East of Omaha–(The Long Walk Home)

May 31, 2007 at 12:37 AM | Posted in Personal | 2 Comments
  I wrote the title before I even wrote this.  Let’s see how accurate it is, and how far I ramble off the beaten path.

  A few years ago–about this time of year, in fact–I hit a deer on the way home.  I was working late at Papa John’s, brought some pizza home, and in fact, I was close to home.
  Just outside of town, on the highway, as I crested a hill and began my descent.  Immediately, there on the left was a deer.  It spooked, and I could see it wanted to get past me, so it tried to go under me.  Not much luck with that.  I was going 65 miles an hour.
  My hood flew straight up in the air, and I skidded to a stop.
  The problem?  Or, problems?
  Well, I was in the left lane.  I was just beneath the crest of a hill on a busy highway, and I couldn’t move the truck.  I got out and looked around, one of the top seven stupidest things I’ve ever done.  I’m on the meager left shoulder of this divided highway, and as I try to survey the damage, cars continue to come over the hill, panic and swerve out of the way.  What to do, what to do?  Hmm.. . Well, let’s sit here a bit longer and think about it.
  As I stood to the left of the truck and the pavement, an SUV came over the hill in the right lane.  Another, larger, SUV came over the hill in the right lane, intent on passing the other one.  And then there is my truck, mere yards away, with the flashers on.  The larger SUV could not get over into the other lane, so–he passed the truck on the left.
  Where I was.
  He swerved again, and went into the grass, through the median, down the ditch, up the ditch, and up on the highway on the other side, by now a quarter mile away. 
  Okay, that’s it.  I got in the truck, started it, and drove it quickly but carefully to the other side, to the shoulder proper–all the while listening to a multitude of sickening crunches and metal stress induced squeaks and groans.  But now I was (relatively) safe.
  I walked.
  On that long walk to the nearest phone, I had time to think.  I thought of many things, and the first thought I had repeated itself throughout the montage:  I sure could use a cell phone.
  But I thought other things, too, like the other times I’ve had to walk, or been stranded.  I thought wearily that the night was far from over, and I was right.

  But what direction do you choose, when you walk home?  What is the destination?  I bought a car for my son today.  I drove up to Troy after work–my son and my daughter now live about 45 miles away from me.  I talked to him on the phone, we made arrangements. 
  Maybe it wasn’t him; maybe it was me–but in my over-sensitivity, I felt a distance between us.  The same I felt with my daughter when we talk.  I left my wife, I didn’t leave my children.  Not really.  That wasn’t what I wanted.  But I made a choice.
  I stopped by the house–my ex wasn’t there–to see my daughter, and my son, before we go to get the car.  I made some chit-chat, my daughter excitedly showed me her new kitten, and we talked a bit.  There was about half an hour before we were supposed to meet the guy–
  "I gotta go.  I need to run to the store before we do the thing–"
  We said goodbyes, and I left.  Why couldn’t I stay for a few more minutes, and be with my kids?  Why?  I just felt.. ..Ah, you know, I felt damn uneasy, man.  Damn uneasy.  It wasn’t my house anymore, but it was full of my stuff, my kids, my memories.  I really was a stranger in my own fucking house.  I felt like I was on the Twilight Zone, looking in the mirror, and the face looking back wasn’t mine.
  I want to see my kids, I do.  My son is old enough, and independent–he can come and see me when he wants.  With my daughter I will have structured visits soon.  In my house, on my terms.  [I need to get a background check on Detroit–do you believe it?  The Storm wants to make sure it’s a safe environment for my daughter.  Whatever.  Detroit isn’t nearly as insane as The Storm.  No more than, like 20%]
  So I will have my daughter for every other weekend, blah blah blah.  Looking forward to it.  But my son–my son has a choice, he has freedom.  Would he ever choose to come and see me?  He just got a car, and I’m worried as hell about him.  Worried about losing him, worried about him drifting away.
  And then I remembered me, being that age.  I kinda drifted away from my parents, too.  Newfound freedom, discovering yourself and the world, and all that crap.  Eventually, I did come back, and became good friends with my dad.
  I want him to do the same.  I want him to know he can make that same long walk, and I’ll be there.



The Best Things In Life Are Free

May 29, 2007 at 9:48 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  But you can give them to the birds and bees–
  Not the Beatles version, but the version from some obscure female punk band is the one running through my head.  Especially the very droll take on, "Your love gives me such a thrill–"  Just say it as sarcastically as you can. . .

