THE TWILIGHT ZONE--MY 400TH POST

This is my 400th post. I have spent about three years on this spit. And I love it. I love to write, I love to blog. Sometimes, thoughts don't come easily to me. On those days, I don't post. Those days have been frequent, of late. I just don't have too much to say. I think my mother may have told me once: "If you don't have anything good to say, don't say anything."

I mean, seriously, what could I write about? No one wants to hear of the struggles of an alcoholically-minded dude. Who the fuck wants to hear of pain and suffering? I could write about my job, but that has been boring me lately. I go to work, I put in my eight hours, and then I go home. I could write, maybe, about hobbies, but I have none. The dogs are boring me, too. (And Ollie, he of the weak bladder, is flat-out pissing me off.)

What does one write of when one is merely existing?

...

...

Exactly.

I just watched a Twilight Zone episode in which the protagonist ran down and killed a young boy named--of course--Timmy, and, after the fact, his life was turned upside-down. His conscience was killing him. And his car was possessed. (I think S. King may have seen this episode; I think that Christine may have been thunk up after seeing this show.) His car honked, his car blasted its lights, his car, actually, in the end, drove itself to the point at which the dude fell down on the rain-slicked streets and the car zoomed towards him and then...stopped. Its tires were mere inches from the guy's head. The passenger door opened and--I wouldn't have!--the guy got in and the possessed car drove him to the local cop-shop.

The man got out and walked into the police ossifer shack and Rod Serling intoned something like, "A man's conscience is the staff with which he walks. A man's conscience is the value by which one must live. But, sometimes, the Twilight Zone is one's conscience. In the Twilight Zone."

I watched the episode and I just got to thinking. I miss them daze. Late 50s, early 60s. I wasn't born, of course, but those days seemed easier. You have the guy and his wife sleeping in seperate single beds (but how did they fuck?) you have the cars made of metal and chrome rather than plastic and bubble gum, you have cops as friendly peace-keepers....

I just enjoy the Twilight Zone. The episodes are good. They are parables, of sorts. They make you think and they make you want to be a better person. Black-and-white litmus tests. The time period in which we suck breaths is too frenetic. We need to slow down.

We need to watch a b-and-w classics. We need to slow down and appreciate what we have. And, yes, I am mainly telling myself this.

May you have Peace in your lives.

MAY SOMETHING OR OTHER

Memorial Day.

WATER AND BARLEY AND HOPS--OH MY!

The bottle is winning. It is kicking my ass. Hard. It is an old-school ass-whipping.

Beer, vodka, wine...whatever. As long as it is an alcoholic beverage, I am down with it. I am down with it and it brings me down. So damned down. So damned low.

It is far from fun, anymore.

It is a motherfucking disease. It has to be. Why else would I continue to pour this poison down my throat? Why else would I put work and love on the back burners? Why?

Why?!

My name is Adam and I am a blistering alcoholic. Just fucking blistering. Mad burning flames surround my yearning, my want, for alcoholic beverages. I have the tool box that I need to combat this evil life-sapper, yet I shove that tool box into the shed; I cover it with a tarp and forget that I ever had it at all.

I'll tell you this: This is not living. This is shit. The fear, the pain, the hurt, the melancholic meanderings day after day after day...it completely sucks.

When I do not drink, life, sometimes, gets very fucking boring. But what is worse? Boredom or this ever-tightening noose of alcoholism? I'll take the noose for a thousand, Alex. That--this--is much much worse.

The bottle is kicking my ass. It's really not even a fair fight anymore. And it can--and will--only get worse. Unless I can find some spine. Unless I seek help, go to meetings, take Antabuse, drag my nuts out from my ass and man the fuck up.

Being bitten by the bottle-bug is a tragedy. Alcoholism is tragic. I consider myself a pretty special person. I have much love to impart to the world. But I'm burying it underneath this fucking monster addiction. If I continue down this road of self-destruction I will lose all that matters to me. Fuck. Lose it? No, I'll give it away.

I am not prepared to take a dump on what I hold dear. I am neither ready nor willing to throw it all away.

I'm. Not.

Tell that to the bottle, Adam. Tell it to the bottle.

Words are words, man. That's all they are. I need to see Action. Blistering Alcoholic Boy? It is faaar past time to nut up, to sack up, and take motherfucking bull by the horns. Or by the balls, as it were.

This is my life. Mine. Life is *so* much more God-damned beautiful and fulfilling than waking and cracking a beer-top and smothering oneself with the "nectar of the gods."

Enough! Enough with the Dionysian Lethargy.

I talk a mean game, don't I?

Some days, I hardly even know what day of the week it is. Is today Wednesday? No. It's Tuesday, right?

I feel the tears welling up. I am in so much fucking pain, right now.

But I have Faith. I have Faith that I'll emerge from the other side of this self-made maelstrom a stronger individual. I do have Faith.

And that counts a whole hell of a lot, damn it.

WERDZ

I was just having a conversation with my lover, Meeg, about the words Faith and Hope.

I see it this way: Faith is the unwavering knowledge that things will work out just fine. Scenario: a guy is in a liquor store that is getting knocked over--bullets are blazing--and he has the Faith that he'll get out of it unscathed. He does not Hope for good health; he has Faith that he'll be okay.

Same scenario: guy in the middle of a liquor store robbery. He Hopes that he'll be okay. He Hopes that the crossfire won't knock 'im in the noggin. He Hopes that a .44 bullet will shear through a can of Campbell's instead of churning his head into soup.

Which is stronger? Faith? Hope?

I don't need the dickshunhairy to answer the question. It is a landslide victory. Hope is Faith's bat-boy. Hope? Stand back for the power-hitter--Faith.

Hope, to me, seems, ineffectual. Hope, to me, seems wishy-warshy. You ain't gotta Hope; you've just got to have Faith. Hope wears Faith's hand-me-down clothes. Hope is Faith's little brother, little sister.

Faith knows that the world will be okay, eventually. Hope wishes so but then shrugs and clicks the TV remote, looking for the last American Idol re-spin.

Faith is the mortar that solidifies the Wall of Being. Hope is the groundwater that destroys the Being.

Raise yourself up into Faith. Believe. In whatever. Just--believe.

A ROMP AROUND THE MAYPOLE?

Happy Friday, everyone. Happy May 1st. It is May Day. Why? What does May Day stand for? I'd look it up, but I am lazy, I guess. All I know about May Day is that, in some parts of the world, people gather in the village square, 'round a tall pole to which ribbons are affixed, and they walk slowly around the pole, the ribbons clutched in their sweaty palms. Or...something like that. Why? I haven't the foggiest notion. And, then, I do believe, they reverse the direction! Egads.

I may put my little ole spin (no pun intended) on the oh-so sacrosanct May Day tradition: I think I will walk circles around my warshing machine. Yes, my warshing machine is "on the fritz," as they say. The spin cycle is...troubled. The motor is runnin', but the tub ain't spinnin'. Oy vey.

