It's just that I've been somewhat busy and somewhat caught up in the mellowdrama that is everyday life.
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?
Be well,
JJ
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Friday, June 24, 2005
Masterpeice Theatre Presents...
It was a Friday night like many before it and the air was just right for drinking. "The W" had called me earlier in the evening to see if I would be up for some tomfoolery. I mentioned I was always down for a visit with Tom but that we did need to remember that I now worked obscenely early on Saturday morning. W, laughed and told me I would be home in plenty of time for mummy to tuck me in for my required 40 winks.
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,
JJ
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,
JJ
Thursday, June 23, 2005
You win dude, you win.
Tell me tribeswomen's panties are not getting moist just thinking about this guy!
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.
Cheers,
JJ
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.
Cheers,
JJ
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
What's Awesome about...
my day off tomorrow is that at 7:00 AM, I have to be in work for a, "required training." Once I have that done, I get to leave and go on with my day. I then get to go back from 3-4PM for a, "mandatory meeting." So all in all, my day off is far from mine.
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,
JJ
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,
JJ
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Ebola
I haven't been this sick in a long, long time. Like spring of 86 sick. If I said I was not afraid of dying in my sleep tonight, I'd be lying.
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.
Be well,
JJ
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.
Be well,
JJ
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Great freaking honkus!!!
I AM A STUD!!!!
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.
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
Friday
I slept like shit last night. I woke up what seems like every 20 minutes or so and I may or may not be sure I know the reason why. When the alarm went off this morning, the last thing I wanted was rehab but I did it. To be honest, the ice and the stretching and the shower all helped a great deal, but so did the overwhelming sense of obligation, to myself and to my team.
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.
Cheers,
JJ
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.
Cheers,
JJ
All I want...
is a dark room, a cold case of orange soda, a cool, comfortable place to lay down and the Garden State soundtrack on repeat.
and the hits just keep on coming,
JJ
and the hits just keep on coming,
JJ
Thursday, June 16, 2005
It's Official...
my days of playing rugby are over.
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.
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.
Going to the Doc...
In about an hour and a half. Time to wash the ass, junk and foot of doom. Update @ 5.
A Nice Hot Plate Full of WTF?!?!
I managed to muster up enough strength and coherence this morning to get my doped-up, ass out of bed. The bleeding has stopped but the pain...oh the sweet, sweet pain, still lingers like the fart you tried to sneak on the first date, while Jane was, "freshening up."
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.
Be Well,
JJ
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.
Be Well,
JJ
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Jackass Battles the Terror
I'm not saying I'm one in support of the validity of premonitions, but it went down today in ways I wish I had never seen coming.
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.
Cheers,
JJ
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.
Cheers,
JJ
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Just like I hate...
The New York Yankees for buying championship after championship, I also hate the people at Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream for buying up the rights to Summer. Seems as though the old B&J people decide when and how hot summer is going to be. I mean y'all know me. I'm not one to bitch, (yeah, right!) but up until about a week ago, it was rainy and 40 below zero.
Now...
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!"
Stay Cool,
JJ
Now...
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!"
Stay Cool,
JJ
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Geographic Stupidity...
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.
Us: Buh-bye.
And people wonder why the fuck I get so angry all the time?!?!?!
Friday, June 03, 2005
Good Guy Finishes last...
I did the good thing and stayed home from a night of drinking and attending the gentlemen's club. I decide to do the right thing and stay home and try and comfort a good friend who lost a close relative and what thanks do I get? A fucking car accident and a trip to the hospital, thank you very much. Some asshole decided it would be a great idea to rear-end me and then try to tell the cops it was my fault because I backed out of my driveway at just under 300 miles per hour.
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.
WTF…
I hope you all are well.
Cheers,
JJ
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.
WTF…
I hope you all are well.
Cheers,
JJ
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Get away from me dog...
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,
Cheers,
JJ
Friday, May 27, 2005
Case of the Mondays...
It sucks when Friday is your Monday. The rest of the world is rejoicing in their upcoming lack of responsibility, excited about a night on the town, drinking and perhaps some hot sex and the semi-orgasmic thought of not having to wake up to the alarm come Saturday morning. I remember those days well and for those of you still living in that world, bravo, I applaud you.