  I remember making 3.35 an hour on my first job, at a Majik Market–a little 24 hour convenience store.  This was in 85-86 I believe.
  Then I worked in the warehouse, and 5 bucks an hour was a fortune.  I got fired.
  I worked at Domino’s making 3.35 plus tips and mileage, which gradually went up to 3.80 plus tips and mileage.  Why did the 80’s seem so modern, and now they seem like the stone age?  I mean, criminy, this was the early computer era, and there was no internet to speak of.  No cell phones.  Wow.  How did we survive?
  I quit Domino’s and went back to the warehouse, and I made 6 bucks an hour, 6.50 for working 3rd.  This was good money (for me) in the early 90’s.  When I went back to Domino’s as a driver, minimum was still 3.35.  When I became an assistant, I got a raise to about 6.00 an hour?  That doesn’t seem right.  This was about 91, 92.  Hmm.  I got regular raises as a driver from 5.15 to 6 when the manager broke his arm and I babysat the assistant through it.  He knew what I was worth, and about every new pay period I got a raise.
  So When I became an assistant, I guess I got 6.75.  To make up what I lost in tips, I got to work 55 hours a week.  I became a manager, and that is a big raise.  Probably 60 per day, salary.
  After a year I was no longer a manager, back to hourly assistant, but less stressful, and I was making about 7.50.
  Then I became manager again.  It was a brand new day, stores were computerized, no more 30 minute guarantee.  I started at 60 bucks a day.  Again.  Cheap bastards.  But I continued to get raises that first year, because I was performing well as a manager.  I started at 60 bucks a day and worked up to 80 that year.  Not to mention the bonus I was making.  This was the most money, comparatively, that I ever made in my life.  From 15k a year to 20k a year within that year, base.  And my bonuses were pretty rockin.  Call it an additional 6 to 8k a year in bonuses.  This was over in 96.
  The year my daughter was to be born, I was making excellent money, and I fell out of favor with the big boss.  I guess he gets sarcasm after all.  This still pisses me off to think about it.  He moved me to a non-performing store, because my store had peaked and I wasn’t performing miracles any more.  Bonus is based on a percentage of profit.  Kids, what is 20% of ZERO?
  That’s right!  Just moving me to a shitty store like he did, I lost over six grand a year.  My debt was structured according to that higher amount.  Spare me the lecture, please, about money management.  Plus, right then I had a kid.  I left Domino’s went to Steak n Shake, but actually worked part time at Domino’s, too.  This was the beginning of me working two jobs.
  So, at Steak and Shake, I think they low-balled me for about 400 or 425 a week.  This was 96-97.  I did come back to Domino’s full time in May, and in June I was a manager again, of a really shitty store that my supervisor, a friend of mine, practically begged me to take.  I may have been up to about 90+ a day at this point.  No bonus of course; it was a miracle keeping the doors open every day.
  When that supervisor left, I left.  The new supervisor was oblivious to the fact that a business in the ghetto operates differently.  It shouldn’t.  But it does.  They made me an assistant again, and were going to pay me 7 bucks an hour.  With all my experience–
  Fuck that.  I went to Papa Johns out of spite. 
  They paid me 400 a week, which I thought I could live with, but it put me a little shy.  I was working nights there, so I started doing some days, some lunches at my friend’s restaurant.  Again with the two jobs.  This was 99 I when I started there.
  Shortly afterwards, I dropped Papa Johns like a bad transmission, and went to work at Scooters full time.  Doesn’t seem so long ago, and yet–
  I started at 8 bucks an hour, and after I learned to cut meat I got 10, and then 11.  I was full time working lots of hours, but then I started working 40, and went back to Domino’s just part time as a driver.  During this time I also went back to school and finished my degree, starting in 01.
  And that’s how it was until 05.  During that time, I paid down our debt, got a home equity loan and paid it off, then had a new house built, with a brand new house payment, and other bills.  I was working two jobs (three, if you count being a landlord) and going to school to pay it all.
  I was about to get a new job, installing satellite dishes.  It would have been fun, but it would have been six days–you have to work on Saturday–and I would have had to use my own vehicle and get my own tools.  I had interviewed and been accepted, put in my notice at Scooters and everything, when my friend called me and said she had an opening at the bank.
  With very little contemplation, I took it.  They started me at–well, I won’t say.  More that I was making, and way more than the job is worth.  And after 90 days I got a 10% raise, which is huge.  Last year, things were tighter, and I only got 3%.  But still–a raise is a raise.
  I continued to work at Scooters part time, just to pay the bills.

