Thursday, June 30, 2005
As a result, it's 4 in the morning and I have no idea why the hell I'm up. I'm just glad it's my weekend and that I'm not required to be up at any specific time tomorrow. I hung out with, "The W" tonight. We went to a store I hate so much, I can't put it into words, Radio Shack. I fucking hate this place. My hatred for it burns like the fire of 10,000 suns. There, I guess I just put it into words. "W" was looking for some random part to something to fix something else, so he could sell it on e-bay....eff that. What's funny about tonight is that "W" called me while I was playing with my godsons. When the cellphone rang and I answered, Aidan(godson) looked at me like I was the biggest asshole in the world, and then screamed, "HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!" as close as he could to the phone. I had a good laugh over that. I left the kids a little while later to pick "W" up.
When we got to the "shack" as it were, they had decided to close early and sit around and bullshit at the front counter. I guess they were having a strategic meeting over how to stop their batteries not working once outside store premises. Or maybe they were just trying to come up with a better sales strategy for marketing the worst shit on the planet. Who knows?
There was a general sense of dismay and frustration upon discovering the shack was closed. After all, we did drive all the way out to Apple Valley and what the hell else is there to do on a Wednesday night in the smallest state in the union? "W" and I flopped back into the F1 and rolled down 44 like two of the coolest dudes in history, not like two techno-dorks looking for parts to fix our droids on a regular week night.
We drove to our old stomping ground and hang-out, the Dunk. The old fuckers from the VFW were there listening to the ball game and stealing minute maid drinks like they were never going to see them again. The service in this place is fucking atrocious and to be honest, it makes me contemplate giving up my coffee addiction all together. So, "W" and I walk in and there is a cool new kid working behind the counter. He came outside the other night and was talking cars and some other shit with the "italian" and so there was some sort of bond formed with a 17 year old kid.
Homeboy decides to get bold and ask "W" and I, in front of a nearly full house, "if we're out on another date this week?" Cute, but no need to lampoon the two of us. "W" guilts junior into making us pay for only one coffee, so I do. He bullied, I paid....that would look like a fucking date to me no? We sat outside, drank iced coffees and spoke of things that both angered us and made us say, "Hmmmmmm" at the same time. We talked about how Bush spoke to the nation last night and how no one really believes, nor gives a shit what he says anymore. Even support from his evil Repub boys is starting to wane.
I took "W" home and drove around awhile contemplating my next few moves. Is grad school the right thing for me? Or am I just setting myself up for a shit-ton more stress, aggrevation and bullcorn? Why the hell can't I just get the fuck out of here and move someplace where hopes and dreams don't go to die? Why can't I just move someplace and be ok with not knowing or having anything? Why haven't I been able to listen to the new MxPx disc I bought over a week ago.
These thoughts spun around in my head as the chorus from Coldplay's new sure-to-be smash hit, Fix You looped in my head. Now I sit here typing to appease the voices in my head as well as my vast readership from the great, white north and all points south, listening to Snow Patrol, unable to understand why my mood is not improving. When I was a teen, there was a certain comfort in melancholia but I'll be damned if life has become any easier since then. The world's answer is to go to the pharmacy and if you can't afford drugs, well then just suffer. Fuck that, life was not supposed to be like this. There is no way JC ( and I'm not talking about James Cameron) planned for it to suck hard.
I know we all need to take baby steps and take them one day at a time, but if that is the case, how the fuck are we supposed to get anywhere?
Friday, June 24, 2005
I showered, changed and fired up the F1. I arrived at W's backdoor promptly at 8:30. We drove from his house to the LQ to procure some adult beverages, thus ensuring a relaxed and tasty evening. "I feel like keeping it real and drinking 40's tonight." never more of a puzzled look had I given my friend. "Why the deuce would you want to do that old chap?" I replied. "For heaven's sake my good man, for economy's sake!" W cried. After an initial stroll through the store, we came back to the cooler where only the finest of all malt beverages were stored. On our stroll I had informed my companion that I would not be joining him in his quest, "to get hellified."
