A Paper Weight With Wheels

My Mom called and wanted to know if I had talked to my brother. Of course I haven't heard from him since Thanksgiving, but that isn't unusual. I refer to my brother, Sam, as a "free" spirit. You can interpret that to either mean he is a person that does whatever strikes his fancy or it could mean that he is a bum.

Sam has lived all over the United States. At one time or another, he has lived in Denver, Boulder, Lexington, Indianapolis, Columbia, Gary, and a couple other places that I can't recall. He is always working for some restaurant chain and even though he is broke every time I talk to him, he has always just been promoted. Without fail he is the manager of some place within two months of working there and then the next month he is looking for a job. Sam is one of those blessed people who always seems to get the best end of the deal. Cheat on your taxes and get caught? The U. S. government cuts you some slack. Transmission falls out of your car? Dad's neighbor that you barely know foots the bill for a new ride. Drive drunk and cause a major accident? Get a ticket for leaving the scene. He has done a million things that would either get me sued or thrown in jail for the rest of my natural life.

For some reason Mom reminded me that my brother and I used to live together. I guess she feels like we should keep in better touch. Shortly after I got out of college, Sam graduated high school and decided to move in with me. It only lasted a year because I was working a real job and needed to sleep at night, but Sam had zero responsibility and chose to blow his take home pay (tips from the restaurant) every night with a party. He wanted to make noise and I wanted to sleep. I didn't throw him out or anything, but he got tired of his big brother riding his ass (calm down Michael Jackson) and moved.

Shortly before he left, Sam had a little trouble with his car. It was a beat to hell Volkswagen Rabbit that had seen better days. He and my dad spent every weekend fixing whatever Sam had torn up on it during the week. Dad never fixed anything the correct way, but always the cheapest, quickest way, so the Rabbit was a rolling disaster.

One afternoon, I was cat napping on the couch. You know how it is. It's been a long day of work, the sun is shining in the windows, you lay down intending to watch television, but your eyelids get heavy and before you know it you begin to drift, not really asleep, but not quite awake.

Suddenly the door burst open and Sam came running by the couch. He always entered the apartment like Kramer from Sienfeld, so I didn't think anything about it, preferring to enjoy my state of somnolence. My ears registered the sound of pots and pans banging around, then running water followed by the sound of Sam slamming the door on his way out. Fine, at least he didn't need anything from me, and I went back to sleep.

An undetermined time later, the same sequence of events happened. The door flys open, he goes running by, I hear a pot banging in the sink, water runs, the door loudly shuts behind him as he leaves. I think I'm dreaming. You know, one of those dreams where you know it's odd, but aren't sure what to do about it.

The third time the door opens, the pot bangs, the water runs I wake enough to mumble something along the lines of "what the hell are you doing????" The answer was quite unintelligible but even in my dream like state, I know that I heard the word "fire." So.......I start to rouse, thinking that this might be something I need to check on. I roll of the couch in time to see the door close.

I drag my tired ass to the door and almost catch the damn thing with my face as Sam comes flying through. He is carrying a small sauce pan and doesn't even look at me as he goes flying by. I ask again, "what the hell are you doing?" as I turn to face him. He is at the sink filling the sauce pan with water and yells over his shoulder "my car is on fire!!!"

It still doesn't really register, but I follow him out the door with his little pan of water and there is the Rabbit, innocently sitting in the parking lot. He is running to the car, spilling more water than he is keeping in the pan.

"Looks ok to me," I say as he sets the pan down on the ground.

"It's on fire, " he replies and I know I'm still dreaming.

He reaches for the hood and unlatches it, lifts it up, and flames shoot into the sky high enough to be seen from space. Apparently he and Dad had replaced the fuel pump or something and had used some kind of gasket sealer that was quite flammable. He dumps his two ounces of water on it, throws the pan down, yanks the hood closed, gathers his fire fighting equipment and runs back into the house. Now I'm laughing my ass off. I don't know what's so funny, him trying to put the fire out with a cup of water at a time or the fact that he closes the hood after every dousing.

