Next caller, you're on the air.

I rarely ever express any personal or political objections in my work. Being a dyed-in-the-wool liberal (bleeding heart included) living and working in not just a red state, but the buckle of the Bible Belt, it's just a given that work occasionally comes my way that I just have to grit my teeth and get it over with.

Not to get into too much detail, but it involved typesetting a bio for a guest speaker who is a popular political radio talk show host. The worst part of having to proofread my own work is actually having to READ some of the shit I've been given. I've had to typeset opera programs, bird-watchers' newsletters, tofu cookbooks, annual reports for Chiropractic clinics, church bulletins, etc. Most of these things don't bug me so much as they are just boooooorrrriiiinng. My job? To try to make them look as best as possible.

And ordinarily, the political stuff doesn't bother me. I've done logos and promotional materials for a dozen candidates over the past few years...all of them republicans. I've just enjoyed seeing the look on the client's face when my boss tells them that this design work they love so much was designed by a democrat.

I think the thing that bugs me about this project was the fact that he's a political radio host. He wrote his own bio, which reeks of this "I don't need to explain myself to lowly peasants like you" kind of arrogance. He claims to be a die-hard Libertarian, which in the world of talk radio means he's an equal opportunity asshole. Nothing against the Libertarians, but in this guy's case, he just wants to shit on both sides and not be considered a hipocrite.

Ironic that I would have such a problem with talk radio when my car radio hasn't left NPR in over a year. I think the destinction would be that the folks at NPR never hang up on their callers or tell their guests to shut up when they don't agree with their viewpoints. That, and NPR doesn't start every broadcast with, "Well, the _____-mongers are at it again..."

And it's not just the right-wingers. Even Air America bugs the shit out of me after a while. I find myself thinking, "Gee, two million years of human evolution and stooping to their level is the best you could do?"

In political talk radio, it's not the politics that's so fucking annoying, it's the fact that 90% of the time, they can't be bothered by the rules of civilized debate, proper research, the slightest bit of common courtesy or basic reasoning skills. I, for one, would be relieved to hear at least one of these chowderheads just come out and call his show "I love the sound of my own voice".

"You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours." -Michael Douglas in the American President, written by Aaron Sorkin

I can acknowledge their right to free speech, that is, if theirs didn't come with a microphone, coast-to-coast broadcasting capabilities and corporate sponsorship. One could argue that a lot of people like listening to what they have to say. But, like Dennis Miller once said (and I shudder quoting this man since he became a Fox News commentator), "It's the same reason Eskimoes love blubber, it's the only thing on the Arctic buffet!"

I don't mind their constant bitching and moaning about whatever political conspiracy flavor of the minute is floating around in their paranoid little minds if they'd just inform their listeners how to actually DO something about it. Ask them to start a petition drive, register people to vote, or maybe try running for office themselves. Maybe failing at that few times will shut them the hell up. On second thought, Pat Buchanan is still around, so my theory is pretty much worthless.

Fritschie's assumptions

Pac-Man Jr.'s first words: "Wagga-wagga-wagga."

Tolkein used to wake his kids up early to tell them the appendices to their bedtime stories.

Sir Mix-a-lot may claim to like big butts, but I'm pretty sure he checks out a skinny one from time to time.

O.J. Simpson never goes shopping for knives anymore. Talk about an awkward transaction. I just picture all of his knives at home getting duller and duller, because he's too scared to be seen in the housewares section scoping out the Ginsu's.

When you see someone in a church member directory listing his occupation as "Entreprenuer", he owns a porn shop.

Deep down, anyone hanging out at a Denny's at four in the morning is not all that keen to explain what happened right before they got there.

Playing Risk with Dick Cheney would be a scary and frustrating mess.

No one answering the question "How did you meet your soul mate?" starts with the words, "Well, it was jello shot night..."

Somewhere, someone is deep-frying random food objects in order to find a competitive edge for their State Fair food stand.

Whenever he hears the phone ring, Ashton Kutcher gets that feeling in the pit of his stomach that it might be Satan calling for his end of the bargain.

Okay...bullet-resistant

So much for that sunny disposition bullshit. I won't go into detail, but I had to deal with a co-worker whose attitude actually dimmed the lights of whatever room he was in. I'm talking screaming, bitching, ptiching a fit, storming out, etc. The irony was, after he calmed down a bit, he actually used the word "unprofessionl to describe someone else. I think I drew blood biting my tongue at that moment.

So, the other seven hours of my work day were spent at my desk, doing my work and repeating the phrase "calm blue ocean" under my breath.

Needless to say, I'm breaking out the Jamesons again tonight, albeit for a different reason.

Bulletproof

Last Monday's post began as an attempt to write something a little more abstract about what I was feeling at that time. It ended up being a wonderful release. Since I hit the "Publish Post" button that night, The good things have felt much better and the bad things that would normally send me into a hissy fit in real life and a raving diatribe on this blog have rolled off my back and/or become a cute story.