I had picked up two bottles of the finest honey dew melon wine ever made and met my partner's gaze infront of the cooler. He was cruising the most nefarious of regions, the bottom shelf. There were your regulars your Budweisers and your quarts of High Life. Then there were the nasties, the Mickey's, Private Stock, Olde English 800 and of course St. Ides. The was a new player in this game of champions, Steele Reserve High Gravity malt liquor. The W and I had tasted this fine elixer only one time previous. While it was not terrible, I wouldn't ask for it by choice.
Then low and behold, on the next shelf up, we noticed a brown bottle wrapped in plain brown paper. The label read, "liquor du malt....hand made" It was a French forty! Jumping Jehosephat! We had struck the motherlode. The angels were singing and we were rejoicing in the aisles until we spied the demon, himself, the $7.99 price tag. What in the blue blazes could this mean? Surely this was some sort of mistake, a cosmic joke perhaps. No forty ounce bottle of malt lick-ruh should cost $8.00. We shut the cooler door with such a profound sense of sadness, it felt as though it was the last night of summer vacation. The W's eyes lost some luster and though I had yet to open my melon wine, I knew it would be a little less sweet.
We hemmed and hawed and harumphed around the store several times, each time stopping to marvel at the brown behemoth in the case of beers of ill repute. "I'm not going to spend $7.99 on a forty. I will not, and I won't." W bellowed. "But what if it is the best forty ever W? What then? My question did not fall on deaf ears as the W's hands found cover in his, "thinkin' whiskers." "The whole reason I wanted to drink forties was to avoid a big ticket night!" His face was beginning to grow crimson in hue and his eyes wide in consternation. It would not be long before he left with something as ill-advised as a twelve pack of, (shudder) Icehouse.
"W, please, you're being unreasonable. We're men of the world, what is $8.00 when a fine beverage could possibly be discovered?" He looked at me as though I had several heads, some of them with forked tongues. "Well what if the fucking beer tastes like skunk teats? What then my fine friend? What say you?" For the first time in a very long time I was at a loss for words. "In that case W, I am not sure, I guess then in that case we'll have made a very costly error." Me, James, me. Let us not forget I am the one putting forth 8 of my hard-earned American dollars for something that could be less than swill derelicts on the street.
At this point one of the women behind the counter approached us and asked if she could be of any assistance. We asked if anyone had purchased this incredibly over-priced libation and what their feelings on it were. Unfortunately, no one had the temerity to try said beverage and therefore we were out of luck. The counter maiden pulled the bottle from the cooler and read it to us as though we were babes in the wilderness with only our beauty and naivete to protect us, " says here it's hand made." W scoffed and looked at me as though he could not believe she had tried to dupe us with a read of the label. As W laughed, I mentioned, "I make a lot of things with my hands, but I don't think I'd like to drink any of them." This only made W laugh even harder and though the serving girl was not a simp, the humor was wasted on her.
After such merriment had subsided, W decided to throw caution to the wind and ante up the gelt for the "golden forty" as it was so appropriately dubbed. We arrived fashionably late to Peter Seychelles comfortable study, where the lighting was just right, the chicken not to dry, and the $8.00 forty was DELICIOUS! The forty really did go well with the chicken, nice job W! After dinner there was singing and dancing and melon wine ran down my throat like fey returning to the forest after an evening full of mischief and enchantment. I got crunk as hell and woke up the next morning to brush my teeth and throw on a clean pair of drawers before running out to work.
Let me tell you, there ain't nothing like a 12 hour melon wine hangover....DAMN!!!
Peace on it,
Thursday, June 23, 2005
How the hell are other guys supposed to be able to compete with a stud of this magnatude? This guy is soooo bad, they gave him free medical attention! I bet they wouldn't do that shit for Bono or Brad Pitt.
In other news...
It's a hella nice day and I am going to try and muster up the strength to get some yard work done and then if I am lucky, maybe sit around and ice the foot, while reading a book or two.
Hope you all are well.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
In other news...
I believe I am finally making the jump to high-speed. This dial-up sheeyot has to go. I have been buying parts to assemble a new system that will less than suck and therefore I will finally have a computer that will not cry when I touch it anymore. This way, if I ever do get into grad school, I might be able to do the required work at home.