I uncoil the water hose and by the time he comes back out, I'm ready for the grand hood opening and together we quench the flames. I just shake my head and go back in the house.

Two days later, again during my afternoon catnap, there is a knock at the door. I shuffle to answer and I'm greeted by four Mexicans that speak a little more English than I speak Spanish. Since all I can say is "dos cerbezas por favor" they have to carry the conversation for all parties involved. The best that I can gather was that Sam sold them the Rabbit for $200 and now they want the "instruction book for repair" that Sam promised them. I gave them the deep blank stare for awhile and they finally left muttering something about "loco gringos."

I never saw the Mexicans again. I asked Sam about it and he simply said "I took care of it," and that was enough for me. To this day, I don't use anything that Sam or my Dad has repaired.


I've had a pretty good lesson in human nature. It's more important to try to surround yourself with people who can give you a little happiness, because you only pass through this life once, Jack. You don't come back for an encore.
-Elvis Presley

The Color Blue

Normally, I'm not one of those people who can see the natural beauty in things. I can't imagine standing at the Grand Canyon and waxing on about how "beautiful" nature is or going to the Rockies to be surrounded by the "beauty." My idea of beauty is a long distance projectile vomit or a really nice, perky rack on a woman. I'm a simple man with simple needs. That's why I think I need to increase my medication.

Today, I was mowing the yard for the first time this spring. It's a little chilly out, but I was the last one on the street to break out the mower, sharpen the blade, change the oil and make my yard look presentable. I get about halfway through the chore when I realize that I am in a really good mood. No, a really, really good mood. Hmmmm....... o.k., don't let it freak you Chad, it's probably just this morning's coffee firing up the neurons. Yeah....... no....... crap....... man, the sky is sooooooo blue. Check out the twinge of violet running through it. That is the bluest blue I've ever seen. Not a cloud in the sky. Wait, there's a little cloud way over there. All by itself in the blue blue sky. What a cute little cloud. It's soooooo white. Man, it really feels good to be alive.

I'm going to the doctor on Monday. This ain't right.

Parting The Seas

Since the topic has been vomit recently, I thought I would retell another adventure I had.

At one time, I was living in Memphis and dating a girl in Louisville. I was pretty enamored with her and was very eager to impress. She decided to visit me one weekend and I went overboard with the preparations in my usual manner. I called my sister, who married an Italian from New York, and got the Bonnono family spaghetti recipe. It was a pretty serious concoction with three different kinds of meat and then fried meatballs along with it. I spent all day cooking it and was very pleased with the result.

Around five that afternoon, just about the time I was expecting my company, she calls and gives me some lame excuse about snow flurries and how her mom doesn't want her to drive. Forget the fact that she was out on her own and had recently bought a four wheel drive Jeep, I knew it was a lame excuse because the weather channel made no mention of snow. I found out later that I was just something (or someone) to do unless a better offer came along.

Refusing to wallow in my misery, I called four of my buddies and told them I had an Italian feast ready to eat. Naturally, they swarmed my house. One of them brought one of those huge bottles of cheap wine and we all began to eat and drink like it was our last meal. I certainly drank more than my fair share, trying to numb the heartbreak I was feeling.

Once we were finished with dinner, somebody suggested a movie. I don't even remember what we went to see, but I recall the theater being full. Since I didn't feel like I had punished myself enough, I insisted that we stop by the liquor store and buy some bourbon or rum or some other bottle of devil's urine to sneak into the theater. I got my big cup of coke and whatever and downed it completely, barely pausing to breathe.

Shortly thereafter, my body started giving me the signals that I had imbibed too much. The dry mouth, the spinning room, etc.

A short pause to brag. I am a professional puker. That is not to say I puke a lot, but when I heave, I always empty my stomach into a container. None of this cleaning carpet or wiping off the couch for me. It is one of my few true talents.