  And that’s the thing, see:  the bills.  Before, living with the Storm, I paid the bills, and she covered living expenses.  It really came so close to working out, but not quite.
  With our $1000 a month house payment and 600 per month loan on the rental house, and all the others, just the bills were about 2700 to 3 grand a month.  I don’t remember exactly.  With both jobs and the rent that was coming in, I was really close to making all of that.  But not quite.
  One of the Storm’s theories about why I left had to do with money.  After all these years, she still really doesn’t know me.  I could give a shit less about money.  If I have it, I spend it.  If I don’t have it–I go look for some.  Admittedly, I’m not real good managing money.  But I do okay.  I was (I thought) working my way out of that hole.  I saw the necessity and I worked a second job.  I had cleaned up our credit once before, good enough to get a home loan.  So it can be done, and I can do it. 
  But now, things are different.
  Oh, so different.  For the past six months or more, we (Detroit and I) had an apartment, and I was paying rent as well as giving some money to the ex, so it was about the same amount.
  But now, since the end of March, we have lived in my Dad’s house.  And it is paid for.  I got out of my apartment lease, because he found another rentor.  This is good, because it means I won’t have to hunt him down and kill him while he sleeps.  We got our stuff out of storage up in Troy.  My bills are now about 2 grand a month (down from 2700+), and once the rental house is sold, my bills, including child support, will be about 1600.
  And this is everything, by the way.  My sister is supposed to kick in a little, and Detroit is too, after she finds a job.  The community bills as I call them–the shared utilities and taxes and insurance on the house–comes to about 600 per month.  That ain’t much at all.
  But I’m still working the two jobs, just because Detroit hasn’t found work yet.  To be fair, she was getting the house together, something neither my sister nor I could have accomplished for a variety of reasons…one of which is motivation.  But now it is up and running, operational, and she feels it’s time for her to get a job.  She doesn’t even have to make that much, that’s the beauty of it.  Just a little more than what I was making part time at the restaurant.
  And then I can quit.  And we can still have money, save money, be able to take trips easily, and do what we want.  And if I’m not working three nights a week, one night on the weekend, in addition to the 40 I put in during the week–
  Well, Hell.  I’ll be pretty happy.
  Honestly.  Look, between being a manager and/or working two jobs, I’d say I worked an average–an average, mind you–of 50 to 55 hours a week.  For the last 18 mother fucking years.  I’m not kidding.
  To be able to work just 40, and that 40 be Monday through Friday, and be off in the evening and on the weekends, and be able to do the things I want, and be able to spend more time with Detroit–?

The Moz

May 23, 2007 at 10:28 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  The difficulties I’ve had, writing this review.. . .

  I saw Morrissey last night.  It was a great show.  I’m not sure if I can actually describe it, but I’ll try.  Hell, I can’t even describe what his musical style is.  Rock?  Let’s start there, and then go into offshoots.  Alternative?  Hmm. . ..kinda.  English 80’s pop/grunge with some dark boy-band balladeering thrown in for good measure, bringing his (and their) sexual ambiguity to the forefront.
  His music is full of angst, and even though I am not a part of his world (and I never will be, alas–), his writing and singing are such that I get a real sense, a feel for the torment what his soul doth bear.
  I have made fun of his stuff even while enjoying it, and I wish/hope that he has a sense of humor about it as well.  Seeing him on stage, getting a sense of the man, I think he may.  I have a little man-crush on him.  He knows it, too.  He looked right at me, while he was performing.  He gave me the look.  You know.  The *look*.
  Without you (or I, even) knowing all the songs, it is difficult to describe with that frame of reference gone.  His set ran the gamut from old Smiths to his new album, and he played several from the album previous to that, which is my fave, You Are The Quarry.  First of the Gang to Die?  Rock on, Bro.
  Let’s see, he played–that I remember:  The Queen is Dead, First of the Gang to Die, Irish blood English Heart, Girlfriend in a Coma, [fill in with set list on line.]
  A word about the opening act.  Her name, I believe, was Catherine Adams, or something like that.  I’ll look it up and fix it before I post it.  In the space of her first song I went from hating it, to being annoyed by it, to a determined ambivalence, to begrudging acceptance. . .to addiction.  I couldn’t get enough.
  Her voice had a startling range on the high side, and stayed in key even during some powerful high end work.  It was just her on a keyboard, and a drummer.  Very unusual music, but I liked it.
  Oh, yeah.  She was hot.  She was beautiful, with long legs and a flat stomach and small, perky tits.  And she was naked except for a dress that looked like it was made out of bubble-wrap.   Not kidding.  Bubble wrap.

