Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
stg-roadrunner-gfx
Friday, January 31, 2003

The Fat Lady Sings

Tell me loud, tell me clear, aching troubles, gnawing fears.

Stand aside, let traffic pass. Watch the world and fade from here.

I'm just trying to do my very best.

Goodbye constant readers. I'll be coming around the mountain when I can.

Steve
5:49 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, January 29, 2003

To Be Born Again... In Another Time... In Another Place... On Another Face

It's hard to write when the music won't stop playing upstairs. I try to find beginnings. Even when I don't know the plot, when I find a start the rest follows as naturally as rainfall. But when I have a choir of violins in my head and an acoustic guitar strumming underneath, I can't seem to figure out what to write, why to write it, or the point of dry words at all. The song that won't leave me alone, thankfully, is Astral Weeks. That's Van Morrison, kids. I bookend it mentally with Minstrel Boy by Joe Strummer and All I Want Is You by U2. Hello mixtape, I'm calling you.

Lovely wings of the dove above, slow-motion.

I try to avoid explicitly referencing music or literature in this journal. It's about me, not what I see and hear. This is a journal, not a weblog. I generally leave my references in obtuse headings and winking uncredited quotings. Yet with no place to wander my think, I slip my rules.

So I'm not here. My mental gears are quiet. All that's left in the absence of thought is sense. Five senses. I have warm blood. Smoke. Movement is easy, free and cheap. I am light of foot - I'm used to more effort and grimace to move. Now without that tackle, without that burden. No hangover penance. No pain for inspiration, no need for distraction. I can float. It's a good mood nowhere.

I speak my language. Abstractions like puzzle pieces whose picture I know, dropped in a pile online. You, reader, can't see that image, but fragments may shine when the light strikes them fine. Litte dots to dance and prance and all fall down.

Now more violins.
1:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Venture Into The Slipstrem Between The Viaducts Of Your Dreams

File under: you had to be there

My friend and coworker Luis had to be at the hospital last night. His wife is pregnant and needs a cesarian section done. So I volunteered to cover his delivery shift.

So there I am in the kitchen with Alejandro and Jorge. They're the youngest of the staff, in their teens. Jorge does pizza and Alejandro does dogs and gyros. They were teaching me different phrases in Spanish, and Jorge grabbed and egg from somewhere to teach me "huevos."

Back through the mists of memory in some chalky classroom I remembered some lesson about equal distribution of pressure and the egg squeeze. There's a way that you can squeeze an egg in your hand and it will not break. I wasn't exactly sure, but caution be damned.

I decided to demonstrate. There were skeptical.

I squeezed. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four.... and it exploded. Egg ran own my face, my shirt, and puddled on the toes of my left foot. Egg splashed the pizza counter but not the toppings. It was on the floor, on the guys' aprons, and on the front of oven, frying as it ran towards the floor.

None of us could stop laughing. We were doubled over.

I cleaned myself up and shed my shirt.
2:28 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Monday, January 27, 2003

Slim Slow Slider

I have Van singing to me.

Back to Sunday. First the night, and then the morning.Waiting for deliveries in the kitchen, sending pepperonis frisbee through hot greasy air, I see high schoolers with bright fresh faces full of hope and promise of escape. Snarfing bland heavy pizza, fries, burgers. Across the glass in the dining room. All here for food, not money. I'm here for both. Don't they like football?

I go to restaurants alone. Everybody else has company. I bring books instead. I was at the Omega on Sunday morning at three. I needed an omelette after the six-pack, as well as hot decaf of course. Twenty-four hour place. Barhoppers and nightclubbers in leather and glitter making hubbub, a cacophony of giggles, murmurs, clinks and clatters. The corners of my eyes caught curious glances, moments of attention. I studiously avoided eye contact. They are nightlife. I am nolife. I need to paint Peace Is Patriotic on my army jacket. I'm tired of being mistaken for a Republican, despite the good tips from upstanding churchgoing suburbanites. I got home and opened a seventh, but beer tastes bad after I eat, so I poured it through a totem pole of dishes encrusted with salmon and basmati.