So the chunky style, partially digested dinner began to make it's way back up my esophagus. I grabbed the big gulp cup that I had just emptied and made the most god awful noises filling it up. The poor bastards in the rows in front of me were not aware of my professional standing in the North American Society of Professional Pukers (N.A.S.P.P.). I don't remember much from that night, but I remember thinking that this must have been how Moses felt parting the Red Sea. The four or five rows in front of me must have experienced a mass panic. Men were climbing over girlfriends, children were being trampled, and I swear I heard a cat make a sound like it had caught it's tail in a blender. The entire theater had spread out and began to look back for the culprit and the victims that he had hosed with vomitus.

I sat there holding my cup full of chum and eventually figured out that they were looking for me, so I began to look over my shoulder for the offender. Ushers came down the isle, the movie was completely disrupted, and the only people that knew I had done it were my friends. They were laughing so hard that the manager soon came down and began to ask if anybody needed help. They all began to point at me (with friends like that), but in the darkness it just looked like I had a full soda. All of the employees began to shine their little flashlights between the seats looking for the disaster that surely must be waiting for them. Eventually, finding nothing out of the ordinary, they left and everyone's attention returned to the movie.

I feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch that found that cup of vomit.



I wake up every day and go to bed every night knowing I'm the luckiest guy on the fucking planet.
-Hugh Hefner

Beer For Bait

In February of this year, a friend and I went to Clearwater Beach for some sunshine and fishing. I'm not really the bubba type that hangs out on a levee all day with a cane pole and some hotdog pieces for bait, but I do like to go deep sea fishing. It's just being out on the water more than anything else, although I do enjoy taking my catch to the local "Crabby Bill's" so they can cook it for me.

The first day we were there, the water was a little choppy, so the boat we had chartered wouldn't go out. Desperate for some pole time (take a deep breath out there strippers), we ended up finding one of those large boats that takes about 40 or 50 people out. The pros of a trip like that include the fact that they sell beer on the boat and even though it was pretty early in the day, I started knocking back the golden nectar of the gods, drinking them quick enough that they didn't have time to become tepid.

Meanwhile, there was a family next to me that obviously didn't have their sea legs yet. It seemed that three generations had decided to test the waters that morning, a young son, about eight or nine, his dad, a large tattoo covered man that I suspected was on leave from the military, and grandpa, who had his floppy fishing hat complete with lures embedded into the brim. Well, the little boy was oblivious at first to the prow of the boat crashing up and down with the waves and quickly pounded down two Sprites, a bag of potato chips, some peanuts and a chocolate bar. Fifteen minutes later, while I was on my fourth beer, pee wee looked a little green around the gills. Sure enough, he bellied up to the rail and began to chunder over the side of the boat. This is when the true hilarity of the scene began. Dad's breakfast began to rebel on him and he soon joined his son, hurling huevos rancheros and god knows what else into the Gulf of Mexico. Feeling left out, gramps began to do his best yak imitation.

So I'm sitting there, getting more fucked up than a two dicked billie goat, watching three generations heave their guts out. It reminded me of an Adam Sandler movie and my only regret is that the last two living cells in my brain didn't tell me to take a picture. It would have ruled on ratemyvomit.com.

The Rat King

Today, when Daisy and I were chasing an errant wasp through the house, I got a little bummed thinking about a black lab I used to own named Gabby.

Gabby was a fantastic dog. Probably the smartest, most sensitive dog I've ever owned. She never caused any trouble and was quick to learn new tricks and loved her frisbee. We had moved into a fixer-upper in a neighborhood in Memphis called Cooper-Young. The house was a mess, but I sank a bunch of time and money into it and turned it into a quaint little cottage with hardwood floors and unique molding.

The rest of the neighborhood was a mix of run down rental shacks and houses much like mine that had been restored. On one side, I had a doctor living in a restored Victorian, but on the other side I had a mother and son team that owned seven dogs in a three bedroom crack shack. With all of their dogs, they couldn't afford to pay their utilities, so they ran a generator in one room with a fan in the window to exhaust the fumes. Unfortunately, the generator room was directly across from my bedroom and I got to lay awake at night listening to the damn thing run. The only consolation that I would get was in the middle of the winter. Sometimes I would wake up early in the morning while it was still dark, to the sounds of the generator running out of gas. That earned me a chuckle because I knew that one of the inbred pair had to get up and refill the thing with gas or wake up freezing because they had no juice for their space heaters.