This post was just interrupted by a fight at 1:00 AM, EST. No arrests were made, as there was not a cop to be found for miles. Why? Cause I live in the hood and cops don't give a shit about my tax dollars. Ahh, the days of misspent youth. Staying up all night playing cards or video games, drinking, maybe pulling bong hits, maybe not. Now, people have to get all up in everyone else's shit. Everyone had to be a tough guy. Everyone has to be, "bad" or "stacked" or "down." The one man who had the shit and $4 kicked out of him more than anyone else, Rodney King, is right, "Can't we all just get along?"
apparently not. Not that this country provides any positive examples of live and let live...Fuck this, I'm going to bed.
Peace on it,
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Mrs. Butterworth is a theiving whore for charging what she does for sugar-free syrup. I thought nothing could make me hate waffles.
However, diet orange soda was on sale last week, so not all is lost.
Need sleep, delirious with fever.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
I have been up for going on about, think 36 (thirty six!?!? get that reference and I'll love you forever...) hours of not sleeping.
I am sick, like coughing up blood and still going to work cause I am needed.
and last but not least, drumroll please....
I have some big, big balls and I'm not talking about the ones you find in a gymatorium or on a playground.
I'm talking the only two prizes in the man satchel a woman can come up with when she enters my crotch lottery.
and now for the hour drive to my parental units house for Italian food and the trip over the boarder to CT so we can all have enough room for a rousing game of kickball.
Friday, June 17, 2005
I was not feeling well this morning. I was not myself. Even after I fired up the F1 to take a short drive to relax before work, something was still not right. The cd player in my car has been broken for several weeks now and I was stuck with pre-drive time bullshit until I was so annoyed, I punched the dash and the radio fell dead.
I noticed the tension in my jaw and shoulders and neck and mentally tried to relax. I wanted to swim, no I wanted to float on my back in a pool and look into an azure sea of whispy clouds and think about nothing. I wanted to concentrate on my own breathing and my pulse and the rhythm of my heart. I wanted to fade away into obscurity.
However, my team was waiting for me. I pulled in, grimmaced as the first few steps were a challenge and then walked on to the unit as best as I could. I didn't want the pity and the sympathy and all the rest of it. I thanked staff for their well-wishes and prayers, and then took my place behind the desk and read reports from the previous night. Much like my night, J Unit was quiet but unsettled. My fellow agents walked on egg-shells around me all day and I think that annoyed me more than anything.
It was as if I was either a child or someone sold incapable of anything they were afraid to tell me so. My hands grew tired from typing and I longed to go on rounds between J & H. No such luck. Of course as I was filling out final reports of the day, the Legion of Doom came over from headquearters, "just to check up on things..." Who the fuck were they kidding, they were trying to see what they could find wrong while I was all busted up and yet, still in charge.
The unit was in perfect condition and it annoyed them. I am good to my people and in return, they are good to me. I'm able to delegate responsibility like few others I work with and the Legion of Doom was trying deperately to find something wrong. When LR came at me with, "there's no tag on that fire extinguisher, I told her, "I'll get right on that" and then continued with the shift reports.
2nd Watch was late and I was anxious to hand over the keys to the gun cage and get the fuck out of dodge, but like Navy Seals, "no one gets left behind" and so my team waited for Count Stroke-ula to show up so we could all walk (I hobbled) out together. There are worse things.
Now, it's the weekend for the rest of the world, Monday night for me, and I'm more fucking confused than ever about the way the world works and other such enigmas.
But that's a story possibly for another time, maybe not.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
I can't say I'm completely surprised. It's a tough game and I'm not getting any younger. My body needs a little more rest than it used to, a few less beers and cheeseburgers, a little more, "Camp Naughty-Naughty Sex" and a yearly vacation to someplace warm and quiet.
I'm grateful I won't need surgery, however the road of therapy Im on is a journey of ten thousand miles, and to be completely honest, each fucking step is agony.
