. Or maybe not. But, I’d have that memory. I don’t have it. And this is my way to try and get that memory.”

He teared up. I took a deep breath and a long swig of by now hot beer. It tasted good, however. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.

I went up to him and stuck my hand out. He put his out. We shook hands.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

“OK,” he said. “Now let’s have a drink.”

The girl in green...

My house, like my teeth, is a ticking time bomb of decay.

I stepped on a soft spot on the floor today, and I thought it would collapse and I’d soon be under my house like Walter White grabbing his cash, covered in cobwebs and moldy dirt.

I don’t seem to have the want to call the landlord to get it fixed. It would mean weeks of construction workers ambling about my house, tearing up the floors and making my life miserable. I’d rather just not jump on my floor much. A simpler solution.

Speaking of, let’s talk drinking. Last night, I drank a few beers. It seemed like a very good idea. It ended up just being an idea. No great prose seeped out of my brain. No mindstorm. It ended up just being me, sitting on the couch, watching great old movies such as “Panic in the Streets” and “California Split.” At some point, I started sending massive Twitter messages. When those hashtag wars start, I just want Patton Oswalt to see mine. He doesn’t need to approve of it, or hate it. Just see it.

When I finally was ready to pass out, I went to my room and thought about masturbating. Key word being thought. I was asleep before I could spit on my hand.

I was woken by thunder sometime around 7 a.m. It’s a great feeling. The bed seemed to shake from one particularly large one. I laid there thinking about how nice it would be to live in the jungle, where such storms were an everyday occurrence and not a nice respite from the ordinary. Of course, then, thunderstorms and rain might become the ordinary.

A woman walks by my house. She’s wearing a green one-piece bathing suit. It makes her legs look awfully long – in a good way. I watch those legs the entire stretch of the block I can see from my window. I know if she saw me there, shirtless and in my underwear, she’d think about calling the cops. I guess luckily for me, she didn’t. I look at her car in the parking lot across the street. It’s a green Ford Focus. Her thing for green intrigues me. Does she like Green Day or even Green Jelly. Remember that song they did – “Three Little Pigs”? Maybe her mother read her “Green Eggs and Ham” as a child. Her favorite movies? Well, “The Green Mile” and “Soylent Green”, for sure. I decide to put on some clothes and go stare inside her car. I put on a green shirt and green shorts. If it were cold out, I’d put on green soccer socks. My Adidas Sambas have green stripes. Maybe we are a perfect fit, I allow myself to think for a moment as I walk across the street.

I hit the gravel of the parking lot when another car comes screeching in. They are playing “House of Pain” very loudly and drinking Coronas. My will to live is somewhat halted at the moment of their introduction to my life.

They park right next to the green car and get out. I decide to stop where I’m at and turn around. I get back to my carport and sit on my stool. Yes, it’s green.

The three clowns in the car get out. Two have Ed Hardy shirts on. The other has no shirt on, but appears to have Ed Hardy designs tattooed on his chest. I think of Brock Lesnar’s “sword” tattoo on his chest. I wonder if the artist did that on purpose? It really looks like a penis. Anyway, our parking lot villains proceed to take out their beach chairs and their cooler and place them in the parking lot ground. Instead of going to the beach – two blocks away – they have decided, it appears, to hang out in the parking lot of a shag dance club.

I sigh and go inside. I have to be leaving for work in about 45 minutes. So, I need to shower. I’ve already shit today, which was necessary after the night and day of drinking beer and eating shitty food. Of course, all of the turds floated. Too much fat in the diet when they bob around the bowl.

The will to go to work is not strong today. Not that it ever is, but lately, it’s been willless – to attempt to invent a word of usefulness. I wonder if Mike Ness would use them? That would be careless of him. I should send him the words in an envelope – but it would be fruitless. I really like Les Nessman’s newscasts. They do more with less.

At some point, I have to stop. The bills must be paid. The game must be played. Until it’s completion.

Do people ever use the world nadir? I used it the other day, and two people went “Huh?” with their eyes.

I’d like to use mulct in conversation. But I don’t want to talk politics.