Eventually, mom and son moved out. I peaked in the windows and thought "glad that isn't my house to clean up!!" Little did I know that once the people and dogs moved out, the rats and fleas no longer had a food source. Thus began The Great Vermin Migration. We battled fleas for a couple of months, but the rats hung on for quite a while. Now I grew up in the suburbs and was used to the little field mice coming into the house when it got really cold, but I was not prepared for the hordes of cat sized rats that invaded my home. I tried traps for awhile, but I guess the rodents just giggled as they dragged that traps off with the bait still in them. I switched to poison, which was a pain, because not only did I have to keep it away from the dog, but the damn vengeful rat that ate it would crawl into a wall and die, leaving the stench of dead animal permeating the house. When we had visitors, I would pull them aside and tell them "The misses is lactose intolerant, please ignore the smell."

Gabby became quite the rat catcher. Of course, she would tear up vinyl flooring and baseboard to get to them, but she was earning her keep and she was proud of each success. Slowly, but surely, the problem began to fade. That is until the King of the Rats made his appearance. Gabby and I were in the kitchen when the big ass bastard bolted out from the dishwasher between Gabby's legs. Gabby and I were both so startled that at first we didn't move, but then the chase began! The dog followed The Rat around the corner into the laundry room. The "laundry" room was a small alcove with the washer on one wall, the dryer on another and the hot water heater in the corner between them. The doomed Rat lifted the edge of the washer, gave me the finger, squeaked "piss off loser" and then ran underneath, dropping the washer behind him. Gabby was irate and was very vocal about it. I grabbed a broom and jumped up on the washer, jabbing the broom behind it hoping to flush the monster out. I think Gabby understood and became very quite, assuming the pounce position to cut the enemy off when it reappeared. So, I'm jabbing away with the broom, cursing the rat's lineage when Gabby starts raising hell again. I turn back to tell her to chill out, I'm on top of it and I notice that she is no longer focused on the washer, but on the space behind me. It was like a Kung Fu movie or something from the Matrix. Everything slowed to a crawl and I slowly turned to my left to face the water heater. As I made my turn, my eyes became entranced by the beady, snarling image of The Rat King sitting on my hot water heater inches from my face. Time stopped. Mexican rat stand off. The Rat King made his move, lunging for my face. I quickly flipped the broom and caught the bastard in mid air, laying the smack down on the fucker with the working end of the broom. The Rat King sailed over my shoulder and Gabby leapt to snag him in mid flight. I didn't know rats could scream. Gabby chomped once and then dropped the rat's nasty ass at my feet, deader than......well, dead. Final resting place? Garbage can. Gabby got two treats that night.

Gabby moved north several years later, shortly after my divorce. I still miss the dog.

Gabby 

Daisy 

Greetings From The U-boat Commander

Just so everybody will know what kind of intellect they are dealing with here, I'm going to let you know how my day went. I got up late, due mostly to the 50 mg of Benadryl I took before bed last night, but also it is partly the fault of the radio station that wakes me up every morning. Normally they play some Godsmack, or Metallica, or Alice in Chains. Something to shock my brain awake. Well, "The Rocket" let me down this morning, slept right through it. Luckily I have a back up, her name is Daisy and she has an extremely wet tongue.

After my golden retriever gave me my first bath, I hopped into the shower for my second, dried my balls, slammed on some scrubs, swigged some mouthwash and flew out the door, running only about 30 minutes late. It was cloudy this morning in West Tennessee, but the temperature was nice so naturally I opened the sun roof and let the windows down so the breeze would wake me.

A pause to talk about my automobile. I love my car. After my emancipation, I bought myself a very nice ride. I had driven rolling paper weights for years and felt that I deserved it. I tracked down a gem with garnett red paint, powerful engine, leather seats, and all of the bells and whistles. Lest ye think I'm compensating for something, wonder no longer. I have a small penis and my car is the only thing that keeps me from drinking the magic kool-aid because God short changed me. I love my car and I don't mind writing the check every month.

