THURSDAY

To the strains of Guitar Hero in the background, he sits down to the computer keyboard and gazes squintily at the monitor. Aha, glasses. Now? Now he can see.

So...what's going on in the world of A-Bomb, of late?

He takes a sip of coffee out of the Glenivet single malt whiskey drinking glass (the guy behind the counter gave the glasses away for free when A-Bomb bought his American Spirits) and ruminates....

There is an adjustment period when people move in together. So far, the adjustment is going pretty well. There is a decided difference in freedom of movement--for instance, I can't take a shower and dry off and then walk nekkid to the bedroom (at least not when Nay-Nay is home) and I have troubles getting to the TV--MTV is seemingly on a constant loop, here, in the front room. Then again, I've not even really said that I wanted to play video games or watch the tube...perhaps I should be more vocal. But, this is what I do: I wait and stuff my wishes and desires to keep people comfortable, to keep things on an even keel. Besides, when I play Grand Theft Auto, I like to immerse myself in the game. People in the background, talking and shit?! That doesn't work too well with the ole GTA, for me, at least. But, as I was saying, co-habitation takes some getting used to, especially when a 14-year-old girl is involved. Naomi, Meagan's daughter is great, I love 'er, but I just don't know where she's coming from, sometimes. "There's no food in the house!" she calls. Wha--? No food?! I open the fridge. Foodstuffs pile out from the door and bury me amongst chips and bread and lunchmeat and pickles and Ramen noodles. From the chaos emerges my trembling fist, clutching tight to a Marie Callender chicken pot pie. "What about this?" I groan. "No," she blithely says as she walks over the Pile of Me and wanders out to the front room to devour more of the ubiquitous MTV reality shows. "Mom," she calls, "I'm a 14-year-old! I need a cell phone!"

I collapse underneath the vomitus of the refrigerator.

What else is going on in A-Bomb's life? Hmm....

Computers. I'm starting to hate the motherfucking things. I'm sick and tired of worrying about viruses and trojans and using a computer other than the one with which I had become accustomed nigh these last two, three years. Slow processes, worrying about what is needed upon Start-up and what could go the way of the dodo bird and sick of worrying about why the Epson printer is not working, though I loaded the CD onto this computer just as I did the other one.... I'm just sick of the fucking binary wasteland that is the 2009 computer world. I want a computer that is quick and confident and does what I fucking ask it to do...yesterday. I want blazing speed; I don't want to have to wait for the computer to scratch its head and say, "Oh...he wanted...me to...bold.... 'Yesterday.'" Oy vey. I may have to--if I can't get this computer and mine upstairs working correctly--I may have to just say fuggit and buy a new tower. I'll have to work some overtime, but I don't think that'll be a problem.

My new partner at work? She (Sharon) likes her overtime. I'm more than happy to oblige. Yesterday, for instance, we, and four other people, worked a nice fifteen-hour day. In the rain. In the slop. In the rainy, muddy slop. I jumped right into what needed to be done; though I finished the day with my raingear looking like I had wallowed in the mud all day (which, basically, I did) I had no qualms about the matter. I have no qualms, at all, about getting dirty. Actually, it's kinda cool, in a perverted way. It makes me feel like I earned my money for the day. And, in fact, I guess I had. Today, both lineman commented on how well and how hard I worked yesterday. That makes me feel good. (And then, later in the day, I took a corner in Birmingham a little too tight and blew open one of the trailer tires on a sharp-edged decorative rock--but that is a story for another day.) Regardless, overtime is good. I had seven hours last night and I had four on Monday, so...eleven hours. Good 'nough. I'll take it. And I'll pay my ever-mounting bills with it. Whee! Paying bills is fun! (One good thing? I paid off one of my loan payments last month, so, this month--and evermore--I'll have an extra $230.00 to throw at other bills. Good deal.)

What else? Ah, yes. My car. I need to get the brakes looked at. The car is just running really weirdly, and, from time to time, I smell burning metal. I'm on-call next week and so I'll have a company vehicle and so I'll be able to drop the car off at the garage and have them fix the damned brakes/alignment/shocks...or whatever. And then, later on, if I have the money, I'll get my windshield fixed, too. I was resting in the passenger seat, a couple of weeks ago, with my feet barely pressed up against the windshield and--pop!--instant spiderweb. Not cool. But! It is cool to look through at night. The way that it catches and reflects the lights from stores and other cars...pretty cool. (And, yes, that is false optimism, cheery Pollyannaism.)

Anyway.

I went on a cleaning spree last weekend and now the house is feeling more like a home, the only disaster of which to speak being Naomi's room, the room that she won't sleep in because there is no cable on the TV and she can't fall asleep without the cable acting as a background Sandman. Oy. Oy vey. The rest of the house is picked up and clutter-free and I aim to fucking keep it that way. The upstairs is really cozy and all I have to do with it is finish putting up the ceiling tiles. Meagan can help me with that: it's a two-person job.

All in all, life is good. Thanks for checking in and listening to me.

Peace to ya.

COMPUTER WOES

Wow. I just installed Norton 360 on the computer and, lemme tell you, it was not a pleasant experience. Now, I wanted to protect the computer because, as we all know, the threats of viruses and worms and "trojans" are rising exponentially every day, but--damn!--I had not realized that it would be so damned stressful!

It took forever to install, first off. It had to swat aside some bullshit program called "Windows Protector," and then it took a long fricking time to install itself. Then, once it was finally installed, I was unable to get on the Internet. It had to have something to do with the firewall protection, right? Well, I fucked around a bit with the firewall settings and even disabled it at one point, but, still, no dice, no go. Well, I thought to myself, I guess I need some help; I reckon I'll have to call Technical Support. That turned out to be a fucking joke: the support part, that is. I looked all over the got-damned box and all throughout the flippin' "instruction" manual, and nowhere did I see an 800-number. No, all that I saw was a tip to go to their technical support/help page on the 'Web. Now, how the hell am I supposed to go to their website if I can't even get on the fucking 'Net?! It was driving me crazy. If I'd had hair on the top my head, I'd have torn it out. I was having fantasies of ripping the computer tower and the monitor from thier moorings and flinging them through the window onto the cold February mucky ground of Michigan.

I tried a couple of half-hearted 800 numbers (1-800-Norton360 and 1-800-Symantec) but, obviously, nothing worked. I needed to get online to get the phone number to be able to get online. If that sounds confusing, if that sounds like a rat in a maze banging his head against an electrical port to get an almond or a piece of cheese, yes, that's what that was. Finally, I thought to call my sister, Melissa, and see if she could go online and get me that oh-so elusive, oh-so helpful 800-number. I got her voicemail and so I left a message and went back to pulling out my nonexistent hair. I remembered, then, that my mom had said something about going to visit dear sis Meliss, so I figured maybe, just maybe, Melissa had taken the day off from work and thus could be reached at her home. So, I called her and, yes, she was at home. I pleaded my case to her and she said that, sure, she'd look online for the number but, be warned, A-Bomb, her computer was running slowly, too. That's when I started thinking to myself, Hmm...terrorist attack? Anyway, her computer was running slowly and I hung up the 'phone and brewed myself some coffee as I waited for her page to load. (She, in the interim, had made iced tea and taken a pee-break. God love speedy computers, huh?) Eventually I got the number from her and thanked her and called the (408) 517-8000 number, hoping that I'd be able to deal with Symantec quickly and efficiently so that I wouldn't have to use minutes on my Sprint phone (They're another group of thieving bastards with whom I'll have to deal. Their contract apparently doesn't mean squat, what with the bills that they're sending me.). I called the 408 number and, luckily quickly heard an 800 shout-out. I immediately hung up and called the 800 number and, after navigating my way through a bunch of computer voice-prompts, found myself a place in the virtual landscape to drag up a rock and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The computer lady thanked me for my patience and pleasantly warned me that if I hung up and called back (apparently to circumnavigate the minimum 30-minute wait time) I'd unfortunately be sent back to the end of the virtual line, as the calls were to be answered in the order in which they had appeared. I wasn't about to fuck around with the computer lady with the saccharine-sweet voice, so I held and doodled on a pad, and while I was doodling, opened up Norton 360 and went to "Settings" and fumbled around in the "Firewall" section for a bit. There was a tab called "Traffic," so I opened it up and fucked around a bit and, lo and behold, figured out that I needed to tell Norton what I wanted it to allow. How fucked up is that?! I eventually figured out that Norton, that bastard, wanted to be told to allow access to Internet Explorer. I guess I'd just thought that that was a given. No. Apparently? Not. I encouraged Norton, that bastard, to allow Internet Explorer and then clicked on the icon and--to what to my wondering eyes did appear?--my homepage.

God.

What a fucking hassle. But, I'll tell you this: All is well that ends well and if Norton, that bastard, protects me from worms and viruses and tarantulas and "trojans" then, I guess, I'll tip my hat to him. Begrudgingly, though, definitely begrudgingly.