Minor fuck up yesterday and today at the Agency. Seeing as how I was off yesterday and was fortunate enough to have enough over time to be able to be late this AM, it's not my ass on the chopping block. Apparently people don't think leaving the gun cage open to be a big concern. I would venture to guess I would feel the same, except I never forget the type of people that are guests of the Agency. All good people mind you, but most would kill you just to watch you die. Anywho, things were rectified right quick and of course there were memorandums to be signed and there will be meetings and trainings in the near future. *Sigh*
A guest decided to test the waters this morning and see if agents were on their toes. Something about a good struggle, mano a mano first thing in the morning that really gets the heart pumping. Fortunately, I was not alone in the main area of J-Unit, and things went down pretty smoothly. I got to go home with all body parts undamaged and another dollar in my pocket. The world is a good place.
Seeing as how it is Friday, and I am not galavanting off to Tahiti, Miami, Cabo or Manhattan, there is little reason to rejoice. However I can take small pleasures in the little things. Little things like spending money on things I shouldn't, things like the first season of Scrubs.
I watched two episodes tonight and managed to already have my fill of laughs, so although it was $38 and change, it seems to be money well spent.
It's way past my bedtime and for all intensive purposes, I am fucked as they say in the business. Not only am I going to work tomorrow but I have a function as soon as I get out of work, that should be about as much fun as an insurance seminar...
Hopefully I will be able to stay awake.
I hope you are all well.
Cheers,
JJ
Minor fuck up yesterday and today at the Agency. Seeing as how I was off yesterday and was fortunate enough to have enough over time to be able to be late this AM, it's not my ass on the chopping block. Apparently people don't think leaving the gun cage open to be a big concern. I would venture to guess I would feel the same, except I never forget the type of people that are guests of the Agency. All good people mind you, but most would kill you just to watch you die. Anywho, things were rectified right quick and of course there were memorandums to be signed and there will be meetings and trainings in the near future. *Sigh*
A guest decided to test the waters this morning and see if agents were on their toes. Something about a good struggle, mano a mano first thing in the morning that really gets the heart pumping. Fortunately, I was not alone in the main area of J-Unit, and things went down pretty smoothly. I got to go home with all body parts undamaged and another dollar in my pocket. The world is a good place.
Seeing as how it is Friday, and I am not galavanting off to Tahiti, Miami, Cabo or Manhattan, there is little reason to rejoice. However I can take small pleasures in the little things. Little things like spending money on things I shouldn't, things like the first season of Scrubs.
I watched two episodes tonight and managed to already have my fill of laughs, so although it was $38 and change, it seems to be money well spent.
It's way past my bedtime and for all intensive purposes, I am fucked as they say in the business. Not only am I going to work tomorrow but I have a function as soon as I get out of work, that should be about as much fun as an insurance seminar...
Hopefully I will be able to stay awake.
I hope you are all well.
Cheers,
JJ
Grind my teeth...
It's nights like this one, where I have to be up in three hours or so, that cause me to worry about shit that you can't fix from the confines of you bed, recliner, futon or whathaveyou. The nights where I lay awake and wonder if it will be alright.
If I am doing what I should be doing with my life? If I have irrevocably fucked things up and this is the best I can hope for. It's not that I feel this impending sense of doom, but the fact I'm surrounded by tons of negative shit, just make it hard for me to focus on the good things in life. That and the fact I can't remember the last time I saw the sun. Not to mention, I am one pasty, celtic boy in need of a burn.
I lay here and debate over diet slice or diet stop & shop orange. While sirens of all types bookmark the night with their vicious lullabyes. I know I spelled that wrong and I like it.
I lay here and debate why I think At The Drive In is so much better than The Mars Volta, as drafts from the outside world fake out and spin manuever my siding, insulation and tickle the bottoms of my exposed toes.
I lay here and think about whether or not I need grad school, whether or not I want grad school, & whether or not I could get into grad school. As voices of teachers past tell me how lazy and stupid I am, with a learning disability that went undiagnosed for the better part of my scholastic life.
I lay here and think that Take This To Your Grave, by Fall Out Boy is one of the best cds to come around in a long time and I don't give a shit what anybody thinks. I can enjoy whatever I want.
I lay here and wonder how long its going to take for the asshole in the essyouvee outside to go deaf from their car stereo, so loud, the base rattles my house.
I worry that once I get my shit together and move from this place where I have grown up, that I will move to where I think I want to be, with those I want to be with and for lack of anything else to do, they will feel the need to exercise the same type of wanderlust I did. I fear being alone. I fear failure. I fear republicans holding office forever.
However, none of these are things a good cd and and afternoon with a puppy couldn't fix.