  The crowd was an eclectic mix as much as his music.  A small percentage my age (old), with most running from mid-20s to mid-30s.  I saw, like, three black people.  I saw suicide chicks, skinheads, grunge freaks, and suits.  I saw all manner of hot chicks, endlessly rubbing their tits against me as they slid past me in the crowd.  I saw a wide variety of fags.
  Karl said he can pick a Jew out of the crowd, generally speaking.  Short, dark hair, hook nose, glasses.  Is he describing Woody Allen?  I said, "Duder, that describes you."  Being of Germanic descent and blatantly Anti-Semitic, he denies all charges. 
  "Whatever, dude."
  In the same way, my Gaydar was honed and tuned, and ready.  Morrissey brings out the fags like a county fair brings out the rednecks.
  "See the guy–thin guy, wife beater, cell phone stuck in the *FRONT* of his pants, smoking a cigarette and tapping to the music before the band even comes out?  A little too deliberately effeminate in his smoking?"
  "Look.  The guy is wearing a derby, cocked to one side, and a flannel.  It’s camoflauge; he wants to appear butch, but he’s a bottom."
  "See the guy holding hands with the other guy?  I know the one with the tight t-shirt is gay.  The other one is unsure, but willing to let a guy give him head."
  A guy that Karl was talking to about Morrissey–Karl knows all about him–this guy put his arm around Karl playfully, affectionately, while complimenting him.  "Wow, you seem to know everything about Morrissey!"  The desire to be oblivious helped Karl disavow any knowledge that he was being hit on.
  This other guy–I swear this happened–I’m standing there drinking a beer, and smoking a thin cigar.  Karl is to my right.  I turn to my left–cause I’m scoping out the chicks–and there is a guy immediately to my left.  We are almost shoulder to shoulder.  He is looking me right in the eye.
  Quickly, he turns away facing forward, takes a drink from his beer, and it seems like he intentionally looks to his left, away from me.  It couldn’t have been more obvious if he had started whistling nonchalantly.
  Meanwhile, I’m talking to as many chicks as I can, just so the guys stop hitting on me.  I’m sure some of the chicks thought I was a perv–okay, most of them–but they were nice.  It was a nice crowd, we were all "in the moment," and probably moments away from a freaky orgy of some kind breaking out.  With my luck I would be in the middle of two dudes patty-caking.
  Later, we are standing in a different spot.  We moved because there was a big, long, hard, thick–and possibly throbbing–pole in our way.  A metaphor for the whole concert, it seems.  But we are towards the back (Okay, we ARE in the back.  No "towards" about it) and there is space behind us.  People have occasionally rubbed against us to slide to the front, but never behind us.  There was plenty of room, there was no need.
  So a guy–and it might have been the SAME guy, but I’m just not sure–walked behind me, patted me on the right shoulder 3 times, and kept walking, towards the bar. 
  He didn’t do it to squeeze past me.  There was no one behind me to squeeze through.  Was it some sort of signal?  Was it a secret gay sign, to meet me in the bathroom so one of us can get fucked in the ass?  Was he offering me a quickie blowjob?
  He did have nice lips.  Still, the thought of looking down and seeing a guy down there–just kinda freaks me out a bit.  Maybe if he had long hair, then I could imagine he was a woman.  A lesbian, with a mullet.  The thought of a butch lesbian giving me head does kinda. . .
  . . . Remind me of my wife.
  I tell the whole sordid story to Detroit, and her response was, "Okay, no guys can suck your dick."
  I said, "Ok.  Only girls can give me head.  Check."

The Hippy-Dippy Shake

May 17, 2007 at 11:27 PM | Posted in Notes on Society | 1 Comment
  The first thought I had when I arrived at work this morning was this:
  "What’s the deal with the fuckin’ hippy?  Huh?"