I'm finally beginning to feel deserving of the good fortune that has come my way. And even if it isn't hitting the pick six in the karmic lottery, I have felt good knowing that I was right to play it as the "nice guy". Spiritually and psychologically, I feel bulletproof.

For instance, today was my boss' first day back from a week-long vacation. All day long, he tried to find fault in anything I've done while he was away. the furthest he got was walking into my office holding a job ticket, saying "Dan, what the hell...(looks closer at the job ticket)...oh, nevermind." By the end of the day, I couldn't wipe that give-me-your-best-shot smirk off my face.

Now that I'm home, I've had my dinner, and I'm gonna crack open a bottle of Jameson's and get a good buzz going. I've deserved it.

Bums, backpacks and drunk bastards

In six months of working the door at Arnie's Bar, I had never experienced a night as equally slow and weird as last night.

There was just something in the air. It was a bit chilly, and the barometric pressure just made everyone kinda groggy. Everyone who came in the bar didn't look like they were ready for a night of fun. Instead, it was a "okay, let's have a few beers" kinda vibe. I did have three highlights of my shift.

1. There's a new bum wandering around downtown with a real psycho streak. Most other bums have learned to avoid being seen around Arnie's. Sure, I have to give each of them an inital warning early in the night. I catch them in the act of stopping our customers, and I tell them that if I catch them doing it again I will call the cops. Now, most of them see me at the door and walk right past making sure to not bother anyone.

Every bum you see downtown has their own gimmick. Some of them claim to just want money for gas or a bus ticket or diapers for their baby. Some show you some form of ID, like a driver's license or even a K-Mart credit card, as if that's proof that they're an upstanding member of society...that just happens to be downtown, at night, wearing months old dirty clothes and body odor that smells like canned tamales. A few of themk try religion; proclaiming the salvation of the Lord, which coming from a homeless guy, isn't a great selling point.

This new bum's schtick is to walk up to someone, ask them how they're doing, and proceed to mumble to and annoy his mark until they give him some money. He never really asks for money, he just bugs you until you feel there's no option other than pay him off.

The first couple time I encountered this guy, I asked him politely to go away. Now, I get right in his face and order him to fuck off. At this point, he just screams back, saying he has a right to be here. I had to get in his face twice last night. The first time, he yelled at me as he walked away. the second time, he tried to ignore me and continue to talk to one of our customers. This time, when he could not ignore me any more, he challenged me to a fight and threatened to shoot me with the gun he claimed to have. I called his bluff. I told him that if he really was strapped, he'd use it by now. He walked away.

2. I've learned certain red flag situations in my time working the door. If there's a group of five or more girls and all but one volunteer their ID's without being asked, odds are the last one is underage. the guy that protests the THREE DOLLAR cover charge early in the evening is likely to not tip the bartenders and/or walk out on their tab. The old guy that comes in alone will get his drink and want to stand next to me and talk my ear off.

The latest thing I've realized is if a guy comes in on a Saturday night with a backpack or a duffle bag, he's either A) gonna steal shit, B) try to sell people shit, or C) wander around the bar bugging the living shit out of anyone who will show the slightest bit of interest. I should've known better than to let this one guy in. he looked harmless enough, but after a couple beers, he started talking to one of our regulars - a guy who's more of a pacifist than I am - and kept talking to that regular until veins were popping out of his neck. Backback guy was definitely starting to tweak on whatever he was high on, and it sure as hell wasn't life. He then sat down with a group of girls at one of the tables, and each one of them looked like they needed a chemical wash shower after talking to the guy.

The bartender cut him off, and he left...for about ten minutes. I stopped him at the door and told him he couldn't come back in. His classic response? "WHY?" I told him there were a lot of complaints about him from the customers. Classic response #2? "FROM WHO?" I told him to go away, and he shook my hand and left. I took a quick break to go scrub my hand like Silkwood and I got back to work.

3. A group of twelve guys came to the door while the band was on break. I told them I'd cut them a group rate of $2 a head, and the lead guy offered to go in, have a couple beers and if they liked the band, they'd pay the cover. I sarcastically replied, "Oooookkkaaaayyyy..." Then, the guys started walking in. I yell at them to come back and pay the cover.

"But, you said okay!"

I looked the guy in the eye and asked him, "What fucking economics class did you enroll in? If there is a band, you pay a cover price to get into the bar." All but three of the guys left, but the others had already ordered their beers. i told them to go ahead and quickly finish their beers, but if they want to stay one second after, then they owe me $3 cover. They finished and left.

After I got off, I walked over to McNellie's to catch the end of the Larkin gig and see my friends. Many of them were having an afterparty, and when I showed up, the leader of the group of twelve was there. Nobody knew him. He was crashing the party. And worse yet, he recognized me. Between that and all of the drunks at the party, my discomfort was palpable.

I got home around four and went straight to bed. I slept until one and now, I feel great. I'm gonna go enjoy the rest of my day.

Life is good...and cryptic

I've been slacking on the posts this week. Lots going on, and not all of it has been work-related. In fact, I've found myself with some free time this week. Wednesday night my boss had to tell me to go home, and that there was nothing I had to work on that couldn't wait until tomorrow. So, I went home and did laundry.