I have looked online and I am prepared to open the lid (after unplugging the beast) to see if, mayhaps, something--a bra, a sock, a clump of dirt, a rhesus monkey--is stuck somewhere in there. My bet is on the monkey. Those damned animals are nuisances! Just ask India.

Anyway, may your day be bright, may your footsteps be light, and may your monkeys not be tight.

In the warshing machine.

THE STING OF DEFEAT

The first softball game. Nineteen to one. A loss.

Not a good start.

I struck out. Not cool. Next at bat, I ripped one down the left-field line--it landed just foul. Not cool. The pitcher, a 45-year-old with a couple kiddies, spun the next pitch and I popped it up to the third baseman.

Did I mention that the Dirt Dawgz lost by eighteen runs? Yeah.

We did not hit the ball well, we did not field the ball well, and the pitcher walked too many men. Personally, as I said, I did not hit the ball well and, in the field, two balls went over my head that I should have caught.

Long story short: we need to get better, much better. We have a slick shortstop and third baseman and we have an ex-college baseballer on our team, but we need to improve. Expo-fucking-nentially.

A "WANNA GET AWAY?" MOMENT

I think the airline is NWA, or Northwest Airlines, the airplane company that has those too-funny (most of the time) "Wanna Get Away?" commercials.

There's one where the cute black woman has something in her contact lens and she stumbles into the bathroom to fix her eye only to realize that she had stumbled into the men's restroom, all the guys staring at her as if she had two heads. There is another one in which a vendor at a sporting event laughs at a "Wanna Get Away?" commercial on the scoreboard and then proceeds to stumble down the stairs, spilling his full bevy of drinks on the isle-sitters. At the end of each commercial, Announcer Guy intones, "Wanna get away?"

That was me, today, at work: the woman with the effed-up contact lens, the vendor spilling down the stairs.

"Why don't you back-fill that hole, while I draw up the picture," Paul said. No problem. I had already back-filled a smaller hole, adjacent to the house's driveway, I was familiar with the Ditch Witch front loader, and, if this other hole was bigger and dug fresh out of muddy Bloomfield dirt? So what? I could do an adequate job of it. I was sure of myself, I was confident. Usually, the linesman does the machine work, though my job title is TMO, Trenching Machine Operator. Hey, it's like that for all the TMOs, for the most part--the linesmen -women do the digging and the TMOs do the grunt work.

Paulie's a little different. And, in a way, that's good. It's good to get practice on the machinery so that you don't get rusty with your skills. Well, I haven't been doing any digging, for the most part, since I've been in the department. I am rusty.

But, like I said, I had already back-filled a hole admirably and so I had a little confidence under my belt. Plus, it was a small Ditch Witch, easy to move and use, almost like a joystick-centered video game.

"All right, Paul," I said, "I got it."

This hole was different than the previous hole I'd filled. On the first hole, I could sit myself on the driveway--very stable--and I could just sweep the dirt and clay and roots into the hole by use of the digging arm. Very easy. This second hole, however--this one was different in a number of ways. First, this was a much bigger hole; this was where we had done the majority of the work, namely retiring a service tee and having the welder weld a new tee on and running a new service to the house. Bigger hole: more dirt. Second, there was no stable driveway upon which I could sit the machine. This was on the front lawn, butt-up against the two oversized mailboxes on posts. Third, the ground was soft as a baby's posterior. Fourth, I was tired--it had been a big job--and I just wanted to finish up and go home. Does that set the stage for disaster?

Maybe, maybe not.

This time, yes. Kind of.

I could go into detail about back-filling and how I had the welder's advice to which I listened, but I'm pretty sure I have bored y'all to tears by now. Long story short, I switched to the big shovel bucket on the front loader so that I could more easily push the dirt back into the hole and, having not had a lot of experience on the machine, I went a little too far into the not-quite backfilled hole and I...sunk in. No problem. Back out, right? Well, um, no. The problems were thrice. One, lack of experience. Two, the way in which the little Ditch Witch propells itself. It moves on treads, rather than wheels. Kind of like a little tank. Good for something, I guess, but not as reliable as good old-fashioned wheels. Three, the soft ground. I had gotten myself into a pickle; I had gotten flat-out stuck.

Matters were made worse by the mailboxes. I sincerely did not want to try to extricate myself from the mud and, upon operating the machine, take out two home's mailboxes with the front loader. So, maybe in the beginning, I tried to play it too cute, too cautious. Bad idea on soft untamped mud. I just dug myself deeper and deeper. I looked to the welder for help: he was on the phone. I looked to the linesman for help: he was in the 44, working on the computer diagram of the job we had done. I was on my own. It was not a success story.

Eventually, Paul wandered over to the hole, just in time to see me slam my hardhat against the machine's roof. "What was it?" he asked, smiling. "A bee?" Paul is a good guy, as genial as they come. He's also got an absurd sense of humor; often you can't tell whether the guy is serious or is yanking your crank. I have the same sense of humor and also I know that when Paul says something, you can bet that it is Theater of the Absurd. He plays good Make-Believe.

I told him that it had not been a bee, that I was stuck, that I was frustrated, that I was fucking pissed off. He smiled.

I fucked around a while longer with the controls and only succeeded in burying myself deeper in the mud. It felt like an Uncle Remus story, all Tar-Baby and shit. I gave up. "I give up," I said to Paul. "I'm stuck and I can't get out. This is fucking bullshit." At that point in time, I wanted to break something, anything. I got off the machine and Paul got on.

He had no more success than I. Though we tried to dig it out, put wooden planks under the treads, get a tow-chain from the welder's truck, nothing worked. In the end, Paul had to put down the digging arm to make sure the machine didn't topple onto its side. "No good," he said mildly, "we'll have to call for a tow truck."

I've been largely ineffectual since I came to the department. Sure, I work my ass off and people appreciate that, but I just have not yet caught on; I have not yet become as proficient a worker as I believe that I can be, should be. Maybe I put too high of expectations on myself, maybe not, though. It's coming up on two years in this department--I feel that I should be running circles around my previous self.

In most ways, I am. I understand what needs to be done, now, on jobs, and I do the work in a professional, hard-working, proficient manner. Yet I feel that I can't escape the ghosts of Adam Past, and getting the machine stuck in the mud?! Yeah, that didn't help my confidence.

In the end, like I said, the digging arm was down for support and the machine was tilted at, I'll say, a 30-degree angle. Not cool.

To make matters worse, Paul was on-call and a job had been sent to his attention. He was needed but he couldn't get to the job because his TMO had sunk his machine into about two feet of mud. Joy. He had to call, over the truck's radio, to the dispatch for a tow truck. "My machine got stuck in the mud," he said. "Tell'em I did it," I mumbled angrily. "Don't let them think it was you who got your machine stuck."

"I'm not saying that," he said, after he hung up the CB transmittor. "Shit happens. It's fine."

After the tow truck came and the driver took exactly seven minutes to winch the machine out of the mud, Paul walked up to me, smiling, and asked, "So...were you scared when the machine started to go into the hole?"

