Jay Leno midget porn

It came down to this: Jay Leno or midget porn.

Smug jokes about people I don’t care about or some chick named Twiget.

Either choice could end the relationship that was just three dates old. But I didn’t have time to think about it. I made a decision, and God damn it, I was going to live with it. What else could I do?

“What the hell are you watching?” she asked as I pretended to not know she was standing behind me.

“It’s redhead midget porn…” I said as numbly as possible to create some kind of illusion that I didn’t actually type “redhead midget porn” into Google to see exactly what was on the screen of my 52 inch television.

“Weird,” she replied and walked into the kitchen. I heard her books slam against the cement floor, then the fridge opened. Some bottles clinked around and one opened with the pssssssssssst sound that I have heard more than any other in my lifetime.

She came back in the den. Took her boots off and plopped down on my ratty red futon mattress with me.

“Is this what’s in store for the next 50 years?” she said.

“Nah, I like this tranny named Bailey Jay a little more than Twiget the Midget,” I replied, taking a small swig of whiskey from my “Makin’ Bacon” glass.

“Nice glass,” she said, pointing.

“Found it at a thrift store a long time ago,” I said. “Was with a redhead. She won’t no midget though. She was normal sized.”

“What the fuck does normal sized mean,” she said, glaring back at me.

“You know, not a midget or playing in the WNBA,” was the best I could do. I took another swig of whiskey. It was a bottle I’d brought back from Ireland in 2011. My best friend from college took me with his wife overseas. They paid for 99 percent of the trip. I’m a deadbeat, but I’m a lucky fucking deadbeat I thought to myself as I watched some guy with an 8-inch penis fuck a three-foot, 4-inch midget.

“This is pretty good,” she said. “I wonder if it hurts?”

“Nah,” I said. “It’s no different than if it was a …” I honestly couldn’t think of anything to say. My dick wasn’t that big, and I’d never fucked a midget. So my frame of reference was slight.

“You were saying?” she asked, taking a long swig of Michelob.

“Don’t drink that!” I screamed, grabbing the bottle away. “It’s old.”

“How old?”

“It’s been in my fridge for about 3 years, I’d guess.”

“Eh, I’ve had worse,” she said, grabbing the bottle back. Some of it spilled on my table/trunk. An old Joe Strummer sticker got the worst of it. I cringed a little bit. She noticed.

“That trunk means a lot to ya, doesn’t it?”

“It’s been with me for a while,” I replied, trying not to look like it mattered.

“How long?”

“After I left New Orleans. So…about 14 years now.”

“You lived in New Orleans?”

“Just a short while. I should have never left New Orleans…”

“You should write that down,” she said.

“I have.”

“Don’t get testy with me.”

“Not testy, just sad. The past does that to me. I cling to it like the Spanish moss does to the trees or maybe how the Kudzu hugs everything around here.”

“Yeah, Kudzu sucks,” she said. She stared into my eyes. I didn’t want to look at her. I wasn’t ready to fall in love again. The worst part about getting your heart broken isn’t getting it broken, it’s falling in love again.  I reached for my notepad and wrote those words down. I had to. While I probably heard them before in some clichéd Americana song in some shitty dive bar in North Carolina or Richmond, Va., over the years, they sounded close enough to good that I figured I could re-write them some other way years later and maybe sound profound.

Not likely.

The notepads full of aimless starts at stories. The blogs full of inane ramblings. The scaps of paper, or receipts or napkins or even the backs of cigarette packs that I never smoked are full of endless words. Usually scribbled while drunk, but never while thinking about Bob Costas. He scares me. Looks too much like Ellen Degenerees. Or whatever.

She watched me put my notepad back under the couch. I left one there for just such moments. It had beer and some kind of peanut residue on it.

“What was that?” she said.

“Annoying habit I picked up from a buddy,” I said, finishing off her beer.

“Did you just write down something I said?”

“Nah.”

“You’re lying.”

“No I’m not. You haven’t moved me that much yet.”

“No?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’re really smooth with the ladies, aren’t you?”

“Never.”

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…

God damn it!

“God damn it!” he shouted. Just like he shouted about every 5 minutes or so.

It was one of those things you got used to hanging out in the pine cone filled floor bar and grill we loved so much down the street from the paper.