And now, after, damn-near four hours on this machine, I can get off my ass and go take care of what I'd taken the day off to do: finish the upstairs, painting the walls and installing the ceiling tiles.

::sigh::

CLIFFNOTES ON ABE

Two hundred years ago today, Abraham Lincoln was born. He was gangly and pretty homely and rocked the beard-without-a-mustache look. He was a lawyer and then a senator and then he ended up becoming President, just in time for the United States' most tenuous days. He was in office during and up to the end of the Civil War and he unfortunately chose to go with his wife to the theatre to see a comedy and ended up getting shot in the back of the head by a Derringer held in the hand of one of the famous actors of the day, John Wilkes Booth, who then vaulted the eleven feet to the stage and ran center and intoned in Latin, all actorly, the Virginia state motto and then closed with, "The South is avenged," before he raced off into the cornfields. Interestingly enough, Wilkes fucked up his leg or something during his dramatic leap to the stage and the doctor who ended up treating him was a certain Doctor Mudd. Mudd was looked upon with reproach for treating the assassain and thus the saying, "[His or her] name is mudd" originated.

I hope you liked your history lesson. I have a shitload of things to do today, but I figured I should hop on the 'puter really quickly and honor the gangly dude.

Have a great day! =o) And here's to antivirus programs on the computer actually working.

REFLECTIONS ON CAREER

Saturday morning, seven-thirty.

God! I love them! Weekends, that is. This last week dragged like a broken hind leg on a Russian race horse, skittering and slobbing.

It takes a little while to get used to going back to work every day, you know? ;-)

This last week at work has solidified my intimations that I am a boob at work. I am ineffectual. I seem, to me at least, to be an anchor with whomever I work. I drag 'em down. They have to be over my shoulder at every instant and make sure that I do the seemingly-simple procedures adequately. (That, by the way, is one of my problems: I don't work well when people are right there, over my shoulder, watching my every move. I start to spin the wrench the wrong way--righty tighty, lefty loosey, I know--and I second-guess every action that I do. I guess I do this because I don't want to fuck up, I don't want to add to the "Adam is an Ass" common "knowledge.")

I feel like a thief at work, sometimes. The company pays me good money to work with gas lines and all that comes with them, but, often--especially when I am on a three-person crew--I stand around, watching the others do the work. I'm game to do the work, really, but often co-workers will just grab the appropriate tools and do the work themselves. They'll say, "Don't worry about this one, Adam. I got it."

Maybe I need to be challenged?

Listen: there's no overt animosity with my co-workers, at all. They all like me; I know that they do. I try hard; I bust my ass with the physical part of the job. I just have the feeling that they all, too, view me as an inept boob, one who needs to dealt with with kid-gloves. I feel--and this is funny--I feel that they view me with sorrow, a sense of "what a good guy, but he's a complete ass." There is no trust, nor--I'm convinced--should there be. I've been in this department for a year and nine months and I'm still committing basic fucking errors. I'm still sweatin' the basics of the job. Though it may stem from second-guessing myself and/or self-consciousness and/or lack of attention to detail (yes), the fact remains that I suck as a gas lines worker.

There. I said it. It's out.

Now I can move on, I reckon, and work like there's no one there, judging, gauging, making sure that Adam doesn't do something to blow shit up. [That was written for effect; there's not a whole lot of opportunity to blow shit up. Relax.]

Does this sound like a pity party? I'm writing it and, yes, as I'm tapping the keys, that is exactly what it sounds like: a pity party. Listen, A-Bomb, just do the fucking job. It is faaaaaaaar from rocket science.

When oh when will I become proficient? When?! This job has damaged my hubris. It has Achille-sliced my confidence in my own innate intelligence. I am in a field in which many of my co-workers are "That Guy/Girl." The type of person who can look at a problem of mechanics and, through use of hammers and 'drivers and screws (oh my), remedy the situation, make it good as gold. Me? I look at the pipes and the fittings and the frozen ground (how will I get a wrench in there?) and I think to myself, Self? This is un-doable.

And then a co-worker will step in and kindly say, "Hey, Adam, lemme in there for a second." And then he or she will do what needs to be done in an expedient manner and, then, all is good, but, again, I've the feeling that I'm nothing but a implement used to keep ships and the like in place. An anchor, I mean. An ineffectual anchor.

I am not mechanically-inclined. I'm just not. I'm smart, I'm intelligent--I know this, cling to this fact--but I am not one of those dudes who can look at a problem and, through the use of tools, remedy the conflict. I'm just not. It's not my skill-set. And, yesterday, I was asking myself just what the hell is my skill-set? I can tell you this: it has absolutely nothing to do with steel pipes and fittings and unions and couplings and curb boxes and three-quarter to five-eighth adapters. My skill-set does not include use of trenching machinery, though my job title is TMO, Trenching Machine Operator. I can do it, I'm sure--gimme time and don't watch--but--damn!--this shit doesn't come easily to me! Motherfuck.

Sometimes at work, I want to tell with whomever I'm working that, hey, I'm not as dumb as I appear. In fact, I've mentioned that twice within the last couple of days/daze. They all say the right things: Dude, it takes a while to get this shit, man. You can only learn by doing. It's all right, Adam; you're doing fine.

No! No I'm not doing fine. I placed in the 98th percentile in my English ACTs, damn it! I'm smart! Seriously. Seriously.

Seriously, though, what, exactly, marks someone as "smart?" I'd trade my ACT scores for mechanical aptitude in a fucking heartbeat. That, to me, is "smart." The ability to view a mechanical quandary and take the appropriate steps to remedy said quandary, to me, is smart. Everyone and their brother can tap their thoughts out on the keyboard, mind to fingertips.

This post has meandered long enough. Basically, to sum it all up, I feel ineffectual at work. Have felt and continue to feel as such.

I'm seriously thinking about trading my 2002 Ford Focus hatchback in and get a rip-roaring pickup truck with a large bed. And, yes, that is a complete nod to my feeling weak and inadequate (and trucks are cool and strong and kick-ass). With a rip-roaring pickup truck (no lower than a V6) I'll be able to feel--and thus act--more manly. This begs a jaunt onto gender roles and femininity and masculinity and how individuals tend to associate "things" and actions with said roles, but, for now, I'm done.

I'm done with this post. It's 9:03 in the aye-em and I'm just about bushed, ready to go back to the warm bed and the warm woman and the satin sheets. I just got up--and thus onto this drivel--because I had to drain the monster. My elephant trunk was about to leak.

Postscript--Some, if not all, of the sympathy I feel that I feel from my co-workers could be attributable to them all knowing that I've had some Subby-Abuse demons capering behind my skull, of late. Yes. That could be part of it. I have the sense that everyone in the office is treating me and viewing me with kid gloves. "Adam's a loose cannon. Be careful"-type thing. And I can undertand that. I've not got the best track record. At all.

So, I guess, in essence, this post is about starting anew, blank-slating with regards to the people's perceptions in the headquarters. That is not an option. Baggage accumulates and people are people. People remember; people distrust. And I cannot, and will not, blame them. They see a dude who was thisclose to getting canned, they see said dude fumbling with the most basic aspects of the job and, I think, the Highers-Up ask themselves, "Why'd we keep this blast on the fucking payroll? He's an incompetent boob, with a substance abuse history, who is doing nothing but pilfering high twenties dollar an hour. Why is he still here?"

And that's a good question. God bless the union. And that is the God-given truth. God bless the union. They saved my ass--they did it with compassion and stories of their family members who'd fought the Lick-n-Hops, and they did it with an overt display of Solidarity.

And I'd never felt alone.

I love my job! =o)

***Edit: I should have been there for my dad during his last fucking days. I'm crying, now. He was in Hospice, at home, and I flaked on his last week. Fuck! I miss him so much. I really do. I'm listening to The Beatles' "Let it Be," and it njackhammers into my skull the thoughts that I had while my dad was checking out, dying. It's rough--seriously. I miss him! Fuck.

Fuck. It's like a huge fucking void in my life that I've adequately ignored, thus far.

I miss him. My Daddy. I fucking miss him. I want him here. [I'm spoutin' tears, here.]

I miss him. So sincerely. I think that there is a LFD (Life Before Dad Died) and a life after. Still, three months later, I say and/or type and/or hear that my Dad "passed." LOL I'm laughing 'cause I'm leaking like a faucet, right now. I miss him.

I MISS HIM!

Fuck.

It's tough to tickle the keyboard through tears.

11:57 in the morn.

My tears have abated, for now. I don't want any sympathy from You Readers. No.

Instead, I'd love to read stories about substance abuse and the love that you hold/held for your parental unit--and they friends.

Get back to me--please.

AND, AGAIN, TODAY...