If I am doing what I should be doing with my life? If I have irrevocably fucked things up and this is the best I can hope for. It's not that I feel this impending sense of doom, but the fact I'm surrounded by tons of negative shit, just make it hard for me to focus on the good things in life. That and the fact I can't remember the last time I saw the sun. Not to mention, I am one pasty, celtic boy in need of a burn.
I lay here and debate over diet slice or diet stop & shop orange. While sirens of all types bookmark the night with their vicious lullabyes. I know I spelled that wrong and I like it.
I lay here and debate why I think At The Drive In is so much better than The Mars Volta, as drafts from the outside world fake out and spin manuever my siding, insulation and tickle the bottoms of my exposed toes.
I lay here and think about whether or not I need grad school, whether or not I want grad school, & whether or not I could get into grad school. As voices of teachers past tell me how lazy and stupid I am, with a learning disability that went undiagnosed for the better part of my scholastic life.
I lay here and think that Take This To Your Grave, by Fall Out Boy is one of the best cds to come around in a long time and I don't give a shit what anybody thinks. I can enjoy whatever I want.
I lay here and wonder how long its going to take for the asshole in the essyouvee outside to go deaf from their car stereo, so loud, the base rattles my house.
I worry that once I get my shit together and move from this place where I have grown up, that I will move to where I think I want to be, with those I want to be with and for lack of anything else to do, they will feel the need to exercise the same type of wanderlust I did. I fear being alone. I fear failure. I fear republicans holding office forever.
However, none of these are things a good cd and and afternoon with a puppy couldn't fix.
Minds in the Gutter...
When my phone rings at midnight or later, it can only be a select few people. Most everyone I know is under the impression I will royally fuck them up if my beauty rest is disturbed. However, the chosen also know if my phone rings after the aforementioned time, and they have a good story to tell, then all is forgiven.
Tonight when the phone rang at 12:30 in the am, I had been asleep for approximately 14 minutes. My hair still somewhat damp and fruit-scented from my evening shower. My eyes popped open on the second ring, and then 3...4...CUE ANSWERING MACHINE:
ANSWERING MACHINE GO: Hey Jimmy, it's your buddy T. Sex, from college, just calling to see how you are and regale you with some tales and hahas from my recent adventures or lack thereof. Seems to be you are not at home, maybe you're out living that life we always dreamed with $$$, power and gameshow hostesses. If you think of it when you get in, give me a call back or I will try you again next month.
Seriously, that was the message almost verbatim. At this time of the night, on as little sleep as I am running on, I can't even make that shit up.
It lay in bed chuckling to myself, replaying the message in my head, laughing harder cause even though it sounded like T. Sex was suicidal, I know it's just the tone and cadence of his speech that elicits this thought from people. The fact that I know the kid to be a certified genius and yet still have spent time in a drunk tank, makes the story that much better. I debated and then debated more. Five minutes later, I picked up my cell phone and speed dialed one of the only people from college, I still keep in contact with.
Just as I thought, T. was home and picked up the phone like he was surprised it rang. We updated each other on the small and somewhat significant peccadilloes that make our worlds spin and after awhile we decided to drop what we thought would be the bomb to break the camels back. It's a time-tested ritual which usually has both of us in fits of laughter on our respective floors. I thought I had tonight's contest locked up after I spun my yard about drinking 10 Heart Attacks, (Heart Attack ='s stoli razz, splash of cranberry and can of redbull)
and then trying to flirt with anything not nailed down.
I would have been correct in thinking I had victory until T. whipped out a little ditty about Randy Random.
Apparently my good friend, Mr. Sex, had finally finished doing renovation on his first house. After completing the arduous task, he decided to have a rager to celebrate. Friends were invited and people came. There was music, merriment and of course adult beverages. Some mutual college friends came and one friend brought the friend of a friend who shall be know here after as Randy Random or RR for short.
As one might have guessed by this point, RR's social skills were not the best and maybe stopped developing at the age of 15. He was heard to have said things like, "I like that new Star Wars movie, cause I can really identify with it." "I don't think my leg makes a very good guitar." and "beer is like deer...except with a D." Needless to say, most quests found RR's attempt to connect with society somewhat ill-fated, and so without much dialogue with the rest of the world, RR drank...and...drank...and Drank...and..DRANK.