When the sun rose, I slept.

Back again the night, after work. I got to see the fourth quarter.

I won a hundred on football squares. A wiser fool would save it. I think I'll buy some coke to celebrate unemployment. A last hurrah. Or a first volley of self-inflicted destruction. Creativity counts. When the powder blows away, a whiskey bath to make a crash. Then a day of ragged breath, brutal despression and involuntary shivering under many blankets. Heads and tails.

Letting go.
4:33 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Just Like Old Jelly Roll

It's the last Monday. Next Monday I'll sleep until noon, and then I'll head over to the unemployment office. Trepidation and relief overlap. Strange. Pardon my fragments today. They feel right to my ears.

Decent pizza delivery last weekend. Superbowl tips are better than average. Slush, salt, and spilled oil stains. Steam rose from the sewer drains, and everybody was speeding. No cops anywhere. Turned down offers of cocaine, booze.

Told the roomie that my commitment to move with him again at the end of the lease is questionable. Gave him the opportunity to convince me that he can contribute financially. His mom won't pay his rent anymore. Good for her, good for him. So he might be thinking of how to convince me. He should know that action will, words won't. But he probably doesn't. He's getting his GED. We're doing that together. I'm overdue. So is he.

More watermelon juice. Chef Boyardee lasagna from the machine. Decaf. I drink a lot of decaf these days, ever since those damned pills fucked up my caffeine processing to the point where a single cup of regular joe sends me to orbit. No effect from sodas, strangely. A small blessing.

This donkey will have to pull a heavy cart this week. I've been assigned all sorts of ridiculous cleanup and reorg in the storage hall. Haphazard results will be displeasing to the eye. My legacy. My references will be gone too, so the disarray will not harm future prospects.

I'm drained. Empty. Not happy, sad, or confused. Just clean, blank. Had a big downer last week, even cried. Since then, autopilot. Nothing to chew on. I've never walked long through the cold. Need footwear, earmuffs.

Hm.
11:56 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Thursday, January 23, 2003

World Yodeling Champions

It's time to put on my tinfoil viking hat and act crazy again. That means I get to write another journal entry! Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah amen supercalifragilisticexpealidocious?

Set down the pixie sticks and step back from keyboard, son. No quick movements, and keep your hands where I can see them.

My hair froze this morning. I should've dried it better. Cold has expanded all the metals and everything shreiks. The doors to the building sound like the jaws of life. Strangely enough, no snot. No cold, no sniffle, no sinus boogeymen. I am as healthy as Dr. Ruth with Centrum and Astroglide. Except a lot younger and male. Probably better eyesight too, come to think of it.

Did you know that Tombstone produces a line of pizzas called All-American Flavors? I cooked up a meatball pizza yesterday. It was damn good, even if the thing looked like jumbo fuzzy rat turds on a wet plate. I eat a lot of foods that are visually offensive. My big sister thinks that gumbo looks like diarrhea, so when she's there I glue a shrimp tail to my chin with the brown broth. Then I slurp and leer at her like a toothless hobo. She loves that. Actually she's properly revolted, but her husband enjoys the spectacle. He likes dead baby jokes too. I like him. Next time I'm going to pantomime putting the bowl under the table and "refilling" it. As long as I don't spill. We're big fans of intestinal humor at my folks' household. You should see what I can do with mashed potatoes and gravy.

I have been offered a job with the police scam crew. If I get unemployment I can work this job unreported, under "fuck uncle sam" instead of the 1040. I like that idea. It's like a sodomy of Christ, but better. Can't you just see Charleton Heston with a stars and stripes Uncle Sam top hat, bent over and whinnying like a horse while Fidel Castro reams his old gnarled ass out with a hockey stick? Bombs away, Uncle Sam! Colon stretching time! I can just see Fidel cackling through cigar smoke with his cute little green hat spinning atop his head like a dreidel on rocket fuel. Feel free to substitue Saddam with a beret if that imagery pleases you more. Go ahead, I don't mind.