Meagan is running computer circles around me, lately. She is pointing out both the obvious and the not-so-obvious answers to my computer quandaries. She was the one who advised me that, hey, Adam, to be able to load the cable connection, maybe the ethernet connection needs to be plugged into the modem or something. She didn't add that I was a complete moron when it comes to computers, but...she didn't have to.

And, then, again, today.

We are using a different computer than I have used for the last 2, 3 years and so I am not hip to its ins-and-outs. [Mine is still in the Geek Squad's shop--it's set to come out of the ICU late tomorrow.] Photoshop was not loading and I was starting to get muy frustrated and then Meegie said, "Hey, Adam, try this: go to My Computer and Control Panel and then go to Load New Software." I was "scoff-ful." I'd done this before. I'd loaded it onto my computer and I had done it simply off the CD. This time, though, the route that I had previously taken was not working. So...I did what my baby told me to do and--voila!--the program loaded and I was able to open a picture (it's of C. Canyon and it's viewable to the right) and modify it, somewhat. The only thing I did to that picture? In the original, C. Canyon was wearing a blue, headlight-accentuating tanker. Nothing more was done to alter the snapper of the Canyon lass.

Anyway. All I am trying to do is give Meeg some much-due credit. She has, these last couple of weeks, made me feel like an illiterate computer ass. I think she should do what she's talking about and get a computer degree. I think she has the head for it; I think she's got the knack.

Me? I have the "knack" to put punctuation points in dey proper spots and conjure images in da readers' minds. She? She seems to have the gift of being a Computer Whisperer.

Go forth, Meegie! Sow your binary oats!

=]

MEMES--AN APOLOGY

I was tagged by the lovely and talented Izzy, over at Smut in G Major, to do a meme on "Sexual Firsts." I, egged on by my sophomoric sense of humor, decided to change Firsts to Fists and then go off on an undelineated tangent on fisting--kind of. I also wrote about the llama in my mom's basement and the fact that I live in my mom's basement (under the ping-pong table), and the fact that I have never kissed anyone, ever, in my life.

Those allusions are all patently untrue.

If I gave anyone the idea that the meme was truly about fisting I, first, apologize and, second, strongly advocate your getting your head out of your ass.

I feel bad, though, that some people might have been stupid enough to actually believe that Miss Snow sent me a meme on fisting. She never did. She sent me a meme on sexual firsts. That's it.

Maybe the reason I fudged around with the meme is because I feel ashamed of my penis, and the fact that it's only seven inches long, five inches around. I feel that that is an embarrassment to men in general, yet, it swings between my legs. I can't improve it. Weights and pumps don't work. It is what it is. :-\

I also should have taken into account, when I received the tag, that Izzy is a paid sex columnist. There was also a link--in the rules of the meme--that shot the clicker back to Sex Talk For Men, assuredly an online column. I didn't think, whilst I was gleefully typing, about the career ramifications that could have been incurred had Someone read the linkages back to my post.

I would never intentionally try to put words in others' mouths, but, in this case, that is exactly what I did. It was Firsts not Fists! Damn it! Oh, God! How could I have been so foolish?!

Fuck.

Let this be a lesson to you, though! Never--never--try to inject humor into a blog-post. It could be misinterpreted. =[

THE DOG'S NAME? NOT SO APROPOS

This is pretty funny, eh?

Apparently, the dog has some Oedipal issues. That's his Mommy, and so he feels the need to "mark his territory," as it were. Back off, other dogs! And, too, businessmen!

Also, I feel bad for the Labrador. Poor kid. =o(

IN WHICH THE GROSS-OUT OF THE READER IS AN ADDED BONUS

So. I was driving down 10 Mile Road, on my way to the Get-n-Go for some Ben and Jerry's iced cream, some Mountain Dew and some cigarettes (I know, I know--I am the paragon of health) and I heard an advertisement on the local classic rock station for evercleanse, a product that promises to help the user lose unwanted pounds. I usually let commercials slide unnoticed between my ears, but this time, for some reason, I was all at-attention. I think this was the phrase that caught my attention (and I'm paraphrasing): "Evercleanse helps you to shed unwanted pounds! By ridding your colon of the accumulation of years of waste--sometimes 5 to 20 pounds!--that collects along the walls of your colon like spackling!"

I vomited all over the dashboard at the mental image that that garnered. No. Actually, I didn't. Actually, I threw up in my mouth a little bit, re-tasting the corned beef-and-bologna-and-onion sammiches that I'd had a few hours before. Again, no. I didn't. Actually, I burped daintily and wondered to myself just what the hell that "spackling" would look like. And then I got to thinking about just how this "miracle colon cleanser" would work.

How would it work? Why, it'd make ya shit. all. the. time. Wouldn't it?! And then I got to thinking that maybe Evercleanse should have the following listed, its lawyer speak, in small print:

Evercleanse is to be in no way held liable for the following, but not excluded to: copious pooping while on job interviews; incessant shitting in church; a constant flood of odious liquid excrement while sitting at the local Long John Silver; "accident" farts in traffic; Grand Canyon-esque skid marks in your best BVDs.

I think you'd be having to shit all the time. What a pain in the ass (no pun intended).

I think I'll try to lose weight the old-fashioned way: diet and exercise.

***

I had to add this edit. It's a "blog" about colon cleansing, authored by a woman named "Dawn." In italics, she states that, because it is a pretty private topic, the name is a pseudonym and the picture isn't hers. I had to laugh. How do you think the woman whose picture is "Dawn" would feel if she knew that her mug was being used to, ostensibly, promote a website that goes into great depth about mucoid plaque? I'm sure she'd be thrilled.

THE HOOPS THROUGH WHICH ONE MUST JUMP

Well, Dawn from work called me today. It seems as though I have been cleared to go back to work; my suspension is near its end. I'll tell you what: it's just in time. I've been crawling the walls these last several days. I need to be doing something, damn it, to feel of any use, whatsoever. I've been feeling decidely bummish.

First things first, though; I had to go to Kingswood Medical Center to drop a urine sample and to blow into the fucking breathalyzer. I blew into the little white plastic nozzle (Vickie the nurse explained to me how to do it--um, I know how, bee-yotch, I'm a professional at this) and the results were a beautiful .000. As they should have been.

And then it was on to the piss-test. I'd previously been told that there would be a doctor in there with me--his job was to make sure that I'd not have a Whizzinator taped next to my package. "He's not going to, like, watch me go, is he?" I'd asked. "I mean, he's gonna be in the room, but is he going to be, like, right there?" The woman answered that because of the reason that I was there and per my company's request, yes, he'd be watching me urinate. Sah-weet.

Well, I reminded myself, I'd been the one who had put myself in this situation so if I had a problem with it, I could bring it up with Drunk Adam. Drunk Adam hasn't been answering the telephone, lately, so it's unlikely that my complaint would be heard. And, even if it were heard, nothing much would be done about it. Drunk Adam's usual response is, "Meh, fuggit. Pass the Guinness or get the fuck outta my way."

Anyway, on to the piss-test. Doctor C_____ was the lucky individual who drew the the short straw and got to see my penis. In all it's nervous-to-be-looked-at-in-the-men's-room glory. "Um," I said as I unzipped my pants and pulled out my monster, "this is a little awkward, huh?" The doctor didn't say anything. I said to the silence, "Well, I put myself into this situation, so...." Doctor C_____ said, "Did you?" and moved closer to my side. "Um, yeah." "Well, you did," he said.

Silence ensued. Somewhere, a cricket rubbed its wings together.

My penis was having some serious stage-fright. Usually, in the men's room, great pains are taken to avoid even the intimation that junk could be being scoped. My boy Babar wasn't used to such unabashed scrutiny. Eventually, though, the pumps kicked in and the five Dixie cups of water that I'd slammed before the "test" made their way through my plumbing and splashed down into the cup, with the remaining fluid calling home the chemically-blue waters of the medical center's toilet. Doctor C_____ reminded me not to flush. "I know it's a habit, but...."

Right, Doc. I am a criminal and I should be treated as such. No flushie-flushie, and my dick is under the microscope. I know. Intellectually, I know why the rules are as such: my company is paying me to be at work sober and I have had an assuredly rotten track record of compliance. They have their asses to cover and they have to be sure that I am not an employee of the disingenuous variety, intent upon "sticking it to the company."

Still, though, the whole matter was a little humiliating. Fuck it. It is what it is. I'm over it. Well, maybe not completely over it. In a small act of childish belligerence, I shook off extra long for the good doctor's benefit: you wanna look at my cock? You're getting paid to look at my cock? Here it is. Get a good look at it. I'll not be back again. (Er, except for the times in the future in which I'll be sent to the clinic for the random drug tests. Um, forget I said anything, Doctor C_____. You're a swell dude. And you do a great job. Um, looking at penises.)