  I work in the "corporate" environment, with the all the frills and accessories that go with that:  suits, computers, paperwork, meetings, coffee, and the constant threat of sexual harrassment accusations.  It is hard out here for a pimp.
  I’ve never been the "type" for this job, or so I thought.  But I do enjoy it; perhaps that is what makes me odd.  Does everyone else come in, dreading the drudgery and monotony?  I feel that, but not so much–I mean, do you remember what I did before?
  And I may not have been cut out for that type of work either.  I remember when I was a manager for Domino’s, we had a manager meeting once, one of the semi-annual offsite deals at a hotel, complete with cutrate deli catering and warm soda.  To make the meeting longer–and in their eyes, worthwhile –the bosses had to add some filler.  Among them, we all did a personality quiz.
  You know this can only lead to trouble.
  I don’t remember the specifics of it, but it turns out, shockingly enough, that I don’t have the right temperment or personality to be a boss, a manager.  In fact, I have the exact opposite personality.  Look at the chart. 
  What does that mean?  What, am I rebel?  James Dean?
  I always thought of myself as an "odd" character.  Different, special, unique, blah-blah-blah.  I always had all these thoughts that I figured were unique; I mean, no one else was having these thoughts, right?  World domination, sex with hundreds of women, travelling in space, can my parents actually read my mind, or not?  What makes Ovaltine so good? –I surmised that these were not the thoughts that an individual might normally have.
  But as I have gotten older, I see much more odd behavior than I ever displayed, or even thought about for that matter.  There are some pretty odd ducks out there. 
  I am fully cognizant of the behavior necessary to function in society.  I know how to act, what to say, what is polite, what small talk in conversation is supposed to be without (for the most part) being off-putting.  Of course, I still have the strange thoughts in my head, but God, not so strange that I should be locked up.  I think.

  So I get to work this morning, early.  7:30; This is a bank, most people don’t show up until 8:30.  It’s a warm spring morning, the air fresh, I feel good.  We have two buildings, the main building and the PFC building.  I now work in the PFC, but the main building has the most parking.  I park in that lot but nearest to my building.  I get out, and walk to the walkway/steps to go across the street. 
  Right there, right in that primo parking spot, is the guy.  He has a beat up mid 80’s Cutlass with the door open, and he’s sitting on the ground, wearing jeans and an environmentally conscious tee shirt and sandals.
  And he’s playing the guitar.
  He has some paper lying on the ground in front of him; notes on this masterpiece of sensitivity and feelings that he is emoting.  His face is twisted in the painful look of soulful creation.
  I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt and hope that maybe he’s just in love–like with that hot Suicide Girl-type teller that we have.  But she is smokin’ and a little scary and intense, and way to much woman for him to handle.  Maybe he likes it when she drives her 6 inch spiked heels into his shrinking, feminine testicles.
  I mean, come on.  He reminded me of a character in the movie Bedazzled, the remake.  Brendan Fraser got some wishes from the Devil, and one of them was "to be the most (emotionally) sensitive man on earth."
  It made me want to kick sand in his face, or punch him and make him cry.  I wonder if he’s still out there?  I don’t want you to think I’m jealous of him in any way, just because he gets to do what he wants and express his creativity–I get to express my creativity.
  Sometimes it is expressed as rage at talent-less idiots.  If he had been wearing socks with the sandals I would have been legally obligated to snap his neck.  And Another thing–
  You all know, if you have read me here, you have somewhat of an indication of how I am.  How my thoughts go from one to the other in a chaotically random manner, and yet at the end I manage to tie them together.  You’ve read–and you know how I am.  You have an indication of what goes on in my brain.  I guess. . .acting normal is one of the strangest things I do.  And being normal is the strangest thing I *can* do, in a world full of head cases.
  I don’t have to act strange to the outside world, which is a desperate cry for attention, like all the disaffected youths of the world, tattooing and piercing themselves not because they want to express their individuality (If one person does it, it’s individuality; if an entire generation of people do it, it’s a fad), but a misguided sense of. . .what’s the word I seek?  An ironic dichotomy of Narcissism and insecurity,  seeking validation via outrageous behavior.  "Look at me!"
  Look at me, indeed. 

  Good Lord, what a self-serving psychoanalyst I’ve become.  Not withstanding that, the freak playing guitar in our parking lot is a misguided freak, trying to hard to *prove* that he is special and unique. 
  I don’t know about unique, but he sure is *special.*  Fucking retard.