There's something else, and I don't want to talk about it, even in metaphors. My friends ask me about it and I tell them simply, it's Fight Club and I'm not supposed to talk about it. I will say this, it was part of the inspiration for my last post, and that I feel now is the time to make some changes in the way I'm thinking and living my life.

My last post was something that just came out when I sat down at the computer. It wasn't just stream of conscienceness, because it was mostly written during commercial breaks of CSI: Miami. And since I put that out there, the demons have been relatively quiet. I laid down the law, and they're respecting that.

I'm breathing much easier since then, and the time has come for me to cash in on some of the karma stock options I've been sitting on for the past few years. So far, so good.

Performance evaluations with my inner demons

Self Doubt, 8:05 PM

Okay, Self Doubt, have a seat. We have a lot to talk about. Why am I not sitting with you on the couch? Because I'm quite comfortable in the Lay-Z-Boy. I know I normally sit on the couch, but really, I'm fine over here. Will you just shut up and listen to me?

I owe you a lot. You've kept me humble all these years, and you've kept me from making some seriously horrible mistakes more than a few times. On the other hand, your focus has been a bit erratic as of late. I mean, what was that shit you pulled at the drive-thru the other day? I really wanted that salad, but you had to have that chicken sandwich...which tasted like it was a week old and reheated in the sun. Nice call, dipshit.

It's all reaching a crisis point, Self Doubt, and I am getting pretty sick of it. It's affecting my work, my social interactions and virtually EVERY decision I make in life. Remember that book I've been writing for the past six years? You've been reading over my shoulder the whole time, and those Goddamned heavy sighs you make whenever I write another line of dialogue, or those little mumbles you make under your breath whenever I use a metaphor is, quite frankly, driving me up the fucking wall. I know it's not Shakespeare, but it IS a first draft, for fuck's sake. At least let me get ONE draft done, THEN we can edit!

And socially, you're even worse. You're always there telling me that this girl is out of my league, or that chick is psycho. How the hell do you know these things? I never see you talking to anyone else, and you're always at my side. You know what? Next time I go out, you're staying home. And, if things go well for me, I'll call ahead for you to go to a movie or something. I can't have you hanging around like that anymore. Go bug Impulse Control...you two seem to have a lot in common.

Okay, I think we're done for now. Any questions? No, we're not gonna watch Spike TV, I've got work to do. Look, just go find something else to do for a while. No, I don't want a beer. Go away.


Libido, 8:50 PM

Are you ready to come out of the time-out corner? Have you learned your lesson yet? Okay, what have you learned? That's right, it's not always about you. We're trying to be the nice guy, here.

I'll admit, we've had a lot of fun together, but would it kill you to be a little more patient? It's quality, not quantity. I know, I know, I used to bullshit myself all the time with that line, but it's really true now. Let's play it smart from now on, okay?

No, I won't pull up internet porn. Because I said so...maybe a little before bed, but I make no promises.


Sloth, 9:13 PM

Didn't I tell you to clean this place up yesterday? I don't care about the DVRed episodes of Mythbusters...this place is a pit! Look, you're the reason I sold the damned Gamecube. Don't make me downgrade the cable package, too.

I swear to God, you're worthless. It's too late to do anything tonight. But tomorrow night as soon as I get home, this place is gonna be spotless. Now, why don't you go assert your influence on the cat...that meowing and running laps around the bedroom is driving me nuts.


Impulse Control, 9:20 PM

I know I've been working a lot lately, and during that time, you've been very, very good. And, I appreciate that. However, we need to talk about this weekend.

We spent waaaay too much money. You did pretty well at the Scottish Festival, but that could be chalked up to the fact that nothing there was really our style. No, I'm talking about the silent auction. All we really wanted was the messenger bag, and we lucked out on that one. I just didn't expect to get the dinner for four and the duffel bag cooler.

I know it's for charity. I know it's tax deductible. I know we could cover it with all that overtime, but it was $140! You are the reason I've never been able to keep a savings account.

Like I've said, you've been good. Since Libido has been in time out, you've been on your best behavior. Now that I've ended his punishment, let's not fall back into old habits. If you do, I'll get you that king-sized Snickers you keep begging me for every time we go to the grocery store. Deal?


Fear of Abandonment, 9:40 PM

Before you even start, let me just say, you've been right all this time. Then again, so are ALL self-fulfilling prophecies.

Sure, in the beginning, a few women used me to get what they wanted and left, but that doesn't mean that deep down ALL of them will. The bottom line is, you no longer have any power over what I do. I might listen to what you have to say, but I will take that advice with a small grain of salt.

Rejection hurts, don't it? Now you know how I've felt over the years.


Constant Need to Please Others, 9:50 PM

You've earned me a lot of friends over the years, and thanks to you I'm a valued employee at work. But seriously, I need a little me time here. I'll be the first to admit, you get the job done, but we need to re-focus our energies towards friends rather than work. That is all.