I sure hope that they don't pick up any of the heroin in my system. Smack, horse, the Big H--it's a tough habit to kick. As is meth. As is weed. Bennies are no fun to stop, either. Nor is coke and opium and 'shrooms.

:-\

DEATH OF A PILLOW

I walked in the door today, carrying my groceries and the dogs' bag of food. The boys were happy to see their food me, leaping in the air and play-bowing and sniffing at my heels. I'd only been gone for about fifteen minutes, but, as dogs are extremely adept at doing, they acted as though I'd been gone a fortnight. I opened the food bag and poured it into their bowls and then I stood back and watched as they snouted their way through the dry cereal-like Pedigree. I noticed a slight puddle-stain on the threadbare carpet and so I Fantastick'd it and ground some paper towel into it and then called it good. My computer called to me from its den and so, bidding a fair adieu to the boys, I lumbered off to the den. Only to stop short. Only to stop short, I say!

From my periphreal, I caught sight of an image that will haunt me till my dying day. In the front room, next to the insanely-comfortable leather armchair, a body lay sprawled out, its innards ripped from its body, said innards covering its torso, its face, dotting the surrounding brown carpet with Violence. Oh. My God, say it isn't so. It was. 'Twas. It was Padraig Pillow, rendered inanimate forever by the sharp teeth of the boys Oliver.

And I hadn't even seen it coming! I blamed (and still blame) myself. The boys Oliver had had their his way with Padraig a couple of weeks before and I guess I had assumed that if I kept Padraig off the floor, he'd be safe from the Jaws of Death. My complancency got him killed. Torn to pieces, actually. And it's taking all I have not to sob uncontrollably right now.

He lies there, still. Well, now, let me be perfectly accurate. His body lies there still. His soul, his cognizance--they're long gone; they've gone and exited Stage Left. Little Padraig is up in pillow heaven, now, doing what all the cherubic pillows do: lie around, maintain their softness, occasionally help a brother sleep. But, anyway, he lies there, still. I just haven't had the courage to go scoop him up and encase him in his plastic coffin. (Plus, I have to write about this; I have to get my feelings out on "paper," as it were.) I thought it would be nice to honour Padraig's memory and write a kind of impromptu obituary on the Internet and send it out to the Binary Showplace, let all the 1s and 0s pay their respects:

Little Padraig Pillow was born in Ireland. He was raised by loving parents, Phillip the Bodypillow and Patricia the Headrest. Little Padraig was a popular pillow, held in high esteem by his classmates at the Primary School of Zs and, later, at Eyes-On-Sheep High School. He excelled at his studies, having been born into an extremely soft and malleable body, but he found his joy, his calling, his second year at the high school when he tried out for wrestling and made the team. He took to wrestling like it were an innate extension of his being, winning match after match after match with seemingly little effort. His coaches were pleased, to say the least. They were particularly impressed with his finishing move, The Smotherer, in which Padraig would bodily spring across the ring--usually a bed--and position himself across his competitor's face, pressing down hard, thus compromising the oxygen intake of the other, rendering him still, catatonic almost. Though many have tried the move, none have been able to execute The Smotherer with the flair with which Padraig had so easily bested his opponents. Padraig the Pillow was a pioneer in the sport of pillow wrestling and, as such, his name has been immortalized.

After high school, Padraig was possessed with a strong case of wanderlust and so he bid farewell to his tearful parents and left the Green Isles for the first and what would turn out to be the last time. Jammed into a cardboard box with like-minded pillows, Padraig had had the gnawing suspiscion that he might have acted rather hastily, what with leaving his secure and comfortable island home to try his luck in the New World but, once the box was opened and he was greeted with the sight of the Statue of Liberty and all the hustle and bustle of the New York port, he grinned to himself and knew that he had made the right choice.

Padraig had found himself a second home in New York city and he sustained himself with being the third pillow--oftentimes being used in a sexual nature--and he lived high off the hog for a couple of years. He and his parents wrote each other and talked often on the telephone, but, still, after two years of living in The City, Padraig yearned for a more laidback life. And so he decided to clean himself up and encase himself in plastic and pricetag himself to the point to which he would be deemed desirable to good sturdy salt-of-the-earth midwesterners. And so he found himself in the mitten state, in the metropolitan Detroit area and he found himself in K-Mart and he found himself being picked off the shelf by a lovely buxom woman and he found himself another home. At this new home, he quickly made friends with the two satin-covered leopard print pillows (Kogoi and Kenashwa) and the burnt-sienna body pillow (Phillipe-Tyrone). Life was good and he found himself clothed in a Halloween-inspired covering and he and Kogoi, Kenashwa and Phillipe-Tyrone often found themselves in deep philosophical conversations which often delved into the metaphysical, the supernatural, the occult.

Life changed for Padraig, though, when the buxom beauty brought another pillow (her favorite) into the mix. Red and satiny-soft, Padraig had no chance of competing for the woman's affection and so he took his demotion to being the guest pillow with a stocism that would have made his parents proud. He spent more and more of his time in the front room, or haphazardly-placed on the armchair and he found himself crying himself to sleep at nights, missing the companionships and the intellectual conversations that he'd once had with Kogoi and Phillipe-Tyrone and Kenashwa. And he found himself growing more fearful, daily, of the hounds with whom he often shared the room. The big one was okay, he figured, but the smaller one was untrustworthy, the smaller one often eyed him with golden eyes of wanton lust. And that was scary.

So, I have no idea what happened to Padraig the Pillow. Was it his emotional state that caused him to leap to his certain death upon the front room floor? Or was it Oliver's "wanton lust" that signed Padraig's death certificate? I'll never know. But would you, could you, join me in a moment of silence for a pillow whose life was cut short far too early? And, also, say a quick prayer for all that he left behind.

Thank you and God bless.

PS--Though pillows were killed, no dogs were harmed during the making of this post.

WOOL OVER THE EYES

This just in: it has been brought to my attention that the pants you see to the right side of the screen--one of my favorite pairs of jeans--are, in fact, women's jeans. I feel so violated. The jeans never told me, gosh damn it!

I got them about a year ago at a local thrift store for maybe five bucks, or something like that--and, yes, they were hanging in the Men's section. I came to find out, a few days ago, that Claiborne is a woman's brand. Oh, the humanity! Meagan was helping me fold some of my laundry and she picked up the jeans and turned to me and said, "Hey, whose are these?" Why, they're mine, Buttercup, I responded. "Adam. These are women's [pants]," she said. "Liz Claiborne? You know? Woman's brand?" And then she started laughing.

**Sob**

"You know," I said to her, "I was wondering about that. I mean, I have heard of Liz Claiborne for women. But, they were in the Men's section! I guess I just thought that she had a men's line, too?"

That just got her to laughing even harder. She was turned away from me, folding some of my underwear (and, no, they weren't panties; they were manly boxer-briefs, damn it) but I knew that she was busting a silent gut at my expense. I could see her shoulders rocking. And I could hear the sound of her hilarity being suppressed with great effort.

"Sure, let it out, Meegie," I said, false hurt saturating my voice. "Just go ahead and laugh at me, why don'tcha?" I think I may have dropped into my '30s Gangster Voice for that last sentence. It just seemed to fit the situation. Then again, '30s Gangster Voice fits just about any situation. Except for funerals and weddings and, even then, the 8-Ball's answer is murky.

Anyway, I blame the Salvation Army for my ongoing emotional distress. They had the damned pants hanging in the Men's section, for crying out loud! What was I to think?!

Meh, fuggit. I'm doomed. I'm already wearing women's pants; how long will it take before I'm wearing women's shirts? And socks?! And, God forbid, snazzy bra-and-panty combinations?!

My life is over. Good-night.

**Sob**

SIXTY-NINE, MAN

My Dad would have been 69 today. I would have made sure that the significance of the number was not lost on the celebrants, writing "69" as many times as I could on the wrapping of his present and alluding to the now-glorious significance of the six-plus-nine in the writing in the card. It may have irked some people and some people may not have even gotten the "joke" (read: Grandma), but I'd have made sure that I beat the dead horse of a joke until the stuffing were coming out of it. I mean, you're only sixty-nine once, right? It is a etheral number and so it needs to be celebrated.

Anyway, it's a moot point. Kind of. But maybe not. Maybe, just maybe, Dad is up there in the heavens, kicking it with his mom and Rod and Dean, and they are all looking down on me--in my earthbound bag of bones and skin with its pains and conditions--and silently shaking their heads with bemused expressions on their mugs. "Adam will be Adam," Dean says to Rod, and Nana and my dad nod their gaseous heads in agreement.

Well, Dad, I miss you, man. Your loss (or my loss, whichever makes more sense) comes to me in waves. It comes at times when I least expect it. It's like, I see something or something happens and, though we were never particularly close (I love you, of course), it may cross my mind that I want to share it with you and then I think to myself, oh yeah.... Dot, dot, dot. Such is life.

