David Bowie died.

David Bowie died.

I was sitting where I am tonight, staring aimlessly at the internet. At the same pages over and over again.

Not doing anything.

A week or two ago, that David Bowie was doing this at your age thing went around. I never clicked on it. I didn’t want to get depressed. Now, I think about it differently. I almost want to go and click on it. Just to see what the fuck he was doing at the age of 44 (soon to be 45). That was 24 years ago for him. He died at 69. So that was 1992.

I was a virgin.

I was in college, fawning over a girl that I would one day actually get a date with. A bunch of dates to be exact. Then, she broke my heart.

Nothing new there. Well, it was then, but now, not so much.

He was doing Tin Machine, maybe?

Still better than what I’m doing. Hell, I never gave Tin Machine a chance back in the day. It’s probably damn good. My good buddy Josh from the college days, he loved them. Preached their gospel all the time. I ignored it.

Did the same with Lucero. You see where that got me.

Anyways, all this outpouring of love and sadness over a celebrity that very few of us ever even got the chance to see perform, let alone meet, is usually looked at as silly.

People fill their Facebook, Twitter, Instagram whatevers with posts about dead celebrities every day.

This guy was different. I found myself crying about it. Not balling all over the place, but sniffling whenever another story came on the TV, or the radio, or the internet.

I listened to his new album ‘Blackstar’ on the ride to work. I wish I’d listened to it the day before. It wouldn’t have hit the same way.

It’s a goodbye. And it’s a damn good one.

I wrote my dad’s obit. It sucked.

I said a bit when we buried him at sea. That didn’t suck, but it still wasn’t perfect.

David Bowie did it perfect for us.

All of this has gotten me to think a lot today. I’ve been angry about things out of my control for a while now. Nothing new. Job, you know.

I don’t want to waste any more of my life.

I’ve got a great son.

A great woman.

A cool dog.

A sneezing cat.

And I don’t want to be so unhappy for 8-12 hours every damn day anymore.

Tomorrow (today, actually), I have to go in and talk with a management consultant in the office. I’ve been down this road before. Anyone who works at a newspaper 10 years ago and still is, has gone through this dance before.

They’re going to fire people. Or at least give you new jobs. New duties.

I hand-wrote my job description. It is filled with spelling errors and scratched out bad words … no not that kind.

I have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow. I actually just found out I would be able to make the meeting time I signed up for due to baby-sitting issues. We always have baby-sitting issues. Another reason to get the fuck out.

I know I’ll be wearing my Pete Maravich socks.

And jeans that I have worn for six days in a row.

My shoes will have holes in their soles.

I will shave. That I will do. I will not wear a suit. Or a tie.

But I will wear clean underwear.

Then I will write a column. I’m thinking about writing one on why I can’t stand professional football anymore. How I didn’t watch a game this year involving my favorite team – the Washington Redskins – even the playoff game.

And you’re a sports writer?

Yep.

I still love writing stories. Telling them, I guess. I always thought I’d tell my own one day. Boy meets girl, girl breaks boy’s heart, boy drinks, boy dies.

But I took a left turn instead of right. Went East for a while before turning West again.

Now, it’s time to do what I’ve talked about for years.

Get the fuck out.

-30-

How am I supposed to get to 750 words. It seems this one will make it happen faster, harder, longer? Probably, not. But probably.

Eat a peanut. Drink a Yoohoo. Some day you’ll look at the sky and not see the stars anymore. The computer will be at fault. Silly.

bare minimum hackery

I looked at my bank account today and couldn’t fathom how I was going to pay my bills this month. One check completely goes to rent now. My renter moved out and with him went $250. I started getting health insurance. Another $100. And now, my student loan has come due again. Payment is $280.

That’s $350 less a month coming in and $280 more a month needed. Math isn’t hard when it’s that simple. So…It means I’m running a deficit right now. Just like this fine country I live in.

That won’t last very long. I’ll be drowning soon. Especially when I do stupid things like cut my hand and have to go to urgent care. Boom, another $100 out the window. Which, of course, doesn’t exist.

Ugh.

I watch as a hack, a complete bore of a writer and person and journalist is now writing a novel. I’m jealous. And the only one I have to blame is myself. I’m a lazy turd when it comes to this.

I read his words and I cringe.

But I read my words and cringe.