I know his humor. I knew he wasn't asking if I were seriously scared. I answered, "No, Paul. Not scared. Just fucking pissed and frustrated."

I have a softball game on Sunday. The welder is on the team. Other co-workers will have heard the "news of the stuck machine" on their truck's radios. I'll get some guff, some good-natured ribbing. I'll try not to be sensitive about the matter. But, seriously, ineptitude begins to get old, especially to the practitioner, if he cares a whit.

But, like Paul said, laughing, "This kind of shit always seems to happen to me. Never anyone else."

And now, as I write this, remembering the events, it is actually pretty funny to me. Shit does happen. I get super-worked up at the time, but, later, I'm all good with it. I think Paul has a good philosophy on life: don't take shit so damned seriously. It'll only raise your blood pressure and make you old before your time.

(By the way, because of the stuck machine, I got a meal ticket and an extra hour-and-a-half of overtime. But, no--it was not intentional!)

A PARABLE (WITH NO KNOWN OUTCOME)

Once, there was a man. He was neither slender nor fat, his head was well-shaped, his muscles did bulge.

It was a gray and rainy day, yet the man did walk; he walked to the store to get some tobacco products. He was addicted, you see.

Along his walk, he noted things like the gray squirrel slicing to the top of the branch, he noted a neighbor's front yard gargoyle (complete with a lighting system) and he nodded his approval.

He walked.

Satan blindsided him from his left. God was an afterthought on his right.

Satan said, "Just buy some, you skank whore."

God murmured in the man's right ear.

Satan said, "Don't listen to that pussy punk motherfucker. All you need is here."

The man walked on; raindrops sluiced off his fedora's bill. He thought, I want silence in my mind. I just want God-blessed silence.

God spoke, then, but the man chose not to hear Him.

Satab said, "Good deal, sucker. You're with Us."

The man walked on. The skies were gray, there was intermittent rainfall; the man felt at Home.

For a few blessed steps, there was silence in the man's mind. He walked and breathed and appreciated Nature.

And then, God spoke up: "Son, you need to do some deep deep thinking. You need to face your demons and, I'm here to say, you have to best them. You've a lot of Love to give this world; you just have to cut the demon off."

"Easier said than done, Yaweh," the man muttered. "Easier said than done. Why don't You ask me to move a fucking boulder? That? That maybe I could do. What you're asking is nigh impossible, Sir. What you're asking is paramount to a...life change."

God nodded and trees swayed in His wind.

"God, I don't know," the man said.

Satan chimed in. "Don't listen to that billion-year-old fuck. He's a whitewash. He's nothing. I am king. I have the pleasures. What the fuck does that old coot have? Nothing. A cloudy throne? So fucking what? I am the king."

The man walked. Raindrops dripped. In his blood, the heroin was swirling. It made a dreary day palatable. The heroin made the man appreciate the blessedness of the drizzle. It made him...Heavenly.

Work, girlfriend, house, bills...all the concerns floated away. And he thanked Satan.

And he walked. The Future he was walking towards ceased to be paramount. The Future that he was walking towards ceased to be tangible--it lost its meaning. The man walked and he thought. And forgot. And thought. And forgot.

And he thought, This?! Is this what I signed up for?! Hell. No. I wanted picket fences, man. Whadda fuck?

Satan said, "You listened to me. Good boy."

God spoke from his right. He said, "You purposefully shunned what I had to say. You dropped the ball, son."

The man walked on, through the gray rainy late-afternoon and he thought. And he thought. And he thought. And he bristled at his earlier transgressions. And he bristeled. And he walked, through the rain, to the store to buy cigarettes...and a sixer. And a fifth of vodka and a balloon of the H.

And he walked out of the store and he turned his eyes skyward. "God, Jesus," he said, "how can I extricate myself from this self-made bondage? How do I bust the cycle?!"

And Jesus Christ answered and he said, "Fuck you, lackey. We've been here--always. You chose your path, you made your fucking bed. Lie in it. When you're serious, We'll answer. Until then, fuck off."

And Satan snickered and he said, "We'll always have a bed for you, here. Just call on me. I'll hook you up."

And the man walked on, towards home, from the Crime-Free Heroin Store in the gray sky, and the rain dripped off of his fedora's bill.

***

SPRINGTIME IN THE MITTEN STATE

I think the weather is finally breaking, here. The skies are blue. The birds are chirping. From across the street come the steady heavy boomp-boomps of bass from the rap CD the kids are playing while they shoot hoops.

I have "Where the Streets Have No Name" by U2 playing on the laptop--for me, always uplifting. I've got a long weekend. Life is good.

Do you ever get those fleeting moments of total euphoria? Yeah, I know: there is one place that we all get fleeting moments of euphoria (the bed at climax), but do you ever get out-of-the-blue euphoric feelings that tell you that life is just fine, that life is just great, that life is just as it should be, that you are in the place in life that you are because...just because? And it's good? It's a good place?

I say, cling to those moments. I say nibble at them, eat at them, savor them. Savor the honey taste of Good.

It is a rocky world, full of pitfalls and spiderholes. But there is also great beauty. And it is all around us. Things can certainly get rough and tough around us, of course. But we need to always have that beauty within us. We need to be able to call up our reserve pack of love and beauty and hope. We need to be able to appreciate the goodness of the world. We need to be able to inhale deeply of Life--and love it.

And maybe I am only writing this to myself. If that's so? Then so be it. Sometimes, I just need to remind myself just how truly blessed I am.

Spring has apparently sprung, here, in the Mitten State, and I guess I'm all verklempt over it.

Love each other. Pass along a random act of kindness. Appreciate yourselves.

Till we meet again.

IG'NANT? READ

I just saw "Milk," starring Sean Penn.

Just like any other movie of Injustice (Mississippi Burning), I cried. I teared up, I cried, I had a little somethin' in my eye.

Gay, straight, bi, transgendered...who gives a fuck?

We had a fucking boob in the Oval Office in the last eight years--he gave a fuck.

I teared up because of the injustice. Why--oh why?!--was homosexuality considered such a cultural maelstrom? Why?

And. This is my Book: God made us as we are. One is born with homosexuality or heterosexuality or, sometimes, human beings are fucked, not knowing--spiritually--whether they are of a male or female gender. But...God knows. And that is good.

God is the Creator. You don't believe, fine.

I do.

I was pissed, during the movie, when they had a cut-away old-school newsreel of reactions. There was this cunt, with the Christ cross behind her, in the daylight--as clear as day--and she was bitching about what the Homosexuals would do to her family. I had an answer, and I muttered it out from betwixt teeth clenched tight: "Woman, you take care of your fold. Mmmmkay? Teach them right, protect and encourage them. If they turn out to be a homosexual male or a lesbian...so what? It is no reflection upon you. (Well, maybe a little.)"