Shyness, 9:55 PM

Get out from behind the couch. I'm not gonna hurt you. No, you're not fired. C'mon... Okay, looks like I'll have to drink both glasses of chocolate milk and eat all of the double-stuf Oreos myself. There, that's better. Have a seat.

I gotta tell you, buddy, the chicks really dig you. You've been a wonderful wingman over the years. But I gotta tell you, you know that whole thing you do when you things are going really well? Don't play dumb. That thing where you cling onto my arm and pull me the other direction? That's gotta stop.

You've got to trust me on this. When that moment comes, don't panic. Just go with the flow. I can't promise everything will go smoothly, but we have to try. Now, finish your cookies. We'll talk more later.


Utter Confusion Cleverly Disguised as a Voice of Reason, 10:00

Fuck you. Get out of my sight.


Insomnia, 10:05

Pardon the pun, but give it a rest. Good night.

A tad overdone

after my last post, I had to get ready to head down to Arnie's. I stepped in the shower, and screamed my head off when the hot water hit the five hours in the sun without sunblock that I used to call a neck. Combined with the feeling of a belly full of 747-sized smoked turkey leg, Guinness and Pepsi, I arrived at Arnie's tacky with aloe, burned skin and burping like crazy.

The silent auction going on that night was a huge success. I started out the night placing a few bids just to inflate the prices. This plan kinda backfired because I ended up winning more than I really wanted. I got the Jaegermeister messenger bag I wanted, but I also got the Guinness cooler/duffel bag and dinner for four at 1974. The bad news, it was all a total of $140. The good news, it's tax-deductible.

I wasn't working the door, but I did help out a little over the course of the night. I watched the door so Amanda the door girl could go watch the band for a little while. I also volunteered to watch the auction items after the auction closed to make sure no one stole anything. It's hard to believe anyone would steal from a charity benefit, but at some point in the night, someone did make off with a couple of baseball hats. What a bunch of savages in this town.

Friday night, when my computer crashed, I vaguely remember slamming my left hand down on my desk. Yesterday, it was still stinging pretty badly. Early this morning, it was hurting like hell. No swelling, no limited mobility, just sharp, sharp pain. I took some ibuprofen, but by the time it kicked in I was unable to fall back asleep...until two this afternoon.

I had originally planned to go into the office today, but I was too tired and needed to rest. I fell asleep on the couch for a couple hours, then moved to my bed and slept until seven. It was time to feed Chuck, and since he wasn't begging for his food like he normally does, I went around the apartment to find him. I checked his normal spots. The kitchen cupbord behind the pots and pans...nope. Under the bed...nope. Behind the couch...nope. Linen closet...nope.

When I did find him, I just had to take a picture. Unfortunately, I left my camera cable at the office, so I wasn't able to download it to post it. He was asleep in the bathroom sink. The hot faucet has a slow leak, so when I lifted Chuck out of the sink, half of his fur was wet. I was just glad that warm water doesn't make a cat wet the bed like it does with humans.

I've been up for three hours now, and I'm ready to go back to bed. Thge bad news is, I gotta finda couple of fresh pillows because after finishing his food, Chuck laid down on my pillows and fell asleep, still with his fur all wet.

In addition to the fatigue and the crazy cat, I had another reason to not want to leave the house. Today is the eighteenth anniversary of my dad's death. I've spent a good part of my waking day in quiet reflection on that. After all these years, I still have a fairly conflicted image of my father. Mostly I try to remember him as I did before he died when I was twelve rather than all of the things I found out about him when I was older.

All in all, he was and still is an influence in my life. There are strengths in his character that I've tried to build on, as well as weaknesses I've tried to avoid. Lately, I've been dealing with more of the weaknesses than the strengths, but I feel I'm on the right path.

The Blue and the Green

I find it fascinating how people act on their beliefs. I remember hearing a story last week about a pro-lifer crashing his car into a women's clinic and trying to set the place on fire by lighting up the gas tank. Strangely enough, the clinic not only did NOT perform abortions, but it didn't even give abortion referrals!

I happened to witness a perfect example today of this same kind of thing. I was at the Scottish Games, and for some strange reason, on the hill, there was a cannon, a few civil war re-enacters and a huge confederate flag. I'm not sure what role the Scots had in the fight against northern aggression, but hey...

Anyway, I was hanging out at the Irish tent with a bunch of my friends and several of the regulars from Arnie's. While I was sitting there watching Cairde Na Gael play, I looked over to see a shouting match between a couple of the re-enacters and a couple of guys from the Arnie's crowd.

The main guy doing the shouting at the re-enacters was a guy I've seen at Arnie's quite a few times, and every time, at some point in the evening, he'd have to be pulled aside for a talk from some sort of authority figure, beit a bartender, bar owner or cop. He's the kind of guy that is passionate about what he believes and it doesn't take much to set him off.

Turns out today he had an issue about the confederate flag. Now, I'm not gonna defend the south or the confederacy, but this IS the South. If someone around here has enough pride in them to put up a confederate flag, you'd get a better reaction asking them for a lap dance from their mother than you would asking them to take the damned flag down.