I used to love politics. The first girl I ever fell in love with, we used to talk politics. I used to take the Republican side just to mess with her. I think she ended up believing I believed in the “cause”. She and I didn’t date very long. I still send her Christmas and birthday cards. Her and her girlfriend. She thinks my birthday is April 1. It’s April 9. I don’t know when that shift occurred. I used to get the cards around the 9^th, then one year, it became the 1^st. I’m guessing it means at some point she decided I was a joke. One that had to keep being told. At least that’s what my warped mind wraps itself around. Seems to fit.

The girl in green comes back to her car.  She didn’t stay at the beach long. She is walking up the street. I wonder what she thinks of the douchebags hanging out around her car. She seems them. She starts running towards them. When she gets to the cars, she hugs the guy without a shirt on. Then kisses him.

Well, there goes another imaginary relationship. Time to get ready for work.

God is dead...

It’s tough to make a good impression with a 15-year-old shirt.

Sure it’s comfortable. Sure it still fits right.

But, it’s a little faded. Has some holes in it. Is frayed around the edges.

And those are the things people notice. Not that you’re happy wearing it. Completely.

I don’t give a damn about it, except I want a new job. And wardrobe matters. Not that I’d wear my favorite shirts on interviews. I do wear them out and about sometimes. And to work sometimes. And supposedly that’s when you make your mark. When you catch the eye of someone.

Bah.

Knowing full well that I had to get up early today – writing, packing, eating and all packed into a short time before hitting the road for the hour-long ride to work – I still stayed up all night watching Alien movies.

It had been gnawing at me since I went and watched Prometheus. How were the movies linked.

And, at the part in Alien when they arrive on the planet, there is the ship that crashed in Prometheus. And later, there’s the big dude.

But it’s supposed to be on another planet entirely? And it ended the same way there too?

Ridley Scott just saying God is Dead?

Fuck if I know. But damn those were some good movies.

Popcorn eaters for sure.

Wish he made more of ‘em. On a constant conveyor belt.

But that ain’t gonna happen.

Just like I’m never getting out of debt. Working as a journalist, at least.

The frumpy girl at work said hello to me yesterday.

I was kind of surprised by it. She’d ignored me for weeks. Even when I said “Hello” twice.

It’s probably only because we made eye contact. Outside. In the parking lot. I was standing about, just trying to find something to do – I’d finished my “8 hours” of work in 3. The sun was out – it was just 5:45 p.m. – and I had time to kill. So I was breathing some fresh air and getting some Vitamin D.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked.

“Doing what?” he responded.

“That.”

He looked at his feet. He had no idea what she was talking about.

“Huh?” he finally said.

“Ugh,” she moaned, turning her back and walking away with a stomp.

He stared at his feet some more. It was going to be a long day.

Eating pasta sometimes isn’t fun.

The strange woman walked by his house again today.

She wears a pink mumu and talks to herself and awful lot. Her tiny white sneakers don’t look like they could ever support the hulking mass above them, but somehow they always do.

She walks her little dog – a yappy and quiet ugly pug – most days as well.

He feels sorry for the dog. She yells at it all the time.

“Keep up you little shit!”

“Damn it, take a pee!”

“I’m going to kick you, you bastard!”

“Stop it!”

“Don’t pee there!”

“Pee damn you!”

He used to watch this every day. When living here was still new. The beach something that called his name and provided some kind of solace to the shit storm that had become his life. Writing about it had calmed his mind. It wasn’t cured, something else was going to have to do that. Most likely time, but hopefully not.

“Eat shit McCormick!” the teenager yelled at his boss. “I don’t need you or this job!”

But instead of throwing off his uniform and storming out, the kid went back to work.

The apathy of a generation perfectly shown. If only Mitch Albom would write about it.

Oh yeah, he did.

“Have you ever fallen in love with a complete stranger?” he asked.

“No, how can you fall in love with someone you don’t know?” she responded tersely.

“Easy,” he said. “You can be standing on a corner, watching people walk by when you notice someone. So beautiful. So perfect. And you fall in love right there. She could be a young college student or a pre-retirement business suit. But it happens.

“You make up an entire history for that woman as she walks past you. Her hopes. Her dreams. Her feelings about you if you just stopped her with a word. But you never do. It would ruin the dream. It would end the love.”

