at least i wrote over 750 words ...

You know it’s bad when you struggle to cook.

It’s too damn windy out to be productive. Especially when it’s 89 degrees and humid inside the house. I rush to make four burgers, two for tonight, two for tomorrow and some broccoli. I know I’m rushing. I have to get up at 6:45 in the morning to go to work by 8:30. What the fuck is that? Then, I’ll be there until 11. Why do I do this to myself? Is meeting this guy worth it?

But, I want to eat. And eat well tonight, so I’m cooking on the grill. That adds at least an hour to prepare time. But, I soldier on. The bugs are flying inside since I opened up the door. It’s a compromise.

I sometimes wish I had a dog. But, then I’d have to keep the air conditioning on all the time so the dog didn’t burn up. Tradeoffs.

My car needs to be inspected. It needs new brake pads. Probably needs a new timing belt. But, I’m hoping that last one is just me being paranoid. But, I am usually right about such things.

A former colleague finished his book, I hear. I’m jealous. I can’t seem to get started on one. I have ideas, but no focus. I feel like I’m always on acid. Amazed by what’s going on inside and outside of my mind, but completely unable to focus. I have no idea if that’s what being on acid is like.

My nipples are raw. I wore a new shirt to work today it the damn thing rubbed on them all day and night. I kept looking at my erect nipples and wondering what the rest of the office was thinking. I do that.

The janitor was working today. Funny to see that.

Eating tacos is fun.

Eating tacos is great.

I don’t eat enough tacos.

There’s a giant pile of gravel in the alley between my house and the hotel now. The caretaker was shoveling that shit into the alley all morning. When I was trying to sleep. I almost was going to just hook my speakers up to my computer, find the worst bit of tranny on tranny porn that I could find and blast it out the window. I’d say that’s fair. Now I’m going to have all these dug up bugs scampering about my house due to this new pile of rubble and shit. And the giant hotel sign is gone. I wonder what he did with it? I do now know that a giant pile of bricks was behind it. I wonder if that’s where the feral cats were always fucking?

I still want a taco. But instead I’m cooking hamburgers. Three the normal way – Montreal seasoning and worstershire sauce – the fourth with those and some Crawfish seasoning. It’ll be interesting.

My foot itches. It actually feels like something is crawling on top of it and biting it. I’m wondering if I have ants. I don’t want to look because ants piss me off. And it would be the fault of the fucker dumping shit in the alley. It’s right near where I am right now. So, yes, I would blame that fucker with the ugly ponytail. I wonder to myself how many people called me the fucker with the ugly ponytail when I lived in Tempe?

I spilled a beer on my couch and carpet three nights ago. I didn’t clean it up. It still smells like beer in here. Maybe that’s where the ants are coming from? Spilt beer on the couch. That would not make a good band name.

I officially put out the invite for the Crawfish get together. I wonder if more than the 11 or so what showed up last year will show up this year. I know some will not, some will. All I can do is drink my Lone Star beer, cook the crawfish and see what happens. Sounds like a God damn good plan.

It amazes me the lengths some people will go just to snark. I used to be like that. And sometimes still am. It bothers me now. Is that a sign of growing old or just getting tired? Hell, I ain’t Don Rickles.

Somewhere right now, Adam Sandler is thinking about Bog Saget. Or maybe, John Lyndon is having sex. Still another possibility is Jose Canseco staring at himself in the mirror while trying to figure out why the Iron Sheik doesn’t like him.

Well, at least I wrote more than 750 words.

Ants and such...

Standing pumping gas tonight, I noticed a steady stream of ants. Those perky little buggers were everywhere, but all in a nice straight line. None of them straying from whatever task they were undertaking. And that task appeared to be suicide.

The line of ants snaked around the area where my car was. They seemed oblivious to the pieces of shitty convenience store food lying around on the ground. Instead, they were making a bee-line for the gas pump itself. I looked in amazement as it seemed they were going straight down into the storage tank just below me.

How on earth could they be finding something of sustenance there? It seemed like just a mass line of ants going to their doom.