But this guy kept going on about how his family died in the Civil War. He got himself so worked up that he was threatening to kill those guys on the hill. Forgiving the fact that those family members died over 140 years ago, is it so hard to just leave the guys alone? I mean, they're dressed up in full confederate uniforms, at a festival that has NOTHING to do with what they're honoring. Granted, I'm a German guy hanging out in the Irish tent at a Scottish festival, so I have little room to complain here.

One of my friends managed to keep the guy from acting on his verbal threats, but they both eventually got pulled aside by the cops. Being the peace-keeping guy that I am, I walked over by where the cops were talking to the guys, and wound up getting a talking to by the cops as well. I made the stance that while I am "with" these guys, I am not a part of this feud. I kinda just stood back and watched my friend get into an arguement with one of the cops. He was coming reeeeealy close to crossing the line with this cop. He didn't get busted, but I did have to remind him that everyone he's been starting shit with today has had a weapon, either a cannon or a handgun, and it would be advisable in the future to end his agruements about two sentences shorter than he currently does.

The day ended, as far as I was concerned, without incident. When I left the festival, the guys on the hill were packing up for the day, and the guys in the tent were still there, drinking beer.

The thing about his family really got me. You know, I have an ancester who died when his Murphy Bed (one of those beds that you can hide in the wall) went back in the wall, crushed his ribs and killed him. Now, if I was at an auto show and some guy had a Murphy Bed exhibit (much like having a confederate cannon at a Scottish festival), I wouldn't get all bent out of shape about it. Why? Because that guy died long before I was born, and the story of his death had no influence on my life.

But maybe that's just me. I'm the kind of guy that'll just sit back and wonder why a bunch of guys are honoring the losing side of a war that has A) has long since past, and B) has nothing to do with what everyone else is celebrating. Even if it was something more recent, like guys dressed up as Nazis or in Viet-Cong uniforms, my primary emotion would still be utter confusion. Futhermore, I would be more inclined to just let the guys do their thing and look like total idiots in the process.

Speaking of historical misunderstanding, While I was making my way out of the parking lot, the guy in front of me had a bumper sticker that read: EAT BEEF, the West wasn't won on salad. I seem to remember hearing how the people on wagon trains were starving most of the time because of lack of food. The West was won by people who simply survived the trip, and I wouldn't give all the credit to the cattle.

Another Friday Night for Fritschie

Being alone in the Art Department at least four days a week has taken a little getting used to. It seems like I have one huge project each week with a rush deadline, and a ton of small jobs to act as my "break" from the big project.

This week, my albatross has been a roster book for a professionals association. This is a project that has had no choice but to sit at the back of my priority list for three weeks while I've tackled the other huge projects I've been working on the past three weeks.

I've worked my ass off this week on this job, and I got final approval at 4:30 this afternoon. It'll print this weekend, which means my friday night is to be spent running plates. Thirty plates to be exact. On the surface, this looked to be a piece of cake. To save time, I planned to impose ten plates, and run them while I set up the next ten. Three phases of copy, paste and print, and I can go home.

The first ten plates went off without a hitch, and it looked like I was gonna be able to have the next ten ready to run right behind it. Then Quark decided to crash on the 19th page. I quickly re-opened the file and found I had only lost a couple pages worth of work. I saved the file after every half page. First half of the 20th page, no problem. Saved successfully. Second half, crash. At this point, both Quark and our font management program crashed.

Long story short, the problem is the system's originally installed version of Helvetica, and how it was conflicting with the better version I was using for the layout. I have been getting error messages all day about it. So, I trashed the system's version and restarted. Then, the system crashed and wouldn't fully come back on.

Now, I'm spinning my wheels on the internet using the other iMac while I'm re-installing the system on mine. Fingers crossed!

UPDATE: In the immortal words of Dr. Emmet L. Brown, "IT WORKS! I FINALLY INVENTED SOMETHING THAT WORKS!"

After waiting an hour for the system software to re-install, I found that the file was still crashing. So, when in doubt, section the fucker. Three files, ten pages a pop. Plates are running, I'm having a smoke.

Five years ago today was the capping of the weirdest month of my life.

On August 11th, I was in Little Rock, spending the weekend with my brother before he had to report for his jail sentence that Monday. Up until that point, I had not had a good opportunity to have a talk with him about what he had done, and how he was feeling about it. With the busy schedule we all had to fit as much quality time with him, it was hard to get a moment alone with him to talk, brother to brother.

On Saturday, I went to a water park with my brother and his family. It was a blast, and the major sunburn I received was more than worth it. While my sister-in-law was with my nieces playing at the kiddie pool, my brother and I decided to go on one of the huge water slides. While we were in line, halfway up the tower, I decided this time was as good as any to talk.

I asked him all of the questions about what he was gonna have to do while he was "inside"...in part to help calm some of the fears I had about his well-being, but mostly to see where his head was at about the whole mess. He had accepted his fate, and for as little as he knew about what was about to happen to him in prison, all he could really think about was what he had to do as soon as he got out. It was a good talk, although waiting in line at a water park probably wasn't the best venue. All that talk about going to prison really got us a little elbow room in the line.