Later on in the evening, when things had quieted down some, people noticed RR was missing. Seeing as how there was no booze left, it was a good thing. Friends shook hands and said their good-byes. Mr. Sex turned off lights & went to bed. Upon beginning his evening washroom routine, Mr. Sex found one RR, passed-out, naked, with head hanging in toilet bowl, and an empty bottle of mouthwash next to the sink.
10 minutes and one 911 call later. Nudie McDrunkenstein was on his way to the hospital, and ultimately detox.
Only if I had fucked a mule and punched a cop out, could I have beaten that story.
Sometimes I really am not as cool as I think I am.
I hope you all are well,
JJ
Tonight when the phone rang at 12:30 in the am, I had been asleep for approximately 14 minutes. My hair still somewhat damp and fruit-scented from my evening shower. My eyes popped open on the second ring, and then 3...4...CUE ANSWERING MACHINE:
ANSWERING MACHINE GO: Hey Jimmy, it's your buddy T. Sex, from college, just calling to see how you are and regale you with some tales and hahas from my recent adventures or lack thereof. Seems to be you are not at home, maybe you're out living that life we always dreamed with $$$, power and gameshow hostesses. If you think of it when you get in, give me a call back or I will try you again next month.
Seriously, that was the message almost verbatim. At this time of the night, on as little sleep as I am running on, I can't even make that shit up.
It lay in bed chuckling to myself, replaying the message in my head, laughing harder cause even though it sounded like T. Sex was suicidal, I know it's just the tone and cadence of his speech that elicits this thought from people. The fact that I know the kid to be a certified genius and yet still have spent time in a drunk tank, makes the story that much better. I debated and then debated more. Five minutes later, I picked up my cell phone and speed dialed one of the only people from college, I still keep in contact with.
Just as I thought, T. was home and picked up the phone like he was surprised it rang. We updated each other on the small and somewhat significant peccadilloes that make our worlds spin and after awhile we decided to drop what we thought would be the bomb to break the camels back. It's a time-tested ritual which usually has both of us in fits of laughter on our respective floors. I thought I had tonight's contest locked up after I spun my yard about drinking 10 Heart Attacks, (Heart Attack ='s stoli razz, splash of cranberry and can of redbull)
and then trying to flirt with anything not nailed down.
I would have been correct in thinking I had victory until T. whipped out a little ditty about Randy Random.
Apparently my good friend, Mr. Sex, had finally finished doing renovation on his first house. After completing the arduous task, he decided to have a rager to celebrate. Friends were invited and people came. There was music, merriment and of course adult beverages. Some mutual college friends came and one friend brought the friend of a friend who shall be know here after as Randy Random or RR for short.
As one might have guessed by this point, RR's social skills were not the best and maybe stopped developing at the age of 15. He was heard to have said things like, "I like that new Star Wars movie, cause I can really identify with it." "I don't think my leg makes a very good guitar." and "beer is like deer...except with a D." Needless to say, most quests found RR's attempt to connect with society somewhat ill-fated, and so without much dialogue with the rest of the world, RR drank...and...drank...and Drank...and..DRANK.
Later on in the evening, when things had quieted down some, people noticed RR was missing. Seeing as how there was no booze left, it was a good thing. Friends shook hands and said their good-byes. Mr. Sex turned off lights & went to bed. Upon beginning his evening washroom routine, Mr. Sex found one RR, passed-out, naked, with head hanging in toilet bowl, and an empty bottle of mouthwash next to the sink.
10 minutes and one 911 call later. Nudie McDrunkenstein was on his way to the hospital, and ultimately detox.
Only if I had fucked a mule and punched a cop out, could I have beaten that story.
Sometimes I really am not as cool as I think I am.
I hope you all are well,
JJ
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
I work with assholes...
but who doesn't? That's all I'm gonna say about that.
Yeah so on Monday, I left my really swell job at the Agency, on time even and proceeded to drive away and leave thoughts of getting stabbed, assaulted, raped, struck by urine/excrement & a whole bunch of other nasty shit behind. The F1 was primed and ready to do some serious summer driving. However since the sun has not shown its face since Paleolithic cave paintings were the "in thing" that was not going to happen.
As far as I am concerned, the Sun is fucking fired. I have been talking to friends on both coasts and in that weird place known as the midwest and not a one has seen the sun in what seems like 200 years.
Even though I don't do well in the hotter weather, I would like to remember what hot feels like.