So I heard that Pete Townsend is in trouble for chilld pornography. I'll bet he was going to photoshop the heads of Dick Cheney and Curious George W. Bush onto them for his next solo album liner notes. It would be a marvelous political statement. Exhibit A: Dicky and Bushy doodling their dinkies in a puddle of crude oil. Exhibit B: Dicky teaches Bushy to apply lipstick and mascara. Exhibit C: Fun with diapers, hershey's syrup, and baby oil.

You get the idea. Art should be provocative.

Well, I guess I'm not so grown up after all. Enough for them to lock me up in Gauntanemo Bay without a trial, though.

I no longer think I'm qualified to write editorials. I am qualified to pee on statues, at least.
2:59 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, January 22, 2003

How To Disappear Completely

Fuck shit fuck. I think that about sums it up. I got big rig tire treads on my face. Slack open. Urg.

I'd be hungover if I wasn't still drunk. Plus I'm at the front desk all day, greeting visitors and employees with red eyes, blue lips, and a hoarse crackle of a voice. My mouth is full of malted snot.

Fuck a duck and make it quack. Ole mole. Yowch. Somebody turn off the static. Stop the drums. Help.

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Thud.
2:38 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Friday, January 17, 2003

Mundane (Ignore)

It's a Friday afternoon and clear watermelon Gatorade tastes just like Nerds candy. I love it. I'm going to buy a jug of strawberry on the way home to see if it too measures up. I have standards you know.

My boss is in Indiana again today, so once again I took a nap on my psych couch. I had many strange and terrifying dreams. I always do on that couch, but I continue to use it. Today was actually my last opportunity in all likelihood. I won't give you any details of the dreams, as I can't think of anything I'm less interested in hearing than other peoples' cloudy muddled half-remembered surrealistic nonsense. People, keep your sleeping dreams to yourself.

I'm going to treat my lone employee to lunch today. He's an indecisive sort of fellow who'd much rather defer to my culinary judgement than risk suggesting something I dislike. Or maybe he's just laid back. I know he gets stoned all day long, which I don't mind, as long as he doesn't get caught by any of the uptight element that wander these necktied halls. When I get stoned I have specific cravings. I know that I want a barbeque pizza, or a sourdough turkey sandwich, or a patty melt with a small dollop of thousand island dressing in the grilled onions. He must've eaten already. That's got to be it. Whatever I buy for lunch will just be his dessert.

I haven't bothered to diagnose my vehicle yet, so I've been sleeping at my folks' house. Mooching rides and cars and stuff. I watched Showtime with my mom on Wednesday night. Her favorite actors are Carrey, Sandler, Stiller, and Eddie Murphy. Followed closely by Pacino and Deniro. So that worked out well. We watched Lilo & Stitch last night, which was cute. I like spending time with my mom. Everybody needs to be adored at sometime or other, and my mom is unconditional. That's good, because she's all I've got in that department.

After pleasuring myself last night with a french nudie magazine and a rabbit fur pelt, I discovered that I'd let all the hot water run down the shower drain. Whoops. I haven't had an ice cold shower in a long time. Not an experience I'd like to have frequently. Chattery teeth. Skin like clay. I warmed up by cooking pizza bagels for myself. I stood at the oven and watched the cheese cycle. From shred to melt to gold.

I also tried to smoke some high grade maryjane that had been soaked in soap and water. My mother had swiped all of my clothing when I went to the shower and hadn't emptied the pockets before dumping them in the wash. I also lost the toothpick from my pocket knife. My money was damp. It still is today and the clerk at the stop n shop was careful not to touch my hands as he dropped my change into them.

It's nearing one o'clock and I need to order some hot food.
2:39 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Thursday, January 16, 2003

It's been Sixteen Days Since I Don't Know When

It's time for me to entertain myself by describing gross wet things again. My big sister loathes the word "moist." She shivers and recoils at its use.