“For a God-fearing man,” Eugene, the 28-year-old virginal copy editor, said between swigs of Old Milwaukee, “you sure as hell say God Damn it a lot.”

The old man stared at Eugene. He wanted to pound his face into the pine cones, it was obvious. But he knew it was pointless.

“And what exactly is AP style for God Damn it?” I asked to try and break the stupidly started tension in the room. Hell, this was my favorite place to be other than in bed with my girlfriend on a Sunday morning over-sleeping and not even thinking of going to church. I walked over to the makeshift chalkboard beer menu, erasing “Today’s Special: Bud Lime’s $1.33 each!!!” and scribbled while talking:

“Is it God Damn it? Or maybe Goddamn it? Could it still be Goddamn it? Or lastly, God dammit?”

guts

I saw today that a former friend of mine got a new job. He got out.

It would be nice to follow in those footsteps. I got out the first time by being laid off. The second time by being fired.

Here’s hoping the third time, is a fucking shitastic awesomefest.

And that I get to make the choice.

Of course, I’m the one who keeps diving back in.

Gluttony and all. It’s my deadly sin.

I stopped writing months ago. Even though I get paid to write now. I feel like, rather, I know that I don’t write anymore. I got inspired for about 15 minutes today. At the desk. I threw out some e-mails and got some responses and then flat-lined.

It had more to do with a feeling than a fact, but I still have to face it. Head on. You know, for the penis.

I wonder too much about the past. I don’t wonder about the future. I don’t care about the future. At least that’s what I tell myself. I lie a lot. Not to other people.

Scorching forcing eating bumbling stifling working forking fasting fucking.

One time the girl looked at me and I didn’t look away. She laughed seconds later. I’ll never know if she was laughing at me or not. Because I didn’t have the guts to ask. I did have the guts to not look away, like usual, but I didn’t ask. She wanted to tell me. I didn’t have the guts to ask.

My mind still wanders over to her side of the bed. Every day. I can’t stop it from happening. No matter what. I’m happy now. Happier than I was before. Before what? I don’t know. Can I say I’m happier now, more content, more whatever than I was then? No. But I can’t say I’m not either.

It’s weird. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. What happened and what I want to have happened. It’s all a blur. I guess it helps one cope, the memory’s ability to play tricks on you. If we all remembered things exactly as they happened, every fucking second, we’d go crazy. We’d go mad. And I want that. I want to be mad, because of it. Not be mad because you think you are.

My head explodes with pain now. The teeth are rotten. The sinuses are infected. My heart probably is waiting to explode or just stop or whatever happens when they don’t have the strength to go on. Like a person, I guess. Sometimes they just quit. No warning. No reason given. It just happens.

Bye bye.

I stopped drinking soda for over 5 years once.

I dated the same girl for over 5 years once.

I drink soda now.

I’ve dated six girls since.

Why does that matter? Why do I type it? Fuck you. Fuck you in the ear. Or maybe a bloody eye socket after the eye was ripped out by feral cats. Sure, yeah, that sounds like fun. To watch. Maybe to make happen.

Probably not though.

You see? You see?

No. You never do.

Romanticizing the past like it’s some great place. Like a 78-year old who wants the 1950s back. Why? Because he's a racist shitbag. That’s why.

I don’t hate anyone. There are plenty of people, individuals I can’t stand. But I don’t hate. It’s a waste of time. It really is. Try not hating for a moment.

Of course, that’s a lie. Many times I’ve hated myself. Most would say I still do. I’m not sure anymore. I guess my behavior kind of says I hate myself.

Fucked up.

Do it. Smell it. Eat it. Fuck it. Lick it. Write it down. Drive the extra mile. Take the wrong turn on purpose so you can talk for another five minutes.

Why? Because you’ll be dead one day.

Either of old age at 91 or run over by a semi while getting a box of diapers for your newborn baby.

Which is more likely? Depends on the level of hatred. The size of the dick. The blue of the eyes.

I bought a new car two and half years ago. It’s going to pass 80,000 miles in a day or so.

Even the mechanics at the dealer go “Damn, dude. You drive a lot.”

No shit.

And I’m tired of doing it.

Not because of the deed itself, but the destination.

Then change it, asshole.