So, what does that make us? Cringe brothers?

See?

Cringe.

My hand is throbbing. Yet I keep typing. I want to drink a beer, but I can’t afford to buy one. So instead, I stare. At anyone that’s around me. Usually, this will end up getting me kicked out of a place. And in a small town such as this, you run out of places to get kicked out of pretty quick.

The brunette in the corner knows me. We worked together for a moment about a decade ago now. She saw me crumble at the feet of another woman. She knows my weak spot. Yet she has no chance and knows it.

She confided in me once in an online chat. She was thinking of cheating on her (second) husband. I told her it was a bad idea. No matter what. She didn’t get it. And tried to get me to fuck her.

I told her hell no. She asked why. I told her simply “If you ever cheat, you’ll always cheat. And that makes you nothing to me.”

It hurt her feelings, because she instantly told me she’d cheated before.

And you wonder why you can’t find love, I replied.

She got hurt some more.

Why are you mean to me, she asked.

I’m not mean. I’m just honest.

She stopped hitting on me then.

I don’t miss those conversations.

I look at her in the bar light. She’s chubby, but has actually lost about 50 pounds or so since the last time I saw her. She loves to show her tits. They’re big, but not really anything that should be hanging out. She drinks Michelob. That makes me think of another. And it makes me sad.

So, I stop looking at her.

A kid with a crew cut is at the other end of the bar. He’s nervous. I don’t know why. There isn’t anyone in the place. Except for me, the brunette, a toothless guy with a sweatband and the barkeep.

He gets up and starts to shake his hands. Really fast he does this. It’s interesting to watch. For a moment.

Then the doors open. A couple of women walk in. One looks like a girl I went to high school with. She has horse eyes and horse teeth. I thought she was pretty then, but I was a virgin and didn’t know any better. Now, she’s still got horse eyes and horse teeth. And saggy arm fat.

Me? I’m fat and bald and have gold teeth. Not the precious kind. Plus, my heart don’t work very well any more. And I’m not referring to heartbreak.

I don’t know if I can handle being heartbroken again. Too many times a woman has left me. Too many times I thought I’d be a dad. Too many times I didn’t do what was right.

“Guess it isn’t in the cards for you, just like me,” Smitty said to me on that ill-fated car trip with him and my dad back in 2009.

That made me sad. He thought I’d be like him.

Maybe he was right, though.

Maybe he was right.

I haven’t been on the beach for almost a month. I live two blocks away. I thought about going there today, but then a bunch of kids walked by – skipping school, I guess – and it spoiled my appetite for the sandy shores.

inside his mind for a moment

“Yeah, I’m done,” he said as he closed his laptop. “I’m tired of it all. Checking Facebook. Checking Twitter. Pinning my interests. Blogging my thoughts. Hell, I can’t even come to delete my Myspace page.”

Holding on to the past was always smart. Now, it’s a pain in the ass. He used to read old writings. Remember how it felt. Sometimes become happy in the realization that it wasn’t as bad anymore. Now, there just doesn’t seem to be any time for it. Too much going on to spend time there.

Some would say “that’s awesome.” But not him. He misses the time spent crafting something. Thinking about something deeper than the newly reunited David Lee Roth Van Halen and whether or not tweeting 140 character or less reviews of each song on a shitty album is genuinely productive or not.

The temptation of turning it all off is always there. Just like the temptation to not do anything at all. Lately, the not do anything at all has won. And it sickens him. “So get off your ass and do something,” they say from the rafters, all the while not fucking doing anything themselves except consuming and expecting others to do things for them.

Yesterday, for instance, the fourth person in the last two weeks told him to “lie about it” when applying for jobs. Hiring agencies and bosses “don’t want to hear you’re a quick learner and can figure it out.” No, they want to hear “I have experience doing that and can do it well.”

“Fuck being honest, I guess,” he thinks. “It won’t get your anywhere anymore. At least as long as they don’t check up on it.”

So, he continues to toil at a shitty job. He’s good at it. But working two or three hours a day out of the eight spent in the office – added to the hour drive back and forth to the workplace – and it all seems so pointless. So pathetic. Watching a field die that he went all in on is saddening. But he also knows that wallowing in it and feeling sorry for himself ain’t gonna get him a job somewhere else. So, just like three years ago, he keeps sending resumes out. A rarity is a response, but it’s not unexpected.