Anyway, happy sixty-ninth, Dad! Have a heavenly birthday, mi pee-aye-pee-aye. Love.

New Year--2009

the new year is here

batten down the hatches, please

we're in for a ride

Just a little "Haiku Madness!" to start the day. I hope all three of you readers had a happy and safe celebration. Here's hoping you didn't get shit-faced and proceed to piss off the bartenders and then the bouncers thus leading to being unceremoniously jacked out the back door into the alleyway whereupon you skidded on a rotten avacado peel and smashed headfirst into a convenient collection of metal trashcans. (I say "convenient" only because they were there to break your fall.) I hope that didn't happen. It didn't happen here, and that's a good thing.

I really hope that, for me, 2009 is a better year than 2008. I started 2008 on a roll and ended it in a skid. A downward spiral-type skid, truth be told. A few life-altering occurences called 2008 their home: I fell in love, fell back into the bottle, witnessed my father's illness truly take hold and then kill him two months before his 69th birthday and two days before the historic election, and I nearly lost my well-paying job and held onto it only by the skins of my teeth (whatever the hell those are).

I didn't drink on New Year's Eve and it really wasn't all that hard to remain abstinent. The medication that I take helps, sure, of course, but everyone knows that if one does not take the medication, one doesn't reap the benefits. I took it and so I didn't drink. Meagan and I went with her friend to a bowling alley and rented a lane for a few hours, 9 to 12. There was drinking all around me, of course, and to say that it didn't affect me at all would be a lie. I was getting a little bitter, not being able to drink, but then I "played the tape through," as they say, and I realized that, though the night would not perhaps be filled with easy grins and hilarity, it too would not be filled with staggering bar bills and for-crap bowling (though I bowled horribly, anyway) and the night would not be filled with inane comments and the night would be less likely to be shotgunned with embarrassment...oh, and I would not have to drive home with white knuckles, damned sure that every shadowy shape was a police prowler. (Is it just me or does anyone else see cop cars as almost insectile? Kinda like they're wasps or aggressive bumblebees, zipping along the highways and byways, intent upon skewering the unwatchful with their needlelike stingaz?) No, it'd be--and it was--a safe night. And fun, too. So there's that.

I have beer down in the basement. I have had it there for about a month-and-a-half, now. There is about a six-pack of Guinness Draught sitting alongside the dryer. It's probably skunked, now, and I have taken an Antabuse, but I think/know that I need to get rid of it. Skunked or not, given the opportunity, I'll drink it. I should have gotten rid of it weeks ago. I am thisclose to losing my job (when all the hoops are jumped through and all the meetings are attended I'll be going back...but I feel like I am getting the runaround a bit--maybe it's just the holiday schedule that delays everything). Anyway, what I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by my tangential mind, was that I have to pop the tops on those bad boys and introduce the contents to the washtub drain. I'm off to do that right now. Consider it, if you will, "real time blogging."

Back in a bit.

Four minutes later. I'm back. This may sound funny--but it's not--but I got a little misty around the eyes when I popped the tops on the Guinnesses and poured them the fuck down the drain. It is just liquid, sure, but of course it is much more than that. It is the loss of freedom that I was pouring down the drain. Freedom to drink, freedom to come home after a long day at work (if and when I ever get back) and kick back and suck down a cold one. Freedom to self-medicate and to "check out" of reality for a bit, here and there. But, hey, whom am I kidding? The freedom comes from pouring the brew down the drain. The freedom to work, the freedom to live happily, the freedom to avoid consistently shooting myself in the foot. The freedom to experience life as it truly is, the freedom to see it actually, both good and bad, with the blinders cast aside.

There is definitely a mourning process through which one has to navigate his or her way when one is kicking addictive substances to the curb. Though the substance has brought a heaping smelly shitload of pain and misery, it too has brought fun times and fond memories and tranquil life-is-good moments.

The sharp stout smell of the Guinnesses curled comfortably within my nostrils as soon as I cracked the tops. It smelled soooooo good. What crossed my mind? Why, I wanted it, of course. It was me and myself and I--and no one else. Who'd know? I'd know. I know this, too: start with a six-pack, progress to a twelve-er, mix in a few 40s, slabberdash some hard liquor into the mix. Get tested at work and fail the random test. Get canned. Begin life anew. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat until you're living in a crack apartment in Detroit and scrounging the streets for bottles to return for their deposits. Too dark a picture? Maybe it is...but maybe it's not. That's the problem with this shit: I never know where it's going to take me. I know, though, that if I maintain true to my straight-and-narrow, I give myself a fighting chance to live this life successfully. If I give in to my craven wants and desires, I for all intents and purposes slice through my own Achilles tendons and leave myself crawling through the shit and the slop and the beetles and spiders of Life. Not too pretty a picture? You're absolutely right. And I ask, Who the fuck wants that?

So...on this, the second day of January, 2009, at 11:30 in the morning, I'm going to end this pretty depressing post (lol) and step carefully into the shower and then I am going to dress in my Suspended From Work Casual and then I am going to drive the mile-and-a-half down the road and go to a meeting. My sponsor should be there and I'll reacquaint myself with him (I haven't called him in a few days.). Not necessarily fun, but necessarily necessary.

One last thing: My grandma turns 91 today. Though she has slipped considerably, both mentally and physically, during the last few years, she still my Granny and I love her enormously. If you could, wish little ole Eldora Belle a happy birthday, eh?

Peace ow, peace ouch, but mainly peace in.

MY GOD: OH-AND-SIXTEEN!

This a microcosm of the season: It's the fourth quarter and the Detroit Lions are losing to the Green Bay Packers, but they have the ball and they're efficiently moving it down the field. Dan Orlovsky (who?!) swings a pass into the right flat for Kevin Smith, the running back of the present and, ostensibly, the future. The play goes nowhere; the Packers sniff it out from the snap and the cornerback drops Smith in the backfield for a four-yard loss, spinning him out of bounds into the Packers' bench. A couple of the Packers had something to say to Smith--now, I have no "ears on the field," as it were, but I have to assume that they said something about the Lions being a blight on the league, a walking and running and missed-tackling turd of honolulu-blue-and-silver...something like that--and Kevin Smith, being a man and being a blockhead and being a Detroit Lion, shoves the ball in the opposing player's face and shoves past an official on his way back onto the playing surface. Zing! Out flies the yellow flag and Smith is penalized fifteen yards for unsportsmanlike conduct. So, instead of a third-and-fourteen, it turns out to be, with the fifteen-yard penalty, a third-and-twenty-nine, or some ridiculous--Lionesque--number like that and they get a yard on third down and then go for it on fourth-and-twenty-eight and, of course, they fail to pick up the first down and Green Bay can basically just run out the clock and saddle the Detroit franchise with the ignoble statistic of being the only team in NFL history to finish the season at 0-16.

Jim Rome is probably rubbing his hands together with glee, even as we speak.

What a fucking disaster this team was and is and probably will be, forever more.

I feel really bad for Calvin Johnson, a top-tier receiver in this league who had the misfortune to be drafted by the Detroit Lions. He's a Pro-Bowl receiver and he puts up Pro-Bowl statistics, but he's got dingbats like Dan Orlovsky and, earlier, Jon Kitna, throwing the rock to him. He finished the game with nine catches for 102 yards and two touchdowns--stellar numbers, really--and he finishes the season with 69 receptions (great number) for 1229 yards and 10 touchdowns. He is a supreme talent--big and strong, as fast as a gazelle, a great route-runner--but he's mired in Motown...if he doesn't demand a trade when his contract is up, I'll eat dog food.

Who else do we have on this shitty-assed team? Maybe Ernie Sims is worth keeping? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe Kevin Jones is worth keeping? Maybe, maybe not. What a fucking joke. I lay the blame squarely on the shoulders of Matt Millen and the Ford dynasty for keeping him in too high a position for far too many years. What else can you say that hasn't already been said of a man (Millen) who comes out of the play-by-play booth with absolutely no front office experience and proceeds to draft, in three consecutive years, three wide receivers in the top three draft picks of every year, completely ignoring necessary skilled players at positions on the offensive and defensive lines? Nothing. Nothing more can be said. He fucked this franchise up the ass and used nothing for lube but moisture from his sweaty bushy mustache. And, after he had his way with them and after the Ford family finally fired his ass, he probably motored his Harley back to Pennsylvania, possibly telling himself that he did the best that he could. Yeah. Right. Maybe he did. But, my God, after three or four years of total ineptitude, wouldn't you feel a little guilty about collecting multi-million dollar checks? Instead of hanging on in the hopes that maybe this year, things'll be different? Okay. Human nature tells us that, while one may feel guilty for collecting while doing horridly at one's job, it is up to the upper management-slash-ownership to do the right thing for the team (and the fans?) and sweep the shit out the front door. When it's broken, fucking fix it!