Oh yeah, back to my story. So instead of driving all over God's green Earth, in the hopes of unwinding before going home to pay bills and read jumk mail, I decided to go and get a Vanilla Bean Coffee Coolatta. It's no secret this fat kid is addicted to Dunkin Donuts. I think I was a cop in a former life, that would explain why I am burning off a ton of bad karma in this one. Anywho...the line both inside the store and in the drive through was longer than Wilt Chamberlain's hog.
"What the fuck?!" escaped some severly clenched and grinding teeth. I don't think it too much to ask that when a guy gets out of work, he can go and get a tasty beverage without the hassle of having to wait in historically amazing lines. I passed on the Dunk and kept on driving. I stopped about 50 yards later at the home of the dirtiest/shittiest used cd store ever, Musik Magik.
I know its not supposed to be spelled that way, but the creton that runs the place likes to appeal to all cliques and doesn't want to exclude our goth friends or kids who think they want to be sorcerers or enchantresses when they grow up.
So I walk in and of course there are just 3 foot stacks of shit all over the place: vhs tapes, cassette tapes, original nintendo cartridges and just shit that not even Wilhelmina H. Packrat is going to give a fiddeler's fart about. I cut to the chase and went straight to the shelves on the wall in hopes of finding something to entertain me. I looked through everything at least once and was stunned there were so many bands that I had never heard of. I mean there were fucking row after row of shit I couldn't even dream of. I was starting to feel like I was going to get skunked on the cd scene to until I found, "Take Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday" by Creeper Lagoon.
I know, I know it's obscure and you have no idea who they are but I dig em and it was a gem of a find for $6.00. I was in the process of searching for maybe one or two other discs but of course my funtime was cut short cause I was hit with an unexpected case of bungsoon. For those not in the know, bungsoon means I had to pay for my disc and leave immediately if not sooner, otherwise there was going to be a huge shitstorm in my pants.
I brought my treasure to the counter and now John Q. Sample, with the huge fucking head, is going to try and small talk the shit right out of me.
I was starting to sweat but a gentleman always keeps his cool even under pressure. I mean what the fuck right? I have people try to kill me on a daily basis, buying a cd from a really nice, stupid guy without shitting my pants should be no problem.
"I've never heard of this band are they any good?" he asks with a glint of the Devil in his eye. "They're a really obscure indie band that never took off but I really dig them" I say having to do a massive ass clench to stop shit-hose #1 from painting the back wall of the store.
I'm losing my patience and Herman's Head looks like he's sad there is a $6.00 sticker on it. He looks like he wants the sticker to read $18.99 like this was Strawberries or Sam Goodie or some other fucking corporate evil. He seems like he is going to pull some fucking asshole move like, "you can only buy this if you also buy Trixter's Greatest Shits."
I am getting a charley horse in my ass cause I have been clenching so hard for so long, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to walk out of cat piss central. I give him the, "you are going to let me out of here with this cd for the sticker price or I am going shove that coleco-vision game console so far up your ass, Monty Hall is going to come out of the back room and dance a funny little jig" look.
He knows something is up and that I mean business. We do the goods for money exchange and I hobble out the door like my shoes are connected with an iron bar. He's watching me through the window, like I cheated him out of his prize marble collection. I'm tempted to give him the finger but I fear any quick motions will trigger an eruption of the anal nature.
I fire the engines on the F1 and cruise back up the street. Approaching Dunkin Donuts my stomach makes a noise somewhat akin to a goat yawn and for the time being, the pressure in my ass has been put in check.
With the precision of a nascar champ, I pull into the drive thru, order my coolatta and am back on the road in less than 2 minutes. I arrived home and was able to walk into the house before I was struck with another case of butt clench. What I forgot was when you don't eat anything with fat in it, your ass becomes a salad shooter.....fantastic.
In one matrix-like move, I was able to jump to the bathroom, whip off my droors and have a mass evac with no serious consequences other than sore ass muscles. It's always a good idea to keep some reading material on hand and I was glad I had something. Had I been better prepared, I would have left my cd player in the bathroom and been dropping some science to the sweet sounds of Creeper Lagoon.
I hope you all are well.
Cheers,
JJ
Yeah so on Monday, I left my really swell job at the Agency, on time even and proceeded to drive away and leave thoughts of getting stabbed, assaulted, raped, struck by urine/excrement & a whole bunch of other nasty shit behind. The F1 was primed and ready to do some serious summer driving. However since the sun has not shown its face since Paleolithic cave paintings were the "in thing" that was not going to happen.
