Sunday, August 16, 2009


vacuums, louie--stop
it is NOT a destroyer
don't bite it; it cleans

Lou likes to attack the vacuum on the odd occasion it is used. He jabs at it and bites at it and, basically, it is Dog vs. Machine. I had taped his reaction today to Meagan's vacuuming, but then I tried to edit my camera video.... I was not overly-pleased with my sack-eyed countenance. Having never edited a video on the camera, instead of cutting out my bleary face and leaving the good stuff, I cut out the good stuff and left my bleary face. Oh well. Life is a lesson, right?

I fucked up and Jimmy cracked corn. Regarding both scenarios, I don't care. So I decided to include said video. It was MUCH funnier before I tried to go all Producer on its ass.

Postscript--In the end, though, the full video was still available on the camera. So I uploaded it. Please, pay no attention to my so-called "sack-eyed countenance" and, instead, love my boyo, Louie

Sunday, August 09, 2009


It is flashing the three-quadrant red lights of death. And I am bummed out about it.

The next one I get will not sit on a shelf right next to a window. XBOXs do not do well in the sunlight. They tend to fry. I think that is what might have happened. I have had the console for about two years. One would think that they'd have more of a lifespan than that.

Fuck it. It is what it is. The gaming system is dead. I may get another one sometime soon. I may not. It is a crapshoot.

But I am bummed....

Friday, August 07, 2009


It fucking sucked.

The post--though it was an impromptu "yarn"--made me {or the author, the narrator} look like a complete boob. Complete.

I had second thoughts about the picture. The pikshur. That pikshur made me look like an uncomprehending ass. I remember sitting for the picture. My expression was done for effect. For the Slingblade effect. I think I nailed it.

This is the thing about blogs: They are verbal--binary--diarrhea. They slop loud and hard and then they are flushed away. I would like to flush the last post away, I wrote it.

I wrote it.

I'll agree with the last post on one issue: TV sucks ass. It also sucks out bwanes. {Brains.} TV makes a person flooooooooooooooo-oh through four damned hours. Where did the Time go?!

It went in the Beast's belly. I am Him.

I am the Beast.



He needs to hear it. He's all bottled up. His cap ain't snapped, and so he sits in carbonated Silence.

He works by night and sleeps by day and he can't get enough of daytime talk-shows.

Double-crossed bulls-eyes.

"Fuck this shit," he says to his dog. His dog raises his head. He is a goodboy. He is solid. He is Friend.

"You and me, Lassie," the man says, "we'll bust the god-damned motherfucking safe wide the fuck open. You and me, boy." And the man turns to his Irish coffee, brewed right, brewed strong. "We--you and I--we could turn this city upside-down, if we wanted to. Do we? Lassie?"

The dog snorted and returned to his nether regions.

"You and me," the man mumbled. His eyelids grew heavy and so he let them rest on his cheekbones. Behind his eyes, he saw a cacaphony of Bliss, colors left to the describer. Behind his eyes, he saw televisions being crushed and he saw a Humanity creating their own entertainment.

Lassie farted.

And...? It stunk.

The dog was not impressed, nor was the writer, the yarner, the fakir. (Fake.)

And the Talent wheedled down the road. Went bye-bye. Said adios. Gone.


Tuesday, August 04, 2009


So, today, I had to go to get my biennial DOT/CDL physical. Not so bad. A few pokes and prods, a couple of gropes and coughs, and a back stretch and a toe-touch. (I put my palms flat on the floor; not that the doctor cared a whit.)

Here is where I fucked up: When you come in, they have you fill out a form that asks the patient for pertinent information and then has a section in which the patient checks yes or no to a virtual laundry list of physical and mental maladies. You know the bit: "Yes or no, have you experienced or are you experiencing any of the following health conditions...." The conditions included but were not limited to: heart attack, stroke, cancer,, liver disease, kidney disease, neurological conditions, back aches, headaches, blurred vision, sleep disorders, tummy disorders, broken bones, busted fingers and toes, diabetes, anxiety issues, depression issues, club foot.... Okay, the "club foot" condition was not listed. I checked yes for "Sleep disorders, daytime sleepiness" and I checked the box for "Digestive conditions." My reasoning was that, yes, I take Prilosec for GERD and I am often tired during the day. I did not mean to imply that I fall asleep at the drop of a hat; I did not mean to imply that I am a sufferer of narcolepsy. Hell, in the job in which I work, I have many times worked for 16+ hours straight and--may I add?--that when some of my co-workers were waxing poetic on how tired they were, I was still a virtual exclamation point.

Below the yes and no boxes, there was a space to explain the yes(s). I wrote for the sleepiness that I should "go to bed earlier," and, next to the tummy issues, I wrote that I "take Prilosec."

Good enough, huh? Now just sign the card, Doc, and gimme my CDL medical card.

The doctor asked about the tummy issues and I told him that I have GERD, acid reflux, and that I take the appropriate medications. He then asked me what other prescriptions I had. Full disclosure, right? He is a doctor and I am not ashamed. I said, "I take half of a pill of Xanax in the morning, too." It were as if the world had canted on its axis. "Xanax?! What strength?" I told him I didn't really recall off-hand--I know now that it is .25 milligrams--and then he went into a spiel about how Xanax is on the list of controlled substances, the list of habit-forming drugs, and that it is a no-no in the DOT/CDL world.