The point--from my pointy mind--is this: G0d made us as we are. Hetero-, homo-, whatever. God made the decision. And so for any preacher or tight-lipped bitch to make sexuality an issue, well, they speak against God.

They may bring up Leviticus and other Bible verses, but, so what?! Who gives a damn? The world has moved on. The world recognizes people as people.

This is what I hate: "Well, God said...."

Bullshit. Go back to Genesis. God made man in his own image. God is perfect. Thus, whatever the hell God makes? It is perfect. Be it a platypus, an aardvark or a gay human being. God doesn't make Mistakes.

And so that is why, when I hear people talking negatively about "faggots," "lezzies," etcetera, I get a little hot under the collar. Do I say anything? No. I just write off the "joke-teller" as ig'nant.

But, still....

This movie opened my eyes. It might yours, too.

Peace.

THE OUTRIGHT *PAIN* OF SOFTBALL

These are not just empty words...these are my thoughts.

Don't worry. It not that serious. I just wanted to let anyone who may think differently that, whatever I write on this weblog, I put my time and thought (and sometimes soul) into it.

This time--not much soul.

My co-workers at my company got a softball team together. C-League, I believe. It's kinda like A-ball in the Majors. I think we should call ourselves The Gashouse Gang. The 1930s Saint Louis Cardinals were nicknamed that, for what reason, I'm not sure. I just figure it fits. We work for the gas company, thus "Gashouse." "Gang?" Self-explanatory.

I'll be Ducky Medwick. Or one of the Dean brothers, either Daffy or Dizzy (probably more apropos). Today was our first practice.

It was about what you'd expect. There were a lot of missed catches, a lot of errant throws. One thing that was in our favor, however, was that some of these guys can really crush the ball. I mean, like, over-the-fence power. We work hard, we develop muscles, we hit softballs really really far.

Unfortunately, we aren't all athletes of the highest caliber. Some of us are a little out of shape. (Me included.) I lost the first few fly balls hit my way, due to--I assume--the fact that I had not my eyeglasses; they were misplaced on Sunday, along with a couple of birthday checks. Another factor in my early fly ball misjudgement was the fact that I really have not played the game for about 10 years. It takes an adjustment period, you know? Eventually, though, my fielding came back to me and I was able to judge the trajectory of the softball more efficiently. I made a few good grabs.

The problem came, though, towards the end of practice. I had been in the outfield the whole time, save for the period in which I was belting the balls from home plate, and so I was getting tired...and a little careless in my outfield cantering. The field was not pristine at all. There were dips and sways in the outfield, valleys and peaks.

On one monster hit by a teammate, the ball sailed way the fuck over my head and skittered across the basketball court, about 350 feet from home plate. I tiredly loped after it and--bam!--my left ankle twisted in a "field divot" and I heard a sickening pop/crack. Oh. Oh, the pain. I thought I had broken it, at first. The pain gave way to unnatural warmth and I limped to the ball.

"You all right, Adam?" Brian called.

"Yeah," I said, "I think so. Just turned the ankle a bit. But I heard it crack, man." I limped towards him and soft-lobbed him the ball; the fight was out of me. First practice?! Injured already?! Fuck that noise, man.

I limped out of the outfield and over to the bench and I watched the last 10 or so minutes of practice.

After practice mercifully ended, I had a few of the guys asking if I were all right. I thanked them for their concern, but I pretty much brushed it off. I wanted it to be not a big deal. Ankles get popped, they get twisted, torqued, sprained, strained. I have had it happen many times before, while playing basketball. You come down on a guy's foot--bop!--there goes the ankle. This time, however, I was a more than a little concerned. (For many reasons, most of them work-related.) At least when it first happened, and I heard that pop and felt that searing pain. The pop/crack was the thing that got me. That didn't sound good, I'd said to myself. That sounded like I broke my fucking ankle. Well, no. I could walk/limp on it, the pain was not excrutiating--I figured I was good. Not great, but good.

On the way home, I got myself an ankle brace and some pain-killers and some Icy Hot cream. I have not been as fastidious as I should be on the keeping the ankle iced thing, nor have I followed the R.I.C.E. home therapy (rest, ice, compression, keep it elevated). In fact, I've done none of that. Oh, sure, I pressed a cold-pack to it for a while, but the rest of R.I.C.E? No.

My ankle is cracking, now, whenever I move it in a certain way. The pain is not overwhelming, no, but the outside of my left ankle bone looks as though someone has sewn a golf ball underneath my skin. The right side of the ankle is whence the pain radiates and the left is swollen like a dude's stomach at a steak-eating contest. I reckon the bruising will start tomorrow.

Been there, done that. It's just a simple (painful) ankle sprain. It'll heal. But I don't think I'll be playing hockey on Saturday, like I had been planning to do. Hockey entails a whole hell of a lot of sharp cuts and stops. I reckon I'm not going to subject my ankle to that madness. Hell, work itself will be tough. There is no sense in being nonsensical about the matter, you know? So my body let me down. What of it? I'm not Superman. Everyone knows that, right?

I'm just pissed that the start of the season, in two weeks, may be a bit of a nail-biter. After the first fucking practice. Damn.

Peace and love to you all. And, yes, those are heartfelt sentiments.

EASY: LIKE SUNDAY MORNING

Faith No More. The band. This is a great cover of the Commodores' classic. Lionel Ritche? Was he in the Commodores? I don't know. I do know, however, that whenever I listen to Faith's rendition, I am instantly put at ease, mellow, oil on the skillet, slooooowly spreading my Being.

Sunday mornings are great. Wake up when you want, crack the bizzle when you want, eat when you want, read the newsie--when you want.

There ain't no "work pressure," there ain't no "errands pressure"--assuming that you took care of what needed to be done on el Sabado--there ain't no pressure, at all.

Life is just groovy, man.

Today, I am going to my Mom's house, along with Meeg (and probably Naomi), to celebrate my 36th birthday tomorrow, the 30th of March. We'll have cake and iced cream and pizza and (beer) pop--my suggestions--we'll play some trivia games (which I should win, because I am a genius, don'tcha know) and then we'll trek to Grandmammy's place, in an effort to include the 91-year-old in the reindeer games.

No! I never want to lose this connection, this often-frenetic gathering of family for celebrations of birth. On the other hand.... I don't know. Maybe I'm selfish. Assuredly, I am. But, sometimes, I just wanna be easy on a Sunday morning. I want to slough about, I wanna be my impression of a lazy ass. Three-toed?! Hell, I have five digits with which I can be lazy.

[As an aside, how on earth are three-toed sloths so fucking slow?! What is their heartrate?!What are their thoughts?! I think I'd have to grind about 50 Valiums to get into their zone. They're special, sloths, really special. I hate to say it--no I don't--but I think Yahweh created them on an easy Sunday morning, Day of Rest be damned.]

Back to Sunday birthday celebrations: On the flip-side of the coin, though I may want to relish my (selfish) time to myself, do you know how fucking good it feels to see and be with family? It's great. I was raised in a tight-knit fam dambly--our ties are chokingly tight.