I’m working on it, I’ll say.

You’re always working on it.

It’s part of my charm.

And your destiny.

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….

life is short (like this writing)

OK.

Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat. On the first play from scrimmage. At the tip off. Or whatever stupid fucking sports cliché you want to use, that I didn’t.

I’m unemployed. And it’s my fault.

Yeah, that’s not too shocking of a thing for many.

But for me, it was the first time I’ve been fired since I was 18 years old and playing Laser Tag in the warehouse of my job at Toys ‘R Us.

Now, I’m 41 years old and should know better.

So, I’m sitting at home, applying for jobs at Target, the adidas outlet store and whatever temp agency a friend recommends.

All of that has led to exactly one email reply. From Target. Saying I am not going to be considered for a job as a red polo-shirt and khakis zombie. Yeah, that attitude probably came out in my online questionnaire for the job. A quiz that featured such questions as “Do you think most people steal?” and “Do you think most politicians lie?” The answer to both queries, of course, is yes. And I answered that way. But there wasn’t a selection for “everyone except Target CEOs and managers.”

Why o’ why am I in the predicament? I doubt you care, but here’s why:

I got into an argument with a co-worker about whether or not Cleveland Browns fans in a sports bar are douchebags or not.

Well, actually, we all know that groups of fans gathered at a bar to watch a football game are douchebags. That’s a given.

The crux of the argument was around what to do when you know said group will be at the bar. I said “Go to another bar. Or just stew in it like a baby with shit.”

The other person believed he only had two days off a week , Sunday and Monday, and that meant everyone needed to be quiet in a bar and not watch football while he was there.

It escalated into a typical pussy office fight. We yelled at each other. We got in each other’s faces. Spit came out. One push came. It ended. We talked 5 minutes later, shook hands, and it was over.

Except for the manager.

Note to all cubicle inhabitants: Don’t give the bitchy supervisor who has no power over you, but despises you for being able to voice an opinion every now and then, any ammunition to get rid of you. They will pounce.

I was fired.

I don’t dispute it.

I did something stupid. And I paid the cost.

It’s funny to look back on it now.

I needed to quit. Months ago. But didn’t. Same excuses I’ve been making for over a decade now about why I don’t do things. I need the money. I have bills. I can’t leave until I find a new job. Well, that’s pansy-assed bullshit.

Quit your job if you hate it.

If the bill collector comes to your door. Give him a sock. It’ll be all you have.

And go be happy.

I’ll end on another cliché, which I learn to be truer and truer (can something be true, and then truer?):

“Life is too damn short. Don’t waste it.”

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.

An economics major...

Six Miller High Lifes in my belly, I decided to go down to the beach. I wasn’t drunk, but I had a good buzz in my head. Nothing too special, nothing to out of the ordinary. I just wanted to go see the ocean.

The drizzle marked up my glasses in a hurry. I looked down at my $2 Wal-Mart flip flops and tossed them into the weeds that make up my yard. No reason to slip and break my ankle right now. No insurance.

Getting fired does that to a person.

I walk down and notice how quiet everything is. I don’t notice that enough, sitting in front of my computer. Going to the same six web sites over and over, hoping for a conversation with friends who have long ago moved on from being my friend.

The sky isn’t cloudy, it’s murky. I see a few stars busting out of the mist. I look at them in awe.

The houses are mostly empty. The summer is nearly over. Just two weekends until Labor Day. Then everything will start closing up shop.

I won’t be here anymore. My last day here will be August 31. A Friday. I guess I’m excited.

I get to the beach and I marvel at how empty it is. I love it like this. I realize how little in the last year I’ve taken the time to come down here and revel in it.

When I first moved to the beach, I was here every night. I got off work, then in April, and walked to the shore. I always had a beer with me. Sometimes a few.

I’d sit in the sand and watch.

The waves. The people. The clouds. Whatever was there.

The boardwalk was always empty. A sexy lady would be working the bar at the TBT, but I’d never go in. Sometimes she’d wink at me. Wave me in. I always pulled out my pockets when this happened. My “I’m a hobo” moment. Or statement. Whichever you like better.

She’d always wave me in anyways.

I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone in?

I don’t think I would have ended up much differently, really. So, chalk it up as a lost chance. A missed opportunity.