What an embarrassment. Sixteen games; sixteen losses. If weren't so damned pathetic, I'd probably be pissed off. But, hell, they're the fucking Lions. They're a joke, man. I stopped believing in them a long time ago. They always find a way to be the Lucy Van Pelt to our determined Charlie Brown-donism. (New word. I just made it up. But it's appallingly appropriate.)

I feel bad for Head Coach Rod Maranelli, too; and he'll assuredly be canned during the off-season. He seems like a genuine guy. He seems straightforward enough and he seems like he cares. A lot. So, too, do the players. They didn't want to go down in the annals as the first NFL team to ever go winless for the season. To their credit, they fought hard most of the time. But week after week, they were overmatched. They just suck. Week after week, there was some kind of Lionesque play that shot them in the collective foot. Week after week, they found new (!) and interesting (!) ways to lose ball games.

Is there any hope? I don't think so. I am truly starting to believe that Bobby Layne, their last great quarterback--from the fucking '50s!--put a hex, a curse, on them. Half a century of ineptitude...that's tough to do. But, seriously, is there hope for this franchise? I mean, look at the Miami Dolphins. Last year they were 1-15 and this year they finished 11-5 and made the playoffs. So, judging by the Dolphins turnaround, there's got to be at least a sliver of hope for the Lions, right? Wrong. The 'Phins have the Tuna, Bill Parcells, in their front office. Bill Parcells is a winner, he has always been a winner, wherever he's gone. The Lions have not a single person with the pedigree of Parcells. They have bumbling fools who always seem to be in over their heads.

Until they start winning, I'll never again purchase anything with the Detroit Lions logo on it, I'll never go to a game, I'll rarely even watch them on the television. Until they start winning they are, as Michael Corleone would say, they're dead to me.

Thanks for a fascinating season, Lions! You guys rock!

PLAY "PAY IT FORWARD"

"[T]he exchange focuses on doing an act of kindness without expecting anything in return other than that the recipient will, in his/her turn, pass the kindness along and pay it forward in his/her own way. I agree to send something fun, inspiring or uplifting to three random commenters. In turn, those three will post this information and pick 3 people they want to send something to and so on."

I opened my front door this morning and, there amidst the snow-and-ice mixture sat Lynn's box. Lynn's box was white with little black letters on it. Thanks, Lynn! I think I'm really going to enjoy your box! Except, now? Now it's my box. Sweet! Thanks for sending me your box, Lynn, across this great country, and thank you, too, for the contents of your box. I had to open your box to get to the goodies inside and, Lord, I am glad that I did open your box.

Guatemalan coffee. Booyah!

You can read Lynn's excellent writing over at reallivelesbian.blogspot.com/.

Here are the simple rules of the game, Pay It Forward: One, read this post. Two, comment by, um, Wednesday at 11:59PM. Three, I'll pick three winners from the commenters. Four, I'll send you a little something and then you, too, can have the blessed burden of spreading joy throughout this great country. Wanna play?! Then comment away!

Here's another fun game: Examine the picture of the lady enjoying her Guatemalan coffee and come up with a caption for it. The dirtier, the better. Here, I'll start it off. Noting her slightly-pinched smile, the caption should read: "Ha-ha, very funny, Jorge. Let's see how damned funny it is fifteen cups of COFFEE.COM coffee later, when I'll be painting the inside of your toilet with my vitriolic Deuce Juice."

THIRTY-FIVE IN DAWG YEARZ

Unconditional love. Loyalty. Laughs. A warm furry body around which I can wrap my arms. Deep soulful brown eyes. The beginning of salting of gray on the muzzle. Five years of unquestioning companionship and love.

Louie turns five years old today. It marks--and for three months down the line--the only time in our relationship that we'll be approximately the same age. 35 or thereabouts. I had a huge head-start but, unfortunately, Lou is fast and he made up the distance rather too quickly. Eventually, he'll streak right on by me and leave me in his four-pawed dust, sprinting towards the end of the line so that he can meet with God quicker. This is dogs' only downfall--they're candles that burn from both ends and they live their angelic lives too damned quickly.

I'm a maroon. I'm here writing about Louie's birthday, ostensibly a joyous day, and I'm bumming myself out. My eyes are gettin' a little misty and my throat is choking up a bit. Why the hell am I focusing on his lifespan? Why not just live in the moment and bury my face in his musty-doggy side and inhale deeply of the shared Love? I heard something in a meeting on Sunday, and, though it is somewhat cheesey and prepackaged "Meeting talk", it rings true: Yesterday is history and tomorrow is a mystery, but today is the Present and it's a gift. True dat.

After I finish this, Lou is going to get a biscuit. Seems a little threadbare of a present for such a happy day but, hell, he's a Christmas bambino and so he's gotta share his birthday with the little Baby Jesus, y'dig? Hey-Zeus won't mind and Lou should be honored to celebrate in such rarified air.

Happy birthday, Louie. I love you forever, dude...but, uh, stick around a while, m'kay?

BINARY WASTELAND

You know, I wish people would have paid more attention in English class; I really do. Surfing the 'Net reveals far too much of shit just. like. this:

I DO NOT SEE HOW A DOGS MOUTH COULD BE VERY CLEAN MY DAUGHTER HAS TWO CATS TWO OF OUR DOGS THAT ARE KEPT IN THE SAME KENNEL AS THE CATS APPARENTLY EAT THE CATS WASTE THERE IS NEVER ANY CAT FECES IN THE LITER BOXES MY DOGS HAVE FOOD DOWN 24/7 YOU SHOULD SEE HOW FAT MY DOGS ARE PLUS THE DOGS LICK THEIR GENITLES AND ARE ALWAYS LICKING THE OTHER DOGS MY DOGS DO NOT LICK THAT IS GROSS THAT THEY ARE EATING THIS STUFF AND COMING IN AND LICKING YOU IN THE MOUTH WOULD YOU LET A HUMAN EAT POOP AND COME RIGHT IN AND LICK YOU IN THE MOUTH COME ON IT IS ONLY LOGICAL THAT THERE ARE DISEASE AND GERMS INVOLVES

One, stop shouting, Dusty Rose. Please and thank you. And, two, mix in occasional punctuation mark (and a dictionary), if you could. Shit like this just makes my head hurt.

Carry on. =o)

WINTER SOLSTICE

Today is Sunday, the twenty-first day of December. Outside the world is God's icebox, all snow and ice and hi-zowling winds, and inside I am--obviously--at the bench o' computation, and Meegie is cocooned in bed, slabberdashed betwixt Louie and Oliver. From the bedroom I hear a dog sneeze, closely followed by a female voice saying, "Ohhh, Gawd, Oliver." There is not a whole hell of a lot on tap today; basically, it'll be a lazy snowy December Sunday morning. The Lions will not be televised. They didn't sell out the stadium. I'll putter around here and eat lunch when the urge strikes me and get to a 1:00 meeting down the road. (I'd intended to go to the 10:00 meeting in Berkley--my ostensible Home Group--but, hell, I looked outside and heard the wind and just decided, "Fuggit. I'll go later.")

God bless winter. God bless the refreshing, invigorating, sub-freezing winds which render a nose a radish in under four minutes. God bless the doggies cavorting in the backyard, spinning white dervishes of snow from under their playful paws. God bless the sugar coatings on the trees and the crystalline icicles that hang from the gutters. God bless the sense of unity that many Michiganders display after a particularly heavy snowfall--snowblowing neighbor's driveways, giving The Stuck a push--but God damn the havoc the unplowed streets wreak on the undercarriage of my Ford Focus. It's too low to the ground, and a mere five inches'll fucking get it stuck. I was pretty damned frustrated yesterday, what with the neighborhood plows nowhere in sight and my car repeatedly getting stuck...in the apron of my driveway, a couple of houses down, at the end of the street. When a street isn't plowed, stop signs tend to lose their relevance, to me. As long as there isn't any other car or pedestrian in the Ground Zero vincinity, I'm-a gonna keep motoring right along. And if a car does have the audacity to be in my drive-zone at that highly-crucial point in time, I'll stop and grumble curses at the blithely unaware motorist. And then I'll get out of my car, shovel in hand, and get to work. For all you warm-weather climes, you gotta come to Michigan or somewhere in the northern snowbelt and try your hand at winter driving! It's fun! >=o) (<---See?! I'm smiling!)

Anyway.

Today is the winter solstice. Assuming that my meterological knowledge is beyond the neotonical stages, it's the shortest day of the year. I wonder if, back in the day, the animal skin-clad hunters and gatherers had special ceremonies in which they begged the dieties to "bring back the Sun, damn it"? Maybe they had sacrifices. Nowadays, we have psychological conditions like S.A.D. and depression and our sacrifices are our brain chemicals as we pop pills to "bring back the Sun." Ah, progress. :-O

Let's all band together and perform some Pagan rituals--like Speedo snow angels or the like--to expediate the winter process. Whaddya say?