My visit to the cajun castle last night brought to mind visions of scuttling squishy sea critters. I wonder what sort of sound a living lobster makes as it hits the surface of boiling water. What's it like to salivate over a pile of fish on the deck, all of them caught in a net, out of water, gasping and flopping as their lidless eyes dry up and wrinkle? Can a squid imagine a marionette as the wiry net weaves its tentacles into knots and its ink gushes like blood, staining the deck black? What sort of thrill do people get from eating the green and red stomach contents of a lobster? I eat the claws and tail only. Not the tamale, as they call it, even if it strongly resembles guacamole. I ate ten lobsters in one sitting once. My little sister ate six. Lobster Holocaust. I've never eaten a raw oyster before. With that hard shell around it, it must be like performing cunnilingus on a severe burn victim. Talk about a hot ass.

Time to reheat the leftovers.
2:58 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Everybody Plays The Fool, Sometimes, There's No Exception To The Rule

It's a stark, bleak Thursday. I'm a dull blade. The car took a shit on me yesterday, so I celebrated by going to a fancy restaurant. I ate many different fried underwater creatures. I've recently begun celebrating disasters as well as triumphs. It's sort of a cackling half-crazy reaction to fear. I adopted "worry is waste" as my mantra a few weeks ago, but as of yesterday I've had trouble living by it. I've got two weeks left here, and after that I hope that unemployment will carry me for a short while. If by some miracle my company's contract renews, I'll be a resignation as opposed to a layoff and unemployment may not exist for me. If that's the case, I figure I'll run away and join the circus. I'll apprentice myself to the sword swallower. Maybe I'll be a clown on stilts. I'm really good at those.

Somehow I've lost my mental balance. My self-declared invulnerability has morphed me into a balloon, and the slightest gust could land me deflated in the Artic Circle. If the future is a rampaging child, I'll be popped in no time.

All the same, I'm not ready to cash in my chips. If I go back to worry, I'll be worse than a balloon. I'll be chocolate in sunlight. A sludgy brown mass, a dripping puddle on a foil wrapper. Vague resemblance to diarrhea. It may be sweet but you sure don't want to touch it. No thanks. I'll keep my naive mental retard grin glued on for now. Hear no, see no. Some call it blindness, others call it focus.

Eeeeeeeeee. Somebody beat me with an iron bar.
11:14 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Monday, January 13, 2003

In The Jingle Jangle Morning I Come Following You

Have you ever stopped suddenly, realizing that everything is perfect in this one second? Everything stopped, and for a moment you were beautiful? I hadn't experienced that perfection in a long time. I did last week. I think it was Thursday. The air was forty five degrees and the sun was almost fallen. The air was damp, and a pink wash of dying light caught on pine, caught on salty pavement, caught on a wooden fence. I inhaled that moment. By sorcery I stretched it into a full thrity minutes. That moment was seen as I left the building, you see, so I was able to epilogue it with my departure from work, a loud radio volume, and open windows. Magic carpet.

The land was bleached again on Friday.

It can be entertaining to fuel preposterous imagininings into schizopherenic territory. For instance, what if human moods were dust, and wind and light circulated them among the population? It would certainly give more heed to the notion that our moods are influenced by weather. My perfect moments always come when I stand outside during these atmospheric zeniths, those idyllic moments when the sun blazes or the light glows or the wind caresses. That's why I miss walking.

Everybody likes to imagine something invisible.

In the meantime my flourescent desk lights murder any fanicful flights and leave me stark and grey. It's not hard labor, but there must be a reason that people describe working in an office as a soul-sucking job. Apart from identity issues, could it be the light? Maybe these buzzing tubes attract only foul dust, the kind the makes you whine and slouch and frown.

So how does darkness figure into this crackpot's tangent? I do not know. It doesn't matter, because if I try to organize these thoughts and force them into logic, I could get whiplash. No, better to focus on tonight's mission: oblivion.