I’ve had a lot of those over the years.

I think about my key. I placed on top of the carport when I left a few minutes ago. What the fuck, I thought. My stuff is packed. I’m leaving. Who cares if someone robs me now.

It’d be fitting, really.

I’ve thrown away more stuff than I did in the great purge of 2008. Of course, that was just my writing. How stupid was that? Hemingway would look at me and shake his head. His woman lost his writing. I threw mine away because of a woman. Hell, there isn’t much difference in the end.

The ocean slashes away at the shore. If man wasn’t here, the beach would be hundreds of feet the other direction by now. But, we’ve got houses here now, so, it stays. Until it wants to really move. Then it moves. Houses be damned.

It’s a fucking sandbar people. If you build here, you should expect it to fall.

That never goes over well with property owners.

Anywhere really.

I’ve never owned. Except for that car I bought.

It already has a dented bumper and scratched up paint. Character points.

One day, I may actually own it myself. Just $5,800 more to go.

Debt enslaves you. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. Instead, I watched my parents buy too much. And I thought it was normal. I thought I’d find a great job and it would all be all right. Then, I realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, I decided I’d find a rich lady and she’d make it all right. That didn’t happen either.

Now, I’m still a drunk. Who thinks he can write, but never does and I still have credit card debt.

And I was an Economics major.

Ha.

It’s unrealistic of me to expect much out of myself.

Unless I apply myself. Then it’s pretty impressive.

I can’t type well anymore. My carpel tunnels is deep and ingrained. My hands get tired.

I noticed that the other night while interviewing someone for the first time in over three years. I couldn’t keep up. Kind of like sex. I have good intentions, but they seem to go awry most of the time nowadays. The belief is still there. The effort is still there. But the results aren’t. I guess this is how a 30-year-old NFL running back feels. Unless he was lucky, and sat out a few years because of an injury or dumb coach. I always think of Otis Anderson.

My throat is dry. You drink shitty beer all night, that’s what happens. No matter if you eat a fucking fantastic meal – which I’ve managed to do the last two nights – or not.

I hate shitty beer. But I like getting drunk. I used to like both. But, I got refined. I got cultured. Fuck that, I got a little bit of the “good life” and I don’t like going backwards. Who does, really? Unless backwards means the best fuck of your life. And damn, I was 21 years old when that happened. On my childhood bed even.

The things you remember.

I know she probably doesn’t think of me. That pig-tailed girl with doe eyes and ab muscles before they were cool.

A redhead was working at the bar across the street tonight. She wasn’t attractive. She had an awful voice too. But she was staring me down. And I looked back.

I’d never have done a thing, even if she came over and said “Your dick, my mouth.” Which really, is just something some guy would write in a letter to Penthouse.

I’m in love. But I’m scared. And that scares me.

Does that make sense?

I hope so. Because I’m scared and don’t want to be.

A chuckle and a slap on the back

I pulled up to the house that was soon to no longer be mine.

The cool ocean breeze hit my face as I exited my car. The last chords of American Aquarium’s “Burn, Flicker, Die” faded into the air, replaced by the distant waves crashing on the beach.

“I’m going to miss this place,” I say out loud to no one but myself.

I look at the dilapidated plastic flamingos that stand guard. One of them is duct taped on the legs to keep him upright. His partner is missing his eyes. On the other side of the yard, two more sway in the breeze. They came later in the process. A gift of a friend who has sort of faded into the periphery of life. I hate it when things like that happen. But it does happen. Too often when you never stay put. I envy folks who have stayed in one place for long periods of time. They develop roots. They develop routines and have friends always available.

Me? I’ve moved so many times to so many different places. My friends are scattered from 30 miles away to New Orleans to California, then over to Japan and into England. Pockets of friends are in Virginia. Some on in Louisiana. Others are in this hell hole of Eastern North Carolina.

Some of those same friends say they are jealous of me.

“You’ve got to see so much, travel so much,” they say, “And you don’t have things holding you down.”

True, I tell them, but you have things I have always wanted. A wife, a family a dog and a cat. A steady paycheck and a feeling of purpose.

“I’ve got none of those,” I’ll say.

Usually that gets a chuckle and a slap on the back.