(By the way: four more days until Christmas. If you're one who celebrates the birth of Baby Jesus, it's time to get shopping. Ironic, isn't it?)

PARALLEL UNIVERSE

What day of the week is it? What date is it? Is this a parallel universe? One in which I retire late and wake late and mark my days only by the occurrences of Intensive Outpatient sessions?

Where is the joy in life? When the hell can I get back to work? Are they going to be sticklers on my attending the six more one-on-one counselling sessions before I can drop some piss and head back into the wild and joyous Land o' Gas Distribution? I hope not. I talked to the leader of the IOP, George, and told him that I still needed, by the substance abuse assessor's primary assessment, six more individual therapy sessions before I'd have the shackles unlocked and be allowed to go back to work. He and I both agree that six sessions really won't make a hell of a lot of difference in my mindset--I'm fed up with drinking and all the havoc it wreaks. However, I am concerned that if I don't do what I have been ordered to do, they (The Assessors [sounds like some kind of '50s comic book, doesn't it?]) may hold my balls to the flame. I'm in a tight spot, here, and I want to do exactly what I am told to do. Money comes in handy. Besides, now is not the difficult time for me, regarding drinking. The wounds are still too fresh, the memories of life's destruction still too crystalline. No, my "stinking thinking" really kicks it into a higher gear when things are going well and the money starts rolling in and I can rationalize to myself that, "Hell, Adam, things are sweet right now. You deserve a beer or eleven." That's when it gets tricky.

As for now, being off of work for thirty fucking days is causing more drinking thoughts than quelling them. I have too much time to think (and to dwell, unfortunately). Though I fill my days with meetings and IOPs (Intensive Outpatient therapy), I still have far too much time to think. Thank God for Antabuse; without it I may have drank to combat the boredom, fresh memories be damned. Or, not. I'll tell you this: being in this situation at work has caused me to re-evaluate my life and my need for the barley-and-hops killah. I don't need it. It needs me. It needs me so that it can feel like a big ballbuster and its modicum of self-esteem can become engorged. Drinking is a bully; it really is. And if it seems as though I am personifying drinking (or the drinking Adam, if that makes it easier to understand), I am. It helps me to validate the danger the drinking poses to me. It is a killer. For an alcoholic (and I shy not from that word) that is exactly what it is. It has no quarter, it shows absolutely no mercy. Like a Level-5 hurricane it'll sweep through the afflicted's life and leave chaos in its wake. Cows'll be in the upper branches of oak trees and houses will be half-intact and half-demolished. Pieces of straw'll be imbedded in bricks...or skulls. Sounds joyous, huh?!

Anyway, happy week-before-Christmas, outside it is snowing and nothing stirs, not even a rat.

"THE RUBBER BANDS ARE HEADING IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION"

And what, exactly, does that mean? Meagan and Naomi and I went to the Oceania Inn tonight for dinner--I had the Szechuan Shrimp--and my fortune cookie told me that the rubber bands were heading in the right direction. That is great to know, Confucious, but what rubber bands are you even talking about? I mean, I could get my head around it if I, for instance, wore orthodontic braces that required the use of small, ultra-tight rubber bands to keep my teeth in line, but I was in that place and did that thing about 20 years ago, now.

If I were one who collected rubber bands and used them to make a giant Ball o' Bands then that fortune would have relevance, too. But I don't. What kind of a freaking fortune is that?!

The rubber bands are heading in the right direction. I don't even know where to start with those wise words o' wisdom. I never really even use rubber bands. That picture up there is just a representation of how important I find rubber bands to be. (That picture is about a year old; Meagan and I were just clowning around and, in this picture, you can definitely see that the rubber bands are not heading in the right direction.)

But now maybe they are. Maybe that's what the fortune gods were trying to tell me: that Meagan and I are on the right path, the path that we have been destined to travel--together. Maybe now the rubber bands are heading in the right direction because we have found each other (better late than never) and, though things may be rough every once in a while, together we can conquer pretty much everything. Does that sound like what the fortune means? I think, yes.

Either that, or the fortune writer was tripping balls that day, all loaded up with lysergic acid, and his obsession with rubber bands bled into his day job.

FRIDAY AT 6:30 IN THE AYE-EM

Being off work this month, due to circumstances that were well under my control, I find myself with a whole hell of a lot of time on my hands. I should be using this time to better myself. Perhaps I could work out. Perhaps I could go on a cleaning frenzy. Perhaps I could teach my doggies some new tricks. Maybe I could volunteer at a waffle kitchen; maybe I could learn to make soup, or chili, or borscht.

The picture you see is the new setup for my computing station. I did it simply because I needed/wanted a change (and also because of that aforementioned free time). I kinda like the way it turned out. That Diego Rivera print has been in this house, in that same spot, for nigh upon 25 years, now. When I moved into the house, I figured, hell, I liked it--naked female asses are always good--so there, on the wall, it stayed. For a long stretch when I was a kid, I used to change my bedroom around pretty much every Saturday. The bed and the dresser scuttled around the room, earning frequent flyer miles every weekend. It'd have been interesting to view the changes on some kind of time-lapsed photography. The only problem was that I was limited by the size of the bedroom and the number of pieces of furniture...I could only come up with so many combinations. Though I liked freshening the look of my room by rearrangement, I never broached the subject of window dressings, thank God. ;-P

On this date in history--December 12th, 1970--Jennifer Connelly was born. Happy birthday, Jennifer! There's just something about that woman that makes my insides flutter. One question, though: Why'd she have to get a breast reduction? They were fine how they were, damn it! And if she did it because her back hurt? Well, you should have sucked it up, Ms. Connelly. You had an obligation to all the dogs--er, men--out here who liked your blouse bunnies loud and proud. And, yes, I am crying over spilt milk, and, no, I did not think this statement out before I wrote it, but, yes, it shall remain.

Also, on this date in history, in 1787, Pennsylvania became the second state to ratify the U.S. Constitution. Which was the first state? I'm not sure, but if I had to hazard a guess, I'd go with Massachusetts. The first person to successfully answer that question--Which was the first state to ratify the U.S. Constitution?--wins nothing. Get to it!

FROM THE GRASS IS GREEN FILE...

Tres amazing how much different it can be when I bowl A) with glasses and B) sober. Also, it helped that my left knee (my planting knee) didn't hurt. I went bowling with the babydoll on Friday night and rolled a 181 and a 175 for an average of 178. Sah-weet.

Seeing the pins makes so much of a difference! Amazing how that works, huh? Now, maybe, I should take the hint and wear the damned specs at night, while I'm driving. They could come in handy there, too, you know?

THE HOSPITAL ROOM

Snarls and yelps of pain from the next room over slowly filtered into Richard's cognizance. What kind of fucking hospital is this? he thought to himself, opening his eyes. Jesus, they're killing themselves over there. He lay there in the uncomfortable bed, his arms and legs bound by plaster at odd angles (the better to heal, he'd been told) and he listened to, what was now, silence. His nose itched. Shit. There was a sudden flurry of scrabbling nails and snarls and then a final piercing yelp of pain and then there was silence once again. He wondered what was better: animalistic fury or this dead pregnant silence. Noise, fury, he decided, was better. At least, that way, he knew he was still alive and not suspended in some kind of Purgatory in which he could not move his arms or his legs--or even his head, for that matter--a Purgatory in which he couldn't even scratch his nose when it itched.

God, his nose itched. From his prostrate vantage point, he couldn't see the clock (he assumed it was on the wall behind his head) but he figured it had to be around the time that the smoking hot nurse usually came in and checked his morphine drip and drained his weasel if it needed draining. At first, Richard had been horrifically embarrassed to have such an attractive woman handle his cock in such a detached clinical nonsexual way but, over the last week or so (time had pretty much lost relevance; he didn't know if he'd been in hospital for a week or four or more) he'd left the embarrassment and the somewhat-shame somewhere along the Convalescence Highway and had come to actually look forward to her arrivals. Not only was she a stunning blonde, with the body of Venus, but her visits also broke up the monotony of the day.

God, his nose itched. "Come on, lady," he muttered. "Come and scratch my itch, bitch; I got it for ya right he-ah." Don't be a dick, Rick, his father spoke suddenly in his mind. Her name is Lydia, by the way, and she is more than just an attractive cut of meat, boy. Be nice. Don't take your anger about your situation out on her. His father had been dead for about two years, but, lately, he had been speaking up more frequently in Richard's mind, and daily since he had been in the accident that had landed him in this surreal hospital--the accident that, incidentally, try as he might, Richard could not remember.

"Sure, Dad," he said. "Sorry. And that 'dick, Rick' joke? That stopped being funny about ten years ago, man." His father chuckled somewhere in the back of Richard's mind, and then faded away.