Coffee Review

May 9, 2007 at 4:49 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
I’ve had a few articles in the can, in case I didn’t have anything to write. I like this; perhaps I have a career ahead of me as a food reviewer. ..

From: Dawn Jones
Sent: Wednesday, April 25, 2007 7:58 AM
To: @Closing STL; @Consumer Lending; @Document Control; @Loan Officer Assistants STL; @Loan Officers STL; @Processing STL; @Shipping – Suspense; @Title
Subject: Coffee and Donuts

Kim Biberdorf is working on interviewing some new coffee vendors.

Ronnoco is here this morning, so please feel free in about 15-20 minutes to come down and sample a cup of coffee. We will have three samples here today, so if there is one that you particularly like, make note of it and e mail either Kim or myself. There are also donuts as well.

Thank You
Dawn Jones

From: Bryan Bushong
Sent: Wednesday, April 25, 2007 9:42 AM
To: Dawn Jones
Subject: Coffee and Donuts

Ronnoco is pretty good stuff. Several gas stations carry it, it is a quality brand. As you know, the price per gallon of coffee makes it rival the price of gasoline, so it’s important to have quality octane coffee.
The coffee we currently have is harsh and bitter. We would save money on the amount of sugar and cream we wouldn’t have to add to a better coffee. In fact, our current coffee is much like my divorce: necessary, but painful to go through, and you want to get drunk afterwards. No matter how much sugar and cream I had, the fact remains that I am chewing my arm off to get away–wait, this isn’t about me.
I’m kind of a sissy when it comes to coffee, and the Ronnoco was good, even the Columbian, a dark roast, which I thought would be harsh. Strong and smooth, and dark, and made me feel good about me. It is the Barry White of coffee. The house blend, a lighter roast by comparison, was smooth and mellow, and very easy to take, like a handful of valium. The French Roast is more of a medium. Since I liked both the dark and the light, I’m sure I would like the French Roast, but I despise socialism.
I like to doctor my coffee up with cream and sugar, and the Ronnoco required little of either. The donuts were a nice touch as well, lending a party atmosphere to the morning coffee routine. I drank about two cups’ worth quickly, and I’m going to go back for more, but first I need to go to the bathroom.
And now the French Roast. I was not a connoisseur of coffee before, but I am now.
The fragrant bouquet of carefully selected beans, hand-picked by French peasants in the Columbian coffee fields, combined with a bit of sugar and creamer (French Vanilla, of course) stirs the memory and brings to mind the early spring of 1917, when I was in Paris before the Big War, and I had a brief but bittersweet fling with a French artist named Julia. . .
So, to recap, the Columbian dark roast is a Barry White, the House blend is a handful of pills, and the French roast is a dirty French girl with hairy armpits and loose morals. So you see, they all have redeeming qualities even though they are very different in personality.
It only took me a minute and a half to type this. I’ve had a lot of coffee. Stop shaking your head at me!

The Landlord Around My Neck

May 6, 2007 at 8:31 PM | Posted in Fiction | 2 Comments
Okay, children, time for another short story.  This was born out of frustration recently when I was having an issue with my landlord.  I moved out of the apartment into my dad’s house, and he was prepared to sue me for the remainder of the rent (six or seven months’ worth).  I called him to discuss it with him, prepared to do battle, and he said he had my apartment rented, I was off the hook.  Sigh of relief?  But I was ready for a fight, and had nowhere to go with it. 
Nowhere except 18th century England.