As far as I am concerned, the Sun is fucking fired. I have been talking to friends on both coasts and in that weird place known as the midwest and not a one has seen the sun in what seems like 200 years.
Even though I don't do well in the hotter weather, I would like to remember what hot feels like.
Oh yeah, back to my story. So instead of driving all over God's green Earth, in the hopes of unwinding before going home to pay bills and read jumk mail, I decided to go and get a Vanilla Bean Coffee Coolatta. It's no secret this fat kid is addicted to Dunkin Donuts. I think I was a cop in a former life, that would explain why I am burning off a ton of bad karma in this one. Anywho...the line both inside the store and in the drive through was longer than Wilt Chamberlain's hog.
"What the fuck?!" escaped some severly clenched and grinding teeth. I don't think it too much to ask that when a guy gets out of work, he can go and get a tasty beverage without the hassle of having to wait in historically amazing lines. I passed on the Dunk and kept on driving. I stopped about 50 yards later at the home of the dirtiest/shittiest used cd store ever, Musik Magik.
I know its not supposed to be spelled that way, but the creton that runs the place likes to appeal to all cliques and doesn't want to exclude our goth friends or kids who think they want to be sorcerers or enchantresses when they grow up.
So I walk in and of course there are just 3 foot stacks of shit all over the place: vhs tapes, cassette tapes, original nintendo cartridges and just shit that not even Wilhelmina H. Packrat is going to give a fiddeler's fart about. I cut to the chase and went straight to the shelves on the wall in hopes of finding something to entertain me. I looked through everything at least once and was stunned there were so many bands that I had never heard of. I mean there were fucking row after row of shit I couldn't even dream of. I was starting to feel like I was going to get skunked on the cd scene to until I found, "Take Back the Universe and Give Me Yesterday" by Creeper Lagoon.
I know, I know it's obscure and you have no idea who they are but I dig em and it was a gem of a find for $6.00. I was in the process of searching for maybe one or two other discs but of course my funtime was cut short cause I was hit with an unexpected case of bungsoon. For those not in the know, bungsoon means I had to pay for my disc and leave immediately if not sooner, otherwise there was going to be a huge shitstorm in my pants.
I brought my treasure to the counter and now John Q. Sample, with the huge fucking head, is going to try and small talk the shit right out of me.
I was starting to sweat but a gentleman always keeps his cool even under pressure. I mean what the fuck right? I have people try to kill me on a daily basis, buying a cd from a really nice, stupid guy without shitting my pants should be no problem.
"I've never heard of this band are they any good?" he asks with a glint of the Devil in his eye. "They're a really obscure indie band that never took off but I really dig them" I say having to do a massive ass clench to stop shit-hose #1 from painting the back wall of the store.
I'm losing my patience and Herman's Head looks like he's sad there is a $6.00 sticker on it. He looks like he wants the sticker to read $18.99 like this was Strawberries or Sam Goodie or some other fucking corporate evil. He seems like he is going to pull some fucking asshole move like, "you can only buy this if you also buy Trixter's Greatest Shits."
I am getting a charley horse in my ass cause I have been clenching so hard for so long, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to walk out of cat piss central. I give him the, "you are going to let me out of here with this cd for the sticker price or I am going shove that coleco-vision game console so far up your ass, Monty Hall is going to come out of the back room and dance a funny little jig" look.
He knows something is up and that I mean business. We do the goods for money exchange and I hobble out the door like my shoes are connected with an iron bar. He's watching me through the window, like I cheated him out of his prize marble collection. I'm tempted to give him the finger but I fear any quick motions will trigger an eruption of the anal nature.
I fire the engines on the F1 and cruise back up the street. Approaching Dunkin Donuts my stomach makes a noise somewhat akin to a goat yawn and for the time being, the pressure in my ass has been put in check.
With the precision of a nascar champ, I pull into the drive thru, order my coolatta and am back on the road in less than 2 minutes. I arrived home and was able to walk into the house before I was struck with another case of butt clench. What I forgot was when you don't eat anything with fat in it, your ass becomes a salad shooter.....fantastic.
In one matrix-like move, I was able to jump to the bathroom, whip off my droors and have a mass evac with no serious consequences other than sore ass muscles. It's always a good idea to keep some reading material on hand and I was glad I had something. Had I been better prepared, I would have left my cd player in the bathroom and been dropping some science to the sweet sounds of Creeper Lagoon.
I hope you all are well.
Cheers,
JJ
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