I was 30 minutes late, so the day starts like every day when you are already in the hole. It was very hectic, one case after another, and my co-workers were giving me a Monday morning pain in the ass. Around noon, I noticed that the rain was really coming down. Rain depresses me. I don't need warm temps, but I gotta have the sunshine. I was completely bummed because we just had 3 gorgeous days here and I had been looking forward to going to the links and smacking the rock a little bit.

Mercifully my day ends. I am jubilant! Freedom. Shucks, it's still raining. Biblical raining. Wrath of God stuff. I bolt to my tiny jimmy compensator and as I round the last car before mine......mother fucker!!!!!!!! Should have taken the time to close that sun roof.

So, the rest of my afternoon has been spent with towels, wet vacuum, and a hair dryer. I'm taking a short respite to cry a bit and share my misery. Feel free to call me a dumbass.



Any time somebody comes to visit you in prison, that's good.

-Suge Knight

Your Grandmother Wants to Date Me

Once again saddled with a bad case of insomnia, I shoved the dogs off of my legs (I have a queen size bed and yet they have to lay right on top of me) and rolled out of the used side of the bed to go take some benadryl and surf the web for a bit. I fired up the PC and was notified by yahoo that I had e-mail. Bonus, it was from the dating service I have been using every now and then when I feel particularly alone.

Now let me preface this by saying that I used to be one of those people that chuckled when I heard the phrase "I met him/her online." I would shake my head and imagine the worst possible scenarios. I've even heard a couple of them. One friend in particular managed to find a woman in Seattle. Now I'm no master of geography, but it seems to me that Washington state is more than just a day trip from Tennessee. Danny (named changed to protect the idiot) fell in love with his online temptress and they decided to make it official, but instead of meeting in a neutral state, or one flying out to meet the other, they decided to move her from Seattle to Memphis. At this point in his tale I was rolling my eyes and thinking of a hundred different ways that Danny boy was fucking up. He topped them all. He drove his pickup a bazillion miles to Seattle, loaded all of her shit into a u-haul trailer, and then the two love birds began their journey back to the land of Elvis. They made it to Kansas before chickie decided it the whole affair wasn't such a good idea and made him drive BACK to Seattle. I promptly told him I would have left her bitch ass in Kansas. That's just the kind of sweetheart that I am.

Anyway, my whole attitude toward online dating changed after my divorce. All of the women in my little circle of redneck hell are looking for some kind of combination Ike Turner/Kid Rock type. Apparently I have several things going against me, including being able to hold down a job, having no kids (they prefer a diverse brood with many different mothers to deal with), and the law isn't looking for me. So I gave the online dating thing a try.

I quickly found out that my other faults showed up in a dating profile without my smartass charm to balance them out. It seems that I'm too short, too ugly, and too poor to be a good fit for most women. If I could meet them face to face, my personality can sometimes win them over, but I will never have women fighting over me. Anyway, the short story is that women simply don't reply to my "flirts" or "ice breakers" or whatever other cutesy name these sites come up with to describe an interest. I have trouble with e-mail because what's funny to me is rarely funny to others and my messages all scream "stalker." I recognize this for what it is and eventually just left the poor women alone. I sort of cheat on my profile because I put a picture of my Golden Retriever, Daisy, up and she is much, much, cuter than I am. The result is ok. Every now and then somebody will get intrigued enough to say hello. I have snagged a few dates out of it, some good, some bad, but I think I'm gonna quit for awhile. I believe it's a lot like selling a house, if it's on the market too long, there has to be something wrong with it, right? At least that's the theory I'm going with now because the only messages I get have profiles attached that begin with "I love spending time with my grandchildren."

Now, I try not to have any bias. I give everyone an equal shot, because you never know, but I am looking for something a little bit south of collecting social security. I'm only 37 fer cryin' out loud!