And that's fine. Just fucking fantastic, actually. I've read, in the blog-world, of angst and hatred towards Family. I consider myself blessed beyond belief to have been born into this family. I must have been a pretty decent guy in my former life.

So...the meal for today, to celebrate my 36th birthday on Monday, is pizza (with allll the fixins), Sander's "Bumpy Cake"--chocolate cake with top-side buttercream ribbons--peanut butter-and-chocolate iced cream, my mom's bean salad (fucking otherworldly), a regular lettuce salad (made Brilliant by Moms), and...pop. Soda pop. Or grape juice. Yeah. Beer goes best with birthdays but, I reckon, that ain't an option. For me, at least.

Easy like Sunday morning. Yeah. I can get behind that.

I worked eight hours of time-and-a-half yesterday and I took tomorrow of 'cause it's my birthday. So, shit, eight at 1.5 and then a Sunday-Monday weekend, as well?! It must be my birthday.

I get to celebrate myself, eat some fantastic food, get lovin' by the family, come home, watch the Spartans of Michigan State battle Louisville.... That's a damned good day!

::smile::

Raise a cup.

Here is to loving families and having loving Family, pizza, March Madness (with your team still kicking), cake, iced cream, presents (?)--do I deserve them?--and Sunday mornings.

Easy Sunday mornings, in which the oil does lubricate and in which the thought of work is a million miles away.

Peace to you.

I AM PEEVED

Sometimes, it does not pay to be altruistic, to trust people. Sometimes, you get screwed.

I'm pissed off. My baby girl is getting fucked. Monetarily. Two thousand large.

Before Meagan moved in here on January 31st (out, promptly, as she told the buyers--many many trips with a U-Haul pick-up truck), she sold her mobile home to a couple with two small children. The woman/girl was young and cute and 21 or so. The "husband" was in his mid-30s and he talked all wide-eyed and without guile. He spoke a good game; I believed that he and she were down on their luck and that they would benefit greatly from getting a home (they'd been living on couches of friends and relatives) for a LOW! LOW! PRICE!

And Meagan did hook those sorry asses up. She surely did. She sold the mobile home for next to nothing and (!) included the appliances--stove, washer, dryer, refrigerator. Sure, the furnace wasn't working well, and, sure, there was a water leak due to the pipes freezing, due to the furnace not working as it should have. And, sure, there was a whole hell of a lot of Meeg's and Nay's "stuff" that they had assured us that they had no problem dealing with, getting rid of, whatever. "My cousins can help me out," Joe said. "They can drive up a big ole truck and haul away whatever you don't want to keep." Meagan and I were quite pleased. We could slice into the Juggernaut o' Stuff and have her and Naomi move in more expediantly. Cool beans.

In the end, Meagan actually cut them more of a deal. She knocked $200 off the already-miniscule selling price because she felt a little guilty for leaving some things behind for them to deal with. And, of course, she felt a little guilty for saddling them with the water bill that was escalated due to the broken pipes.

"No problem," they'd assured us. "We know people. We can get these things fixed."

And...they did. For--obviously--much less than someone not in the "know."

Now, here's the thing: They've been skating on the lot rent for the last two fucking months. The lease is, somehow, still in Meegie's name. Until April 1st. Then, and only then, do the SQUATTERS become responsible for the payment of the rent.

Meagan flat-out told them that she would pay the rent to the community office until they got approved. She told them, hell, write me a money order and I'll make sure that the Central Office gets the payment. They failed to do that. Meagan called them numerous times, trying to get a palaver with them, trying to make good on the payment. They blew her off, they didn't return phone calls...in the meantime, she received eviction notices, sent to her (our) new address.

Yikes.

Basically, what the sons-of-bitches did was SQUAT in the home until they were approved, thinking, I'm sure, well, hell we're not responsible for the payment of the lot rent. We ain't approved yet; the lease is still in Meagan's name.

So, Meagan has gotten court documents. Meagan has been told that, despite the fact that she hasn't lived in the house for nigh upon two months, she still owes the lot rent for the months of February and March.

I--and she--say bullshit.

The outcome is undecided, right now. I think she/we should retain a lawyer. There has got to be a way that the SQUATTERS should have to pay for the home in which they have lived for the last two months.

How does someone do this to someone? How does someone blatantly fuck someone who has given them such a good deal, gone out of her way to help a young "family" with two small children? Where the hell is his sense of decency? Where are his testicles? How does he let his 21-year-old girlfriend, the mother of at least one of the cute kids, work at Burger King while he smokes down, drinks 40s, basically mooches (leeches) off of her?

Legally, I don't know if Meeg has much of a leg to stand on. To help them--and to expediate the process of moving out--she did not go through the Central Office of the mobile home community. She didn't particularly follow the community rules for selling a trailer. She simply signed over the title to the couple with the young kids, the couple that was down on its luck. The law is stringent, sometimes.

In regards to Karma, though, Meegie is standing on fourteen legs. Trying to help people should not Achille-slice someone.

Like I said, the end has yet to play out. There may be a legal loophole.

If not, we'll chalk it up to a learning experience. Sometimes, though, "learning experiences" taste pretty fucking sour.

And, if not a learning experience, perhaps it can be a vengeful experience. She has had, and is still having...evil thoughts.

But, in terms of Karma--and just being good honest people--we think that the Higher Road is a better way to go.

Oh, but I'm peeved.

IN THE WEB OF SUPPORT

The Web is a joyous thing. With the click of a mouse, the tap of a finger, one can jettison him- or herself to a virtual world in which many others feel the same emotions, share the same experiences. It is, actually, a beautiful thing.

When I started this blog, I did so because I loved to write and I thought it might be cool to see people react to what I had written.

I have gotten SO much more out of this little "experiment" than I thought I would. I have gotten to "sit in" on people's lives, from here, in Detroit, Michigan, to the outer reaches of Aussie Land. Technology is grand. Seriously, it is.

But the thing that is more grand is that said technology can allow people to share the true gold: emotion, human feelings and care, pitched about by the binary code of 00001111001111011. Whatever. I don't know much about binary codes and routing and wireless technologies. What I do know, though, is that this world is filled--contrary to popular belief--with caring individuals who are there for you.

At the click of a mouse, at the tap of a fingertip.

It's a good thing.

It--they--were there for me during dark times, and they help me to celebrate good times.

What's not to love?

I consider the people with whom I virtually interact to be friends. That's a strange concept, kinda. I mean, I ain't never met him or her in the flesh, I've never shook his hand or hugged her, but, still, they're friends.

Just thinkin' and typin', here on Friday, the second day of March Madness.

I hope whoever reads this has a great day, a fantastic weekend and a superlative weekend.

Peace and love, my brothers and sisters. Peace and love. Because, if we ain't got that, what the fuck do we have? A sour world.

Spread sweetness.

AS BRITNEY SEZ...

"Oops, [they] did it again."

Lou and Ol killed another squirrel.