“So, you fall in love with women all the time?” she asked.

“Of course not,” he said. “All the time? No. But often enough. It’s part of living life. No?”

“I’d rather think you fall in love once,” she said.

“So, if you only fall in love once, what happens when the other person doesn’t love you back?”

“You can’t love without being loved back,” she responded.

“That’s silly.”

“Why?”

“Because if that was the case, most of us would never love.”

“That’s a horrible way of looking at things,” she said, turning her back.

“I don’t think so.”

please, don't pee on me

It can be awkward. Letting someone into a mind that’s been solo for so damn long. So long, in fact, that it doesn’t know how to let somebody inside anymore. You spend too much time blocking things, stopping them, avoiding them, eventually, they stop a callin’.

Someday I’ll find a way to describe the longing inside of me. Find a way to explain it. Make the words come out right so that it doesn’t hurt her feelings when I say them. But I just don’t know how to right now.

There’s so much inside of me that I don’t like. It’s like an infection or an abscessed tooth. You know it’s not good to keep around, but you don’t do anything about them. You could mow the lawn, or you can let it grow. Eventually turning to weeds and dandelions, which of course, are just weeds.

Moments come and moments go. They seem right, but turn wrong. It’s impossible to explain that moment, but you always know it when it happens. Yet you’re powerless to stop it. And then you wonder if you would have tried with the ability to do so?

I think about my dad sometimes. The state he’s in now. I seem to be heading in a similar direction, and it scares me. I don’t like where he’s at. I’ve rarely liked anything about the man. But every so often he shows the good that’s inside of him, and I fear that I am just like him. So many have told me that I shut them out, I keep them at arms’ length. Of course I don’t see it that way. Who does though?

Words are a struggle sometimes.

Eating is easy. Eating right isn’t.

I used to exercise because it was my mode of transport. Then I got a car, a job and I got fat.

The tingling won’t go away like it used to. It scares me. A little more every day.

I hear songs in my head when I type certain phrases. It annoys me.

I wanted to go to the circus. But I didn’t.

The eagle crashed in my back yard. I looked at it. It looked at me. Then another eagle swooped down and clawed the other eagle. I guess eagles fight too.

My beard annoys me. I think it’s a problem.

Trying to do this every night has been a breeze. Until now. I need a beer. Or six.

The dogs sit on my carpet and never stop moving. It’s strange. I’ve never seen two dogs who just can’t settle down and crash out. One is just old. The other is nervous. Guess that could be me.

One day I stood in front of Barry Bonds. I stuck out the baseball and he signed it. I didn’t say a word. I was 16 or 17 years old and still had a bowl haircut. He must’ve been really impressed.

There are days when I wish I’d now crashed my bike. Even though the scars are cool. The aches in my jaw aren’t.

The cockroach stumbled out of the house when I came home today. It seemed like it didn’t want to be inside. I wonder what is so bad inside? Maybe he just wanted to see his friends, the outdoors cockroach family?

It used to inspire me to listen to certain music. Inspire me to get sad. Inspire me to drink. Inspire me to write. I don’t think it inspires me anymore. Love is like that. It comes, it flourishes and then it goes away. Leaving you behind to wonder what the fuck happened.

The tuba sat in the pawn shop window for 11 years. The price never changed -- $150. So, Edward decided to change it. He made it $175, but also put a big “On Sale” banner next to it. Damned if the thing didn’t sell the very next day.

So he tried it with other things. And without fail, they sold.

This was the beginning of advertising. And lies in advertising.

Ok, it wasn’t the beginning of advertising. Or lies in advertising. Just lies in advertising for Edward the Pawn Shop guy.

My neck crackles every time I move it. I wondered a few years ago what it was, so sure it was a clogged artery that would one day kill me. My doctor laughed at me. Said I was fine. Now, I’m not so sure about his diagnosis. He really didn’t inspect me too well. He was a drunk, like me, after all.

The dog is staring at me. He hates me I think, but is so desperate for any kind of attention and love, he hangs out. He lies on my feet. He wags his tail. But he also pees on me. Which if you’re not getting paid for isn’t very fun.