I need miles on foot. Concentrated automatic-fire perfect moments, flashing in staccato. I emerge aglow with polish. Give me sun, give me heat, give me blisters on my feet. Give me a reason to Look Up.
5:54 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Just Say Whoa

My tummy is rumbling like a garbage disposal full of coffee grounds and turkey bones. I'm pouring syrupy sweet Red Bull atop the compost pile in my stomach, and hopefully my next cancer stick will inspire some movement, for good or ill.

Enough about biology.

I delivered a pizza to a group of stoned waterheads the other day. A guy with a Grateful Dead t-shirt answered the door, coughing, his bloodshot eyes magnified by his glasses. He looked like a fish. A girl yelled "Don't tip him! ha ha ha!" She was obviously joking. I told him his total. He fumbled with his crumpled cash, eyeing it vacantly. Then, like a dog returning a stick, he tried handing me different combinations of the bills. Watching me, seeking approval. His total was 21.95, so I simplified it to 22. He gave me no tip after I pulled $22 from his hands. He looked up at me with an infantile blinking. "Okay?" "Yeah. Here, take the pizza." A bong bubbled somewhere in the house. I left disgruntled, with no tip.

Don't smoke marijuana, kids. You'll become a drooling imbecile that enjoys Chinese water torture music like Pink Floyd. Your brain will become a gong beaten slowly. Eventually you'll speak in slow-motion and end every sentence with "dude" or "man." Your mother will be disappointed and your father will be embarrassed. Your dog will walk you. You'll laugh at commercials starring children pretending to be adults. You'll buy lava lamps. If you're going to abuse drugs, try the ones that'll make you interesting.

I have a massaging showerhead. Instead of the regular shower sprinkle, I can set it for five pulsing water lazers. I aim this into my ears, up my nose, and down my throat. It makes me choke and spaz, but it dislodges popcorn shells from teeth even better than a toothbrush, and it boxes my uvulva like a punching bag. That's more valuable than it sounds. Since I smoke a pack a day, I need a lot of torque to powerwash the tar. If you intend to purchase something fancy and luxurious like this, be warned that it's easy to bruise your eyeballs if your aim strays for even a moment.

I was discussing eggs with the roomie and his girl last night, and I've decided to make a special breakfast. In the beginning of The Neverending Story, Bastion's dad puts vodka, orange juice, and a raw egg into a blender. I think that's a great idea and I intend to try it. My current favorite is runny eggs on toast. Something about the combo of melted butter and bleeding yolk makes for a satisfying eating experience. The roomie's girl says she can make a tye-dye sunny-side up egg with food coloring. I'm a bit frightened by this, but I will try it if she's not bluffing. The last food I enjoyed that colorful was Fruity Pebbles, and that was a long time ago.

Have a nice Monday.
11:55 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Friday, January 10, 2003

Cheap Lipstick

"Don't shit on me!," I cried at the goose flock wheeling above. The swarm honored that request, but that didn't stop them from hailing green eggs and ham on my car. That'll teach me to park on that side of the building. It almost makes me want to kill what I eat, just for the illusion of triumph over nature. Almost.

My fantasy of gnawing a fresh still-beating deer heart will have to wait. Photographs of me with bubbly blood running down my chin and a twitching artery poking out the corner of my mouth will not be taken anytime soon. When they do.. well.... let's just say I won't have to fake that smile.

No, instead I'll refrain from purchasing firearms and stick to the farmed meat. I realize that they keep the cows in factory pens where they eat, shit, breathe, and squeal during chemical growth hormone injections, and this doesn't bother me. I don't have to smell it.

I wonder about those folks that consciously decide they want to work at a butcher shop. For some it's a family business, but there have to be some people who woke up one day thinking "I want to chop dead meat." You know, people that derive satisfaction from rending bovine anatomy into separate wet piles. For my consumption, and yours.