  Tryin ta get oot me lease, ya see.  I’m leavin, I’m goin back oot ta sea.  My home, it tis.  I says ta da lan’lord, I tells him, "Ye not’ll be gittin’ more cash from me," says I.  "Bollocks is what’chall get," says I.  "Mark me word," I tells him.
  Tis always been my plan, ya know.  Leave the land behind.  Leave the bills and worries of the earth behind.  Calm at sea.  Peace at sea.  Mostly, no harpies and bill collectors at sea.
  He comes back wit all dis fancy legal talk, he does.  Take me ta court.  Sue me, no less.  What do I care?  Ye canna get blood from a turnip, I says.  Go ahead, sit and whistle fer ye money, ye damn dispassionate limey fuck.
  His words lay heavily upon my soul; tis a burden, this contract.  Yea, and ye find your own devil to make one with, I’ve heard it said.  He is my devil, my monster, my alabaster–
  And thus I lie awake at night and ponder what fate might have in store for a poor soul as me.  I wander rudderless; no star to guide.  No port in a storm for this pathetic wretch.  The money-changers will eat your soul, and spit out your carcass for th’ dogs in the street.
  Meanwhile, as if the good Lord had not thrown near ‘nough at me feet, I come down with a case of consumption.  Or mayhap it be typhoid; I fear it be goin’ ’round.  Makin da rounds also be the black death, the plague.  ‘Tis a bad time, folks be droppin like flies.  Canna get on a ship like dis;  th’ Captain will surely slit me throat for bringing disease aboard.
  In da midst of all dist, that bastard landlord tries to call on me.  Tries, I say.  He come to the door, he pound on the door.  He yells at the door.  "I know ye be in there, ye lowlife scalawag!"  He yells, wakin me neighbors and embarrassing me with this afront on me good name.  I shout back hoarse, and say, "Come on in, if ye dare, ye dispassionate bastard!  Would ye steal the shoes of a dyin man?  Have ye no shame?  No sense of decency?"
  Tis quiet in the hall outside; not a peep.  Soon I hear his footsteps, his expensive, well-heeled boots turn in the dank hall that pays his lavish lifestyle, and out he goes, muttering.  In the street I hear him yell at some kids as they play in the street, and I hear a dog squeal as he kicks.  Sure as I sit here, it’s true. 
  No doctor for the poor, I tell ye that much.  No nursemaid, no kind and gentle neighbor ta look in on ye.  I gave a neighbor boy some silverware I lifted a while back, gave him some with the promise o more if he only come back with a bucket o water fer me.  I didna fear dyin; I fear he may not come back with me water.  Or me bucket.
  But he did, the good lad.  And he brought his sister, too.  A comely maiden, still young.  Fresh and pretty and clean.  I’m sure she smelled like an angel, but my nose and lungs are so full of the devil’s pudding that I canna smell a thing, not even this lovely lass.
  She doctors me some, and I’m a little delirious, I know.  I say some right untoward things, which she brushes aside like nothing.  She knows I am harmless, a puppy right now.  Oh, but to have me health, and me youth, and pocketful o quid, I’d show her what a man can be–
  One afternoon–or mornin; I canna tell no longer–the sweet maiden had not been around for a day or so, and I was sick and lonely.  I heard a rapping, gentle rapping, on my chamber door.  Thinking it was my sweet chambermaid, I call out, "Emily?  Is that you?  Come in, dear one.  Come in."
  With that, the door opened hard, with a "whush!" sound.  How can it be that a door opens loudly?  With nary a thought to this, I am confronted by the landmaster, the holder of me lien, me contract, and me soul.  As I lay in bed weakly, he towers o’er me, a devilish grin on his wicked, wicked face.
  "What impure dreams be ye havin’, McGee?  Ye thinkin a sweet lass wilt come and take of ye, and favor ye with her sweetness, do ya?  Ye must be at death’s door, ta be havin such a flight o fancy.  Why don’tcha just be handin over ye last few possessions, and I’ll be on me way.  I’ll make sure someone buries yer poor rotten carcass so’s the street dogs don’t get it."
  Breathin hard, I rise up, shakin a shaky fist at him.  "Ye bastard!  May the devil take ye, ye God fersaken blighter!  Don’ ye hold nothin sacred, not even th’ sanctity o life?"
  The heartless bastard had the audacity ta laugh in me face.  "Listen ye old fuck.  Tis not a plague goin round.  It’s merely the flue.  You’re doin better already, the young maiden tol’ me so.  That’s why she’s not been ’round.  She has better to do than nursemaid a delirious old fuck.  You’re fine, you silly twat.  Get off yer arse and get back down t’ the shop, and get back to work."
  As he walked off laughing, a parting shot.  "And pay yer damn rent, you fuck."
  What a rude prick.  But I ain’t dyin, sez he.  Well, what does he foocking know, he’s a landlord and an accountant, fer godsake, not a man o science.
  Well, then, says I.  I pull me boots on, splash some water on me face, and take a swig o the rum.  I do feel better.  Several days beard on me face, but at leas I can stand up and look in the mirror, see my scurrilous reflection.  Guess it’s time I go and start me day.  I’m headin down to th’ dock, catch me a ship outta this town.  And I’ll pay th’ bastard ‘is rent when I see ‘im ‘ell.  He can have my unwashed bedsheets and me last swig o rum, left on th’ table fer him.  With me last cigar in it.
  Come an get me, bastard, come an get me!  If you can find me off the coast of Cape Horn, or in the Indian Ocean, or in the Americas, you penny-pinching grub, you can squeeze the last quid from me.  And yer sure as shite welcome to it.  Good fuckin luck, bastard.