Right away, Doctor V_____ became Sherlock Holmes. With a flourish, he swept into a tweed overcoat and slopped a tweed cap on his bald cranium and brandished a magnifying glass at me. (His eye looked fucking huge, man.) He went on to postulate that my "daytime sleepiness" was in direct correlation to my half-pill of morning Xanax. He told me what I told you above and he said that-- Hold on. Before this exchange, he exited the room and came back with a printout, a sheet of paper, that asked the answerer to rate, on a scale of one to four, how likely he or she would be to fall asleep during or after these seemingly-innocuous activities: After lunch (without alcohol), as a passenger in a one-hour car trip, dozing on a Saturday afternoon, talking with someone.... No, Doc, I am not a narcoleptic. I answered zeroes for everything except for the dozing on the couch on a Saturday afternoon, and, for that, I slashed a one, maybe once in awhile I would fall asleep. The doctor didn't know--and why would he? I've only had contact with him twice before--that my mind will not shut down unless it's completely dark and quiet and I am tired. That's it. And my body'll not take the initiative, no way. I don't wink out at the drop of a Holmes hat, Sherlock.

He came back into the room after I had filled out that garbage narcolepsy test and then he told that he could not, would not, sign off on my CDL medical card until I visited my PCP--and, no, that is not a drug. Primary Care Physician. I was less than pleased, but I basically kept it to myself. I told him that half a .25 Xanax in no way made me sleepy during the day, that perhaps I was sleepy because I stay up too late and don't get good quality sleep and that I don't even take the Xanax daily--just every once in awhile--but he swished his floppy magnifying glass at me and chortled, "Look at the list! Look at the list!" and I could only shake my head.

Hey, Doc, maybe I am tired because the job I do is physically-demanding. Maybe I am tired because I don't eat healthily enough and maybe the cigarettes don't exactly prime a person for Adonis-hood. Maybe I am tired because I am stressed about the new job responsibilities I have, staking/locating mains and high pressure mains and gas services for the ongoing construction jobs whilst I have only had about a week-and-a-half of true field work. Maybe I am just--like 75-fucking-percent of the population--tired during the day once in awhile. There was no place to add--and I didn't feel that I had to add--that my "daytime sleepiness" was not an everyday thing, that, sometimes, I feel like a million bucks.

So...I called right away to my PCP's office and managed to garner a 4:45 appointment. (I took 10 minutes of unpaid time to ensure that I got there on time. I ended up waiting forty-five minutes in the waiting room and spending twenty clams on my co-pay. Nice.)

My doctor read the literature that the other medical professional sent along with me and told me that it was crap, that they couldn't withhold like that. And I quote: A driver may use such a substance or drug, if the substance or drug is prescribed by a licensed medical practitioner who is familiar with the driver's medical history and assigned duties; and has advised the driver that the prescribed substance or drug will not adversely affect the driver's ability to safely operate a commercial vehicle. End-fucking-quote. That section of the J.J. Keller (and associates!) goes on to solidify the fact that methadone does not fall under this exception and I am left wondering just how in the hell a half of a .25 milligram Xanax calls, as neighbors, methadone and narcotics and amphetamines. How? Yes, it can be and is a habit-forming drug. It can definitely be addictive. It's kind of like super-Valium. But the amount I take--and, no, I use it not for recreation but rather as a morning mood lifter with my coffee--does not make me, a one hundred eighty-seven pound man, a sleeping sack of potatoes. It simply does not.

My doctor wrote and signed a letter stating that the evil drug would not impair my abilities to perform my duties, and I am set to take said letter, along with the above stipulations (which I highlighted on the paper), back to Doctor V______ tomorrow. Doctor V______ does not stand for "Victory."

It's crap. This is crap. I have already been subjected to about eight "random" drug tests this year. And, yes, this is a fate that I brought upon myself (again by being honest and trying to be a good guy and do what had to be done). But it is a fate that I brought upon myself. But, this?! This is just bullshit. They haven't heard of anxiety issues before? Every morning, I wake up with a knot in my guts. The reasons are multiple: I am embarrassed by what others at work think of me, I crave a smoke, I am worried about doing my job duties to the best of my abilities...I am just a worrywort. I always have been, since as long as I can remember. I already piss into a cup and blow into a device whenever they ask me. And now, when I am honest on a standardized piece of paper, they're going to nail me to the wall? Fuck that.

I'll take that letter in tomorrow and pleasantly present it to the doctor. "It's a prescription, sir, and it is perfectly legal, " I'll say. He still will maintain the power. He can sign or decline. But maybe he will feel better, once he feels that his ass is covered.

It is amazing, though. The field in which I work holds many people who like to tie one on. It holds many who work seventeen, eighteen hours before coming home to roost. Do you think? Do you think that they feel like spring chickens when they come back in to work? Hell, no. They probably feel wasted. And they are, physically. It's a demanding job. I'm sure more people than me have felt "daytime sleepiness." But! Most of my--if not all of my--co-workers would have checked "no" indefinitely. As I should have. But I was being honest.

Shame on me.