I open up the door to my “paradise house” as one friend described it to me once. The intense heat hits me like opening an oven to pull out a pizza. It actually blows the hot air outside. A front was just formed by this.

My brow instantly begins to sweat. I open the fridge and enjoy the cool air. I grab a Lone Star – 16-ouncer – from it and pop the top. I swig a huge sip of the Texas swill and realize that life is good most of the time. It’s only bad when you start worrying about it.

I go to the thermostat. It’s 99 degrees inside, according to the piece of plastic. But it doesn’t go to 100, so it could be 120 in here. It isn’t. There was a time about a month ago when it was 99 on the thermometer. But it was much hotter than it is now.

Then, I turned on the air. My girlfriend was there and it had to happen. We left for an hour to get some coolness from a local dive bar. Drank a couple Yuenglings and forgot about the last 48 hours.

Those are the times you remember. When someone sticks by you. Even when most people wouldn’t.

“You got a keeper,” my dad said a week earlier.

“Damn right,” I thought then, and am thinking now as I finish off the tallboy.

I don’t turn on the AC. It’s too expensive now that I’m unemployed. I have enough money to support myself for about 8 months, I figure. Of course, my figures will be way off and it’ll last five, tops.

I open up the windows and turn on a couple of fans.

Soon, it’s 91 inside.

“Not too bad,” I think.

I take a swig of beer and go outside. I open my car’s hatchback and start hauling in boxes. Medical boxes. Rubber gloves and gauze, they are slugged. My boxes display my journey as well.

These are the “I’m dating a nurse” boxes.

Others are : “I’m dating a girl from New Mexico who’s mom liked fruit” period.

Still another is :”I’m dating a Mexican who’s mom wrote what was in the boxes” period.

And still another is “This was the lesbian that I pined for” period.

Lastly, there’s the “The bitch was just looking for a safe place to be for a while” period. Those boxes, I threw away.

I sit down at my computer, hoping one of the gaggle of jobs I’ve already applied for has responded. I boot it up, log in to my email and … nothing.

I log into my other email … nada.

I went through nearly 14 months of this before, but I had a steady paycheck from the taxpayers of the United States then. I don’t now. Even though an old colleague told me “You should apply anyway.”

What’s the worst they can say? No. Right, I get that.

But why bother getting even two seconds of hope raised?

You’re a glutton for gluttony. If by gluttony you mean stupidity and pain.

I shaved my goatee off yesterday. I don’t really know why. I just did. I look weird without it. I think I look older. I definitely look “sweeter” as my girlfriend told me.

I’d rather look surly. Keeps people – other than tourists who want directions or a photo taken – away.

I need to eat some food. I always slip into these “forgot to eat” days when something happens dramatically in my life. And though I was going to make this happen in about two months anyway, this does qualify.

I look at the stains on the carpet and the broken blinds and I wonder if I’ll get any of my security deposit back. My last place I got it all back, minus the carpet cleaning fee. I had even left a piece of petrified baby poop – well, three and a half year old poop – exactly where the kid had left it months before.

Yeah, you can call me disgusting for that, but I didn’t want to touch it. And hell, that kid was good at shitting somewhere and hiding it away from us. Gotta give him credit for that. I’m sure his dad had nothing to do with that talent.

This makes me think of the Doug Stanhope concert I went to the other night. I’d bought the tickets drunkenly one night. So it was a sunk cost. Except for the three beers and tip I bought. I woulda bought more, but I felt bad about it. That kind of thought process probably won’t last.

Anyway, he told an Assburgers joke. Or maybe one of the opening act guys did.

It was funny.

I laughed.

But it made me a bit sad too.

I wonder how that kid is doing?

Good, I hope.

It’s really all I can do.

lines

I guess I’m supposed to write now.

All I have is time.

No job. No kids. No responsibilities.

So, I sit and stare at a television instead.

Or I attempt to read a book. I made it to page 10 of 447.

I ate some cheese and peperoni on corn tortillas.

Drank some water.

Watched a dog stare at me.

Watched another dog roll around in the freshly cut grass.

Now the dogs are asleep.

And I’m staring at a computer screen.

My carpel tunnels doesn’t hurt as much since my job ended.

I need to go pack up the rest of my stuff. But my girlfriend seems to want me to hang around here.