One week later was a bit tough. Having the same birthday as my brother (4 years apart), this was the first birthday where we weren't able to be in contact to celebrate it. I wasn't even able to call him...not that I could really wish him a happy birthday, given the circumstances.

Eight days after that, my relationship with my fiancee crumbled. With everything that had happened between the she and I over the previous six months: Months of unemployment on my part, followed by her losing her job the same day I finally got a job, neither of us having much money, building tensions, lack of intimacy, etc. It really wasn't much of a shock that the straw that broke the camel's back was an arguement over whether or not I was gonna get a haircut that day.

That day, she and I burned through our entire emotional arsenal, pulling no punches (metaphorically speaking, of course). That afternoon, I took in a double feature the movies to try and clear my head, went back home to discover my fate. That night, I checked into a hotel with a bottle of liquor. The next night she and I met for dinner and made the break-up official. I followed her back to the house and got the rest of my clothes and went back to the hotel. Two days later, I started moving out.

Two weeks later, on the morning of September 11, 2001, I thought I was a complete emotional void, seemingly unable to be phased by any outside stimuli. Around ten that morning, I was getting a proof ready for a client meeting. The client showed up a bit early, not interested at all in what we had to show him, instead asking if we had a TV.

We broke out the 25-year-old Curtis Mathis TV with the coat hanger antenna and tuned it in to the first channel we could get a decent signal from. The picture came somewhat clear just in time to see the second plane hit the tower 2. The twenty people in the office stood there glued to the TV watching our world change before our very eyes. I had missed breakfast that morning, and had even skipped coffee. This was fortunate for me because as soon as that first tower crumbled to dust I had to rush out the back door to dry heave off the loading dock. My little theory about not being able to be shaken any further was busted...big time.

I couldn't watch any more. I heard about the second tower falling from a co-worker, and I tried not to listen. The hours that passed after that were filled with only what others have heard. The attack on the Pentagon...Speculation about a fourth plane crashing and all air traffic being halted, which both turned out to be true...Oil refineries being attacked, Gas prices raised to six bucks a gallon, martial law being declared in New York and Washington, all of which were NOT true.

However, I was one of the rare few who actually had an empty gas tank on that fateful day. There was inexplicable gridlock on the expressway going home. No accidents, no construction, just a bunch of panicked people driving really fucking slow.

I ran out of gas just short of the QuikTrip near my apartment. While I was proud of our banding together as a nation in the days that followed, that day nobody gave a rat's ass about the guy trying to push his car by himself up to the pump. Three people cut in front of me, thinking they caught a break, when in actuality I was wasn't letting them in, I was just having a tough time getting the car moving again after having to stop. I yelled at these people, and all three of them gave me a half-assed apology and continued to fill their tanks, ignoring the streams of obscenities I was hurling at them as they went about their business.

After the third line-cutter, I started to push again. Then, I heard a woman behind me yell, "Hey, need a push?" It was a middle-aged woman in a old Ford F-150, and she inched her truck forward to push my car forward to the pump. While my gas was pumping, I went back to shake the woman's hand, and I was so grateful that I offered to pay for her gas. She declined my offer, saying she was just glad to help. Since leaving the office that day, this was the first selfless act I had seen anyone commit. It was just one act, and it really helped me forget everything that had happened up until that point.

Two years later, when I exercised my option to turn my car in when the balloon payment came up and GMAC marked it as a repossession anyway, the damage report they had sent me noted a couple scratches on the back bumper. Even though this report was telling me how I was being royally screwed financially, I couldn't help but smile. That wasn't damage, that was a random act of kindness with no thought of reward.

I've been trying to think about that as much as possible these days, how someone can help out a total stranger like that. That's what we really need to start doing, each and every one of us. Look beyond the people trying to get only what they want and help out a guy trying to get what he really needs. The trouble is, it's the other people making it harder and harder to keep the uncertainty and cynicism at bay.

Sure, the gas prices everyone feared we were gonna have to pay in the days following 9/11 is what we pay every fucking day...

Sure, five years ago, we looked to our leaders for guidance and reassurance that everything will be okay. Now, we look at our leaders and think, "Okay...Gee, you got anything that doesn't involve me shitting my pants?"...

Tonight, the President finally said on the record that Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11, but yet the war in Iraq is still a noble cause and we must do everything to create a democracy there, for the safety of our nation. Still no word from Bush that this has ANYTHING to do with the massive OIL supplies there that'll line his and his buddies' pockets with tons of cash...That's like bombing the shit out of a corn field in Iowa, under the pretense that it has some connection to urban gangs. Then, you admit that there's no gang activity in Iowa corn fields, but the ashes will be good for the soil and might, MIGHT yield a better crop in future years...perhaps from wheat instead of corn. And we should pay no attention to the fact that your family's money came from flour mills.

Sorry, kinda got off topic...if I had one to begin with. I guess what I'm saying here is this:

Five years ago today, we got the wind knocked out of us, and for a few weeks we all held each other hands while we caught our breath. Then, we started shouting. First at the people who were responsible...then at their friends...then at people who had nothing to do with them...now those of us who want all the shouting to stop are shouting at the people think we should should shout louder and vice versa!