Then there's the slaughterhouse. I imagine that some do this for economic reasons. Small town, two choices: spike cows in the skull and peel their skin with giant hooks, or swindle hobos for cheap wine and sneak up on old women and steal their insulated jackets. Do they hire immigrant workers to do this kind of stuff now? I'll bet the mop job there is awful. I wonder what kind of jokes they tell one another. I think it would be funny if they drank red Kool-Aid. Especially if they used that Kool-Aid man pitcher.

I should write the fellow who keeps the Theoretical Sociopath journal. He posts once a month, I suppose during library visits between victims and fleeing from trenchcoated detectives. I'll bet he knows all about it.
2:38 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Thursday, January 09, 2003

...And When I Die And They Lay Me To Rest, I'm Gonna Go To The Place That's The Best!

Fuck religion by the way. That's better. Like a really good shit that splashes.

I have treasures. I would not barter them for even the finest meats and cheeses. Yesterday I wrote about the NFL video. Allow me to tell you of another recent find. During the cleanup process following my grandmother's eviction, I found a small 3" x 2" gold foil box. Inside it are bookplates. It took a moment for me to realize that a bookplate is for marking your literary property. You write you name on the fucker, sponge it down, and slap it inside the front cover, and viola! that book is obviously owned by Mr. Crap Tacular. These bookplates have a knight on a horse done in a congenial calligraphic hand, and the quote is beaucoup fun. "The man who fights for his ideals is a man who is alive." Cervantes, author of Don Quixote. They're really old and the glue is shitty, and I'm having a devil of a time making the gummy fuckers stick.

How about "The man who fights for his meals is a man who needs a five." No, that's stupid. Unfunny. Time to quit for today.
5:55 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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I'm Not A Sinner, I Never Sin, I Got A Friend In Jesus!

Here I am writing another post, starting once again with a chuckling, self-effacing description of my poor state of appearance. I've got matching luggage under my eyes, patchy stubble and most likely bad breath despite the vomit inducing yellow listerine attacks. That's right folks, I went and got nuked last night, safe and sound in my flourescent cell.

I have received no replies to the letters I've sent. That's poor customer service, but the customer is never right, because there's a thousand more who will settle for less. I should be more careful. I might lapse into syllogism.

My boss is in Indiana today, so naturally I went into the storage room and napped. This after appearing one hour late. This job has never been awful. At worst, it's boring. At the same time, I'm enjoying myself here now that I've formally declared my lack of enthusiasm. Anybody with an ounce of sense would slap me with a skillet and berate me for being a spoiled little shitheel. The economy is bad, you know. Fortunately I'm insolent enough to stick my dick into the barren womb of unemployment. Don't worry, I'll bring lube. Everybody has to get off sometime, and my stop is right around the corner. I shouldn't even be on this bus. I don't belong in an office. It makes me a tool, a turd-riddled cupcake. I'm not having it.

So I've prescribed myself a few shots of sanguine arrogance. It's a good buzz, and even healthy from time to time. I like people less and they like me more. That's economy right there. I've eaten a lot today. That's why I'm sounding fat and rich right now. Time for a toothpick.
5:41 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, January 08, 2003

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

I made a startling discovery in the pawn shop yesterday. In 1992, at the height of the Sweatin' To The Oldies craze, some genius at NFL Films thoughts it would be a good idea to make music videos full of archival NFL footage interspersed with some awkward narration. They made a few different videos, and the one trailer at the beginning of the video advertised Elton John and Bon Jovi. While that sounds as vile and nauseating as microwave pork rinds or head cheese, the tape I bought is a treasure. Sunshine on a cloudy day.

NFL Goes Motown.