If you remember (and I am faaaaaar too lazy to go back in my posts and link to the specific rodent-killing post) Louie and Oliver ended a squirrel's life last year.

They did it again, today.

I was on the phone with Mom, talking about the virtues of the movie "Cadillac Records," and, from outside, I heard and thought Louie tearing like a motherfucker across the backyard, towards the big-assed oak tree. I thought to myself, This can't be good. And it wasn't.

I got out of my chair and looked out the back window. Yep. Two dogs. Near tree. Heads down. Gray-yellow-brownish lump at their noses.

"Mom," I said, "I gotta go. I think Lou and Oliver just killed a squirrel."

"Okay, honey," she said. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom. Very much. Bye."

"Bye," she said.

I walked out the side door to the back yard and called the dogs off. Lou looked at me sheepishly and slumbered over to me. Oliver jogged over, panting Grin. "Inside," I said.

They went inside.

I walked over to the poor rodent. The squirrel's sides were spasming. His heart was in "Adjust-mode." He was dying; his back was busted.

"Shit, man," I said. "What the fuck?"

I was thinking: How do squirrels get themselves in these positions? Are some of them slow? Are they drunk? Are they filled with hubris, thinking that they can take on a Boxer/Pitty and a fucking Beagle?! What?! Why?!

Anyway. Like I said, Sam the Squirrel was breathing...barely. His sides flared out, intermittently. He was cooked. His mouth held that lax I'm-ready-for-Jesus look. Fuck. Okay. I'd done it before.

I went to the shed and pawed through the digging implements for a sharp-edged spade. I couldn't find one. I selected a pointy shovel, instead. With enough downward thrust, I am confident that I could break a squirrel's neck--thus ending his misery--with a fucking spatula.

Shovel in hand, I strode back to the tree. The little guy was still kicking, his sides bellowing shallowly. "Sorry, kid," I said, as I lined the point of the shovel up with his neck. "Sorry."

I'm not a fan of seeing jauntily-necked squirrels. I've seen them twice, now--through my own doing.

I wish I had not had to do what I needed to do. But.... I needed to.

Down went the shovel-head and out went Sam. At first I thought I'd misjudged and, instead of breaking his neck, crushed his skull. No. The aim was true. He wasn't respirating shallowly any longer.

I'd told Meegie that I was just going to throw him in the trash; and I'd asked for two plastic bags: one to pick him up and one in which he'd be deposited. No good.

I just couldn't do it. How the fuck am I going to throw away a being who'd asked for no ill-will, who'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? No way. No garbage-dumping, here.

I used the deadly shovel to also dig Sam's grave. I went not as deep as the grave of the last last squirrel casualty; this time, I encountered roots and said, basically, enough is enough. I wrapped Sam in a plastic Meijer's bag and snugged it tight, popping holes in for ease of double-bagging. Then another Meijer's bag was secured around the first--hopefully--quelling yon uber-death-smell (to dogs' noses).

***

Dogs are wonderful, as are kitty-cats. They both, however, have prey drives. Here is hoping that Lou does not see his housemates--Cutie Pie and Mister Bubbles--as prey. 'Cause they ain't gonna make it. Lou's good. He's a beautiful, lovely, sweet dog, but he's got a prey drive in him.

:-

RED/BLUE WASP-BUBBLES AND MICROPHONES

What's up with this once-a-week blogging bullspit? I need to get on here more often. I guess I have just shied away from the computer, of late, because I still haven't gotten it to go much faster and I've been working some overtime and, seriously, three people on one computer make for some long wait-times. ;-)

In contrast to last Saturday's blog, the weather, here, in the southeast region of the Mitten-state, is just etheral. Brilliant blue skies, a high temperature of 46 degrees Farenheit, no humidity. It is the kind of day that makes one feverish for Spring. No problem, there, seeing as how the vernal equinox is next Friday at 7:44. C'mon, Spring! Winter has been here long enough. I'm preppin' to kick the bitch to the curb (kerb) as soon as is humanly possible. Mother Nature really reamed us, in Michigan, this year. I know, I know, a whole hell of a lot of regions in the country and the world have had it much much worse, but I'm just speaking from recent experience. We've had pussy winters much of the time during the last decade or two; this one was one of the "worst" in my recent memory. Lotsa snow and lotsa cold. Even I've had enough, and I'm usually quite a winter person. But, anyway, blue skies and moderate temps. Cool! (No pun intended.) Keep the nice days coming!

My windshield has been cracked like a mofo for the last month. It was my fault. My temper got the best of me and I kicked the windshield, from the inside, from the passenger seat. I guess I didn't realize how strong my foot and leg and boot were, because--bam!--instant spiderweb, right in the center of the glass. And, of course, over time, with the cold weather and percipitation, the spider unfurled his web-house, rendering my windshield either a work of art (you should see how the lights refract through the cracks at night--quite beautiful), an eyesore (white trash car, anyone?), or a distraction to driving. The Royal Oak po-po decided it was the latter....

I was driving home from work on Thursday, blasting Led Zeppelin, and enjoying the agreeable weather, and I saw a police car pull into the drive of the liquor store on the southeast corner of Lincoln and Woodward in Royal Oak, Michigan. I said something, as I prepared to turn at the turnaround and drive past him to go east on Lincoln, something like, "Well, helllllo, Mister Police Ossifer! Gettin' ready to pull someone over, huh? What a good boy!" And, yes, I said it as though I were talking to either a dog or a young boy, a kind of what-a-good-boy-you-are tone of voice. As I drove past him, I could see him staring directly at me; his mouth was almost curled into an O of horror. Hmm, I thought, he really zeroed in on me, didn't he? As I turned right onto Lincoln, double-checking that, yes, I had my seatbelt on, I glanced into my rearview mirror and, to my utter lack of surprise, I saw him right on my ass, glancing over at his onboard computer, most assuredly running my plate. "Bring it, motherfucker," I said. "I haven't had a drink; what the fuck you gonna do?"

[Yes, my hubris is often misplaced when it comes to dealing with the po-po.]

Well, what the fuck he was "gonna do" was turn on his red-and-blues. Zap! Zip! I was git. I pulled over immediately. Now, I have this thing, whenever I am pulled over; I always immediately go to unlock the seatbelt, the better to turn and face my "oppressor." This time, I caught myself. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and muttered, "The windshield."

[A quick sidenote: That morning, I had gone to work, accidentally forgetting to bring my wallet. Before I went to my first job that morning, I had made sure that I'd gone home to retrieve said wallet. That turned out to be a good decision, obviously.]

Ossifer B. Handrinos glided to the side of my car, his hand hovering over his holstered police-issue, per regulations, and peered down in the window at me. I put my cigarette down and, as a courtesy to the ossifer, turned down Zeppelin's "Kashmir." "License, proof of insurance and registration, please," he said. As I thumbed through my unorganized wallet for the proper documents, he asked me, "Do you know why I pulled you over?"