And it's pretty fucking sad that we have to wait once a year to observe a moment of silence.

Hard-working, deep-sleeping, pizza-eating, impulse-purchase-making stinky-pants

Immediately after my last post, I slept for 13 hours. I slept though Chuckles knocking over my CD rack and the guy mowing my lawn with that mower that sounds like there's a humpback whale under the hood. I had also attempted to set my cell phone alarm for 9:30 to try and make an appearance at Arnie's, and with the phone four inches from my head I still slept through the air raid volume setting I have on that sum'bitch.

Friday was a very productive day. It's kind of sad that in order for me to get a huge amount of energy is work my ass off for 36 hours, then sleep for 13. I just tore through the work, but I only got about half way through the workload. I asked my boss if he needed me to come in this weekend, and he said he did, but really didn't want me to.

So, I left to take the whole weekend off. I skipped dinner because I knew that whenever I have to work the door at Arnie's on Friday nights, there's usually some Domino's pizza there for me to snack on. But when I showed up, it was all gone. I didn't have time to run somewhere and get something to eat, so I decided to wait for that one guy who comes by to peddle cheap pizzas to the customers to show up. The pizza is fairly decent if you just happen to want some, but it becomes fucking awesome if you're hungry as hell. I wolfed down half of a medium meat lovers and left the rest for this morning.

Today, I returned some jeans to Target. I had bought them last night on my way home. They were the same brand, same size, same size as the jeans I was wearing when I bought them, so I felt no need to try them on first. However, they not only were blood flow restrictingly tight, but also appeared to be some form of low-riding hip-huggers for men.

Jeans and pants are always hard for a guy like me. I have a 38 waist, but I buy 40 waist to be able to have enough room for my huge bulbous ass. I also need at least a 32 length leg, but if I'm ever lucky enough to find one pair with 40 waist, it's always 30 or 28 length...so the logic of clothing-makers is that the higher the waist size, the shorter they must be. A guy like me is always left with the choice of loose capri pants or a tight fit with no socks showing.

Big and tall shops are equally frustrating. There, they figure that you're either 7 foot tall or 500 pounds. The shirts there are either too long, or they have that tapered edging at the bottom that screams "hand me another Ensure and I'll tell you about my grandchildren". The pants, while the waist feels right, the area immediately below that more than compensate for the bulbous ass, as well as a fat wallet, five handkerchiefs, a Depends undergarment...with enough room left over to smuggle a small life raft, fully inflated. The length is either spot on, or I have enough cuff to make a two-man tent.

One shop I miss in Tulsa, though not for their merchandise, was a place called Linguist Big & Tall. I just loved the name. If you need 'em 6' 10", 350 and speaking Japanese, come on down to Linguist Big & Tall.

I got a refund on the pants and promptly ran out to buy something I can enjoy sitting on my couch in my underwear because I have no clean pants: The new Bob Dylan CD and the new Mystery Science Theater 3000 box set. I plan to head down to Mercury Lounge to catch the Electric Rag Band tonight. Before then, I hope to either go do laundry or hose some jeans down with Fabreze.

Wow. Bulbous ass, stinky jeans, able to eat an entire pizza in just two sittings, workaholic, ill-fitting clothes, and I'm single! I have a feeling eHarmony.com has me on their "please kill" list.

Allnighter

I considered what I had achieved last week at work to be fairly impressive. I worked over seventy hours and managed to be home at a reasonable hour each night. My big project for the week was a 88 page program, and I got it done, start to finish, in less than a week.

That achievement, judging by my experiences over the past couple days, is now considered child's play.

I knew we had another program book to do right after the one I finished over the weekend, but what I didn't know is this new one was due the same fucking day. I found that out on Tuesday morning...The day after Labor Day, which was the closest I had come to a day off in weeks.

Tuesday, I worked until three in the morning, and had managed to get 45% of the pages laid out by the time I called it a night. I went home, got a couple hours sleep and went back to work, knowing full well that I would not be leaving the office again until the book was done.

The last page was completed at 7:45 this morning. The client was coming by at 8:30 to proof it. That was just enough time to run home, feed the cat, shower, change clothes, brush my teeth and write an IOU to my body for a good night's sleep.

And now, it's 6:30 pm Thursday, and I've clocked over 50 hours since Tuesday Morning. The last of the caffeine is working its way out of my system, adn I'm ready to hit the hay. I've proven to my bosses that I am capable of putting together a 96 page program in two days, and I've gone to great lengths to prove to them that while that is impressive turnaround on something that huge, it's completely impractical to do so ever again. I was a zombie by the time I left work tonight, and a dead soldier is no good for the revolution.

Crickey

Steve "The Crocodile Hunter" Irwin is dead. He died as he lived...sneaking up on dangerous animals making exaggerated body gestures.

I kinda dishonored the teamsters by working on Labor Day, but it was only for about fifteen minutes. I had to be at the office for a client to drop off a missing image and give him a fresh proof.