Doing nothing.

I wonder how long before she’ll start to get antsy.

We love each other. I know that. But when one of the two is being a bum, it grows old.

Fast.

I have money to survive for quite a while.

It’s weird feeling that way.

I won’t get unemployment this time.

And I think that’s for the better.

I didn’t get hungry enough to lower my expectations until the checks stopped coming.

Of course, the irony was, the day after I took a job, the checks started coming again.

I guess the checks never actually came. I got a debit card.

They charged you for checking the balance on it.

That made me laugh.

I checked the balance once.

It had more than two dollars on it when I stopped using it.

I wonder where that money ends up?

Does someone get it?

Or do I always have an account with two bucks and some change in it?

The card is expired. So you can’t use it anymore.

Maybe there is some guy in a cubicle who has figured out his Superman III/Office Space way of a quick buck?

He’s collecting all the scraps off of expired debit cards from unemployed folk. Most of which probably never got a decent job again.

I see friends and former friends and never were my friends who have taken jobs not doing what they used to do.

Some do contract work.

Some flip burgers.

Some sit at home and lament the fact they didn’t network better or get the right skills for the current economy.

I said it’s all bullshit.

If you know someone who runs a company, and they like you, you’ll get a job.

If you don’t know anyone in a company, you probably won’t get a job.

Unless you’re lucky.

Or God damn good.

And that usually doesn’t matter.

I have been bitter before.

I don’t want to be bitter again.

I’d rather be better.

Ugh.

If you think, you live better.

If you just exist, you don’t live.

I want to get in my car and drive west. See a state I haven’t seen. I think I may do that. Just to stop the monotony of life.

I applied for a job as a security guard today.

I probably won’t get it.

I most likely won’t get a call back.

If I do, I won’t channel Chinaski.

Unless the person interviewing me has nice legs.

Then I won’t be able to help it.

Television is numbingly bad.

It always has been.

It’s not like there was some great time in the past when it was a good thing.

It’s always been an opiate for the masses.

Something to placate them.

Keep them inside.

If you go outside, you’ll see just how bad things are.

Except on your cul-de-sac in the suburbs.

Two cars and three kids.

A dog and a cat that get along.

Sex once a week.

Sounds like a prison to me.

Except for the sex.

If I was in prison, I’m pretty sure I’d have sex more often.

Not that I’m pretty or anything.

But I ain’t tough.

It’s why I’ll live in a box on Broadway in Hopewell, Virginia, before I do anything to go to prison.

Of course, being homeless can get you sent to jail. Which seems very odd.

Land of the free and all.

Why can’t I be free of a residence?

A job?

A career?

A family?

A dog, cat, snake, etc?

Maybe it’s because you don’t believe in God?

Nah, lots of people don’t believe in God. Even when they say they do.

If you actually believed, you’d do more. You’d help. You’d be selfless.

But, instead, you buy stuff at Best Buy and ignore the homeless guy right outside.

You keep your sunglasses on so he can’t make eye contact.

But he knows.

And so does He.

If he exists.

I don’t think He does.

But I can’t be sure.

Until I’m dead.

Then I’ll know.

It’ll suck if I was wrong.

But, it’ll suck if I’m right.

Maybe if I had done a porno when I was younger life would be different?

I could Google myself and see it.

Just like an employer.

I got rid of my Myspace page because of that.

But I leave up a blog. That isn’t kind to me or others.

And I don’t care.

I started an on-line career assessment test yesterday.

After getting half-way through, I gave up.

I don’t want a career anymore.

I want to get paid to do something cool.

Even if it’s standing on the curb and selling Coronas to tourists.

There are worse things to do.

Like working for a newspaper that hasn’t had news in it for years.

Lots of press releases and opinions by “writers” who can’t tell the difference between “your”, “you’re” and such.

Eating a sandwich on a sunny day is not sultry.

Fucking a watermelon isn’t going to give you AIDS.

How come it’s so hard to lose arm fat?

And spare tires?

But legs get skinny fast?

Boxes will sit full for months. Never looked at. Never touched.

They are full of memories and money spent.

Is that all there is?

Is this all there is?

Are you all there is?

Am I all I am?

Scary to think it.

Not pretty at all.