That's right. I can watch clips of fumbles, leaping catches, end zone dances, and miraculous Walter Payton ballets while listening to the soulful sounds of Smokey & the Miracles, Diana Ross, Jr Walker, Stevie Wonder, The Contours, and the Temptations. More than that, even. I've already watched it twice. It's sadly only 45 minutes. But what a 45 minutes. Wow. For 99 cents. I want to sing along but that would distract me from the jumping running backs getting helicoptered in mid-air. So I watch, mouth open, eyes unblinking, swaying back and forth like a rusty teeter-totter. Very happy. I'm going back to the pawn shop tonight to find out what else is hiding there. I suspect that this is untoppable.
11:33 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Monday, January 06, 2003

Dear Oldies Station Hiring Manager

(formerly titled "Nobody Can Do The Boogaloo! Like I Do")
-----------------------------
Dear (oldies station office manager),

I was driving home yesterday evening with WJMK blasting at an obnoxiously loud volume. When commercials air, I usually flip to other station to see what else is on unless one of those “more magic music in sixty seconds” alerts pauses my hand. This time, I’m glad I let the advertisements commence. To my surprise, I heard your ad for entry-level salespeople; accompanied by a name and phone number I regrettably did not have the opportunity to write down. I would have quickly memorized the information and pulled over to record it, but I was driving along a particularly treacherous and icy portion of Golf Road, and it demanded the entirety of my attention. Browsing WJMK today at work, I found your name. I’m writing to request more information about this work and to find out if I qualify for a position with your radio station.

Please allow me to tell you a little bit about myself. I hope this will provide you with enough to determine whether this opportunity would be of mutual benefit to both myself and WJMK, or at the very least, whether to continue to an interview process.

I am a twenty-three year old music enthusiast and aspiring writer. I am currently looking for a new field of work where I can utilize my communication skills and professional demeanor to my advantage. I am currently employed at Hewlett-Packard, which recently changed its brand name to HP Invent. I’ve been here for five years. I began shortly after my eighteenth birthday performing shipping and receiving duties at the Schaumburg, IL office. After one year I was promoted to my current position, site services coordinator. My duties include supervising the following contractors: landscapers, snow removal, cleaning services, vending machines, roofing repair, electricians, heating and air, and locksmiths. Duties that I perform as opposed to supervise include printer, copier, and fax upkeep, cubicle construction, shipping clerk supervisor, office and cabinet key distribution, guided tours for new hires, audio and video equipment for conference rooms, conference room setup, scheduling, and supply, storage area organization, and inventory ordering when necessary for paper, toner, letterhead, and envelopes. I also cover three breaks per day for the receptionist and send out security parts across the country. I am also savvy with a computer and frequently help visitors troubleshoot small problems. There are many other miscellaneous tasks that I perform here, although the above describes the bulk of it.

I’ve decided to seek out new employment due to lack of job security. Although I’ve been at the same office for five years, our name has changed from Digital to Compaq to HP. I’m a contractor here, not an employee, and after the last merger HP is looking at hiring a company to perform these duties at all their offices nationwide. As a contactor for a relatively small company, we cannot competitively bid for the nationwide contract, and ours is set to expire at the end of January. Instead of waiting and hoping to interview with the new contractor, I’ve decided to seek out something more engaging than facility services. I think that sales and oldies are appropriate for me, as I enjoy interacting with others and I love music.

Rereading the above, I think it accomplishes my goals of requesting information and providing my basic work history. Feel free to ask me whatever you like. I hope this letter serves as the first note of a long and happy song.

My favorite oldie at this moment is “Give Me Just A Little More Time” by the Chairmen Of The Board, although my favorites change from week to week. I’m also partial to the Marcels and the Rascals.

Thank you for your time, attention, and consideration.

Sincerely,
Steve
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It's more personal than a resume, and I think for an entry level application it should bowl them over. Tonight I'm going to have a thick bloody steak to celebrate something or other. Whatever comes to mind that's worth celebrating.
5:57 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Sleep Well Minstrel Boy

I sit here at my desk, ragged and grizzly. I never got that haircut, and it's looking sentient now. My complexion is spotty and my eyes are swollen pink. I had trouble sleeping last night.