I glanced over at his mirrored eyes. "Yeah," I said to my reflection, "it's probably about the windshield, right?" I handed him the requested forms of ID. "Uh, yeah," Handrinos said, "that windshield is completely fucked. Now get outta the car, Mr. Attempted Assault on a Police Ossifer whilst I get you sprung like a fucking spaghetti-strainer with my gat."

No.

He didn't say that. But, I wonder, when the cops pull a plate up on the computer, does it just bring up the driving record of the person being pulled over or it does it also bring up their criminal record? Because if it brings up the criminal record, Handrinos may have seen that, yeah, I've had some run-ins with the po-po in the past, all alcohol-related. And belligerence-related. Yeah, that too.

No, what he said was, "Your windshield is a distraction, sir. I can't have you driving around like that." I was thinking, But you should see the way the lights refract through it, Ossifer! It's beautiful! I said, "Yeah, I was going to get it fixed as soon as I could, but I haven't been able to, monetarily."

He looked at me, though his mirrored shades and said, "Sit tight, Mr. B______ while I run this information. Don't get out of the car." He buzzed back to his wasp-mobile.

Hear this: Doesn't it just suck to be sitting in your car, with the wasp-mobile buzzing reds and blues behind you?! It does. Other motorists crawl by, rubber-necking at the unfortunate sap (you), thinking to themselves, There but for the Grace of God, go I.... As I wrote, I have had my time(s) in the sun with the boys in blue. Many times, I was not in my right mind. This times I was. I felt like a veteran of foreign wars. I felt like a Billy Bad-Ass. My mind was riffing, the whole time I was sitting under Handrinos's thumb.

Much of my inner dialogue was thematically-based on 1930s gangster films: "Who doya think you ah, ya lousy coppah? Ya think ya bettah than me? Heck no! No, you ain't. Ya can throw me in the slammah, I doan care. But I didn't do it, Ossifer. I'm innocent, y'see? It was Hammah-head. He did it, see?! He's the one! I was framed, I tell ya!"

And then I told myself, "Adam. You should have fixed this windshield much much sooner." "But I didn't have the money, see?" I said to myself. I glanced back in the rearview mirror. Handrinos's buddy had pulled up right beside him, for all intents and purposes blocking the eastbound lane of Lincoln Avenue. Now, listen: If you've never been popped for a DUI, consider yourself lucky...and/or smart. I have been popped. The way it works on a DUI is that two, sometimes three, units wasp-buzz blues and reds behind the unfortunate drunk. It's all about safety, for them, and also a way in which they can witness the sobriety tests and cover their asses in court. I was not drunk, obviously, but, still, seeing that second cop car pull up behind me...well, it made my scrotum tighten. It brought back bad memories.

The two young men with Power and guns gabbed and joked behind me as I relived my previous arrests. DUI, Attempted Assault on a Police Officer (the cops had stuck their noses into my buddy's and my fight), Criminal Trespassing (the Blarney Stone, a bar from which I was unjustly ousted), Drunk and Disorderly (in Minnesota, with a crazy fuck whom I didn't even know). If it seems like I'm excusing myself from most of these infractions, so be it. It may be rationalization, it may be excuse-making, whatever. All I'm trying to do is to impart to you, Dear Reader, is what was going through my mind during this oh-so traumatic time. Basically, what I'm saying is, been there, done that. This cracked windshield? Big whoop, man.

But then, it hit me: This wouldn't affect my CDL at work, will it? I need that CDL. It be my caish cow. Though I knew that it was highly unlikely, still, the thought stuck in my mind's craw.

Behind me, the two young men with guns and Power, completed their bullshit session and the late-comer drove off.

I sat. I waited. I waited. I sat. I turned Zeppelin back up. I considered lighting another smoke and then thought, no. I didn't want to blow the smoke in the officer's face whenever (if ever) he got off his ass and walked back to my window.

So. I sat and waited and grooved to Zeppelin's "Good Times, Bad Times."

Finally, B. Handrinos got out of his wasp-mobile and buzzed back to my window. I turned down the volume on the radio. "I gave you a ticket that can be waived if you repair your windshield within two weeks. Here's your information." He handed me my license, my registration and my proof of insurance. "What you need to do, sir, is get your windshield fixed and then, within fourteen days, go to the police department and show them this ticket and show them the repairs and the fees will be waived at that time."

I took his slimey ticket. "Yeah, like I said," I said, "I was going to get it fixed on Monday, but it was raining. But you're right, Officer, the windshield is really cracked and I can see how you could think that that would be a distraction to my driving."

"Because it is," he intoned.

"Yeah," I said. "I guess it is." I wiped the phantasmic shit smear from my nose and added, "Thank you for your fix-it ticket. I'm going to go to Belle Tire right now and get an appointment to get it fixed."

"You have fourteen days from this ticke--"

"Yes," I said, "but I'd like to get it repaired as quickly as possible. You're right," I added, wiping some more brown from my nose, "it is a distraction. I need to get it fixed right away."

He smiled and said, "Have a nice day, sir, and drive carefully."

"You, too," I said. "And thanks again for the fix-it ticket." It was impossible: my entire face was covered in shit, I was so far up B. Handrinos's ass.

"Just be safe," he buzzed, and winged away.

Now, this: Don't you just hate it, after receiving a ticket (and an admonishment to drive safely) when the cop pulls out right behind you and follows you for a block or three? Don't you just wish and pray that young man with Power and a gun would just turn off already?! I do. You betcha. I ain't down with that following shit, even if they have to take the same road as you to get to where they need to go. Eventually, he turned off, and I continued down the road in relative peace.

I just got a call from Belle Tire. I'd woken at 7:30 this morning to take the car in and get some new glass. They told me that the glass was replaced, repaired, whatever--it's good to go. Cool. Suck on that, Handrinos! Just joking. He was just doing his job and, actually, yes, the break in the glass was distracting to me. So, all is well that ends well.

***

In other news, once I start playing Guitar Hero, I can't stop. The game is totally addicting and totally fun. I just went to Ebay and bid on a Guitar Hero microphone. That way, one of us here, in this house, can sing and the another can riff on the gitty. Life is good.

Peace.

RAIN-DAY SATURDAY: FUTAB-ASTIC

FUTAB: Feet up; take a break.

Here in Michigan, we have that oh-so-lovely monotonous God-piss. The sky is gray and the (my) backyard looks like the floor of the Pontiac Silverdome after a "monstertruck" pull.

Here is an idea: four dogs, wet weather? Muddy poop-filled backyard? They can come in (maybe) but they'd better make themselves at home in el sotano.

The basement, that is. If you've not got a Spanish-to-English dictionary, I highly recommend you purchasing one. It's fun to write in another language, sometimes.

Right now, though, this shit sucks. It's a typical March Michigan weekend: great on Friday and shit on Saturday and Sunday.

Constant rain and dark gray skies? They can depress a peron's mood. Mos' def'.

AND FROM THE SIMIANS, WE CAME....