I was mesmerized by this for a good two minutes. Then my cell phone started to buzz. It jolted me out of my ant-infused brain coma. I looked at the phone, it was my ex-girlfriend texting me. She is going through what I went through a few years ago. The feeling of abandonment from the job. Journalism’s always been a tough field. Never paid all that much, although I have a feeling she did quite well for herself, unlike this dumb bastard. It, however, was at times the most rewarding job out there. Better than teaching, I’d believe, but full of the same kind of muck and dreck one had to wade through to find those diamonds in the rough.

Her paper is downsizing, big time. One of the last companies to really bite the bullet and cut to the bone. And I feel bad for her and her colleagues. Many of the folks at other papers in the company were my mentors. And some of them got shown the door as well that fateful Tuesday.

After a couple of messages, I made my points and hopefully she took at least something from it other than my cynicism.

But it got me thinking on the drive home. This was the second day in a row that ants have played a huge role in my day.

Yesterday, I went outside to get away from the office. An occurrence that used to happen every couple of weeks at other places of employment, but has become a daily, if not hourly, task at the current sweatshop.

While standing outside, I took in the stray cats and the employees leaving. It was 5:02 p.m. when I went out, and the steady stream of folks always amuses me. A newspaper should not be a 9 to 5 gig. But for many, it is. For some it’s an 11 to 4 one. But, that’s just me being cynical again.

I was standing there after watching some circulation guy leave in his rusted out old Monte Carlo – never would have pictured him in one of those. Not a Monte Carlo, as he’s a slick-talking young black guy, but instead one with a rusty roof and backside. He’s so meticulous about everything he wears and talks about, I’d of thought he’d drive a sweeter looking ride. He was the last to leave in the mass exodus, so I looked for something else.

And on the ground right between my feet was a single fire ant. He was a huge one. Probably had seen lots of action in his time. But he was staggering about. Didn’t look long for the world. And there were no other fire ants around. I’m guessing he may have been kicked out or ostracized from his colony, either for being too old or just not useful enough. Not economically viable, so to speak.

He staggered around the concrete outside of the smoke area. I watched him go into every nook and cranny of the busted up foundation. What he was looking for, I have no idea, but he seemed to be very determined. At one point he disappeared into a crack, and I figured I’d never see him again, but wala he popped up head first a little while later and restarted his search.

He hit a trash can and didn’t seem to care. He nudged up against an old newspaper rack, and turned around. A spider web was in the corner, he seemed to sense it was there, stopping in his tracks and feeling about with his pinchers before reeling about and coming back towards me. Eventually, he just stopped and sat there for a moment. Then he started again. Looking, looking, looking. For what? I have no clue. Then, the IT guy came out of the office.

He had a faux leather man purse in one hand and his cell phone in the other. I looked at him, then at the ant. The fucker and his tiny little pony tail – with about six rubber bands holding into some rat-tailesque form – was headed straight for him. For a moment, I thought about pushing him aside, not giving a reason why as he tumbled over the concrete wall that led to the entrance.

Instead, I watched in horror as he walked towards the ant, and then promptly stepped on him.

I winced. Then looked down. He was squashed on the concrete, legs still twitching. I bent over and looked closer. His head was crushed, along with most of his upper body. The rest was fine. I stood back up and picked up my foot. I finished off the little ant. Putting him out of his misery.

Now, I knew that ants in dreams were bad. Something about uniformity and conformity as well as some kind of dissatisfaction with daily life. So, if I notice ants tomorrow, I’ll know it’s the insect kingdom trying to tell me something. Something I already know.

fire ants

The heat outside is oppressive. Phoenix is like that. It’s half-past 3 in the afternoon and the circle thermometer says it’s 118 out. But we’re on a mission.

Kurtis has a can of gasoline. I’ve got matches. We’re going to have some fun.

The backyard is full of orange traffic cones. We revel in adding to our graveyard almost nightly. Me drunk. Him stoned. The other two roommates, Teddy, the anal-retentive who writes down every interesting quote from a book, magazine or television show that piques his interest so he can use them later to sound intelligent; and Mark, the greasy-New York accented loser who can’t keep a job for more than five minutes; add to the mayhem as well. But they’re both sound asleep right now. How they can sleep when it’s that hot out, and almost as hot inside without air conditioning has never made any sense to me.