I called work to let them know the deal. I can go back to work whenever. I will be placed on, "administrative duty" until further notice, which basically means filling out paperwork and keeping the gun cage clean for the real heros. Sometimes you just can't win. I feel like a fucking jerk for wanting a little consoling but, having my world tipped upside down while trying to do my fellow man a good turn, really fucking sucks.
No matter what though, I will alwayz be able to look into my sunshine and lose my self in the daze.
Finally being up and mobile after two days was kind of nice. I was happy to see that other than minor aches and pains, everything else besides the foot of doom, was in working order. I cleaned up as best I could and dressed at a snail's pace. When I finally made it downstairs, I was hungry enough to eat sawdust, so I took the necessary meds and hobbled out the door. For a split second I thought I was going to tumble down the stairs as the good leg whispered it was considering, "going on strike." I thanked it and reassured it that it would be well rewarded for its' consistent, excellent performance.
I drove to the new breakfast spot, Karen's Kitchen™ and managed to make it all the way from the car to the counter without the aid of my cane. I know it's stupid, but at just over thirty, I feel somewhat like an asshole using ambulatory devices. At least with a pair of crutches I can claim, bar-fight or motorcycle accident. Cane implies something more like, "I'm so fucking stupid, I stepped on a dirt-rake, barefoot." Besides, my story, although different, is not much more interesting.
I had my usual and I must say the toast was especially good today. I think its' buttery-ness made up for most of the burnt-shit-rocks, Karen tried to pass off as home fries. The food is always good but the home fries are constantly hit or miss. Even with the slightly better than average food, I go there for the ambiance and the cast of characters who work the place. "The Kitchen" as I will refer to it from now on, is located in a quiet suburb, north of the capitol. It's mostly retirees and tradesman who frequent the kitchen for breakfast. The kitchen is open at 5 am, so those who have a ton on their, "to do" list can have a good meal and then, " git-R-done." before the sun goes down.
I sat down at the counter around nine o' clock. I was greeted with coffee and a warm hello. There is no messing around, you either know what you want to order or you're gonna wait. The staff is very good, but patience is not their strong suit. I woke up with the greasy-spoon coffee as I read the Journal. Apparently, state senate has decided to drop the bill on brothels / prostitution being run as massage parlors here. Local law enforcement officials only feel this will create more problems as current laws regarding prostitution punish street walkers and pimps, not the males soliciting. Law enforcement has petitioned the senate for help so that Rhode Island will not be considered, "even more of a joke and the prostitution capitol of the Northeast."
While enjoying my coffee, paper and western omelette, I picked up on another conversation at the counter. A guy dressed in cover-alls, who I refer to as, "The Super" and a woman, dressed as though she could give two-shits, who I call, "crazy" were talking about various ailments and maladies. I couldn't help but overhear all of the aches & pains and was reminded of the train wreck connected to my right ankle. I was in mid-chew of my second bite of omelette, when I heard this gem, "the summers I had off because of surgery, were some of the happiest of my life."
I had to pinch myself to make sure I was not dreaming. I knew I was not in a pain-killer induced hallucination, because I stopped taking them but, "are you fucking kidding me?" Who thinks like that?! I know some crazy people, into some crazy stuff but that just takes the cake. I wrote down the quote to make sure I wouldn't forget it, finished my breakfast and went on with the daily errands. I ended up going to Target™ to buy some new socks, as my others are now soaked in crimson courage. I'm cool but Curt Schilling, I ain't. I figured since I was in the plaza, I would stop into Barnes & Noble and see if I could pick up some hours at a job where people don't try to kill me.
Apparently people are still not buying books. Why would they when there are so many great things to see in theaters and watch on TV? Pfft! So, I perused the magazine section and looked for ideas for the next tattoo. Still nothing. Everything seems so cliche and the last thing I want to do is get something that reminds me or someone else of a Pabst-Blue Ribbon-swilling, frat boy. I guess I am just going to have to wait for some divine inspiration. Any suggestions?