Would You Like To Share?

May 4, 2007 at 11:19 PM | Posted in Journal | 1 Comment
  I guess I don’t have much to say?  Unusual?  Perhaps.  I’m in the parenting class–Focus on Kids–that is required by the state if I’m going through a divorce and kids are involved.  There’s about 13 of in there, and two ladies running the class.   Let’s introduce them shall we?  We start with Hot young blond chick, and then there is Shades/Mailman, then Camo-Beard Guy, Tiny On-the-verge-of-tears Chick, quiet beard guy, Hook-nosed chick, Cute but stern older chick, Closet-gay man, Lips and cleavage chick, me (old fat white guy), quiet nervous guy, fat blond chick, serial killer guy, and the obligatory fat chick with tattoos and pink hair, and (as far as I could tell) no panties.
  So we go through the folder, all the papers and resources.  Then we see the first vignette on video, and discuss.  There are two guys that are answering all the questions, telling everyone their life stories, and sharing their insights in the world of divorce as they have come to know it and be experts in. 
  I could have been like that, I could have. . .I guess I don’t have it in me tonight.  Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, or maybe I just really don’t feel like opening up to an odd collection of characters such as this. . .waiting for a sitcom to form around them.  Shades/Mailman is still living with his soon to be ex–I bet it’s hilarious in that mobile home.  Camo-Beard guy seems unusually expressive; I think he’s overcompensating for beating his wife.
  Some people speak up, put in their two cents.  I do as well, without over sharing.  I just. . . Didn’t want to cheapen the experience.
  Found out that Stern Older Chick was divorcing, for the second time, the same guy.  Every have a yard sale, and want to take some of your shit back in the house–?
  The chick sitting next to me, Cleavage and Lips–I thought she was staring at me.  She wanted me.  She was cute.  Plus, you know:  Divorced chicks= easy, and they want it bad.  These were all parents, too.  Mothers.  So she was a MILF.
  So I was wondering how I was going to break it to her, I was taken–by the most wonderful, understanding, sweetest, most beautiful woman in the world–or convince that a threesome could work. . .when she leaned over to me, breasts heaving, a foreboding of things to come, and her warm sweet breath was on my neck as her cute, pouty lips parted, and she spoke, just barely a whisper so that no one else could hear:
  "Can you move your head a little?  I can’t see the TV."
  She wanted me.

No Rest For the Wicked

May 1, 2007 at 11:32 PM | Posted in Journal | 4 Comments
Someone–I won’t mention any names but their initials are Detroit–said that, in addition to the fact that she is way more popular than I, my blog entries are way to long and peepul on the internet have little to no attention span, and that is why I don’t get read as much, and why I don’t get as many comments.
While this may be true, I’d like to point out to all yuse guys out there that you are missing out on some hilarious shit (namely, my life) by not reading my blog. Well, your loss. I suppose I do need to get off my ass and go visit more random strangers, thereby hopefully reeling some more suckers in. Anyway, today I’d like to keep it short and sweet, and more importantly–to the point.

Isaiah 57:20-21
57:20 But the wicked are like
the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and
57:21 There is no peace, saith my God, to the
There exists an extended
translation of this scripture in the apocryphal book of
Book of Oldestgenxer 82:12-17
"And when you
think you have it good, it is merely a rest between bouts; for you shall have no
peace this side of the grave.
"If the shit hath not yet hit the fan, it is
only because it remains unplugged. Yea, and I the Lord your God hold the cord.
good ye have shall not last; verily, it’s only purpose is to make ye yearn that
much more for the good life that ye shall never have.
"Yea, and ye are
condemned to fleeting moments of peace contentment; fulfilment
shall remain beyond your grasp, satisfaction shall hang in a branch above your
reach, and happiness shall be an elusive, moody butterfly with venom.
"And I, the Lord, shall watch you and laugh, for this is entertaining
to me. I shall make you dance, and skip, and sing, and cry.
verily, thou art my bitch."

Everyone has a personal relationship with God.  With some people, it’s a little more personal…

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