He doesn’t drink much anymore. When he does, two or three beers is enough. “Is this getting old?” he wonders at night as Netflix brings him a six-year old episode of “Law & Order.” But how many times can one search for a leak of an album by your favorite band. Same websites over and over. All pointing to other websites in a fruitless attempt to take over his computer with spam and adware and such.

Next thing you know, the acid reflux from the night before will comeback. He thinks it only came about because the hamburger he cooked with was a little “gamey”, but he can’t be sure. Getting old and all. The leftover part of that meal is still in the fridge. It’ll sit there for weeks before he finally throws it out. It’s more about not wanting to wash the dish than anything else. Some would call it laziness, but he doesn’t, he calls it apathy.

Speaking of, a conversation occurred the other day and he didn’t hear a single word. But said “Yep,” at the end. Wondering if he just sold his dog or agreed to a lunch date with the fat girl at work? Guess, he’ll find out soon enough.

His car just passed 55,000 miles, in about 20 months. Kind of scary to think he’s been in the car that long. Lately, there have been lots of dreams (well, three remembered ones, which for him is an epic amount) about car wrecks. It makes him pause and drive a little safer. Especially after getting a second ticket in less than a year. This one for “following too close” even though it was caused by a truck pulling out into fast traffic, but the officer wanted none of that, even though he said “yeah, I saw that happen. You should have slowed down.”

He’s right, but he doesn’t want to listen to that shit. Cops are shitbags. Just like shitbags are full of shit and bags of dicks still make him smile.

That’s a line that will one day lead to strange amounts of Asian porn spam. For sure.

He just wants this to end. And finally it is going to.

randall p. floyd

“Mustard on a Twinkie? That’s just wrong.”

I thought nothing of it. So, I dunked my Twinkie remnant in the yellow goop once again.

“Fuck, man, that’s disgusting.”

“It’s really not. Have you tried it?”

“No God damn it. I have not tried it. Why would anyone try that?”

“Why would someone get in a boat and sail to the west? That’s what folks used to say. If they hadn’t, you might be growing up in England right now, thinking the world was flat.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, intelligent conversation. That’s you.”

“Fuck you, again.”

“Buy me a fucking drink, you anti-intellectual, you.”

“Two beers, Danny! One for me. One for the fucking Einstein here.”

I smiled. Usually, I’m the one being berated for being a dumb-ass. Tonight? I’m back home in Hopewell, Virginia. Here, I’m still considered smart. I look in the corner of the bar. There’s my old government teacher. He was a cool guy when I was 17. Now? He’s just another drunk. Like me. Wishing he’d never come to this small, industrial town, I’m sure. The only things I remember about Mr. Harp are this: his roommate in college killed himself via hanging in the closet, thus making him the only person I know who can actually verify the “if your roommate in college kills himself, you get a 4.0” rumor. Oh, and he’s spent more time with my dad than me. If that counts as knowing something about him.

I very easily could have ended up in this very same place every night of my life. Instead of sitting alone in my living room, on a hand-me-down couch watching the same movies over and over and listening to the same songs over and over. Is one better than the other? Not really. Of course, if I’d stayed in Hopewell, most likely, I’d be married. Or at least getting laid. There’s something to be said for sticking your dick inside of a woman instead of your spit in hand. Just saying.

It’s funny. I still want a woman who doesn’t want me. She texted me for over an hour tonight. Mindless conversations about music, rock shows and the like. No flirting. At least, none returned. You try to slip in a line or two, hoping it’s a weak moment for her. Maybe she’s doing the same thing you are on a lonely Saturday night. Sitting at home, wondering where, for her the 20s went, for me, the 30s. However, she’s got three hours on you. It’s only 8:29 p.m. there. It’s 11:29 here. The night is starting for her. It’s been done for a while for you.

Still, you keep the conversation going. That is, until the messages stop coming. You know what that means. Someone found something more interesting to be distracted by. I’m sure it’s flattering to know that someone really digs you. Would do anything to have a moment with you. She knows this about me. And it doesn’t stop you from acting the fool. Chasing the tail like a dog. Or like a horny 40 year old. Whichever seems to be the more fitting description. I don’t know. I’ve never been to war. I’ve shot a gun. Twice. It sucked. I got a big bruise on my shoulder from the recoil. I think my dad knew right after that second shot that I wouldn’t be hunting with him anymore. It was pointless. And hell, I liked to run around in the cornfields and pretend I was somewhere else. I guess I could have made a good Labrador retriever? Wolf. Wolf! Go get the dead duck!