Finally, now that I have decided on grad school, and making journalism my focus, the only thing left to do is figure out how I am going to pay for, get it, and still be able to work full-time while doing so...any suggestions? Fuck creative writing, I do enough of that every day and the last thing I want to do is stand in front of a class full of spoiled, apathetic, high schoolers who want nothing more than to get fucked up and go to , "rainbow parties." I used to get pissed when I was in my early twenties and older people would comment on how they weep for the future. Take a good fucking look around folks, would you want the majority of these kids in charge of anything?
I know choosing between the Real World and the O.C. is a tough choice but you'll be ok even if no one holds your hand.
ehhh....fuck this! You've been bombarded with enough of my shit today.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
What started out as a normal day, turned into a full-scale riot at the Agency and possibly ended my career as an Agent.
Things were tense on J & H units the past few days. Guests had decided to say, "Fuck that" to the whole, "do unto others" policy and the fact the mercury was hovering around 90 didn't help all that much either.
So what's a guy to do, right? He watches his back and the backs of his fellow Agents.
No matter how careful you are, evil waits to rear it's ugly head.
Several weeks ago, I awoke in a cold sweat, shaking from one of the nastiest dreams I've had since boyhood.
This really freaked me out because I don't normally remember my dreams. I was dreaming about work and about some hairy shit, (like a riot) going down...except we we're handling it.
It was a tough situation, but never at any time did Agents lose control. One of the nastiest residents I've seen in my career with the Agency, decided to take advantage of the chaos,
and attack a co-worker with her back turned. Without thinking I ran to intercept and take said resident down or out, whatever was necessary. As I was running to do so, bits and pieces
of my dream started coming back to me and frantically I tried to anticipate what was coming next.
Without thinking I locked the resident down in a hold that stopped the attack. There was too much stimuli and for a moment I had a glimpse of what it must be like to be autistic, and then there was an explosion and there was a brilliant white light in my eyes.
It felt as though Jason Varitek had taken a bat to my head and that someone else jabbed a railroad spike through my foot all at the same time.
My body accordioned and I hit the floor like I was born without a skeleton. Almost instantaneously I heard the same evil cackle from my dreams.
I saw the malevolent grin and eyes that embodied the absence of love.
I knew I was hurt bad and that I needed to move if I wanted to come out alive. Trying to shake out the cobwebs was almost impossible. I realized I had managed to save my co-worker
but in the process, taken one for the team, so to speak. Special Operations arrived after what seemed like 100 years and managed to lay the smack down on the riot scene. I writhed in pain and rolled from side to side,
not wanting to look at my foot and unable to lift my head.
I knew I was hurt by the looks on the faces of my coworkers.
I knew I was hurt by the amount of pain I was in, and yet oddly enough still conscious.
It was the kind of pain that made me want to cry for my mother and Jesus at the same time.
the kind of pain that made me want to saw off my foot and hobble around on a stump for the rest of my days.
the kind of pain that made my eyes want to roll into the back of my head and never come out.
the kind of pain that made me never want to sing, dance, smile, walk, make love or play rugby ever again.
It was the kind of pain they wanted to call the ambulance for. Looking back I probably should have taken a ride in the bus,
but making it to where I needed to go on my own steam, was reassurance enough to me that I was okay.
X-Rays all came back negative on my head. No fracture, no concussion, no nothing. It was hard to believe, but there is something to be said for the power of, "divine intervention."
My foot on the other hand was a different story. It was bad. There was nerve damage, a lot of nerve damage. Enough so that I may never again feel the summer grass under my feet or the cool waters of the Atlantic on my toes.
Enough so that I may have to look to make sure I have decent footing when getting up or walking on non-level terrain. Enough so that I need to start rehab as soon as possible so that my foot doesn't, "forget how to do it's thing."
and so I sit here, with my foot elevated almost as high as I am on some awesome pain medication. The RIPTA bus that tried to pull a drive-by on me has since been medicated away, and my other injuries may or may not improve with time.
So I have to thank the man upstairs for the head's up, thank my fellow co-workers for pulling me out of harm's way, and pray like a child-killer on death row, I make a full recovery.