We get to the back gate. Kurtis pops the lock on the door and we go outside.

There it is: a giant mound of dirt. It rose from nowhere in just a couple of days. If it hadn’t been for Mark getting attacked last night while tossing two cones over the fenced in yard we may not have known about it for weeks, when all those damn fire ants decided to attack the house.

“Fuck, that’s enormous,” Kurtis said.

I just stared in awe.

The little buggers were crawling all over the place. A bird, still alive, was being meticulously pulled apart by 1,000s of them a couple yards away. It probably landed to take a chomp out of some trash tossed out of the taco joint across the railroad tracks, but instead, it became the meal for the ants.

“Let’s get this going,” I said.

Kurtis walked over to the mound. All around it were smaller holes. That was our plan of attack. Going for the mound could be a suicide mission. One hit on it, and they would march on you like the German Blitzkrieg.

I looked at Kurt’s boots. They were old, black and tough. Most likely left over from his days in the Army when he used to dismantle bombs. According to his stories, he had shrapnel in his foot and lost his eyesight because of his job. His Coke bottle glasses definitely were a sign of bad eyesight, which he said was 20-20 before his work with the United State of America. I then looked at my feet. Flip flops. Brilliant decision there, Jones, I thought to myself. Hot as hell, rocks and glass everywhere, and we’re about to bomb the hell out of a fire ant mound. Running shoes would have been a better choice.

Kurt takes the can of gas and begins pouring it down one of the holes. Then another. And yet another.

He has a maniacal grin on his face – a cross between George C. Scott’s Patton and Brad Pitt’s Tyler Durden. I stand back and watch. It’s quite a sight to see.

“Yo! Dreamer-boy, hand me those matches,” he yells, yanking me out of my imagination. I hand him the matches.

Two seconds later, he drops one in the hole. The flame flickers as I watch it fall into the hole perfectly. It would have taken me dozens of attempts just to get a match in the hole on a free drop. Who knows how many times it would have taken to do it with it still lit.

I see Kurt running towards me. Soon, I understand why.

Fire is flying out of the holes. And ants are scurrying out of 100 more holes. Some of them on fire.

We sit and watch this from a safe distance. Soon, some of the black smoke comes out of the giant mound.

“Round 1 to us,” Kurtis says.

At that time, Teddy comes out of the house yawning. He walks over to us and shakes his head.

“You know what boys?” he says. We know not to ask anything yet, he’s about to say some more.

He scratches his belly and yawns again.

“We have gas heat,” and he goes back inside.

I reach down to the cooler I brought outside before this all started. It’s 120 degrees out now. I wonder if our little fire had anything to do with that rise. I find a beer and pop the top, downing half of it on the first sip.

“You want one?” I say to Kurt.

“Nah, got my own,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his beat up leather jacket for his pipe. He pulls out a baggie, packing a little into his pipe. With the same matches, he lights up, taking a long drag. The sweet smell makes me jealous. I’ve live with him for three years almost now, never have I smoked a bowl with him. Can’t. Drug tests at work and all. I feel like a square. I finish my beer, grab another.

The fire’s out. We walk over to see the carnage.

The ants are already busy. Rebuilding their civilization. A few yards away, it appears a new mound is in the works.

“They’re plotting their attack,” I say. “That’s the corner where we usually pee during parties.”

“Smart fuckers, they are,” Kurtis says, lighting up one more time. “Well, I’m fucking hot. Let’s go inside.”

“It’s just as fucking hot in there,” I say. “Turn on the swamp cooler. At least we can sit out here and get misted on.”

I stare at the cone graveyard. City of Phoenix. City of Glendale. City of Tempe. Maricopa County. City of Mesa. City of Chandler.

“We don’t have a Guadalupe yet,” I say.

“Tonight, we will,” Kurt says with flick of his lighter.