I sometimes wonder how I’d react in a combat situation. It’s one of those things you can never know about yourself until it happens. Same thing as if some drug addict pulls a gun on you. But I’ve had that happen to me. I joked with the guy until he started laughing and lowered it. Don’t think that would work with the Taliban. But one never knows? Maybe I could just put on Electric Six’s “Gay Bar” and we could all have a good laugh together. Looking at Tony Blair and George Bush.

Fuck YouTube.

Anyway, I wonder if the Anyways police are out today?

I need to stop trying to find a reason to keep going. If you need a reason and you don’t know what it is, then it’s already a lost cause. Right?

Who the fuck am I to ask such questions? Randall Pink Floyd?

exact.

Life sure was a whole lot simpler when all I wanted to do was hang out at 2400 Tulane Avenue, drinking a Miller Lite, shooting the shit and listening to David Watts.

But, as of today, 2400 Tulane Avenue is an empty gravel lot. Full of a lot of promises, but I’m guessing none of them will ever be kept. I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it. I’ve come to expect that.

When those bar chairs were still there. When Colin was still serving up good drinks and good conversations about Virginia and music, I was happy. I didn’t know I was happy then. Hell, I thought I was unhappy.

I’ll probably look back 12 years from now and think about how happy I was living at the beach.

I remember the first time Josh took me there. He was so eager. A word that we used to use to describe my boy a lot. Eager. Now, he’s not eager anymore. I’d say he’s settled. Not that really that’s a bad thing. Except those few moments when you can see the look in his eye. That lost look. That look of “take me with you.”

Fuck, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near where I am. It’s not fun.

Of course, I don’t want to be anywhere near where he is. It doesn’t look fun.

Experience is the only way to know these things, however. But I trust instinct. And my instinct says that other than the great woman he’s got, and the awesome travels he gets to take, life ain’t all that grand for him either.

I don’t revel in that. Even if it sounds like I am. There was a time when I thought he’d be my Dean. Or I’d be his Sal. I think he thought the same thing. Maybe that’s why it was doomed from the get-go?

Instead, he found a real Dean. Got to see the world. Got to bag some chicks. Got to have some fun.

Me? I chased the skirt. Didn’t look for a new Dean, or Sal, or even Old Bull Lee.

I guess that’s my burden. My weight. My cross to bear. That I always put a woman over anything else, and then I fucked up all the woman too.

Ha.

I did find a new band. I’ve always been real good about attaching a band to a particular part of my life.

The first one was KISS. That was childhood.

The next band I fell in love with was Guns and Roses. That? Adolescence I guess.

In college, the Clash became my obsession. That one lasted a good long time. In fact, I still cherish the band, even though I don’t listen to them much anymore.

After that, Johnny Thunders came to me. He was my introduction to depression and angst.

Then it was a brief interlude with H.I.M. They got me to face Emily, then run away.

Lucero is now the band. I’m guessing this is life now. I can’t see anything replacing them. Of course, I’ll meet a new love, and they won’t matter as much. It always happens. We’ll see.

Where did all of this shit come from? The bottle, I guess. This is why I shouldn’t and should drink. I get loosey-goosey with everything when my lips hit the bottle enough.

Too honest? Probably. But is there really such a thing? This shit should come out with out chemicals. With out hops and barley. Without shots and mugs.

But it doesn’t. At least not enough to my liking.

Which is OK. It’s how it’s meant to be. At least for me.

Six more rent payments to go. Then I can get out of here. Go somewhere else.

Yeah, I’ve said that all before. But for some reason, I feel different right now. Will I five months from now when the last rent payment has been made? I don’t care, really.

I want to do something with what little is left of my life. I’ve got to figure, even with genetics in my favor, that I’m most likely more than past the halfway point. I’ve got less living to do, years-wise, than I’ve already had.

That kind of fact is not something to sneeze at.

Of course, I’ll live to be 102. Look like Hal Holbrook and still be drinking fucking Shiner Bocks and Jameson. Listening to fucking Lucero and singing at the top of my lungs while doing it.

Hopefully, not dreaming of redheads, however…