So, tonight, I'm excited because somebody has sent me an email. Bless the septuagenarian's heart. I'm all for the Ashton/Demi relationship. If you want somebody young enough to be your child, I say go for it. But.....please don't start your e-mail with "I love sitting on the porch and watching my grandchildren play."

People say, "I want to get laid a lot and make lots of money." That's not the right order.
-Gene Simmons

My Favorite Beer

Primate Mating Rituals

Dating is such a strange thing. I'm sure I have my little quirks that catch people's attention, but it's funny how you notice the oddest things about other people. Well, somethings you can't help but notice. Like a date that takes the peas out of her fried rice and puts them on your plate, or when she salts every individual piece of cucumber. Nothing fatal about those things, but odd I think. We went to one of those chop-saki places like Benihana. Great fun watching a chef set fire to oil and alcohol inches from your face while he beats the crap out of a spatula with a fork. How did these places ever get started? I cannot imagine the Japanese thinking this was an artform or even a good way to cook dinner. They seem much more dignified to me. I did like it though, when the chef made a volcano out of onion rings.

When you walk up five flights of stairs at four in the morning, there's definitely a hooker involved. -Rodney Dangerfield

The Angry Dwarves Are Singing

Without a doubt, insomnia sucks. I heard a version of "Funny How Time Slips Away" by Al Green and Lyle Lovett today. Damn thing is embedded into my freakin' brain. I tried to sleep, but when I stop moving, my brain goes into overdrive. For some reason I was thinking of when I first graduated college and had to move in with my step dad. I had a shitty ass job at a bank, so I was making zero green and my step dad, who was no longer married to my mom, let me stay with him. Things were all good for about a month, but he quickly got tired of my lazy ass post college routine of working the crappy job then coming home to sit in front of the TV and drink beer. He would be out in the yard working and could see me sitting on my sorry ass. I knew I should be out there helping him, but I just couldn't get moving. The whole thing came to a head one weekend when he told me to get my white ass up and help him. I'm glad he did. It motivated me to get a better job and move out on my own.

I don't know what made me think of that, maybe it has something to do with me being reactive instead of proactive in my life. Hmmmm. A guy I used to work with used to talk all the time about how he was gonna quit, buy an RV and do some traveling tech work. We all thought it was bullshit until he pulled up in the parking lot in his RV one day. That takes balls. Balls big as church bells. He garnered a lot of respect from me on that day.

I really should move. There is nothing here in this town for me. No family, not many friends, the job pays well, but it's sort of stale. Only reason I'm even here is because we moved for the exs job. Now she lives in PA and I'm still here. I'd like to live in Northern California, but I'm not printing Benjamins on my computer. Florida's problem is that there isn't any good grass. I mean lawn grass. I like the feel of bermuda between my toes. They have that saw grass that feels like walking on sandpaper or something. New Orleans or Las Vegas would kill me. I won't go back to Memphis, that would be a waste of time. St. Louis might be an option, but I'd rather go warmer than colder. I dunno. I feel like I'm just treading water here. It's time for a change.

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former. - Albert Einstein

What's In A Name?

I was married to a Catholic for 8 years. She referred to herself as a "C & E" Catholic and never really tried to get me involved in the church. After 6 or 7 years she decided that she wanted me to attend mass with her. I was reluctant at first, since I've never been a particularly religious person, but it was important to her so I acquiesced. The mass was confusing to me. It was nothing like the services I had been to as a child. When I was little, my parents would put me on the church bus and ship me off to Southern Baptist services every Sunday. Since I was not a complete moron, I began to suspect that there was an ulterior motive for my little Sunday trips because my parents never went. (I'm guessing they were just glad to have the rug rats out of the house for a couple of hours.) The fact that they never attended and fire and brimstone sermons insured that the indoctrination never really got a solid hold on me. When I finally went to mass with my ex, I was impressed. Not really with the message, but with the ritual and symbolism. I was like a tourist. Things were going well and I was thinking that if she wanted me to attend more services, I would probably accommodate her. Then, as always, I screwed the pooch. It was during one of those pauses for quiet reflection that my pager went off. My pager never goes off, but I did at least have the foresight to set it on vibrate. Never the less, it startled me and my reflexive and very loud, Tourette's like "SHIT!" did not go over very well with the rest of the congregation. That was my last mass.