Well, according to Charles Darwin, that is. Other factions may disagree, most notably the strict Creationists and the dumbfoundedly-literal folks who read and believe the Bible's verses down to the strictest dates. These are the people who think that the world is actually 6000 years old ('cause the Bible says so) and may or may not (I cling to "may not") believe that God placed the dinosaur bones and the carbon-dated, million-year old fossils as "tests" to their faith. They may also believe that a groovy old white dude with a white beard lives up in the clouds, somewhere, but I digress.

Also, did you know that Abe Lincoln and Charlie Darwin were born on the same day in 1809? Again, I digress. But--gosh damn!--what a heavyweight birthday date!

Please allow for my digressions. I tend to do that, sometimes.

At work, very rarely, we have to work on scarily-blowing natural gas--we have to be right down there in the hole, as no other options are available. Listen: natural gas, on its own, is not a killer. It stinks (because of the added odorants), it is highly-flammable, it is sometimes accompanied by a viscious fuck-quid called "drip oil," but, on its own, it ain't gonna kill you if you inhale some of it. The problem comes when you are in a place in which the natural gas is blasting like a motherfucker, and you can't safely get a clamp on the break. That is the point in time in which the LEL (Lower Explosive Limit) is making a name for itself on the indicators and that is a point in time in which any carbon-based life form in the immediate area is walking a tightrope between this world and the next, seeing as how natural gas, pressurized to 60 pSi, will thisquickly replace needed oxygen with, well, not.

And it is quick. I'd like to say that I know that the displacement is quick because I heard it from someone or I read it in a textbook, but, no. I know because it happened to me, once, about six months after I entered the department of Gas Lines/Distribution. 'Twas a broken and blowing two-inch steel main that was busted--via frostball--right underneath a big-assed tree's roots. The lineswoman on duty, at the time, was a 60-plus do-nothinger who stood on the bank of the hole and gave absolutely no direction, no help. (I think she's terrified of natural gas, but I digress--again.)

Another player in the near-tragedy was the on-call supervisor who wanted Sharon and me to clamp the break and make the flow stop...a quick fix, sure; do you think he was thinking about the fact that is was January First, a triple-time day? Do you think he was seeing diminishing dollar signs instead of worker safety? I do. Now, after some time in the department? Yes, I do, now. But, I have and will let it slide. The guy was new in the department, too, and all ended well. But....

(And, yes, this is a major-league digression.)

But, this: Young Adam is trying like hell to help Sharon get the Skinner clamp on the fucking main. It's a two-person process, most definitely. There is, one, the awkward angle of the break: it's inconveniently-nestled between big-assed tree roots--can't get to it. There is, two, the 60 pounds of pressure blasting out of the gaping (corrosion) hole on the steel two-inch main. There is, three, wanting like hell to be a feather in the cap of the Gas Distribution Department. Call it misplaced heroism; call it a newbie wanting/needing to be good. Call it ignorance of just how quickly gas can overtake an oxygen-breather. Call it all of those, but call it, mostly, newbie-sim.

The clamp wouldn't work, but we kept trying. I raised my head up a few times, to get good ole non-gas-saturated oxygen, but, finally, I was overcome. I'd told myself, Just get the fucking nuts and bolts on the break and then this fucking roaring noise will cease, motherfucker. Just do it. Yeah, well, as I leaned in there for that last time, I concentrated soley upon getting the rachet on the nuts--at an incredibly-awkward angle--and I kinda forgot about not-inhaling.

***

From above, Boy sees two figures in an excavation. There is a delightful warbling noise, kind of like the burble of a brook. Boy thinks the figures are talking about baseball statistics. Boy doesn't give a shit; Boy is tired, more tired than he has ever been. Boy thinks a nap is in order. He is so fucking tired. He is somewhat aware that he is slumping, physically, but, at the same time, he is looking down at the figures in the hole, the figures who are discussing, in a far-off rumbling tone of voice, the baseball statistics. Boy leans in, sleeps.

***

That is getting gassed. Luckily, I had an uber-cognizant co-worker--Sharon--and she, and the on-call supervisor, pulled me out and away from the Blast o' Gas. It had just happened so quickly. We had not "suited up." We had not put on the fire-retardant suits and had the oxygen masks on our faces. And we had almost--we coulda--lost me. And this has been a huge digression. But, not really.

Every year, we in the Distribution department go through "Fit-Testing." It is a day in which we put on our gas masks and make sure that they're fitted correctly to our ever-widening faces; we need to make sure that they seal tight, so that they will allow only oxygen from the air compressor lines--gas ain't invited. In order to get a correct fit, the males in the department need to shave their mugs from any and all facial hair near the jawline. That means: no beards, no goatees, no Van Dykes. We can rock the porn 'stache, but, no. Hell, no. And so that means that I had to shave my friggin' goatee. And, that means that I look--in my own eyes--like a baby-faced monkey. And it pisses me off.

Charles Darwin, indeed.

Survival of the fittest, mang.

Fit-Test this, motherfucker.

Postscript: I've learned my lesson, though. Gas is very dangerous. I shall never again put myself in that situation. There is a procedure in which we can dig two "remote" holes and stop the gas flow from those dual points, and then fix the break--without the steady roar of 60 pSi. There is rarely ever a need to "cowboy up" and jump into a dangerous hole. Let me please amend that: there is never a reason to jump into an unsafe hole. The on-call super should have been cognizant of that fact. He was thinking dollars, I think. He was also a newbie, straight out of the engineering department (read: no field experience) so I can't and don't hold it against him. But, damn....

And that is my Baby-Monkey-Face story! =o)

Hope you enjoyed it, and....

Peace to you and yours. It's a fucked-up, violent world. (But, also a world in which Beauty is omnipresent; you've just gotta have your eyes open to find it.) Enjoy every God-given moment.

AN ODE TO LOVE

I just wanted to pop in here and say, to the world, how lucky I feel to have met and fell in love with my baby, Meegie. Every damned time I see her smile, my heart pumps a little faster. Her eyes mesmerize me and her breasts enchant me.

It is not a common occurence that human beings can find their soul in another. I'm blessed. Megan is my soul-mate.

I could not be happier.

And, now that I'm kicking Zoloft to the curb, I have never been randier. And, yes, that is a damned good thing. =o)

Just wanted to share my sunshine with the binary world.

Peace and love to you.

PORN IS EVIL....

DVDs, magazines, strip clubs--whatever.

They'll hurt'cha. Seriously. Do not close your ears to this nugget of wisdom. They'll hurt'cha.

Your brain, your sexual organs, your wallet...whatever.

Case in point: I just tried to open a DVD entitled "Top-Heavy Orientals," and I sliced my thumb with the knife. Now. Whose fault is that?! The pornographers, that's who. If they hadn't filmed, I'd never have bought. Do you see?

Pornography is evil. The Debbil is pulling the strings, mos' def.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see what the blood was all about. 'Cause you know: an Asian woman with a rack is a delectably happy occurrence.