My holiday season was quite a coccoon. I didn't exactly emerge a beautiful butterfly, but I definitely exited as somebody much different than I was in November. Some telltale threads are woven into this journal, some not. I'll spare you.

Instead, some colorful anecdotes.

The roomie called last Tuesday to tell me to pick up Steve for Mark & Linda's New Year's Eve Party. (yes, he made it sound important enough to warrant capital letters) When I got there with him, I learned that Linda had a hissyfit and refused to have him as a guest. This stems back to when Steve's apartment got broken into, theived, and vandalized. Linda had been witness the next day when Steve had muttered and evenutally shouted, for several hours straight, "Kill. I'm gonna kill him. Knife, gun, bat, whatever's there. Can I use your phone?"

So I called Jim and Kelly, friends of mine for many years. I see them every New Year's Eve, and sometimes only then. Unfortunately they were going to Doug's house. The last time I went there, mid-summer, I had brought Steve, and he got drunk and tried to take two of the women to Chicago for cocaine and sex. Most everybody got upset by that and a fight nearly broke out. Doug kicked us out and I accidentally took his mom's Tommy James & The Shondells greatest hits CD. (I'd been carrying it upstairs when I had to run outside to the conflict, and I got kicked off the property while dragging Steve towards the curb) That eventually led to the heroin story. On my first page, I think.

Since he'd worn out his welcome everywhere, I told him to find his own goddamn party. He ended up in Plainfield with a bunch of South African girls who kept asking him and his buddies if they know who Nelson Mandela is. That reminded me of the Specials' "Free Nelson Mandela," a joyous political song that makes me beam.

I went to Doug's anyways, and he made me feel very unwelcome. He didn't look upon my efforts to defuse the summer situation favorably, and instead opted for guilt by association. Everybody gave him a very hard time about it except for me. Instead of speaking his mind, Doug's rationale was that he hadn't approved me as a New Year's guest with his mother. Doug is 26 years old. Yeah, he got grief from all but me on that flimsy weak shit. I left gracefully and went to stay with Darren and Leslie. The three of us ate cookies and drank cheap beer until two am. Low key.

The final week of the year brought news of three pregnancies and one murder. I guess that's good math, supposing such things can be reduced.

My friend Laura had her 21st birthday party at an arcade/bar. She got completely sloshed and was smart enough to bring two cameras. I saw to it that both were filled. Many images of her flirting with strangers, hugging her friends, and some long distance Where's Waldo? stlye shots with her on balconies, tall staircases and exiting washrooms. I have a good eye for compostition. Actually I haven't seen them yet. I thought so while I was buzzing, so it must be true.

I also decided to go to Florida in February. I will drink rum on the beach in Fort Lauderdale and collapse on the sand. Eat seafood. Cuban. Sleep late. Piss in the gulf or the ocean, depending on where the city lies. That sort of thing.

I've been spending a lot of time alone in the apartment. I have nowhere to go, nobody to see, and I like it. I've been begging myself to spend some quality time free of obligations. Lazy. It's somewhat boring, to tell the truth. But I got what I wanted. Old GrandDad bonded bourbon, a leather couch, cheap movies, blankets, cigarettes. Even after no sleep last night I feel more awake that I usually do on Monday morning. I must've gotten something right.

I recall that a few people have observed that writers on this site are depressive and gloomy. I don't think that's true. People vent some negative baggage here because it's safe and anonymous, but that doesn't make us gothic as a whole. And if you think about it, the dark stuff is more entertaining than the happy stuff. You can go on for hours exploring problems like little ant caves, all knot twisted. Happiness is far less intellectual, and to question it is to threaten it. I couldn't write much more than a paragraph about it without making myself ill. What would I say? I am overcome with an abundance of mirth, and the light twinkles all about, and the air is clean and perfect, and the music marionettes me a merry jig, and I am a great blazing sun, and I radiate my light wherever I pass, and if I smile any wider my cheeks will crack!

No thanks. Leave that to musical types and ecstasy abusers.
11:36 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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