Then, I got caught up on four weeks of dirty dishes, attempted to upgrade a friend's computer and failed. I got a little reading done, and now I'm finishing cleaning up and then I'll do some writing.

Tomorrow, I get my big fat whopping paycheck. Once bills are paid, I'm putting the rest aside for a rainy day. And by rainy day, I mean the Blade RunnerSpecial edition that was supposed to be out later this month. However, a quick Google search is showing that it's being delayed to later in the year. I'll have the cash ready nonetheless.

Holy Hell

Long fucking week, even by my standards. A big project has taken a huge chunk out of my time this week, and I got the proof finished tonight.

When I work late, I always have something playing in the background, usually a DVD. I only do this after normal business hours. During the day, it's hard for me to concentrate on my work because of the phone calls and constant interruptions from co-workers. But once the whistle blows for everyone else, the I fire up a movie on the other iMac and get down to business.

To avoid a flood of emails and comments on how I'm working too hard, I won't give a definite number on the hours I worked, but I'll put it in perspective for you: Gladiator, two Mystery Science Theater 3000 box sets (4 discs a pop), Terminator 3, Fight Club, and the first two Lord of the Rings (extended editions and half of the special features).

And, it looks like it's not gonna let up for the next couple weeks. Strange thing is, I'm not really all that tired. I'm taking the majority of the day off tomorrow, only popping by the office for a few minutes to get a couple pictures from a client.

Now, I have some green tea steeping in the next room, a weekend of DVRed shows to skim through. TTFN.

How to be Dumb

It's been a good thing I've been kooped up in the office most of my waking hours this week, because any contact I've had with the general public has been a frustrating mess. Case in point, yesterday:

I had three things to do during lunch: Pick up a proof at TU, stop by the house and grab a bite to eat, and go pay my rent.

Classes are back in session at TU, and apparently enrollment has far surpassed the number of available parking spaces. I cruised around for ten minutes and there wasn't a space for a mile radius of the building i needed to go to. So, I pulled up to the entrance, put on my hazard lights and picked up the proof. A minute and a half, tops. When I came out, Campus Security was taking down my tag number. I went to move my car and the rent-a-cop rolled down his window and sternly told me, "That's not a parking space."

"Okay. If you can find one for me anywhere near here, that'd be great." Good thing he rolled up his window before I continued, "Now, aren't you overdue for a fresh rack at the Krispy Kreme?"

I head home and heat up a can of soup. I mess with Chuck for a few minutes, then head out to pay my rent. But first, I needed to stop by an ATM and get a money order. At QuikTrip, the lady in line in front of me at the cash machine swipes her card, punches her code, and tries to take out forty bucks. I know she's going for forty, because she's mumbling everything she's punching in, like this event requires narration. She's shocked at the message "Insufficient funds for this transaction".

So, she tries again, this time for thirty. Same result. Twenty, same. Ten, ditto. Then, it hits her to try checking her balance. "Aw, I'm overdrawn!" No shit. She steps aside, wondering what she's gonna do. I get my cash in less than a minute and I leave.

I was at my landlord's door when it opened, but there were a couple rednecks waiting there before me. Had I known they were gonna spend the next thirty minutes arguing with the landlord over why they can't have their own locks on the door (because that's in the lease, dumbass) and why they need to give them their utility account numbers (also in the lease) and why this is so complicated (because from the looks of it, basic math would give you a migraine). I was surprised they didn't try to negotiate payment with squirrel pelts.

They step away from the counter to each man a cell phone and track down their account numbers. I step in and pay my rent and request a receipt. One of the guys shoots me a bad look and gives me a "Hey!"

I look back at him and say, "I've waited thirty minutes on you dipshits to make a thirty second transaction. Excuse the fuck out of me for having my shit together. Enjoy the next NASCAR event."

All that in a little over an hour. Here's a quick list of all the other dumb things I've encountered this week.

- The thug wannabe at the smoke shop paying for watermelon-flavored blunt rolls with nickels and pennies. As much as I loathe sterotypes, it's another thing to live up to them. I felt ashamed that my first thought after seing this was, "Now, if only I can find some grape malt liquor."

- The guy at Arnie's last night with the portable DVD player asking me and my friends for spare change. I have one rule: Never give money to people with cooler shit than me.

- This girl at work telling us about her dislike for the new Spicy Southwest Breakfast Burrito at Sonic. "I should have ordered it without the jalapenos and that sauce. It was just too spicy."

- And the client whose project I've been busting my ass on, which I'm only half-way done with, and I'm supposed to get him a proof on Monday (Labor Day), asks me if I'm doing anything this weekend.

- I did a poster for this charity benefit for the former owner of Arnie's, who's in the hospital right now. Last night, one of the musicians told me he wouldn't have been involved in it if he had known the guy's name was gonna be on the poster (the guy isn't exactly all that well-liked). Gee, you can't have a benefit without telling people who or what the benefit is for. You can't just NOT call it a benefit, because you risk losing out on money from people that may actually give a rat's ass about the guy.