I thought about that little episode because John Paul II slipped off his mortal coil this weekend. All of the news websites included little side stories on how the new pope will be elected with John Paul's obituary. Again the ritual of the church fascinated me. Apparently, around a thousand years ago, the newly elected popes began to take new names upon taking on the responsibilities of the office. There have been numerous Leos, Gregorys, Johns, etc. The articles really don't go into detail about what kind of process each new pope goes through to chose his new name. I am under the impression that it is a personal decision and left up to the individual. I'm guessing that the Catholic clergy aren't overly imaginative because they seem to have run out of ideas, hence the combination of names, John Paul, with the last two popes. If the college of Cardinals have taken up reading my blog, I am offering my services for choosing the name for the next father of the Holy Roman Church. There is no fee, I'm not a greedy man. Just an agnostic that would like to help an ancient organized religion connect with the world of 2005. When the white smoke rises above the Vatican, I suggest that the new leader of the worlds largest religion be introduced as His Holiness Pope Elvis I.

Spank The Monkey

Well what do you know, out of the blue I get a date for my birthday. Kinda. Meet for drinks that kind of thing. She immediately apologized for being taller. I like a girl that can recognize her faults. We ended up at "Blueberry Hill" which was a hotel bar in town that I had never been to before. The "Hill" was what we commonly referred to in college as a "cow palace." Middle aged (I guess that's me) divorcees bumping and grinding to Clarence Carter's "Strokin'." High entertainment let me tell you. She was very pleasant company, but I don't think she was overly impressed with me. I think she was more interested in my dog. She did laugh, however, when I described joecartoon.com's animation "Spank The Monkey." My theory is, getting the girl to laugh is half of the battle. We will see.

Oh, what does it mean when you begin to feel the urge to refer to yourself in the third person?

20 grit sandpaper

Damn, insomnia sucks. The morning is here (Happy fucking b-day to me) and the back of my eyeballs feal like they have been worked over by a crank happy elf with sandpaper. Now I have an eight hour shift at the hospital to look forward to. On top of that, I'm sure that I'll get some of that retarded birthday crap today. Last year it was a FLAMING homosexual in a jester outfit singing a rendition of Happy Birthday To You that was a cross between Ethel Merman and scraping fingernails. The good news is that my calender is completely free this evening. I got a movie offer, but I'd have to drive 2 hours for the company, and poppa would be an angry dwarf by the time he got there, so I think I'm gonna decline. Maybe something will turn up at work, assuming I don't get fired for sleeping on the job.

Bonus!!! The voices in my head are too tired to talk to me. Looks like the neighborhood animals will escape my wrath today.

Random Thoughts from a Fractured Mind

Ok, I don't know what the attraction of a blog is. I'm not even sure that I'm doing any of this correctly. I just feel the need to put some things into words and I don't really have a partner in commiseration.

T. B. finally returned my call tonight. Great news!!! She met somebody else. Time for the full out pity party here. I don't really blame her because it isn't like I was giving her any of the "I wanna settle down, raise rug rats, and call each other sickening sweet names" vibes. Still, she was a lot of fun and never gave me too much hell about what I was or wasn't doing. I'm really gonna miss her I think. Well, I know, otherwise why would I be up at 1:15 in the morning on a work night starting some kind of strange electronic diary (or diarrhea) the not only will I probably not read, but it's doubtful anybody else will pay attention to.

If I continue to post, I swear this will be the last negative one. I'm gonna say it, get it out of my system and never look back. My life sucks!!! Oh sure, I have a good job, nice car, my own house, but damn, where is that special someone to share with? *sigh*

On a positive note, that damn annoying noise in my brain has faded away. Now it's more of a pleasant hum, like a dentist drill on high speed.

Oh yeah, one other thing, no shitting here, it's also my friggin' birthday!