I hope you all are well.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
The past week has been hotter n' two sheep, dry fuckin' in Death Valley. Weather man offers no signs of reliefe other than Thunderstorms, which by the way, make one Jackass, hornier than a forty-dicked billy goat. I don't mind the summer storms, as long as they serve a purpose. Torrential rains and thunder and lightning and the rest of all that biblical shit are great. However, if in the long run the temperature does not noticably change for the better, who gives a rat's ass?
Moving right along...
Fuck Michael Jackson, and the deal he obviously made with the devil! I'm not one to be hating on a brother in America, not that MJ has been black for 20 years but that's another story. I am also not gonna hate on a guy, who for all intensive purposes is pop music royalty. I will not discredit his phenomenal dancing ability, his ability to sing some of the coolest jams in history, I will even give him props for coming out with a song/video (Scream) that made a guy who is whiter than a snowball's ass, wanna try and dance....
But making Mac Culkin drink the kool-ade and having booze freely available to young kids. As Chris Rock says, "That ain't right!" Taking naps with children as a 40+ year old man, there is something sketchy about that as well. Now, I know the credibility of the kids & parents is in questions, but I don't think they could all be wt scumbags, looking to snatch some crumbs from his Majesty's table. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think so.
I am a firm believer there is a good portion of truth to every lie. In that respect, I hope MJ can atone with whoever it is that presides over all of this. If not, then I suggest stocking up on freeze pops and flashlight batteries...
Cause as the wise, old, sage DMX says, "It's dark and Hell is hot!"
Thursday, June 09, 2005
It’s so fucking hot here it should be criminal. The temperature has not even hit ninety degrees yet, and already I am ready to put a gun in my mouth. I have neither an air conditioner, nor the $$$ to run one. Thanks four-year degree and student loans!!!
In other news…
I sometimes fall victim to random cases of, “I Don’t Give a Fuck.” This should be obvious since it’s been a while since I posted. That is all I am gonna say about that. No apologies, no explanation, no nothing.
Things at the Agency have been less than pleasant and I have been working hours reminiscent to those of some poor asshole, picking cabbage for three cents an hour, except I don’t get to ride to work in the back of a truck with mis amigos. Second shift agents have been getting on my fucking nerves. I am all for switching every now and again if something comes up, but they need to realize that second shift means working at night. It doesn’t mean, “Oh there is something cool going on tonight, so I’m gonna fucking call out of work and fuck someone in the ass, so that they get forced into working.”
In the past two weeks besides getting hit from behind, I have worked more doubles than I would care to talk about. I wouldn’t mind so much if I got paid overtime, however seeing as how I work for the cheapest Agency on Earth, that’s just not gonna happen.
Two days ago I decided to see if I still had the ability to kick the shit out of my backyard. “The Tenants of Doom” had finally moved out and the yards, front & back were in need of some help. I busted out the lawn mower, trimmer and the petrol and prepared to do battle. After several hours and the onset of what was to become some severe dehydration, I was victorious. It was a good feeling, but the yard was quick to remind me I was not in my twenties anymore. That maybe little more time on the treadmill and a little less late-night Taco Bell would be a good idea. At any rate, I still kicked the shit out of the yard. “Take that you over grown bitch!’’
Have I mentioned the heat? It’s hotter than two sheep fucking in Death Valley…and I’m not even kidding. I have been drinking water and pedialyte, like it’s my fucking job. Curse my low tolerance for dehydration. What’s worse is that there really was no acclimation time to adjust to the change in temperature this year. One week it was thirty, the next it was eighty-five. I stopped by work today to drop off some supplies for the other Agents, one of whom is from Mexico. We were outside on a, “break” and commenting on the weather. She was telling me that she didn’t think the days heat and humidity were all that bad. A rather “quick-witted” Agent from H-unit, asked where it was she was from that she didn’t think it was all that hot.
La Bruja: I’m from Mexico.
Dumb Dude: Yeah, things are different down there in the islands.
Jackass Jimmy: Biting tongue to keep from crying laughing
La Bruja: Eyes wide like $2 frisbees, yeah, they are.
Jackass Jimmy: excuse me La Bruja, did you have to take a boat when you sailed to the New World?