Richard was left alone, by humans and by ghosts, to lie on his back and study the cracks on the ceiling. The cracks over which putty had been smeared over the years, but were still slightly discernable and so Richard had taken to studying them, making pictures come alive in his mind's eye--there is an elephant and there is a woman crying and over there is a baboon--anything to help pass the time as his bones mended and his ostensible bruises faded.

God, his nose itched.

"Anyone there?" he called. Immediately, as if his voice had been a cue, the snarls and yelps from the next-door room began anew. They sounded like-- What the hell are dogs doing in a hospital? Why am I healing in a place that has fucking dogs in it? That doesn't sound too sterile, godammit. What the fuck?!

"Hey?!" he shouted with as much force as he could muster, which was, admittedly, not a whole hell of a lot. "Is anybody there? Is there anybody...out there? Now I'm Pink Floyd and I'm in The Wall and this is fucking crazy and I'm going crazy and now I'm talking to myself and there's a goddamn baboon on the ceiling and he's making the woman cry and the elephant just doesn't give a flying fuck and what the hell is going on?!"

From the next room, Richard heard the scrabble of the claws against the floor, two maybe three animals running around, snapping at each other, causing yelps of pain, perhaps maybe even tearing flesh from bones, leaving stinking hot pools of blood all over the once-pristine hospital floor, slamming into the walls--boom!--crashing into the mobile IV units--tinkle of breaking glass--leaving it all out on the playing field, as it were. And then, just as quickly as it had started, there was, again, silence. In his mind--his imagination had always been sharp, top-notch, sometimes scary--Richard could picture the combatants, sitting quietly, facing the wall that divided their room from his: heaving panting sides, foaming muzzles, glints of extended canine teeth, bloody ragged flesh.... He could picture them--two? three? five? who knew?--studying the wall like the RCA dog, heads cocked, determining if, in fact, there was some easy meat in the room over. They smelled him, he was sure. They'd heard him; he knew that. "Nice doggies," he muttered. "Now just stay the fuck over there, okay?" It didn't matter to him, now, that there were dogs in a hospital. The incongruity of the situation had ceased to flummox him. He just wanted them there, not here. In this case, segregation was just fine and dandy and A-okay and just what the motherfucking doctor ordered. Speaking of which....

"Hey! Where the hell is everyone?!" Richard had become aware that, though the door to his hospital room had been open the whole time he'd been conscious--his internal clock told him that it'd had to have been at least ten minutes, he'd not seen one person pass by his room. Not a one. No nurses, no doctors, not even a janitor. "This is like that damned Twilight Zone episode," he said to himself. "You know the one. The one where that dude is walking down Main Street and there's no one there, nobody, anywhere, but him. This is just too fucking freaky, man." From the next room, Richard heard a low throaty growl. The dog sounded big. Saint Bernard? Rotty? A Pitty? Irish Wolfhound? Mastiff?

His nose didn't itch anymore. "Hey!" he shouted, "my nose itches! Could someone please come and scratch it for me? It driving me friggin' nuts, here!"

No answer. In fact, though he knew this absolutely couldn't be the case, Richard didn't feel the presence of even one human being outside his door, down the hall, in the nurses station, in the cafeteria, anywhere.... He felt his Fear animal clawing at his gut, much like he heard the animals in the next room clawing at the closed (God willing) door of their prison.

"My! Nose! Itches!" he shouted. It had become a sort of mantra to him. It'd become a kind of talismanic umbilical cord that kept him secured to this, the physical world, because he knew--or least he assumed--that if he passed out from fright or quite simply gave up to his fate, he was as good as dead. The beasts from the next room would surely eventually get free and they'd scrabble over to his room, their hindquarters skidding on the polished hospital hallway, led by their noses and their sense of Easy Meat, and they would tear him to pieces and eat him alive; unable to kick or scream or beat at them, it'd be like taking doggy candy from a baby.

Howls erupted from the next room and the scrabble of claws at the door intensified. "My God, there're fucking wolves over there," he said. He moaned and tried to wiggle his fingers and wiggle his toes. They wiggled, a bit, but the rest of his appendages--both arms and both legs--were tightly secured by both the plaster casts and the seemingly-antiquated pulley systems that had been rigged to keep them in place. "This is impossible," he said. "Why am I here? And where the fuck is everybody?!" he shouted. "What kind of a hospital is this?!"

***

WOW! HOW BLESSED CAN ONE GUY BE?!

My day just keeps getting better and better! First, I heard the news that I wanted/needed to hear from work and then this!

Good Day,‏
From:
walter smith (waltersmith66@msn.com)
Sent:
Tue 12/02/08 11:41 AM
To:
.ExternalClass .EC_hmmessage P
{padding:0px;}
.ExternalClass body.EC_hmmessage
{font-size:10pt;font-family:Verdana;}

Good Day,

Please accept my sincere apologies if my email does not meet your business
or personal ethics. I will first introduce myself as Mr. Walker Smith, a staff in the Private Clients Section of a well-known bank, here in London, England.

One of our accounts, with holding balance of £52,000,000 ({FIFTY TWO MILLION POUNDS Sterling) has been dormant and last operated three years ago. From my investigations and confirmation, the owner of the said account, a foreigner by name John Shumejda died on the 4th of January 2002 in a plane crash In Birmingham; you can view this CNN websitehttp://edition.cnn.com/2002/WORLD/europe/01/04/england.plane/ for details
On the crash.

Since then, nobody has done anything as regards the claiming of this money, as he has no family member that has any knowledge as to the existence of either the account or the funds; and also Information from the National Immigration also states that he was single on entry into the UK.

This transaction is totally free of risk and troubles as the fund is legitimate and does not originate from drug, money laundry, terrorism or any other illegal act.

On your interest, let me hear from you URGENTLY.

Warm Regards,

Mr. Walker smith

Damn. I feel really badly for John Shumejda, I really do. It blows that he had to die so tragically and horrifically, but, gosh, how often does an opportunity like this come around?! My goodness! 52 million pounds?! My worries would be gone if I accepted the money from Mr. Smith. I could buy my own fucking island! I could drive Hummers and Ferraris and I would buy Meegie a whole bunch of mink stoles and chinchilla overcoats...and I would buy a lifetime supply of Ramen Noodles, too! Hell, screw that. I could buy the whole damned Ramen Noodle company!

I know what you may be thinking: Adam, this is a scam, dude. They just want to respond so that you'll send them pertinent financial information and then they'll fleece you like Little Bo Peep's sheep, dude. Let it go.

I get that. Really, I do. But hear this, Mr. and Mrs. Smartypants: Those scams are only from Nigerian princes and princesses. This is legitimate, mang. Walter Smith doesn't know who he's messing with. For damned sure, he doesn't know. I'll fleece his little four-eyed, bowler hat-wearing ass. He won't know what hit him!

Thanks, Walter! =o) My dreams have come true!

Signed,

Non-Lolly

PS--Actually, on second glance, it doesn't seem like this is legitimate. Walter spelled his name wrong. I don't know if it's Walter or Walker. It just doesn't seem to add up. Shit. Ahhh, screw it. I'll reply, anyway. What could it hurt? Besides, I have often forgotten my own name, too.

LOLLY, GAGGING IN LIMBOLAND

My name is not Lolly, but, for titling reasons, it seemed to work. So, for this post only, I shall be known as Lolly. And I am gagging in Limboland.

At this time, I can't go into the reasons I am gagging, nor can I say why I find my ass parked squarely in Limboland. Suffice it to say, though, I am and I am.

Cryptic posts are fun! Whee! No, they're not.

I'll say this: Tomorrow is a very important day for me, and I am desirous of a certain outcome. Whether that will happen or not, I am not the one pulling the strings. I do hope, however, that if you read this, you can send good thoughts my way. And, though I have asked this of you before, my dear E-friends, if you can include me in your prayers, that would be much appreciated, as well.

Life is a journey, not a destination, and, as cliched as that sounds/reads, it is the absolute truth. I have been going back to meetings, lately, and that is the advice I have gleaned: let go and let God. It is out of my hands and in His. I have done all that I could, these last several days, and now is the time to surrender and let the chips fall where they may. That is very difficult for me to do. I always want to control the outcomes of certain things and I am one to obsess and obsess and obsess over said outcomes until my mind is frazzled and my stomach is in knots and my palms are clammy and my head fucking hurts.

Release, Adam. Step back. View the big picture. The most important thing is your sobriety.

Though that last sentence has been repeated to me innumerable times, it just doesn't sink in, sometimes. But, it is absolutely true. Without extended sobriety, I haven't a chance of achieving what I hold to be important in life.

I have a frigging disease that tells me I ain't got it, that I am just fine and dandy. And that sucks.

Regardless, I am in need of some prayer, some good thoughts, some karma.

Peace and love, y'all.

Signed,

Lolly