Dumb Dude: Completely oblivious.
La Bruja: Laughing her ass off.
Dumb Dude: Not to sure what’s going on…Uh I’m going back on H-Unit now, take it easy.
And people wonder why the fuck I get so angry all the time?!?!?!
Friday, June 03, 2005
What the fuck am I driving The Concorde?! I’m a large man in a small car. I doubt I was going to be breaking any land speed records. Not to mention, I WAS REAR ENDED! So, after 3 hours in the ER and countless x-rays, it was decided there was nothing wrong with me. I was grateful there was nothing wrong with me, nor the other persons involved, but I’m sure, I just blew a whole bunch of money on my car insurance.
I need to go and pick up the police report and then call my insurance company. Dumbski’s insurance company has already called but it’s not like I am stupid enough to pick up the phone today. I wish the doc could have given me something stronger than a prescription for the equivalent of Aleve. The whopping one day out of work was a nice treat too. Did I mention I usually have to engage in hand-to-hand combat on a daily basis?
Seriously, there are nothing but savages in this town. The cops were trying to tell me that the genius that hit me was going too fast. I think my bumper might say otherwise. My car is still drive-able and I am thankful for that. The guy was driving an old pick-up truck and if they try to tell me that shit was totaled, it’s gonna be on.
So today I get to blog, get some more rest and maybe get some more cleaning done. I’m not going to push it though. After all, I am supposed to be injured.
I hope you all are well.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
I love getting frozen into double shifts @ the Agency.
Lately life has been treating me like a fire hydrant. There are few things worse than getting forced into working double shifts, especially after you have had a rough first shift and have been involved in several altercations, scuffles, whathaveyou with some of the Agencies most notorious residents. Yeah, those are the kinds of things that just want you to go home, take a cold shower and drink an even colder beer. However, when some of the lackluster talent you work with decide to be complete stumphumpers and call out of work cause, "it's a nice day." or "I just don't feel like it today." that shit makes me want to scream loud enough to induce a seizure or make my head explode. Whatever gets the job done.
Yeah, so due to twice the bullshit at work on Monday, (not a holiday for me) I got to go home, completely burnt out, smelling like a fucking wild animal and exhausted. Though all was not lost, I was able to relax somewhat this weekend. I went to the surprise birthday party of a friend of mine, where the people relaxed in the easy breeze of conversation, I took the world championship of Smiley Ball and the air was just right for drinking. Good times were had by all. Most of us enjoyed the Red Sox kicking the shit and $4 out of the Yankees in the Bronx, others were simply happy to sit and eat chocolate until diabetic comas were almost inevitable.
I got to see a few people I had not seen in a long time, as well as meet some new little friends into two of my favorite things, playing ball & video games. Seeing Tommy 5 was a nice surprise as he usually has some interesting and humorous talking points. He scored quote of the night, while speaking on some of the attributes of the, "pillars of society" when he said, "Trash knows no color." Truer words could never be spoken. I was happy to see Tom doing well and enjoying a new living arrangement. He was curious as to why I had not moved to the sunshine state yet. I told him of my troubles with the recent Floridian hurricane nastiness and how my house was sold out from under me. We both laughed and had another drink.
In addition to meeting new and interesting people ,I learned about a great new game! There is a strong chance The Boom and I may have to break out our uniforms, even though Canadian players, uniforms, etc... are neither sanctioned nor recognized by the USPBBA. Can't win em' all I guess. Still, tossing some empty beers around be it overhand or underhand with a bunch of guys who love pro sports and bacon as much as you do, has to be a good time. We shall see.
Today, is domestic Wednesday. I have a mountain of yardwork, housework and bathroom cleaning to do today. I may as well just strap on the apron and orthopedic shoes, cause I am Suzie Sanitation today. I'm also in the hunt for a new breakfast place, so if there are any of you mothertruckers reading this in the 401 area, I would appreciate some help. Other then that I hope you are all recovered from various and sundry Memorial weekend driving, hangovers, and partying. Remember the Pedialyte and nothing can go wrong,